Enemies with Benefits

He lets go of your hair and sits back. He isn't going to make this easy by taking control. You are glad -- you want to show him what you can do. You kneel up to it, and, your hands on his knees, you take it as far into your throat as you can manage in a single go, your lips wide-parted. When it is in almost to the hilt you close your lips around it, put your tongue to it and suck slowly and very thoroughly up its whole length, slurping yourself gratefully off it. You are surprised to find that, whether it is your flavour or that of the lube, it is sweet and by no means unpleasant. You lick around his penis with the thoroughness of genuine enthusiasm, making direct, confident eye-contact with him as you run your tongue under the ridge beneath his head where most of the lube has accumulated, tasting the faint echo of offal and enjoying your own revulsion.

When you have cleaned him completely you turn away and lower yourself onto your face, your arse sticking in the air provocatively. You look back round at him, your face an open challenge -- "you've made me into a whore," you seem to say, "now fuck me like one." He reaches quickly for the lube, but you, suddenly without limits, grab it out of his hands, and chuck it away. His startled eyes as you take such an assertive action put you in charge. You spread your buttocks for him impatiently, and suddenly it's you forcing the pace, you choosing the action. As he sinks himself in you you bark "harder" at him and reach back a hand, digging your nails into his thigh and tugging him into you in the rhythm you want. You cum again, and this time he cums in you too. Thrusting deeply and squirting several times before he is spent.

He falls forward and you both roll sideways, him spooning and holding you as his penis shrinks inside you. You pull off him gently before turning back to suck him clean a second time. He is too sensitive to stand much of it, but wanting the current filthy mood not to leave you yet, you raise his leg and kiss and lick his balls. They taste strongly of very fresh sweat, and you suck them clean, adding your spit to dissolve his musk.

Are you really going to do this? To stick your tongue into a man's anus? You look up, and see him watching you in fascination. He isn't in charge. For the first time since you met him he doesn't know what is going to happen next -- it's your decision. How nasty an act will you carry out to shock him, to debase yourself? You smile, amused and suddenly excited, you push his buttocks apart and sink your tongue into his arse, pushing until your jaw aches, worming the tip into him and hardening your whole tongue into a rigid muscle. You reach around and play with him as you do so, and notice with pleasure that he is hardening fast.

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Your mood lasts, and now it shapes his. He is wild-eyed with pleasure and excitement at the grubby little whore he has unearthed. He fucks you very hard indeed. You can hardly tell where one orgasm ends and the next begins, and you switch him between different positions with confidence and authority, pulling him to you as he fucks your arse, jumping clear to lick or deepthroat him. After taking him in your throat or licking his anus you kiss him, challenging him to degrade himself too with your filthy, corrupt little body and face. On two occasions you have even pulled his head to your arse, pushing him into you, then kissing him deeply, sucking on his defiled tongue.

You are at last finished. It's under three hours until you are due to get up for work. You kneel him up and bend him right over so that you can tongue his arse one last time, the deepest yet. For the first time you don't actually want it to turn him on again -- he is lasting longer each time, and even through the adrenalin your arse is really starting to throb and ache, unlubed by anything but spit since so much earlier. This goodnight tonguing is a farewell to yourself as a whore. You don't want to think about it, but you guess you'll be pretty uncomfortable about some of this stuff in the morning. As you lie behind his exhausted body afterwards, nuzzling his neck, you think of your 'hard' limits, and smile to yourself at their naivety. Suddenly one last thought comes to you. You lean in close to his ear and whisper "piss on me. Please?"

He jumps a little, unwilling to believe it at first. "Please?" You repeat. "Please piss on my filthy little body. Clean my dirty face with your piss."

Even as you say it you're disgusted by the idea, but you don't want your mood to flip -- you want to find new extremes. You don't want to suddenly find yourself back in sensible mode, looking back on your whorish self. "Please? I beg you. Piss me clean."

He rises, leads you by the hand into the bathroom with an uneasy brusqueness. You lie on your back in the bath. You turn your face up to him, your mouth and eyes wide open. You push in your breasts to make them more prominent in case he wishes to focus on them, and you part your thighs with exaggerated coquettishness to reveal your neglected cunt. You run your hand through your hair, spreading it out so that he can really soak it if he wishes. You smile at him.

He stands over you -- outside the bath, unwilling to splash his feet with what he is about to soak your face and body in. The contrast makes you tingle with pleasure, and you reach down to play with yourself. You note with amusement that you would have been horrified by the brazenness of playing with yourself in front of a man before you met him. And now you are masturbating theatrically beneath him whilst he prepares to piss on you.

An idea comes to you, and you reach your hand back and push the plug down, smiling conspiratorially at him as you do so. The thoughtful depravity of this final touch tips you over the edge and you cum violently, pushing your legs hard against the sides of the bath as you do so, and touching a finger on your sore anus to remind you of how spectacularly you've just been fucked.

The stream of piss comes almost without warning, just as your orgasm tails off. It hits your cheek harder and hotter than you expected. You flinch away, but willpower intervenes, and you force open your eyes in the hope that they'll get bloodshot by it and you'll look even more wrecked. It hurts as it spatters in, but he's mainly aiming at your open mouth. It fills far faster than you expect, and you find yourself swigging down three large mouthfuls before realising you'll be sick if you carry on trying to keep up with him. You keep your mouth open and full, and let the piss splash over your face. As he slows to a drip you decide to gargle a little of it to keep the bravado going. It goes down the wrong way, and as you cough and splutter it also runs up your nose, stinging.

Your mood is suddenly and spectacularly gone. You are a professional woman sitting in a half-inch of cooling piss, soaked in it and choking. Your arse is beyond sore (possibly damaged?), your face is an utter mess, your hair is piss-sodden and tangled, you're cold and completely exhausted. You think you're going to be sick, but you fight it back. Instead you cry, not even willing to wipe your face free of the tears because face and hands alike are polluted with piss and lube and spit and anus. An ineffectual hand pats your shoulder with apparent reluctance and you shout at him to get outto leave. You stagger, dripping, into the shower, turn it on and slump to the floor, the water at first ice-cold and bracing, then gradually warm. You sit beneath it sobbing and hugging yourself. You wash your hair repeatedly and your body even more, lathering on the shower gel by the handful until the bottle is empty.

Your knees and elbows are raw and weeping from carpet burn. Your body, your breasts (your poor breasts!) are covered in incipient hickeys and red marks which will soon be hand-shaped bruises.

You clean your teeth for minutes on end, swilling mouthwash in between and deliberately swallowing it in an attempt to clean yourself internally too. You are naked, cold and shaking. Your eyes in the bathroom mirror are bloodshot, red-rimmed and small-pupilled. Your gums are hurting from the toothbrush but still you clean, squeezing the toothpaste straight into your mouth. Clean though you might, you feel (or imagine?) that you can taste arse and piss just as strongly.

Eventually tiredness overcomes revulsion and you stagger towards your bed through the mess of discarded clothes, papers swept off the desk when he had fucked you on your back on it, and books from a bookshelf you overturned whilst bending over and holding it tightly to take it harder up the arse. You shudder and try not to look, stepping around an upturned chair, a dressing-gown cord with which you had had him tie you up, and other debris of the night.

The bed is mercifully clean and unused since he had fucked you -- no, be honest, you had fucked each other -- entirely on the floor and other furniture. He is half-sitting up, the bedside light on, and looks at you anxiously as you approach. He seems genuinely concerned and makes to cuddle you. You tell him coldly to shower, disgusted by the idea of his body after all its contact with yours. "And clean your teeth" you shout after him as he leaves the room.

The tone could hardly differ more from that you had had towards him before... ...before whatever had just happened. You pull the duvet over your head and curl up, crying again, vulnerable and self-loathing.

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You don't know how long he's been there. He is holding you closely to him, cuddling you. You don't give away that you are awake. You want to run away and never again see the man who knows what you did last night. There is, however, an immediate animal comfort from contact with his clean skin. You are physically exhausted and feeling desperately alone, and even the man you would like to blame for what you did is better than nothing as a fellow being to offer you the visceral reassurance of proximity.

As you wake up more you notice with relief that he is not hard from cuddling your poor broken little body. Rather, as you turn at last to look at him, you see that he is awake, watching silently and anxiously. His tired eyes as you first open yours give you an odd flash-back to the way your mother looked at you when you came out of the general anaesthetic of your childhood tonsillectomy. You find yourself, to your deep surprise, cuddling instinctively closer to the man who did this to you.

And though you don't want to reflect on it, you know perfectly well that he "did this to you" only in a rather limited sense. From the moment you first went (you shudder to think of it) "ass to mouth" on him, you were in charge. It was you who pushed the quantity and you who pushed the nastiness of what happened after that. He had been like an overexcited teenager screwing an older and vastly experienced nymphomaniac. You can hardly blame him.

And the fact that he is still there and obviously sympathetic gives you curiously powerful reassurance. He has switched off your alarm clock and called your work to tell them you are sick. Whilst you slept he has silently tidied and cleaned out of existence any reminders of the previous night. He cuddles you and strokes your hair gently until mid-afternoon when you suddenly feel powerfully hungry. He is downstairs at the moment, and the smell of bacon and eggs is wafting up to you. The kettle is whistling and you have just heard the toaster pop.

You realise that rather than a dark secret, an enemy with benefits, you might have found yourself a really lovely man. Your memory plays back over the second half of the night: his obvious hesitancy about your ill-judged final extra game in the bath; his care in letting you set the pace when you had gone beyond all your limits; his anxiety to cuddle you when it all got too much for you. So gentle, so kind, after the cruelty of the evening's beginnings.

"A shame," you whisper to yourself, a little guiltily, "he was almost perfect."