My pulse quickened as I scrolled, each spin of the mouse wheel bringing more heady, sweat-filled scenes. All of the details I had provided him were rendered in the story, twisted by his words into obscene eroticisms. My cock was pulsing painfully against my trousers, pressed harshly between the meat of my upper thigh and the rough denim. It had stiffened with blood as soon as I had seen the story title, but our pledge forbade me from masturbating to the story for the first 24 hours. I didn't then know exactly where the Writer was based, but I guessed nowhere close... the car reg he had forgotten to blur in one of his photos suggested Europe. Even knowing he was probably half a world away, I was still strangely afraid that he would know if I even adjusted my package. All I allowed myself was a slight rocking on my chair, rubbing my hardness backwards and forward against the denim as I read about the depraved pleasures inflicted upon my fictionalised body.
I was half way through the story, a dribble of precum leaching into my jeans, when I noticed something that drained the colour from my face. I had been reading so fast that i initially hadn't noticed it, but when i skipped back a few lines it was right there...
... what are you going to do on Monday little man,
when you cant even sit at your fancy desk on account of my fat cock ripping your hole apart? What are you going to tell your fancy banker pals?
"I don't know sir," he groaned.
I slapped his gaping hole roughly with my cock. He yelped in pain, but his own cock thickened and pulsed in reaction.
"Try again," I said.
"I'll tell them that I'm a pathetic cock-hungry slut."
I showed him my approval by teasing his hole with my pre-cum slick cockhead."
"I'll tell them that I'll do anything to have a real man use and abuse me. And that I spent my weekend getting..."
As he trailed off I thrust my cock spearlike into him, forcing its thickness completely into his once-tight hole."
"FUCK," he screeched, the girlishness in his voice revealing itself. "FUCKED," he panted, "I spent my weekend getting fucked."
I hold my cock deep inside him, flex the muscle under my prostate to pulse and thicken it. He pants, sweat soaked, as if he had just run a race. I lean in very close to him, pressing the last, thick inch of meat slowly into his hole. I bring my face close to him and ask, "What are you going to tell Susie, when she asks why your cunt is bigger than hers?"
A small detail in his exquisite humiliation of me, tucked into a description of my hole being forced apart by his heavy, thickly veined cock... a detail I had specifically not requested. Something that could identify me. My wife's name.
My heart rate had made the subtle shift from aroused to freaking out, a change which my cock, an iron bar, had not yet picked up on. Even as fear drained the blood from my face, I could feel it foolishly pooling in my cock, making it impossible hard. The ridge in my pants seemed huge, bigger than ever, and I was desperate to release it. By his instruction, I hadn't touched myself in days, and my balls were bloated with cum, some of which was wetly visible in blue denim.
I pulled focus away from the throbbing in my crotch. That fucker had betrayed me. Outside of my name and some physical details, the pact dictated that no identifying features make it into any story. Now it wasn't just these weekly stories of David being fucked by Goliath, but David, the 5'8" banker married to Susie, having his hole rent open by Goliath.
For the past 6 months, I had been paying stupid sums to the Writer to degrade me in his stories. Not just degrade, either, but utterly destroy and humiliate, and to do it on a pedestal. All of our stories were public, some of them travelled quite far through the erotic portions of the web. Findom fantasies where I was the Writer's manager, and also his sex slave, sold particularly well on Amazon. On erotica sites and message boards, the regulars knew that the abused protagonist was someone on the website who paid for the privilege. They also knew that the Writer had the exact equipment needed to dole that punishment out. The pictures in his profile showed the muscles hugely swollen under clothes and a crotch bulging obscenely in tight leather: a Tom of Finland drawing brought to life. A few donations tended to procure more pictures, where the clothes had fallen to reveal the thick chorded domes of his pecs, and a tight trail of abs, shadowed by curls of dark hair that rose thickly from his crotch. More generosity might result in a video of a hand reaching into leather chaps, and emerging with a pale, heaving python, bursting with thick veins and capped with fat, dripping cockhead.
6 months ago, I had outbid someone called Derek, who had previously paid to be in my place. When I took over the contract, I pledged quite a lot to the Writer, and he pledged very little to me, other than a few short rules, one of which he had broken. My eyes flicked to the scroll bar. Only half way through. Would he go further? Was it just playful, or was it a threat? Just a part of the domination, or something more? And how much, in our occasional chats, had I divulged to him?
And why was my cock still so fucking hard. I continued reading.
"What are you going to tell Susie, when she asks why your cunt is bigger than hers?"
He gasped, partly from the sharp thrust that I used as punctuation, partly from the name. I wasn't supposed to bring her up, but he wasn't supposed to give me rules. I eased my cock slowly out of him, felt him shake as each inch left him. I stopped when the only thing still inside him was my cockhead, thickly pressing against his prostate. I leant forward, took each nipple between barbell-calloused fingers, and squeezed tightly. He moaned, confused from pleasure, pain and the dropping of that name. I started thrusting again, just short, sharp stabs, focusing on teasing his prostate with the girthy round of my cockhead. Underneath me, he was red faced, dripping sweat, shaking.
"What," I whispered, "are you going to tell your lovely wife?"
