The Intruder
When the past breaks in, Edna isn’t safe!
Millie Dynamite
© Copyright 2025 by Millie Dynamite
NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic, sexual nature. This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The Intruder
Edna Curtis’s front door offers no challenge. The latch surrenders on the first try, barely a click. The deadbolt isn’t thrown. Dumb bitch, the young woman thinks. The full moon cast a rectangle of light across the entryway tiles, and the Intruder glides through it, head ducked, face angled down. Shutting the door, moving forward, her shadow looms long behind her. Shoulders block half the narrow hall, arms coiled tight against her torso, gym-swollen muscles move with a deliberate grace.
No one meets her. No dog barks. No warning to a sleeping household that a predator stalks. The plush carpet sucks the sound from her footfalls.
Familiar layout, unfamiliar scent. The house wants to close in around her, but muscle memory, the kind built in years of locker rooms, gyms, and rented rooms, navigates the darkness without apology. Straight through the foyer. Left at the stairs. The air holds a note of lemon floor cleaner, and a hint of something floral beneath.
A painting hangs, antigoglin, on the wall. An overwrought landscape. A sunless, lifeless, uninspired and uninspiring work by sidewalk artist. Ahead of the Intruder the living room, the kitchen to the right. Only lit dimly by the glow of a digital clock setting on the countertop.
Two eleven a.m. The Intruder is making perfect time.
She pauses for a moment, in the gloom of an all but empty home. Square her shoulder, listens. Houses breathe. This one only holds its breath. The silence crushes…A sound. Barely a groan or sigh, but sharp with a sufficiency to carve a path through the hush. Not a footstep, not the metallic whine of pipes. A moan, stretched thin, breaking into smaller, helpless notes. Bedroom, second floor, door ajar and inviting.
Her lips twists to one side, not a smile, more of a leer or sneer.
The stairs complain, but only in the softest whimper. One at a time. Each step calculated, no weight wasted. The bulk of the young woman moves with unexpected grace, as if the heaviness exists only to intimidate, never to slow. At the landing, she stops again. The sound below grows louder, clear now: a woman’s voice, spooling through muffled whimpers and gasps. Punctuated by short, sharp breaths.
She imagines the scene on the other side of the door. Not out of prurience. Out of necessity. Preparation.
She moves up the hallway, her hand brushing against the wallpaper. The walls narrow around her. At the far end, in the anemic glow of the nightlight in an outlet, the bedroom waits. The door stands open a bit more than a crack. The Intruder’s chest brushes the frame as she passes through.
Inside, Edna Curtis writhes in the center of a queen mattress, quilted comforter shucked halfway down. Legs bare, knees drawn up, foot scrabbling at the sheets for traction. Right hand works furiously beneath the elastic of pale pink underwear, left hand mashed over her face, smothering sound, not quite succeeding. The pulse in Edna’s throat jumps and retreats with every gasp.
From the dark, the Intruder catalogues: Edna’s hips, rounded and soft but desperate to press higher; the way her stomach contracts with each stifled breath; the panicked rhythm of her fingers, frantic and clumsy. The face—she recognizes it from faculty photos, but those never captured this slackness, this surrender. The laugh lines dig deeper now, mouth open and bitten red.
No signs of a partner. No backup. Even the faint blue light of a phone left face-up on the nightstand fails to summon rescue. Edna rides the edge alone, oblivious.
A shock of satisfaction courses through the Intruder. Not arousal—something colder, cleaner. The moment she engineered.
She keeps her body low and moves around the foot of the bed, boots silent as ghosts steps over the hardwood. With tears pooling in the corners, Edna’s eyes clamp shut. her chest heaves, hips buck, all against her will. A hand clutches her breast, works it, squeezing, taunting her body to life. The Intruder releases grasp and waits for the reaction.
Edna arches, and the cover slips lower, exposing more thigh, a flash of stomach, the swell of a breast, and a fat, stiff nipple, a pink and puffy areola, under stretched cotton. For a moment, the woman on the mattress looks childlike, lost in her own need. A woman defenseless as a cut flower.
The Intruder fills her lungs, savoring the hush before the rupture. She towers at the edge of the bed, arms folded, breaths steady, heartbeat slower than the trembling form before her. Her own breasts, compressed beneath a tactical sports bra and dark T-shirt, sag with their weight, a contradiction inside her DNA and trained into compliance.
With her gasps and sighs rising, Edna edges toward climax and breaks off into a shuddering whine. The Intruder waits for the perfect cadence. A vulnerable note, a gasping of ecstatic pleasure, and drinks it in.
She shifts her weight, toes flexing in thick socks. A wood plank groans underfoot, sharp and sudden, no longer an accident but a signal. Edna freezes. The silence tightens into a garrote.
For a second, the only sound is the shivering of Edna’s breath, trapped behind her bitten lip. Sightless at first, Edna’s eyes snap open in a second, wide and animal. She doesn’t scream. The moment before she does, the Intruder locks eyes with her, all the promise of violence condensed into that silent transaction.
Edna’s hand drops from her underwear, leaving it twisted and wet against her thigh. She claws for the covers, but the quilt tangles around her knees. The Intruder simply stands there, backlit by the low light, casting a shadow long enough to swallow the woman and the bed together.
No words yet. The presence alone speaks, inspiring fear. This is a hunt. This is what the Intruder came for.
The standoff stretches. Edna, eyes blown wide, hands knotted in the sheets. The Intruder waits, hands on hips, feet planted below the edge of the mattress. There’s an unnatural bulge in her jeans. Edna’s chest hitches, breath locked in her throat. The covers barely shield her, and the trembling of her limbs telegraphs every pulse of panic.
“Who…” Edna’s voice cracks. She can’t finish.
The Intruder’s pale, blue eyes stare through her. No need for introductions. No need for names. A step closer, and the mattress sags under the new weight, even before she touches it. She keeps her voice flat, lower than Edna’s own…monotone that drills through the panic.
“Quiet,” she says.
Edna obeys, soundless except for the whimper she can’t swallow. The Intruder leans over her, arms caging in, and lets her mass do the rest. For a moment, neither of them moves. Reaching over, she turns on the light on the nightstand, an orange, muted glow.
The girl puts her hand between the older woman’s legs. Thrusting her strong girl finger inside the older woman, holding the panties out of the way with her thumb, brutalizing Edna’s clit. When she adds a second and a third finger, Edna rolls through a massive climax.
The Intruder smiles, withdraws her hand, and works the leather belt free in a single motion, whipcrack, a metallic clink. The sound snaps Edna from ecstasy back to her body. The buckle glimmers in the salt lamp’s light, promise of metal and violence. The buckle…western-style, oval, oversized, a rearing horse on one side, with a hook on the other. Edna’s eyes dart to the belt, back to the Intruder’s hands, and back to the door, calculating escape.
The Intruder grins, humorless. She knows every calculation before Edna can finish it. A slow zip from her jeans, and she yanks them down to mid-thigh. The strap-on juts forward, black and obscene, already glistening with something synthetic. She grips the shaft, making a show of adjusting it. The head presses against her palm, solid as wood.
“Please,” Edna whispers, voice thin as sewing thread. “Don’t…”
She doesn’t finish.
The Intruder waits until Edna stops making noise, seizes the duvet, and rips it away. The covers tangle around Edna’s ankles, leaving her exposed…pale skin blotched with passion’s heat, underwear streaked damp, thighs trembling. Edna brings her knees together, arms folded in a futile shield.
The younger woman lunges. The mattress groans as her weight crashes down. One hand pins Edna’s wrists above her head, the other grabs a fistful of hair, jerking her face upward. The sharp snap of Edna’s neck stuns her into silence. The Intruder’s mass sinks Edna half a foot deeper into the bed, her free hand twisting Edna’s gaze toward her own.
Edna thrashes, weak, desperate. She jerks her head side to side, tries to bite, but the Intruder only laughs, a deep, guttural, growling chuckle. With her face inches from Edna’s, she hisses, “You make a single sound, I’ll break your lovely jaw.”
Edna whimpers, but it’s all breath, no voice.
The Intruder shifts her grip, trapping both wrists with one hand. With the other, she hooks a finger under the elastic of Edna’s underwear and yanks. The fabric cuts into soft flesh and gives way, splitting at the seam. Edna kicks, tries to twist her body out from under, but the Intruder’s legs cage her in. There’s nowhere to go. The mattress is quicksand, every effort only drawing her deeper.
The strap-on meets skin. Edna’s thighs clamp together, shaking. The Intruder runs the head up and down the crease, slow at first, as if savoring the fear. Edna’s eyes slam shut, lips peeled back, breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.
Then, panic floods in. Edna arches her back, flailing. She manages to slip a hand free and swings it wildly at the Intruder’s face. Nails scrape across her cheek, leaving red lines.
The Intruder reacts instantly. Her free hand whips around and slaps Edna, open-palmed, right across the cheek. The sound cracks through the room, echoing off the walls. Edna’s head snaps sideways, lips splitting on the impact. Blood beads at the corner of her mouth, bright and thick.
She tries to scream, but the breath has left her lungs. With arms and legs rigid, Enda’s body locks, shock and fear overriding any fight left in her. Tears spring to her eyes, sudden and hot.
The Intruder grips her hair again, yanking her upright. “Didn’t I say quiet?” Her voice drips contempt.
Edna shudders. All defiance leaks out, replaced with a hollow, shaking fear. The Intruder releases her grip and lets Edna sag back, neck at a bad angle, eyes unfocused.
She lets Edna feel her weight, chest to chest, the strap-on pressing into soft belly, hard enough to hurt. She bends close, her lips almost at Edna’s ear.
“Don’t make me do it again,” she whispers.
Edna lies still, panting. The hope of escape flares and gutters out. The Intruder can see it die behind her eyes.
She’s ready. She’s broken.
The room swims in low light, shadows stitched with the sounds of Edna’s shaky breaths. The Intruder tightens her grip, palm slick with sweat and the barest tremble of adrenaline. She never lets Edna forget the pressure on her wrists, the cold vinyl strap-on pressed between their bodies, the weight of one human crushing another into memory foam and white sheets.
“This is happening,” she says. Her voice is flat, almost bored, but the force behind it carries more threat than the slap. “Don’t make a fucking sound or I’ll hurt you more.”
Edna whimpers, but the noise dies in her throat. Eyes wide, unblinking, blood pooling at the split in her lip. She tries to twist her hips away, to angle herself out of line, but the Intruder follows every shift with a mirror move. Adjusting her grip, hooks a knee between Edna’s legs, pries them apart. Resisting, tries to keep her knees shut, but the Intruder’s thigh is pure muscle, levered against bone, and Edna’s body gives way.
She fumbles with the strap-on, aligning it to Edna’s slick, unwilling entrance. The tip presses in, and Edna recoils, every muscle tensing. The Intruder doesn’t slow. She drives forward, sinking the toy half its length in a single thrust. Edna gasps, face contorting, mouth clenched so tight her teeth could shatter.
She waits for Edna to go limp, to accept. It takes a few seconds. A new pattern of breathing. Edna sags in the hold. The Intruder grabs her by the chin, forces her to look up, and meets her gaze.
“Keep your eyes on me,” she orders.
Edna does.
She starts to fuck her, slow at first, using her hips and the leverage of her thighs to work the manufactured penis in and out. The movement is clinical, nothing soft or rhythmic about it. A series of calculated violations, every thrust designed to wrench a cry from Edna’s lips. The bedframe rattles. The headboard taps out a sick little song against the wall.
Edna’s hands fight for purchase, nails clawing at the comforter, the Intruder’s forearms, and nothing at all. At one point, she gets an elbow loose and manages to aim a punch at the Intruder’s face. The blow lands, weak but desperate, under the Intruder’s eye.
The Intruder halts, surprise flickering across her face, and a burst of fury. She grabs Edna by the hair and yanks her head back, exposing her neck.
“What the fuck did I say, you stupid, fucking bitch?” The words drip venom, each one punctuated by a renewed, brutal thrust. Edna gags on the sudden pain, eyes swimming, mouth open in a wet, silent scream. The Intruder backhands her again, harder this time, catching Edna on the cheekbone. The impact rattles Edna’s skull. She sags, half-conscious.
The Intruder resumes the rhythm, driving in with single-minded efficiency. She’s in control of every inch of the room, every variable, every inch of Edna’s soft, yielding body. She fucks her as a punishment, like a lesson.
Edna tries to dissociate, to fade out, but the Intruder won’t let her. She leans down, mouth to mouth, and kisses Edna with bruising force, tongue forced between teeth, licking the blood from her lips. When Edna tries to turn away, the Intruder grabs her face, squeezing until Edna has to open up or risk a fracture.
She sucks the tears from Edna’s cheeks, lapping them up, moaning softly as if savoring them.
“You taste so good,” she purrs. “Better than I hoped.”
The moisture thickens as Edna shivers, a full-body quake that the Intruder interprets as another opening. She starts thrusting again, rougher, never breaking eye contact. Every time Edna tries to look away, the Intruder slaps her, snaps her back to the present.
She leans in, breath hot against Edna’s ear, and whispers in her ear.
“You know you want this, you filthy fucking slut. You’re dripping for me. Fuckin’ shit, bitch, I knew you would.”
Edna moans—not pleasure, but pure animal distress. The sound is ragged, raw, barely human. The Intruder shudders at it. She reaches down, pinches Edna’s clit between thumb and forefinger, twisting it until Edna sobs. But the wetness is thicker and mixed with the pain, an unwanted pleasure. This, too, curses Edna.
The Intruder keeps the rhythm going, each thrust driving the point home. Edna’s whole body goes limp, deadweight on the mattress, arms splayed, head lolling to the side.
The Intruder finishes with a final, punishing stroke, burying the toy to the hilt. She lets herself fall forward, body pinning Edna completely, every inch of her pressed into the soft, ruined woman below.
She licks more tears from Edna’s face, kisses her again, this time almost gentle, as if it’s an apology for everything before. She whispers, “I own you.”
She waits for a response, but Edna lies there, weeping. That’s fine. That’s enough.
The lesson started to take.
She ramps it up, piston motion, hips slamming into Edna’s thighs with enough force to bruise. The mattress shrieks under the punishment. Edna’s head flops side to side, drool, snot, and tears wetting the pillow. The Intruder locks her arms around Edna’s shoulders and bears down, the strap-on a bludgeon, not for Edna’s pleasure. Going deeper, stretching Edna’s cunt every way it can be.
She wants to leave a mark. She bites Edna’s neck, not tender, but hard enough to break skin, the metallic taste of blood mixing with sweat. Edna yelps, feeble, out of fight. The Intruder runs her tongue over the wound, bites again, lower this time, teeth scraping along the curve of a shoulder.
Every thrust is deliberate, each one calculated to make Edna remember. The Intruder pulls back, cocks her head, and studies her target: hair tangled, face swollen from crying, body limp and shuddering with each impact.
She hawks up saliva and spits in Edna’s mouth, pinching her nose until Edna has to swallow or choke. The disgust is written all over Edna’s face, but it’s nothing compared to the pride blooming in the Intruder’s chest. This is the lesson.
She feels her own climax coming, a crest of rage and vindication. It isn’t pleasure, not really—it’s the release of years of swallowed resentment, the memory of humiliation, all of slights and veiled insults. She wants Edna to know the precise moment she’s finished.
The Intruder slams in one last time, body shuddering with the aftershock. She roars, a sound closer to pain than sex, and grinds herself against Edna until the orgasm finishes wringing her dry. Waves of pleasure surge through the Intruder. Small gushes escape, trickle down, and dribble onto the sheets.
Evidence, should Edna want to file a report. And the young woman didn’t give a fuck if she did. She isn’t in any database.
The young woman lets herself collapse on Edna, their sweat mingling, the heat between them chemical and sick. She wraps one meaty hand around Edna’s throat, not tight, but enough to let her feel the pulse of power.
“Good fucking girl,” she croons, kissing Edna’s cheek, her cheek, her bloody, bitten mouth.
She stays there, panting, for a moment. Then, she pulls out with a slick, wet pop, letting the strap-on dangle. She rises to her knees and looks down at Edna, who curls into herself, arms hugging her midsection, lips trembling.
Grabbing a handful of Edna’s hair, she guides her to the massive dildo. “Suck it clean, cunt.”
Using her hold on Edna’s hair like a handle, she fucks her face and throat.
Spit builds, the older woman gags, sputters, sprays expectorant around the fake prick. Pain builds in her mouth, teeth, and throat, but that nasty mucus of pleasure persists and grows below.
The Intruder convulses through a new climax. Pulling the dork from Edna’s mouth, she smacks it on her lips, cheeks, and eyes. The smile on her face is one of victory.
“You love to be used, don’t you, whore?”
Not speaking her mouth forms the word NO. This earns her another blow across the face.
The Intruder stands up, tucks her fake cock away, and zips her jeans. She uses a corner of the sheet to wipe the sweat from her face, smooths her hair back, and tames it into a slick ponytail. The whole time, her eyes never leave Edna, who lies motionless, reduced to a bundle of animal need and shame.
She circles the bed, leans in close, and whispers: “Next time you flunk someone, remember this.”
She turns and leaves, her boot prints stamped into the carpet. Edna doesn’t move.
Silence falls. The front door shuts, and the last echo seeps into the walls. Edna lies there, muscles trembling, eyes stinging, the weight of the Intruder’s body still pressed into her bones. Her pulse hammers in her ears. Air tastes like blood and defeat.
She tries to move. Her arms won’t listen. She lifts a hand to her face, fingers probing the raw line of her cheek, the swelling there. Mouth opens. A groan leaks out, animal and soft. She tastes iron, salt, and something sour.
The room blurs and sharpens. The older woman tracks the trail of the Intruder’s boots across the carpet, the wrinkled bed sheets, the flecks of red on the pillowcase. The air conditioner kicks on, whirring louder than before.
Memory floods in, jagged and sharp: the leather belt, the black plastic, the hand on her throat. The words ring in her head, louder than the slap or the scream: Next time you flunk someone, remember this.
She shudders, a full-body tremor, but nothing breaks the cold. She drags herself up the bed, an inch at a time. Her underwear hangs twisted around one thigh, torn. She pulls the blanket over her, tries to anchor herself to the here and now, but the covers feel like sandpaper.
She turns on her side. Hands cradle her belly, trying to hold the pain in place. She breathes in stuttering waves. The bite marks on her shoulder burn. The spot where the pseudo-johnson forced inside her aches with a profound, alien wrongness. The hurt’s the same as her first time, as if it’s still lodged inside her. It took two days to stop last time.
She stares at the ceiling, numb. The lamp paints the room pink and bruised.
This isn’t random. The thought blooms and keeps blooming, crowding out everything else. Not random, not a mistake. Punishment. Someone she hurt, even if she can’t remember how. The echo of her own voice, years ago, reading names from a grade sheet. No face to the memory. Just the names, only the red marks. Did she deserve this?
A name springs to her mind, the girl she’d flunked out of Senior English. The high school all-around athlete who crashed and burned after that. She didn’t go to college. Instead, she went to work as a roofer.
She curls tighter, knees to chest, arms wrapped around her ribs. The pain circles inside, small and mean, never settling. She wants to cry, but the tears won’t come, not yet. The shame outweighs the pain. The pleasure was worth the hurt. Outside, the sky goes blue. Dawn presses at the window. Light creeps up the wall, slow as a bruise.
Edna waits, hollowed out, for what comes next. Because what’s happened so far isn’t nearly enough to pay for a ruined life. Buzz vibrated her phone, and it quaked on the nightstand. Taking it, she swiped the message open.
Amy: I’ll be back to rock your world again. BITCH!
Edna Curtis: I know.
Amy: Tell me you want it.
She stared at the screen, unsure how to answer the statement. How does one admit they enjoyed being raped? Her thumbs flew over the keys, typing the four-word response.
Edna Curtis: This never gets old.
Amy sent a smiley face, followed by: Lock the fucking deadbolt this time. Need a little challenge.
Reaching between her legs, she touches her swollen kitty, but doesn’t masturbate. Because Amy mightn’t like that.
