Tawns of Fun

Imagine the man about to break in when he spots you getting dressed. 

Damn, I can’t kill that, he thought. He desperately wanted you to start masturbating. Maybe he could just kill your roommate? No, you might witness that. Best thing to do was go shoot a load in the woods, clear his head, and come back.

Imagine the man seizing you outside Maddie’s house and threatening to kill her if you don’t obey. As you’re led into the woods at knifepoint, his unoccupied hand cups your a/s/s. You begin to twist away then stop.

You’re rewarded with an appreciative squeeze. Then told to take your pants off. Your under/garments are pulled down with them. A hand grabs your bicep and you’re thrust against bark. His body crushes you against the tree like the knife against your jugular wasn’t enough of a reminder.

You almost c/u/t yourself on it when his girth begins to stretch your ill-prepared inner walls. Asking your “partner” to stroke your c/l/i/t is laughable. Even if he actually gave a damn about your comfort, if the man won’t remove his mask the gloves must be there to stay, too.

On the third-to-last thrust, he announces he’s cum/ming. The killer lowers his knife. Then flips it between his gloved fore- and middle fingers before sticking it up your c/u/n/t.

He laughs at the way your back arches in horror, then tells you he wishes he had a proper toy to plug up your now slippery puss/y.

Imagine being a writer whose phone gets stolen by an infatuated fan. You’re unaware it’s gone until someone sends pics of you, in real time, to your computer. 

The accompanying texts, which interlace compliments about your works and physique, would have actually been welcome under better circumstances. But you’re not going to admit that. 

Even when your stalker has you pinned writhing underneath him.