Just for Sex

Over the holidays, which we spent entirely apart, we had stated our separate claims. Mine was clear: I didn't want to advance our relationship (whatever that was). While she furthered her cause by exaggerating her isolation. I supposedly played the emotionally distant man, while she was the victim of my callousness. I was amazed she had yet to recognize that vacuum where other parts of life were supposed to flourish. She didn't feel the emptiness in the way that I did.

It took two weeks, but her response turned in a different direction, and it was brutal. Instead of noting her breasts, my friend stated the obvious, yet again: "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, huh?"

He was referencing the barrage of social media insults and character assassination I was facing from her and her cadre of friends, which she had enlisted in her cause to destroy me. My inbox was full of messages from her accusing me of 'leading her on.' 'Using her only for sex.' No longer did I receive purely libidinal notes and X-rated pictures from her. 'Was I just an occasional lay?' 'You don't even care if I die.' She wrote about how weak I was. About what a coward I was.

She copied and pasted old pictures of me onto her social media platforms of choice, and invited people to degrade my clothing, my haircut, and the expressions on my face - even my heterosexuality. 'He looks gay, don't you think?' - she wrote, as if THAT was why I didn't want to continue with her past a certain point.

After all of the attacks, it was easier to not think about her as a girlfriend. It was easier to see her as anything except a sweet person, which I should somehow miss and pine over. I resurrected that scowl I had seen on her face the first time I viewed her and understood it as an anger with life, which now included me. I vowed to never speak to her again. I was happy she made it so easy for me to push her away.

************

Not four years, but only three months... that was how long it took until her angry-hate-filled messages first dried out, and then turned into something else.

'I just want you in my life. We don't have to be in an exclusive relationship.'

In reply, I maintained radio silence. I was angry; I felt I couldn't trust her; the exaggerated and very public scorned-woman shtick was deeply unattractive. Even though yes - she was right in certain respects.

It really was all about the sex. I stayed with her far beyond the time I should have. Relationships were like sharks, they died unless they kept moving forward, but I tried to deny that simple fact. I imagined that any number of men (friends and otherwise) were gladly listening to, and encouraging, her victimhood. They were probably encouraging her burgeoning mental issues. Possibly trying to lure her into bed. Although maybe now, she had burned through her supply of sympathetic ears. Maybe all the parties in the drama were starting to get some perspective on her special variety of scorned womanhood.

I found myself paging through her pictures. I wanted to delete them. Clear them out. And then, almost on cue, she sent me more. 'This is what you're missing,' she wrote.

Then, videos of her...taking her bra off. Videos of her playing with a dildo. Running it between her breasts. Running her tongue around it. If I had once imagined my attraction to one special area of her body was disguised by my attempts at date-friendly conversation, she told me otherwise with her emailed attachments. She took pictures of her breasts as if all she wanted was for me to adore them. And she knew what they did to me.

'I'll be your whore,' she wrote. 'Just pay me $50. Or not. Only sex. No talking. You can have me however you want.' She put up profiles on escort service provider websites, sending me the links. She told me about how a man was offering her $10,000 for a weekend with her. I believed it, but then the ads disappeared, perhaps because my response to her was silence, and perhaps because the other responses she received were more than she bargained for.

She wrote me that there were scenarios she was fantasizing about. The two of us meeting, supposedly anonymously in the downstairs bar of a hotel. Me attempting to pick her up. My role: the overly aggressive man who can't accept 'No' for an answer. Her role: the reluctant woman, attempting to push me away. But of course, in the end, the man wins.

Then later, scenarios where she would leave her condo door unlocked at night. Where I would find her in bed. Where I would tie her up, and do whatever I wanted to with her. Force my cock on her. She said it plainly - 'Don't give me a choice. Make me be your slut.'

'We don't have to talk, and no one has to know,' she wrote. And then she dropped that word, which drew me to her - and forced me away: 'I need you to fuck me.'

She wrote: 'I don't understand. You just wanted me for sex before, why can't we have that now?'

I wanted to write back: 'Guilt.'

I wanted to try and say: 'I don't want to hurt you anymore.'

I wanted to tell her: 'You scare me; how can I trust someone that drags me through the mud in public like you have? You're out of control.'

People at my work had asked about the public shaming - Who is this girl? What happened? What did you do to her? Why would you hook-up with someone so crazy? It was humiliating, and I didn't have very good answers for their questions.

I thought about expressing myself in other terms to her: 'I'm trying to be a better person. We're not right for each other, and it's wrong to pretend otherwise.'

Instead I said nothing to her.

************

I tried to date other girls conventionally. Dinner. Drinks. Maybe a walk around a park.

To prove to myself that I could do what other people expected me to do, I dated certain types. I found them at work and at parties my friends threw. Petite girls almost without breasts. Average girls who wouldn't cause me to double-take in a million years. Attractive girls that once appealed to me. Girls that were as interested in my resume as they were in their other passions: low-carb diets...stainless steel kitchen appliances...the morning show on K Magic FM.

For them, long-haired guys weren't even on the radar. And they didn't talk about Disneyland and I didn't ask about Portugal. I kept my Brahms-love locked away. I didn't share my favorite books.

We kissed on their various couches. I didn't thrill with their touch.

I wondered just what I would do if one of them unceremoniously invited me into their bedroom. And if, then, she plainly announced that she didn't need foreplay. I wondered what I would do if she walked to her bed in little red high heels with straps around her ankles. (That moment had come and gone, and now it seemed almost upsetting because of the many things left unsaid between her and I, all this time later.) As those experiences on those couches inevitably marched on towards unfulfilling resolutions, I started thinking 'soulmate' was an impossible idea.

Back home alone, I flipped through those thousands of pictures that still invaded my mind, and I re-imagined those feelings that still crouched in the corners of my psyche. I again felt the weight of those breasts in my hands. The taste of her nipples. The "Oh god," that spilled out of her as I pushed into her pussy, and the sensation of her gushing heat. The "Where do you want to cum?" offer that always included her hungry mouth. I was wondering if I had become trapped by my desires. I didn't know anymore what was truly important in life, or if - in truth - I had ever known.

************

'Let's meet,' I wrote. I sent her the note when her memory was too much to resist.

I didn't have to say 'just for sex,' because it was implied.

All of this time had passed - four years! - and it was the first contact I had offered. I picked one of her old 'I-just-need-sex' notes waiting unread in my inbox, and hit the reply button after I had scrawled my words at 2:00 AM.

Yes, let's meet, I had thought, and thereby destroy whatever progress you and I had both made in the time since my epiphany, which apparently demanded I find my soulmate. The one that said I was going to grow up and place the kind of sex we once had somewhere else, while I concentrated on a more profound connection with a girl. The one that banished the huge-tit-obsessed corners of my mind as far away as possible.

The next night I was standing in front of her condo door. My note had worked in one respect. But somehow those two mountains that resided under her clothes, always over-filling her bra, were not the center of my thoughts. I was thinking about some of her one-time choice words and phrases about the kind of a person I had become:

That I was a coward.

That I was weak.

That all I wanted from her was sex.

The hour was late, and so I was in no danger of being seen by someone just standing there at that familiar place. Around the corner I knew I would be able to glimpse part of her balcony, and I imagined the hummingbird feeder that surely still adorned that place. I imagined the fan in her bedroom making that cooling sweep from side-to-side, because she was waiting for me.

That same feeling was in the air, but this time it wasn't as simple as I wanted to pretend. A turn of a handle and a push on the door would undo years of distance: I was weak in one way, but strong in another. That was why I was running a length of smooth, almost soft, rope in my hands. And that was why I was building up my strength. Instinctively I retrieved my phone from my pocket; I found her most recent messages to me. There was a topless selfie she had sent, in order to spur me on, and to underline the genuineness of our brief text-message conversation that had followed my 'Let's meet' email.

She wanted me to find her at home. She wanted me to take her against her will. She wanted me NOT to stop. Even when she fought back and shouted, "No!" She used a word to describe what I was to do to her, which made me realize a few things...

I wanted to do it. The two of us had hinted at similar things in the past, but now - after the time that had elapsed - it felt strangely real. Four years. It was like we weren't play acting anymore. She wanted it to be sincere in every way possible. The amount of time that we had spent apart meant we were becoming strangers in some manner, as the details of our lives had shifted into new directions. She knew this of course, and as always, she wanted to provoke me. She wanted to say "No" to me too. She wanted to say the kind of NO that stays in a person's mind. The way I had said it to her. It was play acting on one level, sincere regret on another.

She could always disarm me with her language, but more so in our last conversation. 'Nobody fucks me like you,' she wrote.

'No person knows how to use me like you do,' which had a horrible second meaning. I imagined that she understood (finally) we weren't right for each other in some critical way, but she still had to have that other thing I offered, which was unadorned and honest lust. And - when baited - unhinged needs of a stronger sort.

She also probably understood that if a woman uses a certain (sometimes) ugly term with a man - and asks that same man to actually do that to her - there will still be an amount of doubt. The topless-picture she sent to me was partly to assuage that doubt. To say she knew exactly what she was asking. And to say "Let's actually do the whole thing, this time. The way I've suggested, before." Because even if both parties have previously talked in general terms about the scene beforehand, and later made it expressly matter-of-fact, the full idea of it should always seem impossible. 'Just go, and leave me alone afterwards,' she wrote, 'because that's what would happen in real life.'

'You really want me to do that?' I had written.

'Please.' She wrote back. 'I really need all of it.'

And so I looked at that most recent picture of her on my phone, which shot through me like a bullet of fire: Those breasts, hugely cantilevered, and her nipples waiting for me. Problem-sized fantasy boobs.

She had gained weight since I had last seen her so that the breasts, which had always dominated her physique, were now verging on impossible. Her bras would now be even less sufficient. Her belly was a bit fatter. Her generous thighs pushed against the seams of her panties in a way that looked uncomfortable. I gathered she hadn't upgraded her clothing based on her further inflated body, maybe because she was running away from the reality of it. Again - her breasts - forward, down, out. Conical-shaped masterpieces of obsession, now magnified yet another dozen steps past fat-girl size. That expression of hers: Not smiling, just posing... Maybe some sadness in her eyes.

Threatening to burst from my pants was an erection that ragged for the woman behind that picture. It had been four years since I had last seen her, and it was still clear: I couldn't resist her.

************

Because she knew the real me better than anyone, I found her with those red high heels on her feet. Of course, the little strap was binding them to her - and just as she intended - serving to also provoke me. The long length of rope I played with in my hands, testing its strength and feeling its unexpected softness, was going to find its use.

As with the first time I had been invited to visit her little condo, I glimpsed the real her only when I entered into her bedroom. She might have been asleep, or she might have just been reclined on her bed in the semi-darkness waiting for me - and waiting for my plans to unfurl. My vision adjusted to the moderate light and I felt the subtle breeze of that fan, heard the calming white-noise, and took in the view I had, which included her face (eyes closed) and her body displayed (in lingerie). It was a different version of her incredible cup-less lingerie, which covered her belly and midsection but emphasized her beyond-belief breasts. My eyes returned to those sex-shoes that had inaugurated our version of romance, and suddenly incited a slight twist in my heart.

Lights from her living room cascaded into her bedroom, suggesting a woman who had inadvertently fallen asleep on her bed, not even having a chance to crawl under the covers. But the rest of her, which was presented purely for lust, suggested a woman who wanted something other than a good night's rest. Again, I wanted to lock the vision of her and the feeling in my body into my memory vault. I wasn't sure I would ever see her again; as was our modus operandi, we hadn't talked about the things that drove us to this point. I wondered: How can a person get back to a place if they don't know how they got there the first time?

I was almost certain she was actually asleep. I took many minutes to simply stand there in her bedroom's doorway like a bizarre stalker who was twisting a long rope in his hands, but who couldn't take the next step. Instead I watched her chest (and breasts) rise a small bit with each slow and lazy breath she took, until the feeling was unbearable and I started undressing.

In one dexterous movement I grasp both her hands and began tying them to the bed's headboard. She immediately stirred from her sleep, her eyes wide open, and her expression filling the small space with genuine shock. An unformed word broke the silence. "AhhOhh!"

The various railings of her headboard presented a number of choices for just such an occasion, and I tightened the knot, securing her arms over her head. (Only then in a flash did it occur to me that she had surely long ago purchased this piece of furniture with such a late-night bondage situation in mind.) "No," I heard.

She tried to break free, but it was suddenly revealed as an impossible state of affairs: She was bound and tied to the bed. The force she used against the restraint was authentically frantic, but ineffective. "Don't call out," I said. I was near her ear. I was breathing on her neck. "You know what I'm going to do to you tonight. Just accept it." The words appeared spontaneously. And maybe hers did too.

"No," she yelled. "Let me go!" Helplessly, she struggled. I watched her fight against the inevitability and then I moved and stood up over her, so that my extraordinary erection was viewable to her. For an instant she stopped resisting.

"I'm not giving you a choice," I said, looming over her. Our eyes met an uncomfortably long time. I read as much as I could into her expression, which was changed in the half-light, seeing a longed for face slightly older than the last time I had viewed it, but shaded with the meaning of the moment. "No words," I ordered, thinking of a thousand different reasons for us to keep our silence.

By design, the rope I had purchased with this night in mind supplied almost too much length, simply to provide many possibilities for my tortured mind. But if I had any particular plans for its use they were falling away as I considered the scene: Her arms, bound at her wrists and tied excessively tight to the headboard, which itself was apparently absolutely immobile. She twisted against the restraint almost as a reflex action, surely starting to realize her efforts only served to demonstrate her helplessness. Her breasts, so ostentatiously presented in her cup-less lingerie, were nevertheless unceremoniously spilling to either side of her torso, and also jiggling and reacting to her movement. Because of the clumsiness and unvarnished truth of the size of her tits, it was a position a pornographer might decide to pose her in for maximum effect.

Her legs likewise remained unmoderated, and with only inspiration and little actual skill, I circled the remaining length of rope around the ankle of one leg and then the ankle of the other leg. She attempted to kick the rope off, again saying "No!"..."Stop!"... "You can't do this to me!" and making her voice loud enough to make the words matter. Rather than quiet her, I let the words stay in the room. The reality of her predicament became even more defined, however, when the two rope ends stayed circled around her ankles despite her efforts and her words, and more so as I affixed each rope end to the headboard, pulling her legs skyward so that her feet (and those heartbreaking high heels) were oriented high in the air.

Together her legs now made a long 'V' shape over her bed, as she was bent dramatically at the waist. Her wrists bound to the headboard, and now her legs fixed wide and back, presenting her body - her pussy particularly - in a manner that shocked me. She was mine to do with as I wanted. I had acted beyond my desires, almost. I had all but ignored her breasts for the moment, working to turn her into my beloved victim. And now, as she might say, she was ready to be fucked, whether or not she actually wanted it.

************

What is the first thing a man will do with a huge breasted woman bound and presented in such a way? Apparently he positions himself with his mouth a mere breath away from her juicing cunt and licks the gentle folds and tastes her lust. "No!" she cries, but he has stopped thinking about the meaning of the word and instead listens to the passion of her voice. "No," she cries a little softer, as his tongue enters into her and unconsciously her hips rise the smallest amount to help meet him at that perfect part of her body. "Stop it," she says, but all he hears is the opposite, and so he approaches her pussy even more amorously. His fingers enter into her, massaging her secret places, and then she spills out an "Oh, God, no..." which is also the sound of years being unraveled in one moment.

Since it is now all gone and hopeless, his hands leave her pussy and move up her body, and find those breasts. Always, those immense tits dominate sex with her, and even with his mouth fixed on her pussy they play a central role. The soft and huge feeling of them runs like a charge through his body, and his cock seems to add even more size, and so he again uses them as 'leverage' as she famously once said. He holds on to them, and uses them to pull his body closer to her, and tie his mouth even more assertively on that amazing cunt. On one memorable night she had suggested that it was his cock that he should have disclosed to her (and which changed everything) but at the moment it might also include his tongue, and the way he slowly licks her pussy from bottom to top.