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Scuttle's Things and Stuffs

I like the GIF and the last two. I like the grayer light, I think. And the very first one, too.
 

She was bent over.

The floor of her kitchen had not provided the purchase her feet needed to escape, precious moments eaten away as she did a frantic Flintstones impression while adrenaline surged in her blood stream. She'd had the music too loud, been too lost in the soothing structure of her baking, and she had seen him much too late. After he was inside. After he found her. After he started for her.

He caught her in the next room, the dining room with the lace curtains that she'd loved so much. She crashed into the table when he shoved her, chairs sent sprawling with her. She'd hit her heat on the edge of the table, her ears ringing for a moment, the world suddenly turned to the deck of a little ship in a big storm. She tottered, tried to climb to her feet and discovered that her balance was an asset she no longer possessed. She'd all but fallen into the position she was in now, her ass in the air, all of her so exposed to him.

Except she hadn't been exposed then. Somehow he knew he'd had enough time to return to the kitchen, he seemed to be moving around her with a pace and patience that scared her more than if he'd simply taken what he'd come here for. She struggled still on her hands and knees, the room's spinning slowly coming to a stop, the ticket she bought for that particular ride all but used up. She saw his shoes, his shins, and she nearly planted her face on the floor when she tried to reach out for him.

He was bending then, coming down to her level, and her chin was taken into his hand, fingers digging into her cheeks. Her head was yanked up and back, a yelp escaping her before she even realized the air was leaving her throat to create it. Her eyes met his, and the adrenaline in her blood was replaced with ice at what she saw there. The knife came into view next, the big chef's knife she'd saved for two months to buy, the knife she used at every possible opportunity just because she so liked the way it felt as if made perfectly for her hand. Her eyes bounced fast from his face to the knife, the knife to his face, each one filling her with a sick fear in her belly she wanted no part of, neither providing the escape she was desperate for.

He didn't even say anything when he released her and stood up, the knife apparently doing all his talking for him. She trembled there on all fours, the floor she spend time sweeping, moping, polishing, now foreign to her, a lesser enemy than those circling her but an enemy nonetheless. The grooves of the wood cut into her knees, left lines in her hands, her forearms, her face when he took her head in his hand and shoved it down.

She cried out when she felt the steel of the knife against her, felt where the steel of the knife was against her, and again at the relief of light pressure when her panties were torn asunder, rendered useless. Fabric that now hung in halves, each one tickling her thighs, a feeling that would be teasingly pleasant under other circumstances. The same shoes that had stood in her limited field of vision moments earlier now found the inside of her knees, pushing each leg further apart. More room for him to work. She moaned, shuddered. A tear was on her cheek suddenly, it's appearance almost as much of a surprise as his.

The slap came quickly, the sound slicing through the room in a way that reminded her of the knife. Right now, everything reminded her of the knife. She cried out, arched her back up, a vain attempt to get away from the next one.

"No, no, please," she said, pleaded, as the point of the knife was pushed against the small of the back. The pressure dimpled her skin, she knew the slightest increase would pierce her, and her back sank down, throwing her ass up in the air lewdly. She knew she looked like she was posing for him, exposing herself for him, and her cheeks burned. He hit her again, and again, but the knife was a constant presence on her back, such a tiny point keeping her so easily in place, forcing her to endure his assault.

Somewhere, dimly, she allowed herself to hope that someone would hear her cries, come help her, rescue her before he could do what he'd come here for. Even through the slaps between her thighs, the cries that left her lips and the knife point in her back, she remembered the heat of the day. She remembered the reason she wore the simple red sundress, the one she so loved that he'd see to ruin any moment now. The air conditioner kicked on then, as if it was only too happen to confirm that all the windows were closed, as if the air streaming through the vents was laughing at her while he slapped her cunt in her own dining room.

He stopped abruptly, and then she heard him laugh, a sound that only filled her belly with molten lead.

"I don't believe it," he said, the amusement in his voice laced with a poison mockery, "You're getting wet from this, you little cunt."

She sensed his movement, and then his hand was against her face, pressing her head harder into the floor while he used her cheeks, her nose, her lips and chin like a towel. Wiping himself off on her. Wiping herself off on her. She could smell her own arousal, and she hated it. She hated her body for responding to him, hated that she knew it was only making her wetter, making it all easier for him.

The same hand planted, palm down, on the floor in front of her face, she found it suddenly impossible to take her eyes away from it until he leaned down over her. His lips were close to his ear, his voice husky and low, and she could tell he was hard. She hated that sound in his voice.

"I'm going to make you hate your cunt," he said, then pressed his nose against her cheek, inhaling the scent of her off her own face. "I'm going to make you hate that you're a woman," he said when his lips moved near her ear again.

He moved away from her, the hand gone, and her eyes closed. The world was reduced to sound and feeling, and the scent of her own betrayal on every breath she took. The knife was against her back again, this time shredding the sundress she wore, another piece of clothing, her last piece of clothing, made useless. Finishing her exposure to him. His hungry eyes, his cruel hands, all of her bared to serve his demanding cock.

Behind her, she heard the zipper pulled down, a sound that brought a protest from her lips. His laughter confirmed that it was as pathetic to him as it sounded in her own ears, the fight was over, her body, her cunt, her every last hole if he wanted, were his prize to claim, and all that was left now was for him to take it. She'd face that fact soon enough. She knew he'd force her to, even if it took her laying bruised on the floor of her dining room, within a barely a step away from those pretty lace curtains, her cheeks streaked with tears, his cum leaking from her ass. Making a spot on the floor she'd have to polish. And she knew he wouldn't help, knew he'd only laugh as she worked to scrub away the stain of his seed he'd left leaking from her.

"No," she said as she felt the head of his cock against her, slipping between her folds, his hardness apparent even in that first touch.

"Please," she said as he pushed into her, the fight draining from her voice just as quickly as her treasonous cunt grew wetter around him.
 

"I... I don't know. I don't know, okay?"

She was staring at the bathtub full of water, the facet drip-drip-dripping the last remains of the water that had flowed from it a moment before, filling the porcelain more and more. She had chewed on her lip until the strange taste of blood had found it's way to her tongue, watching with growing trepidation as the water level rose.

Now, she hovered over it, kept dry and breaking only by the hold he had on her hair. The bit of pain in her scalp from so much of her weight being carried by her hair was nothing, like distant lightning in the summer, so far off even thunder couldn't accompany it. She wished she could put her hands on the side of the tub, push off and tell him no, she just wasn't ready, maybe another time.

Did he know I'd want to do that? she wondered suddenly, and a bit of fear of him glowed through the cracks in her fear of the water.

He'd taken off his belt, just after he'd pulled her shirt off, freed her breasts from the bra she'd worn and thrown it so carelessly aside, her clothing nothing more than an obstacle to what he was really after. But then his mouth attacked her nipple, his teeth bit down on the warm flesh, and her fingers slipped into his hair, and she forgot her irritation at how little attention he paid to what she wore. The belt was off soon after, and it she remembered thinking he seemed unable to keep the grin from his face as he wrapped the soft, brown leather around her wrists.

He was almost entirely hard before she'd even closed her lips around him, and staring at the little currents in the water under her now, she wondered again if this had been his plan all along. They'd talked about it, one of those things they'd thrown back and forth between them, quick volleys as he assaulted her body with his need. She knew he liked the idea, knew without him even saying so, just by the way he'd fuck her harder, the way he seemed to find a new gear in the pace of his hips, as if muscle fatigue was no longer a thing that effected him. She would think, in that moment before he gave a final thrust and began to empty himself into her, that if it wasn't for his need to cum he could go on fucking her like that until her body gave out, until he wrung the orgasms from her and left her exhausted and unconscious and utterly powerless to move. It always seemed to be that thought that sent her over the edge, that thought combined with the urgent and powerful way he injected his seed into her, that would send her tripping over.

But they'd barely even made it to that point today. She found her knees, found his cock, and used her tongue and the movement of her lips to make him fully hard. He'd taken her hair in his hands, both hands grabbing fistfuls to the point that she thought distantly that they were handlebars so he could fuck her throat that much harder. She choked for him, gagged on the swollen head invading her throat, tears springing up in her eyes, spilling over onto her cheeks. He swelled between her lips at the sight of them, grunted and pulled her mouth down as far as she could take him, as far as he had cock to give her. She pulled against his grip, uselessly, pathetically, his belt unforgiving in it's hold on her wrists, his grip in her hair unrelenting in it's pull.

She gasped when he pulled her back at last, cool air sucked into burning lungs, and tried to blink the tears from her eyes so she could see him better. The slap shouldn't have been unexpected, but it caught her off guard, snapped her head to the side and nearly sent her over onto her side. His renewed grip in her hair helped her keep her balance, and with it he pulled her to her feet. Her remaining clothes were pulled off quickly, cast aside as carelessly as the rest. She'd ordinarily pull the rest of his off as well, but without the use of her hands she was left instead to just stand and wait, her eyes on his cock as it stood up lewdly from his boxers, wearing her saliva proudly.

He seemed to have no intention in wasting the time to pull even the last piece of his clothing off, his hands quickly back on her and pulling her into his lap. She was wet, so wet already, the way she always was when he choked her on his cock, and he slipped into her easily and fully, his journey made easier after using her mouth as he had. She gasped, and ground her hips down against him, her eyes squeezing closed when his hands pulled her nipples painfully.

She was a bit surprised, maybe even a little disappointed when he started to move her on him slowly then, a departure from the urgent fuck she was expecting. Hoping for, now. But then he served, and his shot caught her with such surprise that she wasn't even able to muster a return volley. Ace. Score.

And here she was. Her hands still bound, naked and hanging over the tub, newly filled with water. Newly filled with cold water, because despite the slowness of his initial movements inside her, he was feeling cruel today. She thought she had misread it in him when he had started so slowly, thought he had worked that out of him and into her throat, and she felt disappointment creeping into her mind at the thought of it. Little did she know then.

"I mean, will you even be able to tell if I accidentally breathe in some water?"

She was trying to be reasonable, trying to get him to slow down and talk about it for a moment. She was hoping that would be the foot in the door she needed to escape this room, to tempt him back to their room so she could drop to the floor and take his cum across her face.

Then she felt him against her, her cunt practically inviting him in when she felt just how hard he was, and she knew it was all useless. She knew his lack of patience when he was hard like this, the space he found himself in where he cared none for what she wanted, or how she wanted it. She knew it was happening, really happening, and her heart started pounding in her chest.

Behind her, his hips moved, his length slid against her, and then he was pushing into her again, stretching her around his cock.

"Oh," she said, her eyes rolling closed, her nerves pushed away for the moment, "Oh, yes..."

"Ugh," she heard from him, a sound of irritation that confused her for a moment, the last moment she had before the fist in her hair forced her head down, and she broke the surface of the water.

Her eyes were open, she couldn't seem to close them despite desperately wanting to. Seeing the bottom of the tub so close to her only scared her more, and the urgency with which he fucked her now, his cock taking her with a force she didn't know he was capable of, only made it worse. The water splashed with the movement of her body, cold hitting her back, her breasts, puddling around her knees. She really didn't think he'd know right now if she sucked water into her lungs, if she had been under for too long and couldn't resist the need any longer, if she truly started to drown in her own goddamn bathtub while he fucked her.

And unbelievably, the thought made her clit thrum with need.

She was pulled up suddenly, water cascading down her arched back, her mouth a wide circle as she sucked in a desperate breath. He showed no mercy to her soaked pussy, her own wetness was trailing down her thighs to join the water on the bathroom floor, and even as he let her breath a moment he continued to fuck her.

"Please," she gasped, clenching around him, unsure what she was even asking for in that moment, "Please."

"No."

She was shoved back under the water, wide eyes so close to the bottom of the tub, her world made wet. Fear coiled a chilly grip around her heart, the temperature matching that of the water she was held under, and she tried to fight, to lift her head or push up with her knees, to straighten her back or turn her body so she could at least steal a breath. The sting in her ass told her he hit her, but the pain was distant, like that caused by the grip in her hair earlier, fuzzy and far from her focus.

Instead, she found herself staring at a spot on the bottom of the tub that she'd never been able to scrub out of existence, and knew then she wouldn't be pulled up again until he'd cum and was finished with her.

Could she last that long?
 
^
That was just about the sexiest thing I've ever read. All I can say is ...

Please...
 
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