Annia

I can summarize my pathetic life in a short paragraph and not leave out a single meaningful detail.

I'm a 34 year old accountant, divorced for a year after three interminable years with a shrew I grew to hate. After the split I moved into my current house near the university where I have rented out my downstairs to students. When I'm not working online at home, I'm walking or reading — that's fun to me.

Actually, my story is worse than that. I look like I'm boring. I'm 6' 1", skinny, pale white, with a big nose. Even so, I'm not conspicuously ugly, I don't think.

My days are predictable. I work at the computer set up in my living room until mid-afternoon; then I take a long walk no matter what the weather; then I eat a quick hastily-prepared supper and work again until late evening when I read for a few hours before sleep. This is it ... seven days a week.

Annika was my third tenant. She had been living downstairs for about a month when I saw her struggling with a laundry bag on her way to the laundromat four streets over. 'Use mine,' I later told her. That was the start of it.

I used to keep the door to the stairs leading down to the bottom floor locked. But I started to leave it open so she could come and go to the laundry room as she pleased. It was a month or so later that I offered her a coffee after she put a load in. I was just being polite. I had no interest in getting to know her; the woman is unattractive to me and seemingly without personality: she never talked. I knew absolutely nothing about her except that she is probably studying chemistry or something along those lines, which I gathered from seeing her books. She may be training to be a medical researcher or something like that.

It surprised me, even shocked me when it happened, but I didn't say anything about it. The evening after the offered coffee she came up to my place after supper and sat on a chair in my living room and read and wrote as if it was an entirely normal thing to do. I was at my desk just across the room. I acknowledged her when she came in then ignored her and worked on until my routine dictated that I sleep my computer and read. Two hours later it was time for bed. I got up, went to the bathroom did my thing then poked my head into the living room and said 'goodnight.' She nodded, not looking up from her work.

She was there for at least another hour while I read in bed. When I got up the next morning the light was off and she was gone.

But she was back the next night at about the same time. Same deal. But the night after that, when I awoke at about 1 AM, I noticed the light was still on. This was her third straight night of this and it was starting to alarm me. I mean, is the woman mentally ill? I put on a housecoat and went out to check on her. She was asleep in the chair. I got a blanket from the spare bedroom put it over her and turned out the light. What else was I supposed to do?

I should have said something to her, anyone else would have, but I didn't talk much and she didn't talk at all so I just let it ride. She needed company, that's the conclusion I came to, and she wasn't bothering me so what did it matter?

It mattered because I knew she was there. The first and even the second nights were OK because I expected her to be gone soon after I went to bed. But on the third night when I knew she was sitting in a chair in my living room while I was trying to drift off to sleep, well, it became problematical: I was getting really horny. I hadn't had sex since well before my wife left and now there was a warm soft female body just a few paces away. Why? I had no idea. It was getting to me. I very quietly masturbated.

On the forth night, for the second consecutive time, I got up and checked on her after midnight. She was asleep again, but this time, rather than putting a blanket on her I shook her, took her hand when she looked up at me and I pulled her to her feet and led her to my bedroom.

I didn't say anything. I just got into bed. She could make up her own mind what she wanted to do. She didn't hesitate. In the darkness I could hear her clothes coming off and then in a minute she crawled in beside me, though not touching me. I turned over and tried to will myself to sleep. And I got there ... for about five minutes then I woke up with an attitude.

It just happened. Maybe I wasn't quite awake and therefore not fully conscious of what I was doing, or maybe I was pissed off that she was teasing me, or maybe ... well, God only know, but the moment I awoke I was savagely horny and completely indifferent to who she was. I reached over to her and when my hand landed on her hip I knew she was lying on her side and her panties were still on. When I pulled her onto her back she put up no resistance I got on my knees and pulled at her panties. She cooperated. And then I was between her legs and I was fucking her as hard as I could, brutally hard, I just fucked and fucked and fucked and when I came I didn't stop, I just slowed down for a few moments, allowing myself to re-charge, then I just shoved in deeper and went harder and I fucked out another orgasm. When it was over I fell away and was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

But I was awake again in another hour or two. In need. Semi-consciously, I pulled her leg and crawled between them again and rubbed my prick up and down her wet, hairy cunt then pushed it in, put my arms under her thighs and rolled her up as I shoved myself in as deep as I could and I grunted out my relief in a matter of minutes.

The next time was a few hours after that. Again, I probably wasn't fully awake when I did it. I pushed at her. When she followed my directions and rolled onto her side, facing away from me, I shuffled down in the bed and pushed my face between the back of her thighs. She let me and she opened her legs making it easy for me to forced myself upwards so I could press my face on her sex. I ate hard and deep as I flogged my prick until I spasmed on the sheets, then I was asleep again with the smell of her pungent pussy on my nose.

There was a little grey light in the room the next time I woke up. My face was pressed against her hip. I crawled up and put my hard-on between her legs from the back. I could feel the wetness and the heat. She opened for me and as I slid it into her I brought my hand around and cupped her enormously fat breast above her bra. As I rammed into her she pushed her ass hard against me. It was her first noticeable movement — I remember thinking that. I pressed harder into her, pulled at her cheek to open her up and I took my time and fucked as hard and deep as I could.

She was gone when I awoke. Surprisingly, that pissed me off, but I knew I had no right to be. I tore the sheets off the bed when I got up. They stank. I noticed a thin streak of blood when I bundled them up.

Next day she showed at about the same time as always, just after supper. "Come here," I said before she sat down in her usual chair. She put her books down and came over. I swivelled away from my computer towards her and reached up for the top button of her shirt. My eyes were on her searching for a reaction. There wasn't one. I undid three buttons before my eyes asked, 'Do you want me to stop?'

Her eyes were unreadable so I finished off the rest of the buttons. She didn't react; she just stood there with her shirt half open. "Take it off." I was pissed that she was so disinterested.

She shrugged the shirt off her shoulders and placed it on a nearby chair then turned back to me, her impressive rack held tight in a large white bra.

When I reached for her pants she inched forward and I had the button undone and was pulling them down as she stood statue like. She did kick them off and then leaned down to retrieve them and put them on her discarded shirt.

She was wearing white nylon panties and an impassive look that told me nothing. For some reason her impassivity annoyed me — she almost seemed to be ignoring me. I took her hands and guided her down on her knees in front of me. Then I quickly undid my pants and pushed them down so my erection popped out. She wasn't looking at it when I put my hands on her head, she was looking inscrutably at my chest. She went down with my pressure and she took me in her mouth.

I sat back revelling in a sensation I had never had before: the wet warmth of a mouth on my prick. But when I did thrust her teeth raked me painfully. I pulled her hair hard. "Watch the teeth for godsake." She did, pressing her lips harder onto me as I started slowly to fuck. My grunting noises sounded primordial to me, beastial and they built as I increasingly humped my cock into her mouth. I was almost yelling when I came, when I shot my load into her throat and I was pulling hard at her hair wanting my prick deeper into her.

I let her go when she started choking and I got up, kicked off my pants and underwear and went to the bathroom to clean up.

She was still on her knees in front of my chair when I got back. She had recovered and looked like she was waiting for directions. I didn't know whether I was going to kick her out or savage her again. When I sat down in front of her my cock was already hard again and my mind already made up. I pushed her shoulders and eased her back onto the floor. Then I got down in front of her, pushed her legs apart and nuzzled my face into her panties.

I was in no hurry. Except for the frantic time in bed last night I had never done this before — I had dreamed of it often enough but never actually done it. I kissed and licked the slick material all around her crotch, then I licked into her gullies, then lifted the side of her panties and poked my tongue deeper towards her sex, deeper into her hair. She never moved, never offered a gasp, never stiffened in resistance. She just lay there with her usual nothingness.

But it was no nothingness to my nose and tongue. I could smell her now, a dense acrid scent that, like smelling salts, shot through to the middle of my brain. And the taste! I was fully aware this time, fully conscious of where I was, what I was doing. And I was fully aware of the effect it was having on me. The taste only teased me at first, teased the tip of my tongue, teased me with hints of her woman-ness. I tried to stop myself, tried to prolong the joy of this wonderful, sensual adventure, but I couldn't. When the scent and taste clapped together in my brain, I pulled down her panties and nuzzles my face hard, brutally hard into her cunt and sucked and suck and beat my prick with my hand until the joy exploded in me and what cum I had left shot onto her foot.

A celibate unsatisfied for long, is satisfied quickly. I slowly got to my feet, reached for my pants and underwear and while she sat there on the floor, her panties beside her, I got dressed. She got the message. She got up, pulled her panties on and when she finished dressing she went to her usual chair, sat down and reached for a book.

I asked her if she would like a cup of coffee or some water. "Water, please. Thank you."

I didn't interrupt my routine any further that night. I went back to work, then read. When I got up for bed she looked up at me, impassively but, I thought, expectantly. I turned out all the lights and was walking towards my bedroom when I got near her. I was a little surprised when my hand shot out for hers, I didn't much need her anymore tonight. She took it and got to her feet and followed me into my room. At 4 in the morning, still half asleep, I rolled towards her, took off her bra, spat into her cleavage then slid my cock between her breasts and humped until I shot my cum onto her neck, just like I've seen on the videos.

I didn't go for a walk the next day, I was going to, I was dressed and ready, but instead of going down the back stairs I went down the inside stairs to her apartment.

I was troubled. Not by her but by me. My conduct. I think I've always been a fairly horny guy, but a guy without any opportunities, not before my wife, not after and certainly not with her. Now, looking a gift-horse in the mouth I didn't like the way I was responding. I had been a chauvinist prick and I didn't like being a prick. I didn't like that I was using her. Didn't like myself. But I fucking loved the sex.

And I didn't like that I was poking through her apartment looking for ... what? Insights, maybe. But maybe pink panties or purple bras. She didn't have any, everything was either white or black. I took a pair of the black panties from her drawer then got onto her bed. I could easily imagine her in them, they were big and well used. I let my erection loose from my pants. I was stroking myself while washing my face with the thin, slick material when it occurred to me. I quickly took off my clothes, slipped her panties on then found her hamper. Taking the pair of white panties I had spent time on last night I got back on the bed and slowly, exquisitely slowly, sniffed her still pungent scent, the smell that drove me nuts last night, and I stroked until I soaked her black nylon grannies.

I was lying there, fascinated at my perversion when I looked over at her night table. She and, I gathered, her parents were looking down at me. They wouldn't like what they saw.

I slid the black panties down my narrow hips, off my skinny legs; they slid easily; they were too big for me. I turned them inside out and studied my blob of cum. It disgusted me ... and sickened me that, given the chance, I could behave this way. How much of a perv am I? I threw the panties on the floor and looked at the black bra I had brought to bed with me and the white panties I had spent so much time on last night and now had cheerfully sniffed. Then I thought of the girl.

Ya, she was strange, there was no doubt about it, but she was a person, somebody's daughter: she didn't deserve to be treated like a farm animal. And I needed to stop acting like a depraved good ole boy.

But the sex!

I looked around her suite again, poking everywhere. She lived a pretty spartan life with few clothes, few keepsakes of any kind, lots of books and note books, some interesting, sophisticated novels and few memorabilia. In fact, other than the pic with her parents, there was nothing about her life discernible in her room, no girly frills, no evidence of cherished friends, no signs of favourite hobbies, no teddy bears or anything like that. She was as much an enigma here as she was upstairs.

I tidied up, put her cum shot panties in my pocket and retreated, sad for her and, more profoundly, sad for me: I had already invaded her, now I had invaded her space. I had some serious thinking to do.

When I got upstairs, I threw the panties in my laundry and headed out for a long, punishing walk. I wanted to come home a different guy.

But you don't do you? Not, to quote a President, when you still have lust in your heart.

I was surprised she came up after supper, same time, same chair. Surprised and disgusted. Didn't she get it? She was being used and abused. Didn't she know that? When she put her books on the table she looked over at me. What did she want? Certainly not to be fucked again, she can't have been enjoying that. And another amateur blow job, ya, sure, she couldn't wait to do that again. Anyway, what did I care? I never invited her up here, she just kept coming. I could feel my erection growing.

I had thought about her all through my walk. She's pathetic — I am, too, ya, I know, I thought a lot about that, but she's even more so because she so compliant, so willing to be sacrificed; she's a born victim. And it's easy to see why; she couldn't afford to be choosy. She's about 20 pounds over-weight, not too bad looking in a plain, fatty kind of way. She has short brown hair that can curl over her small and dark brown eyes. Her nose is conspicuous because it's low on her face, just above cute lips that never seem to move. Her dominant feature are her eyes, they seem to smoulder but inertly, they don't speak, don't transmit, they're just there, smouldering. Her body is big and wide, not hugely but you know she's spent no time with Jenny Craig. And she has a very big rack.

As I said, I thought about her as I walked away my angst and I concluded that my dominant impression of her is that she is a weakling, a compliant, probably long-suffering weakling who needs someone to subjugate her. If it wasn't me, it would be someone else, someone else who probably also has a pathetically deprived sex life; someone else who wants to act on his pathetically depraved impulses. Someone else who is a prick, just like me.

But I'm not really a prick, I've never been a prick, it's just that, given the opportunity after so many months of celibacy, I had lost it. I would apologize, tell her I wasn't myself: my sexual frenzy was not me, it was a base impulse caused by forced abstinence. It was me at my absolute worse. I couldn't be sorrier. And I'd mean it.

I felt that but as I looked at her I felt my growing erection and I soon forgot my sorrow.

I slowly looked her up and down, slowly imagined her on my bed and on her knees. "I've thought of your breasts all day," I heard myself saying, "I haven't seen them." I've fucked them, I thought, but I haven't seen them.

She didn't hesitate. She did that cross-over hands to the hem thing that my wife always did and off came the sweater to reveal, if not the same old bra I've taken off before, the same type: industrial strength, grey-white and large.

"Come here," I beckoned with a finger. She walked over and stood in front of me. When I put my hands on her hips I tried to feel the person, her strength, her embodiment — I was trying to find the better man in me. And I tried to physically relate to her through contact, non-sexual contact. I got nothing, so I moved my hands slowly up her soft, hot ribs but that only excited me while she remained typically stoic.

I didn't want to grab her breasts, I wanted to stop my abuse so with my hands I gently encouraged her to turn around and I eased her onto my lap.

It was awkward but as I sat back I found a point of comfort and I encircled her waist and just tried to feel her against me; tried to find something in her I could connect with.

Physically, I couldn't. But visually I did.

She has a wide, solid back, crossed by a thick, broad bra strap. The spectacle was anything but elegant — I had been used to the sight of my wife's tiny, trim back and a fleeting glimpse of the thin, delicate strap she quickly hid from me while she secretively undressed.

This first glimpse of Annika's back gave me a surprising jolt. It wasn't at all sexy like her front, with all its voluptuous excesses. But, strangely, it's size and muscularity had a curious impact on me.

Her back, it struck me, was a kind of metaphor for the entire person. It wasn't terribly attractive, but it was solid, healthy, silent, inscrutable and it was there for me to touch. Just like the person.

Suddenly, I found myself leaning forward and pressing my cheek to her hot skin. I breathed in when I did, smelling her, rubbing my nose on her. Then I licked her skin, pressed my lips hard against her and I pulled her into me, locking my hands together around her waist.

And I didn't let go, not for a long time. I just tried to think of the woman as I forced my face against the smooth hot skin of her broad freckled back and I dug my fingers into her soft, flabby belly as I hung on. The sensation felt wonderfully nurturing, not at all like holding a boney, skinny, fragile shrew, and it calmed me. There was no sudden urge for a sex-crazed frenzy where I'd suck and fuck her flesh to orgasm.

But then it all changed. When I unclasped her strap the two ends flew apart leaving a wide, angry welt and the metaphor was complete: if she was her back, I was the welt — I saw my abuse and it sickened me.