A word from Jayne.
My regulars know this but newcomers may be pleased to learn that this is a long story with numerous characters and storylines. For continuity, it's recommended that it's read in chronological order but each part is a standalone erotic adventure. So, whichever way you read it, I hope you enjoy my world and feel free to leave a comment; I promise to read every one.
Love
Jayne.
A bit of rough stuff and some massive oral.
It wasn't the fact that I was standing in the tiny kitchen area of his flat that I lived in. It also wasn't the fact that I was only wearing a black thong, fishnet stockings, a flimsy tank top like an athlete's singlet or a man's vest and heels. It wasn't the fact that Mickey was buried into me as deeply as he could be. And it wasn't because he was fucking me from behind and that his balls were slapping against my thighs, nor that my full tits were flying around all over the place and my glasses had slipped down so I could hardly see. No, it was none of those facts that made this so different, so unusual and, I have to admit, so exciting.
Something else had crept into our relationship. Well, not relationship, we didn't really have one of those, simply our sex. And that something else was his aggression; he liked roughing me up as we had sex. I had heard from girlfriends about guys who enjoyed doing that but had not until him had I met any.
It was none of those facts that were giving me these amazing sensations.
It was the fact that he was squeezing my boobs far harder than they should be squeezed, that he was pinching and pulling my nipples far harder than they should be pinched and that he was yanking my hair far more aggressively than it should be yanked.
Yes, it was being dominated and controlled that was doing it. The power of force, the feeling of being abused and humiliated and being hurt that, to my abject amazement, were turning me on so much. But it was so unlike me. All my sexual history suggested that, if anything, I would be rather controlling, even maybe a bit of a domme, not a submissive, but here I was, going along with an older lover roughing me up and me getting something, though I wasn't sure what, from it.
That was the start, well pretty much, but thinking back, there had been a few occasions when other guys had pinched me rather hard, dug their nails into the soft flesh of my buttocks, smacked my bum, thighs or tits or sucked overly fiercely and rather painfully on my nipples and when I hadn't objected.
But it hadn't been like this when Mickey had first let me use the flat. Then it had been more straightforward; the occasional fuck instead of paying rent. However, over the months he wanted more, more oral with him cumming in my mouth and me swallowing - he never wore a condom and I was scared to tell him he had to. He demanded more anal play and more dirty talk. I was a little worried but thought to myself that if I went with older, middle-aged guys, that was the price I had to pay for their greater experience!
As I hadn't complained, presumably Mickey had thought I was giving him the green light, that I was into being roughed up a bit and was used to being humiliated and even hurt as part of a sexual relationship. I wasn't, but I had to admit that with him it did something for me. Something odd, something different and something that I sort of enjoyed. I couldn't put my finger on just what it was, but I found myself welcoming his more aggressive lovemaking and the trophy marks he left on me.
"You're enjoying this aren't you?" he'd growled one of the first times he'd got going by digging his nails into my breasts.
I didn't reply, but instead I'd writhed myself against his cock, which was buried deeply in me.
"Aren't you?" he'd repeated louder, giving a strong yank on my hair.
"Yes, sort of," I'd whimpered, the pain on my boobs and scalp getting to me.
"What the fuck's that mean, sort of?"
"I er, I um, I don't know Mickey," I whined, loving what his cock was doing to me, but wondering why I didn't object to his nails digging into my boobs and his hand pulling my hair, hurting me.
As the Thursday afternoons went on, he seemed to pull harder on my hair and dig deeper with his nails. It hurt, it was agony and painful, but it merged with the glorious sensations that his cock was creating deep inside me. I couldn't understand it. I didn't honestly know whether I was enjoying it or what I was feeling; all I knew was that I didn't want it to stop. And the orgasms he gave me were awesome. They were right up there with anything I had ever had before.
After the sex, we never talked about it. We didn't discuss what he had done to me, review our feelings or analyse what we had both got from his much harder than usual squeezing, pinching and pulling. We didn't talk about it, but, as with most emotional things, I thought about it, a lot.
Usually, I am able to work out why I do something, why I reacted and acted in a certain way. I can generally work out what it was that caused me to gain enjoyment or other sensations from most experiences, especially of a sexual nature. I had been able to do that and had come to terms with my reaction to what had gone on with my dad and him wanting to photograph me and, more significantly, me wanting him to do that and more. I had, after a great deal of thought, understood and had coped with the evident need I had, although it may have lain dormant for years, to exhibit myself to him. Similarly with James. I now looked forward to seeing him, although it was no more than monthly, and posing for him until we either masturbated ourselves or each other or we made love, often on his conservatory floor or on the green leather Chesterfield that he told me had been his parents'.
I had also come to terms with lying to him and not telling him how often I was in Leeds. And of course, I had come, or was coming, to terms with effectively whoring with Mickey. But then, I rationalised, needs must, and with no money coming in, no dad to bail me out and no work, I had to do something. That made me wonder how many other women were in such a position due to this fucking crazy, pathetically named credit crunch? Okay, the posing was now bringing in some money but the trophy marks, if indeed that's what they were, limited the frequency with which I could do that and thus the money that Max could pay me. That was becoming a hell of a fucking quandary and I was giving strong consideration to moving to Yorkshire to be away from Mickey and nearer to the studio. As I came back from doing what I had to do with Lee and what I had enjoyed doing with James, I kicked myself for not having brought it up with him, but I made a mental note to do that soon.
This sex, though, with Mickey was different. I had no idea why I enjoyed him becoming more aggressive with me and I had no one, not surprisingly, with whom I could discuss it, not even him. Our relationship wasn't like that, but then I don't think many are, most couples don't discuss their sex lives, especially if there's a deviant side to them. Until you have developed a long-lasting, very trusting, perhaps even loving relationship with someone, it's usually too difficult to discuss in detail your sexual wants and the reasons why you like certain aspects of sex. As the old saying goes, 'some things are best left unsaid!'
*
We'd had sex mid-afternoon. It had been quick and energetic.
Mickey had pressed me face first against the floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors that led out to the little south-facing balcony where I sunbathed topless and even naked a few times. I was just wearing a little black thong that I knew he liked and the cold glass on my breasts made for a strange sensation - strange but nice, and it reminded me of when James had done a similar thing to me in his conservatory, although there was no force with him as there was with Mickey.
The place Mickey let me live in was quite old, probably Edwardian, and had been refurbished into a very open plan apartment. Basically, it was one large room, about 45 by 30 feet with, as the architects love to call them, separate 'areas.' Dining one end, seating around a fire place the other. Two alcoves, one a kitchen 'area' and the other, the smaller one, the study 'area'. The mezzanine upstairs sleeping 'area' was about two thirds the area of the downstairs. Here there weren't 'areas', but rooms, the master bedroom and two more roughly the same size. There was a twelve stair open staircase linking the downstairs to the mezzanine, so the link from one to other was easy. After all that had gone on with the 'credit crunch' and dad's business I was so lucky to have such a place. Okay, there was a price to pay, but then we all pay rent one way or another. It's just that mine was paid monthly in or near to my bed. Well, it was monthly for the first six months, before my landlord had decided to change the payment frequency, so now it was every other week!
I hadn't yet plucked up the courage to tell Mickey that I was posing for photographers, but I'd opened up the subject of me moving. I'd said that an ad agency in Yorkshire had approached me and that I was considering moving up there. Also, I hinted that we'd have to end meeting for me to pay the rent, because I wouldn't owe him anything. That hadn't gone down too well and he'd mocked the idea of me moving up north with, "what the fuck do you want to move up there for? They all talk funny in Yorkshire." He'd said this in a weird and pretty poor imitation of a northern England accent.
*
"No Mickey, please don't," I groaned," as he sucked hard on my left boob.
"What do you mean don't, you love it," he said crushing me against him and grabbing hold of my bum.
"Let me go," I whined, struggling and half breaking away, but not before he reached out and got hold of my boob. I squirmed and broke the contact with my tit, but he grabbed the vest. "Stop it Mickey, this is crazy, you're acting like a lunatic."
"It's not crazy and don't call me a lunatic," he growled in a rather menacing tone.
