Portrait

I wanted to know what he felt, what he saw. I had asked him to describe it to me countless times. How did I look when he fucked me, what images turned him on?

With him I was subsumed, a cipher. I no longer wanted to have to think, to be in charge. My life was control in every other way but the times we shared. He would never let me be with him fully so I took the times we had as precious. God I wanted to please him. How could he understand how much each penetration filled me with pleasure, how each act he made me perform drew me closer, made me greedy for more? I felt like I was a mouse and a queen all at once.

He would spin stories for me, promises of perversions he would perform on my body, things he would place in me. Each time more became a fantasy no longer, instead another memory slotted in with Christmas at home, birthdays, school. It felt like my head was filled with ants when I heard his breath in my ear, his stories making me wet. I wanted the biting to stop. It only went away when he used me, used me for his own wants, never asking me if it was ok, not caring what I wanted. The others had loved me but never trusted me that I really did want this, it was what I craved. He broke through that. No fear, no hesitation. Each session I fell closer to the edge.

Now I asked for more. 'Tell me please' I asked, 'tell me'. He would smile, say it was not a sight for mortals, tease me with cryptic remarks that only burned me, made my mouth water. I kept at him, but he would only push me to my knees, his shaft cutting off the air, making me shut up that way. I would dance my tongue around him, mouth full till it overflowed, as I knew he liked. Deeper and deeper he went with each thrust, I felt myself blacking out, a dull scraping sound in the back of my head. He would pull up at the last minute, my cries so loud in the quiet room.

I wanted him back in, I wanted him to do it, push me over. His skin was smooth on the shaft, the taste of the drops that flowed salty, bitter. My mouth went dry each time I swallowed his seed, it seemed to draw all moisture from my mouth. Back in now, pushing again. His fingers reached down, closed my nose off. I tried to fight the panic, the feeling that my lungs were exploding. I knew it was a game, a game, a game. It was a mantra now, a game, breath, suck, do it. I counted to twenty in my mind. He held me long enough this time that I fell when he pulled out. A line of saliva connected us as he caught me. I was no longer able to think clearly, his face a blur as I was turned around. He spun me, or was the room spinning?

I was on my belly when my head cleared. I have no idea how long I had been out, when he put me like this. I started to rise; only then realized that my hands were bound. A tug, my feet also. It was an ottoman; I was close to the floor, but just high enough for easy access I noticed. He had shoved a pillow under my hips, raising my ass up even higher. I had been naked with him before, had his cock in every orifice. This felt different, more open. I turned my head and saw that he was on the chair next to me. He was still dressed, a glass in hand.

"You're back. Good, we can begin." He said, bringing the glass to my lips. "Drink."

It was gin on ice. It bit my throat as it went down. I always think of wood when I drink gin, the juniper so string in its mix. The sting in my throat made me focus a little more. The sting I felt on my ass brought me back faster. Damn, he never started slow, each blow like the first. I closed my eyes against the tears, the pain mingling with the wetness that started immediately. Shame always mixes in with passion as I am slapped. His hands felt like iron as he beat me. I came on the tenth, grunting and trying to rise higher. I pictured my cheeks were red when I heard the 'clink, whir'! He was still behind me when I realized what the sound was. A Polaroid camera. He was taking a picture of me. Like this, after he had spanked me. With no sounds he placed the picture on the ground.

I saw the gray square swirl, the image coalescing. It was me. Strapped down. In his room. God my ass was not red, it was like a beet, the handprints covering me, down my thighs. I gushed more liquid. I wondered who this slut was? Not me, no. She was a cunt, being used for his pleasure. I stared at the image; trying to fix myself in it, believe it. The chill of the lube on my anus brought my mind back. He was pushing inside me, a finger. It dug deep, my bowels squirming as always. The pressure felt wonderful, made me want to suck him in and push all at once. A second digit joined its friend. 'Clink', another picture. I understood now. I wanted to see. He was going to show me. Here was that same slut, only now he had fingers in her ass. I've seen porn, even seen myself on tape. It did not compare to this static image, a simple recording. It looked like evidence against me at trial. Proof of how much I wanted this. His fingers never stopped pumping, opening me. I asked for another sip. I needed the courage to face myself.

Each picture revealed me more. He kept the pressure up, relaxing the muscle. Each time he pulled the fingers out, and there were four now, I no longer closed around them as they withdrew. I was open, a hole now. The pictures told me. Each one was placed on the floor carefully. They were a story. Here she is. Cunt. Whore. Slut. Toy. Look at her. Look at her ass, the cream sticking to her cunt lips. She LOVES this. I was no longer cumming. It's hard to put a word on it. It was simply a wave, rolling from my stomach to my head back to my labia in circles. I know that I was not talking anymore. It was just a keening moan, low, deep. My teeth were clenched so tight now, grinding.

Each time he placed a new toy in my ass I wanted to cry. It was wonderful and the worst torture of the inquisition at the same time. I no longer felt the difference. It was what he wanted. The pictures were a pile now. Some showed my face as he pulled plugs out, mouth open, screaming. Others focused on how open I now was. I looked obscene. I felt like a goddess who became a whore. I loved it. His fingers never wandered now, driving in, in. I knew what he wanted, what he was going to do. 'Tell me' I had asked over and over. He was going to. He was going to show me how far I would go.

I tried to remember that first time. The first time I had been touched there. It was a blur now. I know it had been to rough, soured me on it for years. But now, with him, bliss. I sank into the fingers now. The pictures showed me like a flower. Then I saw it, realized that I was not feeling it. His wrist. His wrist was all that was outside me. He had his fist in my ass. All of it. Not my pussy like before, somewhere more intimate. When I focused my eyes I suddenly felt him there, clenching that paw in me. I do not know what you call a sound like that. It was not from me, just from the air around me. Every time I had been with him, everything I wanted to try fell apart like glass shattering. I woke up later.

No longer tied down. He was over my lips, his hand fisting his cock. I recognized the beat, could see the balls jumping to release. The sperm splattered over my lips then, his finger on my lower lip, jaw as he held my mouth open. It pooled in my throat as I lay on my back. He seemed to shoot on and on. I filled up, felt it running down my cheeks. 'Was my juice this hot I wondered? He finished, legs shaking as he shook the last drops on my face. I know I was smiling; I always do when he gives it to me, that final treat. The pictures kept coming as he posed me, telling me when to swallow. He left me on the floor as he dressed and left. There were pictures covering my floor. I keep them in an album now, look at them as I touch myself, trying to replicate the feelings. It's an imitation, hollow. But now I know what he sees, why he will always be back.