Jack Burton - Steamy Screams - Anthology of Erotic Horror

After the club, sleep did not come easily for Bridgette. She left early, and the few drinks she had at Trans did little to numb her mind before bed. Instead, she played through a million scenarios in her head, wondering what the right decision was.

The business card sat next to her phone on the bedside table while the man’s charisma and perfectly chosen words danced in her mind. More than five times she had picked up the phone, one time actually dialing five numbers before hanging up.

“We cater to no other kink than what women such as yourself desire, the man had said.”

“Really? I didn’t think there’d be enough demand for such a club.”

“You’d be surprised at how many women have fantasies such as yours. You’re really not alone, Bridgette,” the man had explained to her in a quiet corner table of Trans, far away from the throbbing music and sweating drunks.

“It feels like it sometimes,” she replied, suddenly feeling as if she were talking to a trusted friend. The man had a soothing presence about him.

“But you’re not. And you don’t need to feel ashamed. Our client list is extensive with women from all walks of life. Different ages, colors, & social status, but bound by one common sexual desire. A perfectly normal desire.”

A desire to be taken to the very brink of terror; bound and left helpless at the hands of a strong, commanding presence. But it was more than that. Yes, Bridgette, and women like her, pushed the limits, but it wasn’t for the pain necessarily. Some people got off on the pain alone, but Bridgette wasn’t one. It was more than the pain, although Bridgette could never really pin point it. Never really able to attach words or labels to it. Other people either got it or they didn’t.

Perhaps it was her rigid lifestyle since college; the professional world where she had to remain in control at all times, remain responsible and accountable to her bosses and customers. Maybe deep down she longed to lose all control, relinquish all responsibility to someone else. Or maybe it was the feeling that a man found her so beautiful, so sexy and perfect, that he was sure he was unworthy to approach her; the only way he could get with a woman like Bridgette sexually, was to physically take what he wanted. To ravish her the way he wanted, with no regard for her safety. But those were just theories, she really had no clue.

Bridgette had researched and found that some women accounted their rape fantasies to abuse or actual rape earlier in their life; these women learned that sex was suppose to be a forceful act and grew to embrace the violence of sex. But Bridgette had never been abused, which left her with more questions. And in the end, there was no one answer. No certain explanation.

But the man was right; she wasn’t alone. Whether it could be explained or not, many women had rape fantasies. And whether right or wrong—part of her knew there had to be a screw loose within her; it couldn’t be healthy to want to be harmed—she needed it.

The night’s conversation replayed over and over in her mind while Bridgette tried to sleep.

Too many choices; the ache between her legs cried to be filled. Bridgette’s hair begged to be pulled again and her mouth violated and gagged. And before she realized, the phone was in her hand, and her fingers were walking easily across the buttons.

There was no cost to women to join. She gave her consent that this was what she wanted and she understood what the club was. After the call there was nothing to do but wait. There was no set time. That aspect bothered her slightly.

But that was the thrill, wasn’t it? What she wanted; the total relinquishment of power. Never knowing where or when it would happen, pushing the boundaries till they nearly broke. And she was finally going to get what she wanted.

And with this knowledge, Bridgette lay in bed, trying her best to stay occupied and not focus on the one burning question that lingered on her mind: when would it happen?

The night passed without incident. And the following morning, Bridgette was early to wake, the weight of her decision pulling her from any possible slumber.

Before even being able to register the pre-dawn haze just starting to filter past the blinds, Bridgette thought of what she had done. Joined a sex club . The words still didn’t feel like her.

Perhaps she was wrong to judge the freaks at Trans, she wondered. Maybe they truly did accept who they were, maybe they were free, just like they said. They had no illusions of what they were. But Bridgette seemed to have mixed feelings about herself; torn between what she wanted and what she felt she was or wasn’t.

And now, before the sun had barely peaked over the horizon, she didn’t feel horny anymore. She wasn’t intoxicated by the liquor and the charming words or the club’s salesman.

“I’ll call,” she said to the empty room. “Simply cancel.”

She wiped the sleep from her eyes, rolled over and reached for the phone on the nightstand. The plastic receiver felt cold against her ear, but even colder, and more disarming, was the silence from the device. She reached over farther and depressed the switch hook with her fingers, released and waited. Still no dial tone. Dead. Her cell phone was in the kitchen charging and—

The gloved hand clamped over her mouth—hard. Her eyes went wide with panic, but before she could move on her own, her body was being turned over—tangled deep within the bed sheets—and she was on her stomach. A body moved on top of her, crushing her further into the mattress.

Déjà vu briefly as she felt hot breath against her ears. The body on top of her was grinding deeper into her, working its knee between her legs. The breathing intensified.

Walter?

The hand on her mouth was clothed in black leather. The steam building in her ear and the pulsating against her backside finally did it; slowly Bridgette’s fear began to melt away. Moist excitement began to build.

Was it Walter, or was this what she had joined for? Really, it didn’t matter. Either way, she was about to get taken, about to get fucked.

Over the heavy panting, she could barely hear the twang of a spring releasing its metal blade, but she heard his voice. “This is what you wanted, you fucking whore. Don’t think about resisting or I’ll make this hurt.”

Her body tightened slightly, the voice scared her, but it didn’t stop her juices from continuing to seep in the bed. It only heightened her anxiety over whether the man was Walter or not. The man was talking too gravelly—on purpose—to be clearly recognized.

Suddenly, the sheet was being cut away from her tangled legs. His hands released her throat, but he continued to keep her pinned with his body weight. Even with her mouth free, Bridgette didn’t scream. She thought about calling out apples, just to stop the charade and see who it was, but that would ruin the moment—and so far she hadn’t been able to enjoy a proper role play yet—, so she remained silent. A strip of bedding went over her eyes, tied tight at the back. Now blindfolded, the man pulled her arms back and bound the wrists in the same manner.

The position was not comfortable, but it wasn’t the kind of pain she’d experienced the other night when Walter pulled her arms backwards. Perhaps he was learning, or perhaps she had made a great decision joining the sex club.

The man was strong, in just a few seconds he was off Bridgette and flipping her onto her back. Hands went around her ankles, she felt herself skidding across fabric, and then nothing. Her ass was free in the air for a split second, her stomach tightened and then she fell. Bridgette let out a grunt as her behind connected with the floor; the blade was suddenly against her neck, cold and hard.