by Vina Jackson
Either way I looked at it, it proved obscene.
A hand held down my head. Tobacco breath drifting from my ear to my nose, skimming my cheek.
His cock breached me.
3
Don’t Look Now
There was a contradictory dryness to the pervasive humidity of the sauna. It caught in my throat and lingered invisibly, hanging aloft among the swirls of thin, white, ever-shifting clouds filling the room. The stranger’s rigid penis thrust its way into my body with an energy that took me by surprise, invasive, destructive, stretching me faster than I wanted so early in the ordeal. I was too dry. He was too large. I felt a painful stab against my cervix, like a blunt knife piercing me roughly in one expert, practised movement. As much as I had been expecting, even welcoming, his penetration, the sensation was so savage that I howled in protest. He had buried himself deep inside me so quickly, unhesitantly, that the outer skin of his cock felt like sandpaper against the fragile epidermis of my bruised sex lips and began to light an unwelcome match under my whole sexual parts.
The pain was like a brand, and surely, I thought, the dryness of my sex must have hurt him too, but if it did, he showed no signs of slowing his assault on me.
I should not have been surprised that my cry out only served as a spur for him to begin his mechanical thrusts in and out of me and in and out again with all the steady infernal rhythm of a piston. A lone teardrop formed in my left eye as further layers of pain began to superimpose themselves over and across the initial wave, not so much extinguishing the first nexus of fire but spreading mercilessly outward in concentric circles until my whole body felt as if each nerve ending was being tortured, while I happened to be pornographically displayed for the hungry gaze of god only knows how many other men standing further back in the floating white shadows of the sauna and watching the terrible spectacle. Waiting for their turn.
Ignoring the dreadful dryness of my loins, the stranger’s cock with every repeated jut kept on burning me, invading me, opening me, gaping me, marking me as his sexual property, his chattel.
I also realised he was taking me raw, unprotected. I hadn’t even thought to insist on condoms. Had taken it for granted that everyone wore them, these days. But it was too late for regrets now.
My throat was unbearably tight as I attempted to swallow, my prone body animated by his steady thrusts. Almost choked. Just another pitiful sound that I imagined brought a smile to his lips as he continued to plough me from behind.
My knees hurt, his heavy body pressing down on mine, his balls slapping against my rump.
The teardrop fell.
Dominik never stops looking up at me, even with his nose buried into the folds of my cunt, his tongue lapping studiously at me, his teeth gently teasing my clitoris, his lips biting my soft, engorged labia. The warmth and understanding in his brown eyes brings me peace. As his mouth orchestrates the parallel melodies of my heartstrings, playing in time with the primal sensations of arousal rising deep in the pit of my stomach, the clever, knowing way he has, his intuitive understanding of my body, makes me feel like both a woman in love and a slave to my cravings. The gentleness in the way he fills that void inside me and makes me feel whole and wanted, helps me reach that level when sex ventures beyond the physical realm of just cock, cunt, and entwined limbs. My lover, my master, my rock …
Time stopped, my body swaying this way and that under the physical blows of his lust, my opening on fire and unable to summon any relief, inner and outer skin bathed in the deep-seated chilli pepper-like burn of salt on open wounds. But I was beginning to relax into the pain. He violently slapped my buttocks and I pictured the shadow of his hand and all five fingers clearly delineated in shocking pink against the white skin of my pale arse, a graffiti pattern of possession. The slap brought me back to reality as every sound in the room was suddenly amplified, the staccato of his breath, the steady pizzicato of water dripping, the hissing of steam, the lustful agitation of the male spectators.
The bearded stranger’s final thrust dug into me with furious intensity as he grunted and released a flow of added moisture, flooding me with his juices.
His movements ceased, but his cock stayed hard, impaled deep inside me. His breath steadied and the steam room settled into an eerie hush. A deep sense of anxiety weighed, leaden, on my mind. I knew all too well that this fuck was just the beginning.
‘Is this what you wanted?’ he asked, his voice slicing through the white mist enveloping us.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes what?’ he insisted.
I panicked, searching for the hidden meaning of his question. Then it came to me.
‘Yes, Sir …’ I bleated out, and a wave of shame swept across me as I realised that I had allowed myself to fall into this situation and that I probably deserved it. I was now paying for the brief months of peace I had managed to enjoy with Dominik. This was my punishment.
‘That’s better,’ he said, and slapped my arse once more. His wet hand vociferous against the white humidity of my flesh. It stung badly.
He pulled out of me.
I waited for the next stage of my ordeal. On all fours, fully exposed, the welcoming folds of my open cunt a mess of secretions and unnatural lubrication. He stepped back and turned to face me. His hand gripped my hair and forcibly raised my head and lips to his level.
‘Here. Lick me clean.’
His erect cock pushed its way past my lips and invaded my mouth and throat. He tasted acrid, although I knew it was as much me as him, the blend of our juices somehow creating this strong flavour, betraying the fact that we did not truly fit together.
My tongue ran across his thick shaft, guided by the topography of his ridge and the veined landscape of his trunk until he filled me once again to the brim, his balls swinging against the barrier of my parched lips.
Pulling me by the hair towards his body, he kept on forcing his way down my throat. I almost bit down on him, an unwitting slave to my gag reflex and thirst for air.
He slapped my face in disapproval before pulling his penis from my mouth, disengaging.
‘Hmmm …’ he said. ‘Out of practice, are we?’
I was.
Pain and pleasure arise in unison from my depths as Dominik’s expert fingers slowly twist my nipples while he calmly observes the immediate reaction on my face. The blood flows from surrounding veins and passages to my areolas, the darker territory of pinkness at the tip of my breasts and my nipples begin to tighten in response, nubs of flesh imperceptibly growing harder under his ministration. The sensation is like a slow crescendo where the initial axis of hurt is washed over by a massive wave of merciful release vibrating across my whole being until I become the pain, inhabit it. And the pleasure. My limbs loosening their anchors, my heart floating in a sea of calm acceptance.
‘More?’ he asks, the pads of his fingers tightening their grip on the nipple, twisting just an infinitesimal thousandth of an inch anti-clockwise further.
I gasp.
‘Yes … Please … More.’
I want to tell him to take me even further beyond the wall of pain until my thought processes are erased and I can melt under his touch, like a pool of water and become oblivion, just a mindless knot of sensations under his control.
He takes my chin in his other hand and raises my face so he can look into my eyes. There is an enigmatic smile on his face. Both observer and worshipper. A stab of excruciating agony births in my nipple as he squeezes it again between thumb and forefinger, drawing out the pain in slow motion like a magician pulling another phantasmagorical trick from his hat or sleeve. I am reaching the zone. Where nothing else exists.
I close my eyes, surrender to his wonderful torture, becoming the sum of all the unworldly sensations dancing across the delicate surface of my skin, my pleasure geography.
‘More,’ I whisper. ‘More, more, more.’
His fingers relax and the flow of blood returns to my breasts, my emotions in free fall as I gracefully return to the surface of this strange planet he has been exploring with me. This man of mine who can turn pain into gold.
Under the bearded stranger’s instruction, two of the men present in the sauna picked me up from the floor and laid me out on a wooden bench over which they’d draped a large towel. Through it, the geometrical lattice pattern of the slats cut into my back.
The steam clouds were thinning and I could now see that there were half a dozen other men in the restricted space of the room. Some were naked while others had tightened towels around their midriffs in a futile attempt to conceal their erections.
Peering at their faces, sweaty, pasty, predatory, I absurdly thought of them as an audience, as if I was on a stage about to perform and couldn’t help wondering what piece of music I should select for the occasion.
The man who had brought me here must have nodded in approval as they all began approaching me and I was quickly surrounded.
Calloused hands began to knead my breasts with talentless greed, while someone slipped a couple of fingers inside my mouth and others directed their attention to my cunt, forcing my legs apart, beginning to frig me. Through a corner of my eye, I could see the stranger looking on, a taut expression stretching across his full mouth, as if relishing the spectacle and speculating as to what each new man would wish to do with me. Alien hands swarmed all over me, inside me and outside of me and although I couldn’t summon any form of disgust faced by their eager clumsiness and roughness, neither could I evoke any atom of pleasure to trigger its familiar takeover of my mind and body to relieve the tension freezing me in place. I just felt like a spectator imprisoned in a stasis of supreme indifference, detached, faraway.
The sound of hissing steam and dripping water was now joined by shortness of breath and indistinct murmurs, a choir of want unleashed.
A nail scratched me as it busily foraged between my pussy lips, fingers grazed my nipples, a hand pushed its way between my legs in an attempt to reach my anus, mercilessly pinching the taut skin of my perineum. I shuddered.
One of the men in the sauna moved behind the bench over which I was unceremoniously laid out and squatted over my head. His heavy balls dangled above my face as he inserted his cock inside my mouth and began a series of rhythmic thrusts. I shifted so I could accommodate him better and not gag. My acquiescence to my situation appeared to encourage the other men, unless the whole scenario was actually being orchestrated from afar by the stranger in charge. A man positioned himself between my outspread legs and entered me.
‘Yes …’ I heard him whisper.
I was still so wet from the bodily releases of the earlier fuck that he sliced into me like a sharp knife into soft butter. Behind him, the others lined up.
I told myself it was only sex, but still my mind roamed out of control and I tried to repress the lust the situation was beginning to initiate. I did not want to enjoy this. I shouldn’t find any of this gratifying.
The first man came quickly, and slumped momentarily across me, his breath reeking of cheap street food. He withdrew and was quickly replaced by another, with a shorter but undeniably thicker cock that bruised my lips as he pushed his way in.
One by one, the men used me, taking their appointed position between my legs and sating their lust. I lost count. Most came back for more, as I was repeatedly assisted up and turned, spread, opened from missionary to doggy style positions and variations in between so that they could all enjoy me to the full according to the scriptures of their limited imaginations.
I felt limp, tired, stretched beyond endurance.
Their faces blurred. Their cocks, moving from my cunt to my mouth and back again in an infernal chain of penetrations became a jumble of hard muscle and sinews until they all felt the same, an identikit penis throbbing away like a malevolent heart whose sole purpose was to impose its will on me.
When I felt it must all finally be over, hands seized me under my arms and pulled me up. I was arranged into yet more positions and the barrage continued as they now combined and I had to accept two cocks inside me, then three, a relentless march of dreadful improvisations.
Was this what I had craved for, the depravity that could wash away my sins, my memories?
His face a mask of blank ambiguity, Dominik takes hold of the flogger. I cringe in anticipation. Again he intends to make me walk that narrow goldbricked road between pain and pleasure, despair and hope. My hands are tied to the bedstead with short lengths of red, silk rope he had me publicly choose in a store in Islington in the full knowledge the sales assistants and other customers knew all too well for what purpose they were being acquired. The knots are tight. I am lying on my stomach. It’s a summer evening and the windows are open to the breeze sweeping gently across the branches of nearby trees outside on the hill road that separates us from the Heath. A tongue of air travels slyly across my uncovered backside.
I grit my teeth.
He waits.
Does he want me to beg?
I can feel the wetness birthing between my thighs. Something I am unable to control. And Dominik knows it.
A faint smell reaches my nose. My nostrils unavoidably flutter in a futile attempt to detect its nature. Fragrance? Food? Breath? His? Mine? A green note like freshly mown grass, a hint of fruit, a sweet and far from unpleasant if astringent undercurrent of bitterness. But as soon as my brain captures an element in flight, it disappears to be replaced by another. Is it the confused smell of my lust, my feelings?
The flogger in Dominik’s hands is made up of a handle and several straps which are attached to it. The hardwood is coloured warm burnished rust and matched with a fall of hair on cowhide. Depending on how he chooses to wield it, it can either sting or caress.
Now I wait.
Dominik’s silence persists.
I realise it’s become a battle between our wills, as to who will say something first.
I feel him move above me.
A strand of material grazes the delicate skin of my left buttock and I shiver, as if the flogger has miraculously been electrified, plugged in by some miracle of science. A river of desire is growing between my legs.
He pulls the strap across my skin, slowly, allows it to linger sensuously, almost tickling my aroused epidermis where every nerve ending is unbearably alive, keening for his touch.
He retreats.
Plunging me back into unfeeling silence.
He draws back, raises the flogger and allows its hanging straps to slide across the soles of my bare feet.
Words form in my mind, but I say nothing. I know he wants me to. I resist his wishes. Even though I can’t see his face, I know there is a faint smile on his lips. A beautiful mask that affirms his desire. The way he loves me.
I hear him shift in the darkness.
The flogger’s flowing hairs again linger against the small of my back, as if searching for a specific target. I am floating in my own juices.
My heartbeat slows and matches the rhythm of my breath. My tongue is dry. I want him so much. I crave the sting of the leather that will bring me to life, enhance my emotions, make me whole.
‘Oh, Dominik …’ I whisper.
He bends his head and breathes against my cheek.
‘Yes?’
‘Do it, do it, I beg you …’
He steps back and I hear the flogger swish in the air before it falls.
They came and went between my legs and inside my bruised mouth, mindless automatons, strangers, men. I’d become a rag doll. Manipulated, used, swaying like the branch of a tree between their attacks, their inhuman form of loving.
The steam had evaporated after someone had likely switc
hed the sauna controls off, and everything was now starkly clear. The pocked wall tiles in dirty shades of white, the water dripping in fat globules from the ceiling, the tangled mess of soaked, abandoned towels littering the floor, the squat hairy legs of men circling me, the pale landscape of my body. I felt broken, trampled, I hurt everywhere, each single inch of my defences shattered, on edge.
There was a lull in the storm.
I heard the stranger’s voice.
‘How do you feel?’ he asked me.
‘I don’t know. I’m … confused …’
‘Confused?’
My lips were parched. There was a disconnect between my words and my brain.
Already, the memories of my ordeal were blurring and running beneath the undercurrents of pleasure and acute psychic and physical pain, there was a subterranean stratum of times past, better times. I struggled to understand.
‘I can’t explain,’ I protested feebly.
What did he want me to say? That throughout the obscene theatre of my continuous sexual use I could not prevent my mind revelling in the actuality of my debauchery, that there were indeed moments of unpreventable highs? Because he knew that if I admitted to this, I was lost in more ways than one.
He pulled me to my feet.
The fire in my body was ebbing.
I must have looked pitiful. My hair was damp, lank, falling in wet strands to my shoulders. I looked down, there were random scratches scattered along my arms, my body, my freshly shaved mons was almost a shade of scarlet and was unnaturally swollen, bruises highlighted the unsteady length of my legs.
‘I’ll tell you then what you are unable to express,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘This is indeed what you wanted and you enjoyed it and every day to come you will think of this night and you will experience that thrill over and over again. You will feel both ashamed and aroused but as much as you try and resist somewhere inside you there will be an irrational, ingratiating voice encouraging you to let it all happen again. To become that wonderful whore one more time. And eventually you will break and pick up the phone and call me and I will make it happen.’