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Never The Same
Part 1 You ring the door bell and the door opens seconds later. It is the man you had come to see. You had half-expected the house to be unoccupied, judging by the outside appearance in the darkening September evening. "I wasn't sure you would come," he says, and you wonder why you did come, this evening. He is dressed in a tight-fitting black tee-shirt and leather trousers. His short dark hair is combed carefully and his goatee beard is neatly trimmed. He moves to stand next to you, not touching, but close enough that you can almost feel the heat from his body. You can quite definitely feel his breath in your ear as he speaks to you. "I have told you," he whispered, "That what happens here, tonight, is for my pleasure and my pleasure alone. Whether you enjoy anything I do to you is no concern of mine." And you realize why you did decide to come here, this evening. Your live-in boyfriend - not husband, maybe never husband - is a sweetie. He licks you to orgasm, night after night, as reliably and diligently as he irons his shirts and mops the kitchen floor. Then, his duty done, he comes inside you, always inside you, always from behind, and falls asleep almost immediately, leaving you - not frustrated, exactly, but with a nagging feeling that you are missing out on something, something that is important to you. The care, the tenderness, the kid gloves with which the boyfriend treats you is cloying, stultifying. You feel you can only react in one way, equally dutifully, equally boring. There is no mystery, no spontaneity; there is none of the nervous excitement that you feel now as a warmth and a surprising moistness between your legs. The man leads you through the dark still house; the only lights are from expensive-looking domestic electronics and kitchen appliances. He guides you into a room at the back.
Copyright © P Hopkins 2008-2010
It is very dimly lit, the overhead lights turned right down so they are no more than yellow glowing points in the ceiling. This room is a gym, you realize; complex machines of chromed metal and black leather hulk on either side, and the one window has its blinds tightly closed. At the far end, the wall is covered in mirrors, floor to ceiling. Before the mirror, covering a large part of the open space on the polished wood floor, is a large dark padded mat, this kind you would use for yoga. "Talk your clothes off," he instructs, "All of them, including your shoes. Leave them here" - he indicates a bench to one side of the door - "and go and stand on the mat." You nod and hasten to comply. You had dressed carefully for this visit in a modest blouse and jeans to match the cover story you had not actually had to use as you left for your carefully unstated destination. Underneath, you are wearing skimpy and revealing panties, and a push-up bra, and high heels - higher than you would normally wear, their height concealed under the legs of the jeans. You had perhaps expected this man to want to see you in your sexy underwear, in your strappy high-heeled shoes. But he is interested in your body, it seems, not your undergarments. The bra and panties join your other clothes in a crumpled pile, one shoe having already slipped to the floor. The boyfriend would have insisted on tidying up. Part 2 You remember first meeting this man and his wife. He is a past acquaintance of your boyfriend, someone out of contact for many a year. It was some inexplicable coincidence that they met again, and you remember some vague explanation about changes at work that brought the two men together again. The four of you had gone out together a few times, to a wine bar, an up-market restaurant, a jazz club. The man’s wife is slender and artificially blonde and undoubtedly beautiful, a woman who evidently puts considerable effort into her appearance and enjoys, even revels, in the apparently effortless ability to turn the heads of every man in the room.
Copyright © P Hopkins 2008-2010
When the men’s attention was elsewhere, you and the wife had discussed everything: workouts and Pilates, clothes and makeup, and the problems and peccadilloes of men, past and present. She is good company, the wife, and you can see the boyfriend politely not expressing an interest in her, not turning his head when she enters the room - unlike every other male in the place. It was at the jazz club that you finally become aware of the man's interest in you. It was a whispered conversation outside the cloakrooms, a chance encounter in the corridor; you returning from the ladies and him apparently on his way to the gents. Somehow the talk turns to sex, and he explains without embarrassment his desire to control, to dominate, in sexual relations, to force himself upon the object of his desire. As you stood close, face to face, you suddenly became aware of his proximity, his heat. You wanted so much to reach out and touch him then, nerving yourself, you found yourself actually doing it. And, amazingly, your questing hand was intercepted by his. “Not here,” he said, “Not now. But if you really want to bend yourself to my pleasure, come here, tomorrow evening. I will wait for you.” He slipped a printed card into your hand, then pressed past you down the corridor. * As you were directed, you stand on the mat. The man stands next to you and gently asks you to face the mirror. He has stripped off his tee-shirt. This close, and out of your heels, you realize that he is bigger, more muscular than you thought, and much stronger than you, no doubt as the result of regular use of the weights and machines you can see dotted about. If he wanted, he could force you, make you do anything he wanted. You want him to try. You want him to touch you. In front of the mirror stands a tool box, new-looking in brightly polished metal. On top of the toolbox is a blindfold in dark fabric. The man catches and holds your glance. You have good eyes, large and bright, your best feature - so you have
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always thought - and you have applied a lot of mascara this evening. You realize you are staring, wondering what is going to happen. The man studies you and your reflection in the mirror. You follow his eyes, trying to see yourself as he sees you. You have good legs - still good legs, taut thighs and muscular calves, toned by the runs you take twice a week. Your waist is perhaps not a narrow as it once was, but still shapely enough to emphasize the curves of your butt. He makes you hold your hands above your head for a few moments and watches the movement of your breasts, a little small perhaps, but still shapely and firm enough that you do not always have to wear a bra. Your nipples harden under his gaze. You realize he is inspecting you, as if you were a purchase he intended to make or a horse he might buy. You are glad you put such care into shaving your legs and armpits, and your pussy. He tells you to spread you legs slightly and bend forward. If you still had long hair, it would have fallen over your face; the boyish crop you affect these days barely moves, but at least it shows off your slender neck. Finally, the man directs you to stand up straight. "Now," he says softly, still not touching you, "I'm going to blindfold you. If you keep still, I'll let you watch later." You nod. He sweeps up the blindfold and presses it to your eyes. The world goes black. You can feel the strap behind your head. Something is placed around your wrist, a wide band that fits tightly but not painfully so. Another one is placed around your other wrist. A third band encircles your neck, a bulge - perhaps a buckle - presses against your throat. “Kneel,” comes his voice. You do so. You expect his hand to guide you to the mat, but the touch you so desperately crave never seems to come. You realize that you are naked and blindfold, and this man has not actually touched your skin, not once. You desperately want him to. Now on your knees, another strap is placed around one ankle. Once it is fastened, a force - still not the touch of his hand - presses the bound ankle away from the other. The
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other ankle is bound; now your legs are separated - as you will shortly discover - forcibly. You gasp as something cold - it feels like metal - is suddenly pressed against the small of your back, running down the cleft in your ass cheeks. There is a click behind your head and another by your feet. There is a chink of metal at your throat, and another metallic chill brushes your nipples almost simultaneously. There are more clicks at your wrists. Part 3 Without warning, he removes the blindfold. You gasp again as you catch sight of yourself in the mirror. You are bound with broad leather restraints at wrist and ankle and neck. A heavy chain of dully gleaming metal connects a shackle at your neck to your left ankle, while your legs are held apart by a chromed metal bar. A second chain runs from one wrist through a second shackle at your throat to your other wrist. The toolbox now stands open. From where you kneel, it is difficult to see the contents but there are hints of black leather and shining metal and Day-glo plastics. You wonder what delights and pleasures remain concealed in the box. The man’s cock, already stiff, is protruding from an opening in the black leather trousers. He stands on the chain at one ankle, forcing your other wrist to your throat and your head to waist level. He runs the head of his cock over your lips. It is your first touch. It is electric. You instinctively open your mouth to take a breath and he is inside you, his helmet filling your mouth. You realize you want his cock in your throat. You realize he is going to fuck you in the mouth whether you wanted it or not. You had not appreciated that you could take so much of him - or any man - in your mouth, your throat. He fucks you hard, pressing his balls against your chin. He ignores your attempts to gag and, to your surprise, you find you can ignore it too. You find yourself hoping he will come in your mouth. Then suddenly his dick is withdrawn. You catch your breath while you can. The man pushes your head down hard, pressing your face to the mat. The chain linking your neck and your ankle
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slides to one side, its chill metal running across the skin on your back. The chain is so short that you are forced to kneel with your breasts tight against your thighs. You realize that your ass, your separated legs, your vagina and anus, are exposed and vulnerable. There is a rattle from the toolbox, then you feel a cool oily liquid is poured into the cleft of your ass. It runs down over your anus and then between your pussy lips mingling, you are sure, with your own moisture there. And now, the moment you have anticipated for so long, his fingers touch you, at last, to rub the scented oil between your lips and once, just once, over your clit. You nearly come, there and then, at that single touch. The man drives his cock inside you, a great thrust plunging deep inside you. You come instantly, crying out, screaming in pleasure and need, your muscles tightening, quivering in your release, your much anticipated orgasm. He ignores your cries, your reaction, and fucks you relentlessly, almost machine-like, his dick growing noticeably larger as a reaction to the floods of moisture your excitement has produced. The man withdraws, then tugs on the chains to drag you back to an upright kneeling position and again forces his cock down your throat. The taste in your mouth is a mixture of the lubrication he had applied - chocolate-flavored, you discover - spiced with a sharpness you do not recognize for a moment and are shocked when you do. It is the taste of your own most intimate juices. You know it is years since you tasted that - from a time before you even met the current live-in boyfriend. You can sense that he is close, his strokes in your throat, your mouth, juddering and shaking. He pulls back, so only his helmet is in your mouth. You tighten your lips around his cock. He comes, at last; the cum fills your mouth. You hope that you can catch all of his semen. Part 4 Even before you have swallowed the last of his sticky cum, the man has new designs on your body. He takes a leather switch from the toolbox and runs it tantalizingly over your nipples, your breasts, first one and then the other. Without warning, he strikes your breast hard, the end of the
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whip just catching your erect nipple. You cry out, and you are not sure whether your cry was of pleasure or pain. He strikes you again and again, each blow skillfully angled to catch a different part of your breasts. He grabs the chain at your neck and forces your head down, your face pressed into the mat again. He stands on the chain so that you cannot move, cannot see, can barely cry out, and applies the switch to your ass cheeks. You don’t want him to stop. You realize that he is whipping you just hard enough to raise red marks on your body, not enough to be permanent. You twist your face to one side, to be able to see him, and you, in the mirror. Your body shakes at every blow, your breasts tremble in a way that seems to emphasize the red lines that intersect your nipple. It seems he is one of these men who are turned on by beating a woman. And you have learned that you are one of these women who want to be beaten, that want to be dominated. It is a feeling so different from your normal life, your demanding professional management role. You have never felt so vulnerable, or so excited, ever before. The man is suddenly, impressively, hard again as you can see in the mirror. He stands behind you, perhaps admiring his handiwork on your ass, and then slips out of the leather trousers so that he too is naked. You are able to briefly admire his manhood before he again enters you. You feel yourself tighten around him, your muscles impossibly tense and taut. In the mirror you can see him thrust his rigid cock into your pussy, his rhythmic movements somehow bringing you to the edge of orgasm and holding you there. Your breath comes in gasps, your hardened nipples brush the mat. You close your eyes so that you can concentrate on the waves of pleasure between your legs. After what feels like an age, he comes again, this time inside your vagina, and you come too, throbbing and shaking with paroxysms of satisfaction. You are obscurely pleased that you managed to hold off your climax until he was ready to come. Part 5
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Barely a second after his orgasm, and before you have stopped quivering, he has knelt down behind you and is running his hands over the welts on your ass. You watch him, reflected; he glances up to see you watching, acknowledging your excitement. You realize he wants you to see exactly what he wants, what he intends to do to you. He slips two fingers of his right hand inside your opening. They slide in easily; you are already so wet from oil and cum and your own secretions. You realize he wants to stretch you, to hurt you there in that most intimate place. He reaches out with his other hand and dribbles more lubrication over your pussy lips while he fucks you with his fingers. You can feel him slip a third, then a fourth finger inside you. You feel yourself becoming more wide open than you have ever been before; your body aches at the unaccustomed feelings. At the same time you crave more: more pleasure, more pain, whatever it is, just more. By the time you reach orgasm, he has got all four fingers and his thumb and part of his hand inside you. You come violently, bucking and jerking, spasming around his fingers. You have never before experienced an orgasm like it. Once again, the pain and pleasure he has inflicted on you has excited him, and he is massively erect. You are now so wide open that you wonder whether you can satisfy him, big though he is. He too appears to be wondering how he wishes to enjoy you, this time. He fingers your rear orifice, sensing your tension, your tightness there. He must realize that you are an anal virgin, that you could not possibly take his dick there, not all of him. Nodding, he leans over and from the toolbox he takes a butt-plug, lubricates it deftly and presses it to your sphincter. The dildo is larger than anything you would have imagined you could have fitted in your anus, but he does not give you a chance to even flinch. You gape open for the toy and it slides inside you so easily that it surprises you. It is, you now appreciate, fitted with a vibrator, and you can feel its whirring motions deep in your core, propagating though every part of you. You now appreciate that he is one of these men who can come three or more times in quick succession. He fucks you again, from behind, first separating your pussy lips - no, he
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is pressing open your vagina with his fingers - before sliding his dick inside you. He must be able to feel the buzz of the anal toy, he must be as excited as you are, and you realize you must come again, soon - no, right now. As you come, your muscles clench and spasm around cock and fingers and plug alike. You are convinced that he came inside you at that same moment, although you wonder whether he has any semen left at all by this time. The man withdraws his penis immediately and, impressively, you see in the mirror that he has still drops of his emissions seeping from the head. He pulls out the buttplug too, which triggers another wave of pleasure inside you, from a source you did not know you were capable of. He rubs his cum into your anus, the one opening he has not violated this evening, pressing his thumb against that sensitive sphincter. You are perhaps glad that he has not fucked you there, but nonetheless perversely disappointed that he has not taken every pleasure he could, every pleasure you know you would have willingly given him. Part 6 It is over, you realize. As he carefully removes the buckles and chains, releasing you from his control, his domination, you wonder where the man's wife is, at this time; how could he be so sure that she would not interrupt his pleasures this evening? And you wonder equally what your boyfriend is doing this evening, his intentions as carefully not stated as your destination. Is he, you wonder, entertaining this man's wife, in your flat, in your bed? Has she bound him, forced him to his knees, make him pleasure her at her command? Or, more likely, given her husband’s penchant for domination, has the wife persuaded your boyfriend to bind her, to beat her, to force himself upon her entirely and completely for his own gratification, without thought of pleasure for her? Or has your boyfriend secretly always wanted to treat a woman that way, to take his own brutal gratification, but did not think that you would accept or enjoy that kind of rough sex? You will never know, not for sure. You will not ask, you will not expect to be told. It will be a secret unspoken, shared but not acknowledged. But you know you will be able
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to tell. You know that your lovemaking at home will suddenly become more varied, more imaginative, probably more rough and unrestrained than anything you have experienced with him before. You know you will enjoy it much, much more. The man watches you thoughtfully as you dress, nodding almost as if he understands precisely what notions you have running through your head. As to step towards the front door for the journey home, your body still aching from his attentions, you realize that you will never see this man again. And that your relationship with the boyfriend - maybe husband, now quite possibly husband - will never be the same again.
Copyright © P Hopkins 2008-2010