“Keep your mouth shut, bitch, or you'll break your teeth despite the mouthguard,” he snarled and snapped his left glove against her right cheek – not hard, a warning. She snapped her mouth shut and he slammed her full in the face, rocking her head back. Her lip split and blood burst out. She whimpered but kept her mouth shut. Finally, she thought to raise her gloves to protect her face again.
Then he settled down to work, rhythmically and methodically slamming into her upper arms, ribs, and abdomen; punishing body blows that bounced her back and forth from side to side and slowly drove her backwards, one step at a time.
For variety, he slammed into her upper arms, hard, knocking her own gloves against her face.
She grunted and whimpered continuously under the rain of blows.
As the damage accumulated, bruising made her skin turn bright red and tender. Every punch was a new agony. She began trying to anticipate the blows. Rather than trying to hold her ground and let him push her back, she peered over her raised gloves and jumped back when she saw his fist coming. But he could move his fists a lot faster than she could move her body. He kept advancing and hammering at her until he had her backed into a corner.
She could move no more. All she had left was to raise her arms to cover her face and let him plaster her body with brutal blow after brutal blow. They both heard her two lower left ribs crack when he hit her with all his might. He stepped back and lowered his gloves.
She gasped, “What's the matter, slugger? Run out of steam? Don't wimp out on me now. I can take whatever you can lay on me.” She lowered her arms and he saw blood dripping from her nose.
Tears were welling from her eyes, making it difficult for her to see him.
He walked back to the middle of the room, turned and said, “Come on out here, then, and we'll see how tough you really are.”
She walked toward him slowly. For all her bravado, she was suffering terribly from his prolonged pummeling on her upper body and face. The cracked ribs made every breath painful.
“Spread your legs.”
She knew what was coming – she was the one who said that low blows were allowed – but she spread her legs wide anyway and waited for him.
The upper cut to her cunt was vicious. Derrick put all his strength into it.
She gasped in pain, then managed to sneer and say, “That's pretty crude symbolism, don't you think?”
“You flinched and put your knees together on me. Spread 'em again.”
“I didn't,” she said, but she gathered her courage and spread her knees as wide as she could for him.
“Now, shut your eyes and I'll give you a surprise.”
Fearfully, she closed her eyes.
“No peeking, now. Good and tight.”
A long moment passed and then the slap of leather against flesh echoed through the room as her clit and lips were crushed against her pubic bone. His first blow had been nothing compared to this. Her crotch exploded in agony. She shrieked and collapsed to the floor, her gloved hands pressing between her legs, trying in vain to staunch the white-hot pain flowing through the tenderest parts of her female anatomy.
After watching her writhe on the floor for a minute, Derrick said, “Stand back up.”
She struggled to regain her feet.
“Assume the position again.”
“No, please. No, not again.”
Her nose crunched when his right hand powered into her face. There was no doubt that it was broken now. Much too late, she threw her gloves up to protect her face from further pounding.
“Put your hands down.”
“Please. I'll do it. I'll spread my legs for you. Don't hit my face any more.” She spread her legs wide one more time.
He didn't bother to tell her to close her eyes; with her gloves in front of her face, she couldn't see the next punch coming. This time she screamed so loudly that her mouthguard flew across the floor, spraying a fan of blood that had filled her mouth from her split lip. Again she collapsed to the floor in agony. She feared that she might be rendered sexually dysfunctional if he kept doing this. He feared that the neighbors might hear her screaming and call the cops.
“Shut up!” he yelled and delivered a vicious kick to her left buttock. She cried out, but not as loudly as she had been screaming. He kicked her again in the back of her thighs. She said that she had wanted to see if he could bruise her big muscles all the way to the bone? Okay. Let's find out, he thought.
She curled into a foetal position and let him kick her again and again while she screamed and cried. After delivering innumerable kicks to the biggest muscles in her body, his frenzy abated enough to hear that she was begging for mercy. “Please stop. Please. I'm begging you. Please forgive me. Please don't hurt me any more. I'm so sorry.”
He stopped kicking her.
She struggled to her knees, leaning her weight against his legs and throwing her gloved hands around his thighs. “Thank-you,” she sobbed. “Thank-you. Thank-you.”
He didn't know if she was thanking him for beating her or thanking him for stopping.
She kept struggling upward and, when her head reached the level of his crotch, she used the thumbs on her boxing gloves to pull his shorts down over his hips to his knees. Then she put her lips to his sweaty, half-erect cock. When had that happened? he asked himself absently. Did beating his wife half to a pulp actually turn him on? Was he some kind of sick fuck?
When she began working him with her bloody tongue and lips and he stopped thinking about anything but fucking her. God it had been a long time since he had fucked his wife. He was going to do it now and he was going to do it strictly for his own pleasure. To hell with what she wanted. All that mattered was what he wanted and, right now, he wanted his cock buried in her cunt all the way to the hilt.
He pushed her hungry mouth away, then put his still-gloved hands on her shoulders and shoved her torso to the floor. Her crotch was beet-red and tender as hell from the pounding it had taken but that was her problem, not his. She whimpered when he parted her lips and entered her, then screamed in pain when he drove down all the way to the root and crushed her swollen clit against the underlying bone with the full weight of his body.
He ignored her suffering and pounded into her as hard as he could. When he came, he screamed every obscenity in his vocabulary almost as loudly as she was screaming in pain. He screamed that she was a dirty cunt, a god-damned whore, and a fucking slut. And more. And he meant every word.
He stayed inside, his sweat pouring over her face and body, and waited until he was completely limp before rolling off of her.
As soon as she was free of his weight, she rolled back up into a foetal ball, hugged her knees to her chest and sobbed piteously.
After he regained his breath, he looked across at her, seeing her face clearly for the first time since he had begun beating her. Before he had begun beating her, she had worn that smug expression. He had been determined to wipe off her face. Well, it was gone now. Her nose was smashed crooked and she was blowing bubbles of blood from it with every breath. Her lower lip was split open and was dribbling more blood from the raw wound. Her entire face was splotched with dark red patches that covered her from chin to hairline and ear to ear. Both eye sockets were already turning an ugly black.
The only part of her upper body that was unbruised were her breasts. He had not hit her breasts even once. He still loved her tits and some deep, reptilian part of him did not want to see them lumpy and discolored. But leaving her breasts untouched was not much of a mercy considering that her body was one massive bruise from just below them all the way to her pubes. He didn't want to know what her crotch looked like. Her upper legs looked the worst of all. His kicks had been vicious and the soft rubber toes of his running shoes had hit her like rubber mallets over and over again. The deep bruises there were already dark purple in places.
He looked down at the hands that had done this and saw that the white leather on the front of both gloves was smeared with his wife's
blood.
Remorse flooded through him. How had he been able to do this to another human being? Especially someone that he had once loved? Tears began rolling down his cheeks, mixing with the sweat that was pouring across his face.
When Jillian heard him sob, she looked across into his eyes.
“I'm sorry,” he said, raggedly.
She reached out a hand and put a finger across his lips. “No, darling. I'm sorry. You only did what I asked you to do. And I asked you to do it only because you needed it. You did the right thing. You've always done the right thing.” She was whispering, her voice dampened by the pain that was coursing through her body, but her words rang clearly in his ears. “And you know something? I'm going to heal just fine. I'm going to set my nose straight and tape my lip together and bind my ribs up and in a couple of weeks or a month, I'll be as good as new again. And then you know what's going to happen? I'm going back to the gym and start working out again. I have to keep myself in shape because, in two or three months, you're going to start thinking about how I betrayed you and it's going to eat at you and you'll start wondering if I'm thinking about betraying you again, and you'll get angry again. And when that happens, I'll know and then I'm going to bring you back down here to my new wedding ring and put those gloves back on you and you're going to beat me to a pulp again. And that's going to keep happening as often as necessary until you are absolutely convinced that I'll suffer anything to do to earn your trust back, no matter how much pain I have to endure. And then, maybe, you'll be able to forgive me. Really forgive me and then you can start learning how to trust me again. Actual, real trust, not like now when you're just feeling sorry for a beaten woman. When that finally happens, when you know in your heart that you can trust me again, then you won't need to beat me any more and then we can start planning the rest of our future together.” She dreamed of going back to work again, resuming her career, and eventually having children with Derrick, but it was too early to share those happy thoughts with him. Much too early. Maybe another year for the job; maybe three or four before children. She'd have to take a lot of beatings before she could ask him for that much. But the beat of their marital life would go on. She would do everything in her power to make sure of that.
He shook his head. “I don't care what you say. I'm never going to beat you like this again.”
She smiled sadly. “Yes, you will. You have to do it for both our sakes. I think, next time, that I'm not going to wear gloves. Instead, I'm going to wear handcuffs. If my hands are cuffed behind my back, you'll be able to do a much more precise job on me. You'll be able to make my punishment that much more severe. Now, let me untie those gloves for you and then you go upstairs and have a nice warm shower and then go to work. I'm going to lay down here for a while longer. But don't you worry, I'll be able to make it up those stairs after I've had a little rest.” She could not stop herself from whimpering at the thought of having to move but she covered it by saying, “But I think we'll have to order pizza in tonight. I don't think I won't be able to cook dinner for you until tomorrow.”
As she listened to her husband mount the stairs, she felt like she had been racked. Her beating had been worse than she had imagined. Thanks to her cracked ribs, every breath hurt; thanks to her bruising, every movement was pain. But her agony was ameliorated by hope. She had just had the longest conversation that she had had with her husband in four months. And he had even made love to her, more or less.
There would be more conversations like this in the months to come. She would do what she had to do to make it so.
She began to cry.
INR
Rick Gets a Surprise
Deb was a bitch that night. A real bitch. I don't know what brought it on, but she was all over me like ugly on an old nun. I don't do enough housework. I don't treat her family right. I don't treat her like the damned princess she wants to be. Nothing that I've done in my whole life was good enough for her. Hell, I do the best I can. I work hard. I earn a decent living. I do my share of the household chores. She's got nothing to complain about. Yet, there she was, putting me down, calling me every name in the book and then not talking to me for the rest of the night. Maybe it's PMS. Maybe it's because her mother hates her father. Maybe it's hereditary insanity. I don't know. But whatever it is, I sure didn't feel like going home after work the next day. I couldn’t put up with another night of her shit.
So I was sitting around in my office after six, logging some overtime, looking for anything to do to delay the end of the workday, when my computer beeped at me. I looked at the screen and saw that it was an email from the harridan.
I expected that she'd be crapping all over me for missing supper and not calling to tell her that I was going to be late. Like she expected that I'd be thrilled to return home after her performance the night before. I almost didn't open the email, probably wouldn't have, except the subject line was kind of intriguing. “INR: I hope you'll enjoy giving me what I need.” It wasn't the “what I need” part that intrigued me – she never gets tired of telling me what I need to do for her – it was the word “enjoy” that caught my eye. She never before suggested that I might enjoy doing what she demanded. Had her mind finally jumped the tracks?
I opened the email. The further I read, the more mystified I felt. It said:
Dear Rick:
Don't ask me why, but tonight I need to be raped. That's right, raped. Sexually used by a man without any regard whatsoever for what I might be suffering. I need to be used cruelly and brutally in any way that you wish. You must take me however you like despite any show of reluctance, verbal or physical, that I might throw at you. You must overcome me by threats or physical force if required. You must let nothing I do or say stand in the way of obtaining sexual satisfaction from me.
I only ask that you do not leave me with any permanent injuries. If you need to use your fists to subdue me, you will not need to use your full strength. You can blacken an eye or bloody my nose if you have to, but don't break my teeth or crush the bones around my eye socket. They wouldn't heal properly.
I also ask that you restrict this brutal treatment to the next twenty-four hours, at your convenience, and return to your sweet and gentle ways after that.
To reiterate in absolutely clear terms, I expect that you will violently and brutally violate me in any way you wish, as often as you wish, between now and noon tomorrow.
I need it. Please give me what I need.
Yours (literally),
Deb
PS. If you have any doubts about my sincerity, you will be assured when you find that I have left some items to assist you on the bureau inside the front door and will be wearing a slightly-faded yellow sundress.
I was both appalled and thrilled by her words. Did she really mean what she wrote? She must have. Could the email have been spoofed by someone else? Not if she were indicating her compliance by wearing a old, out-of-season dress that had been hanging unworn in her closet for years. This had to be the real thing. My raging hard-on told me that the ancient parts of my brain that controlled my basic biological reflexes thought this was the real thing. Despite years of living in a “civilized” culture, I had a primal urge to give her exactly what she was asking for.
My cock had decided. Her fate was inevitable. I shut down my computer and rushed out of my office.
My dear Deb was facing a vigorous raping in her very near future.
Stealth or rampage? That question filled my mind when I was standing on our front step. Do I sneak in a back window like a cat burglar or burst through the front door like a conquering Mongol? Words from her email popped into my mind: “crudely”, “brutally”, “violently”. Those words hardly described sneaking in a back window after she was asleep.
I slammed the door open, stepped into the house, and roared, “Where are you, bitch?”
There was no answer.
As promised, a roll of duct tape, a pair of handcuffs, and a box of condoms were lying on the entryway bure
au where I normally kept my wallet and keys. The mini-rape-kit confirmed that there was no mistake. She was requesting a rape scenario. I was nervous about her talk about fists and blood but trusted that those phrases were included in her email merely to set the mood. I did not expect the game to escalate to that level of violence. I believed that, paradoxically, actual violence would inhibit me and destroy the realism of the game.
When I burst through that door, I neither understood my wife's needs nor my own capabilities. I was soon to learn some disturbing things about both of us.
Confident in my superior strength, I sneered at the tape and handcuffs. Only a wimp would need mechanical assistance. And what was with the condoms, anyway? What kind of pussy did she think I was? I followed the sound of the television into the family room.
As promised, my wife was wearing a faded yellow sundress. That dress, confirming her complicity, was the final sign that irrevocably sealed her fate. Now all her screams and pleading would mean nothing to me. She could abandon all hope of mercy. Now, “No,” meant “Keep going harder, stud.” She was going to feel my cock pounding in her cunt in the next few minutes no matter what she did or said.
When she saw me, she said nothing; she merely pulled her bare feet off the floor, curled herself into a ball in the corner of the couch and whimpered like a newborn kitten.
Her vulnerability enraged me. I wasn't acting a part any longer, I was unleashing my true self when I strode across the room, wrapped my hand in the hair at the back of her head and pulled her off the couch. She screamed in pain as I dragged her out of the room by her hair. I didn't care; my only thought was to get away from the blaring television set and find a little peace and quiet. I was in no mood to hear Oprah fussing away in the background and it was easier and quicker to drag my woman away from the TV than to fiddle with the remote. My high level cortex was idling in neutral now; my behavior was entirely controlled by my cerebellum and limbic system.
A Bestiary of Unnatural Women Page 19