Callie loves being overpowered. Too busy for real life encounters, she settles for whatever she can find online, letting herself be taken by brick-jawed elves in her favorite game.
Sometimes, she gets lucky.
Sometimes, she surrenders to someone special, someone who deeply understands the brutal domination she craves…
WARNING: 7000 words of BDSM rape-play, suitable only for mature audiences. Features brief xenobestiality, public use by nefarious bandits and other passers-by, sex in restraints, knotting, and, finally, a hulking orc rescuer that demands to be very thoroughly rewarded.
Interested? Buy right away at Smashwords. For an excerpt, continue reading…
I come here to be raped. Not like, really truly raped; it’s the fantasy kind. My favorite, fucked up sim scenario goes something like this:
I am a poor young farm girl, rebelling, naive, or maybe just restless. I escape my farm and my village, going out onto the Great Plains of Dazur-Ish’tal (the names in this game are never good, just bear with it). My favorite thing isn’t to fall afoul of anyone or anything straight away; I love playing my character as somewhat unskilled, but with good instincts. Competent in a pinch. Worried, of course—you don’t sneak by a riotous centaur band celebrating their raid’s success without feeling at least a little concerned on behalf of your technical virginity—but not too worried.
After all, I made it past the Bright Wizards’ blockade. I know how to handle trolls—they avoid trying my lonely campfire at night, and in return I leave my most pungent pair of underwear behind, along with a handful of credits, and all is well. I took down a Ravening Cockscomb nearly right out of the gate, and thought, of course, of what it would feel like if I were depraved enough to demand the victor’s price, which is what they call the defeat rape in this particular slice of the game universe.
I didn’t demand anything like that, of course. I picked carefully through the Cockscomb’s generous loot table, and made it all the way into Colmey Forest largely off the back of that haul. Sometimes I like to take my journey even farther, take my character all the way through to the Free City to be scandalized and tantalized, and only return to the forest once I’ve had a season or two of experience hiring out as a caravan guard, or perhaps even a mercenary.
Tonight, though, I’m too impatient to do more to set things up; I want action, not just the fevered anticipation of it, so I guide my poor farm girl through Colmey Forest on slightly unsteady legs, watching, as always, for the signs that show that I have wandered just a little too far afield. Thick, ropy webbing hanging from dark branches. A strange, spicy smell that intensifies in the clearings and diminishes among the trees, but never quite goes away. Sometimes, I can hear the spiders coming—hear, at least, the slight rustling that often precedes their pouncing on you—but most of the time, it’s a delightful surprise.
I always have my character try to fight back. Try valiantly, and fail, falling to my knees, my clothes torn and sticky with the webs that have constrained my frantic, desperate movements. I don’t bother going with the whole egg impregnation thing, because that sequence takes too long, and anyway I prefer my attackers to be a little less mindless.
Such as the grizzled, shady adventurers that are often the first ones to come upon the naked, web-bound body of my avatar. The best thing is the moment they see me, the way even the supposed good guys can’t help but eye me up, their heated gazes lingering on my bare, swollen breasts, or, even better, on my spread, trembling thighs.
This particular iteration, the spider left most of my loincloth intact. There really is something about being only partially covered, partially shielded; I can’t help but lie there in my webs and think of how I look, how anyone who sees me must be thinking that it’s obvious what happened to me, despite the thin barrier of the cloth that shields my sticky, aching pussy from view. They know I’ve been taken already. They know I’ve been crammed to the hilt with spider-cock. They know that, even if I didn’t want it, even if I fought to my last breath, I’m slick now, slick and empty and aching to be filled again, high on the pheromones from all the spider’s secretions.
Only once have I ever had someone come upon me while the spider was still at it. That was almost too much—they killed the spider and wrenched it off away from me, but not until they’d crept in close, their hard-on visible in their breeches, their interest in my helpless struggles beneath the spider’s frenzied thrusts all too clear.
They raped me, of course. Right there, right next to the steaming corpse of the spider, their breaths unsteady with eagerness, their few intelligible phrases all revolving on the theme that I really, really should be thanking them for saving me. That I couldn’t blame them for wanting—needing to be thanked.
Which was all close to the line but in a really enjoyable way, until after, when it became clear that they were taking my polite refusal to RP1 as their new slave for a scene or two way too personally. We had words, I blocked them, end of story.
I think about them still, sometimes. Like right now, while a tall, rugged elf runs his hands up and down my avatar’s prone body, murmuring words of reassurance, warming my skin with attempted healing spells that founder due to the spider pheromones. That Guy, as I mentally refer to him, was also playing as an elf.
Not like this—he was far more aggressive. It feels like it takes fifteen minutes for this elf to realize that his heals aren’t doing shit, he can’t cut through the webbing and I haven’t just been moaning because of the medical help he’s been trying to give me. His OOC2 channel is turned off, too, so I can’t even give him a hint.
Finally, he “succumbs” to the latent spider pheromones in the air, and sinks his thick, rigid cock into my cunt. I moan, weakly. I work his cock as best as I can, mostly for my own benefit, because he’s playing at reluctance, at slow, shallow thrusting, and while that could definitely have been interesting in another context, especially combined with his tortured expression, it’s really not doing much for me right now.
He finishes, and it’s quite good—elves come a lot, and at least half the draw of this fantasy is about the feeling of being full, of dripping, of feeling that surge of unwelcome warmth inside me.
Next, some few minutes after Mr. Guilty Elf has laced up his breeches and shaken his head over me and gone guiltily on his way, some bandits arrive, and I brace myself.
Never can tell whether it’s all NPCs3 in a band or not; there are some really quite seriously devoted RPers who live for blending in. I’m raped quite thoroughly; they set up camp and draw lots and fill my mouth as well as my cunt—a dead giveaway, in some game engines, for real RPers, but not something you can rely on in this one, since the NPCs here will fuck any hole you opt into, rather than just the default.
My favorite moment with these sorts of groups isn’t the approach—it’s not at all in doubt what’ll happen, there’s no thinking or hesitating on their part, it’s all just raucous laughter and excitement followed by their fingers thrusting deeply into my cunt. They play with me there, slapping and squeezing and sucking my tits while they all unbutton, and while that’s good, it’s, well, it’s common enough that I no longer feel that squirmy, guilty frisson when they start in.
No, my favorite thing is when I pass out from being used—which doesn’t always happen, seeing as it’s not often that the game will even offer the option. That moment of knowing, just knowing it won’t stop them, that it might only make them more brutal, more eager, now that my limp body offers not even a token resistance… That always makes me come.
Better yet is the moment I wake up. Occasionally, I’m still being used, and it’s obvious I wasn’t passed out for very long, and that means an instant, almost involuntary orgasm, because I know I’m in for a long, hard ride.