157th Street PlatformbyMissMonkey©
A big thing for me has always been eyes, so when he thrust me against the pillar on an almost abandoned subway platform at 157th and wrapped his right hand around my throat, I could read his right away. He was taking pleasure, not giving it. And I loved him for knowing that that was what I needed.
His face didn't give any emotion away; if I didn't know him so well, it would have been easy to believe that he wasn't even turned on by what he was doing. The feeling of not being able to take a breath is different from the feeling of not getting air when you do. It leaves your body feeling empty, void not just of air, but of ability. It leaves you feeling like a shell, merely the casing of what you once were. Human, alive. It is such a perfect feeling.
I grabbed at his hands when I felt I could go on no longer without air. I grabbed at his hands when the world in the corners of my eyes became first blurry, then black. This is another thing I love to feel, my ability to see, my sense of sight, slowly disappearing. Me, slipping into nothingness. There is no better feeling than completely giving yourself over to a degree such that someone else controls even your senses.
He didn't let go right away. He held fast, staring into my eyes as struggled to make sound and found (though I had already known) that I could not. My tongue tried to form words, but with a lack of air, my vocal chords were of no help. My arms fell (I am not sure whether they dropped or I could no longer make them move), and my body began to shake. I knew that I had orgasmed, but all that I could feel was a pulsing tingling. I wasn't even sure if it was a result of my orgasm or of the loss of feeling throughout my body.
When he let me go, I collapsed into him. Ruffling my hair, he smiled and held me close. "Was that what you needed?" I hadn't asked him for anything, and yet he had known. He knew that I knew, too. It all happened much faster than I can express to you. When I regained myself, he grasped my hand and led me up the subway steps.
After sometime, we found ourselves back underground, waiting for the 6 uptown to get back to Grand Central. He took me to a secluded part of the platform, behind the a stairwell where no one could see us and we could hear people coming.
This time, he pressed his entire body against mine. I shuddered, knowing full well what his intentions were. He traced his fingers around my neck and asked me if I was scared. It's hard to explain how I feel in these situations. I am scared, scared out of my mind. But then, it is what I want: to be scared, to be hurt, to be used. I nodded, biting my lip.
I do that a lot. I chew my lip and look at the ground. I only ever meet his eyes when his hand is around my throat. He never instructed me to do so. In these situations, I feel less than him, less than human, and I would not dream of making such a bold move as meeting his eyes. He grabbed the front of my neck between his thumb and the side of his forefinger and pressed. This was new. It was new and wonderful. In some ways, it was less controlling than usual, but in other ways, it showed how little power he had to exert to put me in my place. It was godly, and it made me shake. I cried out softly when he did so. "Good," he spoke, expressionless as always, "my fuckslut should be always afraid." I can never stop my eyes pleading for him to let go. His eyes respond with mirth.
The only reason he let me go was a man come around the stairs to await the train. He held my arms against the wall above my head and leaned forward, softly kissing me. It was a show for the man -- the strength in his hands never let me forget what was really going on. He put one hand under my chin, his fingers behind my jaw. He applied more and more pressure, forcing my jaw to jut forward, and stared into my eyes. I knew the threat that was there. The man got on the train and disappeared, looking, somewhat strangely, back at us. My pleasurable hell resumed again.
He thrust his hips hard into mine -- so hard I could feel it in my bones. I asked him to use me. I begged him, told him that all I wanted him to do was to abuse me for his pleasure. I could see it this time. His face flickered with feeling for a moment, and his head tilted back. "Oh, I could cum from torturing you." He took my hand and led me on the next train.
I pulled my feet up on the seat and leaned into him, my arms wrapped around on of his, my eyes closed. I rested my head on his shoulder. I felt completely safe. Some people say that this is sympathizing with the abuser. I disagree. He knew what I wanted.
We got to Grand Central and I trailed a step behind him as we made our way down an empty platform that was scheduled neither for arrivals nor departures. We walked to a stairwell in the back that led down to the tunnel that leads from platform to platform.
In no more than a moment, he had me thrust against the wall once more, his hand around my throat. When I asked him what would happen if someone caught us, he told me that they would see me for the whore that I was. And that was answer enough for me.
He leaned in and bit my neck, hard. He held fast as I squirmed beneath his weight, compulsively trying to push him off. I moaned and gasped, my muscles tightening and relaxing, not knowing which would get him off of me. And I loved it. I closed my eyes and bit my lip, trying to keep from screaming.
He bit me so hard that he drew blood as I desperately moaned his name, my hands pushing against his chest. I had thought, perhaps, that it would make me more real to him, make him sympathize and stop. I think it made him hurt me worse. And god, it was good. He leaned his head back, still pressed into me. He dug his thumb into the wound on my neck and stretched his fingers their entire length across my throat.
He held me so hard that I thought I'd never breath again. It was all I could do to keep from screaming. Grabbing my nipple with his left hand, he twisted it, sending a sharp pain rocketing down my spine. I collapsed again, but he held me against the wall. His hand around my throat was, perhaps, all that saved me from toppling onto the tracks.
"Do you want it to stop?" he asked. A trick question. My body would have done anything to have it over with. But my mind, god, my mind. It was all I wanted, all I needed. He knew it, and he took advantage of it. I shook my head, somewhat ashamed. He thrust against me harder, yanked on my nipple, and pressed his thumb harder.
I squealed loudly, my entire body shaking beneath him. Pressing against him, I turned my head, trying to get away. "Don't move." This was an order.
And, lord, did I abide. I froze, my head turned away from his, looking, again, at the ground. I couldn't tell if my feet were on the ground. I couldn't tell which way was up. I couldn't breath. There were intense, multicolored stabs of pain invading my body, webbing their way throughout my veins. And I came. I came harder than I knew I could. It took a moment for him to let up.
But he did, and I fell to the ground. My legs bent beneath me and splayed out to the sides, my arms dangled limp beside me. My head hung, my hair a mess on my face. I breathed, what I thought was breathing. All I could do, then, anyway. And he laughed. He laughed the most perfect, degrading laugh.
I whimpered. I cried, I was crying. I didn't know when I had started to cry, but from how wet my face and hair was, it had been a while. He grabbed my arm and wrenched me up from the ground. A little reminder, one more stab of pain.
"Good slut," he said. And he hugged me and straightened out my hair and face so no one would look twice. Then he took me to my train and leaned down, kissing me on my forehead. He stood waving as it pulled away.