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When her story first began to spread, I cautioned against letting our thoughts run to revenge. But after a few days of contemplation, I found my mind spinning scenarios of painful, humiliating retribution.
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It’d be best to let a few months pass. If the primaries could bring themselves to affect some degree of fraudulent forgiveness, so much the better. The idea would be that he’d think that things had gone back to normal. That he’d been pardoned. That he’d no longer need to sleep with one ear trained toward the door, nor a gun beneath his pillow.
In the small dark hours of the morning, a crew of four or five would pay this charmer a visit, bearing with us a few key instruments designed to elicit submission.
In fantasy the details blur; rationally I can see ten-thousand impediments to how we’d arrive, enter and subdue. But this is a fantasy. The particulars are unimportant; the next bit, however, is utterly clear.
We’d place him naked, face up and bound to the bed. His ankles would be spread wide and roped to his wrists. Would a blindfold be employed? Oh yes. It would make the anticipation worse. A ball gag wouldn’t be a bad idea either.
To his almost certain surprise, things would begin pleasurably, or at least as pleasurably as could be expected for someone woken in the night by a crowd of grim strangers. Someone would take our mark’s cock in hand, lube it liberally with the best possible lube, and stroke it. From what I hear it’s a big one, both in length and girth.
Few men could resist insistent lubed strokes. It wouldn’t be long, I’d imagine, ’til his cock plumped up hard and straight. I possess some small talent in the area of dirty talk; I’d be perfectly willing to help sketch out a raw, filthy picture in his head.
“You want to get fucked, don’t you, baby?” I’d whisper to him roughly as the pleasure in his cock grew. “You want to slide that big dick in me and feel how wet I am?”
At this point, our victim would wonder if perhaps he hadn’t been mistaken in his interpretation of events. Maybe his pals had set this up, he’d think. What could go wrong with relaxing into the sensations, the pleasure, the release?
“Baby I’m dying to fuck you,” I’d moan into his ear, envisioning a corresponding jump in his cock’s hardness at the words. “I’m dying to get your cock in me — and even more, I’m dying to get my cock in you. You’d like to have my big fat cock, wouldn’t you?”
Would his head swivel back and forth on the bed? Would he try to voice “No!” around the ball in his mouth? I hope he would. The more he protested, the more I’d tell him how he was going to love having a thick cock in his ass.
The other members of our avenging posse would not have been idle thorough this. Busy hands would have drawn forth a dildo of almost otherworldly proportions, the kind of toy meant for those with years’ worth of anal experience. After much consideration, we would have chosen a toy made from rubber because of its high potential for drag.
My companions would add just the tiniest dot of water-based lube to the dong, which would accurately replicate the consideration he’d given her, slamming it into her with no more lube that what came from her vagina. They’d nudge it against his asshole, then over his frantic protests they’d drive it home.
All of it. Deep into his ass, the lube instantly vaporized by friction and fear.
Then they’d pull it out and slam it back in again, and again, and again, balls deep each time, just as he’d done to her.
The hand on his cock and the voice in his ear would stop when the ass-rape started. They’d served their purpose, and while some might think that retribution should be delivered with him wholly unaroused, the pleasure is actually an integral component of my plan.
Because after we’d left (again, those details are but a muddy haze), after he’d uncurled from the fetal position, after he’d wiped the sad froth of shit, lube and blood from his ass, I’d want him to remember with shame the feeling of having enjoyed himself right up to the moment that things went wrong. I’d want him to wonder — just as she does — if he’d done something to encourage the attack.
I’d want to link together in his mind the concepts of revulsion and arousal, so that every time he became excited, he’d feel fear. Each orgasm would be dragged down by the certain memory of shame, rage, and pain. He might come to dread engaging sexually because hooked to it would be an anchor of nearly intolerable emotions.
The flow of blood would end after a few days. Sitting would hurt. Pooping? Aye, yes, that would be difficult. He’d wonder whether or not he should see a doctor. What would he say? How would he explain his injuries? What trouble could come from it?
I want him to feel the discomfort she’s felt in the days after her assault, but the true power of this revenge fantasy would come in the weeks, months and years to follow. He’d then discover that having your “No!” ignored — even once, even for just a few moments — hurts in ways that don’t disappear when the body heals.
******
I find this plan creeping into my thoughts a thousand times a day. Of course I’ll do nothing. This scenario won’t see reality, and I’ll encourage others also to keep their plans in the realm of fantasy.
But…how good it would feel to make it happen. How satisfying. How perfect.
How just.
******
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