This will make even less sense if you haven’t read the first part. This story did that weird thing of writing itself (or at least demanding that I rewrite what it didn’t like), and apparently it wants to progress by way of scenes, rather than chapters, so parts are less stand-alone than you might wish.
Holding me, his dick still semi-hard inside me, his voice rumbles, responding to my little laugh of incredulity, of wonder;
“I’m glad you’re entertained, pretty, but your mouth has duties to perform. It’s your job to clean me up, you see— to suck away all this stickiness.”
And then, somehow, I was on my knees in front of him, confronted again with his gnarly cock, now shining with our mingled juices, his hands at my shoulders, then on my head.
I hesitated— I considered myself reasonably open-minded (how laughably innocent I was), but I hadn’t ever fancied a cock in this slimy condition. Apparently though, my old self was no longer relevant. I was fucking my boss, my boss was overwhelmingly, casually, wonderfully masterful, and he wanted his cock in my mouth, so that was what was going to happen.
In any case, it seemed his hands were in charge, not my sensibilities. I could in theory have resisted, but instead I found myself opening my lips, however hesitantly, and leaning in, heart pattering faster again. A surge of eagerness in my lower belly made it clear that my sexuality approved of this, too.
And he pushed deep, straightaway. Not harsh, not fast, not rough, just irresistible, certain, knowing. My gag reflex kicked straight in and I squirmed at first, and then really bucked, but he didn’t seem to get the message— just held my head, gentle but seemingly immovable, and pushed more, until the back of my head was against the desk, then carried right on pushing, in, in, in, until there was nothing more to take, until my nose was in his pubic hair, and then he was humping my face, slow, lazy, in control, pleasuring himself without any regard for me whatsoever. Teasing my nipples with his hands, alternately stroking softly and twisting hard, having fun, making me squeal through the muffle of his cock. Taking his rights.
God, but it was powerful; magical almost. I was somewhere else, somewhere unreal, unimaginable on the basis of my life so far, whimpering, writhing, trembling, helpless.
It was as if I had become a puppet; as if someone else controlled my body; even though it was desperate to reject this invader of my throat, demanding to breathe at all costs, it seemed that none of these reflexes were enough; some greater power kept me passive, stopped me fighting him off, kept my mouth soft and open for him, produced shocks of sexual desire that propagated out from my helplessly grinding sex, made me push my breasts out for him, spread my thighs lewdly, welcome him, want him, affirming his rights.
I was simultaneously powerless, racked by the reactions of my body to the impossibility, the transgression of being used like this, transfixed by desire and at the same time absolved, by virtue of his control, of all responsibility.
Impossible to retain any sense of self in the midst of all this: I stopped even trying.
Feebly, without any conscious intent, my arms lifted, pushing at him weakly— not fighting, more humbly offering evidence of my body’s distress. He simply took both wrists in one huge hand and lifted them backwards over my head, trapping me, controlling me even more completely, making it explicit and domineering, pushing still deeper, making it clear; this was what he wanted, that he would take as he saw fit.
It was all done so calmly though, so casually and naturally that I could work up no resentment, and instead just managed, somehow; managed to gasp a little breath now and then, managed not to actually throw up, although my throat kept convulsing, managed to keep myself soft and open for him.
As he surged into me again and again I began to feel light-headed, and suddenly I was completely into it; really, fully into it, all of it— into being used like this, naked, on my knees, thighs spread, wrists restrained, helpless, dominated, being used like a warm wet hole, while he was still basically fully clothed— giving in to the intensity of it all.
I began to mould myself to him, pushing my head forwards now, welcoming him, accepting the physical panic of my body, absorbing it into the experience, setting it alongside the mounting sexual heat in my groin, merging the feelings as his cock rapidly stiffened again, feeling it getting much larger, much harder, deep inside my throat, going with the debauchery of it, helping him, enthralled at the way he had brought me to this point without the slightest crudity, how completely the sensation of being used was consuming me, overwhelming me.
It occurred to me then, in some still, quiet corner of my mind amidst the delirium, the helpless jerking and the desperate urgency of the tiny gasps of breath that were all that kept me conscious, that this sex would change for me forever— that anything less full-on than this would seem insipid from now on, but there was nothing I could do with this realisation, not a thing, and I gave myself over to him completely, softening my throat, letting my arms go limp, offering myself to him, actively swallowing, taking him in, tears in my eyes, total surrender in my heart.
Somehow, my body had learned how to get just enough air, so that I stayed with him as he built to his climax, utterly given over to the service of his pleasure now, letting him use me— helping him use me— gasping and sobbing weakly as he came at last with a shout; soft but prolonged, intense, spurting hot into my mouth— another first for me— leaving me at last breathless, drooling, come spattered, choking on thick gouts of our mixed juices.
Then, as he released me, I became a puppet with cut strings; weak, limbs without strength, trembling. I was hazily surprised to be flooded with foolish but real pride to realise that he, too, was affected; he had put one hand out and was leaning on the desk, breathing heavily, his softening cock against my cheek— he was recovering from intensity too.
And now it was his turn to laugh under his breath;
“Excellent. Excellent fuck. You … Sally. Excellent. You can be pleased with yourself, girl— first time for a while I’ve managed to follow straight through like that. I’m going to enjoy using you, if you sign up.”
He looks down, his face as serious as ever, reaches down, to take my left breast in one hand, possess it, the nipple, tender from his harsh manipulations, tingling;
“The tits are good, too. You need to make more of these, pretty, show them around; get you a deal of attention, they will.”
He stops there, straightening, reassuming his dignity, but not before I have taken this as a compliment, knowing then that his lack of any comment when I had stripped my bra earlier had left me with a question, an almost fearful need to know whether he did or did not like my breasts. At that moment, I was filled with pleasure; later, I squirmed with embarrassment at how easy I was, how weak…
In the end, you see, I have to realise that that is what I am, what defines me; I am easy, and I am weak.
It is my destiny, it seems, to be one of the fucked, never one of the fuckers. My legs, my pussy, my mouth, my arse, open— open; to be filled with cocks, fingers, fists, tongues, fruit, toys, machines, whatever there is to be fucked with. I’ve stopped fighting it; stopped even thinking about resisting.
I am easy, and I am weak, yes, and so am humbly and fearfully sincere in my gratitude that I fell among fuckers who saw me— who knew what I needed, and who understood themselves, too— who were not themselves bottomless pits of need, but simply people with desires.
Strong desires, perhaps; I have been fucked, and used, and abused and hurt, too, and repeatedly, by people who have not been interested in me as a person, perhaps, but at least they have mostly not been people who find pleasure in destruction, or in cruelty for its own sake.
No matter how violent, how urgent, how outrageous their own needs, no matter how intense the nature of the impositions on me that have to be made to satisfy those needs, I have been lucky enough mostly to have been required to satisfy people who are neither depraved nor dangerous. And again mostly, this treatment has been a fulfilment of my own needs; equally strong, equally perverse, perhaps, if you care to judge— needs which I, on my own, would never have been able to satisfy.
To be fucked, one has to be used by a fucker. And it seems I need (and to be sure I want) to be fucked. Fucked hard, fucked often, fucked selfishly, by strong, greedy people who allow me little time or space to do anything other than be fucked, to think about being fucked, to offer myself wantonly to fuckers of whom I eagerly wish only that they will want to fuck me.
It is only in writing this memoir that I have realised this— it is only in the act of writing that last paragraph, in fact, that I have ever fully articulated that truth about myself. Fully accepted it.
Perhaps now I understand one of the reasons I have been driven to begin writing this. Perhaps; I don’t know. Maybe I will never know. I am trembling; weeping— desperate, right this second; re-reading that paragraph is like burning myself.
I can write no more tonight.
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In fact, it has been many days since I have been able to bring myself back to this.
It’s alright— it goes like this.
I write because I need to— and when I need not to, I don’t— it is as simple as that. These days, my life is— more or less— my own. My demons no longer ride me in the same ways. I am not different, not really; my demons are still my demons. We just know each other better.
These days we know each other’s needs, and we understand that we are shackled to each other. We understand that each needs the other to satisfy those needs, even though in satisfying the other, we sometimes damage ourselves, are hurt, are diminished.
I do my best to love my demons, and they at least know that they need me. And so each, when it is time, makes itself the servant of the other, in the service of our joint continuance. We seem in this way to persist, and to grow more sure-footed in our rivalrous dance. I no longer believe that I will soon drive myself to destruction, and my demons seem no longer to seek that end. Harmony may never exist, but perhaps some kind of dynamic tension can drive us, drive me, onwards at least— even if not necessarily forwards.
This seems believable, for now at least.
It will do.
For now, my need seems to be to be in this place of relative peace, of simplicity, of calm, in order to write, and the demons seem satisfied with that— as long as I do; write something that is, at least something.
They seem to understand that it’s hard, and they don’t press unduly. As long as I write something.
But then come times like this. Times when I can’t write, for one reason or another. The first few times it was because I was frightened— too frightened to write what was in my head, but equally unable to write anything else. Then there were times when just writing a sentence made me despair, lose hope. Then there were the times when I destroyed everything I had written; these words are the fourth or fifth version of this story— I forget.
This was the first time, though, that I have written something which surprised me, which stopped me in my tracks. Which burned.
These times of non-writing get frightening— the demons become restive; the itches and the neediness build, my nipples become hypersensitive, my groin yearns, my heart wants intensity and my soul demands anguish, and I find myself at the window, looking into the distance, wondering if there is anyone near who might understand, might be able to see my demons and see me, too, in the way that they did— my discoverers, my liberators, my enslavers.
In the last week, the second since I stopped, I found myself becoming needy, unsettled, and knew that I it was time to come back here, come back to this writing. To face myself in this history.
And I find that I can read those words which were so painful to write; read them back with acceptance now. Still painful, still hard to inhabit, but bearable. They have a ring of truth to them— to carry some meaning. I can live with them, and so, it seems, can my demons.
So, again; I am easy, and I am weak, I like being fucked by fuckers, and so I get fucked, to the point where all most people see when they look at me is a collection of easy, willing fuckholes. And I have no arguments for them; only easy smiles that speak of weakness and open holes, which they are welcome to fuck.
I’m crying again now, but these are soft tears; tears of self acceptance, of sadness, yes, of lived pain, of tenderness for my lost innocence, yes, but also of acknowledgement; that it was me, there, on my knees, naked, with Sir James’ cock thrust so, so deep into the back of my throat, it was me, on the verge of blacking out, pushing myself onto him, moaning with lust, wanting it, revelling in it, wanting him to push harder.
That’s me, Sally. On my knees, throat stuffed with cock, being fucked.
You wanna fuck me? I hope you’re a fucker.
