A Question of Consent

I left the office that night, eyes shining with unshed tears and a few streaks down my face. A coworker stopped me on the way out, "Rachel...you okay?" I nodded, shakily, unconvincingly. "Yeah. Just fine." I continued walking.

It had been a long day. Overbooked with people whose appointments were too short. 7am-7pm, 14 patients in all, and by the end of the day my hands were shaking as I completed my paperwork.

And then I got your emails while I was still finishing up. If you meant to make me cry after I told you you were in danger of doing just that, kudos to you. I kept apologizing, as sincerely as I possibly could, but each new email delivered a fresh barrage of anger and hurt. You are smart and you are clever, and when you're mad at me, which is...always, you turn your intelligence toward pointed attempts to target areas in which you know you can hurt me.

I walked to my car, glancing at the phone and seeing the blue message light. And yet again..."lazy...good for nothing...I'm pretty much done with you...I don't really care...I'm regretting the time I've spent with you". I was already reeling and my face finally crumpled as I climbed in the car.

And so you wanted a story? Now? Everything I had read that night hadn't been meant to inspire a particularly kinky or erotic mood. But okay. You wanted a story, I would write you a story.

I drove home, lost in thought. My mind tumbled over the possibilities, each of which I discarded as not good enough or overdone.

I pulled up at my place and hauled my stuff inside, going through the motions of taking care of my pets, cooking a little dinner, washing up. I just kept thinking about how you wanted to get together tonight. Of how you've wanted to get together several times that I've rebuffed you. And it made me feel awful. And stupid. Wasting opportunities to see you when that's really all I want. I kicked a box on the floor. One of many that are still laying around with my belongings from the last move. Why the fuck can't I get my shit together and just clean this motherfucker up?

After a while, it was time to get ready to hunker down for the night. I performed my nighttime routines by rote, mind occupied elsewhere on how in the world I was going to write you a story when all I could think about was feeling sorry for myself. The knock on the door almost didn't register at first.

But it came again. I was naked, ready for bed, but I threw on a robe and went to see who it was against my better judgment. It was late. No one had any business with me this late. I unlocked the door as I glanced out the window, and then stared.

"Peter? What are you doin..." My query was cut off midsentence as you pushed past me as if I wasn't even there.

"Fuck! Peter, what are you doing here? It's late. Go home." But you weren't paying attention to me at all. You were looking around, registering the randomly scattered detritus. I was almost in a panic. My place was so messy and shameful, and I wasn't ready for you to be there. It's unlikely that I would have been able to wrestle you out the door unless you were inclined to go, though, so I tried reasoning with you.

"Peter. Peter? You need to go. I'm not in the mood for this. Please leave. Leave!" The exclamation on the last word wasn't from any particular emphasis I put on it, but simply due to the surprise of your hand casually landing with a *smack* across my face. My hand flew to my cheek in shock, but before I could say a word in protest, you grabbed a piece of my robe and stuffed it in my mouth. I tried to speak around it, to get you to stop! Please, stop. But you simply looked me in the eye and said four words very quietly, with all the menace in the world.

"Shut the fuck up."

Your hand came up again and I flinched, but instead of slapping me, you grabbed a fistful of hair and forced me to my knees. I shook my head wildly, trying to dislodge the piece of fabric and tell you no, but your movements were practiced, thorough, and you didn't seem to even notice my feeble protests as you opened your belt and pants and freed your engorged cock.

I think I expected you to make me suck you, or at least let me loose so I could try to pleasure you with my mouth and hands as best I could. What I didn't expect was what happened. With the piece of fabric still gagging me, you grabbed one of my wrists and forced it behind my back and up, the pain of the strained joint making me helpless to resist you as you maneuvered yourself behind me and my upper body tilted toward the floor.

I made strangled little choking noises against the gag and was weeping now in earnest. It hurt. And I didn't want it like this. I felt your feet against the insides of my knees, pushing against first one side then the other, spreading my legs open for you. I struggled briefly against you, but you merely tightened the pressure of my arm doubled behind my back, and there was literally nothing I could do.

And then it all became too much and I may have passed out for a moment, because I came to with a sense of pressure against my asshole, building...building...until I tried to scream against the gag. No good. No one could hear me or come to my rescue.

You pushed harder, harder, until your head shoved past my sphincter and the rest of your cock followed in a surge. Without saying a word, you started to pound me. Reaming me. Tearing me open with your thick dick.

All I could do was hang on, wait for it to be over, the agony of my arm almost matched with the intensity of you violating my asshole. I hung my head in despair and shame. Just let it end...please.

With your free hand, you reached down and grabbed my hair again, forcing my head back. With each thrust, you pulled back on my hair, like a handler teaching a recalcitrant horse to be broken to the bit. Tears welled out of my eyes and dripped down my face, unnoticed.

Your thrusts started to become harder and faster until it was all I could do to remain where I was and not be knocked sprawling. I bit down into the fabric against the pain and willed you to cum. To stop breaking me in.

With a final few agonizing pounds, your cock spurted cum into my aching asshole and I felt you pull out. The pressure on my arm eased as you let go of it, but your hand remained fisted in my hair. You yanked my head backward until I was looking you in the eye. Yours triumphant and contemptuous. Mine frightened and somewhat dazed.

You reached forward and tugged the fabric out of my mouth. I started to say something, I don't even know what. It was far too late to say anything of value. But as soon as my mouth opened, you got in front of me and shoved your subsiding dick deep into my throat. I sputtered and choked, but was forced to remain where I was by your hand in my hair, holding me in place.

"Suck it, cunt." The words were calm, collected. Not a hint of the anger behind them. And I tried. I genuinely did try to suck your dick, but all I could do was choke and sputter, so you fucked my mouth. Forcing your dick down my throat again and again until I was faint with lack of oxygen. Only then did you let me go with a grunt, withdrawing from my mouth and leaving me shamed and naked and leaking cum on the floor.

My head was bowed in humiliation and subservience, so I didn't see it coming when you forced it back one more time. Your breath hissed against my ear as you whispered, "I just want you to know. That's all you're good for."

From my position on the floor, I heard you open the door and leave. And there I stayed. Long after you were gone.