INR

INR

by Ashley Zacharias

Deb was a bitch last night. A real bitch. I don't know what brought it on, but she was all over me like ugly on an old nun. I don't do enough housework. I don't treat her family right. I don't treat her like the damned princess she wants to be. Nothing that I've done in my whole life was good enough for her. Hell, I do the best I can. I work hard, I earn a decent living, I do my share of the household chores. She's got nothing to complain about. Yet, there she was, putting me down, calling me every name in the book and then not talking to me for the rest of the night. Maybe it's PMS. Maybe it's because her mother hates her father. Maybe it's hereditary insanity. I don't know. But whatever it is, I sure didn't feel like going home after work. I didn't think that I could put up with another night of her shit.

So I was sitting around in my office after six, putting in some overtime, looking for anything to do to delay the end of the workday when my computer beeped at me. I looked at the screen and saw that I got an email from the harridan.

I expected that she'd be crapping all over me for missing supper and not calling to tell her taht I was going to be late. Like she should expect that I'd be thrilled to return home after her performance last night. I almost didn't open the email, probably wouldn't have, except the subject line was kind of intriguing. “INR: I hope you'll enjoy giving me what I need.” It wasn't the “what I need” part that intrigued me – she never gets tired of telling me what I need to do for her – it was the word “enjoy” that caught my eye. She never before suggested that I might enjoy doing what she demanded. Had her mind finally jumped the tracks or what?

I opened the email. The further I read, the more mystified I felt. It said:

Dear Pete:

Don't ask me why, but tonight I need to be raped. That's right, raped. Sexually used by a man without any regard whatsoever for what I might be suffering. I need you to used cruelly and brutally in any way that you wish. You must take my however you like despite any show of reluctance, verbal or physical, that I might throw at you. You must overcome me by threats or physical force if required. I need that you let nothing I do or say stand in the way of obtaining sexual satisfaction from me.

I only ask that you do not leave me with any permanent injuries. If you need to use your fists to subdue me, you do not use your full strength. You can blacken an eye or break my nose if you have to, but don't don't break my teeth or crush the bones around my eye socket. They wouldn't heal properly.

I also ask that you restrict this brutal treatment to the next twenty-four hours, at your convenience, and return to your sweet and gentle ways after that.

To reiterate in absolutely clear terms, I expect that you will violently and brutally violate me in any way you wish, as often as you wish, between now and noon tomorrow.

I need it. Please give me what I need.

Yours (literally),

   Deb

PS. If you have any doubts about my sincerity, you will be assured when you find that I have left some items to assist you on the bureau inside the front door and will be wearing a slightly-faded yellow sundress.

I was both appalled and thrilled by her words. Did she really mean what she wrote? She must have. Could the email have been spoofed by someone else? Not if she were indicating her compliance by wearing a old, out-of-season dress that had been hanging unworn in her closet for years. This had to be the real thing. My raging hard-on told me that my reptile brain thought it was the real thing; and that, despite years of living in a “civilized” culture, I had a primal urge to give her exactly what she was asking for.

My dear Deb was facing a vigorous raping in her near future. My cock had decided. Her fate was inevitable. I shut down my computer and rushed out of my office.

Stealth or rampage? That was the question filling my mind when I was standing on our front step. Do I sneak in a back window like a cat burglar or burst through the front door like a conquering Mongol? Words from her email popped into my mind: “crudely”, “brutally”, “violently”. That hardly described sneaking in a back window after she was asleep.

I slammed the door open, stepped into the house, and roared, “Where are you, bitch?”

There was no answer.

As promised, a roll of duct tape,  a pair of handcuffs, and a box of condoms were lying on the entryway bureau where I normally kept my wallet and keys. The mini-rape-kit confirmed that there was no mistake. She was requesting a rape scenario. I was nervous about her talk about fists and broken bones but trusted that those phrases were included in her email merely to set the mood. I did not expect the game to escalate to that level of violence. Paradoxically, I believed that actual violence would inhibit me and destroy the realism of the game. When I burst through that door, I neither understood my wife's needs nor my own capabilities. I was soon to learn some disturbing things about both of us.

Confident in my superior strength, I sneered at the tape and handcuffs. Only a wimp would need mechanical assistance. And what was with the condoms, anyway? What kind of pussy did she think I was? I followed the sound of the television into the family room.

As promised, my wife was wearing a faded yellow sundress. That dress, confirming her complicity, was the final sign that sealed her fate irrevocably. She could abandon all hope of mercy. She was going to feel my cock in her cunt in the next few minutes no matter what she did or said.

When she saw me, she said nothing; she merely pulled her bare feet off the floor, curled herself into a ball in the corner of the couch and whimpered like a newborn kitten.

Her vulnerability enraged me. I wasn't acting a part, I was unleashing my true self when I strode across the room, wrapped my hand in the hair at the back of her head and pulled her off the couch. She screamed in pain as I dragged her out of the room by her hair. I didn't care; my only thought was to get away from the blaring television set and find a little peace and quiet. I was in no mood to hear Oprah fussing away in the background. Her voice was incompatible with violent rape. It was easier and quicker to drag my woman away from her than to fiddle with the remote, trying to remember how to turn off the TV. My higher cortex was no longer functioning; my behavior was entirely controlled by my cerebellum and limbic system now.

Deb clawed desperately at my hands, trying to pull them out of her hair. I ignored her girlish, ineffectual efforts. A few scratches on the back of my hands meant nothing to me now. Keeping her head at waist level, I duck-walked her, screaming and scrambling with her feet, all the way through the kitchen to the dining room. There, I kicked one of the dining chairs aside, pulled her up and slammed her face and chest across the dining room table. She grunted in pain when her abdomen was jammed against the edge of the table and the wind was driven from her.

Pulling my hands out of her hair, I jerked the hem of her skirt over her hips to reveal white cotton panties. Who needs red lace to get turned on? Soft white cotton had never looked so sexy. I was inflamed beyond all control.

As soon as she realized that I had released my grip on her hair, she pushed herself off the table and her skirt fell back to her knees. Uncooperative bitch! I grabbed the dress where it was buttoned up the back and pulled with all my considerable strength. Yellow plastic buttons flew everywhere and fabric shredded with a loud rip as the dress was torn from her shoulders. She screamed and clutched at the front of her dress but to no avail; I kept tearing the cloth out of her hands and away from her body until the dress was nothing but piles of yellow rags lying around her feet. She was wearing no bra. I grabbed her hair with my right hand and slammed her naked tits against the table, forcing her ass into the air, and began ripping at her panties with my left. They did not shred as easily as the dress; I must have bruised her cunt and hips terribly as I pulled and tugged at the cotton fabric with one hand while I held her down with the other. Her arms flailed about uselessly as she beat her hands against the table and screamed continuously. I never did manage to tear the panties; eventually I pushed them down her legs and began fumbling with my belt and pants. It took two hands to free myself and I had to alternate between working at my own clothes and pushing her back on the table and yelling at her to stay where I put her. She tried kicking me with her heels but she couldn't connect properly. Damn the bitch had a lot of fight in her.

I finally got my shorts down to my knees, her face pressed against the table, and her knees kicked wide apart. Thrusting into her cunt was easy; she was wide open and as wet as the Pacific Ocean. As I thrust into her again and again, her screams turned to sobs.

I don't know if she would have come eventually or not. She wasn't getting any clitoral stimulation and had never come before on the precious few occasions when I had convinced her to assume the doggy position. On the other hand, neither one of us had ever before experienced such an intensely emotional coupling. She might have come from the violent pounding in her pussy alone if I'd been able to keep it going for long enough. I didn't, though. I was so turned on that I expended myself after only a few thrusts. She kept sobbing piteously as I finished in her.

Tough titty. Like her email said, this was about me and I didn't give a damn what she felt, one way or the other. Whether she was sobbing from pain, frustration, or humiliation, it was nothing to me.

As soon as I was finished, I wrapped my hands in her hair at the sides of her head, dragged her off the table and forced her to her knees in front of my dripping crotch. I snarled, “Lick me clean, bitch. Lick off every drop of slime and swallow it or I'll beat you to a pulp.”

I held her there while she wept and snivelled and licked for all she was worth. Good thing. I was so enraged, I might well have forgotten her admonition against using my full strength and pounded her face flat if she had disobeyed me. And she knew it; she could hear it in my voice. Neither one of us was acting a part in a fantasy role-playing game. This was pure, honest animal behavior freshly dredged from the depths of our evolutionary memories.

When I grew tired of feeling her tongue scraping against my limp cock, I toppled her backward onto the hardwood floor and growled, “I'm tired. I'm going to bed. Stay away from me for the rest of the night.”

I don't know where she slept, or even if she slept, but I slept like a baby alone in our king-sized bed for a full ten hours. The next morning, I showered and dressed before I went looking for her.

I found her curled up into a foetal position in the easy chair in the living room, naked and shivering, watching me with big fearful eyes. I remembered that her email had said that I had unrestricted access to her body until noon.  She probably expected that I would brutalize her again this morning. Seeing her cowed and vulnerable, I was half tempted to take her again but didn't feel like flying into a new rage and didn't want to dilute the previous night's primal experience by following it up with some half-hearted poking at her.

Instead, I said not a single word. I walked out the front door and drove to work.

When I got home that evening, on time and in an excellent mood, I found Deb dressed in jeans and a plaid blouse, cooking a pasta salad. She greeted me with a cheerful, “Hello, dear. Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.” She was acting like nothing unusual had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

When we sat down to dinner, I looked at her face. Her forehead and cheeks were blue and yellow where they had been bruised by the repeated pounding against the table. They had to be hurting. At least I hadn't broken her nose. She appeared to be sitting rather gingerly on the wooden chair. I wondered how badly I had bruised her other end.

Suddenly I understood the remorse of the wife beater. I was seized by a deep, sincere regret. “I'm sorry,” I said, spontaneously. “I'm so sorry.”

“No,” she snapped. “Never be sorry for giving me what I need. Never. You can never do this unless I ask for it, but when I do ask, then you go at me full out and never regret it for a minute, do you understand?”

“No,” I said. “I don't understand.”

She smiled sadly. “I guess you don't. And it's not something that I can explain.”

“So you're telling me that you liked what I did.”

“Not a bit.” She paused for a long minute while I struggled to understand. Then she said, “Do you like going to the dentist to get a cavity filled?”

“No.” I hated going to the dentist, even for a cleaning.

“But you need to go anyway.”

“If I have a cavity, sure. I need to go even if I don't like it.”

“Okay. It's the same with me. Sometimes I have a cavity that needs to be filled. More than one, in fact,” she smiled mischievously, “and you're the dentist who has to do the filling. I don't want it and I sure as hell don't enjoy it, but I need it just as much as I'd need to get an aching tooth filled. If you enjoy the work, then I'm pleased for you. I want you to enjoy it as much as you can. But mostly I want you to do a thorough job on me. Really thorough. You did the job all right last night and I want you to do an even better when I ask you again. It will happen again. Not soon and not often. Maybe next month or maybe not for a year or more, but it will happen again. The rest of the time, most of the time, I want you to make love to me gently and lovely like you always do. Making love to me and raping me are two completely different things and you have to keep them completely separate in your own mind. When you're raping me, you have to really be raping me and when you're making love to me, you have to really be making love to me.”

“I can do that.”

She smiled openly. “That's the most reassuring thing that you have ever said to me.”

“But I still don't understand why you would ever need such rough treatment.”

“That's the part that I can't explain. You'll just have to take that part on faith.”

“Is it because you treated me badly?” I asked tentatively.

“No. It's not so simple as that. I needed raping for the same reason that I treated you badly, not because of it. Don't question my logic, just do the job when I need it.”

“I will,” I promised.

“Next time, though, I'm not going to give you any instructions. You'll have to decide what to do on your own. It doesn't have to be exactly the same as last time. In fact, it doesn't have to be anything like last time. Use your imagination. Surprise me in unpleasant ways. Remember, I'm not supposed to like it. If I don't hate what you are doing, then you aren't doing your job.”

“If you don't give me any instructions, then how will I know when you need the full treatment?”

“I'll send you three letters, 'INR', in an email or a text message or a voice mail. That's all. INR.” she enunciated the letters clearly and distinctly to ensure that I heard them correctly.

“INR?” I remembered the letters in the subject line of her email.

“It stands for 'I need raping'. When I give you the INR signal, then you have a free hand to abuse me in any violent, brutal way you wish from the moment you see me until noon the following day. And, when you get the signal, you have to do your part whether you're in the mood or not. If you don't want to do it personally for some reason, use an object of some kind. Just make sure that you do it in a way that I will not enjoy. Forget about vibrators and think about beer bottles. Just make sure that you use lube in my asshole so that I don't suffer any permanent damage.”

I hadn't thought about her asshole last night. She was right. I could have done a better job. Next time I'll make sure that I fill her cavities properly.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The last time I posted a story, I did not receive any email, not even the automatic notifications about reviews. I don't know what went wrong, but if you did not receive a reply from me, it means that I did not receive an email from you. Try writing directly to “ashley dot zacharias at live dot com”.