She’d sought me out. She had a force fantasy that she wanted to have fulfilled. She signed the consent form, allowing for bondage, gagging, and full oral, vaginal, and anal penetration. She’d hesitated, asking if she could cross “anal” off the list. She’d tried it once with her boyfriend, but he “couldn’t get it in.” I knew what that meant. He tried, but because it started to hurt, she made him stop. What a bitch! So, I gave her the bottom line: No anal, no deal. And she signed. Not exactly a legal, binding contract, especially signed by someone who’d just celebrated her 18th birthday the day before. The arrangement looked official enough, and I’m sure at least she thought it was a valid agreement.

On the ride to my place, she rattled off a whole list of things she’d heard about but never tried. She’d never been “on top”; never had her pussy licked; never deep-throated a cock, because she’d always chickened out. She has never been tied up. She had never taken more than the very tip of a cock in her ass. Certainly, she had never been in a raped scene. So being the wonderful guy I am, I promised to make all of her little ole dreams come true!

I ripped her clothes off and threw her down on the bed and proceeded to undertake the items on her “to do” list, one by one. She loved it! She played her part well, resisting and begging and trembling with fear, eyes wide with horror—opening and closing her bound hands in helpless frustration. The only part of her not in full-character was her pussy, which told the true tale by excreting a river of juice, which was turning into an ever-widening wet-spot as it puddles on the mattress.

So, I’m butt fuckin’ this 18-teen girl. Then she’s trying her best to scream and cry and beg and escape all at once. There was no direction she can squirm. I mean, she’s tied up, face-down, spread-eagled on my bed. Side-to-side movement creates a “reaming” sensation as my imbedded cock “stirs” her guts. She can’t go forward–she’s already flat against the mattress. She arched backward, in an attempt to throw me off of her once. Once.

It happened to be at the very moment of my second thrust. Her asshole was so tight that despite my most vicious attempt, I wasn’t able to hilt my cock on the first thrust as I began the brutal lunge that would cram the last two inches of my rock-hard cock up her shapely tail, her ass rams back at me in a misguided escape attempt. Silly girl! Even though her panty/duct tape gag, I was worried that my neighbors would hear the agonized scream. They might think someone was being raped. of course, that was not the case.

We ran into a little misunderstanding when it came to oral rape. As my cockhead ventured from her mouth into her throat, she tapped me twice on the thigh with one bound palm. Then twice more, as if this were a pre-arranged “time out” signal. It wasn’t. Safe-words and safe-gestures are for amateurs. So, I shoved deeper. AND SHE BIT ME! Not hard, and only for a second. But clearly, as a “warning bite.” I yanked my cock out.

“I’m sorry. But I can’t take it that deep. I couldn’t breathe! And I was about to gag on it. So just don’t go so deep, OK? But go ahead. You can go back to raping me now.”

Well, it was pretty apparent to me that she didn’t really “get” this whole rape concept. I pulled a ring gag from my nightstand drawer and chuckled a bit as her facial expression changed from curiosity to concern, then to horror, just a moment before I wedged the device between her teeth, securing the strap behind her head.

My cock slid through the metal ring, over her frantic tongue, and right into her throat. I stayed there for a half a minute, knowing full well that she could not breathe at all. I watched her body fight a losing battle to overcome it’s the natural urge to gag. Slowly, her back arched, causing her glistening bare pussy to rise toward the ceiling. Then, with shocking suddenness, a severe convulsion wracked her young body. Her sweating tits slapped wetly together, and her throat muscles milked against my cockhead. I pulled out long enough to make sure she wasn’t choking on vomit, but it turned out it was just a dry heave that she’d suffered.

My skull-fucking of this pretty blonde began in earnest. I gave her the full length every time, and she gagged every few strokes, at first. Then, as she learned to control it somehow, she only gagged every ten or twelve strokes. My arms supported all my weight while I throat raped this young girl, and my hands were filled with her big tits, flattening them, holding her firmly in place as I pounded into her mouth over and over. It was tempting to shoot there, draining my nuts straight into her gullet while she gagged and struggled for breath. But there was still one hole left on the ole “to do” list. Reluctantly, after nearly 60 minutes of plundering her warm oral cavity, I retreated.

I figured her jaw must be pretty sore by now, but I was in a hurry to bust that virgin ass, so I had to leave the hole-gag in place. To make it a more effective silencer, I stuffed her red thong panties through the ring and secured the opening with three strips of duct tape. Then I repositioned and re-tied her petite body, face down on the bed.

Peeling her buns aside, I could immediately see that this was going to be a big problem—for her. She’d probably never actually seen her asshole before. And therefore, by agreeing to allow it to be raped anally, I had made a terrible miscalculation of scale. It was a tiny, pink dot, which could be easily covered up with say, a pencil eraser. My Big cock throbbed painfully at sight. It seemed like a highly improbable fit in the tight cunt ass.

Sometimes, a St. Bernard mates with a Chihuahua. This girl was about to know exactly what it feels like to be that Chihuahua. Right down to the bulging eyes, I bet.

She miscalculated a couple of other details, too. Like whether or not I would stop if I were hurting her. After all, her boyfriend did, so I would, too, right? I’m sure she realized how wrong she was about that, sometimes while enduring the throat-rape of extreme brutality.

The other thing she miscalculated was the simple difference in style between her wimpy pathetic boyfriend and me. She knew, deep down, that she could have taken him; could have withstood the pain IF she had wanted to. He was probably gentle and caring for her. He would take his time stretching her ass or trying his best to make sure he wasn’t causing her too much discomfort for the young cunt. He probably used gobs of lube, gently working a finger in and out of her anus while whispering soothing words into her ear.

Me? I RAMMED MY FUCKING BIG COCK AS FAR AS I COULD INTO HER TINY, DRY ASSHOLE WITH ONE THRUST, PULLING BACK ON HER HAIR AND GROWLING “TAKE IT, BITCH!”

“Want me to stop?” I asked, after hitting my cock on the second thrust.

“YES!” she screamed into her gag, ceasing her struggling.

“Are you sure?” I taunted.

“YES!”

See, I AM stopped. What else would you like me to do?”

Knowing exactly what she would say, I mouthed the words along with her: “TAKE IT OUT!”

“OK, if you feel that strongly about it,” I whispered, pulling back as she breathed a sigh of relief. When the ring of my cockhead backed up against the inside of her anal ring, I paused. “Are you sure you don’t want me to just ram it back in?” I asked.

“NOOO!” she screamed into the gag, filling the dark silence of the bedroom with that word that I love to hear from chicks, but only when they are as helpless as she was then.

“Well then, Amber, it SUCKS TO BE YOU!” I rammed forward again, hard, this time burying my bone with a single, buttock-flattening lunge. Her struggling/screaming/crying/begging all resumed instantly, as I began stroking quickly, but fully and firmly.

In an attempt to empathize with her, I thought back to the worst pain I’d ever felt. I was thirteen years old when I killed my mother.

Of course, no one blamed me directly, but I knew it was my fault. Too sick to leave the house during her last few years of life, she would send me to the corner store on my bike to purchase the cigarettes she needed. The ones her doctor told her were killing her. Even back then, stores didn’t really approve of selling smokes to kids, but my mom wrote them a note, and that somehow made it alright.

When she did finally succumb, I didn’t take it too well. They said that cancer killed her, and some blamed the doctor for not doing enough to save her. Others blamed the tobacco companies for selling such a poisonous product. But for me, I knew who it was that had killed her— an eighteen-year-old on a bike. A shiny new bike…part of the bribe offered to me to overcome my reluctance for running the deadly errands. I don’t think I’ve ever really forgiven my mother for that. I may still be harboring a little bit of anger.

Unwilling to speak after the funeral, I was sent to what would now be called “grief-counseling.” Where I learned that there are five stages of grief, which one passes through slowly while grieving. “It takes time to go through these stages,” I was told. “Sometimes, months, sometimes years.”

But the Psychiatrist had that part wrong. Through the magic of anal rape, I could watch before my eyes as women went through these stages in a matter of minutes, all while impaled on my cock.

You know the stages, don’t you?

1.Denial. “Noooooo!”

2.Bargaining. “I’ll do anything else you want, just take it out of there!”

3.Anger. “I’ll kill you when you untie me, motherfucker!”

4.Acceptance. The struggling stops.

5.Depression. The sobs replace the screaming and begging of moments ago.

Little Amber progressed nicely through all of these stages.

I tried to reach beneath her to grasp her big titties, and she fought me a little. “I’ll cum faster if you let me hold your beautiful boobs,” I whispered. She raised herself as best as she could considering her bonds. I grabbed her hooters, and kept my promise, thrusting quickly toward my climax while her sobs filled the bedroom air, and her tears flowed freely onto the sheets.

She had become quiet, almost catatonic by the time I rolled off and untied her, which was fine. I’m sure she had a lot to think about. She dressed slowly, stopping periodically to rub her wrists and ankles. The ligatures had left bruises. Her right wrist was almost bleeding, which would have triggered the “no blood” clause in the consent agreement.

But of course, those injuries were self-inflicted, not caused by me. Even when it was clear that the bonds would not give way, she continued to pull against them. Though not uncommon during a brutal anal rape, I’ve found that this is a self-correcting phenomenon. Victims always pull, but only until the struggling hurts worse than the rape, which they are struggling to avoid. Judging by the damage to her skin on her wrists and ankles, this was the most painful anal rape I’ve ever committed. I smiled, handing her some lotion.

She didn’t speak during the long drive back to her car, still parked at the McDonalds where she worked. She didn’t offer a goodbye kiss as she got out or even respond to my “goodbye.” But neither did she slam the door, or run screaming back into the still busy restaurant. All in all, it was a good rape, and she was a good sport about the whole thing.

I didn’t expect to hear back from her so soon. I have seen she was online, but she didn’t IM me. Finally, I did receive an E-mail, late in the day following our encounter.

From Amber
My pusssy, ass, tits are sore for a week but I like that.