A Bestiary of Unnatural Women

by Ashley Zacharias

  After a few minutes, he pushed my head away. As soon as he was clear of my lips, he slapped a piece of duct tape across my mouth, sealing his juices inside for my gustatory pleasure. Spit his cum out? I couldn't even casually let it dribble down my chin from the corner of my lips. And there wasn't a hope in hell of rinsing out with a nice glass of cool water and then brushing my teeth. I had no choice but to swallow as vigorously as I could in a futile attempt to clear the taste of him from my mouth. It didn't work. He was all over in there. I would keep tasting him for as long as he kept me gagged.

  He left me kneeling on the floor for a long, long time. I heard bedsprings creak and knew that he was lying down. The man had worked hard and now he needed a rest. Maybe he'd even take a nap. I prayed that he wouldn't fall into a deep sleep until he had released me from this position. The manner of my restraint had already become a source of relentless agony. My shoulders were aching from the constant pressure on them, my knees were on fire from being bent so sharply, and I was suffering a million needle stabs in my calves and feet from lack of circulation.

  I eased myself onto my side and tried to straighten my legs as much as possible to restore the blood flow through my knees. It was like trying to touch my toes in high school gym class, but doing it when lying on rough carpeting. The exercise helped a little, but at the cost of straining my back. I could not get my knees completely straight and could not hold even this partially straight position for long.

  I didn't think that I could survive an entire night of being bent like this. Blood clots would form in my veins at my knees, break away, and clog the vessels in my brain and heart and lungs.

  I could hear my rapist breathing slowly and regularly a couple of feet away. He was enjoying unlimited comfort in the bed that I had rented with money that Rick had earned.

  After some time, it seemed like hours, the bed creaked again. Heavy feet hit the floor by my head.

  More pain was coming and the duct tape covering my mouth couldn't keep a soft whimper from escaping.

  But, to my surprise, I heard the door to the room open and then close again. I strained to hear footsteps, but could distinguish no meaningful sounds apart from the cars rumbling down the highway.

  Unlike my husband, the stranger walked silently, either because he was naturally light on his feet or because he wanted to surprise me. Should I hope that the evil sociopath had left or should I hope that he was still here? If he was still here, then he would undoubtedly hurt me again in terrible ways before long. But if he had sated himself and left for good, then I was doomed to spend at least twelve hours in agony with my hands taped to my ankles until a maid or manager came to find out if I had left without checking out. Even if he was a sociopath, surely he could have shown a sliver of mercy. If he was finished with me, he could have left me restrained in a position that kept me equally helpless but was less painful and less humiliating. Hadn't I given him a good enough blowjob? I'd done my best. I must have pleased him. He had come copiously in my mouth. I could still taste his stale spunk. Didn't I deserve a reward for my efforts?

  Without warning, heavy hands grabbed me and rolled me onto my back. I was startled because I was sure that he had left the room. I would have screamed if my mouth had not been taped shut.

  A strong arm slipped behind my knees and another one under my shoulders. I was hoisted off the floor and dropped on the bed.

  I knew this couldn't be Rick. I'm not a large woman, I'm definitely not fat, but I still weigh nearly a hundred and thirty pounds. Rick spends his days sitting at a desk. He'd never be able to lift me off the floor when I was trussed up like a side of beef. This man must be some kind of body builder. A body builder who walked like a cat.

  Lying on my back on the bed with my hands taped to my ankles, my knees automatically flopped open. It would have taken more energy than I had left to keep them closed and that would have increased my pain to unbearable levels. Spread wide like this, I must have made a pretty sight for the man. I assumed that he was enjoying the view because he didn't move for the longest time. I imagined him standing at the foot of the bed, staring at my naked, splayed cunt and felt myself blush. Isn't that a hell of a thing? My mouth was filled with his cum and I was still concerned about my modesty. I know that Rick would enjoy a view like this and I'm ashamed to say that, if he were in the room and I were not bound and blindfolded, I would have closed my legs to deprive him of that little bit of joy. I made a second unholy vow to God that if I were ever alone with Rick again, I'd be happy to turn around, spread my legs wide, bend over as far as I could, reach back, pull my cheeks apart and let him stare at my most intimate geography as much as he wanted. How could I have ever thought that my dear husband deserved anything less than everything that I could give to him?

  I knew what was coming but I was still surprised when the bed creaked and tilted towards the foot, the far end sinking under the stranger's weight. Strong hands grabbed my knees and forced them even further apart to allow his heavy hips to slid down the insides of my thighs. I felt the weight of the man roll along my torso from crotch to clavicle until he was entirely supported by my pelvis, abdomen, and chest. Hot, moist breath filled my right ear as I felt his rigid cock pressing against my juicy cunt. Why was I so wet? I sure as hell wasn't welcoming this second horrible violation.

  I was vaguely thankful that he was about to stab me in my cunt with his cock and not in my belly with his knife.

  The penetration was harsh and quick followed by a long and painful pounding. My clit was crushed against my pubic bone, my crotch stretched and scraped. I tried to move in rhythm with him, not to stimulate him better, but to ease the force of his thrusts against me. My efforts were useless; with my hands fastened to my ankles, I couldn't move nearly far enough or fast enough to make any difference. When he finally came, his orgasm was silent but strong. So strong that I wondered if this was the same man who had come in my mouth only a couple of hours ago. Wouldn’t a man who had come once have trouble coming so hard a second time so soon?

  Then a truly horrible thought entered my mind. Maybe this was not the same man. Maybe the sound of the door opening had been rapist number one letting rapist number two into the room. Maybe both men walked equally silently. Maybe it was even worse than that. Maybe there were more that two silent men in the room. Maybe there were a dozen. Maybe I would spend the night being the guest of honor at a gang rape.

  This was more than I had bargained for. I had asked for a simple rape by my husband, not pulling a train of strangers all night long.

  As the man rolled off me, I began to cry. Not the high-pitched whining caused by physical pain, but deep, heart-felt sobs of self-pity. I don't know how my tears escaped the duct tape that was plastered over my eyes but there must have been some tiny gaps because they kept rolling down the sides of my face until the hair at the back of my head was wet with salty water.

  Crying was a terrible idea. My nose got all stuffed up and I couldn't breath through the tape covering my mouth. I almost suffocated trying to get enough air to blow my nose. My rapist made no move to rescue me. If I hadn't forced myself to stop crying and managed to blow enough snot across my chin to get the air that I so desperately needed, I would have died. What would the coroner's report say? “Stupid rape victim cried until she drowned in her own snot.” I concentrated on continuing to breath and blow snot out of my nose until I felt safe again.

  It must have been a disgusting sight for my rapist but he didn't seem to care.

  I stopped paying attention to him and lay on my back, immobile and suffering for a long time. What had he done while I was struggling to breathe? Did he spend that time dispassionately watching me fight to stay alive, not caring about the outcome? Or had he already fallen asleep and was ignorant of my distress? Or had he left the room? I hadn't been paying attention, but I had the impression that he had risen from the bed some time ago. I didn't feel a man's weight pulling down on the mattress.

  Once again I was surprised by a t
ouch. This time it was not a rough, heavy hand, it was the cold, sharp edge of the knife lightly slipping over my body. I could not tell if it was cutting me or not but I froze, daring not even to twitch for fear that I would force myself against the finely honed blade. It circled around and around my breasts. I didn't feel like I was being cut and I silently prayed that I was right because my breasts would look like raw hamburger if all those strokes were slicing through my skin. Surely it would hurt a lot more if he were cutting me. But, I knew that sometimes shallow cuts with a very sharp edge could feel numb for a while before the nerves woke up and began to fire.

  The blade left my breasts and traveled down the length of my stomach, over my hipbone, and down the outside length of my thigh. After describing some kind of intricate pattern there, it continued past my knee and down my calf to where my hands were taped to my ankles. I felt the tip of the knife slip between the tape and my skin and began to cut – not my skin but the tape. It seemed to take a long time, but I finally felt the tape part along one edge of my hand. Then the real pain started. First, the tape was ripped violently from my hand and ankle. I don't know if any of my skin had been pulled off and was still stuck to the tape, but it felt like the back of my hand and my ankle had been flayed. Then, even worse, my knee slowly, involuntarily extended, pulling the big muscles in my thigh and calf taut from their cramped position and letting the blood flow again. The pain was agonizing; only the tape over my mouth kept me from screaming so loudly that I would have been heard by the drivers in the cars on the highway.

  And that was only the right leg; I suffered the same agonies all over again when he ripped the tape from my left hand and ankle. Any thought of using my sudden freedom to bolt from the room was laughable. I could barely move my legs and shoulders.

  The issue of escape was moot. Within seconds, the man taped my ankles together. Immediately, he rolled me onto my stomach, roughly pulled my arms behind my back, and taped my wrists together.

  That was how I spent the night: lying on my stomach, hands taped behind the small of my back and my legs taped together, blindfolded, my mouth gagged and awash with stale semen, listening to my rapist snoring softly beside me. I spent the night trying to convince myself that my rapist's snores sounded exactly like my husband's.

  I almost succeeded.

  I don't know if I dozed off or not but I was totally exhausted in the morning when I felt the man stirring beside me. Stirring and horny. He wasted no time slicing through the tape on my ankles, rolling me onto my back, forcing my thighs apart with his knees, and raping me again. He was fast and rough; even faster and rougher than the previous night. I hoped that he was taking a quickie for the road and not using me one last time before slicing my throat.

  When he had finished taking his pleasure with me, he grabbed me by the hair and dragged me off the bed. Holding my head at waist level, he pulled me across the room. With my feet free, I could scramble across the floor, making sure that the rest of me followed my head. When I felt tile underneath my feet, I realized that he was taking me into the bathroom. He pulled me backward until I tripped and fell, ass first, onto the toilet seat. I hadn't drunk anything in more than twenty-six hours and was thirsty as a camel, but I still had to pee bad. To hell with modesty. I peed even though he was probably still in the bathroom watching me. It was the first and last time that I ever peed in front of a man. At least I think I peed in front of him. Because I was still blindfolded, I don't know if he was actually there or not.

  With my hands taped behind my back, I couldn't wipe myself dry but there was nothing that I could do about that, either. Today, chaffing was the least of my worries.

  I waited, too tired and sore to try to guess what he would do next. After a short time, he subjected me to the cruelest part of the entire experience. Grabbing me by his favorite handle, my hair, he pulled me off the toilet, bent me backwards over the sink until the back of my head was forced against the sink faucets and began wrapping duct tape around and around my head and the spout. He kept wrapping and wrapping, fastening my head, face up, firmly to the strong, immoveable iron pipe. Every so often he would stop, tear the tape off, and start wrapping again. He must have used the entire roll. The only part of my head that was left sticking out of the layers of tape was my nose and the top of my scalp.

  My position was excruciating. My back was bowed over the sharp edge of the narrow strip of counter in front of the sink. The corner was cutting into my upper arms. My legs were in a terribly awkward position and straining to take as much weight off my back as possible. My neck was stretched out and I feared that if my legs gave way, the weight of my sagging body would break my vertebrae, leaving me dead or paralyzed.

  After he was finished, the bastard took the opportunity to play with my tits for a seemingly endless amount of time. He massaged them, he tweaked my nipples, he caressed their curves, he bounced them back and forth. He must have spent ten minutes playing with them, ignoring that I suffered the agonies of hell during every second.

  Then, when he tired of that, he pulled my legs apart, straining them even more, and spent another few minutes playing with my cunt, pulling at my outer lips, stretching the inner ones, poking my clit, probing around inside with his fingers.

  By the time he finished, he must have known my nether regions better than my gynecologist. Certainly he knew them better than my husband. He was a curious bastard and I was terrified that he was sizing me up for some hideous mutilation.

  I made my third unholy vow to God during this torture. I vowed that, if I survived this day with my parts intact, I would let my husband play with my tits and cunt any time he wanted for as long as he wanted. There was no way that Rick deserved to receive anything less than this man was taking from me.

  I felt his knife again, but he didn't use it to carve my womanhood into ribbons of bloody flesh; he slipped it between my wrists and cut through the tape that bound them together behind my back. He only cut only the side furthest from my back, but I could pull my wrists away from the tape if I wanted. If I dared. What was he planning next? How would he bind me now that he had my head taped to the bathroom faucet? Would he tape my hands to some other part of the plumbing? All I could do was wait and see, fearful that if I moved, I would displease him and feel his wrath in the form of a knife cutting my throat.

  Suddenly I was seized with terror because I saw the logic behind this bondage. My head was bent back, exposing my throat. My throat was fixed directly over top of the sink. He could drape a small, improvised plastic tarp over my head and neck to catch any spray and then slip the knife underneath it and slit my throat with a single stroke. I would bleed out in a minute, every drop of my blood swirling down the drain. When he had bled me dry, he could carry my white corpse out to his car wrapped in a sheet without spilling a single incriminating drop. Though everyone would know that I had stayed in this room overnight, there wouldn't be a speck of evidence that I had been killed here. I had paid for the room in advance. If he drove away in my car and disposed of my body elsewhere, the police would assume that I had been running away from my husband and had stopped here overnight before driving off to parts unknown and beginning a new life under a new name.

  Rick would spend the rest of his life wondering what had happened to me.

  With a furious surge of desperation, I ripped my hands away from the tape and began scrabbling at the wrappings that held my head in place. I pried my fingers under the edges of the tape and pulled at them, this way and that, but couldn't loosen it. Giving up and thinking for a minute, I realized that I had to find the end of the tape and unwind it. I wasted another few minutes scrabbling around trying to catch the end of the tape and failing. I told myself to calm down. I had to solve this problem methodically. Trying to ignore the pain in my back and the strain on my legs, I began following the edges of the tape. The outermost piece would be distinguished by having two edges that I could feel; the lower layer would have some if its edges covered by the outermost layer.


  By the time I found the end of the tape, my legs were quivering from the strain. I could not hold myself up much longer; death by broken neck was looming large in my mind. I wanted to bawl my eyes out, but dared not, remembering that, as long as my mouth was covered, a stuffed-up nose would kill me more certainly than anything else.

  I unwound and unwound the tape. Every time I came to the end of a piece, I had to discard it and search anew for the end of the next piece. As best as I could tell by feel, the pieces seemed to be about five feet long. I must have unwound more than a dozen pieces before I got to the final layer.

  Then the fun really began. The tape was stuck tight to my hair and skin. I was sure that I was leaving my scalp half bald as I frantically jerked the tape free, certain that I was pulling of huge chunks of skin from my face as I ignored the pain and yanked at it. I did it because I had no time left for finesse; I would be better off scarred for life than dead for eternity. The sociopath could return at any time and finish me off. I didn't know why he had been gone for as long as he had – maybe he was having trouble finding a suitable plastic bag to catch the blood spray – but I was sure that he was going to come back and kill me at any second. Why else would he have left me in such a convenient position for a throat cutting? And even if he didn't come back in time, my legs were giving out. They were quivering violently from exhaustion. If they collapsed before I freed my head, the weight of my body would surely break my neck. If the break did not kill me outright, it would leave me quadriplegic, which, in my mind, would be even worse.