Jeet - An OFS Story Pt. 01

Introductory note:

The following story features an ongoing character, OFS (Our Favorite Slut), who also appears in "Teamwork: A Gangbang Trilogy," "Tanya Krawczyk," "One Week," and "Video Party."

If you enjoy this story, you may enjoy those as well. If you've read them already, thank you for reading this one and for continuing to follow her adventures.

- The Author

PART 1: CALLING JEET

I woke up this morning needing to be penetrated. By that, I mean big penetration. I needed to be stuffed to the seams.

For someone with my considerable acclimation, this can take some doing.

Any time this happens, the first number I try is Jeet.

Jeet is a massive man-big, tall, fat, with burly arms and long, powerful legs.

He has a soft voice with a faint accent-an accent that makes my heart ache with nostalgia. It's a kind of homesickness that I feel very ambivalent about, but it's there.

Jeet never goes anywhere without packing. He packs with a variety of cocks-some just for show, some for pleasure.

With me, he knows only the biggest, hardest ones will do.

This particular craving in me happens every once in a great while. Like a runaway program in my brain that activates at random. I can't think of anything else until I satisfy the fixation.

This morning, before I even rolled out of bed, my thumb was scrolling through my phone for his number. I texted him. He texted back almost immediately, making a date at my place for tonight.

I'm teaching lectures all day. I'm only partially confident that I'm speaking in coherent English. I masturbate in my office during lunch. I masturbate during office hours. No one comes, except me.

Somehow, the masturbation makes it worse.

Finally, the evening comes, and Jeet shows up on my doorstep. We practically race to my bedroom.

We don't kiss. I don't fondle him.

Jeet doesn't like to be touched. I asked him once how he enjoyed sex without being touched.

He explained that there were other things in his sex life in which he took immense pleasure. Better than any orgasm he'd ever had.

I stand before him, still in the maxi-dress I wore to work. He presses his hand into the fabric, aggressively feeling for my crotch. I plant my feet a little farther apart, to make it easier for him.

He grips my pubis tightly through the dress, curling his fingers into my vulva.

For such a big man, Jeet has small hands with little fingers. They're deceptively powerful. He squeezes, just gently enough to avoid raising a bruise.

Pressure, verging on pain. The imposition of his towering presence. His hand on my pussy. I'm already halfway into a trance, his hand at the center of my consciousness.

It feels great. It only makes me want more.

His other hand is behind me, working the dress loose. I start to reach behind me, to help him with the zipper.

"Stop," he says. "No one told you to do anything."

I stop. My arms dangle at my sides. I let him strip me down to my sports bra and my matching garter belt and stocking set.

There are no panties. I never put them on.

Sometimes, when you wake up horny, you just want to feel yourself, you know?

He pulls up on my sports bra. Obediently, I raise my arms. He slides it off over my head. My big, sagging tits hang on for a second before falling loose. He tosses the bra away.

He looks me up and down. I stand there, letting my eyes go out of focus, staring into the middle distance. I let myself enjoy the feeling of his eyes infringing upon my bare tattooed flesh.

He grabs a handful of my belly fat and squeezes. I wince-it feels good, and a little invasive. His hand travels down to my thick bush, grips it by the fistful, and shakes it. I try to hold still.

He releases me again.

"Get on the bed," he says. "All fours. Put your ass up."

As I do as I'm told. He goes around to the sex drawer. I hear it open. I'm staring into the printed pattern on my bed spread. My eyes focus on the individual stitches.

I hear a snapping sound. That would be him putting on gloves, black nitrile over brown hands.

I feel him pinch my ass hair between his fingers and tug on it. I yelp-it surprises me, and it fucking stings.

Then the cold slickness of lube, liberally covering my asshole. He pours it on directly from the bottle. He swirls it onto my skin with a fingertip.

The coldness and the gentle pressure on my anus are invigorating. My loins ache with resonance.

I relax myself, feel my asshole open a little to him. Two well-lubed fingers slide right in, forcing me wider open, and hook themselves there. He yanks; I sway a little on my knees.

He finger-fucks my asshole, slowly, letting me feel every knuckle that pops in and out. It makes a wet, slippery sound.

It feels good. I needed that pressure in my ass, that fullness.

But it's maddening. Far from satisfying.

His hand departs for a moment, leaving me gaping in the open air. I catch a faint whiff of my ass. It's pungent. It arouses me even more.

Then a touch of cold steel, and a slow, inexorable pressure that forces my asshole open wide. I gasp, relaxing as much as possible, as my anus stretches over the widest part of the buttplug.

He's found the graduated set that I bought since the last time he came over. The one he has in me threatens to overwhelm me.

Out of the set of three, this one is the smallest.

He grips it by the base and gives it an experimental tug. My asshole pooches out, but the plug stays put. It makes me feel kind of like I'm taking a shit.

Satisfied with the state of my ass, he commands me from behind.

"Off the bed. Get up."

I do. I stand there before him. The buttplug making me keenly aware of my ass. I'm deep in my body right now; every tip of me crackles with excitement.

He grabs a fistful of my hair, forcing me to look at his crotch as he unzips. He takes his jeans down to mid-thigh, revealing an ersatz hard-on about the width of a beer can and about twice as long.

My eyes widen. I almost say something, but I don't think he wants me to speak.

I don't think I can take this cock.

Strapped to his body in a pleather harness, it points threateningly at me from under the tails of his shirt.

He lubes it up profusely, letting the excess dribble on the floor. The lube makes it look for all the world as if it's sweating.

He reaches out with both hands, taking one of my boobs in each. He squeezes the fat of them. I wince.

Knowing the high sensitivity of my nipples, he lets his palms lie flat against them. He presses broadly against the nubs. He concentrates on manipulating the surrounding flesh, the thickness of them.

It's hard and uncomfortable and it kind of hurts.

But he knows just where to stop short, and it doesn't bruise.

"Breathe," he commands.

I hadn't realized I'd been holding it, so distracted am I by the clamping pressure on my breasts and the fullness in my ass. Obediently, I breathe. Slowly, my chest rises and falls.

He slaps the underside of my tits a couple times, then gives my areolas some experimental stroking. I grimace; my nipples are getting there, but they're not quite ready.

He releases me.

"Bend over," he says. "Reach for your toes."

I bend over, planting my feet slightly apart. My fingertips make it most of the way to my toes. My tits dangle in my face.

I try not to fall over as he tugs the buttplug loose. He places a hand on one of my broad, dimpled buttcheeks for leverage. I exhale slowly, trying to relax, to ease the passage.

It does pass, very intensely. My sphincter clings to it in defiance of my will. It almost hurts. I feel like I'm shitting myself as my anus squeezes out the narrow tip of it.

A few moments, then more lube. His fingers slide right in. Three of them, it feels like, maybe four. From the level of slickness, I imagine my asshole and rectum saturated with lube.

He finger-fucks me some more, before pressing the tip of another buttplug. It slides in easily at first, but the fat part of it is giving us trouble. My sphincter won't stretch anymore.

This would be the second one in the set.

"What are you doing, you slut?" he says. "You know you can take it."

I know.

I know I can take it.

I will myself to relax, to wring every last bit of elasticity from my taught anal muscles. To give in, to relinquish just a little more of that incredible tensile strength.

I feel the buttplug move.

I gasp. It feels enormous. Somehow, I feel like it's suffocating me.

But it goes in. My asshole closes gratefully around it, clamping down on the thick neck of it.

Being held open, wanting so badly to close down and not being able to, is frustrating on a primal level.

But the weight of the buttplug, and the pressure, feel glorious, as does the fading discomfort of my overtaxed anus.

He gives the flared base a tug-my asshole pooching, that shitting feeling again-and releases it, apparently pleased.

I'm still bent over, my ass and thighs and pussy displayed to him. A slick, shiny, hairy buffet.

He taps my vulva, rapid-fire, with the pads of his fingers. Not hard enough to sting, but the slapping feeling races through my whole middle. It raises a tingling warmth in its wake.

"Stand up," he orders.

I stand up, my back to him.

From behind me, he reaches around, puts a hand in the middle of my chest, and pulls me backwards. I lean back against him, my legs slightly apart, the buttplug weighing heavy in my asshole.

His other hand reaches around and pats my pussy some more.

The more he does it, the harder he slaps, the more my excited nerves can take it.

He breathes heavy in my ear. The hand on my chest slides down my breast to my nipple. To my relief, as his fingertips graze it, it feels great.

The hand continues downward, past my tit, to my belly. His fingertips trace my stretch marks and the faint trail of half-day stubble leading from my navel to my thick pubic hair.

He rhythmically squeezes my belly fat, kneading the roll hard enough that it kind of hurts.

The other hand is still slapping me between my legs, raising a heat in me that feels pre-orgasmic. My sore asshole tingles in sympathy under the weight of the buttplug.

Okay, Jeet.

No more fucking around. My pussy needs filling.

Fuck me with your cock. Stick your fist in there. Drive a damn truck through me. I don't care, just give me something.

As if on cue, I feel him dragging me backwards.

He lays me out on the bed, my legs dangling over the edge. He taps the inner sides of my knees. Dutifully, I spread them.

The weight of my ass is on the buttplug. It's impossible to forget about it.

He purses the fingers and thumb of one hand, a parody of the "al bacio" hand gesture, and covers his entire hand in lube.

Jeet, I am so ready.

TO BE CONTINUED