I used to love how when she came, her muscles twitched, from deep inside her cunt, to the tips of her toes. It was like her body did not belong to her anymore; it became inhabited by an alien entity, which moaned, shook and twitched. And then it was still.

We met via the internet. Doesn’t everyone? After only a few days of intense flirting online we arranged to meet in a bar in Islington. She was dressed all in black, balancing precariously on a pair of scarlet stilettos. The slash of lipstick that brushed my cheek in greeting matched the shade of the shoes precisely. We were fucking within a couple of hours of meeting. I remember the cab ride back to my flat, my hand searching furiously under her skirt to find stocking tops, silk knickers, a reassuring wetness.

I can’t say we were dating exactly. There was no small talk for a start. I never even asked if the name she first gave me when we chatted online was really hers. It hardly mattered. Occasionally she would try to start a conversation. Sat primly on the edge of my sofa, sipping sporadically on a glass of red wine, she would ask me about my music tastes, or how long I had lived in the flat. I was monosyllabic in response. I wanted that pretty little mouth to stop talking, and to do what it did best, to arrange itself round the shaft of my cock and start sucking. I never said as much. I didn’t have to. I just looked at her, a coldness pulsating through my blood, cutting me off from my interest in her as a person, connecting me to my deep, primal need for her body. Then she would know what to do. She would put down her wine on the coffee table. Walk over to where I was sat across the room. And she would kneel, waiting for instructions.

‘Take off your dress’.

‘No. Leave your shoes on’.

‘Fetch your collar’.

‘Good girl’.

Once I didn’t do or say anything, for what seemed like an eternity. I just sat, fully clothed, my legs wide apart so she could see the bulge growing in my jeans. Watching her kneeling before me. I stared into her eyes so intently I went beyond them, reaching back into the crevices of her skull. Occasionally she would twitch, involuntarily, or shift on her knees as  the position became uncomfortable. I undressed and stood over her, thrusting my hard cock into her mouth, fucking her throat so I could feel her start to gag. Holding her head close to me, or pulling it back by her hair. All this time passed and neither of us said a word. When I came I held on even tighter, and pulled her in so she would not lose a drop. Satiated, I took out my cock from her mouth, threw my t-shirt at her to wipe herself with, and walked off to take a shower. I almost forgot she was there at all.

We never made arrangements in advance, There was an unspoken agreement, that if I wanted her I would text. She would drop everything (if she could) and come to me immediately. She rarely let me down. She would invariably turn up at my door as requested, immaculately dressed, bottle in hand, as if we had made a dinner arrangement weeks before.

I became intoxicated by my sense of detachment. I desired her body with a fervour I’d not felt for any other, and yet my indifference to her as a woman was mind-blowing. The stronger my physical hunger became, the more complete was my disinterest. But I did not feel alienated, I felt utterly alive. Something had to give.

The last time I saw her changed everything. She was late, and did not bring a bottle for a start. Then there was her clothes. Instead of the tight skirt and blouse, the heels and perfect make-up I was used to, she appeared at my door in trainers, jeans, and a bright red hooded sweatshirt. I stood for a moment in the hall, immobilised by disappointment and anger.

Sat on my sofa in the usual position, I noticed her hands were twitching. Mascara ran down her face in dark streaks of moisture. She did not say a word. I found half a bottle of red and thrust a glass into her hand to stop the shakes. She drank it down in one gulp. I poured her another and waited. But nothing happened.

As my rage grew and intensified, along with the erection in my jeans, I wanted to scream at her for having such a fucking cheek to turn up like this, so, so inappropriate, so unprepared. What had happened to the clothes, the make-up, the kneeling, the sucking? In their place sat a twitching, frightened rabbit, staring blankly into my headlights.

So I took off her unbecoming attire. I added a blindfold and put duct tape over the mouth. I didn’t want to see or hear anything so ugly tonight.

Carefully I lay the body on the floor, face down. I undressed frantically and then descended onto its ass and pounded it with my cock. Over and over again, until it felt like it was smashing through sinew and bone, and coming out the other side.

I turned it over. Removing the duct tape, I shoved my enraged dick into the mouth. I thrust it down the throat until it gagged. When I came out for air I stood back and slapped its face repeatedly. Don’t make a sound said my hands on skin. Don’t make a fucking sound. The body was more than twitching now, it was convulsing in spasms. So I fetched the rope I had prepared specially for the evening, and wound it round and round the torso, tighter and tighter like cotton round a reel, until it was finally still.

Frustrated, bored, angry I switched on the TV, stepped over the thing on the floor and sat on the sofa. A female newsreaders voice, sounding a million miles away, said a woman had been raped this evening, outside the station down the road from here. An eye-witness had reported it, but the victim-young, slim, wearing trainers, jeans, and a red hoodie- the victim had not come forward.

I reached for the blood red wine. As I held the glass and tried to bring it up to my lips, my hands shook uncontrollably. I shivered. I felt myself twitch.

by Elly/Quiet Riot girl


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