Rapist who realizes he’s falling in love with his past victim because he can’t stop masturbating to the memory of her. Rapist who uses the same pair of ripped up panties he stole from her as a cum rag to jerk off into every single time, because it gives him a high like no other. Rapist who took polaroids of her while she was tied up, and now he keeps them everywhere - in his wallet, in the glove box of his car, tacked to the ceiling above his bed. Rapist whose cock throbs every single time he remembers something about that night; the way she cried, the way she was dressed, her scent, the feel of her skin against his. Rapist who eventually caves to his own obsession and starts stalking that same victim again, after all that time had passed, because there’s just something about her. She’s just too perfect for him. She’s stuck in his head and won’t ever leave. She was the best girl he ever had. She’s the one.
Times Up. The room is dim. Expensive furniture reduced to shapes in the darkness. The only sound besides your own breathing is a quiet hum from a digital timer mounted on the opposite wall. Red numerals glow in the gloom: 00:59:57.
Just under one hour.
"You're awake." The voice comes from somewhere near the door. You crane your neck, wrists already testing the leather restraints, and watch him step into the faint light. You don't know his face. But you recognize the way his eyes move over your body. Roaming. An inventory assessment.
He's carrying things. Metal glints.
"The rules are simple," he says, approaching the bed. His footsteps are unhurried. "When the timer hits zero, I undo the restraints. The door opens. You leave." He pauses at the edge of the mattress, looking down at you. "One small addition."
Cold metal touches your nipple. You gasp as he fastens the clamp, the bite sharp and immediate, radiating heat straight down to your core. The second clamp follows. You arch involuntarily, straining against the leather.
He produces a vibrator. Sleek. Expensive looking. You watch him lower it between your legs, watch the silicone part your folds and settle against your clit. He turns it on.
"Every time you cum, an hour gets added to the clock."
You look at the timer. You look at yourself. Spread open, clamped, vibrating.
One hour. You can do one hour. You just have to not cum.
He steps back. Settles into a chair at the side of the bed and watches.
You try to focus on the numbers. Try to think about other things. Work emails. Grocery lists. The pattern of shadows on the ceiling.
But the clamps send sharp little signals with every breath. The vibrator hums against flesh that's growing wetter by the minute. You clench your jaw. Breathe through your nose. Don't cum. Don't cum.
He hasn't moved. He's just watching.
Your hips twitch. You didn't tell them to. The pressure is building low in your belly, a warmth that spreads and tightens simultaneously. You're wet enough now that the vibrator glides, hits new angles.
You bite your lip until you taste blood.
The numbers blur. 00:47:23. You've been holding on for twelve minutes. It feels like hours. Your thighs are trembling. Your breath comes in sharp little gasps you can't control.
He knows. You can see it in his stillness. The way he's leaned forward slightly. Waiting.
"No," you whisper. To yourself. To your body. To the orgasm building like a wave you can't outswim.
It hits you anyway. Your back arches off the bed, a sound tears out of your throat that you don't recognize, and you're cumming so hard your vision goes white at the edges. It rolls through you in pulses, each one a betrayal, each one exquisite.
When you can see again, you look at the clock.
01:46:12
"Impressive effort," he says. He's standing now, holding a remote. "Let's try a different setting."
The vibration changes. Pulsing now. It mimics something. A heartbeat. A thrust. Your overstimulated clit throbs in response, too sensitive, too raw, and somehow already building again.
"No... please.." you gasp out, the words weak.
"Please what?" He moves closer. His fingers trail along your inner thigh, impossibly light. "Please make you cum again?" He dips a finger into the wetness pooling between your legs, holds it up so you can see. "You're dripping. Your body knows what it wants."
You shake your head. But your hips are rocking against the vibrator, tiny movements you can't seem to stop.
This time when you cum, you're crying. Tears streaming down your temples into your hair. The clock resets: 02:38:47.
He fucks you for the first time somewhere around hour four.
Slow, at first. Long strokes that let you feel every inch, that build friction to an unbearable degree while the vibrator keeps humming against your clit. You cum on his cock within minutes. The clock adds another hour. He doesn't stop. Doesn't even pause.
He switches to something harder. Brutal. Each thrust punches the air out of your lungs, drives you up the bed until the restraints catch. You cum again. You can't help it. Your body has stopped consulting you. It just responds. Takes. Shatters.
He introduces other things. Hot wax pooling in the hollow of your throat, dripping down between your breasts. Ice traced along your inner thighs until you're shivering and burning at once. His mouth on your cunt, tongue flicking precisely where the vibrator has made you most sensitive, most ruined.
He talks through it the whole way. That's probably the worst part. "You get wetter when you're scared." "That's three in a row. You're getting efficient." "We have so much time now."
The clock climbs. Six hours. Eight. Twelve. You stop being able to track it. The numbers lose meaning. Everything loses meaning except the next wave, the next peak, the next hour added to your sentence.
Somewhere in the blur, you realize you've stopped wanting it to end.
The thought surfaces between orgasms, when you're floating in that shattered space where language doesn't quite work. You should want to escape. You remember wanting that, vaguely, like a dream you had as a child. But the wanting has curdled into something else.
He slows down. You're not sure when. The frantic edge bleeds away, replaced by something almost gentle. The vibrator stops. He removes the clamps. Your nipples throb with the renewed blood flow, a pain that registers as pleasure now. Everything registers as pleasure now.
You blink at the clock. 00:06:43.
Six minutes. After everything. How?
He's undoing the restraints. Your wrists fall free. Your ankles. You can move. You can leave.
The thought sends ice through your veins.
Leave? Leave this room? Leave him? Go back to a world where no one touches you like this, where you're responsible for your own orgasms, where pleasure is something you have to chase instead of something that hunts you down and devours you?
The silence of outside presses against the walls. Empty. Ordinary. Unbearable.
He steps back. Gestures toward the door. "It's almost time."
Your hand moves own between your legs, finding your clit, swollen and slick and excruciatingly sensitive. You rub with clumsy desperation, chasing the build.
"Don't," you hear yourself say. Begging. Sobbing. "Don't make me leave. Please. I need to cum. I need more time."
He goes still. Watching you fuck yourself on his bed, desperate to add another hour to your captivity. The pressure is building fast, your ruined body trained now, eager.
"Let me stay. I'll be good. I'll cum as many times as you want. Just don't make me go."
Four minutes on the clock.
Your fingers work faster. You're so close. So close to another hour in this room, in this darkness, in this endless cycle of being broken and put back together wrong.
stalker jerking off to the innocent pictures he took of you without you knowing. stroking himself slowly, obsessively, cumming to the pictures of you smiling, walking, just existing.
Older man that is so obsessed with you he becomes best friends with your dad. It's so fucked up but from the moment he saw you he knew he needed to have you. If being friends with your dad meant getting closer to you then he'd do it. It would give him easier access to you he wouldn't be such a hidden creep anymore. Now it's him being sweet and very involved. It's easy for him since your dad is such a shut in already. He becomes his only true friend.
You are noticing him so much now and it drives him nuts. He makes sure you get comfortable with him quick even if it comes off as weird. Your dad just excuses it says he's a lonely guy, no family of his own, and he enjoys being around people. He's over so much the couch is basically his now.
Your panties going missing more often? That's just the laundry machine. The shower door being slightly open? You probably didn't close it properly. The small touches? It's just his way of being nice. Your dad just pushes it off, that's his friend. Be nice.
The day he finally gets you under him is so...cute. A daughter just wants to be good for her father. Willing to take his best friends cock so that friendship can stay strong. He's so manipulative and good at playing this game that he has you spreading your cunt for him. Be nice to your father's friend, let him see that pretty hole. He is not nice with it! He is slamming his cock into you repeatedly with no breaks. Having to grip your own thighs that you are spreading. Eyes rolling back as his cock hits a little too deep.
But you better keep quiet since your dad is in the other room! He can't find out his so called friend only wanted to get with his daughter. It would break his poor heart so just take it. If he asks why you are limping you better make up a good excuse.
He eventually finds out but wants to keep his friendship so bad he's willing to let your older obsessed stalker keep fucking you as long as he has a friend.
creepy boys who stare for a little too long, who touch you like they're trying to see what they can get away with, who always remember little things about you that you don't even remember telling them... stalker boys, weird boys, obsessive boys ughhh the world needs more of them i think
