R. Pearle’s

Robyn Grain:

An Everyday Bondage Fantasy

Hi everybody.

My name is Robyn. You might be familiar with my sisters, Kelsea and Sarah Grain. Kelsea was cast in a recent story called The Secret Words. Sarah is a little shy and unless you frequented Yahoo chat rooms between 2005 and 2008, you probably wouldn’t know her.

This is my bondage fantasy. I want to warn you though, it’s also a rape fantasy, so if you are sensitive about the subject, or uncomfortable about it, I wouldn’t advise reading further.

And if you do decide to keep going, please bear in mind that rape in real-life is a despicable crime. Rapists are the lowest form of low: it is an act of cruelty perpetrated by the laziest, most narcissistic individuals of this society.

When it comes to fantasy, do as you will with me. Abduct me from the pages of this text into the depths of your darkest sexual desires. Exploit my body, fulfill your every perverse need. Turn me into that twenty-two year old that you’d never stand a chance with; turn me into the five-year-old niece you have dirty thoughts about. Make me beg for mercy or make me beg for your cock. Whatever you have to do. But please, don’t turn fantasy into reality. You’ll only ruin your own life.

In reality, men who commit such crimes have their orgasms, get a surge of unwarranted self-worth, and once the novelty wears off they run out and do it again, and again, until they get caught. Their victims seek only to forget that their aggressors even existed. Raping a woman forces yourself to be forgotten; and living a life of obscurity is the very definition of Hell. Rapists keep themselves shackled in the rivers of burning sulphur, and no one else.

So please. Keep those fantasies inside your head, keep that dick inside your pants. I write these words and this fantasy because I can’t help but imagine myself in such predicaments. But never would I do it, nor would I allow it to happen to me.

My name is Robyn. I am a bondage and rape fetishist. I am not sorry.

-Robyn Grain

An Everyday Bondage Fantasy

Not a day passes that I don’t feel at least a little guilty. That might be a strange word to describe it, but it’s true. Let me explain.

Like most summer days in the small New England town of Sussex, the mercury had reached its boiling point. Leaves hung lifelessly from the trees surrounding my back yard.

My parents were at work. I’d graduated from High School the prior June, and I’d spent most of my days hanging out with my friends, battling the oppressive heat with trips to the beach and having wild pool parties. But today was different; I didn’t feel like seeing anyone today, so my cell-phone was off and the front door was locked.

I’d spent so much time in the water that day, my whole body felt pruny. It wasn’t doing me much good, either. My pool felt like a bathtub. But as soon as I climbed out to sunbathe for a bit, I would be coated in sweat within five minutes. Nevertheless, it was a good day to work on my tan. I’d even stripped off my bikini and lay there naked for a little while, but being that way outdoors made me nervous. There aren’t a lot of neighbors nearby, but still.

I was heading in for some more lemonade when it happened. I dried myself off and went into the house through the porch door. Beneath my bare feet, the tiled floor felt cold and slick with humidity. I’d left the air conditioner on and shivered when it touched my mostly-bare body.

Another shudder overtook me when I opened up the fridge. It jolted down my spine before the air even touched me. This wasn’t a cold-provoked shudder, it was something else. A feeling of dread overcame me.

Somehow he blindsided me. I didn’t even hear the heavy footfalls of his sneaker until it was too late; he took one big step toward my backside and a hand was across my mouth before I could even whirl around.

I screamed into his palm, my lips working in vain against his enormous calloused flesh. His free arm collected my body in a bear-hug and I was straight-jacketed against his broad, muscled form.

Twisting, I kicked at his shins, but my little feet were too soft to do any damage. I’m only five foot two and at almost a head taller than I, the intruder was able to lean back and take me entirely off the floor. I hung there, his body pressed hard against me, clutching at the hand that silenced me. My other arm was pinned hard to my side.

“Shut the fuck up,” hissed a voice. It sounded frantic and nervous. I suspect that he had never done anything like this before. Still, panic makes men unpredictable, so I could only dangle there, frozen in fear.

He didn’t waste any time. I was carried like that into the living room and thrown onto the couch. I tumbled across the cushions and when I recovered, I was able to see my aggressor.

In my living room stood an enormous man in a tight white t-shirt. Not surprisingly, his arms were heavily muscled. I couldn’t tell if he was black, or just very tanned.

I didn’t notice the sheathe strapped to his belt until the knife was withdrawn and he was waving it before my face. I swallowed hard. “What’s your name, cunt?” He growled.

“R—Robyn,” I stammered quietly. Every instinct told me to scream for my life, but I didn’t want to piss him off. His face was hidden behind a black ski mask, but his eyes told me everything I needed to know: If I panic, I’ll stab you forty times and leave you for dead.

“Lose the bikini. Don’t make me tell you twice.”

I didn’t make him. I felt my cheeks turn red as I slipped the top off my arms and worked my way out of the bottom. The thought didn’t occur to me at the time that he might have been watching me for quite some time, and might have seen me naked already in the back yard.

With my only defense against his hungry, prying eyes pooled on the floor, I covered my breasts with one hand and cupped a hand over my vagina.

From the cargo pocket of his heavy black pants, the man produced a roll of duct tape. He tore a section free. “Shut your mouth, good and tight.”

I sealed my lips together and he smeared the tape over my mouth. So much for screaming. Hopefully, he would make a mistake, and I might be able to escape the house.

My predicament didn’t get any better, though. He lunged forward, and I winced, thinking he was going to attack me. But he grabbed my shoulders and dragged me off the sofa, throwing me onto the floor and rolling me onto my stomach.

My wrists were wrenched behind my back and wrapped profusely with tape. The strength of duct tape isn’t truly appreciated until thirty layers of it are binding one’s hands. Wriggling, I yanked at the restraints, to no avail. After a moment a feeble struggling, I turned my attention to my assailant.

He hadn’t wasted any time. His hands were a blur as he undid his belt and threw his jeans around his ankles. His legs were just as strong as his arms and truth be told, he had a very sexy body. I wondered what his face looked like. Then again it didn’t really matter, he’d broken into my home and his tented boxes told me his intent.

Finally, his underwear joined his jeans and his cock stood tall before me. He loomed over me like a bronze God, his thick, veiny, bulbous cock drooling with anticipation. He fisted himself and I thought for a moment that he was just going to stand there and masturbate all over my body, like a fireman might wield a hose. The floor shuddered as he dropped to his knees.

Weakly, I clamped my legs together as I was thrown on my back. This proved as useless as all my other struggles; he grabbed my knees and wrenched my legs apart with such force, electric pain jolted through my thighs.

I could tell that he had fantasized about this often. I’m sure he imagined licking and sucking on his victim’s pussy until good and wet, and then having prolonged, passionate sex with me. But fantasy and reality are decisively different; one can’t take into account the inevitable surging adrenaline. His attempt at eating me out was clumsy at best; he licked my pussy lips a few times and then pretty much fell on me.

His cockhead punched through my labia like a battering ram. In an instant, I was filled with his enormous girth. The sounds of my muffled squeals through the tape horrified me.

Without any fanfare, he began to roughly fuck me. He was positioned as though doing a push-up, his hands on either side of my head, his waist like a piston ramming in and out of my vagina.

“Pretty girl…” he mumbled, barely audibly, “…pretty hair…”

He took a moment to admire a stray strand of damp, tangled, scarlet hair. Then he made himself comfortable, lowering himself fully atop me, and set about licking the tears from my cheeks.

Like the foreplay, the rape was quick and awkward. My rapist’s rock-hard hips kept me from closing my legs even slightly and his chiseled chest crushed my breasts against my ribcage.

His penis spasmed and quivered suddenly, and then jet after jet of thick, hot semen sputtered into my pussy. I screamed and cried, and tried to close my eyes, but he slapped me and told me to look at him. I could barely keep my eyes open. I just wanted to curl up into a ball and cover my face with my hands, and cry forever.

Even after draining himself into my pussy, my rapist wouldn’t relent. He kept pumping in and out even while his cock was half-soft.

Finally he rolled off me. I could have closed my legs then, but I simply couldn’t. Lying there naked, my legs spread wide with semen bubbling out of my pussy and dribbling between my asscheeks only seemed appropriate. I felt dirty and despicable.

In that moment I became a rag doll. I knew the man was confident now: I raped her, so what else can I do? I became aware of him starting at my feet and licking his way up my legs, and suckling on my nipples for a few minutes.

Realizing what he was doing snapped me out of my daze. He was making himself hard again, so he could rape me again. But it wasn’t what I expected. Fingers like thick tentacles gripped clumps of my hair and yanked me onto the couch. My feet hung over the edge; he wrapped my ankles with tape and forced me to kneel, bending me over the backing so my head hung free, leaving my mouth about level with his crotch.

I choked and coughed when he finally ungagged me. My nose was stuffed up from crying and I’d been having trouble breathing. My rapist felt no remorse. He simply took me by the hair and mashed my face against his semi-solid cock.

Nausea overtook me. My own vaginal juices, coupled with blood and semen, smeared across my face. I nearly vomited.

“Suck it, you dumb cunt,” he rasped gruffly, “…or I’ll fuck your ass. You want that, you cunt? Fucked in the ass?”

Anal violation, or oral? By then, I barely cared. I opened my mouth and let him stuff his cock between my lips. Numbly, I closed my lips around the thing and sucked on it.

Adding insult to injury, my captor groaned and egged me on as I went about my disgusting business. “Ahhh…good girl…good baby, suck it good…”

It didn’t take long for my face to become another vagina. He simply held my head in place, forbidding any movement, pumping in and out. His cock became hard and gargantuan again, its head buried deep in my throat. His second orgasm took longer to achieve, but eventually it happened. At least I didn’t have to taste his semen; he simply pumped it straight into my stomach.

My spirit was broken. Everything became surreal. I was vaguely aware of him tossing my face aside and pulling his pants back on. He gagged me again, trapping the stale taste of revulsion on my tongue.

Before making his departure, the man carried me into the bathroom, laid me in the tub, and ran scalding water across my vagina. Worse, he rubbed away the traces of his presence with a facecloth, which felt like sandpaper on my tattered pussy. Then he killed the water and taped my knees and elbows together and left me naked on the bathtub, cocooned in duct tape.

As I understand it, they thought I was dead when my parents came home that night. My father brought me into the living room and laid me down on that horrible sofa, and untied me while my mother called 911. But when they saw the shape I was in, they didn’t wait for the ambulance.

My father wrapped me up in a blankie and carried me to the car. My whole body felt numb. I was distantly aware of the soothing, consoling warmth of his arms and I felt almost like a newborn baby.

Some time later, I came to. I was in the hospital. My father was absent-mindedly rubbing my neck. My mother cradled my feet in her lap, massaging them.

I guess I didn’t talk for a few days.

Not a day passes that I don’t feel at least a little guilty. That might be a strange word to describe it, but it’s true.

I obsessed about that day in the living room for about a year. It drove me insane. I was in therapy for six months and I still don’t feel the same way I used to.

Worse yet, I get turned on when I think about it. That’s where the guilt comes from. Sometimes, when I’m home alone (which happens rarely), I strip down and masturbate on the couch, or the floor. They never did catch the man that sexually assaulted me.

That’s the killer right there, just knowing that he’s out there, somewhere. To this day, I lie awake at night and fantasize about him. I’m afraid, sure; but in a way, I want him to come back for me. I start thinking about being bound and gagged in my bed, while that man crawls over my body and rapes me again and again.

…And I just masturbate again.

But, there’s not really anything I can do about it. I’m afraid a lot of the time. In a way, I feel more helpless than I did while I was tied up. I feel like there’s something waiting for me, coming for me, and I can’t do or say anything to stop it. I feel like there’s something unstoppable coming, and no matter what I do, it’s going to have a profound and irreparable effect on me.

I don’t know who or what it is, but I know one thing for certain: it’s coming, and it’s almost here.