It was a month later. I was back in the same place, tied with the same ribbon to the same bar, wearing the same nothing only now with the addition of a sturdy piece of duct tape keeping my mouth shut. On the bed in front of me my neighbour was fucking a young woman into a coma.
She was tall and lanky but she looked tiny under him. She was beautiful, like all his conquests, but he had fucked her ugly. Her long fine black hair was now a tangled mat, her cool olive skin was now red and blotchy, what were once exquisite features accentuated by a tiny amount of makeup, tastefully applied, was now a streaky and smudgy warzone, what was once a sexy sultry voice was now a hoarse and panicked rasp incapable of forming words. She had gone through the wild thrashing phase, and was now largely inert aside from a gentle shuddering. Yet my neighbour showed no signs of slowing down and seemed intent on pounding her into oblivion against the sweat sodden sheets. More than anything I wanted to change places with her.
To back up, the last month had been interesting. He’d taken my number, untied me, confiscated my clothes, and challenged me to run back to my room naked while he considered what to do with me. If you remember it was still mid afternoon and although my room was only feet away I was terrified of being caught streaking in the corridors. But I made it back and then, if we’re being entirely honest, spent an hour masturbating thinking about our near encounter. I was flicking it again later that night when his text came through.
“If you really are willing to do anything for me maybe you could be my alarm clock. These are the days I have 9am lectures: since sneaking around the corridors naked seems to be your thing sneak into my room like that nice and early before you’d get caught and wake me up with head”
Yet again I found his arrogance, his confidence, and his objectification appalling and insulting and yet also arousing. While I contemplated his offer I realised my hand had gone back to work of its own volition. So clearly part of me was already on board. As for the rest: I reasoned that no one gets a bj from a woman like me and turns down what else is on offer, and besides I’d at least finally get to see what his dick looked like.
Sneaking into his room before dawn a few days later I did indeed get to see that. I did wonder if he was asleep or just pretending, but he was naked under a light sheet and already at half mast. Average sized dicks look tiny on big people so I knew from the fact it looked proportionate that it must be enormous close up, and so it proved.
It wasn’t the biggest dick I’ve ever had but any larger and they are more challenges to be overcome than erotic equipment. He probably told people it was nine inches, although it was in truth closer to eight. It was fat as well, not coke can fat but fat enough that there were moments when my fingertips couldn’t touch when my hands clasped around it. I am an exceptional sword swallower, and with extreme difficulty I could and sometimes did deep throat him, but mostly blowing him meant sucking on the tip while my hands worked his shaft, his thighs and his giant balls.
I’ve always liked the power exchange element of blow jobs. There are few more universally understood symbols of dominance and submission than the beginning and the end of one. The giver on their knees (often literally, always figuratively) opening their mouth to take in his gift, and then finally accepting it – and no matter if you spit, swallow or dribble you still look and feel totally used and debased. But in between those two moments you have their manhood between your teeth (both literally and figuratively) and if you know what you’re doing there’s pretty much nothing they won’t do or say to have you keep doing it. People think of having someone perform fellatio upon them as an assertion of possession, but you own them for most of it.
Or so it’s supposed to be. That wasn’t the way with him. If he wasn’t asleep to begin with he did a good impression of it, and even after he had clearly awoken he was scarcely more animate. I pulled out all my tricks, and he clearly enjoyed them – there was no mistake I was blowing a man of flesh and blood and not a machine. But he kept his emotions and reactions in control, even when he came it was with little fanfare or change in his demeanour. He somehow managed to seem smug throughout the whole thing.
And then when it was over he would give me nothing more than a quick word of thanks, and throw me out to brave the dash back to my room down what was by now a busier morning corridor.
It was infuriating. And yet I would often find myself masturbating to the memory of those mornings.
After a couple of weeks of this I felt I was getting nowhere. He still continued to have an active sex life involving various other women, and now there was an added torture to listening through the wall (not that that stopped me). I pulled occasionally myself and am not to proud to say that I would invariably ask to be fucked up against that wall and that I added in some rather theatrical additional sounds. And yet pretty much the only thing that changed in our relationship is that two or three times a week I would swallow his cum. We scarcely even spoke apart from that.
I waited it out though, knowing it was too odd to just stay this way forever, and sure enough I eventually got a text from him, around 6pm on a Saturday. It simply said “come over”. I slipped in to the most devastating dress in my admittedly mediocre college wardrobe and came over.
I wasn’t expecting rose petals and champagne, but I was expecting more than I got. He was in boxers and a half buttoned up shirt, and he got down to business straight away. “I’m hoping to pull tonight and I thought I might have a clearer head if you drain my balls first”. I stood there speechless. “It’s in your interests too, means the radioplay will last longer”.
I was utterly furious, and furiously moist, and my mood was not changed by the broad smirk across his face. I thought long and hard about slapping him, and long and hard about storming out. I also thought long and hard about his thick arms, and about the sunk cost fallacy. I also thought about the fact that eventually he would have to strike out and then I was his most convenient booty call if I didn’t rule myself out now.
Still partly spitting with rage, at both him and myself, I sank to my knees and got to work.
I was in a foul mood for the rest of the night, too annoyed to go out or to sleep. My mood was not improved when familiar noises from next door indicated that he had in fact not struck out, and I would now be subjected to that extra length radio play. Worse, she was one of those awful girls who speaks in full sentences during sex, although thankfully he eventually fucked the syntax right out of her. I’m not sure I’ve ever been so angry … or as turned on and I admit I jilled myself silly.
I barely slept, maybe a bit towards dawn, but I must have drifted off eventually because I was awoken the next morning by the door closing and then by my phone buzzing: “come over and clean me up”.
I hurled my phone at the wall in fury, denting both. But then fifteen minutes later I slunk over like a faithful dog.
Conversation was perfunctory: “how was she?”, “well you can tell me what she tasted like”. The same infuriating smirk, the stained and sodden sheets. The entire experience left a bitter taste in the mouth in so many ways.
After that I did a lot of thinking, and as if sensing that he left me alone for a bit. I tried to think about it rationally. Yes he was gorgeous, one of the most beautiful men I had ever seen, but there were other beautiful men in the world – not many but some and plenty that were beautiful enough. Yes it appeared he had the stamina and probably skills of a god, but there were other mindblowingly incredible lovers in the world – not many but some and plenty that were good enough. I started to conclude that my obsession with him was only really about wanting something right in front of me that I couldn’t have, and so I started to rationalise away my desire.
Except that these debates with myself would invariably end with my hand creeping towards my waistband, and after a while I came to realise that I had a bit of a kink for being used and degraded in this way. Of course I’d experienced, and realised, a bit about that during my time around the circuit, but what I’d never had before in my life was someone who seemed fairly impervious to my desirability. The people who’d abused and degraded me in my past could quite clearly not believe their luck that they got to do it to someone so hot. I’ve never had anyone that acted as though they could take or leave me. That was what was so frustrating, but after a while I realised that that was what was so hot.
And so ultimately I decided that if he wanted to use me I’d be happy to be used, and to get my kicks that way, even if it never led to anything else. And besides I hadn’t totally lost confidence in my attractiveness, it would eventually lead to something else.
Could he read my mind through the walls? It was only shortly after this realisation that I heard from him again.
It was around 1am on a Friday night and I was already in bed. I’d cruised the union bar for a while before concluding there was no one there I fancied more than a night in with my rabbit, thoughts of my neighbour, and the probability of listening in later. The text said “bringing home someone who likes to be watched, wanna see a live sex show?”
I went over to his room straight away. They came back about 20 minutes later. He came in first, tied me to the wall and gagged me. Then he ushered her in. She put her hand on her hip coquettishly and looked me up and down and gave some weak one liner like “nice wall art”. She was trying to be cool and louche but I could tell she was nervous. I think she’d tried to play the sexual sophisticate to seduce him and was now worried she’d bitten off more than she could chew. He met her with a passionate embrace that took away many of her nerves and caused her to melt into him.
I tried to watch as dispassionately as possible. The sounds had given me a misleading sense of his technique, particularly in the earlier quieter stages: he was gentler, more romantic, more considerate, more patient, at least to begin with. He moved through the stages and only ramped up the intensity slowly. He had her humming like a finely tuned engine long before he penetrated her, and even then he was louche and languid for a good while. He used his size and strength to switch their positions regularly and with ease. Only once she’d cummed into another dimension did he really start the pile driver.
As for her, she clearly thought she knew all the moves and to begin with she was all sultry stripteases, theatrical gasps, and any excuse she could find to arch her back. But he soon fucked all the pretention out of her, and while she gamely tried to be an active participant for a good while she was eventually reduced to merely holding on for dear life, and then to convulsive seizure, and finally to sweaty shuddering catatonia.
Bitch.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/ole8sd/thin_walls_pt3_mf_f_long
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