The Chosen OnebySapphos Sister©
Now, when I look back upon my time with him, I cannot help but touch myself. Here, between these damp, pulsing lips which used to part so obligingly for him. My fingers do not move roughly in the way that he would manhandle me in the frenzy of our fucking, but deftly, in long, languid strokes, as he might caress me afterwards. It was then, when the storm of need had been quelled for a short while, that he would tell me I was beautiful (which I am not), his princess and, of course, his chosen one.
You see, there were two sides to him, as there were to me. Opposites. Poles of a magnet, drawing me to him inexorably. A moth to a flame. Choose your own metaphor. But this was how it was during that time when he held me hostage to desire and freed me from the slavery of choice.
I do not know how I was chosen or why. But I do realize, with hindsight, that during those preceding months, as late Spring mellowed into early Summer, he was marking me out from all those other sad women who were waiting for a man such as him to enter their lives. Was I so pathetic? I wouldn't have said so. Not then. But, with the benefit of hindsight, I suppose that I was waiting too. Just biding my time until he would come for me and, by seizing me, release me from the mere existence that my life had become.
By then I had been living in Robert's flat for almost a year. He was, I suppose, my first serious boyfriend. There had been other lovers but no more than might be thought normal for a healthy and reasonably attractive 23 year old woman. To the outside world, I guess, we were a picture of contentment. We had friends, jobs, money -- as much as many couples would ever want. But there was something missing. A void. Yes, a deepening emptiness where my sex life should have been. For although Robert had always been a thoughtful, diligent lover, he was too careful and too caring to satisfy me. In short, I had come to feel that the lovemaking we shared was not my own. It was as if I had borrowed another woman's clothes and become trapped in them. What did I want instead? At that time I had no idea. But there was someone who did.
During the last three months of our life together Robert's interest in sex had waned and I might as well have been a widow. If we had made love a dozen times during those long, cold months, it was certainly no more than that, and always at my initiative. And as a cactus will flourish in a desert, so fantasies grew and prospered in the wilderness that was my love life. I would find myself at work becoming aroused by day-dreams in which the most unlikely men would force me to commit unspeakable acts. And, in those reveries, I felt more turned on than I had ever been by Robert or any earlier lover.
So this how things were before he rescued me from that life.
It was lunchtime one Saturday in late May. Hardly a common event because Robert and I had just enjoyed morning sex: sleepy, waking-up sex that began with drowsy caresses and soon became a hurried, frantic coupling, and -- rarer still -- he had managed to bring me to an orgasm that, though somewhat perfunctory, had renewed all those tender feelings I once harboured for him.
Without showering and barely brushing my hair, I pulled on a summer dress -- no bra, nor panties -- and we stumbled out into the sunshine and along to the coffee house around the corner from his flat. We cuddled up on the settee and devoured steaming cups of scolding cappuccino with almond croissants. It was as though we had just met and were in the first heady weeks of mutual discovery. Except that Robert then announced that he had to leave to meet his friends in a local pub for some televised football match.
So there I sat, deserted. Absent mindedly I was spoon-feeding myself cold, milky froth when a man walked into the coffee house. At first I didn't really notice him but his presence seemed to charge the atmosphere with an alien energy. I looked up and he was standing before me, still and silent but demanding my attention. He was vaguely familiar: a man I might have passed in the street, or queued beside him in a shop. Tallish, maybe forty or so, he was wearing a grey linen suit, a deep blue open-necked shirt and expensive-looking shoes. His hair was steel grey. He wasn't handsome, in fact he was almost ugly, but nevertheless attractive. To me, at least.
All that happened thereafter now seems pre-ordained, as if I had conjured this stranger from my fantasies. Perhaps I had. It is certainly true that as events unfolded I could almost sense their happening before they occurred, as if I was acting out a role in a play I had already rehearsed.
The mystery man addressed me unsmilingly. 'Come on,' he said. His voice was quiet, but brooked no dissent. 'Let's go.'
He held out his hand, beckoning me.
I didn't ask who he was or where we were going. It simply didn't occur to me to do so. I merely rose from the settee, moved as if by a force of nature. The waitress looked intrigued by this little drama and watched to see what happened. I shrugged resignedly, like a doctor on call, summoned to an emergency. I didn't feel pity or regret, merely reluctant obedience.
The man opened the door and I followed. Outside the weather had turned and we felt the first spits of a shower falling from dark, thunderous clouds. The air was suffocatingly thick. He hardly noticed but, seizing me by the wrist, marched me down the road. I had to half-run, half-shuffle to keep pace, like a naughty little girl being dragged home by a strict parent. Puzzled shoppers, huddling in doorways, watched as we passed by but, as I caught their eyes, each looked away shamefacedly, pretending not to notice us.
What was I feeling? Fear certainly, and bewilderment, but excitement too. A sexual thrill I had never known before, not even in my fantasies. My senses .... Because this was real. There would be no waking up, no stopping at that crucial moment. This man, I knew, would take me all the way to those places I had yearned for and dreaded.
A hundred yards down the road, we turned into Buckingham Street and left the hustle and bustle of the shops behind. By now the rain was falling heavily, drenching us with a tropical force. We gathered pace so that I could barely keep up. Two more turns and we entered a mews that I had never noticed. A few entrances along, he stopped and unlocked a blue door in a sadly neglected tenement. As he did so, soaked and breathless, I leant against the wall and studied him. His face was tanned in a weather-beaten way and clean-shaven, his nose was slightly bent. He was muscular but not burly. About him there was an air of proprietoral confidence.
Once the door was open, he pulled me up a flight of rickety, uncarpeted stairs. I stumbled but he didn't stop for me, merely pulled me to my feet, and strode onwards. At the top of the stairs there was another door. He slotted a key into the lock. Despite all apprehension (or maybe because of it), I could sense myself becoming yet more aroused by his stern aloofness, by the memory of my lovemaking with Robert only an hour or so before, and by my utter helplessness. I heard myself panting and smelled the pungent stink of sex, sweat and rain rising steamily from my pores.
Beyond the door was a small flat. From the hallway I could see into a bedroom and sitting room. Each was only scantily furnished. My mystery man still didn't speak but stooped to pick up some mail and, climbing to his feet, steadied himself by gripping the back of my bare thigh. He pulled against me and his fingers dug into my skin. As he rose, his hand felt its way up under my dress, over my hip to my belly. For a moment I stood passively as his fingers explored between my legs which parted meekly for him. My breath was catching in my throat but nevertheless I gave out a little yelp. He removed his hand and stroked my face with his damp fingers.
My heart was in my mouth as he motioned me into the bedroom. The room was dominated by a wide cast-iron bed. Otherwise, there were only a couple of old chairs, bedside tables and a large rug hanging on the whitewashed wall. The wooden floor had been stripped and was carpetless. I doubted that he lived there. Perhaps, I thought, he just kept the flat for bringing women like me. 'What do you want?' I said, although I was already certain of the answer.
'You, of course,' is all he replied.
'Why?' I asked, the word dying on my lips even as I uttered it.
'Because I can see what he can't see, what even you haven't seen until now.' His eyes were dark and coldly insistent.
He pulled me to him and kissed me roughly. He tasted of tobacco, money and desire. I suppose that I could have offered resistance, but I didn't want to and anyway I had forfeited that privilege when I left the coffee house.
When we broke off our embrace, he said, 'You can go if you want.' But I didn't move. Then we kissed again. His tongue was in my mouth, swiping across my teeth, and his hand was in my lank hair, tugging my head back. I wound my leg around his thigh and he grabbed it with his hand and lifted it to his hip.
'You smell of his sweat,' he said.
'I'm sorry,' I mumbled.
'Don't be. I like it.' He smiled for the first time. His teeth were white and not quite even. I remember wanting to feel them bite into me.
He put me down and, in one movement, dragged my sodden frock up to my breasts. I raised my arms and with a loud, ripping noise he hauled it over my head so that it seemed to flutter, like a tattered flag, before it fell at my feet. Now I was utterly naked. Instinctively my hands covered my breasts. Yet I didn't feel embarrassed or ashamed, only frightened, but ecstatically so, as if I was teetering at the edge of a precipice, about to leap into the warm, welcoming sea. He peeled away my hands and squeezed my small breasts, like a buyer checking fruit for its ripeness. My pinkened nipples were hard to his touch. He seemed to like what he saw. He gestured to the bed. Obediently I clambered onto it, lay on my side and waited for him. With brisk and precise efficiency, he removed and folded his jacket, kicked off his shoes and started to unzip his trousers. His cock sprang from his pants. It was long, slim and hairless.
'You like sucking cock, don't you?' he said, barely regarding me. I said nothing but I wanted to take him in my mouth and please him more than any woman had ever done before.
'Come here,' he commanded, now as naked as I. His body was lean, bronzed and hairless too. 'On your knees. Show me what a good, little cocksucker you are.' He gestured me to him.
I crept off the bed and, on my haunches, crouched before him. With one hand, he drew my chin to him and, with the other, held his eagerly stiff cock against my face, rubbing it against my cheeks and then along my nose. The smell of him was intoxicating. A trail of his juice stained my skin. I wanted to tell him how big and hard he was but I was afraid to speak. Instead, eager to please him, I peeled his hand away and stroked his shaft delicately between the fingers of one hand.
His gaze now was unwavering. 'On the pill?'
I nodded. My hand moved up and down his cock with lubricious ease.
'Good,' he said.
With my other hand I cradled his balls, kneading and moulding them lovingly. I ran the back of my fingers along the slim, elegant shaft. His cock shivered at my touch and he leaned on my shoulders for balance.
When my fingers reached the glossy tip, turning them over, I held him in my palm and felt his blood pulsing in my grip. My other hand was still cupping his balls, as round and pink as peaches. I drew down the foreskin and slide my hand slowly up and down. The skin was drawn as tightly as unfurled silk, the head a purplish crimson. I pumped his cock a little more vigorously. Then I released my hold. His face scowled and I thought for a moment that he was going to strike me. But he only smiled grimly like a child grieving for a lost toy. My fingers were dripping with his juices; the silvery threads glistened in the sunlight. I watched his woeful face. He too was watching me through glazed, hooded eyes. Slowly I licked each finger, savouring the salty syrup. Then I sucked my thumb, fellating it lovingly until the last vestiges had seasoned my tongue.
A stray lock of auburn hair flopped across my face. He tucked it behind my ear. Then he drew my head to his crotch.
I rubbed my cheek along his shaft and basked in the glow that warmed my skin.
Soft, slow kisses caressed his cock as tenderly as a butterfly's wings. It stood as straight and hard as a ramrod. His breath now was short and came out in little moans. How could a touch so delicate cause him such pain?
With each kiss my lips climbed his long, arcing rod until they scaled its peak. I slid my tongue over its all-seeing eye. He was groaning, thrusting forwards, trying to press his cock into me. I pulled away teasingly. Then I begin to lick him. With long, languid strokes, I ran my tongue along the length of his cock from base to tip.
I took him again in my hand and, cushioning the fiery dome between my lips, sucked on it hard. His juice was on my lips, my teeth and tongue.
'Mmm,' I sighed. I raised my head and gazed at his cock, running my fingers up and down its luscious length. Then, with another glance up to my lover's face, my fingers drew down the foreskin and my lips parted and enveloped him once more in their caress. I sucked on the head hard, my tongue flicking and licking at the ridge where his foreskin met his cock's head. Now he was gasping, hardening yet further in my hand and mouth.
I took him deep within me. He filled my mouth. I could feel his tip sliding against the roof, penetrating my gullet. Slowly I raised myself from him, pressing my lips hard against his shaft until he popped out of my mouth.
'How is it?' I asked, all innocence. 'Am I a good little cocksucker?'
His response was immediate. As if angered by my presumptuousness, he pulled me up by the hair and dragged me to the bed. There he lay me down on my side, crouched beside me and drew my mouth onto him. Holding me, he pushed into me, treating my mouth as if it were my pussy, face-fucking me with a bestial intensity. Now his cock was filling and re-filling my mouth with each urgent thrust. At each withdrawal I gasped for breath and then, taking him again into my throat, sucked and spluttered until I was gagging like a drowning swimmer.
At last he pulled out of me. 'On your knees,' he grunted. I rolled over obediently and he hauled me around so that he was behind me.
I could sense him there, surveying my small, round rump. I wanted him in me so much. I wiggled my ass provocatively and felt him squeeze my buttocks tightly.
'Please,' I half-begged, half-demanded. He slapped my buttock to shut me up. My ass blazed with the searing flash of pain. I let out a little yelp, as I buried my face in the bedclothes.
Pleased by my reaction, he spanked me again harder. The pain scorched my ass and flooded through me.
He gripped me by the hips and pulled me insistently onto his cock. All the way. My tight, wet pussy hugged him in its welcoming embrace. Moaning encouragements filled the air. Ducking my head, I looked back through my legs to watch him pumping into me, hard and fast. I loved what I saw and what I felt: his total ownership and complete domination of my body. No man had ever possessed me so utterly.
'Yeah, yeah,' he muttered with each thrust.
'God ... I love it,' I exclaimed through gritted teeth as his groin thudded against the soft cushion of my butt. He smacked me again and slammed into me once more.
Now oblivious to all but his flesh filling and re-filling me, I moaned: 'Yes .... Yes ....'
My cheek was flat against the mattress, my eyes half-closed, relishing every entering and withdrawal. Reaching forward, he grabbed at my mane of hair and yanked it towards him like a silk rope, forcing me to climb back up onto my elbows, and then my hands. The next time he thrust into me, he tugged on my hair, jerking my neck backwards.
'Ohhhhhh!!' I yelled out. Pain and pleasure mingled in an exotic cocktail of sensations.
God, is this what I had needed? As he pulled out of me, he eased his grip and I lurched forwards. Then, he lunged into me again and pulled harder on my hair. But this time, with his other hand, he slapped my ass too.
'Aaaahh! Fuck!! Fuck!!'
Again, and again, and again. His cock rammed into me. My head jerked like a demented donkey. The bed creaked and cracked with each movement. His groin pounded against my reddening ass. His sweat soaked my back. Obscene cries spilled from my lips.
He let go my hair and my body slumped forwards like a rag doll. On and on we fucked, each of us desperate for an ending. Now he was up onto his feet, crouched at my back, his hands on my waist, so that he could thud into me with renewed momentum.
I could feel the blessed release of orgasm stirring within me, seizing my limbs, usurping all my senses. Fingers clawed at the bed sheet; limbs, beyond my control, stiffened and stretched; back arched; head, knees and shins dug into the mattress. And still he fucked me relentlessly, endlessly.
'Yes ....!!!!' I moaned at each entry. By now I was prostrate on the bed and he was again kneeling over me, his legs outside my own, driving into me with bestial fervor. And then the sweet mercy of my cumming swept through my veins.
Slowly, slowly he eased the pace, soothed the rhythm until his cock was barely moving within me. Still I felt the tremors, the afterwaves of my cumming, as they pulsed through legs and arms and gut, setting off little convulsions of pleasure.
'Ye-e-e-e-e-s ........' I mewed in one last sigh as my body relaxed and returned itself to my ownership.
But, of course, my man hadn't come. Not yet. He rose to his feet and, standing on the bed, leaned back against the head board. I crawled over to him.
I took him in my grip. My hand glided along his steepling shaft.
I stared into his crazed, depraved eyes, and murmured, 'Please cum for me.'
'You know where I want to cum, don't you?'
'Yes, yes. Bathe my face with your cum. Please.'
My hand worked him rhythmically but with a growing frenzy. It could not be much longer now.
I was desperate for him to come -- to expel himself completely so that I had all of him. Up and down my fist massaged his cock.
'Now .... now ....' he yelled and, relieving me of my duties, took himself in hand.
I bent my face towards his groin, mouth open, eyes closed and smiling, anxious to swallow all of his juice. Still his hand slid up and down. At last, with a shudder, he came, streaking my face and breasts in thick plumes of his juice. I leaned forwards and my tongue caught the last bead of cum that dripped from his cock. Mmm, thick, salted cream. I smiled up at him, seeking his approval, and he seemed pleased with me. He gently wiped my face and offered his fingers to me and I feasted on them hungrily.
'Let me see,' he said. I opened my mouth and he grinned as he watched me swallow his milk.
The rest of his juice he rubbed into my breasts and then I licked his palms clean.
'That was good,' he said eventually. 'Good for you too?'
I didn't want to answer but I did nonetheless. 'Yes,' I said. 'Thank you.'
He lay down beside me, stroking my arm and rubbing his foot against my calf. 'There's coffee in the kitchen. Make us each a cup. Then, afterwards,' he added, as if he was about to offer me a treat, 'I'm going to bugger you senseless.'
As I crawled off the bed, he slapped my bottom playfully.
He did bugger me. Not senseless. In fact, he was quite gentle. I think he must have thought it was my first time, but it wasn't. Not quite. I remember the pain of his entry. The acrid smell of shit that filled my nostrils as his cock, lubricated by spit, moved in and out of me, his hot breath on my neck. He held me by the hips, pulling me onto him. Little grunts -- his and mine -- punctured the silence as we moved inexorably to orgasm. I came in shuddering moans and then he came inside me.