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By Raziel Moore
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He Sends His Regrets

by Huck Pilgrim

Please note: "He Sends His Regrets" pushes the limits of content restrictions for this site. It contains a deeply disturbing depiction of rape, and regret. So why are we featuring this story? Because it is a powerful tale of remorse and shame, and a fine example of skillful writing from a talented author.

erotic fictionOn a cold December night twenty years ago, I raped a friend of mine, an attractive girl who was too drunk to sit up, or to even remember my name.

I had crossed the quad and was headed upstairs, to my room, when I saw her in one of those little sitting rooms off the main hall, passed out on the couch. Her knees were tented together, and her body splayed out across the seat. I recognized her immediately by the pretty party dress she wore. She’d been at the same holiday party as me, but we hadn’t spoken with one another. I’ll call her Michelle for this, but that’s not her real name.

My face and hands still stung from the cold outside. It was about two or three in the morning, and I was a little drunk. An upperclassman had spiked the punch, making it impossibly strong, but the cold walk across campus had sobered me some. A light dusting of snow had begun to fall, and I was in a festive mood. My fingers felt thick and numb, and I blew into my fists to warm them. I didn’t plan to take advantage of her. It all happened a little at a time, one decision after the next, until things got out of hand.

Michelle had one arm crooked over her eyes and the other falling off the couch, touching the floor. I told myself I ought to check on her, make sure she was alright. I always liked her. She wore her hair in a bob, and we all called her by the first name of some perky Eastern European gymnast who was popular at the time, as much for her athletic build, as for her bouncy, unbridled optimism. I slipped into the room and closed the door behind me, careful not to let the sound of the latching door echo through the rest of the dorm.

I put my hand on her calf. I softly said her name. “Michelle,” I whispered.

She didn’t stir, so I sat down. I kept my hand on her leg. I could feel my penis stirring in my pants, but I told myself this was just going to be a little joke. Bawdy humor. I began stroking the back of her calf. I felt certain her eyes would soon flutter open. When they didn’t, I ran my hand up to her knee and opened her legs. I held her knee against the couch, keeping her legs apart. Her skirt fell into the valley between her thighs, hiding her crotch, making her look like some fashion model in a soft core glamour pose, selling men’s cologne or bottles of vodka or something. Then she moved her bottom, shifted her weight, and her legs remained open. I grinned—a pretty girl in a party dress with her legs spread wide. My cock was getting hard now and I found my senses were growing more heightened. I listened to make sure no one was coming.

I slid my hand from her knee up along the inside of her thigh. I moved my hand slowly and felt the blood thumping in my ears. Slipping my hand under her dress, I let it come to rest on her panty clad crotch. I held my breath. I used my thumb to massage between her legs, my fingers resting on her groin. She moaned softly and rolled her hips. If she would have opened her eyes, I could still play it off as a joke, although by now I knew the gag had lost much of its potential to make her laugh.

I blew the air from my mouth. I considered leaving and resolved that I would do exactly that. My penis throbbed in my pants. I decided I would go to my room and masturbate. A clock ticked loudly on a wall somewhere.

I lifted her dress.

She had on cotton panties with colored stripes. I was breathing through my open mouth and my throat was dry. I smiled, trying to keep the illusion of a joke alive. I knew she was from a powerful, wealthy family. I’d watched her step from her father’s silver Jaguar, her arms filled with little bags from those expensive boutique shops downtown. I’m ashamed to admit it, but that’s how I justified what I did next. I rested her dress on her tummy, hooked my fingers into the waistband of her panties, and then tugged her underwear down. I worked her panties over her rear, then pulled down the front to reveal her little secret.

She’d shaved off all her pubic hair.

My cock pulsed when I saw her bald pussy. This was long before all the girls started shaving themselves down there. Back then, if a girl took a razor to her privates, it said something about her. It spoke to her morals. At least, that’s what I told myself. That’s how I rationalized what I did next. I lowered her panties to just above her knees, and then folded her legs back onto her chest. Her hairless little pussy turned up to greet me.

I used her panties like a cloth handle to hold her legs high. I knelt on the couch. With my other hand, I unzipped my fly and then hauled out my cock. Even then, I wouldn’t acknowledge what I was about to do. I told myself that I would only rub it against her. I put the head of my penis against her sex and I could feel prickly razor stubble. I rubbed against her lips. She was dry. My breathing was coming heavy and I had completely sobered by now. I felt panicked. I knew that if I continued to rub myself against her dry pussy, I would ejaculate. For the first and only time that night, I showed some restraint. I stopped myself. I pinched my penis just below its big wet head and sat back on my heels. My head felt light. I let her knees fall to the side and she curled into the fetal position, her little bottom still exposed to me.

Looking at her, I felt an alarming sense of power. My heart raced in my chest and my mouth was dry. I’ve thought a lot about what happened to me that night with Michelle, and while it’s hard to find much that’s redeemable, this much is clear: I will never feel such power again. I am a thirty-eight year old bachelor. Twice married, twice divorced. For the last few years, I haven’t even bothered to date. I’m just no good at it.

*    *    *

I took a deep breath. I wish I could tell you that this is where better judgment took over, but we both know that’s not what happened.

I lowered my pants to the middle of my thighs. By now I knew exactly what I was going to do, but I wouldn’t let myself think about it in the front of my head. I removed her panties and opened her legs. I spit into my palm and rubbed the moisture onto my penis. I have never felt more sexually alive or potent in all my life.

I tried to mount her, but she was still too dry—and I far too excited—to attempt penetration. What could I do? I hunkered down on the couch and licked her between the legs. My mouth was dry from drinking and fear and it took a little time to get the saliva going. I remember thinking that if someone had come by it would be ridiculous to get busted giving her head, my bare ass high in the air. She seemed to enjoy it. I heard more soft moans from her and at one point she closed her legs and then curled onto her side. I don’t know why, but I licked her anus. She had a bitter taste, and as I nuzzled her, I felt my penis rubbing against the leather couch cushions, and I became aware that I might come with my tongue deep inside her ass.

I tried mounting her again, this time with more success. She was on her side, and I slipped inside her easily. She was so . . . slippery. I watched her face for a reaction, but there was none. There was only me, with my cock inside her, my hands grasping the couch to support my weight. I drove into her, pushing towards my great prize.

And here is what I won:

After the last divorce, I began putting together the rape, the lack of an ability on my part to navigate an intimate relationship. I am a tenured professor, an intelligent man. I grew depressed. One of my students at the time was failing my course and came to my office hours to ask for help. Her name was Samantha, and she shared with me that she had a part time job dancing in a local strip bar. She was a nineteen year old girl, a beautiful redhead with green eyes and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She offered to dance for me privately in return for a better grade. I agreed. After class, we would meet here in my office, lock the door. I’d sit on the couch and she would climb into my lap and writhe until I filled my pants with cum. I always wanted more from her, but she was unwilling to have sex with me. Depending on what she wore to class, I could occasionally win getting her to remove her pants or shirt before she climbed into my lap. One night, she wore a pretty party dress, and I was determined to have her. I wanted to take her on my couch, with her dress up over her hips, her legs folded onto her chest. I wanted to pull her panties to her knees, then hold them in my fist as I fucked her. Of course, she balked. She had the most delightful way of turning me down, but I worried her until I produced a concession. Our eventual compromise was this: she would raise her dress and bend over my desk, her panties down around her knees. I was allowed to lick her ass. She had a bitter taste, but I eagerly licked her bottom until I made myself come. Not long after, Samantha dropped my class, never returning to my office. I think she found me too needy.

After I mounted Michelle, I came inside of her almost immediately. I couldn’t help it. Two good pumps. Maybe three or four more after.

For the longest time, I hovered over her, constricting the muscles in my ass, allowing my cock to drain inside her. I wanted to make it last. I was so lightheaded that I briefly thought I was in danger of passing out.

Shame and self-loathing washed over me.

*    *    *

I slept in the next day. When I woke, it was late afternoon on an overcast day. I showered and dressed and went out to find food. For some reason, my mind remained a blank slate. It wasn’t like I had forgotten what had happened, or blocked any of it out. I had complete command of all the details. I just wasn’t thinking about it.

I went to get an espresso. I saw Michelle ordering her own coffee, and I hid myself behind a magazine rack. She had a shawl or something wrapped around her head. As she lifted her drink, her hands shook. I slipped out of the shop without speaking to her.

I never saw her again.

She left the dorms, she left campus. I didn’t know what became of her. I threw myself into my classes. Did my graduate work. I eventually secured a teaching position.

Years later I discovered from a mutual friend that Michelle had left school because she was pregnant. I was shocked, sickened. This was told to me in passing, and I was able to mask my reaction. I’ve since tried to find her. I’ve done Internet searches for her name, but I get no results. Perhaps she married? Maybe now she uses a new name.

Or maybe she doesn’t want to be found.

I remember pulling my wet cock from between her legs. As I reassembled my pants, I watched my cum seep from her vagina, pooling on the couch. I panicked. I used her panties to mop between her legs, the couch. I tried to dress her, but I only got her underwear to just above her knees. My hands shook. I pushed her dress down between her legs and slipped out the door, inadvertently allowing the latch to catch loudly in the jamb as I left.

When I learned Michelle had become pregnant, I began to obsess about that night, specifically how I panicked at the end. I began a sort of magical thinking where I would play the same thoughts over and over in my head. I don’t know why, but I kept imagining a different scenario where I had taken the time to slide her panties back up her thighs or arranged her dress more carefully. I began to deeply regret using her own panties to clean her, to wipe my spent cum from the cushions of the couch. I can’t remember if I had any tissues or hankie in my pockets, but I know I had a scarf. If nothing else, I could have cleaned her the same way that I lubricated her—I could have used my mouth.

And here is where my confession gets a little messy.

About five years ago, a woman in one of my evening classes started coming to my office hours regularly. She was an attractive woman, a little older than most of my students, finishing up the few credits she needed for her undergraduate degree. Dark and slender. A flat chest and hips like a boy, but an outgoing, engaging person. I felt an affinity for her that went beyond my role as an educator. I’ll call her Natasha. We became close. She eventually shared with me privately why she had dropped out of school.

She’d been drinking at a party and things had gotten out of hand. She’d been raped by three of her classmates. All men she knew and considered her friends. None of them were prosecuted. There were lingering questions about consent.

The men had recorded the encounter on video and then posted it to the Internet. She made me promise not to search for it, although she mentioned that it was easy enough to find, if you knew her first name, the name of the school, and a rude word that I won’t repeat here. I told her I wouldn’t search for it, but then curiosity got the best of me.

She was lying in bed and someone off camera asked her to show off her breasts. She wore her hair in a dark bob style and had a devilish smile. Pulling down the sheet, she raised her shirt, and then massaged her small breasts through her bra. One of the men pulled out his cock and asked her to kiss it. Natasha balked at first, but she did it in that playful way that made you think she really wanted to suck that cock. When she took it in her mouth, the others hooted their encouragement. Someone off camera took stills of her, the stark flash of the camera repeatedly illuminating her head like lightning strikes. The three of them took turns fucking her, one after the other, passing the camera between themselves, recording it all. The next time she was in my office, my mind kept flashing to how she looked with her mouth wrapped around each of those boys’ cocks. I think she could tell by how I acted that I’d seen her video, but she never said anything.

She told me she’d dealt with her ordeal by becoming promiscuous, but that she felt as if she had finally gotten things under control. I’ll confess that her story intrigued me far more than it should have. She enjoyed telling me about her sexual exploits after the rape, and I enjoyed hearing her stories. She described receiving a promotion at her father’s firm one morning in a large conference room that overlooked the city, the very same conference room she’d used to fuck one of the senior partners only a few hours earlier. Another time she told me about sucking off a teenage clerk at the Gap in exchange for some jeans. When she left, she forgot her “purchase,” but then didn’t feel comfortable going back to claim it.

I enjoyed our time together, but didn’t understand what she wanted from me.

It didn’t seem to be about sex. She didn’t rebuff me, but she would turn suddenly cold if I tried to sit next to her or take the conversation in that direction. I assumed it had something to do with her indiscriminate sexual activity and the things she said she had to do to get her life under control, so I didn’t push it. I found her stories intoxicating. That was enough.

I started to discreetly touch myself under my desk as she spoke. She didn’t seem to mind this. In fact, she encouraged it. Soon she invited me to kneel between her legs and tongue her as she told her stories. Sometimes she would push down her jeans and panties, and then raise her knees to her chest. Other times she would lift her dress and slide her panties to one side.

She was an odd little bird. She didn’t want to fuck, but she loved to be licked to orgasm.

Hoping that this might be a prelude to more, I performed cunnilingus on her without reciprocation. Her stories were reciprocation. But the more she told me, the more apparent it became that nothing about her sex life was under control. Soon the stories began to change subtly. Instead of being about events from the past, it became clear they were more recent experiences.

Sometimes she would say she had fallen off the wagon over the weekend. Or she’d say she’d had a little slip. An accident.

I determined she was fucking two or three different men a week and grew alarmed. Jealous. She said not to worry, that she was working hard to get herself back under control. She asked for my patience and support. Told me I was special. I was the only one who knew her whole story, and she said she wanted to keep me separate.

I felt flattered, but it was . . . unsettling.

Soon the details in her stories started to change again. She grew more focused on describing the exchange of bodily fluids. She would wait until I had my mouth on her sex and then describe taking a recent lover’s semen, the very act of being inseminated. She would describe the volume of cum a lover introduced to her, or sometimes the force with which he delivered his seed. She would say whether he had slowed and stopped as he filled her, or if he continued to pound away. She’d tell me what was called out at the very end. Sometimes another lover would take the place of the first and she would tell me that, too. If she’d taken multiple partners, she’d go on about the wet, sloppy sounds she heard. It was a powerful and disturbing experience to realize that I was licking her in exactly the place where strangers had recently ejaculated. I’ll admit that I came almost immediately the first time she did this. And then I worked on her with my mouth until she came, too. Shame and self-loathing washed over me.

I came to believe that she was grooming me. She wanted a man she could humiliate and abuse, someone with whom she could validate her unhealthy behavior. And for this she needed a male friend, someone close who didn’t matter much, a person she could simply use and discard.

Of course, I resolved to end our relationship.

I decided I would tell her after class, but then she arrived a few minutes before class and whispered she had something to tell me. All that night, I wondered if she were going to break it off with me. I grew apprehensive and sad and found it most difficult to teach. After class we ended up in my office. When I discovered she only had another story to tell me, I felt so relieved, I got down on my knees and satisfied her. I resolved that this would be our last night together. After the next class, I told myself, I’d quit our relationship for good.

One night she came to class twenty minutes late, followed by Miguel, a dark skinned teenager, who was a mediocre student. Natasha wore a tight fitting black dress that night and I found it difficult to ignore. Miguel kept smiling at her, which I also found difficult to overlook. When class was over, I felt exhausted and retired to my office to lie on the couch.

Natasha followed me. She removed her panties and straddled my face.

As I nuzzled her, she told me she had fucked Miguel in one of the bathrooms at the start of class. I sobbed silently as she described the filthy things he whispered to her as he filled her with his cum. My cock was hard and painfully crimped in my pants. It was one thing to know intellectually that I was following in someone else’s performance, quite another to smell her freshly wetted sex, to know the exact person—the style of his hair, the color in his cheeks—and to understand that he had buried his cock in my little Natasha only a few yards from me, as I lectured about Shakespearian drama.

After I made her orgasm, she stood. Stroked my wet face.

I opened my fly and began to masturbate, weeping. She held me. She rubbed my shoulders and kissed my neck. She whispered in my ear that I should ejaculate into my hand and then consume it for her. I’m ashamed to say, I did exactly as she asked.

She ended up sleeping with every male student in that class.

One night I came to my office and found one of my students leaving the building. He was an older, balding man in his early forties, and he was from the same class as Natasha. He nodded and smiled to me as we passed in the hall. As I continued down the hall, it occurred to me that he might have come to this building to meet with me, but when I turned to call out to him, he was already hurrying out the door.

When I got to my office, I found Natasha. She was nude, her slender body splayed out on my couch.

She reached for me, kissed me passionately, and then pushed my head between her legs. I could see the semen oozing from her vagina, pooling on my couch. I hesitated. I could feel my cock stir in my pants. She pleaded with me to kiss her there. I didn’t want to, but I did. I thrust my tongue between her legs, and she groaned at first, and then she began to softly chuckle. My penis throbbed in my pants. I didn’t taste anything at first, and then it was salty. Incredibly, overwhelmingly, salty. I made my mind go blank and cleaned the worst of it, especially the small puddle on the cushion, under her bottom.

As I lapped her, she told me she had decided to share with all her lovers about the nature of her relationship with me. She said that she felt this would help her more quickly regain control of her life, that being honest with oneself and with others is always the first step.

Stroking my head, she said she hoped I didn’t mind.

I replayed the meeting I’d just had in the hall with the older student, the person who’d left this little gift for me. With reflection, his smile seemed more like a smirk. Natasha must have told him the task that lay ahead of me, this mess that I would feel compelled to clean.

I felt so humiliated.

I begged Natasha to stop sleeping with my students, her classmates. She surprised me by agreeing almost immediately, but then she started to sleep with my colleagues. She took every man in my department. These were good, intelligent men, with families. I wish I could tell you that I put a stop to my relationship with Natasha. Things had certainly gotten out of hand. Unfortunately I can’t tell you that. Self-control has never been my strong suit.

We continued on until Natasha found the courage and strength of character to call it quits.

I have since stopped dating. I will occasionally pay a prostitute to lay on the couch in my office—raise her dress high, pull her panties down—and allow me to lick her rectum. I masturbate by rubbing my penis on the cushions of the leather couch. I ejaculate into my hand, then I wash it all down the sink and pay.

I know the prostitutes consider me loathsome, a freak.

That’s a most unkind assessment of me, but I suppose I find it difficult to say that I disagree with it in part, or even entirely. You see, I raped my good friend. I fucked poor Michelle. And I enjoyed it. That’s my confession.

Brad W.

© 2013 Huck Pilgrim. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Huck Pilgrim is the pseudonym of a minor author, who craves readers, and doesn't mind working hard on his books. He is a father and a husband, enjoys his family, writing, and watching movies. Self publishing erotic ebooks is his latest foolish pursuit. Find Huck Pilgrim online at


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