She asks, “Are you clean?”.
I reply, “As a whistle, baby.”.
She sits up and looks at my dick, giving it the once over looking for herpes scars or whatever, then grabs me and pulls me down and we’re in it. It’s good. She’s into it. I’m into it. The sighing and moaning and stage-whisper swearing are all falling into place where they should. I put her through her paces and she looks up at me with squinted eyes and says, “I want you to cum.”. I say, “In or on, babe?”. She says, “Cum inside me.”, so I pick up the pace and clench my eyes and go to that special place in my head and fuck her until I cum. It’s great. I can feel her squeezing me from the inside, squeezing my dick in synch with the rhythm of my orgasm. I slap her big, firm, round ass and let myself pop out and I roll off to the side, resting on my arms behind my head, feeling smug about a job well done.
She asks, “Do you have a shirt I can use?”.
I ask, “To wear?”.
She gives me a look and I roll over onto my side and fish around in the laundry until I come up with a black shirt that I know doesn’t smell too awful. She takes the shirt and tucks it between her legs and then lays back down on her side and snuggles up against me.
I ask, “Are you okay with that, babe? I mean are you on birth control or something?”.
She answers, “No. I’m pregnant.”.
I take a second to think about that.
She says, “Is that a problem?”
I say, “Nope. As long as it’s not mine.”
Then we go out for some Chinese food.
We carried on like that for about a trimester, then she decided to give it another shot with the father.
That would have been simple enough, except that the father was another friend of my room-mate that I knew from back in the day but didn’t much like back then, but he grew up to be tolerable and he had a pretty good little punk rock band together that needed a bass player. I happened to be an excellent bass player so I joined up, so I was playing bass for the band of the guy who impregnated the girl I was fucking three times a day. Or I was fucking the mother of the unborn child of the guy whose band I was playing bass in. There are a few ways you can phrase it, but no matter how you shuffle the words, it pretty much meant the same thing. But I was good at keeping secrets and keeping people separate in my mind, and I was never quite sure if she ever told him the subplot of the story.
She had the kid, a little girl. Things didn’t work out with the father so she called me up and asked me over. Having the kid around was weird. The three of us would go to the supermarket to get stuff for dinner. People would look at the three of us like we were a happy little family unit.
People would say to me, “Aw, she looks just like you!”.
And I would just smirk smile at them and think to myself, “Funny story about that…”.
We’d go back to her house and she’d fix dinner and give the kid a bath and put her to bed and then we’d get into it, but we had to be quiet. And if she heard a noise from the other room she’d stop and get off of me, naked, and check on the kid, leaning into the door of the dark room for a few seconds, listening, then she’d climb right back into bed and on top of me and we’d carry on.
I’d heard that after birth, a woman’s vagina readjusts and it feels even tighter than before she had the baby. That’s a fucking myth. It was like a fucking catcher’s mitt. Half the time I couldn’t tell if I was even inside of her. It was all one big wet, warm, disaster. A hot, wet, stinky, hairy mess. One time she switched it up and put it in her ass and I wasn’t even aware she did the change-up. I thought, “Jesus. Finally I’m in!”, then she kept on taking it out and looking at my dick. I didn’t realize till afterwards that she was checking to see if it was covered in shit. Thankfully it wasn’t, but still, I kind of like to know which sex act I’m participating in at any point in time. If a girl has her finger in my ass I want to know about it, not wonder why I’m suddenly much less comfortable than I was a couple seconds ago.
I felt bad about all of the worry-free sex I got before the vaginal trauma, so I felt obliged to throw her a fair amount of bones. I figured it was the least I could do. The kid wasn’t a bad kid and the mom just wanted someone to keep her feeling like a woman. She was into some really weird things though. She had some lesbian friends that wanted to have kids, but didn’t want to buy sperm. Well, sperm I got plenty of, and since I’m awesome and I’m not planning on having any kids anytime soon, I figured I might as well spread the wealth. I volunteered my pearly white gun oil, but it never happened. I wasn’t sure how we were going to ladle in the gravy anyways. I could have jerked off into a rocks glass and they could use a turkey baster or whatever, but I didn’t want some crazy dyke coming after me for child support in ten years, so I wanted there to be some kind of legal on paper agreement that I give them the sperm and that’s that. I don’t want to come around and play third wheel daddy. I guess I could have provided the sperm in the natural way, it probably would have had a better chance of working that way too, but as hot as it is to imagine having sex with lesbians, these were the kind of lesbians that you didn’t want to have sex with. Mannish, butchy, pug-nosed, heavy-set, short-haired, man-hating lesbians. So fuck that noise.
I started tapering off our dinner-dates until she got the message that dinner with baby and unfulfilling guilt-ridden sex was not my idea of what I wanted to do on a Friday night. A few years down the line, she accused me of being a racist over LiveJournal, which is just absurd. So I told her she was a sheltered little private school princess and she should have spent a month at my high school where five, tough as nails, underprivileged inner-city black girls would beat the shit out of her and steal every last thing out of her purse every day in gym class. Fuck racism. I just went to high school with some real underprivileged assholes. Black, brown, red, yellow, or white. An asshole’s an asshole no matter what color their skin is.
So she unsubscribed from my journal and I didn’t hear from her anymore.
Years later I looked her up on MySpace to see how she was doing. She got all into ecoconsciousness and midwifery and polyamory and now she has, like, three different kids from three different fathers, but she can afford to support them and none of them are mine, so God bless her.
I spent another year alone.
Like all of life. Wet spells and dry spells. Strikes and gutters.
I had to take some time off to redefine myself.
I was in pretty bad shape too.
Working and going to school full-time hadn’t helped.
I was waking up and getting into my car and going to class and sitting down and getting up and getting into my car and going to work, where I worked third shift and I was exhausted, so I sat down and copped naps all night then I’d get up, get into my car, and go home and go to bed then repeat the whole thing day in day out.
I wasn’t getting a lot of quality sleep, so my body always thought it was hungry, and the carbohydrate fortified college dining center food didn’t help.
So I went on a drastic diet and started working out every day.
For the diet I ate only one chicken caesar salad with low-fat dressing for lunch, and as much honeydew melon and cantaloupe as I wanted, washed down with a couple gallons of water a day.
I had to move down a few notches on my belt, then punch in a couple new ones.
My XL t-shirts started to bag, then I could wear Large shirts again and look pretty sharp in them.
I started to hit the local “fetish” club. Well, it wasn’t really a fetish club. More like a dive bar with a “fetish” night. I didn’t go there for the kinks and deviants. At least not at first. Not intentionally.
I just liked chicks with tattoos and piercings and dyed hair.
Girls walking around in lingerie or outfits consisting of knee high black boots, a thong and electrical tape “X”s on their nipples.
It was the kind of place where strippers go for sexy fun on their nights off.
I’m coming up
to the door and there’s this peroxide blonde with a button nose and cornflower blue eyes standing outside in a red pleather miniskirt and a black push-up corset. She said, “Hey! You should go I here!”. I gave her a wry look and said, “Yeah. I was going to.”
That was about it.
I found her on LiveJournal and added her and sent her a message like, “Hey! Weren’t you the girl I talked to outside the club on fetish night?”
It was.
We went back and forth and made plans and we ended up dating for a couple years.
Since we met at fetish night of course we played around with BDSM a little.
Nothing major. Some neckties. Some duct tape. Some ice cubes. Candle wax. A dull knife.
But it got boring.
It’s so much work setting up a good BDSM session.
Putting the CDs aside. Getting the candles set up.
And there’s only so much variation you can do on any theme.
We played the break-up / make-up game for a while.
When we were broken up I didn’t care what or who she did as long as she didn’t bring back some fucked up venereal disease.
But when we were together I figured we were seeing each other exclusively.
Then I started hearing vague rumors that there was another guy.
I wasn’t angry that she was “cheating” on me. I chalked that up to human nature.
People say that they’ll tell the other person, but they never do. At least not in my experience.
I was just offended that she thought that she was smarter than I was.
She was fucking around with some guy from the fetish club and meeting up with him there when she told me she was just going there with her friend who was covering for her.
I was offended that she was screwing around in our social circle and she thought that she could get away with fucking around and that I’d never figure it out.
It was just disrespectful. That’s all.
She came over the house and she went to use the bathroom.
I dove into her bag and checked her text message inbox.
Of course. When will they ever learn?
I flipped the phone shut and tucked it back into her bag and acted casual when she came back in.
We still messed around with BDSM every now and again so it wasn’t a surprise when I started commanding her.
I told her to stand still up.
She smiled coyly, thinking she was in for a treat.
She was in for a treat alright.
I picked up a roll of duct tape and cut a length which I put over her eyes.
I unbuttoned her shirt and roughly folded it down over her shoulders.
White blouse, black push-up bra if you must know.
I pushed the straps off of her shoulders and spun her around, undoing the double hooks.
I spun her back around and she let the bra fall to the floor.
I could tell she was excited. Her nipples were erect, sticking out from her smooth firm pale white breasts.
She stepped out of her shoes and I unzipped the side of her skirt and it fell to the floor among the rest of her clothes.
I let her stand there and dragged my fingertips up and down her legs and torso.
I figured I wasn’t going to be seeing this again so I might as well get an eye full.
Whenever I veered near her black thong she would lean in towards me and gasp.
Finally I grabbed the sides of her thong and swiped them down around her ankles.
I could see her outer vaginal lips were glistening with secretion.
I spun her around and I picked up the duct tape and cut a couple more lengths.
I duct taped each wrist to the opposite elbow.
I said, “Get on your knees.”
She dropped to her knees with a fleshy clopping sound.
I thwapped the head of my erection around her mouth and made her try to get her mouth on it like she was bobbing for apples.
I let her get her mouth on it. She got about half of it in and hummed.
Then she took her mouth off of it and ran her tongue up and down the shaft, with detours around the head, then back down the shaft and over my balls. She licked her way back up and got it back in her mouth. She worked it in and out of her mouth for a little while, then I grabbed her ears and pushed my dick in until it hit the back of her throat. She made muffled gagging sounds. I let her gag on it till she stopped gagging and then I took it out quickly and she gasped a little for air.
We kept that up until I got bored and I put my hands into her armpits and lifted, saying, “Up!”.
She waited standing while I cut another length of duct tape and patted it firmly over her mouth.
Bound and gagged, I pushed her over face down on the bed.
Her arms strained, naturally wanting to break her fall, but since her arms were firmly bound, her face took the impact on the pillows and her tits took the impact on the mattress.
I rifled in her purse and got out her phone.
I could see her out of the periphery of my vision trying to use her hearing to figure out what I was doing.
Maybe she recognized the sound of her purse. The sound of the clasp, or the reverb of the contents knocking about inside as I rifled for her phone.
I found her phone and I put it on the bedside table.
I didn’t bother fucking her.
I spread her creamy pale ass cheeks and let a long drip of spit fall onto her exposed asshole. Her pink balloon knot clenched when the spit hit it. I always thought that was funny. It always happens.
I swished my mouth around, working up more spit and put my thumb in my mouth, loading it up with spit. I used my thumb to smear my spit around until her asshole was glisteningly slimy. Not so much for her comfort as for mine.
I put the tip of my penis against the center of her anus and pushed in a little to get it started. She made an annoyed sound, but with her mouth duct-taped shut everything just sounded like “Mmmm.” with minor melodic variations.
You know what they say? It’s true.
Eighty-five percent of communication is body language. By her body language, I could tell that she didn’t much like the head of my cock in her ass.
I adjusted my hips and hers so I could put some more weight behind my hard-on and watched my cock gradually disappear into her pink asshole. Her shoulders strained, and her head wrenched back, and she “mmmm”-ed her annoyance, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. I was going to what I was going to do.
When I was balls-deep, I leaned back so that I was resting with my knees on the bed, sitting on the upper part of her thighs with my ass, and the inside of my legs on either side of her hips. I was pretty comfortable, and I didn’t care about her comfort.
I leaned over to the bedside table and picked up her cell phone. I flipped it open and pressed the buttons and went through the menu to bring up her text messages. I clicked “View All”.
When she heard the cell phone sounds, she started “Mmmm”-ing in protestation when she realized what I was doing. She never liked me going through her cell phone. I’m not the jealous type, but I’m also not the foolish type and every now and then I like to check the cell phone of whatever girl I’m seeing to make sure that there’s nothing blatantly obviously fucked up going on. The way I figure it, if they’re not guilty, if they have nothing to hide, then they have nothing to worry about. She should just let me satisfy my insecurity and when there was nothing suspicious in her phone it would just leave me looking insecure and jealous. But girls never just let you look through their cell phone. They always throw a hissy fit or at least shoot you lots of dirty looks while you’re doing it. I think I understand why. It’s the implication of the action. By thumbing through their cell phone they think you’re implying that they’re up to something with someone else, so they think that you don’t trust them. Some girls even use the excuse that since you don’t trust them, they might as well go out and do something worth being accused of since t
hey figure they’re already catching the heat, they might as well commit the crime. It’s human nature.
I didn’t care if she went through my cell phone. Before she came over I always erased my call history and text messages. That should have seemed suspicious enough.
Trust.
Trust is a funny thing.
It’s just when you think you know someone that they go and do something to lose your trust.
You see, someone has to earn your trust in order to lose it.
So it’s when you trust someone that they have the most freedom to do something deceitful.
That’s why I don’t trust anybody.
Like Ronald Reagan said, when discussing nuclear missile programs with Michael Gorbachev, “Trust, but verify.”
So here I was, trusting, but verifying.
I had a creeping suspicion from my woman’s intuition.
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