Paula the Perfect Pear

Over the next year, he would take me to my limits and coax me past them. And I loved it. Hell, I ADORED it. I was in love. I was crazy, stupid, head over heels in love.

Oh, I knew there was a cold streak in him. He would take me to bars and clubs where he was well known, introduce me around, and treat me like a princess. But when I was asked to dance, he would accuse me of "flirting" when we got home and I'd get one of those spankings.

The truly frightening thing was, I enjoyed them. That release, that amazing orgasm, made it worth it.

He was building a professional photographer's kit as well, all on my credit card. It wasn't just the $900 pocket camera or the $2,500 studio camera. It was the $150 light stand and the $3,500 MacBook Pro.

But it was worth it.

Almost every weekend he would take me out, "on location" as he called it, and take my picture. At the beach, he had me in a string bikini, something I had never considered before I met him, and the camera would click hundreds of times as he directed me. In the woods, he had me in ridiculously short Daisy Duke cutoffs and a halter. At a road construction site, I started in jeans and a flannel shirt before ending up in only a hard hat behind the wheel of some monstrous machine, I think he called it a front-end loader. In each case, I was naked by the end and so damn excited I'd beg him to make love to me then and there. Sometimes he even said "yes."

I realized, I suppose, how isolated he had me. I felt like Carrie Bradshaw from

Sex in the City

when she and the Russian were living in Paris. I hadn't been out with the girls in months although Tricia or Pam would call sometimes.

And I knew, when I bothered to think about it, that I was being manipulated.

I knew all of those things, and I just didn't care. I loved when he took me out wearing things that should have left me embarrassed and humiliated but, instead, made me proud. He wanted to be seen with me in something that emphasized the size of my hips and ass and the lack of size of my boobs, and I wanted to please him.

"Come in here," he called one evening after dinner. Tonight he had me completely covered from the waist up. I was in my long-line, front zip bra and a brightly patterned long-sleeve blouse. From the waist down I was naked.

I went into the bedroom that had been converted over time into his studio and found him sitting at his fancy MacBook Pro.

"Come here," he said, crooking his finger, beckoning. So I went, putting my hands on his shoulders, bending forward a little to see what was on the screen.

My knees got a little rubbery and I had that almost dizzying rush deep in my belly as my adrenal glands squeezed about a quart of adrenaline into my bloodstream and the whole fight-or-flight system kicked in.

I was looking at me.

Oh, he had done as he promised. In each pose, my face was turned away or just cropped out, but those were my titties and that was most definitely my ass. I have a birthmark low on my belly, between my

mons

and the hollow of my hip, and it was clearly on display. And a girl always recognizes her own tits, especially girls like me who had spent a good bit of their mirror time looking at them and wishing they'd grow.

"Well," he said, turning his head to look up at me, "do these meet your approval?"

"Oh, God," I sort of moaned.

He chuckled at that. "Good oh God, or bad oh God?" he asked.

"You are such a good photographer," I said, "you even make me look good."

"Ahhhhhhh, my ugly duckling again," he said and I thought there was a hint of anger in his voice.

"But yes," I hastened to add, "they meet my approval."

He grinned, moved his mouse until the little arrow covered the button labeled "send" and clicked.

"Well, Kerrie," he said, "you're posted."

The

non sequitur

distracted me.

"Kerrie?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said, grinning, "I thought that would be a good porn name for you."

"Porn name?" I asked. Okay, I wasn't at my best but, well, there was a lot going on in my head right then.

And, again, I was stopped for a few seconds.

"Ummmm," I said, "Buttercup."

"And what street did you grow up on?" he asked.

"Ummmmm," I said, feeling dumb, "Krameria."

"See, your normal porn name would be Buttercup Krameria," he said, chuckling, "now, isn't Kerrie better?"

And it all came together and I started laughing.

Okay, I was a couple of beers and some pretty good pot into the night, but this was pretty out of control. The thinking part of me recognized that I might be a little hysterical, but the slightly drunk and pretty high part of me thought it was just plain funny.

I wouldn't be able to say no to anything and, on some level, I was proud that he thought men would like looking at me.

"One more thing," he said and I knew this was one of those Colombo moments and he had something, well, "interesting" in mind.

"You know what they say," he said, his hand patting my ass gently, "if you want it, put a ring on it."

"Oh God," I thought, "he's going to propose."

"Well," he said, "I want it."

He opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a small box. Well, a small box but too big to be a ring box.

He grinned and opened the box, Inside were two rings and a tiny padlock. Every girl recognized the rings. They were plain, self-piercing hoops, small, maybe a half-inch in diameter. The padlock was tiny, something that might be found on a jewelry box. Smaller than something from a suitcase.

"And what," I started but had to stop and clear my throat.

"And what do you have in mind for those?" I asked.

"Nothing as boring as a ring on your finger, Paula," he said, and his grin became that almost feral look on his face I saw from time to time. It scared me a little but I was too excited and, okay, I'll admit it, too cockdrunk, or maybe just too attentiondrunk, to care.

"Where," I started but then shut up. I mean, honestly, it was pretty damn obvious what he had in mind.

He walked me into the bedroom, still fully clothed from my waist up, and had me lay back on the bed.

He went into the bathroom then, and came back with the bottle of rubbing alcohol we keep in the cabinet. He had a couple of cotton balls too.

When he patted my thighs I parted my legs gladly, grinning, offering him, well, anything he wanted.

There was a sudden cold and then a slight burn as the alcohol fund the sensitive tissues deeper inside. When I squirmed he bent and blew on it, and I could remember my mother doing that when something burning had been needed to treat some wound or other. I sighed as he did that again, carefully cleaning, well, sterilizing I suppose, the inside of my clitoral hood.

"Deep breath," he said, and I took a deep breath.

I knew what was coming. Hell, I had holes in both ears. There was that sudden sharp pain, tightly focused on that single point. I felt my hands curl, and hook into claws but then relax as the pain eased. Then I gasped again as he brushed the new wound with the cotton ball again. This time the burn was sharp and focused, but the pain eased quickly when he blew again.

He repeated the process on the other side and after he had tended to the new piercing helped me stand and then walked me to the full-length mirror.

"Well?" he asked, his hands on my shoulders, smiling at me in the mirror, "what do you think?"

"Oh, God," I said, and there were tears streaming down my cheeks, "I love them."

The two gold rings were very prominent, and as I watched his hands slid around my belly and touched them.

"Beautiful," he said, brushing below the rings where my lips were full and I was wet.

"Remind me," he said, "whose pussy is it?"

I arched my back, leaning against him, and pushed my hips forward.

"Your pussy," I said, and I leaned my head back, offering my throat to him, "all yours."

"And whose tiny little titties?" he asked, his hands covering the bumps on my chest.

"Your titties," I said, shimmying a little under his hands, "all yours, now and forever."

"Good girl," he said, his finger penetrating between the two new rings, finding my clitoris and making my knees go weak with the pure pleasure of what he was doing.

He masturbated me then, right there, standing in front of the mirror, naked from the waist down, and I loved it. When I said "I love you," I meant it. When I said "I am yours," I meant it. And when I came, watching my thick white love honey run down my thighs I cried out, "YOURS!" and I meant it.

He kept at me though, even after I had cum, while I was so damn sensitive that what he was doing had crossed the border from pleasure to pain, forcing another orgasm from me, and then a third and a fourth until I was begging him to stop.

I watched then, as he undressed, taking his time, wondering how he would want me.

By then I knew he had a cruel streak in him, a sadistic streak that I feared. But I was so completely, so utterly in love, well, so cockdrunk or attentiondrunk or whatever this was, that I didn't mind his occasional little peccadillos, even those that hurt me.

That night, after I was posted on some website called

imagefap

and one called

xhamster

, wondering where in the hell they got these stupid names from, I was so excited I wouldn't have been able to say "no" to anything.

He had me on my belly that night, my hips supported by a doubled-up pillow. He started vaginally but then took me anally and continued, swapping holes with each thrust., My natural lubricant helped, but it still hurt me, no matter how much I tried to relax.

"You like it, don't you?" He asked.

"Yes," I grunted, well, more like I hissed.

"Say it," he said.

"I love it," I said.

"Say it all," he said.

I knew he wasn't looking for a profession of love, no matter how much I wanted to do that.

"I love it when you play dealer's choice," I said, grunting involuntarily as this thrust buried him in my rectum.

"You're a good girl," he said, thrusting deep into my vagina.

"Your good girl," I said, accepting him anally again.

When this mood is on him he lasts, like nothing I ever had before.

I could feel the way I was bleeding, anally, even as I came in wave after wave of the ecstasy/agony only a woman who has been with a sadist can ever know.

I knew I was crying and I didn't care.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," I kept repeating, almost chanting, over and over as he kept at me, the pleasure and pain taking me places I never imagined existed.

Finally, he finished with his own hiss and that final tension as a man offers his gift to a woman.

I was exhausted, spent, hurting, crying.

And I slept.