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Green Tea with Jasmine Pt. 02

Six weeks later

Autumn's threat behind summer's promise has turned into winter's shadow on the door. The sky is gray and will stay that way, except for a few bone-chillingly cold days that seem to bring the sun with them, until about April. The running-sap horniness of summer has settled somewhat, replaced by the occasional gut level desire for the warmth of another body, right now, right here. Usually it passes with a cup of coffee at the office kitchenette. But not today. Today, the shoulder devils are whispering, stereo, in my ear.

We've got a bet running, chief, they are saying. Gentle seems to think she was a one-off or a pro just keeping the customer satisfied. Wicked has her pegged for a natural. Even though she seemed genuine and honest, you never really can tell whether they just want you to be happy or whether you've really found the golden key to the temple, you know? So the plan is we go back there and throw a bit more at her, see if she cracks and tells us to fuck off.

My response is pure caution. So let me get this straight, I ask them. You want us to go over and do God knows what -

Wicked snorts. This is definitely not His department, chief. The blueprints are all mine - I won't even show that transvestite angel on your other shoulder.

- whatever to her, to see if she tells us it's okay after the fact? If she was sugar-coating it last time, why wouldn't she just do the same this time?

Gentle's turn. See, our thinking on this is that she's definitely got a line she won't cross. I just think we're at it, and my obnoxious partner here thinks there's miles to go before we get there. Either way, until we find out, neither of us is going to let you get anything done.

So the phone call, the delighted welcoming voice, the time set up - Wicked is thumbs' up that we're all given less than an hour - and back on the road and up the elevator, fruit basket in hand. She had turned down the wine. Too late, she had said.

She looks exactly the same, a touch less tan. Something about that is comforting. It says, I know exactly what works for me, but I don't try to fight the seasons. Same smile, same wave into the flat, same kitchen, same bedroom...

Different bed, one of those fold out couches. No obvious anchor points. Gentle is shrugging.

She follows my eyes. The bag of scarves, bought in an underpass, does not escape her eyes either. Don't worry, she says. We'll think of something.

Wicked taps his blueprints and gives us the high sign. The mattress flips up, he reminds me. There's a frame underneath, metal, runs around the whole thing.

Gentle stands his ground. Then why didn't she show us that?

Because, stupid, answers Wicked. Even if she's a natural, she doesn't have to be obvious. Besides, she may not want to encourage every guy she meets to go down that road. Ever thought of that?

Gentle ponders, but I realize I'm staring at the bed the way an alpine climber considers a new rockface.

In the shower, as I am soaping up my battle equipment, Wicked tells me to spank it. Gentle concurs. I'm confused. I did not have a problem keeping an erection with a full load last time, what's the problem?

Because we're not here for you, chief, Gentle answers. We're here to settle a bet and you've got to empty the chambers for this to work. Part of being a natural means that she will be able to bring you back to full engagement simply by the way she reacts. If she's faking, your dick will know because it won't be blinded.

About ten grams lighter I emerge from the shower, and Gentle and I let Wicked go to work, but immediately they start arguing again as soon as I kiss her.

The problem is, and it should have been visible from the moment I saw her, is that she's been drinking. Now, for almost twenty years I have found drunk women unappealing. Available, easy, enticing, yes. But ultimately distasteful in bed. Literally. It changes the way that they smell and taste. I don't mean sloppy drunk. Even a woman who has had just enough to put a real glow on her cheeks is unpredictable.

Bull, grumbles Wicked. She'd had wine the last time we were here.

One or two glasses, Gentle counters. Enough to put a slight tang to her saliva, but we couldn't taste it on her pussy. Look at her - her cheeks are red and her eyes are a bit glazed. I know she's not slurring, but it throws off all accuracy in our scientific endeavors.

How? If she's a bit tipsy, she's LESS likely to fake, not MORE. Wicked had worked a while on whatever his plans contained, and he wanted to get busy.

Fine, Gentle counters. Do it. Just don't expect to convince me when it's over that it's not just the wine. Gentle reels off a list of names of girls that we had done it to when they were sloppy drunk, and when we were.

Wicked flips him the bird. Maybe THEY were naturals too? He asks.

Again, she is waiting patiently, lighting candles, apologizing that she'd been at a party earlier, had maybe one glass of wine too many, but she was really glad to see me. Same kiss, same pose, same hardon, ready but not throbbing. Wicked takes over.

Take off your clothes, leave the panties on, I say.

She complies, and stands there.

Wrists, I order.

She holds them out and I tie them together in front of her. Long ends of the scarf trail to the floor. I blindfold her with a bandanna. I hitch her wrists to a hook on the closet door. I turn her to face the wall. She is on tip toes.

She waits, breathing a bit heavily.

I put my hand to the crotch of her panties. Very wet.

I reach for a Bic ball point pen, the kind with the little plastic removable cap. The cap is pointed, but not sharp. The part that fits over a pocket is sharper, but can't break skin unless forced. I start with the cap point, and not the blade.

She's ticklish, so she squeals a little when I run it over her heels and the back of her calves. I push harder into her thighs. She moans a bit. Up her back, she purrs. Over her shoulders, around her ribs. She sighs.

Then I pull her hair back. The plastic blade, I push against her throat.

No, she says. Sharply, and she pulls away. I pull back, waiting for my devils to get the better of me.

Gentle nods. See?

Wicked snorts. You are so simple. If she weren't natural, she'd be stifling that no. She's telling us she has limits. If she doesn't complain about other stuff, it means they are within her limits. Now let's gag her and keep going with the blade.

Gentle mumbles, great, we've established she doesn't want to get filleted. Call the newspapers.

She fights a bit at the gag. I tell her she won't bleed if she holds still, and she relaxes. I pull her hair back and trace the blade over her throat, and she's moaning in fear. Where will I put this next? I turn her around to face me, kicking her legs farther apart. I work the blade over her nipples, stomach, and then straight down over the panties.

Wicked is stage-whispering to Gentle. That's why we keep the panties on. Naked, her pussy lips will realize that this is not metal.

Gentle, again the student. And her throat, nipples, stomach couldn't?

They're cooler. Metal placed against them is not going to feel as cold as metal placed against a hotter area of the body. She's dripping wet down there because we are dealing with basal temperatures now, and wetness transmits heat. If we had a real metal blade, it would feel much colder against her naked wet pussy than against her throat. Plastic won't. So we tease her through the fabric - which would block enough heat transfer that even metal would not feel cold unless pressed through.

Meanwhile, Wicked, concludes, take a look at the young lady. Gentle and I watch.

As I am running the plastic blade over her panties, she is rolling her pelvis. Not away from the point, but to it. She's humping the blade, subtly but clearly. And she's groaning. She realizes that I can see this. She thinks there's a knife at her tender little snatch, she's gyrating to it, and it's all here for me to watch. She's performing, and it's humiliating for her. Her cheeks are blushing, no longer just from drink.

I reach for the strap of the panties.

No no no. It's Gentle. You can't do that. We did not come here to have you suck her pussy. Don't do it.

You are SUCH a fag, Wicked shouts. What's wrong with you?

This is to discover if she is a natural, Gentle insists, not to discover that she likes cunnilingus, as mind-blowingly novel a revelation as that may be.

She trusted him with what, as far as she knows, is a rusty autopsy scalpel from her guggle to her zatch and you don't think that deserves a reward? Wicked is appalled. Come on. There have to be rules. He needs to cement the trust.

Okay, but do it teasingly. Gentle says. Turn the panties to one side and then the other. Lick her everywhere but her clit. Make her soak and sob for it.

Wicked shakes his head.

What? I'm still a fucking demon, aren't I? Gentle shouts.

I ignore them. I tear the panties off her, get on my knees, lift her legs onto my shoulders, hold her ass up in my hands. She parts her legs herself and I bury my face in her, tongue first. She is a peach, and I intend to have my face and hands and chest covered in sweet sticky warmth. She does not disappoint. There is no gentleness, no tease. I am famished at her. She is grinding into my face. I know she is making sounds but I do not listen for them. I am blind in her crotch, deaf, all I have is my mouth and nose. I am Hellen Keller spending a weekend at Smith College. Sucking, biting, chewing, licking, grunting. Her lips are small but I am burying myself into her folds. She is approaching climax when I hear one of the devils tell me: take one thumb, dip it in the honeypot, then do the dipstick with it.

A thumb?

That's all she needs for now.

I soak my right thumb in her, twirl it around. She groans but the thing can't go in very far. Juices drip down my wrist.

Now, chief.

Without warning, I shove the thumb in her ass. She cries out. I twirl it. Her lips convulse on my face and now I can hear the scream through the gag. Her hips arch and I can tell without looking that she is doing what she did the last times when she came - curving backwards, opening her throat and rolling her eyes back.

I raise myself up, intending to impale her on me. Two problems. One, I can't reach the condoms.

Two, I'm not anywhere near hard enough.

I sit back, watching her twist and shiver, post orgasm, as the wave of cold runs through her following the flash of the climax.

We let you eat her because that's part of the experiment. Finding out that you can fuck after you eat is not. She has to make you hard in a way that proves she's a natural. Wicked is standing there, all Oxford on me again, and Gentle is nodding in concurrence. I envy guys with shoulder angels.

So what's next?

Wicked takes out the second blue print. I pull the mattress of the bed here and there, and hitch one scarf to the railing under the head, then another two scarves to the railing under the sides near the foot. I unhitch the scarf around her hands from the hook on the door, and carry her over my shoulder to the bed. Throwing a pillow in the middle, I lay her face down and tie her in an A to the mattress, ass up in the air, pussy touching nothing.

Gentle and I shake our head no in agreement, but Wicked insists. Taking the back channel is not really my thing. I know guys who obsess over it, but I've always wondered if guys who prefer to drive the dirt road don't really have a deeper agenda at work.

Wicked shows no doubt. But then again, he never does. Look at her, he says. It's what she wants. She's trembling, but she's holding still. She's not making a sound. You'd expect some protest.

Well, I say. She knows what I'm carrying. It's not like I'm hung like a donkey or anything. How much could it hurt her? What's to be frightened of.

Gentle shakes his head and points down. I follow his finger. Where the hell did THAT come from? I mean, it's not massive, but it's a fucking flagpole - priapus proud and patriotic. Flat against my belly. Straight as an arrow. Not a molecule of self-doubt. Wicked is saluting.

In seconds, I'm wrapped and crouching over her.

You know what is going to happen now, I tell her. She whimpers and nods.

You know I am not going to ask if this is what you want. Another whimper and nod.

Because it doesn't matter, does it? Now I can hear a sob.

I rub it between her cheeks and pussy lips to get it wet. Condom latex is rougher than skin on dry skin. Gentle suggests I pick the right angle and thrust. Wicked says no. Find her and open her slowly. She deserves that.

Gentle disagrees. But it hurts a hell of a lot more when it's done slowly. Does she deserve that too?

No, Wicked says. But she needs it.

He's right. Pushing against her, my weight does most of the work, forcing it in about an inch a minute. She's crying. I reach around and check the gag. Tight enough. I put a pillow in front of her face. I keep talking.

You like this, don't you. She does not respond.

Here you are, sweet little Jasmine, helpless. Your friends are in the next room. They can't hear. They can't help. You can't speak. You can't tell me no. You can't beg me. You can't do anything. Can you?

Moaning, she shakes her head no. I am halfway in. I pull a quarter of the way out, sink back in, just a bit more.

So hot and tight, little one. You can't tell anyone to put it there. You can't admit that. You can't even ask for a tongue in your cunt, no way can you ask for a cock in your ass, right.

Sobbing. I can feel her legs tremble.

But you can have it like this. Can't you?

I thrust all the way in and she finds the pillow, pushes her face into it and whimpers. She's also nodding her head.

Can't you? I pull all the way back out and slide now all the way in.

Can't you? Another thrust.

Ever heard of the clitoris, boy? The demons in stereo, one ear each. Duh.

I put one hand over her mouth, the other reaching to tease her clit. She groans.

And then I strip the clutch and go into another gear. She rocks underneath me as I slam harder. She's dripping onto my hand.

And the screaming. Oh sweet lord, she is howling and puffing and shrieking into my hand, her breath hot on me. I can feel her ass open wide to take me again and again and again, the muscles similar but different, a whole new order of physics as she starts, as always, to push her head back as far as the ropes will allow her as her breath starts to come in pants, as the voices tell me The Nines, schmuck, do the Nines!

Allow me if you will a brief digression onto the topic of the male orgasm, specifically the myth of the male orgasm. It was not until I was well into my thirties that I realized that I was not actually having an orgasm every time I managed, with or without the help of another live human being, to get put ten ccs of fluid through a tiny hole into the open air for a few seconds before it met skin, rubber, the shower tiles or carpeting, and that an orgasm was a lot more than simply the removal of a certain amount of frustration. How I realized that is another story, with which I won't bore you because (a) I know you want to get back to watching Sodom played upon Jasmine and (b) I can't really remember right now. Suffice it to say that once I did realize that there was more to a climax than a small sticky stain, I was learning about all the different levels to that experience. I had so far defined five:

1.The Zero Orgasm. This is basically the same as a simple come, only with a lot of it, usually experienced after a long (i.e., two weeks) dry spell so there's a lot of squonk in the horn. This is also known as the Harpo Marx. Loud and quick and followed generally by nervous laughter. Generally associated with slightly-better-than-mediocre blowjobs or a decent hand job.

2.The Earth Orgasm. This is where the ground or whatever I am located on appears to shake, rattle and roll, or where when it's over I fall to the ground because my legs are still wobbly. Also known as the Show-Me-The-Way-To-Go-Home. Also loud, a bit longer, followed by vertigo and/or panic attacks. Generally associated with much-better-than-mediocre blowjobs and women with strong thigh muscles.

3.The Wind Orgasm. This is where I can't help but roar like a lion at the moment, where my eyes roll up and I am not sure but I think I can see my past and future lives. Also known as the Exorcist. So loud I tend to move away from my last address after having one. Associated with about three blowjobs I have ever had and one girl who was a semi-professional swimmer and who could actually control, with her Kegels, the rate and direction of my ejaculation.

4.The Fire Orgasm. This is where my body feels incredibly hot at the moment of climax, and sweat pours out of me. Also known as the Nova or the Volcano. Noisy but all I can hear is the blood in my brain steaming out my ears. Associated with rather vigorous intercourse that lasts for hours.

5.The Water Orgasm. This is where I feel like I am a glowing liquid pouring through a pipe, rushing and boiling, melting into the women I am with. Also known as the Flush. Usually the first orgasm I have after being sick. Usually associated with falling in love, although I rarely realize it at the time.

Today I discover a new one:

6.The Big Bang In Reverse Orgasm. This is where I think I am building up to one of the last two because I am sweating and melting, but suddenly I can see inside myself and instead of organs and blood and flesh and bones and all that other good stuff I am a field of stars growing brighter and brighter larger and larger achieving a huge gravitational pull and behind me there is an anchor shaped galaxy dragging with it the entire universe aimed at my asshole where it dives in and sucks the entire whole of reality my memories my fears every person I ever knew everything I ever said and it all flies into the field of stars that is what I am and it coalesces everything into one burning ball of brilliant blackness that swirls and pulses and finds the one part of me touching the real world and that's my cock inside this woman and the anchor finds another asshole to dive into and now now now oh sweet God in heaven now I know what she felt like when she thought I was going to kill her and I'm ready to go too and...

Also known as the Stephen Hawking.

I do not remember too much what happens after that. She's sweet about it, even hugs me after I untie her, which takes a while because it is not until the demons poke me with forks to bring me around that I remember why I am here, what I am doing, who this woman is crying through her blindfold. I can't say much, but I do thank her and at the door she asks if I'll call her on her new cell phone number sometime.

Out in the parking lot, Gentle is cursing as Wicked is putting his blueprints away and reminding him of the bet. Now where the fuck, Gentle grumbles, am I supposed to get a pair of wings and a tutu...?Six weeks later

Autumn's threat behind summer's promise has turned into winter's shadow on the door. The sky is gray and will stay that way, except for a few bone-chillingly cold days that seem to bring the sun with them, until about April. The running-sap horniness of summer has settled somewhat, replaced by the occasional gut level desire for the warmth of another body, right now, right here. Usually it passes with a cup of coffee at the office kitchenette. But not today. Today, the shoulder devils are whispering, stereo, in my ear.

We've got a bet running, chief, they are saying. Gentle seems to think she was a one-off or a pro just keeping the customer satisfied. Wicked has her pegged for a natural. Even though she seemed genuine and honest, you never really can tell whether they just want you to be happy or whether you've really found the golden key to the temple, you know? So the plan is we go back there and throw a bit more at her, see if she cracks and tells us to fuck off.

My response is pure caution. So let me get this straight, I ask them. You want us to go over and do God knows what -

Wicked snorts. This is definitely not His department, chief. The blueprints are all mine - I won't even show that transvestite angel on your other shoulder.

- whatever to her, to see if she tells us it's okay after the fact? If she was sugar-coating it last time, why wouldn't she just do the same this time?

Gentle's turn. See, our thinking on this is that she's definitely got a line she won't cross. I just think we're at it, and my obnoxious partner here thinks there's miles to go before we get there. Either way, until we find out, neither of us is going to let you get anything done.

So the phone call, the delighted welcoming voice, the time set up - Wicked is thumbs' up that we're all given less than an hour - and back on the road and up the elevator, fruit basket in hand. She had turned down the wine. Too late, she had said.

She looks exactly the same, a touch less tan. Something about that is comforting. It says, I know exactly what works for me, but I don't try to fight the seasons. Same smile, same wave into the flat, same kitchen, same bedroom...

Different bed, one of those fold out couches. No obvious anchor points. Gentle is shrugging.

She follows my eyes. The bag of scarves, bought in an underpass, does not escape her eyes either. Don't worry, she says. We'll think of something.

Wicked taps his blueprints and gives us the high sign. The mattress flips up, he reminds me. There's a frame underneath, metal, runs around the whole thing.

Gentle stands his ground. Then why didn't she show us that?

Because, stupid, answers Wicked. Even if she's a natural, she doesn't have to be obvious. Besides, she may not want to encourage every guy she meets to go down that road. Ever thought of that?

Gentle ponders, but I realize I'm staring at the bed the way an alpine climber considers a new rockface.

In the shower, as I am soaping up my battle equipment, Wicked tells me to spank it. Gentle concurs. I'm confused. I did not have a problem keeping an erection with a full load last time, what's the problem?

Because we're not here for you, chief, Gentle answers. We're here to settle a bet and you've got to empty the chambers for this to work. Part of being a natural means that she will be able to bring you back to full engagement simply by the way she reacts. If she's faking, your dick will know because it won't be blinded.

About ten grams lighter I emerge from the shower, and Gentle and I let Wicked go to work, but immediately they start arguing again as soon as I kiss her.

The problem is, and it should have been visible from the moment I saw her, is that she's been drinking. Now, for almost twenty years I have found drunk women unappealing. Available, easy, enticing, yes. But ultimately distasteful in bed. Literally. It changes the way that they smell and taste. I don't mean sloppy drunk. Even a woman who has had just enough to put a real glow on her cheeks is unpredictable.

Bull, grumbles Wicked. She'd had wine the last time we were here.

One or two glasses, Gentle counters. Enough to put a slight tang to her saliva, but we couldn't taste it on her pussy. Look at her - her cheeks are red and her eyes are a bit glazed. I know she's not slurring, but it throws off all accuracy in our scientific endeavors.

How? If she's a bit tipsy, she's LESS likely to fake, not MORE. Wicked had worked a while on whatever his plans contained, and he wanted to get busy.

Fine, Gentle counters. Do it. Just don't expect to convince me when it's over that it's not just the wine. Gentle reels off a list of names of girls that we had done it to when they were sloppy drunk, and when we were.

Wicked flips him the bird. Maybe THEY were naturals too? He asks.

Again, she is waiting patiently, lighting candles, apologizing that she'd been at a party earlier, had maybe one glass of wine too many, but she was really glad to see me. Same kiss, same pose, same hardon, ready but not throbbing. Wicked takes over.

Take off your clothes, leave the panties on, I say.

She complies, and stands there.

Wrists, I order.

She holds them out and I tie them together in front of her. Long ends of the scarf trail to the floor. I blindfold her with a bandanna. I hitch her wrists to a hook on the closet door. I turn her to face the wall. She is on tip toes.

She waits, breathing a bit heavily.

I put my hand to the crotch of her panties. Very wet.

I reach for a Bic ball point pen, the kind with the little plastic removable cap. The cap is pointed, but not sharp. The part that fits over a pocket is sharper, but can't break skin unless forced. I start with the cap point, and not the blade.

She's ticklish, so she squeals a little when I run it over her heels and the back of her calves. I push harder into her thighs. She moans a bit. Up her back, she purrs. Over her shoulders, around her ribs. She sighs.

Then I pull her hair back. The plastic blade, I push against her throat.

No, she says. Sharply, and she pulls away. I pull back, waiting for my devils to get the better of me.

Gentle nods. See?

Wicked snorts. You are so simple. If she weren't natural, she'd be stifling that no. She's telling us she has limits. If she doesn't complain about other stuff, it means they are within her limits. Now let's gag her and keep going with the blade.

Gentle mumbles, great, we've established she doesn't want to get filleted. Call the newspapers.

She fights a bit at the gag. I tell her she won't bleed if she holds still, and she relaxes. I pull her hair back and trace the blade over her throat, and she's moaning in fear. Where will I put this next? I turn her around to face me, kicking her legs farther apart. I work the blade over her nipples, stomach, and then straight down over the panties.

Wicked is stage-whispering to Gentle. That's why we keep the panties on. Naked, her pussy lips will realize that this is not metal.

Gentle, again the student. And her throat, nipples, stomach couldn't?

They're cooler. Metal placed against them is not going to feel as cold as metal placed against a hotter area of the body. She's dripping wet down there because we are dealing with basal temperatures now, and wetness transmits heat. If we had a real metal blade, it would feel much colder against her naked wet pussy than against her throat. Plastic won't. So we tease her through the fabric - which would block enough heat transfer that even metal would not feel cold unless pressed through.

Meanwhile, Wicked, concludes, take a look at the young lady. Gentle and I watch.

As I am running the plastic blade over her panties, she is rolling her pelvis. Not away from the point, but to it. She's humping the blade, subtly but clearly. And she's groaning. She realizes that I can see this. She thinks there's a knife at her tender little snatch, she's gyrating to it, and it's all here for me to watch. She's performing, and it's humiliating for her. Her cheeks are blushing, no longer just from drink.

I reach for the strap of the panties.

No no no. It's Gentle. You can't do that. We did not come here to have you suck her pussy. Don't do it.

You are SUCH a fag, Wicked shouts. What's wrong with you?

This is to discover if she is a natural, Gentle insists, not to discover that she likes cunnilingus, as mind-blowingly novel a revelation as that may be.

She trusted him with what, as far as she knows, is a rusty autopsy scalpel from her guggle to her zatch and you don't think that deserves a reward? Wicked is appalled. Come on. There have to be rules. He needs to cement the trust.

Okay, but do it teasingly. Gentle says. Turn the panties to one side and then the other. Lick her everywhere but her clit. Make her soak and sob for it.

Wicked shakes his head.

What? I'm still a fucking demon, aren't I? Gentle shouts.

I ignore them. I tear the panties off her, get on my knees, lift her legs onto my shoulders, hold her ass up in my hands. She parts her legs herself and I bury my face in her, tongue first. She is a peach, and I intend to have my face and hands and chest covered in sweet sticky warmth. She does not disappoint. There is no gentleness, no tease. I am famished at her. She is grinding into my face. I know she is making sounds but I do not listen for them. I am blind in her crotch, deaf, all I have is my mouth and nose. I am Hellen Keller spending a weekend at Smith College. Sucking, biting, chewing, licking, grunting. Her lips are small but I am burying myself into her folds. She is approaching climax when I hear one of the devils tell me: take one thumb, dip it in the honeypot, then do the dipstick with it.

A thumb?

That's all she needs for now.

I soak my right thumb in her, twirl it around. She groans but the thing can't go in very far. Juices drip down my wrist.

Now, chief.

Without warning, I shove the thumb in her ass. She cries out. I twirl it. Her lips convulse on my face and now I can hear the scream through the gag. Her hips arch and I can tell without looking that she is doing what she did the last times when she came - curving backwards, opening her throat and rolling her eyes back.

I raise myself up, intending to impale her on me. Two problems. One, I can't reach the condoms.

Two, I'm not anywhere near hard enough.

I sit back, watching her twist and shiver, post orgasm, as the wave of cold runs through her following the flash of the climax.

We let you eat her because that's part of the experiment. Finding out that you can fuck after you eat is not. She has to make you hard in a way that proves she's a natural. Wicked is standing there, all Oxford on me again, and Gentle is nodding in concurrence. I envy guys with shoulder angels.

So what's next?

Wicked takes out the second blue print. I pull the mattress of the bed here and there, and hitch one scarf to the railing under the head, then another two scarves to the railing under the sides near the foot. I unhitch the scarf around her hands from the hook on the door, and carry her over my shoulder to the bed. Throwing a pillow in the middle, I lay her face down and tie her in an A to the mattress, ass up in the air, pussy touching nothing.

Gentle and I shake our head no in agreement, but Wicked insists. Taking the back channel is not really my thing. I know guys who obsess over it, but I've always wondered if guys who prefer to drive the dirt road don't really have a deeper agenda at work.

Wicked shows no doubt. But then again, he never does. Look at her, he says. It's what she wants. She's trembling, but she's holding still. She's not making a sound. You'd expect some protest.

Well, I say. She knows what I'm carrying. It's not like I'm hung like a donkey or anything. How much could it hurt her? What's to be frightened of.

Gentle shakes his head and points down. I follow his finger. Where the hell did THAT come from? I mean, it's not massive, but it's a fucking flagpole - priapus proud and patriotic. Flat against my belly. Straight as an arrow. Not a molecule of self-doubt. Wicked is saluting.

In seconds, I'm wrapped and crouching over her.

You know what is going to happen now, I tell her. She whimpers and nods.

You know I am not going to ask if this is what you want. Another whimper and nod.

Because it doesn't matter, does it? Now I can hear a sob.

I rub it between her cheeks and pussy lips to get it wet. Condom latex is rougher than skin on dry skin. Gentle suggests I pick the right angle and thrust. Wicked says no. Find her and open her slowly. She deserves that.

Gentle disagrees. But it hurts a hell of a lot more when it's done slowly. Does she deserve that too?

No, Wicked says. But she needs it.

He's right. Pushing against her, my weight does most of the work, forcing it in about an inch a minute. She's crying. I reach around and check the gag. Tight enough. I put a pillow in front of her face. I keep talking.

You like this, don't you. She does not respond.

Here you are, sweet little Jasmine, helpless. Your friends are in the next room. They can't hear. They can't help. You can't speak. You can't tell me no. You can't beg me. You can't do anything. Can you?

Moaning, she shakes her head no. I am halfway in. I pull a quarter of the way out, sink back in, just a bit more.

So hot and tight, little one. You can't tell anyone to put it there. You can't admit that. You can't even ask for a tongue in your cunt, no way can you ask for a cock in your ass, right.

Sobbing. I can feel her legs tremble.

But you can have it like this. Can't you?

I thrust all the way in and she finds the pillow, pushes her face into it and whimpers. She's also nodding her head.

Can't you? I pull all the way back out and slide now all the way in.

Can't you? Another thrust.

Ever heard of the clitoris, boy? The demons in stereo, one ear each. Duh.

I put one hand over her mouth, the other reaching to tease her clit. She groans.

And then I strip the clutch and go into another gear. She rocks underneath me as I slam harder. She's dripping onto my hand.

And the screaming. Oh sweet lord, she is howling and puffing and shrieking into my hand, her breath hot on me. I can feel her ass open wide to take me again and again and again, the muscles similar but different, a whole new order of physics as she starts, as always, to push her head back as far as the ropes will allow her as her breath starts to come in pants, as the voices tell me The Nines, schmuck, do the Nines!

Allow me if you will a brief digression onto the topic of the male orgasm, specifically the myth of the male orgasm. It was not until I was well into my thirties that I realized that I was not actually having an orgasm every time I managed, with or without the help of another live human being, to get put ten ccs of fluid through a tiny hole into the open air for a few seconds before it met skin, rubber, the shower tiles or carpeting, and that an orgasm was a lot more than simply the removal of a certain amount of frustration. How I realized that is another story, with which I won't bore you because (a) I know you want to get back to watching Sodom played upon Jasmine and (b) I can't really remember right now. Suffice it to say that once I did realize that there was more to a climax than a small sticky stain, I was learning about all the different levels to that experience. I had so far defined five:

1.The Zero Orgasm. This is basically the same as a simple come, only with a lot of it, usually experienced after a long (i.e., two weeks) dry spell so there's a lot of squonk in the horn. This is also known as the Harpo Marx. Loud and quick and followed generally by nervous laughter. Generally associated with slightly-better-than-mediocre blowjobs or a decent hand job.

2.The Earth Orgasm. This is where the ground or whatever I am located on appears to shake, rattle and roll, or where when it's over I fall to the ground because my legs are still wobbly. Also known as the Show-Me-The-Way-To-Go-Home. Also loud, a bit longer, followed by vertigo and/or panic attacks. Generally associated with much-better-than-mediocre blowjobs and women with strong thigh muscles.

3.The Wind Orgasm. This is where I can't help but roar like a lion at the moment, where my eyes roll up and I am not sure but I think I can see my past and future lives. Also known as the Exorcist. So loud I tend to move away from my last address after having one. Associated with about three blowjobs I have ever had and one girl who was a semi-professional swimmer and who could actually control, with her Kegels, the rate and direction of my ejaculation.

4.The Fire Orgasm. This is where my body feels incredibly hot at the moment of climax, and sweat pours out of me. Also known as the Nova or the Volcano. Noisy but all I can hear is the blood in my brain steaming out my ears. Associated with rather vigorous intercourse that lasts for hours.

5.The Water Orgasm. This is where I feel like I am a glowing liquid pouring through a pipe, rushing and boiling, melting into the women I am with. Also known as the Flush. Usually the first orgasm I have after being sick. Usually associated with falling in love, although I rarely realize it at the time.

Today I discover a new one:

6.The Big Bang In Reverse Orgasm. This is where I think I am building up to one of the last two because I am sweating and melting, but suddenly I can see inside myself and instead of organs and blood and flesh and bones and all that other good stuff I am a field of stars growing brighter and brighter larger and larger achieving a huge gravitational pull and behind me there is an anchor shaped galaxy dragging with it the entire universe aimed at my asshole where it dives in and sucks the entire whole of reality my memories my fears every person I ever knew everything I ever said and it all flies into the field of stars that is what I am and it coalesces everything into one burning ball of brilliant blackness that swirls and pulses and finds the one part of me touching the real world and that's my cock inside this woman and the anchor finds another asshole to dive into and now now now oh sweet God in heaven now I know what she felt like when she thought I was going to kill her and I'm ready to go too and...

Also known as the Stephen Hawking.

I do not remember too much what happens after that. She's sweet about it, even hugs me after I untie her, which takes a while because it is not until the demons poke me with forks to bring me around that I remember why I am here, what I am doing, who this woman is crying through her blindfold. I can't say much, but I do thank her and at the door she asks if I'll call her on her new cell phone number sometime.

Out in the parking lot, Gentle is cursing as Wicked is putting his blueprints away and reminding him of the bet. Now where the fuck, Gentle grumbles, am I supposed to get a pair of wings and a tutu...?

jasmine   green   tea   with  

May 19, 2018 in anal

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