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Down

By: Varian P



This girl under him was sucking Paul dry. 

He felt old. Tired. Was this what thirty-nine was supposed to be like?

When he took his mouth off hers, she looked at him with dead eyes. Vacant. Clouded. A corpse's eyes.

He actually felt like crying. Why? Why had the spark, the lively glint faded so fast from her gaze? They were still so new—less than a week together—and already she'd gone cold.

It always seemed to go this way. With every woman, there'd be that heat, that intensity the first time together, that first, fierce, hot fuck. But no matter how good, how wild that first encounter was, within a month or a week or, fuck, a few days, now, it was over. 

However hard he tried, no matter what he did, he couldn't inspire that trembling. That look. Like he was her whole world. Her god.

Looking at her now, with her corpse's eyes, it was hard to even remember what it was he'd been so attracted to, that first time in the motel room, not even an hour after they'd met. What had gotten him so hard for her, even before he'd bared her taut, creamy little breasts, even before he'd heard her gasp in her breath and whimper as he sucked her nipples stiff. Now that her eyes were empty, her small, full-lipped mouth didn't spur him, her flawless, pale skin didn't excite him.

As if she'd read his mind, as if she wanted to distract him from those painful truths, Katya coaxed him onto his back, slipped down, and slid her lips over his cock. 

***

"Hey, Dad."

"Hey, Zach. Isn't it past your bedtime?"

"It's Friday. I get to stay up 'til midnight. Remember?"

"In that case, what are you doing home? Why aren't you out with your friends? Or on a date?"

Zach laughed, "I don't know. All those girls calling all the time, demanding attention night and day. It just got to be a hassle."

"Yeah, I know how it is. Sometimes a man's just got to take refuge from all that pressure," he teased back. He wondered if his son was still a virgin, and felt a pang of sympathy for the kid. Fifteen. An awkward age. "Hey. How about tomorrow we go to the game?"

"I'm hanging out with Mom tomorrow. Remember?"

"Oh, yeah. Right. Meeting the fiancé."

The phone bleated at him from the kitchen, and he'd already started to walk away when Zach called after him, consoling, "But next weekend. That would be cool."

"Hello?"

"Paul?"

"Yeah."

"It's Jennifer. Luc's wife." She sounded stuffed up. Maybe she'd been crying.

"Hey, Jennifer. What's up?"

"Um, hey, I was wondering if you'd seen Luc."

"When do you mean?"

"Today. Or yesterday." Her voice had that high, whiny sound of desperation.

"You haven't seen him since yesterday?"

"No." She was definitely crying. "Not since Wednesday."

"And he didn't," Paul hesitated, "leave a note, or anything?"

"No. No, he just got up like usual, went to work. When he didn't come home for dinner, I figured I forgot about a meeting, or he forgot to tell me. But then he didn't come home at all that night. Or since." She was sobbing, now, choking, wet snot sobbing. "And I thought, I thought, even though you two don't see each other much anymore, I thought maybe you'd know," she dropped off without finishing.

"God, Jen," he said before he remembered she hated that nickname, "I'm sorry. I have no idea. Have you called the police?"

"Yeah. I don't know. They don't seem to be taking it too seriously. Like they assume he just ran out on me or something. I mean, they took a report and looked around a little. But I don't think they're doing anything."

"Well, I'll call you if I hear anything. Is there anything else I can do?"

"I don't know. I don't think so."

"Well, if you think of anything, I'm here, okay Jen?"

"Thanks, Paul."

He heard one more gagging little sob before she broke the connection.

***

Watching Brian climb on top of Katya, so pale and tiny under his flabby, hairy bulk, somehow made Paul harder than he'd been in days. That was one thing you could say for that girl, she was game. Eager to please.

Brian's girl was a little uncertain. Which was weird because there was no ignoring the fact that compared to Brian, Paul was fucking gorgeous. Tall, muscled, lean. Sharp eyes. Strong jaw. Not all round and mushy like his friend.

While they both watched the other two banging away on the bed, Paul pressed Maria's hand over his hard-on, and she obliged him, stroking him through his slacks. He liked drawing it out, enjoying watching Katya, her legs splayed wide, hearing her little grunts before he got his stiff cock out and drew Brian's girl onto his lap, tugged her panties aside, and got inside her. While she rode him, her tank top pulled up, her full tits bouncing, he went on watching the others, going at it doggie-style, now. He just let go and pumped his load into Brian's girl almost right away, because he wanted to come while the show on the bed was still going. Unlike Brian, who never had more than one in him, Paul was good for two, maybe three tonight, so no point in dragging the first one out forever. And he already knew how he wanted round two to go.

As soon as Brian grunted and pumped little Katya full of his junk, Paul took Maria over to the bed and said to Brian, "Have a drink and relax, and we'll put on a little show for you."

About the only thing better than having something good to watch while getting off was having an audience. Brian threw his boxers on—he was always shy, that way—and took up residence on the sofa, a bottle of beer in his fist, still panting hard from his exertions.

When Maria was naked he told her, "Lie back and spread your legs for Katya."

Maria looked fucking delicious, all juicy and caramel-colored, her long black hair cascading in glossy waves over the pillow, her cunt waxed smooth, open and slick from their fucking. And when Katya got in there and started licking those burgundy folds, Paul was already rock hard and ready for round two. Reaching under Katya's chin he drove two fingers deep into Maria's seeping cunt, got a gob of their slick goo and brought it round to Katya's ass. With one hand he grabbed a cheek to spread her nice and wide, then drove one come-lubed finger into her tight pucker, her high little squeal driving a fresh surge of blood into his stiff cock. He'd never had her this way, and he stirred himself up, thinking maybe she was an anal virgin.

"Keep eating that pussy, baby," he coaxed when she went stiff and still as he sank a second finger into her tight little ass.

Gripping his hard-on in his fist, he nudged at her pink-brown clench with the head of his cock, anticipating the feeling of stretching her open, pushing inside, then doing it, her body squeezing him so tight it its effort to keep him out, then swallowing his cock inch by inch.

"God," he sighed, "fuck yeah." 

Anal was his absolute favorite, and the added stimulation of Katya lapping at the cunt he'd just shot a load in, and knowing Brian was watching it all made this the best fuck he'd had in months, by a long shot. This one, he wanted to last. For ten or twenty seconds he didn't even pump, he just enjoyed the feeling of that tight ring of muscle clamped around the base of his cock, and the sound of Katya's tongue licking up the sticky wet seeping along Maria's slit. Then he went into a slow rhythm, pumping deep on each stroke, pulling all the way back until Katya's ass gripped at the head of his cock, and sank slowly into her again, over and over.

"That's my good girl, Katya. You taste my come? Lick that little cunt clean, baby."

Katya's flaxen hair and narrow, almost bony shoulders made a striking contrast against the thick, tawny body of Brian's girl. And then he noticed. Brian's girl had that look, her eyes bright, full of life, like he was taking her somewhere new.

"Play with your nipples, Maria. Get them nice and hard. Good girl. You like how Katya's eating you? I want to watch you come."

She had that startled, fretful look, like maybe she was close. At Paul's request, Brian brought over the big, silicone dildo, and Katya worked it into the other girl's cunt and started fucking her while she licked.

"That's right, isn't it?" Paul rasped, feeling his second climax coming on, slowing his fucking, but ramming harder, deeper on each thrust. "Lick that clit, Katya, and fuck her good. Yeah, baby, good girl, like that."

Maria bit her lips and squinted her eyes shut tight and arched her hips up off the bed. Nudging Katya aside, Paul slipped the dildo out of Maria's spasming cunt, ran his thumb over her clit, watched her shudder and writhe as her dripping pussy clenched and unclenched over and over, and fucking hard, fast now, he pumped little Katya's ass until his balls seized and his second, brutal climax tore through him and he shot his load into her.

***

"I got kind of a weird call from Luc's wife last night," Paul told Brian later, when they were on their own at their favorite bar, half way through their second round of whiskey.

"Yeah?"

"She said he hasn't been home since Wednesday. No note, nothing."

"Seriously?"

"You haven't heard from him, have you?"

"No. I don't think I've seen the guy in," Brian took a hit of whiskey, pondering. "Last time I saw him was your divorce party. What was that?"

"Almost a year ago."

"It's been that long? Fuck." Another gulp of whiskey. "So, what? Did she call the cops?"

"Yeah. I guess they opened an investigation. Jen doesn't seem too impressed, though."

"Yeah, well, what you think? A guy in his late thirties doesn't come home to his wife one night. What do you figure? He's been abducted? The guy's probably off having a wild time, or something. He probably saw how you've been living it up since your divorce, and thought he'd break out."

"Yeah. Probably."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Brian laughed and slurped a few last watery drops of whiskey through the melting ice. "Bet your ass Luc and Jennifer don't get up to any shit like we did tonight."

"No."

"So, what are you so down about?"

"I don't know."

"Come on, Paul. What is it?"

"Rachel's engaged."

"No shit?"

"Yeah. The kid went off with them for the weekend to meet the guy."

"So what? You've got the place to yourself. You can bang the shit out of Katya twenty-four seven, all weekend long."

"Yeah."

"What? You'd rather be married to that bitch again?"

"I don't know. No. Just..."

"What?"

"Well, don't you get, I don't know, lonely? I mean, Katya's fun, and hot. And so was Anh. And Lyuda. But, Christ, sometimes, even after a night like tonight, I could just kill myself. It all just feels so fucking sad, sometimes."

"Jeez, Paul." Brian sounds like his friend just stomped his puppy to death.

"Fuck it. Never mind, Brian. I'm just in a mood."

When they left the bar, they got into Brian's car. Which was stupid, because Brian had downed all the beer, back at the motel, and then kept up whiskey for whiskey at the bar. The car was parked around the corner, down a narrow, dark street. Sometimes there were homeless people camped out in doorways. Once, someone had tried to mug Paul on that street, but Paul had punched him hard in the face, and when the guy went down, he'd kicked him a few times in the gut and the nuts to teach him a lesson. So even though Paul knew how to handle himself, he still felt weirdly light and cold every time he turned that corner and stepped into the mean darkness of that crappy little street. He had to work to keep walking at a normal speed, and to be chill so Brian wouldn't see that he was scared. 

They got to the car fine, but Brian was taking forever, feeling around for the keys, and then when he managed to fish them out of his jeans, he dropped them in the street. While he stooped to pick them up, Paul took a furtive look around to make sure no one was rushing up at them from the dark. In the thick black everything seemed still, and the only noise was the muffled din seeping through the walls of the bar, fifty feet back. Finally Brian got his key into the lock, and when he'd managed to squeeze himself in behind the steering wheel, he leaned over and unlocked the passenger door. Paul rushed to open the door and slip in, already feeling his body soften in relief, but as he did someone brushed against him, and a cold, violent shudder went through him as he slammed the door shut and slapped the lock down.

And then he laughed. Fuck. It was just some girl, some pale, reedy little thing. No bigger than Katya, with blond hair down to her ass and almost as white as her sheer dress, all floating out behind her as she faded away in the blackness. Funny to have been startled, frightened by a little faerie like that. 

What was even weirder was how that fear seemed to cling to him for the whole ride home. Brian hadn't even seen her, and Paul had the nauseating sense he'd been touched by a ghost.

***

Paul sat there, slouched down in his leather armchair rolling a beer cap over and over in his hand, wondering what the fuck was wrong with him. What the hell was he doing there in the quiet dark of his living room, when he could be with Katya?

So Rachel was getting married again. So what? Sure, he'd loved her. But things had been shit between them for years before the divorce. And so Zach was spending the weekend with them, the happy couple. It wasn't like he was going to forget who his dad was. Stop loving him. His son was the one person he trusted to stick by him. To see the good in him, even when it seemed like all anyone else saw were his shortcomings, all anyone ever remembered were the mistakes. 

Fuck this. He'd go see Katya. See if he could stir up that flame he'd seen in her eyes their first couple nights together. Or at least lose himself in the heat of her body, if he couldn't light that fire in her gaze.

He tossed the empty beer bottle in the recycling, pulled on his leather jacket, and snatched his keys off the counter. Locked up. Jumped in the convertible. Turned the key in the ignition.

The engine growled, a deep, throaty rumble that hummed under him, like he'd woken a big, loyal animal. Sleek. Beautiful. Powerful.

A wet night. He cruised along the neighborhood streets, like black mirrors reflecting the traffic lights, headlights, street lights, green and red and orange and white, toward the motel.

At a red light he stopped behind a classic Mustang, a sixty-six, cherry red. Perfect chrome and paint. Then something, a thump, a motion, a blotting out, pulled his eyes to the left.

A face framed by two hands pressed to his window. Two dead, black eyes.

Then gone.

A blaring noise. 

Paul looked, ahead, back, all around. Nothing. No one.

A loud, long wail. The jerk behind him blasting his horn.

Paul tried to keep his hands steady on the wheel. He was shaking all over. And he felt light, a horrible lightness, like he'd float away. And cold.

That face. No, not a face. A corpse's mask. Gaunt and gray. Waxy.

Familiar.

Another shudder shook him. He gripped the wheel tighter, tried to steady himself. He kept on for the motel, for Katya. He forgot his want, the thought of her lit-up gaze, her warm, smooth body. He just knew she'd be there, and was too afraid, now, to go home to his empty house.

Right away, Katya's face reflected his nauseating fear, like a mirror. Weird, how she was always in tune with him. Maybe more so than Rachel had ever been.

"I feel like I'm going crazy," he whispered when he'd pulled her against him, when he'd wrapped his arms around her, and started to feel less wobbly. "Like I'm seeing things."

If she could have understood him, Paul wouldn't have said anything. But it felt good to tell someone.

"I swear to God, it was Lena," he breathed at Katya's ear. "But there's no way. And she didn't even look human. She looked like a fucking cadaver. And who appears like that, anyway? In the middle of a busy road, peering into your car with eyes like that?" 

Paul stopped squeezing Katya in his arms and backed her away from him to look at her eyes. He'd suddenly been terrified it was the other thing in his arms, that he'd look and see two big, black, glossy orbs. No whites at all.

But it was just Katya, that warm flame back in her eyes.

Now he wanted her. Needed to feel her warmth, taste her mouth, touch her soft skin. She stayed quiet and still as he undressed her, then took his own clothes off. When he lied back on the bed and put his arms out, she slipped atop him and took him in her mouth, and when he was hard, she took him inside the close warmth of her cunt.

With her on top of him, riding him, when he pulled her down for a kiss, he almost forgot his nausea, his terror. She was there, warm, bringing his body that pleasure, her slick heat enveloping his cock, her little breasts soft in his hands, her nipples stiff and eager under his fingers. He liked how it felt, licking her lips, then brushing his tongue against hers, biting, sucking one lip, then the other.

"Fuck, you feel good, Katya," he breathed, close to coming.

"No," she breathed back, but in Russian, her voice hollow, rasping, not even like a human voice. "Nyet. Not Katya."

His gut filled with ice. He shoved her back, but it was like she weighed a thousand pounds, and he was pinned under her. A scream filled the room, his scream. The thing on top of him leaned back. Her. The creature, the thing from the road. From the street by the bar. Cold and white and waxen, black-eyed, gaunt, smiling down at him with gray-black lips. He screamed again as she brought her mouth to his ear and hissed, "You know me!"

She sank down on him then, and stuffed her cold, slimy tongue into his mouth. He screamed and thrashed, but in her grip, under her writhing body he was limp. Helpless. The thing went on, thrusting its tongue between his lips, writhing up and down on his cock. His gut lurched, and he flung himself up, wrenching free of her.

Paul grabbed the brass lamp from the night stand and swung. Just in time he pulled back. Katya was curled up, sobbing, arms shielding her head.

The lamp slipped from his grip and thumped to the floor. He barely made it to the toilet in time to heave up the beer and whatever he'd eaten that evening. Shaking so hard he could hardly pick up the key on the counter, he left Katya lying there, naked and crying on the bed, ran out of the room, out of the motel, and sped home.

He was crawling out of his fucking skin. She was there. Somehow. Like that.

"Jesus Christ, man," he growled, "get it fucking together. You're losing your shit!"

It was that fucking bitch Jen's fault. Calling him in the middle of the night, screaming and crying about Luc being gone. That's when all this shit had started. She'd just fucked with his head, talking like that. So he'd started imagining things.

He laughed. Poor Katya. He'd really scared the piss out of her.

God, how dumb was this? Laughing, crying, huddling in a dark corner of your own big house, scared to shit, too afraid to even call Brian, half because he'd laugh his ass off at how stupid you're being, half because you're scared...what? That he'll turn into that goddamned succubus?

***

In the morning, after maybe an hour or two of sleep, Paul woke feeling small. Weak. Even the thud of the newspaper hitting the front door made his heart hammer.

When he remembered that he'd seen Rachel pull up and drop Zach off around eleven, that his son was there, he felt better. Safer. Having someone else to protect did that, somehow.

Paul threw on a pair of jeans and went downstairs. Seeing Zach at the kitchen counter wolfing down a bowl of cereal, the world felt normal again.

"Hey, Zach. How was your weekend?"

"Fine." Zach looked up from his magazine. "Dad," he breathed, "you look like shit."

"Eh, rough weekend."

"Come on, Dad. I've seen you after your rough weekends. This isn't hungover with no sleep. What happened?"


Down



"Tell him," a raspy whisper hissed by his ear. 

But there was no one there. Paul clutched the edge of the counter and promised himself, no one's there. 

"Tell. Tell. Tell!"

"Nothing," Paul said in a small voice, willing himself to ignore the wraith's hiss. "Nothing happened. Just a shitty weekend. But, hey, what do you think of the fiancé?" he asked, trying to sound like he wasn't completely falling apart.

***

When Zach left for school, Paul passed out on the couch, and slept for three straight hours for the first time in days. But somehow he felt even more wretched after his nap. He forced down a meal, hoping something warm and nutritious would settle his nerves some. After that and a hot shower, he felt a little calmer.

Down the hall, he could hear Zach, back from school, talking to someone. A girl. Probably a study buddy. The kid had told him straight out he never got any action.

Paul must have fallen asleep again. He didn't remember lying down, but he woke up on his bed, lying on top of the covers. Now there were different sounds coming from down the hall. Like maybe Zach's luck had turned.

It tasted like something had died in his mouth. Paul fought the impulse to go downstairs and wash the flavor away with a few gulps of whiskey, and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth instead. When he flicked the light on, his heart cramped.

The mirror reflected his face, a wet, red hand print on his cheek, the fingers disproportionately long, like they'd slid over his skin in a bloody caress.

He ran toward those sounds coming from Zach's room, flung the door open, charged at the thing on top of his son, dragged it to the floor.

"Dad! Jesus Christ, Dad!"

Just a girl. Like Lena, when he'd first known her, eyes and hair and skin all pale, everything about her small, delicate. But not Lena. But she looked up at the man on top of her, pinning her to the floor, and hissed, "Tell him!"

"Dad! Get off her! What the fuck are you doing?" Zach screamed, yanking on his arm now, trying to drag him off the girl.

Looking down at the girl, a stranger, Paul staggered to his feet, shaking, feeling like he was about to blow apart, like the painful pressure in his chest was a bomb ticking down to explode.

"I'm sorry," he breathed at the frightened girl lying on the floor, while Zach put himself between them.

"What's wrong with you, Dad?" Zach asked, sounding more scared than angry, now.

"I don't know. I don't know. I'm sorry." He started backing away from them, his son and the girl who looked like Lena, who'd hissed at him like the thing that was haunting him. "Zach. I'm gonna call your mother. I'm gonna have her come pick you up. So stick around and wait for her, okay?"

"Okay," Zach said, surly, mistrustful. But he'd wait. Zach was a good kid, that way. 

Who knew what the girl would do? Maybe later that night or the next morning Paul would be getting a visit from the police. Assault, or some charge like that.

Paul got Rachel on her cell and, thanks to the unfamiliar note of fear in his voice, or the fact that he was asking her for help for the first time in their twenty years of knowing each other, she promised to drop everything and come straight over. No questions asked.

While he was still on the phone he heard the front door slam, and when he glanced out the window he saw a slight figure with long blond hair running down the street.

***

God damn, wasn't Brian ever going to get there? Maybe this was better. In the bar he felt safe. Surrounded by familiar strangers. And not a blond sylph in sight. When Brian showed up, he'd have to talk. Paul wasn't sure he'd be able to do that.

Even two whiskeys in, it was hard to imagine saying, "I'm being haunted." But it was impossible to picture not saying it. Talking about anything else.

Something touched his shoulder, and Paul jumped, his thighs hitting the table, sloshing whiskey over the edge of the glass.

"Jeez, man. Take it easy," Brian said, settling down into the chair opposite Paul. "What's going on with you?"

"I don't know."

"Well," Brian said, signaling to the bartender for his usual whiskey rocks, "you think you're jittery now. I just got a call from some friend of Jennifer's. Deb. Man, Luc's dead."

"Dead?" Paul couldn't breathe. It was like someone had filled his chest with cold, wet sand.

"Suicide, they think. Something about the bottoms of his feet being all chewed up, like he'd been wandering the streets, barefoot, for days. And some other shit, I don't know, that Deb chick wouldn't say everything. But I guess he jumped. A freeway overpass."

Dead. So, that's where this was going. She'd started with Luc. And now it was his turn. He was already going fucking insane. Terrified of being alone, scared shitless of being around anyone else, losing it, nearly beating the shit out of Katya and that girl his son had brought home. So, what? In a few days they'd find him splattered under a bridge somewhere, or dangling from his own belt?

"Paul?"

"Something's after me," he breathed.

"What?"

"Something's after me. I'm going crazy. Just like Luc."

"What are you talking about."

"There was a girl. A long time ago. Lena. She's...she's..."

"What? Like, stalking you, or something?"

"Maybe."

"Why? Who is she?"

"She was one of my first girls. A long time ago. Before we had Zach."

"And, what, you think she's got something to do with Luc?"

"Maybe. Yeah."

"What could she be doing? I mean, what, a girl like that, almost twenty years later. Probably strung out on smack, or—"

"She's dead."

"She's dead," Brian echoed the statement, as if to force Paul to hear how silly it sounded.

"She looks dead. And she...materializes. And then she's gone."

"You know how fucking crazy you sound right now, Paul."

"Yeah."

"Look, you're just freaking yourself out. You're weirded out about Luc, and your balls deep with another little Russian bitch."

"No. She wants me dead. Brian, I can feel it."

"Why? What did you do to her?"

"Nothing. Nothing special."

"Well, I guess the usual's enough, isn't it," Brian cracked, laughing over the rim of his whiskey.

"What's that mean?" Paul felt like he was sinking down, like the floor had gone soft under his chair, and was slowly swallowing him.

Brian emptied his glass and, still chuckling, said, "It means you're a fucking prick to those girls."

"You should fucking know," Paul growled. "It's sure as shit not like any of them ever wanted to fuck you, is it?"

"Jeez, man," Brian said in a soft little voice, looking like he'd just been slapped. "I just meant, you know..."

"Yeah. I know. You don't mind banging the girls I give you, but you sit there judging me. Just like everyone else. When you know fucking well if it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have gotten one single fuck in the last five years. You fucking hypocrite."

Fuck Brian. Fuck 'em all. He was on his own. Like always. People pretend to be your friend. Pretend to love you. But the whole time they're thinking they're better than you. The only person you really loved him was Zach, and Paul wanted to keep him far from all this. So he'd cope on his own until it was over.

And it would be over soon. One way or another. The wraith Lena would disappear. Or he'd end up like Luc. Dead. Paul almost didn't care which it was, so long as the feeling of losing his mind stopped.

Paul charged out of the dark bar, into the dark night, ignoring Brian's whining pleas, "Come on, man, chill. I didn't mean..."

Christ. It had been light when he'd parked. Now he'd have to walk down that piss-stinking street in the dark to get back to his car. And of course it was parked way the hell down there. Fucking perfect.

Not half way there, two characters emerged from the dark, lurched through the cone of pale orange cast down from the streetlight, and faded into darkness again. But they were there, Paul knew, coming toward him. Hell, the state he was in, he half wanted them to start some shit. It would feel good, swinging hard, really laying into something. Having a chance to fight back.

Sure enough, instead of stepping into single file to let him by, the two lurching shadows came to a halt, shoulder-to-shoulder, barricading the sidewalk. His fists clenched, Paul took a stance, ready to get to it.

"Hey, looky here," one of the shadows said, his face no more than an outline, but his smile audible in his taunt. "Who's this pretty little thing?"

Great. Paul just loved a mugger with a sense of humor.

"Hey, baby, what are you doing all alone in a bad neighborhood like this after dark? You need a chaperon?" the other purred.

"Fuck off, assholes, I am not in the mood."

"Don't say that, baby."

One of them reached out and touched his hair. What the fuck? Goddamned freaks!

Paul took his best shot, putting all his weight into a brutal punch, his adrenaline surging through his arm like a hydraulic pump. But his balance was off, or something. He'd swung wide, and instead of breaking teeth, his fist limply grazed a shoulder.

"Haha! Baby's got spunk! Sweetheart, you're gonna be a lot of fun!"

Paul turned and ran. For the first time in his life, he was too afraid to take his lumps. It wasn't a beating that scared him. It was a heavy, cold feeling those fuckers had something else in mind.

But he pulled up short before he'd gone ten feet. Three more guys had him penned on the bar side. Darting between two parked cars, Paul sprang into the street, but they had him surrounded. Every punch he threw was short, or wide, or landed soft. The blows he was waiting for never came. The five men just jostled and grabbed, until they had him caught tight between them, and carried him off, down the dark, stinking street, further and further from the bar, down a flight of steps, into a dark, damp cellar. Paul heard a metal door clang shut, and they let go of him.

Pretty much ignored him. Except for looking sideways, watching him, they left him alone. They were more interested in passing around a bottle of tequila and a pack of smokes.

"What the fuck, assholes?"

"Shhh, baby. Don't turn into a nagging bitch, already. We'll give you some attention in a little bit."

"Fuck this shit."

Paul charged toward the door, but two guys grabbed him before he could work the lock.

"I told you to settle down, bitch," the purring hair-toucher growled.

They dragged him across the cellar to a table, threw him down on his back and held him there while someone came up from behind and slipped a chain over his head, down around his neck, and clipped it to something under or behind the table. Then they did his wrists, strapping them down by his hips with two belts, and stuffed some foul rag into his mouth. And then they walked away, back to their corner to enjoy their smokes and tequila.

Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god. What the fuck was this? Some kind of homo freak sex den?

Paul struggled, trying to wrench or wiggle his wrists free of the straps, but got nowhere. And every time he tried to sit up or lift his head, the chain choked down on his throat.

At the edge of his vision he saw someone come up close to stand off by his left shoulder. Paul was breathing hard, starting to hyperventilate, as he strained his eyes, trying to see what was happening.

Not one of the men. The wraith, Lena. She laughed. A raspy hiss of a laugh.

His gut went icy, and his heart hammered. He fought the need to retch, not to choke to death on his own vomit behind that gag.

"Now you'll see," Lena's corpse hissed at him.

It was worse, not quite being able to see her, than having to confront that waxy face, those black eyes.

"This will be your life," she rasped.

The gag stopped him from screaming, "What? Chained up in a cellar like the fucking gimp in some Pulp Fiction homo circus?"

But she heard his thought. Of course she did. That's all she was. All she could be. His imagination. His own brain fucking him around. Not like those five assholes. They were real.

Again that awful laugh. "Nyet, Paul. They don't see you. They see me. Not as I am now. As I was. The pretty girl you stole."

She rasped in Russian, but somehow he understood every word. Like a dream.

"You are gone. For these five men, for the world, now you are just a girl. Small and afraid." 

Lena was suddenly close, looking into his eyes with her dead black orbs, and she stroked his cheek with her cold, moist hand. 

"There, Paul. I see that flame in your eyes. So bright. How alive you are, right now. The first will see it."

Closer and closer she drifted, her pale face, her black eyes floating so near he cringed, anticipating the touch of her lips, but she just breathed, 

"Suffer what I have suffered, Paul. Me, and all of your girls."

Then she was gone.

Behind him, Paul could hear the men laughing, joking about "the girl." Again, vomit bubbled up in his throat, and he fought it back down. He had to wake up from this fucking nightmare.

The cold chain had warmed to body temperature, but it's weight on his throat made him feel he was being choked, that he was suffocating. And soon, those men were going to come over. He was helpless. 

Something inside him broke. He was crying. Sobbing his terror, his disbelief.

Was this really some kind of punishment? For what he'd done to Lena? To the others?

He didn't want to go, but his mind dragged him back those twenty years, to that spartan, stained motel room where he'd first seen her, when Luc had dropped her off. The the flame of fear burning bright in her big gray eyes. He'd been surprised at how docile she'd been, how she seemed to have no hope, once she'd been stripped of her papers. How she seemed to understand there would be no wedding, and hardly tried to fight the wedding night. For weeks, she'd been delicious. Irresistible. But then, she'd cooled, the way they all did, eventually. She stopped trembling at the sight of him. That light in her eyes had dimmed. Even that first time he'd let Luc fuck her in front of him, no spark flared in her eyes. She'd just lain there, limp and crying.

"Good girl. You waited so patiently."

The big blond who'd purred and stroked his hair plucked the gag from between Paul's lips.

"I'm ready for you now, baby. I'll give you all the attention you want."

"This is fucking crazy," Paul barked at the guy. "Look at me! I'm a fucking guy! I don't know what kind of drugs that bitch put in the water, or what Russian voodoo bullshit she's working, but you need to fucking back off!"

The big blond turned and exchanged looks with the other four, who'd gathered around to watch the fun.

"What the hell is that? German or something?"

"Sounds like Russian," a guy with dyed black hair and brown roots said, his words snagging around the cigarette between his lips.

"Da?" the blond breathed tequila over Paul's face. "Izt Russky, ya?"

The blond leaned over and ripped Paul's shirt open.

"Look at those pretty little Russian tits." 

He was purring again as he undid Paul's belt and fly, and in one motion got his pants and shorts off, then dropped the whole wad on the floor. Paul ignored the chain biting into his throat. He had to see for himself he was still a man, had to see his cock, lying limp across its nest of black hair. That should scare the fuckers off, all right. Unless they really were a pack of faggot pervs.

"Now, spread those legs like a good girl," the big blond said, shoving Paul's ankles apart and climbing onto the table. Two of the others grabbed Paul's knees and wrenched his legs open, and the blond drove a finger up into his ass.

Paul screamed, shouted "No!"

"Bitch is dry as a sack of flour," the blond complained to his friends. "We got anything?"

"There's some packets of mayo."

"Nasty."

"Here, man." A guy with a shaved head threw a tube of lip balm to the blond.

"It's not mentholated or anything, is it? I don't want my dick to go numb."

"No, dude, it's just the regular vaseline stuff."

The blond squeezed a gob of the stuff into his palm, greased up his dick, and jammed it up against Paul's asshole.

"God damn, you're tight, baby. Don't tell me you're a fucking virgin!"

"Don't. Don't. Don't," Paul huffed, feeling the pressure of the blond's cock at his hole, then screaming, sobbing as the cock dilated, penetrated, filled his ass.

The blond grunted and huffed, pumping away at Paul's anus. "I swear to fucking god, boys, this is the tightest little cunt you ever felt."

Paul lied there under the grunting, humping blond thinking, "This isn't happening. No way is this happening." 

But the burning pain felt real, the weight of the chain on his throat felt real, the hot, tequila stink huffing in his face every other second felt real, smelled real.

The blond started thrusting harder, faster. Then, his face all red, his teeth clenched, he tensed up suddenly, groaned, then collapsed, hot and sweaty onto Paul's chest. Without a word, then, he pulled out and went away, and two others started grabbing and pulling at Paul, yanking the chain up over his head, freeing his wrists from the belts, then hoisting him up and slamming him back down, onto his belly, bent over the narrow width of the table.

The one with the shaved head was getting his cock out, rubbing it in front of Paul's face. He waved a heavy iron pry bar before Paul's eyes.

"See this? This is what I'm gonna use to fuck you to death, if I feel so much as a tooth touch my cock. You understand me?" When he didn't get an answer, the bald guy slapped Paul across the the face, hard. "You understand me?"

Sobbing, Paul nodded. Behind him, he felt something prodding between his ass cheeks, and a few seconds later Paul screamed as a hard cock rammed into his sore hole.

"Little bitch likes it in the ass, don't you, whore?"

With a stiff cock plunging into his ass over and over, Paul felt the tip of the bald man's prick touch his lips. He gagged at the pungent reek of the man's crotch, but forced himself to put his lips around the fat cock head when the man touched his cheek with the cold pry bar.

"Suck it nice, bitch." 

The man held Paul's head still and pushed his stiff prick deeper and deeper into Paul's mouth, until Paul was choking on it, and his whole body flexed and arched in a convulsive gag. The cock receded, then filled his mouth back up, gagging him again. Sputtering, eyes watering, Paul fought to keep his lips over his teeth, terrified of accidentally scraping a tooth against the cock raping his mouth, of having his insides torn apart by the pry bar. Meanwhile, the guy behind him was fucking him so hard, it felt like his asshole was being torn open.

"Use your tongue, baby. Suck it good. Make me come," the bald one was saying, fucking his mouth in a steady rhythm, now, as the one behind him grunted to a finish and pulled out with excruciating abruptness, and another cock poked into him with the same brutal indifference.

"Nasty little whore, you like getting it in two holes at once, don't you?" Whoever was on top of him now was saying while the bald guy went on fucking his mouth.

"Yeah. You like how Jimmy's fucking your ass?" The bald guy asked, his voice rough with his pending climax. "You want him to fuck you harder? Huh?" He pulled Paul down hard on his cock, and Paul felt a spasm ripple through the shaft, and tasted a spurt of warm come spray into his mouth. The fucker pulled back, and Paul felt the fat knob slide forward over his tongue, as glob after glob of thick semen oozed into his mouth. He gagged and started to retch.

"Swallow my shit, bitch. Or you'll be licking it up off the floor."

He fought to keep his lips closed around the fat cock, to swallow the spunk that was making him gag.

"Good girl. Good girl," the bald man cooed, stroking his hair, still fucking his mouth, but slowly, gently now. Finally he pulled out from between Paul's lips.




Down



"My turn."

The last of the group gave Paul his cock to suck while the guy in his ass kept thrusting away. The taste of the bald guy's spunk was still making Paul want to gag, his jaw ached, and his asshole was burning in excruciating pain. He just wanted these two to finish, for it to be over. Maybe they'd kill him, then, and dump his body in some vacant lot or abandoned building. He almost didn't care. He just wanted it over.

Finally, the guy behind him groaned and shot his load. When he pulled out, Paul waited in terror, afraid they'd all start over again. But now it was just the guy in him mouth. Paul sucked and licked how the guy was telling him, dying to have him finish. Dying to have it over.

When the last guy came, they hoisted Paul, limp and whimpering, up off the table, and dragged him over to a corner and dumped him in a heap. In no big hurry, they tied his arms behind his back, and put the collar around his neck again, chaining him to a sewer pipe mounted to the wall.

For the next few weeks they kept him there, using him now and then. Mostly, though, they offered him to the men who showed up to buy drugs.

"For an extra twenty bucks, you can do whatever you want. Fuck her cunt, her ass. Or she'll give you head. For fifteen each, you can go two at once."

Then there was a raid, and the cops found him, chained and naked, filthy and starving. The men who'd kept him prisoner had abandoned the place three days earlier.

The authorities brought in a translator to work with the trauma counselor. Paul told them everything. What he'd done to Lena and the other girls, all of them, for the last twenty years. How Luc had gone missing and Lena had started appearing, haunting him, and everything that had happened after.

Later, the counselor presented Paul's statement to a judge.

"She's a deeply disturbed young woman. Taking on the identity of her pimp is a psychological defense, a mechanism for coping with the degree of abuse she was forced to endure for a prolonged period. But I'd judge most of her testimony to be based in fact. This man, Paul, lured her to the States under false pretenses, forced her to surrender her passport and visa, and convinced her that without her documents, if she were to go to the authorities, she'd be deported or imprisoned.

"He then repeatedly forced her to engage in sex acts with him over a period of several weeks, at which time he coerced her into sexual servitude with other men for money, first with friends and personal acquaintances, and later with anonymous johns. 

"From Lena's testimony, it would appear that Paul has been doing this for years, possibly with as many as ten women per year. It's difficult to assess the situation, given the witness's delusional state of mind. However, she was able to provide his full name and address, which, if verified, could lead to further evidence. Possibly, he is part of a larger human trafficking syndicate."

A full investigation was opened. Paul's house was searched, and full custody of his son was remanded to his ex-wife, Rachel. In the course of the investigation, and the publicity surrounding it, Zach and his mother learned many of the things Paul had been doing for the past two decades.

The authorities, unable to verify the identity of the young woman in their care, arranged for her transfer to a mental health care facility in Belarus, her stated country of origin. There, as she was prone to fits of hysterics and violence, she was kept in restraints.

Her second night there, after the first twenty-four hour period of intensive observation had expired, the male orderly on duty used his key to enter her locked room. With both her arms and legs in restraints, it was easy for him to kneel between her splayed legs and lift the coarse cotton gown. When she screamed, he covered her mouth with one hand while he got unzipped with the other, spit in his palm, got his cock wet, and drove it up inside her. He kept her cries muffled under his palm until he was done. Then he pulled out, zipped up, tugged her hem back down, and slipped quietly out of her room.

It was pretty much the same with the orderly on duty the next night, though that one took a minute to look at the girl strapped to the bed, caressed her cheek and said, "It's been a long time since we had one here as pretty as you."

Paul was starting to forget who or what he was. When he looked in a mirror—or, rather, one of the gleaming rectangles of metal that stood in for real mirrors—sometimes he saw the face, the body of a man, thick, dark brown hair, a dark beard, a tall broad frame; other times he saw a delicate young woman with long, flaxen hair and skin so pale it was almost translucent.

One day, Paul was sitting in a wheelchair, wrists secured to the arm rests, when someone brought a chair near and sat down by him. Paul looked away, and started whimpering quietly.

"No. Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you."

It was the voice of an old woman. Paul turned to look. And then he started to cry, because at first he thought it was her. Lena. The woman had that look. Waxy skin. Her big eyes all black, like two huge, glassy marbles. But not Lena. Not the wraith.

"Your dead," he told the woman.

"No. Not dead. Changed. Changed by suffering. Changed by my power."

She touched his cheek with her cool, waxy fingers.

"Your madness," she whispered, "someone did this to you. Someone hurt you."

Paul went on crying.

"Don't be sad, dear girl. I can teach you how to pay him back, the one who's done this to you. It will take time, yes, but all we have is time, here. All the rest of our days and nights, nothing but time to think, to work our will. I'll show you."

The woman curved her thin, damp fingers over Paul's restrained hand.

"It's an old secret. For a thousand years my people have known how. I'll teach you, as I've taught others here. All you must do is think of the one who's hurt you most. Focus on him. In time, you can make him see you, as you will see him. In time, you can appear to him, like a phantom. Or make him see you in others who are near him. There are other tricks, too. I'll show them all. In time, you will make him suffer, as you have suffered.

"Now. Focus. Picture this man's face."



Down



I describe the blowjob I dream about giving.

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Click Here to listen. (6 min/mp3)

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Down



After twenty years of marriage I am finally very happily married. Oh, my husband and I have always loved each other, sometimes more, sometimes less. Like all couples we had our good times and our bad, our arguments and our fights. But the latter had begun to take more and more out of me, and the reservoir of contentment and joy, which I had always hoped would grow not diminish as our life together continued, did indeed begin to significantly lessen.

This probably affected me far more than my husband. You see, when it came to the inevitable disagreements and arguments that are part of any couple's normal life, even those that occasionally evolved into full fledged fights, in our particular marriage I was always at a severe disadvantage. Drew is at heart a very loving and caring person, ant that is why I fell in, and am still deeply in love with him. He is also a very driven and highly competitive individual, which are undoubtedly major reasons why he has been so successful in the business world. Added to this is that he is, and has always been a very effective debater, and revels in it, while I have very little of that skill, and so you can easily imagine how infrequently I might prevail in any verbal contests we have. I think that many times he engaged in an argument with me just for the thrill of the verbal jousting. Often, when it was about an issue he didn't truly care much about, once he had established to his satisfaction the superiority of his position he would graciously concede the outcome to me, making it more than subtly clear though that he was doing so purely as a beneficence to me, not due to any rightness of my position. This of course would only serve to frustrate me all the more despite my apparent 'victory'.

It was even worse obviously when our arguments were on subjects that we both felt strongly about. Here he rarely if ever gave any quarter, and despite how strongly I might feel about the issue at hand I was never a match for his linguistic virtuosity. Sometimes he was so good that he could even lead me to come to doubt the rightness of my cause no matter how deeply I might have believed in it. More often however, once I reached the end of any viable challenge on my part I fall back on the only option remaining to me, a full fledged fight, followed inevitably with the only resort left at my disposal ... silence.

Once we entered the cold shoulder, minimal-communication-for-necessities only stage, it could last for days. Of course neither one of us enjoyed these times and they were not fun at all to be in, but I think they might have usually lasted a lot longer except for one thing ... we both, before too much time passed, would become hornier than hell so that one or the other of us would come up with some half baked compromise, or more often we would both agree to put off further consideration of our disagreement just so we could more comfortably and enthusiastically get back in the sack with each other.

In the bedroom Drew is a completely different person than he is in all other phases of his life, and in our relationship. Here he is completely devoted to my needs and wants, seeing to my pleasure and submitting to all of my whims before allowing himself any of his own. He likes and wants me to be in total control of our intimacy, and I love and do take full advantage of this.

One very particular feature of Drew's submissiveness in this setting is his very strong foot fetish. There is nothing that gets his engine revving more that starting our love making with him on his knees at the end of our bed worshiping my feet. I'd be lying if I said that this wasn't a huge turn on for me as well, feeling his lips gently caressing the soles of my feet as he whispers how much he adores me, before he slowly works down to the bottoms of my toes, softly kissing them all and then slipping his tongue between each one, sending shivers of delight coursing through me. With my active encouragement he will then take each one individually into his mouth and suck with increasing ardor until I can stand no more and pull my foot from his mouth, rub both of my feet over the entirety of his face, and then curl them around the back of his neck to entice him to begin his journey up between my legs.

Needing no further inspiration he will then take one of my feet in his hand and bring it back forward in front of him, and with his outstretched tongue begin at my instep and lovingly lick his way around my heel, slowly up the inside of my calf, spending extra time in the back of my knee before proceeding up my inner thigh to finally reach the feast in which we both want him to so deliciously partake.

I spread my legs invitingly and he moans so delightedly and expectantly. I thrust my treasure slightly up and down to express my permission for him to proceed and he begins by softly blowing on the petals before him, sending tingles of anticipation within me. He then lightly flicks the tip of his tongue upon my outer lips, gradually moving it gently between them causing my trove's movements to become more pronounced and less voluntary. Suddenly his tongue thrusts itself more fully , invading the vault within and working its way upward to capture and envelop its most precious jewel. 

Unable to contain myself I arch back and groan hungrily as his tongue swirls around my pearl, sending indescribable jolts of joy surging throughout me. Knowing not to short circuit the longer, deeper pleasure he has in mind for me, before long he moves his tongue away from this most sensitive nub and begins to thrust it more fully inward, slowly at first, then more urgently as my pelvis begins to undulate in time with his ministrations, and my groans become whimpers as my head rolls from side to side and my hands claw at the sheets beside.

And then my juices begin to flow and bathe his tongue his lips his face, all buried so deeply between my legs, but before I explode in full cascade I grab the top of his head by the hair and pull him roughly up onto the bed and onto his back. His manhood, fully risen in tribute and totally mine, stands upright in front of me begging its own release and relief. But before that's allowed it must pleasure me to my utmost desire. I climb up onto him, always on top, and impale myself onto my joystick. Savoring its fullness within I slowly rotate and grind down over his groin, eliciting from him his own yearning groan. I begin to slide up and down, leisurely at first, but my need, already well ignited, propels me forward and I rapidly pick up the pace until before long I am riding him with wide abandon, surging for that crescendo of utter rapture that I know will soon come. And I feel him below me struggling mightily to keep his own need in check until I am ready and cresting and grant him his required permission to join me in the resulting tsunami. This excites me all the more and is all that I need to finally push me over the edge.

"Now, Drew, Now." is all I need to cry before he drives his pelvis as forcefully upward as he possibly can and we both burst forth our essences in turbulent fury, seeming without end, until we can offer no more, and completely spent we collapse, drained, into each other's arms.

As fulfilling and enjoyable as these bedroom moments have always been, especially as I am always in complete charge of them, my seeming inability to effect an even equal footing in all other aspects of our relationship had long begun to grate and greatly frustrate me. It was not that my husband was overtly domineering, or made any conscious effort to directly control me or us. Indeed I truly believe he wanted me to be happy. It was just that, as I said before, he was so innately competitive that he just couldn't help himself. He always felt that he needed to prevail, even when it was about something not particularly significant to him, and I remained woefully ineffective in ever contesting his linguistic skills. Oh, he would sometimes become aware of how this upset me and back off, not because he accepted the rightness of my position but more to try to placate me. This only served to increase my growing discontent. On issues where we both felt equally adamant however there was never any give. And as I was always unable to adequately combat his seemingly superior arguments, this only fueled my silent rage. I began to feel that if I didn't find some way, any way, to level the playing field between us the game, our marriage, could be lost. I did not want to seek a diminishment in his abilities, but rather to raise and improve on mine. I just couldn't figure how to do so.

It was after a particularly intense argument when we had one of our longest periods of cold silence between us, and it was well over two weeks where I barely acknowledged him. I freely admit that he made efforts along the way to defuse the tension, short of giving in to me of course, but I continued to rebuff them. It was not that I enjoyed the situation, but it was the only weapon that I had. After that long however the needs of my libido began to come into play. And so one evening when he again tried to become playfully enticing I finally backed down, grabbed his hand and led him to the bedroom.

We were now again in the realm of my acknowledged rule. While I had become very hot to trot I was still somewhat seething.

"Strip" I ordered him brusquely, and he rapidly began to comply as I myself removed only my skirt and panties and then sat down on the side of our bed.

"Here." was my next command

He strode forward and slipped down to his knees in front of me leaning forward to lift up one of my feet into his hands. I knew what was to come next, and I suddenly realized that this time it was NOT what I wanted. I reached down and grabbed him by his arms and pulled him roughly onto the bed and onto his back. Without further ado I mounted his face and brought my sacristy down onto his lips. While undoubtedly surprised at how quickly we had arrived at this point, he understood what was expected and worked his tongue vigorously as I mashed down continuously onto his mouth, bringing myself to several satisfying orgasms before I finally pulled off and repositioned myself onto his jutting pole, bringing myself to one more shuddering climax before allowing him his only one.

I collapsed off of him onto my back, fully sated. It had been fast and furious, far different from our norm, but I had needed that to help bank and cool any of my remaining anger. But as I lay there I began to sense that my husband did not seem quite as fulfilled, very likely I came to surmise, due to the lack of his usual submissive foreplay. As I contemplated this, a seed of an idea began to form.

We approached our next evening of intimacy several days later with much more pleasant feelings for each other. But I once again refused to allow him to kiss my feet. I did permit him however a prolonged and leisurely spell with his face between my legs before I climbed up upon him for my final pleasure, and his one squirt. I enjoyed it all immensely but I could again see his unspoken sense of disappointment. And my seed of an idea started to coalesce into a strategy.

With our next bout of love making he was again denied access to my peds and his growing frustration was becoming readily evident. Given the nature of our relationship in the bedroom he would almost certainly feel it inappropriate to voice his concern there, so my strategy was now developing into a plan. It was one that I feared had a high potential for failure because for it to work I knew that it had to be sparked and initiated by him, and outside of the bedroom. It was in that arena where I needed to establish my keenly sought for but sorely lacking authority and strength.

To try to accelerate this process, without making anything obvious or suggestive, I refrained from initiating any further sexual interactions between us for the next few weeks. This had the desired effect as I could see him becoming more antsy and frisky by the day, and finally one night after dinner he ventured forth with the proposal that we might retire to the bedroom for some too long neglected fun and games. When I coyly responded that I might be interested itspurred him on to more boldly suggest what had been withheld from him even longer.

"Maybe I might even be able to finally spend some quality time with your toes again." he added with a hopeful grin.

This was the opening for which I had been waiting and my heart began to race. So much now depended on how this now played out.

"No, I don't think so, Drew." I responded firmly.

His face fell.

"Why not, Hon?" he implored. "You used to love it when I worshiped your feet."

"Not as much as you." I retorted.

"But still, I know that you enjoy it." He rebutted with a sly smile. When I didn't answer he tried a different tack.

"You're not still angry about that discussion we had over a month ago, are you? Don't you think you're taking that all a little bit far?"

"It was more than a 'discussion' Drew."

"So now you feel that you still have to punish me after all this time just because you didn't get your way? Isn't that somewhat childish?"

"I'm not punishing you Drew. I'm just 'not' doing something I don't want to do. And who's the one acting childish, whining because he can't get his way and what he wants."

"Aw gee, Lori," he replied in a calm and reasonable voice. "You know that I always try and do anything and everything you like and ask for in the bedroom. Don't you think it's just the teeniest bit fair that I have something that I love to do as well?"

I could feel the 'discussion' beginning to go his way as it always did, and I could feel my anger stirring as I tried to rally.

"Oh, so you don't 'love' all the other things we do there, is that it?"

"Of course I do Hon. Nothing ever gives me more joy than giving you pleasure and taking you to the absolute heights. But I love to adore all of you, beginning from the very tips of your toes, and I can't understand that if you love me why you won't let me start there anymore." he concluded with a reassuring smile.

I could once again see it slipping away, with no reasonable rejoinder to offer back, and this is where I would usually fall back into a vanquished silence. But this time it was all proceeding to plan. Still my anxiety roiled within me. It was make it or break it time. This just had to work. I was out of any other options.

"Okay Drew." I offered, far more calmly than I felt. "You want to kiss my feet, I'll let you kiss my feet, but from now on there's only one way that you're going to be allowed that privilege."

"How so?" he responded cautiously, perhaps taken somewhat aback by the direction this had gone, which gave me a bit more confidence to proceed. It was time. I took a deep breath.

"While I do sometimes enjoy our many 'discussions', and I do usually want to hear and know your opinions about things in our life, all too often I find you spinning out of control beyond all reason, and it's becoming more and more, and extremely, irritating. So from now on, whenever I've had enough of all that I'm going to just say one word ... 'Down' ... Whenever and wherever you ever hear me say that single word you're going to immediately stop whatever you're saying and doing and get down on your knees and begin kissing my feet. And as you're doing so you're going to profusely apologize to me for being so bull headed and then tell me that of course I'm right and you'll do whatever it is the way that I want. And you'll keep kissing my feet until I decide that you're sorry enough and sincere."

My soliloquy was met at first with stunned silence. Then ...

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

We had reached the point of no return.

"Not if you want to worship my feet as much as you claim."

"But that's just silly."

"Down" was all I said.

He was momentarily at a loss for words, possibly for the first time ever with me, and then he could only sputter plaintively, "Lori ... Hon ..."

I charged onward, fearing to lose any momentum. "As this is your first time, this one time only I will give you a second chance, but if I ever have to repeat 'the word' a second time you will never again, under any circumstances, ever be allowed ANY access to my feet. So ..." I paused and then put one of my feet forward.

"DOWN"

There was clear indecision in his eyes and posture, and my heart hammered as I struggled to remain steel visaged and resolute. Hesitantly, but then with slightly more purpose he went down to his knees, slowly bent forward and brought his lips to my proffered foot. My spirit soared.

"And what are you supposed to be saying as you're doing this?" I inquired more confidently than ever.

"Please ... Please forgive me ... for being so bull headed" he stammered as he continued to pay homage to my sandaled appendage.

"And what else?"

His lips and tongue continued to course over the length of my foot.

"Dreeeww." I enjoined him sternly and began to pull my foot away. He stretched forward to try to maintain contact.

"I'll ... I'll ... whenever you've had enough and say the word ..." he croaked hoarsely, "... I'll go down like this as you say." 

"Good boy." I murmured

At that moment I couldn't have asked for anything more. I had rarely felt so exultant. And so filled with love ... and desire. I pulled my foot away from him, this time without any question, and turned away.

"Follow me." was all I said as I made my way up to the bedroom. He quickly rose and scampered after me, and our love making soon after was as electric as it had been in quite some time. Of course once inside I didn't allow him any further contact with my feet.

Despite this initial spectacular success I knew that I needed to tread lightly at first so as not to scare him to retreat, even as he might in part perceive it in as a bit of a reward. So for the next few weeks I used my new weapon sparingly and selectively, and only for minor and inconsequential issues. I also included more frequent forays into the bedroom as positive reinforcement. It wasn't too long before I could see him becoming more comfortable and accepting of our new situation. It didn't hurt of course that these were the only times that he was allowed any contact with his very desired part of my anatomy. I even began to notice that he would occasionally appear to instigate some minor conflict so as to provoke my use of 'the word', and I concluded quickly that I had to do something to counter this. These were not meant to be predominantly pleasurable moments for him, even as they did fill an important need ... for both of us.

While Drew had an undeniable hunger to worship my feet, they were unquestionably most desirable to him when they were bare. He was much less enamored with them when they were encased in footwear, except possibly to gaze upon. So I started to make sure that for almost all of my time outside of the bedroom, and especially when I made him go 'down', I was wearing either slippers, shoes, or even sneakers. This seemed to serve nicely to temper any further attempts on his part to prompt confrontations. But as these were his only opportunities to experience his obsession, even in this less for him optimum way, it still was enough to spur his compliance when I needed it so.

Once I was secure that Drew had become accepting and conditioned at this first and basic level it became time to proceed on to an even more important point ... to impose my will over something he far more strongly cared about. I knew that I would have to choose this initial, more serious 'bone of contention' very carefully so as not to jeopardize what I had achieved so far. But I had to make this leap or lose it all to irrelevancy. 

Like far too many men my husband is a sports freak. He can watch almost any game in almost any sport, and all too often does. It's not that I begrudge him his interest and enjoyment of these events. It's more that I have none. I just have never seen the point. So it can frequently become quite annoying and frustrating that all the countless hours he spends on them is time unavailable to spend with me. And it was a battle that I had never been able to contest.




Down



One particular team of which Drew is a full fledged fanatic is the local city basketball team. He lives and dies with them, far more often dying as they apparently have rarely been very successful much to his never ending heartbreak and chagrin. But for once, this year they were apparently doing quite well, and were actually advancing deep into the annual national championship tournament. And so it turned out that on the next Saturday evening as he was riveted on the couch in our family room, his eyes glued to our large flat screen TV totally absorbed in the latest of their 'huge' games, that I decided to take the plunge and make my move.

I knew enough from peeking in from the back of the room from time to time that it was a very close and nerve wracking game. As it neared its end the tension emanating from the televison, and more so from my husband on the couch, was evident even to me. The moment had come. 

"Drew, honey." I called out to him from the doorway behind. "The garbage is overflowing in the kitchen and I need you to take it outside."

"I will in a bit, Hon." he answered without even looking back.

"I need you to do it now. It's starting to stink." I insisted more loudly.

This time he half turned toward me. "There's only a couple of minutes left to go in the game and it's tied. I'll take it out as soon as the game is over."

A loud cheer could be heard on the TV, instantly drawing his attention back to it. I walked over to the side of the couch so that I was now in his full view.

"No Drew, you have to do it NOW."

"Lori ..." he began to respond sharply ...

"Down." I cut him off vehemently. This time when I used 'the word' I had made sure to be barefoot. Over recent weeks, whenever I had spoken it he had more and more quickly responded on his knees. But this time he just sat there as if in shock as he looked up at me. Another cheer could be heard on the tube and almost without volition he started to turn back toward it.

"Don't make me say it again, Drew." I declared ominously. "You know what the consequences will be."

This drew his attention back to me, and more specifically down to my feet. He continued to hesitate and waver, and I could see him frantically weighing all the variables in his mind. Another crowd eruption from the flat screen. I don't know if my feet being bare made the final difference, but it certainly couldn't have hurt. I must say that when he made his decision he moved quickly. He scrambled off the couch and urgently crawled over to me on his knees and began smothering my feet with kisses.

"Forgive me for being so mule headed" he whispered insistently. Wrong animal, but I gave him that under the circumstances. I remained silent as I let him continue his obeisance. More fan screams from the TV.

"Please Lori, let me take out the garbage." he implored. I knew he wanted to get it done as quickly as possible to get back to the end of the game.

"But I thought you wanted to wait." I replied from above.

"No please, I want to do it right away ... please." he begged, further abasing himself with his lips on my toes. I waited several more seconds, savoring the sensation.

"Okay my love, " I finally relented, "you can go and take it out now. Hurry up, I'll be waiting here for you."

He scampered up off the floor and rushed from the room to gather up all the garbage and take it out to deposit in the outside bins as rapidly as he could. I made my way over tp the sofa and calmly sat down in the middle and put my feet up on a pillow on the table in front. I picked up th TV remote and began scrolling through the cable channels before finally settling on the Home and Garden station. A very few minutes later Drew came charging back into the room. He came to a sudden stop.

"Honey, the game ..." he blurted plaintively.

"Oh, I wasn't interested in that." I answered serenely. "This show is telling me how to take the best care of all the different types of flowers in my garden."

"But the game was tied and it was almost over."

"I'm sure that you can find out who won later."

"But ..."

I looked away from him and glanced down to my feet and then back up at him, and he followed my gaze before his own eyes dropped to the floor. It spoke volumes to the depth of his defeat that I didn't need to voice 'the word' this time. It also spoke volumes to the depth of my love for this man that I then thought in my triumph to offer him a small crumb of consolation ... okay, maybe not so small.

"If you sit down and watch this with me I'll let you massage my feet as we do."

It was indeed heartwarming to see the look of desolation on his face lessen somewhat as he sat down on the end of the couch and I rotated to plop my feet onto his lap. It lightened even more over the next hour as he gave me the most heavenly foot rub I'd had in years. As we both learned so much about what type of mulch worked best for which type of flower.

As gratifying as this victory was, I knew that I had to follow it up and quickly with another one just as powerful, so he would not come to view it as a one time occurrence but rather as the new fabric of our union. Thankfully, and fortuitously, I was presented with the perfect opportunity just two days later. It turned out that Drew's team had won the game that night and were now in the title game for their first time ever and thus, needless to say, playing for a championship they had never won before. As excited as he had been since he had learned that result much later on that night, he was even more so when he arrived home from work two days later. 

"Hon, you're never going to believe what happened." he exuberantly proclaimed before even saying hello or kissing me. "Jerry got two tickets for tonight's championship game and he asked me to go with him. I've got to hurry up and change, grab a quick bite and then get down to the arena."

He started to rush past me, but when I didn't move or say anything he stopped.

"Hon?" he asked as if actually puzzled.

This was going to be the acid test.

"You're not going." I said quietly.

"What?" he said as if he hadn't heard correctly.

"You're not going." I said cooly but a little louder.

"Of course I am." he practically shouted. "I've already told Jerry that I'm going."

"That's too bad. You're still not going."

"Why not?" he asked defiantly

"Because you didn't ask ME if you could."

"But this is the championship game. I've waited forever for this. I just can't miss it."

"I guess you'll just have to. You never ask me when you want to watch or go to a game, and that's something that's no longer acceptable and has to change."

"Alright Lori, you're right about that, and I was wrong. I should have asked and I will from now on I promise, and I'm asking now. I have to go to this game."

I waited several beats. "No." I declared. "And anyway I have my own special plans for us this evening."

"But I'm sure those can wait. This game may be a once in a lifetime occurrence."

I smiled. 

"Down." I said, only slightly above a whisper.

His eyes widened and his lower lip began to tremble.

"Lori, you can't be serious." he pleaded.

"If you don't want this to be a 'last in a lifetime' occurrence, if you ever want any privileges to my feet again under any circumstances, you know what you have to do. Right now."

"Lori, honey, please."

"Drew, don't make me say it a second time. You know what that will mean."

"Lori ..." he moaned

I began to slowly mouth the word, and seeing this he shut his eyes, and even more slowly practically wilted onto to his knees on the floor, bending over my feet and bringing his face to hover silently several inches above them for long motionless moments. Finally ...

"Please ..." he implored softly. It was as if he was at a crossroads. "Please ..." He hesitated yet again. I unhurriedly began to move my foot away. He made his choice. He bent down further and kissed the top of my slipper.

"Please ... forgive me for being so ... pigheaded."

Again a different animal, but no less correct. I let out a long breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

"Okay then Drew, what do you have to do now."

He kissed my slipper again

"I ... I need to call Jerry ..." 

"And ..."

"And ... and tell him that I can't go to the game."

"Yes. That's what you have to do. And you better do it right now don't you think?"

"Yes." he sighed and got up and took out his cell phone. He took a few steps and turned away from me slightly as he dialed. I allowed him at least this much of an illusion of privacy.

'Hi Jerry, it's Drew." he started when his friend had answered. "Listen, I know it last minute but I'm not going to be able to go to the game with you tonight." After a moment, "No, there's nothing wrong. It's just that Lori had something special planned for us tonight." He chuckled in a knowing type of way for his unseen audience, and I let him have this little face saving facade. "Of course it'll be after the game, but she wants me home for our 'special' celebration right after, you know what I mean." A pause as he listened. "You bet." he finished. "Thanks again for the invite. I'm sure you won't have any trouble finding someone else to go. Enjoy."

With that he hung up, took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he turned back towards me.

"Well, now we can have a nice dinner together and not just the 'quick bite' you were so foolishly talking about." I offered sweetly. He nodded weakly.

"And after that I really do have something special planned for both of us." I continued. 

His head snapped up. "Please let it be after the game." he beseeched. "I've got to watch it on TV at least."

"Oh I don't think that's going to be possible Drew." My eyes were sparkling. "There's a special show on at the same time on the Nature Channel that I don't want to miss. It's about mating rituals of the male baboon. It's supposed to be 'must see' TV. 

"Do we have to watch that?" he whimpered.

"You won't have to." I replied agreeably. "You're going to be far too busy giving me a nice 'special' pedicure while I'M watching it." I gave him a moment to let that all sink in. "And if you do an extra good job on that I just may let you watch the end of your game after my show is over."

Amazingly my husband had no rebuttal to this and made no attempt to even offer a counter. Perhaps, upon instant reflection, he realized that on balance he was still coming out very much ahead of the 'game'. 

From that point on our marriage became significantly less contentious. There were no more arguments. But there were also very few if any true discussions, certainly not about anything Drew felt was important. If was as if he was walking on eggshells, afraid that any contrary point of view he might express would bring down the hammer. We even seemed to stop talking very much about everyday and mundane things. While in some ways this still seemed better that what I had had before, it was really not what I had been striving for. I wanted my husband to truly buy into the new order, to be an enthusiastic EQUAL partner, not a fearful drone afraid to open his mouth. The purpose of my entire action had been to raise me up, to give me a chance at an equal footing in my consistently losing battle against his many words. Instead, it appeared the he had be brought low to my previous level by my one 'word'.

To try to pierce the increasingly sullen silence that had descended upon us I increased the frequency of our bedroom activities. While he continued to do his utmost there to please me I began to sense that he was beginning to derive mush less pleasure from them himself, likely because, I realized, I persisted in denying him what excited him the most. This bothered me immensely, but I just couldn't bring myself to relinquish the one hold that I had.

After a month of this his frustration ... his need ... apparently became so great that he began to once again provoke me over seeming inconsequential matters, like refusing to help me wash and put away the dishes, or help fold the laundry. This would of course precipitate my use of 'the word', which I soon understood was his purpose no matter what I might be wearing on my feet. He still absolutely avoided any confrontations over serious issues. But even as I now saw what he was doing and why, I was reluctant to stop. I didn't want to give in and lose any of the small amount of authority I had achieved. I was in a double bind. Clearly though, neither one of us seemed happy with how our situation had evolved. I just didn't know how to resolve it. Under our current circumstances it was not something we could easily 'discuss'.

It was after a particularly unsatisfying evening in the bedroom where my own joy had been fully negated when for the first time ever Drew had failed to climax. I lay there in the bed a long, long time staring up at the ceiling. I had won. I had attained my goal. But it all now seemed to be turning so sour. The questions bore down on me. Was this worse than what I had before? In too many ways it seemed to be so. What was I going to do? What could I do? We were sinking so low. In that darkness I began to seriously contemplate surrender, even knowing ... the cost. What else could I do?

But then Drew, lying beside me, Drew, my loving, never having failed me ever, darling Drew, spoke through the crushing silence. Almost wistfully.

"Do you think you might ever again allow me to kiss your feet when we make love?"

It had come from him. It needed to have come from him. Suddenly I saw a possible way forward. It was certainly worth a try. I sat up with my legs crossed beneath me and faced him. I gathered my coalescing thoughts as quickly as possible and plunged ahead.

"I know that you've been trying so hard with all of this Drew, and I really appreciate that." I began. "I'll tell you what, I'll make a deal with you." I now had his undivided attention. "If between now and the next time I decide that we're going to make love, if I don't have to use 'the word' on you at any time, then I WILL allow you to adore my feet again then."

"But, my love." I continued after a pause, "We ARE husband and wife, and we do need to know and share each other's thoughts, even when we might disagree, and I want that to happen as well. Don't worry though," I added to reassure him, "at those times I will give you enough warning before I have to say ... 'something'." Another pause as my heart was in my throat as I wasn't sure which way this might go. "What do you say?" I asked quietly. "Do you think you can do this?"

The love of my life stared up at me and into my eyes, and I thought that I saw that his own eyes were glistening.

'Without any question." He fervently declared.

True to, and beyond his word, for the next several days Drew couldn't do enough around the house, or for me. Everything I asked him to do he did, and quickly. He even began to assume, without my asking, some domestic chores he had never done before. He still remained very tentative in any conversations I tried to initiate, but he did make some cautious forays, and I didn't push him yet in that regard. I let things progress as such for over a week just to be sure it was real and there wouldn't be any back sliding. And indeed, instead, he became even more diligent and attentive. Finally one evening after dinner as he got up to clear off the table I spoke up.

"That can wait for later, Drew." I rose and began to walk away. "Come." I summoned.

He followed me up and into the bedroom. I sat on the side of our bed, slipped off my pump, and then raised and pointed my bare foot towards him.

"Worship" was all I said.

In an instant he was on his knees before me. He cupped my foot delicately in his hands and brought his face down to reverently place his lips on top. He let them linger there, as if entranced, for what seemed like forever before softly and slowly moving them up and around my ankle, down to my heel, then raising my foot up to traverse along my arch and sole to the ball before finally arriving, exquisitely, at my toes.

I reveled in the touch of his tongue as it progressed the entire way. God I had missed this, perhaps almost as much as he. I practically swooned as he lavishly laved and sucked on each of my toes in his mouth, seemingly without end, until he proceeded to do even more so with my other foot. I allowed ... no, luxuriated in this profound adoration until we were both so hot we could not help ourselves from surging up and beyond. To say that what came next was volcanic would make mock of the cataclysm that followed. Suffice to say that when we were done neither of us had anything left within to erupt.

And such is our life as it is today. My husband and I now happily share everything ... chores, decisions, our innermost thoughts and dreams. He is usually allowed to watch and go to his games or out with his friends as he desires, as long as he checks first with me, as I do with him about any of my independent activities. But we do so much more together now as well. He has even grown more confident again to discuss anything and everything with me as he has come to see that more often than not I am willing to meet him more than halfway. But he has also learned that it only takes a certain look from me and a glance toward the floor, for him to cease, desist, and defer. He's only human of course, and so I still have to occasionally use 'the word', but with ever increasing rarity. I must also confess however that I sometimes look for even the flimsiest excuse to send him 'down', just as a reminder, and to keep him on his toes. I'm only human too. To be fair though, I usually try to be barefoot at those times.

In the bedroom of course I still always rule the roost. This is how we both want and need it to be, and where he still consistently, and gloriously rockets me up to the mountaintop ... and beyond. And where, except for those few times preceded by his missteps 'down', he is allowed ... no, actively encouraged ... to indulge his own deepest desire.

And so, after twenty years of marriage, I ... we ... have found what is so often talked, even sung about, but is so rarely achieved ... ongoing and continuous marital bliss and contentment. And while our love for each other is the true and most important force that drives and sustains it we both know that it ... we ... owe so very much in our life together now to that other four letter word...

Down.



Down and Dirty



I called Nora and told her I had to cancel our date because my old classic car had broken down again. When I told her I was staying home to work on her, she surprised me by asking if she could help. She said she had grown up watching and sometimes helping her older brothers work on their hot rods and she loved getting dirty.

So here we were under my '56 Chevy instead of at the lake with a picnic basket. I told her it was a heck of a second date and that I never would have guessed she would end up under my car before she ended up under me. She teased me back by telling me my Chevy was better looking than me and I retorted by saying the car was in better shape as well.

"I tell you Nora, with that extra large man's shirt and those jeans rolled up high plus that cute little pony tail of yours you remind me of Sandra Dee."

"Well thank you sir I surly will take that as a compliment; you know I saw all the Tammy movies. It's just when I got up this morning I got to thinking back on all those Saturdays when I was a young teen and this was pretty much how I dressed. My brothers always hollered at me for wearing their shirts but I don't think they really cared. So tell me what are we doing today?"

I told her I was pretty sure I'd lost a freeze plug but I'd know better once I got under the car. As for Nora, she knew what a freeze plug was and asked me if it was front or back. My answer was for us to climb under and check it out. It was the rear plug and the only way I could get to it way to drop the trany thus turning a five minute job into a whole afternoon.

When we stopped for lunch Nora got the picnic basket she had prepared for us and instead of under the shade of an old oak, we ate under the shade of my garage. I got us a couple of beers while she spread our lunch out on an old blanket I had. We feasted on cold fried chicken and homemade potato salad as we drank our beer. Although we had both cleaned up enough to eat, we were still covered in grease, and Nora had the cutest little smudge on the end of her nose. I teased her about it and when she swiped at it and missed, I volunteered to get it and I leaned over with a napkin. When I looked close to make sure I got it all she just turned her head up enough for her lips to meet mine. The kiss so incongruous and innocent yet to me was a burning ember that lit a passion that had lain dormant before. 

I refused to break the kiss first and when she did, she looked at me with questions in her eyes.

"Nora I know we hardly know each other and it's way too early to discuss the future but by just being with you today I'd have to count it as one of the best days of my life."

"Come on Robb you're just trying to get in my pants," she kidded as she pushed me back with her hands.

"No, well yes but that's not what I'm talking about. It's about you having fun, getting dirty and I can tell you're actually enjoying today as I am. Sure I want to tear you clothes off and ravish your body but it's more than that, its being with you that I enjoy."

I think she saw the honesty in my face as she thanked me. We went on to finish our lunch and then back under my old clunker.

I told her I was glad she was there to help connect my transmission back as it was so much easier with two people, even if one was a girl. The last remark got me a grease mark across my cheek. We finished around four and my old Chevy was good to go but we weren't as we both were covered in grease. We used Goop to clean up and then I offered her a shower and a clean pair of my sweats to wear. When she finished her shower, I took mine as she worked on her hair. 

I told her that now we were both clean and I actually had a car that ran again we could go do something. She grinned at me and said there was something she had always wanted to do since she was a teenager. I asked her what and she said,

"Well technically this is now our third date and I've always wanted to make love in the backseat of a '56 Chevy."

I took her hand and led her back to the garage.



Down & Dirty in the Garage



I admit it; exhibitionism has never been one of my biggest turn on's. But over the past twenty-five years, whether in response to my partner's needs or sometimes bare necessity, I have on more than a few occasions devilled into this fetish. This is the story of one of those times.

Ty was a casual fuck buddy I had met through one of my gangbangs. He was tall; over six foot four with a medium build and medium brown skin that depicted his mixed African-American and Latino heritage. Emotionally he was the oddest combination of vulnerable little boy, arrogant asshole and close friend. 

In addition to the once or twice a month gangbangs that Ty was instrumental in organising, we would meet one-on-one to indulge our mutual appetites and take the edge off. Because he had flatmates and I had children, we faced the challenge of finding a place to meet. His solution was a tad shocking and risqué for me; a multi-story open parking garage that was almost vacant after hours.

Usually once or twice a week, when one of us got too stressed and just needed a good fuck, we would phone each other and hook up. I would drive over to his side of town; pick him up and we would head to our secret rendezvous. I would drive my compact car in what seemed like an endless round of circles climbing higher and higher into its recesses. We would park not on the open top floor, but just below it. Ty had a friend that installed the security cameras in the garage; he knew that the very last space in the corner was a virtual blind spot. So we would park there. 

Considering I had a gear stick between us up front, we would usually climb into the back sit to get down to business. But given the size of my lover relative to my vehicle, this often was a challenge as well. 

This night, it had been almost a week since we had hooked up; work and kids can mess with hot sex. We were both horny as hell and needed a wild, crazy fuck session. We should have probably spent the money for a cheap hotel, but single moms and aspiring porn producers are often not flush. 

We began as usual in the back seat of my car. I rode Ty's hard cock as he opened my top and played with my tits; sucking strongly on the nipples. Now, woman on top is not one of my favourite positions. It is difficult for me to maintain the right tempo while achieving my own orgasm, but then again this from the girl that almost always failed physical education in school. This was certainly the case in those confines.

I was practically howling in frustration as Ty flipped me onto my stomach and into a doggy position. But inside my car, he could not straighten up enough to get the good momentum we both needed to get off. Finally in wild abandon, he threw open the door. Drawing my bare and upturned white bottom back until it almost hung out the door, he stood to his full height outside the car and ploughed into my tight pussy; quickly sending me into a much needed orgasm.

In my mind I recognised the risk; it was quite possible that in this position outside the relative safety of my car Ty could be seen on the security camera. Would our secret meeting place be discovered by some alert guard? Could we even be arrested? As a single mom that prospect had me terrified. But that terror was at definite war with the burning need inside my pussy.

To make matters worse, Ty freed from the constraints of the car and turned on by these new risks was becoming increasingly vocal as he sawed in and out of my cunt. 'Damn, this is fine white pussy,' he exclaimed as he pushed deeper and slapped my upturned ass. 

I wanted to say something; I knew I should say something, but the multiple orgasms that were in control of my body seemed to be making speech, other than the occasional moan, virtually impossible. Even as my body responded to the stimulation of my lover's cock pounding repeatedly into me, my mind was in revolt against the unnecessary risks we were taking.

Then as if one risk drove him onto to others, Ty pulled fully out of my pussy. I could feel the cold night air move over and onto my hole which he had so recently abandoned. Before I realised what he was doing, Ty removed the condom that had covered his thick cock and tossed it on the back seat mere inches from where my face rested on the cool leather. As I saw what he had done and felt him slam deep back into me, I started to fight. 

As my friend, Ty knew that I was considering having another child, but he also knew I considered him the least likely donor to this endeavour. Still he was now pounding into my unprotected cunt as if he could not get enough. A quick calculation in my mind confirmed what I already suspected, given my level of horniness; I was very close to my peck fertility. 

Confirming my worst nightmare, Ty started pushing deeper and harder into me. 'Fuck yeah...gonna knock you up...here and now...in this fuckin' parking garage.' I was trying to pull away from the almost brutal pressure of his cock head against what I knew was my cervix; knowing that if he came at this moment his seed would have a straight into my womb and its waiting eggs. 'Anybody could see us...hear us,' he practically screamed as he pushed even further into me; his large fingers biting into the tender skin of my upturned bum.

'Ty, stop...please,' I begged from my submissive position inside the car. 'Please stop,' I was approaching panic at the double risks we were taking in that parking garage. At that point, I almost hoped that someone would discover us; before he came inside my unprotected, fertile cunt.

But it was not to be. Ty pushed as far as he could at that moment and with a loud growl, which I was certain could be heard by anyone who was returning to their car late this night, he flooded me with what might have been one of the largest loads of seed I had ever felt. 

Even then my lover was not finished before I could fathom fully what he was doing; Ty tossed me onto my back. Lifting my hips, he shoved his still hard cock back into my dripping wet shaved pussy. His large hands brutally gripping my bare tits, he squeezed them in rhythm to his thrust. 'I'll give you that black baby you want,' he grunted. His fucking was wild and uncontrolled as if he had not cum already inside my womb. 

Moving his hands back to my hips and tilting them up to allow him even deeper penetration, his mouth captured my nipple between his lips. Sucking and biting on it as he worked himself even closer to another orgasm. 'In nine months, my boy's gonna be doing this to your white titties,' he said. 

The hardest part was that my body was betraying me. Since the moment I had seen that condom lying on the seat, my body had been on a wild coaster of orgasmic delight; one strong contraction after the other. The power of images that Ty's words evoked along with the ever-present danger of discovery was sending my body into a breeding frenzy unlike anything I had ever experienced.

Rubbing my slightly rounded tummy that had housed my other children, Ty drew my nipple deep into his hot mouth. 'I have saved up all week. Just for that fertile pussy of yours,' he grunted as I came yet again. 'Gonna fill that belly with my baby,' he pronounced as he did just that; adding another load almost as big as the last.

For a baby shower gift, Ty gave me the video that his friend the security expert had managed to get off the cameras. Of course as he predicted on the back seat of my car in that garage, his almost nine pound son has absolutely no problem with breastfeeding; neither did daddy.