Sweet Danger

by Violet Blue

  “Oh. My. God,” she said. “Ohmigod. Ohmigod. Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod, who’s your biggest fan?”

  My mouth popped shut. I gave her the “Crazy much?” look.

  “Who’s your number one fan? You sick perv!”

  It still took me a second. I buried my face in my hands.

  “Ohmigod, so fucking good,” she said. “Hawt! Hawt! Hawt! Hawt! Hawt! Every word true, Sarah? Every word true, like you promised?”

  I had promised.

  I said, “Yeah.” My voice sounded squeaky and uncomfortable.

  “He did that to you?”

  I shrugged, turning seven shades of red. I nodded.

  “When?”

  “Recently,” I said nervously.

  Chloe looked excited, but as red as I was, she was probably twice as embarrassed. After all, I was the one who had written it.

  I’m not saying I object. I’m not a shy person, really. Just private. That’s why when I started a blog detailing my sexual adventures with Sean, I never even thought of doing it bareback. Which is to say, without a pseudonym, or at least the barest hint of one.

  I was Sleazy Slut Sara, without the “h.” The explicitly detailed stories were true to my pseudonym, in every way except the fact that it was mostly with Sean that I fucked around. But there were exceptions. The boywhore in Las Vegas. The stripper in L.A. The man at the glory hole…mmmm… the glory hole…

  The stories were true, or at least I said they were true. In a way I took every liberty, but in another I took no liberties, owing to Sean’s overwhelming fucking amazingness. And mine, if you must know.

  The blog was not secured. Strangers were welcome to read every detail of every filthy, whorish thing I’d let Sean do to me in all the thousands upon thousands of words Sleazy Slut Sara had posted. But people who knew me weren’t. Unless they were. I’d told a few—a very few—of my friends about my sex blog. If they could handle it, if they needed it…or I thought they did…I gave it to them.

  Which was sort of my thinking when it came to Chloe. Though she was not a close friend, exactly, over the three years we’d run in the same social circle, we’d naked-acid-hot-tubbed and braided each others’ hair and shared tips on giving head and, far more important, tips on getting head.

  Which is not to say I hadn’t basically done the same things with Amy, but Amy could be sort of a prude. Chloe had told me a few dirty adventures over the years.

  So when I’d started the blog about four months ago, Chloe was one of the very few acquaintances I shared the URL with in my initial rush of creative energy. I’d all but forgotten I had… until now.

  Chloe was breathing hard and giggling, desperately nervous. I frowned.

  “Which one are you talking about?”

  She made a shocked sound.

  “The new one,” she said. “Of course!”

  Oh, shit. The new one. The new one. I reddened deeper. I got so embarrassed I had to hide my face. I couldn’t look her in the eye. Chloe giggled. She tittered. She reached across and rubbed my arm and said, “It’s all right, baby. Here come our drinks. We’ll talk later.”

  The whole exchange had taken like two minutes, if that. Amy is hot. She gets service fast at hipster bars. Besides, it was Burning Man. There was practically no one in the Mission.

  Amy brought back a pitcher of beer and a tray with two double shots of bourbon. Amy filled her glass only half way. “I think I’ll be heading out, soon,” she said. We made small talk until she did, and then Chloe and I ordered another round… and another.

  “Did you negotiate it first?”

  “Um…in detail,” I said—not entirely true.

  “Total ravishment fantasy, right?” She looked me in the eye, her face close. She formed her lips around the words, aiming them right at me, not a sound coming out of her mouth: “I mean… total rape.”

  “Um, yeah,” I said. “Rape fantasy.”

  “Rape fantasy,” said Chloe excitedly.

  “Rape fantasy,” I said, feeling my temperature rising.

  She leaned very close to me and repeated: “Rape fantasy.”

  I shifted uncomfortably.

  “Rape fantasy,” I said.

  She seemed satisfied.

  “You’re cool with that?” she asked desperately.

  “Um,” I said. “Duh!”

  “It was your idea!”

  “Totally,” I said, feeling drunk. “Every detail.”

  “But he takes over. He just grabs you in the dark and… does you.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Holds you down, bends you over, lets you struggle, lets you tire yourself out, and then…”

  “Um,” I said. “Um, um, um, um—”

  “And when he flipped you over and—”

  “Um!” I interrupted. “Embarrassed much?”

  “I’m sorry. I just never thought people really did stuff like that.”

  I shrugged. “Yeah…we do.”

  I nodded drunkenly. Our eyes locked into each other, and I could have kissed her then.

  “Whew,” Chloe said. “Well, if you ever—” She caught herself and got very embarrassed. “I mean, I’m not…I know you guys are committed and all. I’m not saying…” She was red as a beet.

  The trick was not to think about it too much.

  “Sean would go for it,” I blurted.

  Chloe breathed hard.

  My cell phone buzzed in my jean jacket pocket.

  I took it out.

  Sean had texted me: COME HOME.

  I typed back: I’M DRNUK.

  Sean: SLUT. JUST ***ASKING*** FOR IT.

  My muscles tightened. I felt the snugness of my jacket just a little more acutely for a moment.

  I smiled at Chloe.

  “Um, or not,” she shrugged, nervously. “I mean, our friendship—I wouldn’t want to—”

  For fifteen seconds, Chloe’s mouth spewed a tangle of words making next to no sense: “commitment,” “single,” “while I’m not in a relationship,” “totally no strings attached,” “I’m not a homewrecker,” “just that, I mean, if you guys are—”

  I stopped her with my hand on her shoulder.

  “Chloe!” I said, laughing softly.

  She stopped and stared at me, ashamed and nervous, breathing hard, excited.

  My cell phone buzzed.

  Text from Sean: *****BEGGING*****

  My jeans felt tight. My insides felt tight. I wanted to crawl out of my skin, in both a good way and a bad way, all at once.

  “We’ll talk,” I told her.

  It wouldn’t happen, not that night, because it hadn’t yet been written down. What did happen was a cab ride to my place ten blocks away, the two of us leaning slightly closer together than we might have otherwise. Then a kiss, on the lips, and a tiny hint of Chloe’s bourbon tongue. Her hand on my stomach, then up, touching my breasts.

  “We’ll talk,”

  “Promise?”

  “Yeah.”

  I got out, went in, and huffed up the stairs as the cab took Chloe on to her condo in the Haight.

  My skin felt alive as I unlocked the door. Every part of me felt alive. I was dizzy with liquor. I was high on adrenaline.

  I tried to act normal, not knowing what was coming. I did what I’d normally do. I slid off my jacket. I dropped it to the floor. I kicked off my clogs. I unzipped my jeans and pulled them sweat-soaked to my knees and shins and ankles and danced around struggling for a bit trying to get out of them, never turning on the light, because I wouldn’t have, normally. This drunk and this late and this horny, I’d climb right in bed and masturbate so fucking hard I’d break furniture.

  I finally got the parasite jeans off my feet and headed into the kitchen for the water filter, in my T-shirt and panties.

  That’s when he took me from behind.

  He was hard. Not his cock. His whole body. It was as if, making love to him constantly for six delicious months, I’d never felt the total hardne
ss on his broad-shouldered, powerful frame. His muscles were hard. His hand was tight across my face. His knife felt cold against my collarbone. Fresh from the freezer.

  Cold makes it sharper. At least, it feels that way.

  The knife was very, very important. Otherwise, why wouldn’t I scream? I’m not stupid. I’m not cowardly. I’m not some weak, meaningless, useless, helpless girl, just waiting to be given the gift of forcible ravishment, granted by Man the tender gift of rape. I’m not just asking for it.

  No one ever is, is she?

  “Don’t make a sound,” he said, drawing the knife down my throat.

  But I did make a sound. I couldn’t stop myself. It was a whimper of arousal and of pleasure and of terror.

  Then the knife was gone. I never saw it again, but it was always there, keeping me silent except for the moans.

  He bent me hard over the counter. He shoved me. He yanked my underwear aside and entered me fast, without time for me to get used to the idea that I was being taken. He didn’t need to say what we were both thinking: “She’s wet. She’s so wet she’s dripping. She’s so wet she’s pouring on his cock. She’s a slut. She’s a victim. She wants this.”

  And she did, but she didn’t. The girl I was playing was helpless and ravished, which is why I fought against the pleasure building in me. And why when I emitted a deep dismayed yell and climaxed on his violent thrusts, he wasn’t finished with me. He came in me. Whether he seeded me actually or just put on a really good show, I’ll never know, and at the time I didn’t even consider. All I knew was a stranger was coming inside me and I was being soiled, while my pussy still pulsed from my own orgasm, against which I’d struggled.

  He pulled me off the counter. He propped me up with one hand across my mouth and one hand in my hair. He shoved me into the bedroom. I walked funny.

  He threw me on the bed and held me down.

  I struggled anew, my fear refreshed. Sean is big. He overpowered me. He pulled my panties off and shoved them in my mouth, tore my T-shirt to shreds, and covered my face with it so I was blinded and could smell the scent of my fear. He held me down naked under his big, muscular body and let me fight and fight and fight. He let me tire myself out, just like in the story. He let me fight until I was panting and whimpering and on the verge of tears. Then he let me fight some more, and I did.

  Sometimes he laughed. Sometimes he mocked me, saying, “Fight, fight, yeah, go ahead and fight. I’ll fuck you however I want, whenever I want, and I’ll come back for more tomorrow night. Fight all you want. It makes my dick hard.”

  The sound of it scared me and broke me and shattered something deep in my soul. It made me see my lover like I never had before: as a man, the kind of man part of me always feared any man could be.

  I fought him desperately. Sometimes when he had me pinned really good with one hand and his knees and his body, he ran his hands all over me, over my tits and my hips and my thighs as I tried to hold my legs together, even though I knew, as Sean knew, that as soon as he wished it he would forcibly spread them.

  Then he did.

  He held me down and forced my legs open.

  I fought, but there was little left in me.

  He held me down on the bed and entered me, sharp and hard and brutal in a single thrust.

  I moaned.

  Pleasure was overcoming my resistance. Every instant I’d resisted had amped my desire up to a fresh new level. Now that he was in me, I was helpless—not just because he had me completely under his physical control, but because I wanted it so much it obliterated every other aspect of my psyche.

  He had broken me.

  I still resisted, as much as I could. But he took me at a leisurely pace, fucking me slow and deep and making me feel every stroke. He took his time. He used me well on my back, for twenty, thirty minutes, missionary position, until I was good and sore. Then he flipped me, my struggles renewing as he held my face in one pillow and shoved others under my hips. He raised my ass high. He entered me again.

  I felt the buzzing.

  He had a vibrator.

  This part was improv. It could have spoiled everything. What kind of a rapist uses a vibrator on his victim?

  The fantasy rapist, of course. Which was Sean to a T.

  I swear I didn’t even feel it approaching. I don’t ever come in that position. It’s far from my favorite. The reason I wrote it into the story is that some part of me still thinks it’s humiliating to be fucked on my knees.

  It was far more humiliating to come on my knees, even harder than the first time.

  I was over on my back again, forced open wide and pinned tight beneath Sean before the spasms stopped. Soaring high on my orgasm, I felt him enter me again. Then the pounding started. Not thrusting. Not stroking. Not fucking. The pounding that says, “I’m going to cum, bitch.”

  He did, and fast. I had a whole complicated section where I begged him not to cum in me and…well, you can read the blog someday, maybe.

  He didn’t care. He did me fast. He did me hard. He shot his load in me as if I was a tissue.

  And the fact that he came so fast was more gratifying to me than anything he’d done so far.

  A minute later he was out of me, his soft cock dripping come like my pussy.

  He said, “The End.”

  I buried myself in his arms. I drowned myself in his scent. We both stank like holy hell after what must have been two hours of struggles and fucking. We both smelled like heaven.

  He held me and let me heave and pant and gasp and tremble and say, “Thank you, thank you, thank you” to the point where it was stupid. I felt like a dork. He held me anyway.

  It had all been spot-on, well, yeah, most of it. The grabbing me, the knife, cold and sharp. The bending me over. The quickness of his taking, without even bothering to undress me, without even pulling my panties off. The shoving me into the bedroom. The struggles, the letting me tire myself out until I was helpless. The panties, the shirt, the turning me over.

  The vibrator? Fine, I would give him that. A director can’t quite script everything. Right?

  Especially not when she’s in the starring role.

  I wanted to tell Chloe. I wanted to call that drunken, crazy slut right away and tell her it really had happened, and that the bland account I’d published online was nothing at all like the real thing. The real thing was a thousand times better. It always was. The fantasy script was laid out in my blog for my man to follow in every filthy detail.

  And he made it better.

  I wanted to tell her, but I couldn’t. She couldn’t know this was all after-the-fact. She had to think my journal was memoir, not script.

  Until I let her star in her own private post, for me to read alone, and then with Sean, because a little coordination would be necessary.

  Once I had kissed those bourbon lips and tasted sex…my sex?

  I’d tell her.

  Fantasies are for tomorrow.

  It was so late that it became pretty clear we were both going to call in sick, or at least I was. I’d be hung over. Sean was stone sober.

  I kissed his chest and said, “Guess what?”

  “What?”

  “I met my number one fan tonight,” I said, softly glowing with writer’s pride.

  I felt that creative pride even more acutely than I did my seething lust for the hot girl I would soon hand Sean on a platter. I had the story plotted out: invitation, flirtation, seduction, the words to describe her.

  “What was that?” Sean smirked. “What’d you say?”

  “I met my number one fan tonight,” I repeated.

  He grabbed my hair and pulled my face to his.

  “Fuck, yeah, you did,” he said. He kissed me hard.

  About the Authors

  Living and working in Hampshire, England, J. HADLEIGH ALEX is keen to explore branches of fiction that breach boundaries, to tell stories that tease taboos, and to write without limitation or fear. His erotic podcast Deranged Imagination can be f
ound at derangedimagination.blogspot.com.

  SKYE BLACK’s darker erotic work has appeared in several Usenet newsgroups and on the websites Necromantic.com and Noirotica.net.

  M. CHRISTIAN (mchristian.com) is—among many things—an acknowledged master of erotica with more than 25 anthologies and over 300 stories in such collections as Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Bisexual Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica, and many, many other anthologies, magazines, and websites.

  ELIZABETH COLVIN is a journalist and sex educator with a very dirty mind. She bought her first strap-on about ten years ago and became an absolute addict. She loves introducing new men to the joys of strap-on sex. The many notches in her dildos, in fact, form pleasing ridges.

  FELIX D’ANGELO’s writing has appeared in MASTER and Sweet Life 2. Also a photographer, his principal interest is a long series of erotic female nudes that just seem to get more explicit with every photo shoot. Taking them is even more fun than writing erotica.

  SARA DEMUCI has written for the anthologies MASTER, slave, and Down & Dirty.

  ERICA DUMAS has written for Best Bisexual Women’s Erotica, Naughty Stories From A to Z, G is for Games, Open Source Sex, and the Sweet Life series.

  ERIC EMERSON had never written erotica before, but he recently developed a desire to do so when putting one of his erotic fantasies down on paper helped it come to fruition. His writing has appeared under other names in various poetry and fiction journals, but this is his first professional erotica sale.

  AINSLEIGH FOSTER is a barrista and itinerant business student who discovered once upon a time that his hot girlfriend was doing phone sex secretly to earn extra money, and had decided she liked it. That story was even dirtier than this one.

  P. S. HAVEN is from Winston-Salem, North Carolina. His style is heavily influenced by the works of Hugh Hefner, Henry Ford, and David Lee Roth. Haven’s stories have been published in the Best American Erotica series, Playing With Fire: Taboo Erotica, X: The Erotic Treasury, B is for Bondage, and many others.