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| BORN FRUSTRATED by Sky Babies Eight o’clock and all’s not well. She felt the stress rise in her as she boarded the underground train home that evening. The day had been taken up with appointments, meetings and deadlines and now, on this semi pre-Christmas Friday night the tube was packed with revellers already half pissed from afternoon sessions and early start gatherings, heading off to parties and pubs elsewhere. There she stood, squashed between a drunken letch who kept trying to grope her ass with a “merry Christmas darlin’, go on, gizza kiss” and some tarted up group of jailbait. All she wanted was to head home and hit the shower before settling down with a take out and a bottle of wine in front of some old movie. Camden Town. Her stop. She disembarked along with the marauding masses and click-click-click-clacked up the platform to the escalators. Damn, these shoes were killing her feet. This was not a good day and she had an overwhelming feeling it was not going to get better. As she hit the fresh winters air she let out a frosty sigh. Her breath billowed like a fog before her. The streets were still crowded and she skilfully dodged her way around, avoiding leaflet bearers offering discount tattoos and ads for English schools. Heading down the high street she was filled with a sense of dread. Would he be home tonight? Their relationship had been quite happy until recently. They met in a small, backwater pub four years ago. He stood next to her at the bar and paid the barman for the drink she had ordered. That night she neglected her friends to get to know him better. They clicked instantly, liked the same things, and laughed at the crazy trivialities. She thought maybe this was her soul mate. Maybe he was, maybe this is just a bad phase, which will blow away in the wind. It didn’t help matters much that he was away frequently, and with her promotion they rarely saw one another now, save a cup of coffee in the morning and a quick catch up before one fell asleep on the sofa. Turning the key in the lock she gasped with relief. Lights were off and no one was home. For the first time in two days she began to relax. She kicked the killer heals off, leaving them recumbent on the floor. The cool of the wooden floor did well to sooth the ache she felt in the balls of her feet. Turning on the light and heading to the kitchen she saw a note left by him. “Sorry love”, it said “Out with the boys on business and a few drinks. Won’t be too late.” Relief covered her like a veil and she instantly felt her anxiety wane. Unbuttoning her shirt, she headed toward the bathroom. A long, hot bubble bath would help sedate her. She turned on the taps and headed back to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of wine from the rack. Deftly she opened it with the delicious pop of the cork and poured herself a large glass. She sipped it and relished the subtle taste. Grabbing a lighter he had left in the draw for emergencies, she headed back to the bathroom and lit the tea-lights, which she kept along the backside and window. Submerging herself in the water, heated to perfection and started to drift away. Head under water, almost baptismal, she washed away the hardships of the day and relaxed into herself. This is how it should be. She had often wanted to run off to a kibbutz and lead a peaceful existence, away from the rat race, picking fruit and watching the sun set over Israel. Unfortunately demands, and he, kept her here. It wasn't that she didn’t love him; she did with all the passion in her heart. It was just tough sometimes and he often lacked the sensitivity to understand how hard this was on her. She felt pressure from every angle; work, family, him. This, bathing, was the only solace she found. Time to be alone, time not to think, time to be selfish instead of selfless. Selflessness, that was one thing that both frustrated and excited him. She’d do anything for anyone and often at a cost to themselves. He told her constantly to think about herself more, meaning think about them more. She tried. She failed. He became angry. He became passionate. An hour later she emerged from her haven, shrived like a prune. Glass of wine half drunk and dripping, she put on her fluffy robe and looked at herself in the mirror. Twenty-seven, though he told her she didn’t look a day over twenty-three, despite all she did. It was not hard to believe him. She had been blessed with the looks of youth but knew one morning soon she may wake to look old and haggard. Picking up the glass she pulled out the plug, watching as the waters washed away her stresses. She thought she might take advantage of an early night in bed with a book instead. Opening the door to the bedroom, she made her way over to the bedside table. The room was semi lit by the streetlight outside, and she had no trouble manoeuvring her way around. She had lived her so long that she could make her way about blindfold anyway. Putting her glass on the side she reached down and turned on the bedside light. She caught a waft of the open aftershave next to the lamp; she could smell him and it frustrated her a little. It was as though even in absence he could still invade her space. Closing the bottle she turned to put it on the old wooden dresser directly behind. It was then when she saw him, this figure dressed completely in black and wearing a balaclava. She gasped in horror at the intruder in her room, too shocked to scream and too scared to think. He lunged at her and firmly slapped his firm, dirty hand over her mouth. “Don’t say a fucking word, you bitch” He rasped menacingly at her. Tears of fear sprang to her eyes. “Do exactly what I say and you won’t get hurt. Fuck with me...” He pulled a knife from the band of his trouser, pressing the glinting blade to her throat “and I’ll kill you.” Sobs muffled, she nodded her head slowly in agreement. It might have been an idea, she thought, to bite him, that might give her time to escape but she was half naked and had no-where to go. Besides, if she couldn’t get out in time who knows what he would do. He pushed her hard onto the bed. She knew better than to scream. From a small backpack he pulled out a thick role of black tape and bit a strip off. He slapped it harshly over her mouth and she felt the bile rise through her body. Tearing off more he proceeded in binding her hands to the bed-posts. She lay there prostate as he began to riffle through the draws throwing objects into his sack. Not the jewellery box, please...it contained the ring left to her by her grandmother who had died when she was six, and the diamond bracelet he had given to her the Christmas before last. She cast her mind desperately to the morning he handed it to her, wrapped to perfection and with a promise more was to come at some time in the near future, a ring perhaps, she hoped though that had not come to fruition. He did up the bag and threw it to the side. Malice glinted in his eye as he looked at her, rigid on the bed and shivering from shock, fear and cold. Sadistically he slowly sat down by the side of her. “Now, what am I going to do with you?” he hissed. She stared hard at him, her face stained with tears. He smirked, he knew exactly what he was going to do, but the thought of putting off the inevitable and watching her squirm some really turned him on. He did nothing. He sat there, looking at her. The lack of anything instilled a deeper sense of dread in her, not knowing is worse than action itself. He reached out and stroked her hair. She strained to move her head away from him grasp. “Be a good girl” he said angrily, “I’m not going to do anything else, honestly.” Noticing the knife laying close by her, she complied with his order. “I only want to talk, no tears,” he whispered, wiping the forming tears from her eyes roughly. It hurt her like hell but she was not stupid enough to resist. “Sorry to have scared you like this. You’ve been a good girl and you don’t deserve it. Doesn’t make my job any easier though. I wasn’t always bad, things just turned against me and I had to react to it, to get on. I don’t want to hurt you and I hope you won’t give me reason to.” His voice was calm, soft even and reassuring. “You see, it’s other people. They drive you to it. No one understands what it’s like. You’d never have a clue, would you?” She shook her head in agreement, anything to pacify. He sat there and looked at her for a while. His deep brown eyes seemed warm and caring. A fitting mask for the turmoil she could sense inside him. “If you promise not to make a sound I promise I’ll take that off” he said, pointing to the sticky gag around her face. She nodded slowly. He leaned over her and deftly ripped the tape from her mouth. She let out a gasp, half for air and half out of pain from the suddenness of his motion. “You promised, not a fucking sound!” he growled. Her breathing sped to anxious level. He put his face close to hers, his eyes burning deep into her skull. She could feel his breath, hot against her tepid skin. “Are you scared?” he asked. “Yes.” she answered without hesitation. “No need to be.” he soothed. He backed withdrew from her proximity in staggered stages. Her eyes stayed focused on his motion. “You women,” he continued in a menacing tone far removed from the hushed calm of his last interjection. “You all say one thing and mean another. Look at you lying there, a real woman would have tried to fight it off; but not you. You wanted this to happen, didn’t you. You’ve lived for it. You’re begging for it and you’d fucking die for it, wouldn’t you?” “No,” she semi stuttered “no!” “Fucking liar!” he screeched. “I hate liars. They all get what they deserve in the end.” He drew back and swiftly untied her robe, leaving her cold, exposed and shivering. He stood up, looking at her taunt, naked body which she could not hide from him and slowly began to unzip his combats. “Please, no...” she implored. “You fucking want it, bitch. You’re going to get it.” He threw herself onto her. His weight like a house of bricks crashing on her delicate body. Knife in his hand, he looked her close and square in the face. “You’ll get what you deserve. Make a noise and I swear I’ll kill you. I don’t make threats I’m not prepared to carry out.” “Please,” her brain flew into action, “I’m pregnant.” “Really? Then there’s no need for any protection” he laughed callously. She wasn’t pregnant. That was one big fat lie she wished had been true. They had been trying to conceive for two long years, but with no success. They had had tests but nothing was wrong with the fertility of either. It just hadn’t happened yet. The thought was sown when his friend had found out that his wife was expecting and seeing the baby soon after birth made them more determined. As she held the baby the friend said she was a natural, and she felt it. He heart lurched every time she saw a mother push a pram down the street. He knew she was the one he wanted to have a family with. They would be perfect together, the three of them in their own little world. It was all they both yearned for. After a year of trying, of constant sex with no outcome other than mutual satisfaction, they sought medical help. The doctor made suggestions, keeping ovulation charts and fucking just at the right time. Sex had become a chore and neither of them had enjoyment any more. It was a function and nothing else. They fought because of it. He stayed out later, came home drunk and they would shout. Certain times he was away, touring the world and living his dream. She couldn’t be with him always. They both had their demands. Nothing.....and now this. The man in the balaclava pinned her down, harshly forcing himself into her. As he thrust deeper and deeper she could feel her insides burn. Tears of shame rolled down her cheeks. She was nothing more than an animal, an object for him to relieve his perverted attentions into. She didn’t know what hurt more, the pain of the assault or the dehumanisation. He firmly but gently run the blade of the knife down her torso, biting at her breast at the same time. This was excruciating. He jolted suddenly and the knife scratched her skin, causing a small cut which swelled with blood. He looked at her and smiled. It was as though he was proud of what he had done. Sticking out his tongue, he licked the puddle of blood up in long, slow strokes. All the time pumping harder and harder into her. She yelped in pain which he seemed to mistake for ecstasy. He pulled back a little, stopped and reached down to feel her. “You’re fucking soaking” he laughed as she tried her damndest to clamp her thighs closed. It was impossible as his frame was wedged between them and he had not withdrawn himself. He fell down on top of her once again. He pressed his mouth full on hers and kissed her deeply, violently. He could not turn away from him, he was too powerful for that. That really turned him on. He fucked her hard and fast, unable to stop himself. He shot harder than he ever had before, crying out gutturally as he did so. She felt his cum run out of her, down onto her thigh and leaving a wet patch on the duvet under neither herself. She also felt the tale tall tingle of orgasm well from deep within her and tried to stifle her moans out of disgust that she could feel this from someone who had violated her. Suddenly he withdrew from her and smiled. He got the knife and gently, so as not to cut her, sliced away the tape that still bound her hands. She reached up and quickly unmasked him while he sat there, back to her. His hair was soaked and stuck to his neck in little singular curls. Rivulets of sweat trickled from his head. He turned around with a broad smile adorning his luscious lips, face red and glowing. “Sorry about the cut,” he said sheepishly “I got a little carried away.” “You’re a fucking nut!” she murmured, worn out by what had occurred to her. “And your hands are really filthy,” “I have been up in the attic most of the day, looking for this.” He said, picking up the balaclava. “So, did you know it was me?” He teased. She let out a laugh. “Well, your name on the front did give it away, you fucking idiot!” “Yeah,” he sighed, “I forgot about that....So?” “So...I fucking love you James.” she hugged him so hard he struggled for breath. “Next time could we try out one of my fantasies. Being a bastard doesn’t come that easy to me, no matter what you say.” They held one another for a long time. Maybe tonight was the night. They had both told the doctor about how strained their love life had been and the pressure it had put on their relationship. Until then they had felt that breaking point was around the corner. The doctor suggested putting a little spice back into things to make them more relaxed, there’s better chance of conception that way. They looked at one another. Maybe he was right. <<< Miscellaneous |