Punish Me, Please Me

by Ashley Zacharias

  “No!” She was emphatic. “If I did that, then I would be committing the sin of fornication. I won’t commit a sin. I have to be unwilling and you have to rape me. Then I’m a victim, not a sinner. That’s my rules.”

  “Can I get you a drink?” Stone needed time to think about his situation. He had been so busy lusting after Susanna during the last twenty hours that he had not considered the implications of winning the God bet. She was right. If she walked out of here untouched, her father would have the greatest propaganda tool since the Resurrection. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. Damn.

  “I don’t drink,” she replied. “But you go ahead if you need it. I won’t mind. I hear that a glass of whisky can help stir up a man’s lust. You are a man, aren’t you? I mean a real man? God, I hope you aren’t homo. You don’t look like one. If you are, it’s all right. You can bust me up with your hand or a cucumber or something, but I’d rather get the real thing the first time, you know.”

  “I’m not gay.”

  “Good. So how about having that whisky now. Or vodka or whatever real men drink.”

  “Scotch. I’m partial to single malt scotch.”

  “Well, you tell me where it is and I’ll pour you a glass. Think of it as part of the service. The first part of a full night of service. I’m a full service woman.”

  He gestured toward the kitchen. “I’ve got a bottle in the cupboard above the refrigerator.”

  He waited in his living room, listening to her bang around in his kitchen and trying to think his way out of this mess. He hated thinking that he was capable of rape but the idea of making love the beautiful virgin in his house was making him as hard as a rock. And she was consenting, wasn’t she? Hundreds of people had heard her offer herself to him last night. There was video and photographs of her voluntarily walking into his house. She had told him explicitly that she wanted him to ravish her. He was free to do anything he wanted.

  His prick was telling him exactly what he wanted.

  It had been weeks since he had had sex with a woman; and neither Dr. Worther nor that friend of Gary’s had been any great shakes between the sheets. And he had never made love to a virgin.

  He tried to imagine what was going through her mind, but was at a loss. She seemed to be volunteering to be raped, but it wouldn’t be rape if she volunteered, would it? Wouldn’t that be consensual sex? Her whole attitude seemed to be tongue-in-cheek, but there was considerable potential for the night to go badly for her. Didn’t she realize the risk that she was taking by coming here? He was a rational man, but she was putting an awful lot of pressure on him. He could feel his logical shell cracking under the pressure of his animal emotions. She was young and inexperienced, but, when he looked at her, he didn’t see anything naïve about her. She seemed to know exactly what she wanted and was determined to get it.

  Susanna returned with a water glass half filled with scotch. Fourteen-year-old Oban cost sixty dollars a bottle – she was handing him about ten dollars worth. He was glad that he had not splurged on thirty-two-year old, or he would be downing more than he could afford.

  “Here’s your glass of liquid manhood. Drink up.”

  He cringed at the implication that he needed to get drunk to perform. She had a vicious tongue. He set the glass on his coffee table, untouched.

  “You want it like this?” he asked.

  “Do me. Or call a friend over if you’re not up to it yourself. Or call a few friends over and let everyone do me. It’s up to you how I get done, but I will be done before I leave.”

  “Let’s go up to the bedroom. The stairs are down the hallway.”

  “You want me in the bedroom, you can drag me up there.” She tossed her head of long, thick hair at him in defiance.

  “I’m not dragging you anywhere.”

  “Don’t be a pussy.” She slapped him hard across the face. He froze in shock at the sudden pain. She slapped him again. “Are you just going to stand there and take it, or are you going to act like a man and defend yourself?”

  She raised her arm to strike him a third time, but he grabbed her wrist. “Stop that.”

  “Make me,” and she slapped him with her left hand. “Pussy.”

  His face was stinging. He grabbed her left wrist, too, putting them at a momentary impasse – both his hands were occupied holding both her wrists. She jerked her arms back, trying to break his grip, but only managing to press her body against his. His chest felt on fire where her breasts were crushed against him; his groin inflamed where her crotch was grinding against his cock. Her face was thrust into his. Her eyes were glowing. Hate? Lust? Desire? He could not discern her emotion. He tried to kiss her, but she squirmed and turned her face away. He released her wrists and grabbed her hair on each side of her head to force her face back to him and ground his lips against hers. She opened her mouth and pressed back against him, wrapping her arms around his back to clutch him tight.

  When he broke from her, he kept his hold on her head, looked down into her eyes and said, “You want this? Take off your clothes.”

  She snarled back, “You want my clothes off, you can tear them off.”

  He dropped his hands past her neckline, grabbed each side of her blouse between the second and third buttons and pulled hard in opposite directions. Buttons flew across the room. He heard cloth tear at her shoulder. Jerking the front of the ruined blouse back past her arms, he yanked it from her shoulders, leaving it tangled around her wrists, the tight buttoned cuffs keeping it from falling over her hands.

  She froze in shock at the sudden exposure of her torso, clad only in a lacy white bra. Without pausing for thought, he slipped his fingers around the inside edges of the bra cups at her cleavage and pulled that apart, too. The bra parted in the center, far more easily than he would have expected. He would never know that she had used a seam ripper to weaken the center section of her bra, as well as other critical parts of her clothing, anticipating this eventuality. His motion jerked the cups away from her tits, and snapped the straps off her shoulders. The remains of the undergarment dropped down her arms to rest on the blouse that was still wrapped around her wrists, further restraining her.

  She tried to raise her hands, as though to cover her breasts in a classic gesture of maidenly modesty, but the fabric that entangled her wrists forced her arms to remain behind her back and she could only jerk her hands ineffectively, making her tits bounce and jiggle.

  Stone’s wife had been more modestly endowed; he had never dated a woman with such large, perfect tits. He grabbed them firmly, one in each hand, and began to squeeze and massage them.

  Susanna moaned. He did not know if she were moaning with pleasure or moaning because he was hurting her. But she pressed herself forward into his hands so he chose to believe the former. He pushed slowly against her, using his weight against her, forcing her to step backwards until her calves were pressed against his ottoman. Continuing to push, she bent at the knees and sat on it. He put a knee beside her hip and pushed her all the way down on her back until her head and shoulders were lying on the sofa cushion, her blonde hair spread in a golden corolla around her face. Only then did he release her breasts, and stand back to look at her.

  She remained where he had put her, her chest was heaving, her lips parted to draw air. Her eyes stared at him, wide, waiting to see what he would do to her.

  She looked unbelievably desirable.

  He had to have her.

  Her hands were still trapped in her torn blouse and bra, now pinned under her hips against the ottoman. When she tried to sit up, her lean abdominal muscles rippling with the effort, he swooped down, grabbed her ankles and pulled her feet off the floor to the height of his waist, preventing her from rising.

  She struggled against him, but was not seriously trying to escape, merely flexing her muscles, further arousing him.

  When he spread her legs, her skirt slipped past her knees. Her ineffectual struggles worked it up her raised thighs toward her hips.


  He saw bare flesh above the tops of nylons that were held up by a white garter straps. He pushed himself between her spread knees, released his hold on her ankles, and shoved the front of the skirt past her hips to her waist. Rather than pantyhose, she was wearing a traditional garter belt and cotton panties. Not erotic fantasy-wear, but the simple, functional undergarments that a housewife would have worn in the early fifties.

  Stone was more excited by the naïve innocence of those undergarments than he would have been by some black leather and lace thing that had been designed to appeal to a fetish connoisseur. These were real. Almost without volition, his hands reached to her hips, pushed the garter straps aside, grabbed her panties at the waistband and pulled in two directions. The material tore away, first along the seam at the waist on the left side, then across the crotch, revealing tight golden blonde curls. Below that, swollen pink lips that parted to reveal slick red flesh, glistening with moisture.

  She was ready for him.

  His hands were trembling, shaking almost too hard to unbuckle his belt and unbutton his pants, but he managed. He did not bother with the zipper, but slid his pants and boxers down to his knees as soon as he had loosened his waistband.

  He fell upon her, full length, grabbing her shoulders with his hands and staring directly into her eyes as he pushed and thrust against her vulva with his rock-hard cock. He found the entrance to her cunt and watched her face as he pushed into her. She grimaced in pain as her maidenhead parted under his pressure.

  She had told him that she wanted to be busted open hard. So be it. He pounded deep into her without hesitation. She whimpered and he pounded harder. She began to cry softly and the tears welling in her eyes spurred him on. He was beyond caring what she wanted; he had to get what he needed.

  He was a man and a man’s got to do what he’s got to do. Steinbeck knew whereof he wrote.

  He took her long and hard with utter selfishness. When he finally spent himself into her, she was sobbing, already mourning the loss of what she had had been saving for a decade, what she had expected to save for her future husband. It did not matter that she had asked for this violation – had deliberately taunted and humiliated Stone until he had done as she demanded – she had been violated by a man that she did not even like, much less love. He had taken something from her that she could never get back.

  Even after he withdrew, she felt his seed inside her, deep where only her true love belonged. She drew her knees together and brought them to her chest. Finally extricating her arms from her ruined blouse, she wrapped her hands around herself.

  He stood and pulled his pants back up to his waist, then looked down at the woman who had drawn herself into a fetal position. Her flat shoes had been knocked off during his assault and lay askew on the floor in front of the ottoman. She looked bereft. Stone touched her shoulder gently and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  She twisted around to look at him though tear-blurred eyes and replied, coldly, “Get some rest. You’ve got a lot of raping left to do before noon tomorrow. You haven’t touched my ass yet and you’re going to have to fuck my mouth sometime as well. And, if you can manage to get it up after all that, you have to fuck my cunt again. Once is not nearly enough. You’ve got to be man enough to do it right or it won’t be worth the cost.”

  Hearing such brutal language from the beautiful, tender, abused woman rocked Stone back on his heels. Very well. If she wanted brutality, he would give it to her. He looked at the blood from her deflowerment smeared between her legs and across the beige ottoman. He had made a good start, but if she wanted more, then he would carry on with pleasure.

  Only a few minutes after finishing Act One and he already felt himself twitching in preparation for Act Two. He, too, could be a five-times-a-night man when he had such a delicious object to slake his lust.

  He took a deep swig of scotch from the glass on the table, sat back in his easy chair to enjoy the view between the curled woman’s legs, and began to stroke himself in preparation for the next round.

  Taking him in her round little ass would be a damned hard trial for her, but a pure joy for him. He had seen The Last Tango in Paris with his wife. She had wanted to try the experience and had helped him recreate what had happened in the movie, so he knew how to do it. If Susanna insisted that she wanted him up her butt, then he would be happy to give it to her in spades.

  He warmed his gullet with another gulp of Oban.

  Damned happy.

  * * *

  All had been quiet for a long time. Half an hour? An hour? Stone didn’t know; he never wore his watch inside the house and deliberately kept no clock in the living room. He had furnished this room for reading, conversation with friends, and quiet contemplation. And now, apparently, for raping virgins.

  The raped virgin in question mumbled something.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Susanna gathered her courage, turned her head to look at him and said, loudly and clearly, “Are you ready to sodomize me yet or do you have to call up a couple of your friends to do your job for you?” She let her head fall back on the sofa cushion.

  He looked at the woman. She was still curled into a fetal position, but sometime in the last little while, she had pulled her skirt back down to cover her ass and thighs. “I can do just fine without any help,” he snarled, rolled to his feet and strode across the floor.

  She flinched at hearing his footsteps approaching. Her mind might be telling her that she wanted to have her asshole raped but her body certainly did not want to suffer the pain. While he approached, she kept telling herself that it would be over soon and that she would survive.

  He wrapped his hand deep in her hair at the back of her head and pulled her to her feet. She shrieked in a small voice. He told himself that, soon, she’d be shrieking with a hell of a lot bigger voice. He was appalled to observe his own cruelty, but that did not deter him. He told himself that it was the scotch warming his gut that was in control now, but he knew that the drink was just an excuse. He was going to do what his prick told him to do, booze or no booze.

  When he started to drag her away from the sofa, the pain was intense. She screamed and reached behind her head and grabbed his hand with both of hers, trying to reduce the pressure on her scalp and keep him from pulling out her hair by the handful.

  He half pulled, half dragged her to the kitchen. Without letting go of her hair, he yanked the refrigerator door open and grabbed a handful of margarine from the butter dish. Left hand cupping a generous scoop of margarine, right still wrapped in her long blonde hair, he pulled her across the room to the kitchen table and roughly bent her over it. He kicked her legs apart, and then released her hair so that he could use his right hand to pull her skirt up to her waist and push her ass cheeks open to reveal her puckered little pink asshole. She was clean as a whistle. Her asshole pulsed involuntarily in anticipation of imminent abuse.

  He smeared the margarine over her hole and then jammed as much into her as he could with his middle finger. He couldn’t get much inside, she wouldn’t be particularly well lubricated, but that was her problem. She had told him that she wanted to bleed from both ends. He would give her what she asked for. He only cared that he had enough lubrication to keep himself from getting chafed.

  He wrapped his hand back in her hair to make sure she stayed bent and open to him, and then shoved his pants down. He was hard again; this was far more exciting than making love to a woman his own age in the dark in the traditional missionary position.

  He forced himself into her slowly; the extent of his mercy was to give her a few seconds to try to accommodate him. It was almost no mercy at all. She screamed loudly; beat a tattoo against the floor with her stockinged feet, and twisted her head back and forth, desperate to get free; desperate to move her asshole away from the cock that was straining her tight little ring of muscle. He wrapped his left hand into her hair as well, smearing greasy margarine into her lovely locks, and applied unrelenting pressure to force the
head of his cock further and further into her asshole, feeling her rings of muscle resisting at first, then contracting in an attempt to expel him, and then slowly failing and allowing the inevitable violation of her anus. He began thrusting in and out, slowly, regularly. Looking down, he could see a fresh scarlet smear on his shaft. A blood vessel had burst somewhere inside her. She was getting exactly what she had asked for; she was bleeding from both ends. He kept fucking her anyway.

  She never stopped screaming.

  She was so hot, so tight around his cock, he was lost in ecstasy. This was heaven on earth.

  He came and came.

  Her screams were the song of a fallen angel in his ears: a hymn to lust and pain and degradation.

  Finally, he pushed himself off and collapsed back into a kitchen chair where he slumped in exhaustion. Feeling immensely satisfied with himself, he watched the woman laying across his table. She had stopped screaming moments after he had extracted himself from her and was crying quietly; copious tears were running down her face and puddling on the plastic-coated wood. Two lethargic rivulets of fresh blood were dripping slowly down the backs of her thighs, bright red at the top and dark red toward the bottom where they almost reached the tops of her stockings before coagulating into thick dark masses.

  She might have wanted to have her asshole brutally raped, but that did not make it easy for her to endure. Or make her like the man who had violated her. At this moment, she hated Thomas Stone with all her heart.

  She could remain bent over the table no longer; her back was aching from the strain. She pushed herself up, gingerly, until she was almost standing erect. Her skirt fell to cover the evidence of the two brutal penetrations.

  She staggered and almost fell when she tried to walk; the pain in her crotch was crippling. Grabbing the edge of the table, she lowered herself to the floor and lay on the cool tiles, her back turned to her rapist, suffering the pain of her violations as quietly as possible.