He told me to own all my embarrassing little secrets, so here’s one I’ll share: I have cum in my ass. Right now.
I can’t feel it or anything, but I know it’s there because he put a plug in me before any of it could get out. A subtle and yet painfully indelible act of control. He was gentle about that part though, softened by that post orgasmic drug that seems to change men in an instant. He’s not the sort to sleep after or lose interest, he doesn’t retreat to his phone; he gets clever and strangely affectionate.
Meanwhile, I felt like I’d been poured onto the bed, exhausted and liquid as he lifted my hips and kneaded my thigh and kissed along the curve of my ass. I craved him mindlessly in that moment, and he left me with a reminder of the wanton version of me that he’d nurtured into existence.
It’s weird being so aware of cum I can’t see, can’t feel. I don’t know if it’s a lot or a little, just that it’s in me. Hmm…
It was a good fuck by the way—dirty, sweaty, primal, so fucking close I felt like he was trying me on as a costume. He went slow at first, deep and grinding, some indolent machine of flexing muscles and immovable inertia. Then he was mean in a way that made me want to goad him, made me burn for the animal mass of him and made me feel delightfully insubstantial. He pulled my hair, whispered gravelly promises in my ear that crawled down my spine and settled in my ’wet little cunt’ (his words; every hard T like a hammer on a nail). Fuck, it gives me chills. He choked me too, just enough to almost feel the danger of a strong hand around my throat; fucked me into the mattress rather than just fucking me on it. Rag doll me, and he, an unrestrainable natural force to batter my bones away. Beautiful.
The only thing I didn’t like was not being able to see it happen while it happened. Maybe if I actually got my wish, I’d feel self conscious or something—out of body and observing my little imperfections, judging. But this particular fantasy doesn’t usually get that introspective or realistic when I’m having it. It’s more abstract than that. There’s an odd part of me would like to be there as an outsider while he fucks me, to lean in with him when he whispers and then echo his “dirty little slut” like some fucked cheerleader. I might have to move a mirror next time and see if it adds anything. I’ll have to find a way to make it his idea.
But yeah, he came, he left, I can’t feel his cum, I can absolutely feel the butt plug. The fullness, the tension of its foreign solidity like I’ve got an extra bone in my pelvis that’s slightly out of place. He told me to wear it for exactly one-hundred minutes.
“You’re not going to take it out.” A parting sentiment, firm like an accusation.
Goddamnit, I would do almost *anything* under the weight of that tone, the inevitability of it, words like blocks of concrete chained to any notion of self I had before he laid them on top of me. There’s a frightening ease in his face when he uses that tone too. A certainty. I’ve been with men who take on a firm demeanor in the bedroom, an *act* that may feel convincing enough to prickle my skin, but with him, there is absolutely zero fucking pretense.
He is that tone. The rest of him—smiling, kissing, licking, pleasant—that’s the act I think. Maybe not. It drives me crazy that I can’t tell. But then he looks at me and reads everything—he just knows—the depths of my submissiveness and the limits of my defiance, my pride and insecurities, my mental movies were he is his impassive, direct, inescapably masculine self and I am a complete fucking slut.
As soon as he told me I wasn’t going to take it out, I wasn’t going to. He left me alone, theoretically capable of doing whatever the hell I wanted to do and…I’m not going to take it out. The cum stays. I set a timer on my phone. I have 81 minutes left.
Time for another secret. He—I’m going to call him Mr. Rook—is married. His wife is pretty, a little stiff, willowy, blonde. She looks the part of a rich bitch, elegant in a way that I could only pretend at. Ordinarily, I’d feel pretty fucking guilty about playing fucktoy to an older married man, but he’s not the only one in the marriage who strays. (I happen to know that for a fact, but that is perhaps a story for another time). Also, I seriously doubt they’d get divorced because of me. They seem to make sport of mutual spite. Neither of them will win that game and both of them seem to want to. They need to despise each other, which gives them a weird sort of longevity.
Secret number three: I voluntarily moved into Rook’s guesthouse. It wasn’t to be his kept whore; I’m an artist—a painter—and I’m making him a series of murals. Though if I’m being perfectly honest, a flavor of the desire to be his plaything did influence my decision to say yes when he offered. And that’s where I am now, in the guest house, in a tidy little roooooooooooooiuh3q3q3q3q3q3q3q3q3q3q3q3q3q3q3q3q3q3q3qp7o8gt43ersdsooozfjkadhSLDFPGSZkjsbx0iai0guzsreo4gw0t3784ywoia;sLZ?
Okay. Hmm. I just deleted that and hit Ctrl-Z about ten times. It seemed showy to leave it in, but I’m gonna leave it because I’m telling secrets and that little string of gibberish was the result of another one. I braced myself on the keyboard. The butt plug—the one with now 73 more minutes left—it vibrates. I knew that, but I had no idea what it would feel like. Rumbly as fuck apparently; it almost felt the way a jackhammer sounds.
I also had no idea when it would buzz. I still don’t.
As I recall, the plug’s expensive looking, a little big, cute lavender silicone, not a LELO I don’t think, but similar enough. It has a Bluetooth connection. An app on my phone. And Rook has an app on his. He controls how long it vibrates, how hard; he controls the rhythm and the when. And I…will not take it out.
71 minutes. Waiting.
He said when he left that he had a meeting to negotiate something. People were coming to the house for lunch.
…And over hand shakes and inane rich guy small talk, he paused a few minutes ago, reached through the digital ether and finger fucked my ass with his fucking phone. Knowing him, his face gave nothing away, no satisfied smirk, just another quick act of dominance. And it has me fucking dripping. And he knows it. The phone is probably on the table in front him, next to oysters and charcuterie and a glass of wine. His finger hovering, poised to make me squirm. So easy for him. Fuck Fuck FUCK!
I had to take a break for a few minutes.
I’m trying to keep writing, to not just disappear into an hour of sloppy masturbation like some addled, living clit. I want to. I reeeeeally want to. But if I do, then he will have won his little game. If I’m going to cum, it’s going to be because he forced it out my body not because he touched a screen and I lost control. He could do it. Make me cum. If I shift to the edge of my chair, I think the plug would get my g-spppescodmz;lx.ds,xdz;./
FUCK. 54 minutes, 26 seconds. I got my hands away from the keyboard a little quicker, but it buzzed—a kind of low wave. My hips acted on their own, searching then fucking clawing for the right angle, the right rhythm to grind out a little fucking peace. Nope. It stopped for a few seconds and then did something like a firework—slow tingle-BZZZ-slow tingle-BZZZ. It felt like the fucking plug was trying to cum forhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh sdfkveuly4FNwlyou4tfrgggggggdvblxyo8v
TRYING TO CUM FOR ME. FUCKSAKE!
I’m back. 36 minutes. Secret number…something: I came twice while writing this—a few minutes ago. Secret number something else: I cheated and used the Hitachi in my bedside table. He won. Made me masturbate with the literal touch of a button.
He put on a vibration that I would love to describe more elegantly than a squirmy anal rollercoaster, but I can’t. It lasted a WHILE and being that it came from a toy that I am determined to leave in, I could not get away from it. It clung to me, burrowing, roiling vibrations. Relentless.
But I managed to stumble away from my desk, feeling like my own skeleton was trying to make me cum. It’s not far to the bed, but it made for a completely ravenous few steps, praying to some goddess of sex and technology not to let the vibrations just be another tease.
The sheets and duvet still looked like sex. It made me even more unhinged. The memory of Rook trapping my t-shirt as it was halfway off, keeping my face and arms cocooned inside a mask of translucent cloth as he licked one of my nipples stiff and bit the inside of my breast just enough to feel the pressure of his teeth.
I wrenched opened the drawer of my bedside table, feeling like my pussy, my asshole, my clit—every fucking piece of flesh between my legs—was one vicious, hungry, drooling mouth. I needed to cum, desperately. I *wanted* Rook’s cock, the angry vein that bulges along the top, the sheen of my *wet little cunt* on it when he pulls out to toss me into a different position, every brutal, throbbing, intrusive, suckable inch of it.
I wanted to get fucked. But I reached for the next best thing, turned on the Magic Wand and felt the first contractions racing through my pelvis, yanking warmth from pure anticipation. Pavlovian tensijaueyp99999999
Damnit. *Tension*. 24 minutes.
I came the second the wand’s big industri4wlhr hwpo./.
Okay. I swear that one rattled my teeth. I moaned for no one but a goddamn buzzing motor…and now I’m catching that Hitachi out of the corner of my eye and it feels like a flirtation. I’m considering impractical things, wondering if there’s enough room in me to fuck a giant fucking vibrator. I doubt there is. God! How does he make me such a slut?! I need to keep writing. More Rook. More torture.
I remember his bare chest and shoulders flexing, beautifully taut, intimidating strength as he lifted me by my legs to his mouth and then stopped. My blood was pooling in my head, coursing. My pussy wanted it back, wanted his tongue, fucking needed it. I might have shouted something brusque and whorish—I don’t remember. I do remember the drag of his bottom lip across my labia as he smiled down my body at me. Fucking tease.
He knows exactly how to make my muscles burn for an inch of distance between us. A game. A little lick. Tentative, playful as I whined. Another solitary lick as my legs shook. I felt completely fucking helpless. I knew that he was strong enough to keep me at a distance, hovering so close that his warm breath made me shiver. Fuck! A kiss on my clit—a peck.
“Beg,” he said.
Oh…I did not want to give him the satisfaction of that. Not yet. He lifted me higher, I felt his tongue slide across my asshole, wet and warm.
“Beg.”
Fuuuuck. His fingers dug into the flesh of my thighs and he rested his lips between my legs. I whimpered, losing the will to defy him. I’d known that I would. I always did.
“Such a pretty pussy.” *Lick.* “Maybe I’ll just tell you what I’d do to it.”
“Please!” I crumbled. “Please just fucking eat me! FUCK!”
He clicked his tongue in an *if-I-must* kinda way. I was preparing to hate him…and then he *devoured* me; long deep licks that spread my labia around his tongue, little deft, slithering drags around my clit, flicking, sucking, nibbling, plunging into my pussy with such vigor that I felt like honey. I was panting, feeling tension rise, warmth gathering.
And he stopped again.
“You don’t want to cum yet.” It almost had the intonation of a threat. I was heaving. And the bottom half of his face was painted glossy, glistening with me. There was something feral about it, like a lion’s blood-drenched muzzle. Maybe I *didn’t* want to cum with his mouth on me.
“I do!—no—I *don’t*. Fuck me. I’m not going to beg.”
Even he has his limits.
He let me off his shoulders, dragged me to the side edge of the bed by my ankles, teased a finger inside of me while his thumb worked at my clit. An action of idle muscle memory for him that made me ruthless.
He opened the drawer to my bedside table. I grabbed his wrist and pulled his finger deeper into me, feeling a touch of power even though I knew he was just letting me use him. And then the drawer snapped shut.
A rabbity vibrator he’d bought for me. A bottle of lube. *Oh*…
“Turn over. Onto your belly.” He swirled his finger inside of me, a mean gesture. Far too complacent. He was still playing. Smirking internally. I needed him simmering on the edge of a boil. I needed him to feel my heat.
“Make me,” I snapped.
He sniffed. Wet his bottom lip with his tongue. My skin prickled. The moment dragged. A calm before the storm.
His cock—that dangerous hunk of solid flesh—it jerked, autonomously. An animal twitch driven by carnal instinct that I had baited. Drooling pre-cum ever so slightly. And then his finger slowly slid along the inside of my pussy.
I yelped as he rolled me over. Felt my organs lurch with the force of it.
“Spread your legs.”
I closed them, crossed them, hooked one foot around my other ankle.
“Make me.”
He smacked my ass, hard, reverberating through me as the mattress groaned under his weight.
“You’re getting fucked.” Not a command. A conclusion.
I squeezed my thighs as he wrenched them open, felt feeble and vulnerable and all the other weaknesses I only covet when I’m with him. Rapturously devastating. His hands pried against me, fingers strangling.
I relented, heard his breath rising behind me, not exerted by the physical act of opening me—he’s too fit for that—no… exerted by breaking me maybe. Fuck. Hot.
Then, I heard the hum of my vibrator like the quiet hiss of viper—a key, and a weapon to destroy me.
“Wider.”
I spread.
“Wrists on your lower back.”
I crossed them.
I heard the cap of the bottle of lube. The liquid crackle of him rubbing it onto his cock. He spread the cheeks of my ass, a heavy dribble on vulnerable skin; he rubbed with the flat of his finger, firm. And then a vibration against my asshole like melting butter and static cling.
“You want me to fuck you?”
“Yes.”
The tip of the vibrator traced a tiny circle.
“Where?”
I trembled.
“My ass…”
“Ask me like the hungry slut you want to be. Make me believe it.”
Even then I had to fight the little good girl voices inside my head that chide against saying things he wanted to hear. He knew about that fight; he was trying to burn that good girl to the ground.
I thought of my out of body me, spreading my ass for him and whispering a thousand whorish things in his ear.
“I need your big fucking cock in my tight little asshole. I said I wouldn’t beg. I lied. Please, *please* fuck me!”
I meant it.
“Good.”
I felt the shock of the vibrator as it moved downward and sunk into my pussy. The warm, electric tingle of it. A finger slipped into my ass and I moaned as it slowly worked in and out of me. It slid easy, no bickering flesh, more would be easy too. I wanted his cock, a desire that suddenly felt necessary. The vibrator had already taken the strings to the movement of my hips. Now I needed him to yank them.
“More. Fuck my ass. Do it.”
He drew a breath that sounded like a song of lust. Something quiet concealing something ferocious.
Then his finger retreated. He shifted his weight. I felt the head of his cock against my asshole. The giddy, leg shaking anticipation, the pressure of it. Pushing. Stretching. Sliding in. Going deep and filling me indescribably. Alongside the girth of the vibrator, I felt too small to contain the air in my lungs. It came out of me as a moan that seemed to stir something in him.
His strokes were slow at first, a deliberate rhythm that made me feel like something sultry. I panted, rocked my hips against the slow roll of the vibrator, against him, seeming to match its tempo. Soft ecstasy as I disappeared a moment at a time into waves of overwhelming intensity. And then I wanted more.
“Fuck…..me……hard.“
It was all I could manage—desperate whispers. I thought I was on the edge of cumming; the feeling, beautifully indistinct—pleasure, the push of his hips rocking into me, the subtle friction of his cock, the ease with which he became vital as he pressed the vibrator into my g-spot from the inside.
I writhed, despondent. He leaned into me, spreading the heat of his body across mine.
My wrists had already melted from my back, unable to keep with the invisible bondage of his earlier command. He’d let it go, but as he covered me in the weight of his gorgeous skin, he drew my wrists together above my head and pinned them in one of his hands.
“I’m going to tear you apart.”
His other hand slipped under my hip. The vibrator inside of me stopped purring, started growling, its little appendage attacking my clit.
“I’m going to make you wear every filthy word I whisper in your ear.”
He sucked my earlobe. Another slow, grinding thrust. Another.
“Now moan for me, you *little—fucking—slut*.”
His first hard thrusts beat the words into me. Jarring, electrifying, a tickle in my belly and a firm shove toward what seemed like the edge of an absolutely murderous orgasm. And I did feel like a little fucking slut, both of my holes full, moaning and needful as he fucked my ass.
I wanted the chiding good girl voice to return if only to hear it gasp. *‘I can’t believe she would do that…’ ‘That’s disgusting…’ ‘Oh my god, she fucking likes it…’ ‘What a little…fucking…slut.’* I wanted that judgment like a fetish. Hot little words. That good girl had no idea how good I fucking felt.
Rook thrusted faster, then slow, then fast again. Grunted and groaned—soft savage sounds, a beautiful accompaniment to my panting praise of his big fucking cock. It felt *huge*—some greased industrial piston driving into me amidst the rumble of an engine inside my cunt.
“Show me how much your tight little ass craves this cock,” he whispered.
He licked the side of my face, bit my shoulder, grabbed my neck. Bestial.
“Cum for me, you dirty little slut.”
He squeezed my throat. Pounded.
“Cum. *Now*.”
That tone. I fucking did. Not a jolt in my pussy, a sensory flood, a churning ocean of intensity that submerged my entire fucking being. I was screaming, he kept going, so deep and impossibly filling that his cock felt like an extra organ in my abdomen. And I just kept cumming, immobile, paralyzed by the feeling.
I was oblivious to the world when he finally came in me. I don’t remember his final thrusts or if he whispered. I felt beaten into a euphoric stupor, utterly exhausted, beautifully destroyed, and after the vibrations died away, he stayed inside me for a long while. He kissed my neck, slid himself across the slick sweat between our bodies, and gave me a dozen more languorous strokes. Fucking lovely.
I have no clue where he got the plug from, but he eased it into me as the mattress begged for me to pool on top of it. Which brings me back to the beginning, I guess. The cum inside me, *his cum*, an invisible reminder of everything I’ve just written.
A secret: the timer on my phone went off twenty minutes ago. I kept the plug in after. I kept writing as…foreplay. I figured he’d be back. And he just sent me a text.
“I’m on my way.”
He told me to own all my embarrassing little secrets. I shared one: I have cum in my ass. I’ll share another:
I think I’m ready for more.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/yxyxil/he_told_me_to_leave_it_inside_myself_for_100
Cool story.