Confessions of a Smut Author

by Scott Hildreth

  “Yes.”

  “That’s me. I’m in the van. You weren’t raped, Cheryl. It was me,” he said.

  “No, he had tattoos on his hand, on the knuckles,” I sobbed.

  “Cheryl, it was me. Come here, toward the lights. They were fake tattoos. I still have them on my fingers,” he sighed.

  The brake lights flashed again.

  Confused, and still crying, I walked toward the lights. As I got closer, I realized it was the van the rapist was driving. I stopped and stared. The driver door opened. I tensed.

  Shawn stepped from the van.

  And I began to cry.

  SHAWN

  Cheryl had indicated she wanted to role play a rape scene. Attempting to stage a rape scene at home by slapping someone while they screamed no please don’t fuck me wouldn’t have had a single accurate element to it. To discuss it later and attempt to obtain any form of feeling or thought process from the rape victim would have been sheer rubbish.

  Now that the rape was over with, I felt awful about having fulfilled her fantasy. I felt terrible for doing it to her. She meant more to me than that. Although she believed she wanted it to happen, it was nothing close to what she expected. Now still traumatized by the events, she sat in my living room and stared at the wall.

  “Are you going to be alright?” I asked.

  She nodded her head.

  “Are you sure?” I asked softly.

  She nodded her head and stared at the wall.

  “Cheryl, this is important to me. I know you’re exhausted; you’ve been through a lot. Let’s get some sleep,” I said as I stood from the couch and walked toward the chair she was sitting in.

  She nodded her head and stood.

  “I’m glad you decided to stay. I’ll hold you in my arms all night. It’ll be nice to fall asleep with you,” I said as I wrapped my arms around her.

  She slowly shuffled toward the room.

  As she snuggled next to me in bed, I continued to feel terrible about what had happened. Even though she now realized what had happened was nothing but an acted out fantasy, she was still reeling from the trauma. Without a doubt, in time, she would recover. There were probably a lot of things I could do to or with Cheryl which would never have a long-term effect on her. Raping her wasn’t one of them.

  “I want to tell you what happened to my wife,” I sighed.

  I couldn’t believe what I was saying.

  “Okay,” she said softly as she turned to face me.

  “It’ll take a while, so are you ready?” I asked.

  “Uh huh,” she responded as she reached over placed her hand on my chest.

  I took a breath, exhaled, and began talking, “I wrote a number one best-selling novel, Hung. My wife at the time volunteered willfully, and quite eagerly, to act out some of the parts in the book. It was her idea, not mine. The book took me almost a year to write, and well…”

  I paused and thought of when I wrote the book, and the satisfaction Cheryl received, at least initially, from the sex scenes we acted out.

  “The book was about a girl who fantasized about being hanged. The deeply seated desires of being hung prevented her from finding satisfaction from almost anything in life. After dating a dominant male for a reasonable amount of time, she believed in him and his ability to protect her from harm. The level of trust she eventually had in him and his ability to prevent her from being harmed allowed her to ask him, and him to comply with hanging her.”

  “The book ended with her hanging by her neck, and the inner thoughts she had. Everyone loved it.”

  “My wife hanged herself, with me witnessing the event, to allow me to write an accurate scene. The entire event was her idea. She, in a sense, was the girl in the book; actually in far more ways than one. Like the girl in the book, she desired to be hanged. When she finally fulfilled the desire, she found that it was even more satisfying than she anticipated. We both eventually became almost addicted to the hangings. I know it might seem weird or sick, but that’s where we ended up,” I paused and looked to my side.

  Cheryl lay attentive beside me, her elbow resting on the bed, and her head propped against her hand.

  “So, one day, after the book was completed, I decided to write the sequel - about her developing an almost addiction to the hangings. She yearned for them, my wife that is,” I paused and thought of the day she died.

  I had never admitted to anyone what had really happened, including my parents and friends. For some reason, I felt I could be honest with Cheryl, and tell her the truth. Regardless of her ability to accept what happened, I continued.

  “So, the first book went to number one, and the second was almost finished. I told my fans it was coming out, and to be ready. Then, one day, my wife hung herself and I didn’t get her off the rope soon enough. And she died.”

  I couldn’t believe I spoke of it so easily. It was almost as if speaking about it made it a story, and not something that had actually happened. I lay beside Cheryl and waited for her to respond.

  “What kept you from getting her down?” she whispered, “What happened?”

  I thought of the evening it happened, and her grunting at me to leave her alone, to let her hang.

  “Well, she masturbated while she was hanging. After a short time, I began doing the same thing. You know, masturbating while she was hanging there. It was actually oddly satisfying. The feeling was something I haven’t felt before or since. Anyway, she told me to leave her hanging. Every time I reached for her legs to lift her to the stool, we used a stool for her to stand on, she told me no,” I paused and began to softly cry.

  “By the time she stopped telling me no, she was dead,” I blubbered.

  After a long pause, Cheryl spoke.

  “It’s not your fault. Maybe she wanted to die. Maybe she used the scene, or the book, or whatever as an excuse,” she whispered as she reached over and wiped a tear from my cheek.

  Although I had considered that fact, I never really thought anyone else might. Cheryl saying it provided a little relief. Not much, but a little. I turned toward her and stared.

  “I know it’s not much, but I don’t see it as your fault. I can see it a number of ways, just from what you told me, but really no matter what happened, she made the decision to continue to hang. And she told you no when you tried to help, so, you complied. And you complied because you wanted her to get the satisfaction she desired, right?” she asked.

  I nodded my head.

  “It’s not your fault,” she sighed.

  As she held me in her arms, we both began to cry. Probably for different reasons, but I’m quite certain we both got the same satisfaction from doing so.

  As I began to fade in and out of sleep, I thanked God for providing Cheryl to me.

  And I fell asleep satisfied she was exactly what I needed.

  CHERYL

  “You sure you want me to read it?” I asked.

  He tapped me on the shoulder, “Yes.”

  As he turned and walked from the apartment, I began. After five hours, I was finished. I sent him a text message.

  Come home, I’m done.

  As I waited for him to come home, I reread the beginning of the final chapter again. One part of it continued to provide me with satisfaction it wasn’t Shawn’s fault.

  Although her desires had changed, mine had not. I wanted more than anything to please her. Strange coming from the mind of a Dominant male, but in being truthful, pleasing her pleased me deeply.

  All he wanted to do was make her happy.

  I walked to the kitchen and got a bottle of water from the refrigerator. I walked back to the computer and read the final chapter, entirely, again.

  I stared at the page. I felt I may have missed it the first time. Maybe I skipped it. I read the paragraph again and thought of the day Shawn tied me to the column.

  Although we had not in the past, we decided to attempt to film the event this time. We both agreed viewing the video later would probably prove to
be as pleasurable as the act itself. I turned and looked at the camera placed on the tripod and smiled at the thought of watching her finger herself as she hung by her neck.

  Thinking of him filming it turned me on slightly. It seemed that I should see it as repulsive, but I didn’t. I wanted to know if he filmed it, and if so, I wanted to see it. Partially because of my desire to just see it, and partially because I wanted to witness first-hand what happened.

  As I heard the door unlocking, I turned off the computer and walked to the couch.

  “Did you finish it?” he asked.

  I nodded my head, “Yes.”

  “And?” he asked as he sat down beside me.

  “Well, I have two questions, maybe three,” I said.

  “Okay, ask away,” he responded.

  “Did you film it?”

  After a long pause, he turned to face me and nodded his head.

  “Have you watched it?”

  He shook his head.

  “Do you still have it?”

  He nodded his head and swallowed heavily.

  “Will you let me see it?”

  He shrugged his shoulders, and responded dryly, “I uhhm. I guess. I don’t think I can watch it. But you can’t tell anyone.”

  I shook my head, “I swear to God, I will never say a word of this.”

  He walked to the computer, opened a folder and walked back to the couch.

  As he pointed toward the computer, he inhaled a deep breath, “Use the earbuds, I don’t want to hear it.”

  I nodded my head, slowly walked to the computer, sat down, and pushed play.

  SHAWN

  Cheryl was causing me to feel better and better about myself. Her acceptance of what happened, so far, had provided me with a reassurance I wasn’t at fault. Hoping for a final nod of approval, I agreed to allow her to watch the video. I felt sick thinking of seeing her witness what happened.

  But the selfish part of me wanted her to agree it wasn’t my fault.

  She stood from the stool, pulled the earbuds from her ears, and walked to the couch.

  As she sat, she inhaled a deep breath. After she exhaled, she turned to me and smiled.

  “I have two things,” She said.

  “Okay,” I responded.

  “One, it’s definitely not your fault.”

  I nodded my head, “Okay.”

  “And,” she paused.

  “I want to finish the book. You and me, let’s do it,” she sighed.

  CHERYL

  As I faded in and out of darkness, I fingered my clit feverously. I needed one more orgasm.

  The big one.

  I saw a halo of Shawn below me as he fumbled with the stool. I attempted to focus. As he began to lift my legs, I closed my eyes, fingered my clit, and grunted against the rope that would certainly eventually be the death of me.

  “No!” I grunted.

  Shawn stopped beside my feet with the stool.

  My mind went blank. The room went black. I began to feel as if I was going to explode. My hand went numb. My mind, body, and soul lifted to a place I had never been.

  The big one.

  As I began to feel as if I were beginning to float away, I felt Shawn’s hands against my legs, lifting me to the stool.

  I blinked my eyes as he stood beside me and loosened the rope. Slowly, the room came into view. He placed the oxygen mask on my face. After a moment of inhaling the sweet oxygen, I came to my senses. I slapped the mask away from my face.

  I needed to tell him.

  “Okay, now I know,” I sighed.

  He stepped from the stool. As he helped me step down, I smiled.

  “Let’s go finish that book, I have a lot to tell you,” I smiled.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “You’ll just have to try it yourself,” I grinned.

  “Oh shit,” he smiled.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Another book,” he responded.

  “There’s always going to be another book, isn’t there?” I chuckled.

  He turned to face me, nodded his head, and smiled, “There sure is.”