The phone rang. I pulled it from my jeans pocket and saw that it was Brad. Shit! I really didn't want a call from him right now. Maybe I should just ignore it. But somehow he always knew when I'd just ignored his calls. And then that was even worse.
I answered it, thinking only fleetingly about "the speech" that I'd composed and honed over the years and knew now that I would never actually give. I don't know why I even thought of it anymore. Maybe it made me feel just a little bit in charge of my life to at least imagine that I'd freed myself from Brad with "the speech."
"Hey, Bitch." That's how he usually referred to me. It should still bother me, of course, but I'd gotten to the point where I didn't really hear it anymore. "Rachel's down at the outlet mall for the whole day. Get over here."
Phrases from the speech floated through my head: "This is over, Brad;" "I'm married to a beautiful woman now and I'm not your bitch anymore;" "Fuck off!" As these thoughts rattled around in my mind, I said, "Okay." Really, by this point, the speech was a piece of personal history-a remnant of a time when I hadn't made my peace with the situation.
It took me a little time to get ready. Brad was particular about how I was dressed when I showed up at his house, or wherever he wanted me to meet him. But I'd gotten pretty fast at this-I'd had enough practice-so I was out the door in under 15 minutes. That's all the time it took to drag my bag of paraphernalia out of its hiding place in the basement, strip down and take off my men's underwear, pull on the stockings and fasten them to the garter belt, slip into the panties and fasten the bra around my chest. Then, all I had to do was pull back on my men's outer clothing and grab the bag with my heels, wig, and breast inserts.
At this time of day, it was a 30 minute drive to Brad's house. I had a lot of time to think and I wound up replaying, as I'd done so many times over the years, how this whole thing began.
It was eight years ago and Brad and I were freshmen roommates in college. From the beginning, we didn't really click. If the university did any sort of matching of roommates, they sure fucked up in our case. Brad was loud and brash; I was quiet and introspective. He was mainly in school to party; I was a serious student. I hated it when I'd come back from the library late at night and find his signal on the door-a lapel pin in the corkboard-indicating that he had a girl in the room. I'd wind up sleeping on a sofa in the floor lounge.
For the most part, we simply co-existed. I was counting the days down until the end of the year. Really! I had a little tally sheet over my desk. Brad had no idea what it was, but each day I'd cross off on square so I could mark my progress toward getting away from Brad.
Then, in the middle of the spring term, Brad's girlfriend dumped him. She dumped him hard. In my mind, I cheered her on, thinking she'd seen what a crass jerk he was and that was why she'd broken up. But Brad was so busted up that he couldn't even bring himself to date other girls, even though there were lots who would have wanted to go out with him.
But not feeling like dating didn't mean that Brad was fine with being celibate. In retrospect, I guess his sex drive was building up steam without any release. But I didn't realize that until later.
It was late one Saturday night-well, I guess it was really early one Sunday morning-about a month after his girlfriend had dropped him that it became clear that Brad's sexual urges were overwhelming him. I was just about asleep when he came in from hanging out with some other guys. He was obviously very drunk. I could tell that from the fumbling with his card in the door before the door unlocked and, as soon as he walked in the room, from the alcohol he reeked of.
I tried to ignore him. It was a little difficult because he not only stumbled into about every piece of furniture in the dorm room as he took off his clothes but he also turned on the light and even started talking to me. I really didn't want get in a conversation with him. I didn't like him when he was sober and I liked him much less when he was drunk.
I guess he didn't like being ignored because he got increasingly abusive. The more abusive he got, though, the more I resolved to continue to ignore him. And, as I found out, the more I continued to ignore him, the more abusive he got.
"What's the matter with you, fuckhead?" And, when that was met with silence, he went on. "I'm talking to you, asshole!" And it went on in that vein for a while.
Finally my resolve to ignore him broke. I shouted, "Shut up! Shut the fuck up!"
And for a moment, there was dead silence. Brad was stunned, I think. I'd never talked like that to him-or to anyone, really. I was kind of stunned myself.
Then, I felt Brad on top of me. He said something like, "I'll show you!" And I guess he did.
I was lying on my stomach and, with his weight on me, I couldn't really move at all. I felt the covers between our bodies being pulled down. And, after the covers were down to my thighs, he began pushing my boxers down, too. I struggled, but to no effect. He was a lot stronger than me and, in the position I was in, I had no leverage anyway.
He got my underpants down to my thighs with his hands and then hooked his foot in them and pushed them and the covers all the way down. Now I could tell that he was naked, too. I could feel his chest on my back and then I could feel his cock on my buttocks. And it was hard. I struggled again-again, ineffectively.
I kind of whimpered a 'no!' That was no more effective than my attempt to dislodge Brad physically.
"NO?!?!" Brad said right into my ear. "I'll teach you not to say 'no' to me, you little bitch!"
He pushed his knees down between mine and then pushed my legs apart. Now, with my ass cheeks spread, I could feel his cock between my cheeks, pressed against my asshole.
Brad's arm was across my back, with all of his weight bearing down on me. It was all I could do to breathe. I had no chance of pushing him off. I was at the mercy of someone who had no mercy.
I felt Brad move down slightly so that the head of his cock lined up with my asshole and then I felt him press against my sphincter. There was no lubrication and, even with the violence Brad was showing, it was impossible for him to force his cock into my ass. For a moment, I thought that his assault would fizzle and I'd escape from this unscathed.
He rolled up away from me slightly, keeping his weight on his arm on my back so I couldn't escape. And then I heard him spit several times into his hand. I felt him as he smeared his saliva on his hard cock. He spit into his hand again and smeared on my ass, too.
And, then, he began to press into me again. At first, I tried to resist the pressure. I clenched my asshole down as hard as I could. But the lubrication, crude as it was, had its effect. I could feel his cock working its way into me.
Then, I just gave up. I quit resisting and simply allowed him to do what he was going to do. I felt his cock press into me. It hurt. I felt as if he was tearing me and I guess he did. (Later I found that the sheets were stained with my blood.) But he didn't relent. He pressed into me and before long I could feel him sliding in and out.
Once he was in and able to really fuck me, he began talking to me again. It was vile, disgusting talk. "You like this, don't you bitch? ... You've wanted my cock for a long time, haven't you, you little cock slut? ... How do you like it now-now that you finally have my big hard cock up your little asshole?"
The pain was gone now. I found myself breathing hard and, sometimes when he thrust especially deep into me, gasping. Brad interpreted this as a sign of enjoyment, of course, and built it into his offensive monolog.
I didn't like it. I was being raped. But, then, I realized that my own cock was hard. As Brad fucked me, my cock rubbed against the sheets. And, worse, I felt myself beginning to build to an orgasm. I tried to will it away. I couldn't think of anything that would be more humiliating than cumming from Brad fucking me. But willing an orgasm away is about as successful as willing a hardon away.
I felt Brad's lips, and then his teeth, on my neck. He was biting my neck. I don't think he was trying to cause me pain; it was just a sign of domination. I was sure it would leave a mark. But I didn't have much time to worry about that.
Suddenly, before I realized it, I was cumming. It wasn't quiet. It wasn't subtle. It wasn't possible to hide what had happened. My hips thrust up and down and I screamed out. I guess I also involuntarily clenched down on my asshole. The additional pressure on his cock-my ass was practically milking his cock now-and the thrill I think he felt as a result of having fucked me to an orgasm, sent Brad over the top. As my orgasm was diminishing, his exploded. And he exploded in my ass. I couldn't feel the jets of semen hitting my rectal walls, but I could certainly feel the throbbing of his cock in my ass.
Then it was over. Brad lay heavily on my back, panting and gasping for breath just like I was. I might have been able to get away then if I'd had the will and the energy. I didn't have either. I just lay there, with Brad's softening cock deep in my bowels.
I think we both sort of dozed a bit in our post-orgasmic bliss. It was some time later that I felt Brad begin to roll to one side. But he didn't pull out of me. Instead, he held my hips tightly against his pelvis so that I turned with him and his cock, now mostly soft, stayed in me.
We were spooning, then. And Brad began to move again. As he moved his cock in and out of my asshole very gently, his cock began to swell again. Soon it was hard and he could fuck me with more force. And he did.
His hands were on my hips, but he wasn't really holding me at this point. I was pressing my ass back to meet his thrusts. Brad moved his right hand up along my body and began playing with my nipple. I'd never played with my nipples but I could tell that they were hard little nubbins now. And it felt good to have his fingers touching my nipple.
I reached down and grabbed my cock. It was hard and I needed to feel the pressure of my hand wrapped around it, stroking it as Brad fucked me. I wouldn't describe Brad as being gentle, exactly, but he wasn't being violent anymore. And the movement of his cock in my ass felt really good.
Now I began consciously working my anal sphincter and moving my hips to generate the sensations that I was enjoying. I knew that this was making this feel better for Brad, too, but I didn't care. I was looking out for my own pleasure.
This time, Brad beat me to his orgasm. I felt his hands clamp on my hips as he thrust in and out of me through his orgasm. I didn't want to miss my own orgasm so I began pumping my cock furiously. And, just as Brad's climax receded, I blew my load all over my sheets.
Again, we dozed without uncoupling. At some point, I felt a little cold and I couldn't reach the covers without shifting so much that Brad would come out of me. So I pulled Brad's arm over my chest for warmth and fell asleep.
We both woke up pretty early-especially given how late we'd been up. When we woke up, Brad wasn't in me anymore, but I was still wrapped in his arms. It was an awkward moment. We were both embarrassed. In the early morning light, things looked different. I don't think it was clear to either of us how to go on from here. Brad got up and got in the shower first. I got in the shower as soon as he'd gotten out.
When I came out of the bathroom, Brad hadn't dressed yet; his towel was still wrapped around his waist. I was drying off and I saw Brad eye me. It made me very uncomfortable-as it turned out, for good reason.
"Come here!" It was a command. He didn't shout. In fact, he was talking rather quietly. But it was clear that it was a command. I hesitated. Brad spoke again-not to give another command but, I guess, to explain the situation. "You're my bitch now, you know that." That last phrase could have been a question, but it wasn't. It was a statement of fact.
I did know it. I hadn't admitted it to myself until he said it but, now I realized that as I stood in the shower, washing my ass gently and running my finger over my tender hole, at some level I understood that my asshole was now Brad's property. When I dried off after my shower and saw in the mirror Brad's bite mark on my neck, I think there was some unconscious recognition that I belonged to Brad now.
So, he didn't have to say, 'come here', again. He was right. I was his bitch and I knew it.
I walked over to Brad. I could tell by the way he was looking at me what I was supposed to do. If there was a second's hesitation, it was only because I was momentarily stunned by the knowledge that I was going to do it without resistance. I knelt down at Brad's feet and pulled his towel back, exposing his cock-the instrument of my assault just a few hours ago. Brad was beginning to get aroused. His cock was still soft, but it was filling.
I looked at it, amazed-more by my reaction than by his cock itself. It was beautiful-smooth with a well-defined helmet. But what amazed me was that I not only recognized its beauty but I could admit it to myself. I wanted to take it in my mouth-this thing that had raped me the night before. I wanted to hold it between my lips, to feel it slide over my tongue. I wanted to feel it harden in my mouth and, more than anything, I wanted to make it explode in my mouth-filling me with its sweet seed. (At least, that's how I thought of it. I'd never tasted Brad's cum, of course. I'd never tasted any cum, not even my own. I didn't really know what it would taste like. But I imagined it as sweet-if not in actual taste, at least in the satisfaction it would give me.)
Wrapping my fingers gently around his stiffening shaft, I touched my tongue to the tip of his cock. Then I ran my tongue under his shaft, across that most sensitive spot just below the helmet. I felt Brad's cock jump and experienced for the first time the sense of power that women feel when they give a man a blow job. To be able to cause such pleasure is a kind of power.
But I couldn't tease too long. I was teasing myself as much as Brad. I slid his now fully hard cock between my lips and began sliding my lips up and down his shaft. Brad put his hands on the sides of my head. I suppose this could have bothered me; he was taking control of what I was doing. But I found it comforting-and I think I found it comforting precisely because he was taking control of what I was doing.
Brad didn't try to force his cock down my throat. He just wanted to control the tempo. And he controlled it to very good effect. It wasn't more than a few minutes before he was thrusting wildly and spewing in my mouth.
I gagged for a second. Then I realized that it wasn't because he'd thrusted too deeply. He hadn't. And it wasn't because of the taste of his cum. I hadn't really had a chance to taste it yet. It was just an anticipatory reaction. When I realized that, I relaxed a bit and just concentrated on the sensations that were flooding my senses: the feeling of the jets of cum at the back of my mouth, the dull ache in my jaw from stretching to accommodate Brad's cock, the clean but masculine smell of his crotch, and, of course, the taste of his cum.
I swallowed some of his semen immediately, as an involuntary reaction to having my mouth filled. But I managed to hold some back. I wanted to attend to my first taste of cum. It wasn't sweet in taste. It was salty and tangy. It kind of stung. But as Brad's softening cock slipped from my lips, and I swished the remaining semen around in my mouth for a moment, I decided that it was sweet-a sweet sensation.
The relationship was cemented at that point. I was Brad's bitch. I couldn't bear to look him in the eye right then. I got up and went to the bathroom. I'm sure Brad thought I was going to brush my teeth and gargle. But I didn't. Somehow it just seemed right to keep Brad's taste in my mouth as long as possible.
For the rest of the year, I serviced Brad at his whim. Even after he started another relationship with a girl, he kept up his use of me. And it wasn't because she wasn't putting out. I guess I gave Brad something he didn't get from his girlfriends. Of course, he had the power of controlling me. Maybe that was it. But I liked to think that I could make him feel things that his girlfriend couldn't.
For our sophomore year, Brad rented a house and told me that I would rent a room from him, which I did of course. This kept me in close proximity so that I could take care of his needs whenever he wanted.
In our third and fourth years, Brad's girlfriend, Cynthia, moved into the house and shared Brad's room. I still lived in the second bedroom to (Brad told his girlfriend) help with the rent. I was helping with the rent, of course, but I was also on call for Brad. I sometimes wondered what Cynthia would think of the fact that some mornings, after she went to class, Brad would call me into their bed to take care of him. Sometimes he just wanted a blow job but frequently he wanted my ass.
I'd gotten quite good at this and didn't mind anymore, except when I thought about the situation in the abstract. I always got aroused when I was servicing Brad, whether he was fucking my mouth or my ass. And I often came during our sexual encounters-always from my own hand, of course. Brad never touched my cock. That was fine. There was no equality, or even token reciprocity, in this relationship. I was just his bitch. And, I found that when I was whacking off on my own, I always envisioned having sex with Brad. Even when I started dating and sleeping with women, what I thought about as I was nearing an orgasm was Brad's cock in my ass or my mouth.
It was during this time that Brad began having me dress in women's underwear. It started out as a spur-of-the-moment thing. One morning when Cynthia had gone to class and Brad was horny, he called me into their room. The bra and panties Cynthia had worn the night before were still on the floor where she had thrown them when she and Brad were stripping to make love. I caught the bra strap in my toes when I was walking to their bed and I kind of kicked the bra up into my hand to toss it aside.
Brad stopped me and told me to put on the bra. That stopped me for a minute, but I went ahead and put it on. Fortunately, I'd seen my sister put on a bra by fastening it in front then turning it around before putting on the straps. Brad had me stuff the bra with some of Cynthia's stockings from her drawer then told me to put on her panties. I reached for the ones in her drawer by the stockings but Brad told me to wear the dirty ones from the floor. When I picked them up, he told me to sniff the crotch. It was an intoxicating smell. My nostrils were still filled with it when I slipped the panties on. My cock was hard and, so, the panties didn't do much to cover me.
It was kind of strange, that first time, getting fucked in a bra and panties. But I actually liked it. And, it became a regular part of our sexual activities. When he and Cynthia broke up in our senior year, Brad had me buy some lingerie of my own so that I could continue to be his bitch en femme.
(That one panty sniff got me hooked, by the way. Brad never knew it but I often sought out Cynthia's used panties and sniffed them while I was beating off. Every once in a while, I'd get a pair of panties that Cynthia had worn after she and Brad had fucked. Then the panties would be infused with lots of her fluids and, as well, with Brad's cum. That was a special treat. My panty fetish is with me to this day. Over the years, I'd often sneak a sniff of one of my girlfriend's panties.)