THE STORY OF C – Chapter 5

I wake up thinking of her again. It seems strange to me that I never wrote about her while we were together. It seems that each day my memory gets ever hazier. I want to relive the sweetness of our fucking… I wonder if I’ll never come that way again, so fully. I remember the frenzy of those hormone filled days at our college (a women’s college whose name I won’t stain with my own sexual exploits). I remember waiting like a puppy for her return outside her dorm room. Waiting for her to come back and hold my pussy in one hand and my throat in the other. “You come harder this way,” she told me one day, with her hand possessively on my neck. After that day she began experimenting with my breathing, telling me when and how to breathe. And every time we fucked I came like a landslide, as many times as she saw fit. Slowly, leisurely in the sun-stream morning when neither of us had class, unreservedly, sometimes hurried, sometimes slow in the afternoon, quickly in the evening before her roommate was due back from her class off-campus, silently in the middle of the night with her hand across my mouth to enjoin me to hush as she tortured my slick clit and slit ever-so-slowly with her finger. We fucked in her college regulation twin bed, on the couch in the common room, on the pool table in the student center, underneath a tree on College Green, on tables and desk-chairs in the classrooms after hours, in the small study cells in the library and even on the window seat in front of the picture windows in the formal common room, on the top bunk of my bunk bed when my roommate was out of town.

 

I remember tagging along with her to the library and finding a small room in the basement. She would bend her head studiously to her task, putting her great brain to the service of Biology or Chemistry, while I sat watching her or stroking her long black hair. I had work of my own to do, but not as much as she did; after all, she was a Junior, and I was only a lowly Freshman. While I should have put my own great brain to the service of some Bach counterpoint, instead I sat under the table where Amy worked, nuzzling my face into her crotch. Never shifting her focus, never ceasing her steady reading and note-taking, she would find my pussy with her small foot and wriggle her sock-clad toes against my underwear. I ground myself on her foot and ankle until I couldn’t bear it any longer and she suggested I touch myself until she reached the end of her task. I was never very good at masturbating back then. I’m still not too hot at it now. She tried her best with me, but loved fucking me too much to watch my ineffectual attempts for long. When she fucked me, she always took off her class ring for me to put on, so as to keep it clean, out of the way of my freely flowing wetness. She began conducting experiments on me. I was an endlessly fascinating, endlessly coming specimen. She gave me her ring and checked my wetness immediately then remarked, “You have a Pavlovian response to putting on my ring. I haven’t even touched you and you’re already wet.”

 

She whispered dirty fantasies in my ear as she made me come. I’ll never forget the time she told me that I was naked on a table in a large room, blind folded and tied down. She told me she was demonstrating the wares (me) to a crowd of interested buyers—gentlemen with glasses of whiskey and cigars. The men were sitting around, watching me, murmuring to each other, then they were coming up and testing my responsiveness. They were patting my flanks and poking my ass, slapping it and observing the resulting wobble of flesh. They were pinching my nipples overly hard to make me gasp and slapping my small breasts, trying to decide whether the lack of size was made up for in sensitivity. They were laughing as one man pressed his cold whiskey glass to the inside of my leg and I yelped. They were examining my mouth, checking the straightness and quality of my teeth, putting their fingers unceremoniously in my mouth and either letting me suck them or pulling at my lips and cheeks, giving me no agency in their perusal of that organ by turns. They were stroking the hair on my head and the hair on my pussy, chuckling at my arousal. One of them covered my mouth and nose to see how I reacted without air while another put his thumb on my slit, spreading the wetness around and up to my clit. Another man was probing my tight asshole, another began rubbing my clit, all of them observing me, watching me, deciding whether or not to buy, listening to my moans and scrutinizing them by their own metrics of pleasure. Laughing when I gasped or whimpered in pain, and at last filling up my wet, weeping cunt with their cocks, one by one, all giving my pussy a try, seeing if I was tight enough for them, if I felt good, some began to try out my mouth and throat, choking me on their giant cocks, others slapped my face with their cocks or gripped my thighs painfully hard. “She likes it, look how wet she is,” they were saying to each other. “The little slut likes it. Listen to her moan.” I was theirs to consume. With my eyes closed, I was there in that stark room, being probed and fucked, although all the time it was Amy, pumping her hand skillfully in and out of my wet pussy, it was Amy, touching my clit just so with her other hand or licking it with her deft tongue or whispering in my ear or covering my mouth and nose, expertly recreating the experience of many hard and examining hands on my body.

Amy cannot know what depths of strange erotic desires she has awoken in me. Who could love me? Who could love my strange fucked up sexual self? Who would walk in this bleak place?

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