by Gabi Moore
I could feel the strain of the muscles in my arm as I pushed back and forth, deeper each time. The strain felt good, but I switched hands, just so I could get that steady pace going, and not have to think about anything else except for the feeling of getting fucked.
Two hands worked best, and I would alternate between the two, breathing with my mouth open the whole time. My eyes were dilated, and the colors of the room seemed to increase with vibrancy. My hands came together like I was in prayer, pushing the dildo inside of me like I was fucking myself with some sacred monument.
My left hand freed itself from the prayer and began to clutch at the inside of my thigh. My fingernails dug into my thighs, and I felt the moisture, my own lubrication, this time, dripping down the side of my ass cheeks. Both of my breasts moved from side to side, and I increased the angle and the frequency of the penetration.
“Fuck, I need more,” I said, not thinking about anything but my own desperate, self-serving needs.
I got down on the floor, so my abdomen was huddled on the side of the bed. I felt like a whore on my hands and knees like that, but that only served to turn me on even more than the times before. While I was bending over the bed, with my breasts pressed up against the sheets, and my mouth spread open wide, I allowed myself to fantasize.
Usually, when I masturbate like this, I work with whatever the first idea is that comes to my mind.
I’m often so taken by my own desire that I don’t have much control over the content of the images. They pass through my minds like flames crackling up over a fire pit. Sometimes, the pit is larger than others, and other times, I lose the context of the pit all together, and all I see is the heat from the images. The picture that was particularly strong in my head at the moment was a man bearing down on the back of me, and fucking me with his cock.
To replicate this image, I put my head down on the bed and pushed the dildo in and out of my cunt from behind. My asshole was in the air, begging for attention, though I wasn’t able to share. Only having one shaft, I had to do what I could for my vagina. She was pulling at the dildo on a regular basis. My speed had increased, and my eyes were closed. In my mind, the man flipped me on my back and shoved me down on the bed.
I moved my body so I could feel what it might be like to switch positions in accordance with my fantasies.
I grabbed my breast and fondled myself with one hand, while working the dildo with the other. Then, suddenly, as if obeying some need to be more primally connected with my own body, I set the dildo to the side and let my fingers do the work that so desperately needed to be done.
My slit was warm and wet to the touch. I felt like velvet, and for several long moments, I slowed down, and just enjoyed what it felt like to probe the inside of my cunt with both fingers. I would push and pull up toward the top, all the while thumbing my clit. The ecstasy guided my motions, and soon my whole hand was outside of my vagina, and I was massaging my clit with delicate fingers.
I closed my eyes and thought of that man once more.
Then I saw his face.
It was the man from my dad’s place. His ‘friend’.
I make a rule not to judge myself whenever I am fantasizing. I allow myself to think about whatever it is that gets me off, and I let myself know as much about my own desires that way as possible. The desire to get fucked came into my mind once more while I thought about the length of that guy’s cock. I had no idea how long it was, and in truth, it really didn’t matter. All that mattered was that I was soon bent over once more, imagining him fucking my body from behind.
My shoulders were down on the bed, and my wrist was strained. I would switch between fingers and dildo, letting my body decide which type of stimulation it wanted in the moment.
I became more and more verbal, letting out a moan.
The walls of my apartment complex were thin, but I could already hear the moans coming out from my subconscious body, as well as the knocking of the frame of the bed against my neighbor’s wall.
When I fuck, I tend to move. Fucking for me is not a passive activity. It is a sport, where I can thoroughly engage myself, and love every minute of it. When I fuck, I have multiple orgasms, and I make it a point to be unapologetic. I’m a whore and a nymph, and I make no claims to be anything else. We are all only human after all.
My body shook, and I squirted all over the bed, gushing out below me, and soaking the sheets beneath my body with my juices.
I gasped, and let my vagina push my dildo out from the inside of me. I was out of breath and felt incredible. Knowing that there was a peak period of time where I could possibly get off a second time, I bit my lip and made my way to the bathroom. The bath is my second favorite place to get off, and I like fucking around with more holes than just my vagina, if you know what I mean.
It just happens to be easier to play around in a more free context when I’m in eight inches or so of sudsy bath water. Feeling indulgent, and as sensual as a fucking goddess, I let the water run while I let my legs relax in the warm water.
The tub has to be my favorite place to get off when I’m spending time with myself. I can grab the suds and spread them on my body. Instead of feeling like a dirty girl, I can feel like a sea nymph, or something a bit more pleasant. I like the way my ass feels sliding on the smooth porcelain surface of the tub. I also really get off on the movement of the water as I stroke my clit and slide up and down on the slick, warm surface of the tub.
Shoving my finger inside of me is easy enough to do because now the lubrication is completely surrounding me. Turns out all I really needed to do was open my lips up and let the water do its work.
The images of that man came back into my mind, and so I removed the batteries from my dildo and began fucking myself once more with the thick, silicon shaft of my best friend.
I could practically feel him pushing his cock into me, again and again in the bath. I imagined what it might feel like to have the water rushing over my shoulders, and splashing out onto the floor. I grabbed the edge of the tub and braced my feet from slipping on the surface of the tub. Soon enough, I was out of the tub, my back up against the cool tile of the wall. My ass sitting on the side of the tub, and my beautiful, perfect cunt taking a solid fucking from that dildo.
Gripping madly at the tiny bits of grout between the tile, my fingers tore at the slick surface, attempting to hold onto something substantial while another orgasm took my breath away.
One more ought to do it, I thought to myself, imagining how I might be able to fall asleep after I had fucked myself clean, and relaxed my muscles in a warm bath.
Staggering in a peaceful strut from the bathroom, and pausing only to let the towel do a bit of rubbing between my legs, I made my way back to the bedroom.
The towel served to get most of the obvious moisture off of my body, but I was headed toward my blankets, and as far as I was concerned, the suds in the tub had made me as clean as I was going to get. I didn’t want to spend too much time thinking about anything else besides how this mystery man in my imagination was going to make my afternoon come to a beautiful, climactic conclusion.
I bit my lip, getting ready for an early night, and some well-deserved rest to follow.
Diving onto the bed, I let myself bounce, and felt a bit delighted, and a bit like a little kid. I loved letting myself go like this, occasionally. I really felt like all I needed at times was a good fuck and the rest of whatever petty problems seemed to get on me during the week would just fall to the wayside. Perhaps, they would drip down from the inside of me, and come out later in the wash; either way, it didn’t matter, they would be gone.
Rolling on my side, I pulled my legs together and began to fuck myself with the dildo in one hand, and a finger in my ass. I had no hesitation with my finger in my asshole, as I knew that I was clean and could relax and enjoy myself. I didn’t feel the need to press too hard at that moment. Just the pressure and presence was enough. My cunt was on fire, in its own wet, sloppy way. I stopped fantasiz
ing about anyone or anything in particular and just stayed present with my body. All I needed was to listen to the sound of my wet lips pulling on my toy. All I felt was the repeated breathing and gentle creak of the bed, rocking back and forth with my movements.
Both the dildo and my fingers got deeper, and eventually, my voice had joined the chorus of sexual sound emanating from my room. I was almost there, and I couldn’t be bothered to think about anything but those few precious strokes that lay between me and the biggest orgasm that I would find in this entire solo session.
I slowed the strokes down, drastically, trying my hardest to savor every last movement. I could feel my labia pulling on the toy, and I could feel my asshole contracting around my fingers. My mouth was spread open wide in a near maximal stretch. My eyes were in a soft focus, and the whole room buzzed with light and energy. My sexuality had spread to everything and I was about to blast off into sleep — and then the doorbell rang.
Chapter 8 - Piper
I'll admit, when I first opened the door, I thought that I was in trouble.
I had only recognized his appearance after I took note of his physique. He was a good-looking man, strong and capable. The man was built like a truck, and he matched my fantasies quite well.
I had no idea where my father met him. It wasn't like my father to hang out with military types, in spite of the fact that he was sympathetic toward historical revolutionaries.
There tends to be a big difference between historical revolutionaries and military types. Historical revolutionaries are often times scrappy looking, farm boys. They have cigarettes dangling out of their mouths, and they typically don't have a problem with spending the evening with a bottle of alcohol. If they know how to shoot, they know how to shoot because of a desire to enact their dream against whatever oppressive forces they happen to see within society.
Military types are different. I could tell this one was military because of his posture. The way he held himself was different and sufficient to be marked as unique. From the looks of that, this guy was an American, but he could've been German if I hadn't heard him speak earlier. He had that whole Aryan thing going for him, with the height, and wide shoulders. He was clearly a stud, and when I saw him I felt my body respond in a way which indicated that I wasn't sure whether or not I wanted to fight, flee or fuck forcefully.
"How the hell did you find me," I asked.
It's not that I didn't know that my dad had sent him over here; I just wanted to hear the words out of the man's own mouth. I wanted to hear that my father was no longer interested in helping me out and that he wasn't brave enough to say so himself. Obviously, a bit of my contempt was seeping through.
The man didn't see a point in responding, so he didn't. He walked into my living room, without so much as asking me if he could come in.
"Some fucking manners you've got on you," I said.
"I'm not here to impress you with my manners. Besides, the way that you treated your father earlier, I'm not sure you're deserving of many manners at all."
"What are you,” I asked, smirking. “Some jar-head stranger come over here to teach me a lesson?”
"Is there a place I can sit down," he asked, staring deadpan into my face.
I could tell that the man was not amused, and since it seemed to me that I wasn't going to be able to get rid of him anytime soon, I waved him into the kitchen. He pulled one of my cheap chairs, so that it squeaked on the linoleum floor, and had a seat. I sat and watched him for a moment, not wishing to say anything. I wanted to get a sense of who he was and why my father had sent him over.
The backpack which I had dropped off at my father's shack earlier was around the man's shoulders, so that much was obvious about the man's reason for visiting my home. I felt like if I could read into him a bit more, I might be able to discern something more about his character.
It was my intuition that a man of this size does not run errands for fishermen because he's bored. Had he been a long-standing friend of my fathers, I might have thought differently, but earlier that afternoon was the first time I had ever seen him.
"I see that you brought the package which I had delivered intentionally to my father."
The man turned the package off from his shoulders and set it down on my own table with a resounding thump.
I was reminded of how I felt so accomplished knowing that the package was secure, and was more than a little annoyed that my work had been undone.
"Did you look inside?" I asked, walking over to the table so I could inspect the contents of the bag.
I didn't wait for a response, and I knew that if this person had taken a look at the contents of the bag, which was likely, then my father might have unwittingly made things significantly more complicated for me. I wished that he would have simply provided assistance when I needed it most.
I unzipped the back while hunching my shoulders over its contents. Peeking into the bag and rooting around on the inside, I came to the conclusion that while things were not in the exact same order that I had placed them, everything was accounted for.
"Nothing is missing," the man said, "but one with think you would know better than to drop something like that off at your dad’s house. Especially when he has got nothing to do with whatever it is you got yourself wrapped up in."
I zipped the bag shut and left it on the table.
"Did you come over here to reprimand me, or are you here for some other more pleasurable purpose?"
“Pleasureful for you, I doubt it. Actually, I'm in a bit of a bind, and I could use some help. Your dad seemed to think that you would be in a position to assist me."
I had to laugh again. Really, my dad was too much to handle.
Not only did he feel comfortable lecturing me when I dropped by his place, in spite of the fact that I was helping him out. But, in addition to that, he sent army boy over here back with the bag that I had planted intentionally. Now, with the problem of the bag still not taken into account, this guy thought I was in a position to do him a favor.
“I think you better leave right now," I said. "Not that I don't appreciate your little visit. If you have seen the inside of the bag, and you know that I've got more on my mind than doing favors for men like yourself.”
“Men like me?”
“Men who are instrumental in making my life exponentially more difficult than it needs to be,” I replied, coldly.
"Do you always blame people for your problems? You're free to do what you want, but there are more productive ways for you to spend your time. Besides, I’d hate to have to share what I know about your business with local law enforcement,” he said, leaving me with a thinly veiled threat.
I stopped in my tracks, forced to re-evaluate.
“You really aren’t a friend of my father,” I said, taking a long, hard look at him. “If you were a friend, then I seriously doubt that you would have any interest in bringing me into prison.”
I shook my head from side to side and then decided that this man was most likely bluffing, just to fuck with me.
“I’ve got a sample from the bag, and I’ve stashed it somewhere safe,” he said, pulling a cell phone out of his jacket pocket. “As a matter of fact, I can have the police here in about four minutes. Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“Don’t do that,” I said, not even wanting to dare him. Too much was at stake, even if he was bluffing.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“I need some help getting out of the country.”
“Ha! You’re not a keen negotiator are you? The Consulate is on the mainland, you can go there, and I’m sure they will take care of whatever passport needs you have.”
“I can’t go to the Consulate.”
I smiled at him, knowing that he couldn’t go to the Consulate. I just wanted to hear it from his own mouth.
“Why’s that?” I asked, innocently.
“Look, are you going to help me out, or am I going to have to call the police, and lock you and yo
ur little operation up?”
I ignored his threat, and pointedly asked about his own obvious predicament.
“The only people who ask me for help getting out of the country, are criminals or spies. Which one are you?”
“A strange mixture of the two, with a little bit of loyalty to a man who doesn’t want to see you wrapped up in whatever it is you’re doing with this,” he gestured to the bag.
“Loyalty? Did he give you some kind of sage-like advice, because I know he didn’t give you any money.”
“Your father saved my life. I’m just trying to help him out, and get back to the United States. You don’t really have a choice in the matter, so you might as well start complying. I’ll call the police right now, and it will make your life a lot more difficult than it already is.”
“Call them,” I sneered, “I’m willing to bet that whatever it is you are running for is a lot more severe than whatever it is you think I’m involved with. Not to mention the fact that I have enough friends with money to make bail within one night.”
He shut up and lowered his head. Obviously, I had struck home on something vital. Victory felt sweet.
“You will have made my life a bit more difficult in the short term,” I continued, “but within a week, I’ll be back to my routine, and you’ll be in the Italian equivalent of Guantanamo.”
“Why are you doing this?” he asked, looking up and staring at me.
His forthright way of addressing me caught me off guard. It wasn’t as though he was asking me why I was pitting myself against him, but more why I was involved in the whole process. I was startled and stopped for a moment.
The strangest thing about being involved in a long-standing activity is that you tend to forget why you got caught up in the activity in the first place. The rest of the actions which comprise the daily course of behavior tend to be somewhere between compulsion and obligation.
