Lisa’s Taken Fantasy

 The story you are about to read is a fantasy that hubby and I have had for a long time. We have sat down and worked it out and how it is going to take place. This is still fiction even though we have worked out all the details we have not acted upon it. The fantasy starts with me asking, “Who are you?” If I do not say that, the fantasy does not happen. This story involves CNC Sex and Consensual Spanking. “CNC stands for Consensual Non-Consent. It is a BDSM / kink practice where participants pre-arrange a scenario that emulates forced sexual activity, such as being overpowered or assaulted” we also have a safeword that would stop the whole thing. If you are offended by the idea of CNC or Consensual Spanking then please do not read.

Lisa’s Taken Fantasy

Story by Lisa

The dryer buzzed from the laundry room, that insistent electronic chirp that always seemed to know exactly when I’d finally sat down. I’d sent the girls to my mother’s house two hours ago with overnight bags and a Tupperware of brownies. Mom raised an eyebrow when I dropped them over, but she didn’t ask. She never did.

I’d been waiting a long time to try this experiment.

The front door clicked open at 5:47. Right on schedule. I heard his keys hit the ceramic bowl on the entry table, and heard the soft thud of his laptop bag hitting the hardwood. My heart started that familiar climb up my throat as I stepped out of the laundry room, a basket of folded towels balanced on my hip.

I wore the old button-down. The one with the faded blue stripes and the collar that had gone soft from a hundred washes. The one that would tear like tissue paper and a pair of panties.

He saw me.

For a moment, everything hung suspended. His eyes traveled from my face down to the laundry basket, then back up. I watched the change happen—the recognition flickering into something darker, something hungry. His shoulders squared.

The basket slipped from my hands. Towels bloomed across the floor in pastel mounds. I turned and ran.

My bare feet slapped against the hardwood as I rounded the corner into the living room. Behind me, I heard him take chase. Not running, not yet. Stalking. The measured footsteps of a man who knew he had time. The back of my neck prickled.

He appeared in the living room doorway and stopped. Just stood there, filling the frame, his tie loosened, sleeves already rolled to his elbows. The late afternoon light caught the edge of his jawline, but his smile—God, his smile wasn’t my husband’s smile. My husband smiled with his whole face. This smile was narrow. Predatory. It dragged his mouth to one side and never reached his eyes.

My back hit the arm of the sofa. “Please,” I whispered. “No.”

He tilted his head. His gaze crawled down my body like a physical touch, lingering at the hollow of my throat, the swell of my breasts beneath the thin cotton, the bare thighs below the hem of the shirt. “No?” His voice came out low. Almost amused. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”

The fear that spiked through my bloodstream was real. That was the part that still surprised me, even after all this time. I knew his face. I knew the sound of his breathing when he slept, the way he took his coffee, the precise pressure of his fingers when he rubbed my shoulders after a long day. And yet my pulse hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. My palms went slick.

“Please,” I said again. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“Trouble.” He took a step forward. Then another. “Who said anything about trouble?”

I tried to dart left. His hand shot out and caught my arm, fingers wrapping tight around my bicep. He yanked me toward him and the momentum slammed my chest against his. The buttons of my shirt pressed into his dress shirt, and I could smell him—bodywash and sweat and the faint metallic trace of the office building’s elevators.

“Please,” I breathed. “Who are you?”

The words hung between us.(our secret password that starts the play of CNC)

His pupils dilated. Something shifted in his expression, a flicker of confirmation, of permission granted. His grip on my arm tightened until I gasped.

“I’m the man who’s going to have you,” he said.

His free hand found the collar of my shirt. He didn’t fumble with the top button. He just twisted the fabric in his fist and pulled. Hard.

The buttons didn’t pop off one at a time. They scattered. I heard them skitter across the hardwood, heard one ping against the leg of the coffee table. The shirt gaped open and cool air hit my bare breasts and I flinched.

The flinch wasn’t part of the game. That was me. That was the part of myself I still couldn’t control, the self-consciousness that lived in the space between my ribs. My breasts were on full display small but firm and my nipples tightened to pencil erasers. I could feel his eyes on me and I wanted to cross my arms, wanted to cover myself, wanted to disappear.

“Don’t.” His voice cracked like a whip. “Don’t you dare hide from me.”

I shook my head, my hair falling across my burning cheeks. “Please,” I whispered. “I’m not—”

“You’re exactly what I want.” He grabbed the torn edges of my shirt and pulled them down my shoulders. The fabric pooled around my wrists then a solid yank and the shirt laid on the ground. I stood there in nothing but my cotton panties, the faded blue ones with the tiny lace trim that had been washed so many times the elastic was starting to go.

He looked at me. Just looked. The silence stretched until I wanted to scream.

Then he shoved me. My back hit the arm of the sofa again and I stumbled, kicking the shirt around my feet. I regained balance and turned to run. My foot caught the edge of the rug. I stumbled again.

His hand closed around my other arm and spun me around. “Running?” He laughed, and the sound had teeth. “We’re just getting started.”

His palm cracked against my ass. Once. Twice. Three times. The sound was louder than the pain, that sharp report that echoed off the living room walls. But the sting—God, the sting spread like warm syrup, radiating outward until my skin felt electric. I yelped and tried to twist away. He held me fast and brought his hand down again.

Four. Five. Six.

Each smack landed on a slightly different spot, painting a constellation of heat across my backside. I kicked. I squirmed. My panties did nothing to buffer the blows. The sting built and built until tears pricked at the corners of my eyes and my breathing came in ragged gasps.

“Please,” I sobbed. “Please, I’ll do anything.”

“You’ll do everything.” He spun me around and his fingers hooked into the waistband of my panties. One sharp tug and the fabric tore along the side seam. He ripped them away and tossed them aside, and then I was completely bare, completely exposed, backed up against the arm of the sofa with nowhere left to go.

He pushed me backward. I toppled onto the cushions, my shoulders sinking into the familiar worn spots, my legs splayed. He was already unbuckling his belt, already working his pants down his hips. The leather of his belt jangled. The zipper hissed.

“No more running,” he said. “No more hiding. You’re going to look at me the whole time.”

As he mounted me missionary style, I tried backing up and he grabbed my legs and pulled me back. He lowered himself causing his hips to settle between my thighs, his weight pressing me deeper into the cushions. One hand pinned my wrist above my head. The other guided himself to my entrance, and I realized with a jolt that I was wet. Soaking wet. The fear had translated itself into slick heat between my legs.

His eyes locked on mine. “Look at me.”

I did. I looked into his face—this face I knew, this face I loved, this face that now belonged to a stranger—and I saw the hunger there. Not cruelty. Not malice. Hunger, pure and primal, the kind of wanting that hollowed a man out from the inside.

He thrust into me in one brutal motion.

I cried out. The sound was half scream, half moan, torn from somewhere deep in my chest. He was thick and I was tight and the combination made my vision blur at the edges. He didn’t wait for me to adjust. He pulled back and drove in again, harder, the force of it pushing me up the cushions.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Take it. Take all of it.”

His rhythm was merciless. Each stroke filled me to the root, stretched me in ways that bordered on pain but never quite crossed over. The coffee table rattled. The springs in the sofa creaked. My free hand scrabbled at his back, my nails dragging through the fabric of his dress shirt, and I could feel the muscles working beneath the cotton, could feel the effort of restraint he was pouring into every movement.

He was rough. But controlled. Every thrust found its mark and withdrew with precision. He was reading my body, reading the way my hips bucked to meet him, the way my breath caught and released. The game was violence but the execution was love.

“Look at me,” he commanded again.

I hadn’t realized I’d closed my eyes. I opened them and saw his face suspended above mine, sweat beading at his temples, jaw tight with concentration. His pupils had swallowed his irises. His lips were parted.

“There you are,” he breathed. “Stay with me.”

He drove into me again and again and I felt myself climbing, felt that impossible pressure building at the base of my spine. The sofa arm dug into my lower back. My thighs burned. A sound escaped my throat that I didn’t recognize.

Then he pulled out and flipped me over.

My chest hit the cushion. My knees found the edge of the seat. He wrenched my hips up and back, positioning me exactly where he wanted me, and then he was inside me again from behind, one hand gripping my hip hard enough to bruise, the other cracking against my already-tender ass.

“Yes,” I hissed, and the word slipped out before I could stop it.

He heard it. His rhythm faltered for half a heartbeat. Then his hand came down again, harder, and I arched my back and pressed into the sting.

“You like that?” His voice was ragged now, the controlled predator cracking open to reveal the desperate man beneath. “You like it when I use you?”

I couldn’t answer. Words had deserted me. All I had was sensation—the relentless drive of him inside me, the wet slap of skin on skin, the fire spreading across my backside every time his palm connected. The combination was devastating. My orgasm coiled at the base of my spine, tighter and tighter, a spring being wound past its limit.

“Answer me.” His hand came down again.

“Yes,” I gasped. “Yes, yes, yes—”

He reached around and found my clit. His fingers were rough, ungentle, pressing hard circles that sent shocks through my entire nervous system. My arms gave out. My face pressed into the cushion and I could smell our laundry detergent, could smell him, could smell the sex that was saturating the air.

“Come for me.” It wasn’t a request. “Now.”

I shattered. The orgasm ripped through me without warning, without buildup, just a clean break between before and after. My internal muscles clenched around him and my vision went white and a sound tore from my throat that was his name—his real name—and I couldn’t stop it, couldn’t control it, couldn’t do anything but ride the waves as they crashed over me one after another after another.

He didn’t stop. He fucked me through it, prolonging every spasm, drawing out sounds from me that I didn’t know I could make. My thighs trembled. My fingers clawed at the cushion. The world had narrowed to the place where our bodies joined.

Then he pulled out.

“On the floor,” he said. “On your knees.”

I slid off the sofa. My legs barely held me. I sank to the hardwood, the planks cool against my knees, and looked up at him. His cock was slick with me, flushed dark, pulsing. He wrapped his hand around himself and stroked once, twice, his eyes fixed on my face.

“Open your mouth.”

I did. I opened my mouth and tilted my head back and looked at him, this man who had chased me through my own house, who had torn my clothes from my body, who had taken me so completely that I could still feel the ghost of him between my legs.

His free hand tangled in my hair. He guided himself between my lips and his taste flooded my tongue—salt and skin and me, my own body’s response to his violence.

“Take it all,” he said, his voice barely a whisper now. “Every drop.”

His hips bucked forward, driving himself deeper. I gagged once, adjusted, relaxed my throat. His grip on my hair tightened. His breathing went ragged.

“Look at me,” he said, one last time.

Our eyes met.

The first pulse of his release hit the back of my throat. I swallowed, and he groaned, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his chest. Another pulse. Another. I took everything he gave me, his fingers twisted in my hair, his body shuddering above me.

When it was over, he pulled back gently and sank to his knees in front of me. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Our breathing filled the room, heavy and synchronized.

Then his hand came up and cupped my cheek. His thumb brushed the corner of my mouth.

“Lisa.” His voice was his own now. My husband’s voice. “Are you okay?”

I looked at him—really looked—and saw the concern bleeding through the post-orgasmic haze. His brow was furrowed. His eyes searched my face.

I laughed, a shaky sound that was half-sob. “I’m more than okay.”

He exhaled. His forehead dropped to mine. “Jesus. That was—”

“Intense,” I finished for him.

“Yeah.” He pulled back, his eyes still scanning my face. “I didn’t hurt you?”

“No.” I shifted and winced. “Well. My ass is going to remember this for a while.”

He grinned, and it was his grin now, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Good.”

We stayed like that for a moment, kneeling on the living room floor surrounded by scattered buttons and torn fabric and the faint smell of laundry detergent drifting from the other room. His thumb traced small circles on my cheek.

Then his expression shifted. The grin faded. Something else rose behind his eyes.

“Lisa.” His voice had dropped again, but this time it wasn’t the predator’s voice. It was something more dangerous. More uncertain. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you. Something we haven’t tried before.”

My stomach tightened. “What is it?”

He held my gaze for three heartbeats. The air between us thickened.

“What if I brought someone else into the room next time?”

My mouth fell open and my eyes widened.