I did grow to love my stepmother. I was grateful for the renewed sense of home she had created for our joint family, for her caring presence, for the smile that had returned to my father’s face. So when questions about my newly developed body could no longer be suppressed, she was the one I turned them to. Having only grown boys from her previous marriage, she took to the role with real enthusiasm, teaching me how to take care of myself during my menstrual period, explaining ‘how babies were made’, and warning me against ‘letting bad boys do bad things” to me. She was kind and patient whenever I approached her, and for a few precious moments, here and there, it felt like I had a real mother again.
When her youngest son - my step-brother, who I had vaguely known as a younger kid and had only briefly met at the time of our parents’ wedding - came back from college and had actually taken notice of me, I was the happiest girl in the village. We started spending more and more time together, but nobody really paid any attention. We were now family, after all; if anything, our parents were relieved to see us taking to each other as well as we did.
He was my first kiss. I didn’t really like it all that much, but I liked him, and he seemed to enjoy it. Besides, he told me ‘that’s how it’s done’ and promised I’d get used to it, and I believed him. We would fool around, making sure it was only when our parents weren’t home - they would never approve of that - and his advances became more and more daring. Some of it I liked a lot, some of it I didn’t like at all; again, he said it was what ‘a real woman’ would do. And being the teenager that I was, that line sure as hell worked on me.
I did tell him in no uncertain terms that I did not want to ‘go all the way’ with him, that I wanted to remain a virgin for my wedding. He half-heartedly said ‘if I married you it wouldn’t matter’, but somehow, that was one line I didn’t buy, even back then. But then he seemed to have accepted my wish and I, in turn, relaxed my guard and allowed myself to enjoy our makeouts without the constant fear of going over that line.
And then, one day, when I just got back from school and we were all alone at home, he smiled that handsome, confident smile of his and said: “Come, little sis, I have something for you!”
I took his hand and followed him to his room, catching onto his excitement. When we got there he locked the door behind him, as always, and had me sit on his bed and close my eyes - ‘no peeking!’ - until a few moments later he told me to open them and take a look.
In his hands was a strange-looking object. It was a black rubber ball, almost as large as my fist, with black, studded straps coming out of it, complete with mean-looking buckles. I’m sure my eyes grew as large as saucers when I saw it.
“Do you know what it is, little sis?”
At my nervous shake he laughed and explained it was a gag, ‘that people use in sex to muffle their screams of pleasure’. I remember mumbling a choked ‘umn, okay’, and he chuckled and suggested that I try it on - “just for laughs”, he said.
Stupid, painfully naive, and desperate for his approval, I agreed.
I realized my mistake almost as soon as the buckles closed behind my head; the look in his eyes had changed in that moment, turned predatory and hard, scared me so much I don’t think I could have screamed even if the gag wasn’t there. Either way, the end result was all the same. He betrayed my trust that day in the most cruel, obscene, appalling way possible. Behind the locked door of his room, with the gag in place to muffle my cries, and with his weight and strength overwhelmingly superior to mine, my pathetic tears and the frozen terror on my face did nothing to stop him.
He wasn’t particularly brutal; he didn’t really need to be. I just lay there, still as a corpse, my mind a shocked blank, as he lifted my skirt and took my panties off. I didn’t even try to kick him. I couldn’t. My brain didn’t seem to be connected to my body. He pushed my knees open with his and used his spit for lubrication, ignored my choked wince when he broke through my hymen, and simply pumped away, until he pulled out at the very last moment to spill his seed onto the bedding in-between my spread thighs. It was over almost before it had started, though those mere minutes seemed endless at the time.
“Wouldn’t want to get you pregnant now, would we, little sis?” were his mocking words, before he lifted himself and went to the door, opened it, and went straight to the bathroom down the hall. Only then did I feel that strange paralysis lift, and suddenly I couldn’t move fast enough, fumbling with the straps at the back of my neck, rolling off his bed and running to my own room, slamming and locking the door behind me, then collapsing onto the carpet with gut-wrenching sobs, too nauseated and dizzy to even reach my own bed.
It was a while later when I heard his knock on my door. “Bathroom’s all yours” he said, as if nothing happened, and I heard his footsteps walking back towards his own room, then his door open and close. At first I didn’t respond, but then I suddenly became aware of the stickiness between my thighs. I grabbed my towel and a change of clothes and dashed into the bathroom, terrified that he’d catch me again before I get there.
He didn’t. His door never opened.
I washed in the scalding-hot water until it turned lukewarm; soaping and rinsing and re-soaping myself, trying to wash away every trace of him from my body. Then I ran back into my room and locked myself inside, got into bed and drew the covers over my head, and hoped for the earth to open its mouth and swallow me. Eventually, I succumbed to sleep.
My father and my step-mother thought I got the flu, and I let them think that. What would I tell them, really? “We’ve been fooling around for months, but today he took it one step further that I liked”?
Even if they believed me - which I hoped they would, but couldn’t be sure - they’d be outraged and deeply disappointed in my behavior. Allowing a man to touch me at all in the first place; being alone in a locked room with him… Even if they were absolutely furious with him, I would still be held responsible for putting myself in that situation.
But, much worse than that - telling them would undoubtedly break apart our fragile, makeshift family. My father would be compelled to revenge my honor, while my step-mother would want to protect her son, sinner that he may be. Just imagining the situation, these two people who I love so much, who have done so much for me, turning against each other because of my words… No. I could never do that.
So I decided to remain silent. I would come back from school straight to my room, rarely leaving it, citing ‘schoolwork’ and ‘tiredness’ whenever they probed, and had avoided my step-brother at all costs. A couple of weeks later he announced that he decided to leave, go back to the city to ‘find his own fortune’, and that ‘the family business was never his true calling’. I couldn’t avoid coming out of my room to join our parents for a final round of goodbyes; that would have raised too many questions I was not ready to answer. When he leaned in to kiss each one of my cheeks in turn, he murmured quietly - “no hard feelings, eh, little sis?”
I couldn’t answer if my life depended on me. The same strange disassociation between my brain and my body seemed to return and descend over me as soon as he stepped close and leaned over to kiss my cheeks. I just stood there mute and frozen, but inside my mind I was screaming. I hate you!!! I hope you die and rot in hell for what you did to me!
It was just as well; he didn’t even wait for my response before releasing me, turning away and striding purposefully, as tall and handsome as ever, towards his old, beat-up truck.
Chapter 6
That was the last time that I’d seen him. A few months after he’d left there was a knock on our door; the police officers were kind and compassionate when they delivered their message. He was found, still inside his beat-up truck, wrapped around a tree next to the road, just out of town. Apparently he’d been drinking. “Dead on the spot”, they told our parents, trying to give them some consolation, while I just stood there, numb and silent once more.
At first, I felt guilty. I had, after all, wished for his death - fervently, wh
oleheartedly - and my wish had been granted. I became even more depressed than before, which everyone took as a normal response to my ‘second loss’. Eventually the school counselor approached me, and I ended up telling her everything over sweet tea and cookies in her tiny office. She squeezed my hands, teary-eyed, and told me it wasn’t my fault, that she understood why I felt I couldn’t tell my father and stepmother. She also said that ‘not all men were animals’, and seeing as my step-brother was already dead, urged me to ‘put it all behind me’ and ‘carry on’ with my life.
I didn’t really understand what it all meant, and wasn’t sure that I totally believed her. But either way, some of the weight had lifted off my chest, and I found myself, almost reluctantly, following her advice and moving on, locking the horrific experience in a tight little box at the back of my mind. I refused to engage in any conversation about my dead step-brother with my family, and had let the blessed numbness wrap me protectively every year when we’d go to pay our respects at his grave. Thankfully, everyone simply assumed it was my way of coping with my grief. Then again they were, oddly enough, mostly right.
A couple of years later, I met Yan at the university. I knew of him, coming from the same village, and being from the same tiny minority group meant we felt compelled to ‘have each other’s backs’, so to speak. We shared many classes and found ourselves spending hours together at the library, sharing notes and working on group projects. Yan had been respectful to a fault, never laying a hand on me, never even suggesting anything inappropriate - although I sometimes caught him looking at me with interest. He was kind and funny and smart, and I found myself wanting more. But of course, I didn’t say anything. That’s not how things are done, where I come from. I could only hope that he’d let me know if he, too, thought of me more than ‘just a fellow student’.
Then, finally, on a balmy night a few weeks before our graduation, we somehow got to talking. It was a small party at a classmate’s apartment, and I remember the smell of pot in the air. I didn’t actually smoke - Lord forbid! - but apparently inhaled enough to lower my inhibitions. Or maybe that was just the excuse I needed to allow myself to open up. Either way, by the end of that night Yan knew everything there was to know about me - including the whole ugly story with my step-brother.
He told me it wasn’t my fault, that I was young and naive and didn’t know better, while my step-brother was a grown man who knew exactly what he was doing. “If he weren’t dead already, I’d have killed him for you.” He told me, in that quiet conviction of his whenever he spoke about something he was really passionate about, and I burst out in a half-sob, half-laugh and told him I was even more glad now that he was already dead, because I’d hate to see a good man get into trouble over him.
We became inseparable in those last few weeks leading up to our graduation, and right after the ceremony Yan had approached my father, and respectfully asked for my hand in marriage. It was a short engagement; barely long enough to allow for wedding arrangements. A couple of months later, we married.
Knowing my history Yan made sure to go as slow with me as I needed to rebuild my trust, to make sure I wanted everything and anything we did together just as much as he did. And I did grow to trust him - more than I’d ever dreamt possible - eventually venturing into D/s and bondage, and even erotic pain, embracing my submissive side and fully enjoying his domination over me. I’d never feared Yan, and had always known he would respect my limits; that even if and when he pushed them, I’d have the ultimate power to say ‘no’.
The gag, however, kept featuring in my nightmares for years, and a long-lasting aversion remained even after the bad dreams faded away. Knowing the depth of hurt that caused it, it was the one limit Yan had never, ever tried pushing, in all of our years together.
Chapter 7
"How come?"
I'm a little taken aback by Yan’s question, though I should’ve known he'd ask. I try to shrug but can't in my current position, tied spread-eagled to the cross; and anyways, I know I would need to speak up. It takes me a moment to arrange my thoughts enough to make sense when I put them into words.
"I saw it on the online catalogue when I was shopping for your present, and for the first time it didn't make me flinch and recoil in repulsion. It took me some time to notice my own reaction — my non-reaction, really — while I was browsing, but when I did it kind of blew my mind. So I decided to brave it and click on the photo gallery."
Yan is watching me closely, holding the small gag chest-high in the tight space between us.
"And…?"
"And again I learned that I was… fine. I saw those pictures of the gagged model and I was… okay. No scary flashbacks, no crazy nausea, no cold sweat… There was some sense of unease for sure, but not much different than what I would feel when looking at any toy that I'd never tried and had no particular kink for."
Yan still looks at me searchingly as if trying to read my mind. Then slowly he raises the gag towards my face, watching my reaction closely, giving me plenty of time to protest. When it touches my cheek and I keep still, not drawing away from it, he presses it gently into my soft skin. I rub back against it like a kitten, feeling it move along my jaw.
Still ok.
Yan keeps gliding the gag over my face. I breathe slow and even, our eyes locked together. I soak up the mix of concern, focus, and - hope, maybe? - on his face, feeling the taut muscles in my neck loosen. Lord, I love him. Yan moves the red ball to trail back and forth against my slightly-parted lips. My breathing quickens but I don't pull away, letting him caress my mouth with it over and over.
"You know I'd die before I hurt you."
A strangled sob squeaks from the back of my throat and I quickly push it down, not wanting him to mistake my emotion for fear of the toy. I clear my voice and make myself speak up.
"I know sir. I love you and I trust you and that's why I bought you this present. Please use the ball gag on me tonight, sir."
His eyes darken and he lowers the gag to our waists, then leans forward to take my mouth in his in a long, thorough kiss that turns my insides to jelly.
"Thank you, my darling. I love my birthday present and I love you, and it means the world to me that you're willing to try this on. But we're going to take it slow, so I'm not going to tie it at all, okay? I just want you to hold it in your mouth, and if at any point it feels wrong I want you to just drop it. No repercussions, no punishment. Just push it out and let it drop if it becomes too much, all right darling?"
My smile is a little shaky but my voice is almost steady when I answer.
"Yes sir. Thank you sir."
"Good girl." He kisses my lips once more, and then holds the gag up to my lips.
"All right then… Open."
Okay… show time.
I open my mouth and he presses it in gently. The small rubber ball puts almost no strain on my jaw muscles. It actually feels pretty comfortable, I realize with some surprise as I let my teeth close around it, the soft leather straps dangling on both sides down towards my chin.
"Still okay darling?"
I smile around the gag and nod and Yan's slight frown transforms before my eyes. His whole body seems to grow in size in front of me, his eyes smoldering, desire flaring in their depths.
"God you look stunning like this." His voice is so low and gruff it sounds almost like a threat. I whimper in response.
He half-turns and gets the blindfold and in another moment darkness descends over me again. Next I hear the soft jingling of the clamps when he picks them up and then his touch returns to my skin, his palm cupping and lifting my left breast to his mouth. He circles around my areola with his hot tongue and I sigh; then he opens wide and takes a mouthful in and sucks deeply and I moan long and low. When my nipple is rock-hard and throbbing he lets his teeth clamp down on my full orb and then slowly pulls his head back, grazing my sensitized skin. Tightening his bite at the base of my nipple he keeps pulling, taking my whole breast with him and my moan turns
to a high-pitched yelp. I just barely keep the gag from dropping.
Yan releases my nipple only to quickly clamp it, tightening the screw until I gasp and let my head fall back while a low growl escapes my lips around the gag.
God it hurts so good!
Yan repeats the process with my left breast and now I am adorned with the beautiful clamps that look like pretty little lapel pins, sparkling in the candle light. I feel the muscles in my belly clench and release repeatedly with my growing need. The ball in my mouth feels foreign, but not unwelcome, and I let my tongue explore it. I sense Yan taking a step back and then come close again and his fingers graze my waist and something soft and sleek and slightly cool tightens around me. It takes a moment for me to place the sensation, but when I do, I smile around my gag.
He tied the silk ribbon around my waist.
"There. The red of the ribbon and the red of the ball go so well together… The only thing missing is a little red glow to that beautiful skin of yours darling… You ready for that? "
I nod my head and smile around my gag again, and try to answer: "Nyeh hir!"
Yan chuckles. "Good girl…" and now both his palms come up to my breasts and start lifting, squeezing and caressing them, warming them up, making them swell and tighten, before he starts raining delicious little slaps onto them — slap-slap-slap-slap-slap — sharp and quick licks of heat on their sides and tops and undersides, the warmth seeping into me and slowly pooling at my pelvis. I sigh my pleasure.
The Darker Side of Love (A Dark Erotica Boxed Set) Page 13
