Please note I am republishing this story, lightly improved / edited, and extended, in parts - this original version covers the first two parts of the newer version
I was 26 when I met him -- R. I was working as a lawyer -- I was doing pretty well; I had always been smart, and having a pretty face, nice manners and a good figure never hurt anyone either. I was no dummy, swept off my feet by a charmer.
It was just that he was remarkable. Rich, handsome, easy manners; very casual but also very personal when he spoke to you. I met him at a party, where he made it clear he liked me, liked my looks -- in a very direct way, without any bullshit, but managed to be flattering and engaging. I was charmed, in spite of myself.
I liked him too, and liked his friends, and basically invited myself back to his flat, where he entertained me for a little while, and then, delightfully, uninhibitedly, masterfully, fucked my brains out. I had never been taken to such heights, or felt it so intensely. I thought I was in love.
I realised over the next weeks, though, that I wasn't in love. I was in lust.
His sexuality was totally direct, without being in the slightest crude. The impact on me, what it showed me was possible, was incredible, and infectious. Whenever I thought about him, I thought about the way he fucked me, the way he made my body feel. And I began to be addicted. I was losing interest at work -- still managing perfectly well, but no longer 100% there, fully fired up. Increasingly, I would be thinking about the next time I would see him. Specifically, about when, where and how he would fuck me next.
And those times were not as frequent as I liked. He had made it clear from the start that he had other girls, other cities, other phone numbers. There was no exclusivity, no pretence, no dishonesty, no false promise. But as he managed all this very smoothly and suavely, and as I wasn't in love, I didn't mind too much.
He was very frank, too, which helped. He talked with me about how what we had was all about the sex, but then showed me how that didn't need to be a limitation. He praised my body, my responses, my openness. He helped me become even more open, spending time caressing my naked body, opening me - my thighs, my arms, my lips, upper and lower, telling me how he liked me, making me practice, try things different ways, getting me used to, and increasingly keen on, the idea of myself as a sex-object; displaying myself for him, letting him see every flicker of my response as he fucked me, or teased me; hiding less and less of my intimate responses as time went on.
He had me look at porn on the internet, tell him which pictures I found exciting, showed me pictures he found exciting, got me to study them, to see what it was that made them sexy. Then he had me set up scenes for him, things that excited him, learn to understand what got him hot. He pushed me to look at more and more extreme images, constantly widening my boundaries, constantly making me accept my own desire and his, stoking it, feeding it.
And I was hooked on it.
I was doing everything I could to get him excited, so that he would want to fuck me -- although I wasn't jealous of the other girls in a normal way, I knew I was competing for his attention -- I wanted more, all the time -- more. I was buying, and wearing, increasingly sexually obvious clothes, working out, doing yoga, having frequent beauty sessions so that I would always be at my best for him, liking the knowledge of myself as someone who knew how to reach, and help others (well, him) reach heights of sexual intensity and pleasure which were extraordinary.
My life was becoming suffused with sex, and sex was what I thought about more and more. He began to talk about this with me, and I was honest with him, told him I thought I was becoming wanton, and it got him turned on (and me too, to be saying out loud how much I loved the feel of his cock deep in me, the way it dominated my whole consciousness like that...), and we would have more incredible sex, and so I told him more.
He told me that he wanted me to learn to be able to fully take his cock into my throat. It was not particularly long, but quite thick, from my limited experience, and I had never really tried this before, but I worked hard at it, got better, became eager to serve him like this, loving the involuntary grunts I could get from him when I took him deep and soft, and, more darkly, loving the sluttishness of it. He trained me never to use my hands, my arms as protection -- to leave them loose at my sides, to let him control me, and that lack of control became important to me, exciting, a key ingredient in reaching ever greater heights of sexual immolation.
I told him about my decision never to be out of high heels, never to wear pantyhose again, always suspenders and stockings. He suggested that I should start wearing corsets and I did; told me he liked to see girls in chokers, and bought me some, and I never showed myself to him without one, then started wearing one all the time -- even in bed -- simply because he said he liked the idea of me being used to wearing a collar, like a slave girl.
The images, scenes, he showed me were clearly tending in a certain direction -- he didn't attempt to hide it;
"Do you see how he is forcing her to take him deeper into her throat than she wants, pushing her down? He doesn't care if he makes her cry, if it hurts her, if it frightens her. "
"Making her masturbate with that dildo in front of his friends -- do you see the look in her eyes? She is humiliated and excited at the same time."
"She is liking the aggression, do you see? She is a slut, and she knows it. She can't help herself moving with him now, trying to kiss him, even though she is being violated in front of her friend, even though he is hurting her."
I knew that this was dark and dangerous stuff; but I was turned on too, and I wanted him so much. Besides, he never really hurt me or forced me beyond my real limits -- took advantage sometimes, yes -- but always I found I responded strongly when he did.
When I was at his apartment, now, I was often naked but for corset, stockings, heels and choker, and usually in some lewd pose or other, often with his fingers inside me. He would meet me at the door and have me strip as soon as I came in, then I would guide his fingers to my breasts, my sex, seducing him all the time, rubbing myself against him, holding my tits out for him, licking him softly, touching my pussy to show how ready I was; asking very meekly, very sincerely for his cock in me.
"Which hole, pretty?"
"Any hole you like, Sir -- I just need to be fucked ...", and I would smile, and giggle, but we both knew that it was true -- that if he told me he wouldn't fuck me that day, that I would beg, cajole, try to entice him, that my neediness could easily be exposed, that I was easily brought to a point of offering him licence to use me in ways that were transgressive.
He broke me into anal sex like that, and, as with the throat fucking, I grew to love it, to love being the vessel for his excitement, to be explicitly excluded from the pleasure, dependent on his choice as to whether my clit would be allowed stimulation or not.
I wasn't stupid, wasn't blind to what was happening, what he was doing to me, and sometimes I got scared about it. This was not the way my life was supposed to go, after all -- was this an insanity that had gripped me? An addiction? Had he brainwashed me? Drugged me? I knew that all these thoughts were paranoia really, but still...
