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Losing It

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She was bound to lose it...

Mike,  Enough endless talking.  You once said that it is not bragging if one can back up one’s words with action, and now it has come time to back up your words, mon petit.   Please see attached; everything has been arranged.  Yours, Jen.

No further explanation.

A ‘click,’ a mental turn as my brain processed those three short sentences, and time quite changed, my vision dimming as I read the attachment.  It read as follows:

Dear Mr. Stone,

Thank you for choosing Alaska Airlines. Please make note of the following details pertinent to your itinerary.  Please note that all designated times are local.

Flight 1085 departing EWK:  11:40 am 9 June 2017

Arriving SEA: 3:00 pm 9 June 2017

Flight 373 departing SEA:  9:10 pm 11 June 2017

Arriving EWK :  2:40 am 11 June 2017

There was more, but I didn’t register it the first time through. Just that she’d bought me a ticket, and the sign-off, Yours, Jen.

Yours, Jen.  Everything and nothing in a formulaic signoff. 

She’d used the closing before; from her it always seemed more than formula. Something special, something different.  I knew that it wasn’t, of course, just a reflexive closure, but from her... it was something to be noticed. 

The sign off, fuck, the entire message itself, was now also a kind of challenge, mixed in with a slight tinge of lust, and of hope. Who, exactly, was this woman that I thought I knew, to simply purchase plane tickets and so casually forward the itinerary with such a brief note?  One who expected her words to be obeyed, and obeyed without question, to be sure.

I shouldn’t have been surprised, I told myself, even as I read and re-read the email; anyone who could write “Tension,” an erotic story detailing the preparations taken by a woman who, upon coming off a long hospital shift, goes out for one reason and for one reason only -- to release that tension. Dressed to kill, or perhaps to seduce her prey, to hunt for a sexual partner for the night, a woman capable of writing “Tension” would certainly not be shy about expressing her need for something wanted, nor about expressing the fact that the hunt was now on, and her prey, that hunted beast, should well know his status in her world.          

And somehow, as was becoming immediately clear, as the words in the email soaked into my brain -- fogged over as it was with sudden onset of lust and excitement -- that someone, that hunted beast summoned willingly to his fate, had been chosen.

Chosen. I was the chosen one. The one chosen to take the last vestiges of her most sacred virginity, the one chosen to violate the wholesale virgin territory of her ass.  She somehow had come to trust me, come to know me, come to tell me things that she had never revealed to another soul. And now she was throwing down the gauntlet, challenging me to back up my words with actions.

Even so, I wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened. We’d met, in a roundabout sort of way, on a website that catered to readers of erotica.  “Literary porn”, she called it.  I hadn’t been looking to hook up or engage in a faux romance of the sort so unique to the Internet;  I had just been searching for a place to put my “literary porn” pieces, to let free the reins on that suppressed bit of my writing skills.

Maybe that was the key. I was there to write and submit my stories and read those written and submitted by others.  I was most definitely not there to pester women for chat, demand pictures, or insist on sending pictures of my cock.  The latter being, as reported both by my Jen (when had I started thinking of her as “my Jen?”)  and by other women I had come to know on the site, was a thing unfortunate, not uncommon, and never appreciated.

I imagine that perhaps my apparent nonchalance was refreshing.           

It didn’t hurt that she enjoyed my stories too, or that hers got me throbbingly hard every time I read one. She had just over a baker’s dozen on the site, but as Spencer Tracy once said of Katharine Hepburn, everything that was there, was “cherce.”  In many ways, it was a meeting of minds, albeit sexually frustrated minds.  Any woman whose favourite word was “irrumatio”  was a rare creature indeed. 

Don’t get me wrong, she was also strikingly beautiful, with a knowing, smoldering sexuality that radiated from her large, piercing, startlingly green eyes.  Even in photos, it seemed that with those most straightforward of sideways glances, she knew everything about me, everything there was to know or that was to be known, those intelligent eyes soaking up the secrets of my soul.

With a love for fine lingerie, she’d sent me various shots in various states of déshabillé. And then there was that photograph, sent almost without thought late on some weeknight, a photograph taken of her from behind, kneeling, legs spread.  That photograph, the one burned forever into the corridors of my mind. 

Her pussy and ass and everything else were waxed absolutely smooth, and the pale contrast of her translucent skin against the black velvet of the ottoman she was posed bent over... fuck, even thinking of the pic made my breathing change.  The thought of her wide hips, the curve of her waist, her slightly open sex a dark vibrant pink exclamation point against the pale and the darkness, the slightly exposed bit of her most virginal place… fuck.  I needed to get myself together, and fast.

Everything has been arranged.  It’s an oddity, isn’t it, how sometimes you find yourself not challenging certain assumptions, assumptions that your conscious mind has missed, even when they’re obvious.

We’d ached for each other for months, in much more than the literary sense, but in my mind the physical distance between us was something insurmountable.  Not just the physical distance --her own personal rules of conduct seemed a mountain equally insurmountable.  Yes, she had, and has, a running list of personal rules of conduct -- she being a woman who ran her life by her own code, and whether others chose to follow or not was of no concern of hers.

I don’t play with married men, she’d told me.  Were it not for Rule #1, Do Not Fuck With Married Men, I’d fly you out here, to the cool damp perfect of the Northwest, for the weekend, soak in your talent and your tongue and your cum and your everything.  You know damn well how much I love performing fellatio... to be given the privilege of taking you all the way into my mouth and throat, choking on you, struggling to breathe and absolutely loving every second of the struggle... to have you  explode deep inside of my mouth, to be given the privilege of swallowing every last drop... God, but I want that, Mike.  Want to kiss and lick and tease you to recovery, and after this recovery had been achieved, maybe you might take my anal virginity?

Always hesitant with that, that last bit, as if I’d refuse her request to introduce her to the wondrous pleasures of anal play and anal sex.  Always curious, she would invariably then ask, after being given the reassurances she sought, Would you want me on my knees, ass in the air, or on my back, with my legs pulled up to my chest? 

I never knew quite how to answer that one, except for with a decisive, all-inclusive “Yes.”  This had always seemed to satisfy her need for information.

Something had changed. Enough endless talking. Had the “tension” become a load too great for even her to bear? I didn’t want to question it; it felt as if to ask why would be to suggest that perhaps I might not want it as much as she did. And oh, how I did want it, how I did want her.

I was addicted to her, checking the website on my phone far more often than was prudent for a professional man of my standing. Looking for her to be online. Hesitant to always be the one to start our online chats, lest she start to feel I was a pest. I thrilled with excitement every time she declared her desire for me, and I despaired that somehow I might fail her in expressing how very much I returned her affections. 


The flight was uneventful, but five hours had never felt so long. I read the same page of my book for the first few hours, then tried watching a movie on my iPad, with no better luck. Her words and the memories of  those pictures flooded my mind;  her unashamed desire, tinged with a hint of shyness, left me paralysed with lust.  Oh, that shyness.  Perhaps born of having relatively little actual physical experience, compared with what her mind and body needed, it was something that made her almost inexplicably more desirable.  At this point, I did not care what that shyness was born of;  in just hours, I would be relieving her of everything, physical and mental, including that shyness.

The touchdown jolted me out of my reverie, and I soon found myself in an airport lobby that was quieter than what I might have expected at just past four or so in the afternoon. I looked around, wondering what was next. Jen had been intentionally vague. Fuck, everything she did, she did with intent. 

Everything has been arranged...

Would she be there waiting for me?  I scanned the crowd for her, figuring a woman six feet tall in her stocking feet would be easy to find.  Nothing.

The small crowd thinned out. I hesitated, not sure what to do next. Rent a car, get a cab? A part of me--a very small part of me-- was relieved. I wanted to see her, to touch her, right away, but I’d also been in transit for the better part of twelve hours. I needed a shower, stat.

“Mr. Runner.”

I turned, surprised by the sound of my nom de plume spoken here, in this, this efficiently friendless place.

“You are Mr. Runner, sir, yes?”  Not a question. The gentleman speaking glanced from his carefully palmed phone to my face and back again. She had, in fact, taken care of everything.

He took my carry on and asked after my checked baggage.  Soon enough, we  were at the de rigeur black Town Car.  He placed his right hand on the door handle of the left passenger side door, and then abruptly paused.  He reached into the left inside pocket of his suit and from it withdrew an envelope, which he handed over to me.

“For you, sir, from Miss Jennifer.”

The pale grey, heavy linen envelope securely in my surely unworthy hands, he opened the door and ushered me inside the car.  I held the small, perfect first hint of the gift that was to be mine for a moment.  Linen, not cotton. Heavy. “Bespoke,” she had once called her stationery, and now I understood the meaning as it was meant outside of the dictionary.  Her monogramme graced the closure, embossed into the weighty stock.

I slid a finger along the closure, and the very slight waft of a very particular perfume escaped, teasing my nostrils and my cock alike.  I pulled out and carefully unfolded the note inside, the paper itself a jewel to be handled with utmost care.

You’ve travelled some distance.  I am sure you’ll want to clean up and rest a bit.  Dinner will be delivered to the room and I do hope that you find it to your liking.  Anything that you find to be lacking, please alert the concierge.  You’ll be needing all of your energy reserves more than you can possibly know.  I’ll be there soon.  Not soon enough, but soon. Yours, Jen.

My cock hardened at her spare words, perhaps less at the words than at just knowing she had handled the heavy paper stock. A real note was infinitely better than an electronic facsimile. I couldn’t remember wanting a woman as much as I wanted her at that very moment. I read the note over and over again. The ride from the airport to the hotel was a blur.            

“Sir. We’ve arrived.” 

The car door swung open, and the cool, spring air of Seattle hit me square on, along with the inevitable mist, held off by the driver’s large umbrella.  I awkwardly unfastened my seatbelt and stepped out into the weather. 

I noticed, if only in passing, that a bellhop was already whisking away what appeared to be everything that I had brought with me. Only the envelope remained in my possession.

Turning to the driver, I reached for my wallet for a tip.  Before I even had my wallet out, he demurred. “I’ve been taken care of, sir. Enjoy your stay.”

Everything has been arranged...       

I walked towards the hotel desk.  Looking up, the clerk smiled, a warm, deferential smile, and without even asking after my reservation information, summoned a second liveried bellhop, who proceeded to nod at me and then, hand outstretched, turned to lead me towards the elevators.

I thought I detected a hint of curiosity at who I was, and why I rated the treatment I was receiving. I certainly wasn’t dressed for the part, in rumpled jeans and a polo shirt, along with a track jacket from the team I coached back East.  My imagination, I’m sure. This was not the sort of place where a guest would merit curiosity.

The bellhop, as with the driver, refused my offer of a tip.  He ushered me into the room, then politely turned and closed the door with a solid thunk behind himself.

Everything has been arranged...

Alone.  I began to relax. Alone.  The room was airy and large, windows framing a sparkling view of downtown Seattle and Elliott Bay. Perfect, and perfectly appointed, as appropriate to the Four Seasons Olympic Hotel.  The four poster bed was stacked with extra towelling and linens, each emblazoned with the hotel’s logo, and two sets of similarly emblazoned robes lay upon the pristine white down duvet.

In the centre of the room was a cart of food. On a platter of ice rested a dozen oysters: Olympias, Kumamotos, and Pacifics. Two bottles of Grolsch waited in a bucket of ice next to them. Almost before I realized what I was doing, I opened a bottle of the beer, with its distinctive swing-top cap, and took a fast swallow. God, but I needed this, whatever ‘this’ might turn out to be.

I squeezed a bit of fresh lemon onto the oysters, proceeding to make short work of them. The crisp, metallic taste of the sea slid down my throat.  The oysters were, I knew even as the last slid over my tongue, a sort of joke.  Jen was making it quite clear that she had plans for me.

Prey.  I was prey.

My hunger sated, I looked around the room. At the foot of the bed lay a small black velvet bag, tied with a long, red satin ribbon. Curious, I unceremoniously dumped the contents onto the bed.  At this, Jen’s plans for our little tête-à-tête quickly became less theoretical and far more real.

The contents of the bag included a length of silk rope, pink pincer-style nipple clamps with metal chains connecting the clamps, a stainless steel butt-plug with a rose-coloured jewelled base, and a bottle of Sliquid lube.

It occurred to me that for someone as in control of things as she was, the idea of giving up a great measure of control had to be inordinately appealing. My pulse quickened at the sight of the toys and props. My cock hardened also, reminding me of my need to shower before her imminent arrival.

I turned from the bed and strode towards the washroom.  It was, of course, commensurate with the rest of the hotel room, stacked as it was with towelling, the sink carefully displaying an array of amenities. I wanted to smell like me, though, so I retrieved a bar of plain Dove soap from my traveler’s kit and clambered into the shower, enjoying the luxuriously high water pressure.

My nerdy side chimed in now. No water restrictions in the Pacific Northwest? Makes sense.

I began to lather up, taking particular care with my cock and balls.  Not that it would matter to her -- she was plain and open about her love of fellatio, of sucking cock.  Clean, dirty, it made no difference in her pleasure.  Made sense, given that she loved the esoteric word “irrumatio” so much she’d written an entire story about just that word.

I stroked my soapy cock urgently for a few seconds, before fighting off the inevitable temptation. Everything was going to her. Everything.

Now my ass, sliding a slick, soapy finger into my anus, enjoying the feeling of the intrusion, the pressure on my prostate. I washed with care, though she, being a nurse, would surely arrive sparkling shiny clean, inside and out.  I scrubbed more vigorously, before commencing to rinse.

My cock pulsing painfully, my balls feeling heavy and achy, I stepped reluctantly out of the shower and towelled off.  I wrapped myself in one of the hotel robes hung with precision on the back of the washroom door and walked out into the room.


The waiting.  My phone showed no new messages.  I read her note again. Her perfume, wafting from the heavy stock, did nothing to ease my erection. Not soon enough, she’d written. I agreed.

I started playing with the silken cord, threading it around the posts on the headboard, and tying two loops for her wrists.  That would do.  Her legs needed to be free.  I carefully arranged the other toys within easy reach, the Swarovski crystal in the stainless steel plug glinting at me, taunting me, teasing my cock with knowledge of what was to come.

I sat myself now in an arm chair, clutching another Grolsch, waiting. A satisfied peace that comes from being well-fed and clean and comfortable ran through my veins, mixed strangely with a sexual need so powerful it made me want to pace the room.


Time passed strangely. It might have been five minutes, or an hour. Quiet steps passed by my room, muffled by the carpet outside and the sturdy, well-fitting door.  None stopped, no knock fell upon the door to this room.

Waiting.  The waiting was fucking killing me.

Then... a click.  Why hadn’t it occurred to me that she would have a key card?

Everything has been arranged...

A moment later, she was bending over me, pale décolletage glowing against a plain black wrap dress.  Hands on either side of the armchair, she bent, whispering into my left ear, soft pink glossed lips sending electric shocks of want down my spine.

“Wait long?”

I was rendered mute.  She was...glorious.  I rose from the chair, my robe falling open as I did so.  A perfect, soft, high laugh echoed through the room, reflected off of my cock, and lit my skin up with a mix of embarrassment and arousal. I started to wrap myself before being stopped by a thin cool hand on my right wrist.

“No.”  She was giving commands now.

In her strappy black heels she was at least six foot three, about five inches taller than me. No waif she, not with those heavy breasts and wide, perfect hips. Even through the dark fabric of her simple dress, I could clearly see her hardened nipples.  I wondered briefly if she was wearing one of those quarter cup bras that wouldn’t even cover her nipples.  Meant to display, not restrain, she’d always said.

I lifted my eyes from her frame to her face.  Her startlingly dark hair pinned loosely up, revealing a graceful length of neck highlighted by simple gold hoop earrings and a choker style Byzantine weave gold necklace.  High cheekbones framed a penetrating gaze, green eyes lit up with joy at seeing me, at touching me. I felt desired and lucky and insanely randy all at once.

She reached down and slipped off each heel.  Still taller than I could have imagined; I’d known that she was tall from what she’d told me, but understanding something and knowing it are two different things.

The kissing began without a word. She was hungry, desperately so, her lips parting to allow me full access, her hand reaching into my robe, finding my hardness without hesitation.  Her body seemed to melt impossibly into mine, and oh God, I needed this, needed to take her.  Now.  Right this fucking second now.

So far, she had controlled everything. Every last detail, she had controlled.  Down to the beer sitting, set down quite abruptly, now quietly ignored, on the cart.  No more.  She would be ceding power to me.  All of it, to me.

I spun her abruptly, roughly, so that she faced away from me, towards the foot of the bed, her ample hips and round ass pressed back into me. Cupping her breasts, finding and pinching her nipples, already distended with excitement, I felt the outline of the quarter cup bra I knew she had chosen so carefully prior to her arrival, and fuck...No, Mike. Control yourself.

My cock pressed as if of its own accord against her generous ass, that ass which I was about to strip of any vestiges of virginity, that ass that I would take before the night was through. The thought was almost too much to process.

For all of my experience, I’d never taken a woman’s virginity, of any kind, whether oral, vaginal, or anal.  At forty-three, I had stopped thinking it would ever happen. Now here it I was, with this woman who wanted nothing more than to please me as she herself was pleased.

A gentle shove, and she allowed herself to fall forward into the duvet, supporting herself on her elbows, obediently sticking out her ass for me.

I replied to her obedience with a silent obeisance of my own.  Pulled her dress up, exposing the tops of her black lace top stockings, over her alabaster thighs, over her generous hips, revealing the full extent of her ass, her most private bits coyly covered only by a pair of  black mesh and dark pink lace tanga cut panties.

It suddenly became very hard to breathe, as if the air had thickened without my noticing.

What happened next could not be helped.  My right hand came down on the glowing perfection of her ass, twice on each cheek, the sound of each blow echoing dully against the sound-absorbing luxury of the room.

She did not flinch.  Only a soft, wanting moan belied her desire.  The sound of her need, that perfect keening vulnerable sound I had heard so many times in so many telephone conversations, now made real, was beyond arousing.

“Stay the way you are”, I said softly, the first words I had yet uttered, “but reach back and pull your panties down. Then spread your cheeks and show yourself to me.”

She obeyed.  Reaching back, she began to pull her panties down as ordered. Shimmying the thin fabric down over her ass, over her thighs, finally stepping out of them with one foot before kicking the other foot sideways, sending her panties, that last bit of her modesty, flying across the room.

Breathe, Mike, breathe.  I was absolutely transfixed, but by what I did not know -- my absolute control or my absolute privilege?

Now... now, as directed, she reached back, slim manicured fingers grasping her own generous, soft flesh.  A brief pause, and then she spread her cheeks wide, putting herself on complete display.

Her pussy was already visibly wet, the inner lips engorged and the perfectly smooth exterior a beautiful, puffy frame for this portrait. Her startlingly pink interior stood out starkly against the ivory of her skin.  The crinkled bud of her asshole, her last virginity, was easily visible.

“Who’s this all for?”, I asked softly.


“Again.”  I punctuated my demand with another pair of sharp slaps to her ass. Her skin lit up further, reddening with the two overlapping marks of the slaps on each buttock.

“It’s for you… It’s all for you, Michael…”

“Good girl.”

Pleased, I crouched, the prey become the predator, to better examine what was mine, and mine alone, to take.

I knelt close enough so that she could surely feel my every breath reflecting off of her open sex.  That sex…that cunt, so dark pink, glistening already with want, her scent a mix of her perfume and her exposed, dripping desire.  I wanted nothing more than to taste her, but I took my time, letting her feel my presence a fraction of an inch from her center.

I breathed out carefully.  She would beg before I would begin…my lips were millimetres from her skin now, and she shivered slightly, surely feeling each exhalation.  Finally, it came…a soft, plaintive word, that singular word I so needed to hear.


Sprung from my own trap, I dove in, licking from bottom to top, pausing to let my tongue caress her knot, sending shivers through her body, then back down again.

Her cunt -- God, but her cunt tasted delicious. Tangy and clean--she’d always described her own taste as “blandly sweet”--sopping already with her own juices, betraying her need.  Her bare lips felt fucking impossibly smooth under my tongue, and I probed deeply into her wanton pussy, my tongue and fingers stretching her tight walls, exploring her, teasing her.

I wanted her to beg. There was something about this woman begging that was beyond all synonyms for “arousing.”

Time again slowed, or rather stopped, a fermata in a piece for orchestra, as I worked her willing pussy.  Her body slowly began to tense, then suddenly picked up speed, her hips grinding back into my face, her legs starting to shake…and then I stopped.

She wasn’t going to be allowed to enjoy the pleasure of an orgasm, not quite yet.

“Michael, please?”  She turned her head back to look at me over her right shoulder, the most plaintive of looks now gracing her face.

I stood up and smiled down at her, my face coated in her arousal, even as I reached for the plug and the lube. Her eyes widened at the sight, and she turned her face back into the duvet, bracing herself.  I unceremoniously squirted the cold lube down the crack of her ass, watching it trickle even into her hungry pussy.

Very gently, I touched the stainless steel  tip of the plug to her anus. She flinched, but held. The plug was shaped like an oversized metal strawberry: a definite point widening to a maximum about an inch and a half in diameter, before narrowing to the thin rod that connected to the jewelled flange.

Slowly, surely, I ran the tip of the plug around the rim of her asshole. And surely, slowly, she relaxed.

I began to exert persistent, even pressure on the plug.  Was she pushing her hips back against the pressure?  Fuck…

“Does it hurt?” I asked.  It had to be hurting, or at the very least, be a bit uncomfortable, as the wider portion of the plug began prying her open.

A soft moan, thicker somehow than the last, was her only reply.

“You want me to stop?” I turned the plug slowly, watching, transfixed by the stretching of her virgin ass.

“Please... Michael... non, s'il te plaît.”  She was losing her English.  Perfect.

Now I pushed hard, relentless in my pleasure, watching her tight ring of muscle stretch until the full circumference of the toy was inside her, and her anus closed around the thin rod.

She moaned into the bed.  Fuck.  The winking Swarovski jewel in her ass teasing me... fuck.  I couldn’t help myself.

I pulled her suddenly from the bed and nearly threw her to her knees in my feral hunger. A few yanks at her dress, and she came unwrapped, leaving her in her quarter-cup bra, black mesh and pink lace as the panties had been. I shrugged off the robe and stood in front of her completely naked, my cock throbbing inches from her face.

When she leaned forward, hoping to take me in, I held her away, my left hand on her forehead.

“Is this going to be a polite blowjob?”, I asked, answering my own question by rubbing my leaking cock on her cheeks, intentionally demeaning her, making her my good little whore.

Gazing up at me, she shook her head, casting her eyes briefly downward as she did so.  Still, she tried to take me into her mouth. Fuck. Control yourself, Mike.  My hands kept her from closing her lips around my cock.

“What’s it going to be then, slut?”

“You’re going to fuck my mouth and throat. Fuck my mouth and throat until I choke on you.”


“Because… because I’m your little cumslut.”

My little cumslut.  Mine.

It could not be helped.  I rammed my cock into her eager mouth, feeling her greedy, sucking need. I groaned in pleasure, allowing her to lave my shaft with her tongue. Allowing her a moment of control before abruptly taking her face in my hands and driving my engorged cockhead to the back of her mouth, forcing my entire shaft down her willing throat.

She choked, gagging for a moment, drooling profusely, moaning her desire around my cock.  I thrust hard, rhythmically, without thought to her comfort.  In and out of her mouth, owning her, taking the control she so desperately needed me to take.

I could manage only a minute or so of this divine abuse of her throat before I began to feel  the telltale tautening of my balls. As much I wanted the release, I had other plans for my first orgasm. Grabbing a fistful of her long dark hair, loosening it from the pins, I pulled her roughly to her feet, quieting her questioning mouth with a savage, selfish kiss.Again, she ceded control, allowing me full access, her body again melting into mine.  Tasting myself on her tongue for the first time...even with the cool air of the room on my wet cock, my erection demanded attention.

And again, it could not be helped.

I threw her down upon the bed, the soft pristine duvet glowing white around her now flushed skin.  Kneeling atop her, straddling her with my knees, lifting her thin wrists and pulling  the silk cords tight about each in turn. As I fastened the second loop, she raised her head from the pillow.

Feed me your cock, her eyes begged, but I instead kissed her, smiling against her lips.

She mewled in frustration.  Those green eyes burned now with a mix of fear and lust and love most perfect.

I clambered off of the bed, stepped back, surveying her.  My predator, my prey.

Her breasts heaved now, her breathing coming hard and fast.  The dark rose pink of her thick nipples and large areolae beckoned; her legs were drawn up, her knees fallen open, exposing the swollen aching pink of her pussy and the pink jewel of the plug. Everything.  Everything she had to offer was on display.

Breathing hard, trying to control  myself, I climbed up onto the bed and positioned myself above her supine form.  She struggled briefly against her restraints, wanting to kiss me, before I silenced her screaming hunger with my equally hungry mouth on hers -- oh God, her tongue.  Her tongue tasted of my own self.

I broke the kiss.  It was more than past time.  I reached down and positioned myself at her innermost entrance, my cockhead nudging open her desperate drawing petals.

“Please... my cunt...”

I smiled; she knew how much I loved hearing her say the word cunt, especially in her cultured, soft, Francophone Canadian accent. Seconds later, staring directly into the wide green eyes staring back into my own hazel eyes, I plunged into her, burying myself into her tight, sodden pussy.  She lifted her hips to meet mine as I felt myself slam into her welcoming cervix, felt myself forcing her open.

Oh God. She was so fucking tight.

The plug in her ass changed the architecture of her vagina, making it tighter than any I had ever encountered previously. It was a blur now, a haze of sex and her impossibly wet viselike pussy, the only sound her moans and the very audible squelching of my cock as it drew in and out of her body.

I grasped her bound wrists, enjoying that feeling of complete ownership that came with holding her down. Her breathing was shallow, fast; mine was, had I taken the time to notice, surely hard and rough.  Fuck... I was going to lose it, and soon. Resist.

“No.  Please... Michael, I need it, s’il te plaît?”

This woman can fucking read my mind...and just as that thought formed, I lost it, my orgasm overpowering me, hot spurts of my semen mixing with her juices, flowing unchecked onto the bed linens as I fucked her thoroughly and well.  Claimed her.

Claimed her.  Claiming her, literally and figuratively, felt surprisingly good.  Biological imperative, I suppose.

I collapsed against her, enjoying the almost too-intense synaptic jolts of post-orgasmic bliss. It was only when she shifted beneath me that I realised that the entirety of  my weight was wholly on her body, and I lifted myself, slowly pulling my cock from her still clutching, still desperate pussy.

She relaxed entirely, watching me.  Watching me.  The predator glinted briefly in those green eyes again.

I slid off of her and padded around to the right side of the bed.  I wasn’t at full hardness, but I wasn’t entirely soft, either.  I paused, leaning forward so that my cock was a taunting tease just above her lips.  She lifted her head, struggling to reach me, to taste me. I kept myself, with distinct intent, just outside of the reach of her begging mouth.

“Stick out your tongue.” She obeyed.

I drew up my hand slowly and firmly up my length to the tip, milking myself of another few drops of cum, which fell obligingly onto her eager tongue.

Watching her lick her lips, meeting her gaze… I reached down between her legs and dipped three fingers into her sex, coating each thoroughly in my own cum.  She trembled at the brief contact of my fingers with her sex but made no complaint when I took my hand away -- she knew what was coming next.

I presented those cum-slick fingers to her, allowing her to draw them knuckle deep into her mouth. My cock twitched at the sight of her slurping, sloppy, suckling lips.

“You really are my little cumslut, aren’t you?”, I asked.  I don’t know that it was a question.

She did not answer, only carefully mimicking fellatio on each proffered finger.  My cock was fully hard again, leaking, clear fluid sliding down my shaft.  It was time to hurry this up a bit.

“Enough.”  I pulled my fingers from her mouth, eliciting the tiniest of smiles from her -- she knew what was coming next, what next her tongue would taste.

Somewhat awkwardly, I climbed over her, facing the foot of the bed and arranging my feet on either side of her chest. I squatted down, presenting my ass to her face.

“My ass, Jen.  As previously requested.  Yours.”

I could feel her hot exhalations on my anus; she was breathing fast. She hadn’t done this before; it had been something she had read about, studied -- as she studied all things, with intent -- and it was something she had expressed a distinct interest in doing with me.

Me.  For all of my experience in all things sexual, I had never experienced what she had expressed, repeatedly, a desire to do, what she was about to do, what I knew she knew exactly how to do, in the theoretical sense -- a theoretical sense she wanted to make practical.

Me.  She wanted to make the theoretical experience into an experience most practical with me.

She hesitated perhaps a second, perhaps not at all.  I felt her soft wet tongue approaching my most secret place, and then...then an electric shock of pleasure stabbed through me as her tongue made first contact with my asshole.

My body stiffened at the brand-new intimacy -- it was almost too much. I was reminded of the being sixteen, the first time a girl had touched my cock, the intensity so great that it almost hurt.

“Jesus!” I moaned, momentarily losing control, pushing back hard towards her face, spreading myself even wider.

She did not pause.  Her tongue lapped around the rim of my asshole, fluttering, flicking, teasing. The pleasure radiated from my centre to every extremity: my toes, my fingertips, my everything.

My position... fuck.  Her pussy.  Right. There. So visible, so open, so ready.  Concentrate, Mike.

I cupped her slick, swollen, sodden sex with my right hand, my middle finger sliding into her as my index finger slowly circled and teased out of hiding her shy little clit. She moaned, lifting her hips slightly, even as her tongue grew bolder, more insistent.

All concentration on her was lost as she pressed the tip of her tongue forcefully against my anus.  I could feel the tip of her tongue worming into me, opening me, penetrating me. I felt both absolutely vulnerable and absolutely desired.  Absolutely safe.

I was blind with lust. Without knowing how I did it, I changed position, straddling her head, grasping at the headboard.  I didn’t pause. I didn’t ask. I shoved myself into her mouth and throat, burying myself balls deep, making her gag in surprise as my cock invaded her throat.

Again, I was merciless, thoughtless even.  Again, she moaned her delight around my cock, and again, she was my willing little slut.

Her eyes were wide with a mix of delight, lust, and concentration. Knowing that she loved what I was doing, that I wasn’t taking anything she didn’t crave giving, somehow made the act all the more powerful, all the more perfect.

Not now, Mike. Fuck. Control yourself.

Abruptly, if reluctantly, I withdrew from her wanting mouth. Both of us were panting, connected only by a thin line of saliva running from my glans to her glistening, cum-slicked bottom lip. My cock pulsed just in front of her face.

“Ready?” I asked.

We both knew what I meant. She gave a slight nod.


One word, and yet...that one word was tinged, in her slight accent, with a lust and--perhaps?--a barely concealed hint of fear.

My cock twitched at the thought of taking her last virginity.

“What am I going to do to you?” I asked. I wanted -- no, needed -- to hear her say it.

A smile briefly touched the corner of her mouth. She knew what I was up to, and she played along.

“You’re going to fuck my ass.  My virgin ass, fuck it, pound it, fill it, take what is yours to take.  Even if it hurts me. Especially if it hurts me, Mike.”

Her entire body flushed pink as she spoke these words, a flush that began in her cheeks, spread down over her breasts, to cover her belly and inner thighs.  She was more than ready.

I slid off of the duvet and walked -- God, how I wanted to run -- to the end of the bed, picking up the pink nipple clamps.  A wry, curious smile was playing on her face.  She knew what was coming, and she wanted it.  She wanted the pain, she wanted the pleasure, she wanted the everything.

Apprehension, anticipation, and perhaps a bit of impatience mixed in her expression as I walked back to the right side of the bed.  I ran the cool metal of the clamp around one dark, rose pink areola, teasing her as my free hand played with her sodden pussy, slippery beyond all knowing, soaked and slick as it was with her own arousal and my thick cum.

I traced careful circles around her clit before pausing to attach the first clamp to her thick, hard left nipple. A whimper briefly escaped her lips -- this had to hurt, her nipples being so very sensitive.

Her back arched and she whispered something unintelligible and desperate as I rubbed her clit hard, grinding down, mixing pleasure with pain, two more fingers probing deep inside her sloppy cunt.

Withdrawing my fingers slowly, teasingly, I leaned over her body, tracing the other pink metal clamp around her right nipple. This time, knowing that she knew now what to expect, I drew it out longer, torturing and teasing her before moving to attach the vicious clamp.

“Here?” I asked, running the metal lightly over her thick nipple. I held the clamp open, on either side of the absolutely vulnerable nipple.  All it would take for the clamp to bite down into her soft flesh was my releasing the pressure I was using to keep it open.

I kept the pressure on.  The clamp stayed open.  I ran the metal toy slowly, achingly, down her body, touching it to the engorged nub of her tiny, hard clit.


“No! Yes! No!” she cried, torn between horror and desire.  I laughed, a good, deep, yet grievous laugh.  The prey was again become the predator.

I gave her clit a little pinch with my free hand before running the clamp back up her body and unceremoniously attaching it to her right nipple.  The chain linking the two clamps glinted in the twilight falling over the room.

A single, abrupt, downward yank on the chain.  That was what was needed, and that was what was duly given.

“Mike! Michael!” Her back arched, her breathing coming fast as she fought to control the pain. Her breathing slowed again as I repositioned myself on the bed, lying between her parted thighs, examining the unique beauty of her pussy.

This was perfect.  The perfect beginning to the perfect ending.

Her bare, waxed outer lips were plump, slick with arousal and not a little bit of sweat. I spread her as wide as possible with my hands, exposing her in her entirety. Fuck.

Dark, deep, peony pink, her innermost lips were swollen, a marker of my earlier abuse.  A slight stream of my semen was leaking out, pooling in her fourchette, just below her tight opening.

Impulsively, I licked at her, my tongue tasting something so familiar and yet so strange. Her arousal mixed with my own cum. Fuck, Mike, you are one fucking lucky bastard.

My tongue lapped gently at her swollen want, cleaning her, readying her, until she lifted her hips and uttered that single word.  That one little proper noun.


She was done with the teasing, and on with the game.

Obligingly, I pulled slowly on the plug. The pucker of her anus stretched as I did, working to keep the plug in place.  I employed a bit more force, and her elastic asshole fought to stay closed around the cold steel, even clinging briefly to the girth of the plug. Then, quite suddenly, the plug came free.

Her asshole stayed open for a two-count, before winking shut again, as if the plug had never been.

Fuck, but she was going to be tight.

I teased the beautiful pucker of her anus with my tongue, flicking around it, not quite touching it, driving her crazy with desire for me to work my way to her forbidden centre.  Finally, I pushed my tongue hard and directly against her rosette, as she had against mine, the tip of my tongue just entering her, just enough to cause her to thrash, her legs wrapping around my shoulders and neck before falling back onto the bed.

She was crying out now, that keening moan, that desperate plea, my name mixed with something unintelligible, something in French.

I couldn’t control myself anymore. She had flown me out to Seattle for one reason, and one reason only--to take the last vestiges of her virginity, to take her ass.

I was now more than ready to oblige her naked want. Desperate, even, I was going to fucking defile her, to most definitively make her into the slut that she already knew herself to be for me.

I knelt between her thighs and stroked my cock with my hand, the hand into which I’d poured a generous amount of the cold lube.

She watched me, watched my preparations, with sort of oddly studious look. Only a kind of fire illuminating her face betrayed her anticipation, her desire, perhaps even her fear.

Silent, watching her watching me, I drew her ankles up onto my shoulders, exposing her everything in the most absolute of manners.

I smiled down at her, placing my slickened, glistening cockhead against her virginal entrance.

“Is this for me?”

“Please...Mike...”  Her voice, always soft, was now verging on the plaintive.

Jabbing my cock roughly now against her anus, I repeated the question.

“Answer the question.  Is this for me, Jennifer?”

Her entire body flinched, but her expression remained the same -- desire mixed with curiosity.

“Yes, Mike.”

“Is this for me?” I asked again, sliding up, penetrating her pussy briefly before withdrawing and pressing the engorged head of my cock once more against her asshole.

“Yes, Michael.  Please...”

“Is it all for me? All your holes?  Say it.  Say it now.”

“Michael, please!”

I began pressing the bulb of my cock forward into her tight anus, just enough to force it open, holding firm, even as I felt her trying to move her hips, to shift herself onto me. To her frustration, each movement of hers was matched with a mirrored movement, keeping my cock just barely lodged in place.

Now they came, the words I wanted--no, needed--to hear.

“All of my holes, Michael.  All for you.”

Not good enough. I pulled out entirely, eliciting a hiss of frustration.  Her face was crossed by a brief look of confusion, and then she spoke again.

“All of my holes, Michael.  All of my holes.  I’m your filthy little slut.”

“Good girl…” I encouraged her.

“Your dirty little cumslut, for you to fill with cum in all my holes. Please, Mike?”

I pressed forward again. Her ass stretched around the girth of my cockhead. Her hips lifted.   

“Tell me what you want,” I pressed.

“Fuck my tight little virgin ass! Please! Mike?” There was a querulous, quivering, desperate tone in her voice now.

She was playing a role, but the role was rooted in the reality of her fantasy, the reality of her lust.  Our lust.  Where the play-acting left off and the actual need began was something impossible for either of us to know.

I shifted my weight, clamping one hand heavily around the creamy length of her throat.

“Are you ready to be my little anal whore?” My hand pressed down, firm against her larynx.

Eyes wide, she nodded, desperately.

I eased up on her throat, now marked with the distinct pink of recent outside pressure.

“Say it.”  My voice was harsh, a growl I didn’t recognise.

“Please, Mike.  Fuck your little anal whore in her ass, give your little cumslut your cock and your cum!  Michael, please!”

She was in a place most unfamiliar now, a place where her lust overpowered everything. Reason. Logic. Restraint.  Politesse.

I smiled, watching her own smile disappear as I began pressing my cock forward, slowly, inexorably, entering her last bastion of purity.  Had I been in a more restrained frame of mind, I might have inquired after her well-being.

I was not, however, in a more restrained frame of mind. Not now.  Quite the opposite.  Centimetre by agonising centimetre, I forced my way into her virginal ass.

What I was doing was hurting her, judging by the slight tensing of the muscles of her jaw, and the good, civilised part of me, lurking just beneath this aggressive veneer, shuddered.

I was beyond caring about the civilised Mike.  In her face something else was also visible -- a liberation. A softening, perhaps.  A way of thinking of herself as a purely sexual being that had up until now lived only in her head, in fantasy.

The pain made it real, and the reality of the pain was a liberation, a licence of sorts.

Watching her face, the muscles in her jaw relaxing as the pain started transforming, twisting and turning, into pleasure. Without notice, I was quite suddenly balls deep inside of her.  Breathing heavily, I looked down now, the sight of my cock entirely buried in her ass a sight of wonderment and beauty.

I paused, the civilised Mike hesitating, holding off.

All too soon, however, civilised Mike was shoved aside in favour of pure animal lust Mike.

I began withdrawing, a feeling more startling and strange for her than the first penetration had been.  Readying myself for the denouement.

Her ass gripped me tighter than before, and her eyes seemed now even wider, something I wouldn’t have thought possible.  I continued to pull out until my cockhead was lodged once more at her elastic opening.

Now, quite without warning, I plunged back into her, harder this time, frantic in my fury to fuck her and fuck her well. Her body tensed under me; the muscles of her throat fluttered under my hand. Over and over I drove into her, over and over her back arching, over and over her hips lifting to meet my thrusts.

Her face contorting, her throat a butterfly beneath my hand.  I became aware of the light sheen of sweat sliding down her inner thighs, making them slippery on my shoulders.

My awareness of my own self began slipping away as my task engulfed me.  Sometimes I was leaning forward, kissing her hard, her legs still on my shoulders, her body bent double.  Other times, I was back on my haunches, ploughing into her as I played with her pussy or clit, or tugged on the chain connecting those vicious nipple clamps until I elicited from her delicious, desperate cries of pain.

My hands, one always on her throat, sometimes came together at her soft neck as I sodomized her; sometimes one traveled to her wrists, emphasizing her helpless position.  My free hand flew out as if of its own accord and slapped her across the face.

Her eyes fluttered, and for a moment I thought...but no.

The sharp contact of my hand against her cheek served only to inflame her desire. Her ass clamped down on me, the blow bringing a new animation to her actions.

My hand came down across her right cheek again. With every blow, she became more real, more mine.

I leaned forward and covered her body, pressing myself into her, the nipple clamps cool against my chest.  I kissed her without care, my tongue invading her mouth. I broke the kiss as abruptly as I had begun it. She was close.

The feeling of her clenching, clutching, needful ass seizing at my motionless, suddenly careful cock caused jolts of pleasure to ripple through my muscles and sinews.  Smiling what was surely an slightly evil sort of smile, I stopped all motion entirely, sunk balls deep inside of her body.

She would lose it for me when I was damn well good and ready for her to lose it, and not a second before.

Without coming out of her ass, I settled back on my knees.  Keeping one thumb on her clit, I released my grip on her throat and slid my fingers down to grasp the chains linking the nipple clamps.   Tugging on those chains like reins, I pounded into her with renewed fervor, rubbing her clit the entire time.

The noises falling from her lips were just that--noises.  An incoherent mix of words, possible words, moans, all punctuated periodically with my name.

In the dancing tightness of her muscles I could see and feel her climax building. I pulled tighter yet on the chains, enjoying the sight of her nipples distending even further as the cruel clamps exerted their unrelenting pressure.

“Michael…”  That was all, and then… then big muscles jumped in her inner thighs as her orgasm crashed into her, subsuming all she was at that moment beneath a wave of pleasure.

“Jennifer…” I grunted from between teeth I hadn’t realized were gritted.

I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but her orgasm made her ass even tighter, to the point where I thought she’d hold me quite immobile.  I fought her, fucking her through her clenched muscles, through her monstrous climax.

She threw her head back and screamed my name. My name.  The sight and sound of her losing it absolutely and completely turned me inside out before sending me tumbling over the edge into my own black pool of pleasure.

My orgasm unspooled in a seemingly endless explosion of liquid fire. I closed my eyes, grunting and thrusting, thrusting and grunting, for a final moment more animal than man, rutting into my mate.

When I came to my senses, I was covered in sweat; it was even dropping from my nose onto her stomach. The room reeked of sex; her chest was flushed and heaving from her exertions. Tiny beads of sparkling sweat decorated her brow.

I took her ankles in my hands and held her legs up and straight; I wanted a clear view of my cock exiting her ass. I pulled myself out slowly, watching the tight ring grip my glans to the very end, watching in careful amazement as my cock cleared her body.  Her sphincter winked slightly before closing completely again. No wonder she had felt so tight.

She sighed.  A sigh so sweet and so full of… what?  Contentment, satisfaction, frustration at feeling empty once more, all contained in a single sigh.

Then the request, the almost inevitable request, her tone low and throaty and needy all at once.

“Michael, give me your cum?”

I obeyed, settling between her thighs and licking deeply, from asshole to cunt, and back again, gathering all I could with my tongue. She tasted musky and tangy and utterly delicious; the dangerous, addicting taste of my own self dared me to continue, but I wanted to give her what it was she had requested.

I climbed up her body once more and kissed her, feeding her a healthy dose of my cum and her own self. She swallowed us down, then parted her lips, inviting me in, inviting me to kiss her again.

As we kissed, a more tender kiss than any we had yet shared, my stomach growled, making us both laugh. The oysters hadn’t really been enough to hold me.

Breaking  the kiss, as gently as it could be broken, I straddled her face yet again, presenting my softening, satiated cock to her mouth as I untied the silk cords from her wrists.

Her hands were free now, and cool, thin fingers dug into the flesh of my hips as she raised her head, guiding me into her mouth and throat now, not hesitating at all in her efforts to suck me clean. She seemed to be relishing the taboo aspect of what it was that she was doing, sucking my cock directly from her ass.

I groaned as she milked the last drops of cum from my shrinking cock. Merciless, she flicked her tongue over the head, drawing from me tiny tremors, aftershocks of my orgasm.

The intensity of her ministrations, however, soon became too much, too painful.  I pulled my soft, thoroughly emptied cock from her mouth, sliding down her body as I did so.

The nipple clamps were still in place. The pain that would come when I released each would need to be assuaged, and fast, and my mouth moved over her left nipple, my fingers resting lightly on either side of the clamp.

“Take a deep breath and exhale slowly.”

She obeyed without question, and on the exhale, I released the first clamp, closing my mouth over the thick, tortured flesh as the pincers came free.  She trembled beneath me, from pain or pleasure or some perfect mix of both, I do not know.

I moved to her right nipple.


As with the left, I released the clamp, and the trembling increased, even as my mouth worked to distract her from the pain.  After a few seconds, I stopped, sitting up and kneeling again between her legs.

I reached back and seized the stainless steel plug one more time, wiping it unceremoniously on the duvet before squeezing more cold lube onto the glinting metal surface.

“Wh-what are you doing?” she asked. For the first time, she looked legitimately at a loss.

Her answer came in the form of my lifting her legs, spreading her cheeks, and with a fast twisting motion, pushing that perfect plug into her violated, decidedly non-virginal ass.  She gasped, realising my intent.

“We’re going to dress for dinner now.  You’re going to wear that plug for me.  Go, clean yourself up a bit, if you want, but it doesn’t matter either way.  You, my love, are mine, and everyone we pass will smell me on you.”

She smiled. No words, just a blushing nod.

“Ça te plaît?” My French was ugly, but I wanted to be sure that she liked my little proposal.

“Absolument,” she replied, sitting up to kiss me gently on both cheeks.

With that, we each dressed, me in fresh clothes, she in the dress she had come in, after a few minutes spent in the washroom.  She emerged smelling of her perfume again -- her perfume and my seed.  Perfect.

She made a single call, picked up her clutch, and took me by the hand, leading me towards the door.

“Thank you, Michael.”

With that, we stepped out of the room into the corridor.  Dinner awaited, at whatever restaurant she had arranged for in that single call.

I gripped her hand tightly, whispering my own words as we walked towards the elevators.

“De rien, ma petite chouette.”


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Copyright © Copyright © 2017 HeraTeleia

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