Beautiful Eyes

Special thanks to kenjisato, a generous volunteer in Literotica.com's Volunteer Editors program, for editing this piece. All remaining errors and questionable stylistic choices are the sole responsibility of the author.

***

I'm Dexter Reed, and I'm a loser.

Her hair is blonde tonight, in pigtails. The schoolgirl outfit is shed, but for the panties around her knees. She's on her tummy, on my lap, clutching at the pillow that her face is buried into. She was a good girl for me today, as she almost always is. I only get the urge to spank her once in a while. Most of the time, I like "taking care" of her -- more than perverted enough to earn those quotes. I drink up her innocence, trust, and dependence. I love experiencing her growing arousal blend together with them. It corrupts the first and heightens the other two. It's devilishly divine.

Everything about her is perfect, and what else is there to say? Her pale skin is flawless. She's toned and soft. She's the picture of health and youth. Her smells and flavors are engineered to entice. Her ass is the ass for me, and it's presented and vulnerable. It's so incredible that I don't despair for not being able to see her face or tits; that's higher praise than you can know.

I brace her with my left hand at the small of her back, more rubbing than pushing. My right finger encounters the perfect amount of resistance, and then, upon penetration, she gives me all the feedback a horny, addled loser could ever want. Her inner heat is magnificent. Her feigned trepidation melts into guilty confusion. It's dirty and wrong, but I'm always right. I'm taking care of her, so it isn't sexual... but it is, and we both know it. Above all else, she likes it. Secretly, she loves it. The fact that she's pretending to merely like it, and that I know she's pretending, lends layers to lovely lies. They satisfy more than just my throbbing cock. Perversion and lust claim other places, too. Losers know all about that. They understand the mental component of sex better than anyone. Winners have the luxury of thinking only with their massive, girthy, ever-ready members.

"Good girl," I tell her.

She whimpers and nods. She has a praise kink, but we mostly suspend it for this fantasy. It's too much of a shortcut. Her peak needs to be primal. It needs to be about her ass, not about my lust for, or ownership, of it.

I wiggle my finger and fuck her a little with it. I massage her exactly how she likes it -- loves it, if she weren't pretending. She is, though, and that includes more confusion, plus a note of surprise. Her whimpering spikes to a coo, then another. Then it flirts with proper moans and groans. In my lap, I feel heat and motion -- hers, not just mine.

I withdraw my finger, and she tries -- but fails -- to pretend to be relieved. More layers.

"Okay, baby," I say, "time to take your temperature."

There's no mammal in the world that can justify the glass tube's size. It's a sex toy, through and through. That doesn't ruin the visual. My horny brain sees the bulbous head, the general shape, the gradation lines and the phony mercury, and it believes. My satisfaction doubles, triples, and peaks as I slowly slide it into her depths, declaring myself her completely dominant caretaker.

How can she communicate embarrassment and surrender when I can't see her beautiful face? She manages. It's the twitch of the leg that never becomes a kick. It's the shoulders and back relaxing -- slumping, were she standing. She grips the pillow tighter, pushing herself into it harder. She modulates her whine, then gets quiet.

Then I start fucking her, because I just can't resist. The power I feel over her is intoxicating. When her hips start to move, her humiliation blossoms. When I warn her to stop with my left hand, her frustration explodes inside of it, like one of those artful firework tricks. When I reward her obedience with soft caresses all up and down her spine, she surrenders all over again. Trust and dependence win out, because I always know what's best.

"There," I say, and slowly withdraw the toy. I even pretend to check it. "A little warm, but very good. You were very good for me."

I set the tube aside and grasp her panties. I try to slide them back up, but she doesn't cooperate.

"We're all done," I tell her, letting just a hint of warning creep into my voice.

She mumbles something into the pillow. I let go of the panties and move my hands -- one to the back, one to the butt.

"You need to speak up, baby."

"Can I keep them off, please?"

I reward her with caresses. "Because you asked nicely." I do my fair share of lovely lying, too. We're a team. I slide her panties down to her knees, then nudge her to bend her legs. Up the calves and ankles the skimpy white bikinis go, and then they're away.

She awkwardly moves off my lap, then turns around and crawls back to me. I gather her up and surround her with reassurance. If that "reassurance" happens to brush her butt again, or a breast, well, these things happen.

She can do so much pretending with just her body, but with her face, she's a true savant. I see the whole story there -- too many emotions to even name.

I begin to kiss her. She accepts it; each one is a temporary balm for what ails her, but they're not enough.

"What's the matter?" I ask. "You can tell me."

She blushes. I "accidentally" find an erect nipple. She knows she's been caught. She gives up the fight.

"I'm... frustrated," she says, using one of our fun words. "You know..."

"I do, baby," I reply. "But I've told you before: there's nothing to be ashamed of. It's okay to feel good when I take care of you. If you need more help -- or even if you just want it -- you can tell me. Why don't you try it? Face your fears."

She pleads with her eyes -- hazel, tonight, whose brown and blue are practically separate rings. She bites her lip -- not to seduce, but to struggle with herself. That's another lie. They're so delightful.

"I want some help," she whispers.

"And I want to help," I answer, "so tell me."

She gets clingy; I love it. She cuddles and nuzzles into me, trying to hide from the world, even though her silly schoolgirl shame -- another masterful lie -- is telling her that she needs to hide from me most of all. I let it happen. I let her full, wet lips get right next to my ear.

"I need to be fucked," she whispers. "I need you to fuck me... back there. I need it fucked out of me. I need you to make me."

The fantasy fast-forwards from there -- another kind of lie, and one I'm happy to partake in. My kisses of encouragement become a passionate makeout session; it takes two to tango, and my partner fully emerges. My cuddles become our gropes. She lets me maul her high, perky tits with my hands, and then with my mouth for just a few moments; reluctance, surprise, pain, and pleasure fly by on her face and in her voice. She claws at my head and hair, pulling and then pushing in tandem with that performance. Then it's time for me to be naked, and it happens in a flash. I stand; she drops to her knees, so impatient for my cock to plunder her depths that the blowjob-cum-lube-job is downright frenzied. She massages the hell out of my ass while she fucks her own face, and I feel like I'm hanging on to her head and hair for dear life, rather than asserting more dominance.

She never stops lying. She communicates that her uncontrollable lust is suppressing confusion, shame, and humiliation, even though those countervailing emotions don't exist, and never did. The lust, I believe. The rest I've stopped caring about either way. I'm fully hard, and the two of us are already tag-teaming another rapid-fire lie: that I'm cajoling, encouraging, and even pressuring her into that most submissive of positions: face down, ass up.

The truth is that she's leaping and bending like a gymnast to get herself ready for my cock, and I'm following behind as quickly as I can, blessedly exempt from any complicated maneuvers. Forty is the new thirty, and so on down the line, except that twenty doesn't get disqualified -- just promoted. I'm that new thirty. She's the double platinum standard, and the Captain America of sex besides. What a cluster of lies that is, and I'm enjoying the hell out of all of them; her unparalleled athleticism is serving a perfect, pink target up to me, and her butt is the silver platter.

The fantasies in my head become stupid and basic. They're embarrassing. I'm her master; she's my bitch. I'm her owner; she's my slave. I'm the daddy; she's my little girl. I've already taken her temperature, and now I'm going to give her her medicine.

They do their job, though. They keep my cock hard, and now it's at her pucker. She gets one line -- one choice. "Gently?" "Slowly?" "I'm scared?" "I submit?" "Make me your bitch?" "Please?"

"Fuck me," is what she chooses tonight. She's so desperate that she halfway forgets herself. That means I have to remind her.

I slide my cock into her with a single, powerful thrust. I can picture her eyes widening and mouth opening involuntarily to issue forth her shocked surrender. That's the nuance of her choice -- what separates it from its rough siblings: she wanted it, but she didn't fully understand it. Now she does.

I seize her cheeks for leverage and push down while I push in. Her rear passage is built for my pleasure. Every bump offers physical gratification, and her response to my cock sliding over them fellates my fucking brain. Her stretched ring is chaos theory made manifest: unpredictable twitching and squeezing that's calculated by some god in some machine to spur me towards orgasm. It tells a fucking story -- another entendre, another lie -- about how I'm hurting her so good at first, then overwhelming her. She's dependent upon me for the sexual pleasure she desperately needs, and I'm giving it to her. I'm the ultimate provider. She's mine forever.

When my patience for slow, commanding strokes runs out, I release her ass and hunch over. I find her tits and maul them again. I pinch her nipples. I kiss her forcefully on her back, then collarbone, then neck. We're mindless, rutting animals, and all of our noises confess it. Thus begins the greatest lie ever told: that I'm a stud -- that I'm a giant, throbbing cock who doesn't need a single fantasy to get the job done, but simply carves a straight path from desire to action to victory. I'm a winner. I want to fuck the most beautiful woman in the world, so I just fucking do, and I do it well. That lie exists in the absence of thought. It's what you can believe when most of your brain shuts off.

She cums first, because I made her, and it is undeniable. Oh, she shudders, twitches, spasms, moans, groans, drools, and uses muscles that shouldn't even exist to urge me to cum immediately after she does, but that electric performance still isn't up to her standards. No, she stains the sheets below. I make her cum, and I make her cum.

She does make me, too, though. I can't take all the credit, even though it feels like I just sprinted through a marathon to get us both there. She collapses prone, finally, and so do I, atop her. My heart is pounding; I'm genuinely worn out. She makes her body tell a few more lies in that same vein: that somehow I managed to exhaust the Captain America of sex. It's more about sparing my ego than stoking it. Right now, I'm too damn tired to be stoked any which way.

She chose "Fuck me" tonight, which informs my choices in turn. I can be vulgar.

"I love your fucking asshole, baby," I exhale between gasping breaths.

"I can fucking tell," she says, and if I had more air and stronger lungs, I'd laugh. That's not the only string of mine she pulls, though. The tone and cadence of her short reply makes me feel like a sex champion; she lets me know I worked her.

We're in the between-time, now. She's not really my schoolgirl anymore, but our roles haven't reversed. I kiss her when I remember to. She's happy to be pinned. My cock shrinks, and she squeezes it out. Time slows down to let me recover. I manage to move my body, motivated by the water on the nightstand. I fetch an anal plug, too. I have one more responsibility as a dominant top, even though I don't feel like one anymore. I plug her up, and she sighs happily. She loves keeping my cum inside of her, because that's what I love my lovers to love. After that, she simply relaxes while I hydrate, keeping her face turned on the pillow so I can see how serenely satisfied I've made her.

"You are so fucking beautiful," I say, and I mean it. She's the most beautiful thing in the world even before we fuck; then we do, and she ascends. She's every kind of beauty at once: aesthetic, addictive, possessed, conjoined, loving and loved, and more I don't have words for. My eyes feast. My heart swells to bursting. My stomach flutters. My cock apologizes. "I wish I could get hard again and fuck you again right away. I just want to fuck you all the time -- be fucking you, all the time."

"But cumming, too, I hope," she replies, feigning concern. "You must cum. You simply must."

"How could I not? You make me."

She bites her lip and smiles. "I do," she says proudly. Then, finally, she gets up. She's limber and full of energy; she knows she can forego certain lies now. I set the water aside. She glances once to the bed -- to the canister of lube that's waiting -- then focuses on herself. She pretends to forget I exist. It's the perfect tease. We're naked, in my bedroom, mere inches apart, and I just fucked her. Nevertheless, I get to feel the voyeur's thrill. I get to spy on her simply being beautiful.

She unties her hair and shakes it around. Her tits join the iconic performance. It should be in slow motion, and there should be overwrought music -- silly, pornographic, or both. Then, like magic, she's wearing a ponytail. She tells another lovely lie: that she's just discovered me standing there, and is pleasantly surprised to see me. The voyeur's thrill becomes the lover's, and that's an entire story, told between heartbeats. She gets off the bed and moves into my personal space; I welcome it. We come together lazily at first, ready to start the second act.

This time, she's possessive. She explores and caresses me; she dictates when we kiss. I surrender to every touch and taste.

"Do you want to be the girl?" she asks.

I nod, but also give a little shrug.

She knows what it means, but she presses anyway. "No panties tonight? No skirt? No socks or leggings? No choker? No collar? No cage?"

Does it make sense that a list of what I'm not in the mood for could get me in the mood? Maybe not, but she makes it happen. There's simply no escaping her allure. Her eyes, her cheeks, her lips; her smell; her heat; the temptation to stoop and suckle; the temptation to kneel, even. It means the world that she's so unabashedly sexual. It quells my deepest fear -- and one that I'm sure I share with so many other average-looking men. She wants me. In exchange for that, what wouldn't I give? If I thought for one moment she wanted anything on that list to satisfy herself, I'd accede to it instantly, eagerly, and happily. Her pleasure would become my pleasure. That's doubly true now. We've fully switched.

I'm a lucky loser, though, and so everything can always be about me.

"Just you and me, baby," I say. "Just take care of me."

She knows what that means, too. Soon enough, I'm over her knee, comfortably grasping the soft pillow that my head rests upon.

I can ignore the asymmetry for the most part, even though it would be obvious to anyone watching. I don't put any effort into the performance; I just selfishly soak up sensations. She rubs my back and butt, and it's so soothing that the first hints of renewed arousal are all that keep me awake. She uses lube, because I'm not the Captain America of sex. Still, I'm experienced -- mostly thanks to her. She takes her time teasing my hole, but only because she knows I enjoy that. Penetration is easy. I make some noise; she radiates satisfaction back to me when I do. This time, I can't see her at all, but she still knows how to communicate everything.

Three fingers lets her go deep enough to hit my spot, and she professionally massages it. She knows my body, inside and out. She knows exactly where I'm at, both physically and mentally. There are many paths from my previous orgasm to my next one, and her fingers find the one that criss-crosses my prostate. Their every step is calculated, but feels spontaneous: location, stride, pressure, time. I start moving my hips, and the caresses along my spine give me permission to do whatever I feel is right.

"Okay, baby girl," she says, "time to take your temperature."

She withdraws her fingers and gets the thermometer ready. Her left hand settles on the small of my back, finally exerting some authority. I still myself.

"Here it comes, baby," she says. "Stay still for me. Be a good girl."

Her emergent dominance penetrates my brain. The sex toy penetrates my asshole. Together, they trigger another cluster of embarrassing fantasies, and I don't fight them. I even embrace the humiliation for a little extra thrill.

She's Mommy. She's a nurse. She's in charge of me; she's taking care of me; she knows exactly what she's doing. Also: she knows exactly what she's doing. Her eyes flash. Her mouth twitches. Her own arousal grows and hardens underneath mine, and that one's undeniably more than mere fantasy. She's secretly a pervert, just like me, and that secret's coming out. I'm at her mercy. I'm powerless. She's going to take me. She's going to make me.

She keeps the thermometer in for a minute or two, then languidly fucks me with it. She pushes the boundary of deniability as she puts pressure on my prostate. She also pushes in deep sometimes, warming up my whole pelvis and further emptying out my mind.

When I feel the toy withdraw enough to signal the end, she doesn't need to mirror my performance from before. Her cock doesn't need the help, and my girly little asshole is ready for it. We fast-forward even faster, though I can't leap and bound like she can. Soon enough, I'm fully presented: the best face-down, ass-up position I can manage. I am getting better. We do this often enough that it just about counts as regular exercise -- a little bit of yoga for the white-collar schlub.

She doesn't ask me if I want her tongue; she just dives into me. She doesn't worship my asshole; she aggressively claims it. It's hers, it's about to get fucked by her cock, and she's no more submissive for the act than if she were driving her tongue down my throat while her hands mauled any part of me they wished. They're working my ass cheeks just like that, right now. She gets a few moans and groans out of me, and I feel that same satisfaction emanating off of her powerful, dominant body. Then that body -- that cock -- is all lined up with my submissive hole. I don't need any more words. I just need to be fucked.

She draws out one more grunt, and that's that: she slams the next wave of stupid fantasies into my brain. It's hard to hang on to the idea that they're lies. I'm her bitch. I'm her fuckhole. She's conquering me and claiming me. She's destroying my masculinity and reshaping me to suit her own needs.

Her cock is made for my asshole. It's the perfect size, shape, and hardness. Her fingers were dexterous; her cock doesn't need to be. You don't need to know how to pick the lock when you've got the key.

I love feeling her weight on top of me, so she collapses down, and I do too. I'm pinned to the bed, and her breasts pressed against my back reassure me that I'm a good little girl for a woman, not a man. There's a part of me that feels guilty that I need that, but I do. I need to belong to a woman. I need to be fucked, but by a girl.