Stable Employment Pt. 01

I give her more whines; like I said, I'm a quick study. She strokes my mostly-naked body and shushes me. Then she whispers again, shifting her tone so that I know it's about nuts and bolts. "Lube?"

"First shelf, up, lard or oil." The actual lube is in the bedroom and bathroom. My answer still comes quickly, by instinct. I have a lot of sex. My roommate likes taking my ass anywhere and everywhere. Like I said, we'll get to that.

"Um..." Gwyn says. "I'm short."

I can't help but to laugh. She does, too. Instead of killing the mood, it only makes it better.

"I love you," I say, like a fucking idiot.

"Love you, too, beanpole," she says, not even missing a beat. I blush like crazy, genuinely embarrassed for the first time. She sees, and smiles widely. "That's a great color on you. Looks great with your pretty little panties."

I get the lard for her. Next, she asks for a cup. Then I'm turned around, and that makes her nuts-and-bolts questions even sexier.

"How much can you take?" she asks. Given the position I'm in -- the position -- the meaning is clear.

"All of it," I reply breathlessly.

"Do you drip?"

The question makes me feel uniquely vulnerable. She really is inspecting me -- taking a survey of my most intimate functions. "More than that," I confess. "I leak. I flow."

"Okay," she replies, rubbing my back. "Is it still good for you after that?"

"God, yes," I say, and she rewards me with a little kiss on my shoulder blade.

"And you can hold off for a little while, besides the leaking." It's like she forgot for a moment that she was asking, rather than telling, but she catches herself. "You can be a good bull for me?"

I whine and moan again, but I nod. She waits expectantly, and I hum out the affirmative. I follow it up with a question. "Safe word? For cumming?"

"No," she says, "that's okay. I like a little danger. Bulls are a little bit dangerous, you know? A little bit unpredictable -- even when they're trying so hard to be good little bulls. That's part of what makes them sexy. Traffic lights, though. Don't be afraid to use them. I'm all yours tonight, baby. I'm not going anywhere."

I feel the submissive quiver in my chest and in my tummy. I'm genuinely relieved to hear it -- that pausing or stopping the scene won't automatically end the night. She has me hooked.

I nod again. It'd be the perfect time to say something cliché, like, "Yes, Mistress," but that's not the dynamic. I'm an animal. I don't 'get' that she owns me. She's too confident that she does. Later on, she won't be able to control me anymore. That's how this goes.

I feel her kneel down behind me. Her voice gets sexy-clinical. "Okay, let's see what we're working with, here." She slides my purple panties down to my ankles. The elastic is ruined anyway, so I keep my legs spread. My cock is finally free, and it springs up immediately. It hits the edge of the countertop, but neither it nor I care. I feel hands stroking my ass cheeks; they find the ultra-sensitive spot underneath the curve, then move upwards and inwards.

"You've got a great ass," she says, and I believe her. "Mmm, and a pretty asshole, too. Pretty's only half the story, though; we need to see if it's obedient."

I don't think my roommate's ever used that exact word, but she has put in the work to ensure that my pink pucker is permanently receptive to all kinds of attention. Gwyn's lubed finger tickles and teases it, and it immediately starts dancing to her tune. She hums her approval and pecks my ass cheek. Then her voice changes again.

"Do you need me to go slow?" she asks. "Or even just want me to?"

I shake my head and grunt in the negative. I'm feeling plenty submissive in my vulnerable and exposed position, but that doesn't mean I'm not raring. I am, and I want to go.

"Okay!" she says brightly. "Time for my bull's rectal exam. Every bull should have one at least once a day."

She stands up and places one hand on the small of my back. I arch and spread. The visual in my mind is pure pervy porn: a femdom nurse sticking out her middle finger and making her nervous, humiliated little patient her bitch. In my mind, it isn't Gwyn, but she still adds something special to the experience. She's soft and cute. I'm tall and well-hung. It's so wrong that she's the one dominating me. It's the essence of taboo.

Her slick finger pushes in all the way, right away. I can feel that she had -- has -- her hand turned to the side. She gets it. It's a finger gun -- gun, cock, conquest. I feel the shame and humiliation well up inside of me, and it's pure sex. Gywn's delicate digit did just fine stimulating all the nerve endings, but it's the mindfuck that makes that one or two inches feel like three feet -- or however far it is from my asshole to my brain. Meanwhile, her horny satisfaction is literally radiating off of her. Her soft body is red hot next to mine. Never mind feeling an extra-special hot spot inside of her panties; I can practically feel a local weather front down there, and it's humid as fuck. The scent of it is already hitting my nostrils, and as surely as her finger is making me a cow, that hot, thick, wet air is making me a bull. I'm both. It's poetic.

"Good girl," she says. It comes out as a formality. "Okay, now let's see what's going on in there." She rotates her wrist ninety degrees. I have to bite my lip to stop from groaning in anticipation. When she bends her knuckle, it's game over. I moan for her. I bleat.

"Oh my goodness!" she coos. "My bull has a nice, big cum button! Oh, that's excellent. You're going to make so much milk for me tonight."

She's not wrong. Dickgirls have giant prostates -- giant, sensitive prostates. One hit from her fingertip, and it's game on. Stings and zings travel all the way from my gland to my glans. I immediately feel like I have to pee -- and then, only a moment later, like I am peeing. My pelvis warms up, pulling me towards an out-of-body experience, but I also start feeling that shaky, panicky immediacy of total vulnerability. It's primal confusion, even though I've been fingered, milked, and fucked so many times before. My body is built to fuck and cum. When pleasure signals start ping-ponging from getting penetrated instead, alarm bells sound. Some people claim they go away in time. Mine never have, and I'm okay with that. It doesn't hurt, per se, but if it did, then I'd trot out the cliché again: I like the way it does. I once told my roommate that when she butt fucks me, she gives me panic-attack orgasms. To her credit, she was only concerned for a few minutes. Then she was cool with it. She always gives me the aftercare I need; it's part of the reason I love her so much.

Gwyn takes a few moments to explore the full surface area of my prominent inner bulge. Then comes the second finger, and then the third. My asshole makes her work for it just enough, but the outcome was never in any doubt. Satisfied that she's gotten the lay of the land, she sets in to give me a deep, thorough massage. I feel the cup near my cockhead. I hear the first drop of my sticky natural lube hit the bottom.

"That's it, baby," Gwyn says in a soft, soothing voice. "Milking the bull. Milking the bull."

My legs have gone the way of my pelvis; I know they're still holding me up, but I can't feel them. They're lost to otherworldly warmth. My cock and my balls feel like they're attached to nothing. My palms are all the way to the wall on the counter. The faux-stone is cool on my tenderized titties and my forehead, but I'm sweating. My marshmallow girl is milking me through my pores. I'm huffing, panting, moaning, and groaning, and none of it is pretend anymore. Gwyn's got me in a farm-animal, fuck-machine purgatory. The whole kitchen is thick with her arousal; the smell of what I'm leaking into the cup below my cock is little more than an accent. It's all I can do to control myself -- but I do, and not leastwise because I've got most of a hand up my ass. I'm glad I've had so much practice bottoming.

After what seems like hours, she slowly withdraws her three fingers from my thoroughly worked hole. She tickles the entire length of my cock with the ridge of the plastic cup, collecting a few more sticky bits of my precum and delighting in how I twitch for her. Then she maneuvers it away.

"Good girl," she says, her voice three different kinds of warm and thick. "You can turn around now. You're going to want to see this."

She's goddamn right I am.

I push myself up from the counter and roll my hips around until I'm facing her. She finds my eyes, smiles with satisfaction, and holds the cup to her face. I can see my viscous lube glistening along most of the rim. Gwyn inspects my contribution thoroughly, but also takes note of my reaction to her little show. Her eyes go from the cup, to my cock, to my face, and then back again. It's impossible to tell which sight is her favorite.

She takes a big whiff. Her eyes close and her smile goes a little stupid. "Mmmm," she moans. "That's premium grade. You're a prize bull, baby. You should be proud."

I can't form words. I just stand there dumbly while she teases me. She takes a finger and traces the rim of the cup, then slides that slimy digit through her puckered lips. She moans, but I moan even louder. That makes her smile again. She finds my eyes one more time, bites her lip, and then raises the cup in toast.

She drinks down what must be at least a shot's work of my precum, and, once again, all of her happy noises are drowned out by my bleating. I am proud, but I'm also horny. I need to cum for real. I'm white-knuckling the counter again, trying my best to keep playing her game. My hips want to move; I'd happily fuck the air itself and cum into the void. Hell, if I squeeze my inner muscles too hard I might trigger something. My 'cum button' feels like it grew three sizes from Gwyn's expert attention.

She licks her lips, then licks the cup -- inside and out. "Delicious," she says. She rests the emptied receptacle on the counter and moves into my space. Her slick hand heads down and starts playing the I'm-not-touching-you game with my aching cock and churning balls. She reaches up with the other and strokes my cheek. "I think you deserve to see just how happy you're making me, baby. Well, not just see."

She gets up on her tiptoes and almost manages to plant a kiss where her hand just was. Her lips hit my jaw instead, and it feels strange in a good way. I watch, rapt, as she steps away and finally slides her panties down her legs. They're so wet that they look heavy, like a flimsy sundress that got caught in a downpour. I catch my first glance of her pussy, and it's everything I dreamed of. It's smooth, pale, puffy, and glistening; it's the kind of pussy whose lips hide everything else, but offer themselves up as a cream-puff appetizer.

She catches me staring, and, just like everything else I do, it makes her happy. She steps towards me again, letting her soaked undergarment hang from her fingers. "Hopefully this will keep your hands busy. You're milking isn't over yet, and you need to be a good girl.

"Oh, and, don't worry about ruining them. They're yours. I never leave home without a few spares."

Those two beautiful words -- "They're yours" -- preempt all the whining and complaining I was going to do. I seize the pussy-logged panties from her fingers, and my hand pushes them up against my face on pure instinct. My nose and lips rub them all over, and my tongue pushes out to claim a taste. Her juices and the fabric don't exactly mix like chocolate and peanut butter, but the smell overrides any and all minor complaints. It's sex nitrous. It's sex ether.

Gwyn's on her knees in front of me, completely naked. I'm losing time, I think. She's adding more lard to her hand, so I know what to do with my legs and hips. That gets me yet another "good girl," and there in the sex ether, it's even more delightfully bizarre to be on the receiving end of it.

Her face is precum-drunk, but still knowing and sly. Up come both hands; one penetrates my ass again, and I mean the whole goddamn thing. The other stops just below my bulging sack. Gywn gets my cockhead just inside her mouth, which never stops smiling. Her soft baby blues sparkle; I'm huffing her panties like they're an anesthesia mask, but my gaze is locked on her.

She does everything all at once. It's fucked, and it's incredible. Her right hand turns into a vibrating dildo inside of my ass. Her left hand tickles my smooth, heavy balls almost as quickly, perfectly riding the line between almost-touching and barely-touching. Her plump, wet lips and strong, thick tongue complete a triumvirate of torture, denying my poor cock the warm imprisonment it craves, but overloading the head with stimulation. When my throbbing member starts twitching and pulsing, it grazes her top teeth and her hard palate.

There's no more moaning or groaning. She has me in a sex tizzy. I sound like a tiny little college freshman filming her first porno, sucking in air and making high, panicky little noises. I'm practically hyperventilating.

Everything starts quivering and quaking. I explode; cock-twitches become cock-spasms, sending jolts of stimulation through my length every time my swelling, pulsing head batters against her teeth or the roof of her mouth. She never stops smiling. If anything, her expression gets wider and wickeder. It's the look of somebody who just ruined the mother of all orgasms -- and she would have, too, but for the butt fucking I'm getting from her hand.

This unbelievable fucking bitch just made me cum like a cow and a bull at the same fucking time. My orgasm should be blasting her from the kitchen to the living room, but instead, every giant spurt strikes the top of her mouth, then drips down like a liquid stalactite onto her waiting tongue. She swallows constantly to prevent spillage, and that's its own torture -- those swallows should be mine. They should be massaging the entire length of my shaft like a cumming pussy. Still, though, she's downing every drop. She's milking me like a pro and cum-guzzling like one, too. Not only that, but she's so happy. I'm making her happy. My cock, my balls, my ass, my prostate, and my cum are all making her happy.

Jesus fucking Christ. I think I need a new cliché. I love the way I hated that orgasm.

When she withdraws her hand from my ass, I slide down the cabinet. Everything is jelly. I finally move the panties away from my face; my liquefied arm drops down to the floor and my fingers simply lose their grip. I feel drained in the best way -- overwhelmed, too. My body can't tell if it just topped or bottomed. It doesn't know whether I'm in sub space or just in a post-orgasmic daze.

Gwyn's next to me with a cup of water. Again, I didn't even realize she'd gone anywhere. I accept it gratefully and down it in giant gulps. It's cold. That's good. That's very, very good.

That makes for a good transition to the next part of the story, actually, because this is where it gets bad. This is where it gets very, very bad. Of course, it isn't going to sound bad at first, but that's just another part of it. If you know, you know -- and yeah, I'm telling you this story -- telling you this story -- precisely because I think you already know how it ends. Hi, Company, I'm Misery. Let's be twins.

My beautiful marshmallow gets in close and nuzzles me. It's sort of like cuddling, except that we're side by side and I can't really control my limbs. I can't even set the cup down on the floor without her help. Once that's taken care of, she gives me soft little kisses on my arm, shoulder, neck and cheek. She strokes my naked flesh lovingly -- even the titties she tortured with her teeth not so long ago.

"You're being such a good girl for me," she says thickly, "and your milk is so delicious. I'm already a little drunk on it." I believe her. It's there in her voice. "Us girls need lots of milk. We're so lucky to have sexy, horny bulls like you."

"Does a body good?" I ask. It's not my 'A' material, but cut me some slack.

She smiles. "Body, mind, and soul. Everything is better with cum. Everything is lighter... warmer. Sex is better. Orgasms are better. Other girls are sexier -- friendlier, too. Chores and errands don't seem like such a drag. Sleep is better." She caps off the list with a happy sigh, as though she could slip off to dreamland right then and there. It makes me feel like a winner all over again, because it's my cum in her soft, smooth tummy right now. I'm the one making everything better for her.

Her hands are all over me, soothing me with simple touches. Every now and then I manage to find her lips with mine, and we share a tender kiss. I can taste myself there. It tastes pretty good.

"Oh," she says with a giggle. "Sorry."

"Huh?"

She shakes her head. She's deep in the haze, so it's entirely possible she's apologizing for nothing. "No, no, I know you're not like that. I actually love that about girls like you. But..."

I can almost put the pieces together: she likes that I'm okay with tasting my own cock and cum on her lips, but apparently she still feels guilty about something.

She shifts around a bit. I have no idea what she's doing until her hand comes up to her lips. I watch the little show; she gives a lot of those, and she's good at it. Her lips were anything but dry, but now they're covered in her essence. She even rubbed some into her cheeks and gums.

"You deserve that," she says. "A little taste of things to come. Kiss me, now. Taste both of us, together."

I do, and it tastes even better.

Our kisses are more love than foreplay; our tongues get involved, which is different from before. She keeps dipping her hand down to her pussy -- keeps refreshing her taste and smell for us both. It's weird, but not bad-weird. I go with it. I'm only just starting to recover enough to even imagine objecting to anything -- not that I would, of course. There's something endearing about a girl who does weird sex stuff, and it's even more endearing when it happens during a lull. It's not just kinky sex, then; it's kinky romance. It's kinky living. I dig it.

In between the normal stuff and the weird stuff -- the kissing and the pussy-juice-smearing -- we talk. It's still mostly about sex, of course, because that's the new dominant social glue. It's also worth remembering that I didn't go to a hobby store earlier tonight to bicker with fellow mag-lev enthusiasts about... whatever the fuck they bicker about. I didn't sign up for a cooking class at the university. I went to a bar -- one with a dance floor -- to try to find myself a girl. I wore my leather pants.

Okay, well, let's backtrack one step. Those cooking classes are actually amazing places to meet girls. Bad example. Sorry. Moving on.

"So," Gwyn says. "The panties. The... very obedient little hole. Are you someone's bitch?"

"Kind of," I answer easily. "My roommate, Jack. She's cool. I'm a lot to deal with -- kind of a bitch, you know? She puts up with me, so I mostly bottom." See? The humor's getting better as I recover.

Gwyn seizes upon the self-deprecation immediately. "No!" she protests. "You're so sweet!" She kisses my cheek a bunch of times and rubs my bare skin like she's trying to warm me up. Ordinarily I'd find it grating. I can't right now, though. I'm cum-drunk in love with her, and she's making it abundantly clear that this afterglow is just an intermission.

I soak up the attention, but I also shrug. "I have a hard time out there sometimes. This... I like this." I kiss her back. "I like you. Like this. Here."

Gwyn, the cute little marshmallow who's fine with L-bombs, gets embarrassed and shy. I feel a pang of guilt in my chest and a lurch of embarrassment below it. Way of the world, I suppose. Most of us have made our peace with the fact that love is hormones and neurotransmitters. It's allowed to be temporary -- acutely temporary, that is, because everything's temporary eventually.