by Louisa Trent
“Not in my way. But…naked is how I would like you.”
He gave me no chance to take it off, but tore it from me. And I was naked in the sunlight.
“Very good, sir.” I bit my lip soon after, a thought occurring to me.
Men were such visual creatures. Perhaps he would like a little something else, something more scandalous…“Would you prefer I stand to one side, so you can see your cock sink between my buttocks?”
Looking strangled, he jerked a nod, the hand on my waist tightening no small degree.
Oh, he craved this all right. And just this way. Dirty talk, my submission, completely naked and all. And I was the one giving it to him, I thought proudly. Not his damn married mistress. I was the one submitting to his cravings.
Following through was something else again. I was not all that comfortable here, not nearly as much as my attitude indicated. Acting came easily to me. Being myself often proved nearly impossible. But love gave me courage.
I turned to one side, enough for both of us to see ourselves in the glass. “Is this all right, sir? Is the view what you had in mind? Can you see it go in?”
Another jerked nod from him.
Moving quickly now, he immediately applied the cream, his hand going between my buttocks, the finger he used disappearing deep inside the demarcation.
I went up my toes, a ballerina in flight.
“Holding your breath will make it go harder for you,” he admonished. “Go back down.”
My chin dipped. “Sorry, sir. It is only that you are so very large, sir. Almost twice the make of most men.” My feet returned to the floor.
“That is often the case. The size goes with the height,” he said prosaically, yet his voice contained an excited rasp. Still, he took the time to rub my breasts, my belly, between my legs, easing me…
…arousing me all over again until I was breathing hard, then panting, my body softening to welcome him.
I shivered, “Oh, yes, yes, yes.”
His middle digit stayed buried. “Hush, now, hush. Just let it happen naturally.”
Had he made a jest?
There was nothing natural about this.
Letting go of the top of the dressing table, I opened myself to him. One hand on either buttock, I spread myself wide.
“Is this better, sir?”
He fingered me there at the inlet, round and round, as I purred in acquiescence. “Yes. But your nipples. Your nipples are already bruised.” I heard him swallow. “Very bruised.”
“So what?”
“The hoops,” he rasped. “I mean to pull a hoop between my teeth.”
“Go on,” I agreed.
Bending his head to my bosom, he took one of the two gold nipple rings he had only just reinserted into my nipples between his teeth and drew it outward, stretching the hardened tip to its very limit.
“Yes, yes, yes,” I cried softly at the hurt, my head falling forward, loving the hurt as I loved him, no visible tears giving me away, still holding myself open for him in back.
He finished his rough mouthing, then I gasped. “Ring my cunt too, sir. I want it done.”
“Perhaps.”
Why go through all the bother of having me pierced there if he had no intention of keeping me – was that the basis of his indecision?
I feared so. Yet, this was not the time to fret the future. This was the time for encouraging him in the present.
He was prodding me between the buttocks, his hands tightening at my waist. “Yes, sir, yes. All the way in. No holding back, sir. Remember – I like it deep and hard.”
And then, with that encouragement, he was there, feeding his thick cock into me, the mushroom cap forcing me up on my toes all over again as it knocked against the forbidden inlet.
My hands fell from my buttocks, and I shuffled away. To escape what would come next, my childish apprehensions rising to the forefront.
Fear. Horrible fear claimed me. Of the pain. Of my own wanton nature possibly rising to unmanageable heights and consuming me.
He used the flat of his hand on me, a sharp smack against the naked flesh of my bottom. “Settle, little girl.”
But I was a little girl no longer. He had made me a woman. His woman. Now I was naked in a room with the man I loved. And I had offered him this as a bribe for him to stay. Unconscionable to renege on that bribe now.
After giving myself a brisk talking-to, I did settle. “Just tell me what you wish for me to do, sir. Every man is different. How do you like it?”
“Put you head down more,” he ordered me, his eyes on my reflection in the glass. “Take deep breaths and open your legs wide. Place you hands back on the table so you can steady yourself as I push in.”
“Like this, sir?” I lowered my chin, a submissive pose. “Like this?”
He rubbed along my spine, applying additional pressure, and I rounded even more for him.
“Good,” he praised me. “Stay that way, stay low for me.”
Though frightened by what was to come and shocked by my own immodesty, I dropped down lower…but not so low that I missed seeing what he saw in the mirror.
I watched him go in, inch-by-slow inch, his blood engorged cock, an angry purplish beast reflected in the looking glass. I watched until he was all the way in, seated so very deep inside my buttocks, no-half measures.
I cried softly then. Once again, not any tears he would ever see. I cried only on the inside, where tears counted the most for a woman.
Never again would I be innocent. Those days were gone, never to be repeated. I would be no rose-bouquet-carrying bride again in my dreams. I was a whore indeed now, a prostitute in demeanor.
“Straighten out your arms and shimmy your shoulders like you used to do during the cancan, honey.”
Honey. Not a true endearment. What a man would say to a whore he was paying for the right to say such things to, to do such things to.
I did as he said. I shook my shoulders, my full breasts bouncing to the beat of the non-existent band in the room, the gold hoops jiggling. He liked them like that, jiggling like that.
While he clamped one hand at my waist, the other hand roamed. Over my bouncing bosom, squeezing and pinching the reddened nipples, digging into the tips with his nails, pulling the gold hoops out so far, so very, very far again.
“Feel good?” he asked.
“You now it does, sir. More please.”
“More please what?”
“More please, sir.” I bucked.
“Settle, I say.” He spanked me again, harder, before moving his fickle attentions elsewhere.
“Christ. Your cunt,” he said, fingering the slit. “So open. For me. So wet. For me. For this. I have decided to have this pierced, after all. The folds, the lips, are always so swollen. I would see the gold rings without even trying,” he said raggedly. “I can get someone to do it.”
“Yes, sir. Have me pierced there.”
It was as if I were saying goodbye to my old self. And though this, moving forward with him, was what I wished, leaving my girlhood hopes and dreams behind saddened me.
No red roses for me chanted through my head.
Time for me to grow up. Time to become woman enough for this dark and brooding and complicated man.
The mirror faded away. I no longer cared about the wayward impression I made in the glass. I gave myself over to him alone. Soon, I could no longer think at all. I could only feel. Being my true self, I ground backwards against him, wantonly sealing my arse to his pumping loins, wanting him there without apology, shamelessly needing him there and just like this, his cock sliding freely in and out of me, no prohibition. The taking was not brutal, but it was complete. I would never be the same again.
Suddenly, he expanded inside me. And I heard myself start to mewl as he plunged now, thrust now, pumping harder and deeper inside me, no holding back.
And why would he hold back?
He thought I had done this before and with different partners. Only I had not.
I had done nothing…until him.
I groaned.
“Hurts?” he rasped. “Need me to quit? Tell me to cease and I will.”
Yes, it hurt. He was tremendously built. Thick and long, both. But knowing it was too late for returning to the untried young woman I used to be, I said, “No quitting.”
And then the worst, the most revealing part of all. Was…was I actually about to climax with his cock stuffed inside my buttocks?
With conception no longer a worry, he drove into me one last time, spewed, and then slowly…ever so slowly…shifted inside me. I did climax then.
“Ride that first one out,” he whispered. “Just ride it out. I want you to come again.”
Too breathless to speak, I merely nodded. And what was there to say anyway? All of this was so very frank, far outside my every experience, that I had not the vocabulary to put my most intimate of thoughts into words.
He rubbed the pinnacle of sensation there at the top of the slit until I was twisting and turning, begging him, pleading with him to:
“Never cease, sir. Please never cease.”
“No. Not yet.” He turned me full on to face myself in the mirror, his cock inside my arse. “Eyes open. See yourself as I see you.”
He kept demanding it of me, forcing it on me, making me do it, until I screamed in absolute pleasure. While I still pulsed with aftershocks, ripples upon ripples, I sank backwards weakly into his arms.
One-handing a cloth I had left on the dressing room table, he finally pulled out. While I watched in the mirror, he cleaned ejaculate from his flaccid cock and enclosed himself back inside his trousers, all neat and tidy, while holding me upright. “All right?”
I had only the strength for a vague nod of assent.
He picked me up in his arms, carried me to his master suite, where he deposited me in the tub inside the WC.
The faucet ran, he scrubbed me down, toweled me off, helped me back out onto the WC’s white marble floor.
“Spread yourself for me,” he ordered.
As my backside was now his playground, he expected no protest from me. Nor did he receive one. I was only grateful he had yet to name my backside a public park.
He fingered between my buttocks, no special invitation needed or requested, not any more.
“Liked it?” he asked.
Shy as I had never been shy before, I smiled.
Of course, I found the way he held me, the close, skin-on-skin contact, deeply arousing, the deviancy especially. Apart from that – why would I not like it, when he so obviously did like it?
I would miss looking into his eyes, however. There may not always be a mirror available in which to read his reaction, the gauging of which was highly stimulating to me.
Grinning, he pulled away. “No more birth control concerns after this. Strictly sodomy from now on.”
“My thanks for keeping me informed, sir.”
Sarcasm at its most cuttingly sarcastic wasted on him – his carnal floodgates had opened, his reserve was gone, and he was not finished with me yet.
He combed his fingers through my tangled hair, the most romantic of gestures coming from a man not given to sentiment.
“Some women have a taste for it, some women refuse outright. Even the most experienced whores will put up a fuss.” He nudged my thighs wide and cradled me there between the legs, saying with a great deal of self-depreciation, “I cannot seem to get enough of this either. I could write a poem to your cunt. Always so wet.”
He delved me, shallowly, with a finger. Then, going deeper, he added another digit to the single one he generally used.
When I squirmed at the tightness of the dual fit, he pulled me over to the commode, where he backed up to the closed seat, sat himself down, with me on his lap.
“Take another?” he asked.
“Of course, sir.”
“Lift your hips.”
When I started to do just that, he said, “No wait.”
Like a deprived lad in a candy store trying to make up his mind which forbidden treat he wanted next, he removed himself from his perch and sat me on the closed seat of the commode all by myself.
“Feet up on top of the lid,” he told me. “Open up wide so I can get the third finger in.”
I lifted, opened, and he did, my extreme wetness assisting him as he placed his thumb over the spot and pressed.
Oh, God. I lost my remaining chards of dignity and began a wild upward thrusting.
He clamped his muscled arm over my heaving breasts. “Stop fighting it, honey, and give over.”
He misunderstood. I was not fighting it, but reacting to his intense authority. I had waited to be dominated by him all along.
“Go still, honey. Unless you tell me to cease, I mean to have this from you.”
Have what from me?
Whatever he desired. His commanding tone made me crazed “Yes. Yes. All right, sir.” I forced myself to stillness, to accept his attentions in whatever form and substance they took.
But not without difficulty. I was feeling so much…
“Back to your room and get on top of the bed,” he said, changing his mind. “This position is too awkward for you.” He removed his three-digits from inside my clasp.
I made the trek slowly, my thighs akimbo, my bottom sticking out, nursing a bruised nipple, my dancer’s gracefulness all but gone. Or, at least, vastly diminished. No complaints. My clumsy gait was a small price to pay for his unleashed masculinity.
Back inside my room, he helped me atop the bed. Once there, he spread me wide and then returned his hand between my legs, his thick digits – one, then two, then three in quick succession – working into me.
“Ohohoh, sir!” I cried at this new deeper trespass. I accepted every part of him, even practices unfamiliar to me. It was only the suddenness, so much to take in all at once. I had not started out a loose woman after all. Of course, he had no way of knowing this given my lies.
“Hush,” he whispered. “Relax, honey.”
Something my present discomfort would never allow.
Despite his patience, I was quite tense, regardless of all his rubbing and massaging. He had three thick digits inside my passage and the extra stretch tightened my muscles. And I remained unconvinced of his stopping at just those three.
Panicked, I climbed up onto my bent elbows. “Cease, sir. Until later on tonight, sir. Please?”
Immediately, he pulled back and away from me. “No later for us, honey.”
“Pardon, sir?” I said in confusion.
What was this?
He told me I might stop at any point it became too much.
“Not tonight, honey.” He freed his fingers from the most private part of me, rested his large hand, three digits slick with my secretions, possessively on my knee, and peered down at me soulfully. “No more tonight.”
Never should I have told him to cease. Now everything had ground to a halt between us.
“We can do other things,” I coaxed. “I only needed to catch my breath, sir. Just for instant, sir. This…what you are doing…has never been done to me before.”
“I recognize my appetites are…outside the bounds. I should not have sprung all this on you at once. I should be horsewhipped.”
“No, no,” I pleaded. “I liked it with you. All of it.”
But it was already too late. In my inexperience, in my fear of the unknown, in my lies and deception, his interest in continuing had fled. And, what was worse, now he questioned his self-worth, as I had once done to myself.
“Sir.” I reached out to him. “Could we possibly talk? I have led you astray, I fear. And I need to explain.”
He escaped my grasping hand. “It is quite all right, Emma. No woman could put up with my unnatural hungers.” He laughed without merriment. “And I need to go anyway. I have that appointment to keep. Remember?”
I rose to a seated position on the bed, my bare breasts bouncing, looking after him as he walked toward the door.
I had lost him. For good
In shock, I stayed there naked on the bed, slack of mouth, my hair tousled. I had not the energy to even cover up with the bed linens.
I should have been celebrating our new closeness dressed in my prettiest tea gown, my hair swept up in a sophisticated topknot, perhaps wearing elbow length white kid gloves while balancing a china cup on my knees. Instead, I must resemble a slattern.
Why had I not been honest with him from the very beginning? My lies had spoiled everything.
I swept the disheveled hair from my eyes. “Sir – there is so much left unsaid between us. We cannot leave it this way! Must you go? Right now?” I asked, gone to a crouch.
He turned back, his darkening gaze sweeping over my feral posturing on the bed, my hands clenched, my bare breasts swaying, my thighs straining outwards, ready to jump off the bed and go after him. By refusing him what he needed, I may very well have destroyed the very man I professed to love.
I could not let him leave feeling badly about himself! The distraught look on his face told me I had done him incalculable harm…just when he was opening up to me. He thought I had not accepted who and what he was. How could he ever trust me again?
“I must leave, Emma. Earlier I mentioned visiting my mistress. She awaits me, and I am already well past the agreed upon hour for my visit.”
That said, he turned on his heel and headed once again for the door.
No sense of decorum, I threw myself off the bed and did race after him then. Not for the unselfish motivation of healing the hurt I had done him, but for all the wrong reasons, and every one had to do with me, not him. How I felt. What I wished. My plans. In the face of losing him, I had abandoned all noble intent.
Like a virago, I confronted him before he could step over the threshold.
“Does she give you what I give you?” I asked, my chest heaving with resentment. “Does she allow you to do to her what I allowed you to do to me?”
Proving once and for all I was no lady, my voice rose to a harsh shrill. “Can you put it in her arse?”
“No. And that that is not the nature of my relationship with her.”
Assuming a shrewish attitude, my hands clamped my hips, I tossed my head, my hair whipping across my face. “Tell me – what exactly is the nature of your relationship with her?”
