I
The seduction seeped in. The lingering, alluring glances that planted the seed. The provocative suggestions masked as harmless humor until she was ensnared.
At their first interaction he knew he liked her, that he wanted her, that she was everything he both desired and hated. *A creature this perfect should be punished for its beauty.* He wanted to see her pretty face contorted in pain as he laid hands on her in the ways he imagined no other man ever had, or would again. The way her eyes became squinted until they almost closed when she was smiling and laughing—he wanted them squinting under extreme resistance, the dark dull blue growing even dimmer as the tears swelled.
Perhaps it was her beguiling nature that was her ultimate undoing. Her confidence. Her intellect. Though she denied having either. How the magnanimous air about her attracted everyone in her vicinity. After months of building a rapport, the sexual tension so rigid between them that it felt overt when others were present, he decided to make his move. When he presented her with the option he was cautious in how he approached, so conscientious of the words he selected for such a sensitive proposal—such a censurable act of depravity. And upon hearing his offer, she denied him.
He hadn’t read her wrong, she wanted him. She made it known. It was the circumstances, she said, though those hadn’t seemed to bother her when she was returning racy remarks and making bawdy quips about *if no one was else was in the office*. It frustrated him more that she now claimed morals when before all she’d done is tantalize him with talk of how fun he seemed, and what she *bet he was like.*
He’d spend nights in his living room unable to sleep, sweating with his head between his hands as he couldn’t get the images of himself defiling her to cease from endlessly forming in his mind. When he did sleep he awoke with his stomach crusted with cum, his dreams plagued by visions of her bound, suspended, bruised and crying as he laughed and whipped her.
Following his confession everything remained normal between them. She didn’t dodge him in the hallway. If he came into a conversation she didn’t find a reason to exit. The demoralizing part was the continuation of flirtation, as if nothing ever happened. That’s when his anger ignited—growing, flaring.
He’d see her suffer as he’d see her writhe in pleasure with his cock in her cunt and his hands at her throat.
Her skin, like warm ivory, soft and unblemished. He would have it see the most damage, taking utmost pleasure in observing the transition from flawless to bruised, streaked, and bleeding. That wouldn’t entirely satisfy him. Not until she bore the burns of rope at her limbs and neck, or until she would stare at his fingerprints which lay across her skin in purple imprints for the weeks it took to heal.
He wouldn’t be content until he had inserted his appendages and his cock into every orifice on her body. He would know every inch of her, inside and out, touching her as he pleased until he controlled her like a puppet, bringing her to orgasm effortlessly with one finger. And when she sought reprieve for whatever she’d done to anger him, to earn this punishment, whatever terrible crime she’d committed that she was now seeing repercussions for, she’d receive further penalty.
It wouldn’t be hard getting her to the house, that much he knew. The difficult component would require an approach carefully crafted and executed. There were moving parts to his plan that necessitated coordination for the mechanics to function properly.
Friday was the day it would happen he’d decided. He put the gears in motion two weeks ahead of time by repeatedly proposing that they meet up after it had been mentioned so many times before. He had never gone this far before, never this extreme or complicated, and with multiple pieces at play, everything would have to be perfect.
Getting her to say yes wasn’t a problem. They’d become informal associates, *friends*, and she had certainly hinted at downing a drink together on more than one occasion. The location was perfect. A little hole-in-the-wall dive she frequented on stressful days, just a few miles from his house. His plan was coming together.
II
The small talk at the bar only reduced his patience which already wore thin as the night progressed. They conversed over mundane career proceedings and random acts of life as he steadily fed her drinks. Two hours in and she was buzzed, her dialogue stuttering, her mannerism lax, and at the first mention of a bathroom break his nerves surfaced. The muscle along his jaw flexed, the only given tell of his avidity. It isn’t that he was frightened of the events ahead, it was that he knew all too well things were going accordingly. As she turned her back from the table he wasted no time putting his hand to his pocket where he waited until she was halfway to the restroom before pulling out the small clear packet from inside.
Another locale would have been a challenge but the dim lighting in the smaller space provided superlative cover. Initially he worried he’d be too conspicuous with the density of the crowd yet it only helped to keep him obscure. The room resonated with chatter and laughter as people came and went, passing by their corner table without a second glance. When she was out of sight he took his chance and slid her glass in front of himself, pausing in between actions to not draw attention as he emptied the contents of crushed green powder into her fresh cocktail before stirring it until the grains dissolved.
Half an hour later the effects were becoming noticeable. Bright laughter deteriorated into sluggish chuckles. Her articulate speech devolved into slurred words that at times didn’t correlate. She managed to mumble out, *“Hey, I think I.. drank.. I think I drank..too much? Could you.. “* The words seeped out like syrup, dragging on certain consonants while her brain struggled to form sentences against the fast acting chemical. *“..give..you. Could you…ride..home?”* Her arm resting on the table suddenly rolled off the edge and went limp at her side. *Shit*, he thought. The medication was kicking in more rapidly than he had assumed it would and he’d have to act fast.
*“Oh, yeah, you need a ride home? No problem.”* He was already out of his seat when he replied, with no allotted time to repeat the question as he folded an arm under her and across her shoulders in case more muscles gave. *“Th.. thanks.”* Her words had become brittle and her eyes half-lidded, the alcohol and drug combining to quickly and gently put her under.
When they’d made it to the car he was almost carrying her, having to prop her against the side to get the door open before lowering her into the seat and buckling her in. By the time he had started the ignition she was out cold—but he didn’t dare touch her, not here. He needed privacy for that, and he had the patience to wait.
III
The garage door touched the floor and the engine cut off. The hunter was safe in his den with his prey caught and now ready for consumption. For a while he sat there looking at her unconscious body, his seat belt still fastened as he idly stared. His hand drifted out to touch her but the strap stopped him. He unfastened it and sat upright in his seat, turning his body to face hers. The fluorescence shone through the windshield onto her pale skin like artificial moonlight, making her appear even more lifeless with her arms listless, her head lolled to the side, and her champagne hair in her face.
He already wanted to hurt her, to watch for a reaction he knew he wouldn’t receive as she lay immobile, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t make a mark until she was conscious of every single thing he was doing to her body. He’d relish in her reaction, her confusion evolving to horror as she slowly realized what was to occur. She would witness the formation of each bruise and scrape to his satisfaction. He *would* take what he wanted. He *would* touch her as he pleased, and he did. Free of his seat belt he leaned forward across the center console, beryl eyes filled with intent, and hunger. He felt the angst again burning in the lower part of his stomach as his fantasy was becoming a reality with his obsession now present, passed out and completely vulnerable in his car.
With the back of his hand he ran it carefully across her cheek and down the side of her neck where he then moved his fingers over her collarbone, rubbing a little circle at the base where the clavicles met. So many times had he imagined how soft she’d feel, like velvet. And she did. He gripped her chin, tilting her face up and moving her head from left to right and then back where it sagged into her neck. His fingers pinched at her eyelid, lifting it to see a blue iris rolled into bloodshot white. He moved two fingers under her nose and felt her breath come out in a cool stream to convince himself that he hadn’t somehow given her too much—that she was still breathing. Her chest rose and fell shallowly in her comatose state. He wanted his hands around her slender neck, seeing it turn from ivory to red as she struggled to breathe while his cock invaded her.
His index finger smoothed over the exterior of her lips which were dry from the effects of the drug and he thought he’d better hydrate her as soon as she was awake. He’d need her as full of fluids as possible so that he could then proceed to drain her again entirely. It would take several hours for the effects to wear off and he’d have to continue administering the Rohypnol if he wished to keep her subdued, at least until he had experienced her fully in a disoriented state without a struggle before turning her loose for the chase. He suddenly wanted out of the car and to get her inside where he could further explore her body.
It didn’t take him long to move her. What took time was the recognition of power he now held. Open access to any part of her that he wanted, and the first action would be hauling in his game. This would be the first time he touched her body beyond flirty office exchanges of hands against forearms or shoulders rubbing during witty banter. He unfastened her seat belt and leaned in, pulling one of her arms over his shoulder and craning his neck under the other, dragging her from the seat. Hooking his right arm under the back of her knees he picked her up and carried her into the house.
The preparation had been the most daunting portion, having taken him two months to fortify the space. He couldn’t simply bring her into his bedroom knowing how she’d react when she was once again fully oriented. He needed seclusion and silence.
Rows of track lighting hummed above and came to life strip by strip when he flipped on the switch. They illuminated the concrete compartment. It was bright enough to see yet faint enough for comfort. The basement had been cleared, left with nothing that a typical suburban residence would contain, but replaced with everything he could think of to destroy her. The walls were thick and he’d lined them with square foam panels to proof the sound. No one would hear her screaming, her moaning, her begging him, whether it was to fuck her or spare her.
It took an hour for her eyes to open, for her brain to recover, and another ten minutes for the combination to focus. When they finally did they were directed to an object that caught her attention. The only color in the world of surrounding grey. An apple. Bright, red, and shiny. It sat atop a polished wooden desk before her—all that was left in the new prison in which she resided. Like a talisman she stared at it, and that’s when she knew. She knew what was unfolding, the consequence that would commence. In that moment she knew that no one was coming to save her.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/qnkqbs/little_red_apple