Proctor and Gamble

I hated standardized tests. But in order to get in grad school I had to pass the exam I walked into that spring afternoon. And in order to pull my life out of the sad, hung over, place it had been hanging around, I had to get into graduate school. And this was step one.

Taking a standardized test is anything but glamorous. Walking into the tiny room filled with computers in tiny cubicles, wearing jeans and an old sweatshirt, I felt anything but sexy. But the proctor? He was sexy as hell. Well, my definition of sexy at least. Probably 6'4, lean and muscled, and what sounded like a Northern Irish accent when he spoke. "My husband's from Northern Ireland," I offered while he checked me in. I got a wink in response, and blushed like a fifteen year old. Oh, and the lip stud. He was probably in his early thirties, dressed Seattle business casual (dark jeans, light blue dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves to show the definition in his forearms)...and out of place, a pointed lip stud on the right side of his perfectly shaped mouth. I thought I had stopped being attracted to facial piercings in high school. But apparently not.

After an excruciating 3 hours of answering dull question, I stretched my aching neck and back muscles, reaching my hands over my head. I signed out on the clipboard, as Mr. Hot Proctor told me I should have my results emailed to me by the next morning. Looking forward to a drink I turned around to leave when I heard the lilted accent say "You're not wearing a wedding ring?" My answer started to come out as "Uh, um, well..." and instead of finishing the thought I fled. I was not discussing my married life with this hot stranger. The Irish community in Seattle was small as it is, chances were my husband had met him anyhow.

Truth was, my marriage had been miserable for years. We slept in separate bedrooms, rarely spoke (and when we did, we bickered over nothing), and had sex only a few times a year. He'd never been able to make me come, not that he ever really tried, and though I still enjoyed the act itself, it was hard to feel sexually attracted to someone I didn't really like anymore.

Moping over being a 27 year old in an already dead marriage, wondering if I'd passed the stupid exam, I never heard anyone walking behind me in the parking lot. I had started late, so everything was dark, but Seattle was anything but dangerous so I thought nothing of wandering around by myself at night.

When I had almost reached my old and battered SUV I felt someone painfully grab my left elbow. Instinctively I knew something was off, and automatically turned around and punched whoever was behind me. As hard as I could. In the face. When I heard the familiar Irish "for fuck's sake" I froze, mortified. Mr. Sexy Proctor had probably just been trying to ask me something and I punched him. And his nose was bleeding. Oops.

I remember is hearing him say "well, fair's fair," followed by a sickening crack, the taste of blood pooling in my mouth, and searing pain spreading through one side of my face. Then nothing.

I woke up being carried over his shoulder into a house that looked far outside of the city. Like, it smelled like trees and a river far out of the city. Noticing I was awake, he (I still had no idea what his name was), gently slid me off his shoulder and onto my feet. As my face passed his, his lip stud gently scraped against my check and he whispered in my ear. "Congratulations on passing your test."

I promptly vomited.

At this point we both had blooded faces, and now vomit soaked clothes. "You're fucking ridiculous" he muttered, grabbing my dirty blonde hair and dragging me through the house and into a small, but beautifully decorated bathroom. I lost it. "I'm ridiculous? I'M RIDICULOUS?!?! I have no idea who you are, you just knocked me out, and apparently kidnapped me, and I'm RIDICULOUS?" I opened my mouth to continue screaming and promptly received a slap on both cheeks.

Stunned, I started back at his emotionless face. "You hit me first. I wanted you. My name is David, but I wouldn't recommend calling me anything but Sir." I opened my mouth to argue when he continued. "I expect you to behave. I expect you to do what you're told without being a brat. Now take your dirty clothes off and step into the shower."

This may be a good time to mention how uncomfortable I am in my own skin. Sure, my C cup breasts are nice, I've always liked my eraser pink nipples, thought I had good legs, and pretty sapphire eyes...but my ass was flatter than I would have liked, and my stomach was not taut. My round belly had always been a source of self-hate.

"Jesus, modest Americans. And I thought the Irish were bad." He reached forward to unzip my sweatshirt and I reacted by attempting to claw out his eyes. What can I say, it was a stressful situation.

Unfortunately before I could reach said eyes he had his hand around my throat and I was shoved against a wall. His jaw was visibly clenching.

"I am trying to be nice. But here's the thing...I like it when girls cry. I like it when they make me hit them. So take off your filthy clothes and step into the shower before I throw you in."

Finally the tears came, a hot flood of fear and grief down my face. Now I knew he had done this before. With my hands shaking, sobbing like a child, I slowly removed my clothes. He didn't move to help, his eyes didn't roam my body. Worse, he stared into my face, almost curious at the humiliation as I peeled my bra from my breasts and reluctantly forced my panties down my legs.

The shower was unceremonious. He turned the water on, I stepped in, washed the filth off, and stepped out. He handed me a towel, pointed to the toilet and told me to sit. I did.

I was exhausted, frightened, and confused. I didn't want to incite anymore anger in this fucking nuthead. But I would be lying if I said I didn't steal a glance at his perfectly sculpted ass, long, toned legs, and muscled back as he undressed and stepped in. I saw the flash of a tattoo in Gaelic across his bicep as he walked into the still running water, and wondered what it meant. 'Great,' I thought, Stockholm Syndrome had already sunk in.

David, he would have to beat the Sir out of me, left the bathroom and returned wearing a fresh pair of jeans. I hadn't moved. I couldn't. While I still clutched the towel wrapped around me, Mr. Nice Guy grabbed my wrist and began to lead me back through the house, I assumed to the bedroom so he could rape me. Instead we came to a door, which he opened with a set of keys.

As the steps leading down came into view, a new surge of adrenaline filled my veins. I knew what basements meant. No. Fucking. Way. I turned to run and was greeted with a wall of muscle.

"You can walk, or you can be thrown and risk breaking a few bones. I am not carrying you."

Attempting to get my nerves under control and act with some dignity, I turned and began to step down. I got about halfway. I just couldn't do it. I just couldn't walk to what could be my death without a fight. David lost patience and kicked me feet out from under me. I threw my hands out in front of myself, desperately trying to stop the fall before serious damage was done. Luckily I only scraped my knees and hands, along with what was probably a couple of bruised ribs courtesy of the last stair. And my towel. I lost my towel. As I scampered towards it a pair of Doc Martins appeared before my face.

"When you stop acting like a child, I'll think about clothes."

What a gentleman.

Still on the floor, my eyes adjusted to the dim light, and I glanced around the basement. Concrete floors, no windows, what looked like the oldest mattress on the nastiest iron bedframe was the first bad news. Then I saw the steel bolts everywhere. In the ceiling, on the floor, in the walls. A couple of the bolts near the bed had chains in them with thick leather cuffs on the end. My eyes widened, realizing they were for me, and David smirked. He fucking smirked.

Then he bent down, grabbed a leg, and in one motion pulled me towards the bed and fasted the cuffs to my ankles. I hadn't even had the chance to stand up.

I finally looked up and glared at him as he towered over me.

"I'm not going to give you the 'this can be easy or hard, depending on you,' speech from trashy romance novels. I don't care if this is easy on you are not."

I knew the speech he was talking about...I'd spent a handful of embarrassing hours reading trashy 'non-consent' novels. I was so dazed from my fall down the stairs I failed to notice he had been undoing his jeans while he talked. With no ceremony, and no warning, he grabbed my forearm and roughly brought me up into my skinned knees. I remember hoping he wouldn't fuck me as he pulled out his long, thick, uncut cock. My pussy had always been tight, and years in a sexless marriage had made me even more so. So I felt almost relieved when he looked me straight in the eyes, saying with no trace of emotion,

"Erin, if you bite me, I will whip you till you cannot stand for a week."

Creeped out by his use of my name, and not wanting to endure any kind of punishment yet I leaned forward and gently licked the leaking tip. Opening as far as I could I took him into my mouth, feeling the hard velvet of his cock. I reached up to grasp the base, I'd always used my hands giving blowjobs, and was rewarded with a painful tweak on my left nipple.

"No hands."

There was no way I was going to be able to do this without hands. I put them at my sides anyway, and struggled to take him down as far as I could. I did my best not to gag repeatedly as I bobbed my head on his cock. This must have been this worst blowjob ever, as all I got was a, "hmm. I guess we'll have to work on that."

In an instant his hands were filled with the hair on the sides of my head, and he roughly forced his cock down my throat. I felt like I couldn't breathe. I swore I was close to passing out by the time he finally released me. Instead of allowing a rest he began ruthlessly fucking my mouth. My jaw hurt. My scalp hurt. My knees were bleeding. Jesus, the back of my throat even hurt. After what felt like an eternity he pulled out and unleashed a torrent of hot cum onto my face.

Surprised, I reached up to wipe it off.

"Do. Not. Touch. It. It will stay there and remind you who you belong to until you can get it through your thick skull."

After tucking his cock back into his pants, he wordlessly turned and mounted the stairs, leaving me in the dark. I crawled up onto the uncomfortable bed, tears streaming down my cum covered face, thinking even if my husband found me, I would never want to hear him speak again - the accent was tainted.

*****

This is my first Literotica submission. I am more than happy to have constructive criticism, and am working on a second chapter (which has more sex...). Thanks for reading!