Yay Feminism

And yeah, she made a lot of noise. She moaned and cussed and screeched. He got a big kick out of hearing all this shit, she could tell from the look on his face. It humiliated her and she wished she could shut up, and she kept trying to, and never could. Not for more than ten seconds at a time. Then she couldn't hold herself back anymore. Off she'd go again, carrying on fit to wake the dead, howling and wailing.

"Oh God! Christ! Holy shit! Holy shit! You're so huge! You're so fucking huge! Uhuuhuuhuuuhh!"

Girls need to be real careful about that—telling a guy he's big. It's a major button-pusher. And it's obvious that it would be, and why, when you think about it for two seconds. Still, they should probably warn young girls about this in school, or at the very least put it in the magazines. You gotta be prepared for what it does. You gotta know what you're gonna set off, if you say that shit.

Guys are sensitive about that matter. Cry out how big he feels inside you, and they get super excited. They go wild after hearing that. 'Cause they always take it as a compliment—maybe the ultimate compliment—and as encouragement for harder fucking, unless you've the presence of mind to specify otherwise, which in the heat of such a barrage can be difficult for a woman to articulate. A lot of those times, harder fucking is the exact opposite of what's wanted. "Oh God you're so big!" may often actually mean "You're too big, you're going too deep, you're hurting me, ease the hell up on me please." But guys in the heat of the moment don't tend to consider that interpretation. What they hear is what they wanna hear, which of course is: "You're a Sex God! More! More! Harder! Harder!"

Let's not be too hard on them. M knew if she had a penis herself, and somebody was letting her fuck them with it, and the person suddenly screamed out "Oh holy shit you're so huge!" she would most likely react in the exact same way. It's a power trip. It would rev her up like a racecar.

And there are times, thankfully, when in fact "Harder! Harder!" turns out to be exactly what a girl wants and/or needs. This time, lucky for her, in light of her exclamations, had become one of those occasions.

"Jesus! Oh Jesus! Ahhaahhhuuhh shit! Shit! Haaahhuuuhhoohh!"

They made the whole van shake around them. It was a good thing the rain was still coming down so hard. Made it less likely for people to be passing by out there. Anybody that did, seeing the vehicle jostle on its tires like it was doing, they'd be able to tell exactly what was going on inside, even if they couldn't hear the racket she was making. But hell, they'd probably be able to, regardless of the rain. She was screaming her head off like he was murdering her. Except that wouldn't have gone on and on so long.

She didn't think she'd be able to come. Wasn't to say that she was hating this, but it was too out-of-the-ordinary. Her nervous system was too overwhelmed; her pussy wouldn't be able to make sense of what it was being given, or subjected to. But no, turned out she was wrong about that. Her system coped pretty well. Her pussy answered the challenge, and in a reasonably timely manner, it delivered all the appropriate physiological responses. Only dialed up quite a bit.

She would have screamed his name, if she'd known what it was. Instead she contented herself with the fallback of calling out to the savior:

"Jesus!Jesus!JesusCHRIST! Ohooh haahuuhh ahh Jesus ... Jesus ... Jesus!"

Probably better that she did that. Hearing her scream his name in that tone, it just couldn't be good for a man, in the long run. Bound to turn him into an insufferable asshole. She'd inflated his ego too much today already.

It was an orgasm that nearly knocked her out, and in the violence of her spasms, she came close to catapulting the guy off of her like a rodeo bull. He bumped his head pretty nasty on the side wall of the van. Took it in good spirit, though.

And then when it was through and she was recovering, that slow-falling sensation of spiraling downward through the twitchy aftershocks, gasping for breath, he slipped his cock out of her and rolled her over real quick on her front. She barely noticed, still too frazzled to realize what he was going for 'til he'd hauled her hips up off the floor and shoved her knees forward underneath to support her.

"Hold on a sec," she mumbled, "Just wait." He did, though he was lined up behind her to push inside again. Rarin' to go. Doggy is supposed to be the favorite position of most women. Everyone was always telling her that fun fact. M had never much cared for it. The fact it was called "doggy style"—that right there pretty much highlighted her issue with it. She could never get past the fundamental subservience and objectivity of the pose. Way worse than with the guy on top of her in missionary—other women argued with her sometimes about that opinion, but for M there was no question. You couldn't see the guy's face—he wasn't interested in it. You were just sticking your butt up for him with your nose in the dirt. It was your ass he was fucking, not you—even if he wasn't actually jamming up your butt, he just about might as well be. It was all about your hiney. She'd still do it now and again but only grudgingly, for short periods, if she felt her partner had earned the favor.

Well, maybe this guy had just qualified, considering the level of the orgasm he had given her. Still, she felt compelled to voice a half-hearted protest, if for no other reason than the fact he should know and appreciate that this was a special thing for her, and not something she'd allow most guys: "I don't usually take it this way. I don't usually like doggy."

He laughed. Really it was more of a chortle, or a snort. "Well," he said, "I sure do." Then he plunged into her.

Talk about a dick line. Literally. Oh yeah.

"Bastard! Oh shit you bastard! Shit! Oh! Ohhuuhh!"

Worst part was it felt real good this time. Much better than it normally did when she took it like this. The fucker had got her worked up to the state where he could just about do anything he liked to her and she wouldn't mind. She was all his for the duration—he'd established utter control over her. Been years since a guy had got this strong a hold on her. It was both delicious and rather obnoxious. Like: "Ah yes, this is how good sex can be, I'd sort of forgotten ..." And also: "Dammit this is how good sex can be? It's way too much to deal with! Shit!Shit!Shit!"

He grabbed her elbows and pulled her arms behind her, forcing her torso upright. And then made her cross her forearms behind her back, wrists to elbows, and kept them pinned horizontal like that, using her trapped forearms as his handle as he pounded her. It was a painful stretch—yet at the time, she liked it. Hurt like hell, but it was hot how bad it hurt. His pounding too. Same way.

"Oh you fucker! Oh shit you're fucking me so hard! You're fucking the shit out of me with your huge cock! Oh Christ! You bastard! God fucking dammit!"

"I wanna you come again," he said, in his thick accent, "Come for me! Come for me! Come on dis cock!"

And she did, almost immediately. It made her curl all her mud-caked toes, tight as she could. "Holy shit! Haahhhaaahhuuuuhh!"

"You all mine now," he said, "All mine."

She was powerless to refute it. "I'm yours! All yours! Fuck me! Fuck me! God! Gaahhuuhh!"

"So lucky I find you," he said, "I must be luckiest guy at dis Smash. I find hottest and horniest chick dere, all alone, all naked and desperate. Now I fuck her! We fuck and fuck! Haahh!"

And "right dere" he managed to incredibly flatter her and enormously insult her at the exact same time. She felt glorious and radiant, like the ultimate goddess of sex, and she also felt like absolute dogpoo, the world's stupidest most worthless slut and pushover. Did he realize or didn't he? Did he care or didn't it matter?

"You like dat dick? You do! I know you do! Take it! Take it! Take it! Yes!"

"Ohhuuh! Huuhhuuhh! Huuhhaahhuuuhh! God dammit! Ahhuuuhhaahh!"

Pretty soon she gave up another orgasm for him, still taking it on her knees from behind like a bitch. It was gonna take her a long time to forgive herself for that last one. She shouldn't have let him do it to her again after he just offended her so bad, whether he meant to or not. But she still couldn't stop it happening, curling her toes again as it shattered her, same as the last one. She really was his bitch at that stage. 'Til it was finally all over.

When it was his turn to get off, she asked him not to come inside her again. Damage was already done from before, of course, from yesterday or last night or whenever it was exactly. Still, no sense giving all his little soldiers a second run. She'd probably be okay. Her mother and her grandmother both had trouble with fertility and doctors had told her she'd probably have difficulty too. The eggs in their family didn't often come out of the box, when they were supposed to. And she'd taken shots inside without protection five or six other times from other guys and got away with it, each time. Hopefully her luck would once again hold out. Please God.

He pulled out to unload on her tummy, having her roll on her back again to receive it. Jesus, what a sight. Seeing that whopper measured out at full stretch on her outside, lined up against her skin, it let you see how far up it must have reached when it was stuffed inside. Didn't look like that should have been possible, not without killing her. But babies come out of there, is the thing. That's what you have to remind yourself. Hugest horrible horsedong in the world still ain't nothing compared to the body-mass of a newborn.

He asked her to take hold of it and pump him, to bring him off. Only she didn't crank it fast enough for him, 'cause he grabbed her hand to speed it up. That was actually the only time he really hurt her a bit, not in an enjoyable way—he wrenched on her wrist too hard, as he got off. But she could understand. She wouldn't hold it against him.

The jizz didn't end up on her tummy, it blasted out with too much force. Flew straight between her breasts and splatted on her chin. It had been a long time since she allowed a guy the privilege of coming on or near her face. Marking her, claiming her, with a jizz signature. At least none went in her eyes or up his nose, like the other asshole had done. And there wasn't very much, thankfully, just that one dollop, with a few tiny weak clear trickles that only seeped out on her hand where she was holding him. She was afraid there'd be a ton more out of those huge hairy balls. But the bastards must not have managed to refill themselves since the last time they got emptied inside her.

She took pleasure in making him come that way. Yeah, in spite of the fact he hit her face with the spray like that. She was fine with how it happened. In fact it had thrilled her, more than usual. Sometimes with guys this last part felt like an unfortunate obligation—you had to do it to get done, and to balance the score if the guy had succeeded in bringing you to orgasm, but nine times out of ten she'd have skipped his end of the business if she could have got away with it, fairness be damned, wherever/however he ended up unloading. Even when it was just into a condom, no mess, no fuss. This time was different; she liked the look on his face, when it happened—it was a look she'd remember—and she enjoyed watching his jizz burst out. In fact she felt ridiculous pride in the fact it had flown as far as it did when it fired—all because of her. Sort of thing a porn star must feel, or pretends to. Where you learn to love the mess he pours out on you instead of just putting up with it, and taking yourself further that direction, you try to make the mess as big and messy as you can. For the first time, she could understand that mentality, goofy as it was. Owning the ownership it signified.

It was just gonna be this one time, though, for this one guy. This wasn't gonna alter her regular ordinary policy—no more money shots.

Sorry, fellahs. Them's the rules.

7.

They exchanged numbers after he brought her home. She made a show of memorizing his in front of him, since neither of them had anything on hand to write with, making him repeat it carefully for her a few times and repeating it back ... though in fact the whole time she had no intention of programming it into her phone, let alone using it. Not the slightest tiniest desire to. Even if she still had a phone to plug it into, which she didn't, since it had got lost. She'd have to buy a new one. Been planning on upgrading soon again anyway.

After she did get it replaced, she still had the same number as before—they were able to transfer everything over real easy for her. And the guy kept calling her several times through the next two or three weeks. Left her tons of messages and sent her tons of texts, some of them real long. She just chose not to reply. Deleted all his messages without listening or reading any of them. Totally stonewalled him, and eventually he got the point and stopped trying. Would hate her guts now for the rest of his life, more than likely.

M just couldn't get her head around the idea of trying to date a guy like him, not even on the most casual level. Didn't feel realistic or appealing. She couldn't picture hanging out with him in the places she liked to hang out, or even having ordinary conversations with him. It would just come down to the sex. It would probably continue being really good sex, yet even so, she hoped she'd reached a phase of her life where she wouldn't start any more potentially-ongoing relationships with no other basis to them than that. It was a fundamental mistake, and she knew that from personal experience. She'd let herself make that error too many times already, the last couple years.

Finally found out the guy's name. It just happened to come up one day ages later in casual conversation with a bunch of people. They were talking about different crummy local bands—the guy had just joined one of them as a drummer, only he wasn't supposed to be any good at it, from what these other people were telling her. (His phone number was restricted, so his name never popped up on her phone whenever he called or texted. In fact she'd started thinking of him as Mr. Restricted. And that also fit with her decision to cut him off.) His name turned out to be Raoul, of all things. Kind of name you don't expect anybody to have in real life. Now in her case the unusualness went further; she'd not only met a real life Raoul, she'd fucked a real life Raoul. And it had been ... well, what exactly had it been? What did she want to call it?

Not her best fuck, not really, not quite. Mind-blowing as the orgasms had been, and she wouldn't pretend they hadn't, that description—the word "best"—still didn't fit. She was reluctant to classify it as a great fuck, either. Again, "great" was too complimentary. The orgasms themselves might have been great, but that left out how plain stressful and nerve-wracking and embarrassing the rest of the experience had been, despite the fact she got off real strong like that when he did all he'd done with her. It had certainly been one of her most memorable sexual encounters, that was for sure. Also one of the sleaziest and most shameful.

This was a story she wouldn't wanna tell anybody. Wouldn't in fact be physically capable of talking about it unless she got very, very drunk again. So drunk to the point she probably wouldn't remember telling the story, the next day. Ha ha.

As far as the rest of her friends, that had been there that day ... she later found out none of the set had any notable adventures or misadventures of their own, together or apart. They all just ended up going home not much more than half an hour after M got separated from them. They missed out completely on that wild storm. Nothing crazy or slightly memorable happened to any of the bitches, just her, left behind. They hadn't even spent any time looking around for her; they'd immediately assumed she ditched them to scamper home by herself.

They all said the same things: that the festival had been pretty boring and disappointing overall, too crowded and too hot and too smelly, and none of the music had been appealing, just loud and obnoxious and bad, and none of the guys there were good-looking, and probably they would never wanna go to another Smash unless the venue got changed and the organizers revamped the whole setup, like they kept claiming they planned to do.

And as to their big important so-called freedom-statement and what it had felt like for them to be topless out there, at least for the pretty brief time they did it before they all gave up like pussies and quit and skedaddled their asses home, M could never get any of them to talk about it. Neither as a group nor individually. Like they forgot it had happened. Looked at her like she was crazy whenever she brought it up.

For a time she felt a mean compulsion to keep after them about it, asking over and over whether they had enjoyed it or hated it, and of course whether or not they felt empowered by it, and whether or not they'd ever wanna go do that sort of thing again, someplace else ... And none of the girls would give her any kind of straight answer to any of those questions, positive or negative. Not a one.

It was like they had a goddamn Code of Silence about it, like they all took a solemn blood-oath when she wasn't there. Maybe they really had. They'd just coldly ignore her badgering, and change the subject, fast as possible.