Cougar prowls Glastonbury
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Free At Last free porn video
Free at Last
"You're giving me a thong and a scent to turn him on more?"
"I am not going to give up this lifestyle because you can't do your
fucking job, you stupid selfish prick. Bedsides, he wants a girl-boy
and guess what? Tag - you're it!"
I stopped before saying anything else. Anna was impossible to argue
with. She was relentless and selfish and eventually, she wore me down.
And naked as I was, with an erect member saying, "Ok," I was beaten. At
the end of the evening, after supper, I lay quietly at her feet while
she enjoyed TV. I washed her shapely feet with my tongue.
They tasted like salt and sweat, leather and spice. They were warm in
places and cool at the tips of her toes. They tasted like life.
I was to Anna as the moon is to the Earth, a smaller thing, a lesser
thing, a provider of financial tides.
But not her mate.
I was Anna's "boyfriend" for a brief time. Met her in Manhattan when I
was at the height of my earning power, more cocky and deluded than
intelligent. She was way beyond my league. She didn't love me, but she
loved my money and used it shamelessly. 400 pairs of shoes, boots,
sandals, slip-ons, leg wrappings, leg warmers and body stockings.
Which was fine, because I was a bona fide foot freak.
And hers were - are - exceptional.
I spent a lot of time at her feet, and she enjoyed my tireless worship.
Who wouldn't? She used to say that anyone - woman or man - would
welcome my foot-enslaved tongue. She would sometimes refer to me
licking men's feet, to goad me perhaps, and it always made me feel weak
in the stomach. Afterwards, I would often have to jerk off in the
bathroom, the taste of her feet in my mouth, the thought of a man's
strong feet firing my imagination. I would almost always blow my load
with a man's imaginary feet on the back of my neck, my nose pressed
into the bathroom rug, inhaling deeply the accumulated smells of the
fibers.
My mistake was not the obvious one. I was perfectly ok with being a
rube. Hey, feet like Anna's don't walk on you every day. I would have
done anything to keep her in my apartment, in my life. And by the time
she realized how far gone I was my real mistake had already been made.
As it turns out, my boss was a secret bisexual and his beautiful black
wife, Loren, would not have approved. So he - Lebron - satisfied
himself by fucking selected men. I was almost half his size and, it
seemed, a perfect fit. Small, white, safe and clean. So I was
"selected".
I turned to Anna for help, for solace, in the days after Lebron let me
know my income and job reputation depended on pleasing his needs. Anna
was unfazed and merciless. There were days, weeks, of talking, but it
all boiled down to this: "I am not going to give up this lifestyle
because you can't do your fucking job, you stupid selfish prick."
That first time was hard for me. My boss, informed of my acquiescence
(by Anna herself, no less, who also let him know I would become the
girl-boy he wanted), was intent on having me early. It was not even
10:00 am before I was summoned to his office. Katarina, his tall,
blond, arrogant Russian assistant, ushered me in with an enigmatic
smile. She seemed to know something and it made my stomach feel queer.
I looked down at her feet. They were beautiful. Long, lean and meant
for worship. How much humiliation would I have to experience? Deep
inside, deeper than anyone had ever seen, there was a part of me that
wanted it all - to be ravished by my black boss, to be scorned by
Katarina, to be the victim of Anna and subject to her increasing
cruelty.
Lebron asked me to strip, which I did as engagingly as possible. Anna
told me a good striptease would make things easier, loosen me up. She
was wrong.
"The thong is nice. Leave it on," Lebron said.
I did.
"Now, undress me," he said.
I tried to follow his detailed verbal commands. But the sequence was
interrupted. I did not get beyond his shirt (I had to kiss and lick his
nipples), pants (I had to kiss his calves inner thighs) and underwear
(I had to apply long licks to his scrota). At that point, my oral
ministrations made the rest of the undressing ritual a moot point.
He fucked me without further temptation. He also caught the scent Anna
applied to me. It was a subtle musk. I was embraced, pulled to his
muscled chest by python-like arms.
I gasped, or moaned. I think I moaned.
He kissed me wetly and fully, with no restraint, all appetitive and
need. I kept my eyes closed, trying not to breathe in too deeply. He
smelled good. I was afraid of getting accustomed to his smell, of my
growing sexual arousal becoming too closely linked to his maleness. Of
my body becoming an olfactory, chemical slave to his pheromone
delights.
God, he smelled good!
And I was, in the end, unable to resist the freedom of melting onto his
body. Here I was, a heterosexual man in love with Anna, but with an
appendage that publicly betrayed erotic attraction to a black man. He
was a force of nature. He kissed me, and hugged me tightly, and I
moaned and let him have his way.
For Anna.
For me?
The thought exploded from my mind as he threw me onto his office divan.
Moments later, he sodomized me.
He was never too rough, but he was rough enough to let me know I was
being fucked.
Not loved.
He had a wife, he told me while his cock was in my ass, and lovemaking
was reserved for his woman.
My body didn't seem to care. The fucking he administered was causing me
to react with my own increasingly visible pleasure. I was surprised by
how quickly the initial pain evaporated, melted, into a kind of sensual
comfort. Or a pain that was pleasurable. I wasn't sure which.
This is for Anna, I reminded myself, allowing my mouth to open and my
tongue to lick his sweaty, muscled shoulders. He threatened me with a
facial deposit of sperm. It never happened; such was the warm embrace
of my anus. But my anal enema was too long in coming. He fucked me too
much for the virgin that I was and I felt it for the rest of the day.
That night, Anna made me relive the fucking for her.
In minute detail.
How did he smell?
How did he react when he smelled you?
Did you cum? (I did not.) Did he make you clean his cock? (He did.) Did
he call you in for seconds? (Mercifully, no.)
Anna also told me a bit about her dalliance that day - a surfer dude
she fucked for fun and frolic. She came three times. I timidly asked
her if I may cum at her feet. No, not tonight, she said.
Maybe tomorrow.
And so it went all week.
That Friday morning, after four days of being denied release, after
four days of enduring the potent mix of Anna's feet in my face and
Lebron's cock in my ass and mouth, it happened.
I came while he fucked me.
He said nothing but "Lick it clean," as he retired to his executive en
suite bathroom. I expected more than that, some measure of punishment.
Some kind of attention. After all, I was there to be a fuck-toy, not to
be his lover. He made that clear from the beginning. But perhaps being
turned out was the worst of all punishments for me. He knew at that
moment that he had mastered me, had used his cock to entice and
pleasure my own body to betray me.
He found my inner pussy and had made a she out of me.
A she who came in her man's arms, kissing and biting and licking his
shoulders, his nipples, his biceps. His she.
Anna enjoyed the story. "Have you licked his feet yet?" she asked.
I tried to explain to her that licking his feet would be a betrayal.
She smirked at that line. Then, she laughed out loud. A betrayal of
what? Of Anna? A betrayal of my privileged relationship as her
footstool? She laughed some more.
"On Monday," she said, "I want you to lick his feet like a fucking
dog."
I took that comment. What did it matter? I was fucked on so many
levels. Fucked and fucked over. Is this what my life came down to?
Anna's spectacular, sexy feet. Lebron's needful cock? How far could I
go? Could I muster the nerve to greet Lebron as I really was, deep
inside? As the submissive white female who would do anything - anything
- for her black master? And could I still retain my access to female
feet? Could I still retain the two identities I needed to make the
composite self I recognized to be "me?"
As it turns out, yes and no.
On Monday, the female feet I would prostrate before were not the ones I
grew to love these past few months. And the maleness I would submit
myself to pleasing would multiply in number and circumstance and turn
me into something that was more female than Anna had planned. More
female than female.
End of part one...
Myra
- 17.09.2022
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