Sex as a Tool
Sometimes, you don’t need rope. Or handcuffs or whips or any other paraphernalia. Just hands, and a cock, and a voice.
Oh, and piss helps too.
Yeah, yeah, I said it. Such a disgusting thing, and yet, when I’m down there on my knees, looking up at him, and he tells me, “First, you’ll drink my piss, and then you’ll climb on top of me and fuck yourself,” I can’t help but go a little weak in the knees. Even while my stomach is churning, and I am pulling away, shaking my head, denying that I’ll do it–even then I am getting wet.
And yet still I pull away.
“Now,” he says, a demand, his voice hard. “Put it in your mouth.” I shake my head, eyes averted; moan and pull away. “No no no—”
Denial, denial in every fiber of my being.
One quick, furtive look up at his face and I know he won’t let me get away with it though.
And damn me, I respond to it, my body responds, answering his demand, answering his absolute certainty that I will do this, because he says so. My belly tightens, but not just in revulsion. I hear the pant in my voice, in the thready, whispered last denial, “No—” Even as I lean toward him. Because, fuck him…fuck me: I know I’ll do it, and so does he, and I throb with the silent acknowledgment, and his cock throbs in my hand.
And so even as my head is denying it my body is moving to obey, as it so often does these days, ignoring brain, wanting only to obey. I slide his stiffening cock into my mouth. Even at this moment, when I know the musky liquid that will come out of it, when I know that I will have to swallow it against the gagging, the fact that he is getting hard, that doing this is making him hard, all that brings an answering twitch in my cunt. And elsewhere, deeper inside me, there is an answering to the call of his ability to force this acquiescence from me, this willingness to do even this for him.
I open my mouth to him, my throat.
I love it when he is in this state, hard but not so rigid that I can’t tilt my throat up just right, sliding him in past the point of gagging. I love the taste and feel and smell of his skin filling my mouth and throat, and I do more than suck his cock, I suckle it, deep and deeper, almost forgetting for a moment what’s to come.
Until I hear his voice.
“Here it comes,” he says, quietly, but filling my head with a sudden roar as I tense; start to pull instinctively away. I feel his hand in my hair, but he is not forcing me physically this time, he is compelling me by sheer force of will to accept him, to come to him, to come to this, willingly.
And I do. Just as he knows I will. When I meet his eyes in the half-light of the fire, I see it there, in his, the certainty that I will.
Perhaps there is pleading in my eyes, a begging to release me from this…or perhaps not.
Please, do this. Piss in my mouth. Make me swallow this foul essence, make me swallow you down. Fill me with you. Please, please fuck me this way.
And as his warm liquid floods my mouth, a flood of wetness pours from between my thighs; an answering.
I gasp, and gag, and I swallow.
Thank you, thank you, I think, and feel his hand in my hair, pulling me up, pulling me forward, on top of him. “Fuck yourself,” he growls at me. “Ride my cock and fuck yourself.”
And I do, the taste of his piss in my mouth as I push him past the rings and slide down on him, hard, feeling my upper rings pinch and clench around the shaft of my clit painfully. Pain and pleasure and the bite, the taste, of humiliation in my mouth.
This time, he plays a new game. He makes me fuck myself, makes me push myself there, to the verge of an orgasm…and then…makes me stop.
Makes me wait for it. Wait for his permission. Wait for his command.
Over and over, he pushes me to the edge and then holds me there before pushing me over, moaning and writhing against him. When I am exhausted, and I think he will finally let me rest, he pushes me down, again, between his legs.
“Again,” he says. This time I don’t even try to deny it. There is no resistance left in me. I open myself to him, almost without thinking about it, and he pisses in my mouth. I choke, but I swallow.
And he drags me up, making me impale myself on him, gripping me by the hair and forcing me to the edge, then denying me the orgasm I am straining for before demanding it of me, over and over again.
Finally, some time later, he allows me to to collapse against him, boneless, mindless, a body and nothing more.
Sex has become his tool, his implement. Apparently, he needs no other.