ElFewja
2nd Level Red Feather
- Joined
- Dec 21, 2007
- Messages
- 1,296
- Points
- 38
I wanted a dark, claustrophobic non-consent to add to my repertoire. This was or is one of the very last flash fiction(yes, flash fiction is a stretch in this context) works I did, and it was largely successful. The final version was some 900 words, though the first draft was a hair above 800. Well, it’s still under 1000, which was my goal for a really, really long time. It’s actually quite hard to get a piece so short yet concise, especially within erotica. This is a predecessor to another piece I wrote that was not erotica, and essentially was the culmination of all the practice I had put forth in about three to five months of trying to master this technique. Original draft was sometime in November or December. Hm. I can’t say I like it, though. Oh well. Enjoy.
The name is shit, though.
Kidnapped and Barefoot (M/F, Dog/F)
Consciousness seeped back to me slowly. For a while I wasn’t sure if I was awake or asleep, but I had a very strong comprehension of the darkness as I looked around.
Awareness kicked in too suddenly as I realized my wrists and ankles were tightly bound with rope. I tried to scream, I remember, and found that I couldn’t; something soft, but very wet, had been inserted into my mouth, and I couldn’t spit it out no matter how hard I tried. At about the time I felt similar bonds holding my two big toes together, I noticed my exposed feet, their ruby nails glimmering with what light existed in this hollowed room, and began to wonder why they would be so naked and far removed from the rest of my body.
The room was dark and small; over-head, there was a very dim light that fluttered off and on. The thing shook about madly, like an asylum escapee, as a result of the quickly spinning fan it was attached to, which blew a strong scent of mildew and age at me.
From in front of me, I heard a door slam; I imagined it to be the only door to this place, but I couldn’t see well enough to know that. A man came in, carrying what I recognized as my shoes on the ends of his left hand’s fingers. Just as he came into the light, I saw that smile of his, behind that heavily bearded face; a sick, contorted thing, with yellow teeth poking out at impossible angles.
His hand moved, and my shoes fled into the darkness somewhere, the dull sounds of their clunking against the wall and then the floor echoing as I began to laugh. I didn’t know why I felt the need to laugh then, but I did so. Gasping into whatever held me silent, I quickly realized that whoever this was had begun running his hands against the bottoms of my feet. Desperately I tried to kick his fingers away, but my movement was so restricted that I could hardly dodge the attacks, let alone fend them off.
His nails – I knew them to be nails, as my girlfriends have tickled me before – raked against my soles relentlessly, until before long my laughter had turned to sobs, barely audible, pathetic things that fought to make themselves heard before being drowned out by another and still another wave of similar sounds. I could feel the rope digging into my wrists as I tried to pull away from the chair, could feel them burning as I knew them to be turning pink and then bright red.
He stopped, and I breathed heavily, attempting to grasp as much air so as to prepare myself to scream. It didn’t matter if the gag held it in for the most part; it simply felt like something I must do, as it was the remaining freedom I had. But then a curious thing happened; that hunching man - his back curved nearly as much as a crescent moon - rose and ripped the thing from my mouth.
“The code, Cynthia.” He said quickly, a sickening light of desire reflecting from those black eyes of his which twitched madly. At first I tried to understand what he had meant, but I wasn’t given time to respond. Something about my appearance must have implied I had no intention of speaking yet, as he firmly shoved the cold cloth back into my mouth, forcing me to gag as I felt vomit begin to curl its way from my stomach and into the back of my throat. Then he disappeared for some time.
Of course he returned – I don’t know why I expected anything else – slamming that door loudly as he re-entered. This time, I recognized a new sound, not unlike that of nails rapping against a black board, but with an almost skittering sound to it.
When he re-entered the light, I saw that he had a jar of sorts in his hand, and a length of rope in the other. Angrily he tugged a massive dog into the light as he hefted the bottle, which I recognized to be very full of a light brown substance that I recognized as peanut butter; a bulge pulsated just below his waist line, informing me of his desires.
“After the first bottle, we’ll see if you change your mind, Cynthia.” He said, opening the jar and applying the sloppy, sticky stuff to my feet. Instantly the dog jumped at them, and I felt a level of tickling that I did not know could have existed as that slick, smooth tongue drove me from reality, so that I could recall nothing past the first of many explosive laughs; at some point, I became aware that he had set the bottle onto the floor next to me so that I could see he had barely used any of the jar’s contents.
It went on for the better part of an hour, with him meticulously coating and recoating my feet with that substance as I pleaded through my gag that he do anything else to me; each time, he set the jar down after my feet and toes were so coated that I could not even flex them, putting the vile thing in such a place so that I could see how slowly the bottle dwindled down while the dog lapped laughter from me. All the while he sat and smiled, just within sight of the light, and with each passing minute I wondered how in the world I would convince him that I was not the Cynthia he must have sought out.
The name is shit, though.
Kidnapped and Barefoot (M/F, Dog/F)
Consciousness seeped back to me slowly. For a while I wasn’t sure if I was awake or asleep, but I had a very strong comprehension of the darkness as I looked around.
Awareness kicked in too suddenly as I realized my wrists and ankles were tightly bound with rope. I tried to scream, I remember, and found that I couldn’t; something soft, but very wet, had been inserted into my mouth, and I couldn’t spit it out no matter how hard I tried. At about the time I felt similar bonds holding my two big toes together, I noticed my exposed feet, their ruby nails glimmering with what light existed in this hollowed room, and began to wonder why they would be so naked and far removed from the rest of my body.
The room was dark and small; over-head, there was a very dim light that fluttered off and on. The thing shook about madly, like an asylum escapee, as a result of the quickly spinning fan it was attached to, which blew a strong scent of mildew and age at me.
From in front of me, I heard a door slam; I imagined it to be the only door to this place, but I couldn’t see well enough to know that. A man came in, carrying what I recognized as my shoes on the ends of his left hand’s fingers. Just as he came into the light, I saw that smile of his, behind that heavily bearded face; a sick, contorted thing, with yellow teeth poking out at impossible angles.
His hand moved, and my shoes fled into the darkness somewhere, the dull sounds of their clunking against the wall and then the floor echoing as I began to laugh. I didn’t know why I felt the need to laugh then, but I did so. Gasping into whatever held me silent, I quickly realized that whoever this was had begun running his hands against the bottoms of my feet. Desperately I tried to kick his fingers away, but my movement was so restricted that I could hardly dodge the attacks, let alone fend them off.
His nails – I knew them to be nails, as my girlfriends have tickled me before – raked against my soles relentlessly, until before long my laughter had turned to sobs, barely audible, pathetic things that fought to make themselves heard before being drowned out by another and still another wave of similar sounds. I could feel the rope digging into my wrists as I tried to pull away from the chair, could feel them burning as I knew them to be turning pink and then bright red.
He stopped, and I breathed heavily, attempting to grasp as much air so as to prepare myself to scream. It didn’t matter if the gag held it in for the most part; it simply felt like something I must do, as it was the remaining freedom I had. But then a curious thing happened; that hunching man - his back curved nearly as much as a crescent moon - rose and ripped the thing from my mouth.
“The code, Cynthia.” He said quickly, a sickening light of desire reflecting from those black eyes of his which twitched madly. At first I tried to understand what he had meant, but I wasn’t given time to respond. Something about my appearance must have implied I had no intention of speaking yet, as he firmly shoved the cold cloth back into my mouth, forcing me to gag as I felt vomit begin to curl its way from my stomach and into the back of my throat. Then he disappeared for some time.
Of course he returned – I don’t know why I expected anything else – slamming that door loudly as he re-entered. This time, I recognized a new sound, not unlike that of nails rapping against a black board, but with an almost skittering sound to it.
When he re-entered the light, I saw that he had a jar of sorts in his hand, and a length of rope in the other. Angrily he tugged a massive dog into the light as he hefted the bottle, which I recognized to be very full of a light brown substance that I recognized as peanut butter; a bulge pulsated just below his waist line, informing me of his desires.
“After the first bottle, we’ll see if you change your mind, Cynthia.” He said, opening the jar and applying the sloppy, sticky stuff to my feet. Instantly the dog jumped at them, and I felt a level of tickling that I did not know could have existed as that slick, smooth tongue drove me from reality, so that I could recall nothing past the first of many explosive laughs; at some point, I became aware that he had set the bottle onto the floor next to me so that I could see he had barely used any of the jar’s contents.
It went on for the better part of an hour, with him meticulously coating and recoating my feet with that substance as I pleaded through my gag that he do anything else to me; each time, he set the jar down after my feet and toes were so coated that I could not even flex them, putting the vile thing in such a place so that I could see how slowly the bottle dwindled down while the dog lapped laughter from me. All the while he sat and smiled, just within sight of the light, and with each passing minute I wondered how in the world I would convince him that I was not the Cynthia he must have sought out.
