I can’t take any more, and I roll over on to my back, opening my legs wide and using the heel of my hand to rub myself harder that I’d ever thought I could stand. I can feel it building, and I pinch my nipples with my free hand, letting the pressure build. I hear him come loudly, and stop fighting it, almost screaming down the phone as the heat consumes me, my clitoris throbbing over and over again.
I collapse against the wall, holding the phone close as I hear his breathing return to normal. I’m still gasping heavily as I try to find my voice, try to find the will to stop this and get back to real life.
“Stop calling me, or I’ll call the police,” I order, barely able to speak, knowing my threat is empty, but knowing that this has to stop somehow.
“You don’t mean that,” he tells me, laughing. He hangs up before I have the chance to slam the phone down on him.
He’s right. I’m his dirty girl, and I like it.
At the Window as He Watches
Dara (Hoboken, USA)
I’m so hot. I’m standing at the kitchen window, expanding my chest, trying to get some air, this torrid, sultry night. Immediately, I notice the man, lounging spread-eagled on the bench across the street. I admire his strong muscular thighs, barely covered by his tight shorts. His broad chest glistens seductively under the streetlamp; his arms look big, hard, dangerous.
Our eyes meet and lock. He smiles slowly – or perhaps it’s a leer. His gaze wanders lecherously over my body. I grow hotter as he examines me, his eyes travelling over my contours, lingering on my tender, private places. My very flesh feels his sharply focused eyes on me. My discomfort grows into embarrassment and a sense of violation.
I squirm uncomfortably, but I have to keep looking at him. I have no choice but to stand there and pose for him. He commands it. He exerts some intoxicating, mesmerizing power over me. I sway precariously. It’s not just from the heat, but my growing weakness, my burgeoning helplessness are making me feel faint.
Hypnotically, I lower the straps of my nightgown. I feel he ordered me to and, even more strangely, I have no doubt that I have to obey. The gown slides down over my damp, limp body. I have no power to stop it. He doesn’t even let me shield my breasts and pubis from him. I see him very slowly, severely shaking his head, lifting his eyebrows, challenging me to dare disobey him, to even think of fighting him.
I can’t. It’s impossible. I have no will of my own. My arms drop defenselessly to my bare sides, leaving me in bold and brazen display, just as he desires. He smiles triumphantly and solemnly nods his head.
I burn in the painful heat of his stare, searing my soft flesh in ever-decreasing circles as he scrutinizes my breasts. He carefully goes over each and every tiny pucker of my areolae, then sharply flicks my tense nipples, making me gasp.
I feel him handling me, maliciously moulding my mounds with demanding, hard hands. His cruel palms and his coarse, probing fingers examine me much more thoroughly than any doctor ever had. I groan in discomfort and he returns his attention to my nipples. His strong fingers pull, stretching them to the point of pain. No lover has ever done that to me. Logically, I know I’m torturing myself with my own fingers, yet he controls them. He owns them. He owns all of me.
The pain in my nipples is becoming unbearable. I can tell he knows he’s hurting me by that cruel, self-satisfied smirk on his face. I attempt to call out to him, to beg him to stop, but I can’t, and he doesn’t stop. He just won’t stop. For his sadistic pleasure, I’m forced to keep on pulling and twisting my poor nipples that won’t even allow me the relief of going numb. I don’t think I can take any more. I hear him laughing heartily at my abject helplessness, my complete defencelessness. I know there’s no way to fight him, no way to stop him.
It’s so horrible, so demeaning, but then again, it’s wonderfully arousing. I’ve never felt so confused, so completely controlled and yet so wildly alive and free. Despite the pain, or perhaps because of it, deep down, I don’t want him to stop. He’s opening and exposing my submissive nature as no one ever has. He’s discovered my deepest, most shameful secret, my hidden dark need for domination, my desire for humiliation and subjugation. No lover has ever tapped this profound well of enforced erotic freedom. No man has ever treated me like this, and here he is, a total stranger, doing this to me. That’s the best part – the most amazing, erotic thing!
This is my fantasy come true. And who said women don’t want their fantasies to actually come true? The dripping and pulsing between my trembling legs proves that theory wrong – certainly for me.
He whistles and snaps his fingers to reclaim my absolute attention. He knows my mind was wandering. He won’t allow me even that privacy. I know he’s going to punish me for my lapse. I feel ashamed and elated. I hang my head and feel my blush rising quickly and profusely from my chest to my face. The intense rush of heat feels like I just opened an oven door and looked right in.
The powerful man sharply nods his head. I know immediately what my punishment is to be. I lean out over the windowsill. My unsupported breasts drop heavily from my body. He knows just how to humiliate me. I feel much more than exposed. With my tits hanging down like this, I feel pathetic, sloppy, bovine.
He isn’t finished. It gets worse. I’m forced to lift them by the nipples. It hurts like hell! They’re so heavy and swollen, my nipples so hard, stretched, and sore. This is torment. I can’t possibly do any more, but he forces me to shake them for him.
I can’t do this! I’d say it hurts my pride, but I don’t think I have any left. I’m just his toy, his slave. He grins and scrutinizes every yank on my nipples, every hard drop of my boobs, every bounce, every jiggle, as I perform the demeaning display for him. My nipples are burning and all this shaking is killing my tits!
As I tightly clutch my nipples and heft my aching mammaries up and down, I try to pretend I’m someplace else, doing anything else, but he won’t allow my mind to wander again. It was my wandering mind that got me into this predicament in the first place. He’s making sure I know that. My awareness is essential to him. It makes me all the more submissive, all the more ashamed.
I can’t stand any more of this pain and embarrassment. I implore him with teary eyes to allow me to stop, but he doesn’t. He lets me know that he’s thoroughly enjoying the show especially because I don’t want to do it.
Suddenly he commands me to stop. Immediately I release my poor nipples, but I can’t enjoy any relief, for my big tits drop so hard that the pain and shock make me gasp. Even worse, I’m mortified that he sees the cruel work of gravity on me. His wicked laugh mocks me and my sense of being used intensifies as he points out that he’s firmly rubbing his crotch – getting off, at my expense.
He can’t possibly expect any more of me. I don’t even know who he is. He’s an anonymous stranger. He has absolutely no right to order me around like I belong to him, body and soul. It isn’t logical for him to be able to control me, to make me perform such lewd, exhibitionistic acts for him.
But then, why am I obeying? He knows he can demand anything of me and I’ll do it. Whatever he says, whatever he wants, I know I can’t resist. I’m incapable of fighting him. Whatever his power is, it’s vastly superior to my own will, my own pride. This power he has over me is the ultimate turn-on. I’ve often heard that power is an aphrodisiac but that referred to a different sort of power, the kind involving business, politics, money. Those things never made me hot. But this is much different. This is the only kind of power that’s ever aroused me. His power is in his silent strength and cool control, his strength and control, his absolute power over me.
I don’t really want to listen to him or even to my own thoughts. I don’t want to have to think. I don’t want to involve my brain at all. All I want to be is a body, a horny animal. I want to leap on top of him and fuck him to death!
But no, what I really crave is for him to take me by force, mount me like a wild animal. I want him to do bestial, painful things to me, brutal things that no one else has
ever dared to do. I need him to humiliate me, torment me, punish me, force me into total submission to his inhuman lust. Lust to match my own.
His slow hand creeps under the elastic of his ever-tighter, tighter shorts. I lift my breasts with cupped hands, in offering to him. My gesture tells him everything he wants to know. I am his, completely, utterly. He acknowledges my total surrender with a superior smile, letting me know it isn’t over yet. There’s much more to come.
He teasingly lowers his shorts’ elastic and his massive erection springs out. He chuckles to see me wide-eyed and open-mouthed. I run my tongue longingly around my lips. He proudly wags his magnificent prick at me. My randy tongue goes to the side of my mouth where I involuntarily clench it between my teeth, pressing it hard against my cheek.
The saliva gathers in my mouth. He sees me gulp it down. He knows exactly what I want in my mouth, what I want to feel, hot and thick, down my throat. His teasing, taunting, and posturing is driving me crazy with horniness! His show is forcing me to helplessly press my damp thighs together, making me move them back and forth over each other, against each other, giving my cunt lips a clandestine, desperately needed massage.
I can see that he’s highly annoyed by my weakness and lack of self-control. To appease him, I widely spread my legs, too far apart to touch each other, but there’s simply no way to stop the squeezing, gripping, clenching in my cunt. No way, at least, until I realize and become afraid that if I don’t stop my secret masturbating, he’ll know and surely become increasingly vicious.
My face colours deeply, showing the embarrassment I feel at my transparent weakness. I know he knows. I knew it even before he started shaking that thick, hard cock at me. It’s as if he’s brandishing a disciplining rod and threatening me with severe, cold-blooded punishment. The feeling is so intense, I want to turn, bend, and present myself for chastisement or whatever else he wants to do to me.
My inner muscles stop contracting immediately. I freeze in terror. That satisfies him for the moment. He sits there, stroking up and down the impressive, frightening, length of his tool. With his other hand, he hoists his heavy balls, hanging them over the elastic of his shorts. He fondles them with his large hand, showing that he can be gentle, even if only to himself. He smiles up at me, then spitefully stuffs himself back into his shorts, grinning smugly at my transparent disappointment.
He has my cunt watering and he knows it. It’s pulsing and throbbing at his domineering selfishness and undisguised superiority. I want him with a need that comes from somewhere so deep inside that it terrifies me. My craving is huge and primal, beyond my comprehension. My desire is so overwhelmingly raw and primitive I can neither control nor explain it. It makes no sense, for it’s beyond and below thought. My body pays no attention to my own orders, but is a willing slave to him and his every whim.
My eyes are glued to his crotch until a sudden jolt (it has to be from him) makes me look back up at his face. His face is very handsome, but marked with a vicious and demanding expression. He nods at me, sharply and meaningfully.
I turn slowly till my back is toward him. Mechanically, I bend at the waist and stand still, awaiting his next order. I try frantically not to obey his obscene command, but I have no choice. With the shaking fingers of both hands, I spread my cheeks for him.
My face is burning with shame. He wants to see my anus and I’m giving him exactly what he demands. I’m not just exposing my most private self to him, but I’m displaying a part of my body that I wouldn’t even want to look at, myself. He doesn’t really want to see my arsehole, he only wants to prove to me that I would do absolutely anything for him.
He’s right. I would do anything for him, no matter how degrading, how shameful. Here I am, sticking my naked, spread arse out of my window, exposing my bumhole to all of Manhattan. I’m displaying a part of myself that I’d be too embarrassed to view in a mirror, much less show anyone else. I’m doing it just because he’s telling me to. This is all beyond strange, beyond arousing!
I can’t believe what he’s making me do. How long will he keep me here like this? This obscene pose is physically awkward, as well as humiliating. Surely he’s seen all there is to see. Why is he forcing me to continue offering him such a mortifying view?
Of course, I know the answer before I even finish the question. He’s on the biggest power trip I’ve ever seen. He just wants to continue showing me that he can keep right on forcing me to do absolutely anything he wants, anything at all, bar nothing! He wants absolute control and he has it. I’m so embarrassed, I just want to disappear.
Finally, he allows me to drop my straining hands. He keeps me bent over for awhile longer, but at least I can rest my hands on my knees. My back is aching!
Thank goodness, at last, he’s letting me straighten up. I want to arch my back to soothe my sore muscles, but that isn’t in his plans. He’s making me turn around to face him without a moment’s rest. I see the smug, self-satisfied look on his face and it’s really pissing me off, but what can I do? I have no control over him. I’m trying very hard to keep my face expressionless, but I know he can see the anger seething in my eyes.
He keeps right on smiling! He’s driving me fucking mad, damn him!
After what seems like ages, he bends to look down at his hand that is repeatedly, lovingly stroking that hefty bulge in his lap. He looks up at me again, slowly nods his head, and stares menacingly at me. I know that any attempted refusals on my part would be in vain.
So, I fetch the high wooden stool with the reclining back and put it directly in front of the window. I climb up onto it and try to settle as comfortably as I can. Although I can already guess what his next order will be, and I dread following it, I look out at him and await his instruction. He stares at me and allows my anxiety and discomfort time to build.
Now I know he wants just what I was afraid he wanted. I raise both feet to the dusty old windowsill. I have to fight a strange urge to scrawl something in the dust with my toes or to streak the dirt around in an abstract design. I guess I’m just trying to forget what I know I have to do, to forget where I am and whom I’m with – anything to take me away from the further humiliation I know I’m about to endure. I have to have some control back. I need to have some, even just a little bit.
Well, I’m getting nothing. He’s forcing me to look back up at his face and I’m feeling stupid that I even tried to fight him. Now, I’m spreading my legs for him. My feet are at opposite ends of the sill. I feel the stretch and strain in the tendons of my groin and upper thighs.
Although my eyes are focused on his face, as he demanded, I can still see his beckoning cock. Both his grin and his erection are growing. He pulls his shorts away from his body to allow his monster room to expand. The angry red head of his prick on its thick, veined shaft is swelling over the elastic and seems to be staring right up at me.
My mouth opens involuntarily, my pussy twitches. I lick my parched lips. I want to suck that big, fat cock, run my teeth along its hardness, lick it, nibble it, roll my tongue around it. I want to milk him dry and feel explosions of warm, thick jism spurting down my throat, dripping over my face, my tits, my belly.
I try to inch my thighs imperceptibly closer to each other to give myself some relief. He’s been teasing and manipulating me, making me very angry and frustrated, but above all, getting me insanely, desperately horny! Shit, am I horny!
Of course, the fucking bastard knows exactly what I’m doing and stops the progress of my legs with a warning finger. I’ll give him the damned finger! Oh, God, if I can’t have his prick, I want his fingers, his tongue, something – anything stuffed inside me!
I slide back on the stool, just as he commands, and obediently lean back so he sees I’m ready to proceed with the command performance. I run my index finger slowly down the midline of my body till I reach my hairy acre. I run my fingers through the thick, dark curls. A finger gets caught in a tangle and I wince at the sharp pain of the hairs being pulled.
H
e, of course, shows amusement and just to tease me, lowers his shorts further. I draw my breath back sharply. His fully erect prick is a beauty. He’s beginning to hypnotize me with his wanking hand that’s moving relentlessly up and down his rearing organ. He seems a bit detached, off in his own world, so I do nothing more for the moment. I sit still, anxiously awaiting his next instruction.
Suddenly, he blinks and it seems to rouse him from his private reverie. He nods and I jump. What is it in his nods that they hold such power over me? I don’t know and I can’t help what I do next. I’m cupping my crotch and squeezing. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, but somehow I’m managing to do it. I have to do it.
My cunt is pounding. I want so badly to snake my finger up into my slit. I just start to slowly insinuate it between my puffy lips when he stops me. It’s not time for that yet. Now, he wants me to hold myself open for him, so I obey. With two fingers on either side, I stretch open my pussy for him. I’m sitting here, displaying the inside of my wet, gaping cunt just because he told me to.
Oh, God, he’s showing me his balls again. He’s lifted his big, heavy bollocks up over his shorts to show off his entire package. One hand is squeezing while the other’s stroking, pulling, twisting, steadily, maddeningly.
I am open. My cunt is so open, so open and wet and hungry for him. I’m craving him so intensely that my pussy is a spasming cave of convulsions. These mini-orgasms are taunting and teasing, not satisfying me. They’re making me more and more desperate for a really good fuck!
Damn that bastard! He’s much worse than a cunt-tease. He’s sneakier than a voyeur, more full of himself than an exhibitionist. He is driving me fucking mad, contentedly playing with himself like that. He’s a controlling son of a bitch. He’s tormenting me and I’m loving it, absolutely revelling in it – and detesting it, and him, at the same time.
With my lips still spread wide, I pull up the hood to expose my stiff female phallus. It’s sharply sensitive and when he has me run my fingernail over it, he seems fascinated by the pain he sees registering on my face and by the jagged twitching movements of my body.
The Mammoth Book of Women's Erotic Fantasies Page 42
