She should tell others. She should be outraged. Friends tell their stories and she has a story too. But it doesn’t end like theirs. She could lie. But she does’t want to lie. She could tell the truth, but that would be worse than lying. 

Other women turn to her sometimes, and gaze at her expectantly, asking without asking; and she knows what the unanswered question tastes like, smells like, feels like—how on a summer’s night, being drunk, being too young to drink, and wandering into the woods to piss, into the dark woods, she found a place behind an old shed.  She reached under her thin sleeveless dress and slid her underwear to her ankles. 

She began to piss and before she was finished someone had grabbed her hair, yanked to her feet and into the shed while she was still pissing down her knees and thighs. She knew by the size of the hand, the strength in her hair, the hand over her mouth, the stranger was a man. She had stopped pissing, but her ankles dripped and she didn’t know where her underwear was. He held her with her back turned to him, her hair still in his fist, and he methodically unbuttoned each unbutton on the back of her dress until the last one below her thighs. Below that, he would either have to rip it or she would have to step out of it, but neither happened. She only felt the cool night on her naked spine.

Maybe she should have screamed.

She froze. Flight or fright; and she froze. But she jumped at the touch of a finger on her lip. Just a touch. The touch was gentle, both silken and calloused. The finger’s tip moved downward and touched the tip of her tongue. Her mouth was open. She didn’t know until that moment, and didn’t know how intimate touching a tongue could be. The finger moved over her bottom lip, lightly pulling it down until it passed from her lip to her chin. She was shaking. She could hear it in her own breathing.

The finger’s tip continued downward, from her chin to her throat, and then to the hollow between her collar bones. Still the finger moved downward, now moving to the right, to the top of her breast, then slowly, so slowly, over her nipple—stout, thick, a sudden knot that made her sharply inhale when his calloused fingertip slipped over it, letting it jump upright again, protruding and flush with moisture.   

 His finger’s tip continued downward as if counting each delicate bone, bird-like, suddenly slight. Then to the hollow delta at the meeting of her ribs above her belly. And now each of her breaths was a little cry as his finger’s tip continued over her belly, over her belly button, over the muscles of abdomen that were strong and over the vulnerable womb beneath the muscles. The finger paused there and now each inhalation and exhalation was a little bird-like cry. He paused as if appreciating the flat plane of her abdomen, its hardness and softness at the same moment, the potential within.

His finger’s tip then moved lower, to the pudenda, the soft fur, and almost to the entry between her legs, but stopped. She moaned as he slowly bent her over, as he parted her legs with his own—parted them wide—as his hand moved from her belly to the small of her back, pressing, curving her spine, bending her womb and abdomen downward like a waiting cup while lifting her pussy expectantly behind her. He pulled her head back as if he were teaching her, showing her, instructing her.

She didn’t dare move.

Then his finger’s tip slowly returned to her abdomen, downward, until she gave a little cry, then another, and then a wheezing with each breath. He touched her exposed clit, just touching, touching and nothing more.   His other hand released her hair and gently closed over her throat. The fingers never tightened. The gesture was only a gesture, though she imagined dying or, at least, imagined the gesture of dying—how she might struggle at first, how oblivion would envelop her like a welcome midnight, and imagined how her body would fall, lightly, like a leaf into dark waters. But his fingers never tightened and but for the slightest pressure, his finger made no motion. And whether for fright, whether for expecting what she had never experienced before, the cock opening her from behind, sliding into her, filling her, pouring its maleness into her, the fainting oblivion came, not the dark oblivion she expected, but the dark oblivion of an orgasm, that was like death, that made her sleek muscles powerfully convulse, made her cry out as though she were being choked, made her quiver like a leaf falling into dark waters.

The cock never opened her.

The hand between her legs and round her throat withdrew. Then she was alone in the shed, legs still wide, bent over, pussy lifted behind her, hands supporting her on the shed framing. She breathed with the fading shock of orgasm. A different liquid ran down her thighs; and that was the story she didn’t want to tell—that after that desire would never be the same, could never be the same, didn’t want to be the same—that everyone knows that fires burn brightest in the night, but don’t really know until they’re shown.

After a very long & needed break | Will Crimson

Categories: Dominance & Submission, Erotica, Fantasy, Forced Orgasm, Nonconsensual, RedBud, Reluctance, Sex with StrangersTags: , , , ,


  1. well welcome back, and well written. You do have a flare keeping a person on the brink and stopping at the wrong, but perfect place. Thank you
    I am really interested in reading more of your work. I have sent you an email asking for the PW to your other stories, there are a few pictures that have me SO interested in the story behind them.

  2. I am really drawn to your erotic work particularly the non-consensual. This erotic play is excellent. Perfect after a long absence. So much of your work is past word protected.
    This was truly arousing and that is the goal of good erotica wanting more. Hungry.

    • It’s interesting how the thing that got me and (other erotic writers) banned from Amazon (among other ebook distributors) are depictions of non-consensual sex. And yet what most of us expect from erotic art is a place to experience what we don’t normally experience in our every day lives. It’s the reason people read fiction, whether that’s upmarket, fantasy, mystery, horror, sci-fi, etc. Saying that erotic writers can’t write about non-consensual sex is like banning murder-mystery novelists because they described murder.

    • hawkg1949

      I remember from my early childhood I had fantasies that were consensual, mainly taking through penetration. I read all of Nancy Fridays works and I think you may have read those. The females fantasies like the male perhaps even more more so and many of the female fantasies are of being taken non-consensually. My mind was taken in by the real fantasies of woman that Nancy Friday wrote. Now that I am older I need fantasies that are real. Vanilla is not enough. I prefer the term “non-consensual consensual play.

    • I like that: “non-consensual consensual play”. I like that a lot. I’m not sure what you mean by “real fantasies” as opposed to vanilla, but call me intrigued. What’s a “real fantasy”? That sounds like a contradiction in terms?

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