This is chapter two of my erotic novel, Cult of the Ouroboros, a story about a BDSM romance on a college campus.
All chapters of this novel can be found here.
Chapter Two, Stacia
I took a deep breath as my roommate pulled the door shut behind her. She was going to visit her parents before finals, and she’d be gone the whole weekend.
Blissful, blessed silence enveloped the room. The press of it almost made my ears ring, as I looked around our cinder block dorm, glancing between the postered walls and asbestos tile floor. Piles of books, papers, and clothing sat stacked in piles. The mess congregated around a desk and bed frame that almost could look postmodern if you blurred your eyes. In reality, it was probably just cheap to build for the university’s dorm rooms. Just one of thousands, a commodity of cheap resources.
I could still feel the lump in my throat from earlier, when I started the final chemistry lab. The culmination of a semester’s worth of study. Elementary lab procedure.
I knew I was going to fail.
The professor gave us three lab periods to get it done, but I already knew I was going to fail. It was going to be one more failure in a year of failures. I tried to push the thought away, but it continued to gnaw at me, repeating those teasing questions.
Why can’t you do this?
Why can’t you succeed at anything?
What’s wrong with you?
On and on, the carousel of criticism turned. My stomach knotted, as I tried to imagine a future for myself, knowing I couldn’t even swing the first year of university. I couldn’t. I couldn’t imagine it.
What’s wrong with you?
I opened my laptop, and navigated to some porn site, nameless, one site the same as the other.
The website plied images of naked women, doing things that were supposed to be dirty, private, shameful. They were all plastered with the same shallow look of eagerness.
But I was desperate for any distraction from my vicious inner monologue.
Admittedly, this was my favorite part of college, of being out of my parents’ house: privacy to indulge my desires. And it was even easier, now that my roommate was gone. Now I didn’t even have to pretend.
I didn’t have to pretend to be normal.
I scrolled until I found what I was looking for: a video of a man frog-tying a woman on her back. Her partner took great care to make sure every rope was placed so that she lay open, exposed and available to him. My breath quickened as he ran his fingers up her inner thighs, teasing her before continuing on to her slit. I listened to her moan as she tried to hump his fingers, desperate for more, and his knowing snicker made things low on my own body tighten.
As he continued to tease her, I felt another sensation inch its way through my body. I was envious.
Envious of her, that she had someone to play with her body, tie her up, make her moan and beg and quiver. I ached to have someone do that to me — to submit to a man’s power, be his play thing, his whore. Helpless under this touch, his word, his depraved desire.
I took a deep, cleansing breath, concentrating on the physical sensations. I didn’t want to ruin my night ruminating, lamenting what I did not have.
The envy was old, a familiar pain.
Of course I had fucked some boyfriends, but no one had ever expressed interest in anything more kinky than putting it in my ass.
On the screen, once he deemed her wet enough, he pulled her forward on the platform so her head dropped back. Her throat was in the perfect position for a deep fucking, and he took no precautions for her comfort, making her gag and drool down over her own face.
Helpless.
I licked my lips; I loved when they were helpless.
My breath came out shaky as I let my own chin drop to my chest. I wanted to be helpless. I ached to be taken and forced to submit.
My eyes burned.
Fuck.
This is not what I wanted to do. I did not want to sit here and cry.
I stood up and put my laptop on the floor. Maybe I could do a little something to ease the pain, I figured.
There was a blue plastic box from underneath my bed, and I pulled it out, shuffling around the remaining detritus that had accumulated around it. I did not have a large collection of sex toys, owing both to my lack of disposable income and some lingering effects of my parents’ uncompromising, almost puritanical moral code.
Good girls did not have sex toys. Good girls did not play with themselves.
I bit my lip. There was a little part of me that enjoyed rebelling against that voice; it made the whole act just seem somehow… dirtier. And more fun.
I grabbed the Hitachi and the rope. I imagined it was him tying me up, looping the rope around my ankles and thighs, drawing them together. With each turn of the coarse rope, I could feel my pussy spasming.
I wanted to touch it but stopped myself.
…If I were in her place, would I have the freedom to touch my pussy for my own pleasure?
I imagined submitting to the man of my fantasies. Of course he’d never allow something like that. He would control how I was touched, how I was pleasured. I moaned at the thought.
I bound my legs own apart as the video continued its assault on my dopamine system. He pushed himself into her mouth, over and over, until her face was a mess of gooey saliva.
My mouth ached to be violated in the same way.
I situated the wand between my spread legs, and I lowered my most sensitive spot onto the buzzing head. Almost immediately, I collapsed forward with the convulsions of pleasure. As I held myself up in some sort of contorted pushup position, trying to catch my breath, I thought to myself, No, this will never do. This is too much. Too much pleasure for you.
You don’t deserve it yet.
I imagined him saying it to me. Work a little harder for it, slut.
My stomach flipped at that thought, and my pussy clenched and oozed.
Dirty, dirty girl.
I moved the wand a little bit in front of me, so I could still watch the screen. I took another length of rope and fashioned it into a slipknot, using the end to secure my wrists behind my back. Now, with my legs spread apart and my back arched, I could only barely press my swollen pussy against the very tip of the wand head.
Good little whore.
I watched as he took his cock from her mouth, her face shiny with the repeated applications of the contents of her throat, and brought it around to tease her dripping cunt. I panted, powerless against the continued teasing of my toy and the burning pit of envy in my womb. He pierced her, to her delighted cry, as I felt my mouth go slack. I wish someone would use me like that.
I wanted to be used, to be taken. To be… forced.
A spasm wracked my body.
That’s it, whore. You’re close, aren’t you?
I wanted a man to take his pleasure from my body, to be made open, available to his touch, his needs, his wants. I needed it — I needed a man to dominate me.
My eyes glazed as he plunged into her defenseless body, peeled open for violation. He took one last stroke and emptied himself into her, as my wand pushed me over the edge of my own orgasm. As I shuddered and spasmed, sucking every piece of pleasure from my climax, a flood of cum dripped from her pussy. He kissed her, and she smiled.
As my orgasm subsided, I had a moment of humiliating clarity. Here I was, tying myself up like a needy slut, sprawled on the floor of my dorm room, getting off on a woman being violated in the basest way.
And I enjoyed it. I blushed, thinking about what I had just done.
What’s wrong with you?