Consensually non-Consenting

It's so easy to find it. To go and seek it out. The men think they are the hunters, but the truth is that they aren't. You are. You are hunting for your hunters. You are picking out who will use you as prey. And they don't even have a clue. They never do. You just need the right amount of cheap makeup and clothes that are too tight and show too much skin. The way you drink, the way you slur your words, the way you twitch and flinch around men. You're like a deer hunter covering themselves in pheromones, making sure your prey catch your scent and are relaxed. You let their minds run wild and make assumptions, so they think you are safe to target. The right kind of bitch to hunt, to mount, to hurt in the best ways possible. All while thinking it was their idea. Because the truth is, men are stupid.

Or maybe you're the stupid one. Maybe you are too blind to see how past abuses have groomed you for this, how abuse was taught to you as sexual pleasure. Maybe you are the one who is truly prey. Maybe you're not pretending to be a victim. Maybe it's not an act. You just feel better, feel like you have agency, if you frame it that way. Maybe you are as crazy and broken as those men have told you all your life. Or maybe this is the only way you can remind yourself that you're still alive. That you matter. And maybe, just maybe, you and the men are both prey, both hunters. You need each other to survive.

So you go out, barely clothed in Wal-Mart perfume, Dollar General makeup and lipstick, and cheap Amazon dresses that don't even cover your ass. You wade through the dozens of men at the bar who pretend. You can smell the stink of failure on them. The weakness. They have too much humanity. They'll flinch and hesitate before doing what you need. They're not for you. They are meant for better women, less damaged ones. Less crazy ones. Good for a fuck but you aren't here for that. You're here for so much more. You narrow down the possibilities. This is where the real risk comes in. How dangerous is too dangerous? Who has a temper and who is psychotic? Who is sadistic and who just likes to hurt women? Who can take you right to the edge, who can push you off, and who will even care?

You don't anymore. You used to, maybe. Now, despite what you say, you don't care. A part of you craves not knowing. The complete risk of this possibly being the last time you play this game. You should rein yourself in, be careful, and push but not too hard. That's boring. That's basic. Now you want to shove as much as they do, as the best thing in the world would be them grabbing you and jumping off the metaphorical cliff together. Crashing down below, one last spectacular fuck, rape, and intimate moment with a stranger, being flushed down the toilet of life. That would be glorious. More likely, though, that won't happen. And that's ok too. Because it might. And that's enough.

You find your prey, a large man, drunk and angry. He has a mean look in his eyes. Has he done something bad before? He mentions he is divorced, was that why? A temper? Did his hands wander with his stepdaughter he mentions too much? You don't care. The answers wouldn't turn you away. He's over twice your age and he says you look just like her. That's enough for you to get wet. You tease him there in the bar and on the ride back to his place. It reeks of stale beer and cigarette smoke. It smells like home. It smells like daddy. You're soaked and he is hard, but now is where you change the game. You resist, you hesitate, but you don't want him to simply push through it. You glimpsed the fire in his eyes at the bar. You want that fire back. He needs to fuck. You need him to hurt you. So you use your greatest weapon. Your mind, your mouth. You set the trap for your prey and he takes the bait. You smart off to him, call him weak, mock him, the specifics vary from man to man. Five minutes talking to them and you know where to hit. You strike and this is where you find what kind of animal you just cornered.

If you didn't pick right, they'll pull their hand back. They'll hesitate. They'll catch themselves. You keep on pushing those and they won't just pull back, usually. They'll stop themselves. If you made a really bad pick then they may make you leave or kick you out.

If you picked right though, you'll never see it coming. The slap that sends you to the floor, the backhand that crashes you to the couch, the gut punch that doubles you up. If you picked right, it'll happen just once. If you picked poorly, the hits won't stop. The fists will rain down on you. Just anger, just violence, but no sex. Oh, they may fuck you afterward, but you won't get to enjoy that while being hurt. If you picked a crazy one, someone else might be picking you up off the floor. You won't be going home but to the hospital or worse. And part of you is ok with that risk. It shouldn't be, but it is.

But you picked right. They didn't lightly slap you. It was a brutal warning shot. Another word or two and your prey reacts. Another slap, another backhand, another punch. Harder this time. But they are watching you, watching your reaction. Prey animals are skittish and may bolt if they think they are in danger. Here is a good place to cry or to sob, whimpering meekly. They'll get hard at that sound. Most of them do. They'd never admit it in the morning to anyone, but you saw their cock twitch when you cried. What man needs Viagra when they have your tears? If you go with that they won't hurt you much more, just enough to keep those tears flowing. At one time that was enough for you. It took away the dark thoughts and took the edge off of everything. These days, you need more. You're a junkie. You need more to get your fix.

So you use that smart mouth to get them angrier. You don't see the third hit either. The first two were "warnings". This one was to put you in your place. If it wasn't before, their hand is balled in a fist now. The room is spinning, it's a struggle to get your muscles to work properly, and you look back at them. With a bloody nose, a split lip, or what will be a black eye, you smile at them. The words aren't needed anymore. They would be dangerous to use, in fact. The smile isn't a taunt, it's a permission slip. The easiest way to say yes no matter how much you cry and scream. They've hurt you and now they know it's ok to hurt you more. Again, if you picked poorly they might push you out. Crazy might scare them away. Most men though?

They're rock-hard. Deep down, most guys want to do this. Not always, not to every woman, but most have wanted to ruin a cunt. And one that mouthed off to them, who dared to smile when you hit them? Well, clearly they were asking for it. And you were. And they still don't know you've been playing them the whole time.

If you had any clothes still on before, they're gone or out of the way now. Useless, bunched up around your waist, or torn apart, it doesn't matter. It only matters that the beast is unleashed and is upon you. Thrusting in your body, your mouth. Their hands squeezing your tits, your ass, or your neck. Slapping your face, spitting on you, and punching your gut. A furious assault that you can't follow. They can't even follow it, because they are no longer thinking. That perfect primal need to hurt combined with the need to fuck, all venting on you. All you can do is scream and cry and bleed in varying degrees.

One moment you're folded up in half and he's choking you almost too hard, ramming his cock balls deep, hitting your cervix, bruising your thighs and insides. You're hysterical not only because of the pain but because of what time it reminds you of.

One moment you're on your knees, drooling, almost puking on his cock as he slaps the back of your head and tells you to take it. You do. Maybe you throw up all over yourself or maybe you keep it down, but either way, he doesn't stop thrusting or slapping your head down until your nose is smashed against his belly.

One moment you're on your belly, ass up, as he reams your ass. He slaps your ass, maybe he's even angry enough that he's punching your back, pulling your head back. Part of you is begging for him to punch your head. Make everything black. Just fuck your limp unconscious body. Part of you dreads that will happen. Either way, you scream in pain.

And then, at some point, he's done. You're not sure when it happened. Maybe he finished on your face, in your guts, or deep against your womb. Your tubes are tied but he doesn't know that, he doesn't care. Regardless, no condoms were used. You don't even wonder for a second if he gave you a surprise. You're on your side, breathing hard, barely able to move. In the morning you'll be covered with bruises. You'll have at least one black eye. You may or may not have a concussion. It doesn't matter. It only matters that you're alive. That at some point you squirted all over his couch, his bed, or his floor. He knew it and knows what kind of animal you are as well. He probably will pat himself on the back, proud of the prey "he" caught, never realizing that you pulled him into the trap. And that's ok. Let him think he "won".

Maybe he'll kick you out, but that's unlikely. More likely, he'll taste you again. You'll get mouthy again. He's less careful this time and you will have a concussion as well as a righteous shiner. He squeezes your neck so tight as he's balls deep in you that the black creeps in. He doesn't shove you over the cliff. Just drags you to the edge and beats you, all but making you beg to be kicked over. You clean your blood off his cock, then you stumble to the bathroom as the lights hurt your eyes. You cry as you shit out bloody cum into the toilet. You get your stuff and leave as he snores. He knows what you are now. He knows you won't make any calls or cause him any trouble. Because the second time, you begged him to hit you. It's why the lights hurt now. Why he fucked your ass so hard that it bled.

You call an uber and wait. You take a bump or three while you wait in the cold and then you are driven off in silence. When the driver asks if you are ok, you tell them yes, that you were in a car accident earlier in the day. They know you are lying but say nothing more. You get home and barely make it to the bathroom. There, you throw up, dizzy and sobbing, as you part your legs and finger yourself. Two fingers at first, but you're drenched, so soon it's three then four fingers in your bruised tender hole. The pain sends you over the edge as you cum and piss yourself. You plan to head to bed but you don't. You fall asleep on the cold tile, a battered wreck.

When you wake, there's blood everywhere. Your nose bled again, dried and crusty on your face. You barely wipe it up then go to bed. There, your real man wakes up and surveys the damage. He fucks you like you deserve as well. You cry as much as before when he touches and hurts all the injured parts. Then, his seed in you, he holds you close and you fall asleep in his arms.

The next day you clean up properly. You'll hide from the world for at least a week. You'll write it all down like it's fiction so no one will judge you for the truth. Just some harmless make-believe. Just a story for mean fucks and victims to masturbate to. You'll convince yourself that it was your choice and maybe it was. Maybe you were the hunter all along. It makes you feel better to believe that. And every day after, you'll look at the bruises and smile, touching yourself, cumming to that night. Sated at last.

Until you have to do it again. Until it's time to hunt. And the cycle starts all over, anew. Until you need to hurt again. And deep down is the simple truth. You can't wait for that moment again. To be hurt, to be fucked, and to feel alive.