Jayne's World Pt. 20

A word from Jayne.

My regulars know this but newcomers may be pleased to learn that this is a long story with numerous characters and storylines. For continuity, it's recommended that it's read in chronological order but each part is a standalone erotic adventure. So, whichever way you read it, I hope you enjoy my world and feel free to leave a comment; I promise to read every one.

Love

Jayne.

A bit of rough stuff and some massive oral.

It wasn't the fact that I was standing in the tiny kitchen area of his flat that I lived in. It also wasn't the fact that I was only wearing a black thong, fishnet stockings, a flimsy tank top like an athlete's singlet or a man's vest and heels. It wasn't the fact that Mickey was buried into me as deeply as he could be. And it wasn't because he was fucking me from behind and that his balls were slapping against my thighs, nor that my full tits were flying around all over the place and my glasses had slipped down so I could hardly see. No, it was none of those facts that made this so different, so unusual and, I have to admit, so exciting.

Something else had crept into our relationship. Well, not relationship, we didn't really have one of those, simply our sex. And that something else was his aggression; he liked roughing me up as we had sex. I had heard from girlfriends about guys who enjoyed doing that but had not until him had I met any.

It was none of those facts that were giving me these amazing sensations.

It was the fact that he was squeezing my boobs far harder than they should be squeezed, that he was pinching and pulling my nipples far harder than they should be pinched and that he was yanking my hair far more aggressively than it should be yanked.

Yes, it was being dominated and controlled that was doing it. The power of force, the feeling of being abused and humiliated and being hurt that, to my abject amazement, were turning me on so much. But it was so unlike me. All my sexual history suggested that, if anything, I would be rather controlling, even maybe a bit of a domme, not a submissive, but here I was, going along with an older lover roughing me up and me getting something, though I wasn't sure what, from it.

That was the start, well pretty much, but thinking back, there had been a few occasions when other guys had pinched me rather hard, dug their nails into the soft flesh of my buttocks, smacked my bum, thighs or tits or sucked overly fiercely and rather painfully on my nipples and when I hadn't objected.

But it hadn't been like this when Mickey had first let me use the flat. Then it had been more straightforward; the occasional fuck instead of paying rent. However, over the months he wanted more, more oral with him cumming in my mouth and me swallowing - he never wore a condom and I was scared to tell him he had to. He demanded more anal play and more dirty talk. I was a little worried but thought to myself that if I went with older, middle-aged guys, that was the price I had to pay for their greater experience!

As I hadn't complained, presumably Mickey had thought I was giving him the green light, that I was into being roughed up a bit and was used to being humiliated and even hurt as part of a sexual relationship. I wasn't, but I had to admit that with him it did something for me. Something odd, something different and something that I sort of enjoyed. I couldn't put my finger on just what it was, but I found myself welcoming his more aggressive lovemaking and the trophy marks he left on me.

"You're enjoying this aren't you?" he'd growled one of the first times he'd got going by digging his nails into my breasts.

I didn't reply, but instead I'd writhed myself against his cock, which was buried deeply in me.

"Aren't you?" he'd repeated louder, giving a strong yank on my hair.

"Yes, sort of," I'd whimpered, the pain on my boobs and scalp getting to me.

"What the fuck's that mean, sort of?"

"I er, I um, I don't know Mickey," I whined, loving what his cock was doing to me, but wondering why I didn't object to his nails digging into my boobs and his hand pulling my hair, hurting me.

As the Thursday afternoons went on, he seemed to pull harder on my hair and dig deeper with his nails. It hurt, it was agony and painful, but it merged with the glorious sensations that his cock was creating deep inside me. I couldn't understand it. I didn't honestly know whether I was enjoying it or what I was feeling; all I knew was that I didn't want it to stop. And the orgasms he gave me were awesome. They were right up there with anything I had ever had before.

After the sex, we never talked about it. We didn't discuss what he had done to me, review our feelings or analyse what we had both got from his much harder than usual squeezing, pinching and pulling. We didn't talk about it, but, as with most emotional things, I thought about it, a lot.

Usually, I am able to work out why I do something, why I reacted and acted in a certain way. I can generally work out what it was that caused me to gain enjoyment or other sensations from most experiences, especially of a sexual nature. I had been able to do that and had come to terms with my reaction to what had gone on with my dad and him wanting to photograph me and, more significantly, me wanting him to do that and more. I had, after a great deal of thought, understood and had coped with the evident need I had, although it may have lain dormant for years, to exhibit myself to him. Similarly with James. I now looked forward to seeing him, although it was no more than monthly, and posing for him until we either masturbated ourselves or each other or we made love, often on his conservatory floor or on the green leather Chesterfield that he told me had been his parents'.

I had also come to terms with lying to him and not telling him how often I was in Leeds. And of course, I had come, or was coming, to terms with effectively whoring with Mickey. But then, I rationalised, needs must, and with no money coming in, no dad to bail me out and no work, I had to do something. That made me wonder how many other women were in such a position due to this fucking crazy, pathetically named credit crunch? Okay, the posing was now bringing in some money but the trophy marks, if indeed that's what they were, limited the frequency with which I could do that and thus the money that Max could pay me. That was becoming a hell of a fucking quandary and I was giving strong consideration to moving to Yorkshire to be away from Mickey and nearer to the studio. As I came back from doing what I had to do with Lee and what I had enjoyed doing with James, I kicked myself for not having brought it up with him, but I made a mental note to do that soon.

This sex, though, with Mickey was different. I had no idea why I enjoyed him becoming more aggressive with me and I had no one, not surprisingly, with whom I could discuss it, not even him. Our relationship wasn't like that, but then I don't think many are, most couples don't discuss their sex lives, especially if there's a deviant side to them. Until you have developed a long-lasting, very trusting, perhaps even loving relationship with someone, it's usually too difficult to discuss in detail your sexual wants and the reasons why you like certain aspects of sex. As the old saying goes, 'some things are best left unsaid!'

*

We'd had sex mid-afternoon. It had been quick and energetic.

Mickey had pressed me face first against the floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors that led out to the little south-facing balcony where I sunbathed topless and even naked a few times. I was just wearing a little black thong that I knew he liked and the cold glass on my breasts made for a strange sensation - strange but nice, and it reminded me of when James had done a similar thing to me in his conservatory, although there was no force with him as there was with Mickey.

The place Mickey let me live in was quite old, probably Edwardian, and had been refurbished into a very open plan apartment. Basically, it was one large room, about 45 by 30 feet with, as the architects love to call them, separate 'areas.' Dining one end, seating around a fire place the other. Two alcoves, one a kitchen 'area' and the other, the smaller one, the study 'area'. The mezzanine upstairs sleeping 'area' was about two thirds the area of the downstairs. Here there weren't 'areas', but rooms, the master bedroom and two more roughly the same size. There was a twelve stair open staircase linking the downstairs to the mezzanine, so the link from one to other was easy. After all that had gone on with the 'credit crunch' and dad's business I was so lucky to have such a place. Okay, there was a price to pay, but then we all pay rent one way or another. It's just that mine was paid monthly in or near to my bed. Well, it was monthly for the first six months, before my landlord had decided to change the payment frequency, so now it was every other week!

I hadn't yet plucked up the courage to tell Mickey that I was posing for photographers, but I'd opened up the subject of me moving. I'd said that an ad agency in Yorkshire had approached me and that I was considering moving up there. Also, I hinted that we'd have to end meeting for me to pay the rent, because I wouldn't owe him anything. That hadn't gone down too well and he'd mocked the idea of me moving up north with, "what the fuck do you want to move up there for? They all talk funny in Yorkshire." He'd said this in a weird and pretty poor imitation of a northern England accent.

*

"No Mickey, please don't," I groaned," as he sucked hard on my left boob.

"What do you mean don't, you love it," he said crushing me against him and grabbing hold of my bum.

"Let me go," I whined, struggling and half breaking away, but not before he reached out and got hold of my boob. I squirmed and broke the contact with my tit, but he grabbed the vest. "Stop it Mickey, this is crazy, you're acting like a lunatic."

"It's not crazy and don't call me a lunatic," he growled in a rather menacing tone.

Bloody Kevin Kline again, I thought, nearly smiling as those scenes from 'A Fish Called Wanda' came to mind.

"Mickey you're being ridiculous," I said pulling away, but being restrained by his grip on the material of the vest. "Can't you see it's over? I am going to move."

"I told you I'll decide when it's over," he snarled grabbing my boob again.

"Oh no you don't, I'm telling you we're finished."

"I'll tell you why and when. You can't decide that, slag."

"No, you won't," I said, the dialogue sounding a bit like that in a pantomime.

"Ok maybe I won't, but these will," he said shoving me into the lounge. "I do and I would, so shut the fuck up and get on your back on that nice leather settee."

"You're insane. You're acting like a lunatic."

"I'm sane enough to fuck you and make you cum so I am not a lunatic," he said, pulling the vest. He stretched it very tightly across my boobs and the top of it was pulled down, so my nipples were poking through it. He saw that and pulled harder on the top so that the neckline slid further down and my tits popped out completely. The sight of them in all their voluptuous glory with, I realised to my horror, horrendously sexually swollen nipples, distracted him and I got away.

"Now stop it," I said trying to walk away and shove my tits back into the clearly totally inadequate vest as I did.

He just held me tighter and pulled the front of the vest down again.

"Look at you, you tart, your nipples are hard. I bet your cunt's soaked as well."

"Fuck off you pervert," I growled, alarmed, knowing full well that I was wet.

I squirmed free, now a little scared. I started to run; my vague and unthought plan was to go to my bedroom and lock the door. But he grabbed me by the waist with one hand and the hair with the other. I struggled and got near to the foot of the stairs with him still holding me. I thought I would get away, but I was wrong, for I slipped and fell to the ground on my front. He tumbled with me, pulling my hair quite hard and gripping my bum with his other hand.

"Let me go," I moaned, feeling trapped.

"No," he said, squeezing my bum.

"Mickey, this is madness."

"You keep saying that," he snarled, yanking my hair and taking hold of the waistband of my shorts. "It wasn't madness on the patio or in your bed, was it?"

"That was different."

"No it wasn't."

"It was, now let me go," I said, wriggling to get away.

"Shut up," he said, pulling hard on my hair, "you struggle anymore and I'll pull your fucking hair out by the fucking roots," as he gave it another strong yank to emphasise the point. That made me cry out in pain. At the same time, he pulled my shorts and knickers half-way down my thighs and pushed his suit trousers down and fumbled them and his boxers off.

"Stop it, right now."

"Why, if I don't you gonna call the police, are you?"

"Don't be daft, no of course not."

"Right of course you can't," he said sliding his hand between my thighs. "You can't tell anyone can you, not them, not your fucking whore of a mum or daddy darling can you? They've both fucked off to Spain, haven't they? And babe, you can't do fuck all about it, can you?"

He wriggled his hand so that he got his fingers onto my lips and pulled hard on my hair again. "Can you.....you slut?"

That realisation hit me strongly. It made me start to cry.

"And that is why you are going to let me fuck you again isn't it?" he said trying to prise my legs apart.

He got his knee between my knees and pushed one leg with that and pulled the other with his hand. I couldn't stop them opening, he was just too strong. The shorts and panties were drawn tightly around my legs at the knees and they prevented him pushing my legs completely open.

"Mickey, this is rape. Stop it."

"It isn't rape, you want it really," he said pushing me half on to my side.

The neck of the vest was now caught under my boobs almost supporting them. He took hold of my nipple and pinched it hard. That made me yelp.

"See look at your fucking nipples, they're like rocks. What's that all about?"

"I don't know," I whimpered as he squeezed and pinched them.

He still had his knee pushing my right leg away from my left and he was now almost lying on me. His cock was pressed firmly against my upper thigh and the left cheek of my bum. I was helpless. I felt his hand between my legs, his fingers were fumbling at my lips.

"You dirty fucking bitch," he snarled shoving what must have been two or maybe even three fingers into me.

"Don't," I moaned knowing full well what he was going to say next.

But he surprised me by saying nothing. Instead, I felt his full weight on me, his chest on my back. His stomach on my buttocks, his legs against mine, his cock on my bum. Somehow, he'd taken his shirt off.

I started to struggle again, for oddly I had forgotten to do that for a while. Why? I had no idea.

"Get off, you sod," I mumbled, wriggling my bum and trying to close my legs as I lay there on the silk Persian rug I had nicked from mum's house before it was sold with all its contents. Despite the desperation and the humiliation of my position, lying on my front, my legs wide open now that the shorts and thong were around my ankles, I couldn't help completely incongruously thinking how smooth the silk rug was. Being so expensive, I had never had sex on it, but it did strike me as being a perfect place to make love but not one, though, on which to be raped.

The pain was awful as he pulled my hair very hard and dug his fingernails into the soft flesh on the side of my left breast, which was squashed against the floor. Holding my left tit, sticking his fingernails into the flesh on the side and pulling my hair so that my neck was bent backwards and my head was held up off the floor he wriggled himself downwards a little. Down, so that he was lying completely between my legs, down so that his cock slid off my bum. Down, so that it was also between my legs and down so that he was able to press its bulbous head right against my lips.

He moved his hand from my breast and I thought I might have a chance of escaping, but his hold on my hair was too tight; any movement of mine was met by a yank from him, which felt as if the hair might come out by the roots.

I couldn't move, I couldn't escape. I could do nothing but groan with frustration as unhindered he slid the head of his cock between my lips.

"No, Mickey no, stop," I groaned.

"Shut up," he said, "you know you want it."

He suddenly pressed his finger right against my anus. Not in it, not yet, but on it, right on where he knew I got most sensation as it had been there several times before. He wiggled it, he probed around the entrance, he opened it a bit, anally caressing me with surprising gentleness. I realised that he must have wetted his finger with my female juices.

As he did that, with the bulbous knob of his cock snug between my lips, I had the traumatic experience of feeling my hips moving, they were pumping slightly. My body was taking over from my mind, it was out of my control, it was out of sync with my brain, my need for sexual pleasure was overcoming my desire to control my destiny. I realised I wanted to be fucked. I also realised it was just how I felt when posing and that scared me.

He must have picked up my signals or something, maybe I relaxed my bottom, thighs and pussy. For in one movement his cock slid deeply into me as his finger entered my anus.

"Oh God no, no," I groaned.

I knew that was partly desperation and disappointment at letting him enter me. That it was partly frustration at not being strong enough mentally and obviously not physically, to resist him, and at letting my womanly physical needs outweigh my emotional restraints. But I had to admit that the groan was largely due to the enormous rush of sexual pleasure I received.

It was a hugely difficult time for me. I felt terrible about what I let him do to me. I had enormous guilt trips after he'd gone. I had so much remorse about letting him pinch, squeeze, bite, suck, pull my hair and hit me. I had more remorse about continually going back for further pain, force and abuse and even more, because I was, I realised, enjoying what he did to me; I seemed to welcome those advances and despite my mind telling me to stop, my body forced me to want to go further.

'Where will it all end?' I often wondered as I inspected every inch of my body and felt pleased that his trophy marks were slight and superficial for a change.

*

"God, you young birds seem to come on so bloody often," Max retorted when I told him that my period had started so I wouldn't be able to pose for a week or ten days.

"What are the marks like?" Zak asked when I had told him on the phone that I couldn't pose for him as I'd had an accident and had some marks on my body.

"Red and fierce looking," I explained.

"Not pink then?" he'd asked.

"Well yes sort of, probably more pink than red actually."

"Not been naughty have you Jay, and been playing at being spanked, have you?"

"No, of course not," I probably rather too hurriedly replied, not sounding totally convincing, even to myself.

"So where are these marks caused by your er, um, accident?"

"What do you mean?" I had mumbled, trying to think quickly where I could tell him.

"What part of your body Jayne, or are they on several parts?"

"Yes, yes they are," I'd gushed, "several parts."

"Any on your boobs?" he'd asked, for what seemed like no reason to me, so I didn't reply and he had gone on with, "And on your ass or thighs Jayne, any on them?"

"Well er, sort of, yes."

"Then come up right now, they'll be perfect for my pink thing," he'd rather outrageously asked.

Of course, I refused but he persisted and said he wanted to shoot those marks so much that if I wouldn't go up there, he'd come to London and do the shooting. "My dad's got an apartment there which is very light and airy, and he lets me use one of the rooms as a studio, so it's just perfect," he'd explained, going on to say that he'd be down tomorrow.