I’ve lived out a lot of my sexual fantasies. I’ve had the fortune to be with partners who mostly accepted who I was. It makes it easy, life, when you are open about what you are, really are. There aren’t any secrets, no elephants, no weights that rest on my shoulders when I am with them because, I don’t have anything to hide. Women are surprisingly accepting, at least those whom I’ve been fortunate enough to know.
It might surprise you the domesticity of my fantasies. I’ve got the raunchy ones, mind you - I’d still love to find a way to crucify someone without lasting problems - such as death. (I think barbed wire might be my solution. No stakes, but blood and a kick ass crown of thr…) I digress…
As I’ve gotten older, they’ve balanced out a little more. I still like the all day sex marathons, but there’s more depth, or want of depth. I like the idea of waking up to someone I know, whose name I can remember, a face that makes me smile when I look down upon it. I like the mind, one I know well, who knows mine well, and can anticipate and act upon reasonable assumption.
Right now though, sick as I am, I like a warm body, who doesn’t mind that I’ll infect them with my cold. I like someone to run their fingers through my hair and talk until I’m asleep. I like someone who knows what to say to make me smile in spite of my long days, thankless causes and my sadism.
That’s it, right now. Tomorrow, needles. I’m versatile.
Fuck me, I’m sick.
In my mind the world should grind to a halt, but neither it, nor I, manage to do that. It was only 12.5 hours today, but when I decided I was done, my mind was not persuaded otherwise by the phone or my cell or the blackberry that kept vibrating. Fuck them too, I say.
I don’t know why I work so hard. Well, that isn’t exactly true, I do know, but it isn’t solely monetary compensation that drives me. I work for something that I believe in. I have to remind myself of that fact, because, believe it or not, it gets lost in the daily grind and regular ass chewings I give and receive.
I think what bothers me about the people I work with, is that they don’t have the same conviction that I have. To them, the job is just another pay check. Now, I’ve worked a lot of places before I got here. I was a butcher, fast-food pizza maker, grocery store clerk, unappreciated intern, radio salesman (for a week) and a variety of other things most of which I did in my pre-college days. These jobs weren’t the creme de la creme of the workforce - I wasn’t going to win a nobel prize for my pizza making, or be admitted to juliard for my beef cutting ability. And I’m not saying that I always went to work with a smile and a winning attitude.
I did however, get in, get out and do it right while I was there. I never hung onto a job that didn’t match me for very long. It isn’t really the paycheck mentality I mind either, it’s the ‘I hate my job, it hates me, yet I’m too afraid to quit and have nothing, and too lazy to look somewhere else, either’ attitude. It’s the people that make me get rid of them. It’s the people I have to shave off, one by one. It’s the people who don’t give a shit about why we are there, because they lost their interest in it (if ever they had it) a long, long time ago.
It’s those people I hate. If you don’t like your job, find another one - chances are, it doesn’t like you much either. Besides, you’ll be happier for it.
Her feet were scrambling on the wood, trying desperately to find some relief for her scalp. My hand was in her hair, dragging her across the polished wood floors from one room to the next. At some point she relented, and her body was a dead weight behind me as I pulled her into the office. I twisted the hair and she screamed, rising up as her hands clutched my fist.
I whipped her around by the mass of dark hair, and she fell again to the floor as I let her go. She sobbed, a noise that sounded like she was drowning. Her breath was rapid, her chest barely inhaling before she exhaled to let out her emotional excess. I was staring at her. Far from cold, I was barely restrained in my anger, longed to let loose on her. I pulled the rarely used key from the top of a filing cabinet and pushed it into a keyhole until the shades slid down over the windows.
Both of her palms were on the floor, her head hanging down, her hair brushing the floor. She had stopped her noise, but her body was shaking. I took an important stack of papers from the desk and walked to the door and stepped out. I heard her body hit the door as I twisted the key in the lock and left her inside. Her fists beat rhythmically against the wood, and she screamed through the door between us.
I tossed the papers on the table and sank down, my back against the wood that she beat upon until it stopped. Her fists had to hurt. I expected to hear the sounds of her destroying the room, one of my favorites, but instead I was met with the near silence of a sigh. I rested my head against the door. I saw the key still jutting from the handle.
‘D?’ The sound, coming what seemed like hours later, was muffled.
‘Yes?’
She drummed her index finger on the wood. I turned slightly and rested my palm on the other side of the door where the vibration was strongest. The sound stopped and the bracelet that she was wearing scratched against the wood as she, too, put her hand where mine rested on the opposite side.
‘I’m sorry, D.’
I dropped my hand down to the floor and nodded my head. I knew she couldn’t see it, but I didn’t know what to say to her. I pushed up from the floor. I glanced over at the clock and saw the switch I’d forgotten to turn off, the room she was in, still perfectly illuminated, in spite of the panels that kept any trace of light out. I used that room to keep my mind from registering time - daytime, nighttime bled together in there.
I walked to the switch to flick it off, make the room the pitch black color she feared. It was torture for her - who needed to have some sort of light, small or otherwise, to guide her - complete pitch immobilized her like glue poured into her blood stream. I stood there for what seemed like minutes. My hand dropped to my side. I walked back to the door, crouched down where I had been and drummed my index finger on the door - heard her bracelet again.
‘I’ve missed you, you know. Let me out…please.’ She said.
I stood and turned the key in the lock. I heard her shuffle to move as I opened the door. She stood there in front of me, a mess of tears and wild hair, but soon went to her knees and crawled the short distance back to me. Her arms wrapped around my legs, her face buried into my thigh. I heard her inhale and then, slowly, later, exhale.
I looked down at her and then smoothed my palm over her cheek. She nuzzled my palm, pressed a kiss to its center. My hand rested against her hair as she rubbed her cheek against the fabric covering my thigh. I felt her hot breath wash over my cock, a second later, her nose rubbed against it, her mouth opened over the fabric covering it.
She looked up at me and saw what she wanted, I suppose, in my eyes. Her fingers worked the buckle - the entire time, she was watching me. The zipper, the buttons. Her hand reached in and pulled my cock out to meet the hot confines of her parted lips. When she closed them around me, I sucked air sharply in between my teeth, my head rolled back as nerve endings tingled, each begging for contact.
My hand settled onto the top of her head, a heavy mass of snarled silk met my fingers. Blood raced through my veins, a weight settled in my groin. Her tongue raked along the vein that pulsed on the base of my cock. I pushed into her mouth, felt the head slip into the opening of her throat. She retreated.
‘Look at me.’ I said, thickly. Her eyes rolled up, dark orbs of midnight. I pushed into her mouth again. Again I touched the back of her throat. Again she retreated. My fingers twitched on her scalp as I held myself in check. That anger that had subsided found a new outlet. I wanted to use her as little more than a common masturbation toy.
A muscle ticked in my jaw. Her lips kissed along the length of my cock and I held it back, held it back. She pushed my slacks down further and her tongue snaked along my sack. I felt her tug, suck the skin in. I held my cock in my fist, the other, I wrapped in her hair, pulling on her still sensitive scalp. I pushed the head of my cock against her lips until they parted once again.
She looked at me. I smiled. ‘That’s it.’ And continued to push my cock, inch by inch, into her mouth. She made a noise, the sound skittered up my cock and through my body. I laughed, softly, and then tightened my hand in her hair and pushed myself down her throat. She swallowed, and I felt the roll of movement down my cock. I retreated, she drew a loud breath and I pushed in again, deeper. All the while, her eyes were on mine.
I removed the hand from her hair and allowed her to catch her breath, her fingers wrapped around me, pumped. I whipped off my shirts and tossed them on the ground. ‘Enough.’ I stepped away from her and kicked off my shoes, pulled off my slacks, my underwear.
‘Strip.’ She started to pull the red, skintight shirt over her head and I stopped her. I bent down and pulled the knife out of my discarded pants, opened it. ‘I never want to see this shirt again.’
‘But..’ I quelled the rebellion with a look as I brought the knife to her skin. The shirt split easily, the bra followed, cut in half with little more than a sawing motion. She shrugged them off, split as they were, and they dropped to the ground. She reached for her belt, a delicate, thin strip of leather and I shook my head. The knife, I brought to her lips, pushed the handle against them until they parted and held it in place.
‘Good girl.’ My fingers loosened the buckle, opened the zipper and slid them down her legs along with the silky red scrap of panties. I knelt before her. ‘Step out.’
She did, and I shoved the clothing aside. Her hands were touching my shoulders as I knelt there, and I reached back for her belt, then mine. ‘Turn around.’
She made a noise, but couldn’t vocalize without risking the knife dropping. I made a loop with her belt and then pulled her arms back, one by one and wrapped them in it. I pulled it tight, looped it again and repeated until her arms were bound behind her. Pulled, tugged until I was satisfied she couldn’t move them.
‘Bend over.’ I kicked her feet wider as I said it, keeping a single hand on her shoulder for her balance. Her hair hid her face once again. I knew the weight of the knife would be bothering her. My hands smoothed over her ass, unmarked, pristine skin. I lifted my belt dragged the leather across it. Another noise.
When I stepped back, I saw her tense in the fine muscles of her body. The first strike sounded loud even to me, but louder still was her cry and the resulting clatter of my knife falling onto the floor. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ She said.
‘Not good enough.’ I hit her again with the leather and she stumbled a bit forward. ‘Your form is off, slut.’
Her reply was breathless. ‘It hurts, damn it.’ I laughed. And struck her again. Angry red welts were starting to form on her skin. Her arms squirmed against their binds. My hand rubbed the welts, dipped down into the folds of her sex. I found her wet.
‘Doesn’t hurt too badly.’ A single finger pushed into her cunt, retreated and was joined by a second. ‘You’re dripping, slut. Just a whore, aren’t you?’
‘Your whore.’
My fingers pulled from her. I stepped back. ‘No, not mine, just a.’ I hit her again, this time she danced upon her tip toes as she struggled to keep her balance. The next hit caught her on her thighs, she cried out. I walked behind her, my fingers ran along her slit, pierced the folds and I growled when found her even wetter. I ran my cock along the same path, parting, but not entering her.
I traced the word W H O R E on her back with her moisture, her need, crossing the red lines of welts that littered her ass and lower back. Her body rolled, she made a soft mewling sound. My hands reached for her bound ones. I pulled her back to me, and sank myself into the hot, wet grip of her cunt. The satisfied sound came from me, I think.
‘Jesus, pet.’ I said as I stood there, trying to find some distraction from the need to just plow her cunt until I burst. She wasn’t making it any easier, her muscles were gripping, tightening around me. It felt like a mouth, the control it had, the way it made my balls instantly tighten. She gave a breathless laugh, shifted forward, then back, trying to force movement.
It worked. My hands settled on her hips and I fought the duel urges to pound her cunt and to bury myself as deeply inside her as I could. Her body jarred as I surged into her, painfully driving my fingers into her hips as my cock buried inside her. My fingers hurt where they gripped her, digging into her skin. My nails raked her skin. I withdrew, sank into her again. Our flesh clapped together loudly.
It continued like that, with her bent over, her arms bound behind her, my body raping her cunt with as much force as I could sink into it. My cock swelled, almost painfully, with the urge to flood her pussy with my seed. I wanted to see the mess I made of her, wanted to have my scent upon her skin, my cock juice deep in her belly. It was territorial. It was primal.
I drew blood where I gripped her and I don’t think she noticed. I eased my hold, pulled from her with great conflict. My cock jumped in the cool air between us, the heat evaporating. I held her bound hands.
‘Kneel.’ I said. She did so on unsteady legs. Her wetness was a slickness smeared all over her thighs. I knelt behind her, laid back. She struggled to keep her balance. ‘This is hard without my hands, D.’
‘Figure it out.’ I said that as I pulled her down on top of me, facing away. She shifted, then again, and found a short, jerky rhythm. I remained passive as I could, watching the length of my cock get swallowed up by her hungry pussy, the line of her back, the marks that ruined her perfect skin.
It wasn’t enough. I worked at the restraint on her arms as she rode me. Freeing one, then the second a moment later. She leaned forward slightly now, her hands upon my thighs and the graceful perfection was back. It still wasn’t enough.
I pushed her off of me. Turned her over with rough hands, place one leg on my shoulder and sank into her again. My hands were braced on either side of her head. I could watch her this way, see the expression on her face as she gave into me. I ground against her and she cried out, gripping, releasing, gripping releasing… it all bled together as she came, crying out, ‘Fuck me. Fuck me.’
Her free leg wrapped around me. I pounded her harder, harder. We slid across that same floor I had dragged her over earlier. Wet noises rode lewdly, sweetly between us. I felt my balls tighten again, knew I should withdraw and come over her stomach, her face, something that would mark her as less. A whore. Not my whore. I knew this, I knew this..
When I came inside her, I shuddered with the violence of it. I groaned loudly, pushed into her more and then came some more, thick ropes of come shot out of me, each heralding another until the waves of pleasure subsided. I eased her leg down from my shoulder. Sweat was dripping off of me, splashing against her body, the floor. I moved to one side and collapsed on the floor. Black spots danced in front of my eyes. She curled against me and I didn’t mind, in spite of the heat, the way our bodies were sticky and wet. I didn’t mind.
There isn’t much I’m afraid to do. Sexually, I’m adventurous as hell, and I say that to an audience, who I know, could outpace me easily with a broad list of things I WON’T do. Men. Poop. Horses. All three at once. Outside of the bizarre or just what I consider not my thing - I’m good.
Your reading a man who had sex at his mother’s house (in a spare bedroom) while she was home. Someone who had amazing sex in a dark corner of a very vanilla dance club - that was fun. Public restrooms? Dressing rooms? Cars? Truck beds? Front yard? Dark Alley? Come on, toss me something hard. I’ve even done it in a tree.
Sex is as easy as getting a hard-on. I’d say it was almost auto pilot, but that would somehow negate my enjoyment of it. I love sex, it can be perfunctory, but isn’t the goal to keep it fresh? Some simply move onto another person when the new car shine wears off their current lover, others rise to the challenge of keeping it fresh.
Which are you, do you think?
No, my sadism isn’t born of a desire to ‘keep it fresh,’ but it does. While it might seem that I can’t be interested in sex without pain, I am. The pain is just to humor me sometimes. I love the chuckle I get out of watching her squirm under my hand, my cane, my whip or any other instrument I chose to use.
Pain is funny - even my own from time to time. When you’ve been through the wringer, anything less is just less.
It’s rather like putting yourself in a situation and saying - hey stupid, what were you thinking?
In short, sex, pain makes me feel alive. It stirs me. It’s my drug.