Forbidden Thoughts

N/C means noncon. Rape. o_o

And as a sidenote, M/M means slash. Or homoerotica. So you know. Yes, these disclaimers are neccesary.

Enjoy.

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I don't like men. Men are shapeless, flat, shallow, rude, and rough. Men are everything that is said about them, and you better believe they're even worse. Women, though. Women are smooth, shapely, sensitive, soft, polite, everything you could dream of. A man's laugh is almost startlingly rude, and a woman's laugh is sensual, teasing. A man crying is shocking and disgusting, a woman, sweet and naive. The differences are easy to see.

At least, that's what I had thought a year ago. Before I met CJ.

Although, CJ could be a feminine male, but I never really thought a mohawk could be feminine. Even my second girlfriend, Kat, seemed brash and masculine with her mohawk. But maybe that's where my views got twisted. Maybe she changed everything I knew about myself.

When I first met him, he was still like every other man. He played the part of a bumbling idiot, the typical male stereotype, perfectly, but it seems things aren't always as they appear to be. Even the way he looked, even with the Mohawk, he was so soft. He wore make-up, I assume to cover up embarrassing blemishes, but it didn't help me while I was trying to deny these rising feelings. He was short, then, but thin, too, whereas many shorter people will be wider. Contrary to my beliefs, men can have hips, and CJ did, and I was shocked to find myself admiring his round backside one afternoon. He had such long fingers, like a piano player, and he moved gracefully, though I bet he never knew that his hips swung slightly as he walked.

When I saw him a year later, he had grown much taller, taller then me, which just made it harder for me to escape my feelings for him. It so happens that I love a tall woman with petite breasts, and CJ almost perfectly fit, except that he was a man. Everything else was the same, and the more I denied my own feelings, the closer I got to him. He stayed with me in my mansion when he came to visit, but I kept the man away from my room. It's outfitted in various advanced sex toys and tools, and he's so shy about sexuality, that I thought it best.

I finally brought him in after almost three years of knowing him, but I don't know what I was thinking. I wasn't even aware of it until we stepped in, and he looked around, lips parting in shock, before he said in a quiet, shaking voice, "Very... accommodating". I looked at him, unable to stop wild, uncalled-for images from flashing through my mind, before making a passing comment about my sex swing, broken and in its box. The flutter that went through my chest at his expected falter couldn't be ignored.

I tried to pass off the feelings as I poured him a glass of milk, leaning against my dresser, but my eyes seemed to be traveling over him of their own volition. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking very out of place despite his hard, "Goth" appearance, still gazing meekly at the things around my room. His legs were crossed, but the way a woman would cross hers, making the curve of his feet stand out that extra bit. The man's hands were crossed as well, one holding his milk, even with a pinky out from the rest of the grip. Long, gracious-looking nails were painted black with such skill that you'd think he was a beautician, and his lips were still slightly parted, seductively, although I'm sure that wasn't his attention. I started to wonder if he'd have this power over me with no make-up, if I would still be attracted to this man when I knew what lay beneath the foundation.

"I want to see you without your make-up."

Well. CJ's always been sensitive about that. He gave a surprised yelp, accompanied by a jerk, and soon the glass was on my carpet, milk seeping into it's fibers. Spurred on, and with a plan, I left him to get a cloth, claiming it to be for the mess. When I came back, I bent very slightly before reaching out to shove him down with one hand, straddling his hips with a plan, determined to prove to myself that I could not and would not be drawn in by a man. I brought the cloth down, ready to take pride in myself once again.

And then he whimpered. He gave a small whimper, looked up at me pleadingly, and squirmed underneath me.

I couldn't help the rush of lust that surged through me. This is what I love, a helpless, pleading, struggling partner who won't give in, and whether they were male or female apparently didn't matter. I fought it back, warning him to stop, and worked up my resolve again, wiping a clean streak across the teen's face.

Vile tempter that he unintentionally was, he gave a cry, putting up a hand, starting to plead with me. Telling me to stop. I shivered, shocked to find myself doing so, and before I knew it, I was leaning down over him. Looking at the spot I'd wiped clean, and closing my eyes to draw my tongue across the pocked skin, which drew a violent shudder as he put his hands on my chest, telling me to stop, that we were friends and he trusted me.

I couldn't stop. Not now. A familiar warmth was rushing through my body, a hunger more alive then I'd ever experienced it before, great enough that I forgot who I was supposed to be and became a vicious pervert out for nothing more then harming another man to satisfy my bloodlust. That is to say, I was no longer a skilled seducer, whose only goal is to take advantage of a poor, naive woman, to ease my urges. I drew more streaks across his face with the cloth, every protest sending more shocks through me, until his face was rid of his mask. Contrary to putting me off, it drove my temptation further, I was seeing a part of CJ no one else ever had. Growing tired of his hands, pushing so slightly as though he was afraid to offend me, I took both wrists tightly with one hand, giving a huff of breath at the small cry of pain I drew out. I put them against my bedpost, drawing out cuffs with my free hand, and strapped them in, watching him struggle half-heartedly against the binds, watching tears already starting to fall from his eyes as he continued to insist that I didn't want to hurt him.

It was as though CJ was used to being a victim, and that's what began to drive me even more. I was able to pretend to myself that he was my toy, always was, although I wondered why I'd want to. I leaned down to bite harshly into his neck, drawing blood, and God, how it surged through me. Yet another weakness of mine, the blood of my victim, the taste of pain. Realizing his shirt was still on, I frowned, leaning over to retrieve a knife I'd kept for someone with that fetish to rid him of it. He misunderstood, apparently, and that little sigh of relief as he looked up at me in such hope made me hunger even more. No, I told him, I needed to get the shirt off. I told him not to worry, I'd buy him a new one, he could wear one of mine when he left. I ripped the shirt, tearing it from the crushed man, and looked down at him, this time caught by his eyes. Deep brown, like a forest, etched with pain and fear, and I hesitated, but a sudden vengeance was raised in me that I wanted to stop because of that look, and not because of his gender. Angry at myself and at my weakness, I leaned down; lips at his ears, telling him I wanted to fuck him with his trench coat on. It drew quite the frightened reaction, though I wouldn't put together why until some years later.

Eager now to get this man naked and nail him while he was trapped against my bed, I drew CJ's pants down in a rush, discarding them to the side with ease, before taking away the boxers, too. Usually, I try to be more seductive, slower, but CJ didn't have to enjoy it. He never would. And this pushed me even further, because it meant I was free to indulge myself with no thought to whether my partner was "ready" yet. I looked at him crying, and stripped myself quickly, pausing above him to make him look at my erection, grabbing his hair and pulling his face closer, wanting him to feel the humiliation that was still hot inside myself. I wanted his self-esteem to match my own, which was swimming pretty low, I was not only attracted to this man more then any woman I'd known, but I was raping my best friend.

I snarled before drawing my manicured nails down his chest, making sure I drew blood, loving the way he arched. I shouted at him, called him a slut, a whore, a selfish tempter, and so many similar insults that I knew weren't true, but I shoved them in his face anyway, growing even more excited when he muttered a meek apology for all these things I was blaming him for. I slapped his face, both sides, until his cheeks were purpling, bruising, and he refused to look at me, his pride beaten down to nothing, to less then nothing. Then, I was able to continue. Watching him cry underneath me, moaning and whimpering, struggling half-heartedly against the cuffs on his wrist, I lifted his legs and shoved my length, without warning and as far as I could, into the opening of his rear. I delighted in the shocked scream I received for my efforts, and thrusted, giving the poor, thin boy no time to adjust. I wanted more humiliation. I wanted him to enjoy it, even if only a little. So I grabbed his gender, moving my hand over it in the practiced way that I had moved it over my own so many times before. I skillfully drew an erection from him, throbbing, as he moaned, then flushed, and shuddered underneath the sensations. I felt myself growing closer, and I pumped him more insistently, wanting him to go first, and I was well-rewarded for my efforts. With a scream, "Vati", he spilled onto his own stomach and I let myself go only a moment later with a deep breath. I didn't release him right away, just looking at him, taking in what I'd done to this poor boy, my friend. He looked up at me, as though he was the one at fault, and I felt a surge of love. Not for him, though. Not for him. Men are different.

“Vati”. That means “daddy” in German. After a few moments of watching him, it occurred to me why CJ had cried out for his father. I looked down at him, furrowed my brow, tilted my head, and the whole time he was still looking as though he was at fault. This man, this boy has had sex with his own father. And something I did reminded him of it. With that troubling thought boiling in my head, I jerked out of him, getting off the bed, trying to ignore the ramblings of my mind telling me that I had somehow enjoyed all of that, and that having raped a man who’s been a victim of incest made it that much more exciting. I threw a t-shirt of mine at him, viciously ashamed of myself not only for what I’d done, but for those thoughts that wouldn’t shut up! I dressed myself, not looking at him, and CJ got the unspoken message loud and clear; As though he’d been the victim countless times before. He skulked out of my room without a word, and when he left, I lay on my own bed, my own mess, trying to reason it out.

Back then, I told myself that I was attracted to CJ because he was a perfect victim. I just hadn’t met a woman like that yet.

But Karma led me to my own rape, in a night club.

From a man named Chiam, I found out the humiliation and worthlessness that CJ must have felt. He walked up to me, where I was smoking a cigarette idly on a barstool, and asked for a dance. I refused, since I definetly hadn't come to a night club to dance with men. The red-headed devil persisted, finally pulling me from my seat, much to my disgust, and actually trying to force me to dance with him! As if he controlled me! I disentagled myself from his groping, eager hands and stalked off, ready to abandon this nightclub, but then that determined grip landed on my arm again.

I turned around, ready to spout more distasteful words at him, but here I was being forced not to the dance floor, but to the bathroom. Quickly getting an idea of what was happening, I fought harder. I aimed a hard punch for him once he'd let go for a second, and it landed, right against his cheek. He staggered back a step, but recovered a little faster than I'd expected, raising a foot armored with bondage boots to my stomach. I fell to the floor, gasping for breath, and within a moment he was shoving me down farther. His knee was placed skillfully in the center of my back and, much as I struggled, I couldn't get him off. My feet wouldn't quite reach his back, and my arms were at the wrong angle to reach anything. I shouted countless curses and insults at him, until the bathroom door opened. Salvation, I thought! But Chiam, ever the quick thinker, just snarled viciously for the newcomer to get out, and they fled.

He withdrew my belt from my jeans, and I struggled harder. This couldn't happen to me, it couldn't! He grabbed one of my arms, my nails no longer able to claw at the linoleum, and wrapped the belt tight enough around it to create a welt. With a fierce will, he took my other arm and repeated the action, before tightening the belt further still around my wrists and pulling it back, sharply. I couldn't help crying out to the pain, and I shut my eyes tight. I was desperately squirming beneath him, at the time not thinking that CJ had squirmed beneath me in much the same way. He stood up, pretty sure that I was well-trapped, and I rolled around and aimed a kick that missed terribly when he moved. The red head grinned down at me with a slow lick of his lips before rearing back that foot again and making another connection with my cheekbone. I gritted my teeth and tensed my jaw, trying to wriggle away, making quite the desperate display, and he simply got down, turned me over again, and smoothly deprived me of my pants.

I fought, you must believe me! This was a sort of Karmic Hell for me, the last place I wanted to be, but here he was sitting on me, both of us naked from the waist down. He ran his fingers over my body, drawing out illicit reactions, until he tired of his play. He was only after one thing and had little patience for messing around. Without further delay, he placed a hand firmly against the small of my back, put all his weight onto it, and positioned himself before pushing in, mercilessly. That small, tight entrance at my backside felt as if it had been ripped open, exposed indecently to the world. That dreaded hand found it's way to an erection I was shocked to discover I'd gained somewhere in the past half hour and stroked with a kind of skill I'd never had with myself. Shuddering, my breath heavy and my body hot, I gritted my teeth harder. I wasn't feeling this, I told myself, and I lifted my head from the tiles before slamming it back against them, trying to hammer it home. Concentrating on the pain I'd brought upon myself, I was able to forget about the hurt from behind, and I repeated the act of self-violence.

Chiam grabbed my hair with his only free hand the third time I lifted my head, preventing another crack of my skull against the shiny surface, and I cried out in anguish. More than anything, I just wanted to forget what was happening. It went on, despite my efforts, my body getting more aroused even as I grew slowly more disgraced. Finally, Chiam dropped my head with a hard breath, undoing my hands. He took the belt away! Free to fight, I... did nothing. I locked my jaw and pushed my own hips against his.

When he came, it was inside me and well-timed with my own climax. I went limp against the floor, burying my face into it. I had a chance to escape and I hadn't taken it, and I couldn't figure out why! I'd never felt more debased as I did right at that instant, and it was a relief, when we parted, to go home and put my head in my hands and actually cry. I cried, because of what had happened.

Since then, I’ve seen Chiam in many places, although now he acts as though I was willing the first time. I would never admit it, but maybe once, for just a moment, it felt good to be on the receiving end. From a man.

I even recall one occasion where he dressed as a woman, and I was thoroughly convinced, even taking him home with me. Even when I found out it was him… All of a sudden, his features stood out more even then usual. The startling, red hair, the smooth, inviting lips, petite hips, thin waist, legs any woman in her right mind would be jealous of! I’m sure he expected for me to explode, and to beat the shit out of him, when I finally discovered his secret. Well, he had a pleasant surprise, I suppose, when I continued to ravish him.

I won’t go into detail with that one. It’s even more embarrassing. I didn’t nail him, or screw him, or fuck him. I made love to Chiam, and what I did is between us. No one else.

I wondered what I was turning into, tore myself apart trying to analyze and interpret it. But of course, I realized eventually that there was no problem. Chiam was dressed as a girl. That’s all.

No man wants to get only so far in foreplay and stop, even if they discover the object of their affections is a forbidden gender, Right?