Battered & Bruised

"It feels so good, the way you rape me, so fucking good, I love it, don't stop..."

More slutty exhortations followed.

Of the boyfriends she had had since discovering this fantasy, she had only told Mark and Aaron about it.

Mark had reacted with indifference. This confession had taken place before she had come to terms with having this fantasy, so she had been very worried that he might react with disgust. She had told him, in fact, because of his calm and non-judgmental attitude towards life. Thankfully, there had been no scorn or revulsion, only a laid-back acceptance. Part of her had hoped that he might try to make it happen for her, in what she now interpreted as a selfish wish, where she could then pass the responsibility and ensuing shame to him. But there had been no such offer or effort from his end.

Aaron, on the other hand, had reacted with a marked distaste. While their relationship had been mostly built on physical attraction and geological closeness, and she had only told him because of his sexual adventurousness, it had still stung when he had started to lob judgmental comments at her, about how mentally lacking she would have to be to like something so horrible, about how her parents had failed in raising her to be a strong young woman, about how no self-respecting person would ever dream of being raped. This confession had also taken place before she had come to terms with having this fantasy, so his reaction had had a profound effect on her over the months following his diatribes and their subsequent breakup. The pain he had caused her had faded with the passage of time. It had only been a year or so later when she had read those admittances from others online about their similar fantasies, and they had helped to validate her sense that he had been entirely in the wrong.

Not all these people can be damaged or psychologically messed-up...

For a little while, after neither boyfriend had even offered to help her realize the fantasy, she had found herself thinking that it would never happen, that it would only ever exist as a secret stashed away in the shadowy recesses of her mind.

Even after coming to terms with it, making it a reality still seemed a far-fetched notion.

Until a few months after reading all those fantasies that others had shared, when she had come across a blog dedicated to women sharing the ways in which they had managed to realize those fantasies.

One such confession was from a woman whose husband, posing as an attacker, had raped her in an alleyway when she had been out running. The experience had been wonderful, a fulfillment of that fantasy that had only deepened and enhanced the love that her and her husband shared, a child even having been conceived in that dingy alleyway.

After reading that and other confessions, it had helped her come to an epiphany.

A common theme through those stories had been that the woman had taken the situation into her own hands, and that although it had of course taken the participation of a man to help the fantasy happen, had it not been for the woman speaking up, the fantasy would have stayed just that.

She had just finished reading a new entry on the blog, when the thought had hit her like a runaway train:

This won't happen unless I make it happen.

Despite the heat that the fantasies provoked inside her, she had understood that it was unwise to go the simple route and just do her best to entice a stranger into raping her. Strutting around in a skimpy dress late at night while pretending to be drunk and thus easy prey was a dangerous proposition that could end with her seriously hurt. The safest and surest way to make the fantasy reality was to arrange it with someone that she knew.

After some thought, she had decided to post on Craigslist, understanding that it was unlikely that she would get a reply that might lead to something serious. The ad had been simple: a request for somebody to contact her if they were interested in 'sexual fantasies of the nonconsensual variety', the vague description her way of tip-toeing around the impolite language, a last-minute safeguard against the improbable possibility of somebody that she knew stumbling upon the post and somehow knowing that she had authored it.

[So, you trying to get raped?] one of the responses had read, the crudeness of the sentence making her blush.

Her post had received a lot more than just that one.

The large majority had been men tripping over themselves in the attempt to be the one to help her fulfill her fantasy. Their strategies had ranged from one chauvinist who had proceeded to list all the reasons why every woman deserved to be raped, to the seemingly mild-mannered fellow who rather disturbingly confessed that he imagined raping virtually every woman he had ever met, his mother and sister included. A few of the responses had been sent just to troll her, and one had been somebody scolding her for 'immoral and deviant desires that would lead her to hell'. A few, surprisingly, had been women admitting that they shared the fantasy and complimenting her for having the chutzpah to attempt to make it a reality.

Over the following weeks, she carefully weeded out the jokesters and sleazebags from the actual prospects, and then sifted through the actual prospects, replying to their replies and having conversations with them. Her plan if none of the responses or follow-ups yielded results had been to wait awhile and post again. While it would have been easy to settle for one of those prospects, she had planned to come out with one lucky guy who would represent the cream of the crop.

Said cream of the crop was a friendly, easygoing bartender and aspiring novelist named Brett.

What had drawn her to him had been the fact that unlike every other prospect, who had responded with over-the-top enthusiasm, Brett had come across as awkward and out of his depth. She had felt comforted by that, as it reflected her own persistent insecurity about the viability of realizing this fantasy. As they had e-mailed back and forth, getting to know each other, she had found herself in awe that it was happening, that her fantasy was coming closer and closer to reality.

Now, as he fucked her, holding her down effortlessly, taking what he wanted without thought to her, she exulted in the reality.

"Fucking slut," he grunted, yanking back at her hair, forcing a squeal to spill from her, "dirty little bitch."

Natalie could sense an orgasm coming on. It seemed different, stronger, darker, fiercer than its predecessors, even those experienced while imagining this scenario. The sensations that brought it closer were sharply acute: the rude way that he drove into her cunt, the assertive passage of his meat through her slick channel, the consistently subtle thrumming of his shaft, the collisions of his testicles against her taint. Even the pain served to ratchet up her lust: the grip that he maintained on her dark brown tresses, the ache at her temple from earlier when he had slammed her head against the ground, the twinges in her hands from slapping fruitlessly at him, the slight soreness at her wrists where he had so harshly gripped them while restraining her earlier, the way that the gravel cut against her flesh whether it was covered by her dress or not. The pain served another purpose: hammering home how she was helpless before him, subject to his whims, only able to weather whatever treatment he gave her.

"Yeah, of course you like this, you just needed a man who knows how to fuck you..."

It had been her worry that if the pleasure overtook the inclination to keep up the façade, he would simply give in and let the scene of a stranger raping a weak and defenseless woman disappear. They had discussed it, but he had assured her that he would play the part to the best of his abilities.

As such, this decision was one that she wholeheartedly approved of, not only continuing with the rape narrative but also using her arousal against her instead of letting it ruin the moment. He kept talking; every vicious taunt added to the delight, every disparaging word made her groan happily, every spiteful laugh was sweetly cruel. She squirmed underneath him, her climax approaching steadily, thrust after thrust bringing it closer.

When the swell of euphoria crashed over her, it was bright and intense, blazing thrills shooting out through her nerves, centered in and radiating out from her abused cunt. Her shudders and bleats caught his attention.

"Are you cumming?"

She was too busy creaming on his cock to answer, but he did not let her simply ride the rapturous wave.

"Answer me!" he growled, pulling at her hair, forcing her head to arch back, the response a pathetic bleat.

The wordless answer displeased him.

"I asked you a question, you stupid whore, so answer me, or I'll stop fucking you!"

That threat broke through to her.

"Yes," she whimpered, "I'm cumming."

"Good girl. That wasn't so hard, was it?"

The question was rhetorical, so thankfully he did not press her for an answer, instead continuing to fuck her. Pure pleasure roiled along her nerves, a harsh bliss ruling her overwhelmed body.

It was a long and arduous climax, but easily the best of her short life.

Brett had proven to be a normal young man. Doing her due diligence, she had summoned her social media sleuthing skills to briefly investigate him, seeing mainly what she saw everywhere else. It was that apparent normalcy, along with the conversations that they had shared, that had helped to eliminate any anxiety left in her and strengthen her conviction that she could have this fantasy made into reality with his help.

Once she had made the decision to choose him as her partner in this endeavor, and he had promised that he would help her, she had shared with him the exact specifications of several versions of her fantasy that she had curated over the years.

[In one of my fantasies,] she had begun a long and descriptive e-mail, [I've been at the club with friends, a bit tipsy, and I've been dancing with random guys all night long, grinding on them, maybe making out with them a little, but nothing more than that. I'm dressed a bit slutty, but not too much, short dress, fuck-me pumps, that kind of thing. I usually use this shortcut home through a construction site, and because it's late, nobody's there. So, I imagine I'm almost at the fence I sneak through to get home, when somebody attacks me. And he starts talking about what a little tease I am, about how he saw me at the club and followed me home because he thinks I deserve to be taught a lesson. And I'm struggling, but he's too strong, and he keeps on talking to me, saying all these nasty things, and I can't stop him from raping me. He just tears my panties off and fucks me. And I try to get him off me, but there's nothing I can do, he just tears pussy up and doesn't stop until he's done. When he does cum, he blows his load all over my face, and it's sticky and hot and makes me feel like a dirty girl.]

[Whoa, you've really thought about this,] was his response.

The thrusts slowed, and he pulled out, letting her come down to earth.

"You came hard," he commented, "you really needed to be raped, huh?"

She nodded meekly.

"Well," he continued drily, "glad I got here when I did."

With that, he drove back into her. The sudden rush of cock through her channel made her squeal lewdly. He steadied himself atop her, and let his hips resume their earlier pace. The grip on her hair had relented, and now he let go, allowing her to slump forward until her cheek was on the ground. Brett took advantage, his hand landing on her head, pushing it down, grinding her cheek against the gravel, a tremulous whine her answer to the abuse and added indignity. The hurt mingled perfectly with the delight. Pain had never caused her bliss before, but right now, it was the perfect counterpoint to the more traditionally pleasurable sensations.

Another climax approached quickly, her body now attuned to the situation, interpreting whatever he did to her as positive stimulation. One hand squeezed at her hip, the other merciless atop her head. As a result of that unrelenting pressure, gravel crunched against her cheek, pressing into her skin nearly hard enough to rupture it.

"How about this, cunt?" he asked. "Do you like this, huh, do you like when it hurts?"

"Yes," came her docile murmur. "I deserve it..."

His spiteful laugh caused a blush to erupt across her cheeks, the shame a crucial part of the mix.

This really is going better than I thought it would.

The specific fantasy that she had entailed was only one of several that she had shared.

[In another one, I'm out running, and I'm going down this little side street, maybe an alley, a place where there aren't a lot of people. Someone attacks me, and drags me down to the ground, and I'm dazed so I don't fight back at first, and when I do, it's too late, because my shorts and panties are around my ankles and he's already raping me, just fucking me hard, keeping me pinned down. He's telling me about how he sees me running every day, and that it's dumb of me to run through this street because nobody is around to help me, and he tells me that I've done this to myself, and that maybe I wanted somebody to jump me. He fucks me rough, rips me up, and then when he's finished, shoots his load into my panties. And then before he leaves, he tells me to put them on and walk home wearing them. And I do...]

[Then there's another one where I've been out running errands, and this guy's been following me, but I haven't noticed. He sneaks into my building after me, comes up with me, pretending to be nice and polite, as if he lives there too. And then as I open my door, he shoves me through it, and then slams it behind him. And I have bags in my hands, so I can't fight back at first, so he just takes me on the floor, yanking down my pants and pulling my panties to the side so he can get at my pussy. And I'm begging him to stop as he's fucking me, but he doesn't care, he just rapes me on the floor of my apartment...]

Each time Natalie had typed out these fantasies, she had very quickly ended up with a hand down her panties, stroking at her slit to the thought of it being brutally torn open.

A week or so after sharing these versions of her fantasy, she had given him an outlay of her weekly schedule.

[Monday through Friday, I have work, and after I come home, I go for a run. Saturday nights, I go to a bar and then a club with friends, and I walk home through that construction site I mentioned. Sunday is when I run errands. As you can see, there are lots of opportunities for us to do this.]

To keep the experience as raw and real as possible for the two of them, they had agreed on a few rules:

[We shouldn't meet in person, at least not until after we do it.]

[I like that idea,] he had responded. [How do you feel about me not telling you anything? Like, you won't know when and where I plan to do it.]

[I was actually going to suggest that myself.]

[Great minds think alike.]

[Also,] she had continued, [Please keep the act up, like do your best to not break character, no matter how into it I get. I don't think I'll last long, but don't let that stop you. And even when you're done raping me, like, don't check on me or anything. Don't ask if I'm okay.]

[I promise I will do my best.]

Over the past few weeks, she had found herself often aroused during her weekday runs and the other opportunities she had given him. His recent email silence, which had started earlier in the week, had convinced her that he was ready to go, and would choose the perfect time to hold up his end of the bargain.

[Also,] she had begun, a few days after they had discussed those rules, [Be as rough and mean as you want. Make it feel like an actual rape, like hurt me and humiliate me.]

[Are you sure?]

[Yeah. Like, don't make me have to go to the hospital, but hurt me. I'll take bruises or scratches for this.]

[Ok then. We should have a safe word just in case it gets to be too much for you.]

[Good idea. Kangaroo. How's that? It's not a word I use every day.]

[That works for me.]

[Cool. Hopefully I won't have to use it.]

The climax washed over her. Brett chuckled as she came, her shrill cries ringing loud as the ecstasy struck her yet again.

"I won't last much longer," he told her.

"Please!" she begged immediately. "Cum on my face, blow your load all over me!"

[Unless I say 'kangaroo', it's your show. Like, do what you want, do what feels right in the moment.]

[Are you sure?]

[Yeah. Definitely. Think of my fantasy as more of a guideline. I trust you to fill in the blanks or even change parts if you think of something better.]

Above her, he chuckled again, leaning down closer, his hot breath tickling her cheek.

"Fuck that. I'm blowing my load inside you."

The first syllable of the safe word had spilled instinctively from her in response before she stopped. Those words hit her like little lightning bolts, an illicit power there causing her to jerk. She moaned at the idea of his seed roiling unchecked into her womb, looking to claim her in such an animalistic way. It would be plain wrong to let her rapist cum inside her, but the decision was firmly his to make.

I did tell him to do what he wants. This is dangerous, but I can take a morning-after pill tomorrow, and damn is it hot to think about him blowing his load inside me...

The acceptance of his announcement was quick:

"Do it! Do it! Rape a baby into me!"

A bitter laugh came from above her, the thrusts not stopping despite his surprise.

"Jesus, you're fucked up. Did Daddy abuse you as a little girl or something?"

"No...I'm just a slut, a slut who needs to be knocked up, do it, please, please, rape a baby into me!"

The words spilled from her in ragged gasps. His derisive chuckles had no effect on her shamelessness, as she had already decided to submit completely to his whims.

His hips beat relentlessly against her, the throbs along his length heralding the oncoming flow of seed.

And then he drove deep and held himself there, lodged to the balls inside her clutching cunt, his body flush against hers.

"Here it comes, you little bitch!"

"Please! Give it to me, please...I want it all...please..."

The first spurt sent her headlong into another climax, the rush of warmth salaciously delightful, a heated gout of potency gushing towards her womb. The rest of his load fired out in thick bursts, flooding through her with a single-minded purpose. The image arose in her mind's eye, of her defenseless eggs weathering the onslaught, one determined sperm cell winning out in the chaos, starting up the process that would leave her pregnant with her pretend rapist's baby. The ecstasy spiked higher, leading to a jubilant howl from her. She wriggled and writhed, her channel milking the length, coaxing out more sticky ropes with a mindless enthusiasm.

Once the spurts died down, leaving her suffused with masculine essence, she calmed, resting now, his weight still atop her.

The afterglow was profoundly rich, easing the aches along her body, the wounds where the gravel had torn into her skin, the bruises where he had gripped her too hard. The warmth in her womb helped as well, reminding her that she had taken his seed and had thus been marked as his property.

He moved off her then, dragging his cock from her cunt, and rose to his feet.

For the next few minutes, she laid there, her breathing returning to its normal cadence. Aside from the occasional scuffling of his shoes, he made no sound. Hoping that his eyes were on her, she let her thighs fall open, showing off her pussy, his fresh semen drooling out from the slit. A hand snuck underneath herself to play idly with the stream.