Delayed Force Fantasy

We'd been talking online for two months until I finally lured him to my house the first time. At least that's the way it felt.

He wanted me, and I him. We'd had phone sex a dozen times—he had such a good voice. Smart, grammatical, and not a hint of danger signs, even when he was—as we established very quickly we both wanted—describing, in great detail, the ways he wanted to rape me.

Yes, rape. (I believe in calling things what they are. So did he.) We both had an element of apology in our stated desires. And then we said them. Again and again, our voices cracking as we came, our shared aural narratives of violation ringing in each others' heads.

When he finally came to me—he balked. Not that he didn't fuck me. He did. Four times during the sleepless night. Or that he didn't tie me up at various times, spank me, or place his hot hand over my mouth, usually at the end, when he was coming (and I usually was as well.) It's just that I couldn't draw him out of his polite, civilized shell. Not all the way. When he left in the morning, it was with averted eyes, and a promise to write me. He did—and it was a mess.

He rambled, he waffled. It was clear he was afraid—afraid of letting himself go because then we'd have made a connection that he feared he'd have to follow up on in reality. Or, I thought, the sight of me, the reality of me, scared him because I wasn't what he thought. My mind—as much of a mess as his—thought about my weight, my performance. Maybe just who I was.

We licked our wounds for a few weeks. Then he wrote this. No warning— just black words on a white background of my email, left for me on my laptop like an intruder, lying in wait:

Tell me a day you are free. All day and all night. I will leave my door unlocked. (He'd never given me his address, another worry.) The lights will be off. You will park where I tell you, then walk in the door. When you choose to enter my door, you will signal your agreement to the following scenario and conditions:

—You will be raped, all night, until the sun comes up. At exactly 7 a.m., you will be untied and released. I won't be here when you remove the blindfold you will have been wearing all night. You will wait, as instructed, until you count to a slow 100. Then you will remove your blindfold, dress yourself, and leave.

—You will receive no reassurances once you walk through that door. Whatever sounds you hear as you are raped will be from your rapist.

—Your pre-established limits will be observed, but they will not be adjusted or changed once you choose to walk through that door, no matter what you say. When you are allowed to say anything. As understood, those limits are as follows:

No body waste.

No permanent marks or injuries.

No unexpected third (or more) parties.

Anal sex (if I choose to violate that sweet, fat ass) will be lubricated, and any body part used to violate your ass will be thoroughly washed before continuing.

You will not be put in actual danger of your life.

—Any adjustments to those limits, or any other doubts or questions, will be addressed before you walk through that door. Once you choose to do so (should you choose to do so), there is nothing further to discuss.

—You have until noon tomorrow to respond.

I sat in my computer chair, staring at this message—no preamble, no salutation—for what seemed like an hour. When I came back to myself, I felt the cooling wetness between my legs. So, he's worked up his resolve, I thought, staring again at the message. The cold, stark words made me shudder, and my panties drench afresh. This guy...

I thought about it for a good, long time. About that one night together, and his big, burly body. I knew he was as self-conscious about his belly as I was about mine (although his height and strength made him very impressive to me—not that he'd hear of it.) About the words he'd growled in my ear on those long nights on the phone—what he said he wanted to do to me. Almost without noticing, my left hand slipped under the waistband of my underpants and strayed idly through my moistened thatch as I stared at his words. I thought of that hand—so dry and strong even in his exertions inside me—clamping my mouth shut with exquisite pain. I smelled his armpits in the dark, his crotch—thick and deliciously musky—as he forced his nicely thick cock between my lips. I heard his groan—like triumph, like shame— as he thrust, pumping inside that damned condom inside me. (Never be too careful.) I slipped my fingers roughly against my now sopping lips.

And sent him just the date—the next day.