Lisa's Trap

The candles flicker weakly, flames digesting the last of the wick as I watch. My hopes and enthusiasm for the evening wanes, just as the candlelight does. Just as it had for several months now. With a heavy sigh, I look at my phone and read Charles' last text for at least the twentieth time and find myself wondering if he really is pulling an all-nighter at the office before tomorrow's important client meeting. Or is he busy pulling out of that young, unmarried secretary that he's told me not to worry about, time and again.

Defeated, I gather myself and head into the kitchen so I can pack the uneaten bourbon chicken and fried rice into meal prep containers-everything homemade, of course-before I head upstairs to wash off the makeup that I'd so carefully applied hours ago. My face clean, I walk into the bedroom and remove my new black dress-it has a tantalizing slit along the outside and the neckline tastefully hints at the treasures contained within. It had taken me weeks to find the perfect black dress, one that would fit my ample body without making me look overly slutty, or worse, like a desperate heavyset housewife who hadn't experienced the affections of her husband in months.

Charles had been working hard over the last few months, stepping up to fill extra duties when an embarrassing scandal rocked the leadership of the advertising agency. My husband had the opportunity to help keep the agency afloat and maybe, just maybe, finally rise in the ranks into a key role. We discussed what his efforts would entail, how much extra time he would have to spend with his handsome, slightly crooked nose to the grindstone. Foolish woman that I am, I encouraged Charles to push himself. I accepted that missed date nights, cold dinners, and lonely weekends would be a temporary price for a permanent improvement in our lives.

For a while, I was coping with the loneliness-it helped when Charles surprised me with an assortment of naughty toys one weekend. Just something to keep me from getting lonely. I struggled with embarrassment as I learned how to pleasure myself in so many creative ways. One day, encouraged by a bottle of dry red wine, I made a series of videos and sent them, one by one to my still working husband. After every video, he would send me pictures of his engorged manhood, along with a request for the next video. We played like that for a few weeks before the novelty wore off.

When the holiday season rolled around, Charles brought me to the office party and cheerfully introduced me to several of his co-workers, including a nubile young secretary named Jessica. Alcohol flowed freely, and as I became more intoxicated, I let my inhibitions down. My husband pulled me into an office, closing the door behind us as his hands touched and flicked all the sensitive areas of my body. Under other circumstances, I never would have allowed such behavior in public, but the lack of sex and the consumption of wine readily opened my thighs. Charles began driving into me, whispering that he'd let some of his coworkers see my videos. I should have been angry at the betrayal, but I was too far lost in our lovemaking. I should have been angry when the company owner and Charles' immediate boss walked into the room just as my husband reached his climax inside me. And I should have been downright furious when my loving husband and his secretary held me down while the other two men used me viciously. But I wasn't. I accepted it, because I am a good wife and I wanted my husband to climb that corporate ladder.

Charles career took off after that dark, cold night. The man is exceptionally talented in his chosen profession, but opportunity isn't always fair to those with talent. He assured me that my holiday party experience had aroused him, which was most likely true given the vigor with which he fucked me after his bosses were done. He insisted that my forced excursion with the owner and his boss had bolstered his career, so I accepted what happened and moved on. A few weeks later, he begged me to come to the office for a New Years Eve celebration. I conceded, on the condition that I wouldn't be used as the office whore. I should have known what to expect, especially when the only people in attendance were his two bosses and Jessica. They assured me that more people were coming, made me feel comfortable and gave me plenty of drinks and something else to relax me. I had no concept of danger until the three men gradually pinned me to the desk so they could watch Jessica bring me to multiple orgasms with her tongue and fingers. The next morning, I left the office sore, wet, and used thoroughly. On the way home, I told Charles that I would never set foot back in that office.

It was after that night at the beginning of the New Year, that our sex life began to dwindle to nothing. Charles sunk himself into work, only occasionally tending to my baser needs. Date nights became rarer. Cold, missed dinners-like tonight's-became more common.

I sprawl naked across my empty marital bed, my interest in my toys is lost and my heart wounded. Charles and I had been through everything together, spent years relying on one another to make thing work. And I'd ruined it by telling him to go ahead and focus completely on his career.

Lonely and hurting, I thumb through my phone as I search for something that will stoke my interest. Something to make me feel alive again. I briefly skim the personal ads, knowing damned well that I won't ever have the courage to answer one, much less meet with a stranger for carnal satisfaction. A brief search takes me to another webpage, where I spend several minutes watching a supposed homemade video of a young, helpless woman thrashing and screaming as a well-endowed man violates her tight anus. The video is far too brief, so I watch it a few times and finally turn the sound up so I can hear her screaming and begging him to stop. After watching her violation a third time, I'm wet and squirming. I start the video yet again, dropping my phone so I can focus on touching myself as I close my eyes and listen to the screaming. The begging. The wet, sloppy noises of a cock being pushed through such a tight opening. I'm close. So close.

My phone dings and vibrates, shattering my illusion and returning me to my miserable, unsatisfied life. Defeated, I pull my fingers away from my swollen, wet clit and look at the screen. It's Charles, announcing that he is finally coming home. Dejected and wholly unsatisfied, I head into the bathroom to clean up and put my pajamas on before walking back downstairs to heat up Charles' dinner.

#

I break a few eggs into a bowl, whipping them with seasoning and just a touch of milk-to fluff up the eggs-and set about making us cheese stuffed omelets for breakfast. Charles is making coffee, excitedly chattering on about the meeting today and its implications for his precious career.

I nod and make enthusiastic noises, much as I did last night when he started touching me and encouraging me to take his shaft in my mouth. I tried to be excited, but in all honestly, I wasn't in the mood for the mundane. My hips gyrated and I grew wet when I forced his cock down my throat, though he responded by immediately laying me on the bed for unsatisfying missionary-style sex. I'd pleaded with him to use a toy. To take my virgin ass. To choke me. All to no avail, though he was enthusiastic about taking me doggie style-at least I reached an orgasm as I fingered myself and remembered his boss roughly fucking me from behind, sans invitation.

I serve him breakfast, listening as he explains that he won't be home tonight. The owner and his boss have a large hotel suite booked so they can entertain their important client. I grind my teeth together, my growing hostility hidden from his view by the newspaper he's skimming through. Glaring, I cut into my heavy omelet and hope that the intensity of my stare somehow reaches my clueless husband. As he flips another page, a flash of a headline catches my eye.

. . .Woman Claims Rape . . .

My hips start moving on their own, grinding my needy lips against the chair cushion. I make a mental note to read today's paper after Charles leaves for work.

"Charles," I say suddenly. I continue once he drops a corner of the paper down and makes eye contact.

"Charles, are you fucking Jessica?"

I have no idea where my nerve came from, but I suddenly needed to know.

He sighs heavily, simultaneously setting down his fork and the newspaper. We stare at one another across the table for several moments, silence building to an unbearable level before his lips start moving.

"Winston has me hold her down sometimes," he admits. "Like we did to you." His eyes drop, hinting at his shame in the act. "He watches and makes her suck me off every once in a while. But mostly," Charles sighs, "mostly Winston and Adam make me watch them have sex with her. It's a fetish or something."

"I see."

He pushes on, obviously needing to confess. "I'm to ensure Jessica keeps the client entertained tonight, whether she wants to or not. She fights, but I think she gets off on it," he shudders.

"Do you?"

Charles drops his chin, keeping his eyes much lower than mine. "Yes."

Anger flares up in me. Has he really been role playing rape all these nights? Really?

"So all these late nights aren't work related," I snarl. "You're helping your bosses play rape fetish night. Way to climb the corporate ladder, Charlie," I say mockingly. He hates being called Charlie.

I have no idea what I'm doing. Am I truly angry? Or am I trying to get my husband to man up and force himself on me? I don't know.

"Lisa, please," he says, his eyes still low. "I've been working my ass off. Just some nights, I'm expected to . . . do things."

"And you do none of those things here," I spit at him. Crossing my arms, I look away from my husband before I say something embarrassing. Anger ripples through my body, ending at that tiny knot of nerves between my legs. Slowly I realize that I'm soaking wet and swollen.

Charles looks up at me, obviously confused and ashamed of himself. I can see it in his eyes. His boss would already have me bent over the table-my ass cheeks red from the punishment spanking. I almost moan at the very thought.

"I . . . If I do this tonight, I'll be promoted to assistant CEO," he stammers. "I have enough evidence on both Winston and Adam that I can blackmail them into leaving me alone. I've seen the contract, Lisa. I'm . . . I'm almost there. Please, believe me. I'm only doing all this for us. I swear it."

My lip curls up, just a little as I listen to his simpering plea. I don't care that how well-endowed Charles is, I don't want a bitch for a husband. Shock rolls through me at my very thoughts. God, when did I become this kind of woman? When did I start craving violent, forceful sex? What have I become?

"A little longer, Lisa," says Charles as he gets up from the table. "Just a little longer and we'll be back to normal. You and me."

"And what if I don't want normal, Charles? What if I want to be raped by your boss again? What if I want you to rape me anally?" I ask as something dark inside me breaks open.

Charles ignores me, stepping only close enough to kiss the top of my head before walking out the door and leaving me unsatisfied. Again.

#

Two hours later, I'm sweating and breathing hard after driving my too thin, vibrating toy into my tight sphincter. My clit is sore and throbbing after my frantic masturbation. I'd read the article, taking in every sordid detail about the young woman who claimed she was taken into that old, run down bar on Tyler Street. I absorbed her claims of being tied to a 'breeding bench' and forcibly raped several times by a male she only identified as 'Alpha'. Tossing the newspaper aside, I'd found my favorite forced anal video and turned the sound all the way up, masturbating furiously to the sounds of pain and reluctance.

I'm satisfied, for the moment, and I need to clean up my mess. Wrapping up my toys in a towel, I take them into the bathroom and lovingly clean each one. That work done, I remove any batteries and then tuck the toys-along with my lubricants and the newspaper article-into the nondescript box that I keep hidden in the back of my closet.

Charles texts around noon, asking if I'm all right. When I don't answer right away, he texts again. And again. Each text message becoming obviously more desperate, as if he expects me not to be home when he finishes his work duties. Reluctantly, I answer, telling him to focus on his job. We've sacrificed so much for his success. He messages that he loves me. I reply a little cruelly, telling him to enjoy his evening.

As I tend to the house-at the beginning of our relationship, Charles and I agreed that he would work, and I would run the home-my mind slips back to the woman's claims of rape. How would it feel, being tied and helpless as a powerful male used me? Some of her claims bordered on ridiculous-there are no half-man, half-wolf creatures running about our city-but the thought of being taken violently eventually sends me back upstairs, seeking the relief of an orgasm.

By dinner time, I am flustered and anxious. I simply cannot stop thinking about the rundown bar across town. The promise of violent sex. I have no idea what has awoken this need within me, but it exists, and it is too powerful for me to ignore.

"If Charles won't satisfy me," I mutter as I step into the shower, "I'll take matters into my own hands."

As I wash my body and shave everything a woman should, I laugh at myself. Taking matters into my own hands is part of the problem, seeing as I'm truly craving the attention of a powerful male who won't take no for an answer. Clean and aroused by my thoughts, I step out of the shower and dry off, being careful not to overstimulate my body. I want myself needy and craving release.

I slide on my new, sexy black dress sans underwear and slide on a pair of low sling back heels. I take off all of my jewelry, though I consider leaving the wedding band on, just in case I find a guy with that kind of fantasy. Five minutes later, I'm in my car and driving towards the darker part of our town. I park in the back of an otherwise unoccupied parking lot, setting myself up for a possible attack. I've read those stories about rape baiting. Yes, I have.

My nerves almost drive me to turn around when I'm halfway down the block and within sight of the bar. I breath a few times, working to steady myself and drive forward. I need this, I repeat over and over again. Ignoring the leather jacket clad men leaning against a nearby wall, I resume my march towards the tiny building at the end of the street. I hear them laugh quietly as I pass.

"Have fun, sweetheart," calls one.

The laughter of his companions hastens my steps and before I know it, I'm walking through the door of the dingy bar. Several warm bodies twist in my direction, conversation stopping as the regular crowd takes in my arrival. Most of those sitting or standing around are men. Big, strong looking men. Some of them run their eyes over my body, their intention exceptionally clear. I swear I see one or two burly, hairy men whose eyes seem to glow in the dim light. I shake my head and blink. Certainly I'm seeing things, my imagination fed by the woman's wild story and my own nerves.

Projecting a confidence that I don't feel in my heart, I walk towards the only open seat at the bar, neat the other side of the well occupied room. My heart flutters before I hike myself up onto that worn, wooden stool. If I sit here, I'll be easily trapped. I breath again, heinously aware of the eyes fixed on me, the owners awaiting my decision. I make eye contact with the bartender, a tall man with piercing blue eyes, and plant myself on the stool.

"We don't have lady-like drinks here," he says gruffly, "if you know what I mean."

"Double of Jack, neat," I say firmly, "and Guinness, please."

I slide a twenty onto the bar and sit back, watching the bartender pour my Jack with a deft hand. He places the chipped rocks glass on the bar and turns around, beginning the task of properly serving Guinness on tap. I pound the whiskey and gingerly place the glass down as I try to catch my breath. Suddenly I'm terrified.

And incredibly wet.

Blue Eyes sets my beer down, and reaches for the bottle of Jack, pouring a healthy amount into the glass without asking my permission. He smiles as I slam that one, too. Hands shaking, I reach into my tiny clutch bag for more money.

"On the house," Blue Eyes says, "you look like you need it tonight."

I swallow hard, throat on fire from the whiskey, and pick up my beer. That I sip as I try to steel myself. More than a few males are making their way past my seat, more than a few sniff at the air as they pass. Odd behavior, but I assume it's intended to intimidate me. A hand brushes my ass, its owner gone in the crowd before I can spin around in on the stool.

Blue Eyes laughs, drawing my attention back his way. He pours another drink. I take it and drain it as he watches and subtly rubs the front of his pants. The bartender suddenly leans forward over the bar, invading my space. My breath quickens, but I hold my ground. My hips start grinding, just a little. The tall man leans oh so close to me, his nose just touching the side of my neck. He inhales deeply before moving away.

My heart is hammering the inside of my chest so hard that I almost can't breathe. My hips buck more, the friction with the wooden stool nearly driving me to orgasm. I feel terrified. I feel . . . alive.

Blue Eyes laughs quietly.

"Girl claimed she was raped in here," I manage to say without stammering like a teenaged girl.

Blue Eyes grunts and begins lewdly wiping a glass. My eyes run the length of his body, what's visible at least. His frame is lean and muscular. And his pants sport an impressive bulge. As I look him over, wondering if he was the one who took that girl, someone comes up behind me and tightly grips my neck, growling in my ear as his unoccupied hand cups my breast.

Blue Eyes suddenly lunges forward, growling harshly.

"Rules, Brian!" he snaps.

My assailant melts away, leaving me a shaking mess. I look at the bartender, wild-eyed and panicking. What the hell am I doing here?

"I'm . . . I'm sorry," I stammer as I slide off the stool.

Panic wraps its claws around my midsection, overriding the fire of lust burning inside my belly. Breathing hard, I push away from the bar and try to find the doorway leading outside. Oh God, what have I done? This is a huge mistake! I should have let Charles take me to his office so his boss could use me. This? This is insane.

"Brian, you fuckin' idiot," calls out someone near me.

The entire crowd is facing me, though no one is moving to impede my lackluster progress to the door. I spin on one heel, losing my balance and very nearly landing in someone's lap. With a tiny shriek, I push myself upwards and realize I don't see the door-I'm literally surrounded by obviously aroused males and I have no idea how to escape.

Blue Eyes appears next to me, a gentle hand on my shoulder.

"This way," he mutters as he pulls me along.

For some reason, I feel as though I can trust this stranger, so I let him lead me back towards my seat. He helps me back on the stool and then steps behind the bar to retrieve a sealed bottle of water. I reach for my clutch, intending to pay, when I realize I must have dropped it in my panic.

"Easy," Blue Eyes says. "Brian is sorry, he gets excited sometimes. Right?" The last part sounds more like a low-pitched, snarled threat.

"Yeah, sorry," calls out a voice behind me. "You just . . . you just smell really good."

The crowd of men laugh softly before returning to their conversations and drinking.