Archive for July, 2012

Mosquito

I won’t go into the sordid details of how we met. It was pretty sordid, and in retrospect, it all seems inevitable, like the force of gravity acting upon two spheres in a void.

She told me she’d just moved to the city. She told me she’d left an abusive boyfriend in Seattle, driven across the country in a semi-stolen rental car, all her belongings crammed into a duffel bag in the back seat. She told me she’d ditched the car along the side of the turnpike in north Jersey, and taken a bus into Port Authority. She told me she needed a place to stay, just for one night.

I let her sleep on my couch.

I woke up early, with a boner. I remembered that she was there just in time, and fumbled a pair of boxers on, before parading across the tiny, cluttered apartment to the bathroom, my morning wood jutting obnoxiously in the front of my underwear, a testament to the non-subtlety of the male anatomy. She looked beautiful asleep; sweet and vulnerable and at peace as if an enchantment had been laid upon her. Or been lifted off. I pissed, a yellow, dehydrated stream; flushed, and went back to bed. When I woke up a second time, she was gone.

When I got home, she was there. I sure as shit don’t remember giving her my spare set of keys, but she had them. She told me she’d tried to look up a couple old friends who had moved here from Austin, but their address had changed or something, and they were nowhere to be found. She looked kind of haggard and fragile, like a wild flower dipped in liquid nitrogen.

She told me she’d had a baby when she was just a teenager, a little girl who was taken away from her as an infant, and who now lived with her ex-boyfriend’s grandparents in San Francisco.

She asked me if she could spend the night again, and I said ‘Sure’. My motives were not entirely pure. She wore a black long-sleeve leotard, and an intricate black dress down to her ankles that looked like it came from another century; and her breasts were large and round, endearingly oversized for her slight frame. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and a constellation of freckles was scattered across her cheeks. When she smiled, which was a rare event, the corners of her eyes crinkled, making her look older than she said she was.

I picked up a box of red wine, which isn’t nearly the travesty it sounds, and we methodically proceeded to get shit-faced drunk together.

She told me that when she was just a girl, her daddy had raped her. Well, it hadn’t been his fault exactly, she said, she had goaded and teased him into it. From the time she grew breasts, she was always flaunting them, tormenting him with them. She would walk around the house in just a bra, or in an oversized t-shirt with no bra on underneath. She would make her boobies jiggle while he pretended not to watch, and strutted around in front of him, showing off her brand-new cleavage. She would give him big, tight, excessively warm hugs, eating up his discomfort like a young siren. She used to sit on his lap and very deliberately rub her ass up and down and back and forth, feeling his erection grow inside his pants, while her mother watched disapprovingly.

He took her one summer afternoon in their back yard, while she was lying out topless next to the pool. She felt his shadow fall across her naked back, and then he was lying down on top of her, his full weight crushing her, making it hard to breathe. He reached underneath her and fondled her fresh, sensitive breasts, pinching and twisting her nipples, making her squirm and struggle. His hands pulled her bikini bottoms aside, rubbing up and down her young pussy, which was now excruciatingly wet. He slathered her wetness all over his cock. His penis, she said, was not especially long, but it was really thick. Later, he would make her suck it, whenever he felt like it; in the car, or after she’d gone to bed, and he’d always come in her mouth. Now, he pulled her swimsuit all the way off, tossing it into the pool. He pried her butt cheeks apart, exposing her most private parts, and spat right on her asshole. She knew what was coming, but she didn’t scream or even tell him to stop. He took a big fistful of her hair and proceeded to cram his fat cock up her ass. It hurt a lot, that first time, she said. Later, when she knew what to expect, when her body was more used to the invasion, she would enjoy it, even come to crave it.

He always fucked her ass. Or made her suck his cock. That way, she said, he didn’t have to worry about getting her pregnant. Her mom knew, she told me, as she gulped down another paper cup full of cheap wine; her mom knew all about it, but never said anything, but she was jealous and used to find any excuse to punish her.

One time, her mom caught her masturbating. She hauled her downstairs by the hair, struggling and crying, naked from the waist down, where her mom’s friends were all playing cards and drinking Long Island Ice Teas. Her mother forced her to spread her legs in front of all of them, and then spanked her pussy with a ruler until she was weeping uncontrollably. The ladies all laughed at her. She said when her mother was finally finished with her, she slunk shame-faced back up to her room, and finished masturbating her bruised and tender pussy. She said she’d never come so hard in her life.

Her eyelids were getting heavy and her words slished and sloshed together. She poured another paper cup full of wine and went on with her story: her mom threw her out of the house on the morning of her sixteenth birthday, calling her a slut and a whore, her daddy’s semen still bitter in her mouth. She moved to Coeur d’Alene, and moved in with her boyfriend, a guy she’d never actually met, but only knew from the internet. Her story trailed off there as her eyes finally closed and did not open again.

She was asleep, fully dressed and sloppy drunk, a dixie cup half full of Malbec still clutched in her spidery little hand, sprawled out on my ratty and disreputable sofa. I thought about taking advantage of her. I imagined that I was her daddy, and she was fourteen again, and it was me who was violating her virgin asshole.

I jerked off, mere inches from her relaxed, angelic, sleeping face. When I was done, I felt like a scumbag, a pervert who should register himself somewhere. I cleaned up the mess, and slunk off to bed, where I dreamed drunk, confusing dreams, and woke up with a stiff morning woody and a hangover. She was gone.

She was home when I got home. She told me she’d spent the day looking for a job, but her résumé had been on her laptop, which had been stolen in St. Louis. She asked if she could use my computer to look for work, and I said ‘Fine’. She was wearing all black, as usual, a voluminous turtleneck and tight black jeans that somehow made her look both skinnier and curvier than ever.

My place was tiny, even by New York standards. It had been illegally carved out of a dilapidated three-bedroom apartment that had been on the small side to start with. If it had been in Guantanamo, instead of Bed-Sty, I’m sure it would have been in violation of some U.N. convention or other. The place was never meant for two, especially not two people who weren’t actually fucking, and the claustrophobia was getting thick as dense fog. She had eaten the last of my microwave bean burritos, and run me out of milk. We sat on the couch and drank vodka that she had brought home that tasted like paint thinner.

When we were both good and lit, she went on with her story, picking up right where she’d left off.

She moved in with her Idaho boyfriend, who lived with his mom in a mobile home on the wrong side of town. She got pregnant the first time they had sex. She didn’t know how she knew, she told me, but she knew, as soon as he came inside her. It was her first time, she said, her first time with a cock in her pussy. He threw her out, she said, as soon as he found out: broke it off with her and told her to go get an abortion. She moved to Seattle and had the baby there.

She got into real estate, and ended up sleeping with her boss. He was wealthy, she said, and he paid her rent, but he had a mean streak, and he liked to play games.

Sometimes when she was giving him head, he’d grab her by the hair and fuck her face, as if her mouth were a cunt, not caring if she choked or gagged or even if she could breathe. After he’d come, he’d hold her head in place as his cock softened, and then sometimes he’d piss in her mouth.

Sometimes he’d tie her up and leave her there, go to a bar and pick some girl up and bring her home and fuck her, right in front of her.  Once, on a rainy Seattle night, he locked her out of the house, held on to her wallet and keys, and wouldn’t let her back in until she brought a girl home for him to fuck. She ended up slipping some poor baby dyke a couple roofies, and staggering home with this weepy underaged chick on her shoulders. She watched as he fucked the passed-out little waif right there on the carpet, no condom or anything. When he was done, she licked his cock clean, and they hustled the confused and bedraggled semi-conscious young girl out the door and into the dark and drizzling suburban night.

She said the last time they were together, he tied her to the bed, face-down and spread eagled. He told her that he had a jar full of pure sulfuric acid, and that he was going to pour it all over her back. She didn’t believe him, she thought it was just another one of his mind-games, even as he dribbled the liquid up and down her back, from her shoulders down to her buttocks. Then it started to burn. It sizzled and stunk. She could smell her flesh being eaten away. He told her that he had a box of baking soda in his other hand, and he would sprinkle it over her back and neutralize the acid, but not until he came. He slid his cock into her pussy, which was soaking wet, and told her to get fucking.

She fucked him as hard as she could, restrained by the tightly knotted ropes, bucking her pelvis up and down and squeezing him with her cunt, howling and crying as the acid ate away her flesh. He stood perfectly still, letting her milk his cock. She was desperate. The ropes cut into her ankles and wrists, but she didn’t care. She slammed herself up and down on his erection, desperate for him to come. Finally, he shot off into her pussy, and good as his word, he sprinkled the baking soda all over her back. She said the endorphin rush was so intense that she came right away, his wilting cock still inside her, his come leaking out onto the sheets. She said it was the most intense orgasm of her life. She went into shock right after that, and lost consciousness. He dropped her off at the emergency room; she never saw him again.

She was gone again the next morning, and she wasn’t around when I got home from work. I wondered if I’d seen the last of her, but I didn’t think much about it; I had other worries. My ATM card wasn’t working, and my landlord likes for me to pay the rent in cash. He’s not the most reasonable fellow: if he’s not actually a mobster, he sure likes to dress and act like one, which is arguably worse.

I ordered Thai food, and paid the delivery guy with quarters, dimes, and nickels from my change drawer. She showed up just in time to help me finish off the phad thai.

We slept together that night. There was no discussion, she just came to bed with me. We didn’t waste much time on preliminaries: I licked her pussy for a little while, but I did that because I wanted to, not because she wanted it. She tasted nice, a little salty and a little musky, like some sort of exotic fruit.

She told me to fuck her. She told me I didn’t need to wear a condom. I put one on anyway.

We fucked face-to-face, kissing like wildcats. Her big, soft breasts were pressed against my chest. Her pussy was incredibly wet and slippery and hot and hungry for my cock.

I fucked her hard, and I fucked her deep. I felt like Superman. I felt like I was never going to come. Her body was slender and lithe and strong like a weasel or a ferret. Her pussy was neatly trimmed, her legs were long and muscular, and she liked to wrap them around my back and pull me deeper inside. Her tits shook pleasantly while I fucked her pussy.

When she came, she let the whole block know about it. I swear, she set off car alarms. She threw her head back, arched her back, and really let go. I felt like King of the World.  It seemed to go on forever. She told me it was the best orgasm she had ever had.

I asked if I could fuck her in the ass, and she said ‘Sure’, and rolled over onto all fours. Her naked ass was at least as beautiful as it had been wrapped in tight black jeans. We didn’t need any additional lube; her wetness was plenty for both of us. I nudged my cock gently into her tiny little hole, easing the head of my cock past her crinkled anus. She was tight back there, but not impossibly tight. She sighed throatily, and pressed back against me, taking more of my cock up her ass. Finally, I was all the way in, balls deep, her asshole clenching around the base of my cock. Very slowly at first, then gradually faster and faster, I started to fuck her ass.

Her back was smooth and flawless, from her exquisite shoulder blades down to the cleft of her buttocks. The only mark to be seen was a small, slightly fuzzy, generic-looking Celtic knot tattooed at the base of her spine.

She was really into it, huffing and grunting and humping back against my thrusts, playing enthusiastically with her clit while I sodomized her; her tits swinging beneath us like a pair of wrecking balls.

What pushed me over the edge was when she slipped a finger, or maybe more than one, up her pussy. I could feel her fingers rubbing up against my dick from inside her body, and it drove me wild. I shoved her head hard down into the pillows, and crammed my cock all the way up her butt until my hips were pressed hard against her pale ass-cheeks. I came, howling like an orangutan and pumping the condom buried in her ass full of semen.

When I woke up in the morning, she was gone, just like I knew she would be. My bank account was empty, and I was already locked out of my email.

I should have gotten on the phone right away, and started cancelling credit cards, but I took a shower first. I masturbated there, under the tingling cascade of spraying water, savoring the memory of the night before, clutching my dick in one soapy hand and leaning against the cracked and mildewed tiles. After I came, I stood in the shower for a long time, my hand still wrapped around my softening cock, my come congealing in the drain like spilled egg whites, letting the hot cleansing water spill all over my body, letting it wash away her scent, her touch, her memory, every last lingering trace of her.

END

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This is Not a Love Story

The place isn’t crowded, but it certainly isn’t abandoned either. We are sitting at a picnic table in a neglected corner of the park, underneath an enormous old tree that is more dead than alive. It is Oliver’s lunch hour, and we are eating sandwiches, and he is playing with my pussy under the table, and it is driving me insane.

I tell him that I want to mark him as mine, my own property. Just saying the words makes my pussy flood, my clit swell and twitch. I feel his fingers pause inside my panties, hesitate, and then resume their meandering journey even more eagerly than before. I tell him that I want to brand him. He nods, but his eyes get real wide. Boys are so funny about pain!

I ask him where he wants me to do it, someplace where only he and I will know about it, somewhere where his wife won’t see it. He smiles shyly, licks my joy juice off his finger, and points coyly down at his crotch.

I tell him to unbutton his jeans and lie down on the bench, and he starts to panic.

“Now?”

“Yes. Now.”

There are people around, but I don’t think anyone is probably looking at us. We’re just another unremarkable couple, having lunch outside together on a nice early summer day.

He does as I say. Of course. He is wearing boxers, and his dick makes an impressive tent in the soft tartan material. My pussy is squelchy wet, juicy and hot and horny, missing the attention of his strong, talented fingers.

From my purse, I take a small piece of rigid steel wire, twisted and bent into a stylized LC, my initials. I clamp a little set of vice-grips to the wire, and turn on a tiny butane torch, holding the wire inside the flame until it glows white hot and emits sparks. I can hear his breathing coming fast and shallow.

“Will it hurt?” he asks, trying to sound brave.

“Oh yes,” I say, “This should hurt quite a bit.”

I pull his boxers down, letting his dick spring free like a jack-in-the-box. It is tall and thick and proud and kind of beautiful. His pubes are shaved bald, balls and all, which was not the case when we first me. I idly wonder what his wife thinks of this new look. I wonder if she will notice the mark I am about to make, but I don’t really care.

He whimpers a little. He is afraid. I am enjoying the anticipation immensely. I bend his dick to one side, out of the way, and press the hot metal against his bare flesh, just above the base of his cock. It makes a tiny hiss as it makes contact, and he flinches hard and grunts through clenched teeth. It really hurts, I can tell. He is breathing hard and fast, making noises like a woman in labor. I hold it there, on his smooth skin, for a count of three, then lift it off. My initials stared back at me, livid red on his pale, untanned flesh.

I apply a towelette soaked in alcohol to the wound, and am rewarded with another flinch and a stifled, choked-down scream. My pussy is positively drooling into my panties, my clit is twitching with lust.

I long to sit down on his dick, and fuck him like this, in pain, outside, and in public; but that is the one thing he has absolutely forbidden me. So instead, I do a quick check to see if anyone is obviously staring at us, wet one finger, and stick it straight up his asshole. I wrap my other hand around his dick and pump, hard and fast, like I’m playing Nintendo and winning. His cock is harder than ever.

With my long finger clamped securely inside his tight anus, I stick out my tongue and flick at the swollen red crown of his dick. He comes almost instantaneously, arching his back, and crying out in a throaty rasp that definitely makes people nearby turn their heads and look at us. Pearly-white semen splashes up his chest, in a long, beautiful arc, staining his white button-down shirt. I feed him a fat drop off my finger, mop up the rest with a handi-wipe. I hope he has something to change into back at his office.

Lunch hour is almost over, and it is time for Oliver to be getting back to his office. Self-consciously, we straighten out our clothes and try to look presentable. My own pussy is squishy hot and slippery, clamoring for release, but that will have to wait. Looking sheepish, Oliver rubs a little burn ointment onto his brand new scar, favors me with a half-smile, and buttons his jeans one last time. His dick still makes a noticeable lump in the front of his pants. I could eat that thing all day, every day, if I had the chance.

I am left to pick up the pieces: half eaten sandwiches and wrappers, branding paraphernalia scattered all around the picnic table, my own moistened panties, which I shove into my purse.

The first time I meet him, flesh-and-blood meet him, it is very early in the morning, at a park-and-ride off Route 9. For some reason I am taken aback: he really is that cute in person!

We’ve played on the internet before: I’ve made him put clothespins on his tiny nipples and snap his own sensitive parts with rubber bands, and had him cram his wife’s pearl necklace up his cute little butt. I’ve watched him jerk off plenty of times, but this is very different. The traffic is a constant low-level roar: the morning commute in full swing. My heart feels like it wants to rip out of my chest.

His hair is mussed up, and he still has bed-face. I told him to go commando, and I can clearly see the outline of his cock through his pants.

He steps out of the car, and we kiss. He tastes like coffee. He slips a hand up inside my t-shirt and cups my breast, covering it entirely with the palm of his large, strong hand. My pussy melts.

I tell him he how bad I want this, how hard it has been to wait, how I’m really nervous, and it is mostly true. He kisses me harder and squeezes my nipple. I bite his lip, bearing down hard, until I taste blood. He pulls away. The gold band on the fourth finger of his left hand taunts me.

I position him behind his car, facing away from me, and I tell him to pull down his pants. His ass is bare underneath, in all its taut, muscular, pale glory. His dick is fully erect, straining up and out, swollen and leaking and slightly curved. It would fit inside me deliciously. The traffic on Route 9 is heavy. Anyone could see us now, from inside their car, if they were looking. But they probably aren’t. I tell him to bend over and touch his toes.

I spank his ass hard, alternating cheeks, one and then the other. I spank him until my hand stings, my arm aches. His white ass is covered in raised red finger-shaped welts. I want his wife to see my hand-prints later on, to ask him where they came from.

I want it to hurt. I take off my belt and use that. It makes a satisfying *whack* as it contacts his flesh. He flinches away, but does not ask me to stop. He knows better than that. By the time I am done, tears are running down his cheeks, splashing onto the asphalt pavement like salty rain. His cock is harder than ever.

I tell him to stand up and reach for the sky, and he does so slowly, almost reluctantly. When he is finally standing up straight, with his hands laced together on top of his head, I start going down on him.

His pants are in a pile, crumpled on top of his shoes, his dick juts eagerly out. I don’t swallow him whole, the way I might with someone else. Instead, I stick out my tongue, softly trace my way up and down his length, and back again, stopping to swirl around the ridges of the crown, as if he were an exotic hard candy. He is quivering under my tongue. His dick twitches and shudders, and he moans out loud. With one hand, I softly pet the underside of his ball sac, trace tiny little hidden paths up the crevice between his cheeks, tormenting and avoiding his asshole, tracing intricate spirals on that soft, secret flesh, while my tongue still travels its lazy traverse, up, down, and back up again. I am going to make him late for work, and I don’t care.

He goes off without warning. He gasps, he cock suddenly jumps and goes harder than hard, and he spurts off, directly into my open mouth, squirting his hot, thick, salty semen straight onto my outstretched tongue. He will pay for this later on. Meanwhile, I swallow every drop, even as he milks himself into my mouth.

I sit on the tail gate of his car, with my skirt hiked up and my legs pornographically spread, and he earnestly goes down on me, flicking my clit with his tongue and fingering my cunt until I come, but it isn’t what I want. It is good, don’t get me wrong, but it isn’t fulfilling. It doesn’t fill that void.

With my wetness still sticky on his face, he buttons up, kisses me one last time, and gets back in his car. He is definitely going to be late for work. I hope his ass pains him all day long. I hope he thinks of me every time he sits down or shifts his weight in his chair during a long, stifling meeting. I will send him filthy texts, just to make sure.

At home I masturbate furiously. I use my vibrator, but I keep the switch turned off. I want to come just from this. It takes a while, but I can do it. I am certainly wet enough.

I imagine crucifying him spread-eagled to my hardwood floor with sixteen-penny duplex nails and a framing hammer. There would be a butt-plug the size of a Volkswagen up his ass, and his dick would be harder than steel. With every blow of the hammer, as I drive cold iron through the flesh of his hands and his feet, I ask him over and over again, “Do you like it now?” and he’d moan back “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

I squat over him, hovering just above his straining erection. “Do you want it? Do you want it now? Do you want me to fuck you?”

“No,” he says, “Please no.” I do it anyway.

I lower myself onto his dick and ride him, savoring every centimeter of his cock filling me up, bouncing up and down like a wild woman, lifting off and letting his penis flop helplessly, straining up toward my slick and drooling cunt like a drowning thing, coated in my juices. Again and again, I plunge back down on him, relishing the sensation of penetration, fullness, feeling his cock inside me. I grind down and back and forth, my scarlet initials peering back up at me past my swollen clitoris, where my pussy lips have swallowed his penis whole.

He is arching his back, fucking up at me, fucking my cunt. I know he is close, and I draw it out of him, balanced on the tip of his cock, the livid head of his dick captured just inside my pussy lips, rocking back and forth, stimulating my clit while my juice runs down his cock like syrup. He comes, with an anguished scream, arching his back up to me, fingers and toes clenching spasmodically, tearing at the spikes I have driven through his flesh, filling me with his seed, and I come too, lowering myself onto him one last time until he is completely inside me, his balls mashed against my skin, pounding on his chest and twisting and pulling on his nipples all the way through my orgasm.

I have pissed on him; he has drank my urine straight from the source as if I were a human water fountain; I have smeared my menstrual blood all over his face; I have beat him and bitten him and branded his skin; I have jerked him off and sucked his cock; I have even sodomized him, but I will never possess him.

The vibrator finally slips regretfully out from between my tired and buzzing labia. I feel empty inside. My breasts are pink and flushed from my orgasm; my hands are still trembling. It is another Saturday night and I ain’t got nobody.

END

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