Part 2
* * *
How come assholes always have all the best women? It was an interesting
philosophical question for the good part of my youth. It bugged me, it hurt me,
I was so easily driven to tears those days. I used to wear glasses. I
masturbated like hell. I wanted all those girls and they all seemed to fall for
guys who were not worth any respect. I thought they weren't. I was such a child.
I wasn't worth any respect back then.
Anyway, one matures with time. Providing time doesn't kill you. I matured. I
grew up to be an asshole, just like those I hated in school. I worked really
hard, it took me decades of effort. I practised being insincere and slick. I am
pretty good at it right now. My haircut is excellent and I wear extremely fancy
shades.
I am not saying I am getting all the best women, though. Come on, let's be
realistic, being slick and reasonably famous within a specific social circle
helps, but we are talking real life and real people here. But I can't complain.
I did well over the years. I was even able to sense more than few jealous
glances drilling their way through my skull trying to melt my feeble brains and
leave a smoking puddle inside. I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel flattered.
Because I understand now. I am not a better person than anyone. I am just ready
to do more than many people to get sex, it's as simple as that. I want sex. I
need it. It's my obsession and hobby, it's a way to pass the time. It can be
magic sometimes. I need magic sometimes. I am grown up now but I do. Most
important, I do not fool myself. I have been with quite a few women knowing that
it is just sex I am looking for. It was clean and neat as far as I was
concerned.
I sometimes look at Clarissa when she is not aware I am watching. Those are rare
moments because she puts in a lot of effort to be at my service whenever she is
around. But sometimes she is busy with whatever it might be at the moment and
she is so devoted to the task that I can play my little voyeuristic game,
knowing that she is not conscious about the way she presents herself to me. I
try to detach myself from all knowledge I possess. I try to look at her as if I
have never met her before. To look at her, consciously, not just see her as an
object I have grown accustomed to in my environment. Those are rare moments and
I try to soak myself in them, not just devour her with nervous, hungry looks. I
try to be the other guy. Not the uninvited, confused one who has clumsily torn
through Clarissa's innocence and shyness and found himself as surprised and
frightened as her. I try to be the outsider, the one who was never aware of her
nature, I try to look at her and imagine how it would be to have sex with her. I
try to feel "proper" sexual desire towards her, try to push dark and violent
movements and pulsations of my mind as far into the corners of my skull as
possible. I try to look at her as at a girl I have barely just met, I try to
understand what I'd feel towards her.
Because, you see, she is different today. She is not the way she was back when
we met. I have shaped her. It is scary. I never thought I'd shape a human being
before. Not me, not Nick. Not me, I could never have a puppy when I was a kid as
my parents told me I wasn't responsible enough. Fuck, I was, I kept losing
stuff, forgetting promises and appointments. And I shaped her. And, yes, I was
shaped by her too. This is the strangest aspect of our relationship, I stand
back and witness myself being someone else. I sometimes wonder if the guy in the
mirror understands that I am not sure about him any more. She has changed me.
Deeply.
And I have changed her. She was a handful of silent sighs and nervous glances
and she was white embraced by black. That much I could understand and work with.
Black was always the colour to dream in and wander through. It was the colour of
people who made their choice, the colour of mystery and threat and promise and
all those concepts you find goths of this world waxing lyrical about in their
journals and online blogs. Quite predictably, I have always had an affinity
towards black. I make no apologies for that, the colour has always been so
widespread through the spectrum of fashions that I never felt like my cover will
be blown and everyone will find out I was always after looking like heroes of my
youth in all those comic books and films...
So it was not a great departure after all. She used to wear black before. The
black that concealed and made the edges softer, the black that was polite and
somewhat rigid. I made her wear black that is obscene and sharp, the kind of
black that is mysterious but suggestive, shiny and piercing. The black that
marked the change in our relatioship, the change in her and, yes, the black that
painted the thoughts and images in my head for so long, the black that matched
my new face, my new name, my new eyes and ears and tongue and liver and hair and
fingers. It matched my clothes as well.
It was an effort, a matter of passage of time, a part of the development of our
relationship, a portion of her training. She dreamed of it. I made her say it
loud more than once.
"i am a slut... i always dreamed of being a slut... someone's slut. thank You,
master, thank You for forcing me to be what i am, a slut, a whore for Your
pleasure."
The soft yet dedicated voice. The words that make my skin crawl.
She did, she accepted it. I have always had a thing for sexy clothes. I guess
decades of conditioning by porn have had an effect. Clarissa just slipped into
the role. Not overnight, of course. Consider this: she was only searching for
her true self. Searching, looking for directions. And I knew that there is much
more to be gained from a series of small victories rather than one huge violent
takeover. I guess there must have been some guilt there too, following the
circumstances our first lovemaking went under. My problem IS that I am still not
sure about any of this. So I took it slowly, step by step. Making her accept it
one step at a time.
Clarissa, my Clarissa... I look at her and I see the black in her hair, the
silver in her ears, the white and black contrast on her face that I have imposed
on her. Her eyes and eyelashes. And lips. I have always found black lipstick to
be extremely sexy. Sadly, few of my girlfriends thought it is more than a joke
and those who did usually put me off by taking about inner energy and preferring
vampire over zombie films. Clarissa's lips are black whenever I want them to. I
shiver just thinking about burying my cock into her warm mouth, seeing her black
lips stretched around my flesh, her black fingernails on my skin, caressing my
balls, my inner thighs...
She accepted it all: stockings and suspenders. Just for me. High heels. My slut.
She made my fantasies come true and, unlike paid prostitutes every one of us has
to deal with from time to time, it made difference to her what it did to me. She
put in an effort, she wanted my reality to be better than my fantasies. She made
sure she is a slut for me, a whore to make all whores of before pale in my
memory. She transformed. The clothes transformed her. Her lust augmented by her
slut clothes. Her character shaped around her looks. Her poses, her movements,
her voice and looks and the words she spoke, everything.
When I bought a tiny silver chain for her ankle she nearly fainted from
excitement. I explained to her that this was to be a symbol of my dominance over
her. The chain to mark her as my property. The collar for my bitch. She
understood.
"thank You, Master. i will wear it always. i will sleep with it and shower with
it. i will never take it off. i will never ask permission to take it off. i will
always remember who my Master is. i will never take it off"
And, yes, she was so frightened when she was having her belly button pierced but
she accepted it as yet another symbol. And she was brave throughout, and when
the woman asked her whether she is getting other ones soon, she blushed and
couldn't look me in the eyes.
There haven't been many women in my life who'd do these things for me, without
demanding so much in return. Clarissa always had in mind only one thing: my
pleasure. It is selfish being aware of this and revelling in it. It is selfish,
I am selfish. And when it's the middle of the night and she is crawling in front
of me, her soft mouth working on my genitals, all dressed like a whore in her
stockings and high heels and her black make up and her chains and silver rings,
when she is humiliated and hurt and described as worthless and when she is
denied pleasure, when she is denied orgasm, despite the fact that she has been
pushed near the limit with dildos and balls and my own flesh and whips and
bottles and harsh words, when she is craving to cum and yet she knows that she
mustn't, I know that is when she needs me the most, when she is most grateful to
me for giving her what she needed so much. My selfishness... noble and selfless.
It is not easy to understand even now...
It's like a scene from a dream...
She is only in her stockings, standing on her toes. I find it incredibly sexy,
her feet and her legs strained from the effort to keep her body as high in the
air as possible. There are small details that I take time to revel in. The
silver ring on one of her toes shines the light back into my eyes. I bought it
for her and made her beg and offer me her anus before I let her have it. She was
pleading, begging to be whipped and fucked in the arse, begging to be humiliated
and used so she could be marked with another symbol. The silver ring... The
silver chain on her ankle. Her feet are curved, it's so sexy... Her toenails are
black and shining.
Her body shivers from the effort. It glistens with silver of her sweat. It
trembles and pulses. I am not sure how much more she can take. I am a bit scared
too, but I'll be damned if I let her see that.
Her breasts are red and swollen. Her nipples are huge, purple in colour. I used
the black rope to tie her hands behind her back, really tight. The arms are in
an uncomfortable position, but I am guessing that right now this is the least of
her worries. I have used another pair of her black stockings to tie her breasts
up. I made her kneel when I was done tying her arms and I made her bow forwards,
so that her breasts hung down. Then I encircled both breasts with one stocking
each and tied them really tight. The stockings went around three times. It must
have hurt her, but that was only the beginning. I left it like that for a couple
of minutes until they grew really large and red. I told her she looked like a
slut. She was in pain and my insults were adding to it. I made her beg me to
fuck her breasts. She was in pain and she begged me to stop and let her off the
hook, she promised to grant my every wish if I make the pain go away, but... I
knew what to do. I knew what it is she really wanted. And I didn't give in,
despite her begging and despite her eyes giving my belly spasms. I made her beg.
I pinched her nipples and pulled her hair. She moaned and I laughed. She begged
in the end, she begged me to fuck her tied and swollen breasts, she begged after
being forced to beg by use of pain and threats. I fucked her breasts and she was
instructed to open her mouth so I can dip my cock in with every thrust. She
obeyed and her breasts... they were so hard and so hot...
Then I took another piece or rope and tied her already hurting breasts together.
And, ah, then I tied another long piece of rope to it and looped it over the
roof bar. Yes, I did, I swear I did. And I pulled. She begged. She knew. She
understood what it was I was doing. She saw what was coming. She begged me not
to. Her voice was cracking with fear, cracking with pain. She begged to be let
go, she was panicking, she was begging. And I pulled, forcing her to stand on
tip toes, to avoid pain, to avoid damage. And I left it like that, securing the
rope, so that she had to stay in this position.
"This will definitely keep you on your toes, Clarissa."
I was waiting to use this punchline all night. Ahh, surely, somebody else would
have come up with something better.
I listen to her scream. "nnnnnoooooooo" and "pleeeeeaseee". It is heartbreaking.
It is so fucking exciting. I have such a fucking hard on. I am such a bastard. I
hated assholes when I was a kid. But I am an asshole now. More than that, I am a
bastard, a piece of scum who tortures his girlfriend with sadistic efficiency
and, God help me, I find it so arousing. She is helpless and in tears, her body
trembles, her legs are so beautiful, strained and hurting, her face, the mask of
pain, the face I love.
"Be still for a moment, slut", as the camera goes off, clicking and clicking. I
want her to wait a bit more and, more importantly, I want her to be aware that
the moment of her pain and disgrace is being caught on film, preserved. Yes...
The moment of her humiliation and agony, the moment of her beauty, the moment of
her utmost femininity... Clarissa. You have given me things I never dared
imagine.
Her shame and her pain go on. And on. She is crying, the thick, black dildo in
her anus shoved deep in. She is crying. Her words are a series of sighs and
choked exclamations. Breathing in between cries.
"please... please, Master, please, i can't take it any more... please, sweet
Master, please, let me go, i can't take the pain... i will do anything... i will
be the best slut my Master ever had, just make the pain go away, please..."
Cry, Clarissa. I can not feel your pain, I can but stand breathless and watch
you in your agony, pleading to be saved, listen to you beg. I am listening very
carefully, but the word doesn't come. I am half expecting, half hoping she will
use the word. Because I am scared. I am scared she will allow me to hurt her, to
damage this sweet, this sacred body in front of me, rather than use the word and
admit that this is just a game.
This is just a fucking game. I am putting her through hell. She is going through
hell. This is her hell - designed for her, custom made and delivered with
attention to detail. She needs it, she sinks deep into its fiery pits. She never
uses the word. You fucked-up, silly girl, you fucking unbelievable creature,
please be brave, please hold on to your sanity as the worst is yet to come.
In this nightmare she is the victim.
"This is what you deserve. This is your punishment."
This is her punishment. This is her nightmare. This is her fucking dream come
true. This is her dream of fucking come true. This is her nightmare. This is her
award.
I whip her breasts. I place nipple clamps on her already unbelievably swollen
nipples. I taste them first. I have to, they are something from beyond this
world. I taste the very flesh of sin itself. It's hot and throbbing. I can taste
the pulse of her heart.
I whip her breasts as she stands on her toes, helpless and crying, hanged by her
breasts, her hands tied on her back, her nipples cruelly crushed by metallic
clamps. Designed to hurt.
My Clarissa.
The word. She never says the word.
I shove my fingers up her cunt. No. nononononono. God. God. God. After all the
pain, after all the torture. She is leaking, her cunt is dripping with juices.
Clarissa, how can you? Clarissa, what made me the one to deserve this? What made
me the one?
"You are dripping with excitement, slut. You fucking whore, what do I have to do
to break you?"
She is on the edge, her body can not take much more. I am sure about this, it
has to be true. She is in agony, clutching at the last atoms of strength. And
she begs. And she never once says the word. She...
"please... please, Master..."
"What? What is it, whore? What is it you have to say that I could be possibly
interested in hearing? You fucking slut, you just need cock, that's all, you
bitch, you'd fuck anyone, anywhere, just to have your fuckholes filled. You
disgust me."
And her legs are now trembling, visibly. It's a matter of minutes. I have to be
careful. I can't have her collapsing. No, I won't think about it. I can't have
her hurt like that. I have to end this soon.
She has the word to use. To use it the very moment when she is aware she can not
take any more. The word is not a usual word, it's not something she'd say just
like that, something she'd spit through her lips when pain is inflicted upon
her. The word is special and the word is intimate, it's just between the two of
us. She has to make the conscious effort to use it. If she was to use it, I'd
stop whatever it is I am doing at the moment. I, her master and tormentor. She
has this power over me, the power of one tiny, two syllable word. And her gift
to me... her gift to me is her decision never to use it. She never used it. She
is not using it right now. She is placing her body, her body and her spirit into
my hands. She surrendered everything. She gives it all to me. To use it as I
please, to hurt or mutilate her if I please. She is giving her self up to me.
She is not using the word. I have to end this soon, Clarissa, I have to end this
soon to save you, Clarissa. To justify your trust, your surrender, to
demonstrate I am worthy of your gift.
But not too soon.
"So, slut? What do we do? You have any suggestions? Try and tell me why is it I
should stop punishing you for being such a whore."
And she is on the brink. I can only imagine the agony she is going through.
"please... please, Master, please, Sir Nick, please, punish me, i deserve to be
punished for being a whore, i am unworthy of You, i am a cheap, no good slut,
unworthy of my Master..."
Oh, God, oh, fucking, fucking God... Fucking Jesus Christ, can it be you're
saying this after all I already did to you ?
"Unworthy? Yes, you are, because you'd fuck anyone, you don't care as long as
your dirty cunt is filled with cock."
And she takes the cue. God, thank fucking heavens...
"please, Master, You know it is only You who I want... You are the only one this
slut needs..."
"Fucking prove it slut. Tell me what it is you want."
And then I whip her breasts in the sadistic encore, I whip her breasts, I'm sure
they hurt beyond the threshold my imagination dares not cross. I whip her
breasts and listen to her begging me to fuck her.
"oooooh... yes, please, oh, hurt me, i deserve it, oh, yes, please Master, fuck
me, fuck this whore right now, fuck me like only You can, give me Your beautiful
cock, please, fuck my unworthy cunt, break me with your hardness, i need Your
flesh inside of me... please, fuck me and bathe me in your cum, make me swallow
and choke on your cum..."
The lashes are equally nasty, regardless of what she is saying. But I stop,
mercifully. I stop and tell her:
"So, you want it? You want me to fuck you right now, you whore?"
"yes... please, i can't take it any more, i need you so bad right now"
God.
"God. You're such a slut. I can't believe you. I'd like to fucking whip you
until you shit yourself, slut and then fuck you in your own filth, if only you
weren't disgusting me so much. I'd like to have a gang of fucking niggers right
here now to let them fuck you in your shit while I watch you, I bet you'd love
that BITCH!"
The last word is screamed with very convincing rage. I scare myself even but I
play it to the end. I can only give her few more seconds.
"i'll do anything You say, my good Master, just fuck me, please, i am begging
You..."
She is speaking through tears, her legs probably burning with unbearable pain,
her breasts going darker every minute.
"You'd fuck anyone I tell you?"
"...yes..."
"...you'd fuck a gang of black men with monstrous cocks?"
"...yes, Master... for You i would..."
"You'd swallow their cocks and drink their sperm? Would you?"
"...yes, just for You..."
"You'd fuck a dog, wouldn't you?"
"...yes... i'd do anything for You..."
"Because you belong to me. I own you."
"You own me, Master... You are my Master, i am Your property... do anything You
want with me..."
Anything..... Clarissa
"I think I will have my name tattooed on your tits, just to make sure you never
forget. You'd love that wouldn't you?"
And her eyes go wide. And my heart goes fucking boom boom boom boom. She looks
into me, deeper than ever before this long evening. She whispers. It's scary.
"...yes."
You. I... I don't believe this... I... I believe you. I do.
But no. No, it's not happening. No, I can't do it to you. I can't. I still may
turn out to be your biggest disappointment ever.
And I cut her down. I'd love to kiss her gently but that will have to wait. I
force her head down and her arse up. I slam into her with my erection from
fucking Babylon and her moan sinks everything in red.
* * *
So looking at her as someone else would. She is one sexy thing. She is. The
mixture of slutty clothes and makeup and her natural shyness is what gets me
going. Even if I didn't know just how slutty she can be. Even if I didn't know
how shy she really is. It's a mixture straight out of male fantasies inc. I know
she gets attention from guys wherever we go. It's guaranteed and it makes me
feel warm inside sometimes during long cold nights. Or something.
But, of course, thoughts evolve. Slow I may be but I am moving. Being an asshole
is not just a state of mind, it's a dynamic, interactive thing. Being an asshole
all by yourself really has no significance. You are only so much of an asshole
as others see you. I decided to. It was a long way coming anyway. She knew it,
damnit, she is smarter than me in these things. Even I knew it. I think. Maybe I
did know all the way from start but couldn't cope with the knowledge. After all,
it all proved to be almost too much for me and my barely-there sanity.
I decided to. I decided to do my part for the community finally. All those
jealous looks on the back of my head, all those undergrad students and college
kids devouring Clarissa with their eyes and hating me for being the exclusive
proprietor of that body, that face, hating me for all the imaginary blowjobs and
shags they had sketched in their heads. Not even knowing it was way better than
they dared imagine. Fear not kiddies, Santa is here.
I didn't tell her about it. I mean, I did tell her frequently that I will make
her fuck anyone and everyone I tell her to fuck. It worked well in our sessions
of sex and torture, it made her unbelievably excited. But up to this point, to
me it was just another tool in making her excited, aroused, humiliated, another
way to demonstrate I own her. I wasn't meaning any of that shit. What the fuck,
I have done some bad things in my life, but I have never pimped my girlfriends
to other men.
So actually deciding to do it was a real issue for me. And, let me tell you, it
wasn't even carefully planned and then executed. No, sir, old Nicky-boy just
plunged into it headfirst when something in his green brain clicked and it was a
decision made in split second, another person born in a crash, another world
scrawled on a wet Kleenex tissue...
Because, you see, I couldn't really stand to face it. I didn't even dare really
think about it. It was a forbidden area in my mind, secured by razor-wire and
guarded by pitbulls kept on a steady diet of yoghurt and lettuce for longer than
it was enough to make them bloodthirsty in the literal sense of the word. I
didn't dare step there. I knew I'd do it once, but I couldn't bear thinking
about it before it happened. Sure as shit, I wasn't going to sit down and
imagine Clarissa doing it with other guys and see all the poses and all the
juicy details. It's funny, because I understood perfectly well that pimping
Clarissa to others would only confirm my complete ownership of her, present a
final triumph of my will over hers. But still I couldn't hold my thoughts on the
subject for more than a second, before they'd slip off and run into any other
direction.
So it happened. I let it happen.
* * *
It was a confusing evening. The wind was high and my lips were dry and I was
completely fucked out of my head. I drank and I smoked and the green made my
mouth dry so I drank more. It was hot inside with all the bodies in the room,
with all the motion and all the music and smoke and drugs and voices and
laughter. Young people having fun. A room with no visible limits, with shadows
serving as a transition area between reality and imagination. Young people
engaging in rituals of social entertainment, complex body talk and sex innuendo.
Older people out to hunt and kill and devour young prey. Junkies and drag queens
as necessary to identify this world as home as air and water and forests and
concrete are. Even a couple of pathetic glue-sniffers to remind me of my
estate-days back in the depths of my youth spent in Londra. It was a usual
maelstrom of faces and clothes and breasts and furry eyebrows and nostrils
hungry for yet another white line, gold chains and silver rings, smiles and
seductive gazes. I was surfing on top of this wave even though I was aware this
was no ocean, more like a pool of stale piss, really. But I got used to it a
long time ago. I know it's all about grace and style, not about making it in the
open sea. I lost that ambition a long time ago.
In any case, Clarissa was there with me, fragile and black, shiny and somewhat
out of focus. Her outline against the backdrop of changing faces and clothes and
bodies and lights and shadows was just a black cut out, like something out of
comic books. She was all sharp edges and straight lines. God, she looked so hot
in that short, short, short skirt and her stockings and her dangerously high
heels. She turned heads with her legs and cleavage and her black lipstick and
her black eyeliner and her black nails and her silver chain going through her
navel-ring, looking so sexy under her short top. She was approached by many a
bloke, sometimes even while I was right beside her. She did that to guys, she
made them lose it over her, because she looked like a slut. And she did, she
looked like she was there out looking to get laid. Looking to be fucked hard,
not really important by who. Many of them blokes decided it was worth trying
their luck and some of the opening lines shot her way I have overheard were
embarrassing. Holy shit, some other time and place and I would have cracked
someone's head open. I mean, really does it ever work? Do you ever get laid when
you come up to a lady and tell her in no uncertain terms what you'd do to her
using toilet language? It seemed that most of the guys who tried to talk to
Clarissa felt the need to use the first 30 seconds of their conversation to
explain how hard she needs to be fucked and what they plan to do about it.
And she was so sweet, this little girl of mine. Looking like the horniest slut
out there, but acting like the shyest schoolgirl, she confused them all. Some of
them got really angry but none of them got aggressive which is always a bonus.
Though I did feel like fighting to some extent. It's been a while since it was
me vs. the world and I was drunk and reasonably grumpy. But it was just a series
of Clarissa's face going red and her eyes going down as she replied in her soft
voice. I couldn't make out any of her replies but she turned down each and every
of them. She probably told them she was here with someone and some of them were
sober enough to identify this someone. I met their angry, pissed off gazes. They
were jealous. They knew she was my slut and mine only. Fuck you, dickheads, she
is mine. Those were small victories, really unworthy of going down in history,
but at this stage in life you take what's there.
However it changed that evening. It changed just like that. I seem to be making
most of my major decisions when drunk. That should worry me but any time I get
worried I tend to start drinking. It's a vicious circle. It's negative feedback
to the max. It's a crash course to oblivion.
So I was nearly passed out in the back seat of this taxi, riding back home. The
wind has brought his friend rain along and even if it wasn't as bad as it can
be, there were some distant thunders in the sky and sporadic drops of rain
travelling downwards from a place better than we have ever known. Clarissa was a
happy warm breeze at my side, radiating confidence and joy. I bet she was wet. I
bet she was, so many guys recognised her for the slut she is that evening, so
many lips forming the word "fuck" and shooting it her way, deadly accuracy,
target destroyed over and over. She was happy and warm at my side, waiting to
get home to fulfil the final part of her slut role, to be a slut just for me, to
please her master, her owner.
And that's exactly when it clicked. At three A.M. With rain trying to decide
whether to go down in style or just to fool around a little bit more. With
cracking neurones of lighting carving their insignia into my retina. The taxi
driver was one lucky bastard. He was unshaven, his skin dark as far as I could
see through the haze pulled over my eyes. His English was rather poor. He must
have been 23, no more than that but already sporting marks of old age on his
face. The life was not kind to him. Well, has it been kind to any of us? Fuck
that, I just felt generous.
Clarissa never asked me about it later. And that's because she knew. Obviously,
I wasn't out of money. Well, I never said I was. I made an offer to him. An
offer he could not refuse. Oh, it's not like he didn't try. He struggled and
pretended he didn't understand well. He explained that he is married and told us
about his daughter. Poor sod, a five year old child at his age. Immigrant, but
not like me. A true, sad, desperate one, doing a fucking graveyard shift giving
taxi rides to drunken fools and aggressive jocks and couples with no money to
even rent a room to do their thing.
And he wasn't even going to get money for this ride, no. But he couldn't refuse.
I bet looking at Clarissa made his intestines melt. I could see drops of sweat
on his dark forehead as his panicked look shot from my shitfaced mug to Clarissa
and back. She must have looked like something out of a dream to him. I
improvised around this thought.
"...at her, boy! Have you ever fucked such a hot slut?"
Her hand clutching my arm was almost completely white against the black of my
clothes.
"She is dying to suck your cock, nephew. She loves sucking cocks of men she
doesn't know, it makes her feel like a complete slut."
And near my ear I could hear her, just above the level of awareness.
"...please, don't, please, don't, Nick, please..."
But it was a tiny voice, like a recording played back on small headphones
someone took off and forgot.
"Look at her and tell me, honestly that you can turn her down. I bet your wife
won't even have sex with you these days, does she, money? You have to deserve
it, don't you? She just lets you have some of that pussy on special occasions
and even then she's just consenting, isn't she, handsome? None of the ol'
enthusiasm you used to get before the little miss came, right?"
He was cracking, I could tell. And Clarissa was trembling. I could feel her
whole body tremble as her mantra of whispered pleas lost any sense and became
just another layer of music playing in my head 24/7. She was begging but it
meant nothing to me. I couldn't feel anything but the words I was saying. They
were big, ugly chunks of burning wood and I was spitting them out one by one,
hitting the bullseye each time.
The poor fucker still refused to play ball, but we all knew where this was going
to end.
"Let me be honest with you, boy, ever since I have made this slut my property, I
don't even bother taking money with me to pay for rides. All the other guys seem
to think it's fair deal she sucks their cock in exchange for a ride. Man, I'm
telling you, she's trembling with lust, she needs your cock in her mouth. Come
on, you know you can't turn her down, don't be cruel, she needs you to ram your
cock down her throat and make her swallow it all."
I took a quick look at Clarissa's face and she was on the verge of tears. Then I
looked at him again.
"Come on, nephew, ask her if you don't believe me. She will do things to you
your missus never could think about, things you'd never dare ask her." He was
shaking his head but he couldn't take his eyes off her face any more. I knew he
was looking at her lips, a stroke of black against white canvas of her face.
"Come on, slut, tell him, can't you see the lad is shy."
And she did in that soft voice of hers. The voice that gave me many a hard-on.
"please... please let me suck your cock..."
My hand was resting on her thigh, as I was showing her qualities to him. My grip
became tighter and she got the message. At least she thought she did, her voice
became a tad louder, her words...
"please, i need your cock in my mouth, i need you to fuck my face, to cum inside
me and make me swallow every single drop"
The three last words said as if each of them was a sentence in its own right,
lower in tone and more seductive than the preceding one.
"i will make you cum like you have never cum in your life, please, i need your
cock, i'm so wet i'm going to cum just by sucking you off"
Oh, yes, my grip on her thigh was tighter and tighter, but it wasn't just me
showing her who is the owner here. No, it wasn't.
Man, this was my girl. My girl telling a complete fucking stranger what she
wanted him to do to her. And I made her do it. Oh, yeah, you need to be talented
to make situations this complicated. I am a talented bloke.
Bowing down, she was a creature from dreams and imagination. Her perfume must
have hit him when he made that one deep breath. It must have gone straight to
his head. You can't stop breathing now, money. That won't do. He surrendered
just a minute ago and she just climbed over to the front seat, like a cat. No
turning back for either one of us now.
She took his cock out and I heard her make the sexiest, sluttiest sigh of
pleasure when she felt how hard and wet he was.
The way I remember it now is awkward. It's a series of frozen polaroids. I don't
remember how long it lasted. But it could not have been long. It wasn't long.
The guy, bless him, had such a hard-on that I actually thought he was going to
cum even before Clarissa had the chance to put it in her mouth. The bastard had
a bigger cock than me. Ouch. You asshole. You freak.
It must have lasted a minute or something, which I think was as good a time as
we could have hoped for.
His voice went up a few notes when Clarissa slowly lowered her head and accepted
his throbbing, swollen flesh into her mouth. I was shivering. I felt my skin
crawl all the way down my back. It was unreal. He was moaning like a girl, he
was completely lost. He must have been wondering where's the catch, are we going
to kill him afterwards. But he just let it go and his hips moved uncontrollably
up and down. And it was unreal. She was doing it the way only she could. I have
never seen her do it from this perspective. She was repeating the same
movements, the same noises, she was having the same expression on her face, it
was like having an out-of-body experience. Except that the body she was working
on was not mine. And the noises of pleasure and lust she was making were muted
by someone else's flesh. And when she took it out of her mouth, to suck on his
hairy balls for a second, the penis in her hand looked so much bigger than mine.
I honestly can't recall if I had erection. I can not force my mind or body to
fully get back into that night. I might have had it. Then again, I might have
not. My head was a mess of excitement and curiosity and misery and drunken
stupidity. Fuck, maybe I even cried. Honestly I can't recall. But I do recall
encouraging Clarissa to suck his bone with selected lines learned through
decades of dedicated porn-watching. She was a slut doing it for her pleasure. I
made it blindingly obvious for both of them. The embarrassment he must have felt
was probably nothing compared with profound shame that was doubtless raging
through her. The sounds she was making were not a playact. Her excitement was
bigger than his.
"Ooh, you are a slut. Suck his cock, come on, swallow all of it, bitch, show
you're a good whore, come on. Eat his dick, take it all in, let him fill your
slutty mouth with his cum, come on, you know he's expecting you to swallow it
all, take it down your throat, you whore." And so on and so forth, I was telling
her all kinds of degrading stuff I could come up within the space of seconds I
had at my disposal.
I remember now what it was that made him last a whole minute. He was probably
nearing the home stretch when his mobile phone rang. Man, how he jumped in his
seat. The pathetic sinewave rendition of Mozart probably never sounded so
threatening to him. Well, yes, at 3 in the morning, it could realistically be
only one person in the whole world. Even in my drunken ugliness, I had a moment
of lucidity and realised.
"Well, come on, money, it must be the missus, innit? Come on, pick it up, tell
her you are nearly done and that you'll be home with her and the kid in no time.
Hell, let her hear you're having a good time while we're at it." He was
panicking and completely confused as to what he should do. And Clarissa played
it just right even without me having to so much as lay my hand on her. She
started sucking his cock even more eagerly, swallowing it all, burying her nose
into his bush of pubic hair, salivating over his balls with every thrust of her
head. The veins on her neck showed me the effort she was making to let his
manmeat go down her throat. She was moaning and making sucking noises that would
turn a whole battalion of saints into sinners. The poor fucker, about to lose
the erection when the phone rang was taken to a whole new level. He cracked, one
last shred of his dignity burned in fire of demonic passion. The phone kept
ringing and he put both his hands on the back of her head and pushed her down
brutally. The fucker made her take it all in, he was not concerned with whether
she enjoyed it or even whether she could breathe, he pushed it all down her
throat. And she was all the slut he could ever have imagined.
I still don't know if she was just faking the orgasm. I still don't know whether
she did it to amuse me and him and to feel like a slut or... Or indeed being
forced to be a slut, being forced to pleasure a stranger, degraded to a level of
street slag, forced to perform in a filthy taxi parked in front of my house,
being called all kinds of names, indeed it all made her come, without even
touching herself down there.
What I do know is that it pushed him over as sure as the devil has a tail. He
was screaming. He was coming straight into her mouth, down her throat and she
was swallowing it all. Well, to a certain point, at least. He had way more sperm
in his little storage made of wrinkled skin than one would rationally expect. I
guess I'd been right about his wife not really being down to do it most of the
time, poor lad. The cum was dripping from Clarissa's mouth, there was too much
of it, and when the pressure of his hands on her head decreased, she moved back
and started jerking his cock off, her face still only inches away. In a very
dramatic fashion a nearby lightning bathed the whole scene in white, surreal
light. I saw a spray of sperm shoot from his cock and fall on her face, the
shadow it made against the dashboard, like in slow-motion. Then another and
another, and another, her face was covered with his sperm as she was jerking him
off and repeating "yes, yes, yes, yes", a slut to put sluts to shame. Her hair,
her eyelids, her lips, covered with thick, white slimy pearls.
She obeyed me. She did.
He was moaning as she was sucking his cock clean.
"You don't want to leave this nice man a mess, whore do you?"
I sounded positively cruel. Maybe I am.
"You made a mess, bitch, now clean all of it. It serves you right he sprayed all
of your face in his cum, you deserve nothing better."
She was obedient, her eyes closed, her mouth efficient, collecting slimy fluids
off his cock, licking swallowing.
"Slut"
"Whore"
"Slut"
Slut
Slut.
When I remember that night, it's still just isolated images, like a photo-story
from any old porn mag I held under my bed, her eyes closed, her lips around his
cock, her makeup mixed with his semen, her hands being gentle and caring. I
could cry right now, man. It was divine. She was majestic. I could cry now. I
was a brave little soldier right there. I was scared shitless and shivering, but
I was a brave little turd right there. I could cry now.
