Bent

My shame is complete. It's hot. Hot and all consuming. Here I am, bent, bare, with an ass stuffed to the brim with dick. His dick. What's more, it's hurting like an absolute bitch and even that isn't enough to put me off. Despite how horrific my circumstance is, the worst of it is, I can't get enough. I cannot get enough. I'm wild. Insane with lust. The heavy, musky smell of him. Those big, rough hands on my back. The rasping, jagged breaths coming from him and coming from me.

So, yes, the pain is shocking. And yes, I confess I find myself wondering just how the fuck my girlfriends take this. Is this what it feels like for Jess? I wonder, as he injects what feels like pound after pound of himself into me.

My God.

But, while it was true that in each agonizing thrust there's pain, sure, there's also pleasure. Pure, unadulterated pleasure. A type of pleasure I've never felt before.

Think of it like this. Pain and pleasure are different sides of a single page. Turn the page this way, and you're reading a poem called Pain, and turn the page that way, and you are reading a poem called Pleasure. So yes, each thrust starts and finishes with a deep, searing ache, but the in between part...that part is pure rapture.

I grip the edge of the table, gritting my teeth and holding on for dear life, as the side of my face ploughs into the smooth, walnut surface, grating back and forth, as I struggle to take his punishing strokes.

"I gotta pound a little bit," he rasps, through clenched teeth, "I need to nut."

A tremor of fear tears through me. Oh Jesus, can I take anymore? To my amazement, I find myself bending my legs a little, arching out just a bit and bracing myself against the table. He grabs my hips in both hands and starts his final onslaught.

The speed and power of it makes me see stars. I can't get a good breath. The sounds coming from me, now, take on a desperate, high-pitched quality. The slapping sound of his body slamming into me seems to bounce off the walls. In desperation, I reach down and start stroking my dick. Pleasure finds and engulfs me. The intensity of the pounding, almost drowned out by my urgent need for release. Every ounce of my consciousness egging me to find relief. When it finally comes, it lands like the crack of a whip. Drowning out my senses until I'm aware of nothing but pleasure. Wave after wave after wave. At last, I become conscious of an unfamiliar, thin sound, swirling around the room. I feel his hand, clamped tightly over my mouth.

My God, I realize in shock, that sound is coming from me.

I'm screaming.

Finally, my body calms, and I hold still and let him take what he needs. At last, his body stiffens and jerks, slamming into me with a series of animalistic grunts. After a pause, he pulls out carefully, his bulbous head causing me to wince a little. The shock of being alone in my body again, leaves me sobered. Stunned. Wondering just how in the hell to deal with the aftermath of the frenzy that has just overtaken us.

"The bathrooms that way." He says finally, indicating down the hall.

I pull up my jeans, retrieve my shirt and head to the bathroom with about as much dignity, as a man who has just been thoroughly and unexpectedly fucked up the ass, possibly can.

I clean up as best I can, patting my ass dry gently, relieved to see there's no blood or other evidence of lasting damage. Well, that's something to be grateful for, I think miserably, as I look in the mirror. My reflection stares back at me in surprise. The same sandy blonde hair, the same blue eyes as I'd seen in the mirror this morning. Yet, now, I find myself wondering, Who the fuck are you and what the fuck have you just done?

My awful quandary now, is that Jess has taken the car. I'm effectively stranded at this guy's house, with no feasible way to get away that won't draw questions from Jess. Questions I certainly don't want to answer. With no obvious better option, I head back to the living room where Ethan is leaning into the fridge, making a second attempt at getting us a beer. He's fully clothed now and has cleaned up the beer I threw on the floor earlier. All evidence of our indiscretion, effectively erased.

"Pizza's on its way." He says, as he cracks the beer open, his voice remarkably devoid of any hint that anything untoward has just transpired.

We watch the game, drinking those beers and the next one's, quickly. When it arrives, we eat the pizza without so much as a sideways glance at each other. The dull ache in my ass, the only evidence I didn't hallucinate the whole thing. To say I feel awkward would be the biggest understatement of all time. Never in my entire life have I felt so embarrassed or wanted so desperately for the Earth to swallow me up. I keep glancing at my watch, willing the clock to strike five thirty, when Jess told me she'd pick me up. After what feels like hours, Liza finally calls, letting him know that they are on their way back.

"The girls will be here in fifteen minutes." He says.

Thank you, Jesus.

"I'll meet Jess downstairs," I say, only too bloody happy to get the hell out of there, but still with fifteen agonizing minutes to kill. He shrugs and keeps his eye on the TV. The excruciating silence drags on and on until finally, he breaks it.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." I say, with just a hint of defensiveness.

"You ever done that before?" He asks, his eyes still fixed on the TV.

"No!" I exclaim, more than a little defensive now. I swallow, and then manage, "You?"

"No." He says quietly, the smallest trace of bewilderment in his voice.

After an eternity, I hear a car pull into the driveway and leap up to leave. He gets up, too. Heading to the hall to show me out. He swings the front door open, stepping aside for me. As I twist my body to get passed him in the narrow hallway, he casually says, "We should do this again some time."

What the fuck? Quick fury erupts in me.

"Blow me!" I spit.

Now, in my defense, "Blow me," is a phrase I use all the time. Someone honking at me in traffic gets the finger and an angry, "Blow me." My boss pissing me off at work gets a very quiet, "Blow me," under my breath - you get the picture. It doesn't mean anything, it's completely innocent. Certainly, not a Freudian slip of epic proportion.

An awful, slow smile spreads across his face, little lines forming at the corner of each glinting eye. He draws a deep breath in, his posture changing slightly. Menacing now. Tension floods the narrow hallway with terrifying force.

"Maybe I will." He murmurs, running his thumb thoughtfully across his bottom lip.

My pulse surges, blood rushes to my loins, my traitorous cock starts to swell.

Fuuuck!

Houston, we have a problem.