Erotic Fiction: Make It Last, Make It real.

She didn’t know how long she had lain there, drifting between her thoughts and dreams. Seconds, minutes, hours had become meaningless concepts. Time was tracked by his intrusions into her solitude. Eternities of dreamy, floating, endless waiting would be suddenly shattered by assaults of sensation. It was all sensation. She could not see. She could not hear. She could not move. All she could do was feel his touch upon her skin. She never knew what to expect when he pulled the heavy blanket off her. The slither of the rough fabric as he exposed her bound and tortured body would tear from her reverie, baring her to his whim.

Sometimes she would shriek in terrified panic. Sometimes she begged for him to free her, forgetting her promises to not speak, forgetting her pleading with him to do this thing to her. But he never wavered, never once spoke or made a sound beyond the soft grunts of effort as he used and abused her body. Worst of all was the not knowing, the uncertainty.

Sometimes he would beat her, inflicting long agonizing beatings upon her body. Beating her until she could not scream or cry, until exhaustion from the pain would numb her and pull her down, sinking below the surging sea of pain.

Sometimes he would attend to her physical needs, washing her, changing the diaper, putting the tube between her lips so she might suck down the liquid nutrient drinks he concocted to keep her body alive.

Sometimes he would rut upon her, using her body to relieve himself, fucking her endlessly. He brutally hammered at her with his body, using all her holes until they ached and burned, ignoring her cries, cries of pain, cries of passion.

Sometimes he would just sit and run his hands along her body. Slowly, sensually he would stroke her sensitized skin, petting her, soothing her.

But worst of all was when the blanket would be pulled back and he would do nothing. She did not know if he walked away or stayed there looking down at her, staring at the thing he had made of her.

When she had first described her fantasy to him and begged for this, pled for this. He had been reluctant, ambivalent, even angry at times at this obsession of hers.

“Please, I need it. I need to know what it is like. You don’t know how much I think about this.”

“But that is crazy. You have no idea. You will go crazy.” And the worst of all, “I don’t think I can do that to you. I love you too much.”

Finally she had dropped the subject or at least pretended to drop the subject. Without his knowledge she cleared the small room in the basement. She had bought the narrow cot and dug the heavy coarse blanket out of the store room. When he wasn’t home she would lie there, face down. She bought the head phones and the white noise generator. She would lie with her arms outstretched, pretending they were bound, pressed down by the heavy scratchy blanket. She wished it was heavier. Somehow she wanted to be compressed, smashed, pressed down and she worked at sewing a weighted quilt, filled with pounds of carefully stitched in washers from the hardware store.

She would lie there naked, quiet, alone, fantasizing that she was tied there, tied there for days, even weeks, for as long as he wanted. The he in her fantasy always had his face but deep inside he was darker, harsher, twisted, and cruel. He would hurt her solely for his sadistic pleasure. He would keep her as a convenient fuck hole. Transforming her into an object, a place to plunge his cock, selfishly taking anything and everything he wanted. He would reduce her to a thing, a thing that writhed and screamed and suffered just for him. He must have noticed the bed in the corner of the store room. But he did not say anything, did not acknowledge its presence in their lives. She never lay there when he was home or she expected him home, but his business kept him away for long periods of time.

One day she was there, deep in her dreams. Her blindfold on, the white noise blanking out any sound from the house, her hands twisted in the ropes when she felt the bed move, sag under the weight of another. She convulsed in sudden guilty terror, trying to get up but his hands had held her down, pushing her flat, holding her brutally crushed to the thin mattress. Over the sound of the white noise she had heard his voice, loud and somehow angry. “How long have you been here like this?”

The force of his grip on her body and the rage in his voice both terrified and excited her. Her breathless answer sounded strange, muted, “I don’t know, a couple hours?”

The heavy blanket was lifted up, up from the base of the bed baring her legs and ass, the weight of it dumped down upon her head and shoulders. The air felt shockingly cold on her naked skin. He growled something but it was hard to tell what and she flinched violently as he struck her ass with his bare hand, spanking her hard, harder than he ever had before when she had begged for it in the bedroom. She could not help but scream but he did not seem to hear her. He hit her over and over, beat her until his hands ached and then pulled his belt from his waist and lashed her with it. She had writhed and howled in panicked shrieks but she did not once let go of the faux knots that she had looped around her wrists, she did not once beg him to stop.

He had beaten her until she could not move and then he had thrown himself upon her, his body weight infinitely heavier than the blanket, his hard cock stabbing brutally into her. His hands had been iron hard on her hips, lifting her ass up, his knees shoving her thighs grotesquely wide. There had been no tenderness, no touching, no warning. It was fast, hard, primitive fucking. It was the animalistic raging rape of her body she had always fantasized about. He had battered her burning cunt with his cock and then without any discussion or even a word of warning pulled out and forced himself full length into her ass.

She did not think she had the strength to scream again but as she felt him rip into her she found her voice once again. And she heard him laugh harshly, mirthlessly at her cry. He yelled something about her wanting this and if it were possible lunged against her even more violently. It seemed to last forever and she wondered if he would ever finish. Each thrust deep into her ass felt like she was tearing apart and she lay flattened under his assault, whimpering, begging for him to finish. And yet when he did, when he stopped and jerked free, spraying her buttocks and ass with his come, she felt a wave of frustrated sadness crash over her. She really did not want it to stop, she wanted it to get worse, hurt worse, humiliate more. She wanted it to go on forever. A wild irrational thought rose up, she wished the room were full of men, dozens of men all waiting to do that and more, far, far more to her.

When he pulled the blanket off her head, had taken the head phones from her ears and growled in her ear, “That what you wanted bitch? Was that enough? Are you fucking satisfied now?” She had clenched her hands on the ropes and shaken her head violently.

Her yell of, “No!” rose up from the very depths of her soul. He had stilled for an instant and then spoke in a very calm voice, his lips close to her ear. “Then stay here. Don’t move. Don’t get up.”

He put the head phones back on and pulled the blanket up over her and left her.

She had lain there savoring the sting and burn of her body. Her whole back, ass and legs practically sizzled with the welts and pain of his beating. He had beaten her many times before, but never like this. She could tell she was bruised. She could feel the blood still leaking out of the capillaries under her skin. Her cunt and asshole felt raw. She had dreamed of this moment for years and now that it was here it was so much more than she had ever dared to hope. Slowly she deliberately writhed against the rough weave of the blanket, savoring the way the prickly wool scraped and itched at her wounds. As she relived each moment, each blow, each wave of agony the reality of it began to strike home and she could feel a strange kind of wild exhilaration build in her belly. When she thought about his use of her ass, the moment she realized he was going to do it, take her there, when she felt the tip of his cock find its path and the sudden raging burning stab of agony as he had slammed it deep in one brutal thrust she stiffened and groaned softly with the memory.

She must have slept but it was difficult to know. She had been lying lost in her dreams when the blanket was torn from her body again. He had ripped the headphones from her head. He had yanked her hips up again, and placed the head of his cock against her asshole. His voice had sounded loud in her ears, “Have you had enough? Are you satisfied?” Her voice sounded raw and terrified but once again the only thing she could say was, “No!” And she squalled in a strange mix of terror and triumph as she felt him lunge deep into her. If anything, it hurt a dozen times worse than the last time. Her ass was horribly sore and this time he was dry. It felt like a knife, a dozen knives were stabbing into her. She hated it and because she hated it, it was perfect. It went on and on and on. It felt like he must have fucked her for what seemed hours. Her mind was a red haze of agony when he finally shoved deep and came. His come burned inside her like acid.

Slowly she became aware that sometime while he had been on her, in her, she had lost control of her bladder and urinated on the mattress underneath her. He seemed to take no notice. He whispered in her ear, “Okay, I am not going to ask you again. Are you satisfied yet?”

She could not help but whimper as she shook her head no. “Then you must stay here.” He put the blanket gently over her body.

He had not replaced the headphones and she could hear him walk away. She could hear his footsteps in the rooms above, the sound of the shower and finally the sound of him driving away. She was still there. She had not moved an inch when he returned in the evening.

He had come down and pulled the blanket off her, pulled her hands free from the tangle of loops she had fashioned only a day ago to pretend she was bound. He took away the blindfold and the earphones. Gently he had called her name and begged her to get up, to come with him upstairs to eat and take a shower. “Please, come upstairs. We need to talk.”

She had moved stiffly, her eyes refusing to focus in the bright light. But she had followed him up and out of the darkness. Everything upstairs had seemed strange, dreamlike, unsubstantial. She found herself reaching out to touch more than one mundane thing that had shared her existence for decades like she had never seen it before, like she was not sure if it was really there. He had taken her into the shower with him, tenderly bathing her and then holding her close under the falling water, he had wept. His voice was hoarse. “Sweetheart, I need you up here with me.” She had not answered but held him, stroking his back, mutely rocking him in his misery.

In many ways life went back to normal. But she did not feel the same inside. Things upstairs, things in the light seemed different now. Food tasted different, in many ways more sweet, but at the same time more filling. Everyday tasks took on an importance they had never held before. She felt calmer and more thoughtful. She sat for long periods of time with her eyes closed just listening to the sounds around her.

He was more attentive, in many ways gentler and he made love to her endlessly. It was as if he could not get enough of her. Her body seemed more attuned to his caresses, responding effortlessly to his touch. Always before she had been impatient with his tenderness, begging for pain, harshness, intensity but now, now she could finally feel the love as they came together.

It may have been weeks or maybe even months before it began to call at her again. And eventually her mind slipped back down the stairs into the darkness and she began dream again of being tied, taken, forced; dream of being made into a thing again. She replaced the mattress, covering this one in plastic. This time she deliberately stayed down there for him to find her. He had touched her back and asked, “Again?”

Her answer was hoarse with need, “Please, I need it.”

Gradually, they developed a pattern. They each found something in the dark there that fed their souls. While he never started it, he learned to see the need build up inside her, and could sense his building in tune with hers. She had learned to take him by the hand and lead him down, wordlessly holding the old and now tattered weighted quilt in a silent plea to begin again. He had learned he could do it if he completely divorced himself from the awareness that this was her, his wife, the one he loved and cherished above all others.

He had made some changes in the room to help him hide her face and asked her not to speak. He had bought a leather hood. The bed was replaced with a complex padded wrack that kept her upper body perfectly restrained, covered and remote, but left her lower body accessible to him. And he learned he needed it as much as her, needed to hurt, needed to use. He never gagged her. He loved to hear her scream. And he learned that once she forgot and began to talk that she was reaching her limit, and was finally satisfied, at least until the next time. It worked, the more she spoke the more he remembered it was her. And while he never really started it, he was always the one that ended it. And once they had sated their inner demons, they found the light of their other lives to be brighter, clearer, all the more precious.

This last time, as he had led her down the stairs she had spoken her last words to him before climbing onto the wrack he had built, “Make it last. Make it real.”

… and she didn’t know how long she had lain there, drifting between her thoughts and dreams. Seconds, minutes, hours had become meaningless concepts. Time was tracked by his intrusions into her solitude. Eternities of dreamy, floating, endless waiting would be suddenly shattered by assaults of sensation. It was all sensation. She could not see. She could not hear. She could not move. All she could do was feel his touch upon her skin. She never knew what to expect when he pulled the heavy blanket off her. The slither of the rough fabric as he exposed her bound and tortured body would tear from her reverie, baring her to his whim...