Ademetos presents

Sue's Birthday

Heavy, f, M, Real Life, Rape, Non-Consensual
Sue is a very successful lawyer who is a senior partner in one of the big London firms, and a good friend of ours. If I say more, I'll give the story away.

It was my birthday, but you would never have known. I had no plans for the evening, and even if I did have I would have cancelled them. It had been a terrible day at work. We had a major case that looked as though it was about to go seriously wrong. We had to get a long brief to the barrister the following day, and at lunchtime I'd discovered that the junior partner working on it had made a complete mess of things. Chewing him out had improved my mood but didn't change the fact that I had to spend all afternoon and now all evening straightening it out. Then our new secretary managed to lose the documents on the computer, leading to another couple of hours of panic. It was after seven by the time I pulled into my driveway, my head buzzing with all that needed to be done. Truth to tell, I'd completely forgotten about my birthday. I was just looking forward to an urgent trip to the bathroom, opening a bottle of wine and settling down in front of my computer to get the job finished.

As I put the key in the door, I heard a sound behind me. Before I could turn around, two strong arms grabbed me, one around the waist, the other around my face, covering my mouth and stopping me crying out. "Open the door", a voice hissed in my ear, the rancid smell of his breath flooding around me. The key was already turned and I fell against the door, pushing it open as he pushed up behind me and shoved me roughly into the house. "OK, you rich bitch. I've been watching you for weeks, coming and going in your fancy car and your fancy clothes. You make me sick, and now you're going to pay for it. You're going to feel what a cock feels like in your spoiled little cunt". He pushed me into the kitchen and turned me around, effortlessly, pinning me against the wall. I'm not small, I'm tall and work out regularly, but he was well over six feet, and strong, and I couldn't move. His face was inches from mine, I could see every hair in his dirty, unshaven beard, every gap in his dirty, crooked teeth. Close up, his breath was so awful that I was nearly gagging. He pressed his filthy mouth to mine and pushed his tongue into me in a horrible, awkward kiss. He pulled away and hissed at me, "Don't dare make a fuss, bitch, or you're dead". From a pocket he pulled a vicious-looking knife, over six inches long, and pressed the point into my throat. I started to scream, which became a gurgle as he pressed the knife harder into me drawing a drop of blood, and I realised he was serious. I was terrified. Suddenly my bursting bladder gave way, and I felt a warm flood down my legs, drenching my tights and making a puddle under me. "Bitch has pissed herself, huh? Not so high and mighty now, are we? Better get those nice clothes off before I have to cut them."

He could have no idea what my clothes were worth, over a thousand pounds. Even though I had the fear of God in me, I wasn't about to let him destroy them. But I must have hesitated too long for him. I felt a violent shock against my cheek, my head jerked to one side and blood filled my mouth. Then he brought his hand back and smashed it into the other side of my face. "Quick. Now," he hissed. I was whimpering in pain and shock, sobbing through the bloody mess in my mouth. As quickly as I could, trembling and barely able to stand, I removed my jacket, skirt and silk blouse, standing before him in only my bra, tights, and shoes. Suddenly I was cold and shivering, my wet tights now cold and clammy against my skin. He thrust the knife upwards, cutting through my bra in one stroke. It fell free to my sides, letting my breasts drop against my chest. Then before I could even realise what he was doing, he draw it back down again against the inside of my right breast leaving a long shallow cut. The blood was already oozing out and making a trail down to my belly before he even spoke.

"You're not too quick, are you, you stuck-up bitch? When I say jump, you jump. Next time if you're not quick enough I'll chop your tit off". I was sure he meant it. Terrified as I was, I was pretty offended at being called "not too quick", but I wasn't about to argue with him. With his next knife stroke he neatly slit my tights,the knife point drawing blood from my pussy. He grabbed me and twisted my tender pussy, hurting me badly. I started to cry out again, but rapidly stopped when he pressed the knife against my breast. I was completely terrified, sobbing and breathing rapidly in tiny shallow bursts, blood trickling down my cheeks and snot dribbling from my nose. Yet I've had violent fantasies like this since I was a little girl. In real life I'm assertive and even dominant, or I would not have been so successful in a man's world, but privately I dream of being raped and beaten, tortured and humiliated. Lately I've been lucky enough to experience some of this. I've found it every bit as exciting as in my dreams. But those are still fantasies. This was real, a real violent, dirty man, threatening my body and my life and about to rape me for real. I was not excited, I was terrified and humiliated, for real.

"Down on your knees and lick up your filth, bitch", he commanded me. My tits aren't that great but I'm quite fond of them, so I went straight down to it. It was horrible, lapping my dirty urine off the floor like a dog at his command. And while I was down there, my bottom sticking up, the next thing was I felt him hot and hard inside me. While he thrust into me, with one hand he held the knife against my breast, occasionally slipping and making a small cut. It didn't take him long to ejaculate inside me, soiling me with his semen. When he pulled out of me I just felt completely violated and worthless. He moved round to put his penis, shrunken but already starting to harden again, into my mouth. "Lick me clean, slut", he ordered. I didn't dare disobey, especially since he was now holding the point of the knife just inside my vagina, ready to slit me open if I wavered. He tasted of semen and of my juices, not an unpleasant taste but one which under the circumstances I found pretty disgusting. I tried not to gag as I obeyed him.

I will not catalogue in precise detail everything he did to me over the next twenty minutes or so. It was awful at the time, a constant string of humiliating orders and painful jabs and cuts with the knife every time I hesitated even for an instant, and sometimes when I didn't, with constant violation of every orifice. He made me beg for punishment, in the crudest way, the knife pressed hard against my breast or my pussy, sobbing out "Please, please fuck my slut cunt with your big cock". If I didn't do it as he wanted, he slapped my face again. I was sprawled on the hard kitchen floor, breathless and sobbing, a complete wreck. Semen was oozing out of my vagina and my anus, and my mouth seemed full of his semen and my own blood from where he had slapped me so violently. My vagina and my anus both hurt badly from the repeated abuse. My body hurt, too, in the half dozen places where the knife had cut the skin and blood was oozing over me. When he took me in the anus I had urinated again and my skin was covered in drying urine. I was in a terrible, terrible state. I have never felt so low in my whole life.

Eventually he seemed to have finished. Despite trying, rubbing himself and making me suck him, he could not get hard again. "OK bitch, looks like you've managed to wear me out. You're a slut after all, aren't you? I bet you enjoyed every minute of it". This is what all rapists think, or so they say, but like all victims I had hated every second of it and just felt debased, I just wanted to curl up and die. He grabbed my wrists and taking a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, he cuffed my hands around a pipe. "Don't want you calling the cops as soon as I get out of here", he said by way of explanation. He had yet another humiliation in store for me, as he took his now-limp penis and urinated over me, splashing my face, my body, and my pussy, up and down, seeming like it would never stop. The strong smell filled the air, and the few drops that made it into my mouth had a bitter, intense taste. This time I really did gag, and vomited feebly, soiling myself. I was so weak that I couldn't even move away from the puddle but just lay there coughing and crying as the mixture of vomit and urine soaked into my hair.

He dangled the key of the handcuffs over me. "Bet you'd like to have this, wouldn't you?", he teased. "Please", I begged through my tears, "please don't take it". "I like hearing you beg, slut. Come on, beg some more". And so I did, imploring him through my sobs not to leave me in this terrible condition. "Not good enough, try harder", he said, kicking me hard enough to hurt, the impact of his hard leather shoes bruising my soft flesh, "Kiss my boot like you'd kiss my cock, and I'll see". I had no choice, I pressed my blood-filled mouth to the cracked leather of his boot and licked and sucked at it, tasting the filth that caked it. He let me continue for a while, then abruptly withdrew his foot. "Not good enough, you useless slut. I expect somebody will find you". He dropped the key back in his pocket, and walked off out of the house, leaving the door open.

I screamed out loud, just once. Then I realised I didn't want one of the neighbours coming in and seeing me like this. I started sobbing uncontrollably. How long would I be there? This was Tuesday, and my cleaner visits on Friday. I wouldn't die, but it would be an awfully long wait, and I couldn't bear the thought of someone finding me in this terrible state. As time passed, my fear and terror grew. Suppose he came back, or sent an accomplice? Suppose my cleaner didn't come for some reason, then I really could die. Suppose a neighbour saw the door open and came in to check, finding me like this? My fears built upon themselves, into a towering horror of everything that could happen. The worst happened and I lost control of my bowels, adding to the stink in the room. Now I really couldn't bear the humiliation of being found, swimming in my own filth, even if the alternative was even worse. I vowed to myself that I would never, ever again have a rape fantasy, if I lived. I always knew that fantasy is not reality, but the full horror of this was just unimaginably worse than any fantasy. I promised I would purge myself of all improper and lascivious thought, if I could just survive.

Time passed, I don't know how long. I ran out of energy to cry or sob. I just lay there in the cold and congealing mess, trembling and whimpering. Then I heard footsteps, the distinctive noise of my rapist. I gasped and let out a scream, and wet myself one more time. Had he come back to kill me? Or had he regained his strength and he was going to start again? As he walked into the room he covered his mouth, saying, "Phew, what a stink. The bitch has shat herself. I bet you wouldn't want all your fancy lawyer types to see you right now, or rather to smell you?". He took half a dozen pictures from different angles. This was awful! What was he going to do with the pictures? Finish my career? Post them on the Internet? I started to beg him, gibbering in terror and pain. Then he revealed his final humiliating shot. He took a bottle from his capacious pockets, plucked the key from another and dropped it into the bottle, and screwed the top on. Then he rammed it into my sore vagina, blunt end first. It was big, nearly three inches across, and it hurt like hell. I could feel it tearing my tender flesh, blood mingling with the semen that already filled me. "If you want the key, you know exactly where it is", he taunted me. He squatted down over me and started slapping my breasts with his bare hands, over and over from side to side and up and down. The pain was terrible, not just from the impact but from the violent movement of my flesh. I was racked with violent sobs, completely unable to defend myself from this final humiliating, agonising attack. Then he left, leaving the house wide open once more.

For a long time, half an hour or more, I could do nothing. I was completely drained and completely traumatised. I felt exactly the way rape victims are supposed to feel, soiled, worthless and in terrible pain too. I lay still, my sobs and my crying gradually subsiding again, not even noticing the stink of the vomit and urine around my head, the worse smells from further off. There was something about the shape of the bottle that meant that even when I tried to squeeze it out of me, it just stayed put, if anything moving deeper inside. Eventually I gathered my senses enough to realise that I was going to be stuck there until I somehow managed to get my pussy - and the bottle that agonisingly filled it - close to my tethered hands. I squirmed around on the slippery floor, spreading the filth around with my body, my hair mopping it up. It took a long while, but eventually and with a lot of painful contortions I managed to grab the neck of the bottle with my hand. Pulling it out of me was horrific, the thick base tearing at my bruised and bleeding flesh. It hurt so much that I just couldn't move it, until eventually I summoned up the courage to yank it out quickly. The spasm of pain was terrible, but now I knew I could free myself. For a few minutes, even though I was free now, I just cried at the awful thing that had just happened to me. I wondered whether I would ever be the same again, whether I would become like the rape victims you read about in the paper who can no longer work or even leave the house. Would I be transformed from successful lawyer and career woman to a weeping, useless wreck? Would my breasts be permanently damaged? Would I be unable ever to face sex with a man again - which would be a terrible loss? I was terrified as well as traumatised. Finally, working with two hands above my head, I unscrewed the cap and felt for the key. I realised that there was something else in there, a slip of paper. As soon as I had undone one of the cuffs and was free to move again, I took out the paper and read it.

It said, "Surprise! Happy Birthday, with love from Anna, Pauline and the girls".

Two hours later I had had a long, long bath, and cleaned myself up. I'd cleaned the house up too, leaving just a vague hint of vomit, urine, excrement and masculinity that even the pungent odour of floor cleaner could not quite cover. I lay naked on my bed, my fingers teasing me to pleasure and excitement and eventually to a huge, overpowering orgasm that had me screaming all the screams I had suppressed while I was being raped. The bitches! They had set up the whole thing for me as a birthday present, and I'd completely fallen for it. My junior partner had to finish the brief I'd intended to work on, but I wasn't transformed into a useless wreck after all, and I didn't purge myself of improper and lascivious thought. In fact it just reinforced all my fantasies. My pussy and breasts hurt for days afterwards, sending a thrill through me every time I brushed my chest against something. Maybe one day I'll be brutally raped for real, and I wonder with a little horror if I'd enjoy that afterwards too - sometimes I really frighten myself. The pictures showed up in the post a few days later - I keep them at the back of a drawer and look at them every now and again. I never did find out who the "rapist" was. But I can't wait for my next birthday.

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Ademetos 2019

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