Dark as Ivory Pt. 01

Content warning: It is a nonconsent story and there are some things that might be considered harder fetishes. I didn't want anyone upset and want it to be enjoyed, so I thought I'd put a forewarning. Have fun!

Ever since I was little, I wanted to be a physicist and I wanted to own a gaming store. I chased both of those and somehow the end result was even better than expected. My life was a dream and I got to meet the most interesting people, got to play the most interesting games. But sometimes I wanted things a little more interesting.

I didn't know his name. He was an online foray of mine that I indulged in during the darkest hours of the night. After hosting a Dungeons and Dragons session or a Magic the Gathering tournament, I would get home to my laptop and see the tab open for his messenger on a kink website I explored. He used the user name Flatline9 and he lived 30 minutes away from me. We hadn't traded addresses, nothing like that, although one time I let slip my name when telling him a story. Not that my name gave much about me away. It was Tuesday. Tuesday Holter, but he didn't even have the last name.

And that was another thing. He flirted with everything, even mundane work stories. Those were his favorites, even, and he would have me blushing within moments while he turned something innocuous and boring into something filthy or profane.

The night when things started to change, when we went from flirtatious messaging to the next level of playtime, started no different than any other. I walked into my cozy apartment after a boring day. No MTG tournaments or campaigns since it was midweek. I had merely been sorting merchandise and selling, but when I walked in, turned my laptop on, and saw the message notification on the website that was so frequently logged on my history, my heart sped in excitement. I didn't even walk to my bedroom to strip out of my work clothes. I did it right in my small apartment's equivalent of a living room, the first room when you walked in. I stood naked as I leaned over my desk, tossing my bra to the side and typing.

Hi. Are you still there?

I waited, eager and hoping. I looked forward to these naughty little conversations way more than was probably healthy. It occurred to me that this might be becoming a flirting addiction of mine, but I didn't care enough to stop doing it. I went to my room and put my pajama pants on while waiting, grinning and scurrying when the chime sounded from the laptop. It came before I could even get to my shirt, so I just left it off.

Yes. It's been a few days.

I bit my thumbnail before I answered, wondering what dirty place he would go to this time, wondering how he would get there. Every time was interesting and creative. He played such wicked games, filthy in their strangest way, and I had displeased a customer today, something that never felt okay to my pleaser's personality, so I wanted something to make me blush and forget with someone else's pleasure.

It has, hasn't it? They've been a boring few days, too.

Oh, no. No fun games to keep you entertained at work? Whatever could you have done to pass the time when you had it, Two?

He loved using the number Two for my name, though my handle was Masokissed. Because he liked using any moment he could to remind me of my slip, that he had my name and I didn't have his. Nothing much. I mostly read and made sure the store was in order.

I giggled and bit my fingertip, taking my laptop to my favorite recliner and curling into it, waiting with a sense of excitement for his answer to that. And I wasn't disappointed.

I bet you're lying or at least being coy with me. I bet the books you read are filthy BDSM fantasies and you like to go to your back room and find a way to rub something against your clit to get off when you're bored.

My skin turned hot in arousal. Maybe the attraction was all in my head since I was relegated to pure fantasy and imagination where he was concerned, but I wasn't sure, hadn't thought about it in depth to be honest. This was a fun little pastime for me and it didn't need to be ruined with overthinking and bullshit. Maybe. But if I did that, say, yesterday in the dead hours of the afternoon it wasn't from reading. I got up to light a candle by the chair and then fetched my bottle of cheap wine from the fridge, drinking from the bottle and going back to curl in my chair for his answer. It could barely even be called wine since it tasted more like grape juice. Which is why I bought it when I could afford whatever struck my fancy. Grape juice tasted nice and this one got me drunk.

Filthy fucking girl. What was it then? What made you such a greedy wanton that you had to go to a back room like a little whore to get off?

I fucking loved his dirty talk. He was degrading in all the best ways and he'd jumped all over it when I confessed to my filthy moments, when I got aroused and went to the storage room, rubbing my pussy either through my jeans or going to my employee bathroom to do it out and out. Most of the time I would feel myself get worked up and start to fantasize until I reached the point where I could give my clit a few harsh strokes over my clothes and go off, so needy that it was that easy. It took hours of fantasizing to reach that point though and it was more like climbing a razors edge of arousal that it was a gentle finish. One night after a few glasses of boxed wine, I confessed that to him and he'd been more than a little delighted by the fact, loved to bring it up.

But I knew things about him as well. Fantasies he had told me over our months of online flirting. And I knew his favorite fantasy. I dreamed about his favorite fantasy actually. And when I masturbated to it? Holy hell, it made me see stars.

Maybe I was daydreaming of being watched or followed while taking the subway. Maybe I was thinking about having a stalker see me when I thought I was alone and bored.

What he loved playing most and the hottest word sex scenarios we wrote to each other? They were the ones where we played out something pure animal, something twisted and elaborate, things that were sick and sadistic and depraved. We talked of how hot kidnapping scenarios could be wherein I would play out my unwillingness. We talked of boundaries and I really didn't have many. We talked of desires for the borderline psychopathic and ways to make them as close to real as possible. In one conversation, we talked of how it would definitely be hotter to have more of the fear element.

For instance, the safe way to play a kidnap scene? That would be to let me know his face, to meet beforehand, and then let me know I wasn't in real danger. But we talked of two other possibilities. Like how hot it would be if I didn't see his face and didn't know I was okay until a little further in the game than most others would be comfortable with. We talked of a second, head fuck scenario where I would know who he was but wonder at every turn if I was still playing a game or if he would break the pre-agreed rules to the kidnap game.

Edgy. Dark. Fucked up. There were lines between fantasy and reality and I had played in those lines for so long because it was all most people were ever comfortable with. But when I spoke of blurring the lines and the hidden desires to know what it was like to be so filthy, he had gotten it. He had spoken of feelings that were kin to mine.

Maybe that was another reason why I could orgasm so fucking hard to my fantasies of him.

The ... indicator of the message appeared and reappeared while my heart went crazy with thoughts of his intensity and my stomach turned delirious somersaults. No matter how boring the day or how emotionally cold I could sometimes feel, whenever he wanted to play I knew he would make me wild, make me warm again, and make me forget.

Such a fucking tease. You do like to play with danger, don't you? Tell me, then, since you want to be so hard tonight. Did you leave the door cracked so that you could be watched and imagine that someone stopped to see you be such a slut in your back room? Did you have to bite something when you came so you didn't make a sound?

He knew. God, he knew all of those answers by now. Anytime I talked about how bored I had been at work, he turned it into something wild, something that was starting to make those dull moments disappear. Yes! My wrist. I had to bite my wrist. And I spread my legs on the spare table while facing the door, hoping the wet spot on my jeans would be visible if someone were watching me.

Not someone. Him. It was always him I fantasized about. Christ, you left a wet spot while thinking about it.

Yes. After I took my panties off midday to feel my clit hood ring rub against my jeans.

I bit my lip, feeling wicked. I hadn't told him about my rings. I had a horizontal clitoral hood ring but I also had others, the better to pleasure my partners with. All of them were to please, to bring out the dominance in the men I took an interest in.

You're pierced?

Such a short answer. My grin turned wider because I knew he liked it. I just knew by then that he loved the thought. Yes. I love that it keeps me horny all the time. I have three tongue rings and a septum ring too. Sometimes I like to imagine my stalker getting tired of watching me and going into the back room, scaring me. Shoving me to my knees so he can force me to suck his cock while telling me he knows I want it because I wouldn't have the rings in my tongue if I didn't.

There was a ... again that stopped and was replaced by another. And then another. But when the message finally came through, the answer was short. You're playing with fire.

The threat from anyone else would have made me disappointed. Others who talked like that didn't have the brazen history to back it up, to make my stomach churn with anticipatory fear. But he did. He messaged stories with the voice of experience, not of the fake or of candy ass bullshit. I set my laptop on the armrest, aroused by the threat from him, and typed out my answer in a reckless rush. I can handle the heat. I grabbed the candle that had been burning for long enough, staring at the wax pooling in it, and curved my body, tilting the holder so a little bit of wax dripped onto my abdomen.

When I looked again the message came through while I was riding a hot wave of desire. Can you? Then strip back to being naked and pour the wax lower.

————

I would love to say my response had any self preservation at all in it, but it didn't. It was reckless hedonism that took hold of me, heat whipping through me and ending right at my already engorged clit. I threw my head back and moaned just to have some kind of outlet for how hot my body apparently thought his twisted game was. It was an intensity so fierce that I couldn't have ignored it for anything, much the same way I sometimes couldn't stop masturbating after a certain point even if the world crashed down around me. Once I reached a high enough ring up the ladder of arousal, my body commanded me, lost to need. And this followed that same pattern. I set the candle down and eagerly tore off my so briefly worn pajama pants, tossing them to the side so that I was naked on my chair rest. And then I obeyed, making sure to face the only window he could have been watching through, sprinkling the wax down my thighs and right over my pussy in the tender triangle. I grit my teeth and moaned again, my eyes closed, imagining him watching from somewhere anyone could see.

When the chime of his next quick message cane through, I turned to read, knowing he saw me turn to respond and delighting in that fact. Good fucking girl. You're a filthy little slut, aren't you? If I can see then anyone else can and you don't care at all, do you?

I laughed, breathless and giddy from this. And I lay back on the incline to answer him so that my pussy was even more displayed, the wax outlining it. I am a filthy little attention slut. They can watch too if they like.

I wondered what his facial expressions were like. Would he be smiling at the way I played back with these wicked flirting games? Would he be as intent and intense as his flirting seemed to hint at? Of course they can. But you might be disappointed because they probably don't have the balls to chase you down and stalk you. Are you going to cum already?

God. Fucking God. I was close, sitting up now to stroke my clit. I realized my lips were parted while I read, my body climbing the pleasure greedily. He was probably right. No one else would be crazy and stalk some random girl fingering herself in the window. But he was crazy enough. I slapped my clit to stop the pleasure chase and worked to think straight enough to answer. I'm trying not to.

The answer was fast as he typed out in a hurry. Why? Do it. Spread your legs like you did at work and rub your pussy until you finish all over your fucking hand. Cum for me, Two.

I moaned at the words, thrusting my fingers inside of myself and sobbing out in insane pleasure. It was crazy, wildly unsafe. It was bad, the kind of impulsive behavior that would and should be the death of me. One second.

I got up and ran to my bedroom, grabbing my wand vibrator and a black permanent marker. The last I used to write the words "Flatline Whore" across my chest, wickedly laughing. The vibrator I took back to the recliner with me and lay back on the armrest again, turning the toy on. I held it against my clit on a low setting, wanting this to last. His answer came through instantly.

Ha! You do like to play with fucking fire, don't you? God, you filthy whore of a fucktoy. You don't even know me, do you, but you play so brazenly.

When I made to answer, he stopped me. No. Don't answer. Just read and focus on playing with that pussy for me, on making it cum while I watch. Flatline whore, indeed.

I laughed, arching with needy cries while stroking the wand vibrator over my clit. And still he tortured me with taunts. I bet that pussy is so goddamned aroused that you could fit the head of that wand inside of you, couldn't you? Instead of answering, I did it. I wasn't sure my body could fit it at first, but I teased open my slit and it turned out that I was aroused enough and dripping enough cum to force the wide head of the wand inside of me. I had to shove my fingers in my mouth to keep from screaming with how hot it made me feel, stuffing myself with such a blunt, massive toy head.

The orgasm screamed through my nerve endings with the delectable bite of pain that came with something too wide filling me so suddenly. I grasped my hair with my free hand and stared down at the toy spreading me, amazed that it fit, horny as all fuck with the sight of it inside of me. I watched myself hump it while coming so fucking hard I couldn't hear anything over the roaring in my ears. It was almost as if I were watching someone else's pussy milk the toy but it was such a turn on the way my hole gaped eagerly open.

I looked at the screen when I could focus again, wincing when I took the toy out of me, realizing it was coated in blood. But even that was hot at the moment, hot that I hadn't felt a single pain in the midst of my arousal.

Holy fuck, Two.

I laughed, breathless. I might be an attention whore, but you're a voyeur slut.

For a long while he was quiet, so long that I curled up in a blanket and stared, waiting. But then when the message came through, it was worth the wait.

It was a video clip. I couldn't see anything in it besides his cock in his hand. He had so carefully made the angle and cut so that there were zero indicators of where he was. The only thing I saw that was anything was a ring on his middle finger, a black stone that was beautiful. It was cut in a heart with sterling silver band.

Well, that and the fact that it looked like he had fucking horse cock. Holy shit. He jerked himself off and I felt like panting like a dog and turned horny all over again. I watched, riveted, as he stroked, slowly, torturously. My mouth watered and I swallowed, imagining my lips spread so wide around him, imagined choking on him, my tongue rings caressing the underside of his massive sex when I swallowed desperately and tried to breathe through my nose. God, it was good he was a sadist because even that part of his physiology had been built to wound and hurt a victim.

I moaned when he finished, semen spritzing from the tip of him in waves. And there was so fucking much that I shuddered, spreading my legs abruptly with what felt almost like a mini, dissatisfying orgasm.

Jesus. You're so big.

It was a stupid reply, an obvious one. But Christ he really was so fucking big. I wanted his cock so badly I ached with it at the moment. Is that what just made you shudder like that?

I smiled. Fuck yes. Thinking of sucking it and choking on it almost made me cum again.

Filthy girl. Are you sure you're ready for the games you just started? I'm not nice, Two. I'm a control freak always, I came into masturbation on sadism and torture porn, and I push a lot of what's safe and sane.

I answered easily, not flying quite so high on arousal and able to think more coherently. It's okay. I came into masturbation from The Fountainhead and Dante's Inferno. If it's ever not okay I'll hash it out with you and I'd love to push some boundaries.

His answer was very slow in coming and when it did I immediately knew why. It was because he was trying to be sure he wanted to follow his answer. Alright, then. Let's play, Two. But we have to have open communication throughout all of this and I want that clear. You don't lie to me or withhold from me, understood?

Yes, sir. He was mostly a sadist but I had already learned that submissive answers well pleased him.

Alright. Brave, reckless girl. Haha. Flatline whore. Is your pussy alright, baby?

I felt like both dancing and curling up under a blanket for comfort from the surge of maelstrom energy it gave me to have him tell me we'd play. It was both thrilling and terrifying and... a question. He'd asked me a question.

Yeah, it's fine. The next week might suck while it heals. They tell me you're not supposed to masturbate and I never can follow that and it always takes a long time.

It wouldn't be the first time I'd played too rough and injured myself. I had a scar on my leg where I'd been trying to figure whips out and cut myself.

His reply made me grin. Fuck me, you've played hard with yourself and done this enough times that you know how it goes.

Well, not this exactly. But I do hurt myself when I get too into it sometimes.

Poor baby. You need someone to take care of those bad little needs and hurt you in ways that won't injure that little pussy.

Someone like you? The answer just happened in the wake of one of the hottest orgasms of my life, like a strange post coital session. Without the sex. Or the fucking person, for that matter. All I knew about what he looked like was that cock and...

Christ, that cock. Someone like me. Oh, yes, because someone like him could take care of the fuck out of my needs. He spoke over our conversations with the voice of experience. Maybe not experience in what we were doing. He talked about how that was an edge he hadn't gotten to play yet. But he had experience with scenes and he spoke of club names he liked and scenes gone awry. He wasn't just a front either. I knew people from my store who would google right in front of me to try to keep up a conversation with me when they didn't know the subject. They'd try to impress me with knowledge they didn't have and it was clumsy and awkward. Flatline didn't go into that category. He spoke too casually, owned his mistakes too readily. When I brought up my whip incident, he had one of his own where he'd broken his ceiling fan. He had such easy confidence.