Altavie Brown Wins This Round

Here's what I've been thinking about all evening--going out with you, getting pissed drunk, then seeing if I could make you have hard sex with me. You said you wanted to stop having sex, just be friends, that it was the right decision for you--yet you keep asking to see me, keep setting up dates that I can't seem to say no to. We haven't even kissed in two months.

I know the truth is that I scared you. Your desire terrifies you, and I push at it with mine. What I want is hard for you to see, maybe because you want something similar. I want to be used, to be fucked like a whore, to be bent to a stronger person's will. Not physically--that's not where my fight will be. In the mind. The body is just the tool the mind uses to show that it has won. We know what that's like; we both were used as kids. You say you feel like you have a sign on your forehead now, that everyone can tell.

Not everyone, but I could tell. I didn't know that's what it was, but I wasn't surprised when you told me. And now I'm trying to make you be that person for me, the abuser you don't want to be. You know the pain that brought you, to be used the way you were, but what you aren't remembering, what you hate to remember, is the pleasure. I am willing to feel the pain, the terrible smallness and helplessness, to feel that pleasure again. I need to feel that, it seems.

You're right, we're pretty fucked up. Why not stop trying to run from that? Why not turn and look your fear right in the face? Maybe it will bring you some relief, to expend some of your tightly held rage on me. Maybe it will help me, to let you. To let you take my guilt, as you take my power to choose.

I don't know--maybe you'd rather be the one who can let go, the one who is taken and used, made a victim again. But this is my fantasy, so I'm going to make you be dominant. I'm going to see if I can force you to let go of that carefully constructed nice guy image you have. Your whole life is about serving and caring--I know you must want more.

You have a spark of devilishness in you, that's part of what I saw initially that made you seem like fun--but you try to disguise it as just boyish good humor. You have a streak of selfishness, and I have seen that you can let go sexually, at least a little. I want you to be a man, a dominant man.

I can imagine you responding, as you did once in an email, "That's not me, I don't have to be that pushy guy." I want you to be that pushy guy, the guy who shoves me to the ground and stuffs his cock in my mouth. That's what I want.

I make plans to see you, and decide to try to make things happen. I drive over to your house, wearing my usual jeans and t-shirt with a hoodie. But under the t, no bra--I know you like to see my tits without. It's a tight enough shirt that it holds them up a little, and you can see my nipples clearly through the material.

Under my tight jeans, crotchless panties--they are such a trashy cliche', but you're the right era to possibly appreciate them. Besides, I've never worn them, so it might be fun for me. They just look like lace boyshorts, with no crotch, so not too Frederick's of Hollywood.

Plus, I feel trashy--I want you to treat me that way; like the slut you dream about. I know you do--I know you think about fucking my tits, about how my pussy felt as I rode you, about how I sucked you so well. I know you think about those times, no matter how much you try to not let yourself. There is so much more I want from you.

My long red hair is loose and straight--it feels soft as I brush out of my face. I'm wearing that oil perfume you have commented on; it always makes me feel sexy. It won't matter, though, how I feel--this is for you. I want to give myself to you. I want to force you to take me. I guess those really are two different things, but somehow it seems like they could work together.

I come in and you greet me, offering me a cup of tea as usual. We have planned to watch a movie; you've made popcorn. You have no idea what I want from you, so I start slowly. When you go to the kitchen to make tea, I take off my hoodie and follow you. I see you register the t-shirt with no bra; you're a gentleman, so you don't say anything. I want to make you say all the filthy things you think and never express.

As you stand at the counter dunking tea bags, I brush your back with my breasts, reaching past you for the sugar bowl. My face heats up at my transparent ploy, but you still don't say anything. Next, when you hand me my cup, I take it and looking you in the eye, I stick my tongue into the warm sweet milkiness, lap a little. Then lick my lips. Corny, but I see you sigh gently, to get your breathing back to normal.

I stick my finger into the sugar, and lick off the crystals slowly; I'm not looking at you, so I can see out of the corner of my eye that you are watching. I turn my head and smile at you, my finger still in my mouth. In spite of yourself, you smile back. I take out my finger, dip it in the sugar, and offer it to you. You look at it for a minute, then take me into your mouth.

Damn, you have a sexy mouth--wide, full lips. You suck my finger clean, then chew on it a little; it's starting to turn me on. You break the spell by chomping down, a quick bite, but I wasn't expecting it.

Any other man would have pushed up me against the kitchen counter by now, but you are headed into the living room with our tea. Sighing, I follow--this isn't going to be easy. I know from past experience that the direct approach just makes you go quieter, so I am thinking of my next move.

You turn on the movie, and I sit close to you; you don't move away, you even put your legs across my lap--this feels like progress. Of course I manage to rub my tits against your legs a few times; you steadfastly appear not to notice. I rub your feet, and you smile at me, saying that it feels great. But when I see you yawn a few times, I start to feel defeated.

You work early hours, so are always yawning by the evening--I hate it. I stay up half the night, so I'm at my best in the evening. I start to get involved in the movie, in spite of my plan, and I lean back against the squishy couch.

When I'm paying attention to something, sometimes my mouth drops open; you must have noticed, because you run your finger across my lower lip. I come out of my movie trance and look at you, wondering where that came from. You smile, but it fades as I stare at you, waiting for you to do something, anything. How can I break past that barrier you have up, that wall that keeps my desire, and yours, at bay?

This feels like the moment where either something will give in you, or I will stop trying. I decide I will not quit until you tell me to, so I reach out for your hand. You allow me to take it, hold it in mine, then I place your hand on my breast. You're looking down at the floor, but you don't take your hand away as my nipple stiffens under your touch.

Just as I'm thinking this will go nowhere, you squeeze my nipple, and I moan, surprising myself. Fierce desire overtakes me, and I want to do to you all the things I wish you would do to me. Maybe that's where I should start...

I lean over to you and kiss you hard on the mouth, biting your lips and pulling your hair. You pull back, and I lean in closer and do it again, harder, so you make no mistake about what I want, and how I'm going to get it.

You're trying to get up from the couch, and I know if you really want to leave, you are stronger and outweigh me. I'm betting that you really don't want to, that you're a little pissed off right now, but that we can tap into that anger for something good. I grab the waistband of your pants and yank you back down as I move my body on top of you; you seemed stunned into stillness as I press all my weight onto you.

We're both starting to breathe heavily, partly from the sudden exertion, partly from arousal. Out of nowhere, I slap you across the face, hard, and we stare at each other as you hold your cheek. I can see the wheels in your head turning, and I want to make you stop thinking--I want you to feel.

I want you to fuck me so furiously that I feel something different as well. I like "regular" sex, but I need intensity; it seems like the only thing that can be larger than the bad things I don't want to feel.

You're still just staring at me, so I move a hand to your cock; no surprise, you're hard. I give you a little smile, then slide my hand inside your pants; I haven't touched you in months, and you feel so good, so silky; I want to taste you, feel you down my throat. You aren't reacting, so I sit back and pull off your pants, then I get an idea. I tell you not to move.

I remember you once showed me a pair of hand cuffs; we played around with them, but now I want to use them in earnest. I look in your closet; they're still there, in the back. When I bring them out to the living room, I see you're sitting up, and are starting to put your pants back on.

This won't do; I'm getting pissed at your unwillingness to cooperate with something I'm pretty sure you want. I quickly go around the end of the couch, and have your hand in a cuff before you know what's happening, and then as you start to resist, I grab your other arm and pull it behind you. A knee in your back convinces you to let me pull both arms back, and close the cuffs.

I slap you in the mouth, for good measure; you glare at me, panting, and finally you speak: "Fuck you! What do you think you're doing?"

"Giving you what you really want. What you're afraid to admit, but I know you want it."

Fear crosses your face, quickly replaced by more anger: "You're crazy. I'm calling 911."

You get up and start toward the cell phone, lying on the dining room table, but I'm faster, and I snatch it up. "How are you going to dial, with your feet?", I taunt.

Something sweeps over me, and I head for the kitchen, where I know your tool box is stored. I grab the hammer; you're close behind, and just as you reach me, I slam the hammer down on the phone, leaving a dent in your kitchen floor and shattering the phone.

"Fuck!", you roar; I'm beyond caring, caught up in the feeling of power that makes me invincible. I drop the hammer, and curl my hand around the large knife, lying on the dish drainer.

"Get onto your bed", I growl; surprisingly, you obey, giving me a look of disbelief. I am thinking that the mirror on your closet doors will allow me to see more of your expressions.

Your pants are still dragging around your ankles, as you shuffle off to the bedroom, and I start to order you to take them off when I realize I've made you somewhat helpless with the cuffs. I can't uncuff you, though--I'm not sure what you'd do to me. As you sit on the bed, I tell you to kick them off; you comply angrily, but your briefs are still snugly stretched over your softening cock.

I decide to cut them off; your eyes bug as I poke the knife into the edge of the leg hole, but as I saw through the seam, you start relaxing a little, as if sure I won't hurt you; by the time I've cut through both leg seams and the waistband, you're getting hard again. I rip the fabric from cut to cut, and you are exposed before me, laid out like an opened package.

I want to devour you, devour your meat; I want to make you writhe, scream, orgasm so hard you think you may die. I wish I was at home, so I could use all my toys; the cuffs are the only thing I've ever seen at your place, and even those you didn't intend for this kind of play. You told me some story of a friend who was a cop giving them to you; I wonder about that.

I decide to start with a little anal exploration, see how you like that. You said once you'd run if I came after you with a strap on; how I dearly wish I had one now. I tell you to move your ass down and lift your legs, and you do. I use the handle of the knife, after I've spit on it so you have an idea of what's coming. Your little hole is puckered tight, but as I stroke your inner thighs and balls, I see it begin to open and close a bit.

I don't want you to get too comfortable, so I cram the knife handle in, making you groan; your cock is at full attention now. I move the knife in and out a few strokes, but I'm already looking for something bigger. Your legs are starting to shake, and I decide I don't want you to be able to see the action.

I tell you to stand up and then lie on your stomach on the floor; I'm sure it's cold on your belly, but you comply, struggling a little not to fall on your face as you can't use your arms to help you. I put my foot on your back, and press down--you lie even flatter, your arms rigid behind you, the cuffs biting in a little.

I tell you to spread your legs, and stick a pillow under your ass; it feels strange to be doing to you the same things I've experienced. I know how this feels. I slap your ass cheeks, just to see how it feels; you flinch, but say nothing. I'm determined to get some noise out of you.

I rummage through your closets; not even a dildo. Hmm--maybe a screwdriver would work. I check the tool box, get the one with the largest handle. I've used one like this on myself. I look around for lube, don't see anything, so grab the hand lotion from your daughter's room. It's probably been used for something similar before.

I want you relaxed, so I lick your hole a little; you moan softly, and start moving around, so I spank you again and tell you to be still. More licking, my tongue deep in your ass; it's turning me on, imagining how it feels to you. Then I get my tool, squirt some lotion on your ass, and I can tell you're wondering what's coming because you tense up. I slap you again, and tell you to keep everything loose.

"Open your ass for me", I say, and I can tell you're trying as you tilt your pelvis back.

I rub the screwdriver on your ass cheeks; "I'm getting ready to screw you", I say softly.

You start to say something, but stop before I can tell you to be quiet. I rub lotion into your hole, and I feel you shudder. The handle goes in with some pushing; I tell you to bear down, like you need to take a poop, and you open up, hissing a breath in as the screwdriver goes deeper.

I know if this was me, I'd want to be rubbing my clit right now; I'm not sure how it feels to men, but I imagine you're not feeling too differently. Unless maybe it hurts; I ask, "Does this hurt?", and you nod once.

Part of me is glad; I want it to. But I also want it to feel good, so I slide out the screwdriver and slide in my fingers.

I'd just been reading about prostate massage, so I want to try it on you. I stick in two fingers, and crook them upwards, feeling for the bump I'd read about. I feel it; I am so curious about what this is like for you. I decide to turn you over and risk taking your cuffs off; I tell you this, and ask if you'll be good. You've started to pant a little, so your answer is a breathless, "Yesss."

I pull out my fingers and tell you to sit up; you do, but I change my mind. I'm not taking your cuffs off, I'm just going to move them to the front so you can lie back. I unlock one and let you massage your wrist, then I relock them in front and push you back onto the pillow.

"Put that under your ass again", I say, and with the limited motion the cuffs allow, you do. I get another one; I want your ass up where I can get to it.

A little more lotion, some rubbing of your thighs and abdomen and scrotum, and I'm ready to go spelunking again. You're hard by this time, so I lean down and suck you into my mouth as my fingers find your inner sweet spot; as I slather your cock with spit, I rhythmically press the bulb inside you.

It doesn't take long before I've broken through that reserve of yours; I remember what a loud cummer you were as you moan over and over, flooding my cunt with wetness. I may have to take advantage of this situation; as fast as that thought comes into my head, I'm standing up and opening my jeans. My crotchless panties are about to get a workout.

I pull my jeans just low enough, and i feel like a guy as I straddle you; your bottom is naked and open, I'm still mostly clothed. I slam down onto your cock, holding the base with one hand and brutally pinching one of your nipples with the other; I'm gratified by the guttural groan that comes out of you.

I fuck you hard, as hard as I can, using both hands on your chest to keep myself upright. Pretty soon I'm moaning as well; you feel so fucking good I want to break something. You reach up, trying to grab my breasts with your cuffed hands; I forcefully slam your hands over your head, making sure the cuffs bite in a little.

"Do NOT touch me unless I tell you to. Got that?" You nod, but the effect is lessened as we're both almost delirious with our pleasure.

I decide I don't want you to see me cum; your shirt is opened, and I grab the knife lying nearby and cut open the arms and tear it off of you. It's hard to do that while fucking you, so I stop for a minute; you whine and buck your hips to get me moving again, earning yourself another slap across the face. I'm starting to think you don't mind. I wrap the shirt around your head, covering your eyes, then get back to getting myself off.

I turn myself around to ride you in reverse; I know you'd love to see that, and am happy to be denying you the pleasure. I tear off my t-shirt so I can watch my big tits bounce freely, can see the sheen of sweat on my face and chest. My clit looks huge and angry-red as I grind into you.

As I slam down onto you, I almost hit the wrong hole, then think that sounds like a fine idea. I rub my ass with my sloppy wetness, and take you in; I hear you cry out several times as I ease down onto you. I rock side to side and back and forth, letting your hardness stimulate me; some fast clit rubbing, and I'm cumming explosively.

I cum and cum, wave after wave; the angle is just right to get my g-spot, so before long I've squirted all over you, leaving your crotch and belly soaked. You somehow still haven't cum, but that's okay with me; I climb off, wobbling a little, and in spite of yourself, you're forced to rasp, "You can't leave me like this."

I like hearing you beg, and tell you so, which makes you thrash around a little, whimpering.

"Please, please"; you're almost sobbing at this point, which is shamefully turning me on. I would never have dreamed there was this level of meanness in me. I glance over at the mirrored closet doors and see that my dark eyes look completely black and my pale face is flushed; I am fierce. I barely recognize myself.

What should I do with you? Leave you unsatisfied, and still cuffed so you can't even help yourself? Demand that you please me repeatedly before I allow you any release? Or, uncuff you and see what happens, knowing you might turn the tables on me.

This hasn't turned out at all how I thought; instead of you taking on my anger and expressing it for me, onto me, I've stepped into it, and thoroughly taken it out on you; we both seem to have enjoyed that, except that I'm almost angrier now than I was before we started. I feel like slapping you until something gives inside (you, or me? I'm not sure); I won't, but I want to.

Maybe you just can't be the aggressor sexually; my provocation only seems to have allowed you to be submissive. Maybe you aren't willing to let go that far, in that way. It would probably terrify you, to feel your anger that much. I can feel that fear in myself, that I will go over some edge and can't get back.

There is still more unsatisfied in me, but I need someone to meet me in that place. I want someone I can push against fully, with all my rage and strength. Someone I won't scare or overwhelm, someone who can contain me; that's the man I can totally let go with, can totally allow to take over me for that moment. I'll keep looking; I feel sure he's out there.