Giovanna's Room Pt. 01

CONTENT WARNING:

The following is a fantasy that depicts scenes of non-consensual sex and occasional heavy violence. It explores the grey areas of consent and control. At it's heart, it's a romance. I hope you enjoy, and feedback is welcome.

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The bracken stopped cracking as the hasty footsteps got further away. She moved her head to the side to listen. A twig scratched her lower cheek and she winced, feeling drops of blood collect at the side of her lip.

The echo of a distant bird song, far away, and then silence. Her senses started to return.

Damp forest floor scenting the air with moss and mud. Her twisted ankle throbbed.

Hot, sticky semen trickling down her thigh. Panic seizing in her chest. She saw her body as a series of images, disconnected from the next.

Breasts, bitten and tender, she pulled the sweater down to cover herself. Jeans streaked in dirt, she shakily pulled up her thighs, struggling with the button and the zip.

A deep sense of emptiness, she fell back heavily on the ground. What came later was the sense of satisfaction.

[...]

She woke up with her hand over her clit and touched herself, moaning, in reverie, she bought herself to orgasm and promptly fell back asleep, her cunt tensing and relaxing in pleasure, over and over.

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6 MONTHS LATER

"Are you hungry, you slut?" A punch to the face and she tasted blood in her mouth. She felt her jaw being forced open. "Don't fucking bite," she heard, before her hair was pulled so hard, she felt dazed, the penis being forced into her mouth. At the same time, she felt her legs being pushed open and a hand moving up and pushing hard digits into her, a thumb being pushed into her anus and fingers into her cunt.

She felt like sobbing, but she had to stifle the crying in her chest to keep her jaw relaxed, to not brush her teeth against the intruder in her throat, fucking her throat raw. He pulled back from her and beat his cock hard, watching the other rapist replace his hand with his cock, jamming it into her dry body, his thumb still deep in her ass, fucking her so hard against the ground her knees slid across the smooth concrete with each thrust, bleeding.

"The bitch is wet," she heard him croon, and the other spat on her, saying, "This hottie is going to make me fucking cum," She rolled her arms over her head to steady her body on all fours as he slammed her harshly from behind, but he grabbed her arms and pinned them behind her back, his thrusts becoming heavier and harder on top of her until he came, squirting wet semen deep into her. He gasped and pushed off her and she tried to curl up into the defensive position, but his friend stopped beating his cock and shoved her arms away from herself, rolling her onto her back.

"My turn," he said, and then his hot prick was pushing deep into her just-fucked cunt. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth: he was bigger than the previous, but she was now lubricated with the other's semen and he felt better inside her, pushing and stretching her body. She felt the heat increase inside her, felt arousal shake through her body. He slapped her hard across the face. "Open your eyes, bitch," he spat at her, as she reeled back, her head spinning. "I want to see you look at me while I rape your tight little cunt."

Her eyes smarted with tears from pain and humiliation, but she forced herself to focus on him and his bright, angry blue eyes as he fucked her roughly, her body bruising against the concrete, pushing hard into her cervix, cramping her lower body as her pussy clung to her attacker's cock, betraying her. She started screaming shrilly, clawing at him.

"Alright, that's enough,... won't be happy," she heard a sharp voice, before she drifted out of consciousness just as the man on top of her let out a victorious cry, his hips seizing mid thrust as he ejaculated into her aching body, his forearm pressing at her throat to support himself as his body rocked with orgasm. She suppressed her own, biting her tongue so hard it bled.

______

Somehow, it ended. A cold flannel was given to her face, and she was told to retie her hair. Then she was picked off the ground and they walked for some time to another car, then more driving, walking, quiet discussion on distant cell phones. She was taken to a shower and told to clean her vagina. She barely remembers anything but the white towel, a respite, that turned spotted with blood from the scratches on her knees and back.

Hands cleaning her and putting her clothes back on.

Back in the car with blacked out windows.

More driving.

The car was parked in a building that felt large and echoing. Her attackers, once raucous and aggressive, full of cocky bravado, became more solemn as they approached the elevator and walked with her across a series of long, disorientating hallways. She felt she could barely walk aside from their support, half carrying her across both their arms, in a gesture she felt almost grateful for. They talked in one-liners and quips about her body, and probably others, but it felt like a distraction from what was really going on, and she could sense an undercurrent of anxiety from one of them, the one that had stopped the other, blue-eyed, sadist.

When they approached another hallway, one with another man in a black tuxedo standing outside, they stopped. "You better hope you get out of this alive," the second rapist muttered at her before they got closer, but she felt nothing. If they had wanted to hurt her, they could have. They were just a step in getting her here. This is what she knew she wanted. Still, his hand pushing between her ass, finger against her anus, made her feel nauseous, and she knew she should be very scared, now she was finally here.

They loosened their grip on her shoulders, and she fell to the ground after taking a step, this time onto plush carpeting, not concrete.

"This isn't good enough," she heard the tuxedo say.

"Can you blame me?"

Laughter, but it was muted.

"She kept coming back for it." The loud one was indignant. She didn't dare look. "I did my fucking job. Now do yours."

"Just fuck off, alright?"

They left, and she stayed focused on the carpeting in front of her.

Sighing, the tuxedo told her to stand up. She nodded and stood up again quickly. He helped her. His arms were lean and muscled under the suiting. A young Indian man with a neutral stare that stayed politely above and around her.

He paused and said, "He is excited to see you."

She said nothing but felt a social pressure to stop the bleeding on her knee, which was running down into her shoes. She wanted to be pretty. In her dirty light blue dress and now scuffed sandals, she felt she was not.

Tuxedo put his hand on the doorknob. "When you enter, kneel on the floor."

She nodded. This was all going through the motions. She felt blind.

The door opened and she stepped in. A room full of books and oak and soft dark lighting, but a ambience of being clean and well-kept. She immediately felt his presence, standing next to a heavy, presidential desk at the end of the room. She took another step and crouched on the floor, waiting. Expecting another group of men. Hounds. Bracing for the worst to come.

Nothing happened.

After some time, she looked up.

He was looking at her. They locked eyes and he smiled. She smiled too, a warm blush creeping up her cheeks, a feeling of being seen for the first time. It was a crazy sensation. Men looked at her all the time. Those two had looked at her, up and down, across: breasts, face, legs, cunt, face, ass, they had liked what they had seen and proceeded to attempt to claim it, destroy it.

But they did not look at her like he did. She felt naked to the core, like he knew everything she had ever wanted. She felt paranoia that he knew where she lived and worked. That he had carnal knowledge of her. She supposed maybe he had seen what had happened, that he knew. Her mind worked in circles. She didn't know anything except her desire to please the man in front of her, leaning against the big desk, in the overly ornate room, now that she was here. The fabricator. The puppeteer.

She was not sure if she wanted the power he possessed or himself. Because he was a handsome man but had no features that were distinguishable. He had the calm demeanor of someone who gets their way, but not of the mastermind she had conducted. A man who looked healthy from wealth, well groomed, the anonymous face of a rich man. A face she would not have remembered, apart from his gaze, which was intense and dark. She felt powerless and all-consumed from it. She let out a soft breath, the first lightened breath in a long time, hours.

"You would have had a long day." He said, his voice deep and comforting. Her hands trembled as she looked down at the floor, to the Persian carpet in rich reds and browns. His shoes were shined to a high polish. She nodded, swallowing, her mouth dry, recollecting herself.

He moved around and she heard the strike of the match, and then the heavy musk of a cigar being lit. He inhaled slowly and blew it out his mouth, luxuriating in time, while her heart beat with more and more tension. He continued taking drags, pausing only to put on a record at the player at the side of the room. There were studded leather couches, fine carafes of liquor, and screeds of books wall to ceiling. It was the office of a debauch professor, or a retired businessman. It felt alien to the concrete floors or thorns and dirt she had tolerated before this, surreal.

The record was a slow blues ballad, crackling with sound. He hummed slowly under his breath, continuing to smoke. It occurred to her he may be waiting for her to relax, and she remembered she had a body, which she carefully rearranged on the soft, plush carpeting, admiring the swirling threaded patterns, feeling back into her body. She did not fully trust that there was an expectation for her to relax.

After some time, the record finished and stopped. he put the cigar out and stood back at the front of his desk, crossing his feet at the ankles, so visibly relaxed as the silence filled the room. Then, suddenly, simply: "Will you undress for me?" He questioned. It sounded like a question, like there was generosity to allow someone to disagree.

She nodded. The self-righteousness and shame in her chest from the ordeal of the day, of the last few months, left her and she felt light as she pulled the thin cotton dress off her body. Her nipples, exposed to the cool air in the room, became erect, pink and obvious. It felt so obscene, she moved to hide them with her arms.

"No," he said gently down at her. He had moved closer so she now could only look up and see his waist, the dark slacks he was wearing. She did not bear to look up, her heart in her throat. Whatever happened to her now, she would welcome it. She dropped her arms and shivered, forcing them to her sides. She felt small and frail.

He remained silent and she remembered hurriedly to remove her underwear, a sliver of beige lace that covered her slit, the patch of finely trimmed dark blonde hair that provided some sense of modesty but mostly signaled she was preoccupied with her cunt and what it looked like, which was beautiful. She awkwardly fished the underwear off her legs and held it in a ball in her fist, pressing back onto the lush carpet and slowly opening her legs so they were splayed, so he could see her.

She felt stripped of any elegance or sexual performatism she might possess, with no ability to put anything on, to entice, to seduce. She just was in the room, naked, presented to him. She felt a rush as she felt his eyes appraise her, electricity running up and down her chest, wetness collecting at her opening. Wanting to be touched.

She felt his hand move to her chin and tilted it up so her face was turned to his. His palm was warm and strong. Blushing, she forced her eyes to meet his.

"Gia," he said, smiling.

She couldn't resist smiling back, beaming, feeling unbearably light and warm. Happy. Her jaw hurt with how hard she smiled.

Holding her face with one hand, he undid his belt with the other, and the sound of the zip filled her both with anticipation and dread. He let go of her chin and stroked back her hair. And there was a pause that felt like a test as she waited to see what he wanted. More silence.

She hesitated before reaching up and freeing his erection from his boxers. He continued to stroke her hair. His penis was hard and hot in her hands. She put her mouth around him, and she began to suck, sliding her hands up and down his length, beginning to understand the dimensions of his body, of who she knew she had to serve. She felt her slit get wetter and hotter as she sucked, and felt her shoulders relax, now she knew she was not about to be reprehended for her actions. She slipped her tongue up and down him and felt him move up and down her throat, moving into a rhythm, feeling pleasure roll through her body as she gave him what he wanted.

She heard him grunt softly, his hands digging deeper into her hair, more tight, moving her head harder and faster, and she let go, letting him use her, moving her head up and down his cock, letting him use her wet hot throat, feeling her reflex to gag and breathing through it, tears from the heat and pressure filling her eyes, the rhythm soothing and satisfying her, as he got progressively faster and faster, his cock hardening and tensing in her throat, and him holding her there for so long she began to flinch and hold her body tight as not to recoil as she almost lost breath, and then he came: hot spurts shooting down her throat, which she swallowed greedily and wordlessly, staying still until he was finished and withdrew, letting her go and tucking himself back into his pants, fixing his belt as she took a breath and wiped her face dry, heart beating fast, hoping she had given enough, that she had proven herself, for now.

He went back to his desk, sitting down into the leather chair and rolling himself under the desk and picking up a phone and dialing. In the light of the desk lamp, she guessed he must be early thirties, perhaps older, his face only lightly lined, a definitively handsome, confident face. She heard the doors open behind her and cowered instinctively, her body carrying the memory of before, as she felt them walk in.

"Introduce her to Sarah. And pull their fucking heads in," His voice was less warm now, it was businesslike as he spoke to the Tuxedo. She felt small again, until he said, as she stood up in the arms of the two men who had fucked her before, their hands pressing on her tender skin, "I'll see you tomorrow, Gia."

As they were leaving, he added, "She's mine."