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To: snuffstories@topica.com
From: rut4-@netscape.net
Subject: [snuffstories] Story - Tryst
Date: Fri,  6 Jun 2003 13:43:52 +0000
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This is not the typical Woodburn story because the female
does not die. Gets pretty fuckin' close though. I leave it
up to the reader to consider how much of this is real and
how much is fiction...



        
                            Tryst




    Her bedroom is in shadows. A glow comes from the half-open bathroom 
door and the last amber remains of sunset come through the window.  
    Outside, trees tremble in a late summer breeze, cast silouhettes on the 
down-slanted levelor blinds.
    A car passes by, tires hissing on the wet pavement.
    It rained earlier.
    A quick storm that moved past while I kissed her, slowly stripped her, 
groped
her small hard-nippled breasts and fiercely gripped her silky jet-black 
hair..
    She'd sat on my lap nude, not facing me, legs wide, her back against my
chest, head tilted backward on my shoulder, like a daughter, languid and 
trusting.
    "You want me?" I'd asked her, whispering into her ear, dizzy with the 
smell
of her.
    "Yessss," she hissed, eyes fluttering shut.
    Cruelly I'd pinched her clit.
    
                    ***

    Naked she hangs upside down, her slender legs draped over a steel 
bar that dangles by a rope from an eyelet hook drilled through the 
sheet-rock and
into a ceiling beam above.  Her ankles are tied tightly to her thighs, 
tight enough to
indent the skin, pinch the circulation, make her limbs go numb.  Her 
arms are pulled
back behind her and roped at the wrist and at the elbows.  Her lips are 
drawn into a
gaping yawn by a metal dental gag stretched to the limit.  And her hair, 
long jet-
black and flaxen, as oriental as her lovely almond shaped dark eyes, 
stretches down
nearly two feet, the tips of the longer strands touching the carpet as 
her eyes, upside
down follow me about the room, quiet except for her breath.
    Mmm. Her breath quick, shallow, sometimes catching.  Now and then a 
soft
guttural moan in her throat, a tiny drool line running from her open 
mouth down
her wide cheek past her eye and into her hair-line.
    I'm naked, stroking myself slowly, working myself up though I hardly 
need
to, already fully erect at the sight of her.
    I've laid out my tools on the disheveled bed.
    "This is the way you want it," I say softly. Its not a question. Just a 
brief
statement. A kind of prelude to what will follow as I take up the single 
tail whip.
    She nods and looks up at me.
    "I'm going to hurt you."
    She nods again, blinking and nodding again, her eyes slitted, her lips 
spread
wide and slightly swollen, her tongue curled back in her mouth.
    She knows I won't hold back.
    She knows and the knowledge is in her eyes which say:
    Punish me. Use me. I'm here for you.
    Her surrender brings out all the demons in me.
    All of them in full force.
    "Whore," I snarl and raise the three-foot lash to slash across her
exposed belly.
    The crack of the blow is explosively loud, unexpectedly so.
    R.'s cry is a short high-pitched yelp.
    For a moment I wonder if neighbors will hear - but then I don't worry 
about
it.
    This is consentual after all.
    Two adults behind closed doors.
    She's legally an adult anyway.  As for me I'm old enough to be her 
father
and maybe in some strange way I am.  More than a father.  Her owner and 
before
the night is over more than that - her God.
    I like beating women.  Actually I like destroying them bit by bit, one 
piece at
a time until they are nothing but bloody sobbing meat.  Especially a 
young college
girl like R..
    I like the fresh texture of young girlflesh.
    I tell myself its no different with her than with the others I've done 
over the
years.  But as I swing the lash again, harder, I know its not.
    R.'s special.
    She jerks reflexively to the whip's cut. Her bound legs twitch and the 
bar
she hangs from starts to spin clockwise, the thick tense rope that leads 
up to the
ceiling creaking as it stretches.
    I hate her because of what she makes me feel inside - something which 
is new
and foreign and difficult - and I whip her again curling the single tail 
around her
waist, spinning her counter-clockwise as I pull the lash off her.
    I hate her because of all the questions she's provoked in my mind - 
tiny
daggers of self-doubt which were never there before.
    She howls, ripples of movement spending themselves through her body, 
her
eyes already glistening with tears.
    I know she needs to hurt- and I need to hurt her - I need to take her 
as far
as possible - to the limit of her endurance - maybe even put her in the 
hospital -
maybe worse... I need to punish her - really punish her. On that issue 
there is
no doubt whatsoever.
    We are two sides of the same coin, two aspects of the same energy.
    I fling the lash across her spread thighs and again, as she spins, 
across her
bound arms making it snap against her small breast orbs.
    "This what you want, bitch?" I snarl. "Huh? This what you want?"
    "Yahhgg!" she gasps, nodding as she spins, her hair swirling against 
her
cheeks, her face coming into view and turning away, enough to see the
acceptance in her eyes, enough to make the seething hatred rise up 
through me.
    "Cunt."
    I really do hate her.
    - and need her - though I'm not eager to accept it.
    And I strike hard across her asscheeks - strike again as she spins 
whipping her
shaved cuntmound and her lower belly, each cut of the single-tail 
drawing squeals of
pain from my oriental college-girl slave-bitch.  I whip arms and legs 
and torso
with no regard for where the welts will mark her.  I know the marks will 
not
wear off for weeks and I don't know how she will explain them to her 
friends,
to her boyfriend or to her dad or to her teachers.  Maybe she will tell 
them she
was attacked and raped by a stranger who broke into her room.  Maybe she
will say nothing because I will rip her tongue from her head.  Maybe she 
will
never be seen again by anyone because I know of a quiet serene place 
where
trees flank a bubbling stream, a place she can be buried after I've used 
her up.
Yeah. It seems appealing to me. Silencing her forever.  Because its her 
words that
have changed me and made me think about all this - this - fierce need.
    "Scumbag."
    I focus my attack on her shaved pussymeat, slash after slash until 
she's
screaming and babbling, until blood oozes down from her mons and cunt 
lips.
Then I move in and feed her my cock, push into her gaping mouth and down
into her throat.  The dental gag prods my lower belly and nudges my 
balls with
cold metal as I slide to the hilt in R., deep into the source of her 
words
and language.  Her tongue laps against my shaft as I slide in and out.  
    "That's right - lick me - yeahh - good girl -"
    I grip the back of her neck with one hand to deepthroat her.
    She gags, spumes up spit.
    " - good girl - mmmm - hold me in your throathole - ahhh - yeahh - 
that's
nice - you got nothin' to say now do you, bitch? Huh? Do you? - ahhh - 
yess -
goddamn you - writing your little stories on the internet - little 
cockteaser - this is no
story now is it, bitch? Is it? Naahh. This is fuckin' real. Real all the 
way. You wanna
play with Woodburn? Ok. We're playing now, cunt - choke on me - yeahh - 
that's
where you belong - on the end of my prick -"
    I slide out of her leaving her gasping for air, flushed red.  I pull 
the dental gag
from her mouth and toss it aside.
    "Cut me, Woodburn -" she gasps. "Cut me - I want it. I want to feel my
skin separating - make lines across my body - not deep - mmm - not too 
deep -
just - ahh - just deep enough -"
    "You sure you're ready for that?"
    She nods wildly, her breath coming faster.
    "R-ready as I'll ever be -"
    "Beg for it."
    She looks up at me and I see her striving to calm herself.  After a few
moments the look on her face is less desperate, more serene and her fast 
gasping
breaths have begun to abate.
    "Please - Woodburn - please cut me.  Use your knife on me.  Draw my
blood."
    I turn from her and toss the whip on the bed to pick up the knife.
    Its a hunting knife with a serrated stainless steel blade and a black 
hard plastic
handle.  No fancy weapon.  Just a little toy I picked up at Walmart.
    I turn back to her, stroking myself slowly as I pace around her.
    I show her the blade and make her lick it.
    She dangles there suffering, waiting, whip-welt-lines like red ribbons 
laced
around her.  
    Sunset has left the room now darker than before.
    Again I pace around her. I like to study her inverted suspended body 
from all
angles - she's a living breathing suffering sculpture.
    She sniffles and her shoulders tremble as she sobs quietly.
    "Why should I cut you?" I ask her.
    Her breath catches. I'm behind her and coming around to look down into 
her
face. She didn't expect the question and now she's thinking the words.  
She's so
good with words.  So smart.  So clever. I can use them against her to 
torture her
with them like she's tortured me...
    I pause in my pacing now and stand over her.
    "Why, pig? Why should I dirty my blade with your worthless blood?"
    "Because you love me."
    I chuckle.
    "Love you? Where the fuck did you get that idea?"
    "You want to love me."
    "Want to? What I want to do is make you hurt."
    "Do it then. Do it. Just fucking do it."
    I look down at her and I know what she sees - she sees what I want her 
to
see - the face of a killer - I've been here before.  Love? How can she 
believe that
this could be love? She sees what is in me. It is not love. And yet - 
she's not afraid. 
The best ones are never afraid.  This is what they yearn for.  And she's 
definitely
one of the best for me. She looks at me - at the person who is really 
there - the
killer...
    "I don't love you," I tell her. "But I want you to love me.  I want you 
to tell
me you love me - to return my sick sadistic hatred of you with love - 
can you do
that, R.? Can you?"
    "Yes."
    "Yes, master. Say it for me."
    " - y - yes master -"
    "Tell me you love me and I'll cut you."
    "Will you?"
    "I will."
    " I love you, Woodburn."
    "Again."
    "I - love - you - Woodburn."
    I bring up the knife to her left thigh.
    "Bleed for me you sick cunt."
    Gently - because the blade is very sharp, I have had it sharpened 
specially for
her - gently I trace a line from her knee to her hip on the front of her 
bound leg.
She moans softly as the blade cuts her skin. The sound she makes makes 
my balls 
swell.  As I retrieve the blade a drop of blood drips off it and on to 
my thigh, warm
as a drop of the summer rain that earlier pattered against the windows 
and I think...
beautiful...and I think...maybe because this time its different - but 
love? Surely not.
Not for someone like me, jaded and burnt out, used all up out of love, 
wanting 
only the sensation of raw brutal power, of crude lust, to shake me from 
my
certainty that the world is as it is, that nothing matters.  But her 
warmth running
down my thigh, her life on the end of my blade, her youth and the 
promise...how
dare she think?...and I draw a sharp, slightly deeper cut up her other 
leg from the
hip to the knee, reverse direction, reverse flow, counterpoint -
    "What makes you think I can love a woman?" I tell her as I watch her
suffering to the slicing knife.  "Women are just meat to me."
    She sobs softly.
    "Is that all I am to you?" she asks trembling.
    I put the tip of the knife against her whip-welted belly.
    I can't answer her question and I won't lie but I do cut from the 
middle of
her abdomen to her flank and watch blood drip down her ribcage.
    "Maybe..."
                        *** 

    I've released her from the suspension bar and made her follow me on 
hands
and knees into the living room.  
    Females should always be made to crawl - specially smart, sassy, 
educated
young ones like R..  They need to learn their place - close to the 
ground - at
their master's heel - like well-trained dogs.
    She's bleeding beautifully and I want to take the opportunity to enjoy 
her
fully before the knife-wounds start closing up and the blood 
coagulating.
    "Up on the couch," I tell her. My voice is calm but mean.  "Sit - lean 
back -
no - not like that, bitch - yeah - that's better - open your fucking 
legs - lift em up
high for me - open wide slut - uh-huh - you know how I want you - offer 
me that
filthy cunt - slant-eyed shit - yeahh - offer it to me - I'm gonna punch 
it a few times
before I fuck you - just to warm it up nice..."
    Its dark in the living room.  The furniture is just dark shapes as I 
lean over
her.  The door into the bedroom is behind me and the faint glow of the 
bathroom
light and the metal bar hanging from the rope still swaying in there as 
R.
spreads herself open for me, looking up at me though she can't see but a 
shadow
man full of dark substance as I cock my arm and grip her upflung thigh 
smearing
it with the hot blood from the knife-cuts.
    I punch her chubby little cunt mound hard, giving her what I know she
craves.  The sound of the blow is meaty and it is followed by a 
breathless gasp.
    "This is what you want -" I growl cocking my arm again.  " - isn't it?"
    "Yes, sir," she whimpers. "Ohgghh yesss..."
    I follow up her reply with a thumping punch right into her sexmeat.
    At first I feel as if I'm not giving her all I can, as if for some 
reason, because
of her vulnerable position, her inquisitive adoring eyes in the darkness 
or just
some latent benevolent instinct I'm not in full-assault mode but 
gradually I loosen up
and let the cruelty out.  Eventually my hard-knuckled fist thumps and 
whumps
into sweet young R.'s vulva with splattering purpose, knocking the wind
out of her, slamming her against the couch back cushions and writing 
expressions
of anguish on her face.  Eventually she's sobbing, still keeping her 
legs wide
open for the attack, lovingly obedient, her cunt spilling blood tears 
like her
knife-fucked skin.
    Its time to claim full possession of her.
    I crouch over her and put my pulsing erection to her battered 
twat-slit.
    "I want you to say my name over and over while I fuck you," I tell her.
"I want you to obliterate all other thoughts from your mind - all of 
them -
understand?  Fill it with my name - my name, cunt - only my name and 
nothing
else..."
    I stare at her lips as she forms the sound.
    "Woodburn -"
    And again.
    "Woodburn -"
    The w' sound exhaling the d' terminating the breath, the b' shaping a
momentary pout, the n' leaving her lips parted.
    She repeats my name slowly, softly and hypnotically and the pitch of 
her
voice changes slightly, rising in volume, her eyes wide in the shadows, 
pupils
reflecting the distant glow of the bathroom light as she looks up at me 
as I
slide inexorably into her as I push into her receptive body to seal us 
together,
to give us both what we've been needing,  this moment of purposeful 
taking, my
own eyes slitted with pleasure, locked with hers as my hips began to 
pump.
    I reach down and pick up the leather strap from the couch to wrap it
around her slender white throat.
    I begin to strangle her while I fuck her changing the sound of her 
chanting 
voice.  The wood' syllable in my name is now more of a choking grunt 
fueling my
masculine fuck-lust.  If there was light in the room I know her cheeks 
would be
flushed red - instead I just stare into the half-lit globes of her 
eyeballs which now
bulge slightly -
    " - woodburn - gg - woodburn - woodburn - ww-wgg-woodbuhhnggg -"
    Woodburn.
    Pump. Choke. Thrust. Plunge. Bitch. Cunt. Wet. Slime.
    You're mine. Mine. I am on your breath and in your cunt and in your 
head.
    Feel me. Welcome me. Want me. Suffer for me. Please me.
    My feet firmly planted in the carpet.
    The couch creaking, my left hand gripping your flank, fingers buried in 
your
knife-sliced skin.
    R. gasp-choking-coughing out my name.
    The wet sloshing sound of reaming cockmeat in lubricated cunthole.
    And tighter on the choke-grip as I pull out of your cunt and brutally 
impale
your asshole, your rectum unprepared, small and tight around my hot 
manshaft, my
name a deliciously small whisper of choked female agony, a sneer of 
unchecked 
sadistic pleasure on my lips, teeth bared - I am the Taker.  Open for 
me. Give me
all, your heart, soul and mind - I will spare you nothing - tighter on 
the choke-grip -
on the edge of consciousness your lips with my name repetitively, my 
cock
gouging out your stinking guts, you little worm-bitch,  sprawled before 
me,
conquered - yeah - my name - say my name - say my name - say my name -
keep on saying it, you filthy little gutterwhore, say it and drown in it 
-
    Woodburn.
    A sweeping tide to engulf you, to scatter you, to plunder.
    Poor little R. lost in the storm.
    I'm cumming up your assss, you stinking whorrrrre - don't you fuckin' 
pass
out on me - gghrrrrraaaaaa! Shittttt!
    Hot jism squeezes up my shaft from my balls, my legs wide-stanced and
my hips thrusting, hilting my prick in the tight sleeve of your asshole. 
 I am all 
the way in and the leather strap is cinched tight around your scrawny 
little neck
and your eyes are rolling back and I'm pounding the sperm into you like 
a
jackhammer, pounding into you and choking the life out of you and 
slamming the
couch against the wall with all I've got.
    Goddamn bitch - slut - animal-cunt - take what's coming to you.
    A wet smear of cum washes up out of you as you breathe out my name
and go weak.
                        ***

    In the bathroom the light seems stark, harshly so after the dark room.
    The sound of the water rushing from the faucet and filling the tub 
echoes
loudly, warm steam rising into the black and white tiled room, fogging 
up the
mirror.
    You sit on the floor at my feet, next to the toilet, your back against 
the wall
and in the bright haze every welt and cut I've put on you is clear, 
etched on you
as if with bright red crayon.  The strap has left an ugly bluish-red 
stripe around your
neck and your face is pale and your eyes are haunted as you look up at 
me.
    "Open your fuckin' mouth."
    And you do, and I lean back from my waist slightly, one hand on my hip,
the other aiming my still tumescent cock down at you to release a hot 
flow
of dark yellow piss right into your open lips.
    I piss in your mouth, on your face and on your cut-up beaten body and 
you
moan softly and close your eyes and cup your hands in front of you to 
catch
the flow and bring it to your face.
    You wash your face with my piss - your hair.
    "Good girl," I tell you softly. "Tell me who I am."
    "You are my God."
    And your God pisses in your long hair and on your beaten tits.
    When I'm finished I yank you up by your hair, up on your knees to
deepthroat you, to make you suck the last trickles of piss out of me, to 
fill
your mouth with me because I'm already hard again though less than an 
hour
has passed since the pounding fuck in the dark living room.
    You're good for me.  You keep me hard.  You keep me in fuck-mode.
    Your bare feet kick against the base of the toilet as I move you, 
dragging you
by your hair, while still fucking your mouth, out to the middle of the 
room and
under the overhead light.
    I don't know who R. is really.  Not inside where it counts.  All I know
about you is what you've let me know.  A little bit about your father.  
A fact or
two I may have picked up from the pictures in the apartment.  
    For some reason that bothers me and I fuck your face angrily.
    Why do I want to know more?
    Isn't it enough that I've used you thoroughly and emptied my bladder
on you. Isn't it enough that I am your God - that for the moment there 
is nothing in
your submissive mind but my name still echoing in your ears.
    The water has almost filled the tub.
    It wooshes and roars like a living thing behind me.
    I take my cock from your lips and rub it on your face as you look up at 
me.
    I trace your dark brows and your hair line and the edges of your 
cheeks.
    "Will you die for me, R.?"
    You nod slowly.
    "If that's what you want," you reply softly.
    "Will you kill yourself for me?"
    Tears fill your eyes slowly and drip down your face.
    I feel them warm against my piss-slit.
    " - if - that's - what - you - want -"
    "That's what I want."
    Under the glare of the light above us your face glows, your dark pupils
glimmering, your brows arched - 
    I study you, push my cock to your lips, watch you suck me.
    Bitch.
    Cunt.
    How dare you be so lovely?
    Goddamn china-doll.
    Love?
    Not a fuckin' chance in hell, bitch.

                            ***

    You stand in the tub, the water sloshing around your ankles, the faucet 
now
silent but dripping occasionally.
    I hand you the razor blade.
    You sink down slowly on one knee then slide into the water to sit in 
the tub.
    I stroke myself slowly watching you.
    "Both wrists," I tell you.
    You raise the razor in your right hand and draw it sharply across your 
left
wrist.  As blood begins gushing slowly from the deep cut you take the 
razor in your
left hand and scrape it across your right wrist.  Then you hand the 
bloody blade
back to me.
    I put it on the soap dish above the washbasin and turn to you, lean 
over the
tub, propped up on one hand against the tiled wall.
    "Rub my cock with the cuts."
    You raise up both arms, hands limp.
    It is as if you are praying to me in this white-and-black checkered 
room
harsh with light and reflections.  The water in the tub sloshes as you 
move your
arms tenderly up and down on my cockmeat rubbing me with your blood 
which
drips from you and snakes down into my balls and thighs.  Your head is 
craned 
back to look up into my face.
    Ahhh, your bleeding skin feels so good on me.
    - so incredibly pleasurable for me.
    The feel of your blood.
    R.'s blood on me.
    I'm dizzy with it.
    Blood drips off your arms and into the tubwater.
    Outside a car passes by on the street.  It has begun to rain again but 
just a
drizzle caressing against the window panes.
    I lean down and your arms embrace my neck as I kiss you and taste you 
and
push my tongue into your waiting mouth and you moan and I feel your 
blood
trickling hot down my chest and back.  
    I grip your head and kiss you fiercely.
    Then I let you go.
    "Lie back."
    You obey.
    Blood fans out from your wrists into the white tub.  Your eyes are 
fading
but so sweetly you look up at me - giving - giving -  Some of the knife 
wounds
have begun to bleed again under the warm water.
    I jerk myself off feverishly.
    The bathroom floor is cold under my bare feet.
    The air from the dark room beyond the door seems cold on my back.
    The moisture on the mirror is clearing up.
    Your life is trickling away, ever so slowly, your face very pale.
    You lie in red-fogged water, lips swollen, eyes slitted, wet hair 
pasted against
your forehead and cheeks in strands.
    Then, a gentle smile flickers across your face.
    Goddamn you woman. Hot hard spasms of pleasure course through my cock
and genital-sacs. I grunt savagely - ejaculate squeezing out thick 
cum-jets that spatter
the red-tinted water around your face and shoulders, plopping on the 
surface and
disappearing, globules of life-phlegm, evoked by the beauty of your 
surrender.

                        ***

    R. opens her eyes.
    She's lying on the bed in the dark room.
    Wet.
    The sheets beneath her body are wet.
    Her wrists are bandaged.
    She's weak and dizzy.
    The room spins and tilts.
    Outside there is a glimmer of light.
    Soon the city will wake. It is already waking.  
    Woodburn sits on the bed beside her.
    He's torn some of her clothes into strips - he's cleaned her wounds and
bandaged some of the deeper gashes.
    There is blood everywhere, on the floor, on the bathroom door, on the 
sheets.
    R.'s sweet blood.
    She watches Woodburn get dressed.
    She hears him call 911.
    He leans over her and kisses her gently on the lips.
    "That was nice," he tells her.
    "You won't tell on me, will you?" he asks smiling, already knowing the
answer.
    She shakes her head, too weak to talk.
    In the distance a siren wails.
    Woodburn gets to his feet.
    He touches her cheek gently.
    "I'll come see you at the hospital," he tells her.
    "I'll bring you flowers."
    Then he turns and leaves the room.
    He leaves emptiness behind him.
    She hears the door of her apartment close softly.
    Light has begun to fill the room.
    R. begins to cry.
    Above her, through tear-blurred eyes, she sees the suspension bar she 
hung
from for him still dangling from the ceiling.
    Her lips silently frame his name...
    
    WOODBURN