Macho Sluts, page 32
Then Joe began to really get the idea of how a clit worked and started to do something that felt like it would make her come, if only it didn’t change or stop. He had the tip of his little finger resting at her ass, the pad of his middle finger resting over the opening of her vagina, and held her clit between his thumb and index finger, barely moving it inside the hood. She lost track of what she was doing with her mouth. Mike lifted his ass to prevent his balls from getting mauled and pinned her hands down hard. God, that made it feel even better! Joe’s fingers worked like some secret passion, and her cunt opened up like a wanton flower. He was resting his face on her thigh, and his beard scraped her delicate skin, inflaming it. She began to cry and toss on the bed.
“Don’t make her come!” Don said sharply. What a completely hateful man. “I don’t want her to come unless she’s got something up one of her holes. You boys ever fucked any snatch?”
Mike drawled, “Oh, yeah, a time or two. I prefer BJs to busting cherries, myself.” Why did she have a feeling that he was lying?
“Once. It wasn’t a hell of a lot of fun,” Joe said. “By the time I got it in I was so hot from carrying on and fighting about it that I came on her leg. She was pretty pissed about that.”
“Well, you’re going to fuck one now. This one. Both of you. I don’t want any excuses, and I don’t want any piss-poor performances. This isn’t the back seat of your daddy’s car, and you ain’t in high school any more. Maybe it will help if you don’t think of her as a girl. After all, she doesn’t want to be a woman. She wants to be a man. She dresses like one, talks like one, walks like on. She’s a queer, like you boys. Queers have sex with other queers, right? So who wants to go first?”
Joe, already kneeling between her legs, said, “Yo, sir. I sure would like to fuck her butt.”
“I don’t give a shit what you want. You can stick it in the hole I give you, or you can beat off in the corner. Mike, hold her down real good.”
Joe hauled her closer to the foot of the bed. He bent her legs until her feet were in the air, then began to rub his hard cock over her wet, crumpled inner lips. For a few minutes, he fucked the outside of her pussy, where the swollen outer lips made a nice, snug channel for him. After awhile, she understood that he was teasing her, and that he wanted her to struggle to get his cock. Well, why not? She had never felt emptier. Her beaten ass was burning, urging her on. “Please,” she moaned, writhing under him. “Please put it in me.”
“You sure?” he teased, taking another condom from Don.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“Come and get it,” he grunted, hunching his hips. His dick head stroked her clit.
Pinned under him, she had almost no mobility, but she made whatever motions with her hips she could, trying to find his cock and impale herself on it. Meanwhile, Mike was holding down her hands, and she knew from the beads of sex juice that kept falling on her cheeks and forehead that he was enjoying what he saw. Don said, “We better slow you down, mister,” and shoved a skin into his hand. Once again, Mike gave her an evil look of resentment. I wonder if he just hates me because I get to be the bottom, she thought. But there was too much good stuff going on below her waist to worry about the sulky redneck who was getting a fresh (and mumbling) grip on her wrists after taking the pause that protects.
“You want it?” Joe demanded. “Here, feel how big it is.” He thrust the head of his thick cock against her hole, not inserting it, but stretching the membrane taut. “It’s going to fill you right up. Sure you can take it? Huh?”
“Yesssssss!”
An inch at a time, he teased her sheath down over his head and shaft. He was right—she felt stretched wide open. And then he began to move! Her eyes rolled back in her head, Mike started jabbing his cockhead between her lips, and her tongue flickered out to service him. Her head was turned sideways to accommodate him, and even shallow penetration put tremendous strain on her neck and shoulders. She sucked him as long as she could before Joe’s pounding hips became too insistent and she again lost control over her mouth. “I’m afraid I’m going to bite you,” she mumbled, and he hastened to pull out.
Her own experience with straight sex had been as unsatisfying as Mike and Joe’s. But this act of penetration was firmly situated within a context of dominance and submission—the core of her eroticism. She had been brought to a point where there was nothing she craved more. There could be no self-deception, no lies about not really wanting it. And these men were incredibly good at what they did. They liked fucking and being fucked, they knew how to do it, and they wanted her to like it. The element of mutual homosexuality made it seem more perverse, yet safe.
Joe churned inside her, speeding his rhythm. She tried to spread her legs wider, to open her hole a little more, but he kept them clamped down, apparently preferring to fuck her tight, to feel the maximum resistance to his bulk. “Do you want it?” he panted. “Do you want me to come?”
“Yes!” she snarled, and worked with him to make it happen. He pushed especially deep inside her, jabbed her sharp and fast, his hands dug painfully into her ass cheeks, his thigh muscles went rigid. She could swear she actually felt the bulb of his dickhead swell, and knew by his convulsive hip movements that he had come.
“Very nice,” Don said sarcastically. Oh, God. He had seen everything. She flushed and tried to hide her face against Mike’s thigh. He shook her off, refusing to help. Joe had disappeared, probably gone off to take a leak, and Don was probing between her legs. “Did you come?” he asked her, leather-clad fingers moving where Joe had been.
“I don’t think I care about coming any more,” she said, evasively but quite truthfully. “It all feels so good I don’t want to come. I’m just afraid it will stop.”
“Stop?” His head jerked erect. “We’re just getting started. Number two!” He snapped his fingers, and Mike released her hands.
“Sir,” Mike said, “can I tie this bitch up and put some clamps on her tits?”
Don thought about it. “I don’t see why not. It’ll make it more fun to watch. But if you don’t throw a really good fuck into her after that, I’m going to be real disappointed in you.”
Mike froze at his master’s voice. “No, you won’t be disappointed, sir,” he said. “I really want to fuck this cunt until she screams. Something about her just brings it out in me. But I need to have her hurt while I’m doing it. And I need to have her tied up so she can’t get away. You want her to come, don’t you? Well, I suspect that’ll make her come real good.”
“Oh? Yeah, you’re probably right. She’s just a slut, but she’s a masochistic slut. Fix her the way you want her.”
She was too tired to fight. Mike rolled her onto her stomach and slapped leather restraints on each wrist, then manacled her hands to the iron rails at the head of the bed. He also fastened restraints around each ankle, had her draw her legs up until she was kneeling, then fastened them at the sides of the bed. Then he reached under her and clamped her nipples into gleaming silver jaws. If she didn’t keep her ass in the air and her shoulders arched, she would be lying on the clamps.
He knelt behind her and ran his hands over her body once, twice. Then he used his nails. She twisted, but could not get away from him or close her legs. Every time she moved, she brought her slippery, vulnerable folds into contact with his jutting cock. He leaned over her and played with her tits, sending jolts of pain through her nipples, made her tell him how much it hurt and how wet it made her cunt. He slapped her ass with the flat of his hand until it began to glow and burn again. His hand fell with more and more weight. Bottoms, she thought, are so much meaner than tops. They have no sense of pacing. She screamed as much because he was making her angry as because it hurt a lot, but she doubted that he cared as long as he knew he was hurting her.
Unlike Joe, he went into her in one vicious thrust, and she screamed. Tears sprang into her eyes. His long, skinny cock was stretching her in a very different way. It was much easier for her cunt to open wider than it was for it to become deeper. He was not waiting for her to open up, and she would be damned if she would ask him.
She did not want to come with him. Her vagina was a little sore, but his attitude bothered her more. Joe was an earthy little bull who could probably fuck anything that walked, but this southern redneck was in her only because Don told him to do it, and he was determined to make her pay for the humiliation Don had inflicted upon him in front of her. Nevertheless, when he reached underneath her and began to fondle her clitoris while his penis moved in and out of her hole, she almost started to spasm. Her sexual flesh was so congested that what happened to it mattered a great deal more than what went on in her head.
Don, that bastard, noticed, and moved in closer to watch. “You almost got her,” he said. “Honey, wouldn’t it be humiliating if we got you to like dick so much you just couldn’t do without it? Just imagine, hunting for it in dark bars and dirty alleys, looking for a joystick to sit on, looking for some man with a big, hard dick to hold your legs apart and sink it in, being obsessed with cock, needing it and hating it at the same time. Coming around it. Being addicted to it. Needing it there to come around. Like you need it now, to come around, to fuck you and grind you down and make you holler and groan.”
He put one foot up on the bed, then gradually insinuated the toe of his boot between her legs, nudging Mike’s fingers aside. At the feel of that smooth boot leather against her clit, she couldn’t hold back any more. She mashed her pussy down onto it, cried to be fucked, and came each time Mike’s long cock slammed past her cervix. ‘At least,’ she thought, ‘I didn’t come for this fucker behind me, I came because Don’s boot was pressing against me.’ It was small consolation. The humiliation lingered, and it lit a fire that made her orgasm dwindle into irritation. She wanted more.
Joe came back with a paper cup of water and held it for her to drink while Mike turned her loose. When he went to remove the nipple clamps, Don said, “Don’t. Leave them on. You, cunt. Go squat and piss.”
She trotted into the bathroom and left the door open without being told. It was hard to get it started, with her insides rearranged and all of them staring at her. Finally, a hot stream spurted out. Before she got a chance to wipe herself, Don had her in handcuffs and headed toward the cage. He was impatient to get going. That meant he was planning to have a lot of fun. Shit. “You two climb into bed and amuse yourselves,” he called over his shoulder.
He opened the cage door and thrust her inside, locked it, then reached through the bars for her tits. He had some chain and padlocks in his hand. In seconds, she was chained to the bars by her tits. Her ass pressed against the bars on the opposite side of the cage. He removed one handcuff, passed it around a bar, and put it back around her wrist. She could not straighten up because of the way her tits were chained, and she could not crouch either. Her ass was held in an inviting position, and with her hands cuffed behind her back, there was nothing she could do about it. Except suffer. Which she did, grudgingly.
She could only see part of the bed. Joe’s hands were twined in Mike’s hair, and he was urging Mike to suck harder. Sweat ran down his thickly furred chest and made his abs glisten. Mike’s hands were busy below his waist, and Joe growled, “If you come in your hand, I’m going to make you eat it off your fingers.”
Her jailer examined her through the bars. He prodded her experimentally with the smooth, rounded end of a wooden truncheon. She moved a little, but the tug on her nipples made her wish immediately that she had not.
“You are my prisoner,” he said softly. “Cop-meat. And I’m going to fuck you. Guess where.” His gloved hand fondly squeezed her buttocks. “This is something I’ve wanted for a long time. But I really do want you to enjoy it. That makes it better for me, and more embarrassing for you. So I’m going to get you ready.” He showed her the well-greased butt plug. She averted her eyes. She always found the bright punk rubber they made sex toys out of garish, even offensive. It made them seem silly. Well, she wouldn’t have to look at it, because he was pushing it into her. True to his word, it didn’t hurt—just discomfited. Once she felt her anus close around the small neck of the plug, he moved her rear end over a little, so that a cold steel bar pressed into the cleft of her buttocks. “If you wiggle up against that,” he said, “you should get yourself warmed up real nice.” He regarded her in silence for a few seconds, then said, “What’s the matter? I’ve got two more, size large and extra-large, if you need any more encouragement.”
It’s odd, she reflected, how you can get into a scene and lose some of your inhibitions and go crazy, and while it’s happening, you think you’ll do anything, but of course you won’t. There’s always a hitch, always another barrier you don’t want to cross, another step that somebody has to push you down. I hate his guts, and I will not squirm around on this horrid thing while he stands there staring at me and jerking off. Fuck him.
“You stubborn, stupid, ungrateful, ill-trained bitch,” he cursed. “I don’t know why I bother. But if you think you’re going to start holding out on me at this stage of the game, shit-head, you better think again.”
A puff of air cooled her backside, and she realized she was dripping with sweat and that both of her shining, wet ass cheeks protruded slightly outside the frame of the cell. Then the source of the cool breeze—the doubled-up belt—landed on her butt, and there was no thinking, only pain. Not only was she crying out with each solid, flat impact of the belt, she was moving her ass provocatively, helplessly.
He didn’t have much of her to work on, so there was no hope that he would alternate blows upon her thighs and shoulders with the blows to her ass. Concentrated in such a small area, the beating hurt worse than it would have otherwise. There was no respite to gather courage and breath. So she tried to curve her lower back and thrust more of her ass through the bars, adding just another inch of available skin to spread the pain out and make it easier to take. She succeeded (at the cost of drawing her nipples out to maximum tautness in the clamps) in flattening her thighs against the bars, and the belt kissed them for a few seconds, but returned inexorably to her ass.
Oh, yes, he was good. Thorough, hard, unstoppable. She had the feeling he could go on and on until she was deeply bruised, then bleeding, then showing bare bone through her flayed and shredded flesh. The pain was lightning in the marrow of her bones. And the animal noises she was making, the sweat flying into her eyes, hurt her pride just as much as the flying belt hurt her ass.
Under severe and continuous pain, the soul reaches a certain kind of clarity. Confusion and hope cannot be tolerated. Anything that deflects energy from withstanding the pain becomes useless, impossible to hang onto. Such ballast is jettisoned automatically. Pride (which clenches muscles and makes blows bruise instead of merely sting, which stiffens the neck and thickens the tongue until one cannot plead for mercy, which forbids the use of any clever, demeaning slave ploy to cajole the master and stay his anger) is the first thing to be thrown overboard.
After all, what justification is there for pride when you are locked in a cage, you breasts are suffering, your hands are locked behind your back, your ass has been filled by a foreign object, and someone is beating you black and blue? Your bestial need to survive the ordeal in one piece makes pride superfluous. And the seeping fluid of sexual arousal that makes your thighs slip together as he punishes you makes pride seem hypocritical, not to mention pretentious.
No, it is better to scream freely, without restraint, to plead for mercy, to cry, to struggle beautifully, to sweat and strain, to be marked and marked again, to ask him what he wants, to agree to everything he says, to ask for more if that is what he wants, to confess, to grunt like a pig or howl like a dog, to promise anything—anything—if only it will stop.
Once the emotions have been simplified and the illusion of free will destroyed, the body also needs to purge itself. Dancing under agony, scant attention is left to control any sphincter or restrain excretion until it can be performed in a seemly, civilized manner.
Now he was using a very thin riding crop. The pain escalated sharply. From the feel of it, it had a whalebone core. It was horrifying. Beyond expressing with a mere scream. She was convinced that the sweat rolling down her legs must be blood, knowing that it most certainly was not. It was too much—too much—too much for decency—
So she pissed. Uncontrollably. From fear and anguish. All over herself, the floor of the cage, and anything else close enough to get splashed.
Then he was enraged, as yellow drops of her urine beaded up on the toes of his mirror-shiny boots, and the strokes he laid on her with that evil, skinny crop made her shimmy as though she were possessed and yell until she lost her voice.
When it stopped, she felt as if she were in the eye of a hurricane. There was respite from pain, but not from drama or tension. The only question was, when would it start again, and how? She hung her head, weeping, in fact blinded by tears, slobbering and sweating, her nose dripping snot, every pore and orifice opened up, wet, and slack. If it were not for her tit clamps and the steel circlets around her wrists, she would have slid to the floor and passed out.
His hands were lifting the swollen masses of her buttocks, moving them to one side of the bar that divided them, his fingertips admiring this or that particularly purple spot. “Say that you love me,” he said, intense and tender.
“I love you,” she sobbed. What broken-hearted prisoner does not love her torturer after a beating stops?
“Say that you’re sorry.”
“I—I’m sorry.” She was blubbering now. God, how disgusting.
His questing fingers removed the butt plug—or rather, received it as it fell out of her. They probed—tentatively—and the by-now familiar feel of his rubber-clad erection against her raw cleft replaced his fingers.
“Say you want me.”
