What's Inside a Girlbyukmaster68_now©
It's taken me a long time to make my confession. I am 34 years old.
I am ordinary in most ways that you would notice or probably care about. My name is Nina. That's not my given name. I live in New Orleans now. I was born in a small, poor town in Arkansas, and then lived in a few places around the same State. I finally came to the Big Easy two years ago.
Outwardly there isn't much of the Crescent City about me. I work as a medium-level clerk for a shipping company, where I am one of the youngest employees. I am 5'6" tall. My hair is light brown, fine and very straight, and I wear it down to my shoulders, with bangs, and sometimes a tortoise-shell barrette to keep it a bit more tidy. My clothes are conservative. Not old-fashioned, just quiet and unobtrusive.
I'm realistic. I know I am not a particularly pretty girl, though I am not ugly either and have had a share of male attention since I was about 18, although there weren't many boys around at that time in my life. I think most girls are pretty enough to attract men. I have a narrow face, with unusually pale-green, occasionally described as crazy-looking, eyes. My neck is long too, and my shoulders narrow. My entire upper body is lightly built. I have slender arms, and an almost flat chest, though my nipples are quite out of proportion, big brown knobs which can stick out three-quarters of an inch when fully engorged. I think they're ugly. Though my upper body is slim, I flare out quite noticeably at the hips, and I have the great big buttocks of a well-developed black woman, though my skin is moon-pale. I don't know if men like my bottom or not. None of my past boyfriends ever complimented it. I know there are 'ass men' out there but I suspect a smaller ass is more attractive to most guys. One boyfriend I went out with for a few months referred to mine as a 'real fondler's bum'. He didn't really mean it in a good way, since he had already told me he liked girls with hard little bodies like 10 year old boys. Which makes him a bigger freak than me, not that I hold that against him. I hope he got what he wanted eventually. I know I did.
He was one of several boyfriends in my past, after I left the orphanage, but they never worked out. I never had a meaningful relationship. My Dad left before I was born, and I haven't met him since. Mom was distant, she had her problems, and I was living at St Agnes's by the time I was 11, because she couldn't take care of me. Mom died when I was 20. I hadn't seen her in 7 years at that point.
Ever since I can remember having sexual feelings, I have longed to be anally penetrated. I remember nights in the orphanage, towards the end of my time there, when I was already 18. I'd lie awake, trying to block out the old recurring memories of hearing my mother drunkenly arguing, or fighting, or fucking another random man on the living room couch. I'd be lying in my narrow cot in the dormitory, squeezing my legs together, scissoring them back and forth, imagining a strong man flipping me onto my belly, spreading my cheeks and having me in my virginal dirty place, the breath fucked right out of me, my scream silent, while he relentlessly took his pleasure. Sometimes I came during these sessions, sometimes not -- it didn't really matter. My face was always scarlet with embarrassment, and shame, even though I was alone. The shame pleased me. It felt like it belonged to me. Often in my fantasies my lover would be the same imaginary man who took care of me. My Daddy. At that age I thought myself a very ugly duckling. Awkward, painfully shy, I developed a hatred of mirrors because I hated my face. I wanted to find a new face, but I was still too young to know what that face should look like.
When I left St Agnes's, I went to work as a secretary for a local car-dealership, where they treated me decently and paid me poorly. I think they'd employed other girls from the home before, but I didn't ask and they didn't say. I cut a pretty nondescript figure back then, especially since I was still wearing home-made skirts and other clothes I'd sewn myself when still in the home. The sisters had also found me a small flat, which I shared with another girl I seldom saw. I was taking my first faltering steps into freedom and adulthood.
Men found their way to me before long, I went on dates, and lost my virginity when I was 19. I already knew I felt ambivalent about vaginal sex, and most other forms of sexual intimacy I'd heard or read about, and my few sexual encounters in my late teens and early 20's did not change my mind. I did lose my anal cherry to my first boyfriend, and I had anal sex again from time to time with other men, but it wasn't what I wanted. It always felt like the men got off on the act as a pornographic fantasy, or just as a nice change from straight vaginal. It lacked intensity and intensity, I understand now, was the whole point. I enjoyed the company of some of the men, and was bored by some of the others. They just weren't into the same thing as me. I knew all along what I couldn't tell a living soul: that if a man, any man, a stranger, were to ask me straight out if he could fuck my ass, I would accept and go with him and be his woman.
Of course, no one ever did ask a quiet, respectable-looking, slightly mousy young woman such a question, and I didn't want to do the asking myself. Asking somehow would spoil it, even if I'd had the nerve. It wouldn't be pure any more. I wanted him to want it badly, to need it, and to take it for himself, without waiting to find out how I felt. That man would be my soul mate.
The turning point in my life was my discovery of the internet. It doesn't seem like the kind of thing which ought to change your life. I should have visited Rome, or listened to the Beatles, or something. But the net changed everything for me. Gradually I began to unearth a world of sexual adventurers who weren't afraid, under their cloaks of anonymity, to declare their desires. I could find men who I knew would satisfy me in the most important respect. And the mixture of my shame and excitement gradually began to seem like a kind of pride, a kind of warped identity. It was the only kind of identity I knew I'd be likely to understand. I began uninhibitedly to enjoy anal erotica on the net: stories, pictures and films, proud members sawing into the bottoms of women, while I sat and masturbated until I was dizzy with spent lust.
I began to understand some of the things about anal sex which attracted me to it; and it helped me understand myself. I liked the oppositional things about it. It was intimate/distant; ugly/beautiful; tender/violent; sexy/sexless; painful/blissful., taking/giving, dirty/pure. Animalistic/sophisticated. And for me personally, it was both nihilistic and life-giving. I knew I was a conflicted, contradictory person. I didn't believe in anything, but I wanted to live. I also knew that most other people I liked were the same way. And I began to feel a sense of belonging, even though I still had no one to belong to.
And it was these awakened thoughts which drove me, a little country mouse, to the city of Sin. New Orleans was like the urban equivalent for me of anal sex: it had all those contradictory elements that excited me. I'm the same quiet, ordinary looking girl, but if you think that makes me unfit for a sinful city, you'd be mistaken. I'd learned as a child that people are more than one thing. I realized it again with more clarity and feeling when I was a young woman, and I bought my Greyhound ticket for New Orleans.
When I hit town, I changed my name to Nina to celebrate my break from the past. The name suggested possibilities. Within 3 weeks I'd found an apartment, started work, and met John.
We found each other online, but he lived in New Orleans too. That was about 18 months ago now. He was charming, amusing and direct about what he wanted. Like me, he'd found the internet had great advantages as a forum for openly expressing his desire for anal sex. We spent time in idle chitchat but John wasted no time in seducing me anally, telling me very early on what he wanted from a woman. I liked him well enough as a person by then, but his other qualities paled in comparison to his desire to bugger me. I was hooked.
When we did meet in person, about a month later, he called the shots. We met in a bar, then had a bite to eat at a pizza place. Then we went and fucked in his car.
I'd try to dress nicely in a tight but swirly black dress. I'd put my make-up on carefully and was wearing perfume. I felt a bit stupid dolling up like I was going for a nice romantic date when I knew the evening was likely to end in rough sodomy in the parking lot. The only clothes I didn't feel stupid for wearing were the black fishnet stockings, black lace panties, and black knee high leather boots. These were John's specific requests, and it excited me to think how I'd be pleasing him and making him want me. I'd had to buy all the items since I didn't own anything like that already. In fact, I made an unauthorized substitution. I couldn't find a pair of lace underwear which I liked, so I substituted it for black satin boyshorts, which fitted very snugly over my ass, leaving the bottom half of each cheek exposed. They had lace around the legholes. I don't actually think he noticed. They were down around my thighs within a second of his first glimpse of them.
In the car I'd bent over to give him a blowjob. The glans of his penis felt the size of an apple in my mouth. But he quickly moved on. He took charge, he gave the orders. I obeyed.
We climbed out of the car again, open the back doors and climbed in, one on each side. He positioned me, kind of on all fours across the seat, my chin on the back rest. He pulled my skirt up and my panties down. He anointed my anus with Vaseline, and having unbuttoned himself he slowly drove in and started having anal intercourse with me. He hadn't touched me in front, but I was wetter than a Sunday in Seattle. It hurt but it felt good, in a way I was feeling for the very first time. I knew it would be like that though, getting it properly. I felt distant, almost as if I were looking down on myself. I couldn't believe my luck. He came quickly, probably in less than three minutes. He collapsed over my back, and I could imagine how satisfied he felt, having nailed his prize. I didn't come, but it didn't matter. I was in love, but I don't know with whom or what. I think I was in love with the sex.
John is 33. I don't know much about his early life and I don't care. But I do know that when he was 20, he enlisted and spent three years in the navy, mostly away at sea on tours of duty. Sailors are well-known for resorting to sodomy when deprived of female company, and I now know from what John has told me that this is no myth. Less known are the careful protocols that govern the practice on board ship. The youngest, newest seamen are traditionally chosen to be 'women' for all the older horny sailors to fuck. Being one of the prettier of the raw recruits, John spent most evenings face down on his bunk while a succession of heavily-cocked sailors had their way with him, one after the other. The strictest rule for the Top was not to touch the cock of your 'woman'. No reach-arounds or blowjobs or anything of that kind. They weren't queers. When John was old enough to stop pulling trains for the older sailors, he had his pick of the new young asses, but he refused to participate. However, he had developed an enormous appetite for anal sex from being buggered so incessantly. Feeling all those cocks in his ass, punching in and out, hearing the rum-fuelled sighs as the seamen experienced the ecstasy of his tight hole, and then the shuddering, as the buggers shot load after load of their baby gravy into his bowels. He knew this was a darker, richer pleasure than anything else sexual intimacy had to offer, just as I did. But he wasn't interested in young men. Just like me, he exclusively favoured the opposite sex. When he was discharged from the navy, and he took his place in civilian life, he finally released his pent-up lusts and sought out woman after woman to have anal sex with.
Being a good-looking and charming young man, he found dozens of willing partners, all over America and beyond: there was a string of neurotic New York career girls; fat mid-western matrons; a homely freewheeling bisexual Cajun writer; a light-skinned Mexican chica in California; librarians; primary and high-school teachers; academics; a tiny, fine-boned Bulgarian émigré; an Amazonian born-again Christian girl from Germany; a squat Irish lesbian. Girls of many ethnic origins, upbringings, physical types and ages. There's really no telling who'll give up the ass,' he said. 'Except it helps if the bitch has an imagination, a sex drive, and a submissive streak.'
That is how he talks to me, openly calling women 'bitches' when he feels like it, though he is never mean to me. I don't think he hates women, he just enjoys a woman being his bitch in the sack. I like it too. But then, it's understood I am a submissive, even though we don't discuss it. I am a submissive bitch, but without the anal sex I would leave him.
After our initial encounter in the car, we began to fuck frequently, til we were at each other's places daily. He is yet to use my cunt once, nor has he fucked me face to face, always flipping me over or turning me around, doing me from behind. We have anal sex every day. Jon has often described his other anal conquests as part of our foreplay, his splendid, large penis growing ever harder and bigger as I slowly pump it. The stories make me very wet between my legs. I don't get jealous, even though I am a very jealous type, because I know I am a different animal to those girls. Those girls had been willing, true, but none of them longed for it, needed it, or felt the same fierce hunger about the dirty deed itself as he did. And that's what he was looking for: his own ugly face in the mirror. With me he found it, and found love.
This morning, I get up early as usual to get ready for work. John has stayed over, but he doesn't have to go to his job til later, and has stayed in bed, while I shower, groom, dress and drink coffee in the kitchen of my tiny apartment. While my image remained, and remains, conservative since knowing John, he has brought about some changes in the way I dress. For one thing, I wear boots a lot more often than I did. I have six pairs now. If my skirt is long enough to permit it, I now wear stockings with a garter belt all year round. And my panties are now chosen from a large and exotic collection of lace, satin and sequins, in predominantly black, red or pink. Today I am wearing a pink thong, the part covering my vaginal area in the shape of a butterfly, picked out with sequins. It's one of John's favourite pairs, and they make me feel deliciously dirty.
I hear John stirring, the soft thump of his feet on the carpet as he gets out of bed. He walks into the kitchen, while my back is turned. I am standing at the counter buttering a slice of toast, drinking my coffee. I hear him come up behind me. He is naked. He doesn't say anything, but he starts half kissing, half biting the back and sides of my neck. I am in my cream business blouse and a grey pin-striped skirt reaching just to the knee. His soft bites are the closest we usually come to kissing. Neither of us particularly like to kiss on the mouth.
I feel something blunt prodding me around the base of my spine. He reaches down to the hem of my skirt and in one unhurried movement he's pulled it up to my waist. He's devouring my big white ass with his eyes. He's told me it's beautiful many times, and I know he means it. It's true. It's a beautiful, big, fat, black girl's ass, and it's on me. It's the center of my world. I can hear his hiss of excitement as his hands roam my ass, flickering round to stroke my pussy through the sequined butterfly.
John asked me to stop shaving, trimming, waxing or anything else between my legs. Like most other women of my age and generation, I've kept myself mostly shaved for years, assuming that's what men, not to mention fashion, demand. But now I'm the proud owner of the full bush nature intended. It has been so long since I had one, I'd forgotten how big and thick my pubic mound was. The hairs are long and curly, slightly darker than the hairs on my head. They even spread onto my thighs. They look blackish in dim light, but they are actually brown, with a slight auburn tint to them which my head hair does not possess. John loves my natural hairiness down there, and I must admit it's highly sensual. I've even allowed the sweet little trail of hairs from the nest up to my bellybutton to flourish undisturbed. My bush snakes right round to surround my anus with crinkly brown hairs. John calls my bush my 'squirrel's tail' because it's so thick and plumey. I love the way I smell down there at the end of day, really musky. I am a dirty girl. Right now John is cupping my groin, feeling all the exciting, animal hair spilling out on either side of the skimpy thong. From the prodding against my tailbone, i can tell he's at full cock and will not be denied.
He pulls the thong roughly out of the deep cleft of my derriere. From the counter he grabs a lump of butter the size of a plum and pushes it squashily into my anus, kneading the ring with his fingers. We were too tired to fuck the night before, and now he's famished. A slight bend of the knees and the big mushroom head is lined up with my puckered backdoor. I grip the kitchen counter, using the muscles of my anus and rectum to push out as if having a bowel movement, bracing myself. An upward thrust and I am ass shishkebab, impaled on about four inches of cock. I am breathless as a little girl.
I'm on my tiptoes, which makes it even easier for him to penetrate me deeply, his slightly-bent knees creating tremendous thrusting power. His arms are folded over my chest, holding my body to him, no escape. And this is what we do. My head is flung back, taking it, thrilling in the utter nastiness of my nature. Fascists, perverts. My fingers are on my butterfly, two fingers gouging in, stroking myself fiercely as he takes his pleasure in the back.
Grunt. Grunt. He's moving faster now, more urgent, his belly slapping my big soft butt. I close my eyes. It's coming to my favourite part, the bit where it's virtually rape. He's in so deep, he's so close to his crisis, there's no way I could get away from him even if I tried. He needs to fuck the meat, needs to shoot his silken seed into my velvety bowels. He's coming, god now he's coming.
At Mardi Gras this year, we'd been dressed in stupid costumes, Batman, Catwoman, shiny PVC, that sort of thing. A middle-aged black woman snarled at us. 'You fascists. You perverts'. At the time I was disturbed by what she said, but now it thrills me. We are fascists, in our new, sharp uniforms, creating a new order, eliminating fuzzy romanticism, using force to achieve our goals, unwilling to accept any other ideology. It's dirty, it's clean. Another duality. I know we're not normal. But I spent too many years of my life wondering why I wasn't. Now I am just happy I am not.
Daddy! I scream. I come so hard I nearly faint. When I bring my fingers away from my private spot, they are wet and funky, my fluids having leaked right through the satiny material.
Three-quarters of an hour later, my clothes re-arranged to a respectable state, my panties up and the string of the thong once more bisecting the cheeks of that big and so-recently-fucked ass, I am trotting down the street to my place of work. Instead of feeling ashamed I feel proud, spoonfuls of my Daddy's sperm in my intestines, my anus feeling fucked, open and tender. The semen will be expelled out later during a bowel movement, or (as per one memorable occasion) if I break wind and fart semen. This happened when I was wearing a thong, standing up in my boss's office, and the cum oozed out and dripped down to the crevice where my buttock meets my thigh. I wonder if my boss smelt my spermy fart and thought about it when he was fucking his wife that night. When I rushed to the bathroom to wipe it up, I saw it was brown, mixed with my shit. It's funny how the act which brings me alive takes place where the body expels its waste.