tagNonConsent/ReluctanceOld Nightshirt

Old Nightshirt


Monica let herself be afraid. With her hands cuffed behind her and her eyes blindfolded, she had little choice. One second, she's feeding the cat and trying to figure out what she wants for dinner. The next, she's grabbed from behind and plunged into darkness. Two strong hands grabbed her wrists. She felt cold steel. Monica tried to move her arms and heard the metal links clink behind her. She was helpless. Monica was helpless and afraid.

The two hands grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around. She was pushed back against the kitchen counter. An involuntary "Hey!" escaped her lips. One of the hands clamped down over her mouth.

"Shut up. Whores don't talk." The other hand clamped down on her right breast and squeezed hard. She winced. "You gonna talk again?"

Monica shook her head as much as the hand on her mouth would let her.

She heard the metallic ring of a blade drawn from the utensil drawer next to her hips. She felt cold steel for the second time as the blade grazed her stomach. She winced again, not sure what to expect.

"Whores don't wear clothes either."

Monica heard a ripping sound and felt the cool air of her apartment on her legs. Her nightshirt was being cut off her body. In a moment, her breasts were exposed to her assailant. He tugged on the remains of her top and pushed them down her arms to reveal her shoulders. The two hands grabbed her by the waist and sat her on the counter.

Then he paused. Monica sat on the kitchen counter, clad only in her lace panties, her shirt cut to rags and hanging from her arms. Involuntarily, she shivered. It was cold and she was afraid. She let herself be afraid. She knew things would be better for her if she just let herself be afraid and let him see it. So, she shook and shivered and waited for him to make his next move.

After a long pause, she felt something warm and rough on her right, bruised breast. A gasp escaped her lips as felt his lips close around her nipple and suck gently. For minutes, he seemed fixated on her breasts, kissing one while stroking the other, then sucking the other while teasing the nipple on the first, then cupping them both as he kissed a trail between them. She gasped, she moaned, she breathed ragged breaths as he toyed with her body. Monica bit her lip and tried to remain quiet, but time and again, her body would betray her and she would utter a sound of pleasure.

In time, he kissed his way up to her ear. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he whispered confidently. She decided to lie and shook her head. "Yes, you are. Because you're a whore, aren't you?" She shook her head again. "I bet I can prove you are." She shook her head emphatically.

A hand slipped between her legs and beneath her panties. She felt a finger slip past her clit and slowly probe inside of her. She gasped and moaned again. As slowly as it was inserted, it was slowly withdrawn. Then, she felt a slick finger trace her lips. "You're wet. Only a whore would be this wet." Monica licked her lips and sucked the slick finger into her mouth. Tasting herself only made her wetter.

He pushed her legs apart and drew her to the edge of the counter. She felt the rough tongue again, now exploring her pussy, now rubbing her clit, now slipping between her lips and tasting her from within. Monica leaned back to give him better access. She rested against the counter and the wall and allowed herself to be proven a whore.

Only a whore would respond this way, she told herself. Only a whore would enjoy it so much. Only a whore would want so much more. Only a whore. Only a whore.

Time slipped away from Monica. In unknown minutes, he swept her from the counter and tried to stand her up. Her legs buckled and she fell against him. He guided her to the floor. She lay on her stomach on the cold, lemon Lysol scented linoleum. Monica gasped and moaned. But most of all, she wished. She wished he wasn't done. She wanted him to continue. When she heard his zipper, she smiled to herself. He wasn't done yet.

The two hands grabbed her hips and lifted, pulling her to her knees. Her face rested on the floor and her ass stuck in the air. She felt his cock tease her pussy, his head rubbing against her clit, sliding against her lips, coating itself in her juices, but never slipping in. She started to whine and moan, hating herself for giving in so much to him.

"Say it," she heard him whisper. "Just say it."

She whined and moaned and tried to move her hips onto his cock, but never succeeded. Finally, she caved in.

"Please," she moaned.

Slowly, he slipped into her, burying his cock in her body until her ass was cradled in his hips. He started slowly -- so slowly -- but soon, he sped his rhythm. He pulled on the remains of her shirt, lifting her face from the floor, until he could grab and squeeze her tits while he fucked her. And fuck her he did. She heard the slap-slap-slap of skin against skin as he pumped into her over and over again. She moaned louder and louder, no longer ashamed of being a whore.

A slut.

A toy.

She was and she knew it. She was and she loved it. She was.

And she was his.

She moaned and screamed. When her orgasm hit, it was like an explosion of pleasure in her body. She screamed freely and proudly, knowing he could hear her knowing people outside her apartment walls could hear, knowing all who heard her would know she was a whore. Soon, he grabbed her hips and held her still. He grunted as he bathed her cunt in his cum. They collapsed together on the kitchen floor.

After a few moments, she felt the blindfold removed and could see again. A moment more and the metallic ratcheting sound announced her wrists were free. She turned around and saw her husband lying on the floor next to her.

"Is THAT why you wanted me to wear an old nightshirt?"

"Oh, you betcha," Carl said.

She collapsed on the floor again.

"Tomorrow night," he said in gasps, "Wear a pair of my overalls and practice saying 'Yes, warden.'"

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