Paula The Perfect Pear Ch 13

[Author's Note: Well, Gentle Reader, I did it again, didn't I? I've been distracted for a while with other projects. But let's check in on Paula. Of all the stories I've ever written, Paula is my favorite. How I let her slip away I don't know. I just love her to pieces. We've all known people like her, the Ugly Ducklings who really have no idea how beautiful they are. I've enjoyed watching as she came out of her shell, and how she found her love at last. But I'm afraid things are about to take a bad turn for her. Let's see, shall we?]

In the dream, I was being seduced. I don't know who it was, just a figment of my imagination I suppose. I was tender, I thought I had been riding a bicycle or a motorcycle or maybe a horse. I was tender and swollen but I wanted him. I knew it was wrong and my conscience, in the dream the voice of my great-grandmother with whom I had spent my summers in grade school, was telling me that I was David's and this was wrong.

But the cock on the man was big and hard. Bigger than David.

Why couldn't I focus on his face?

Whenever I tried to look at him something would distract me. There was a picture that caught my eye, a crazily bright painting of an ocean scene. There was another picture, a life-size portrait, and this was of me, I recognized my big ass.

I could look at his cock, but I couldn't see his face.

And his hands, big and powerful, gripped me, high on the inside of my thighs.

"No," I said, "I can't," but his hands were strong and I couldn't stop him from pushing my legs apart.

"No, please," I was crying now, frightened, "it's too big."

I woke, suddenly, as I stretched and his hand entered me.

"What were you dreaming?" he asked as I groaned and his hand stretched me.

So I told him as his hand worked, big, stretching me, doing what the dream had shown me.

His hand was massaging my uterus as I tried to squeeze, but his wrist was just too big. The muscles wouldn't respond. And the sensation was different than anything I had ever experienced. The pressure from the way I was being stretched was close to pain, kind of the way your mouth feels when the dentist has a couple of hands and a half dozen tools in there, but it was so sensual I didn't want it to end. And what he was doing with his hand, gently massaging my womb, was sending jolts, no, "BLASTS" of excitement to my nipples that were so hard they hurt like they were clamped.

I screamed, well, I tried to scream although what came out was sort of a gasping weak whistle when I felt his finger penetrate my cervix.

I came, the release of a pure orgasm, undistracted by kissing or holding or anything, as he pulled out a little, the widest part of his hand now stretching me even further, the pressure on my clitoris coming from inside and sending me over the edge into a world I never knew existed. I was lost in the sensation. Nothing existed in the world except the pressure opening me up like I had never been opened before, and the ecstasy of release that went on and on.

I felt the hot sticky wetness of my release running down the crack of my ass.

I managed to cry out his name.

And it kept going.

I couldn't breathe.

I was getting lightheaded.

"Don't you faint on me," he whispered, moving his hand, opening his fingers, making me wonder if something might tear but at the same time, making my release pour from me even faster.

The final paroxysm of ecstasy had my back arching and I remembered a silly line overheard one time when some men were talking about their sexual exploits. "The only things touching the mattress," the guy had been saying as I walked by, "were the back of her head and her heels."

That was how I felt right then. My body was rigid. My back bowed. And I was trembling, impaled on his hand, the purest delight just pouring out of me.

And I collapsed.

I didn't faint, but my body was simply exhausted.

I lay there panting, feeling his hand inside of me but too spent to respond.

"I know a man who has offered me one thousand dollars to do this to you," he said and it was so strange, so almost conversational the way he said it, that my mind wouldn't accept it.

"What?" I managed although it should probably be better written as "Wha-a-a-a-a-a-aaa-t?"

He smiled and repeated himself.

"I. Know. A. Man. Who. Has. Offered. Me. One. Thousand. Dollars. To. Do This. To. You." he said, this time enunciating each word as if was a separate sentence.

"David," I said, still struggling to get my breathing under control, "What do you mean?"

Of course, I was playing for time, desperately hoping that what I was thinking was wrong. I didn't want it to be true. I was in love, dammit. I was claimed. I was HIS. Shit, I had rings in my fucking PUSSY to prove it.

When he didn't say anything, and on some level I knew it was some sort of a contest although I didn't know the rules.

And I was crying. I was fucking CRYING!

"Am I to be a whore then?" I asked.

My body surprised me. I felt a tingle, deep in my belly, as I said that.

I was rolling now, though. I might be the odd girl out, the fifth wheel, or whatever else you want to call it, but these past few months have imbued me with self-confidence.

"Is that what you've been grooming me for, David?" I asked, my tears under control now and my anger taking over.

When he said nothing, just smiled that smirky smile that often made me hate him, I guess the clinical term would be, I came unglued.

"Oh my God," I yelled, "that's it, isn't it? All I am to you is a piece of fuckmeat and now you're going to sell me."

"Well," he said, and his tone made everything clear, "more like rent you out."

"YOU BASTARD!"

I screamed and slapped him.

And then I screamed, this time in the agony of what he was doing, his fingers digging into my uterus.

"Knock it off," he snapped.

"STOP IT YOU SONOFABITCH!!" I yelled and screamed again.

"KNOCK," he yelled in my face and I screamed as his fingers dug in again.

"IT," he yelled, and it felt like he was ripping my uterus out.

"OFFFFFFF," he yelled, twisting, tearing the breath out of me along with my uterus.

"No more," I breathed, unable to generate any volume, "Please, David, enough," as I tried to get into the fetal position to ease what he was doing to me.

I was crying. Jesus, I had never imagined pain like that.

"Are you done?" he asked, almost gently, but his hand was still inside me and he was still squeezing enough to make it hard to breathe.

"Yes," I whispered, "Yes. Please, David, no more."

"Say you'll do it," he said.

"DAVID!" I cried.

"Say it," he said, not squeezing again but not releasing me either.

"Yes," I said, "Yes, I'll do it."

The pressure eased a little.

"Say you

want

to do it," he said.

And the thing is, I kinda did. The thought that a man would be willing to pay a thousand dollars for me, even if it was something weird like putting his hand up my pussy, was, well, flattering. I was all of those things. I was the extra girl most of my life. I had been the extra girl the night David had come to me, passing the others by.

I liked the idea. I liked the very thought of being wanted.

"Yes," I said, "Please. I want to do it."

"Say it like you mean it," he said, his hand inside starting to play, gently, giving me those little jolts of pleasure.

"David," I said, "the idea excites me and yes, I want to do it."

I reached for him, got my hand behind his neck, and pulled him down for a kiss.

"Let me show you what I'll give him," I whispered in his ear, and started rocking my hips, thrusting against him as if he was a lover deep inside of me.

"Do I please you?" I asked in my best soft, breathy whore's voice.

When he didn't reply I nuzzled his neck, working my hips in that way I knew got to him. And I knew I was wet. I could smell my excitement.

"You've trained me well," I breathed in his ear, "Please, baby, let me show you."

I knew what he wanted but I was afraid to cross that last bridge. To do so would be to surrender my last bit of self-respect.

He waited me out and I broke.

I pushed him far enough away to meet his eyes.

"Please, David," I said, my palms flat on his cheeks, "let me use my body to make you money."

He smiled at that and I remembered a line from a book read long ago. I don't remember the book or the context of the dialogue, but the line was clear in my mind.

"Her pimp is the only man a whore can love," one character had said to another.

When he didn't say anything I started crying and I hated it. But on some level, I don't claim to understand, I knew the reason I was crying was that I was afraid he would say "No."

"Please, David," I said, both of my hands on his arm in that way all women understand, my back was arched pressing my body against him, "please. I'll be a good whore for you."

"Hmmmmmmm," he said, and even though I saw it coming I was crying as he said the words.

"Beg me," he said.

I got to my knees and brushed my cheeks against his erect cock,

"Please?" I said, looking up at him.

"Do better," he said.

I moaned and didn't want to, but my body, my treacherous body, desperate for his attention and his approval, slowly lowered itself until I had prostrated myself on the floor at his feet. My arms were straight above my head, my palms on the floor, and I was kissing his feet.

"Please?" I said again, my eyes on his toes.

"Show me what you've learned," he said.

I was relieved.

"I have a chance," I thought.

I began kissing my way up his legs. I made them good kisses. I didn't hurry, I took my time, each kiss a serious kiss.

When I got to the thatch of his pubic hair I dragged my tongue through it, finding the warm skin of his scrotum. I kissed that skin and then used my tongue to caress that sensitive skin where his scrotum separated from his belly. When I opened my mouth and took one of his balls into my mouth, sucking very gently, I was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath.

I opened wider, got his other testicle in my mouth, and then used my tongue to separate them. I imagined that I looked a bit like a chipmunk the way my cheeks were bulging out. I sucked a bit more, drawing a very satisfactory hum from him.

I kissed my way up the shaft of his erection, traced the corona of his glans, and then took just the tip into my mouth, sucking gently and tracing the little slit of his urethra with my tongue.

I felt his excitement then, the way he was throbbing, so I released the pressure and just took him into my mouth, holding him, not sucking or licking or moving, just holding him in my mouth until I felt his throbbing stop.

And then I took him, deeper. As he started to trigger my gag reflex I swallowed hard and accepted him into my throat. I held him there, swallowing, masturbating him with my throat, meeting his eyes now and smiling.

"Good girl," he said, patting me on the head like a fucking dog and the thing is, I liked it.

I took him along slowly, swallowing, feeling him hard and throbbing with his heartbeat.

I felt the change in me, right there on my knees, masturbating my pimp with my throat. I realized this was my future. I was a whore, natural born. This is what I was born to do. I wouldn't have children. I wouldn't worry about my daughters getting knocked up or my sons getting killed in some stupid war. I would give men pleasure.

Women too something deep in my mind said clearly.

And I liked it.

No, that is far too gentle a word.

And I loved it. I adored it. I cherished the thought of it as I felt him start to quiver and slowed what I was doing. I wanted him to know I was the BEST whore he would ever have.

I pulled off long enough to look up at him across the hardness of his belly and say, "I am yours," before I took him back into my mouth and my throat, feeling how natural this was to be on my knees with him in my mouth.

He was stroking my hair now, petting me like a cat, so I started purring, making a soft humming sound deep in my throat.

And I realized I could smell myself, the womanscent of my arousal was thick in the air. I felt that pressure building deep in my belly, that buildup of need only a woman can know. But that was secondary. What mattered, and I knew this down at the level of instinct where the behavior is known without learning, was to make his pleasure the best he ever experienced. My own pleasure, what was happening in my belly and between my legs, was irrelevant. If it happened, that was okay, but it didn't matter.

My

raison d'ệtre

(there's another one of those words you see written but never have a need to use) was in my throat. My highest and best use, as the saying goes, was to provide a man pleasure.

And I loved it. It felt natural. I wanted to be a whore, giving this to all men, and I wanted to be the BEST whore the world has ever known. I wanted to make Sheba and Cleopatra and Mata Hari and the rest of them look like old crones compared to me.

I wanted to feel a man pet me, showing how much I pleased him.

And it hit me, surprising me with how fully formed the thought was, that I wanted to be punished if I failed.

How long I held him like that I don't know. Time had no meaning for me in my new life, my new persona.

I felt the first thick touch of his precum on the back of my throat and slowed more. I held perfectly still but knew, the way he was quivering, that I had taken him past the point of no return.

My palms were flat on his ass, not pulling him to me, but feeling how his body responded.

I felt the sudden tension of his climax and pulled off. I held him in my hand, looking up at him, and accepted his ejaculation as that thick hot jet of his semen left a warm line from my forehead down to the corner of my mouth. My left eye burned because I hadn't closed it.

The second spurt of his release went into my hair mostly, leaving a thick dollop in the middle of my forehead that I could feel slowly running down my nose.

The third hit my chin and throat.

And I came. Hard and wet, I could hear it spatter on the floor between my calves. I realized my nipples were so hard they hurt. And my orgasm kept going as I held him, watching as he came on my face.

He grunted then, I could see him strain, and the final thick drop clung to the end of his beautiful cock.

I took it on my tongue. I savored it. I love the salty taste, the oily feel, the odd undertaste.

I know it's hackneyed and trite and cliched but there it is. I felt "complete" as I never had before.

I held him, kissing his cock, my tongue touching the little slit of his urethra, until I was certain he was completely spent.

Then I stood, feeling the slickness between my legs, and met his eyes.

"When?" I asked.

He knew what I meant.

"I'll make your first appointment," and I shivered at the casual, almost professional way he described how I was to become a whore, "for this weekend."

"Was I a good girl for you?" I asked, shamelessly fishing for a compliment.

He did that thing with my hair again, stroking it, not in a lover's way, not in a sexual come-on, but in the way you might pet a favored cat.

"You were a very good girl," he said.

"Will you kiss me?" I asked.

He smiled, and said, "No, Paula, I don't kiss whores."

And even that felt natural.