Ron Taylor: Stepdaughter in bondage

He groaned as he jerked his finger out of me. I groaned too, and the only hand I had free shot down to my crotch, covering myself now, when it was too late to do a Goddamned bit of good. It hurt down there, really hurt. He'd been rough and vicious puncturing me, and he hadn't cared, if he were. "Goddamn you," I sobbed, tears flooding from my eyes. I was still weeping for Mom, but I was also weeping for me.

Tony looked down at me, grinning. He had uneven teeth, slightly yellow from cigarettes. "So what's the problem?" he asked. "Your old lady is dead, but you're still around. I need a woman tonight and I don't feel like going out to hunt one up. Anyway, twat – you'd have given it to me sooner or later. When I want something I don't give up till I fucking get it. And I want you. So…"

He knocked my hand away from my cunt and started to grab me there again. I reacted instinctively, the way a cat does when it's attacked. My hand came up, fingers bent into a claw, and I scratched forcefully at his face. I felt the flesh yield and tear under my nails, and I saw four evenly spaced trails of blood appear on his flesh, down one of his stubbly, olive-tinted cheeks.

I intended to scratch him again, but I didn't get the chance. Tony grabbed my wrist and he bent it backward till I thought it was going to break off. "You pussy!" he snapped, making pussy sound like the filthiest word imaginable. Blood oozed from the scratches I'd made. Please, God, I thought, let him wear that scratch mark till the day he fucking dies!

Tony rolled over me, still holding my wrist. His feet landed on the floor beside the bed, and he pulled me over to the edge, my wrist bent back at such an angle I was only waiting to hear the snap of bones. Moaning and protesting I lay there, in terrible pain, and I watched him reach down, pulling the plug of my nightstand lamp from its wail socket. He turned around, holding the lamp, and I was afraid he might hit me with it.

He almost did. When he smashed the lamp it was on the corner of the headboard, only inches from my face. Splinters of broken bulb flew everywhere. I closed my eyes – the only protection I had.

He pulled my wrist again, "If I have to tie you down, cunt," he told me, "I'll fucking tie you down!"

And with that he tore the cord loose from the lamp and began to bind my wrist to the bedpost.

There was no way I could stop him. He made it a tight knot, too, Goddamn him, so tight my hand began to swell and throb with constricted blood. As soon as he'd fastened the knot I started up and began to undo it. Tony whacked me along side the cheek and I fell sprawling back onto the bed. He looked down, saw my stockings on the floor by the bed. I saw him smile as he came up, an nylon stocking in each of his hands.

"Roll back," he said, "and stick up your hand."

"Screw you!"

He clenched his fist and touched it to the point of my chin. He pushed once, and I got the message. If he had to beat me unconscious, the cocksucker was prepared to do exactly that. Slowly I moved back, my free hand lifting even more slowly. Tony crawled across me, grabbed my hand, and, with the stocking, bound it fast to the other post at the head of my bed. A prisoner, I lay panting and shaking, my body lewdly exposed thanks to his ripping, rending hands, and a prisoner I was going to be until someone untied me.

"That's better," he announced, deliberately drawing back and staring at me. If anything, the bulge in his pants had gotten even bigger since the last time I'd seen it. He was still holding one of my stockings. "What shall we do with this one?" he asked.

"Why don't you stick it up your ass?" I suggested with a snarl.

Again he touched my chin with his fist. Just a warning. But, oh, God, what a warning! My whole body chilled at his touch.

He turned around, grabbed one of my legs, wrapped the stocking around the ankle very tight, then proceeded to bind that foot to the post sticking up at the lower end of the bed. He had to stretch me a little to make the connection, and it hurt. More than a little. I growled in complaint. He turned around. "Don't you know when to shut up?" he demanded. I shook my head defiantly. Tony jumped off the bed and he came up holding my blue print patties in his hand. "Chew on these," he said, stuffing them into my protesting mouth.

Gagging, choking, wanting to die but not able to, I lay on the bed, tied hand and foot, watching Tony as he stood beside my bed undressing himself. He stood as tall as Darth Vader, and as big and, oh, God, three or four times as menacing! I hadn't realized how big he really was until he stripped off his shirt and undershirt, dropped his pants, and loomed there above me, all shoulders and chest and hard flat stomach, with his tight jockey shorts swollen all out of proportion by the weight and bulk of the erection inside them.

And when he slid the shorts down his legs and his cock sprang out free and horny as hell, I felt a knot in my belly and a tightening in my throat. He was big, and I mean BIG!

He'd said seven inches, and as I stared at the fat, lengthy extension of his stiff pecker, I wondered if he hadn't been selling himself short. The tip of him was as fat as an apple, blood-red, and his balls swung rhythmically beneath his protruding dick. If he were any harder, he'd be steel instead of flesh. I knew that, just looking at him, and I wished I were somewhere eke.

He got out of his shorts, leaving his body entirely naked. I guess if the circumstances had been a lot different I might have enjoyed the sight of him, all tare and hard-muscled. But it wasn't that kind of night. I mean, this afternoon my mother had died, and it wasn't quite twelve o'clock midnight and her husband had me tied to my bed, helpless, nothing but a toy to work out his warped passions on. I struggled against the rubber cord binding my wrists, struggled till it hurt, and my tied-up leg moved fitfully, impotently. The panties in my mouth tasted funny – of talcum and sweat and strange girl-like things I could only identify in a very general way. I coughed and tried to spit them out but that was a useless gesture too.

Tony sat down on the edge of the bed, one of his hands sliding down over my tits where they thrust out of my torn nightie. And if I was impotent, he damned sure wasn't. His stiff cock thrust up like a dagger, a long thick dagger whose hilt was bidden by a swirl of tight curling black hairs. The knob of his cock looked bigger than before, and the color had deepened to a livid, bruised kind of purple. Moisture was leaking from him, coating his cockhead with a filmy sheen, and I wanted to swallow the huge lump of fear in my throat but I couldn't, for I'd have strangled on the panties Tony had crammed into my mouth. There would be no screams to disturb the night's peace in our quiet neighborhood. I wondered how many other times the bastard had set about raping a woman. He seemed to have the whole routine down pat.

Go limp! I told myself. Lie here like a Goddamned piece of cloth. He can stick that big dick into me, and he can make me cry, but I'm gonna be a dishrag underneath him. If he's looking for a good hot fuck, he'd better look to his own fist, because it's gonna seem mighty attractive after a few minutes on top of me. Clamping my teeth down on the panties in my mouth, I willed my body to relax. Totally. I would not move. I would not whimper. I'd play dead.

"I'm sorry it has to be this way, Becky," he said, leering, and I knew he wasn't sorry at all. He seemed to get a thrill out of seeing me all tied and gagged and helpless, out of feeling my tits when I couldn't make him stop. His fingers slid again and again over my fear-hardened nipples. He pinched them, pulled them, teased them like a farmer looking for a full milk bucket on a cold frosty morning. I tried not to react, but I couldn't be entirely true to myself. The more he pulled and tweaked, the more my belly jerked, the more my boobs jiggled in his hands. And that only made him squeeze me and pinch me the harder.