Within Clarissa free porn video

knowitall. Most people I know can't even remember so far back. But they still
say shit like that. They always do. That way they sound wise and like they
actually have a perspective on life and time and their position in it. Bollocks
to them.

But it was a bad year. I'll remember it as a year of disasters. First, Lynn
left. She walked out on me, lowercase style. There was no big Hollywood drama,
no passionate scenes to mark the end of a relationship. Shit, it hurt me. I like
to imagine I am not that easy to drop. Of course, we had our fights and we had
our sessions of screaming at each other and it's safe to say the final months of
our relationship were as dramatic as it gets. It's safe to say I was an asshole
for most of that time. But I make no apologies for that. I am an asshole, that's
just what I am. And I didn't feel Lynn's constant bitching and sarcasm demanded
to be received with anything else but a solid dose of well rehearsed assholism
and I ignored most of her babble in the greatest tradition of unmoved males.
Thank God for the X-box, I say. It would have been tough those last several
months if it wasn't for Bill Gates's little box of dumb, earthly pleasures. I
think what made Lynn extraordinarily pissed was seeing me at 7 in the morning,
in my underwear, unshaven, obviously underslept, my gaze fixed at the screen,
twitching at the controller like a spastic nine-year old. You know it is sad
when you find a box of circuits designed by the richest asshole alive more
exciting than a woman you actually invested great efforts in getting into your
bed a couple of years ago. Unfortunately, they never stay in bed. Boys will be
boys and we never learn.

I didn't even feel like having sex with her most of the time. Well, it comes
with the territory, doesn't it? Move in with the most gorgeous kitten out there
and find yourself tomorrow morning staring at your 59 years old neighbour with
her breasts hanging down to her belly, wondering how it would feel to give them
a little squeeze.

We did have sex, quite regularly still, because those were the rare occasions
when I felt I actually had an idea what to do with her and she was wise enough
not to bitch and moan about my horrible character features whilst doing it.

Not the greatest sex of all time, for sure... But still, it's your good will
that counts.

And then she just decided that this was not the life she wanted to lead and
soberly told me this was going nowhere and that she is leaving, that she will
test her luck elsewhere. She didn't even accuse me of anything in the end. Ouch.
It hurt. I had a mouthful of cereal and, quite honestly I wasn't even listening
to her when she started speaking. I seem to recall I was contemplating pros and
cons of a corporate sponsored remake of 'Day of the Dead' and was getting ready
to spend another day just lying around and doing nothing. And she just calmly
explained her reasons as if she was speaking about a not very interesting TV
programme she saw on cable last night. She never said it was my fault or
something of the sort. And she made me feel so insignificant that, I swear, my
throat tightened and I felt like crying for a moment right there. So she left,
carrying only one bag and I realised that we never really lived together. It was
an extended overnight stay for her, nothing more than that.

Then Gothboy discovered he was HIV positive. Stupid fucking idiot. I'd rip his
head open and spit into his brains if there were any to start with. But anyway,
the lifestyle of his will take care of everything sooner than later. Some people
discover they have caught the ol' HIV and they radically change their life, look
at those optimistic joggers at 6 in the morning, drinking healthy water and
vitamin pills by a shovel, hoping to postpone the inevitable. Not Gothboy. I
think he hasn't even sobered up once since he got the news. He cried a river of
tears that first day or so I'm told. I only saw him next day and sure as hell
his face was red and swollen, but it might just have been the side effects of
JB's or whatever other form of alcohol drink he's been consuming by a gallon for
the last 20 or so hours. I was mad as hell at him. I wanted to come across as
sympathetic and to give him the support he dearly needed, and all that, but he
just pissed me off. He made me mad. Looking at that asshole who effectively
tossed his life away, fucked other people's lives up along the way and then
could do nothing but drink himself stupid made me angry and bitter. I told him a
million times, but did he listen? No. Ol' Jimmy Gothboy just shared his needle
with whoever wanted to be his friend at that moment. He always wanted to be a
star, an autodestructive celebrity, to replace his white trash persona with an
aura of danger, mystery and open possibilities. Hence his stupid stagename,
hence his habit of offering anyone in hearing distance to shoot up with him.
Nice one, Gothboy, nice one, you shot up your own fucking death, hope your veins
feel happy now, you sod.

Honestly, I couldn't stay there for very long. If I did, I'd probably ended up
smacking him and Laura who was crying uncontrollably. Too late for that, Laura,
your big brother just used up all of his free coupons. She, of course never once
thought about probably dozens of girls her age he passed that little virus of
his to over the past weeks or months. She just saw her big bro trembling with
fear, unsure what to do, not even daring to think about the options.

As one thing leads to another, I was actually more angry at Gothboy for fucking
the plans we had together up. The tour had to be canned. Kevin wouldn't dream of
hitting the road without Gothboy, Gothboy couldn't even be brought to his senses
to discuss the possibility of him doing the tour, as his life was pulverised in
one swift move. And I was angry at both of them. I was looking forward to this
tour. Martin really did wonders this time around and booked us with some
excellent dates. We were to perform at really decent venues this time, sleep in
hotels and get a handsome amount of money each if all goes well. And it would
have gone well, the agency we were going through was far more professional than
any of the enthusiasts that we have been dealing with in the past and the
advertising and pure hype would have done the trick. Hell, some of the dates we
were supposed to be on the same bill with Matmos, my favourite gay couple in
business. I was looking forward to meeting those guys. This tour could have been
a good career move and healthy fun. But, no, Jimmy had to screw it all up
because Jimmy needed his heroin addiction shared with whoever was the closest
person at the time.

All this meant I had to find some work to do. Which depressed me beyond belief.
I was counting on that tour to provide enough dough to last for several moths,
maybe a year. Without Lynn to spend money on, it could have lasted for a year. A
year of cereal and applejuice and X-box games. It could have been great. Alas it
was not to be.

But then there was Clarissa.

I am still wondering. Is this supposed to be some kind of cosmic-balance type of
thing?

Clarissa...

It could have easily happened that I never met her. In fact I do have certain
moments, usually late in the night, after smoking some green and listening to
too much fucked up UK electronica/ vintage dub/ whatever ritual music I might
happen to be into that week, moments when my paranoia breaks out of its bounds
and I actively imagine, no, I KNOW that there is another me out there, another
me who never met Clarissa, never knew of her existence. I feel sorry for this
another me and I shit myself because I am afraid that one day I will wake up to
discover I really am this other me.

* * *

"Now put your hands on the back of your head."

She does. Slowly. Just the way she knows I love. She manages to radiate a myriad
of impressions at the same time. Obedience, uncertainty, acceptance... She
places her palms at the back of her head and her fingers hug each other.

I circle around her slowly. I feel calm. There is no hurry, I am taking my time.
She is standing in front of me, scared, fragile, obedient. Putting hands on her
head makes her breasts go up. I like the way her armpits look in this position.
They are very sexy. There's only the tiniest trace of black there, just to
suggest that these are indeed regions of mystery and power on the map of her
body.

She is silent and her eyes are lowered, she is staring at the ground. With her
hair now dyed jet black and dressed only in stockings, suspenders and high
heels, her hands up on her head and her gaze avoiding mine, she is a picture of
beauty and strange innocence. A slut can suggest innocence. I made Clarissa my
slut, I designed her to befit whatever my sexual tastes may be and through all
that she remained innocent. I am as surprised as anyone. 33 odd years of on and
off art and music and bullshit and this proves to be my only masterpiece.

"Now get down on your knees."

I am speaking in gentle soft tones. There is no need to shout or be aggressive.
Clarissa knows that she will obey or be punished. She knows that beyond any
doubt. Sometimes she chooses punishment. For now, she obeys.

It is not easy to get down on your knees with hands on your head and standing on
ridiculously high heels. But she does that with grace. She has accepted her
training with passion that surprised me more than I thought possible. She is
eager to please me. She makes me drunk with power sometimes.

I play with the whip for a while, walking around her, speaking to her,
explaining to her the level of her unimportance in the great scheme of things.
Basically I am bullshitting. I am telling her how dirty she is and what she
deserves for that. She is not allowed to sit on her heels, and she knows that,
so she's kneeling, her hands still up, like a statue of a slave. She listens to
me but speaks only when spoken to. Because those are the rules.

I never even had to impose those rules on her. Probably for the best, I'm not
the worlds greatest master. In fact, I have never been a master, never thought
I'd be one. I am still unsure if this is real me, if I am not just embarrassing
myself. But Clarissa makes everything worthwhile. The embarrassment never felt
so sweet.

"Do you understand?" I ask.

"yes." Her voice is soft and it never stops giving me hard ons.

"But you still don't want to change your ways, do you?"

She takes a couple of seconds before she replies. Then it comes out, even
softer:

"no."

"Even though you know I will do all sorts of things to you? Why? Why do you want
to be treated like an animal? Why do you want to be humiliated and punished over
and over again?"

There is no answer for a couple of seconds. Then she raises her eyes and looks
into mine. A true master would punish this blatant disobedience. But I am just
transfixed by her gaze, enchanted and the best I can do is stay calm, keep my
face a mask of stone.

Finally she whispers

"because I want to please You. i am Your slut, Your animal to humiliate and
insult, Your whore to fuck and use and discard after You don't need her anymore.
because You take pleasure in fucking Your slut, pumping her up with Your semen
and throwing her away like a used condom."

I am clutching the whip harder as she speaks. I am also becoming harder. This is
what we were born for, I swear, there is nothing that makes more sense in life
than this.

But I grin:

"You say all the right words, but, tell me, why should I believe you, slut? How
do I know you mean all this? How do I know that indeed, deep inside you do not
harbour hope to be free once again? How do I know you are not dreaming of
fucking someone else? Of being a slut for whoever might want to fill that dirty
cunt of yours?"

And she looks positively hurt by my words, the darling. Her black hair dances
graciously as she is quick to shake her head, to convince me.

"no, please", her voice almost on the brink of tears, "sir Nick, You are the
only one this slut wants to please. my pleasure is unimportant, it is Your
pleasure that i have been born to provide."

And try and not love the girl who says things like this, kneeling on the floor,
exposed, dressed like a porn actress.

"But, you'd still fuck someone else, is that true? If I requested you to do so?"

This is a repeated game we play. I am not sure I'd want her to be fucked by
anyone else at this point, but the very idea makes her breathing go heavy.

"i'd do anything to please You, sir."

I know she would.

Slowly, I touch her face and shoulders and her armpits with the whip. It looks
convincingly like a horse whip jockeys use, even though it's more like a toy
replica. But it can provide pain. But there is time for that.

I touch her face, her eyelids, trace her eyebrows with the tip of the whip. I
touch her lips. They are painted red. I order her to open her mouth and she
obeys.

If there is anything more erotic than this, then the universe is indeed an
impossible place. Seeing Clarissa close her eyes and lick the whip is
entrancing. She uses her tongue on it slowly, like it were an extra-sensitive
male organ. I can see passion on her face, surrender, ecstasy.

"Clarissa, I have never seen a woman act like such a slut before." I tell her.
And this is not just part of the game. It is the truth. I have never seen a
woman so surrendered, so focused on being obedient, so lost in her sexuality, so
aware that she is being observed and so turned on by it.

And she takes the whip into their mouth, she starts sucking it and she starts
making noises, moans and sighs. I know that down there she is already dripping
wet, but there is time.

I hit her over the breasts and her little scream is a mixture of surprise and
pain. But I know there is excitement in it.

"Did that hurt?" I ask

"yes.", she whispers.

"Do you want more?"

Silence.




"...yes."

"Are you sure? You want me to hit you over your tender breasts with a whip?"

"yes.", this time the answer comes more quickly, it has more conviction.

I hit her again, harder this time. The whip leaves red marks on the white skin
of her breasts. Her scream is half-muted this time, because there is no
surprise, just pain.

I watch her nipples becoming incredibly hard. This never ceases to shock me.
She's loving it. She is in pain. She is in heaven. I am becoming more and more
aroused as well.

"Why? Why do you want that? Why do you want to be hurt?"

And she looks at me again. I see tears forming in her eyes.

"please." is the only thing she manages to whisper.

I carry on. After a while, her breasts are painted red, covered in marks. I make
her suck the whip, the tool of her punishment, the source of her pleasure. I hit
her again, over the face even. Fucking Christ, never in my wildest dreams I have
imagined it would be like this. Her tears. Her screams. I need her to suck me
right now, I need it really bad. And I grab her hair and force her mouth open.
There is no hurry and she will be thoroughly and methodically punished and
humiliated over the next couple of hours, but right now, right now I need to
feel her warm, dark mouth embrace my cock.

Her face is hot as I rub my cock against it and her eyes are wet with tears that
I spread all over her face, along with her mascara.

"Open your mouth wide, Clarissa, I want to put my cock in." Her mouth is already
open, I forced her to open it with my fingers and I know it is as far as it will
go, but I still have to say this.

* * *

I never hit a woman in my life. Until I met Clarissa. Sure, I had my share of
macho posturing and I did, half-mockingly threaten Lynn to wipe the floor with
her when she made my seeing go red. But I have never hit a woman before.

Clarissa... she is one of those events in life that shake you all up and leave
you wondering. Have I ever known anything? Have I ever known myself?

It's a wonder we met at all. She didn't look like my type to start with and...
Well I think I can say I was not her type at all. Because she seemed not to have
any type of men she was interested in. She was the shyest, quietest person I
have ever met. She turned out to be my age even though I thought she was several
years younger, probably due to the fact she was so shy and soft-spoken.

It's incredible. Looking at her now... She accepted everything I demanded. To
dress like a slut just for my pleasure. Lace underwear and black stockings. High
heels and see-through tops. Black make-up and silver jewellery. Insults and
threats, pain, torture, confessions, spit, semen, my strange British sense of
humour. Everything. Clarissa can take it all. I have yet to find out whether
there is a limit. I am a little scared. There might not be a limit to her. Will
I know my limit? Will I? Fuck, Nicholas, you might have bitten off more than you
can chew here. But I love every second. I have not felt this alive in years.
Ever since I was a child, in fact.

I was actually amused that she never ever heard of me. Used to hanging out with
art-types, artists, musicians and other earthly scum, after a while you
automatically assume that everyone knows you. OK, we were never huge, but our
combo has had its share of moderate success in certain circles. Of course, it is
more than mere coincidence that I was used to moving in these circles almost
exclusively. It does feel good to be recognised and praised even though, deep
inside you are aware that there's nothing but back-scratching there, nothing but
free drinks, ego-massage, drug sessions, sometimes amusing, sometimes dull,
loads of shags, sometimes positively inspired by the fact that your stagename
precedes your real persona, loads of fake talk about creativity and endless
plans for the future...

All of this is crap, of course and I was always aware of that. Unlike Gothboy,
music was never all my life (or, in his case, peripheral effects that come along
with making moderately recognised music). After the tour we had planned was
washed down the loo, due to his HIV incident, I just had to get used to the idea
of finding jobs to keep myself out of the red. Well, this is not really true, I
still had considerable savings but, without Lynn around and without work to
devote my time to, heaven knows what kind of thoughts I might have started
entertaining... So it was back to the drawing board. I almost forgot how bad it
is to work from home. While I worked for the company I bitched without end about
having to get up and go to work. But ever since I went freelance, I understand
what a curse free will is. There is no one around to check up on me, to make
sure I am indeed working on my contracted job, instead of masturbating or riding
my X-box, or just smoking green and watching zombie flick DVDs. It, of course
turned into a series of near disasters, with accepting to do design for client
after client and then just fucking around until the deadline would be nearly
upon me and then working hours on end in a rush of adrenaline and shame and
fear. I managed to just get away with it, because, contrary to all logic, I am
somewhat talented for this. But, I know my talent is horribly wasted because
there is no discipline to me to ensure it is used to its full potential.
However, I don't care too much. My talent is wasted anyway on boring jobs for
unimaginative clients who want nothing more than to sell their fucking products
at a faster rate...

Clarissa disturbed this ordeal to a dramatic extent.

I think that it was a combination of her shyness and the fact that she had no
clue of who I am that attracted me. The last hundred or so ladies I have been
intimate with all had different amounts of knowledge about me before we actually
met and it's safe to say that none of them would count being shy as one of their
pronounced character features. This is not to say they were all groupie sluts
(nor, of course that there indeed was anywhere near to a hundred of them. I
exaggerate, like all men). Artistic pretensions in our music, the
semi-intellectual white crowd we became associated with, all ensured that we
were never a target of desire of the same ladies who lost their dignity over Kid
Rock or Justin Timberlake. But there was enough action to keep us going, yes.
However, before meeting Clarissa, I never knew that the word 'slut' is really,
really overused.

Ah, damnit, I think you could say I saw it as some kind of perverse challenge. I
had no real aims in life at that point and nothing to actually look forward too,
so I guess setting absurd goals to see if they can amuse me enough to keep me
going yet another day seemed like a logical idea. If there ever was a woman that
looked less likely to just jump into bed with me for one night, no strings
attached, wham-bam-thank-you-mam style, less interested in being just a fucktoy,
than Clarissa, I have yet to meet her. And that was intriguing in a way. To see
if indeed I can be sufficiently bad, evil, dirty, cunning, lying and charming to
crack her shell.

On top of that, I have to say I was impressed by her intelligence, her
personality, that was shining through despite her shyness. At first I was almost
sure that this was a girl I have no chances with.

However, things started changing with time, in quite a strange way. I actually
expected Clarissa to grow bored of me quite quickly as I didn't think my type
was quite her favourite fantasy. Not emotive or intellectual enough to be a
prince, not aggressive enough to be macho... But I made her laugh quite a few
times I think and I started noticing... There was a change in her gaze... At
first I thought I was imagining it but then I decided it was true. She started
looking at me with some kind of affection and, maybe even loyalty, and... and
some kind of strange servitude. And it got more pronounced with time. Clarissa
laughed in my presence and I think she felt more comfortable with time and her
way of responding was to become more and more servile. She wanted to do things
for me, she wanted me to be pleased with what she did, and when I'd thank her
and call her a good girl, the look in her eyes'd give me the shivers.

In retrospect, I understand all of that. I think I understood it well enough
back then too, but was unable to put it in words. I can be slow at times.

The first time we had sex. Now I think about it and call it "Point of Entry" in
my head. It was initiation, nothing short of initiation for me and, I guess her
as well. I truly know this in my heart: I was a different man after that. I may
have not realised it immediately after, maybe not tomorrow morning either. But
now I know. Old Nick was left behind that night. A new one was born. One I never
knew was there, waiting to emerge, fully formed, defiant, powerful.

* * *
"Are you still scared?"

Her response is soft.

"yes..."

The fucking thing tastes dreadfully. Fuck!! I forgot this was one of the reasons
I never really got into heroin. Oh, sure, I was never too crazy about having to
inject substances into my organism and I was not too interested in the whole
heroin-subculture that inevitably follows more frequent use of the powder. So I
never turned it down when offered because, shit, this thing is expensive and you
just don't turn offers like that down and, admittedly, there are experiences to
be had and paths to be explored there, and I sometimes purchased small
quantities to use at my leisure, but I was never big on it. And the fact that it
tastes awful in the back of my throat after inhaling it is probably what puts me
off the most. I am not a junkie, I just don't have that mindset. Peace brother,
but I prefer spliffs and beer.

But, what do you know, there was a small package in one of the drawers, I was
almost shocked to find it there. I don't even remember when it might have been I
bought it. It was not Lynn's, she never liked the stuff... It must have laid
there for maybe two years. God, I am laughing to myself nervously, when Kevin
had his little incident with the old Bill (or as they call it 5-0 in the
projects here) and was investigated, I was feeling all righteous and mighty. It
never occurred to me that the cops might have knocked on my door, taking a lead
from him or someone else and they would have searched the place thoroughly as
they are taught at school and then I would have been busted for a stash of smack
that I don't even remember buying in the first place... Ahh, blessed are the
meek...

The reason I decided to have a sniff is of a practical nature. Clarissa needs to
be fucked especially long and hard today. Heroin is good in these cases. It
makes me slightly number than normal and I can literally have erection for
hours. It becomes considerably harder to cum but reaching mere orgasm is not my
main objective today. I already had one. It was amazing. Now I need to have
Clarissa fucked until she is exhausted and begs me to stop, and then some. It
will be her punishment and her award.

Not just yet. Currently, she is kneeling in the corner, blindfolded. Her hands
are tied on her back. She is wearing a very sexy black teddy and a pair of
slutty stockings, accompanied by the most over the top high heeled slippers I
could find in this town. I picked them myself and I remember Clarissa blushing
in the shop when I made her try them on and parade in front of the salesgirl in
them. Of course, I made her put on a show and it was quite obvious to the girl
that us two are not just mere partners. I informed her that Clarissa loves them
but never let Clarissa speak her mind. I could see her embarrassment and her
excitement when the girl casually used the word sexy to describe the slippers
and I agreed. We were both looking at her and I made a passing remark that she
looks a little like one of the sluts from downtown. The girl laughed because I
made it sound like the most innocent joke ever (that IS a virtue, you know) but
I could see Clarissa's breathing stop for a second. She begged me to fuck her
after we got home, she promised to do everything I could want. And she did. It
was amazing, she was doing the things almost unimaginable.

Alright, I admit it, I am a pig. I quickly slipped into the habit, shoot me. It
is just too convenient to have Clarissa do the housework on occasions when she
is around. It is all a part of what she is. And I am just lazy. So we are a
perfect match .

I had her do the dishes today, all dressed up like a slut. I also produced a
loveball that I bought as a surprise for her and had her shove it into her cunt.
She was embarrassed and begged me not to make her do it, but I knew she wanted
it, I knew she really wanted to be a slut for me so I forced her to do it and
made sure she pushed it deep inside her. Then on went her stockings and teddy
and slippers. I made her parade around the room a bit, first on all fours,
showing me her tits and spreading her pussy with her fingers for me. Then I made
her walk around and bend over tables and massage her breasts for me. I knew how
this all must have aroused her as my cock was very hard fairly early on into the
session, but I took my time and ordered her to wash the dishes. I told her that
she was useless and that I might as well find another slut as she has stopped
turning me on and that the only thing she is good for at the moment is the
dishes.

She cried and apologised and begged forgiveness. She begged to be given a chance
to prove her loyalty but I made her do the dishes all dressed up and I
remembered to use my hands and the whip on her ass from time to time, just to
make things more interesting. She moaned and I knew it was equal parts pain and
pleasure. The loveball in her cunt, the words I was using, the slutty outfit,
the task she was given, the humiliation, all have combined to turn her on. And I
told her:

"I know that you are a slut and I know you are loving this, aren't you? I know
you are squeezing the ball in your cunt right now, trying to bring yourself to
cum, aren't you, slut? Listen to me, carefully: you are not allowed to cum and
don't you dare cum, bitch. This is meant to be your punishment, not your
award!!"

I made her apologise and promise that she will not cum. But I made it hard for
her. I continued spanking her arse and I pinched her nipples, pulled her hair
and whispered into her ear. And, when I couldn't take it any more, I pulled her
away from the sink, by her hair and forced her to her knees. Out came the cock
and I had her suck on it while I pushed her head forwards. God, it was
earthshaking. I thought my heart would break out of my chest and rocket to the
sky.

And I had to fuck her right away, despite wanting to take things easily. So I
tied her hands on her back with a very nice black rope that I bought exclusively
for these purposes. And I sat myself on the sofa and ordered her to climb onto
me. I took the loveball out of her cunt that was literally dripping with her
excitement.

"Open your mouth, slut!" I said and had her accept the ball into her mouth.
Tasting her own juices is a sight to see and I know how humiliated she must have
felt. Then I ordered her to sit on my cock and reminded her she is not allowed
to cum once again. And then she started riding me and rocking me and, God, I
nearly lost it. She was so aroused it was unbelievable. And I squeezed her
breasts and sucked on her rock hard nipples. But she needed more, she deserved
more so I reached for the drawer, not having her stop fucking my cock for a
second. Out came the clips and in seconds I put these small, nasty looking
metallic things on each of her nipples. Oh, how she cried, but her hips danced a
wilder dance even.

"It hurts, Clarissa, doesn't it? It hurts, you cunt, you deserve none better
than this!!" I insulted her and degraded her any way I could think of, telling
her she is not allowed to cum and that she better watch it because only then she
will be in deep trouble. And I buried my middle finger into her anus. It just
slipped in, she was so wet from everything. And it just happened to her, she
lost control and she orgasmed right then, moaning and screaming and her cunt
muscles squeezed my cock so hard that it just took me over the edge right there.
I pumped her full of sperm just like that, unable to control myself. I wanted to
shout at her something threatening and tell her that she will pay for this, but
I just moaned like a girl, the pleasure was just too great. So much for my
authority.

Thus, I had to take all to another level and I explained to her that she broke
my order and that she is to be punished further. She apologised and looked
genuinely unhappy and I wanted to give her a big hug right there but decided to
play the game. So I blindfolded her with a thin silk scarf and ordered her to
knee in the corner, her hands tied behind her back. And to wait for me to become
interested in her again. I took my time. I had a drink, smoked a joint and
decided that this was a good moment to use that stash of smack I found.

So she awaits. She is silent because she is not expected to talk unless spoken
to and I am not speaking to her. I do a few phonecalls. It's business, nothing
more than that. I didn't have to do it right now, but I want her to feel like
she is the most unimportant thing in the world to me at the moment. I fucked her
and I came into her and then I discarded her like a condom. This is how I want
her to feel. This is how she wants to feel, I think. That's how she likes to be
treated. I think. I don't know. Not for sure. I believe true Dominants know
this. They feel this. I don't. I am guessing all the time. I believe this is as
scary for me as it is for her. Maybe even scarier. She is a true submissive. She
has no second thoughts about it. She is fully submitted when she submits. It is
I who has doubts and thoughts and fears.

Finally, I make my move.

She is in the corner, blindfolded, kneeling in her sexy garments. Her hands are
tied on her back with black piece of rope. Bondage is an art, not just a skill.
It has physical, psychological, symbolical and aesthetic implications. It took
me a while until I realised this. At first, I'd only use bondage to restrain
her, to make her feel helpless and used. Then I started reading about the topic
and felt ashamed at my lack of imagination. I was pretty impressed with Japanese
bondage and the fact that it absolutely isn't about just tying a model in ropes
as hard as possible. It is also about making a sculpture out of her, a work of
art.

Of course, I am too lazy to seriously get into this, I am just a pothead with
attention span of a three weeks old kitten. But I started practising on my own
at first and then on Clarissa and I noticed her reactions were more than
satisfactory. It does fill me with pride today to restrain her in some visually
appealing way and see her go into this dreamlike state where she stops being a
person and turns into an object. It is just one more of the amazing things about
her and her nature.

So, her arms are pulled back, rather cruelly I might add, and are tied with a
series of knots, starting from her thumbs and fingers, going up her wrists and
forearms. It hurts her to have her arms tied together like this, I know that.
She is loving it. I think I know that.

I turn up the volume, the music is not just ominous any more, it's positively
threatening. I made this mix specially for sessions like this, assorted pieces
by masters of claustrophobic listening: Ligetti, Stockhausen, Kiraly, even Aphex
Twin. Clarissa can not see, she can not move and now she can not hear me either.
All she can hear is an avalanche of alien sounds and voices. She knows I am
paying attention to her now, she is not stupid. But I will let her wait a little
more, let the fear build up.

And when I do approach her it is slowly, without a sound. She looks so helpless
yet so graceful kneeling in that corner. I have no erection yet, the smack
kicked in and in fact, if this was just about fucking, I doubt I could be arsed
to do it. But it's more than just fucking, Clarissa is more than just a fucktoy,
even though I keep calling her that.

And I am upon her, one hand grabbing her tied fingers, the other one put over
her mouth. I move my lips to her ear and whisper in the lowest, most threatening
whisper I can command. While I speak I squeeze her fingers. I know she is
scared, I want her to be scared. I am close enough to be able to feel her
heartbeat accelerate. She is scared. I tell her things about her that would make
anyone cry or scream in rage and frustration. I tell her of things I will do to
her. I tell her how I will use her mouth to get an erection, how she will be
required to take my penis into her mouth and swallow it down her throat until
it's hard enough that I can put it into her cunt. That's the word I use, "cunt",
it's not "vagina" or "snatch" or even "pussy" , I want her to be aware that hers
is just a fuckhole that needs to be filled with flesh.

"And then I will fuck your arse, whore, I will fuck your arse until you scream
and until I fill it with my sperm. And then you will take my cock into your
mouth and clean all your filth. Do you understand?" I am still holding my hand
on her mouth so all she can do is mumble and I repeat: "Do you, bitch?". She
nods and I release her mouth.

"yes", she whispers and I can barely hear her through a sandstorm of demon
voices in the room, "yes, Sir."

* * *

There was a girl back at school. I had a huge crush on her. It's one of those
things you have in your childhood years and remember all your life even though
to someone looking from the outside it wouldn't look like a significant thing at
all. I was completely mesmerised by her. The fact that I knew very well I could
never have her only made me dream more painful dreams. In those dreams in broad
daylight I had hundreds of different paths for me and her to take, but they
always crossed at some point and always the impossible happened. Always. She'd
always recognise me for what I really am and appreciated what she saw. Of
course, dreams are just that, dreams.

She was a bitch, really. We didn't use that word back then so lightly as
everyone seems to be throwing it around nowadays, but this is what she was. She
was the prettiest girl in class, alright, but that was not it. That was not what
made me go through nights of imagining her body next to mine and a thousand
masturbation sessions. It was her personality, her mind. She was the smartest
girl in class in a way. She was way more mature than me or anyone else I hung
out with at the moment. And she was so dumb at the same time. I couldn't
understand it then. How could she be so bright, so sharp, so cruel to others
slower than her and at the same time be so dumb, so blind, to let herself be
used by some of the older lads. They had no respect for her and still she clung
to them and ignored those who respected her. Those who had to work hard to
conceal their burning desire and childish loyalty to her. Me.

It took me a while to work things out. Hm, it took me years and decades. You are
slow, Nick and weed is not making you any faster, you know that?

It took me a while to work things out. To understand her passion, to understand
the hunger she felt, the need to feed the fire in her belly. I was just a kid. I
am sorry now, I really am.

But I was a disciplined kid and I knew how to shut herself out to my eyes and to
my thoughts. It took months but it worked. I was free. I was not victorious, I
was not a conqueror, not a killer holding a smoking gun, not a football star
raising his arms after scoring, but I was free of her. Of her name and face and
voice and scent. I was free to look at others and look for others.

The ironic thing is of course, that I spent most of my life from that point on
looking for her. Not for her in particular, I was too ashamed, but for her, for
traces of her in other women, for that look on the face, for that vibe in the
voice, for that mixture of strength and auto-destructive urge.

If only it wasn't for that letter...

Sometimes I fuck Clarissa's ass without any lubrication. It hurts me but it
hurts her more. Sometimes I want to hurt her, not just because she enjoys it.
Sometimes I just want to hurt her.

Stupid fucking Gothboy. Fucking Jimmy redneck and his celebrity lifestyle,
product of a celebrity mind. You are no celebrity, fuckhead, you are an
AIDS-bucket and you are dying. And no one cares.

The letter.

It arrived after months of dedicated fasting. She was banished from my eyes and
from my thoughts. I was occupying myself with music and porn and glue. Those
were good days in fact. I had no worries back then except to forget about a girl
I could never have. I was free to explore all the pleasures my body and mind
offered and I did it, I drank from the source, ate like a pig, swallowed porn
and glue and weed and cider and lager and I masturbated furiously.

And before I was aware, I was free of her. It became possible to think about her
and not experience just pain. I stopped caring. A good thing.

And then, the letter.

"I know I have to thank you, you taught me how hard it is wishing just for the
only thing you can never have."

The only thing she could never have.

She could never have.

Never have.

Me.

It was like a bad pulp romantic novel. I could smell the glue, the cheap paint
on greyish paper, the pages stuffed chockfull of cliches and stereotypes, the
characters made of cardboard moved through situations painted with careless,
impatient moves. It didn't hurt me less because of that. But I stopped caring,
right? And I never ever did anything. Never.

What I can not figure out is this: I was looking for her all my life since then.
All my life. And Clarissa is not her. She is not, I checked. I can't smell her
in Clarissa's breath, I can't see her in Clarissa's eyes, she is not there. She
has never been in this body. Clarissa is something completely alien to me. Like
something out of this world. I don't understand. How did we come together?

Maybe this isn't me any more. Maybe I truly have become someone else.

* * *

The first time is always special, isn't it?

This is how it was:

In all honesty it was seduction. Oh, alright I did rape her, technically. But it
was seduction: I was seduced to rape her. She was seduced to be raped, wilfully
taken and fucked. I was seduced by her shyness, her eyes always avoiding mine,
her little smile always looking nervous and fearful that I might be insulted by
whatever she said. What it was about me that seduced her I still don't know.
File under alcohol, I don't know. She was somewhat drunk. I was too. It was the
first time she ever came to my place and I insisted she sleeps over. She
insisted she had to get back to her place out of town, but I was more persuasive
or at least more bullish. Another girl would probably get pissed and walk out
and slam the door and get out of my life for good, Clarissa just accepted.

I don't know what we were at the moment. We weren't lovers. OK, we touched each
other sometimes, but it was just something two people close to each other do.
It's not like we kissed or something. I am oldskool, to me kissing still denotes
transition from one state to other. The status of lovers. So we were friends but
I never had a friend like her before. Sure, I had some female friends and some
of them I wanted to shag (and in one instance it happened even), but it was
never like it was with her. Never so intimate and so secretive.

So, three or so drinks in there and I am starting to lose reference points for
straight thinking. We already had some drinks downtown and it's not like my
thinking is terribly clear even when I am sober. I deliberately put some
extremely dirty and insulting hip-hop on. Good thing about this part of town is
I can really blast my music as loud as I want even at night without the fear of
having neighbours camp at my door. I never thought of it, probably because Lynn
was not that loud, but it was also good that no neighbours were close enough to
hear Clarissa scream. Then and later.

So, the music was blasting away, the big bad black males were boasting about
fucking hoes and getting blowjobs in exchange for crack, that sort of thing. Fun
stuff. Clarissa was obviously rather ashamed for being subjected to this but she
didn't complain, she just looked down whenever I looked at her. And I laughed at
her. I laughed at her before too. It was not malicious, it was just a part of
our relationship. She expected me to laugh this laughter of dominance and she
accepted it with her shy smiles.

And I kept drinking and the world kept getting blurred. At one point I realised
I had no idea what time it was. The night was stretched from the beginning of
time to the end of eternity. And the only thing sharp enough in the landscape
made of cotton-wool was this girl on my sofa.

I had erection. I never tried to deny this, I was attracted to Clarissa very
early in and the only thing that prevented me from trying anything was that I
felt I wasn't her type. That I felt she was too nice to just say no but that
she would never truly fall for me. So I took what was there and spent time
around her. And this evening took it all further. I was looking at her and every
movement she made, every gesture and facial mimic was just too sexy. Part of me
argued that this is just me and my friend the bottle and months of abstinence.
The other part of me kept typing in big fucking red letters in front of my eyes:
"SHE IS SCREAMING AT YOU: FUCK ME!!! CAN'T YOU SEE?" It was a conflict of epic
proportions, an inner battlefield of instincts, desires and fears. I tried to
put out the fire with more alcohol but it only made flames burn with increased
fierceness. The bigger the feast, the bigger the hunger. My cock was painfully
swollen and pressed against the fabric of my jeans.

So when she dropped her glass it was like the heavens cracked open and a thunder
descended down to earth to give me instructions. She dropped it on the carpet
and it didn't break. A little of the stuff spilled and she looked at me in
shame, red in the face. The fucking carpet, I can't remember when it was the
last time it was washed, I was a boy living on his own, regular vacuuming was
the best I could do. So I put my arm around her and said something that
surprised even me:

"So, tell me, why is it that you keep teasing me all night?"

I think she was frozen in a second. Fuck, I was frozen that moment. What did I
just say? What?

But she knew. It was all part of a ritual, wasn't it. We knew which words needed
to be said, which gestures had to be made, regardless of the time and place and
circumstances, we had this planted in our minds for a while. Not knowing
consciously, but knowing for real.

"What are you saying?" Her voice almost inaudible.

And I just pulled her closer, using force. Yes, force, it was not an assured,
confident gesture of a great lover, it was force.

"You keep teasing me. Don't deny it. I can see what you want. Don't deny it. I
see what you want."

She tried to deny it, but I pulled her hair and her head shot back.

"Don't." I said.

"No... Don't"

I kissed her. It started as a kiss and turned into... Into feeding, devouring. I
sucked her inside, I breathed her in, I ate her. She struggled, she did, that
much has to be said to her credit. She didn't just give in. But all the same,
when our lips parted I looked into her eyes, I took a really deep, deep look and
asked her:

"Why? Why are you doing this to me?"

"Please, please don't, I don't want this, please", her voice was trembling, at
the edge of tears.

"Why? You want this, don't you? You can't lie to me any more, Clarissa, I see
what you want."

And before she could answer I started kissing her again and this time I didn't
stop so soon. I kissed her lips and used my teeth and sucked her and chewed on
her tongue and kissed her neck and smelled her hair and I pulled her even closer
to me her body felt so hot and fragile my erection about to burst I started
biting on her neck and her shoulders I ripped her blouse open and left red marks
on her skin.

All the time she was begging me to stop in that soft voice of hers, brought to
the edge of panic, edge of screaming. And when I ripped her bra off in one
swift, violent gesture, her nipples were rock hard, painfully erect, inviting,
obscene.

"Look at this. Look at this. Clarissa. Look at this"

I started squeezing her breasts and I placed my lips on her left nipple and I
squeezed and sucked. She let out a deep, long moan. It was like a singing from
another world.

"Don't lie to me!" I was almost out of breath and even though she kept repeating
"no no no no no", I couldn't stop. "Don't lie, you want this, you need me to
fuck you, you always did, don't lie to me!!!" I was chanting my mantra without
threat in my voice, without aggression.

Her nipples were hard and the taste was rich, bitter and mesmerising. The beats
in the room were hammering on my skull. My eyes were open but my field of vision
felt so reduced.

Underneath her skirt, the heat was scary.

"Oh, Fuck, Clarissa, fuck, is this it? You are so wet. You are so fucking wet
and you pretend you don't want this. Why? Why?" I was murmuring these words
right into her ear, drunk and lost as she was moaning. My fingers were pushing
her soaked panties to the side and penetrating her without patience. She was
wet, she was open and eager. I could not be stopped. I would not be stopped.
This was so unlike anything I knew before.

She did try to push me back, the final lines of resistance, and I just pushed
her down and whispered, smiling, sure of myself, surer than I was for a long
time:

"You know you want this, don't lie to me. You know you are a slut and you
couldn't hide that."

And she screamed "No!! Nooo! Please!!" and I might have stopped there, her
helplessness and pain visible and convincing, weren't it for her body that
danced a dance of hot nails under the conduction of my fingers in her wet,
soaked, hungry pussy.

I slipped her panties down her thighs, down her legs. I brought them close to my
own face, smelled them, held them up like a trophy. They were a proof, my proof
that I was right and that she was what I insisted she was. A slut in dire need
of dick.

"You little slut, look at this and tell me you weren't trying to seduce me. Look
at how wet you are, how bad you need to be fucked!!" I still managed to keep
control even with the smell of her cunt juices on her panties playing havoc with
my brain.

"Open your mouth, come on."

She looked at me, begging me, her eyes the most beautiful thing I can remember
ever seeing by that point.

"Open your mouth."

She waved her head left and right, her eyes filling with tears. She tried to
pull back but she was lying on the sofa, me on top of her.

I pinched her nipple, hard. Harder than I ever did it to anyone. She cried a
painful cry.

"You are making me hurt you. Is that what you want? You want to be hurt?"

"...no." she whispered

"Then do what I said, open your mouth. Be a good slut and open your mouth now."

She opened her mouth and I stuffed her panties, squeezed into a tiny wet ball of
fabric, smelling of her excitement, I stuffed her panties into her mouth. Tears
started rolling down her face. And I felt like I just grew a pair of big, strong
wings.

"Can you taste it? Can you taste your own cunt, Clarissa? Can you feel how wet
those panties are, you dirty whore, and still you pretend you don't want this."

And she was crying in shame, pinned down beneath me and I knew I couldn't wait
any more.

Her eyes shot wide when I ripped my jeans open. My cock was happy to taste fresh
air after everything that happened so far. It was swollen and red and wet with
precum. I felt such a relief and such power. Seeing her eyes fixed on my
throbbing cock made me feel so... strong, so masculine. I was preying down on
her and there was nothing anyone could do about it. This was right, this was
what life was designed to reach. She knew that too, she wanted it, I was sure
she did.

I spread her legs wide and lifted them up high. Her pussy was wet and dark red
inside and the smell was making me even more drunk than I was. Entering her was
like stepping into fire. She was trembling, she was burning and she was crying
through her gag. But those were not cries of pain, no. Fear and humiliation
maybe, but not pain, her agony couldn't have been physical, she was so wet, so
slippery, so in need of cock. I started thrusting forth and back, falling deeper
into her with every subsequent move.

I am not worlds greatest lover, OK. But I am aware that it takes two to have sex
or even make love and it's always about giving as it is about getting. Those are
simple things you learn once you manage to step outside the occasional sex phase
in your life and step into the regular sex one. I do try to make my partner feel
good, I do care about how it is for her, mostly because that way I make her care
about how it is for me.

But not this time, not here. It's ironic. I just wanted to use her, I just
wanted to fuck her. She was the most intriguing woman I have met so far and I
never planned this to happen and now it was happening I just wanted to fuck her,
not make love to her, not have sex, just to fuck her. To fuck. I was impaling
her and thrusting into her, fucking her the hardest I could. I squeezed her
breasts and spat on her nipples. It would never happen again. I will probably
never see her again. I just want to fuck her. I just want to fuck her. Fuck her.

And the orgasm almost broke my back. It was so strong, so powerful, so scary. It
was her flesh embracing and caressing my cock, seducing it and making it burst.
I shot my semen all over her, I remember watching it fall on her breasts and
face and cheeks and nose and eyelids, her forehead and her hair and asking
myself is this possible, could it be I have so much cum inside of me?

The fucking thing stayed hard. I swear to God, it was like being 15 again and
watching porn all night, masturbating several times in the row, my cock staying
erect throughout. I came more intensely than I ever hoped I would and I was
still hard. And Clarissa beneath me was the image from dreams and fantasies. She
was in tears, her panties still in her mouth, covered with my semen, humiliated
and fucked. And yet in her eyes there was this look I can't name. She was
accepting. She was forgiving. She needed more. She needed to go deeper.

The rest is like something out of any number of wank-fantasies I had during my
lonely months. I never seriously imagined I could do something like that. I
believe that, at this point I decided that there are no rules any more and that
the night is about to finish soon and that I have to take everything I can carry
now or never.

By her hair, I pulled her up, only to force her down to her knees. She was
crying but she was not struggling any more. She accepted whatever I had in stock
for her and this only turned me on more. She was ready to take anything.
Anything.

I tied her hands on her back with her own bra or what was left of it. I forced
her to spit her panites out and take my cock into her mouth. Dear God, I tremble
just remembering the sight of it: Clarissa on her knees, wet and humiliated,
helpless and tied up, sucking my cock that I was pushing in with hard, impatient
thrusts. I didn't know I had it in me, but, fuck I did, I do, I don't know.

That was not to be all.

Once I bought this thing for Lynn, it was more a joke, she once complained about
me touring and her being without sex at those times and said something along the
lines of me having to buy a dildo for her or accept that she will be sleeping
around while I am away. Now, what she didn't realise is that I didn't really
care too much what she did while I was away, most of the time. But a night in
town with the boys makes you do silly things. In those days I don't think I'd
just walk into a sex shop and purchase a dildo on my own. But with a bunch of
merry lads fuelled with beer and weed, it was all just one big joke, just macho
posturing and embarrassing sex remarks.

I took it out of the drawer where Lynn left it when she bailed out. I guess this
way she was informing me that I was not that hard to get over after all, heh.

I stuck it to a hard wooden chair, the rubber sucker on its bottom securing it
in proper position.

Silly thing, this sex-industry.

"Do it. Do it or I will have to hurt you. I will hurt you, swear to God."

She did. My God she did.

Clarissa rode that dildo for me, rode it for my viewing pleasure, she fucked
herself, her wrists tied on her back, her legs spread, that thick red thing
penetrating her every time her hips went down. Her cunt was making wet noises,
her breasts were bouncing up and down. I was glad I made her spit the panties
out as I wanted to listen to her.

And she was screaming. God, she was screaming when I took my belt and started
lashing at her buttocks.

I am not a religious person. But, even though they say faith is everything, I
figure, if there is heaven and hell, it makes no difference whether you believe
it or not. If there indeed is hell, I think I have one five star pit of molten
lead booked and awaiting my inevitable arrival. If there indeed is a God, he
knows I deserve it.

I don't know how and why. I just wanted to hear her scream. I wanted her to do
it for me and I painted her skin red with my belt, lashed at her sensitive ass
and encouraged her to scream.

And this dear, dear girl... She never once stopped fucking that dildo, despite
my lashes and insults, she just once turned to look at me over her shoulder and
I could read it in her eyes. I could see it. She wanted it, she thought she
deserved it. I swear I saw that as clear as I can see my own hands on the
keyboard right this moment.

So when the screams became a mantra, when her skin was burning and her pelvic
movements became spastic and nervous, I put the belt down and I grabbed her. Her
anus was tight and her moans developed another shade of pain and as I fucked her
she fucked me and her dildo and screamed and there were no words any more, her
head bowed down, her hair concealing her face. And her orgasm scared me. I will
never forget the sound she made, I thought her body was bursting, for a second I
thought she was dying, honestly. She came, violently, unstoppably, she came
after being humiliated, tied up, fucked, tortured and degraded to a mere object.
Her hair was wet with her sweat and my spit, wet as if she'd just had a shower.
Her pelvis was thrashing so hard, her spasms were so violent that it brought me
to orgasm a lot sooner than I thought it'd happen.

She was still cumming, her belly-muscles twitching uncontrollably when I pulled
out of her anus and grabbed her hair and forced my cock into her mouth. And I
started coming the very same instant. I was filling her mouth with sperm and she
was swallowing, I swear she was. Even in this moment she was thinking about me.
Just as she was the whole evening, I realised. Just as she was the whole several
months, I realise now. But try as she might, she could not swallow it all, it
dripped from the corners of her mouth and fell down on the carpet. She was
sucking and licking me, her eyes closed, even when there was no more semen
coming out. My cock was smeared with sperm, saliva and, I realised, blood. It
was like a hallucination but it was there. No denying, she spread the semen on
her face, rubbing it against my cockhead and blood came with it. It was her lip,
she bit right through it. It must have happened while I was whipping her, or
while I was savaging her from behind. Christ, what have I done.........

But then, and then, and then...

She opened her eyes and there was nothing in there, nothing but the deepest
gratitude I have ever witnessed. This was the purest thing I have ever seen. I
felt honoured. I still feel honoured. I didn't deserve this. I don't deserve
her.

So that was our first time.


* * *

How come assholes always have all the best women? It was an interesting
philosophical question for the good part of my youth. It bugged me, i