Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire

by Aleatha Romig

  Shutting my eyes against the dark, I whispered, “I forgive you.”

  His body stuttered, halted suddenly in a harsh and rigid climax. He jerked my head back and mashed his lips against mine, sucking and biting at me with a violence that triggered my own orgasm. I came with long inner pulls of his twitching cock and a quiet cry that tumbled onto his tongue.

  As our bodies softened and cooled in the aftermath, he stared at me, almost bewildered.

  A slow blink brought awareness and a glimmer of wonder. His mouth curved in a sleek, satisfied smile.

  He bent his head and licked my bottom lip. “I liked that very much.”

  For reasons I couldn’t analyze, his words made my sex clench around his softened cock.

  He chuckled and rolled to the side.

  With leisurely movements, he untied me. I rubbed my wrists for a moment, unsure about what to do. I could make a run for it. There would never be a better chance than right now. But it felt overly dramatic. I had my things on the bathroom counter and a fifty dollar deposit at the front desk. It hadn’t hurt. It was only casual sex. In fact, it was the best sex I’d ever had. The only consensual sex, if I could call it that.

  Leaning over, I pulled the condom off, using my hand to keep it from spilling. He jerked in my hand then grunted.

  “What are you doing?” he muttered.

  I cocked my head. “Cleaning you. Isn’t that…? I thought…”

  He sent me a lazy grin. “Let me guess. Boyfriend number two.”

  “He wasn’t my boyfriend.”

  “Well he sounds like one hell of a bastard, but it seems I owe him one.” He gestured to himself. “Get to it then.”

  I turned back to my task, licking up the salty juices from his softening cock, his balls, working my tongue down into the taint as I had been taught to. It had tasted copper with my blood then. It was the way between a man and a woman, he’d said, and I had never questioned the practice until now. Still, it seemed to satisfy this man too. He let out a small sigh as I ran my tongue from the tip of his cock to the base.

  When I had cleaned him, he pushed my head gently down against his stomach. His abs were hard and lightly-furred—an unconventional pillow. Exhausted from the fear and the struggle, sated from climax, I slipped into a dark sleep.

  I dreamed of my mother. Her face was distorted and twisted.

  She sneered at me. “Not so proud now, are you?”

  “I didn’t want to do it,” I sobbed. “He made me.”

  “You left just so you could fuck guys like him.”

  “No, no.” I pleaded for her to understand, for her to absolve me. “I didn’t know.”

  “With that face and that body?” she scoffed. “You knew what would happen, and you wanted it.”

  “Why didn’t you stop me?”

  “I did, girl. I told you not to go…not to go…”

  I woke up with a cock in my mouth. I gasped, struggling to breathe. It took me a few minutes and several thrusts to get oriented. My hands were tied behind my back, arching my body up as I lay on top of them. He straddled my neck, thrusting mercilessly into my mouth. He didn’t seem to notice that I was awake now, or care that I had been asleep before. He simply used me, and something subversive sent warmth to…to my cunt. That was what he called it. But there was nothing but cool air between my legs as he sawed his cock against my tongue.

  I tried to use my tongue, to find the rhythm, but it was erratic, only in his head. I could do nothing but open to him, to take him repeatedly until he grunted and filled my mouth with foamy cum. A drop spilled out of the corner of my mouth and trailed down my skin. There were no tears left, only this.

  He sighed as he slipped out. Sleepily, almost as if he were still sleeping, he scooted down my body until his head rested on the cushion of my breasts. They were soft and plump, but they couldn’t have made a comfortable pillow. Still, he fell asleep almost instantly, his breathing evening out into a peace I could only envy.

  Blinking up at the water-stained ceiling, I wondered if I could pretend this night had never happened.

  I must have drifted off to sleep, because when I woke, my arms were in agony. He used me many times that night. He dragged me onto his cock, forcing me to ride him while my arms were still bound behind me. He controlled the speed of my thrusts with twists and slaps to my breasts. The next time he licked at my cunt, sucked and bit until I came with a screaming abandon I’d never felt or even imagined.

  The next time he dragged me by my hair to the bathroom where the bright light stung my sleep-dimmed eyes. He scrubbed my body with the harsh soap, as if to remove every trace of him. Then he took me back to the bed, spread me open, and sprayed ropes of cum across my breasts, ruining all his work.

  There was an inconsistency there, as if he were fighting himself just to fuck me. I started to fear that he would kill me after all. Maybe it would get to be too much. Maybe we were stuck in an infinite loop of lust and hatred, and the only way to end it would be to kill me. Which would I prefer—to spend an eternity in purgatory or take a gamble with hell? But these were only the meandering thoughts of an exhausted mind, because this would end soon. Already morning light whispered through the curtains. Our sex had turned sluggish and sloppy, though he seemed reluctant to end it.

  I knelt, my face and shoulders pressed into the coverlet as he pushed into me from behind. When he came, his groan sounded like an animal in agony, a cry for help. He jerked back his cock, and I knew it was as sensitive and raw as my own tender flesh. It didn’t make sense why he pushed himself to the pain, but we weren’t operating on the laws of logic here, not inside the looking glass. There was only our primal senses, a sort of ironic inevitability, like an animal who fights to the death just to prove that he’s dominant.

  I dozed on the bed, too broken to move, as I heard him get up and rummage around the room. The sink in the bathroom went on briefly. There was the sound of water nearby, and then he was raising my head, tilting it up. The curve of a cup touched my lips. Cool water slid down my parched throat, following by a bitter aftertaste and powder residue.

  I made a face and tried to pull away.

  “Shh,” he said, nudging the cup against my lips. “Drink up.”

  My limbs were too heavy to push him and already the liquid ran down my neck. I opened my mouth and drank. Relief filled me.

  “That’s a good girl.” He leaned down, whispering into my ear. “I’m sorry about this. I really am. You’re too good.”

  He’d really done it, I realized as my consciousness faded. He’d killed me, and now we could both be free.

  Chapter Five

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  The Niagara Falls State Park is the oldest state park in the United States.

  I woke up in a rumbling, rattling darkness. My body was jolted around. I heard the hollow bang of metal, but some sort of thin padding protected me from the worst of the blows. Every time I tried to move, pain seared through my brain. As blood returned to my fingers and toes, agony followed. So I focused on staying as still as possible, eyes shut tightly against the possibility that was becoming more and more certain.

  The back of a truck. I was in his truck.

  He hadn’t killed me. He’d been apologizing for kidnapping me. It wasn’t hard to figure out what I would be used for. This was a nightmare, exactly the kind of thing my mother warned me about. I would take all of the precautions she wanted while secretly rolling my eyes because that kind of thing only happened to girls on TV. Not to me. Oh God, not to me.

  Whether from remnants of the drug or just fear, I felt exhausted, and I allowed the steady motion of the truck to lull me into a thoughtless place. Nothing so comforting as sleep, but free of the nightmares my mind drew for me. Last night had only been the beginning. There was more.

  Slowly, almost reluctantly, I took inventory of my body. My hands were tied behind my back, cuffed at the wrists by something soft but intractable. My feet were similarly bound, though I couldn’t see them at all. I
was lying on something mildly soft, maybe a padding or a thick blanket.

  And I was naked. Of course I was naked and damp and aching down there where he had entered me. I didn’t even know what to call that place. My vagina. That seemed wrong, too clinical. A gasping, desperate laugh escaped me. I could barely put a name to it, but he’d been inside there. Inside my cunt.

  My innocence suddenly seemed sinister, as if it were the true cause of my predicament. Maybe if I’d had more experience with men, I would have anticipated this. If I’d had regular sex, I would be able to handle this.

  It seemed to go on forever, the whistle of wind, the rumble of wheels. Occasionally we would slow and turn, but then we’d find some even road again to barrel away for hours. Untraceable hours away from my car, from my new job, from my mother’s house. She wouldn’t even know I had gone missing. Suddenly that seemed like a relief. At least she wouldn’t know. It would only make her more afraid. It would only make her gloat.

  I must have been dozing because the screech of brakes startled me. The long drive had calmed me into a sense of complacency, as if I could exist forever in the dark, but I knew it would end. I’d have to face him and whatever he would do to me.

  The roar of metal rushing against metal assaulted my ears before white light blinded me. Before my eyes adjusted, he flipped me over. He untied my hands and my legs, sending a rush of pinpricks into my fingers and toes. A moan escaped me.

  “It’s okay, sunshine,” he murmured, rubbing his hands over my arms briskly. “Just a few minutes and you’ll be right as rain.”

  Gradually, the physical discomfort faded and I became aware of a new sensation: hunger. Ravenous hunger that sharpened into pain and the wonderful smell of cooling fast food. He smirked, handing over a bag. I had no dignity left. I ripped into the bag, scarfing down half the container of fries before I glanced up at him. He was watching me. There was no judgment on his face, only a kind of unnerving fascination that was somehow worse. I wasn’t even worthy of his pity but some curious creature, something lower. I bent my head and polished off my fries and burger and washed it all down with the soda he produced.

  My body felt a little more solid now, but my emotional state frayed. He was even more handsome in the morning light, like someone I would have had a crush on but never would have had the guts to approach. It twisted me inside because as sick as it was, I wanted him to like me. I was still desperate for a friend. I started to cry.

  He pulled me into his arms, curled on his lap. I held myself rigid for only a minute—small rebellions—before sinking into his warmth. He smelled of musk and spice, and I turned my face into him, letting my tears soak his shirt, clinging to him as if he could save me even while his arms held me captive.

  I cried for having stayed with my mother too long, not knowing what a normal life would have been like. I cried for finally summoning the strength to leave, only to have all my worst fears prove true. Most of all, I cried because I felt relief to have been captured.

  The outside world was terrifying, but here inside this large tin box on wheels, none of that could touch me. Only he could touch me. Even as I sobbed in his arms, I felt his erection harden beneath me. He made no move to use it on me, not yet, but I had no doubts that he would. That was my purpose here.

  Eventually, I quieted, sniffling every so often. I may have even drowsed that way, still affected by whatever drug he had given me.

  “It’s okay.” he said, his lips pressed against the crown of my head. “You’re so pretty when you cry.”

  I felt myself blush even as my stomach turned over. But I couldn’t hate myself for the small pleasure I took. There were so few pleasures in life, and even less in the back of this truck, but I could accept his compliments. I could accept his pleasure too.

  There were some men you didn’t say no to.

  I wriggled my body experimentally. I told myself it was only to test my limits, but maybe there was a part of me that wanted to seduce him. It was sick, but I wanted him to touch me more, to hold me tighter. I wanted the intimacy from last night in the absence of any true connections in the whole wide world.

  I didn’t know him at all, but he had touched the deepest part of me and in my own way, I had touched the deepest part of him too. There was a strange but addictive magic to sex. It tied a thin string from his soul to mine with every joining, and I wondered how many times it would take before we were inseparable. They were fanciful thoughts, but I felt that way—like dreaming, like lightness. He would bring me back down. He would ground me.

  Scooting aside, I placed my hand on him, there. The denim was stiff against my palm, no give at all. I paused, glancing up at him.

  Surprise was in his eyes, and lust too. “Go on, sunshine. You want to see what I look like? How I’m made? Take it out.”

  Carefully, I unzipped his jeans and opened the flaps. He wore nothing underneath, and he fell heavily into my palm, thick and long. The skin was silky smooth against my palm. I closed my fingers around it, and it jumped.

  “That’s right,” he praised. “Touch my cock. Stroke it for me, baby. Make it good and hard so I can fuck you with it.”

  It was so wrong, but I let it happen. So dirty, and it washed over me. If I went into a sort of trance, he couldn’t really hurt me. It even felt good. Wasn’t that better than pain? Than fear? My mother had lived in fear, and she was safe—but she was still afraid. I was the opposite of safe here, but I didn’t have to be afraid. Maybe that was the ultimate freedom.

  I tightened my fingers around his length and tugged. His cock. That was the word he used. Tentatively, I slipped my hand down and then up again.

  He groaned. “More. Again.”

  I stroked him until his hips bucked into my hands, and I found a sort of power there. In bringing him pleasure, I empowered myself. I could wield it in the withholding of pleasure, hesitating before the next stroke to hear him beg. A small rebellion, like syrup for my pancakes.

  “Get on the bed.” His voice came out gutturally.

  I lay down on my back, my legs slightly parted. Together enough to hide me from sight, but the small space between them was a message—I wouldn’t say no to him. But he didn’t climb between them, not yet. He knelt astride my body, a knee on either side, his cock resting thickly in the valley between my breasts.

  He rolled my nipples between his fingers, setting off sparks that I felt down to my core. Harder, he pinched. I whimpered in response, but that made him tighten further. Only when my hips bucked up of their own accord did he release me. He pushed my breasts together, wrapping the pliant flesh around his cock.

  With slow glides, he thrust between them. It should have done nothing for me. They were just breasts, and he wasn’t even stimulating them really. He was just using them for his own pleasure. But the sight of the dark head of his cock excited me as it peeked from between my pale skin.

  The feel of the dampness in the crevice as his tip leaked his seed. The sound of his pants above me, growing harsher, more ragged. Heat gathered in my sex, and with nothing to assuage it, my legs fell open, begging without words, without thought.

  He noticed, glancing back with his cock still trapped between my breasts. “Goddamn,” he breathed. “You are too perfect. I can’t let you go.”

  It almost broke the spell, that reference to how I’d come to be here in the back of this truck. Almost, but I held onto the trance, to the cloud of arousal that made this all okay.

  “Please,” I whispered. “Help me.”

  “Yeah. Oh yeah.”

  He sounded incredulous, and why shouldn’t he? How many captives would have been willing participants in this? How many captives had he had? But I had learned early on to make the best of my situation, to flourish even under hothouse lights, within glass walls.

  “You’re so good, pet,” he said, climbing down my body. My legs were already open to him, already damp. He bent his head, pressing a kiss to the top of my mound. “This is your treat.”

  With
unaccountable tenderness, he licked me, first around the soft lips, and that was shocking enough, but then he slipped his tongue into the damp crevice and swirled higher to the tight bundle of nerves. My legs shook where he had hooked them over his shoulders. I cried out, but he didn’t relent, didn’t let up until another blinding light overtook me, this one painful too, but also wonderful. There was no air in that place, no thought or fear in the pleasure, only his tongue and my skin and the shudders that racked my body.

  He turned me over so that my face and breasts and belly pressed against the musty mattress. I waited for him to enter me from behind, as he had done last night. Instead, I felt him rustle behind me, heard the quiet snick of plastic. Coolness shocked the heated skin of my bottom as his fingers rubbed a sort of gel. But not where I thought it would go. He was putting it there, on a hole I never imagined could be violated.

  I let out a soft cry of protest.

  A light slap hit my thigh. “Quiet now. Just relax and it will be fine.”

  But I couldn’t. I tensed against the invasion. It felt like stretching, like burning, and I knew it would only get worse. “Please.”

  He bent his mouth to my knee, speaking softly. “Am I shocking you?”

  “I didn’t know—”

  “Well, now you do, sunshine. And you know what else? I think you’re more adventurous than you let on. You’ve been sheltered, that much is clear. Well, you’re going to expand your horizons with me.”

  I sobbed against the coarse blanket, feeling pinned but also freed. There was nothing I could do in this position, no way to get free.

  “You need a good cry,” he said thoughtfully. “Yes, I think so.”

  I wished he were more certain. I liked his aggression better than his twisted consideration. I wanted him to hurt me, not help me.