I am laying next to him in bed, tucked into the crook of his arm, my heart rate and breathing slowing and the warmth of my self-induced orgasm still throbbing between my legs.
“Were you thinking of other men fucking you?” he asks.
I hesitate, then nod. My hesitation is not because he will mind that I was fantasizing about that. Quite the opposite, in fact. It is because I know that he will want me to tell him about it, and I always feel inadequate to the task. He fucks me with his words, he talks to me and tells me things and drives my fantasies with his own stories, but I feel shy when he asks me to tell him my own, inhibited by speech, by my own lackluster storytelling skills, sure that I cannot possibly make him as excited with my words as he does me.
But, as I know he will: “Tell me,” he says.
So, haltingly, I do: I was on my hands and knees. There was a man in front of me fucking my mouth, holding my head still, and a man behind me, fucking me. I tell him that it was what the man was saying to me, telling me that I was being fucked by someone from behind, telling me to spread myself open for him, and me being unable to see who it was, that was so hot.
But that is not precisely so, and I am not sure why I don’t share all the details with him, or why I don’t tell him exactly what I found so arousing about the image. (Although, knowing now what came later, I wonder if I did tell him more than I thought.)
What I don’t tell him is that in my fantasy I was encased head-to-toe in latex, with only a hole for my mouth, a ponytail at the top of my head, and a slit for my ass and cunt. This is not something I have ever experienced nor really desired before, latex not being a hot button for me. But I don’t think it was the latex itself that was the actual trigger, it was more the mechanism for the rest.
In my mind I was immobilized by the plastic coating of the latex, immobilized and somehow un-humanized, made into a thing to be used. It encased me in such a way that I was merely an open mouthhole and cunthole, waiting to be filled. “You’re just a hole,” the man said in my fantasy, “an open, empty hole waiting to be filled with cock.” And then, in my fantasy, he did, pushing his cock into my mouth and holding it there and holding my head perfectly still on it with a hand in my hair. He didn’t fuck my mouth or thrust into me, just filled my mouth and throat with the girth and length of his cock, and that, for some reason, was the exact trigger, the exact imagined sensation, that pushed me over the edge into my orgasm.
For some reason, those details seem…too explicit, too revealing and strange to share.
W is not fooled by my brevity, however, because when I have finished confessing my fantasy, he says, “When I make you fuck men for real, you will tell me everything. Every detail.”
I have escaped this edict before: he has allowed me to give him bare-bones reports; I have a feeling this may not be the case next time. This small fact makes me shiver with anticipation, something akin to the delicious anxiety I sometimes feel when I sat down at my laptop to relate my stories here. What will he think of what I write, of what I felt, of what I say? Will he approve, will he want to know more, will it turn him on, feed his desire for me, fuel his desire to do these things to me? Will it make him laugh or nod or shake his head in disbelief?
The day is filled with canings and being fucked and being pushed to my knees to suck his cock. At one point he canes me, then holds my hair as he fucks my mouth, and then orders me over the desk in his front room.
“Put my cock inside you,” he says as I lean over, my legs spread. I guide him into my pussy from behind, pushing apart my rings as I do, feeling the slippery heat of my pussy lips. I am so damn aroused from the caning and the cock-sucking, from being his whore and his hole all morning that I am shaking with my desire to have him inside me.
“Put your head on the desk,” he says, and when I hesitate, he reaches out and pushes my head down onto the desk the way he wants it, grinding my cheek into the top of the desk, and then he keeps his hand there, fingers splayed open on my face, holding me there, smashing my face into his hand and into the desk. I instinctively move, trying to twist away from the pressure, but he holds my head there, pinning me.
“Put your hand behind your back,” he says. “And spread your legs.” Then, sharper: “Wider!” he commands, when I don’t spread them far enough quickly enough. And with his other hand he grabs my arm and pins it behind my back. I grunt, surprised by the pain, and feel him swelling inside me, filling me, even as I feel myself growing wetter.
“Now fuck yourself,” he says.
I reach down and begin to rub my already-throbbing clit and as I do so I hear him make one more demand: “When you are in Mexico next week, I want you to find a time to fuck yourself, just like this, over a desk or a table, your legs spread wide like this, your face against the table, imagining you are being fucked in just this way, pinned by some stranger you’ve picked up in a bar downstairs.”
Words words words, making me spill over into an orgasm that leaves me gasping for breath and trembling even more.
And then, still later, he takes me upstairs again. I do not remember how it was that we got there, but at one point, I was laying against him, sucking his cock, grinding myself against his leg helplessly as I did so, like an animal, mindlessly seeking gratification. After I come, he reaches up and grabs a handful of my hair, holding my head still with his cock in my mouth.
“Keep fucking yourself,” he tells me. I am exhausted and I try, feebly, to pull away. He shoves my head down harder on his cock and holds it there, choking me. “Open your mouth,” he says in a quiet, menacing voice, “and fuck yourself.”
I am sure I do not have another orgasm in me, but somewhere along the line that day I simply lost the ability to disobey. I open my mouth wider and reach down between my legs to touch myself.
“Good girl,” he says.
And then: “Keep your mouth open. Swallow what I give you.”
Suddenly I know what he’s going to do. My eyes widen and I look up at him, pleading. I can’t help it, I struggle against him, some last vestige of animal instinct moving within me, but he holds my head down tighter, holds his cock in my mouth, holds the back of my hair in a tight, painful grasp that I can’t escape.
And in that moment, from one breath to the next, I feel something break free inside of me. I cease to struggle, in body or mind. I find that place where I am only an extension of him, of what he wants of me, and I surrender completely to him.
I feel an answering reaction in my cunt, an opening and a wetting that I didn’t think I had in me.
“Keep fucking yourself,” he says, and pees in my mouth. I open my mouth wider. I swallow, and I fuck myself with the fervor of the newly converted. I open myself utterly to him. As he fills my mouth and throat with his piss, he tells me how one day, he will do just this thing to me again, only there will be another man there, another man fucking me from behind, using my cunt-hole while he fills my mouth-hole with his piss once again.
Beyond thought, beyond anything but the sensation of him in my mouth, in my throat, so round and long and smooth, I realize this is exactly what I had imagined the sensation would be like when I had been fantasizing that morning. I realize I am living that fantasy. And I come, a scream of pleasure choked back into my throat by his cock, my body convulsing, my mind exploding in a wave of pure sensation.
As my breathing once again returns to normal, as I come back to earth and to myself, I can’t help wondering what will be next. Which of my fantasies or his will he turn into reality?