Welcome to my new short story series, Ella’s Fantasy Friday!
This week I’m gonna be channelling my inner scream queen. I’m gonna tell y’all about one of my supernatural fantasies. I mean, I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t have at least one spooktacular scenario tucked away in my spank bank, right?
The thing with this particular fantasy is, I don’t actually like it. It turns me on and gets me off, sure, but I’m always left with a feeling of unease whenever I wank to it. I know why that is, though. It relies heavily on fear and sexual assault and features one of my irrational fears; poltergeists. I’ve touched on it before in this story, but I romanticised it. I made the character welcome what was happening to her, thus validating it in a way. And though I’ve written the following piece in story form, this is closer to the way I picture it when I masturbate…
I’m so tired. My skin is still damp and wrinkled from the steaming hot bath I just took. Each move I make rubs the slightly too hard towel against my skin, each time I lift my arms to squeeze water from my hair the roughness rubs my nipples. Every part of my body feels too sensitive. It makes me feel off kilter. Alert but sleepy, clean and calm but still hot and sticky.
Though I can’t remember doing it, my bed sheets are pulled back and my pillows are perfectly fluffed. Beckoning to me. Welcoming me like an old friend as soon as I shed the towel and sink into the mattress.
It doesn’t take me long to drift into that delicious place between awareness and sleep. It feels like I’m immersed in deep, warm water. I can still hear cars outside and the ticking of a clock. I still know where I am. My mind moves freely but my body doesn’t. I’m still. So, so still. When I try to move my legs, it feels like I’m trying to move a boulder. My arms are unresponsive, too, just like my hands, feet, and head. So, so tired.
Any other time I would panic if I couldn’t move my limbs, but right now it feels natural. Nothing more than the weight of sleep. The soft stroke of cotton being drawn down my skin feels right, and so does the chill of a soft breeze coming in through the window. It brings goosebumps to the surface of my skin and it almost tickles.
What doesn’t feel right is the sense of pressure closing around my ankle. It’s a light pressure and I feel it in more than one area. I feel it in five different spots, equally spread out and inching ever so slowly up. Chalking it up to imagination, I dismiss it.
All the same, I try to move my leg, to rub it against the sheets to rid myself of the creepy sensation of touch. Nothing happens. My leg won’t move at all. It isn’t just leaden, and it hasn’t gone to sleep. It’s just completely, inexplicably immobile.
My eyes snap open when I feel the touch strengthen around my calf. What’s going on? Why can’t I move? Who the fuck is touching me? A scream builds in my throat but gets stuck when I realise that I’m alone. There’s nobody here. But I still feel a hand gliding up my thigh, kneading my hip, stroking over my belly until it reaches my chest.
I’m choking on that scream. I can’t blink. My lids have peeled so far back my eyeballs feel dry. I wish I could close them so that I didn’t have to see the dimples appearing on my tits. So that I didn’t have to watch my nipples getting harder, longer, being pinched and pulled far enough out that pain makes me shudder. When they’re released my tits spring back and quiver. The right one slaps off the left. I whimper when I see a pink splodge appear, deepen, then take the shape of a large hand.
No! This is impossible. I’m not feeling a tongue flick back and forth over my aching nipples. I’m not feeling soft lips kissing, hard teeth biting, or a warm mouth sucking. That glistening ribbon trickling onto my sternum isn’t saliva, I refuse to believe it. But it’s there all the same.
Tears may well be rolling into the hollow beneath my ear, but that isn’t the wettest part of me. With each long, drawn out suck, I feel my cunt throb. And with each throb, I feel a little bit of fluid seeping out of me. My gut is churning, my nipples feel so sensitive, so engorged, so good.
I don’t want it. I even manage to shake my head, just a bit, and whisper the word, “No.”
I’m preparing myself to yell it, but a crushing weight settles on my chest, silencing me. Air is trapped in my lungs. I’m panicking, feeling knees against the sides of my ribs but seeing no-one. Watching my tits being mashed together, watching them move as something passes between them, watching my nipples shifting from side to side and swallowing a moan every time they’re pinched.
“What’s happening to me?” I sob when I can finally breathe again.
My body is being shaken by the weight on my chest then suddenly I’m still. Is that… is that a nose I feel trailing down my belly?
Is that a finger I feel combing through the fuzz that grows on my labia?
My thighs crack when my legs are pulled apart. That hostile finger parts my lips, strokes through my folds. I want to lash out, kick out, to throw it off me and run screaming from the room. But I’m immobile, helpless. All I can do is cry as it finds my clit and starts to rub. It’s like it knows exactly how to make my body respond.
So much horror. I want to make it stop but my body wants me to angle my hips, to offer myself up to the thing I can’t see. Because it feels good. So much shame.
Handprints appear on my thighs and my legs are pushed into the mattress. No, no, no. The chant runs through my head as I squeeze my eyes shut. I try to ignore the blunt thing stroking around my entrance. Try to ignore the violating pressure, the sharp stretch, the way my cunt yields to the hard length moving inside of it.
The thing I can’t see fucks slowly at first. Tension pulls my navel toward my back. Pleasure swells in my nipples and my clit, terror builds in my chest and in my head until I’m wide-eyed but blinded by tears.
Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop.
It doesn’t stop. It fucks harder, clawing at my skin, slapping my face, rubbing my clit until it feels like it might explode. Like I might explode. I’m going to explode. Against every instinct in my body, against every wish, every thought, my cunt tightens around the phantom cock. The most wonderful thing my body is capable of feeling has been sullied. I hate every iota of the thigh trembling pleasure that flows through me.
And then, with a thrust so cruelly hard I want to scream, the cock pulses inside of me. Filling me, still plunging deep enough to force something chilly and wet out of me with each aching thrust.
In the still silence that follows, I pull the sheets over my head, still shivering from orgasm and shaking with fear. I can’t call anybody because no-one will believe me if I did. Will I even believe it in the cold light of day? I guess I’ll find out in the morning.
It should go without saying that I would never want something like this to happen to me or anyone else in real life. But the arousal I get from fear is potent and it does something so powerful to my mind (and therefore my orgasms) that I keep revisiting this type of scene time and again.
While I do sometimes tell myself that this particular fantasy isn’t a rape fantasy because the offender is invisible, the fact of the matter is, it is a rape fantasy, and it’s just one of many of its kind that I have. Nearly all of my fantasies involve some level of non-consent or abuse, be it sexual, physical, mental, or emotional. Some folks will disapprove, and some will be fully offended, and that’s absolutely fine as long as they remember that ‘your kink is not my kink, but your kink is okay’.