Lyra's Visitor Ch. 01

She remembered the first time she met him, cute in a young, roguish way, with those brown, seemingly honest eyes. In the eighth grade he was the biggest scandal, stealing hearts and cherries alike, and nefarious for cheating. At 13, Lyra was too scrawny to notice beyond the occasional flirt. But later, after they had grown older, and into, and out of, love, she never forgot the first time she saw him.

She shook the thoughts out of her head, before they went too far. That was almost a year ago now, and hundreds of miles away. Her heart still missed a beat when she thought of it though. Her first love, her first time, her first heartbreak. She wished she could forget. She wished she could stop the dreams, stop waking up in a cold sweat, screaming to wake the dead, scaring her best friend and roommate.

She kept walking, increasing her pace through the giant redwoods, careful not to slide or twist an ankle on the slope. It was getting dark, and Lyra knew what kind of animals slipped through these giants at night. In the beginning of the semester, the evening class wasn't so bad, but as the days grew shorter the walk grew creepier and creepier to her over-active imagination.

She was soon imagining mountain lions and bears, then werewolves and vampires, cannibals and serial killers.

She jumped when her phone buzzed in her pocket, jerking her out of her thought-induced reverie. It was her boyfriend, Taylor, a sweet, kind, responsible boy, with a smile and body to die for. The phone's light blinded her to everything else around her, and she was just closing the phone when she felt rough, big hands grip her shoulders,

"Maybe you should watch where your going!" a smile played across the tall boy's face as he watched her scream and jump. She hit him playfully on the arm,

"Maybe you shouldn't attack your friends in the dark woods!" she smiled up at her tall friend, Levie, glad to have company on the way back to the dorms. A high school kid, Levie was part of an advanced placement school, taking college courses, in addition to his high school ones. He was sweet company, even if his sometimes forward comments left her blushing. He had a bet with her best friend that he would get two kisses from her before the end of the semester. He called her his "Future Wifey," which pissed off his many girlfriends his own age.

At 19, Lyra looked much younger than his 17 years. At 5'2", 110 lb.s, and with a boyish figure, she was often mistaken for as young as 13 or 14, although her friends told her kindly that that was crazy. She yearned for slightly bigger breasts, a smaller waist, more rounded hips, like her blessed quad-mate, Justina. She couldn't see how perky her 32 B breasts were, or how creamy her skin was, how her pink strawberry nipples looked delicious to any boy lucky enough to see them. She didn't see how her smile could be cute, or how the way she bit the side of her lip when she was nervous made men and boys alike want to bite her.

Although she had had other boyfriends since Miguel, her first, and many boys in this new town had asked her out, she still felt plain, square, unattractive. She attributed all of the offers from boys to them wanting a nice girl, a girl they could subconsciously pin all their ideal characteristics on, since her own characteristics weren't so very obvious at first.

"Maybe you shouldn't be walking in the woods alone at night," he pushed her shoulder back, playfully, his hand brushing softly down her shoulder. The touch made her blush, he was a little too young, and although he was very cute, and tall(6'3"), she only liked him as a friend. They continued walking, keeping up the playful banter, and soon reached the dorms, where he left her at her door to go to his home in another town.

She sighed as she entered the empty dorm. Although homily decorated, her best friend since childhood, and roommate, Tess, was almost always gone. She was very outgoing and well liked, and while Lyra had just as many friends, most nights she preferred the comfort of her own home, which left her alone even on the nights she would have liked to be out.

Tessa was her best friend, her sister, her soul-mate. They had known each other since they were eleven, and had fought and loved like sisters since. Tessa had known Lyra through her first love, and her string of boyfriends after. She was often their best friend as well. Especially Miguel's, the three of them had spent weeks together. Only Tessa knew how hard Lyra had fallen, how deep she was hurt and how scarred she still was. Only she knew how deep his sickness was, how different he was from the facade he put up. Living with Tessa was a God-send. Even when she went out every night of the week.

Lyra and Tessa's quad-mate, Ophelia, often stayed in with Lyra, and they would play cards, talk, laugh, watch movies, or play the Sims. But tonight Ophelia wasn't in her room, so Lyra removed her jeans and slid on some cotton short shorts, sat in her bed, and started to undo the loose french braid that held together her long blonde hair. She opened her newest Anne Rice novel, and was soon asleep.

In her dream she was running, running for a door maybe, or a home, someplace safe, she wasn't sure. What she did know was who was following her. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck, the familiar scent comforting and terrifying at the same time. He was so close to her, she was so close to getting there, and yet could never reach it. She kept running, fearing what would happen if he caught her. If he took her. In his anger, in his rage, he could do anything. He had done so many things already.

And yet while she ran she fought herself. Lyra fought the urge to fall into his embrace, to plead with him not to hurt her, but to keep her safe, to love her, in any way he could. She fought so hard, knowing that she had given in so many times, she never knew if the next time might be her last.

As she struggled against the fear and passion, the dream slipped away, and she felt warm, almost hot hands gently caressing her arm from behind her. She could feel the warmth of someone laying just behind her, breathing into the nape of her neck calmly. Slowly her heart slowed down, and she felt comforted, Taylor would never let anyone hurt her.

But Tay was in San Diego.

She opened her eyes to the dark room, on her side she could only see her window blinds. Slowly she turned around, and a dark, burning hand covered her mouth before she could scream, and she recognized the face of the man in her dreams, recognized the taste on her lips and the smell in her nose. Instantly she recognized the fear and sickness in her heart, the agonizing anxiety, but what she hated more than that was the passion she felt. It reached deep into her heart, through her veins and deep into her bones. It wound its way through the neurons in her brain and lodged itself into her soul. She tried to scream, and struggled but he just wrapped his other arm around her, holding her tight against his body.

After 2 years since feeling his embrace, her body recognized him, molded to him, wanted him, just as it always had, especially when she fought it.

"Did you think you would get away? I do not give up what is mine so easily," Lyra felt something cold, metallic, and sharp press into her back, "do not scream, or I will kill you." He breathed the words into her ear, making the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck stand up, and chills run down her body. His tongue flicked out and slowly caressed from her earlobe up around the shell of her ear. He bit the cartilage at the top of her ear, and she gasped in pain. The sound of his voice, the sight of him, his scent, the feel of him pressed against her, even the taste of fear seeping in her mouth sent her mind through hundreds of forgotten memories. Worst of all, at the first moment she feared it was him, just when her body recognized his touch and smell, a warmth spread down from her shaking heart and straight to between her legs, turning her creamy thighs pink with blood. The sound of his voice sent electricity shooting through her, and she felt the wetness in her white lace panties, the thin material clinging to her smooth lips.

She kicked back, but only hit his shin the first time. She remembered the day, years ago, when they had sat in his bed and she had traced his scars, when he had told her that he never felt pain in his shins, for whatever reason.

The next kick landed just where she wanted it, and he recoiled, curling into a ball. But instead of letting her go he just puller her closer into him. She squirmed and kicked, finally wiggling an arm free of his grasp and landing a blow to his face with her elbow.

In the instant he loosened his grasp she rushed to get up, crawling over his body to get to the door. But just as she reached the edge of her bed his strong arms were around her waist, pulling her on top of him as she struggled with everything she had to evade his arms. She knew what he was capable of. She knew what sins he had commited. He roughly grabbed her small breast, bringing a sharp cry to her lips, and he was on top of her, pinning her to her bed, straddling her waist, her wrists held above her head by his left hand. Panting, she stopped struggling, conserving her energy. The two stared into each other's eyes, hatred and lust burning in their gaze, and something more. Something she had never forgotten, that missing piece in all of her other relationships.

Miguel brought his right hand up from her waist, and softly touched the smoothness of her cheek, and laughing when she jerked away. Gripping her jaw in his hand he forced her to look in his eyes.

"Don't play with me, Baby," he warned. A ball of spittle hit his cheek, right below his left eye, and he pulled his hand back and slapped her. A small gasp escaped her proud mouth as her head lurched to the side. He marveled as a red handprint glowed and then faded on her cheek.

"I'm not your Baby," Lyra growled at him, her face blushing with anger. "I'm not your Baby, and I'm not your toy. You don-" her jaw cracked as his fist crushed in to the right side. Her head swam and her vision darkened as she fought to stay conscious. When she could, she looked in to his dark eyes.

Those eyes that she fell in love with years ago, fell in love with those charming and cunning and lying eyes that betrayed who he was if you were smart enough to see past the facade of innocence. She had been smart enough, even in the beginning. She had known since she had caught him making out with the class slut in the girls locker room while his girlfriend changed a few rows away. What lay behind the innocence interested her far more than anything else could have. Those eyes that sent her heart tumbling when they were honest, and chilled her to the bone when she watched how deceptive they could be. There was a cold, calculating intelligence in those brown eyes, they pulled her into their mystery as a psychiatrist is pulled into the mind of a schizophrenic. They hinted at dark and twisting alleys, and knotted and thorny vines that twist around your every thought. They pulled you in, not only through desire, but through pain that cut to the deep of you, pain that couldn't be described, that wasn't caused by events in life but by a darkness in everyone.

She looked straight into his eyes with a courage that she didn't feel, with only the determination not to be raped again, not to be taken again, not to be broken apart and stepped on.

"You are mine, just as you have been since I took you that first time. Just as you will be until we die," he whispered this threat with a voice deepened by anger or lust, she couldn't tell. "I have not forgotten how you taste-" he ran his tongue across her closed lips. "I have not forgotten how you feel around me, how your virginal cunt squeezed me," he groaned the last part, then bit the sensitive skin under her ear, making her scream in agony.

His words made her shake, whether out of fear or anger she couldn't tell. She hated the deep spot inside her that ached for him. Who aches for their rapist? Their would be kidnapper? It was sick. She was sick.

His teeth raked her skin, and he nuzzled her neck, pressing his nose into her hair. She shivered at his touch and renewed her efforts to escape. His hand gripped her slender, creamy throat, cutting off her air until she stopped struggling.

"That's better," he smiled at her, "It won't be quite so hard you know, if you don't struggle. Be mine again. You are mine, as I am yours. I will not let go." His voice now was smoother now, charm and captivating allure oozing through his smirking lips. He could convince an eskimo to buy snow.

His right hand stroked the length of her neck lightly, just barely touching her skin, sending goosebumps across her neck, chest, and shoulders. His eyes followed them, and he slid down her body until he straddled her knees, his tongue tracing a path from her delicate clavicle to the tops of her firm breasts. She brought her knee up fast and sharp, hitting the one vulnerable spot on his body. A groan left his clenched jaw, and he recoiled, falling to the side, and pulling her tighter against his body, spooning her closely. She struggled to escape his iron arms, but he just held tighter, whispering into her neck,

"I will have you again, Lyra, I will touch you and fuck you as I like, and no one else will ever touch you again. You are mine." As he spoke, his left arm held her arms to her body, and her body to him, and his right hand began to slip into her shorts, and began to slide them down. Her body bucked unexpectedly, bringing him out of his cool concentration on her body. She flung her head back, into his nose, and his hands released her to stop the flow of blood.

She flew off her tiny twin bed, landing on her floor with a thunk. She fought against the sheets twisted around her legs and crawled to the opposite side of the room, to her bathroom sink, and the door to the bathroom, and through there to the door to her quad-mates room. He jumped off her bed, grabbing his knife quickly. He raced after her, catching her just as she stood at the door, tackling her into the corner made by the sink counter, the wall and Tessa's bed. He used his weight to hold her against the wall, bringing her arms up over her head, holding her wrists with one hand. He smirked at her angry, blushing face, and palmed her right breast as she groaned, in anger and pain, but also pleasure. He twisted his hand, sending sharp electricity to her hardening pink nipple. She gasped, and he pressed his mouth to hers, sliding his tongue deep into her warm mouth. She bit down, and tasted his hot, salty blood fill her mouth. He pulled back, and gripped her jaw tightly again, forcing her face up, so he could see her anger and fear. Her eyes were defiant, but he saw the fear behind them, she never could hide it from him. He knew her too well.

"That is the second time you've made me bleed tonight," he growled at her, "Now it is my turn." He pulled his knife from his pocket and flipped it open. He traced the sharpened edge across her throat, smiling as she panicked. "Don't squirm too much, Little Slave, you wouldn't want my knife to slip."

Hearing his old derogatory name for her made her shake with anger. He slid the knife down, between her breasts, the cold metal and fear raising goose-bumps on them. Pointing the blade down, he quickly slit her white tank top down the middle. He then snipped the straps, leaving her creamy shoulders, lacy white bra, and flat stomach open to his eyes. He smirked at her, then placed the point of the blade right at the top of the valley made by her firm breasts. She whimpered involuntarily, biting her lip to hold back the soft noises, glaring up at his dark face. Slowly he slid it down, with just enough pressure to barely break her skin, little dew drops of blood making a line in the wake. She mewled, softly, just enough to please him. He kept going until he had snapped the middle connector of her bra.

He devoured the sight in front of him, Lyra was shaking in fear, her nipples standing at attention, her small breasts pulled taut by her arms over her head, and a small trickle of blood was dripping down her flat stomach, staining the top of her white lace panties, which were just peaking up from under her shorts. He smiled and wiped a tear from her face, smearing a little blood on her right cheekbone. He licked it off, savoring the sweet, metallic taste she left in his mouth. He wanted more.

Growling, he pulled her by her wrists and hair to her bed, grabbing her handcuffs from the bedpost, and securing her wrists with them by winding it behind a bar in the headboard. She glared as he worked, quiet, but only because of the threat of his knife, shoved into the front of his pants, in easy reach. She didn't know for sure, but there had always been dangerous rumors about his past in gangs. He had once confided in her that he still had nightmares about the people he had hurt, but wouldn't give details. And she had seen him fight, had seen his head knocked in to the cement, then bounce back up again, instantly throwing punches. He wasn't someone to be played with, not someone she could escape from with brute force. He was strong, but he was also cunning, experienced, and unafraid of death or injury. It made him almost invincible.

So she waited, holding her breathe and praying for a chance, a glimpse of a weakness, a vulnerability, she waited for a miracle. While every touch he gave her made her grow more and more wet and turned on, she knew if she wanted to survive, survive with her life and her freedom, she would have to escape before he took her somewhere she couldn't escape from.

Miguel stood back from his captive, admiring his handiwork. He had tied her ankles to the bed posts, with the pink duck-tape he had found on Tess's desk. He pulled his knife out, and slid the flat side up and down her inner thigh, watching her stay absolutely motionless in fear of being cut. He slid it under her shorts, right next to her aching cunt and turned the knife so the blade faced up, and cut her shorts off, revealing her white lace boy-short panties.

He smiled up at her, "You always did like pretty lingerie, didn't you, Lyra? Even when they didn't last long," with that he sliced her panties off, displaying her smooth, waxed mound, and her wet, pink nether-lips just barely poking out.

"I always knew you liked it like this," Lyra's face burned red with recognition and shame, "You always were my Little Sex Slave, my Little Who-"

"FUCK YOU!" the words came flying out of Lyra's mouth before she could consider them, and in an instant his knife was against her throat.

"You know I like it when you fight," his free hand slid up and down her side, and then to her mouth and nose, cutting off her hair supply, "When you get angry," she fought to breath against his hand, "But tonight is not the night, I won't be taking any chances." His hand came off her mouth, and she gasped for breath, but his knife remained in place. He held it there with one hand, while with the other he worked on getting out of his jeans and boxers.

At the sound of the zipper sliding down she groaned in fear and started thrashing around until the knife was pressed more firmly against her neck. Tears streamed down her face as her groans turned into soft whimpers, and he finished getting undressed.

By the soft moonlight just barely slipping through the closed blinds, Lyra could just make out the body she had once loved, the body she had had memorized, the strong arms and steel chest, the scars that traced his body and the home-done tattoo from his sad childhood marking his left upper arm. She filled in what she couldn't see with her near-perfect memories, memories of making love and fighting. All their memories came flooding back to her, and her eyes fell closed. But as he lowered his body over hers, and she felt his long, thick hardness pressing against her stomach she rebelled again.