When Time Stands Still

All these years of kink and sex-positive culture and fucking around, performing extreme acts of self-abasement in front of a crowd, exploring the limits of my body's ability to eroticize re-enactments of the world's horrors... and yet, sometimes the hottest thing is still the most vanilla.

From where I sit, the hottest thing in the world is still that moment with a new partner when his or her intention shifts, when the hand that's been caressing my back moves so slowly around to my breast, when a finger slips questioningly under the waistband of my shorts... Do you want this? Can I go there?

Blue kneels above me on the bed: he's pinned my face to the mattress with one big hand on the back of my head while the other meaty fist pummels my back, the blows falling again and again to either side of my spine. He lifts my shirt so that he can watch the bruises blossom, leaving it tangled in my arms and pulled over my head and laughing at my undignified position. There's nothing new about this scenario. He's been beating me for years, and he knows I like it. I crawl to him for it. I beg him for it. I rented this room at the no-tell motel just to have an opportunity to scream under his fists and around his cock again.

But he's never fucked me. Not in all these years. He beats me, humiliates me, takes off my clothes, fucks my face again and again and again, and even permits me the privilege of reaching around the harness to the wetness of his cunt to get him off from the inside, but not once has he touched the softness that lies throbbing at my core. I want him to, I don't want him to, I don't know what I want--but he's never forced me to decide.

The pounding stops, finally, just when I think I might break under the impact of it, and he caresses me, fingertips trailing along the sensitive skin over my shoulders as I writhe and shudder. I'm panting and gasping, clutching at the cheap sheet which has pulled loose beneath me, and I know my hips are thrusting at the mattress. I can't help it. Blue always makes me so hot.

The first time his fingertips brush the top of my shorts, I don't think anything of it. He goes on rubbing my back and I go on clutching at the sheet, and it doesn't occur to me that he's asking me a question.

The second time, he pulls at the waistband just the tiniest bit, and I draw in a sharp breath. I stop moving, just for a second, and his hand moves on.

The third time, his hands come to my hips, one at either side, and stop. I stop. My heart is pounding in my mouth, my eyes are shut tight, my breaths are coming in loud gasps. We stay that way for a long minute, and then he begins to slide my shorts off my hips. A little whimper of fear escapes me, but he doesn't stop. Slowly, very slowly, he inches them downward, shorts and briefs hooked together in his fingertips, the elastic waistbands offering no resistance. My belly pins the front of them to the bed and I raise my hips ever so slightly to free them. When they clear my crotch and settle into the crease at the bottom of my ass, he pauses. "Do you want me to stop?" he asks. I can't speak. After a moment, I shake my head: No. No, please don't stop. There's another pause, and then the mattress lifts beside me as he stands up.

I'm always surprised at how strong he is. In one fluid motion, he drags my hips toward him until my legs slide off the bed and my feet scramble for purchase on the floor. He tugs my shorts down past my knees, and then a wave of aloneness washes over me as he steps back and lets go of me. I lie there feeling vulnerable, my ass exposed to him, while he buckles his cock into place. There's the small sound of a condom packet being torn, and then he's settled onto the bed in front of me.

"Get it wet," he orders me, and I struggle to get my mouth over his cock at such an awkward angle. His hands go to my hair, forcing me down onto him, making me gag, and the mucus begins to collect in my throat. Blue loves blowjobs. He comes two or three times as I struggle to breathe under the assault before finally sliding his slick cock out of my mouth and moving to stand behind me again. I've kicked my shorts off the rest of the way, and he again takes my hips in his hands. He tells me to put my knee on the bed and I comply, and then the head of his cock is pressed against my asshole. I should have known he would not want to make it easy for me. Ignoring my cunt completely, he presses the head of his hard rubber phallus against my sphincter and begins to push. For me, there is nothing else in the world. The room, the hotel, the whole big world melts away and there is nothing but Blue's cock working its way insistently inside my ass. This moment, when time stands still and I am so incredibly focused on just this one moment in time... this is what I came here for.

To the Hilt

My favorite cock for sucking is a bubblegum-pink soft silicone unit I picked out of the bargain bin at some dime-store porn shop. It's very porous and I don't dare use it without a condom, and it's a bit too soft for fucking, anyway--but it's fabulous for sucking. Firm enough to present a challenge, but yielding enough to make it a little easier for me to push myself with it.

I was ridiculously horny this weekend. Spring has finally arrived where I am, and the warm weather has awakened my libido in a big way. I lured Boyfriend into the bedroom yesterday with my ass in the air, taking a hard vaginal fisting that had me clutching at the fitted sheet and crying into the wad of blankets under my face. Twenty-four hours later, I was half-naked in the car, caressing myself provocatively while occasionally reaching over to stroke his upper arm in that special place that drives him wild. He thought he was going to go straight home from running errands, but instead, he ended up taking a small detour to my house.

I was really hungry today. I wanted my mouth to be thoroughly used. I couldn't get enough. Boyfriend stopped at the bathroom, and when he came out, I had the harness and the silly pink dick all ready for him and he knew what I wanted. He barely had it buckled in place before I jumped on him, condom in my mouth, and slid my lips over the shaft.

I tried kneeling between his legs, then moved to the floor with him at the edge of the bed, then back up between his legs, and eventually I scooted around so that my pussy was next to his face. That turned out to be the magic angle: next thing I knew, I was sucking that cock into my throat all the way down to the ring. That's about six inches of silicone down the hatch.

I haven't quite defeated my gag reflex yet. I'm not sure whether I want to... having a strap-on-wearing sadist grab a handful of my hair and force me to gag on his or her cock again and again is pretty fucking hot. In this case, I gagged so many times that I finally lost the battle and tossed my cookies. But I can get that whole cock down my throat, at least for a few seconds at a time, without gagging. I just haven't figured out how to move once it's down there without tripping the reflex.

Boyfriend is nasty as they come. He didn't shove my face into the stinking puddle of vomit on the sheet, but I know he thought about it. Eventually he got up, rinsed off in the shower while I stripped the sheet off and threw it into the washer (that'll teach me to suck cock without putting a chuck down first), and came back for round two. He wasn't done using my mouth, which made me happy as a pig in mud. He lay back and spread his legs and I dove in hungrily, covering my face with cunt-juice from eyebrows to chin and sucking his clit and labia in, feeling his clit get bigger and bigger under my tongue. Periodically I let go long enough to make filthy comments about his bulging cock, encouraging him to imagine it as such, until he exploded with it clamped firmly between my teeth. Boy, that's gotta hurt afterward.

There was a bit more to our afternoon escapade, but the part I most wanted to tell was the bit about swallowing that silly bubblegum cock all the way down to the ring.

'Ho, me?

I've always been fascinated with prostitution--from the first that I was old enough to understand the concept. Hooker, hustler, hussy, prostitute, whore... from a very young age, I wondered why selling sex was supposed to be wrong. I was stealing skin magazines by mid-elementary school, and unlike the cliched male reader, I liked them for the articles. The pictures were vaguely interesting--I always stared at the close-ups of the women's pussies, pink and glistening, and wondered what it would be like to touch them--but what I liked most were the stories and letters. All that breathless confession (I was too naive to consider that it was probably 98% fantasy) and filthy fiction. I read them all, the raunchier the better, and beat off surreptitiously while telling myself that the violent and degrading ones, the ones that turned me on the most, were disgusting and wrong.

There were so many stories about prostitutes, almost always written from the whore's perspective. She was picked up by a cop and forced to submit to his twisted whim to avoid going to jail. She was picked up by a maniac and kept hostage for a prolonged period, raped repeatedly and kept in a secret room in the basement. She was picked up by a handsome man and fell in love a la Pretty Woman, or loved his cock so much, she gave her body for free. She was an innocent young thing corrupted by a manipulative older man to turn tricks. She was hooking her way through college/Europe/her bored suburban housewife life. In some slight variations, she was a sex spy, a terrorist, a criminal mastermind, or a prisoner, paying for information, privilege, leniency or power with the most valuable currency she had.

My dad had pretty kinky tastes. I don't know if he knew I was stealing his porn; maybe he thought my mom was throwing it out. Every once in a while my stash would disappear from under my mattress, but they never reappeared in Dad's magazine rack, so I suspect Mom was finding and dispensing with them. They didn't communicate much back then.

I always wondered what it would be like to turn tricks, but to this day I haven't been brave enough to try it. I've had a lot of trouble with self esteem and body image; I never believed I was thin enough or pretty enough or in whatever way desirable enough to be overtly sexual growing up; I didn't ditch my "precious" virginity until I was in my mid-twenties, and by the time I realized that I had enough of the things that appeal to men to be able to get laid pretty much any time I wanted, I had decided I was a dyke anyway.

I tried role-playing a prostitution scene once, but it didn't get very far. Neither of us had a clue what we were doing, and we ended up laughing hysterically and giving up. I think about it sometimes now, with more sexual experience behind me--I have bottoms who would be more than happy to play whore for me. Some of them even have actual prostitution experience. The trouble is, I don't think that buying a whore is what I want. When I top somebody, it's all about that person. All of the action happens to them and in them. I get off on manipulating someone else's experience--making them scream, cry, beg, moan, wriggle, and come. And come. And come. I fuck them, they don't fuck me. Getting fucked is a very bottomish thing for me; demanding that someone service me does not turn me on in the slightest... ninety-nine percent of the time. I've demanded it of the Boyfriend maybe three times in all the years we've been together. Otherwise, when it's my turn to get fucked, I roll over and give it up.

I read the blogs of a number of intelligent, literate sex workers these days--whores, escorts, pro-doms, pro-subs. These women are in more or less complete control of what they will and will not give, and they do it because they like it. Or at least because they consider it an acceptable way to pay the bills and they believe they're good at it. They are not, as a group, drug-addicted, homeless half-wits wasting their bodies and their lives at the hands of a street pimp. They're educated, middle class, empowered women.

I don't want to be empowered. I want to be used. I'm not sure I'm emotionally hardy enough to turn an actual trick with an actual stranger, but who knows. Right now my fantasy runs toward a butch dyke or transguy with a hard and hungry cock who hasn't been laid in a while... but whom I know well enough at least to trust that s/he won't damage me.

She's a friend of a kinky friend, and we meet at some vanilla party thrown by that friend; we end up thrown together, both of us awkward, searching for common conversational ground. The "So how do you know X?" conversation reveals to us that we're both scene denizens, but she's local to another part of the country and I haven't heard of her before. Or maybe I've heard of her, but never met her. Or I've seen her, but don't know her well. We play the name game and eventually that leads to talk of exes. She's cynical, burned too many times, harboring a lot of anger over her last few breakups. Damaged goods. She doesn't want any damned girlfriends anymore, but by god she misses sex. I consider it. She's not half bad looking, but her anger is off-putting. These days I like my lovers and playmates to stick around. I ask her whether she's ever considered paying for it.

"Why? What's your price?" she asks me.

"Uh... um... I didn't mean...!" I stammer and blush. She looks at me impassively and I squirm, at a loss for words. She reaches into her pocket, comes up with a card, and hands it to me. Her cell phone number. She tells me the name of the hotel she's staying at, in case I change my mind, and we drift apart.

I'm horrified. I can't take my mind off the exchange all night. I look for her here and there, curious, but I don't see her again. She's given up and gone back to her hotel. Maybe she got lucky. After a while, I realize I'm not having any fun and I'm sick of looking for her around every corner, so I say goodbye to the host and head out the door.

I'm surprised to find myself driving away from home. I know where her hotel is, and I'm headed straight for it. What am I doing??? Oh god. I'm a big girl, right? I haven't had a casual fuck in so long... but it can't be possible to forget how to do it, right? I tell myself it's just sex. I'm good at deceiving myself.

In the lobby, the man behind the counter asks if he can help me and I tell him I'm meeting a friend. He eyes me suspiciously. I take out her card, my cell, punch in the numbers... three rings... four... "Hello?" I almost can't find my voice. "I, uh... are you busy?"

Inside her room, door closed and deadbolted and chained, I try to make nervous small talk. "Shut up," she says. "I'm not paying you to talk." She motions toward the bed and I walk toward it, fighting the urge to bolt as my self-deception is blown all to hell with one sentence from her. She follows me, then with one motion, spins me around and shoves me onto my ass. She rummages in a bag on the night table, comes up with a condom, and throws it onto the bed next to me. Her hands move to her fly. I don't think she was packing at the party, but she is now... it didn't take her long to strap it on between the time I called her cell and the time I got to her room. "Pick it up," she tells me, rolling her eyes a little as if I'm stupid. I jump slightly and pick up the condom. I don't know what she wants, so I tear open the package and wait.

Her cock juts out at me, black and insistent as she tightens the strap holding it around her waist. Stepping in closer, she pushes it toward my face, and before I can react, she slaps me hard. "Put it on!"

I should be pissed off, I think, but instead I'm so hot I can't see straight. I fumble with the condom but manage to get it rolled down the shaft of her cock, and without ceremony, she grabs the back of my head and shoves her dick down my throat. I gag. She shoves harder. She throws her head back, closes her eyes, and starts chanting, "Suck me, suck me baby, suck me, come on, take it, take it..." all the while holding tight to my head, my ears, my hair, thrusting against my mouth and throat mercilessly while I fight for air. There's no room for finesse, no demure looks from under my lashes, no shy smiles or licking of my lips--there's just her grunts and the monotone of her personal pornographic soundtrack and the desperate, humiliating noises coming from my throat as she slides her rubber battering ram into it again and again.

She takes a long time to come. I try to reach up and help once, but she slaps me again and pushes my hands away. "Don't touch me!" she growls, and I get it: she's stone, and she's going to get off from fucking me, and I'm going to do whatever the fuck she tells me because she's calling the shots. I forget about the money then and let myself become a thing for her pleasure: a toy, a tool, a masturbatory device to be used and discarded. By the time she finally comes, I'm so weak from exhaustion, repeated gagging and lack of oxygen that I can barely even react when she rolls me over and pulls my jeans off my hips.

It's a good thing I drooled all over her cock, because I don't get the benefit of lube. She's a real lover. She kicks my legs apart, spreads my asscheeks with her hands, and shoves her dick in to the hilt. I scream. It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts! She doesn't give a shit. It feels like she's shredding my asshole as she pounds away inside me, and after a minute or two, there's enough mucus or blood or both that it really doesn't hurt much anymore. She comes hard with a strangled groan and I think she's done, but she's just getting warmed up. I think of the smart sex bloggers who've written about getting their johns to get off and get out as quickly as possible, and I wonder how she'd react if I told her I charged by the orgasm. The thought makes me laugh convulsively, but she doesn't seem to notice, and it's funny, you know, it sounds a lot like I'm crying. Damn, I am crying. Shit. I wonder if she'd let me up if I asked. I decide I'd rather pretend that I have that power than try it and find out I don't.

After she's had some number of orgasms that seems like thirty but was probably five or six, she pulls her bloody, shitty cock out of me. I don't dare move. I'm not even sure I can. I hear her strip the condom off her dick, then jump as I feel it land on my lower back. The buckle jingles, there's a bit of rustling and then I see a wad of cash land on the bed next to my face. "Get out," she says, already walking away toward the bathroom. "I don't want a fucking girlfriend." And then she's gone, the bathroom door closed behind her, the water already running in the shower. I pick myself up, gingerly, throw the filthy condom in the trash, trip over my jeans which are turned halfway inside out while still hooked on my ankles. Somehow I figure out how to dress myself again. Halfway to the door, I pause, turn back, and pick up the money, and then I go.

Knife

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Cock

Lately I've been obsessed with cock. With rubber cock, specifically, and sucking it in particular.

Don't call it fake. It might not have nerves and blood vessels running through it, but it's no less real to the dyke who wears it than if it were made of flesh and blood. When I lick my lips while looking up at her from under my lashes, then lean in and slowly wrap my hungry mouth around the fat head of her hard cock, believe me--she feels it.

Blue and I go back a ways. His wasn't the first dyke cock I ever sucked, but it was possibly the most riveting. I was in thrall to him and even after several years of life's ups and downs, that hasn't changed. He pulls my hair and I'm all his, just like that. Everything else and everyone else disappears. I could easily disappear into him, if he'd let me, but he won't. That's probably a good thing.

But oh, I love his cock. It's not about the physical prosthesis settled on his pubic bone; I don't think I've sucked the same one twice yet. But no matter what he's got there, I mean even if he strapped a banana on under his jeans, I just want to fall onto it like I haven't eaten in a month. I forget to flirt. I forget to try to show some style. I just want it, want it all, want it all right now.

He knows me so well. He knows when to push me, his hands in my hair, pulling my head down on his cock till his zipper scrapes my nose and holding me there forcefully until my gag reflex or my desperate need for air forces me to struggle. I'm overcoming both of those obstacles with practice, though--the last time he pushed me, he was surprised. He needed a bigger dick that night if he wanted to choke me with it. He made up for it, though, with cruel clamps on my nipples, pressed against his knees as I worked, and strong hands around my throat. Just the way I like it.

I saw him again last night, even though he was hundreds of miles away. Condom in my mouth, I slid it down over the head of his cock so smoothly, all the way down the shaft--hungry, starving, both of us. He moaned a little. I heard the creak of his leather pants as he settled back on the bed to give me access. I felt his body rocking under me, felt the familiar tightening of his abdomen as he came again and again, abusing my throat with quick, sharp thrusts leading up to each orgasm. I struggled to breathe. I gagged and drooled, the thick mucus and saliva dripping off my chin, down his cock, onto the new white comforter, leaving a stain. His hands tightened their grip on my hair as he growled pet names at me: Cock-sucker. Filthy pig. Greedy cum whore. You like that, don't you, babe? Take it all now. That's right--suck. Good girl. His breath came faster and faster until finally, eyes closed, body bucking, he pulled my face down hard and held me there, retching, gasping for breath as he exploded in one final cathartic climax.

I couldn't hold it then--that last thrust was just too much, and I turned my head to the side as a small flood of spit and snot rolled out of my throat. It landed in my hand, on the comforter, on the rug next to the bed: slippery, warm, feeling just exactly like cum. It didn't smell. A little revolted at myself, I scooped it up off the rug, smeared it all over my cunt, my ass, the cock I'd just been sucking. I rolled over and slid that cock up my ass to the hilt, and then I jerked off like my life depended on it. It was 3:30 in the morning. Blue, wherever he was--I hope he dreamed of me.