She waits, on her knees, eyes on the floor. She knows he is watching her, and waiting as well. Observing her. Scrutinizing. She waits to hear his ringing command.
“Position!” His voice is low, relaxed. Melodic. But she knows better, and snaps to attention immediately: knees sliding shoulder width apart, raising herself up to straighten her spine, hands resting palms up on her thighs. She is proud of her obedience, and yet as he approaches her, her head automatically tilts downwards at the humiliation of her actions, of her openness.
“Good.” He circles her once, checking her position. And then he begins the inspection. First his fingers knead a breast, testing its firmness. They circle towards the nipple, a thumb and forefinger grasping the areola and pulling sharply. He seems pleased by the gasp that is elicited, and pulls harder. Her stability is threatened, and with soft whimpers she strains to keep her position.
With a final twist, he releases the now swollen nipple, and continues on. Two fingers penetrate her mouth, probing, while the other traces down her arms, her back, feeling her muscles. He bends down lower, taking his fingers out of her mouth and replacing them with his lips. His hot breath mingles with her own, biting her lower lip before drawing away. He looks at her, and she looks down, breathless.
His hand trails downwards, across her shaved sex, and he probes between her lips, testing for her wetness.
He sees her eyes squeeze shut in humiliation. He laughs softly to himself.
“Good. Very good.”
Grabbing her hair, he pulls her onto the ground in front of his feet. He gives her suddenly raised ass a slap, then removes the belt from around his waist and winds an end around his hand. The leather creaks slightly. He hears a small intake of breath from below him, as she prepares herself.
The first blow hits squarely across her ass, leaving a bright red mark. He quickly goes into a steady rhythm, pelting her ass and thighs, admiring the scarlet color he is making. Every now and then, he pauses to probe into her again.
Finally he stops, but it is not because of her tears. He has other plans. She hears him move around behind her, then suddenly something shockingly cold is being smeared on her asshole.
He uses the lube liberally, slowly working his finger inside. She is beyond humiliated at this invasion, lets out a low moan. Heat is still emanating from her welts, and she winces as his fingers grasp her asscheeks.
Once his finger moves easily in and out, he removes it and lubricates the plug at his side. Slowly, but persistently, he eases it inside her, stretching her sphincter…filling her. She gasps as the widest point brings her to the edge of pain…and then it is in, the base pressed firmly against her ass.
Standing up, he picks the belt up again, and without hesitation resumes where he left off. Except now, each stinging hit is aimed straight across the base of the plug, each hit resounding against the silicone. She groans, fingers digging deep into the carpet as each hit jars the plug, moves it inside her rectum, plunges it deeper inside her. She is trembling from the sensations, and from the knowledge that her wetness has leaked down her thighs onto the carpet.
The sharp slap of leather against skin is still ringing in her ears when he stops. He pulls her back up by her hair, steps in front of her, cock already out and glistening. Without word he thrusts into her mouth, and without word she swallows, letting the thickness fill her mouth and invade her throat. She works her tongue, eager to please, and when he withdraws so that only the head is between her lips, she steadies herself mentally to be throat fucked.
There is a slight pause, between his lack of movement and the warmth that begins filling her mouth, where she does not register what is happening. Then the acrid, overpowering odor of urine hits her full force, and she automatically gags. But his hand is tight in her hair, leaving her no room to move. She must gag or swallow.
Trying to push aside the immense, automatic repulsion, pushing back all thought, all rationale, she begins to take large swallows around the head of his cock. She hears deep, low groans from above, knows he is watching her intently, feeding off her humiliation and submission. It in turn feeds her will, to continue swallowing…to fight off the invading thoughts of the act she is doing, or what she is swallowing. To hear those groans of pleasure…makes her heart soar.
When his bladder is emptied inside her, he lets out a long, sated sigh. She looks up briefly, enough to see the dark pleasure in his eyes…the glow of power. His hunger has awakened now. He pushes her onto her back, and she cries out as the momentarily forgotten plug is pushed deep inside her, and the carpet rubs against her reddened ass. He is down on top of her, already spreading her thighs with his legs, head lowered onto her neck, then her breasts. He thrusts in smoothly, feels the plug pressing her muscles even tighter around his cock. So hot…it is overwhelming. He bites down hard on a nipple as he begins pumping into her…forcefully…every stroke emphasizing the friction of the two phalluses, the complete filling of her body. Her gasps are hot, the acrid taste still strong in her mouth.
She rides the sensations, and as he fucks her harder, faster, grinding against her, she loses control, grappling against his body, muscles spasming, her limbs wrapped around his body, seeking an outlet to the fire that is consuming her. Her eyes roll back, she forgets to breathe…and still he pounds into her, growling into her neck as he feels the pressure build…build…rising and expanding until the dam bursts. He continues to fuck her, around the thick semen that he is shooting inside her, for a short while longer, before collapsing on top of her.
Yes. I’ve been indulging in some visual treats…Sigh. I don’t think I will ever get tired of the boxer bulge.
The prospects don’t look good here…but then again, I haven’t really been looking. And I’ve been with the family for a large majority of the time. Perhaps things will, ahem, pick up once I am more familiar with the city, and once classes start and I’m not so perpetually surrounded by family (supportive though they might be, I don’t think any of them qualify as my matchmaker).
In the meantime, my fingers are crossed and…busy.
“How many relationships have you been in before?”
She blushed self-consciously at this. To admit that, at 25, she had only had one prior boyfriend seemed so shameful to admit. She felt it showed her in an undesirable light, or perhaps as too prudish. She battled internally, wondering at the propensity to think of things as ‘too few’ or ‘too much.’ What, then, was the ‘correct’ number of relationships to be in by one’s mid-twenties? What foolish thoughts…
She looked up, realized he had been gazing steadily at her. Waiting. A slightly cocked eyebrow showed a thinly disguised interest, as well as a little impatience, at her hesitation.
“Your cheeks are bright red. What are you embarrassed about? Have you had none? Or twenty?”
She shook her head, and finally spoke: “Just one.” And she cast her eyes down at her plate.
He laughed now, not meanly, but seeming genuinely surprised. “There is nothing to be ashamed of. I can tell you have high standards. However, I’m sure,” and here his eyes seemed to glint as he grinned confidently, “that I will be able to meet those standards.”
She laughed despite herself, and felt the cold anxiety that had filled her stomach drain away. They fell into relaxed conversation after this, exchanging interests, peeves, passions, anecdotes – those things that encapsulate introductory meetings. The red wine warmed her blood so that she felt a pleasant prickling under her skin.
All too soon, it seemed to her, the waiter came with the bill. They stood up together, walking out into the warm night air.
She declined his offer to walk her back to her place, but he insisted, and she gave in, secretly glad for his company. A hazy part of her mind warned her of the danger of leading an almost-stranger to her home, but she shrugged it away as they began to walk. He was so easygoing, so carelessly confident. It filled her senses like a drug, and she wondered if she would be able to resist, should he push…should he ask to go in with her. An inner voice chastised that of course she would! She wished that voice would be silent.
But, when they arrived at her door, he just squeezed her hand warmly, kissed her on the cheek, and bid her a good night. She went inside and stood for a moment, in the darkness of her home, going through those last few moments in her head.
Finally she flipped on a light and went to her bedroom, shedding her clothes as she went. She threw the discarded clothes into the hamper by her bathroom door, made to turn back to her room, then paused.
Taking a step into the bathroom, she opened a drawer and took out a silver vibrating bullet.
The past couple days have been relatively activity- and family-filled, and I have had neither the time nor energy to write much (or reply to comments-my apologies!). But I am refreshed and smelling of sulfur from a trip to the hot springs, full like none other from a 10-dish meal (with leftovers for tomorrow), and somehow the combination of the two has left me exhausted.
This must not continue! I feel, in turns, like a lazy potato and a pig. And I have been noticeably lacking in energy (probably it is all being spent scratching my mosquito bites). I need to exercise! The running routine I had become settled into at home is being completely neglected here. I will have to be more proactive. And I need an iPod armband.
Alright…this is all the update I can muster for now…lying on my stomach on my floor mattress.
More to come! At some point…
It’s time to come clean.
A silent battle has been raging in me for so long I can barely remember what it was like before it began. I feel as though my life has been abruptly divided into the before and after of when I first developed self-image issues, and when I first allowed my appearance to dictate my behavior and beliefs. The hazy chasm lies somewhere after the beginnings of puberty, which seems logical enough.
I am talking, here, primarily about my face. In the general areas of physical appearance and health, I am less inclined to hate myself. Except when it comes to my face. Once puberty, and the resulting pimples, hit, I could not leave my face alone. My attempts to purge these invasions of my skin quickly devolved into successive lasting habits. Everything I’ve done leaves my face burning, both from myriad creams and concoctions (that first were bought for me, then that I later began buying myself), and a deep guilt and contempt. And every attempt only furthers the degradation of my self-esteem.
And yet I cannot stop it. My hands are drawn to my face like a magnet. Especially when I am bored, or nervous, or when my hands are otherwise unoccupied…
It is a thing both humiliating and humbling for me to admit, and I have never divulged this to others. I am fenced in by my pride and stubbornness; by the complexity of my personality and upbringing. I hate that I lack the willpower to overcome this myself (though of course the above factors refuse to allow me to admit this). But most of all, I wish I were not consumed by this vain desire. I wish I were not so self-conscious and superficial.
Somewhere along the way, I have developed this strained, desperate belief that clear skin will be the panacea that improves my life. This half-crazed hope persists, despite my knowing that it cannot solve all my problems.
Perhaps there is some truth to it. I fight my obsession daily. It is constantly on my mind.
What would it be like, to be free of that burden?
There are more threads that feed into this: tributaries of influence from my environment. I grew up with the exalted tales of my mother’s beauty and flawless skin, of her many suitors. I live among relatives with high scrutiny towards appearance, fashion, and brand names. Who constantly compare each other’s heights, weights, pant and bra sizes, and blood type; numbers and digits fed into their incomprehensible equations for judging personality and likability.
Again, I cannot stop wondering: how did I end up in this family?
The drama I infuse into this seems almost comical. Perhaps I need to learn to take myself less seriously…
Addendum: Oh, my, what a way to celebrate the culmination of this blog’s first year. Ah, well. One year, go figure. Some days I’m still surprised I keep writing here. Even more so that people keep reading.
His finger draws circles lazily around her clitoris, occasionally veering off its well-trodden track to extract more fluid from the lubricious folds lower down. There seems to be a steady supply, leaking from where he has nestled himself, comfortably. Firmly. Unquestionably.
The undulations of her hips are inevitable. The too-sweet sensations administered by his hand cause her to gasp, lift her body up and back, spine arched. She rocks so that he is filling her, pressing against the soft spongy tissue beneath her pubic bone. He in return thrusts back, hips pressing into her backside, the gentle curves of her ass flattened against him.
Two vectors, opposing forces colliding head on, building pressure, rising and cresting in their mutual dance.
She is splayed out before him, arms spread and raised high. As he prefers. His fingers are free to roam where they will, drawing blood to the surface of the skin they touch, like some vascular magnet. They grasp, pull, pinch, extracting the sounds from her that he wants to hear. He plays her, fingers dancing and hips thrusting slowly.
Finally, she is perfectly tuned. Her whole body is vibrating, nerves saturated with the sensations he’s wrought. He has only to push her over, if he chooses. His thrusts into her slow in response to her quickened breath, keeping her on the razor’s edge as he considers.
Yes. He wants her to go over. He wants to feel her shuddering ecstasy bearing down on his cock. One hand grasps a nipple to pinch and twist, while the other resumes its place between her thighs. He pounds into her mercilessly.
She does not come quietly. It is as if the orgasm is torn out of her, through her vagina and through her vocal cords. Torn out, and fed to him, fueling his own climax. His nails dig into her, his teeth find its primal outlet at her neck. Two bodies, locked as one.
As he comes he fucks her harder, his grunts strangely harmonizing with her keening. His semen dripping down both their thighs. He feels the rage of lust dying away, his energy seeping away, into her, dripping from her. Their breathing, ragged and shallow, slowly synchronizes.
A quick update, since I have some time to waste and paid to get the internet connection here–“here” being Tokyo’s Narita Airport. There’s a 3-hour layover, and I’m groggy and bored. Not to mention I got both of my swiss army knives confiscated by security (stupid of me, I know). Sigh.
I must say, this is one of the nicest airports I’ve seen, and I’ve been in a few. I’m a bit wary of going to the many duty-free stores and spending an excessive amount of money, though I was urged to go there to buy gifts for my relatives. I have no idea what to get them, though. I hate looking for gifts for people “just because.” Such as, just because my mother wants to keep face with her relations abroad.
Anyhow, I can’t wait to get to a bed and sleep. Even though I slept most of the 13-hour flight, I doubt I ever entered REM sleep. I did, however, enjoy playing with the various channels on the monitor above my tray, including one that showed a camera’s view from somewhere in front of the plane. I thought that was pretty neat, a cool touch. Various movies played throughout the trip, including Blood Diamond, The Prestige, and I think The Aviator.
And, apparently, I’ve been confusing Leonardo DiCaprio with Matt Damon all this time. Oops.
‘Til who knows when I next have internet access…