I looked into his eyes defiantly, levelly meeting his penetrating stare.  It took every ounce of effort I had to hide the trembling: my nails dug into my palms as I clenched them into tight fists beneath the table, my tongue darted out, wetting my lips.  I was desperate to turn away, but was held, mesmerized by his cold eyes.

"What do you want from me?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper and choked with fear.

"I want you. All of you.  And I will have you, on my terms." His eyes glinted as he spoke, a cold smile played on his lips.  I shuddered, feeling devoured by his eyes.

My palms sweat against my thighs.  I flexed my hands to keep the blood flowing to them, then glanced down at the clothesline ropes which held my wrists bound against my thighs.  Absently I tugged against my arms, knowing they were snug and secure, but yanking on them anyhow.  My thighs lifted a little for my efforts.

Keep cool, I thought to myself, if I lose it, it's all over.  I can't afford to panic now.  I swallowed hard to try and calm myself down.

He rose, smiling at me again, that horrible dead smile, and walked behind me.  I felt his hands, cold as ice, gently trace the line of my collarbone.  I shivered again and closed my eyes tight.  His voice came as a hoarse whisper in my ear:

"My lovely, my little beauty.  Are you ready to be my toy?  To please me, to be the object of my adoration?  You've never known what love was, my dear, but I will teach you."

I bit down on a sob.  What was his idea of love?  The thoughts which filled my mind were of my past loves: gentle, kind men, men who looked out for me, kept me safe.  The idea of this man being a lover like those other men had was incredible.  The rope cutting into my wrists and thighs reminded me of that.  Every second I sat here made it more and more difficult to keep control over myself.  My fearless facade was cracking.

His fingers were so gentle as he lifted my hair off my neck, as if I might break.  Just the whisper of a touch and chills went racing across my skin.  A second later, his lips pressed softly against my neck.  His tongue was hot and surprised a gasp from me as he licked at me, traveling across my throat, darting into the hollows of my neck.  Part of me felt utterly revulsed by his intimacy, part of me wanted to believe it all: the touches, the words, the love.

His hands slid down my shoulders, over my arms; he caressed my wrists where the clothesline dug into them, tracing the lines of the rope, following it down onto my thighs.  I tried hard not to fight, but I couldn't help but pull on my thighs to keep them shut from his prying fingers.

He chuckled, a deep rolling sound which filled me with worry.  I amused him.  My fear, my trapped position, my fight with myself, all amused him. I blinked several times to keep the tears at bay.

Still his hands and mouth continued across my body.  His hands slid back up my thighs, one finger traced the line where my thighs met, where I kept them tightly closed.  I could almost feel him smiling as he touched me, his hands so horribly soft, so maddeningly gentle.  His fingers trailed up my body, pausing momentarily to toy with the rope that dug into my waist.  All too soon they moved up my flesh once more, their heat growing as he touched me, his hands
 no longer like ice.

His palms both grazed against my nipples, rubbing in circles, teasing them to hardness.  I sucked in a breath, trying to will my body not to react, but it refused to listen.  All my breasts knew were pleasure and a teasing touch.  They didn't understand the fear my mind was locked in.  I groaned slightly as I felt my nipples tighten and harden beneath his insistent hands.  His touch became even softer, relentlessly tickling at the tips of my nipples.  I closed my eyes tight, then opened them wide as I realized my body was arching, just slightly, trying to press my breasts more firmly into his hands.

Tears spilled from my eyes at the first realization of my defeat and his power.  He was using my own body against me.

I ground my teeth together, tensing my body up.  He may force me to feel, but he couldn't force me to acknowledge it.  I would not give him the pleasure of hearing me moan, or seeing me cry.

His palms just rubbed and rubbed; my breasts ached they wanted to be touched so badly.  A gasp of relief flew from my lips before I could stop it as his hands grabbed at my breasts and squeezed them.  His heat was soothing against my skin.  I arched my back as much as I could and shut my eyes tightly. I simply couldn't help it.  It was like scratching a horrible itch, what he was doing—it was something I just had to have.  So I closed my eyes as tight as I could.  I couldn't face him when I was so obviously enjoying what he was doing to me.

He pulled his hands from my breasts, and a small moan of disappointment came from me.  I blushed, amazed with myself.  Well, so what, I thought, so I  responded to his touches, any red blooded woman would.  It doesn't mean I want this, or him.  It doesn't change a thing.

His mouth came down on one nipple hot and hard.  He sucked at it, nursing from me.  His tongue flicked at the tip inside of his mouth while he sucked.  I looked down at his head against my breast and felt the strangest sensation: a wave of tenderness washed over me.  Then his own eyes lifted to mine.  For a split second he looked at me, his face open and filled with rapture; then his teeth bit down hard.

The scream was out of my mouth before I even knew it was coming.  My back arched again, but this time in pain, in desperation to unlatch him from my teat.  His teeth clamped tighter and tighter on my nipple; I could feel their sharp edges digging into the sensitive flesh.  I shook in the chair, my body writhing side to side, trying to do anything to stop him, wiggling like mad.  He bit down harder.  Sobbing, I screamed again.

"No, please, owww. . . please. . . you're hurting me!!!"

This seemed to be what he wanted to hear, for he finally let go.  I cried and looked down at my nipple, expecting to see it bleeding and torn.  It was neither, but stood out hard against my breast.  This frightened me even more—to think of how much he had hurt me and that it barely left a toothprint.  I shuddered thinking of how much pain he could inflict on me without even damaging me.

"Are you beginning to understand?" he said to me. "Do you see how you are mine?  Your pleasure, your pain—your every response—is mine."  He knelt in front of me, eye level: "Your breath is mine. . ."

He slowly reached his hands out to my face.  One hand covered my mouth and another pinched my nose shut.  My eyes widened and panic set in as I realized I couldn't breathe at all.  I shook my head from side to side, trying to loosen his grip, but his hands held my head still as if in a vice.  There was no shaking him off.

He chuckled and let go.  I gulped in air, like I hadn't tasted it in forever.

"Yes, even your breath, why. . . your very life is mine, should I choose to take it," he said, then his hands wrapped tightly around my neck.  Slowly, methodically, he squeezed his hands together, tightening the grip on my throat, closing off my windpipe, shutting down the bloodflow to my brain.  He watched me intently, his eyes locked on mine.

I snapped, losing it entirely.  I kicked out my legs furiously, trying to hit him, but the kicks lacked conviction, cut short in strength as they were from my bindings.  I opened my eyes wide and met his, pleading, begging with my eyes as much as I could.  He seemed not to see my desperate plea. I struggled uselessly, trapped.

Finally, I acknowledged that he might kill me, and there was no way I could stop him.  Something broke loose in me and my body went limp.  I stared into his eyes and simply gave up.  Let him kill me, I couldn't stop him.

Little dots swam before my eyes.  I felt myself spinning, starting to lose consciousness, and a second blast of panic, a final effort at saving myself, burst through me.  Weakly, as the world dimmed before me, I wiggled in his grasp.

Waves washed over my body deliciously, soothing, comforting, then sudden disorientation hit my mind as I tried to figure out where I was and what had happened.  My hips rocked slightly and I moaned.  Intense pleasure rose up from between my thighs.  I gasped as his fingers moved inside of me, finding all those spots which brought more wetness from me.  I looked down at him, and saw he was watching my face.

Suddenly I remembered where I was and what was happening.  He hadn't killed me, only made me pass out, and by the time I came to a couple seconds later, my body was already on it's way towards orgasm, the pleasure magnified by my mind's confusion, by the rush of blood back through my brain.

I squeezed my thighs tightly shut, but that only trapped his hand inside of me.  I sobbed as I realized I was going to cum; he was going to force me to.  I shook my head, trying to deny it even as my climax hit.  I cried out loudly and let my thighs open to him.  For a moment all I knew was the incredible pleasure of my release.  Then came his voice once more, crashing into me, waking me out of my pleasure like an ice cold knife of fear.

"You see now, don't you?" he said.

The tears rolled down my face and I hung my head.  I saw clearly.

He untied my wrists from my thighs and tied them together, then loosened the rope that held me to the chair.  Pulling on my wrists, he lifted me to my feet before him.  I stood there, not fighting him, just staring at the carpet under my feet.  I really didn't even wonder what was next—did it matter?  He was going to do whatever he wanted.  I couldn't stop him.

Walking sideways, watching me and looking in front of him, he led me into the next room.  The bedroom, of course, I thought to myself.  I stared at the messy queen sized bed and felt nothing.  No fear, no revulsion—only a sense of inevitability, of being at the end of a story that was already written.

He laid me gently back beneath him on the bed.  His eyes ran across my body, taking in each inch of creamy flesh.  I turned my head to one side, closed my eyes and simply lay there, waiting.

I had not long to wait.  His mouth trailed up my leg, across my knee, and he lapped at my thighs.  I wanted to pull away, to kick him, but I knew it wouldn't help me any.  I tried to ignore his hands pulling my legs apart, tried to ignore his tongue as it crept up the inside of my thigh.  I closed my eyes tighter.  I felt his rough stubbled cheek brush against my mound as his tongue came closer and closer to my sex, and I tensed up.

When his mouth finally lowered to my waiting cunt, it was like an electric shock ran through me.  I had so anticipated, so feared, so resisted it that I wasn't prepared for his tongue sliding through my slick lips, sucking at my clit, lapping at my pussy.  I clamped my mouth shut, promising myself I would not cry out.

His tongue was merciless, probing deep into my slit, increasing the pleasure in me.  I held my body tense, using every effort to not rock my hips against him, to not moan.

His arms wrapped around my thighs and he held me tightly fixed against his mouth.  Tears ran down my cheeks and I tried to bury my head into the bed.  It was hopeless, he was doing all the right things, relentlessly pushing me towards another climax.  I moaned behind my lips, biting on them to keep them sealed tight.

I sighed in relief as his mouth pulled back from my cunt.  I gulped in air, not realizing I had been holding my own breath.  My relief was short lived however, for he climbed up my body, his lips making a trail across my skin as he went, until his mouth met mine.  I turned my face as far as I could, but he just grabbed it and turned it back to him.

With exceptional tenderness, he kissed me.  His tongue traced my lips, his lips captured mine.  He savored my mouth, tasting every inch of it, exploring it, taking it over.  I had never been kissed like that.  My eyes grew wide and I looked at his face as he kissed me.  My mouth responded to his.  I kissed him back, tentatively at first, then more insistent, my tongue dueling with his as my passion grew.  I felt swallowed whole.

His tongue snaked over my lips, then across my cheeks.  He licked at the tears that still poured from my eyes.  His eyes met mine for a moment, and I knew that I was lost entirely.  I gave in, handing myself over to him, and I saw the victory flash in his eyes.  But more than that—I thought I saw love there.

He pulled my hands above my head and fastened them to a piece of rope which hung from his headboard.  I just stared up at him, fascinated, curiously watching him as if it weren't my hands he was binding, my body he was taking over.

His hands slid down my arms.  He leaned up, running one hand over my breast, and asked me "Are you mine?"  His fingers trailed across my belly and slid inside of my wetness.  "Are you mine?" he asked again.

I felt the head of his cock pressing against me, insistently pushing, until it slid into me.  A sigh came from me and I looked at him.  He kissed me once more as he slid his thickness inside of me fully.

Slowly, he began to rock his hips against me, sliding his length rhythmically in and out, his strokes gentle, soothing.  He licked at my cheeks, at my tears, and I felt myself crumbling, weakening.  Anger, pain, I could fight—tenderness I could not.  Relentlessly he used me inside and out.

The tears flowed from me, I felt lost, hurt, scared in a whole new way.  I was scared of being touched this close, this intimately. I sobbed in his arms and he soothed me with his lips, with his touches, with his cock.

He licked at my tears and my pussy clenched him to me tightly in response.  My hips rocked against his and my hands clenched at the rope which held them bound.  I cried out, feeling myself about to orgasm.

"Are you mine?" he asked me, staring into my eyes, "Tell me," he commanded.

"Yes," I whispered, my eyes blurring from my own tears, "yes," I sobbed, "I'm yours."  A shudder ran through me as I uttered these words. I meant them, but I feared them so.  They brought a sense of horrible foreboding and inevitability.  But that was what I felt.  I surrendered.

He buried his cock inside of me, and I came, screaming against his mouth.  I'd never felt pleasure like what was ripping through my body.  My eyes were wide but sightless as I writhed in his arms.  My legs wrapped tightly around his waist, locking him to me.  He pounded his cock into me, over and over, and my body went with it, my hips thrusting back against him.  I was lost completely.

Something rough pressed against my neck.  I turned my head to the side, confused, disoriented, wrapped up in my own pleasure.  Slowly, as my orgasm receded, I felt the rope digging into my neck, cutting into the tender skin, squeezing it tighter and tighter.  My eyes flew to his and widened in horror.

"You are mine," he said to me, "and I love you, as no one ever could."  Staring into his eyes, I knew what he said was true.

I could feel the rope tightening.  I gasped in air, each breath getting more and more difficult.  Tears slid down my cheeks as the world started to fade.  I pulled uselessly at my wrists; I wiggled weakly beneath his body.  Still his cock thrust into me.  I felt my body tense and tighten; I felt his cock throb in response.

"I love you," he whispered in my ear.  The world blurred and darkened, and swirling filled my head.  In the distance, I heard him say to me "I love you."

About the Authoress:

Succubus has been writing tales of smut and horror for years, but has
made herself a fixture in the rape genre on the internet, and publishes
on her own website as well as others.  Under another name, she has
published various short stories and poetry, from horror, erotic horror,
to true crime and suspense, in magazines, ezines, and anthologies.  At
27 years of age, the world is her cess pool.   Visit her website:
Tales from Succubus.

About the Artist:

Sean Simmans is the Cover Illustrator of DEAD END STREET PUBLICATIONS LLC and the Creator of THE BELIEVABLE TRUTH @ Scowlzine and VIBE Nation (UK). In addition he illustrates for UMM Magazine (Canada) and is staff illustrator for Blood Moon zine.