Taking What's His

"Thanks, guys, I can take it from here."

I look over the mountain of boxes and furniture strewn about my new apartment with apprehension. Hiring a moving company was the best decision I could've made -- a cross-country solo move is never an easy task.

"Uh, you mind if I use your bathroom, miss?"

"Sure, it's just around the corner." I lift my eyes from my never-ending to-do list to smile at the mover asking the question. "Thank you, by the way." At first glance, he seems rather ordinary: tall, but not too tall, handsome, but not too handsome, in shape, but not a body builder. True anonymity. Must be nice, I think.

I shake my head and start an unpacking checklist. Life just makes so much more sense when it's orderly. Being in control is all I've ever known, and sure, it's tiring, but how else are things supposed to get done?

I barely register one of the movers waving goodbye, leaving me alone with a complete stranger in my new apartment. He steps out of the bathroom, looking at me expectantly.

I don't even think I caught his name. John? Darren? Eric? Nothing seems right, and I search his face for some kind of clue.

His eyes are hazel, the kind that seem to be constantly shifting, never settling on a color. Determined to remember something about this stranger who helped me move, I peer more intently.

Sensing my curiosity, he meets my gaze and my breath catches in my chest. In a split second, his expression turns predatory, his eyes boring holes in mine, a slow smirk starting at the corner of his mouth. I want to look away, to bury myself in errands, to start a new to-do list, but I can't. My stomach churns with a mixture of fear and arousal, and in spite of myself, I ask:

"Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Without breaking eye contact, he coolly answers:

"Just waiting to take what's mine."

A thousand scenarios rush through my head, each more terrifying than the next, and I take a quick step back, my eyes wide.

"Our pay, miss?"

Ah shit. How could I have forgotten? Blushing furiously, I apologize profusely, scrambling over boxes in search of my purse. I grab the cash and hand it over with my eyes downcast in embarrassment. How could I have been so stupid, thinking he'd have anything more than his job in mind.

"I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me, please, keep the change."

His eyes track my every movement, the small smirk turning into a malevolent grin as I trip backwards over a box marked "fragile".

I watch in what seems to be slow motion, as the force of my fall breaks the box open. Nipple clamps, butt plugs, ropes, whips and dildos scatter across the floor and I tackle the rest with my body, determined to mitigate this absolute fucking disaster.

Tears well in my eyes: "Shit shit shit, I'm so sorry, this is so humiliating, just go!"

His eyes continue to bore into mine -- when the fuck does this man even blink? I look away for a second, wishing for the earth to open up and swallow me whole.

"You dropped something, miss."

I could hear the smile in his voice and I slowly open my eyes. I look up from my pile of shame to see him twirling a cane that must have rolled away.

"I've never met someone who truly liked pain." He sounds contemplative, almost wistful, and I look up again. He gives the cane a few flicks through the air, the whipping sound instantly bringing my nipples to attention. Goddammit.

"Every time I meet a woman who says she wants me to hurt her, she chickens out after a bit of spanking. Your boyfriend is a lucky man."

The cane looks completely natural, like an extension of his arm. His flicks through the air remind me of a master fencer, graceful, if a little disconcerting.

"No boyfriend," I manage. My eyes are glued to the cane, my body betraying me in the most embarrassing way. I feel the heat ignite in my pussy, my skin buzzing with the need to be touched.

"Huh." He gently puts the cane down. "Well, I'll be going then. Good luck with...everything."

I can't bear to look him in the eyes again, so all I can manage is a tight-lipped "Mmhmm", keeping my eyes closed until I hear the door slam shut.

Fuck.

It takes me ages to finally get up and collect my toys. Some I've had for years, the others were barely used. I pick up the cane the guy was playing with -- a smooth, Delrin rod, nearly unbreakable and I shudder. Out of my entire collection, the cane is my favorite -- there's nothing that quiets my chattering mind like the sound of it whipping through the air, and there's nothing that hurts quite as deliciously as when it makes contact with my skin.

I've loved the mixture of pain as pleasure for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I'd always volunteer to be the captive during games of cops and robbers, insisting that for the game to be "real", I'd have to be tied up. As a young adult, I discovered clothespins -- on my nipples, clit, thighs, all over my tits -- the pinch of pain never failing to bring a rush of exquisite pleasure. I consumed BDSM-themed literature with voracity, fantasizing about acts so dark, I could hardly put words to them.

Maybe it's a way to balance out my type-A, neurotic, overachieving "vanilla" self or maybe I'm just wired that way, but pain and pleasure seem to be fundamentally intertwined in my brain.

As my perversions grew, so did my collection. I pile the toys up on my only flat surface -- a mattress on the floor, and I make a mental note to find a bigger container.

Still rattled, I take my sweaty clothes off and draw a bath. While the water warms up, I look at myself in the bathroom mirror. It could be worse, I suppose. I've never been very thin -- but my one pride and joy is the hourglass figure I seem to retain no matter my weight fluctuations. I take my bra off with a sigh of relief, my heavy tits free of their confines. I flick my nipples absentmindedly, then pull my panties down.

Soaked. I should've known. The mover's piercing gaze combined with absolute humiliation caused my clit to hum with pleasure and my cunt to gush all over my panties with complete disregard for anything else. Goddamn traitor.

I ease myself into the hot bath, groaning at the tightness in my muscles. I close my eyes, fully intending to have a nice, relaxing soak. My hands move up to my breasts, gently scratching, tugging at my fully erect nipples. Maybe an orgasm will help me relax, I think, and dip one hand down to my pussy.

I touch my clit gingerly and immediately remember the sound of the cane whipping through the air, the mover telling me he hasn't found a woman who truly likes pain as I lay whimpering on my pile of sex toys. I push the thought aside and rub my clit in circular motions. I focus on the sensation of a powerful orgasm building inside of me, rubbing faster, taking pause to pinch my clit, rolling it between my thumb and pointer finger, eager to erase that humiliating experience from my mind. My free hand pinches my nipples hard, desperate for a twinge of pain, my breathing ragged, eyes closed, lips open, I feel myself inching closer and closer, when the memories come flooding back:

"Just waiting to take what's mine."

"You dropped something, miss."

"Your boyfriend's a lucky man."

I feel myself hanging onto the edge of a cliff too terrifying to jump off from, and I immediately stop touching myself. I've had some dark fantasies, but this one takes the cake. Being taken by a stranger? Even I know that's fucked up. I moan my frustration, my traitorous clit swollen and pulsing with pleasure.

I angrily crawl out of the tub and dry myself off. What a stupid, stupid day. I pull my hair up into a messy bun and get dressed. I haven't unpacked most of my clothes, so these ratty old pajamas will have to do.

I plop myself onto the mattress, excited to finally order some dinner, when I hear the buzzer at my door.

Now what?

"Um, hello?" I fiddle with the buttons, trying to find the right one.

"Ms. Novak?"

"Yeah, that's me. What is it?"

"You gotta sign for a package."

The voice is distorted, no doubt due to the old speakers. I sigh, figuring my parents sent me another one of their famous care packages - probably a giant box, filled with things I don't need.

"I'll be right there."

I put on my slippers and grumble my way downstairs.

"Hey, thanks for waiting..." I trail off. There's no one there. I should've known it was a prank.

"Fucking kids," I mutter and turn to go back upstairs.

"Don't. Move." I feel a strong hand grab my arms behind me, and what I can only describe as the tip of a knife pressing into my back. I open my mouth to scream when a male voice whispers:

"You don't want to know what will happen if you make a sound, slut. Now let's walk back to your place, nice and easy."

My feet seem to obey the command on their own as my mind floods with primal fear. I feel the sharp tip of the knife pushing me forward, the painful grasp on my arms holding them back and I snap back to reality.

"Motherfucker," I growl, twisting my entire body, frantically searching my brain for any remnants of that self-defense class my parents insisted I take before moving. I know we learned about getting out of an arm hold, but as I recall, my time was wisely spent swiping on Tinder, fantasizing about being taken by those strangers. If that's not irony, I don't know what is.

The man's grip on my arms tightens, the tip of his knife now pressing painfully into my side. His hot breath tickles my ear, and I feel the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up:

"Keep fighting, little one. I'll still have you begging for my cock before the night is out."

I immediately freeze. I know that voice. I've heard that voice. I've heard it in my head while furiously masturbating in the tub, but it can't be, can it?

Before I formulate another thought, the door to a ground floor apartment opens and an elderly woman peers out curiously:

"I thought I heard someone down here, did you two just move in?"

Any other day, I'd be making up excuses left and right to not have to talk to my neighbors, but in this moment, she might as well have been an actual angel. I draw my breath, fully intending to scream for help, when I feel the knife in my back slowly cut through my shirt. The sensation of smooth, cold metal instantly paralyzes me.

The man behind me laughs heartily without a worry in the world, and I can hear the bright smile in his voice:

"Mrs. Williams! We met this morning, remember? I do apologize for the commotion, but you know how newlyweds are..."

My cheeks flush with fury. How could he!

The old crone seems to let down her guard, flashing my attacker a disarming smile:

"Aw, honey, no need to blush, I remember those days... I'll make sure to turn my hearing aid off tonight!"

She winks (who the fuck winks anymore?), waves goodbye and disappears into her apartment.

The man behind me leans forward and whispers lasciviously:

"Good girl. I might even let you cum tonight. Now, up the stairs, like we practiced."

I don't know how I make it up the stairs, but all I can think about is the cold metal pressed against my skin, the ache in my arms and the hot breath on my neck. My mind is reeling from the possibility that I know this voice, that the same arms holding me hostage just wielded my cane earlier that day.

Could it be? The fucked up thing is, a dark part of me hoped it was him.

With shaky hands, I open my apartment door, sealing my fate.

For a moment, all is still, then the reality of the situation sets in. I gather all of my remaining strength and bolt forward as hard as I can, hoping to break the grip on my arms.

He's strong, too strong. The hand holding the knife flies up to my throat, squeezing just enough to warn me of his full strength. I gasp, throwing my body side to side with no effect. The arm behind me squeezes my elbows together, pushing my tits up, my nipples hardening through the fabric of my pajamas.

"Save your strength, slut, you're going to need it."

The voice stops me in my tracks, gasping weakly as the hand around my throat tightens. The man presses his hot tongue to my neck, licking languorously and I shudder.

"Fuck you," I manage through gritted teeth, and the tongue on my neck disappears, only to be replaced by sharp teeth, biting slowly and surprisingly gently.

"Oh, you will."

His teeth sink into the back of my neck, the pain making me groan deep in my belly. I feel like an animal, hunted and caged, about to be devoured by a powerful predator and whimper out loud. My nipples are about to poke through my shirt, and I feel a familiar heat in my pussy.

Through my haze of pain, shame and lust, I register being walked to my mattress, the sex toys displayed obscenely, a veritable cornucopia of the tools of my perversions. I wonder if he'll use them, or if he'll just bend me over and fuck me, then disappear into the night.

I feel my thighs stick together with my pussy juices, my new panties completely soaked. I can't let him know that I crave this, I want this, that I've always wanted this.

He stops me right at the foot of the mattress, then whispers behind me:

"I'm going to blindfold you. You are at my mercy, to play with, to fuck, to hurt, if need be."

His powerful hand is still wrapped tightly around my throat, and he squeezes it to really drive the point home. I make a weak, last-ditch effort to wiggle out of his grasp, when he pushes his knee into the back of my knees, bringing me down with incredible ease. He must've done this before, I think.

"Move a muscle, and you'll find out just what my little knife can do."

I feel the hand around my throat let go, and I gasp, filling my lungs with air. I feel the cold, sharp point of his knife scratch at the back of my neck, pausing to press down on the bite marks. Goosebumps cover my skin -- there's no way he doesn't notice.

A sleep mask slips over my eyes, and I sigh with relief -- those flimsy things barely stay on! I can bide my time until it moves enough for me to see him, and then it's off to prison with this motherfucker. Lost in thought, I feel the grip on my arms loosen and something else cover my head, a pillowcase maybe? My vision is completely eliminated, and I feel one of my own leather collars snap closed around my neck, holding the pillowcase taut underneath it. I panic; any illusions I've been harboring about escape have dissipated completely.

I feel my body grabbed by strong hands, roughly rolling me over onto the mattress, facing up. The man sits on top of me, holding my arms down:

"I'm going to take my time using your slutty holes tonight. You can fight me, but it won't help. You're going to cum over and over again, until you can't cum anymore. I'll hurt you and you'll beg for more. I'll fuck you until you're raw and you'll thank me. Understood?"

My eyes widen under the blindfold, and I do my best to ignore my hungry cunt gushing endlessly between my legs. There's no way he expects me to agree, right?!

*SLAP*

His hand slaps my left cheek with just enough force to rattle me. The stinging sensation quickly turns into a delicious warmth, and I chuckle to myself.

"Is that all you got?" I ask defiantly, my breathing ragged.

*SLAP*

The second slap forces the air out of my lungs. I grit my teeth and clear my head. I've happily taken more than this before.

*SLAP*

His hand connects with my cheek again, but this time he doesn't let go. His fingers curl around my face, squeezing painfully.

"I asked you if you understand, whore."

My mouth is covered by his hand and I moan in protest.

"Oh, I'm sorry, is there something in the way? Let me help." He pushes my head up and down in comically grotesque way, making me nod with apparent enthusiasm.

"Aww. See? What a good little cumslut you'll be. Now, don't move. I need to cut a hole to fuck your mouth through."

The face slapping and the humiliating treatment only fuel my arousal. A familiar tingle spreads throughout my body, my skin itchy, desperate to be touched, to be scratched, grabbed, spanked, to feel that exquisite mixture of pain and pleasure.

Still sitting on me, the man cuts a hole in the pillowcase, right where my mouth is. My lips are dry, my breath catching in my chest as I sense just how close the knife is to my mouth. My tongue darts to my lips, eager to taste the cold metal, but I force it back inside.

The hole is just big enough for my mouth, and I feel a rough finger stretch it further.

"Looks about right, I just want to make sure..."

Without warning, I feel two fingers plunge into my mouth, forcing it open. The fingers pull my lips away from my teeth, pull on my tongue, press on the inside of my cheeks, then suddenly disappear.

"Good teeth, but I knew that already." When did he know that? There's no way he's not the mover from earlier today, and I'm not sure if I'm comforted or terrified by the fact.

"Your mouth will be mine, but so will your throat. Take a nice, deep breath for me."

I barely have time to react when I feel those same two fingers slide to the back of my throat. I cough and shake my head furiously, when he grabs my head with his other hand and holds it steady.

"Tsk tsk tsk, let's try this again. Say aaah.

I clamp my mouth shut. I know my gag reflex is sensitive, but I also know that gagging only makes my pussy juicier. He'll find out, but I'll be damned if I help him.

He holds my head tighter, pushing on my jaws to force my mouth open. His fingers slowly slide down my throat and I freeze, focusing all of my will into not gagging. Immediately, I feel my throat close. I sputter, frantically pushing his fingers out of my mouth. He wipes them on my lips and pats my cheek appreciatively.

"Not bad, but can you take a cock?"

I hear a rustling sound, the weight shifting on top of my body, and I feel the head of a massive cock press against my lips.

"Such beautiful lips, made only for sucking cock."

He rubs the swollen head against my lips, then pinches my nose closed. I gasp involuntarily, and he shoves his cock in my mouth. I let my tongue go limp -- I won't give the bastard the satisfaction of actually licking his cock!

He's impossibly thick and I struggle to breathe around him. Why isn't he letting go of my nose? I opened my mouth, goddammit!

"If you want to breathe, you'll do this properly. Show me how hungry you are. Show me what a good little fuck toy you'll be for me."

My mind swims with desire. All I want to do is to be fucked beyond comprehension, to be used and abused until I don't remember my own name, but my pride won't let me. Maybe if I do this, I can make him cum down my throat and he'll leave.

I start to swirl my tongue around the head of his cock, pausing to suck and lick along the length. I relax my throat as much as I can, and I feel him start to pulse in my mouth. I feel him grab my head, fucking my mouth in long, slow strokes, pausing occasionally to allow me to swallow. His cool demeanor falls away, and I hear his first groan. Jackpot! If I can keep this up, he'll be spent in no time.

I bob my head up and down, helping him deeper into my mouth. His cock springs out of my mouth with an audible pop, and I lick his balls, slowly swirling my tongue around them.

His voice is hoarse, no doubt holding back a massive orgasm:

"What a lovely tongue. Don't you dare think I'm done using it yet."

I barely hear him, entirely consumed by the need to make him cum. I slobber all over his balls, as I feel him start to play with his cock. Excellent, he's got to be close now. I feel his weight shift once more and my tongue comes in contact with his ass.

The skin is surprisingly smooth and soft, and I lick away like my life depends on it. I feel his weight press on my tongue as he continues to play with his cock. I am struck by how degrading this taboo act feels and moan out loud.