Expose

The truth is I never really liked him. He flattered me and that was enough. I like being flattered.

I had told a church friend a version of the truth. I told her what he and I had been up to -- but I described it as what he wanted us to do. Oh the look on her face. Oh the questions in her expression. He wants to do what to you? He wants to take you where? She said I had to leave him, that I couldn't change him, that I shouldn't do any of those things. What my friend didn't understand was that those things are enjoyable. Those guilty dirty things that trouble my mind are troubling because they are so intensely pleasurable.

I love the pleasure. And that's why I agree to go with him to his work function. His employer, the company he works for, they are celebrating their twenty-fifth anniversary. So all the shareholders, all the workers, all the bosses, and the big customers -- plus their plus ones are at the big venue by the river. On the top storey of three. It's the fanciest dinner he has ever been to. It's difficult to forget that he doesn't come from money. It's difficult for him to get over that I do.

There's dancing. There's a decent meal with creditable table service. And there's alcohol. I have a glass of wine. It's enough for me to start flirting with his workmates. At least I wait until late in the night when all the respectables have gone home. My friend's father is one of the respectables. I smile politely as he leaves. I feign a yawn for his benefit -- and a look at the time, again for his benefit. Once he leaves I rearrange myself so as to show more cleavage. With an adjust here and there my dress becomes shamelessly low cut.

My boyfriend doesn't like to dance. So I dance with his workmates. He doesn't seem to care. And because he doesn't care I make him want to care by flirting. By leaning forward as I dance. By putting my cleavage under the nose of my dance partners. In the end it's 1.30 a.m. and his workmates have more shame than me. They send me back to him. I'm disappointed because I wanted to see how far I would go. Instead, all I have done is dance with a few guys.

The music stops. The lights come on and hurt my eyes. We leave, there are taxis arranged so we wait our turn. I need to find a restroom. I tell him that.

He reaches out and taps my handbag, he says "put you panties and bra in here."

I say "what?"

I realise he doesn't mean right now, in the queue. But even so, I tell him "no."

The nearest restroom is for the disabled, so it's huge. I lock the door behind me, face the mirror and watch myself in disbelief as I slide my panties off. They are wet as I stuff them into my handbag. I hike my dress up. I am surprised that my cunt lips are so obvious. That my clit is so tender as I brush against it with my hand. I drop the hem of my dress. It takes me an age to unbutton my dress. It buttons down the front from the now plunging neckline to the too high hem. I could have slid my bra out an armhole -- but I drag this out. I check in the mirror that it's me who's dress is hanging agape off one shoulder. I see my bra, I feel my hands to the clasp and shrug it off. My breasts show in the mirror. It is me but it's not me. And it's been like that since I have been with him. I nearly forget to pee. It's an afterthought.

I return wearing three pieces of clothing: my black dress and a shoe on each foot. I leave the top three buttons on my dress undone. I want his workmates to look over at me and see what they have missed. I imagine myself leaning forward like when I was dancing, but with my dress gaping even more. I want them to see how hard my nipples are. I want them to imagine how tender my clit is. But they are gone. Only he is left, a taxi waits for us. We climb in and my dress rides up. If the taxi driver looks he will see my cunt.

We drive out through the industrial part of town and past the club from two weeks before. He lives in a middle class suburb and it's deathly quiet. He has the taxi driver stop a block short of his house. He pays. We stand on the side walk as the taxi departs.

"Why here?" I ask.

He says for me to undo some more buttons.

I say, "no," but hand him my handbag and do it anyway.

We walk the counter-clockwise way instead of the quick way. Past slumbering houses. There's the distant sound of trucks on the far highway, our footfall, and crickets -- but that's it. He stops me. He says more buttons. I do as he says. I unbutton down to my navel. The dress begins to slide from my shoulders. I imagine that I'm with his work colleagues instead of him.

"More buttons?" I ask.

"All of them," he says.

I undo them to the last one. I hesitate with it, not because I don't want to be naked on the street, but because I don't want my dress to fall to the ground. He misunderstands my reluctance and tells me to hurry up. I do hurry. I hand him my dress. He bundles it under his arm then thinks better of it and straightens it out and wears it around his neck as a scarf.

He places my handbag on the ground and steps towards me, takes my head in his hands and kisses me roughly. I feel his tongue in my mouth. I tell him I hate him then I kiss him back. My tongue is in his mouth. He breaks away from my kiss and walks off. He tells me I can follow him or not. He has my dress. He has my handbag. I have my shoes. I follow him.

He stops at the corner of his street, beneath the street sign. The street light is out but even so, if anyone were to wake in one of these houses and peer out their window they would see a naked me. I catch up to him. He pulls me to him and has me stand side on in front of him. He cups my mound in the palm of his hand. His fingers pry my cunt lips apart. I am used to it now. I am used to the word cunt. I think it without thinking. A finger enters me. I sigh. I bite my lip. I press myself towards his hand. I want his mouth on my breasts. I don't have the ability to cup my own breasts. My hands are as useless as my resolve. My nipples scream for attention.

His other hand finds my bum. I jump a little in surprise. In doing so I drive his finger deeper into my cunt. A fingertip finds my bum hole and squeezes me forward on to his other hand -- his cunt hand. He knows I hate bum play. He knows I love it, too. I lose all sense of standing on my own feet. Another finger joins the first in my cunt. His palm is hard against my clit. I move from side to side. As I do a finger enters my bum hole. It enters me and takes a tour around my insides. I feel the fingers in my cunt against the finger in my arse through the wall of flesh that separates me -- that has me twisting, squirming, writhing. I lean into him. I am helpless. I try to kiss him. He doesn't stop me, but makes no effort to meet my kisses.

"Filth," he says.

He means that I am filthy. A filthy dirty bitch. He means in one word what I have become. I am a piece of sex hanging from his fingers, naked on the street. I think all of that until his fingers find my G-spot. He finds it and his fingers work hard. I'm building towards something new. I no longer care that I am naked on some street. I'm about to come when he pulls his fingers from my cunt. He wipes his hand across my tits and then my face. I suck at his fingers. My cunt throbs in the night. My breasts swell. His other hand remains at my backside, his finger still in my arse.

"Shall we?" he says.

I walk beside him with his finger in my arse. There's a car coming, far down the street, stopping at each four way stop. We get to his driveway and walk to his door. His key is for a side door. I no longer have his finger in my arse and I yearn for it. He doesn't tell me to stay but I do stay. A security light comes on, triggered by his movement. I miss his fingers. I squeeze my hands to my breasts and squeeze them tight. I squeeze my nipples. I bite my lip. I am bathed in light and open to the world.

The car, I hear it stop at the stop sign we had only just walked past. I hear it pick off, but it turns and its headlights scan across the street and the house opposite. The driver misses seeing me in the security light as plain as day -- naked, but for my shoes. Pleasuring myself for that driver, for me, for my Pig boyfriend who knows me better than I know myself.

The front door opens. It's dark inside. He doesn't call me in, just leaves the front door open. I stay outside for a bit longer, a moment or two. I have almost come with my hands at my breasts, with the hope that that car would drive by me. Almost. Sometimes an almost orgasm is as powerful as an actual screaming come. It's because I know I will keep searching for that lost moment, that I will keep wondering about how it would have been.

I enter. I leave the door open. He points me to the overstuffed armchair. It's the chair I was sitting in the first time he got me naked. I sat there with my legs slightly apart as he sat opposite me. He asked me to finger my cunt, I didn't. Not then. I waited until I was at home in bed. What ever happened to that prudish girl?

I have my knees on the seat, my arms wrapped around the chair's back. My breasts crushed up against the back of the chair. He has something in his hands. It's cold against my bum. It's slippery as he slides it between my bum cheeks. I recognise the smell. He has a stick of butter. I let him lubricate my bum hole with it. We had only been boyfriend and girlfriend for about a fortnight the first time he fingered my bum hole. Although this wasn't going to be a fingering. This was going to be a fucking.

"You can say no."

"Fuck you," is all I say.

"You have to do better," he says.

"Fuck you." I whisper it.

"Better," he says, again.

He has two fingers in my arse as I tell him what he wants to hear. Weeks ago I had told him that I would never let him fuck my arse. He said that I would, that he knows me better than I know myself, that I would actually beg him to do it. And I do beg.

"Please," I say.

"Please?"

"Please fuck my arse."

He takes his fingers out. He slides the end of his dick to my bumhole.

"Say it again."

"Please fuck me in the bum," I plead.

There's no ceremony, he simply forces himself in. I'm ready though, I've been fingered so many times during the last few months -- and I'm lubed. He is in me. It hurts, but not enough to make me give him what he wants -- which is me begging him to stop. So I tell him to get on with it. I tell him to fuck me hard. I come in moments. I come and try to hide that fact from him. I don't want to give him the satisfaction of my own pleasure. I kid myself that he hasn't noticed my orgasm.

He's slow with his fucking. It takes an age for me to build again. He twists me so as to get himself all the way into me. I squeeze my bum hole as hard as I can around his dick so that he knows I can. He loves it, so I stop doing it. He fucks me hard and fast for a few strokes -- to underline who the boss is. Then slow and regular. Eventually he asks and I tell him.

"So good," I say. "So good. So full."

"That's all I've got," he says.

"No," I say. "More. Deeper." I even use the word please. As if such words matter to him.

He puts his arms around my waist and bends his back so that he is close to me. I can feel his sweat. He lifts me. He puts me on his bed and spreads my knees apart so that I'm lower for him. His cock remains buried deep in me. I grit my teeth. I swear at him. I pray. He gets me to roll over onto my side. I am putty. He grabs one of my legs, the one against the mattress, stretches his leg over and straddles it.

"No," I say. My fear is that he might pop out.

He understands my fear, tells me to be quiet. He sits on my leg, his balls rest against the inside of my thigh. He nudges onto the bed. He moves my upper leg so that my knee is up by my tits -- I'm like a dancer doing a high kick, but stuck in place. He moves himself towards me and pushes himself deeper into me.

"That's it," I say. "That's it. Oh Fuck."

"Fuck?"

"Fuck me."

He does. In and out then back in again -- harder -- deeper -- slower.

I moan. I bury my face in the pillow. I hug the pillow to me. I pray that it doesn't stop. Please God, let me come. I am so very full, so satisfied. He pulls at my arm. I resist. He threatens to stop. I relent and he takes my hand in his and places it on my belly. He holds his hand on top of mine, my fingers spread, my palm against my belly -- has hand over mine. His fingers lock with mine.

"Feel that?" he asks.

I feel it. I feel him through my belly. I feel an amazing swell with each thrust as he fucks a bulge into my belly. I tell him to come. I tell him I can't take any more. I tell him to shoot his cum deep in me as hard as he can. I tell him, again, that I want him to come deep up my arse. He tells me that he doesn't care, he isn't finished, that he will decide. I can't keep track of time, of reality, or anything but his dismantling of me. In the end I wonder at the feeling of his cum filling me. I wonder then realise what I am feeling.

He hasn't used a condom -- it's not like him, especially around my arse. I assume he wants to defile me. I even use those words. "Defile me," I say.

After his cum has filled me, he keeps pumping. I keep squeezing until he goes limp, until he slides his dick out of my arse. He gets up, stretches, finds a towel and wipes his dick on it, bundles it and throws it at me. I place the towel between my legs. I lay there. I finger my clit until I come at least two more times. Eventually, as I build to an aching third I hear the shower going. He is washing himself. He has not asked me to join him. I don't want to join him, but I do.

I walk to him with my finger frigging me. I smell of his cum and butter and my cunt. The shower, it's hot. I love the heat. The water plays over me. I beg him to suck on my tits. He says this isn't about me.

"Stop making it about you," he says.

He asks me to suck his dick. I say that I won't. It's my last limit.

It's Sunday. I look at his alarm clock. It's 5 a.m. In a few short hours I'm going to have to join my parents at church. My bag is in the corner of his room. My church clothes are in it. We've finished with each other, so I lie next to him, in his warm arms. I tell him that when we break up I'm not going to have sex again until I am married.

He tells me my virginity will not grow back.

He tells me I cannot undo what I have done.

He tells me that I cannot deny my desires.

He asks me if I have ever contacted the woman who gave me her card.

I say that I haven't.

He says that I will. And I will. It's only a matter of time.

I say, "I'm scared that I will be found out."

What I say is a lie. I know it's a weak excuse. They have clubs across the state. A three hour train ride and a night's work in a club with no one who knows me. He tells me I should feed my desires or they will drive me crazy.

When I leave I tell him we are done.

He doesn't believe me.

I don't believe myself, either.

"I saw you look when we drove past."

He means that club.