lady of the night

You hesitate, but the pull’s too strong — my voice, their stares, the promise of what's waiting for you. You ease yourself down, and the dildo slides in slow, stretching you open with a dull, insistent pressure. A ragged little sound slips out of you, and someone across the table snickers. I work quickly, looping rope around your wrists and ankles, tethering you to the chair’s frame. Your arms flex, testing the give, but there’s none. Your legs are splayed, locked wide, and that dildo’s buried deep now, pinning you in place.

"Can’t have you pawing at yourself," I say, loud enough for everyone to hear. “That'd ruin the fun.”

I step back, letting them see you. All of you. Your thighs twitch, muscles jumping under your skin as you adjust to the fullness. I dip my fingers between your legs, brushing the edge of where the dildo’s sunk into you, and pull them back glistening. "Look at that," I say, holding up the evidence. "Soaked already!"

They lean in, eyes glinting, and the questions start flying at you. "Does it feel good?" one asks, teasing. "You like being stuck like that?" Another chimes in, as if he's just discussing the weather.

You try to answer, but your words come out fragmented, sliced up by the shudders rolling through you. "It’s... mmphhh... it’s a lot," you manage, and then your breath gets caught as the first orgasm slams into you, yet another uninvited guest. Your head tips back, lips parting, and a moan spills out, raw and loud. The table erupts with laughter, a few claps, someone muttering, "Wow, that fast?"

I don’t let you settle. I circle behind you, resting my hands on your shoulders, and nod at the man closest. "Go ahead. Touch her." He doesn’t need telling twice. His fingers graze your chest, finding a nipple and tugging hard. You yelp, a high, desperate sound, and your body jerks against the ropes. Another hand joins in — someone’s pressing two fingers into your mouth, sliding them along your tongue. You choke a little, drool pooling at the corners, and they laugh at you, delighted.

"She’s a mess," they say, impressed. "You trained her well."

"She’s a good fuck doll," I agree, casual as anything. "Watch this." I remove their fingers, grip your jaw, tilting your head back, and shove my cock into your mouth. You whimper; eyes glassy. "See? She’ll take whatever you give her."

You’re fighting the restraints now, hips shifting, chasing friction that isn’t there. The initial entrance pushed you to orgasm, but now that you’ve settled in, it’s not enough. The dildo is filling you up but not moving, not giving you what you need. It’s maddening, and I can tell. I see your breath turn shallow, the way your fingers curl into fists. I love it. They love it. The whole room is feeding off your desperation.

Another hand snakes out, latching onto one of your nipples, pinching it tight and rolling it slow between their fingertips. Your moan comes out choked, garbled around my thick cock shoved deep in your mouth. "She’s loud," one says, grinning at me. "Is that the only way you can shut her up?"

"Pretty much," I say back, voice flat and smug. "Only keeps quiet when I’ve got her throat stuffed" That earns a burst of rowdy yells, glasses clinking in approval. "Don’t be shy now, I’m the only one that can fuck her, but you all can touch!"

And just like that, they swarm you. Hands everywhere, a frenzy of grabbing, stroking, yanking at your skin. Fingers are digging into your thighs, palms smacking your chest, someone raking nails down your side. It’s a flood of sensation, too much to track, hitting you like a shockwave that leaves you squirming, ropes creaking as you strain against them.

You’d never go yourself. You’re not the kind of girl who does things like that. You’re careful. Cautious. Always double-checking that you locked the door. Texting your friends when you get home safe. You don’t walk into the woods alone and wait to be taken by men you’ve never met.

Even if you can’t stop thinking about it.

About going somewhere and giving up control completely. Skipping all of the awkward "so what are you into?" conversations, and getting straight to someone grabbing you by the throat. Being used so thoroughly until there’s nothing left of you but raw sensation.

You finally go.

Just to have a look and see if it’s real. To satiate your curiosity. And you can always turn around and run if things get out of hand. That’s what you tell yourself.

You park at the trailhead as the sun starts to drop. The directions from the forum are specific, and you’ve read so many stories you basically know the way by heart. The woods are quiet. Golden light filtering through the leaves.

As you get closer to the point of no return, you remind yourself yet again that you could go back. You could go home and make dinner and watch porn and touch yourself to the fantasy instead of the reality. Just stay the girl you’ve always been.

But all those tiny reassurances feel hollow compared to the excitement of finally being here. Of a world opening up to you as the tree line thins out.

You step into the clearing.

It’s smaller than you imagined. A rough circle of grass surrounded by trees, private and enclosed. Late sunlight slants through the branches. It’s almost peaceful.

You stand in the center and wait.

Nothing happens. Five minutes. Ten. You start to feel foolish. The whole thing was probably made up. Some elaborate fiction for lonely people to jerk off to. You’re about to leave when you hear it.

Footstep behind you. Not on the trail, they’re coming through the trees.

You freeze, a scared doe that’s forgotten how to run, standing perfectly still, fists clenched at your sides, heart pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears.

The footsteps stop. He’s close. You can feel him there, just behind you.

"You came here on purpose?"

You nod. It’s all you can manage in the moment.

"You know what happens to girls who come here."

Another nod. Your legs are shaking.

A hand fists in your hair. Yanks your head back. You gasp, and then his mouth is at your ear.

"Then get on your knees."

You drop. Leaves and twigs pressing into your skin through your jeans. He keeps his grip on your hair, keeps your head pulled back at that sharp angle, and you still haven’t seen his face. Not that you’d look if you could. Even you know better than to make a mistake like that.

"Hands behind your back"

You comply. He lets go of your hair long enough to grab your wrists, and you hear a zip tie ratchet tight around them. Your pulse spikes. It’s actually happening. You’re in the woods with a stranger and your hands are bound and you’re so wet you can feel it soaking through your panties.

He comes around in front of you. You keep your eyes down. See his boots, his jeans, his hand working his belt open. He’s stroking himself slowly, already hard, and you watch as his cock dangles in front of your face.

"I own you until I cum. So open up, slut."

You open your mouth. He feeds himself in without ceremony, one hand gripping the back of your head, pushing deep enough that you gag. He holds you there. Your eyes water. Your throat spasms. Saliva pools around his shaft and drips down your chin.

"Breathe through your nose."

You try. It’s hard to think. His cock is thick and hot and alive in your mouth and all you can do is take it, let him use your throat.

He fucks your face with no tenderness at all. Long strokes that make you choke, that leave you gasping each time he pulls back. You’re drooling. Crying a little. Your arms ache from being pinned behind you. You wonder if he’ll ever finish. If you’ll be trapped here forever.

When he finally pulls out you gasp for air, chest heaving, and he’s already hauling you up by the arm, spinning you around, bending you over a fallen oak. Your cheek presses into rough bark. His hands yank your jeans down, your underwear, and then his fingers are sliding through the wet mess between your legs.

"Soaked," he says. Almost to himself. "Knew you would be. You sluts always are."

He pushes two fingers inside you. You cry out, hips jerking, cunt clenching around the intrusion. He fingers you roughly, carelessly, like he’s testing your limits. Finding out how much you can take.

"It’s usually the eager whores like you that end up here."

He says it with a laugh as his fingers withdraw and then the head of his cock is pressing against you, pushing in, stretching you open around him. He bottoms out in one long stroke and starts fucking you like you’re nothing, like your only purpose is to be a warm place for him to empty himself.

Your bound hands chafe against your lower back. The bark bites into your cheek and breasts. He’s gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, pulling you back onto his cock with each thrust, and you’re making sounds you’ve never heard yourself make. Animal sounds. Desperate, wordless begging.

You cum without warning, your whole body seizing around him. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. Just keeps pounding into you through the spasms, through the second orgasm that builds right on top of the first.

"One more," he says. "Give me one more and I’ll fill you up."

You shake your head. You can’t. You’re too sensitive and raw and broken.

"Yes you can."

His hand snakes around, finds your clit, starts rubbing in tight circles while he fucks you. The pleasure is almost painful. Too much. You’re crying now, really crying, tears and snot and drool smearing all over

"Come on. Give me what I want. Be a good whore."

The third orgasm rips through as if it had claws, and you feel him slam deep and hold there, feel his cock pump ropes inside you, feel the hot rush of him filling you up just like he promised.

He pulls out slowly. You feel his cum leak down your thigh. He cuts the zip tie, and your arms fall to your sides, numb and tingling.

You hear his belt buckle, his footsteps retreating back into the trees. And then you’re alone in the clearing, bent over with your jeans around your knees and your cunt full of a stranger’s cum.

Your mind is quiet for the first time. Like someone reached into your head and turned off the noise that’s been buzzing there for years.

You pull up your jeans slowly. Wipe your face with the back of your hand. Your legs are unsteady as you make your way back to the trail, back to your car and the rest of the world.

You sit in the driver’s seat for a long time without starting the engine. Your body throbs. Your wrists are marked. You can still taste him in the back of your throat.