Roxy Gets what She Wants

Note from author: I'm still new to this and would very much welcome constructive feedback.

A word of warning, this story differs from my others. This story deals with consensual non-consensual play (aka rape play), so, if that ain't your thing, well, you have been warned. Otherwise, enjoy :)

You answer the door and you look exactly like your photo, only smaller. And I'm surprised that I'm surprised, given that the camera ordinarily adds rather than subtracts.

I can see you've changed your hair, tied it back, it's a good look on you. And useful for me. I'm the kind of guy who appreciates both form and function.

You hold the door at a crack, not saying anything, and I realise that you're unsure. I didn't share a photo. This is the first time you are seeing me and I wonder if it's my age. You told me that you'd turned 18 a few months before, and I told you I was older, but without specifics.

I didn't mention my wife and three kids.

I didn't mention my job, hometown, my situation.

Not that any of that matters. You, however - well - you shared it all.

That you'd just turned 18 on the back of a bad breakup. Childhood sweethearts gone wrong. You told me that you'd relocated from Middlesborough to Bristol study English Literature. That you were close with your Dad, but that you hadn't seen your Mom in over a year.

I asked you whether you had a daddy complex.

You replied with a smiling emoji, I left it at that, and you moved on. And I wondered if there might be something there, some secret thing that you didn't want to be seen.

Not that it matters. Not that I give a shit.

That's not what this is about. That's not what this is.

And so I shared nothing, but you gave it all away.

There were photos and a video.

In that video, you were half-dressed, but reticent, nervous, and new to all of it. I insisted that you call me, 'Daddy,' just to fuck with you and all your Daddy-related complexity, and you did. I remember telling you, just a couple of days ago, that I jerked off to that video more times than I can recount. The shade of your areola, the suggestion of a nipple as you leaned into camera, as you bit at your finger and then your lip, as you gazed off out of shot, as you stumbled over your words.

Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.

All of it, the photos, the video, but mostly your discomfort, your uncertainty, made me want this.

You asked to see a picture in return. So that you could see what I look like. That's how you said it. With zero fucking irony.

'Erm,' the chat box throbbing blue like the vein running the length of my cock. 'Would you mind sending me a photo? Just so I know what you look like?'

You'd sent me spools of photos. The one where you're dressed up for prom, glitter, sparkle, the world in the very palm of your hand. The one where you lounge against the couch. In the background, Daddy is leaning over a jigsaw. Mr Snuffles, your designer poodle - fur white, but tinged pink - scuffles against your chest. You later shared that Mr Snuffles had passed shortly after, that you and your Dad, one drizzling Sunday, had planted him out back under the pear tree. You shared that in our second week.

Then photos of you in your pjs fucking around, then sleepy, then coquettish, and then teasing. Nothing too suggestive, but enough to encourage me to ask for more.

'I don't do nudes,' you said. But you did. It took me just a day and a half to turn you.

Photos of you, stood in front of your bathroom mirror, phone in hand, black lace underwear cut stark against your pale white skin. Then against the bed, your bra strap loose. Then a flash of perfect tit. Perfect save that your right tit is slightly larger than your left. And your left sags just so.

'Daddy would be so proud,' I said.

'Fuck you,' you said, and then went dark for a full evening. The next morning you apologised.

'Sorry.'

That's when I knew that you were special. Oh so perfect.

Then photos your pussy, scuffed with curls of dark brown hair.

'Shave it,' I said. 'Shave it for me.'

Blushing emoji, but a few days later you delivered: a photo of your thighs spread, lips visibly wet, as bare as the day you were born. I could see that you'd nicked the skin, just to the right of your clit and so I told you.

'I wish I was there with you. So that I could lick you clean.'

Blushing emoji followed by a photo of your finger pressing into your wetness, eyes glazed, lips soft and parted.

Good girl. Daddy's very best girl.

You asked for a photo. Just 'cos you wanted to see what I look like.

'What the fuck does it matter?' I said, in return.

'Cos that's not what this is. That's not how this works. That's not what this is about. You didn't know that then. But you'll learn.

Out and across the street a group of lads, maybe 18, maybe not, jostle, one of them curses, and the rest laugh. Someone somewhere spills a bottle to the floor where it shatters. One street over, or maybe further out, a dog barks harsh, loud and persistent before cutting off.

And you're staring at me still, wide-eyed, pale, and dumb.

'Roxy?' I say, the name you gave me, and you blink. Startled mute. I know that you are new to this, and I guess that you were naïve enough to offer up your real name.

You sent me a screenshot of your test results, just to prove that you're clean. And so now I have your forename, your address, your NHS number, photos, and that video. There's a lot someone can do with that kind of information. If one were so inclined.

'So,' I say, cocky, surly even, 'You going to invite me in or what?' I adjust my carry bag against my shoulder. If you notice it, you give zero indication.

You bite at your lip, fuss with your hair, your hand against the door flutters. You worry.

'Well?' I say, wondering what I might do if you were to try and turn me away. I've driven five hours, from Bradford to Bristol, for this. And I am not for being fucked about.

You double blink and release the chain, but still hesitant. I press my hand against the glass and ease the door open the rest of the way. You step back, not quite an invitation, but I take it. In through the door and straight into the lounge. Your flatmates are away for the weekend. You shared that. It's why I picked this night of all nights.

The house is a shithole. But I can see from the way that you've dressed that you've made an effort. That skirt, short enough to be lewd were it not just the two of us. And that shirt, tied off at the mid-rift showing a sliver of pale soft skin, buttons running up to the dip of your cleavage. And you're not wearing a bra. Young and tight enough to get away with it. You catch me looking and I imagine your nipples hardening.

Good girl.

I sit without being asked. An ashtray overflows onto the scuffed coffee table and the air in here smells stale and dirty. On the floor, a plate covered in half-eaten slop festers from last night, the night before, or god knows when. The TV flickers in the corner, dumb and stupid, the screen a spiderweb stretching out from the centre.

I hand you a bottle of cheap red wine.

'You want to pour this?' I say, placing my bag by the couch, just out of sight, but making no attempt to hide the gesture. You give no indication that you notice or care.

'And clean this shit up while your at it.' I push the plate with the toe of my boot.

You blink. Like an idiot. Then reach down for the plate. As an afterthought, you take the ashtray with you and out into the kitchen. I consider whether to follow, just to check that you don't bolt. But I know you won't because, really, all said and done, you need this.

Besides, girls like you have nowhere else to go.

You return clutching two glasses, the stem between thumb and forefinger and the bottle clutched in your loose hand. You stand. Blink.

'Sit down,' I say, and, as you do so, you slosh red wine from the glass to your thigh. The blood red stain is shocking against the sickly white of your flesh. I want to lick it away, instead, you smear it with a press of your thumb.

You pass me a glass, but hold yours, the angle severe and threatening to spill.

'Drink,' I say. You raise the glass to your lips, a sip and then again, this time half-draining it. Your lips are a bloody open wound. I feel myself harden.

I put my glass down, untouched. You follow, almost tipping it from the table, but I catch and steady it with a flat open palm. I smile, but I can only imagine how it must appear to you.

You're at the far end of the couch, the distance of an eternity between the two of us. I close it in an exhalation of breath, and now we are shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. And I can still see the smudge of red running just beneath the edge of your skirt. I trace it with my finger, your eyes wide and intent, you shake like a small bird, and I think I may be in love.

'Relax,' I say, but it's a fucking lie. I don't want that, and, deep down, neither do you.

I lean in, my lips searching for your mouth. You turn your head.

'No,' you say it. But it's a whisper.

'Look at me,' I say and you do. I try again, this time my mouth against your mouth, your lips closed and dry. You pull away, this time pushing at my chest.

'No,' you say it again, and this time there is an approximation of conviction.

Good girl.

I take you by the head, and I'm fast, whip-fast. It helps that you pulled your hair back in that ponytail, because now that I've got you: I've got you. You're not going anywhere. Not if you want to keep that pretty hair.

And you thought you wanted this, only now you're unsure.

I press my mouth again, only now you have nowhere to turn. You keep your lips tight and whimper. I pull you back by your hair, your mouth opens with a grimace and I'm on you, my tongue between your lips, your teeth, into your mouth. You bite down, hard enough to piss me off, but no more.

I release. You pull away. I grab your chin forcing your lips into a duck-face.

'Ungrateful bitch,' I spit, 'This time make like you are enjoying it.'

I kiss you again, same closed mouth, dry cunt lips. So I slap: my right hand, your left cheek. Not as hard as I might, but hard enough to shock your hand up to your face. Sudden enough to water your eyes. And I see now that you've painted them, your eyes, but only because they are beginning to bleed black and shadow. Part of me thinks it sweet that you dressed up for this, as if it were date. The other part of me wants to crush that misjudgement down to nothing. Like ash.

'Red lines,' I'd asked. Before this, we'd been exchanging texts for a couple of weeks. After we'd met on Reddit. That's where I found you. That's where you looked to be found.

I persuaded you to download an app, the kind of app where messages can't be traced. Except I kept screenshots of each and every exchange.

'No red lines,' you said.

'No red lines?' I asked, hitting the jackpot of jackpots.

The next day: 'Butt stuff'. You said, 'I'm not into that.'

But you folded. It took me a day or two, but first you conceded to me exploring you with a finger and then later admitted that you'd always wondered what it might be like to take a cock in there of all places.

'So I'll be your first?'

A wait of half-a-day and then your reply.

'Suppose so.'

Good girl.

The video I made you make said nothing about limits. We agreed a safe word, 'Constantinople,' which means stop. But I chose it with purpose knowing that you might forget how to form that inconspicuous and unfamiliar formation of consonants and vowels should this become too much.

And so I hit you again, with the back of my right hand, and this time harder. I can hear the thwack of hand against flesh as your head rocks off and to the side. And now I'm in your face.

'Don't fuck me around,' I say. I press my mouth to your mouth and this time there is saliva with a trace of metallic and I wonder if I've caused you to bleed. I slip you my tongue, probing, searching, tasting, and although you don't reciprocate, I take the fact that you don't resist to be progress. I've not broken you yet, but at least we're on our way.

I bear up, and now the weight of my body is against you. You lean back and away. But you let me kiss you and I put my hand to your stomach, the static crackle of flesh against flesh causing my cock to twitch and then pulse. You make a noise, a strange noise, muffled from your mouth to mine. You flap and then make to push my hand away. But you accept my tongue and I feel you press back in return.

I reach for you again, this time insistent. I toy with your belly button and you let me. Then up and under the cut of your shirt, a shiver of side boob before you push me away. Harder. Your mouth away from mine, against my cheek, into my ear, my hairline.

'No, don't.'

But I've come too far and this is now moving fast.

I grope at you through your top.

'Huh,' you say, as if surprised. And then I'm up under your shirt again, this time finding a handful of soft fleshy tit and the pebble which is your nipple. I squeeze, harder than warranted, but not as hard as I might. You gasp and push me away, this time with something approaching fervour. Only I'm up and on you, the half-weight of me, hand against your face and pushing your head back into the couch. The smell of you is stale cigarettes and bubblegum and fuck do I want this. And I know that somewhere, below, you want this too.

Fucking cocktease.

I rip at your shirt, I warned you I might, and it comes apart in my hand, buttons popping open and across the floor, the sleeve tearing away from your shoulder. Your face is wide, white, and wild, like you did not imagine that this might happen. I hit out again, considering a fist, but instead giving you the palm. But hard. Objectively so.

You gasp, slacken, then tense, except now your upper body, your neck, your shoulders, your breasts, your nipples, your tummy is all open and available to me. I paw at your tits and bite at your neck, hard enough to hurt some, but mostly to make the point that that which I mark belongs to me.

You kick with your feet, stupid, slutty, and pushing all of my buttons.

I bite lower, bruising your shoulder - white teeth marks blushing red and then blue - the slope of your breast, and then nipple. I pull at your nipple with my teeth, then lash at it with my tongue. You gasp, you whine, you whimper, and I wonder if this is beginning to get you going, knowing that I'll find out soon enough.

Not that I give a fuck.

That I did make clear. That I don't give a shit whether you enjoy this. This isn't me giving, this is me taking.

I bite at your breast again. Just to make that very point. To mark this moment, this place, this body trembling beneath me, all of it mine, all of it my own.

Except you turn, twist, and then you're half out from under me, hitting the carpet, catching the corner of coffee table with your head, rattling the thing, rocking your wine glass, and this time it topples, splashing you in violent red.

It is enough to slow you.

Just enough.

Just when you thought you were away, except now I have you by the heel. I have you by the heel, your shoe coming loose, and it is no thing to pull you back. And now you have the full weight of me on top of you, pressing you, your face, your shoulders, your bare tits, your tummy, your pelvis and thighs, all of you deep into the grime of the carpet.

I can smell your sweat, the smell of it sweet and sour and you, and so I taste it - from your shoulder to your neck - with the sticky flat of my tongue. You cry out and, if I didn't know better, I might well believe you. You sound fucking real and, I kid you not, I've never been harder. And both of us can feel it, the throb of my cock, through my jeans and your skirt, finding the crack of your ass.

'No butt stuff,' that'd been your opening position, and now, feeling you squirm against the floor, I want to rip your skirt away, spit in my hand, split you open with my cock, and fuck you rough until you shit blood for a month. But patience is a virtue. It didn't take someone to teach me that. And it's something you'll now learn.

You scream again, and this time it sounds desperate and despite the texts, the photos, that video, I worry that next door might hear and that might be bad. I pull at the knot of your hair, hard, not caring about the damage I might do, and you gasp, your neck arches, and your eyes bulge white.

'Another fucking sound and I'll snap your neck.' You blink wet tears. 'And then I'll fuck your cold dead corpse.'

You still. Then nod. Just to show that you understand.

I tease your ear with the tip of my tongue and, in any other circumstance it might have been a tender thing. But not tonight. This is the lull. The intake of the thousand moments leading up to this. The calm of the storm. I nibble your neck and we feel the pressure tighten. You shudder.

I lift, just a little, and place my hands against your ass cheeks. Then lower, and I'm lifting at your skirt. Not all the way. Just enough. My hands reaching down and then up.

'Please,' you say.

'Don't,' you say.

I find your panties with my reaching hand and pull and they tear away with very little resistance.

'Ugh,' you say, or something like it.

I hold your panties to my nose, scarlet, silk, a thong, the kind of thing a cheap whore might wear were she looking to be rough-fucked. I cast them aside, reaching for my zipper.

'Please don't,' you say, this time with something like sincerity and I almost fucking believe it. 'I'll suck your cock,' you say, 'But, please, just not that.'

I reach down and take out my cock and rest it against your ass, running it along your fuck-cleft, pondering how it would be to dry-fuck your ass, right then and right there. I position myself, teasing at your tighter hole, and you whimper with a vulnerability that might tip me over the edge were I to let it. But we have all night.

And so, instead, I pull you skirt higher, high enough so that I can position myself between your thighs, forcing your legs open with mine.

You whimper something, but it's too late for words, and I can feel the fuck-rage begin to build, overwhelming all else.

'Condom?' you say, and I fucking laugh. I laugh, except the sound of it is like choking.

I slide my body lower, push, and my cock shaft buckles before pressing under your body, chafing against the carpet and your cunt stubble.

For fuck sake.

I try again, back up, just a little, this time lining my cock-tip up against the crease of your cunt folds. And I push, the weight of my body centred against my pelvis, and, fuck, you are tight. But I don't hesitate and you take it, half the length of my shaft at the first attempt. You take it, and I warned you. I may well be average length, six inches or so, but I'm thick. I'm thick, and you're dry, and so I know, at this very moment, you are feeling every fucking inch.

And you tell me so. You groan. The sound of it long and low, just to tell me that you are beginning to understand what this is and what this is not.

'Take it, bitch,' I hiss and I pull out, imaging your cunt closing back in on itself and tightening as I withdraw. And so the next stroke is harder, full, burying you with three-quarters of my cock-length in one focused, unyielding thrust. You yelp, but you take it. You take it raw and dry and your tightness is almost uncomfortable. But my head is throbbing with the unrestrained wildness of the moment, fuck-drunk or close to, the thought of me taking that which you no longer wish to give.

I pull back and punch hard. This time I sink to the root. And now you are yielding. And now you are moistening. And I wonder if maybe I ripped something within you and I lean back and look down to the place where our bodies join, expecting to see a smear of red, but, instead, seeing only your wetness. Your slut-juice driving my fuck-fury.