tagNon-EroticAn Acidic Tiger

An Acidic Tiger


The dark always brought the fear, the stale tension, the hatred, and the helplessness. Nothing stopped it, not a nightlight, not hiding, not even the comforting radio. It was inexorable as sunset.

The room was large and cool, situated in the basement as it was. Still, it was claustrophobic to the point of stifling. She curled at the top of the bed, quivering with muzzled rage and terrified pain. Was it time? The soft creak of the steps, the muffled whoosh of footsteps on carpet, the gentle creak of the doorknob sounded like a death knell. Silently, it had been well oiled, the door swung open, admitted the darkened figure, then quietly clicked shut.

The stillness of this first moment always struck her as odd. Him standing by the shut door, regarding her as if to reconsider, and her staring in dumbstruck wistfulness. Maybe, just maybe, he would leave. As always, moments after he'd slithered inside, the tableau was broken. He took first one step, then another, and another, until he had shuffled his way to her bed. The nightlight only served to intensify his demonic presence. Illuminating one side of him, he seemed only that much more brutishly evil.

His fingers rose smoothly to his shirt, gently undoing one button at a time with clockwork precision. Each loosened, mother-of-pearl button was a clock tick closer to the horror of his zipper working its way down. She shut her eyes, praying a hopeless prayer for a heartless savior that never listened. Methodically, he folded and placed his clothing in a neat pile on her night table, as if each crease were as important as life itself.

Even with her eyes closed she knew when he was finished and waiting for her. This nightly ritual had happened so many times, she knew without being told what he expected of her. It had been months since she'd defied him and balked at his requirements, but she wouldn't forget the painful lesson he'd taught her about rebellion. Mutely, she forced the fingers in her tightly balled fists to relax and reach for her ugly nightgown. She pulled it over her head swiftly, leaving it lay on the floor where it had landed. Waiting stiffly for him to finish his appreciative inspection of her nakedness, she clenched her jaw and vowed that someday, somehow, he would pay with his blood.

His palm, hot and sweaty, on the back of her head urged her toward him. The pungent aroma of his sex invaded her nostrils, nauseating her with its hated significance. The warm tip of his erection brushed her lips and she automatically opened her mouth, taking it inside. His fingers tightened in her hair, warning her, as he always did, what would happen if she bit him. She had done it once, never again.

Closing her eyes, her mind drifted off to a sunny place where the dark never came. The grass was a rich, verdant green, full of flowers and dotted with trees. She had a small house there, one she had built and decorated through her countless hours in the dark. Her own place, where she never had to be on her guard, never had to open her mouth to a gagging penis. He would be angry if he knew of her escape from him, but he didn't pay much attention to her when he was in her mouth as long as she continued to suck in the rhythm he preferred. Her practiced lips didn't need her concentration anymore, they did what was needed automatically.

When he had enough of her mouth, he jerked her hair, yanking her off of him. His penis, jutting and angry, pointed at her. She waited, to see what his preference was. He pushed her face first onto the mattress, grunting in satisfaction when she obediently centered herself on the bed and stuck her ass into the air. The bed dipped and shuddered as he arranged himself behind her.

She desperately tried to recover the sunny home in her imagination for the last few moments she could sneak with it. Instead, a sharp smack on her vulnerable rear made her wince. She knew better than to cry out with the shock and the pain. His fingers rummaged in her opened sex, uncaring of the delicate tissues. He slipped one in and out of her in an uncomfortable parody of what he would shortly be doing to her with his penis. Satisfied with her state of arousal, he pressed the broad head to her small opening and shoved.

She squeaked into the pillow, a muted sound he usually took for pleasure, and squeezed her eyes shut. The tears leaked past her clenched lids, staining the soft pillowcase with their salty worthlessness. After a few moments of his thrusting, her body adjusted and provided the lubrication it needed to keep from tearing. The bed creaked and squealed with his thoughtless humping. She rubbed her face on the pillowcase, hiding the evidence of her pain, and moaned as he liked her to.

Wiggling her rear, she forced herself onto her hands and knees. He gripped her hips, gently for once, and stroked in and out of her. She rocked back against him, gyrating her body as an experienced whore might. Rehearsed pants and moans fell from her like the lies of his love that he professed to her fell from him. False exhortations came, begging him to fuck her harder, praising his prowess, and swearing a love for him and his sex. Words that were all lies that he wanted to hear.

His moaned louder, more careless of its volume and the consequences of being overheard. His breath exploded from him in snorting gasps that reminded her of an old bloodhound trying to run. Please, please let him be finished, she pleaded silently with a deaf God. Please... It never was. He would bring himself that close to his orgasm, then back off. He wasn't ready to finish that quickly. Dully, she wondered what he would do next.

He did what she hated most. She gritted her teeth to hold back the screams. His fingers probed at her ass, seeking the tiny exit from her body, then teasing it. She tensed, holding still. A thick digit pushed past the clamped muscles, touching her inside. Nothing was sacred to him. Nothing was private. Please, no, she begged, even though the cold deity never responded.

He started his thrusting again, giving into her silent pleas. Tonight only his finger painfully invaded her there. Not so every night he played this way, but during this particular darkness it was safe.

She could tell by his grunting that he was nearly finished. He leaned over her, sweat droplets hitting her back. She tried not to flinch. He gave one final, powerful thrust, groaning low in his throat, and emptied his seed into her.

She brought back the image of her pretty, little house in the sunny grass to hold the tears at bay. He might see their gleaming tracks on her cheeks in the dim light. He wiped his softened, wet penis with her nightgown, discarding it on the floor when he was finished with it. As methodically as he had removed his clothing, he dressed himself. The sound of the zipper being tugged brought her back from her sunshine and flowers. She watched him button his shirt through slitted eyes, still unmoved from her ass-in-the-air posture.

When he'd finished, he leaned down and kissed the small of her back. "I love you," he murmured.

Love was hate, hate was love. Anger and fear twisted in her gut, roiling around like some acidic tiger trying to claw its way past her throat. The terrible pain wrapping her heart in its suffocating chains squeezed even tighter. She wished her heart would explode, the she could die and it wouldn't hurt anymore. She squeezed her eyes shut again, returning to the peaceful, sun-drenched meadow of her dreams. She stood in the center of it, her arms outspread, the wind teasing at her hair, and screamed.

"I love you too, Daddy," she lied.

The door softly closed behind him, leaving her locked in her cage of silence, his sperm leaking possessively down her thighs.

Someday, she vowed, the white-hot rage burning through her, overwhelmed only by her hatred. Someday...

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byKillerMuffin© 4 comments/ 41099 views/ 0 favorites
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by Anonymous

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by TatankaBill04/13/18

Terrible and terrifying

Shades of Virginia Woolfe.

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