Classified Ad 2 (Mf, humil) by Foxbat


Disclaimer: This story contains graphic sex should not be
read if such stories are illegal in your state, or if you are a minor.

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Classified Ad 2 (Mf, humil) by Foxbat


   "What are you?"

   I tried to answer the question, but his hand was clamped around my throat, reducing my words to unintelligible gasps.  I struggled to draw a ragged breath as my lungs burned and my vision narrowed.  His hand relented for a moment as oxygen came flooding back in, causing my vision to explode in multicolored brightness.  His thrust his cock slowly in and out of me, deeply, as he smiled down condescendingly.  I was maddenly close to orgasm.

   He slapped me, hard, across the face.

   "What are you?" he asked again, his hand against my throat again, teasing me.  My cheek burned from the slap, and the fucking eroded my ability to form thoughts to respond.  He slapped me again and mashed my face into the carpet, hooking a finger into my mouth.

   "I'm a fucking whore, your dirty slut" I answered through lips that couldn't close.  I felt a thrill of excitement, a glow of satisfaction from the words.  His cock moved again inside me, penetrating, invading, possessing.  

   "Ask for it," he commanded.

   "Can..."  I shuddered, feeling it approach, but brought back by pain as he twisted my nipple harshly.

   "Can I please come?"  My face burned from the slapping and choking, my nipples hurt from the abuse, my cunt was on fire.

   "Third person," he growled.

   "Can this whore please come now?" I whimpered, already feeling the beginnings of the orgasm take me.  In answer, he spit into my face, his hand closing over my throat again.  Feelings of shame, humiliation, and uninhibited lust washed over me as he fucked my pussy and my mind exploded in waves of guilty pleasure.  With slow thrust, he whispered dirty epithets into ear:  "stupid cunt..... cheap two dollar whore.... *grunt*... my fucking sperm receptacle, you worthless slut."  He came, though I was only distantly aware through the crashing fury of the orgasms breaking over me.

   My post-coital bliss was interrupted, as he grabbed my hair and roughly dragged my head toward his crotch.  "Clean," he commanded.  I licked the pungent salty mixture of my cream, his jizz and our sweat from hairy balls in a mechanical distant way, as I felt his spunk draining from my vagina down my leg.  I serviced him like a junkie, vacant in the aftermath of the rush that follows a desperate, craved hit, with the love that a kicked dog still shows for its master.

   ***

   I've always been this way, but I didn't understand it at first.  When other little girls lying between the sheets dreamt of handsome princes, of gentle clean-shaven rock stars and movie actors, I dreamt of the villain: dark, bearded, vicious and evil.  

   I think my earliest memory of being different was probably Star Wars.  In the worst way, I wanted Vader to win.  I didn't know what he would do to Leia, but it fascinated me: her in her white robes, him in his black cape... a proto-erotic fantasy all the richer for its lack of specificity and inchoateness. I left the theater with panties soaking wet, sliding slickly between legs in the hot summer air.  My embarrassment at my obvious physiological response only increased the potency of the fantasy.

   Had I grown up in a different environment, things might have turned out differently.  But I was the only child of good upper-middle-class, church-going, married parents.  Reflecting back, my childhood was sheltered, almost antiseptic.  When the greatest of your childhood traumas is the death of your next door neighbor's hamster and your wardrobe (assembled with dad's funding) is almost entirely pastel, certain forms of rebellion (piercings and goth, for example) are just out.  Instead, I sang in church choir while thinking lewd thoughts, I sold girlscout cookies dreaming of salacious customers, and I went to school wishing to be "taken advantage of" by a lascivious young teacher.  

   For a long time, I thought something was wrong with me.  Where other girls shuddered with genuine revulsion at the thought of a serial-rapist, I shuddered with secret arousal.  I had never really bought into religion, so I was never burdened directly by guilt, but I was hyper-conscious of how "wrong" the things I delighted in imagining were, of how other girls would think I was "dirty" or "slutty" if they ever found out.  

   So I perhaps overcompensated.  I stubbornly refused to let boys' hands under my shirt or skirt, all the while desperately wanting to be mauled and violated.  When we kissed, I cautioned them to be gentle just like my girlfriends, secretly delighting in their roughness.  And then I was in college, free from supervision and left to live my own life.  A pretty gentrified life I didn't want, full of guys who held doors open and apologized too much.  

   My fantasies were so powerful, so consuming that they required obeisance.  It was after one such session - locked in the bathroom sitting on the cold tile floor coming down from my massive orgasm, looking at myself in the closet door mirror with clothespins on my tits, my pussy shaved in anticipation, a beer bottle inserted several inches into my ass, and C-U-N-T spelled out across my forehead in lipstick - it was then that I decided I had to do something else to satisfy these desires.  I still didn't know what, but my mind was racing as I gingerly removed the clothespins and wiped down the bottle for the recycling.  I had put some newspaper down on the floor to keep my improvised toys off the non-existant dirt on the tile floor, and it was there that I found my first step towards freedom.

   The section was the classified ads, my eyes had chanced to fall on the personals.  Solicitations, often in broken and abbreviated English, for all kids of obscene acts littered the page.  I almost had a second session just reading them.

   I watched the ads for an interminable week before I found one that sounded like what I wanted.    

   ***

   After days of letting my imagination run wild, I called.  Although I wimped out the first time, I remembered my resolve and called again.  He sounded intelligent, like a safe first encounter.  Someone confident, yet with enough to lose that I would not wind up, dismembered, in a dumpster (for as much as I fantasized, I did not wish that to happen).  

   We agreed to meet at Koffee Korner, a big coffee house place that was in the heart of the city - very public and yet private enough.  

   At first glance, I was disappointed - he looked like any other guy I might run into on campus.  His polo shirt and flip-flops spoke of a similar upbringing, but his handshake was vice-like and, although his mouth smiled when I sat down at his table, his eyes did not, not even as they unabashedly undressed me.  



  