Heart of Steel Ch. 01

An hour later, the door opened again. The draw of the dead-bolt, the rattle of the key, and the door came inward, admitting Crystal. She wore a robe of what appeared to be a soft but light cloth, which cloaked her body but did not conceal its beauty. Her hair was gleaming, it appeared to be wet, and the smell of a scented lotion was lightly drifting across the room. Tristan watched as she let the bathrobe slide off her shoulders and then off her arms, pushing it aside like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. And under that robe, she was entirely naked, her body a firm, curvaceous, genuinely beautiful figure of light skin, shapely limbs, and an ample bosom.

"It's time you get acquainted with your purpose here." she explained, moving toward the bed, her hips lightly swaying with each step.

"Please," Tristan said, calmly for now, "please don't do this to me. This is my first time and I just don't feel this way about you."

"You're tied up," she explained to him, as though his shackle-bound ankles may have escaped his attention, "my will is your reality from here on in, little boy."

Now she was on the foot of the bed, crawling over the footboard and moving over Tristan, whose free hands tried to keep her back. This action earned him a savage slap. His hands retreated to his sides, which seemed good enough to please Crystal as she loomed over him now, sitting erect, her thighs on either side of his waist. The smooth, cool skin of her inner thighs was tempting, alluring to Tristan, but this was just not what he wanted. He couldn't make himself be excited about this fear, this helplessness, this complete disregard for his will.

"Please, don't do this to me." Tristan implored in a weak, frightened tone as his helpless state became all the more apparent.

"Oh come on," Crystal said, "do you know how many guys would just kill to be in your position right now? You're ungrateful."

"I don't want this," Tristan insisted, his voice increasing in pitch and frantic tone, "I don't want any of this! I'm not the guy you wanted, I'm not into this!"

But his protestations and beseeching cries did nothing to stop Crystal from reaching her right hand down, trailing her nails over his chest and down his belly, until her hand reached his manhood. Tristan's legs tensed, his body shuddered in response to her warm hand closing around his most sensitive of regions, squeezing it firmly. Tristan shut his eyes tight, he hated himself for how his body reacted, how his penis grew hard in Crystal's hand as she held it clenched in her fist, pumping her arm up and down until she was satisfied with the results of her careful actions.

"See, little boy," Crystal cooed, "you wanted me all along. You just don't know what you want."

But it wasn't true, Tristan didn't want her, not at all. This was horrifying, this was unwanted intimate pleasure, the most terrifyingly paradoxic sensation. Why was his body reacting so... / positively,/ when all he felt was fear, fear that was quickly turning to self-loathing as his own physical form betrayed him. Why couldn't he tell himself to go limp, to lay still and do nothing until Crystal lost interest in him? But what would happen then? He didn't know, and wouldn't know, because his body was responding to Crystal's caresses as eagerly as if she were the love of his life.

With an eager, hungry look, Crystal raised herself up, then lowered herself down slowly over his erection. Her body pressed down upon him, his member pushing into her, squeezed between her tight inner walls. Crystal let out one squeak of excitement after another, getting louder as Tristan plunged deeper into her. Her hips began to move up and down in rhythm, her hands pressed on his chest, nails digging into his skin. The sensation around his penis was astonishing, warm and inviting, yet in the context of this encounter, repulsive and oppressive. He felt inhuman, like he was just an object for Crystal to use as her body moved up and down, her breasts bouncing, her head thrown back in animalistic gasps of ecstasy whilst she worked herself to a long, slow orgasm. Tristan felt his pleasure building as her tightness squeezed his full length, bringing him well past the point of orgasm, leaving him drained and disgusted with himself as Crystal finished off her climax.

"What a good boy," she panted, laying upon him and kissing him feverishly, "what a good, good boy. You'll do just fine here."

Tristan was crying. / Damn/ /it,/ he was actually crying. Not great, wracking sobs, but tears rolled down his face, and he lay perfectly still as Crystal lay upon him, kissing him, invading his mouth with her tongue. He just lay there, tears blurring his vision. After all this trouble naming them, making his captresses seem human, he was now the one who felt so much like a non-human. But not like an immortal, not like a deity. He felt like a pebble helpless in the current of a river, like a feather in a wind tunnel, like a chess pawn in the hand of a vicious player. All he could do was cry.

Crystal rose from him eventually, pleased with herself and thoroughly satisfied. Donning her black robe, she gave him a last, lingering smile, before exiting the room. But there was no loneliness this time, no chance to lay still and reflect. The door opened almost immediately afterword and Hilja entered, closing the door behind her. She was clad in the same loose-fitting pants, heavy boots, and black shirt that she'd worn earlier.

"Having fun?" she asked, eyeing Tristan's sweat-soaked, tear-stained face.

"N-no, no I'm not, I don't want this." Tristan replied weakly.

"We'll see about that." she replied. "I've got a very special treat for you."

/Oh Gods, how can this get worse?/ Tristan thought.

Hilja began to take off her clothes. / Oh/ /this/ /again,/ Tristan sighed unhappily, knowing he was about to be subjected to another bout of unwanted sex. Again he was going to be used, again ignored in his dismay and discomfort, again worked to an unwanted climax by a pretty girl he didn't love, but feared.

Hilja stepped out of her boots and slid off her socks, pants, shirt, underwear, and bra, in that order, tossing the clothes onto the wood floor of the room. It wasn't proper wood, some sort of laminate that looked nice but sounded hollow and artificial underfoot. Hilja moved to the end of the bed and then suddenly unlocked Tristan's ankle restraint with a small key she'd held in her hand, and which she now placed on the side table.

"I know what you're thinking," she noted, a faint laugh to her voice, "you're thinking that you're free and could just run out the door and go find help, aren't you?"

"No no," insisted Tristan, a guilty blush covering his face, "I'm not, I promise."

"That is good," she replied, cracking her knuckles ominously, "because I KNOW I could take you, boy, and I promise I wouldn't be gentle. Now, turn over."

"What?"

"TURN OVER!"

With that shouted command, she seized Tristan and painful jerked his shoulders, twisting him around and forcing him to lay on his belly on the bed.

"I do NOT like to repeat myself, do you understand?" she commanded.

"Yes, yes ma'am." Tristan said, without thinking, driven by fear.

"What a fast learner," praised Hilja, "now hold still."

Hilja pulled his hands above his head, bringing them to the headboard chains and locking them in place, leaving him immobilized on the bed once more, on his stomach, his head laying on its side so he could watch her movements. Then, seizing the pillow on which he'd been resting, Hilja folded it in half and forced it under Tristan's hips, propping him up in an awkward, arched position. / What in Hel is she trying to do?/ Tristan demanded internally, not wanting to anger her into another outburst.

Hilja moved back to the table, opening the unlocked drawer and produced a peculiar amalgamation of straps and a few buckles, like a harness of some sort. Hilja stepped into it, pulling it up to her waist and securing it, such that it strapped around her waist and had a loop around each thigh. It held now, at its center, directly in position with Hilja's most intimate of regions, a sort of aperture, a connector for something. Next from the drawer came a device altogether more recognizable, and alarming for its familiarity. Tristan had never seen one in person, but how could he not recognize it? The smooth material, the large and phallic shape. A strap-on, double-ended, intended for mutual pleasure.

"Oh Gods," he whimpered, turning his head away, "oh Gods please no, no no no."

"Relax," Hilja said, "it'll make this go much smoother, and this is a nice small one."

/Small?!/

Tristan couldn't watch, but he could listen, and he could feel. He could feel Hilja climbing onto the bed, moving astride his propped up hips. He heard a popping sound, the sound of a bottle or tube being uncapped. Then he felt Hilja's hand, now slick and slimy with a healthy dollop of what he presumed to be lubricant, moving down his backside, sliding her fingers into him slowly, first one then another, moving them around, lubricating him. Preparing him. He couldn't relax, even though his mind screamed for him not to tense up. How could he relax? That cold, invasive sensation of her fingers, that would seem like nothing when the true torture began.

"I'll do anything," he begged, his voice cracking, "I swear, anything. But don't do this, I'm begging you, please please please, don't do this to me."

"Stop whining." Hilja ordered callously. "You're going to love it."

"No I won't."

"Then you're just going to take it, just lie there and take it like a fucking man."

He heard her lubricating the device, heard her slide it into herself, locking it in place in the harness. Then there was another sound, a button click and a sharp humming sound. / Vibration./ Tristan cringed and squirmed, but Hilja's strikingly muscular legs held him still, immobile and prepared for this most cruel of violations.

The tip of the device was rounded, of course, slick with lubricant, vibrating wildly. Tristan couldn't help but tense up as it brushed against him, pushing against him from behind, trying to enter. Tears streamed down his face, he did his utmost not to outwardly weep as Hilja just kept pushing, not letting up, just forcing the awful thing against him until slowly the lubricant did its work and the rounded, helmet-like head began to slide into him.

"Oh," he grunted, "ah, no! Ah, it hurts, please. Ah!"

"Yeah," Hilja sighed, falling upon him and grinding her hips, "yeah, you like it, I knew you would. Take it, you little bitch, you little slut. Take it."

The full length was pressed into him, widening him out and filling him with the most peculiar, vibrating sensation deep within his body. It had to be seven inches long, and thick as well. The pain, the complete discomfort and sense of invasion was overwhelming, it was invasive in the most deep, disturbing way. Hilja was laying on him now, her breasts pressed against his back, her well-muscled arms wrapped around him, holding him to her as she panted with pleasure, her hips arching up and down, sliding the device in and out of him, slamming the tip of the strap-on hard into his insides.

"Fucking take it!" she hissed in his ear. "You little fucking bitch."

The device slammed in and slid back in rhythm: in and out, in and out, over and over again. And Tristan realized, with horror, that it was hitting him in just such a spot so as to bring his manhood back to its erect state. Worse still, it was making him come closer and closer to a climax, his second unwanted one in this terrifying day. Hilja's increased panting, her louder and higher pitched shouts of "take it," the tightness of her legs increasing, and the faster, harder ramming of the device with her hips, told Tristan her climax was near. He came to his orgasm first, whimpering and shuddering, trying feebly to stop it from happening, but to no avail. As his seed spilled out of him, onto the pillow, he lay still while Hilja finished herself off, before sliding the device slowly out of him.

"What a good slut," Hilja growled in her post-climactic fervor, "I'll train you well yet."

Tristan felt broken, defeated. Why had he climaxed from that, how could he have let himself do that? His backside was hurting, it felt slick from lubricant, and his bowels ached like he had to go to the bathroom, which he knew he did not have to do. Hilja climbed off of him, wrapping up the device in a little sheath of plastic, presumably to take it to the bathroom and clean it. Then she dressed, sliding back into her clothes and petting Tristan's head firmly, before departing from the room, whilst Tristan cried quietly, his body still quivering in absolute, broken dismay.

Why was this happening to him? Sure he'd been socially awkward all his life, made few friends, fewer close ones. Sure he was a bit odd. But he wasn't a bad person. Why would his Gods do this to him? Why would any human being do this to another? Was this what so many women endured, what they suffered at the hands of abusers, or at least something similar? Could he, a man, really now know what it was like, the horror of being raped? /Rape./ That was it, an ugly, painful word. It sounded so much like "rip," as though he were being ripped away from his innocence, as though his freedom was being ripped away from him. Had he just been /raped,/ by these two girls?

/No, no, that can't be it, this can't count as that. I'm supposed to like this, these girls are hot, they're beautiful, they just... they love me, in a unique /way./ But if that was true, why would they have drugged him, tied him up, beaten him, collared him, ignored his pleas for mercy, and taken his virginity. / Does a guy even have a virginity to take?/ He didn't know, but he definitely felt like something was gone, something that, when gone, left him feeling cheap, violated, robbed, and defiled. They had no regard for him, for his needs and wants, for his fears and his discomfort. Maybe this was rape... maybe.

The sensation of warm hands made Tristan jump, as much as he could, letting out a startled yelp. He hadn't heard the door open and then close, nor the sound of footsteps on the laminate floor. But there they were, hands upon him, unfastening his hands and turning him over.

"Hello," Mai said gently, "are you having a good time?"

"A good time?!" he all but exploded. "No I'm not having a fucking good time, are you fucking insane asking me a stupid question like that?! I'm chained up, naked, getting fucked by psychotic bitches and you ask me if I'm having a good time?!"

Mai's eyes went wide, her lips trembling. / Damn, I actually feel bad,/ Tristan realized. Mai looked like she was about to cry, her eyes wide, her face tightening up to hold back tears. Looking away from him, she set about to shackling his limbs once more, leaving him on his back and unmoving.

"I'm sorry," he said, guilt tingeing his voice, "I didn't mean to scream at you. I'm just in a lot of pain and I'm, well I'm scared, and I hate all of this and I..."

He trailed off as Mai, already stripped naked, climbed into bed, moving to sit astride his hips, but facing away from him, sitting on his chest.

"You yelled at me." she said, a hard, bitter edge climbing into her sweet little voice. "You were very mean, and now I must punish you for what you said."

"Punish? Oh no no no, please I'm sorry I'm so so sorry." the words came out in a wild jumble of terror.

"You will be sorry," Mai said, "you're just saying you are now because you're scared, but I'll make you be sorry for saying I was stupid. I'm doing this for your own good, little Tristan."

Tristan didn't like when she said his name, which she'd presumably learned from the ID in his wallet. It made everything feel so personal, so close, like they knew everything of him. But he liked what happened next even less.

Mai's hands moved ominously downward, past the base of his manhood and to his testicles. Already, Tristan was squirming, pleading over and over again with her to stop, that he was truly sorry. But Mai persisted, taking one of his testicles between her left thumb and index finger, and doing the same with the other and her right hand. Then, she began slowly to squeeze, applying more and more pressure slowly.

Tristan began to grunt, to strain at his bonds and to try and pull his hips away, all fruitlessly. The pressure grew harder, until his grunts turned into yelling, screaming, high-pitched crying. His head thrashed about desperately with the pain, and he truly thought he would pass out as the agony exploded through his groin and lower abdominal region. At the moment when he felt himself at the brink of passing out or vomiting, Mai lightened up the pressure, allowing Tristan a chance to catch his breath. Sweat stood out on his forehead, he felt like he was going to be violently ill.

The pain was only gone for a while, it returned hastily, and without the build up of the first time. Mai squeezed hard, then released, again and again, keeping no tempo, doing her work at random so as to increase the fear, tension, and resultant pleas for a mercy that was not forthcoming. When she'd had her fill at last, she wrapped her index finger and thumb around the base of his scrotum, locking them together to form a ring so that his balls were sealed, trapped within their sac, unable to retract in case of pressure put upon them. Then, raising her left hand, she brought it down, flat and hard with a resounding "smack" against his captive testicles.

Tristan's entire body tensed up, his stomach locking up, his eyes rolling back, a long, wordless, animalistic groan issuing forth from his mouth. Then she struck him again, twice, three times, four times, and finally one more terrific blow, before releasing his bruised, agonized testicles from her vicious grasp.

"Tristan," she asked, turning so she was now seated astride his hips and facing him, "sweetie, are you sorry for what you said?"

"Oh Gods yes, yes, I'm so sorry. I was wrong to speak out of turn, and to speak to you that way. I'm so sorry, please forgive me." Tristan wept openly with great, heaving sobs.

"Oh Tristan," she squealed, "my poor, sweet little boy. I'm sorry I had to do that to you, I'm sorry you made me do that. But you learned, you learned, you're so so good!"

She fell upon him, seizing his head in her hands and drawing him into another kiss, her lips covering his, smothering his mouth as her tongue invaded, exploring his mouth at length before she pulled away, biting his lower lip affectionately. Mai cuddled Tristan happily, heedless of his shivering, his trembling from the still resonating sensations of pure agony that she so recently bestowed upon him.

"You are such a good boy," she cooed, nuzzling his neck, "thank you for being sorry for what you said. I knew you would learn if I gave you a firm hand, a loving hand."

"That really hurt." gasped Tristan. "I think I might be sick."

"Hush sweetie," Mai insisted, kissing his forehead, "you're okay, I'm going to take care of you. And now you can have your reward."

Mai moved on top of him, her hips over his, her hot body pressing down against him, her lips brushing his neck and collarbone. But before she had him, she reached over to the table, whereupon rested Tristan's necklace, the silver Thor's hammer on a silver chain. With a smile, she put it around his neck, before returning her attentions to more carnal matters.

The sex was slow with Mai, it was intimate. It was not the dominating rough ride of Crystal, or Hilja's brutal violation. Mai's hips moved against him gently as his manhood, somehow still erect despite the pain in its vicinity, filled her tight inner depths. The movement of her body was slow, deliberate, and seductive, enticing him to move with her, which Tristan did, even as he mentally begged his body to be still, to lay quietly and do nothing. Biology betrayed him again, his manhood throbbed with pleasure, his hips moved in complete synchronization with Mai's, and he moaned quietly all the while, even moaning into her mouth when her lips wetly smothered his once more.