I didn’t know that he was going to do what he did and more importantly I had no idea that I was going to like it so much. When it happened, I felt completely violated and taken over, but in the most unprecedented and amazing way. It was an experience that seemed kind of ridiculous from the onset but I’ll never be the same because of it; he really made his mark on me. It was like this animalistic territorial pissing thing. I was the vessel for his pleasure. And though he was hovering over me – in this almost childlike state of ecstasy, completely using me with which to masturbate upon and it seemed like he was having sex ON me rather than WITH me, I felt like I was the one in complete control.
He had already taught me a thing or two or three. Things I thought I’d never learn. We had met at a vernissage for some artist who was far from brilliant, using other people’s Facebook profile photos to create digital art. I was standing outside having my fourth or fifth glass of free white wine when I noticed a rather dirty looking man completely obsessing over me with his eyes.
He looked like he had just gotten out of jail. His hands and nails were filthy, as well as his tattered blue jeans and used-to-be white t shirt. He had a gray fleece zip up jacket disguising some of the stains on his said shirt, and it too not only looked like it had not been washed, ever, but it totally contradicted the inordinately rough neck look of his life-scabbed leather boots that were somewhere between cowboy and motorcycle with pointy toe tips and the length just mid-calve and barring one of those silver rings on each side held on by buckle straps with a few overdone studs here and there.
His ears were larger than they needed to be for it seemed as though he lived in his own world devoid of the necessity to use words for his deep dark brown eyes were peering into me rather than at me and I did not hear him speak to anyone, even when he was surrounded by his entourage that was made up of what seemed to be the antithesis of what should be his typical social circle. They were a clean and well put together gaggle of professionals it seemed, a stark and sturdy blond German woman wearing a strikingly smart pants suit and a khaki overcoat, a Sherlock Holmes reminiscent Englishman dressed in a sweater vest and bow-tie, and a Napoleon (he was French and very short) wearing all black along with a feather adorned fedora. One of these was not like the other.
Along with his big ears and eyes he bared large tufts of black haired eyebrows, and above that, his forehead was furrowed. I’m not just saying that to utter that word, for I don’t know many other times “furrowed” can be used to describe anything. But it is the quintessential adjective in this regard because of the sheer depth of power that was taking over me behind the curtain of his mind. His face was not pained, only intricately focused on me, and the wrinkles above his eyes and below his receding hairline mimicked the wrinkles on my brain I would surely be developing in the coming hours.
His lips were full enough and thin enough – targeted on his face by a scruffy and unkempt goatee. The bottom lip poked out as if swollen from sucking on too many beers and cigarettes, both of which never left his presence. When he passed me once or twice (okay, I admit it, he walked past four times, I counted, and each time, whether I was blocking his way or not, he touched the small of my back to mark his territory/and or accost me/ and or move me out of the way to get by/ and or all of the above), he wreaked of whiskey and nicotine stains. I liked it.
His skin was a miraculous shade of caramel brown, as though he was some hybrid of African and Brazilian, he was the only one there wearing any shade of colored skin, and this was duly noted by virtually everyone. He had a presence not only because of his ethnicity, but because of his erotically exotic demeanor.
We ended up back at my place after I feigned desire to get to know him, casually broaching those obligatory topics the likes of “How long have you lived here?” and “How do you know the artist?” – turns out he was the artist. Or at least that's what he told me.
His kisses were not as sweet as candy but rather as abrasive as sandpaper – and I liked this. He made it very clear that he was in fact a beast incarnate and he was going to hold no bars against me in the best worst way. He felt it necessary to grab the back of my neck when he thrust his poignant tongue inside of my mouth, and I won’t describe it as “down my throat” in that cliché way because it was not like that at all. He was a bit of a Master of Kissing. With strength and bravado he did circle the tongue and tease and suck on my lips and guide me through the whole ordeal and then suddenly change velocities and suck and blow angrily at my mouth until my knees were made so weak that all of my weight fell into his hand and I was literally being held up from his nape crane.
I was struggling to regain strength in my limbs and when I opened my eyes for a moment while he was still enveloping my mouth with his, I noticed that his eyes had been opened the entire time. It was like he was a predator and I was the prey and he was feasting on the sight of me being stuck in his web-like trap, slowly cowering to his command of me, and I was about to be devoured.
I scrambled, trying to reach his disgusting, never washed jeans, to get some semblance of dignity back and he forcefully slapped my hand away when I reached for the zipper of those stinking pants, hard!
Just then, the mood in the room changed. I was shocked and scared but eager to find out what was about to happen. He gave me a look with those deep dark Devil eyes. He gave me a smirk that stood out from his mixed matched sized lips and for the first time I saw his shinning crooked teeth, full of patches of cigarette yellow and baring a gap between the front two incisors, one of which was chipped probably from his participation in a broken bottle bar fight (or at least that’s what I fantasized).
Then he started talking.
“Look at you. Playing so innocent. You think you are so fucking cute, don’t you,” he barked and as I started to meow and say something, he cut me off, “Ah ah ah. I’ll have no more talking from you. No words are to come out of you mouth. I am not here to have you try to impress me with your mind or your words or your knowledge of art and fashion and shit I have to deal with on a daily basis. If you have anything to say, say it with your body. Do you understand?”
I didn’t know what to say, but knowingly, I knew not to say anything as it would be met with vehement disapproval. This guy could have already killed someone for all I know. I shook my head up and down in submissive agreement as shockwaves of excitement ran down my bruised nape all the way down my spine and through and out each of the backs of my legs. I quivered a little.
“You can trust me, but that is no matter. You can be scared, or not scared. I don’t give a shit. But I want to show you something – and I promise you will be a better person for it. Do you understand me?”
I shook my head again but this time I looked down in spite of myself, embarrassed by my willingness to let this sexy hot exotic stranger do whatever he wanted with me. I felt easy and slutty. With this I felt completely uncomfortable and willing. I lost myself a little bit.
“I need you to do a few things for me. First, I want to thank you for being quiet and not making any sounds or noises or talking in any sort of capacity,” he started, his speech becoming more articulate and dignified with his sleazy and deep dark voice. “Get down on your knees and place your hands behind your neck.”
I obliged his command, scared and hungry, and I felt the coldness of my palms against the warm, reddened skin of my neck where he had held me up so assertively with his strong hand just prior. The hardness of the floorboards against my bare knees bothered me and I let on a little about my discomfort, only in an effort to show him that I was doing this for him, not for me.
“That’s good. You look beautiful like that. Like a statue,” he grunted, and he removed his dirty fleece jacket and threw it on the ground next to him. Then he lifted his stained shirt over his head and revealed his taut abdominal muscles and smooth heaving chest that was marked by tattoos of varying artistry, each of his pectorals flanked by faded Greek letters and an array of little drawings presumably etched with loud stinging needles in the heat of one of his many heats of the night. He looked down at me and was smirking no longer, and he could see the fear in my eyes. Slowly, he reached down to his right side (my left side) and lifted his pants leg and reached into the top of his boot and pulled out a small sized silver metal handgun. I started aback and he gave me a look.
I knew better than to scream or to do anything but start shaking in my bones. I did not remove my hands from the back of my neck, though they were also shaking violently, but something happened that calmed me. Perhaps it was the look on his face, or the way he was breathing slowly and steadily in contrast to my pained panting. I tightened my muscles and braced myself for the worst.
With each piecemeal step he took towards me, the sound of his leather boots against the wood floor made piercing stomping noises in my ears and it was excruciating not to let out any whimpers for I feared that if I did not obey him completely, not only would I be dead, but I wouldn’t have lived long enough to discover whatever lesson it was he wanted to teach me.
When he arrived in the closest proximity possible, my eyes again found the ground and he used the tiny albeit larger than life gun to pull my chin back up so I could be looking at him from above below, and his face was completely emotionless.
He took the gun and gently brushed the surface of my left cheek (his right) and then made a circle down and right along my lips and up to the other side as a solitary tear of fear cascaded down the right side of my face (his left). My mouth split ajar, and with this he made it wider with that violent weapon of his, putting the cold hard thing into my mouth. I was happy for this because when it entered my orifice it muffled the noise that came out and he let out a knowing and calming “Shhhh…”.
There was a warmness too. It was coming from my loins and the heat of it was making me sweat with longing. I was excreting fluids everywhere at this point and the stench of them was overpowering the stank of his filthiness; combined, our smells were intoxicating in the most perverted way. It was the true odor of pheromones.
He did not do much with the gun in my mouth except own me. He didn’t push it back and forth like it was a cock, but rather he just let it rest there for a moment, exerting his power. I looked up at him with my deer in headlight eyes, and admittedly, I forced them to bulge more than was necessary in order to hold up my end of the bargain of this wicked game. If I was the one captured, I would show my loss of control to him – gaining it all the while.
He removed the weapon from inside of my lips and I swallowed heavily, trying my best to keep it from making as little sound as possible and almost instinctively, I starred at his crotch, knowing (and/or wanting) what I knew was coming next.
He pressed the gun against my left temple (his right) and demanded that I undo his belt and unzip his pants, with this I obeyed and came undone by what I was presented with.
I eagerly but slowly removed the thin silver hook from the weathered hole notch of his rusty brown belt that was on a nondescript metal buckle, and unraveled the leather thing out of the loops of his pants and then I unbuttoned the top button of his pants and slowly slid down the zipper, knowing full well that he could not have been wearing underwear. He wasn’t.
I had already noticed the girth in his trousers, as duly indelible through the outline imprint left on his pants, reminiscent of a certain Rolling Stones album cover.
The dick was not altogether long, but way too thick for its own good. The monstrosity was much darker than the rest of his brown skin and when I let his pants down to mid-thigh, the thing hopped up suddenly and peeked at me with a moist eye, portent for the juices that were to come.
I knew better than to take it in my mouth without a command. Instead I just looked at it for a while, worshiping it, trying not to lick my lips, but swallowing hard, speaking the unspoken language that was being composed between us. He was again caressing my face with the death implement, finding new places to startle me: my ears, my hairline, my jaw, the bridge of my nose.
“Kiss it,” he cooed, as he pressed the gun against my left temple again (his right) and kept it pressed there hard enough to remind me not to be stupid (i.e. biting at his dick or making any sudden moves) as I leaned in and literally kissed the dick with my puckered lips which I gathered must’ve became shiny from the sweet dew that laid at the tip of his maness.
“Take it,” he uttered, and then I did. It was a bargaining chip of sort. I felt like if I did a good job he might fall in love with me and he wouldn’t kill me. But what else did he have planned? He was so obviously a pervert, there were so many things running through my head before I fell into subspace and started to make love to his cock with my mouth.
Was he going to fuck my mouth with the gun? Was he going to try to stick the gun in other places? Was he going to choke me? Was he going to take me out into some dark forest and tie me to a tree? Was he going to rape me then kill me? Was he going to kill me then rape me? Suddenly, he lifted me up with his hand around my neck but this time it wasn’t the back, it was the front and he held the gun to my head as he demanded that I go and lay on the bed.
I walked backwards, again, instinctively. And when I felt the top of the mattress brush the backs of my weak knees, first the right and then the left (his left and right respectively), I reached back with both hands, looking dramatically helpless, as if he had trapped me in a corner. I sat down on the edge of the bed, with crooked Bambi legs, waiting for him to say something. I overplayed the fear on my face because I was not scared anymore – he had conquered a part of me that inspired me not to care anymore. I wanted to give him whatever he wanted. I needed this. I don’t know why.
“Keep your legs spread, and lay down on your back,” he commanded and then added, “And close your eyes."
I could hear him removing the rest of his clothes and I was a bit sad that I could not be a spectator for this. I wanted him to see me seeing him but it was not my choice or decision, I was there for him to take me though in hindsight, I realized that his earlier command of “take it” might have referenced something like... I had to force myself to gain some inner calm. At that point my mind was racing and I was over thinking everything. I told my psyche to shut up.
He approached me and our breaths for the first time matched each other; they were heavy and strong and deep.
I tried to imagine what his naked body looked like, stripped down completely as I noticed the ruffling sounds of his disrobing including his dirty boots. And then I felt the metal of the gun again poking at the biggest toe on my right side foot (his left), still wet with my spit and sweat and a bit warmer now than it was originally from being pointed and pressed against my head for so long while I went down on him.
He stroked the thing slowly up the flesh of the respective leg of the toe I just mentioned and started to reduce his pace painfully as he made his way past my knee. When he reached the onset of my thigh, he hesitated, and then removed the thing completely – I let out another deep breath.
He then did the same on my left foot and leg (his right) but this time he went all the way up the skirt of my dress and did not hesitate to proceed further, this time effortlessly finding the hairy labia of my drenched cunt.
“You little whore,” he complimented, taking note of my lack of underwear. He started to circle the weapon around, under and next to my sex without penetrating it, and with this my lower back arched in automatic anticipation, and I wondered if I would be punished for this physical act, knowing full well I was not making any noise except what was coerced by my movement; the shifting of my weight on the bed was rather noisy since I had broken my cheap Ikea bed years ago courtesy of my much less kinky boyfriend of 2 odd years that fucked me like a jack rabbit and never looked into my eyes when we did it.
There was a pool of silky pussy juice forming a pool in the shallow base of my asshole, and I wondered what would become of the thing. I craved for some sort of disgusting fulfillment just then, something even more extreme than was already presented. I wanted my sheets to usurp the filthiness of his once-white t shirt. Tears, sweat, cum, blood, shit, piss, and all.
When the barrel of the weapon miraculously found my clit I cried out.
“It’s okay. But I want no more of that, you got it?”, he directed, and pained and frustrated, I shook my head yes and defiantly spread my legs more, explaining to him my hunger, and taking over as the predator in a way. I didn’t realize I was doing this, mind you, it was only instinct that I wanted him to gun fuck me.
Luckily all of the build up provided me with a soaking wetness. My hot twat was burning with an embarrassing amount of want. Perhaps he had chosen me because I looked innocent and unsuspecting and perhaps he was now even more aroused to find out that I was a little bit dark and kinky myself, or that at least, he had opened the door to what was forever closed before him.
For the first time I felt skin other than his penis. He took his left hand (my right) and pushed the bottom of my right thigh (his left) up further, which in turn helped to glide my loosely draped sheath dress further off of my skin and he began to thumb at my canal opening while still tickling my clit with the tip of the gun. It was engorging so much that at one point, it was fitting inside of the hole of the gun, the place where the bullet comes out of, and it was like I was fucking the gun with my woman dick, and the pleasure was excruciating, all the while he was digitally opening me up. The sound was quite perverted too – the squishing of my vagina, now completely flooded and ready for entry, and the rocking of the broken bed, and our breaths becoming louder.
He continued, “Take off your dress but do not look at me,” but he did not stop double fucking me with the weapon and his thumb. I was squirming to and fro trying to figure out how to remove my dress while still receiving this man’s lust. I knew he wasn’t going to stop and that the thrill for him was seeing me go on momentary bouts of loss of control, stopping to enjoy the thrusting and pulling motion of two things being coaxed into me, one hard and cold and inanimate, the other, soft and hot and alive. I kept my eyes closed, and I couldn’t help but let out a frustrated moan and with this he pulled out – both implements.
I cried out in pain as the back of his right hand (my left) quickly met my right cheek (his left) and I started crying profusely in spite of myself. It hurt a lot, this bitch slap, and instead of trying not to cry, I whaled, hoping that there would be even more punishment to come. I wanted it.
“You stupid bitch. I know what you want. I saw your dirty cunt getting wet when I was watching you at the gallery. I know a hungry whore when I see one. I’m sure you were mad I didn’t take you into the bathroom and fuck you up against the toilet. Boo motherfucking hoo. Cry me a river little innocent slut,” he yelled, as I tried to cry over him, mortified by how much I was enjoying this sort of new pain.
He ripped off my dress. Not took off, not grabbed off, but with the fingers of both of his hands, one still brandishing that gun that smelled like the stench of my craving hole, he found the seams of my dress and tore at them until the remnants were on either side of me. Finally, with my salty red wet eyes, I looked up at his precious, bad boy face, and I stopped making noise. He looked back at me with a grin.
I wasn’t wearing anything but pleasure and a bra at this point. A lacy, all black number that pushed my rack up one size, surely a beckoning device for perverts such as this, or any man in general I suppose.
My tits are my best asset, as they are firm and hefty but not too big and not too small – just right. 34C.
He had managed to stand up on his knees between my legs and for a moment he looked down below my sex and made a scoff, seemingly in regards to the huge puddle of fluid that was sopped up in the sheets, I could feel the wetness on the lower part of my left butt cheek (his right) as the effortless struggle to break my clothing came about.
I was laying there as though I had fallen there. One arm was up at the side of my head and the other was sprawled down at the other, and one leg was bent and the other was straight. I looked like I just jumped out of a highrise building and committed suicide, except instead of brain blood splatter underneath me, it was my juicy cunt that had left a stain on the ground. I was looking up at him, almost angelic, and he was looking down at me, almost – I don’t know.
He took the gun and forcibly poked it through the front hook of my bra between both breasts. He then used this as a towing mechanism to pull me off of the bed (though I had to crawl towards him and fell viciously to the floor on my knees, scared that the gun might go off at any moment because the way he held it it was pointed right at my throat).
He pulled back angrily, and with this, the bra snapped completely, and I made another insolent sound, but I didn’t care anymore, and I don’t think he did either. I rushed to take the bra completely off and then I let my hands fall to my sides, exasperated.
He pointed the gun at my face while he surveyed my heaving breasts, and I took a slow, steady, coy moment to spread my legs (I was still up on my knees), and I slowly but surely clasped my hands behind my neck and kept my eyes to the ground, presenting myself to him fully clad in nothing but obedience, or so he thought.
His fat dick was now pulsing with excitement at the sight of my beauteous pale white feminine skin that was reflecting what little moonlight was coming into the room and casting a small dimness over his shadowy dark skin. Again he took me by the neck and threw me back on the bed. This time, I kept my legs closed.
My knees were pointing at the ceiling and my eyes were pointing at him and his gun was pointed at my skull and his penis was pointing at my vagina which was still dripping with want and squeezed between the backs of my lower thighs, creating a squishy sideways mouth hungry for a feast of -
He spread my legs with the gun from between my knees. Again, while laying down, I placed my hands behind my neck, almost too much relaxed. That all changed in a nanosecond when he quickly shoved the entire gun inside of me, fully. I let out a cry as my eyes bulged, thrilled by the canniness of it all. This dangerous thing plugging my dangerous thing – that thing that always gets me into trouble. The walls of my cunt were pried open now and it was not uncomfortable in an awful way and it was intriguing to feel all the hard metal intricacies against the warm wet tissue of my inner sex. I was giving this man a look and he was giving me one as well…
He straddled me, spread eagle and then he did it.
He took both of my breasts with both of his hands, the left one with his right hand and the right one with his left hand. He left the gun inside of me and I was not worried if it was loaded or not nor was I worried that it would scratch my delicate insides and make me bleed. All I wanted was his want at that moment and then he started to do something that I loved more than anything.
He spit a healthy amount of spit between my Cs and then proceeded to titty fuck me. It was brutal and hard and crazy. He squeezed my tits together around his tree trunk of a dick and violently rocked back and forth between them. I felt the stickiness of his furry balls at the bridge between the bones of my lungs as the dew from his dick was dripping now against my battered clavicle. The feeling was sweet, being used like that, almost like a implement of masturbation. He was looking down at me and I was looking up at him with my arms crossed behind me and my fingers clasped together at my nape and the gun was still inside of my fuck hole and I was bucking up and down, feeling the weight and power of it against my abyss as I squeezed and contracted my moist cunt, exaggerating my movements in order to feel some sort of extraordinary pleasure down there.
When he came, it went everywhere. I held my mouth agape in order to receive some of that sweet and sour man juice, but was saddened when only a few drops squirted inside. The rest of the load covered much of the right side of my neck and face (his left) and after he pulsed out a few big spurts while maddeningly squeezing my breasts at the pumping motion of his dick, he relented with my Cs and stroked out the rest of his dna soldiers onto my tits, and then spanked each of them with his ice hard member, paying special attention to the aureola.
He went back into nonchalant mode after maybe half a second, and I looked down at him as he slowly reached inside of me and slowly pulled the thing out of me which to my lack of surprise, had shifted backwards so he had pulled the thing out with the barrel facing towards him rather than at the handle in which he put inside of me last.
He did something with a button on the gun that made it click. I don’t know much about guns but at that moment he turned it on or off. I’ll never know which, and I don’t want to.
Then I got a good look at his body. He looked like the kind of guy that works with his hands and pumps iron more than he needs to because genetics was kind to him. He licked the entire small handgun with his huge tongue and looked at me while he did this, and my cunt started pulsing, still damp from all that want that had turned to need at this point.
He got dressed, saying nothing, and put the gun back into his dirty stinking boot. As I laid there with my broken cunt, still leaking, but now with shades of pink from the blood from my cuts, and my broken dress, and my broken bra, and my broken heart, I wondered what his name was as he walked back out into the real world.