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From: Theodore@Spoonbender.demon.co.uk (Spoonbender)
Subject: The Tryst (Consensual non consensual?)
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The Tryst 

*****************************************************************************

A Short story, of an adult nature,  by Spoonbender. This story is
copyright (c) 1998 by me Theodore Spoonbender. It can be freely
distributed as long as it is not charged for. If you want to archive
it then please email me first. If you are a minor or you don't like
sex stories especially with nc overtones then don't read it as it will
probably upset your sensibilities.

Please email me with your comments. But don't flame me if you don't
like the content or the style. Remember I'm still learning the craft.
This is an experimental story, written for a very special lady, please
tell me what you think: Theodore@spoonbender.demon.co.uk

Bullshit over - on with the story
*****************************************************************************
The thump of the landing gear hitting the runway shook me from my
slumber and I uncurled, or at least as much as the cheap airline seat
allowed. Twelve hours crammed into a bean can, with plastic meals, and
knees around my ears had probably deformed me for life.

"Please remain seated until the aircraft has come to a complete
stop......". Bellowed the tannoy, commandingly.

"Nice Sleep?" It was the guy in the next seat.

"Hmmmm. Yeah." I looked out of the window, it was raining, inevitably.
"Raining huh?"

He smiled. "Welcome to London. You staying in town?"

I had to think about that for a minute. "No. I'm staying with my
..er.. boyfriend."

"You don't seem very certain." He smiled, he was a nice guy and in
different circumstances I might have found his underlying invitation
flattering enough to take him up on his implied offer.

"Oh I'm certain. I'm just a bit jet lagged that's all. Thanks for the
chat on the way over."

"Pleasure ma'am." You know, my fellow Americans can sometimes be the
nicest and most polite people on earth. Sometimes.

As I sat in the customs hall, waiting for my bags to be vomited from
the belly of the luggage conveyor, I started thinking. I was certain.
Wasn't I? I hardly knew the guy. Not really. Ok we'd exchanged emails
with the frequency and passion of a couple of lovelorn teenagers and
we'd spoken a few times on the phone. But....

The nagging doubts remained. 'Its too late for that now girl.' I told
myself. For better or for worse, I'd done it. I'd taken the step, now
it was in the lap of the Gods. Our emails had crescendoed into a
lathering welter of feelings I hadn't felt since before I took my
first faltering steps into womanhood. I had to see him, to feel him,
to........

I'd better explain. You see I like certain things. Fantasies, you
know. Not the 'normal' heterosexual fantasies, if you know what I
mean. No I'm not gay, if that's what you're thinking, though I'd
probably give it a try if I was offered it.  No! These are more earthy
fantasies. Involving big men , powerful men, taking me, using me. Have
I offended you?  Possibly even confused you. I know I confuse myself
at times. This wasn't 'normal' behaviour, as my mother would say. I
fought with my feelings for years, afraid to let go. I wouldn't even
get drunk at parties, I needed control of my feelings at all times.
Bound in steel, hidden deep. For years I had these urges. To be used,
raped, thrashed, you name it and it has flitted through my head at
some point. Ok I know what you're thinking. A crazy woman huh? Most of
the time I'd agree, but occasionally I took to my bed, my trusty
vibrator whirring frantically as I lived a fantasy that I'd culled
from a salty story or the fertile humus of my fevered imagination.
Legs wide I purged myself on a diet of raw urges, real and
terrifyingly powerful, as I sought my solace and tried to quench the
raging fires of my lust. 

I enjoyed those sessions, although my Husband thought I was mad. I
tried to explain them to him, but he looked at me as if he was
considering calling the men in white coats straight over, before I
became completely deranged. He was a straight, as vanilla as they
come. He thought that it was somehow sleazy if we did something wild,
like me being on top for a change. I loved him dearly, but I needed
more. Much more.

The Internet was a revelation to me. Suddenly, to perpetuate a
particularly awful cliche, a whole new world was opened up to me. A
whole sub culture was there, sharp and alive. The learning experience
took my breath away as I dipped and delved in the fusty corners of the
web where 'my' people lived.

Suddenly I wasn't alone. There were other women like me, with the same
carnal urges and sensual desires that I was a slave to. I tried
corresponding with a couple but I found, and I'm sure they did too,
that the interaction was unsatisfying and stilted. I'm inherently
conservative so I found it a bit of a strain discussing whether I
liked 10 inch penises stuck inside my rectum with another woman. In
fact I don't like to discuss it at all, even in a narrative like this.
But with another woman it seemed, oh I don't know, dirty somehow.

The men, on the whole, were worse. I'm sorry to say that. What I was
proposing was that I was to put my life, literally, in their hands as
we explored my fantasies. Yet from what I saw, and read, I wouldn't
trust these guys to service my car. Anyway most guys, I've found, tend
to be more interested in the pictures than the text. They wanted their
porn pre-digested and served raw, with no imagination needed. I needed
more. I wanted a fantasy. I didn't REALLY want to be raped. My God,
what woman does, but I wanted to fantasise about it. To pretend, to go
through the actions with someone you trust so that it seems real. So
the story groups appealed to me. That little Jap girl, raped and
abused. That's me.  That sexslave cruelly used, that's me as well. 

I lost count of the number of orgasms I had, sitting in front of my
computer, whilst the words tumbled out of the void.  I was a voyeur,
plain and simple. I watched the stories unfold before me and marvelled
at the imagination and artistry that brought them from the minds of
the authors into the security of my living room. I never wrote back, I
never emailed the writers, although they implored me to. Despite the
fact that they brought me more pleasure than I'd had in twenty years
of marriage. I was a user, a taker. I took their stories and I wove
myself into them. My climaxes were intense, leaving me weak and
breathless.

Then I read one of HIS Stories. It was as if it reached out to me. No
longer was this an anonymous, rather furtive, pleasure. This was real,
or as near to real as I could stand. He didn't write for others, he
wrote for me. He stole the fantasies from my mind, in the dead of
night, while I slept, and he crafted them into powerful stories that
left me panting and sweatslick. Every day I logged on, has he written
another story? My disappointment fell over my whole day, like a damp
blanket, as I viewed the barren acres bereft of his barbed prose. The
pearl in the dull oyster of my day was when I saw HIS moniker attached
to the new story. Avidly I consumed it, exploding in a geyser of
expectorating juices as I suffered the 'little death'. I'm sure my
heart stopped, such was the power of my climax. It was terrifying and
awesome. And I needed more.

I emailed eventually. In truth I didn't know what to expect. A Crude
simpleton in a stained string vest? A mad rapist alone in his cell? I
was sure he couldn't be. He was so eloquent, his text was so rich and
flowing. He must be cultured, he must have seen the world, he must
have drawn deeply from the cup of life. To write like that....And just
for me. 

It was with some trepidation that I opened my emails the next day.
There was one from him. I saved it until last, dealing with the trivia
and detritus that littered my mailbox. I sat down, a cup of steaming
coffee at my elbow, and opened his mail.

Thanks for your comments. Glad you liked the story. I wrote it for
you, you know!

Mouth agape, I stared at the words. For me! He wrote it for me! But
how did he know? I don't know him. And he certainly doesn't know me. I
can't even begin to explain the rush of conflicting emotions that
streamed like comets through me at that point. He reached out, from
that dull little Computer screen, and changed me. Forever.

After that I was lost. My home, my husband, my life, everything I held
dear, faded into a pastel background. I emailed, he emailed. We
exchanged photographs. We talked for hours on the phone. We did
everything, except make it real. Real real, if you understand me.

Which is why I'm here. Waiting for my bags. Going to him.

I examined myself critically in my makeup mirror. I was still
reasonably attractive, although the passing of my fortieth birthday
had left its mark. The odd grey hair, tinted out of existence, the
small blemishes on my, once smooth, skin. I could feel a knot forming
in my stomach, what if I let him down? How had I described myself? Did
I make myself sound too attractive? Was he really expecting a younger
woman? Would he, horror of horrors, turn me away with a laugh.

'Get a hold of yourself girl.' I told myself as I struggled to contain
my emotions. He saw the photos, he knew what I looked like. There was
going to be no surprises. I looked up to find myself being coolly
appraised by a young man. It made me feel better somehow. 

The Taxi ride was a nightmare of self doubt and unbidden terrors. What
if he were a white slaver? What if he just wanted a cheap fuck? What
if he were a serial killer and I was to be his latest victim? I'd told
no-one where I was going. This was a secret that only us two shared. I
was, I realised, at his mercy. It was his country, his bailiwick, and
I was the interloper. Whatever happened was up to him. Did I know him?
Really know him? I thought I did, but now?

The cottage was not how I imagined it. I had the typical, American,
romantic notion of whitewashed walls, thatched roofs and ducks on the
village pond. Not a grey stone 'hut' that hunched its shoulders
indifferently at the winds screaming from atop the barren hillside
behind it.

As the taxi driver moved my mountain of luggage I wondered whether I
should flee. Should I dive back into the taxi and refuse to emerge
until I reached the garish plastic of the airport. 

"That'll be fifty pounds love." The taxi driver informed me, hand held
out expectantly. I proffered a generous tip, Americans had a
reputation to uphold after all.

I watched the taxi drive away. The die was cast. I was involved. It,
whatever it was, was going to happen.

The note said that he was stuck. Business problems. Make yourself at
home, it informed me. I was, all at once, confused, angry and curious.
I spent an hour rooting idly through the drawers trying, by looking at
his possessions, to piece together a composite of the real man. It was
obviously a weekend cottage, the drawers yielded nothing of interest.
No pictures, no momentoes, nothing of interest at all.

Finally I decided to go for a walk. The Villagers, the few that I saw,
were friendly, curious and cautious. I hesitated before entering the
pub. Where I came from a single girl alone in a bar was an invitation.
Here it was different. A log fire, a beefy, smiling bartender and a
frothy glass of warm beer, made 200 years of American ancestry slip
smoothly away. I felt at home. I felt good.

I slept well that night, pining for him.

I'm not sure what woke me. As I struggled to come to terms with where
I was I felt the hands pulling my wrists towards the head of the bed.

"Hey, get off." I yelled.

The hands ignored me. I could smell the leather coat, tangy on the
cold night air as it rustled around me, while he worked. My hands were
bound firm, I couldn't move them and now I panicked. I thrashed and
sweated until he leaned in close.

"Shhhhh!" He whispered. "Its me. Everything's ok, its only me."

I subsided, gradually. But my heart still pounded, like an engine, in
my chest. 

It had begun.

**********************************************************************



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