Eunuchs and Nymphomaniacs

by AnonYMous

  It was also a wet dream come true.

  She folded herself in half so I could more fully understand the perfectitude of her ass. She took the rose from her mouth and sprinkled its petals over me, making sure a good proportion of them landed teasingly on my nodding cock and groaning balls. The routine that followed was like the dream sequence in a Midwestern musical where the mild-mannered bank clerk fantasizes about the virginal school mistress. The bit in the romantic comedy that had to be inserted to give the men in the audience something for their ticket price.

  And yet, there was nothing vulnerable about it. The lingerie was like body armor. I didn’t even feel naked because I knew it was all just playacting. She sat astride me and yes, I was hard, but she was so focused on getting her movements right and bending so carefully and stretching so eloquently I felt like a prop in one of her YouTube videos. The ones she used for auditions. My poor stiff cock was just another version of a “thumbs-up” on Facebook. She then thrust her pantied pussy right up to my face, and though it was marvelous to witness that pouting girlish pudendum through the basque, no heat emanated from it. She dangled a lace drawstring that held the sides of the panties together, letting the ribbon fall across my face, presumably to tempt me with the possibility of catching it between my teeth and unwrapping the prize. But then she took it away again. This was intended as a teaser for what was yet to come but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being shown around the interior of her previous relationship. Was it her ex she saw when she looked down on me from behind her half-hidden treasures? She scooched backward now until she was sitting rather heavily on my embattled balls.

  The awful music continued and her routine now demanded she lean so far back her head was between my feet and the only thing visible was her panty-veiled slit. She held this position for a few beats, crushing my balls with the lovely hard mounds of her ass until she began the slow athletic return forward with another long-stemmed rose between her teeth.

  Her arc continued uninterrupted until it culminated petals-

  first on my lips in a romantic scent-infused kiss. I would have wiped my mouth had I not been tied up. Still with the rose between her teeth and still with the imitation Charles Aznavour playing she now arranged herself into a very painful-looking position that required her right ankle to be placed some-

  where beyond my right ear while she leaned so far forward that it seemed as if we both should listen very carefully to that same ankle. Her hair cascaded, unbearably ticklish across my

  face. I could feel her entire body shudder as she held this position for one, two, three, four, and five seconds before using up what must have been the remaining dregs of her stamina to inhale enough breath to whisper two words.

  “The splits.”

  So this is what it felt like to have a tight-assed little dancer do the splits on you. She was showing Daddy what she’d learned at school. Here was proof the tuition fees had been put to good use. You see? Dance wasn’t just some useless waste of time and money where gay men and girls pranced around in tutus all day, it had its functional side too.

  The music ended.

  If I’d been sitting in the front row of a Nebraskan theater I’d have understood that the climax of the number was the image of her aesthetically pleasing body in provocative lingerie, performing a technically perfect iteration of the splits on a tied-down male. It had all the elements of what would have been scandalous to a theater full of locals but I was just waiting on her to finish so I could resume thumbing her butthole. Its little beige mouth had been cooing to me all day.

  Without the music she was scriptless and free to ad-lib. So, pressing the rose against my balls, she trailed the petals over the tip of my cock. This was maddeningly wonderful. It felt soft and cool like the lips of a pussy, but a pussy with more lips and folds than normal. She lay alongside me, comfortable that I couldn’t resist, and began to flick her fingers over the head. Her open mouth hovered over mine, not kissing it, just hovering over it; the only freedom afforded me now seemed to be gathered in my tongue and I wanted to fuck her face with it, but each time I tried she pulled her head back, taunting my efforts. This was more like it. She was an evil little cunt after all.

  Now I was rock hard and very fucking happy.

  How had I managed to get this wet dream to happen? Why was she here doing this? I couldn’t see what I had done to earn it. What app had I inadvertently downloaded that enabled me to 3-D print this scenario? There it was in front of me. My ideal. This is what it looked like. This is what it smelled like. Roses. This was not a dress rehearsal. This was all my hopes and dreams condensed and suffused with life.

  She licked a finger and used it to drip spit onto my shuddering cockhead. I stared at her in disbelief. The corny theater act had thrown me off guard. It was as if a cynical little Russian whore had pushed the Nebraskan out the door and taken over. And this little fucker was bored. She even checked her messages while lying pussy-down on my smashed cock. I was speechless. I felt so incapable of artifice at that moment, if she had asked for my PIN I would have happily given it up—no need to torture me with jump leads and pliers.

  I felt all responsibility leave me in those few moments. My self had been spirited out of me. I had never let go of control to that degree before. Was this what it was like to be a submissive? I had to admire the sleight of hand involved in creating the corn-fed diversion. It led me to believe I was dealing with an amateur. As I laughed up my imaginary sleeve she picked my metaphorical pocket.

  The vexing little bulge of white flesh over the rim of her thigh-highs, the sidelong glances through strands of black hair monitoring the accuracy of her intentions, confirming her hits. And then as I lay there with the eye of my cock crying real tears she uncuffed one wrist and left the room.

  “I’ll be out here looking at your porn.”

  This stunned me of course, because now I wanted more. Much more. Again I was being shown what it would be like to be with this girl. How a relationship could be stretched out over years with techniques like this. If it was Sunday night in Nebraska and I had to work the next day, I’d be malleable for the following week hoping for a repeat of what had just happened.

  What had just happened?

  She was experienced enough to know that I only needed one uncuffed hand to free myself. I was impressed and perplexed by this. Should I follow her? Was she pissed at me?

  Had she just received a text that changed her opinion of me? I imagined she had asked her high-powered detective friends to look into me, and even as she lay on my balls received the news that I was in fact ten years older and millions of dollars poorer than I purported to be. Was it because I hadn’t applauded? My hands were tied. Should I have gushed with appreciation? Ejaculated even? What sort of a man retains control in the face of such eroticism? I undid the rest of the Velcro straps, ensuring the ripping sound was loud enough for her to be in no doubt as to what was happening.

  But she already knew. She was completely in control. When I appeared around the doorway she was sitting rather demurely on the couch, her face lit respectively by the dark and light of the on-screen fucking. Her expression was anything but lustful. Forlorn maybe.

  “I brought a dildo in the brown bag,” she said as if it was a pint of milk she’d forgotten to put in the fridge.

  Seconds later I found myself holding a friendly-looking dildo no bigger than my own modest-sized cock. I was grateful she hadn’t brought a twelve-inch monstrosity to dwarf anything I could muster. I wanted to thank her for her consideration but it came out wrong.

  “This would look great in your butthole.”

  I was trying to regain some sexual currency.

  “That was the idea,” she said without even looking away from the screen. It was as if this had all happened to her before somewhere. She actually wanted it in her ass? No shock, no embarrassment, no feigned resistance. How was I to show up on this girl’s sexual radar? There were various sections to choose from on the website a
nd I invited her to click on one. She sat straight-backed in perfect debutante’s posture as if waiting to be offered a candy.

  As if reaching for it herself would be unthinkably rude. So mannerly and sluttish at the same time. Without hesitation she said:

  “That one, that one, and … that one.” She was voracious.

  A bonfire requiring all the wood in the vicinity.

  My best idea was to bring her back into the bedroom and tie her up so I could provide her with some semblance of what she’d done to me. Meanwhile she might have been shoe shopping. This girl was going to require a lot of sex. Not just my usual two-handed, fingers-at-the-front and thumb-from-behind routine that probed her G-spot and got me out of having to fuck her. For her this would merely be an appetizer. In her corset and garter belt she looked like a turn-of-the-century prostitute in an American TV movie. That is to say the sexuality looked cosmetic. Not emanating from within her but pasted on the surface. There had been a moment where she’d gone off-menu and I witnessed the arrival of the very bad girl within her. But she had now reverted to automatic. How could I summon that nasty little cunt again?

  I led her back to the bed and cuffed her like she had cuffed me, only now the cuffs had shifted and she was able to reach her left hand with her right.

  “That’s no good.”

  She was obviously annoyed. Like I was the understudy who could never grasp the subtle pressures of being an erotic deity. The basic realities required to tease a fantasy into existence were beginning to weigh heavy on us both. As her annoyance began to interfere with my hard-on I felt more like a manservant than a lover. Was it a Nebraskan thing? The result of the Midwestern class system? Once she was suitably restrained I stroked and teased her unbelievably smooth young body.

  Reddish-purple hues morphed and merged just below the surface of her milk-colored skin like she was a human lava lamp. I could have lingered there all night doodling on her with my fingertips. She was less poised now with her hair unkempt and slightly glistening with sweat. She strained and wriggled against the cuffs as I began to tickle her. She obviously hated this but I couldn’t resist because the more she wriggled the harder it made me. There was no way for her to correct the maddeningly ticklish wayward strands of hair that fell across her face and there was no way I was going to help. I was in control now. I reveled in the idea that she was being forced outside the norm she’d built for herself. Her completely bald pussy showed no evidence of hair having ever been present. It looked like she’d spread her legs too wide and the skin there had torn.

  I inserted a finger and contrary to expectations found she was sopping wet. It was like dipping a finger in warm honey. She didn’t moan in acknowledgment so much as sob quietly, like this was the final humiliation. Her legs began to kick almost comically, frog-like, trying to swim away from each new thrust of my finger. Two fingers caused the swimming to increase in intensity as her arms pulled downward against their restraints and her legs spasmed and kicked against theirs. No more convoluted choreography and no more frozen smiles, now she was filthy, feral, and unguarded. She looked like a vicious little bitch capable of murder if that was what was required. A dirty-minded clever ambitious pretty twenty-one-year-old little whore.

  And I liked it.

  This was the real Lucretia. The girl whose dad disappeared when she was twelve. Who admitted to fucking best friends to get out of relationships. Who was amazed and didn’t really believe me when I said I didn’t find it awkward not to drink. Who openly rejoiced when I made references to her ass. Who had a reservoir of sexual lava bubbling inside her waiting to erupt.

  It was humbling though because I knew I couldn’t satisfy this. Not with fingers and not with tongue and not with anything else I could summon. This girl, the one darting sidelong glances at me as if to inquire, You really want to wake this up?

  I heard myself asking about the sex party.

  I couldn’t help it.

  She was tied up and interrogation seemed apt.

  I told myself it would excite her too but the truth was I wanted details. Did it take place in someone’s home? Was everyone naked? Were there more men than women? Was there a fuck machine? I would have asked for pictures if I hadn’t thought it would totally freak her out.

  “I’ve only been to the one,” she said as if this meant she was hardly qualified to speak on the subject. But it was one more than I’d been to. The layout she said was like a nightclub with couches and a bar in the front. There was a curtained area at the back marked NO CLOTHING. Once entered you were basically consenting to the idea of being approached by strangers for sex. Couples were already fucking when she and her ex walked in. There were others present, all of them men, standing around watching. It occurred to me that even at a sex party there was still a very real possibility of being rejected.

  Rejected naked.

  “I’m not going to come,” she said matter-of-factly, and I knew without being told that I was expected to uncuff her and stop.

  Within seconds she was sitting on the edge of my coffee table still in her lingerie but any flush of orgasm or passion had been replaced by a pale normalcy that I should have been more attentive to. This line of questioning was not doing anything for her. I knew I was testing her patience but since she’d made so much of my not coming the night before I was confident she’d at least want to witness the phenomenon before she left.

  “So you started having sex with your boyfriend while these other guys watched?”

  “I invited one of them to join us.”

  “So while you were having sex with your boyfriend you invited one of the naked guys to come over and join in?”

  She nodded.

  “I had already told him I wanted to see what it would be like to be double-penetrated.”

  It must have been devastating for the incumbent boyfriend. After all, it hadn’t been his idea. She had decided to go to a sex party ostensibly to get fucked by two guys at the same time but in reality planning to dump the guy she’d been with for the previous three years. This way she’d not only be unfaithful to him, she’d make him an accessory to the act.

  “And was it fantastic?”

  I should have changed the subject but somehow I needed to know more.

  “Well, it was a relief to be fucked by someone else.”

  She said this as if it was what she had been resisting saying all along.

  “But then I only went to that one, so I don’t know how they normally work.”

  “And how come you were so confident the stranger wouldn’t refuse you?”

  She looked at me, the naked and doughy middle-aged man sitting beside her, to see if I was joking.

  “There’s no way a guy is going to refuse,” she said with the confidence of a beautiful young dancer wearing lingerie.

  “I should warn you, you better get moving because all this talk is … well, the balloon is losing its air.”

  She stood up and strode into the bathroom and then into the bedroom and before I knew what was happening she was standing there completely naked.

  “So are you going to fuck me?”

  She was acting like I had deliberately avoided fucking her. Which I had but I was only holding out because I thought the longer it took me to come the more pleasure there would be for both of us. Because when I came it was all over.

  “Yes of course, are you kidding me? But I’m just afraid that as soon as I put my cock in that tight little pussy I’ll come immediately.”

  “You’re holding back for you. Not for me,” she said, the flush returning to her cheeks. “It makes it better for you, not for me. I need you to fuck me.”

  She thought for a second.

  “Why won’t you fuck me? What’s all this …” She made a disgusted face as she mimicked my fingering movements and caresses. She was standing there naked, dancing almost, mimicking me.

  “Is it because of all those years of drinking? Is that it? It makes sense.”

  She was inferring I could
n’t get it up but she wasn’t going to say it.

  “Well let’s try again then,” I said, determined to be engaged in the act of trying to have sex rather than standing around talking about it. But she was already shoving a foot into one of her sparkly flat white ballet shoes and the enormity of what this meant exploded inside me.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I’m not in love with you, I broke up with the last guy because he was not the man I’m going to marry. He was seventeen years older than me. I’m trying to improve on that. You’re in your forties right?”

  I nodded warily. She was fully dressed now and I was naked and flaccid.

  Not a good look for me.

  “I was kissing you in there and I realized I don’t love you.”

  There was another pause now before she continued: “I only broke up with him two months ago.”

  My only hope now was that such a vulnerable revelation might lead to more sex.

  “That’s … very recent,” I said.

  But she was merely offering it to me as an escape route. She was willing to take the blame for the tension between us but the truth was I had been unable to give her the fucking she required and she wouldn’t stay where she wasn’t wanted.

  The idea of me holding back from coming was insulting to her. If I was really attracted to her I wouldn’t be able to control myself. It shouldn’t be so easy to resist her. I was negging her, inferring she was less sexy than she actually was. It was like acknowledging a joke was funny but refusing to laugh. Something for which I would judge a person very harshly. It was a form of stinginess. I had become an emotional as well as financial miser.