Welcome to K!NKTOBER 2021, a festive affair brought to you by the dark, deranged and depraved Dani and Pearly. One fantasy-riddled prompt every day, during the entire month of October
Kink: CNC (Consensual Non-Consent)
TWs: Sexual Assault, Violence, and general filthy behavior.
Fear can sometimes be a tangible, physical thing. A vice that wraps around your limbs and renders you unable to speak, or fight.
I'm sure you've heard of the fight or flight response; but what people don't seem to understand is there's a third reaction.
We see it more so in the animal kingdom, because most of the time when it's happening in the real world, the people involved don't live to talk about it.
But unlike most people, I don't flinch away from fear. I seek it out. There's nothing like that rush of adrenaline you get when your life's on the line, and it's the reason I'm walking at a fast pace through downtown Seattle, glancing over my shoulder approximately every ten seconds.
I know he's coming for me, I just don't know when.
And yeah, I'm scared, of course I am. But I'm also excited. The kind of excited you get when you enter a haunted house that's been raved about for being extra scary.
I pull my thick, knit cardigan tight around my body to fight the October winds. Everything around me screams All Hallow's Eve, the darkness turning everything shades of black and orange. Fallen leaves line the streets, Jack-o-lanterns grin from the few residential porch steps, and the storefronts sport all sorts of goblins and ghouls, bats and spiderwebs, caution tape and fake blood splatter.
I live for this time of year.
I'm almost home when I realize that tonight won't be the night, and I push aside the disappointment I feel at the thought.
My front porch is dark, and I silently curse Rose for not noticing and changing the bulb before she went to work.
Right when I'm about to wrap my fingers around the door knob, a strong hand clamps over my mouth, pulling me back against a solid wall of muscle. His breath is hot against my neck, but he smells like cinnamon and dirt and man.
"Don't scream or I swear to god, I'll slit your throat and leave you to bleed out on your porch," he growls. Literally, almost, growls. His voice is so fucking deep, so dark and rough, I hate the way my panties flood at his words. "Wouldn't want your little girlfriend finding you like that, would you?"
I shake my head as much as I can, my hands clawing at the leather that's wrapped around his arm.
It's there—the adrenaline I was talking about. The rush. And I don't fight, I don't fly, and I don't freeze.
I lean into the feeling like my life depends on it, because maybe it does.
His arm wraps around my waist, not in the tender embrace of a lover, but a more possessive hold, and soon he's lifting me up off my feet. Backing us away from my front door, towards a car I didn't notice was parked right by my porch. Off to the side and up on the lawn so no one can see the sleek, black paint job of the SUV.
I can't make out a make or a model because he moves so fast, the back door creaking open before I'm thrown onto old leather seats.
This car has to be twenty years old or more, the leather cracking and peeling in spots. Inside smells like a mechanics workshop, oil and grease and gasoline, and various tools clang around in the floor board.
I'm dying to see him, to find out what my kidnapper looks like, but I can't make anything out with it being so dark. All I can see is that he's tall, lean but strong, every inch of his skin covered in black. Black leather jacket, black t-shirt, black jeans. I want to see his face but when my eyes drift up, it's covered by a black bandana tied tightly so I can only see his eyes. But those eyes...
They're such a vivid green, they look fake. Like they almost glow in the dark. Bright and shiny in the moonlight, with the only identifying mark I can find on him being the tiny little crescent moon tattooed underneath the outer corner of his eye.
He's probably wearing color contacts, but they captivate me nonetheless.
"What are you going to do to me?" I whimper breathlessly. There are about twenty different emotions flowing through me, and about half of them I definitely should not be feeling right now.
"Shut the fuck up," he snaps, grabbing my wrists and bringing them together to hold both of them with one of his.
I kick my legs out, mostly because I know I'm supposed to, but he presses his hips forward to pin them against the seat.
He doesn't even break a sweat as he secures my wrists with a zip tie, then does the same with my ankles.
It's when he pulls a second bandana from his pocket that I start to panic a little. I'm claustrophobic, so I won't do well being gagged. And no matter how much I thrive on fear, nothing will stop the panic attack it will bring me and that will only piss him off more.
"Please," I beg, "please don't hurt me."
"I said shut the fuck up!" He yells, his gloved hand grabbing my hair and jerking me up to his face. Before I can fully comprehend his movements, the bandana is in my mouth and tied around the back of my head. I can't breathe, though I try to drag in air through my sluggish lungs. There's a weight on my chest that has nothing to do with the man before me, and everything to do with the gag in my mouth.
His eyes flash with a momentary softness while he watches me lose my shit, but then he scowls and pulls back, slamming the door shut and climbing into the driver's seat.
"Don't even think about dying on me before I can have fun with that little cunt of yours," he barks. The engine roars to life, so fucking loud but not loud enough to drown out the pounding in my ears.
Only a few minutes pass, but it feels like an eternity before my lungs finally give out and I fade into unconsciousness, somewhat thankful that I at least don't have to be awake for the panic.
When I come to, I'm cradled in a pair of strong arms and being jostled by his sure steps. Gravel crunches beneath his feet and I instantly notice the bandana is gone from my mouth.
Instinctively, I roll my head into his chest, my hands coming up to touch him. They're still bound, but a little shifting tells me my ankles aren't.
As soon as I touch him, his chest rumbles with a growl.
"This isn't a fucking date, princess."
The acid in his voice makes me recoil, and soon his steps go from gravel to the soft thud of concrete.
When he sets me down, I finally open my eyes, and my heart loses its shit when I see where he's brought me.
It's some sort of warehouse. Rows and rows of pallets stacked fifty feet high or more. I can't even see much of the space from here through all the merchandise, but I can see that the spaces between are very, very narrow.
"No, no please. I'll do anything, anything you want—"
His sharp smack against my cheek makes my head snap to the side and I growl.
And yet I know exactly what to do to stop this and I don't do it.
"Shut. The fuck. Up," he spits. "The next time I have to tell you won't be fucking pretty. Now," reaching in his pocket, he pulls out a switchblade, pressing the button to eject the knife. My whole body jolts with the snick it makes, thrill shooting down my spine.
"I'm going to take these off you," the blade presses between my wrists and the zip tie, cold against the sensitive skin there. "And you're going to run. You have five minutes to get a head start, and you better not make it too easy on me to find you." With one swift motion, he cuts the thin plastic, then brings the knife up to run the flat part against my lips.
"Don't worry, darling, I will find you. But you won't like what happens if I find you too soon. Understand?"
I don't respond because I was told not to, and he looks angry for a second before recognition hits and he barks out a laugh.
I wonder what his smile looks like under the bandana.
"Oh, we have a good little girl on our hands, don't we? She remembers her orders. Nice, very nice. All the better for when I ruin you." The blade leaves my lips and he turns away abruptly, his back to me. "Run along, princess. Countdown begins now. And don't worry, there won't be any white knight to come and save you tonight."
But I don't want to be saved. He knows it just as well as I do.
I need this.
So with one blind push, I throw myself into the maze.
That's essentially what it is, considering I'm in a hurry to get lost and therefore have myself turned around in no time. My heart pounds, my cheeks heat. Sweat covers every part of me as I weave in and out of tower after tower of god-only-knows-what. I'm gasping for air, but I'm so focused on the task of making sure I'm not found, it's not from the fact that the valleys between pallets seem to be getting smaller and smaller—it's simply from the exertion of pushing myself to flee, even when it's against everything I crave to do so.
But it's not against instinct, and that's what keeps pushing me forward. The primal part of my brain that tells me to hide or I'll be eaten.
Even if there's another part entirely that desperately wants to be devoured.
Sounds of my hurried footsteps fill the air, the squeak of my skin when I brush up against a plastic-wrapped pallet. My lungs burn, and soon I have a sharp pain in my side. I'm not usually so active, but I have to be now or he'll get me and then…
Well, I don't know what then.
I don't know how much time passes before I hear his footsteps behind me. He's not running like I am, just taking long, sure strides like he knows exactly where I'm going to be.
"Gonna have to do better than that, little lamb," his voice echoes through the warehouse, followed by an evil laughter that chills me down to the bones in the very best way.
I take a sharp turn in between two pallets, but as long as I run he'll be able to hear me wherever I go. Unless…
Fuck, this is probably stupid as hell.
But no matter how stupid it is, I take my shoes off and leave them behind. My socked feet still thud against the concrete, which is rougher than I expect, but he won't be able to hear that unless he's right on top of me and at that point it's too late anyways.
Still running. Still pushing. My legs burn now, threatening to give in, and when my calf cramps up, I fall, my knees hitting the concrete. It shreds the thin fabric of my leggings, scraping my knees and my hands as well when they catch me before my face hits the ground.
He steps out of the shadows like my own personal monster here to get me, but I've been running for so long, I don't have it in me to get up and run any more.
Fitting, considering why I'm here in the first place.
His steps are slow and calculated as he approaches me, because he knows full well that he has me now.
"Aw," he tsks, clucking his tongue. "Looks like the princess has fallen from her throne."
He grabs my ankle and pulls me to him, but my other leg kicks out on instinct. I have to fight. Have to. Even if my body is screaming at me to give in, screaming that it's done fighting for everything. Done struggling. It's time to surrender. Wave the white flag.
Except I can't.
My foot connects with his cheek, still covered by the bandana, snapping his head to the side as he hisses.
"Bad fucking idea, sweetheart," he growls, capturing both of my wrists now and pulling to him—dragging my ass against the concrete to shred it there, too.
We flail for a few seconds, my arms fighting to keep him from grabbing me, but he overpowers me so easily. Not only that, but he outsmarts me. Almost like he's done this so many times before and knows what to expect.
Somehow he bypasses my swinging limbs to grab onto my shirt—my favorite shirt because for some reason, I wanted to look nice for him. It doesn't matter now, though, because he shreds the thin silk of the dusty pink camisole like it's nothing more than tissue paper.
The thin straps snap and a jagged tear rips from one cup to the other and down my side, gaping open to expose the white lace bra with scalloped edges I only purchased last weekend. It's expensive as fuck, but that doesn't seem to matter to him because he groans and gets ahold of my wrists again, holding them above my head before he fists the center of the bra and snaps it to expose my bare tits.
"Fucking beautiful," he rasps, twisting his head to the side like it'll help him get a good look.
His hands are rough and massive, harsh when he grabs one and squeezes, kneading my flesh and making me whimper—especially when he takes my nipple between his thumb and forefinger and pinches hard, rolling the bud between his fingers.
"Such a fucking whore. I bet if I slipped my hand between your legs, that pussy would just be dripping for me, wouldn't it?"
But I don't dare say that out loud. I don't want him to know how hot this makes me, how bad I want him to force himself inside and violate me.
It's no fun if I give him the green light.
He's straddling me, now, strong thighs on either side of mine. My spine arches with how he has me stretched to restrain me, and I want to cry out when his hand leaves my tit to drift lower.
He doesn't run his hand down my stomach or anything as gentle as that. It's a sharp movement when he slips under the waistband of my leggings, his rough fingers diving directly between my legs to find my soaked, aching cunt.
This time I do cry out. I scream because the sheer force of the pleasure is just too much.
"Yep, knew it. Fucking drenched. Scream all you want, princess, there's not a soul within a ten mile radius. It's only you and me, and oh the fun we're going to have."
He's lightening fast as he flips me over, wrenching my arms behind my back and using my cardigan to tie them together.
"Gonna need both of my hands to take everything I want from you," he says.
My tits sting as they're pressed against the cold concrete, every move he makes causing them to chafe. I hear the buckle of his pants come undone, along with his zipper, and I struggle to buck him off of me.
"You're only making it harder on yourself, sweetheart," he sneers, ripping the seat of my leggings with hardly any resistance since he shredded them not long before.
"Fucking hell, you may seem all sweet and innocent, with those big, brown eyes, but you're just fucking dying for this, aren't you? It's like you get ready just for me," he chuckles, so deep it vibrates right down to my clit.
Yes. Yes I did wear the matching white thong in hope of encountering someone like you.
"No! No, please, I'll do anything you want just...not this. Anything but this," I plead.
"You'll do whatever the fuck I tell you too, princess." His hand lands against my ass cheek, sharp and harsh and I know it'll leave a mark. Especially considering he keeps hitting me, spanking me, alternating cheeks until tears are streaming down my face from the pain.
"You cry, but you're fucking dripping on the floor. You say no, but your body tells a different fucking story, sweetheart."
He pulls back, then, and a whimper, trying to twist myself around to see him. Just as soon as I do, though, his hand is on the back of my neck, shoving my face into the ground.
"There's nothing you can do to stop me, might as well stop fighting," he grunts, pushing my legs apart. He manages to maneuver me to where my ass is in the air, my weight pressing down on my scraped knees, and then he shreds my panties just as easily as he did the rest of my clothes.
I briefly wonder how I'm supposed to get out of here with nothing but my cardigan left intact, but he doesn't give me very long to dwell on that.
My screaming really begins when he impales me on his cock. It's fucking massive, bigger than any I've ever had, and it stretches me so much my pussy struggles to push it out. I can feel the metal of some sort of piercing dragging along my inner walls, maybe a frenum, but the balls on it are larger than the standard and I shudder beneath him at the feeling.
"Fuck, yeah, feel that, sweetheart? Fucking take it." He keeps his hand on the back of my head, twisting his fingers in my long, brown locks, and his other hand presses on top of my ass with a bruising force as he pounds into me.
I can't move, I'm completely helpless to stop this. My cum slides down the inside of my thighs, his animalistic grunts and the wet sound of my pussy mixed with the slapping our bodies are creating with the sheer force he's putting behind his thrusts.
I can't stop screaming, each thrust hitting me so fucking deep and so hard it hurts and feels like the very best kind of hell at the same time. My tits and my cheek scrape against the concrete, but it only pummels me towards my release faster.
The world around me disappears. Nothing else matters. And when I come all over his cock, my throat is hoarse with how loud I scream, the force of it knocking into me so hard I can hardly breathe, can't feel anything but his cock.
"Good fucking girl," he croons, loosening his grip on my hair and stroking his hand down my back. "Tell me, sweetheart, has this perfect, perky ass of yours ever been fucked?"
My face is streaked with tears I wasn't even aware I was crying, and yet all I can do is shake my head, my throat too raw to speak.
But I don't want it.
I really don't want him going there, of all places.
"No," my voice is weak, merely a whisper, but he's already got a finger in my ass and I screw my eyes shut.
I'm all used up. Dirty. No one will ever want me like this, now.
I still have the power to stop it, though. And I still keep my mouth shut.
The head of his cock pushes between my cheeks, replacing his finger, and I silently think how wet I got because otherwise he'd really be tearing me apart.
My ass stretches, burning so bad I suck air in through my teeth and cry in earnest now. It fucking hurts. There's nothing pleasurable about this.
Until there is.
He has a couple of inches in when the pain fades and blooms into this fucking incredible feeling, unlike anything I've ever felt before. It's pleasure, but it's filthy. It makes me feel depraved, but hungry for more at the same time.
"Atta girl," he soothes. "Fuck, look at you. Fucking magnificent."
With those words, he starts pistoning into me yet again. Relentless. Reckless. The metal of his piercing scraping against the sensitive nerves in a place that's never been touched by another person before.
But this time I can't scream. I just keep whimpering, biting into my lip, my nails digging into my hands as I clench them.
All I can do is lay there and let him take what he wants from me.
His grunts grow louder, and he's pounded me until I'm flat on the ground now. But when he fits his hand underneath my hips between my pussy and the ground, pinching my clit between his fingers, I have no choice but to come again. But this time, instead of screaming, it steals my breath.
His movements stutter and he comes with a roar, filling my ass with his cum.
I can't even move when he pulls out. Not even as I feel his cum leak out of me.
He straightens himself up, getting his pants back on then untying my hands before I'm back in his arms. This time he let's me bury my face in his chest and touch him, but he doesn't say a word as he heads back to the car.
He doesn't even tie me back up when he sets me in his back seat. Almost as soon as the car is moving, I'm lulled to sleep.
When I wake up, I'm back in my bed, and it's almost like nothing happened.
But I know.
The scrapes on my body, my sore holes, the welts on my ass. It all tells a story of the best fucking night of my life.
As does my copy of the waiver I signed sitting on my desk.
The only person that knew I signed up for TAKEN, the new underground attraction that surfaced around October 1st, was my roommate and best friend Rosalie.
The concept was simple. A safe way for girls like me to act out their rape fantasies. Much like a submission contract, we submitted a list of hard limits, our schedule, and a photo of ourselves.
I even had a safe word. One I never used.
I expected it to release some of the tension in me, but the next Monday when I step into the coffee shop I own, still sore from the encounter, all I have is a hollow, empty feeling inside my chest.
The fear I have now is not one I welcome. Because now I fear I'll never feel that alive again.
I've only just switched the "open" sign on in the window when a man comes through the vintage, seafoam green door, the fall wind pulling leaves into my lobby. His hair is the same color as the leaves but there's a beanie pulled over it, and he's dressed in all black. Tight ass black jeans, beat up combat boots, plain black t-shirt, and a leather jacket. My heart knocks against my chest, remembering how his leather felt against my neck, but it has to be a coincidence. Lots of people own a leather jacket. Most, probably.
He keeps his head down, but I'm still captivated by his presence. He takes up the whole room, confident and strong.
"Just a regular coffee. Black," he says without looking up. I know that voice. I know it as well as I know my name is Bella Swan.
"Name for your order?" I manage to stutter.
It's him. I know it is. It has to be.
And yet I still can't fully believe it.
Until he finally looks up, taking my breath away with his sharp jaw dotted with scruff, high cheekbones, perfect pink lips with the silver ring on the left side that he's chewing on. But that's not what convinces me.
No, it's the eyes. The shocking green that almost looks fake, but in the light of the coffee shop it's more subdued. And then the final nail in the coffin…
The tiny crescent moon inked right under his eye.
So... you've had a taste of what's to come... Tomorrow is Pearly's turn!