The Knight and the Acolyte Book 8 Chapter 9 The Knight s Passion
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GREAT NIGHT OF STUDYING free porn video
Steve and I met when we were in university. We were
both majoring in optometry, and our conversations
consisted mainly of discussing science and cracking
lame math jokes. Well, perhaps to an outsider, they
were lame, but we always had our own way of
understanding the world.
We were very much alike, beyond the scope of our
interest in science. We listened to the same music,
had the same taste in film, and enjoyed the same
foods. This means we're identical twins, right? No.
Hardly. It wasn't until a few months into our
friendship that I developed a good sense of our
differences and what this implied in a variety of
positions and situations.
All friendships are not equal. One's usually smarter,
more sophisticated than the other. In the case of
Steve and I, I was the one with the scholarships and
the good marks, and he was the underdog in some
respects. Although this was very much a paradox.
What seemed to baffle most people was that I came off
sort of stupid to people. I asked a lot of questions
in our lectures, and generally did not prevail in
terms of marks until the very end, in which I beat
Steve in all of our mutual courses. Steve, a bit of a
competitor, as a result was slightly bitter, and his
history in high school explained it.
"Yeah, I was always second to my best friend. In
everything, really. Sports, school. So I just le[/u]rnt
to except it -- that second was good enough for me."
Despite this seemingly pragmatic approach to dealing
with his insecurities, Steve nevertheless was bitter
towards me. If ever I made a remark that was slightly
off -- whether about the nature of science or religion
- he'd be the first to correct me. If ever I
embarrassed myself, he was the first to laugh -- and
not in a "laugh with you manner", but rather in a
malicious and spiteful fashion.
In all, I didn't really care. Despite his jealousy,
we had a good friendship, with interesting
conversations ranging from God (he's a strong atheist)
to sex. "Perhaps the two are one in the same?" he
once said to me. I considered this for a moment, and
agreed -- perhaps not with the idea itself, but rather
with the implication that anything in this world is
possible. And that certainly came true on one
particular night that would forever change the
dynamics of our friendship.
One night, Steve and I were studying together in his
dorm. We had a midterm examination in three days, and
we thought it might be a good idea to quiz each other.
And so we did for about two hours, until we finally
felt ready to put our books down and take a breather.
"Are you liking university so far?" Steve asked me,
passing a soda.
"Yeah, I mean, it's a change. A lot of work."
"Yeah, you're telling me. But I'm glad I'm away from
home, you know? I love the independence in this
place. I like having my own place. I can finally
masturbate without having to worry about anyone
walking in on me."
I nearly choked on the soda when he said the word
"masturbate". I wasn't aware that we had become THAT
close that we could talk about masturbation in such a
casual manner.
"I see," I said, a couple seconds late.
"Meh, I shoot off in the shower good enough."
I looked the other way, finding it hard to look in his
eyes. This guy was dead serious. He was not afraid
to tell me that he touched himself. I looked back at
him, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. He stared right
back at me, his eyes sincere and the expression on his
face intense. I got the feeling that Steve had many
joy rides on the bed I was sitting on.
"You know, masturbation is supposed to hinder prostate
cancer," I said matter-of-factly.
"Oh, yeah. I'm glad. Makes me want to do it more....
you know, for the good of my health."
We both had a huge laugh over this, and I relaxed a
little, reminding myself that I was a regular
masturbator myself, and had on several occasions taken
a small sip of my own cum, pretending it was Steve's
juice.
"Do you stroke yourself?" He suddenly asked.
"I tried it a few times and didn't like it much."
"Didn't like it much?" Pause. "Yeah, I guess it sort
of hurts the first time. You gotta do it the right
way, you know? Be more gentle and take it nice and
slowly."
With that Steve plopped himself beside me on the bed.
"Here, take it out, I'll show you how to do it
properly."
"I don't think I want to right now, I told you it
hurt," I said weakly.
"Come on, I mean, man-to-man here, I'll teach you."
With that I slowly unzipped my jeans, exposing the
white briefs I was wearing. And I took out my cock.
"All right, cool," Steve said under his breath. "Now
take your hand, like this, and cup it gently... ah,
you got it!"
If you were to take a picture of both of us right now,
you'd see both of us sitting on the bed, Steve smiling
and looking down at my cock, my hand clenched around
my dick, and my head looking down at the circus show I
was putting on down in my crotch.
"Now sort of, rub it up and down... yeah, like that...
good, now you're taking it too fast... no, no...
slower... let it... yeah... like that... and if you
feel the need to come, hold it in! Honestly, you want
a big explosion when you finally get to it."
I suddenly stopped, and shivered. "Shit, I don't want
to do this. I feel weird."
"Weird?" he said, soothingly.
"Yeah, I mean... it kind of hurts too."
"Here let me have a hold of it."
He was dead serious, and our eyes locked for a moment,
and I knew that he really wanted it from me. "Lie
down," he said, in the same soothing voice as before.
"Just close your eyes, and try not to think of me."
So, I lay down on his pillow, my cock fully erected at
this point, and I felt his hand come over my cock.
His hands were remarkably smooth, and he shafted my
cock with his hands slowly. I began to moan slightly
as he took his thumb and began fiddling with the top
of my dick's head, and he made a shushing sound that
silenced me. I can't quite explain how it felt. It
was a mix of extreme pleasure and extreme pain. The
source of the pain came from not being able to control
the sensations. When I masturbated, I had complete
control of my hand, and my mind and body worked
together to create a harmonious unity in pleasure that
was not divided by pain. But I couldn't control
Steve's hand. I couldn't control his rhythm. I
couldn't control the way he would start off slowly,
and then speed up, and then slow down, as if to get me
all excited, and then to be mean, and not let me the
relief of ejaculation. For, each time he slowed down,
I was nearly at the brink of climaxing, and had to
endure the feeling of my cum crouching back down the
interior of my penis. It got to the point where his
rhythm got me so hot and heavy that I began to moan
uncontrollably like "a horny dog that needed to be
fucked" he'd later say.
"I can't do this anymore!" I yelled in a feeble
pathetic voice, pushing his hand away. And with that
the orgasm that Steve had been meticulously saving
squirted all over his bed, his walls, and partly down
his neck.
"Fuck. Look what you did!" he said, laughing. I was
barely amused. Here I was, laying over some guy's
bed, my cock sticking out, and drenched in my own cum.
"Shit, I'm sorry."
"You know what this means. I get to come on you now."
He wouldn't let me dispute, and he pushed be back onto
the bed. He came on top of me, kneeling, his knees
straddling my shoulders. He brought out his monster.
It was big. Bigger than I had ever imagined. He
looked down at me, his hands on his hips, his cock
waving back and forth across my face like I was a
naughty boy about to be punished. He smiled a bit,
and told me that I "looked good".
Although I had several fantasies about him, I was
fucking scared. After giving me a facial with his
precum, he took hold of his monster and began to
furiously zip away at it. After about one or two
minutes of his furious efforts, he would slow down,
much the same way he did with me, and shaft his cock
only slowly, his upper chest moving back and forth in
spasms of pleasure, like a really hot lap dancer.
Slowly, but surely, his cum began to spit out. He
closed his eyes when he began to ejaculate and then
looked up into the ceiling, his eyes fluttering, as if
what we were doing was some religious ritual. He
eventually squeezed all the cum out of his cock and
looked down at me smiling like a drunk, only for his
face to reform in rage.
"Shit. It didn't get on your face!" he almost
screamed. I thought he was going to cry. His cum had
accumulated as a drooping piece of artwork against the
backboard of his bed.
Quickly, as if time was of the essence, he began
scooping up his cum, and transferred his masterpiece
onto my face. A few of the scoops he placed into my
mouth, and I swallowed, obediently.
As much fun as some of it was, in hindsight, I
remember the absolute fear that was running through my
mind. Here was someone who I thought was just one of
the "buddies", straddling my body down and violently
rubbing his cream juices across my face and down my
throat, as if I was famished, and his cum was the only
cure that would bring me back to life. "My cum's like
water to you," he'd later say. "It's the fundamental
compound the keeps your body functioning."
After he was done giving me my facial, he got off my
shoulders, only to re-position himself over my body.
He began to lick his cum off my face, and with his
tongue, fed it to me. "I don't want any of this to go
to waste," he said boldly.
This whole process of cleaning my face took a good
twenty minutes, as I resisted a bit at the beginning.
During those twenty minutes, I became far more
familiar with the sensuality of his body. He had
taken off his shirt (left mine on because he didn't
want any of his cum lost on my shirt) and the smell of
his body flooded my senses. It was the smell of raw
sweat, which he'd later attribute to "hard work". He
also had curious eyes. As he was licking the juice
off my face, he kept his eyes wide open, looking
straight into my own. His eyes screamed an intense
determination that startled me, and I couldn't look
away. The feel of his arms were also incredible. I
never knew he was that built.
Looking back at that night, his cum certainly wasn't a
"fundamental compound" that I needed for my survival,
but nonetheless, a tasty treat.
When he finished, he used his hands and pushed his
upper body off of me, carefully making sure his legs
were still holding me down. Perhaps if you were to
take a picture of that moment, you'd see Steve,
shirtless, with his jeans halfway down his legs,
perched up over me and me, laying beneath him, my
hands brought to the side of my head as if I was
surrendering to some cop yelling, "Put your hands in
the air!"
"How did that feel?" he asked me. I couldn't answer
him. I was speechless. He began to stroke his hands
through my hair, and made his way down to my pants.
He unbtucked my shirt, and unbuttoned it slowly.
Something told me that he wasn't satisfied with just
giving me a facial.
My shirt, our jeans and our underwear eventually came
off. At this point, I was getting used to the idea of
what I was in for, and like a pro, he made me feel
relaxed with his encouraging words: "You'll be fine.
I can tell already that your ass is going to be tight.
I love challenges. (I was on my back at this point,
and his hands were sliding off my undies)"
He also said tenderly: "You're so beautiful, you know
that. Do you know how many times I've thought about
you? About being your first?"
How on earth did he know I was a virgin, I thought?
This offended me at first, and I got back to the old
feelings of being hurt by his remarks, but that,
obviously, did not last long.
We were both naked, he was sitting on top of my
pelvis, and he pointed to a mirror on the wall. "Look
at yourself. Look at how much you want it. You want
me in you," he crooned. I turned towards the mirror,
and agreed. I was more than happy to have Steve's
monster in my body.
And that was the last of his tenderness for the next
thirty five minutes, as his body would not stop
jerking and dancing on me even when I, in my moans of
unbearable pleasure, asked him to please stop so I
could "catch some air".
For the first half of our lovemaking, I was basically
in his crotch. My mouth encompassed his cock like a
nervous k** who was ready to please. Of course, I was
anything but a k**, but a "fully fuck able slut" which
he would moan out when my mouth touched the most
sensitive parts of his cock. Looking back, I don't
think I really enjoyed our first oral sex session. I
was too eager to please him, and I would, with every
pump of my mouth, look up to his face for approval.
90% of the time I sucked him, he coldly looked down at
me, a condemning smirk across his face. For the rest
of the 10% of time, I pleasured him, and he rewarded
me with approval by moaning like a werewolf and
calling me a slut. It's sort of sick, to feel
accepted by these things, but it nonetheless made me
feel like I was doing a good job.
Then came what he called "a face fuck". These weren't
facials, which I still kind of fear because of the
intensity that Steve brought to it, but they are
stimulated cock pumps that are brought on not by the
sucker, but by the sucked. More plainly, he brought
me down under and beneath him, and moved his pelvis up
and down into my face, his cock bridging his manhood
into my mouth. It was during this "face fuck" that I
got my second dosage of his sweet cum. He hadn't
ejaculated when I first gave him oral sex (he has
incredible "restraint"), but he unloaded a truck full
of dairy product into my mouth during this particular
acrobat. Some of the cum itself was dripping down the
side of my mouth, and with the same anger that had
scared the shit out of me before, he sc****d the cum
from the side of my face and shoved his index finger
down my tongue.
"Drink it, you slut," he'd scream at me. As I was
drinking his cum, once again a bit frightened, he
grabbed my ass, which made me wail a slight bit. He
started murmuring in a taunting sort of way, "I want
your ass, I want your ass, I want your ass".
Who was I to say no. I couldn't, nor did I
particularly want to, as I wanted to see how far this
night could go. So he turned me over onto my back and
for a moment he got off me. I wasn't sure what he was
doing. I heard the rip of a wrapper, turned around,
and saw him pulling out a condom from a package.
"Fuck, it's not pulling on!" He was pissed off,
almost as if every extra second he had to deal with
this problem, it was taking away from his "entitled
pleasure", which he later told me I owed him. "My
cock's so fucking huge, it's not pulling on."
Then he threw the condom on the ground, and looked at
me thoughtfully. "Well, you've already swallowed my
cum, this condom is a fucking matter of formality."
And with that, he got back on the bed, with a new found
energy. "Yeah, baby, I'm gonna hump you raw," he
started to chant, with a fake country accent,
cowboy-twanged, which nonetheless turned me on.
With that, he pulled my hips up so that my body
automatically jerked into the dogie position. "You
were made for this, weren't you fuck able slut?"
And with that, he plummeted his cock up my ass. No
warnings. No nothing. I nearly screamed, and it
didn't help that he slapped the side of my ass ten
times as punishment. He suddenly stopped, and his
voice changed back into the normal Steve tone that I
heard in school. "I'll take it slow, just hold your
screaming in."
And so I did. And so he did as well. He slid his
cock into my ass slowly as I adjusted to this new
sensation, making sure that he softened the most
sensitive of blows that he could have given me. He
gave me five minutes to adjust before he felt I was
comfortable with having his monster up my anus. And
after that, he was merciless. He pumped his cock in
me like I was a racehorse, and he, a man determined to
win the race.
As he pumped, he showed his first signs of true
weakness by groaning. Not the kind of groaning like
when we face fucked. But a wild moaning that he
couldn't quite control. I could tell that I DID have
a tight ass, or more formally, a tight hole.
We fucked in this position for a good ten minutes
before my hands became too weak to hold myself up. I
told him this, and he refused to listen. To him, we
were in a fucking race and we still had 100 miles to
go. I panted, I groaned, I moaned, and I begged.
Somehow I think because I was so out of breath, he
didn't hear me pleading for him to stop.
And with that, my hands twisted inwards, my arms
collapsed, and I fell onto the bed, and consequently,
out of his cock, breathless. I was trying to regain
composure; I wasn't sure how mad he'd be -- as I
undoubtedly was the one who made him lose his marathon
race. I looked up at him, and he was panting
uncontrollably as well, his hand holding the side of
the wall where my cum was still plastered. He got
himself together much quicker than I did, and as if
suddenly recharged, he dropped down behind me, lifted
my leg up and told me it wasn't the end.
So he began to fuck me again, but now we were on our
sides. His hot tongue began its journey down my spine
as he did this to me. The simultaneous pleasures of
both his hard pumping cock up my ass and the soft feel
of his tongue made me shiver, and I held onto a side
of the bedpost for support. I looked into the mirror,
which was ironically, in a position that I could see
the whole of our writhing bodies moving in perfect
unison. I remember feeling like a slut at that point,
a fuck rag. And he made it abundantly clear that in
that moment, I was HIS fuck rag by tearing off my hand
from the bedpost and bringing it behind our bodies to
his ass, as if he wanted to further emphasize the
force that his body was generating into my own.
The image in the mirror of us fucking in this manner
haunts me. The sight of both of us naked, on our
sides, and a slightly larger body than my own behind
me fucking the hell out of me as I groan and pant
makes me feel so completely dirty. The sight of my
hands restrained behind Steve's back, grasping his
buttocks, as he thrust his manhood in me made me feel
i*****l.
His rhythm began to slow, and our bodies fell limply
into each other. The air suddenly flooded with warmth
and romanticism as we kissed, exhaustedly and slowly.
In his kiss, I suddenly forgot the savage fuck and
suck that had occurred. In his kiss, I suddenly
forgot and perhaps forgave him for calling me a
"fuck able fuck". In his kiss, the image of the mirror
and me being a fuck rag suddenly faded, and all I could
concentrate on was how beautiful it felt for our
bodies to be holding each other and our kiss being our
salvation.
He broke away, breathless, and whispered the words "I
love you". I told him I loved him too. It was all in
a moment. I'm not sure if I actually loved him in
that moment, but I knew that I felt prepared to love
him, and that was good enough -- even to perhaps God,
who I knew was witnessing our souls unifying.
He peeled his body off of mine, and laid down beside
me.
"I don't know what came over me. I'm sorry."
"Why are you sorry?"
"Because I've always wanted to ... I've...," he was
fumbling for words.
"Say it as it is," I suddenly said.
"Because I've always wanted to dominate you. What we
just did, the way I -- how I scared you, excited me."
Silence. His hands began to crawl up my leg.
"If I could jack you off and make you orgasm three
times, it would make me happy."
Naively, I told him that he could do so. I couldn't
resist the sincerity in his eyes in saying that.
Although, with that being said, anything romantic
about the evening was suddenly broken. Now I
understand what he meant by "controlling" me, which he
displayed perfectly with his relentless hands that
shafted my cock for the next half hour. He certainly
had control of me, especially when he refused to let
go of my cock after the first ejaculation. The second
and third ejaculations came, but far less soon as the
first, as my body was trying to resist the sensations
that Steve was forcing upon me. And he refused to
stop until I got to the third. Now I knew what his
idea of control meant.
After he was done shafting my cock, he laid on top of
me again, and began whispering naughty little
nicknames that he thought suited me. Some of the more
thoughtless nicknames included "doggy", "good ride",
and "cock slave". Some of the more original names
included "Cowboy's favourite pet" and "Thirsty". He
told me to pick a favourite and I told him "Thirsty".
And with that he re-enforced it.
For the whole first year of university, I had sex with
Steve. He'd call me up, asked if I wanted to "study"
with him, and like a horny a****l that couldn't say
no, I told him "Yeah, that would be... great." Some
days I'd lie to myself and convince myself that I was
doing it so that he could relieve his need to dominate
me. Other days I would be pragmatic, and realize it
was I who WANTED to be dominated. And on more hopeful
days, I was hoping that he'd say "I love you" again.
Much of our sex continued on in the same way -- oral
sex, anal sex, facials, and masturbation. Other days
when he was feeling particularly kinky, he liked
shoving his middle finger up my anus and with just
that, he made me orgasm a good two or three times.
Needless to say, we had a great relationship.
both majoring in optometry, and our conversations
consisted mainly of discussing science and cracking
lame math jokes. Well, perhaps to an outsider, they
were lame, but we always had our own way of
understanding the world.
We were very much alike, beyond the scope of our
interest in science. We listened to the same music,
had the same taste in film, and enjoyed the same
foods. This means we're identical twins, right? No.
Hardly. It wasn't until a few months into our
friendship that I developed a good sense of our
differences and what this implied in a variety of
positions and situations.
All friendships are not equal. One's usually smarter,
more sophisticated than the other. In the case of
Steve and I, I was the one with the scholarships and
the good marks, and he was the underdog in some
respects. Although this was very much a paradox.
What seemed to baffle most people was that I came off
sort of stupid to people. I asked a lot of questions
in our lectures, and generally did not prevail in
terms of marks until the very end, in which I beat
Steve in all of our mutual courses. Steve, a bit of a
competitor, as a result was slightly bitter, and his
history in high school explained it.
"Yeah, I was always second to my best friend. In
everything, really. Sports, school. So I just le[/u]rnt
to except it -- that second was good enough for me."
Despite this seemingly pragmatic approach to dealing
with his insecurities, Steve nevertheless was bitter
towards me. If ever I made a remark that was slightly
off -- whether about the nature of science or religion
- he'd be the first to correct me. If ever I
embarrassed myself, he was the first to laugh -- and
not in a "laugh with you manner", but rather in a
malicious and spiteful fashion.
In all, I didn't really care. Despite his jealousy,
we had a good friendship, with interesting
conversations ranging from God (he's a strong atheist)
to sex. "Perhaps the two are one in the same?" he
once said to me. I considered this for a moment, and
agreed -- perhaps not with the idea itself, but rather
with the implication that anything in this world is
possible. And that certainly came true on one
particular night that would forever change the
dynamics of our friendship.
One night, Steve and I were studying together in his
dorm. We had a midterm examination in three days, and
we thought it might be a good idea to quiz each other.
And so we did for about two hours, until we finally
felt ready to put our books down and take a breather.
"Are you liking university so far?" Steve asked me,
passing a soda.
"Yeah, I mean, it's a change. A lot of work."
"Yeah, you're telling me. But I'm glad I'm away from
home, you know? I love the independence in this
place. I like having my own place. I can finally
masturbate without having to worry about anyone
walking in on me."
I nearly choked on the soda when he said the word
"masturbate". I wasn't aware that we had become THAT
close that we could talk about masturbation in such a
casual manner.
"I see," I said, a couple seconds late.
"Meh, I shoot off in the shower good enough."
I looked the other way, finding it hard to look in his
eyes. This guy was dead serious. He was not afraid
to tell me that he touched himself. I looked back at
him, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. He stared right
back at me, his eyes sincere and the expression on his
face intense. I got the feeling that Steve had many
joy rides on the bed I was sitting on.
"You know, masturbation is supposed to hinder prostate
cancer," I said matter-of-factly.
"Oh, yeah. I'm glad. Makes me want to do it more....
you know, for the good of my health."
We both had a huge laugh over this, and I relaxed a
little, reminding myself that I was a regular
masturbator myself, and had on several occasions taken
a small sip of my own cum, pretending it was Steve's
juice.
"Do you stroke yourself?" He suddenly asked.
"I tried it a few times and didn't like it much."
"Didn't like it much?" Pause. "Yeah, I guess it sort
of hurts the first time. You gotta do it the right
way, you know? Be more gentle and take it nice and
slowly."
With that Steve plopped himself beside me on the bed.
"Here, take it out, I'll show you how to do it
properly."
"I don't think I want to right now, I told you it
hurt," I said weakly.
"Come on, I mean, man-to-man here, I'll teach you."
With that I slowly unzipped my jeans, exposing the
white briefs I was wearing. And I took out my cock.
"All right, cool," Steve said under his breath. "Now
take your hand, like this, and cup it gently... ah,
you got it!"
If you were to take a picture of both of us right now,
you'd see both of us sitting on the bed, Steve smiling
and looking down at my cock, my hand clenched around
my dick, and my head looking down at the circus show I
was putting on down in my crotch.
"Now sort of, rub it up and down... yeah, like that...
good, now you're taking it too fast... no, no...
slower... let it... yeah... like that... and if you
feel the need to come, hold it in! Honestly, you want
a big explosion when you finally get to it."
I suddenly stopped, and shivered. "Shit, I don't want
to do this. I feel weird."
"Weird?" he said, soothingly.
"Yeah, I mean... it kind of hurts too."
"Here let me have a hold of it."
He was dead serious, and our eyes locked for a moment,
and I knew that he really wanted it from me. "Lie
down," he said, in the same soothing voice as before.
"Just close your eyes, and try not to think of me."
So, I lay down on his pillow, my cock fully erected at
this point, and I felt his hand come over my cock.
His hands were remarkably smooth, and he shafted my
cock with his hands slowly. I began to moan slightly
as he took his thumb and began fiddling with the top
of my dick's head, and he made a shushing sound that
silenced me. I can't quite explain how it felt. It
was a mix of extreme pleasure and extreme pain. The
source of the pain came from not being able to control
the sensations. When I masturbated, I had complete
control of my hand, and my mind and body worked
together to create a harmonious unity in pleasure that
was not divided by pain. But I couldn't control
Steve's hand. I couldn't control his rhythm. I
couldn't control the way he would start off slowly,
and then speed up, and then slow down, as if to get me
all excited, and then to be mean, and not let me the
relief of ejaculation. For, each time he slowed down,
I was nearly at the brink of climaxing, and had to
endure the feeling of my cum crouching back down the
interior of my penis. It got to the point where his
rhythm got me so hot and heavy that I began to moan
uncontrollably like "a horny dog that needed to be
fucked" he'd later say.
"I can't do this anymore!" I yelled in a feeble
pathetic voice, pushing his hand away. And with that
the orgasm that Steve had been meticulously saving
squirted all over his bed, his walls, and partly down
his neck.
"Fuck. Look what you did!" he said, laughing. I was
barely amused. Here I was, laying over some guy's
bed, my cock sticking out, and drenched in my own cum.
"Shit, I'm sorry."
"You know what this means. I get to come on you now."
He wouldn't let me dispute, and he pushed be back onto
the bed. He came on top of me, kneeling, his knees
straddling my shoulders. He brought out his monster.
It was big. Bigger than I had ever imagined. He
looked down at me, his hands on his hips, his cock
waving back and forth across my face like I was a
naughty boy about to be punished. He smiled a bit,
and told me that I "looked good".
Although I had several fantasies about him, I was
fucking scared. After giving me a facial with his
precum, he took hold of his monster and began to
furiously zip away at it. After about one or two
minutes of his furious efforts, he would slow down,
much the same way he did with me, and shaft his cock
only slowly, his upper chest moving back and forth in
spasms of pleasure, like a really hot lap dancer.
Slowly, but surely, his cum began to spit out. He
closed his eyes when he began to ejaculate and then
looked up into the ceiling, his eyes fluttering, as if
what we were doing was some religious ritual. He
eventually squeezed all the cum out of his cock and
looked down at me smiling like a drunk, only for his
face to reform in rage.
"Shit. It didn't get on your face!" he almost
screamed. I thought he was going to cry. His cum had
accumulated as a drooping piece of artwork against the
backboard of his bed.
Quickly, as if time was of the essence, he began
scooping up his cum, and transferred his masterpiece
onto my face. A few of the scoops he placed into my
mouth, and I swallowed, obediently.
As much fun as some of it was, in hindsight, I
remember the absolute fear that was running through my
mind. Here was someone who I thought was just one of
the "buddies", straddling my body down and violently
rubbing his cream juices across my face and down my
throat, as if I was famished, and his cum was the only
cure that would bring me back to life. "My cum's like
water to you," he'd later say. "It's the fundamental
compound the keeps your body functioning."
After he was done giving me my facial, he got off my
shoulders, only to re-position himself over my body.
He began to lick his cum off my face, and with his
tongue, fed it to me. "I don't want any of this to go
to waste," he said boldly.
This whole process of cleaning my face took a good
twenty minutes, as I resisted a bit at the beginning.
During those twenty minutes, I became far more
familiar with the sensuality of his body. He had
taken off his shirt (left mine on because he didn't
want any of his cum lost on my shirt) and the smell of
his body flooded my senses. It was the smell of raw
sweat, which he'd later attribute to "hard work". He
also had curious eyes. As he was licking the juice
off my face, he kept his eyes wide open, looking
straight into my own. His eyes screamed an intense
determination that startled me, and I couldn't look
away. The feel of his arms were also incredible. I
never knew he was that built.
Looking back at that night, his cum certainly wasn't a
"fundamental compound" that I needed for my survival,
but nonetheless, a tasty treat.
When he finished, he used his hands and pushed his
upper body off of me, carefully making sure his legs
were still holding me down. Perhaps if you were to
take a picture of that moment, you'd see Steve,
shirtless, with his jeans halfway down his legs,
perched up over me and me, laying beneath him, my
hands brought to the side of my head as if I was
surrendering to some cop yelling, "Put your hands in
the air!"
"How did that feel?" he asked me. I couldn't answer
him. I was speechless. He began to stroke his hands
through my hair, and made his way down to my pants.
He unbtucked my shirt, and unbuttoned it slowly.
Something told me that he wasn't satisfied with just
giving me a facial.
My shirt, our jeans and our underwear eventually came
off. At this point, I was getting used to the idea of
what I was in for, and like a pro, he made me feel
relaxed with his encouraging words: "You'll be fine.
I can tell already that your ass is going to be tight.
I love challenges. (I was on my back at this point,
and his hands were sliding off my undies)"
He also said tenderly: "You're so beautiful, you know
that. Do you know how many times I've thought about
you? About being your first?"
How on earth did he know I was a virgin, I thought?
This offended me at first, and I got back to the old
feelings of being hurt by his remarks, but that,
obviously, did not last long.
We were both naked, he was sitting on top of my
pelvis, and he pointed to a mirror on the wall. "Look
at yourself. Look at how much you want it. You want
me in you," he crooned. I turned towards the mirror,
and agreed. I was more than happy to have Steve's
monster in my body.
And that was the last of his tenderness for the next
thirty five minutes, as his body would not stop
jerking and dancing on me even when I, in my moans of
unbearable pleasure, asked him to please stop so I
could "catch some air".
For the first half of our lovemaking, I was basically
in his crotch. My mouth encompassed his cock like a
nervous k** who was ready to please. Of course, I was
anything but a k**, but a "fully fuck able slut" which
he would moan out when my mouth touched the most
sensitive parts of his cock. Looking back, I don't
think I really enjoyed our first oral sex session. I
was too eager to please him, and I would, with every
pump of my mouth, look up to his face for approval.
90% of the time I sucked him, he coldly looked down at
me, a condemning smirk across his face. For the rest
of the 10% of time, I pleasured him, and he rewarded
me with approval by moaning like a werewolf and
calling me a slut. It's sort of sick, to feel
accepted by these things, but it nonetheless made me
feel like I was doing a good job.
Then came what he called "a face fuck". These weren't
facials, which I still kind of fear because of the
intensity that Steve brought to it, but they are
stimulated cock pumps that are brought on not by the
sucker, but by the sucked. More plainly, he brought
me down under and beneath him, and moved his pelvis up
and down into my face, his cock bridging his manhood
into my mouth. It was during this "face fuck" that I
got my second dosage of his sweet cum. He hadn't
ejaculated when I first gave him oral sex (he has
incredible "restraint"), but he unloaded a truck full
of dairy product into my mouth during this particular
acrobat. Some of the cum itself was dripping down the
side of my mouth, and with the same anger that had
scared the shit out of me before, he sc****d the cum
from the side of my face and shoved his index finger
down my tongue.
"Drink it, you slut," he'd scream at me. As I was
drinking his cum, once again a bit frightened, he
grabbed my ass, which made me wail a slight bit. He
started murmuring in a taunting sort of way, "I want
your ass, I want your ass, I want your ass".
Who was I to say no. I couldn't, nor did I
particularly want to, as I wanted to see how far this
night could go. So he turned me over onto my back and
for a moment he got off me. I wasn't sure what he was
doing. I heard the rip of a wrapper, turned around,
and saw him pulling out a condom from a package.
"Fuck, it's not pulling on!" He was pissed off,
almost as if every extra second he had to deal with
this problem, it was taking away from his "entitled
pleasure", which he later told me I owed him. "My
cock's so fucking huge, it's not pulling on."
Then he threw the condom on the ground, and looked at
me thoughtfully. "Well, you've already swallowed my
cum, this condom is a fucking matter of formality."
And with that, he got back on the bed, with a new found
energy. "Yeah, baby, I'm gonna hump you raw," he
started to chant, with a fake country accent,
cowboy-twanged, which nonetheless turned me on.
With that, he pulled my hips up so that my body
automatically jerked into the dogie position. "You
were made for this, weren't you fuck able slut?"
And with that, he plummeted his cock up my ass. No
warnings. No nothing. I nearly screamed, and it
didn't help that he slapped the side of my ass ten
times as punishment. He suddenly stopped, and his
voice changed back into the normal Steve tone that I
heard in school. "I'll take it slow, just hold your
screaming in."
And so I did. And so he did as well. He slid his
cock into my ass slowly as I adjusted to this new
sensation, making sure that he softened the most
sensitive of blows that he could have given me. He
gave me five minutes to adjust before he felt I was
comfortable with having his monster up my anus. And
after that, he was merciless. He pumped his cock in
me like I was a racehorse, and he, a man determined to
win the race.
As he pumped, he showed his first signs of true
weakness by groaning. Not the kind of groaning like
when we face fucked. But a wild moaning that he
couldn't quite control. I could tell that I DID have
a tight ass, or more formally, a tight hole.
We fucked in this position for a good ten minutes
before my hands became too weak to hold myself up. I
told him this, and he refused to listen. To him, we
were in a fucking race and we still had 100 miles to
go. I panted, I groaned, I moaned, and I begged.
Somehow I think because I was so out of breath, he
didn't hear me pleading for him to stop.
And with that, my hands twisted inwards, my arms
collapsed, and I fell onto the bed, and consequently,
out of his cock, breathless. I was trying to regain
composure; I wasn't sure how mad he'd be -- as I
undoubtedly was the one who made him lose his marathon
race. I looked up at him, and he was panting
uncontrollably as well, his hand holding the side of
the wall where my cum was still plastered. He got
himself together much quicker than I did, and as if
suddenly recharged, he dropped down behind me, lifted
my leg up and told me it wasn't the end.
So he began to fuck me again, but now we were on our
sides. His hot tongue began its journey down my spine
as he did this to me. The simultaneous pleasures of
both his hard pumping cock up my ass and the soft feel
of his tongue made me shiver, and I held onto a side
of the bedpost for support. I looked into the mirror,
which was ironically, in a position that I could see
the whole of our writhing bodies moving in perfect
unison. I remember feeling like a slut at that point,
a fuck rag. And he made it abundantly clear that in
that moment, I was HIS fuck rag by tearing off my hand
from the bedpost and bringing it behind our bodies to
his ass, as if he wanted to further emphasize the
force that his body was generating into my own.
The image in the mirror of us fucking in this manner
haunts me. The sight of both of us naked, on our
sides, and a slightly larger body than my own behind
me fucking the hell out of me as I groan and pant
makes me feel so completely dirty. The sight of my
hands restrained behind Steve's back, grasping his
buttocks, as he thrust his manhood in me made me feel
i*****l.
His rhythm began to slow, and our bodies fell limply
into each other. The air suddenly flooded with warmth
and romanticism as we kissed, exhaustedly and slowly.
In his kiss, I suddenly forgot the savage fuck and
suck that had occurred. In his kiss, I suddenly
forgot and perhaps forgave him for calling me a
"fuck able fuck". In his kiss, the image of the mirror
and me being a fuck rag suddenly faded, and all I could
concentrate on was how beautiful it felt for our
bodies to be holding each other and our kiss being our
salvation.
He broke away, breathless, and whispered the words "I
love you". I told him I loved him too. It was all in
a moment. I'm not sure if I actually loved him in
that moment, but I knew that I felt prepared to love
him, and that was good enough -- even to perhaps God,
who I knew was witnessing our souls unifying.
He peeled his body off of mine, and laid down beside
me.
"I don't know what came over me. I'm sorry."
"Why are you sorry?"
"Because I've always wanted to ... I've...," he was
fumbling for words.
"Say it as it is," I suddenly said.
"Because I've always wanted to dominate you. What we
just did, the way I -- how I scared you, excited me."
Silence. His hands began to crawl up my leg.
"If I could jack you off and make you orgasm three
times, it would make me happy."
Naively, I told him that he could do so. I couldn't
resist the sincerity in his eyes in saying that.
Although, with that being said, anything romantic
about the evening was suddenly broken. Now I
understand what he meant by "controlling" me, which he
displayed perfectly with his relentless hands that
shafted my cock for the next half hour. He certainly
had control of me, especially when he refused to let
go of my cock after the first ejaculation. The second
and third ejaculations came, but far less soon as the
first, as my body was trying to resist the sensations
that Steve was forcing upon me. And he refused to
stop until I got to the third. Now I knew what his
idea of control meant.
After he was done shafting my cock, he laid on top of
me again, and began whispering naughty little
nicknames that he thought suited me. Some of the more
thoughtless nicknames included "doggy", "good ride",
and "cock slave". Some of the more original names
included "Cowboy's favourite pet" and "Thirsty". He
told me to pick a favourite and I told him "Thirsty".
And with that he re-enforced it.
For the whole first year of university, I had sex with
Steve. He'd call me up, asked if I wanted to "study"
with him, and like a horny a****l that couldn't say
no, I told him "Yeah, that would be... great." Some
days I'd lie to myself and convince myself that I was
doing it so that he could relieve his need to dominate
me. Other days I would be pragmatic, and realize it
was I who WANTED to be dominated. And on more hopeful
days, I was hoping that he'd say "I love you" again.
Much of our sex continued on in the same way -- oral
sex, anal sex, facials, and masturbation. Other days
when he was feeling particularly kinky, he liked
shoving his middle finger up my anus and with just
that, he made me orgasm a good two or three times.
Needless to say, we had a great relationship.
Haven
- 29.10.2021
- 10
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