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That's just how it is I want tell you a story. Whether it’s the kind of story you will enjoy really depends you. For a certain type of person the things I am going tell you about will constitute a kind of erotica. As will knowing that, in some sense, they really did happen, I imagine. For others, well, I won't be offended if you would rather read something sweeter. Although, for all its unpleasantness, there is something sweet about this too, for me. I’m not usually much of a drinker, but I understand that when he has me knock back glass after glass of wine in the heat of the late summer afternoon, it’s not so that I will enjoy the pleasure of the intoxication. He doesn’t have to get me drunk, of course, he doesn’t have to do anything to make me malleable, but he enjoys watching me slowly lose my grip on my surroundings, begin to be incapable of preventing his assault, in addition to welcoming it. Assault is such an ugly word for what he does to me. I'd rather think of it as a kind of taking possession, taking ownership of, much more so than anything as seemingly sexual as assault. Although it is sexual, of course. When he uses me I am able to forget, just for a while, that usually I have to pretend to be a real person. I can be the doll, the vessel I really am. Or the nothing I really am, I suppose. The relief is tremendous. Pretending really is very hard work. Before he fucks me properly, he has me kneel in front of him. I lick and suck his cock like my life depends on it. Which it does, I suppose. Although he’s never said so quite that bluntly. When he cums he’s so far down the back of my throat that it bypasses my mouth entirely. I don’t even taste him really. But afterwards he pulls back a little and sends a steady stream of piss to follow his cum. That I taste. It’s both awful and somehow not as bad as I thought it would be. Maybe a consequence of him drinking so much water to cope with the heat. When he's done he holds my jaw open with a hand on my chin and spits onto my tongue. The combination of all the fluids in my stomach makes me queasy. I absolutely do not want to throw up. It’s horrible enough on its own, but I know that if I’m sick on his floor he’ll make me lick it up. I try my best not to think about that. Not least because that will make it more likely to happen. As he slides his cock into my throat again, for what seems like it must be the 50th time this evening, I talk to myself to try to stay in control of my gag reflex. I tell myself that I’m ok, that this is what I’m that eventually he’ll move onto my other holes. He will, but of course knowing that doesn't really help. When he tells get the bed I’m suddenly at a loss. I clamber , but I don’t know how I should be once I’m there. I don’t know if this is how I am or if this is what he does , but until he tells exactly how position myself I am caught in a kind of limbo. Just as I begin think that maybe I should try think about what do with myself for myself, he tells get onto fours. I’m a bit taken by surprise when he begins beat with some kind of implement. This isn’t his usual approach at . Most of the time there are no tools, no gadgets. Just his body using, hurting, occupying my body. The sound and feel of the paddle is disconcerting, abrasive. So I’m grateful when he discards it soon after he has begun. It seems plausible that it was unsatisfying for him too, as his next step is first to slap, then soon afterwards to punch my cunt. He tuts when my legs squeeze together attempting to protect myself and I pull them apart again as quickly as I can. He leans forwards to shove my underwear into my mouth. Through the fabric I murmur an apology. My shrieks and sobs had become quite loud, and while I know he enjoys hearing my distress there is a limit to how much noise even he will tolerate. Besides, we shouldn’t disturb his neighbours. I’m grateful for it when he begins to push his hand into my now swollen and tender cunt. The depth of the pain when someone is forcing their way inside you is hard to describe. It’s both sharp and tearing, but also structural. Like under enough pressure my whole pelvis will give way to allow him to enter. His grunt of satisfaction on finally seeing his knuckles disappear resonates through me. I’m glad I could hear it over my own cries. As he lines his cock up against my arse with his other hand, I try not to picture what is happening inside my body. His fist pressing against my vaginal wall makes my arse so tight it takes him several attempts to shove his cock inside it. I feel ripped apart, disintegrated. All of me has been emptied out to make room for him. Or for his pleasure anyway. He barely seems to move now, just the tiniest of gestures, a twitch of his hips, a twist of his wrist. ‘Look’, he tells me, nodding at the mirror. And I see us conjoined, him on his knees, one arm buried to the wrist in my cunt, the other resting on my back, his cock pressed deep into my arse. I have become the literal extension of him to complement the figurative. He mistakes my wide-eyed tear-streaked expression for unhappiness and squeezes my arse cheek in sympathy. ‘I know, baby, I know. But that's how it is. I’m a man and you're a cunt. And that’s just how it is.’ He’s right, of course. Things are so much clearer when he explains them to me. |
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F for this
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Nice 
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And a gorgeous cunt you are... Hmmm I'm so in the mood to get you drunk and stretch you with two inflatable dildo's and three vacuum tubes now...
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