Black and Blue

Sometimes, in passing, as if it didn't really matter, he'd ask if any had been saddle broken. Sometimes I'd tell him who had, and who was in training, and who not yet. Sometimes I'd make him guess. I found if I talked about them the right way I could make him hard under the table, and later he'd give me a real pounding, particularly if I talked about one of them while he serviced me. He became friends with their dads and would tell me how good their daughters were in bed as he watched me under hooded eyes.

***

I grew during those years beneath him.

I learned my body, and the pleasure he took from it, and the pleasures I took from him. I'd explore my own mind and body while he was all lost in his rutting and not knowing my pleasure unless I chose that he know. I learned my female power and pleasure. I learned to mistress him as he mastered me. I learned to lead him where I wanted even as he took me.

I learned to lead him along the narrow precipice edge of his temper. A vicious trigger temper that I learned to bend for my pleasure. I would call him small and weak, shit-testing his composure until he almost broke, and his body trembled with tension and he restrained his cocked arm and closed fist. He wanted to let it fly while I stared at him, daring him.

Then judging him carefully I'd pull him back from the brink just before his release and kiss him and rub his cock until his mood softened and his cock hardened.

Then I'd start again, locking his black eyes to mine and calling him a mama's boy and asking if he dreamed of sucking cock, until his arm was trembling again, seeking the release of flying out with closed or open hand to give me a lovely bunch of black and blue roses or a streak of rouge on my cheek. Then I'd guide him back from the precipice, and soothe him again, and rub his cock more, making it harder, longer, thicker.

I would edge him back and forth along this line of release for an hour, making his desire to punish, hurt and claim me grow ever stronger and his cock ever harder. But I would not let him cross the line, not give him release. I would choose my own time. I knew what I wanted.

What I wanted was his cock iron hard, with a gigolo's skill and a dildo's stamina.

I have learned to my pleasure that the longer I edge him and the longer his cocked fist vibrates on the edge of release, the longer he will be consumed in his testosterone storm, and the harder and longer-lasting his cock will be when I finally release him to service me.

When I do, both his temper and hand fly free. His cocked hand shoots out first. If it's a closed fist I take it on my shoulder, and if it's open I take it full on my cheek. The pain is always glorious and full of the promise of pleasure. Then he throws me on my back, strips me, and drops his belly, hips and muscled thighs between my wide stretched legs, settling his weight on my mound. He pins me as I desire, and his body takes over in an instant to enter, mount and master me. I am open and ready.

"You asked for it, bitch," he says.

"I certainly did, now get to work," I think.

I grunt with satisfaction as he fills me, his thickness ever new, and as he does I reach up my teeth and lips to capture, nip and suck a descending nipple. When the nipple tingle enters his brain his head goes back, his eyes glaze, and he instinctively seats his cock root and pubes hard against my engorged pussy lips. Then he holds still. He is now just where I want him and will remain in place until released. His cock girth distends my receiving lips, which are stretched taught and thin around the shaft where it enters.

My swollen labia majora and minora are trapped between our pelvic bones. My vestibular bulbs are engorged and squeeze against the shaft. His cock glans snuggles below my cervix. My fingernails dig into his arse and I pull him in.

"Good man, Daddy," is what I think. What more could I want.

Now my teeth and tongue on his nipple keep him settled hard against me. He occupies me just where and how I want. With my lips and teeth I will keep him well seated and hard as rock for the next half hour while I grind beneath him for my own satisfaction. He is mine and I will take my cummings, at my pace, as I wish, without his permission.

My orgasms blur together and last forever, but all good things come to an end.

When I've had my fill for the moment and lech for a change, I release his nipple and offer him my tongue. With a grunt of mastery, thinking he is in control, he sucks it deep and begins shafting me. I lift my pelvis and thrust back in time with his pounding as I work my tongue against his, and dig my fingernails deeper in his arse. Later he will proudly show off his scratches to Mama and me as if he controlled me.

As he shafts me, I might look down to where he enters, or turn my head to present to his possessive gaze my red streaked cheek sliding back and forth, back and forth, back and forth on my mascara streaked pillow in time with his thrusts. He thinks he has me trapped and unwilling and this spurs him on. But I am lost in orgasm, knowing he is well edge-fueled, and will go for at least another hour. As he takes me, my pussy bulbs tight around his cock root and squeezes. I will be sore tomorrow.

I am dimly aware I am massaging him in my cumming, and he is alternately calling out, "Mary!", "You little bitch!", "You like that!", and "Cum on me, girly!". But the words do nothing for me except remind me he is still under my control.

He is in my service, not me in his.

***

I might guide him to other leches that need attending—doggy, anal, bondage—and he serves me well. And when I have satisfied every niche and itch and have tired of him, and am thinking of other things, things in my future, far away, nothing to do with him or Mama or this house, I give him his reward.

I get under him in missionary, give him eye contact, and in a girlish voice between thrusts, ask, "Da... Da... Da... do... you... want... to... be... my... da... Daddy...".

I feel him getting harder and harder, then transition to short sharp thrusts as he swells in me, and then the last word triggers him. The banging of my bed against bedroom wall stops, and Johno, me, Mama and the whole house are silent and listening, each of us seeing clearly in our mind's eye his swollen cock pulsing seed into me to pool below my waiting cervix.

I take my time, and when I'm sated, filled, rested and ready, I roll away and tell him quietly in a normal voice, "What happened? Eight out of ten. You know when you manage nine out of ten consistently you can be my Daddy. I'm thirsty. Get me a beer."

A few inches away, through the wall Mama has heard everything, and I hear her bed begin to squeak rhythmically. I imagine the squelch of her fingers in her cunt. I place my palm flat against the wall where she has placed her hand to mirror mine. In her cumming she calls out, "Daddy!" and her broken fingernails gouge fresh scratches in her bedroom wall while my cunt leaks semen and I sip my beer.

::::::Passage 7: Master Training::::::

Sometimes I could not control Johno, particularly when someone had crossed him. He would come home with a foul temper seething, growling, stewing, bubbling up from deep inside. He would bang around the house until bedtime, while Mama and I walked on egg-shells, knowing there was nothing we could do to bring him down.

After dinner he would swat me on the backside into my bedroom, place his beer and whisky beside the bed, stretch on his back, and say, "Get to it, lass."

I would respond quickly but never quick enough, and his left hand would shoot out and grasp my hair to stop me twisting away as the other hand smacked my cheek hard. Hard enough to raise a welt for his evening's enjoyment, but soft enough that it would fade by morning.

He is a master of control when he wants.

Through the evening he would take what he wanted. A blow job from me to get him ready, him eating me to get me ready, the two of us teaming in sixty-nine, lubed fingers up my arse for dominance, then finishing with pillows under me and him with a fistful of my hair, lost in lust, doggy, deep and anal.

Finally I would drift off with him spooned behind me, his wet cock against my dripping gaped arsehole, his hand possessively on my tit, my hand possessively on his.

I enjoyed the ride on these nights, and always wondered what his work mates had done to get him in the mood. Their loss, our pain, my gain. On these nights I kissed him good night and called him, "Daddy".

***

These nights always restored him to full Daddy strength. Whatever or whoever had gelded him yesterday, by morning he would be restored to full male primacy by having exercised his claim on the two females he owned and controlled. Our submission—Mama would often join us in bed, offering a cunt and mouth for me and extras for Johno—would restore his pride.

He would wake confident. Inside and out. Sure. In charge. Erect.

"Clean your room today," he would say after breakfast, emptying my laundry basket across my double bed. "We have guests tonight."

Mama and I would scurry through the day, tidying and cleaning all the rooms, especially mine. We knew his guests' tastes. In the evening he would swagger in, smelling of early lubrication from the pub, accompanied by another father or two. Fathers who had also loosened up with him, boasting, comparing notes and showing off. Fathers of my girl friends. Fathers I saw when I visited their homes. Fathers Johno befriended when he learned their daughters were also saddle trained. Fathers who shared his interests. Fathers ready to swap delicacies as wantonly and as eagerly as school boys might might swap lunch delicacies. A cookie for a banana, banana for a chocolate, chocolate for a candy.

All evening I would entertain Johno and his mates. Sometimes one as the others watched, sometimes two while one was fluffed by Mama, sometimes in a glorious triple fuck. They always took my delicacies for granted. I knew they were entitled, armed with Johno's permission, making themselves at home in every hole.

If I balked, Johno would show off his strength. The others approved, compared techniques, and congratulated Johno on a job well done.

I often wondered which I liked better. A pounding from Johno and his mates with him controlling me, or my own grinding and rutting beneath him until my mind blurred as I controlled him.

Him dominating me, or me him. Him servicing me, or me him. My pleasure or his pain. My pain or his pleasure.

I needed all of it.

::::::Passage 8: Breaking Away::::::

And so it went for years until last night I said, "I'm leaving. It's time. This is my life, not yours."

He didn't hesitate but immediately gave me a couple of bunches of roses on my arse and back and a rouged cheek as a reminder of my place and asked when I last bled.

I answered, "Two weeks," and he mounted me.

After he fucked me and smoked and fell asleep on the couch, Mama came in and slipped five crumpled $20 notes and her mother's wedding ring into my hand. She told me to hide it with my tampons because he wouldn't look there. Then she hugged me and left quickly. I wish she hugged me more.

Today Johno mounted me before I got out of bed, then again after lunch, and finally this afternoon before I left.

He's making sure I know I'm his, and he has first claim on me. But he has no claim on my pleasure, on whether I'm submissive or dominant, and when he fucks me I take my pleasure in my own good time even as I hate and want him.

I walked out slick and pulpy with his seed to my angel Angela who brought us to this train.

::::::Passage 9: Johno Follows Me::::::

I focus, see, stare, look down to the hand extended, look up to the black eyes piercing, and inhale the smell of whisky, beer and stale cigarette smoke. Johno's smell.

Is he Johno? Has Johno followed me? To take his pleasure? To reclaim me?

I see this is another Johno, but he is the same. Same age, same name, same smell, same eyes, same needs. Will I ever escape?

I tremble. If I speak my voice will quiver. I am afraid.

Angela reaches across and shakes his hand, saying, "G'day, I'm Angela, and this is Mary."

Johno looks at me quizzically and sticks out his hand to me. He enfolds mine and holds it. He feels and sees me shaking, caught, trapped. Without releasing my hand, he says, "A Mary, eh? Are you a virgin with child?", and laughs without humour at his own joke. He's obviously used it before. It was Johno's favourite too.

Johno holds my gaze for many seconds and when he knows I'm under his control, slowly lowers his eyes, scanning my body, taking his time, assessing, wanting. Mama's Johno would do that too and he taught me to wait obediently for him, as I do now for Tattoo Johno. Finally his eyes drift back up, past my belly and small tits, and when our eyes meet again I see in them desire, purpose and rutting fever.

"I can fix that," he says, with another humourless laugh, dropping my hand.

I hate him, but Johno taught me well and I accept passively his words, his gaze, his male need, his male claim. I fix my eyes on the black eyes and grey temples before me.

But my body is not passive. It remembers what it learned in lust in years under Johno's training, even an hour ago in bed beneath him, and what it senses now in this meeting, in this moment, in this Johno. My body responds. Rises. Warms. Knows. Anticipates. Offers. Suddenly wet. Needing Johno.

I look at Johno across the table with Mousey beside him. My eyes dilate, my mouth parts a smidgen, my breath draws endlessly in as, my lips dry, my tongue protrudes to moisten them, my lungs inflate and push out my pert breasts, my nipples perking against the fabric of my blouse. A warm flush spreads familiarly through my breasts, nips, belly, pubes and cunt.

I am home.

Home is where the cunt is.

And who owns my cunt? Why Johno, of course.

***

Angela is looking at me. She squeezes my hand again and breaks the spell, for now, but we can both feel the afterglow.

"Don't get your hopes up, Johno," she says, and I look at mousey Sheila who has curled, semi-fetal, away from Johno.

He looks at her and says, "Don't get shirty with me, Sheila. Just a joke," and drops his hand possessively on her upper thigh. I wonder when they last had sex. Probably last night, while she tried to ignore the pain as he fucked her quickly and imagined a blond bridesmaid.

::::::Passage 10: Males Compete::::::

At this moment two things happen simultaneously.. The train starts with a jerk and we're on our way, and the door bangs open and a young man enters.

He's a bit breathless, well built, somewhat uncoordinated. Blond. Blue eyed. A well developed eighteen if a day. He swings his case into the overhead luggage rack. In a deep shy gentle voice he asks, "Do you mind if I sit here?"

He drops onto the seat beside Sheila, and I see his eyes flicker across her and Angela and come to rest on me. My chest that was arched towards Johno turns subtly to this new male. I notice Mousey straighten up and try to look a little less mousey. I imagine the nips on her big tits have sprung to attention. Angela brushes back her hair and glances at him under hooded eyelids. Oh my God, did she just flutter her eyelashes?

We three females are of one mind, and we all try to beam a message to him "You can sit anywhere you want. How about here beside me, you virile innocent hunk."

Tattoo is oblivious and full of himself. But this handsome teenager is oblivious and not full of himself, as his gaze drifts innocently over each female in turn.

The male gaze holds power, and all the more when the male is unaware of his power. This new male now fills the carriage and Johno is forgotten.

"Hello. My name's Joseph," blue eyes says quietly.

Johno tries to take charge, and says, "I'm Johno. This is me missus, Sheila. This is Angela, and this—keeping best for last—is Mary." With his now familiar humourless laugh he pauses then adds, "Mary, Mary, quite contrary, I wonder how her garden grows."

"Nice to meet you all," says Joseph, looking at me shyly. I think he's blushing. I'm the only one to say hello, and he smiles at me. I know he's a virgin. His blue eyes fill me.

***

Johno is assessing his new competitor, just like he would when he strutted me at the mall and boys turned to look. When one did—and they always did—Johno would tighten his arm around me, grip my broad hip and arse, and staring hard at the boy bend down and whisper in my ear, "Get all the wet you want darling, just remember what's yours is mine when we get home."

Now he stands to further mark his territory, his crotch at head height in front of us three females and Joseph. Just by chance. For us to contemplate. He gets his bag down from the luggage rack. Slowly. Taking his time. He twists and turns. His movements are deliberate. He is big and physically fills our space. He turns and puts the bag on the table. We all have to shift for him and his crotch. He removes a bottle of whisky, paper cups and a pack of cards. He drops them on the table, then slowly lifts the bag back up, facing each of us in turn.

"I think I'll sit here. You're all going to join me for a drink," he says, flopping down beside me.

He seems suddenly bigger beside me, and I feel his hardness and control. He's sitting again but now he fills the carriage like a cock fills a cunt. He is definitely the dominant again.

"This will be fun," he says simply, smoothing up my thigh with his palm, assessing the lay of the land.

::::::Passage 11: Johno Renews his Claim::::::

We are well underway.

We left Brisbane a couple of hours ago and are rattling past farms and bush. The autumn sun has set and we've turned on the dim lights. The whisky has loosened Johno, Angela and me, and we're playing cards. He tells me he has another bottle, "...so drink up, girly."

Sheila is still shirty because the whisky has loosened Johno with me. He keeps rubbing my arm and squeezing close as he plays his cards, brushing my tit with his hand whenever he can. Sheila has withdrawn into her mousiness and refuses to look at him.

Finally she lies down and tries to sleep, curled on her side on the bench seat, eyes tightly closed, her big tits towards the rest of us, her head pressed against Joseph's hip. I know she's awake and watching through cracked eyes Johno's hands all over me while she senses Joseph's thick bulge inches from her head. I wonder if his male scent has given her a wide-on. Joseph looks delightfully—and delightedly—uncomfortable, with her head almost in his lap, and her big tit within easy reach of his left hand to cop a feel half hidden by the table. Any bloke would be tempted, especially a horny teenager.

Johno again offers Joseph a drink. He said he doesn't drink but took a small whisky, and now he takes one more. He's loosening too, sitting upright beside Sheila, whose head jostles his hip every time the train rocks. He's looking shyly at me, stealing glances at my tits, and at my crotch which I flash at him as Johno feels me up. Johno's hands are on me but it's Joseph's arms, shoulders, chest and bulge that have got me hot and bothered.

Johno has good fingers and the confidence to use them—he always did, he trained me well—but I suspect Joseph has a better cock and his blond hair and blue eyes fill my vision.

Johno turns off one of the lights and we're lit by the dim remaining bulb, a glow from the corridor and the flickering light and shadow as the train waggles patiently down the track, like a dispirited whore heading to bed.

Joseph has loosened more. He slyly but firmly strokes his big bulge while looking down at Sheila's tits. His free hand creeps towards her. She jostles his hip again and his fingers run through her hair.