Her Nemesis Master (Dark BDSM Erotica)

by Dan Bruce

  Panic set in anew. Emily was now terrified. She wondered if the man was actually serious and planned to assault her here in the elevator. Emily dived into her bag and took out her mobile phone. She held it out like a knife to fend him off.

  “What are you doing?” Emily asked - her voice kept low as if afraid to yell out and let the world know of her trouble. “I’m not interested in having anything to do with you! I suggest you stop this disgusting talk and start the elevator again. I’ll call Security... I will! They’ll be waiting at the bottom, so don’t try anything funny.”

  The man shook his head and laughed at Emily’s threats. Then he told her of his plan.

  “I’m not going to fuck you in here, you stupid bitch. I was only joking about that. I want more from you than a quick knee trembler against the elevator wall. There’s a men’s changing room down in the basement - really basic with just a shower and a toilet. Not many people know that it’s there. Most people use the posh facilities on the ground floor. A few weirdo joggers use it at lunchtime, but other than that it’s never occupied. Except by me of course... I’ve screwed lots of women in there. Screwed them and buggered them which I really enjoy – I absolutely love fucking a woman up the ass. But I’ve never had anyone with a rump quite like yours. So come on, Blondie! Drop all the stuck up, butter wouldn’t melt crap, and take the elevator down to the basement with me. You can suck my cock and then I’ll bugger you really hard – take you from behind like a dog, so you’ll know you’re now my bitch. Let’s do it! You know you want to.”

  The man’s finger hovered over the ‘BASEMENT’ button. He looked at Emily quizzically. Emily shook her head and quickly reached out to punch the ‘START’ button, again telling the man that she wasn’t interested. Emily silently prayed that he would leave it be – that she would arrive at the lobby safe and sound.

  She did.

  There was no further attempt to halt the elevator or cajole Emily into going to the basement. When they reached the lobby only a few seconds later, the man laughed quietly and departed without further incident.

  Emily watched him leave, striding towards the entrance with all the macho confidence of a street fighter who’d just left an opponent battered on the ground. Feeling like such an opponent, Emily stood by the elevator unable to move her legs. She waited until he’d left the building – the man making his exit whilst whistling a jaunty tune, seemingly indifferent to the terror in his wake. Noticing her distress, the security guard in the lobby asked if there was a problem. Emily blurted out some nonsense about elevators making her giddy – and it was such a long way down from the twentieth floor – although not quite as long as it could have been. Refusing the guard’s offer to fetch her some water, Emily waited in the lobby for a couple of minutes before she left the building and took the underground home.

  Chapter 2

  The half hour journey home was a nightmare for Emily. She tried to read a novel, but she couldn’t concentrate. She was far too disturbed by the events in the elevator - by what the man had said, and by how she had reacted. Emily couldn’t fathom why she hadn’t reported the incident straight away. She could have yelled out, she could have slapped the uncouth oaf, she could have told the security guard to call the police once she was safely out of the elevator. But she had done none of these things. Her normal assertive persona had been washed away to be replaced by a weak ineffectual woman, powerless in the face of depraved vulgarity so assuredly presented. Emily wondered why she’d acted like that. Was it fear? And if so, fear of what? The man himself had made no physical threat, just crude suggestions that were obscenely unnatural... Taking it up the ass indeed! As if Emily Johnson would ever do that!

  Once home, it crossed her mind to tell Les what had happened, but she knew he would have fretted and probably nagged her about reporting it, so Emily decided it would be better to leave it be. She tried to blank it all out, following the normal pattern of her comfortable life.

  And on the face of it she succeeded, enjoying a good dinner and a few glasses of Chablis, relaxing afterwards with Les rubbing her feet – it was business as usual for Mrs. Johnson. But that night her sub-conscience took a different track. In her sleep Emily found herself in some ill-defined enclosed space, trapped by a dark and sultry man, pinned to the wall by his bulk. He was attacking her from behind and Emily was pitifully resisting. She was telling him no, but she wasn’t fighting him off with any real conviction. In this disturbing dream the man tore off Emily’s clothes. He pawed roughly at her body, pinching her nipples and violating her sex, obscenely fingering her gushing pussy. He prised her legs apart – in her sleep she watched it happen – she saw a huge cock slide up and down between her buttocks, riding her crack before settling over the pucker. Not only did she see, but in her dream she actually felt it, as that scarily large cock was rammed all the way in, bludgeoning past her aching anal ring and plundering into her virginal chute. She was screaming her head off, which must have been the pain – but in this weird bizarre dream there was a confusing refrain – ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ being the catchphrase at play. The exhortation continued as the man buggered her wildly, Emily screaming out ‘Yes!’ as he ploughed her guts with his rampant erection – punching it into her time after time. Emily howled like a whore, which was far from normal – a few faked moans was as much as she usually gave – but then this wasn’t real, it was only her sub-conscious. As the man pounded into her, he squashed Emily hard against the wall, pulling her hair back so he could gloat in her face, revelling in his conquest and Emily’s sluttish behaviour. The man fucked her till he came and squirted out his seed, firing the mess deep in Emily’s bowels. Then he roughly pulled out and backed away into a shadow as Emily collapsed in a heap on the floor, spunk dribbling out of her gaping asshole.

  Emily woke up the following morning to find a wet spot in the bed, but it wasn’t the semen of the man in her dreams – it was her own vaginal juices that were to blame for the stain. This was very odd, a copious emission from her normally dry pussy. And even rarer was the fact that Emily was hungry for some sex... and first thing in the morning! How depraved was that!

  She roused her husband and demanded that he fuck her. Les was totally stunned by the unusual request and the depths of Emily’s passion: sex in the morning before a shower and brushing their teeth – that was something Emily had never allowed. Their sex had always been clean and sanitised, not raw and dirty like this.

  Raw and dirty! That says a lot about the hard put-upon Mr. Johnson if he thinks dirty sex means not showering first. But then he came from the Welsh Valleys and had led a sheltered life, so perhaps it’s understandable.

  Whatever! He still made the most if it. Les did his happy duty and slipped his wife a morning glory – it was modest in size, just like his imagination when it came to fornication. He slipped his little prick into her, moaning with pleasure, the entry helped along by an unusual moistness to his wife’s pussy that added to the thrill. Bang! Bang! Bang! And then the man was done. A few minutes of missionary pounding and he was squirting out his load with his face smothered in the pillow, muffling his grunts in consideration of the neighbours.

  A few minutes! That was usually more than adequate for Mrs. Johnson, but on this occasion Emily had wanted more. She had wanted a hell of a lot more in fact! Needy of the contact, she held onto her husband after he had come, sinking her talons into his back as she clung onto him for dear life. When he tried to pull out she held him fast, wrapping her legs around him to prolong the moment. She silently cursed when his cock went soft then resignedly let him go. Without a word she got up and went into the en-suite shower where she did what Les had been incapable of, that morning, or at any time during their four years of marriage – bringing his wife to climax.

  Emily finished off the job. In that small confined space she masturbated, fingering her bloated pussy lips and rubbing her surprisingly sensitive clit, using Les’s spunk as a lubricant. With her face to the wall, squashed against the tiles, she felt th
e water cascade down her back and run down the gulley of her ass crack. She could feel the water on her pucker, warm like a cock. Then inspired, she did something totally bizarre.

  She touched her asshole!

  Emily Johnson – the prim and proper, ‘butter wouldn’t melt’, right little madam who’d never once been buggered or anally invaded, touched her asshole! She rubbed the tight pucker as she fingered her pussy, and finding it pleasurable, she rubbed some more. Daring to grow bolder, she pushed a nail inside, finding the entry shockingly exciting. Carefully she pressed onwards till she reached the first knuckle – an act totally depraved for this slave to propriety. That was as far as she went, but it did the trick. In Emily’s mind it was a cock that had invaded her virginal bowels - the cock of a rough uncouth man that she imagined was behind her performing this foul deed.

  In the cleanliness of the shower she could taste the filth; above the pure scent of soap she could smell the musk; and through the noise of falling water she could hear his words: ‘Cock loving bitch who takes it up the ass!’

  Emily screeched as the orgasm hit her. Then aware of the noise, she brought the hand from her pussy up to her mouth to stifle more screams as wave after wave of never before known bliss ripped through her body with a power that shook her. Her fingers were coated with Les’s cum – it found its way onto Emily’s tongue. The taste disgusted her yet it drove her climax on – the waves getting stronger under the salty flavour. Driven by a raw animal passion, Emily gathered some more, drawing out spunk from inside her cunt and forcing it into her mouth. She thought she might be sick – it tasted so foul, yet she greedily swallowed it down – falling to her knees in an orgasmic heap with a finger stuck up her lily white ass.

  Then Emily Johnson let out a sob. She coughed and spluttered. She banged her fist hard against the wall.

  “Are you all right, darling?” shouted Les from the bedroom.

  “Yes... Yes, I’m fine,” she replied. But of course that was a lie.

  She remained in the shower for another ten minutes, washing her body –focusing on the finger that she’d debased herself with – rubbing it manically like Lady Macbeth trying to get rid of an imaginary spot. She emerged with pink skin, flushed from a scouring. But like Lady Macbeth whose hands were tainted, Mrs. Johnson didn’t feel clean.

  Chapter 3

  Emily knew that she should have reported the incident as soon as she returned to the office. Sexual harassment of any sort was totally unacceptable, especially in the company she worked for. And she was the P.A. to the C.E.O. – not a woman to be messed with. It really was intolerable that she had been subjected to such abuse.

  So why didn’t she?

  Well, for one thing - Emily knew that if she were to raise the matter, it would end up in the hands of her arch-enemy, Tessa Clifford, who would insist on dealing with it personally. It would be galling beyond belief, having to recount what had happened to that two-faced scheming bitch. Emily winced at the notion – Tessa would naturally act shocked, but would be inwardly gloating. She would goad Emily into revealing more and more details of her humiliation, forcing her to repeat the exact words the man had used. And of course Tessa would imply, ever so subtly, that Emily had deserved it, acting like a tart, doing up her face in the elevator. She would ask about the skirt – how short, how tight; was it perhaps a little provocative – what was she wearing underneath! Tessa would ask all sorts of questions – did Emily subconsciously wiggle her bottom; did she jut it out in invitation, brazenly flaunting her goods. Tessa would suggest that perhaps Emily gave it a little rub, a slight moan as she caressed her own buttocks. Tessa would paint a picture of Emily acting like a slut then display it for the whole office to see, through the careful leaking of disinformation, and brazen back-stabbing bitchiness.

  No. It would be too shaming to bear. And Emily wouldn’t give that evil witch the ammunition to undermine her in the eyes of Donald Harper. So she decided to keep quiet, using this as her reasoning, conveniently ignoring any alternative motivation, for what other could there be.

  Was this another mistake? Or was this another deliberate step on the path to debasement, consciously or sub-consciously taken? How would Emily have acted if the man concerned had been old, ugly and fat, instead of a rugged young hunk oozing testosterone by the gallon and smelling deliciously of natural musk? Would she still have kept quiet or would she have blurted it all out and had the man hounded from the company?

  Who can say except Mrs. Johnson – and her lips on the matter were as tight as her ass!

  It was on the Tuesday of the following week when Emily was called on to work late again - and again she left when the office was nearly empty. This was not unusual. She had a demanding job and late hours were expected. Emily never complained for she never had an issue with the situation in the past. But on this occasion she found cause to feel anxious as she waited for the elevator – smartly dressed as always in designer clothes which included a tight fitting skirt that hugged her ass and showed plenty of leg – Emily refusing to be intimidated and tone down her look, because that would be an admission of guilt. And sure enough, her fears were justified when the doors to the elevator opened. It was empty, save for the same well built man, with the same assured grin on his ruggedly handsome face.

  Spooky or what!

  Emily was certainly unnerved. Was this pure chance, she wondered – a freakish piece of co-incidence, chilling in its nature? Or did this crude offensive man have some means of monitoring Emily’s movements, knowing when she was ready to leave? Emily shivered at the thought that someone might be spying on her. If that was the case, what else could this man know about her life?

  It was a puzzle.

  And there was another puzzle. Why oh why did Emily do it? Why did she get in the elevator knowing what would happen?

  But that’s exactly what she did. She stepped into the elevator with the same man who had verbally abused her a few days before. Perhaps there was an element of arrogance spurring her on - Emily wanting to show this vulgar hunk that his raunchy good looks and foul-mouthed taunts didn’t affect her in any way. Perhaps Emily wanted to prove, both to the man and to herself, that she was a strong assertive woman who could handle his coarseness without resorting to the usual channels. Perhaps that’s what she told herself as the door closed behind her and Emily stood staring into space. Others might say there was a different agenda at play. But that would be ridiculous. Emily would have laughed in their face!

  And surprise, surprise! The man started straight away with a boorish assault – Emily’s shapely rump being the focus of his attentions!

  “Looking good again, Blondie!” he laughingly announced. “If anything that skirt makes your ass even sweeter. Not as sweet as it would look naked though, with my cock inside it. Or after I’d fucked it and there was spunk dribbling out the hole... Hey, what about that! Maybe you’d prefer it if I pulled out before I came, and blasted my mess all over you buns! Or would you prefer it in your mouth? Do you like the taste of spunk? How about hot piss sprayed on your face? ...Yes? ...No? ...Are you too shy to answer? Well it’s coming your way, Blondie, whether you like it or not, because it’s more than a buggering I’m going to give you in the basement!”

  Emily tried to ignore him as the man told her of the many different ways he was going to use her body and generally debase her down in the basement. He told her how he was going to force his cock down her throat and smash his groin into her pretty face. He said he was going to fuck her really, really, hard – that his cock would be like a fist punching into her cunt. And he told her about the buggering she was going to get – because that was his favourite way to fuck a bitch – it was so dirty and the ultimate submission. He said he would take her on her back the first time he screwed her up the ass, so he could see Emily’s face as he ploughed away then spurted out his mess to drench her guts with his muck. Then the next time - for naturally they would go to the basement more than the once - he would make her kneel down on her ha
nds and knees and hump at her tight asshole from behind – ride her like a dog breeding a bitch.

  The mystery man described these things to Emily the entire ride down. All the way from the twentieth floor as they descended to the lobby, he outlined the rough and dirty sex they were destined to have when she finally agreed to go down a level further. That was all that happened – a verbal assault delivered with certainty. Emily didn’t look at him, directly or reflected. And the man didn’t bring the elevator to a scary halt or suggest they bypass the lobby and go to the basement instead. He simply told Mrs. Johnson, in no uncertain terms, of the depravity she was going to sink to. Not today, perhaps not tomorrow; it might be a week or even a month. But he was so assured of himself, promising Emily that it would definitely happen; and that once she was hooked, she would plead to be taken time and time again. That’s what happened with all his other bitches, of which he had a pack to regularly service, and Emily would be no exception. She would be brought to heel and join their ranks – it was only a matter of time.

  Emily shivered when they finally parted company, visibly shaken. Yet she felt a degree of elation that she had survived the ordeal. She had not reacted to the man’s taunting – she had kept her famous cool.

  But she was far from cool later that evening when she insisted that her husband make love to her again. Les smiled and told her that she was insatiable – twice in the space of one week – she would wear him out! Realising that the joke had fallen rather flat, Les reached out his hand and suggested they go to bed – of course he wanted to make love to her – he would do anything for his darling wife.

  “No! Do it here. In the lounge! Take me from behind. Fuck me like a bitch with me kneeling on the floor.”

  Les looked at his wife, barely recognising her. She looked the same, but yet she was different. He laughed rather nervously, not sure what was happening. “Emily! What’s got into you?” the Welshman asked.