AMATEUR XXX STORIES
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VONNEGUT sucking him off like subserviant
Disclaimer:(standard) Do not screw up. Do not do anything illegal.
This includes specifically (but not limited to) reading on if you are
under 18- 21 in some localities If you are underage you must leave
now. If you're and curious, this is not the place to get the
straight story. You act like this and people will look at you strange
and give you a wide berth. Also, don't try this at home. Some of this
stuff is just plain wrong, most of it is unsafe in the present viral
climate and some of it doesn't work in this universe. They are stories.
They deal with ideas, fantasies and thoughts that might not even be
pleasant in real life. Thoughts are like that. Fantasies are there so we
can toy with the sensations without feeling or inflicting the pain,
despair or humiliation. End Sermon.
Tut, tut Vonnegut
(I am not trying to write like him. I just stole the idea from him.)
There were miraculous healing powers and painless body
alterations. As if one born one way can ever sense what it is to be born
another. The rest was slavery.
"Jesus. I couldn't believe all that last night," Paul was saying
again.
"Are you totally one dimensional?" she scolded, "Stop
apologizing. I know that's what you're doing, and we both know there's
no reason for it. I know it wasn't your idea."
"But I really laid into you with that whip," he whined some more.
She realized she had poked a sore spot with the one
dimensional comment. Paul didn't have much flesh on him- excepting the
well described rampant charger between his thighs. He didn't have to.
He was only the extention of the great god that used her as he would.
She had to have the full range of emotions to respond. She had
to feel the humiliation, the excitement, the terror, the pain. She had to
react in a real way. She had to have a way to seduce and she had to
have motives of her own to give her life.
Right now her motive was to shut Paul up. He was marooned
at the level of libido and therefore useless to discuss her concerns. She
had to calm his guilt for his indignities to her flesh.
"Look- no marks," she showed him her perfect flesh. "You
know how this goes. It is only superficial. I felt the lash cut to the bone
and your hot joy as you used my blood as lubrication for your assault,
but it's like a dream."
She had to explain it every time. Perhaps it stuck for a moment,
but Paul did not retain much more than desire.
"But I don't understand it at all," Paul complained.
Caught as a plaything to a twisted mind, she was further
tormented by this constant distraction from Paul. It was hard enough to
chart the cosmos without the interruption. There were clues to the mind
of the god, but she had yet to discover a channel of intercession.
Then the look came over his face again. She looked down and
she was clad in a light summer dress. Behind her, the fuzzy void opened
into a forest near a park. She listened closely. Far in the distance she
could hear the faint tapping of fingers on keyboard. The god was at it
again.
"Oh no Paul," the words tumbled out. "Someone might see."
"So what," he said with his libidinous directness, "It will give
them something to talk about."
She wasn't allowed to push hard at his hands. All the reticence
was for show as she ineffectually tried to stop him from opening her
dress. She wasn't surprised that she was nude beneath it. The god didn't
like dealing with her underwear.
"Please stop, you're embarrassing me," she breathed.
"Oh baby, you know how that turns me on!" Paul was enthused.
Angry was more like it, but the blush appeared at the bidding of
the clicking keys. She was aware of the other eyes like you are aware
when someone is in your house, but she had not been allowed to see the
watchers yet.
At least this time she was to feel passion rather than pain. She
was deeply in love with Paul and was showing it by going along with his
need for risky sex. Thinking it was the practical approach, she also went
with the feelings she was supposedly feeling.
Paul's touch could be quite knowing when it was allowed to be.
She let his fondling harden her nipples right on cue. She might as well
enjoy it. There wasn't a lot of oral-genital contact- at least not on her
end- in her life, but the god seemed obsessed with kissing today.
She thought he might be short on dialogue when the woman was
not crying out or begging for mercy. Even as the tappping keyboard
made it true, she felt Paul's erection ride in the folds of her outer labia,
stroking her nicely as they edged toward the penetration.
She began to wonder when the observers would be revealed.
Paul was taking a long time putting it inside her. Perhaps she was in for
a gang rape before he could affect consummation.
Then his penis slid- as the world would read it- slyly, like a
through a door left open a crack and then rushed inside before it was
found out. There was always an in there. At least she wasn't just
a bitch this time.
Then she got to see them. Paul was building his rhythm. She
'sensed the eyes on her and looked up' and then was made to beat on
Paul's back to alert him. But he took it as passion.
"They're right here watching," tumbled out of her mouth.
"Yes, baby, you're so good, tell me about it, it gets me so hot,"
Paul replied, lost in his hurried thrusting into her.
"No they're here, really they're right here!" her voice was made
to peak in panic.
"God, yes! Oh yes! You know I can't last when you talk that
way," Paul gasped as he heaved into her and the god described the feel
of his pouring out.
Some pearly white fluid would drip from her, but it wasn't
Paul's. It had to shoot from his dick when he was cumming on her face,
but it was stage cum. And that didn't happen too much in her universe.
The god enjoyed it going deep and filling crevices too much.
She tried to keep her mind on what was happening. She knew
her big scene was coming up.
"No, LOOK!" she demanded in a voice more of a screech than
was recorded.
It was time for Paul to see the men.
"She can't help it," he told them as she tried to cover herself and
generally exhibited shamed behaviors. "She's hot for my cock."
"Let's see her," one of them said.
Oh goody, she thought- woman as meat. She was pulled up by
her loving partner.
"Go ahead, show them those sweet tits," Paul was saying.
She trembled to show fear and slowly uncovered. These
were thinner than Paul. Not a drop of blood in them. They were paper
cut-outs to scare her. They leered and she was terribly uncomfortable
until the god put the devil in her.
Then she reported a wetness in her crotch and began to show
off with sensuous gusto. Now she was the slut. Paul has his turn of
confusion and quickly bundles her up and rushes her to the car.
"What got into you?" he asks- probably disappointed that she
found the key to the pleasure of exhibitionism and gave him no thrill
with her reticence.
"I just got so hot," she said as the god lied about the extent of
her lubrication and need. "Not sit back. This one is for me."
Her wry expression was by her position face down in his
lap. She was supposed to be woman in charge now, a role reversal, and
what was she doing? She was him off like a subserviant little
housewife.
She would mount him, ride him, and they would have the
monster of all simulated simultaneous orgasms before he would close
with some comment that was a variation on Jackie Gleason's, baby,
you're the greatest.
She already knew the god took his pleasure with her through
Paul, almost as if he slipped in from the back and took over Paul's body.
He also had his pleasure of her, she surmised by the weak fading action
when the climax was over. The god could be satisfied by his creation.
But he was the god and her understanding had precious little
value. There was that little problem of the path of intercession. She did
as she was told. There was little room for improvisation in the god's
narrow little scripts. This was hard to understand.
There was no thought of the dream taking the dreamer. She
didn't dream. It was remarkable, judging from Paul, that she could
remember as well as she did. She could only vaguely realize that the
freedom to plan was also her avenue of feedback to the fingers on the
keyboard that made her life.
But this day had cracked a mold. She had changed from first to
last. She had been shy victim and slut before, but there had never been
the transtion in mid scene. And most remarkable, she had been the
predator by day's end. Did change mean the god could be bored?
-----
She awoke from the cold nothingness of dreamless
non-existance already bound hand and foot to the corners of a long,
broad plank. Her heart beat wildly as she searched what she could see
of the room and saw nothing familiar.
Memories of things that had not happened were put in her mind.
An abduction, blindfolded ride and waking in her present condition were
backfilled as the explanation for her plight. Paul was not in her view if he
was in scene.
This was screamingly familiar. The god loved her helpless and
fearful. Painful humiliation or humiliating pain would be followed by an
assault of great length, intensity or numbers and she would endure it on
the edge of her ability to endure.
It seemed that ability to endure was being tested. There was
still no Paul, no cut-out boogy men, only fearful apprehension at her
situation. The god said her mind was at the edge. Had she betrayed her
study of the god? Was he studying her back? Or was this her sentence
for for her questioning?
Real fear augmented the fear of the clicking keyboard. What is
to be done when you have angered the god?
It went on too long. It went on too long. But as even her
deepest panic dulled by long use, she realized that the fear was mostly
hers. Only occasionally did the god check in to set her fears atwitter.
The clicking was directed elsewhere- out of her view.
Finally, long after most of her days would be over, Paul's face
appeared. It was flushed with a victorius joy. He climbed over her and
mounted her. Now her heart argued with the clicking of the keys. She
was calmed by the normalcy of his assault, not pained nor distressed by
her plight. Paul's always impressive organ was enhanced an inch or two
to cause her inner grief, but it was a familiar grief.
"Please have mercy! You are tearing out my insides! It's too big
for me! Please be more gentle! I can't take it! Please stop! You're
tearing me open!" came familiar begging interspersed with cries of pain.
Her internal bruising came in familiar words. The salt sting of his
semen to her torn put her in her normal place of degredation. She
had feared for naught. Perhaps the god did not know she had a thought,
much less have a concern for what it may be.
But he was not done. The description of the seeping stage
was too meticulous. Her sobbing, vanquished state was too lovingly
described. There was a portent in her foolish assumption that the worst
had come. There was evil in the words of portent, chilling her beyond
the reach of the keyboard's forced emotions. The god was raising his
thunderbolt.
What now? she wondered as all were informed of the cold,
hard intrusion at the same time. A metallic taste in her mouth told her
it was copper, or brass, or bronze invading her sheath, but her mouth
was screaming wordlessly. Then came the pain of a thousand horrid
pins hammered in volleys inside hefr insulted womanhood.
A fire hose douche? It was a new scene for her. She felt less
than ever before. As victimized flesh, she was at least a woman. Perhaps
of a hated sex, but human. Now she was just that lump of flesh to be
flopped at the call of mere water pressure. The keyboard decreed her
unconscious- not even an entity for the following.
She was roused after being reversed on the plank, now bound
face down. She was meat. Paul's conversation with an unseen other
made it clear she was property. She had been pithed by the god,
robbed of all but vocal chords to scream and terror.
Her new position allowed her to see more of the room and she
beheld pale forms fixed to the walls in many fiendish ways. They too
were vocal chords and terror. She screamed at the keyboard's tapping
as Paul reduced her to one of the pets. She felt the heat of the iron and
screamed some more.
And in her heart, the pain was unbearable as the white iron
seared her flesh and she smelled the burned flesh. It was not the pain of
the branding that caused the despair, but her fading- paling into a
shadow of the god's lust. Where was intercession now?
-----
"Do you think we can influence our fate?" Paul asked her.
Her hand rubbed over the ridges of her no-longer perfectly
regenerating flesh.
"I just think you're mean," she said.
"Come on, you know I don't have a choice. We're all just
puppets of destiny," Paul tried to explain.
She'd never get it. All she did was feel the scar from the iron and
complain. He might as well try one of the other dozen that decorated the
dungeon. But thay had been something to each other before. He tried
again.
"I've been thinking, and it seems like there's almost a pattern to
our existance, but it has subtle shifts as if some hand is guiding it," Paul
tried to expound.
"This scar will never go away," she lamented.
She was stuck in 'poor me' mode. If there was a greater truth,
he would have to find it alone, Paul thought. Pity, he felt suddenly so
alive. He had ideas and motives he hadn't had before. But trying to lift
her to that place was fruitless. It was another peiece in the mystery he
had set himself to unravel....
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