Ehh..so far, it seems to be screaming, "You gonna get raped!" I could be wrong, but I think that if you're writing for the ladies around here, humiliation/degradation might not be the best way to go..

no thank you, mister.

>This one is for the ladies.

>story of rape

Haha, you fucked up son.

As a man with fetishes for domination and humiliation, I say continue. As a person who is aware that women can find that kind of thing deeply insulting, I'd caution you not to address it to said female population.

BAD TOUCH! BAD TOUCH!

>>42
>>43
>>44
rape isnt where it was going.
every girl i've been with has liked degradation and domination.
seems its ok for a girl to write about being used and abused but if a guy writes it, theyre a rapist.

>>47
Yep. Its called "privilege". It happens. Often.

I would implore you to continue. Those who aren't interested could simply hide the thread.

I am a lady and I most definitely approve of this being continued and going the route of humiliation/ degradation/ domination. Such stuff is so hard to find. <3

Personally, I'm not into imagining myself looking like a cheap 12 year old slut. However, I do like this style of storytelling so I mean, if you could do another one like this but don't make me feel so cheap, I'd fap.

Hello Sirs there is a masterful deficit of this kind of writing. Other than the kind of wonky attire ( I know you were going for goth, but tutus are just like wat ) stories like this could make me go YAY. ¦3 Whether it's U GONNA GET RAPED or domination/humiliation it's YES. Being left behind sucks sometimes though, LSD makes it worse. :>

Squiggles, aka Pot-Chan says it ees good. So eet must be good!

(Seriously, punk, if you don't keep writan, I'm likely to start writan FOR ya.)

Ey Squig, any chance you could toss out any more clearly intoxicated jiggle-wenches in your spare time? It would motivate my. . . um. . . inner writer.

Do it.

Bump.

Get it done, you marvelous rapist bastard, or I will.

someone finish this!

>>1281
challenge accepted.

I work my way over to you with a well-practiced casualness. Even so, I'm tall and lean and my stride is hard, powerful. You see me coming and I see you nervously glance around for your friends, but they aren't here and I don't think they will be.

I can tell from how you look at me, even through your glassy, drunken eyes, that you're afraid. You think I'm a predator. That won't do, so I catch you off guard. I'm charming and gentlemanly and only concerned for your well-being. What are you doing out this late, alone? There are bad people around.

I don't know if you buy it but you tolerate me when I sit down next to you and make small talk. You don't notice my lingering glances on your cleavage, your soft belly, and my eyes wandering over your petticoat, imagining what I'm sure is a pretty little mound buried between your plump thighs. I amuse myself while I carry on the conversation, wondering if you're shaved or not. Probably not. I doubt you were expecting that kind of company.

I'll find out soon enough.

Five minutes of small talk turns into fifteen, and it's getting closer to 4 am, the fairground is almost completely dead now, and I'm sure, if I was ever in doubt, that your friends have ditched you here, alone. They probably laughed it off, figuring you'd get home alright. And you will. I've made you laugh now, and you're beyond the point of simply tolerating my company. You're leaning on me, every roll of your torso pressing against mine. Your breast brushes my shoulder and you drunkenly giggle and say it was an accident, but I see through you. I reach an arm around you and pull you close and feel you wobbling, drunken, in my embrace.

Soon, we're well and truly alone, a few lights remain on around us, but the fair is over and done with for tonight. I ask you if you want a walk home, and you call me your knight in shining armor. I take it as my invitation, with your chubby body already pressed against mine, to lean in and slip my tongue into your mouth.

You're warm and yielding and oh so soft. But I can taste the sting of alcohol and the strong sweetness of fruit. Girly, mixy drinks that you paid too much money for and it must have been a lot of them too. I turn my head at an angle, reaching my tongue so I can taste everything there is to taste. My hand slides along your side, just as I imagined, as my other grabs your hair and pulls just slightly. You moan, softly, into my kiss and I know I have you.

Before long, my hands are under your clothes and playing across your breasts, and you gasp softly when I unhook your bra. You pretend to be scandalized, but you still arch your back and blush, biting your lip. I call you a slut, and you give me a playful slap, but you don't deny it. As I continue my little massage, mostly for my own benefit, though you seem to enjoy it, I lean in and nibble your ear and whisper little nothings to you, about what a whore you are and how absolutely /scandalous/ it is that you're letting a man you barely know have his way with you.

At some point, I cross a line and you speak up to talk back, and I cut you off with another press of my lips against yours, my tongue against your tongue, and one of my hands leaves the inside of your tank top to begin a solemn victory march down across the warm, domed expanse of your belly. I can't resist giving it a little jiggle, and I can hear it slosh, filled to the brim with booze and cotton candy, and I smile into the kiss, your arms never once having left me since I started.

And when my hand reaches the band of your silly, poofy skirt and slips inside, you don't complain at all. I bring myself back out of your mouth and trail my lips across your cheek, down past your jawbone and very slight double chin onto your neck, and at the base of it, I nibble with my teeth. Your little gasp confirms the spot and I take your neck in my mouth, lips wrapping around and holding. My hand floats across the top of your panties, rubbing up and down. You're shaven after all. You give off little soft ums and ahs, coos of pleasure, and you try to talk dirty to me as I start on a second hickey. You slur your words, and before long, I tell you just to moan for me instead and you oblige.

Like the slut you are.

I tangle my hand in your hair again, holding your head back as my fingers still grind away beneath the first layer of your clothes. You tell me to bring my fingers inside, and I smile. I tell you to beg for me. You say please. I say it isn't good enough. I slip one finger all the way inside your panties, and tortuously slowly, I slide it up your dripping, moist slit. I lean in, my lips brushing your ear as I tell you again to beg. You try to look stubborn, blushing, biting your lip from pleasure, pussy drooling with readiness and thighs quivering. I pull your hair, slightly rougher, and you half-screech a plea. I reward you with just the tip of my finger.

For every word you utter, I give you just another fraction. Even in your addled state, you slowly get more creative than just saying please, and you beg me and tell me about all the wonderful things you'll do if I just give you my fingers. I take it as slowly as I possibly can, and as you stop for breath, minutes later, I've finally gotten one whole finger inside. I curl it and extend it, and you give off quivering little breaths as I once again nuzzle your ear and give you a command.

Tell me more, bitch.

And you do. You babble and whine and beg and plead. I let it wash over my ears, barely even listening, but drinking in your embarrassment, the heat of your blush, the nervous, horny timbre of your voice. And as I hear the sound of my success, I give you a second finger.

I don't even need to tell you to continue, but I soon cut you off. You're drunk and you're repeating yourself, and I decide I don't need you to tell me what a slut you are. I can tell you much better. Slowly, I slide my fingers back out. I tell you you're a jiggly, lonely cunt. I slide my fingers back in. I tell you you're a drunken, fat, horny slut. Back out. You breathe in, you say yes. Back in.

Every insult, every name, every blush of your cheeks and accepting moan, I slide in and out. Your grind against my fingers, your torso gyrates and ripples with surprising, though unsteady flexibility, and soon your vocals begin to drown out mine, and your hips move on their own as I hold my fingers in place without moving them, and you begin to stop moaning and start really screaming and I--

Pull my fingers out.

You look at me, confused, as I bring my hand back out of your skirt and down your leg and thigh and back towards mine, and you understand, abruptly, as I rest my fingers on my zipper, my bulge evident. You breathe hard, hurting from the sudden absence of pleasure, and I ask again. You have to beg for your reward.

>>1287
I'm stopping for now because I'm not used to this kind of writing and I'm already starting to repeat myself. More at a later date.

>>1285
>>1287
>>1283

Now look what you've done.

I came all over my rape van.

Er, Ghost, I don't suppose you're gonna starting writing stuff in your own thread again, will you?

>>1291
I've been meaning to. Just kind of in a holding pattern and frustrated that my work is really repetitive. I'll get around to it eventually, I promise.