For this Special Edition (Wanton Wednesday’s 100th post!) I decided to go back in the archives and bring out a post that I meant to do way back then, when WW started, but never did…so here it is! Happy Anniversary, Wanton Wednesday!
He’d told me to dress “classy slutty.” I came downstairs in a tight red blouse, black micro-mini-skirt, black lace thong and 5-inch platform fuck-me heels. He looked me up and down critically, evaluating.
Then: “Kneel there,” he said, pointing to the couch.
He pushed a ball gag into my mouth and tied my wrists and ankles together. He pushed me over so that my face was pressed into the cushions and used a crop on my ass, pausing momentarily when he heard the Fed Ex man outside. He inspected me, pushing into my cunt and ass with his fingers, prying me open, taking pictures of me laying there like an origami sculpture, unable to speak or move except as he positioned me.
And then he told me a story.
It went like this:
“I’m going to write a Craig’s List ad,” he said. “Maybe I can get J to write it for me, because she writes them so well, and we know she’ll get a good response. And I want a large response.” He laid next to me as he told me this, his body almost cradling mine in the curve of his hip and thigh. I was rendered mute by the gag and immobilized by the rope at my wrists and ankles, but not deaf. Certainly not deaf. Held close, almost lovingly, and yet made inert, almost paralyzed; a life-sized doll for him to manipulate and play with, one that could not talk back or protest. And yet he was not hurting me, now that the cropping was over. He simply…held me…and told me a story.
“You won’t be able to see them,” he said, “the men that have answered the ad, but you’ll hear the doorbell, and know another one has been admitted. You’ll know that another man has answered the ad for a piece of fuckmeat, for a hole to stick their cock in, and you’ll know that you are that hole. You won’t have any choice. They might be young or old, ugly or fat or stupid or grotesque. They might smell bad. I’d like it if you were disgusted by them, by what they were doing to you, because you’ll know that I’m making you do it, I’m making you take their filthy disgusting cocks in your holes, I’m letting them use you, because you’re mine and I can do that.
“Maybe,” he continues, “I’ll let them use the crop on you. Take out their frustrations with their wives or their girlfriends, before they fuck you. Hit you like they want to hit them but can’t. Fuck you like they want to fuck them, but can’t. Because nice wives and girlfriends don’t let their husbands fuck their asses dry, don’t let them use them like I do you, like they want to. Just sluts, sluts and whores like you, do.”
And as I lay there, feeling the effects of the excitement and the cropping dissipating, as his words and voice flowed over me, my mind began to turn inward; I began to lose focus on the here and now, and I began to drift in that way that I sometimes do during bondage.
And in my head, it all becomes real.
I hear the doorbell ring. When I try to turn my head to the sound he shoves my head back down to the cushion. “Keep your face turned away,” he says. “You’re not allowed to look at them.”
He leaves my side and answers the door. I hear voices. I am trembling with fear and excitement. Time slows, and forever later I hear steady, slow steps behind me. I hear a man breathing heavily and then feel a hand on me. I start to look around, I can’t help myself, and suddenly W is there, at my face, grabbing it. I stare into his eyes, both afraid and wondering. Will he really do this? I start to struggle a bit as I hear the stranger’s zipper. W holds my face tightly, sensing my incipient panic. I see him look up, meet the stranger’s gaze, nod. I feel the man’s hands parting my legs as much as is possible with the ropes tying them together. And then I feel the hard poke of this stranger’s cock against my thigh, against my cunt, pushing, trying to find entry.
I do begin to struggle then, making inarticulate sounds in my throat, around the gag. W’s hand is like a vice on my jaw, “Stay still, slut,” he says. Trembling, I obey. And the stranger shoves into me with a grunt, his cock thick and hard inside me. I gasp into the gag as he begins to fuck my hole rhythmically, mindlessly thrusting in and out, while W holds my face and stares down at me.
On the couch, W’s hand is at my cunt, his fingers pushing deep inside me. I strain against the ropes, against the gag, against the images in my mind that he has conjured.
And I come, helpless against the reality or the fantasy.
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