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Broadcast Sexuality Ch. 01 free porn video
Chapter 1: I’m A Nice Guy
The girl whimpered as she backed her sopping pussy onto my cock.
Well, maybe ‘girl’ isn’t the word. It sounds a little misogynistic. It sounds a little wrong.
No, staring down at this 28-year-old brunette, listening to her moan in shock and terror and need as she shoved herself back until my cock bottomed out against her cervix and her ass quivered against my hips, I realized she wasn’t a ‘girl’ at all.
A ‘girl’ didn’t moan like that. A ‘girl’ didn’t reach back to grab my hip with one hand, digging her fingernails into my flesh and letting out a desperate shriek as she tried to pull me deeper into her. A ‘girl’ didn’t whisper ‘please, please, please, please’ like I was holding a gun to her head and not fucking her would be as bad as pulling the trigger.
A ‘girl’ didn’t sob uncontrollably and shiver as I I placed my hands on her hips and slowly pulled my cock from her inch by agonizing inch until just the head was left in her throbbing pussy.
A ‘girl’ didn’t babble ‘Oh God, Oh God, Oh God please Oh God’ and brace her arms against the desk white knuckled like she was at the top of a roller coaster . . . tensing up in anticipation as I shifted my grip along the bunched up tatters of her conservative business skirt.
No, Helen Martin, Esquire of the law firm of Smith, Carlton, Montgomery & Lark wasn’t a ‘girl.’
And she certainly wasn’t a ‘woman.’
Right then, right there, she was a bitch.
A horny, eager, desperate bitch who needed my cock in her pussy, my hands around her throat, my voice in her ear, my fingers on her nipples . . . like a starving woman needs food.
‘That’s a good girl, Helen’ I whispered as I glided my fingers along her lower back raising goosebumps along her flesh and causing her pussy to ripple so hard around the head of my cock.
‘OK, OK, I’m OK, wait, Mr. Watkins, hold on I just . . .’
And then I plunged my cock in her to the hilt and my ex wife’s divorce lawyer screamed with an orgasm that made her whole body spasm like she was being electrocuted.
She thrashed so hard she knocked a framed picture off her desk. The glass shattered when it hit the floor. I stared down and felt myself smile as I caught sight of Helen and her husband smiling and innocent and in love on their wedding day.
‘God, I’m such an asshole sometimes,’ I thought. A small, ignored part of me screamed as I moved my hands to her shoulders and clasped them with just enough pressure around her throat.
‘Guh,’ she sobbed as her first orgasm finally started to fade and her mind came back to something close to reality.
‘Wait. Please. I just need a second to . . .’
I pushed forward just a tiny, tiny bit and watched the aftershocks paint beautiful pictures in the muscles of her back.
I hadn’t meant to fuck my ex wife’s lawyer when I came here. I swear. I used all my tricks to make sure I didn’t end up in this very situation, actually.
‘I can’t. Please. Please, Mark, I can’t.’
Seriously, I didn’t want this to happen. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to enjoy it. I felt a growl building in my chest and that hunger rising up in me again.
‘Yes. Yes you can.’ I said and pulled her back onto my cock hard enough to leave bruises on her ass and scars on her heart forever.
*********
Hi, my name is Mark Watkins. And I swear, I’m a nice guy.
No, really, I am.
Heck, I’m more than just a ‘nice guy,’ I’m a fucking feminist.
Seriously, just ask any of my friends, any of my ex girlfriends, my ex wife, anybody.
I love women. I took women’s studies classes in college. I spent at least 3 years right around the end of high school hating myself for having a penis. I’ve been the ‘best guy friend’ of literally dozens of hot chicks and was completely fine with that because I really did value our friendship too much to let something like sex fuck it up (no matter how many nights I spent viciously masturbating and wondering what the meathead douchebags my ‘friends’ hooked up with had that I don’t.)
I hate ‘Pickup Artists,’ think men should do their fair share of housework, would be completely cool with being a stay-at-home dad, think women should get equal pay for equal work. I think ‘no’ always means ‘no’ and ‘Maybe’ should probably mean ‘no’ too just to be safe.
And even though I say it shouldn’t matter if a presidential candidate has a dick or not I’m pretty sure I’m going to vote for a woman when the time comes because ‘The Patriarchy has been in charge long enough.’
Like I said, I’m a nice guy. I’m a good guy.
And I think I’m becoming a monster.
I mean, I’ve always had . . . thoughts.
I’m a guy. We all do.
I’d be walking down the street and I’d see a hot girl in short skirt. And suddenly I’d find myself caressing her with my eyes, drinking in every curve of her delicious ass, imagining what it would be like to bury my teeth in her neck, inhale the smell of her cunt, cut her panties off with my pocket knife and make her moan and scream and beg and come again and again right there in the middle of the park in front of everyone while her fucking hairless metrosexual software exec boyfriend sat there and passively-aggressively cried about what a little pussy he was while I fucked his girlfriend into a ravished, ruined and satisfied puddle with my cum dripping out of her cunt, a wide smile splayed across her face and a desperate addiction growing in every cell of her sexual being.
But . . . that was just fantasy. That was just base, stupid male desire. It was just the dominant male power fantasy evolutionary psychology bullshit that made the world the penis-obsessed, war-addled, gun-worshiping mess it was turning into.
It’s not what I really wanted. At least not what I told myself I wanted.
I told myself what I really wanted was intimacy and connection and romance and desire. What I really wanted was to worship a woman and treat her like the equal she was in bed and out. I wanted to be the perfect boyfriend women started dreaming of when they were little girls. I wanted to the husband who’d love them forever and never look at porn and never even think about other women.
And if I sometimes had . . . dreams and thoughts and ‘urges’ that were a little more . . . aggressive that was just my lizard brain playing tricks on me. It was just a test. It was just a burden I had to face for being unlucky enough to be born male with all those violent urges and all that testosterone and all that guilt.
**********
The first time I really fucked a woman was three days after my wife left me.
I think maybe the shock of the separation ‘broke’ something in my brain.
Or maybe it woke something up. Something hungry and terrible. Some power or something I can’t control.
It’s weird to me now, but I remember how upset I was when Sarah finally ended it.
She was just back from a business trip. A conference or something. And like every time she went on a trip I tried to make her homecoming as awesome as possible. I’d gotten the house cleaned up, bought flowers, cooked dinner, set out candles like we were at some French restaurant or something. I planned the romantic, soft-focus lovemaking we were going to have where we stared into each other’s eyes for hours and came together in absolute joy like the ending of a particularly upbeat Dave Mathew’s song.
And then I waited.
I sent a few ‘light but slightly concerned ‘texts but didn’t get a response.
It was after midnight when she finally came home.
‘Hey, honey, was your flight delayed?,’ I asked. I was all prepared for the two of us to have a bitch fest about the incompetence of the airlines and how weird it was that all my texts somehow hadn’t gotten through.
But she didn’t give me any excuses at all. She looked tired. Sad. Rumpled
in ways that shouldn’t happen on an un-crashed airplane.
‘Mark,’ she said as her eyes scanned the room. The candles were burned down. The food was cold.
‘Let me get your coat for you,’ I said and tried to force a smile onto my face. My voice shook just a little.
‘Mark, I don’t want to do this anymore,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to pretend everything is great with us. I don’t want to be married to you or to anyone else. I want out, Mark. And I’m not going to change my mind.’
And then my world fell apart.
I mean, there were more words. I begged. I cried. I asked ‘Why???’ in a thousand different ways.
It didn’t matter. Her mind was made up.
‘We’ll figure out what we’re going to do about the house,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, Mark. I’m really sorry.’
I leaned in towards her. ‘Just one more kiss?’ I said. I knew it sounded pitiful when I said it but I thought if I could just kiss her one more time we’d feel that spark again and she’d love me again and like me again and whatever or whoever happened on this trip to leave her so certain she was done would just evaporate from her mind and we’d go back to being happy . . . or at least pretending to be.
For a split second something changed in her eyes.
But then she pulled back.
Wiping tears from her eyes she said ‘That’s the problem, Mark. Always asking for permission in everything you do. Stop beating yourself up so much. It’s OK to be a fucking man sometimes, you know?’
**********
It was 3 days later at my yoga class when the monster first woke up. When I realized something was very wrong. When I took that first step down a path that would shatter everything I ever thought about who I was, what I wanted and what I was capable of.
If you’ve ever been through a divorce, you know I was a wreck. I’d spent the last few nights dangerously drunk, reveling in denial and texting Sarah every stupid, weak and toxic thing a man can send to a woman who doesn’t respect him and doesn’t want him anymore.
And dear fucking God I had a headache.
At the time I thought it was just stress or something. I mean, they say getting divorced is right up there with losing a child or getting diagnosed with a terminal illness as far as what it puts you through.
Divorce doesn’t just steal what you have now, it steals the future you thought was yours from the moment you said ‘I do.’
But anyway, I just felt this sharp and throbbing pain in my head like somebody had taken a freezing cold dagger and plunged it into my brain right at the base of my skull.
‘Maybe I’ve got a brain tumor,’ I mumbled into the phone. I was talking to my ‘best friend,’ Fiona. She was half-goth butch lesbian when I met her in college, but since then she’d transformed a bit into a smoking hot blonde who thought having to choose between women and men was like being forced to choose between chocolate and peanut butter. And scotch.
‘You don’t have a brain tumor,’ she laughed. ‘You’re just heartbroken. It’s OK. But you need to get out of the house, Mark. It’s not good for you to just BE there surrounded by all the horrible stuff she decorated that place with . . .’
‘I did most of the decorating,’ I mumbled through my tears.
‘Fine, that horrible stuff YOU decorated the place with. That whole house is just a mausoleum to dead memories, Mark. I’m not saying you have to enjoy it but I’m telling you right now to get off your ass and go do something. Today. Now. Because if I get back into town next week and you’re a dead puddle of self-pitying emasculated man I’m going to be really pissed off.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘OK, I’ll . . . I’ll go to yoga or something.’
‘Yeah, go to yoga. And wear those tight little pants you got at LuLuLemon that show off your cock. You’ll get attention.’
‘From gay guys. I’ll get attention from gay guys,’ I said.
‘Hey, attention is attention and right now you just need to be reminded that you actually have a penis and that that bitch didn’t put it in her purse when she broke your heart and crushed the pieces with those stupid fucking boots of hers.’
So anyway I was at yoga when it happened.
If you’re a straight man who’s ever been to a hot yoga class you know it’s a sea of astonishing asses in skin-tight pants all pointed in the air and swaying in the breeze like strangely fuckable trees.
In the past I’d always tried not to stare. Not to lust. Not to fantasize. Partly because I was a married man and married men weren’t supposed to do that. And partly because . . . well, because I didn’t like the thoughts that came welling up when I did.
But this time I did stare. And I did fantasize.
It’s the mirrors that did it. Damned yoga mirrors mean you can see every girl and every woman in there sweaty and panting and half naked.
And as I tried not to look I found my eyes dancing from woman to woman, ass to ass, girl to girl and I felt a deep rumble in my chest and a deeper hunger as my mouth went dry and my hands compulsively flexed.
And then my mind was racing with sudden pornography.
This cute brunette set up a few mats away from me. She couldn’t have been older than 22 with gravity defying tits and the kind of innocent look to her that made even the kindest man into a wolf.
I didn’t mean to but I imagined her crawling towards me on her hands and knees and nibbling her way up my legs. Her tongue dances along my belly button, pushing past the waistband of my shorts trying to get to my cock. I look down and see a mischievous grin in her eyes as she uses both hands to push my shorts down to my knees.
‘All for me?’ she mouths as my half-hard cock comes into view. She buries her face in my crotch and inhales that musky, manly scent. One hand teases my shaft while her tongue bathes my balls. I watch as her hand traces its way down her body, diving into her pants. She gobbles down my cock, trying her damnedest to take all of it. With a low growl I bring my hand to the back of her head and tangle my fingers in her hair. ’There you go. There you go. You can do it.’
‘Guh!’ she gasps for air as she chokes on my hard cock. I reach down and pull at her yoga top. I need to see those gorgeous fucking tits. I need to feel them around my cock while her tongue darts out to lick the head on every thrust. I need to . . .
‘Good evening, yogis.’
I’m shocked out of my reverie as the teacher walks in. I shake my head. Calm my breathing. I use the mirrors to look for the young brunette I’d been fantasizing about face fucking just seconds before.
Then I see her using the mirrors to stare at me. We make eye contact for just a moment. Her eyes are wide and shocked. Her jaw is slack. She’s breathing heavy. She’s covered in sweat even though class hadn’t even started yet. Her nipples are hard like daggers desperately trying to cut that damned top away.
‘We’ll start on our backs tonight, yogis’ came the voice of Mandy, one of my favorite teachers.
The brunette blinked like she was coming out of a dream. Her eyes darted down my body to the very obvious bulge in my yoga pants. She shook her head, licked her lips, crawled onto her back and I could almost think I’d imagined the whole thing.
Except suddenly I realized my headache was gone. And as I did my warmup breathing and saw the shocked and ashamed look on the girl’s face, I realized I could smell how wet her pussy was from here.
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