A Bestiary of Unnatural Women

by Ashley Zacharias

  Deb clawed desperately at my hands, trying to pull them out of her hair. I ignored her girlish, ineffectual efforts. A few scratches on the back of my hands meant nothing to me. Keeping her head at waist level, I duck-walked her, screaming and scrambling to keep on her feet, all the way through the kitchen to the dining room. There, I kicked one of the dining chairs aside, pulled her up and slammed her face and chest across the dining room table. She grunted in pain when her abdomen was jammed against the edge of the table and the wind was driven from her.

  Pulling my hands out of her hair, I jerked the hem of her skirt over her hips to reveal white cotton panties. Who needs red lace to get turned on? Soft white cotton had never looked so sexy. I was inflamed beyond all control.

  As soon as she realized that I had released my grip on her hair, she pushed herself off the table and her skirt fell back to her knees. Uncooperative bitch! I grabbed the dress where it was buttoned up the back and pulled with all my considerable strength. Yellow plastic buttons flew everywhere and fabric shredded with a loud rip as the dress was torn from her shoulders. She screamed and clutched at the front of her dress but to no avail. I kept tearing the cloth out of her hands and away from her body until the dress was nothing but piles of yellow rags lying around her feet. She was wearing no bra. I grabbed her hair with my right hand and slammed her naked tits against the table, forcing her ass into the air, and began ripping at her panties with my left. They did not shred as easily as the dress; I must have bruised her cunt and hips terribly as I pulled and tugged at the cotton fabric with one hand while I held her down with the other. Her arms flailed about uselessly as she beat her hands against the table and screamed continuously. I never did manage to tear the panties; eventually I pushed them down her legs and began fumbling with my belt and pants. It took two hands to free myself and I had to alternate between working at my own clothes and pushing her back on the table and yelling at her to stay where I put her. She tried kicking me with her heels but she couldn't connect properly. Damn the bitch had a lot of fight in her.

  I finally got my shorts down. I pressed her face against the table, and kicked her knees wide apart. Thrusting into her cunt was easy; she was wide open and as wet as the Pacific Ocean. As I thrust into her again and again, her screams turned to sobs.

  I don't know if she would have come eventually or not. She wasn't getting any clitoral stimulation and had never come before on the precious few occasions when I had convinced her to assume the doggy position. On the other hand, neither one of us had ever before experienced such an intensely emotional coupling. She might have come from the violent pounding in her pussy alone if I'd been able to keep it going for long enough. I didn't. I was so turned on that I expended myself after only a few thrusts. She kept sobbing piteously as I finished in her.

  Tough titty. Like her email said, this was about me and I didn't give a damn what she felt, one way or the other. Whether her sobbing was caused by her pain, frustration, or humiliation was irrelevant. Her feelings were nothing to me.

  As soon as I was finished, I wrapped my hands in her hair at the sides of her head, dragged her off the table and forced her to her knees in front of my dripping crotch. I snarled, “Lick me clean, bitch. Lick off every drop of slime and swallow it or I'll beat you to a pulp.”

  I held her there while she wept and snivelled and licked for all she was worth. Good thing. I was so enraged, I might well have forgotten her admonition against using my full strength and pounded her face flat if she had disobeyed me. And she knew it; she could hear it in my voice. Neither one of us was acting a part in a fantasy role-playing game. This was pure, honest animal behavior freshly dredged from the depths of our evolutionary memories.

  When I grew tired of feeling her tongue scraping against my limp cock, I toppled her backward onto the hardwood floor and growled, “I'm tired. I'm going to bed. Stay away from me for the rest of the night.”

  I don't know where she slept, or even if she slept, but I slept like a baby alone in our king-sized bed for a full ten hours. The next morning, I showered and dressed before I went looking for her.

  I found her curled up into a foetal position in the easy chair in the living room, naked and shivering, watching me with big fearful eyes. I remembered that her email had said that I had unrestricted access to her body until noon. She probably expected that I would brutalize her again this morning. Seeing her cowed and vulnerable, I was half tempted to take her again but didn't feel like flying into a new rage and didn't want to dilute the previous night's primal experience by following it up with some half-hearted poking at her.

  Instead, I said not a single word. I walked out the front door and drove to work.

  When I got home that evening, on time and in an excellent mood, I found Deb dressed in jeans and a plaid blouse, cooking a pasta salad. She greeted me with a cheerful, “Hello, dear. Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.” She was acting like nothing unusual had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

  When we sat down to dinner, I looked at her face. Her forehead and cheeks were blue and yellow where they had been bruised by the repeated pounding against the table. They had to be hurting. At least I hadn't broken her nose. She appeared to be sitting rather gingerly on the wooden chair. I wondered how badly I had bruised her other end.

  Suddenly I understood the remorse of the wife beater. I was seized by a deep, sincere regret. “I'm sorry,” I said, spontaneously. “I'm so sorry.”

  “No,” she snapped. “Never be sorry for giving me what I need. Never. You can never do this to me unless I ask for it. But when I do ask, then I need you go at me full out and never regret it for a minute, do you understand?”

  “No,” I said. “I don't understand.”

  She smiled sadly. “I guess you don't. And it's not something that I can explain.”

  “So you're telling me that you liked what I did.”

  “Not a bit.” She paused for a long minute while I struggled to understand. Then she said, “Do you like going to the dentist to get a cavity filled?”

  “No.” I hated going to the dentist, even for a cleaning.

  “But you need to go anyway.”

  “If I have a cavity, sure. I need to go even if I don't like it.”

  “Okay. It's the same with me. Sometimes I have a cavity that needs to be filled. More than one, in fact,” she smiled mischievously, “and you're the dentist who has to do the filling. I don't want it and I sure as hell don't enjoy it, but I need it just as much as I'd need to get an aching tooth filled. If you enjoy the work, then I'm pleased for you. I want you to enjoy it as much as you can. But mostly I want you to do a thorough job on me. Really thorough. You did the job all right last night and I want you to do an even better when I ask you again. And make no mistake. It will happen again. Not soon and not often. Maybe next month or maybe not for a year or more, but it will happen. The rest of the time, most of the time, I want you to make love to me gently and lovely like you always do. Making love to me and raping me are two completely different things and you have to keep them completely separate in your own mind. When you're raping me, you have to really be raping me and when you're making love to me, you have to really be making love to me.”

  “I can do that.”

  She smiled openly. “That's the most reassuring thing that you have ever said to me.”

  “But I still don't understand why you would ever need such rough treatment.”

  “That's the part that I can't explain. You'll just have to take that part on faith.”

  “Is it because you treated me badly?” I asked tentatively.

  “No. It's not so simple as that. I needed raping for the same reason that I treated you badly, not because of it. Don't question my logic, just do the job when I need it.”

  “I will,” I promised.

  “Next time, though, I'm not going to give you any instructions. You'll have to decide what to do on your own. It doesn't have to be exactly the same as last time. In fact, it doesn't h
ave to be anything like last time. Use your imagination. Surprise me in unpleasant ways. Remember, I'm not supposed to like it. If I don't hate what you are doing, then you aren't doing your job.”

  “If you don't give me any instructions, then how will I know when you need the full treatment?”

  “I'll send you three letters, 'INR', in an email or a text message or a voice mail. That's all. I. N. R.” she enunciated the letters clearly and distinctly to ensure that I heard them correctly.

  “INR?” I remembered the letters in the subject line of her email.

  “It stands for 'I need raping'. When I give you the INR signal, then you have a free hand to abuse me in any violent, brutal way you wish from the moment you see me until noon the following day. And, when you get the signal, you have to do your part whether you're in the mood or not. If you don't want to do it personally for some reason, use an object of some kind. Just make sure that you do it in a way that I will not enjoy. Forget about vibrators and think about beer bottles. Just make sure that you use lube in my asshole so that I don't suffer any permanent damage.”

  I hadn't thought about her asshole last night. That was what the condoms were for. She was right. I could have done a better job. Next time I'll make sure that I fill her cavities properly.

  The Second time, Deb Gets a Surprise...

  Rick was gone to work and I was cleaning up the breakfast dishes when Lester suddenly popped into my mind.

  First, I tried to ignore the thought but I could not. Lester kept looming large in my inner eye.

  Then, I tried to think about something else. That was hopeless, too. All thoughts led back to Lester. When I thought about cooking supper tonight, I couldn't help but remember how much Lester liked my chicken with lime and jalapeño pepper. And I couldn't help but think that maybe he'd be happy with me again if I cooked it for him again. When I thought about volunteering for the afternoon shift at the food bank, I was reminded that I volunteered at the food bank now instead of helping the Republican Party because Lester dropped into the Republican Local Office occasionally. Every time I saw him, I couldn't help but talk to him, hoping that, maybe this time, things would turn out differently.

  Finally, I had to admit to myself that anything that I thought about was going to lead back to Lester one way or another. He was only a couple of degrees of separation from anything that I could imagine.

  Anything, that is, except for that one big elephant in the room.

  I forced myself to walk upstairs, sit down at the computer and compose an email to Rick. The subject heading said nothing but, “INR”; the body of the message said, “At your convenience, any time until tomorrow noon. Please be brutal.” My experience at Rick's hands two months ago had demonstrated beyond a doubt that my gentle husband could be more brutal than I could have imagined; brutal enough to terrify me. And what had I done after he had brutalized me last time? I had urged him to go even further next time. Now, with Lester haunting my thoughts again, next time had to be today.

  The email was short, but hard to type; my hands were shaking so badly that it was difficult to strike the keys accurately. When I was finished, I had to use both hands to keep the mouse steady enough to click the Send icon. Why did they make the icon so damn small?

  As soon as the message disappeared from the screen, I began to cry softly to myself. Tears rolled slowly down my cheeks. Pain was coming. Humiliation was coming. Degradation was coming. Sooner or later, Rick was coming. And when he came, he was surely going to rape me bad.

  How soon? He might already be reading the email. Hell, he didn't even have to open the email. The “INR” in the subject line would tell him all he needed to know; those three letters meant that “I needed raping” and gave him absolute permission to violate my body any way he wanted, as hard as he wanted, and as often as he wanted between now and noon tomorrow. How long did it take an email to show up in his computer? How long would it take for him to read it? How long to decide what to do to me? Maybe he was already walking out of his office, telling his secretary that he was feeling ill and was going to take the rest of the day off. It was only ten o'clock. He could be home in half an hour. That would give him more than a full day, twenty-five and a half hours to be exact, to brutalize me without rest or respite if he was of a mind to really put it to me. And why wouldn't he do me as soon as he could? What man could sit around in his office writing memos and phoning clients when he could be towering over his woman, pounding into every orifice in her body with wild abandon without fear of consequence or recrimination.

  Maybe it wasn't too late to stop him. I turned back to the keyboard and began typing furiously. Subject: “Please don't.” Message: “I've changed my mind. Please do not come after me. I'm begging you. Make love to me tonight if you want, but be kind and gentle like always.”

  I clicked the Send icon as quickly as I could, praying that the counter-message would arrive before Rick left his office.

  I waited and watched the email window, my heart pounding, whispering my prayer to the gods of the Internet. “Please, please let him get my message. Please, please let him understand that I've really changed my mind.”

  Nothing happened for the longest time but I dared not move from my chair, staring at the Inbox icon on the screen, waiting for a reply to arrive. Every time a car approached, I strained to hear if it was pulling into our driveway, shaking in terror until the muted rumble of the engine continued down the street.

  Then the computer dinged; a new email had arrived. A glance at the screen told me that it was from Rick. My heart sank when I read his subject line, “No Mercy.” The body of his message said, “Type until your fingers are raw, beg until your voice is hoarse. You have no power to stay me from my course. Your pleas are my marching music and your desperation is my motivation. My lust has slipped its chains. Nothing can stop me now. No matter what you say, I am coming for you and I will show you no mercy.”

  I cried out in despair. I had told him that the “INR” signal was irrevocable; that once sent, he should ignore any attempt to revoke it. Obviously he believed me. He was playing by my rules, now.

  My terrible rules.

  Too weakened by fear to stay in the chair, I slid to the floor and curled up into a ball of raw terror. Last time he had bent me over the dining room table, tore my clothes from me and raped me. I had tried to stop him but had been powerless against his superior physical strength. It had been a miserable, demeaning experience. So what had I done about it the next day? I had told him that simple rape was not enough. I had told him that he should make the next rape worse. What kind of fool am I?

  My heart was pounding like a bass drum. I was moaning like an abandoned soul that had been dropped into the deepest pit of Hell.

  An hour passed. What had I told Rick two months ago? I hadn't just asked him to rape me, I vaguely recalled telling him that he could bloody my nose, blacken my eyes, beat me black and blue. Had I really said those things or only thought them? I couldn't kid myself. I had really said them. Last time he had visited ample pain onto my body. I remembered the bruises on my face and chest and back. It had been almost a week before they had faded enough for me to cover them effectively with makeup. I remembered the pain in my crotch. It had been tender to my touch for days. The next few times that I had let Rick make love to me, he had been his normal, gentle self but it had hurt terribly. I had had to stifle my cries so that he wouldn't know that his rape had been so brutal that I had been left torn and bruised. A rape is never over when the act ends; the echoes linger for a long time.

  And, still, I had urged him to do more to me next time. This time. What had I been thinking?

  When I had sent the INR message, I had unleashed hell and a demon was coming for me. Already, I was repenting as sincerely as any sinner ever had, praying to a deaf god for forgiveness that would never be granted. Rick had no inkling of why I so richly deserved my terrible punishment, but that made no difference. He was going to do it regardless simply because I had as
ked him to do it. He loved me so much that he would do as I asked without hesitation. And I was pretty sure that he enjoyed doing it to me.

  I lost track of time. Had it been one hour or two? Surely it had not been three hours yet. Curled on the hardwood floor, the pressure points on my shoulder and hip and ankle had blossomed into flowers of pain. With the advent of the pain, I began to think about my predicament a little more rationally. If I was powerless to stop what was coming, I should at least prepare for it.

  How? How does a woman prepare to be beaten and raped? What is the dress code? Does one strip naked to make access easy? Or does she wear her dowdiest, most shapeless sweat suit in hopes of dampening the enthusiasm of her rapist? Or does she go the other way? Should she wear her sexiest negligee and most whorish makeup in the hope that that the man will be overcome by his need, slake his lust as quickly and simply as possible and then fall asleep, leaving her mostly undamaged and feeling almost untouched?

  Silly thoughts. I looked down at my jeans and tee-shirt. Clothes didn't matter. Rick had undoubtedly already decided what he was going to do to me and he was going to it when he got home no matter what I wore. These clothes were as good as any other. If he tore my tee-shirt to ribbons, it didn't matter; it was inexpensive. If the jeans got bloody, they could be soaked in cold water tomorrow and then washed clean.

  Bloody? There had been no blood last time. But last time he had not bloodied my nose. I had the impression, based mostly on movies, that noses could bleed a lot. Was that true? Maybe I'd find out tonight. Or maybe not. I remembered asking Rick to surprise me in unpleasant ways. He was a smart man with a rich imagination. If he took my request literally then I don't know what I should expect. Only that I should expect a truly unpleasant experience.