Julie Pendleton

She didn't know she'd fall in love. She certainly didn't know with what. She knew her emotional nature and her sensual nature were a singular creature... and she knew that she was a slave to that creature. Absolution. How can one be responsible for actions to which she is a slave? She knew it was rationalization, but the alternatives all frightened her. Her deepest fear of all was losing her state of ecstasy. Not that her defense mechanisms were even necessary. When it happened, it happened.

It was all pretty normal stuff for most of her sexually active life. She would fixate on an act. It would become her obsession. They weren't just acts. They were pieces of acts. Compartmentalization of the strangest details. There was no harm in it. Earlier that year, she had sucked her first dick. She was a virgin then. That was pretty normal, she supposed. What wasn't, was the ridge.

Tommy was a stupid jock. She couldn't have forced herself to want to have a conversation with him, but when they were at the same party... well, he was hot. He was exactly the sort of guy that invaded her fantasies. Alpha-male. Strong. He knew it too. Maybe he didn't know it before the party, but he knew it when she started to look a little too drunk. He said he was feeling a little woozy.

"Oh my God. So am I."

He said he was going to walk it off. The air was fresh, and that had always seemed to work for him in the past. He was baiting her, and she knew it. She loved it. The feeling that excited her most was that of being exploited, baited... hunted. She walked with him, and she responded to every prompt. He talked about his girlfriend and how she could never come out for parties like this, as her parents were so restrictive of her movements. He talked about how she was so prudish. Pretty. He told her his girlfriend was pretty; almost as pretty as her. Bait. She could almost feel what was going to happen. Tommy's girlfriend didn't suck his dick. Well, she had, but only twice, and she never seemed into it enough to do it right. He said he felt that would be the thing that would make him feel like a girl was for real... forever. Lies. Beautiful lies.

"I think sucking your dick would be something she would want to do."

"No. She doesn't want to. In fact, just thinking about it now is really... it sort of hurts. It's like there's something wrong with me."

It was like it was all written before it was said. Somewhere. They just had to read the script. She told him there was nothing wrong with him. He smiled, but it spoke the words "Yeah right. Whatever."

"Let me."

"Let you what?"

"Suck your dick."

That's when it all began. She'd never been obsessive before. She dropped to her knees, right on the side of the street. A car hadn't passed during their whole walk. He backed up to lean against the street lamp near him, and she unzipped his jeans. Getting his dick out was trickier than she had imagined. She was afraid she'd do something wrong before she ever got it into her mouth. She wanted in her mouth! It was too hard and long to clear the opening of his pants. She tugged them down a bit until the top of his jeans pulled far enough down to release him. His dick sprang from his pants as it was released and slapped against her nose. It actually hurt a bit, and she could feel its heat upon contact. Some of his fluids has smeared across her lip, up to her right nostril. It was delightfully humiliating. She wanted this so badly now. None of her friends ever expressed such a desire. Yeah, most were willing. Some were proud, but none of the girls had said anything to prepare her for this consuming desire for something that seemed so... so vile to her only a short time before.

She gripped his scrotum and took him into her mouth. Suddenly, she could only focus on one thing. The feeling of the ridge of the head of his dick against the back of her lips. Mmm. It yielded in an almost rubbery manner; a stark contrast to the rigid hardness of his cock. She could feel his pulse against her bottom lip, pulsing from the area below the head. She sucked. She did what she knew she probably should be doing, but she only wanted to feel that ridge. He couldn't have done anything to her that would have excited her more. Every happily ever after, princess fantasy about sex and love... it was all out the window.

The gravel on the street was pressing into her knees. It was causing pain. Suddenly, headlights broke the darkness. She could feel him tense. He told her to stop. She felt mist in the air. It was settling on her cheek, and she remembered seeing the mist in the halo of the street lamp. She held Tommy's balls. And flicked her tongue along the underside of his dick. She pulled her lips back against that ridge, and she could feel it happening. She was going to cum.... just like when she did in her fantasies. They were never like this. There was no four-poster bed with lace draping the top. The onset of orgasm didn't displace the carnal images as would happen in a fantasy. Nope, there it was; his dick, in her mouth, pulling back for a moment. Then, she felt him twitch. He was yelling at her. The car. He didn't want to be seen like this, but she was to have her way. He twitched as the car past. His body convulsed, and she lost it. She lost the ridge as his dick pushed into her throat. She gagged and wanted to bite. Anger welled up inside her, and she thought to see how deeply into his arrogant, stupid prick she could sink her teeth.

His semen filled her mouth. She didn't swallow, but she had no urge to spit either. She wanted to feel her lips settle on that ridge. She was nagged by a sensation that something was wrong with her, and she felt a shock of pain to the side of her head. He'd slapped her! She kept sucking. Now, his orgasm had subsided, and the touch of her lips and tongue was too much. He dropped to his knees, and she kept sucking. He cried out and tried to pull away, but she held his balls like she was willing to rip the whole kit right off his body. He fell all the way to the ground, and was writhing. His pelvis struck her face. She didn't care. She was oblivious to what might turn out to be some bumps and bruises. She only knew he was suffering, and that it added to her pleasure. She only knew that the one thing about him that she did not loathe at the moment was the delightfully rubbery ridge of the head of his dick. Even that meant nothing to her if it wasn't where she could feel it, nursing his cock like an udder... pressing her toungue into the little slit at the end. She wondered how much pain she'd be able to cause if she could shove her tongue into it.

She came. She came in waves of thunderous rapture and thrashed in seizures. When she was able to focus, she saw him. He was running away.He was running out of the light of the lamp, into the darkness, trying to fix his pants. They were almost in place but still impeding his progress, somewhat. She laughed. She laughed like she'd laugh with friends when things became so silly that something didn't even need to be funny to incite an eruption of laughter that could last for minutes. She didn't hate him. She thought, as she already had, that he was a bonehead, but her anger had subsided. She was only angry because he had tried to stop before she was done. She could feel the wetness she had made in her panties. It was uncomfortable, but she felt a sort of pride that she didn't need anyone's touch to feel what she felt.

She returned to the party, and Tommy wasn't there. Everything else seemed pretty normal, except for two of his friends. They were looking at her strangely. One of them, Rick, drove her home. She sucked his dick. He cried out too, but he didn't pull away. She warned him, as she would warn so many boys and men over the next two years.

Quirky obsessions. Sensual compulsions. Masochistic waves, yielding to sadistic impulses. One after another, she found new delights in the strangest carnal acts. So many were benign... even tedious. More than one man found frustration in her need to brush her nipples over his eyebrows, over and over. Some of her games were more malicious. Her joy at the sound of a man crying out, just as the sound of her hand slapping his hanging balls separated the lustfully intense animals from the casually horny. Indeed; it was just this act, and one such casual boy, that brought her to the moment in her history that would lead her to end the history of eleven men and five women.

Style.

She spotted him spiking the punchbowl at a party, with Everclear. He called himself Style. That enraged her, but she could see something she needed in him. Style. His self appointed moniker was part of his denial. He was determined to see a lover in the mirror, no matter how desperate was the countenance that was returning his gaze. Only the pathetic would suffice for this act in her play. She took him to her cabin. The great thing about these little po'dunk towns in the hills, was that they had such things available to the tourists. Cabin rentals. The privacy suited her. Some boys were a bit noisier than others.

"So, Style... I want you to think a minute. Do you meditate?"

"What?"

"Try to roll with me on this, Style. I have my own way of doing things, and I want to lead the way. You want to do things to me, right?"

"Oh, you bet..."

"Then shut up and let me ask you the questions."

"Umm... I'm sorry. What was the question?"

"Never mind, Style. Look at me carefully Style. Don't be shy. Study what you want. I wear these clothes to inspire the imagination. Are you inspired?"

"Yes." His breathing had quickened. "I'm inspired all right."

"Then close your eyes and picture me as you want me to be. Start with my clothes. Picture me, just like I'm standing, but naked. Are you picturing me, Style?"

"I am."

"Tell me where you are staring, in your mind, Style."

"Everywhere. I mean, you're so hot... so beautiful."

"Don't go shy on me now, Style. Look at the image in your head. It's me... naked. Stare at something. Are you staring?"

"Y-yes."

"What are you staring at?"

He took a deep breath. He couldn't believe how nervous he was. "I'm staring... at your pussy."

"Yeah? How does it look... and don't say that it looks good. Tell me what you see. There is no wrong answer."

"OK. OK. It's shaved. I mean, you have a tiny strip of short blonde hair, and your... you're compact. You know... everything's sort of- inside. Mostly. I can see a little glisten, like you're wet."

"Wow, Style. You're getting good at this game. You can open your eyes now."

The boy opened his eyes and saw her, almost exactly as he'd imagined, but so much more real. She stepped toward him, just enough to see his chest heave in anticipation. She wanted him overwhelmed.

"Unzip your jeans, stud. I want to see your cock. It's hard now, right?"

"Yeah. It's real hard. Can I stand to do it?"

"By all means."

Style stood and did as he was told. She told him to sit back down. She felt sure of this one. He was ready to do anything he was told. Still, she thought she'd do well to lead him a little deeper into his own arousal. She knelt in front of him and moved her face close to his member. She manipulated it some with her index finger, examining it... judging it. She forced a quick "hmm" to lead him to think she had decided something. Then, she slapped his dick with all the force she could muster. Style cried out and stood, quickly. His dick, lobster red on one side, pointed at the ceiling, bounced from side to side like an old fashioned barometer.

"What the hell is wrong with you!?"

She took a moment to read his face, now as red as the left side of his dick, then popped up to her feet.

"Was that bad?" she asked, coyly smiling and walking backwards, toward the bed. Style was fuming, but she could see his conviction waver. It was time for the kill, metaphorically speaking, at this point in time.

"Goddamn right, that was bad."

"Am I going to get a spanking?" She dropped onto the bed. "Put me over your knee. I don't think I'll ever learn otherwise. Do you think you can hurt me, or is all your strength in the blood in your dick now?"

"I'll fuck you with this dick now, and you'll see."

"NO!" Her eyes burned. "You are going to spank my ass. Now, sit on the bed!" He did, and she laid across his lap with her ass perked up in the air right over his right thigh. "Now!' He was quick to respond now, and his hand dropped like the storms of Zeus. The crack of his hand hurt her deeply, just as it excited him in a way he had never knew was in him. He struck her again. Five times more, in fact.

"Style! Stop." He hesitated, his hand suspended above his shoulder... almost behind his head, in fact. "What makes me bad, Style?"

"You're mean."

"Mean? C'mon. You can do better than that! What am I?"

"A bitch! A vicious little slut!'

"HIT ME AGAIN!" He swung down and struck her ass. She spread her legs a little and raised her butt. "Again!"

"Slut! Slut! Slut!" He kept swinging. Her ass was beet red, and she stopped him again.

"Check and see if I'm still a slut. Have I learned my lesson?"

"Check?"

"Jesus, you're slow. Stick a finger in my cunt. Is it wet? Stick a couple in there." She raised her ass a little more and tilted. He slid two fingers in her easily. Then three, and he began thrusting them into her. "Am I still a slut?"

"Fucking hell right you are!", and he began without instruction. She was wet. She was anticipating her next move. He swung again, and she rolled off his lap, causing him to slap his own thigh and cry out. "You little cunt!"

"Good boy, Style. You figured it out. You're bad too, right?" She was sitting up against the dresser, beads of sweat adorning her hairline.

"What?"

"That's your favorite question, isn't it. Look at your dick. Silly thing, it is. I mean, you have a respectable cock there, but look at it! It bobs around with no dignity whatsoever. No matter though. You're a bad fucking boy, Style. You're getting off on hitting a girl."

She dabbed at the tip of his dick with two fingers, and the pre-cum stretched like marshmallow fluff as she withdrew them. She licked her fingers.

"You want to fuck my pussy, kid?"

"Oh yes!" He could sense the time was coming. It had to be. The essence of the moment was sexual crescendo.

"How about my ass? You spanked the hell out of it. Are you going to jam your dick in it? I deserve that too, right? Do little sluts get fucked in their asses, Style?"

"You do." His confidence was wavering. The tone of her questions was that of deal making. She was setting up for something.

"So you still believe in the concept of punishment for the slutty and perverted?"

"You're gonna get it all, Style. You can fuck my pussy, fuck my ass and then fill my mouth with cum. You can take breaks in between, even... but first..."

He knew it. It was the "before you answer" advertising style from hell.

"Style. I get to punish you. I just want five minutes." She could see fear in his eyes. "Style... come 'ere and let me suck some of that off the end of your cock while you think about it."

He agreed. He was in it for the ride. He figured he could deal with some humiliation and pain. He just had to get at that pussy. It was there, perfect and wet, taunting him. He was surprised he hadn't already cum... but he was going to get to cum three times! No matter if the first shot was lost in the haze of desperation.

She climbed back on the bed and stretched out on her back. She had him climb over her, on all fours, dangling his meat over her face, She took a little suck, enjoying the feeling of the ridge of his head for a moment of nostalgia.

She slapped his ass. He cried out like a sissy. Not much mettle, this one. She struck again, then gently scratched behind his balls to keep him focused on the possibilities. She struck again, but with less force. She was setting up for what she had learned could send her into fits of pleasure. It felt like her pussy exploded into a new universe of pure sex inside of her when she had her way. She stroked his cock with a firm grip.

"Three more minutes, Style! How bad are you?"

"I-I-I'm a bad pervert." He was close to weeping. She slapped the back of his balls. The feeling of his scrotum catching and wrapping a little around her fingertips... Yeah, that was it. She lost focus on his cries, and she struck again. He jumped, but she grabbed his balls with her hand in a fist. She slapped them, hard, and the impact squished them against her fist. She instinctively closed her legs to prevent anything he might try to do in return, but his hand reached for her tits. He grabbed one and dug his fingers deeply into her tissue, then began to pull and twist with cruelty. His defiance filled her with rage, but she could feel that same intensity boiling in a little ball between her legs.

Her fist tightened on his scrotum, and his testes strained against the skin. She felt pain, searing through her body as even his short fingernails broke skin and sheared the flesh of her breast. He rose to his knees, and she felt his hand strike the pillow near her face. She knew the level of violence had reached a critical threshold. This was not how she had planned things. She squeezed harder as she felt his hand find its mark. The pain was tremendous, but her urges were stronger. Her rage was even greater than her urges. She squeezed even harder on his balls and could see blood vessels appear just under the surface of the skin. One here. One there. It was if they were popping into existence. Style screamed and tried to pull away from her with a thrust backwards. It was the worst mistake he had made since coming to the hotel room.

She pulled him back toward her with more force than she could have imagined possible. Her response was one of rage, but also of desperation. She wanted to slap the back of his balls. She decided to, at the very least, suck the head of his dick, but something happened. The sound was like that of separating raw chicken breast from the bird... then the sound of it hitting the floor. It was like every pressure release she had ever experienced, all in one. Knuckle cracking. Zit popping. Sneezes. Burps. His testes had burst free of his scrotum. He was freed.

Style fell off the bed and cracked his head on the dresser. Blood spilled from the gash and mixed with God knows what fluids had seeped from his scrotum. Screaming.

"You fucking bitch! You whore! My balls! My fucking balls!" He sprung to his feet, madly. His testes dangled on little cords, and he flailed to scoop them into his hands, succeeding with one and spinning the other like a poorly slapped tether-ball. He stared at them in such a state of wide-eyed horror that it looked to her like his eyes might follow the path his balls had.

"Am I bad, Style?" she giggled. Her jaw was dropped and eyes wide with fascination. She was riveted. Ha! She couldn't let him get away now. This would get her in really big trouble. Panic. Just a little, but desire was her master now. She jumped to a standing position on the bed, grabbed a phone off the nightstand, ripped it from the wall and hurled it at his face in what was almost one, fluid motion. Her aim was true. More blood. More screaming. He lunged at her, but he was in no condition to play that game. He stumbled halfway onto the bed and managed to hang himself, by the armpit, on one of the short corner posts of the bed. She was sharp and reacted with brutal instinct, dropping ass first onto his shoulder. She felt the bed post through his shoulder as it dislocated the arm.

Style collapsed, arm flopping grotesquely behind him. His cock had shriveled from blood loss and her disappointment fueled the finality of her next decision.

The television was heavy for her, even in her charged state, but she only had to raise it over her head for a moment. The miserable groans of the pathetic boy creature on the floor were drowned and silenced by the sound of smashing glass and splintering plastic. She heard his skull crunch.