Contact Ch. 01

She longs to feel something. Anything, even if it's pain, even if it's terror. She longs for the touch of human skin, the sound of a human voice. She is desperately lonely. She goes to clubs seeking shelter, sells herself with short skirts and bare tops and cleavage so pampered it's almost laughable. She hides in her body, a wall of flesh and blood between herself and her innermost thoughts. She has given her thoughts away. She is nineteen.

She came here to learn. She thought things would change for her here, surrounded by concrete walls and the smells of paper and ink. Thought that replacing her small world of prancing and preening with a bigger one would fill the emptiness that had infiltrated her thoughts; instead she found her mind colder than ever before.

That first year was hard. She kept to herself, unable to bear the frustration of relationships no more meaningful than they had ever been, silent things based on complaints and frustrations, friendships made out of the dust of the moon and lovers made from ice like bad vampires, cold and distant and unable to adjust to her warmth. Soon she turned cold herself, her heart beating chill in a body that surged heat. She thought it might melt, but it seemed to be a crime against nature: a frozen heart that vibrated with absurd urgency, screaming contradictions against her hot flesh. So she hid away, and stayed silent under watchful eyes, and pretended sanity as it was slowly leached away.

Now, in her second year, she learns the answer.

Men, she finds, don't trust the anomaly; men know better. Men know the difference between a broken heart and a bruised one, a desperate soul and a sad one. They know she walks the edge between here and eternity. They don't ask for much, only a night or two, and a place to slip between the sheets. She finds solace in their lies and conceits, the flattery wooing even as she disdains. She throws herself into their arms, carving the notch herself. It gives her a purpose, an object. She becomes a Thing.

Men, not boys; men with grey hairs and ridges of skin carved into the plains of their cheeks by time and weathering, men with desires like luxury cars, unnecessary and obscene but somehow alluring, men with precious little to offer and the desire to take. Men who will use her in horrible ways, men who chuckle over her heartaches, men who are willing to hurt her for the price of her pain. Men who know what she has become.

She's become a temptress. It gives her a little pleasure, to find men in public, to pay them attention with soft eyes and sultry voice, to take them home and pretend to sleep when they sneak away in the morning. At first it was better, but now it has descended into a slow ache, a thing to do rather than a joy. It's not enough anymore.

She heads online. So easy nowadays, to find the dregs of humanity: all one needs is an internet connection and a strong stomach. It's enough to watch, for a while, as videos plaster the web; women with gaping holes and hugely inflated tits, men with dicks like engines, an incredible machine that seems impossible but for the evidence. Then, like so many drugs, she demands more, and more, as more does less. She chats with middle-aged men, sad ones who want her so they can feel young and whole; calls up men with gruff voices and swollen egos. She sends them pictures of her naked body, makes anonymous video calls to men with beer guts and weathered faces and watches them jerk off. She pretends to masturbate while they encourage her, putting on a show to feel the spotlight. She moves to threesomes, and role-play; she watches hardcore sadomasochism videos, bondage videos, trying desperately to feel something. And eventually, even that is not enough.

Today, she moves on.

And if she truly, truly asks herself, she knows she may not survive.

Over and over again, she asks herself if this is a good idea; over and over again, the answer is no. She doesn't trust people from the internet. She knows there are psychos out there. She knows she's been lucky enough with the men from the bars. Who knows what's waiting for her this time? What if he hurts her? What if he rapes her? What if he kills her? A part of her is afraid of the questions; even worse is the part that is excited.

Her doorbell rings; too late now.

She peeps through the doorway; that's him. They met online, on a match site she joined out of desperation on those nights when she went home alone. She had no real world connections, and she found a surrogate in the web. She didn't expect him to be as handsome as he was in the photos. Suddenly she feels shy, a strange fluttering in her stomach. What has she gotten herself into?

Smiling, she opens the door. She expects this to go slowly, so she hasn't done anything special. She wears jeans, a tight tshirt, bare feet. Her long hair is down and straightened.

"Hi," she says. "John?"

"Hey," he says, smiling back. She opens the door wider, and lets him walk through. He's quite a bit taller than her, though she is tall herself, and he has the frame to match. He seems like a person on a larger scale, from his massive hands to his broad shoulders. His face is good-looking, with a square jaw and full lips, his brown eyes sparkling mischievously. His hair is long, chin-length, and a faint stubble covers his cheeks. He looks around as he walks in, taking in the decor, the layout of the apartment she lives in alone.

"Do you want some tea or something?" she asks, uncertain. The fluttering persists as she looks him up and down. He is in very good shape for his late thirties, with a physique more like boys her age. She's rarely felt this nervous.

"Sure," he says, that amiable smile still on his face. She brushes past him, heading for the kitchen.

That's when it starts.

Before she is even aware of his touch he grabs her from behind, one hand over her mouth and the other twisting an arm behind her back. She struggles, fluttering turning to terror.

"Don't scream," he whispers into her ear. "Don't fight me. I don't want to hurt you."

Tears fill her eyes. She knew this might happen, but God, she didn't want it, didn't want this terror. Yet, strangely, the adrenaline fills her. Blood pumps in her ears. She hasn't felt this alive in months.

She fights, feebly; he laughs and pushes her down on the kitchen table, the hard surface pressing against her chest as he shoves her face against it. He stuffs a napkin in her mouth as she starts to scream, pulls a length of cord out of his pocket and binds her hands. Then, as he pushes her forward, she stumbles into her bedroom.

He throws her onto the bed, face-down, and grabs a scarf off the floor. He binds her feet, tying the ends to the cord around her hands. She lies there hogtied, feeling the racing of her heart as he leaves the room. She hears the door open and shut.

Her mind races as she runs through the possibilities. He might just take her and leave her. She doesn't know anything about him, after all, just his face. He might kill her. God, what was she thinking? Was she insane? Yes, whispers the small, truthful part of her brain. She has been for a while.

She hopes he won't torture her, first.

She hears him open the door again, hears it shut, hears him turn the lock. He's carrying something, this time. A bag. She hears him set it down next to the bed, hears him unzip it and take something out. A few somethings, it seems.

He leans over her. She feels his breath stir her hair as he whispers into her ear.

"We're going to play some games," he says, stroking her cheek. "If you're very good, I'll let you go. If you're very bad..." he trails off, and her breath quickens. "Well, let's just say I have some effective methods of punishment I can show you." He loosens the ties around her wrists. Immediately she begins to struggle, and he pins her to the bed, staring into her frightened eyes. "We can do this the easy way, or the hard way," he says, still disturbingly calm, that smile still gracing those perfect lips. "Your choice. Will you be a good girl for me, sweetheart?" She swallows past the cloth in her mouth, and nods. "That's a girl. Now be still." She lies like a limp rag as he puts leather cuffs around her wrists, clipping them to the metal bedposts. Next he ties her legs to the bottom posts with matching cuffs, effectively tying her spread-eagled to the posts. He replaces the cloth with a silk gag. He takes out a knife.

She starts to cry. Big tears splash down her cheeks, soaking her gag. He notices her panicked moans, and smiles comfortingly.

"Hush, lovely," he croons, "It's not for you. I wouldn't dream of carving up that pretty skin." He draws the blade over her cheek, and she flinches. He laughs softly. "Don't trust me, huh? We'll fix that soon enough."

He sets the knife against the outside seam of her jeans, cutting through the fabric with practiced ease. He does the other side just as swiftly, and lifts the ruined pants away from her pale form. He repeats the actions with her shirt, and within moments she lies half-naked under his gaze. He draws a finger along her stomach, feeling her soft skin. When she gasps he laughs again. He sets his hand on her knee. Slowly he slides the hand along her thigh, up to her hip. She flinches involuntarily when he reaches her private parts. Tantalizingly, achingly slowly he slips his fingers under the seam of her cotton panties. She freezes. He smiles at her, cold eyes meeting her weeping ones. There is nothing you can do, he seems to say; you are mine for the taking. He makes sure she knows the full helplessness of her position. Then he withdraws.

Busily, he cuts off her plain white bra and underwear. She closes her eyes as he evaluates her naked form, goosebumps rising under his gaze. He takes a moment to fully appreciate what he sees before him: a young, tender girl, shaved for his pleasure, with a full chest and narrow waist flaring to a round, generous behind, tethered and heaving for his eyes alone. Then he begins to explore.

It begins with a kiss. Tenderly he removes the gag, slipping his tongue and lips in its place. She feels the earth move as he probes her mouth, a commanding, confident kiss that shatters fear and ignites a fire in the pit of her belly. After a moment she opens herself to him, and he moves in, pressing his body against her and drawing her mouth to him. His hands roam, massaging her breasts, pinching nipples, stroking her thighs and inner self. She moans under his kisses as he breaks away, sliding the gag back into place, moving his lips down her neck, biting and sucking. He pauses for a moment at her chest, suckling at her nipples as they stand erect; then he continues his downward quest.

Deftly, he parts her folds with his tongue. She writhes underneath him, a riot of contradictory thoughts. He sucks at the swollen nub of her clit, lapping at her warm cunt, his fingers kneading her backside as he pulls her body upwards. She tugs at her bonds, trying vainly to break their iron hold. He brings her to the brink of pleasure; then, with a self-satisfied smirk, he pulls away. She stares at him, confused. Gently, carefully, he slips his finger inside her. She jerks as a jolt of pleasure hits her; he shakes his head.

"Don't you cum," he murmurs. He pulls his finger in and out, slowly pumping her. Pleasure darts at her like agony. "Don't you dare cum, beautiful." He speeds up, slipping another finger inside. She feels the waves mounting, daring to crash as he taunts her: "Don't you cum, don't you cum," a constant refrain as he pumps her back to the brink. A final insult: he begins to massage her clit. She struggles for a moment, then gives in as the release washes over her. She arches against him, frantic for the release; then she sags back against the bed.

He grins at her, nastily. Panic flares up in her stomach. She begins to shake.

"Oh, you bad, bad girl," he whispers. "Now you're in for it."

He pulls a bundle out of his bag, a long strap that he hooks over her closet door. He unties her from the bed, dragging her over to the door. She stumbles, weak from her treacherous orgasm. He forces her to stand flat against the door as he clips her to the straps, splayed out in an x shape, her naked bum facing him, her face pushed against the hard wood. She hears him pull something out of his bag.

"You little slut," he says calmly. He sounds amused. "I told you not to cum, and you did anyway. This means punishment, bitch." He runs something through his hand with a soft snick. "I'm going to teach you to obey me." She hears a whooshing sound, and then--

SMACK!

She screams against the gag as the soft leather bites into the soft flesh of her behind. He drags the crop down her back, raising the tiny hairs on her back. She feels him draw away, and then--

SMACK!

This one worse, this one harder than before, and he says, still in that same calm voice, "I'm going to teach you to behave properly, slut. I am your master now. You will obey me. If I say crawl, you crawl; if I say suck, you suck. If I tell you to service me, my best friends, and their wives, you do. And if I tell you to not fucking cum until I tell you to, you'll do that too." He smacks her with the leather, over and over, until her bum is crossed with red stripes and tears stream down her cheeks. She sags against the door, unable to support her own weight from the pain, and he presses himself against her. His fingers find her slit, and he probes her from behind. She can feel his swollen phallus as it strains against his pants; despite herself she is aroused, and she arches against him. He kisses her neck, sucking greedily, and she moans.

"Have you learned your lesson?" he asks softly. "Nod, sweetheart, and I'll forgive you. It's only your first time, after all. I'd punish you worse for the same thing if we'd done this little act before. If you know now you did wrong, and promise to never do it again, I'll stop for now."

She nods, frantically, eager to pull away from the post. He unclips her, gently, and leads her to the bed. This time he ties her on her stomach, her wrists tied together over her head. He gently pushes her knees up under her, strapping a spreader bar between her thighs, so that she rests in a kneeling position on the bed, her hands before her and her butt in the air. She hears him undress behind her, his clothing hitting the floor. She sits motionless in front of him, waiting.

She feels his erect penis probing her from behind; after only a moment, he surges against her. She gasps as he slides into her, her natural lubricant slicking his shaft. He is massive, long and thick, and he fills her tightly, almost painfully full. His big hands pull on her hips, directing her movements. After they fall into a comfortable rhythm they roam, reaching up around to massage her breasts, her clit, pushing her head and shoulders down towards the bed as he grinds into her. Pleasure mounts in her, waves cascading and her nether parts weeping with joy. He fingers the slick, laughing. He leans forward to whisper again, reminding her: "Don't you cum." She remembers, vividly, her whipping; she struggles to control her aching body. "Don't you cum," he croons, "not yet, little girl. Not yet." She fights the urge, picturing everything she can to keep herself from the age. She writhes and twists underneath him, torn.

Finally, when she thinks she can stand it no longer, he grants her release. "Now," he murmurs. "Cum. Do it now." With a groan she lets go; pleasure makes her scream and writhe underneath him. With a powerful bucking, she feels him cum a second later. A load shoots deep and infects her deepest regions, warming her stomach. She wants to weep with shame and joy.

Panting slightly, he pulls himself away. She lies slack against her bonds. He takes the spreader from between her thighs, and rolls her over onto her back. He ties her ankles together, but gently; then he lays down beside her. He places a hand against her throbbing pussy, earning another groan; he curls up next to her, whispering into her ear:

"Good night, beautiful girl."

Within moments, he is asleep; and she is left to wonder, as the night ebbs away, what exactly has happened to her. Finally, as exhaustion overcomes her body, she submits to sleep.