1 comments/ 45485 views/ 1 favorites Introducing Thomas Brown Ep. 01 By: Sadici After reviewing some comments I have received, I have chosen to add the following disclaimer: this is not a story meant to turn anyone one on and I am actually a very sane person. There is nothing wrong with having erotic fantasies about rape, I'm just telling you that if that's what you're looking for, then this is NOT the story for you. This story is an expression of rage; the rape scene is brutally depicted in order to reflect that. Episode 1 Thomas Brown was charming and intelligent, with boyish good looks. Thomas Brown wore the right clothes that set off his nicely toned but not too muscular body; he had an expensive apartment in the right area of the city; he had the right car; he had the right woman as his fiancée; and until three weeks, five days and sixteen hours ago, he'd had the right job in the right firm and with luck would have made it to being a partner in a few short years. Thomas Brown was unemployed at the moment which would have been all right, since he was the kind of guy that knew the right people and had the right connections, but in a fool move that had seemed right at the time, he'd made the disastrous decision to take the wrong case that had ended up falling apart and taking everyone involved down with it. His colleagues were very sorry to hear about it. His superiors were sorry to hear about it. Everyone was sorry but no one was sorry enough that they could afford to associate themselves with him. Thomas Brown still had his looks, wit, and charisma, but unless he found the right solution fast, he was going to lose his apartment, and when the girl came to her senses, a fiancée. He spent the first two weeks of unemployment doggedly exhausting all his resources to find a way out of his slump until he admitted to himself that he was a pariah. After that he spent his time in a drunken stupor, eating fast food, lying on his couch while jerking off to late night cable porn features. Until this morning when he finally met his own eyes in the mirror and was appalled to see an unkempt bleary eyed male dully staring back at him. He didn't look like Thomas Brown. He looked like a loser. So he went for a brutal five mile run, took a shower, carefully shaved off his upstart beard, and went throughout his apartment, ruthlessly throwing out every container of alcohol that he found, including the contents of his well stocked bar. He tidied his apartment, threw out moldy Chinese food, went across the street for groceries that wouldn't higher his cholesterol level and then checked his week's worth of messages. The first message was from Christine, his fiancée. "Thomas? Are you there? If you are, pick up." Her smooth contralto voice was filled with tentative concern. "Well, I have to go out of town tomorrow morning on a b-on a trip." So that was why she hadn't been around his apartment to check up on him. "I can come over for a while tonight, if you're home." Pause. "Or-or I can come over and stay over for-for a while. Keep you company 'till you're back on your feet. I'm sure they won't mind if I cancel." He heard what sounded like a stifled sob. Then her voice in a husky almost-whisper. "Thomas? Think about it. Call me. Please." Next message. Christine. She was out of town and wanted to see how he was doing. Next message. Christine. Call her back. Next: Christine. Christine, Christine, Christine. His mouth turned down in a grimace, and he almost automatically skipped the next message until he heard the voice on time. "Hey, Tommy, it's Elliot. Haven't heard from you in a while. Me and the boys were wondering how you were doing. Give me a call, man. Bye." Jesus. Elliot. He'd been avoiding Elliot too. Only man on earth that could call him "Tommy" as if the name fit him. Probably his only real friend. "The boys" his ass: the last he'd seen the boys they'd all slapped him too heartily on the back while avoiding eye contact. He called them both back and left messages on their voicemail. He made himself lunch. He decided to look through the newspaper for a job but couldn't manage to demean himself enough to circle any ads. The ones he wanted he'd be rejected for. The ones he could easily get, he didn't want. He found his eyes roving around his apartment and he realized he was searching for something to drink. Cursing he stood up and decided to go for a walk to clear his head. He grabbed a coat, tidied himself in the mirror and headed out the door. Someone was waiting for the elevator, and deciding he didn't want to make small talk with anyone, Thomas veered towards the stairs exit. He was on the sixteenth floor and rarely ran into anyone coming up when he was going down. Which was why he was surprised when he saw her between the fourteenth and fifteenth floor. He'd seen her around the building a few times and once even thought for certain he was looking at her back as she turned a corner by his old office but never did he see her up close. She was never with anybody. She always wore red. And no one, including the doorman, had a clue what her name was. He saw her head appear first, coming up the stairs, and when he recognized that lustrous mahogany hair his cock immediately hardened before he even saw what was below her neck. Sweet Jesus. And her eyes! He realized he must have fantasized about her because he thought they should have been warm brown like they were in his imagination. Or a sultry amber when she was moaning beneath him. They were cool clear grey and seemed to hold the midday sky in their depths. She was a petite woman, he realized; the top of her head wouldn't reach his armpits. She wore a tight crimson sweater that molded itself to her high breasts and slim torso, with not quite baggy, but not exactly tight, blue jeans that made her sweater seem all the more clingy. She gave him an assessing look as they passed each other and he couldn't tell what her judgment of him had been when she was by. His cock was aching like a schoolboy's having his first wet dream. He hurried down the stairs. The crisp air was a relief when it finally hit him. He nodded to Bob the doorman and set out at a brisk pace. His lust for the woman in red served to fill an emptiness. After the initial panic when he realized that the life he knew was falling apart, and the booze-numbed knowledge that there was nothing he could do about it, now came the realization that the quiet emptiness sitting inside him hadn't started when he lost his job. He WAS the emptiness; the emptiness was that charming and intelligent Thomas Brown with boyish good looks. But when he recalled that woman and her fuck-me body, that lust was like getting a foot in the doorway. He'd found a piece of himself and wherever that doorway led now, he would follow. His feet were moving quickly with excitement when suddenly they halted. Thomas Brown looked around his environment. He was in a run-down neighborhood, maybe four blocks west of his apartment. The people here were mostly Hispanic, with a few whites, blacks, and Koreans sprinkled in. It was known for being the gateway into the bad part of town, considered the somewhat "safer" which meant that here when it was broad daylight, as it was at the moment, it actually made a difference unlike one block over where you were just as likely to be mugged, raped or murdered in broad daylight as you were at dead midnight. He continued walking through the neighborhood, at a slower pace now. The area was deserted for the most part and anyone that saw him ignored him. Ahead of him a woman struggling with three bags of groceries came into view from around the corner. She couldn't see Thomas over her tottering bags and she didn't see the large crack in the uneven sidewalk before her either. She stumbled and gallantly managed to hold on to two of her bags while the third escaped her grasp and slumped onto the ground on its side. Most of the items didn't go far out of the bag but a few apples came reeling out, an especially precocious orb rolling to him engagingly and coming to a halt right at his feet: an enticing gleam shone along one red curve. He picked it up. He walked over to the woman who looked to be in her early forties or very hard thirties and was tsking over her bruised apples. She looked beaten around the edges herself but still retained a remnant of what must once have been beauty. He handed her her errant apple, noting in the back of his mind how it looked freshly plucked and with no bruises. She took it from him with a grunt of thanks: not looking at all surprised to see a well dressed man in this neighborhood, not giving him the once over that women usually gave him. He picked up the two brown bags she had set down and said easily, "Why don't I help you home with these?" Now he got the considering look that had not come earlier, but it seemed to have an unfriendly edge. She took her time putting the apples back and picking up her bag. Her mouth was thin. He had a vision of another thin mouth; the woman in red, whose mouth was lusciously wide and lips cruelly thin. He could see his penis disappearing into that wide mouth, going in and in, on and on, a penis of endless length into a mouth of endless generosity. "You're very kind. I live that way." She had a heavy Spanish accent despite her yellow hair and pale skin. A leggy woman too: he didn't have to look far down to see the woman in red's promising lips superimposed over her down turned mouth. They walked one block back the way he had come earlier and turned right at a street. It had railway tracks passing behind the houses. She headed up the walkway of one sagging dwelling that had been painted a defiantly cheerful yellow ages ago and now challenged anyone to remark upon the abuses heaped upon it since then. He stood behind her as she set her bag down and fumbled for the key to the front door. Her hair was up in a utilitarian ponytail and the sight of her vulnerable neck was making his scalp tingle. His penis had been in a constant state of half erection since seeing the woman in red and had fully awakened when it realized it was near a female now. "Do you have a boyfriend?" He asked conversationally to her neck. It stiffened like she knew where his gaze was. "Yes." She said shortly without turning. She unlocked the door, and hastily picking up her bag, put it and herself on the other side of the threshold. "Thank you for your help," she said politely and firmly before beginning to shut the door in his face. He stuck a foot in before it closed. She glared at him. Thomas shrugged to emphasize his full arms and jiggled the bags a bit. He smiled wryly, "Did you want these?" "Oh," she said, before beginning to look sheepish. She kept looking at him though, but this time more like how women were supposed to. He continued to stand there, smiling disarmingly, just enough so she could see a hint of his dimples, and he let a mischievous glint play in his eyes. "Or did you want me to set them down on the porch for you to get later?" He crouched a little as if he really intended to do just that. That cinched it. "No, no," she said, tentatively laughing. Surprisingly, her laugh sounded much the same as it must have ten years ago: filled with simple good humor, it held no bitter edges. She opened the door. "The kitchen is over there" she gestured as she held the door open for him. "Over there" was about four feet to the left. He noted that she left the front door open as she followed him into the kitchen. Furnishings and appliances were spare and looked like they'd been around for a while, but in a good way, like they'd been well used and well taken care of. He set the bags on a narrow counter. He noticed that although there were no signs of children; toys, certain types of cereal, there was a picture of an angelic blonde girl about four years old taped to the fridge. "Well, thank you again for your help." The defensive note was back in her voice. He turned away from the picture to smile at her. "Sure thing." Letting her trail behind him at what she thought was a safe distance he went to the open front door. And closed it in front of him. And locked it. He didn't wait for her reaction, simply whipped around to face her and shoved her, hard, against a thin wall. She looked stunned and before she recovered he was grabbing handfuls of that ponytail and pulling her head back at a painful angle. Blood shrieked through his head and he moaned desperately as it rushed into his cock as well, and he felt his skin stretch tight over the pulsating blood, so tight he thought that a touch would set it to bursting over the walls in a crimson rush. He covered her mouth with his own as she was about to scream. He used his other hand to grip her chin and force her clenched jaws open, digging his thumb and fingers right into the hinges and then her mouth opened and he poured his tongue into it and it was hot hot hot and moist moist so moist and-ouch! She had bitten him. He stared down at her as she suddenly turned into a writhing mass of limbs flailing furiously. Jesus, it was his own fault. Anyone who'd seen any movie or any book with this scenario should have known that you didn't kiss her or go anywhere near her mouth because biting you like some rabid dog was the first thing she would do. Actually, he reflected while deflecting blows, the first thing was usually-oww...Fu....ck. He jerked so hard on the fistful of hair in his grip that her head banged against the wall and she stopped struggling, dazed. He rubbed his sore penis. He'd seen it coming in time to protect himself from the worst damage but even the little bit of him she'd reached was hurting. He tasted copper in his mouth and realized his tongue was bleeding. He rubbed the wounded part of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. A numbness was spreading in his head. So still inside, so still. His hand snaked out, palm open, to slap her for good measure. She closed her eyes and went still, not like she was unconscious, but like she was trying to wish herself invisible. He stared at his victim, noting with a vague surprise that never had he before him as vulnerable a human being. It was terribly...intimate. There was nothing to stop him from hurting her. Moral reasons leapt at him and melted away, absorbed into the white noise as he realized that morals really had nothing to do with right and wrong and everything to do with a society being practical. If we have laws to stop people from killing each other, then it's less likely the next person to be killed will be me; everyone subconsciously thinks. And the human spirit likes nothing better than to view itself as noble so it labels things as "right" and "wrong" and individuals judge their enemies as wrongdoers while they themselves are the good guys. Thomas felt as if shackles were loosening as his thoughts arranged themselves in his head. He had always had such thoughts, shoved so deep inside that he had not even been aware of them. Before he had had no reason to go against societies rules. The society he lived in had handed him everything on a plate from the day he'd been conceived by two of its prominent members. He could have everything he wanted, everything he wanted by playing by the rules. Rules that no longer applied to him. If society wasn't going to fulfill its contract of a happily ever after, with the white picket fence, perfect wife, and two-point-five children, he had no reason to fulfill his end. There was nothing to stop him from having what was in front of him; therefore he would take everything. Thomas bent over this woman, this aging, not particularly attractive, tired woman and put a light hand on her throat. She didn't curl into a ball, but laid open, she didn't bother trying to remove his hand. Her pulse throbbed intensely, just as his own was beating. He imagined himself in her position, he thought of being this woman, having her defiant pride, and then being confronted with this violent stranger and knowing she couldn't stop him because it was his will. His vision blurred and blood raged in his cock-he squeezed his eyes shut for a breathless moment to savor the bittersweet pain of it all. When he opened them again he saw a faint line of trembling across her jaw. "Would you fuck me willingly if I told you that I wouldn't hurt you anymore?" He asked curiously. Eyes still squeezed tight, she shook her head back and forth, back and forth. He wasn't sure if she was saying no to his question, or just continuing her denial of him. He decided to take it as a no to his question. "Really?" He persisted. "What if I told you I'd be the most gentle, the most tender lover you'd ever had, taking care to attend to all your needs? Really." He stroked her hair lovingly. Her mouth shuddered open and a small noise came out. She drew in a ragged breath. "I would..." He leaned in close to hear her answer. He knew she would not bite him now. "Yes, go on." "I would..." He stared, mesmerized, at her face. She opened her eyes. He thought his cock would explode. They were a pale blue, holding the clear light of an autumn noon's heaven. He unzipped his pants. "I would tell you that you are a disgusting and insecure," tears welled up in the heavenly orbs even as her voice dropped fiercely; he pulled his penis out of the side of his briefs, "confused about who you are," and laid it against her thigh as his fingers sought to open her jeans. Her voice shook with rage or fear, "a monster." Lifting her hips, he freed her from her jeans; the rain in her eyes fell, just two drops, "And you need some serious help." His heart and throat were constricting; his head was pounding and he rested it against hers. "Thanks. I'll take you up on that offer." He put his cock at her entrance and squeezed the head in. The foreskin clung to her dry walls and he pulled back, letting his dripping pre-cum moisten her cunt for her. He breathed into her hair, smelled traces of her cheap shampoo, "I'm not a monster. I'm you." She didn't answer him. He hit her open-handed, feeling her head rock back, feeling her pain, and then he slammed a fist into her face, punishing her, punishing himself. He thought he felt something crack beneath his knuckles. He thought he was going to cry. And his dick was so so hard. Globs of pre-cum creamed out of his cock and he shoved a hand between their legs. Gathering his slickness and smearing it on her nether lips he climbed up to her lower abdomen where his fingers stopped when they discovered a thick long scar. Shuddering, he stroked it with his juices. She was uttering guttural sounds from her throat now. From far away he saw the blood on her face and wondered if he'd obstructed an airway. She sounded like it. But he thought he might be making similar noises. Ruthlessly, his hand was groping her mound again, then shoving two, three, four fingers deep into her pussy. Her hips writhed to get away from the invading digits and he twisted them along with her, manipulating her cunt not to stimulate her but to make room for him. And he felt her outrage with her at being used in this way. Gone was his composed charm. He clenched his fist into a tight ball and punched it all the way up her cunt and started pumping his arm in time to her now shrill piping screams. Christine wouldn't have recognized her considerate lover in this man. The Thomas Brown of charm, intelligence and boyish good looks was gone and in his place was...this. He laid his soul bare for this woman, this woman that was fighting not to see it. He pummeled his fist into her bruised walls one last time for good measure before taking his hand out. He used a knee to spread her thighs wide, indecently wide, and humiliatingly open before him because he could and he Wanted. Both hands snaked between her and the hard wooden floor too worn for splinters, and gripping her buttocks tightly, he rammed half his cock into her, shifted, heaved one, two, three times and impaled himself to the hilt, into her depths. He felt his head jab, no, crash into her cervix and they both cried out, primitive shrieks spilling from their mouths. They were animals, he the predator, she the prey. Introducing Thomas Brown Ep. 01 And as each thrust gave way to another more harsh, more invasive, he heard the chink of shackles coming completely undone and he was seeing that wide generous mouth again, and it was taking him to the Promised Land. Through a long tunnel he flew, propelled by screams and greased with semen, he was flying, he was flying, and he was sobbing, sobbing for her pain and sobbing with his joy because she'd been wrong. He'd had a shadow of doubt, shaken by her conviction, but bless the gods she'd been wrong, because at the end of the tunnel, past the misery and through the pain, patiently awaiting his arrival, was Thomas Brown. He had found himself. Introducing Thomas Brown Ep. 02 Thomas Brown floated into his apartment feeling like a million lush green dollars. Yesterday at this same time he'd thought his life was over. He sensed now that he'd been granted a temporary reprieve. Everything in his life was indeed crashing to an inexorable end but now that knowledge freed him. Walking back from that woman's house just now he'd stopped once in a while to take in deep gulps of air, desperately joyous to be alive. Thomas Brown knew that he'd just committed an act so irredeemably wrong and unjust that no amount of repenting would ever put him back in god's graces. If indeed an atheist could have been in god's graces to begin with. And yet, he thought as he walked into his bedroom and confronted himself in front of the full-length mirror, he could have sworn he'd heard a choir of angels at the end of that tunnel. Maintaining eye contact with his reflection he took his coat off and let it fall to the ground in a heap. He unbuttoned his shirt and lightly ran his fingers down his muscled chest and toned stomach, down to the edge of his pants. He unbuttoned them slowly and just as slowly brought the zipper down to reveal his briefs. He studied the bulge there. He freed his cock and then let his arms drop to his sides as he took a good look at himself. Thomas Brown stood at six one, a lanky runner's body. His hair was light blond, and it retained the platinum sheen of his youth. It was cut just this side of unruly, not quite disheveled but not tamely professional either. Angelic blue eyes peered guilelessly out from a lightly tanned face strong enough in bone structure not to let the dimples overwhelm it into cuteness. The same light colored hair faded almost invisibly on his chest, furthering the impression of boyish youth and darkened as it neared his groin. A small smiled played on his face as he looked at his mostly clothed body, and his manhood poking obscenely out from his pants. He licked a finger and ran it from its base to its cum-hole, taking a detour to circle around its head along the way. The head was turning deliciously purple. He felt for his balls and finding them, hefted their weight in his hand and then massaged them roughly. His cock bobbed. He let it throb unfulfilled and turned away from the mirror to take his clothes off. Yawning, he climbed into bed. Thomas Brown was exhausted. He fell into a deep dreamless sleep. It was five o'clock in the afternoon. When he woke it was dark out. He hadn't turned his blinds down though and the lights from the city illuminated his room. His body ached. His tongue felt tender in his mouth. He stumbled out of bed and his bones creaked from the run he'd had this morning, protesting almost a month of inactivity. Various parts of his body throbbed to inform him that that woman had gotten in a few more blows than he'd noticed at the time in his frenzy. He got into the bathroom and when he turned the light switch he actually keeled over in reaction to the harsh whiteness stabbing his eyes. Thomas Brown felt a monumental headache coming on. He straightened and made his way over to the toilet. As he took his piss he realized his cock had that strange second skin feeling, when you don't wash after sex and the juices dry on you. His pubic hair was matted with it and his right hand had the same stickiness as his cock. Like a sprayed on glove. He flexed his hand and felt it stretch and he rubbed his fingers together and let bits of it flake off. And there, he noticed on his forearm close to his wrist, a smear of blood. He had a flashback; his clenched hand moving inside her cunt, its lips clamping around his wrist, then giving way like a hymen, although of course it hadn't been her hymen. The bit of skin between her vagina and anus had ripped. The pain in his head was growing into a white roar. His hand reached out clumsily for the toilet handle; he thought he hit it before falling into the bathtub, but he didn't wait to see. On his knees he frantically turned this lever and that, having suddenly forgotten which was hot and which was cold and which directed the water to the shower head. Finally hot water rained down from above, hotter than he normally showered with, hotter than he could normally stand but he let it scald him, let it slap the bathtub floor and steam up in a ghostly mist. He rose from his knees, letting the water pummel every part of him and turned so it could accost him from behind. And he grabbed soap and began scrubbing and scrubbing; he scrubbed until her blood and his semen were being washed away and flowing down the drain. If anyone saw Thomas Brown as he opened the bathroom door and paused in the doorway to let his eyes adjust to the darkened bedroom, they would have seen a figure half draped in steaming white light that illuminated his golden body; the other half thrown into the shadows. The way he was turned, it wasn't easy to tell if he was coming or going. Then he was striding into the darkness and the tableau was broken. "What the hell are you doing here," he said roughly to the blonde woman draped enticingly across his royal blue silk sheets, illuminated in a rectangle of light from the bathroom. She gazed back at him calmly. Her trim figure was clothed in a dusky grey suit; a skirt that came almost to her knees with a demure four inch slit up the back, a blouse, and jacket. There was no sign of the pantyhose or pumps she surely would have been wearing earlier. Christine. Usually perky Christine, but she had her moments of a Hitchcock Blonde's coolness. Like the way she was staring at him right now. She blinked, not a flinch, but a feline lowering and raising of the eyelids before turning her head slightly to contemplate the space to the right of her face. "Yes, one would wonder..." Then she was in smooth studied motion. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and reached with a slim arm to turn on the bedside lamp with a minute click. "Why a woman would show up in a man's apartment..." She made her unhurried way over to the lamp on the table. The table next to the window. The window with the open blinds. "A man who consistently does not return her calls..." He was naked, and he felt naked, not nude. She turned that lamp by the window on too. "Who did not seem to notice when she went out of town for, oh, twelve days..." Christine paused here a moment to cock her head at him, her eyes lowering to his hard member and lingering there. "A man supposedly her husband-to-be." "Hmm," she shrugged uninterestedly and brushed past him, no doubt in order to turn on the overhead lights from the switch by the door. Thomas ignored her and strode to the window and let the blinds down across the window with a slap, just as light from above flooded the room. They turned at the same time to face each other from opposite sides of the room. "Yes," Christine said with a small smile, "one would wonder." Then she stalked towards him, she in her grey business suit of shining armor to him in his shameful nakedness. The white noise that had been subdued in the back of his head began a dangerous crackling. Thomas Brown felt a wave of vertigo sweep through him, leaving him helpless and vulnerable for when she reached out to draw him in to her clutches. He clung to her desperately, so as not to fall, not now, it was too soon to fall now. It wasn't his time yet, he could feel it; it was near, but still safely tucked around the next sharp corner. He gripped her hair to convince himself of this. She breathed deeply into his neck, her out-breath leaving a moist tingling there. His cock was pumping dangerously at her skirt, trying to reach through the material, but he ignored it utterly. Her hair, her damn hair was up in an elegant swirling twist; even the feel of it was making him unbearably dizzy. He pawed at it, clumsily tearing through the strands to find the piece holding it together. A small pin came into his grasp and he almost ripped it out. Christine didn't seem to notice. She was too busy taking her jacket apart and then unbuttoning her blouse, finally just tearing it open to rub her upper body against his, trying to mold herself to him, to be near him. But her annoying bra was in the way. He aided her efforts by yanking her blouse off, then helping her lift her bra up and throwing it in the corner. They were scuffling their way to the bed; Christine was biting different parts of his chest, gnawing like a hungry puppy. The grips he had on one upper arm and on skirt covered buttocks was going to leave bruises, surely, but she didn't even seem to notice. He dumped her on the bed, falling with, falling on to her with a grunt. Her legs automatically fell to either side of him; his cock brushed some hair and he realized she wasn't wearing panties. One hand went straight to her pussy and it was wet like he'd never felt it. He had moment of déjà vu, of the second right before his hand had punched brutally up that woman's cunt, but this was a different slipperiness; it was Christine's own slickness, and lots of it. He gripped her pussy and it rewarded him with more juices and tried to grip him back. Christine let out guttural moan. He cut to the chase and simply plunged his cock in without further warning. Her wetness made it easy for him to burrow in deep to the hilt. She raised one leg up and he slid in impossibly farther and he was moving out of her and then slamming back in with the aid of her heel digging into his opposite butt-cheek. His forearms were to either side of her head and he was putting his weight there to allow to arch back farther but her arms snaked around his neck and shoulder like a vise: the only way he could move up was to take her with him. Instead, with a snarl, he ripped her arms away and forcefully shoved them up by her head. She snarled right back. He bit one tight nipple. The snarl turned into a half scream and then a whimper of pleasure as his tongue lapped at the sore pebble of flesh. He could feel the cut the other woman's teeth had left on his tongue and rubbed the abrasion along Christine's flesh as his dick pounded into her again and again. Both her legs were wrapped about his waist: the two of them were locked into each other, both trying to break viciously through the other. Thomas Brown was using his fiancée and he was infuriated that she would use him in return: the vice versa was true. He felt his balls gather and his hips tried to slow but she bucked hers in response, forcing his body to comply with hers. Then he cock seemed to grow impossibly large within her and it burst in streams of cum gushing into her, equaling her juices now. Her cunt clamped demandingly onto his dick, spasming and clenching until it had sucked all the semen out of him, sucked him dry, taking all that he had. He collapsed on top of her, spent. Thomas Brown's head finally stopped spinning but the white noise was yet there, murmuring along with the pain. He cock was small now, within Christine, and he felt...empty. They lay there for a while, remembering what it was to breathe. He felt her head shift a bit and she said into the quiet, "They want you back at the firm." Thomas forgot how to breathe all over again. Something in his head was expanding. "What?" "They want you back. Your old job. It's yours again. You haven't been answering your phones and..." But Thomas did not here much after that. Oh gods, he thought he'd stood on the cliff and taken that plunge but now he was on top again. And the white noise was urging again. He could have everything back. He could fulfill the contract with society and there was no need to jump off that cliff again: he was on top. Except he didn't like being there. His real reasons for raping that woman yesterday had had nothing to do with anger over losing his job. Even then he'd just not been admitting to himself that his life was not over. Thomas remembered the soul unhinging intimacy he'd shared with his victim and realized he'd never felt so intensely, never felt to alive as when he was feeling her pain and knowing he was the cause of it. He was free to be what he was beyond the cliff, free to act outside expectations; to be the real Thomas Brown, who everyone on top would see as a monster. "That was a good good-bye fuck," he commented, interrupting her. He shifted a little when she stiffened, although he didn't pull out of her, and then he bent his heavy head back on her shoulder. "That...was a what, what-what fuck?" He heard her finally get out above his head. Her voice was think with disbelief. "Oh, sorry. Didn't mean to stint praises about your ability." He nipped a tit for emphasis. "You fucked me like a good whore." She laid there in silence. He felt her heart beat up for a bit—he didn't know with what—and then it slowed again. He didn't move. "I'm sorry," she said finally. "Is this your idea of kinky bedtalk, or are you really trying to dump me?" He uncurled his head to see her staring at him with narrowed eyes. His cock was beginning to stir; Christine squirmed a little, as if to get away from him, and it grew at the friction of the movement. "Who have you been fucking, Christine?" He asked her softly. "Who taught you about being such a good whore?" He pressed on inside her, letting his dick grow as it willed as Christine's eyes grew wide with incredulity. He just said it to get a rise out of her. To see if Christine had a rise in there in the first place. She did. Christine's hand flew out to slap him hard across the mouth. He seemed to be getting a lot of that lately. He gripped the sheets tightly into his fists to keep himself from smacking that look off her face. This was Christine. His fiancée. Or former. He couldn't just hit her like some random woman he ran into on the street. That wasn't it really...it was that he'd already done the violent thing. And now the white noise wanted something else...something worse. And now that he'd said it, he couldn't help but wonder if that had been a flicker of guilt in her eyes? He started rocking a little, on top of her, gently. She didn't notice or had decided to ignore it. "If you wanted to dump me, Thomas Brown, a simple "good-bye" would have sufficed. Even a simple good-bye fuck would have sufficed. But no amount of fucking hell—" he'd never heard Christine use cuss words before "—you've gone through because of your job excuses you for being this shitty!" She jabbed him in the chest. Her face was starting to flush an angry tomato red. He rocked surreptitiously. "I have Been There for you, Thomas. With Capital fucking letters I've Been There for you. I didn't leave your side when even you were expecting me to!" Her voice began to choke. He couldn't tell whether it was with fury or tears. "And now that you have your job back—I don't understand. And--and, God, I know...I knew we weren't in love like in the fucking movies, and who really expects that shit, right? And that you thought I'd be so shallow to just dump you because of that stupid fucking case everyone—and what the fuck do you think you're doing?" She yelled. Her legs tried to come together. "I'm talking to you and all you can think about is fucking rutting over my body! Get off." "I'm trying to. Get off." At that she just started punching and scratching what she could reach. She raised her legs, despite how it brought them closer and jabbed viciously at his back with her heels. "Christine! Christine!" He tried to calm her as he grasped a hard hold of her wrists and held them above her head. They were in almost the exact same position they'd been in earlier. She glared. "Get. Off. Me. Now." "Now, Christine," he said conversationally, "I really think you'd enjoy yourself if you just let me do the work and finish my business here." "GET OFF!" She yelled in his face. "Get off and get out! Out! Thomas, OUT! "I'm not hurting you," he pointed out reasonably. His grip on her wrists was pointedly firm but not bruising. His hips never stopped their gentle rhythm. Christine was making little squeals of frustration. But she was still wet from earlier and her sensitive pussy started to grab at his persistent cock. He studied her face the entire time. Her frustration was replaced with disbelief. He just continued, enjoying the feel of his member sliding smoothly in and out. He felt her walls begin convulsing. Her breaths were coming in short stricken gasps. "Thomas—please...stop...you have to—stop!" She hissed and arched as an orgasm hit her. Her eyes widened as they strained to contain the dampness filling them. "Am I hurting you?" "Yesss." "Mmm. I don't believe you. And I don't think you really want me to stop right now," he observed, not sounding too breathless yet. He paused as her pussy cramped down hard for a moment, straining not to come yet, wanting to force her to more pleasure. "You're enjoying yourself," he added as she arched helplessly again. "That's...not...the point, Thomas. Stop. Sto—Aah! God, oh!" Her head went to the side straining to bury her face in her arm, trying to stopper the noises falling from her open mouth and he shifted that arm so she couldn't hide from him. Thomas Brown wanted to see his fiancée's mouth gaping wide open, helplessly. He could see her effort to close it but he was riding her into another orgasm and it needed to release itself somewhere. It released itself in long drawn out shrieks from her reluctant lips. He was close enough to her body that he felt her poking nipples rubbing against his chest. "Open your legs for me wider, Christine," he whispered as he moved inside her and brought her to another screaming peak. "Good...you're a good whore, Christine, spread your pussy like a good whore." Christine's neck craned as her face turned into the bed but he could still see her profile. Beads of sweat had formed on him with the effort to hold back his release and they rolled off and dripped on to Christine as he felt the rush of his oncoming orgasm. The beads splattered on the side of her face, a few drops mingling with the wetness being squeezed out from her tightly shut eyes. She was shuddering continuously now, no noise now, and her eyes glassy. When he felt himself at the edge and falling, he forced his hips to stillness and let his cum fill her as it willed. Then he was shuddering harshly with her, the enforced halt to his rocking causing the rest of his body and cock to ripple in compensation. When his dick had finished emptying itself he was still shuddering, his cock still giving small convulsions here and there like it didn't know there was no cum left. The white noise was muted. Still there, still a huge presence but with the sound off. His head collapsed onto her chest again, his fingers releasing her still wrists. And this time, he really was spent. He felt her heart against his cheek from far away and with each beat the silent whiteness enveloped him a little more, lulled him, until Thomas Brown was just a fading dot in a sea of white, and then he was deep asleep.