Possession

Chapter One: Burning Winter of the Soul

* * * * *

A Cabin, Somewhere In Canada

We kissed. It was one of those intense, good-as-fucking kisses. Tongues thrusting, lips mashing, spit swapped, oxygen stolen, essence traded, guilt and reason pushed comfortably to the back of our minds. There's nothing more intimate and vague and spectacular than a kiss; after all, fucking is just procedural, but a kiss is universal. Everyone has their own damn take on a kiss and when two people's takes work well together, then... There's nothing better.

I could feel my skin dripping with heat. I could feel a certain breed of body-shattering orgasm brewing deep within me, just waiting for more visceral provocation. I could feel ecstasy—that glorious, ultimate state of being—with in reach. So I kept on kissing him, even though the back of my head kept filling ever more with guilt, reason, logic, sanity, society, morality, God, and...

"Stop," I sloppily murmured and breathed out of the corner of my lips, desperately trying to pull away from the vacuum of our mouths. His tongue stopped its seductive and eager probe of mine.

"What?" he muttered. Our faces remained touching as we sighed out this interregnum, taking the opportunity to soak in some terribly needed air.

"This is... Wrong."

"Wrong as hell."

"And not in the good way."

"Wrong is always good," he responded breathlessly, using all his facial muscles to keep his lips from lunging to mine.

I could feel the moistness of his breath hanging in the air—the room still cold from the winter draft, but the air around our skin burning like the sun. I wanted nothing more than to keep on kissing, and kiss till morning came, and then under the new sun explore everything else a man and woman could do to each other...

"Wrong always feels good, but... Fuck. What are we doing? Do you have any idea, or... Fuck, is this just some out of context way to cum for you? Is that what I am tonight?" My mind raced and paced and pounded in sync with my heart. "Fuck." I was at an absolute loss for words. Coherency always abandoned me in my most passionate moments.

"Right now, right here," he breathed, his lips curling against my cheek, pressing gently but boldly. "You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, and to top it off, a damn fine conquest too... So yeah, I guess that's..." He paused, and we met eyes briefly before averting away with shame. "I guess that's out of context, yeah. And what the hell does it matter in context? We've started anyways, the damage is done, and if we don't go through with it, even more damage will be done because then we'll always wonder what would have happened if we went through with it and... Fuck, I'm too horny to argue this."

He grabbed my breasts with a forceful pawing, gripping onto the flesh and radiating the human touch through my thick sweater. I tingled... I burned, my skin burned... It was like a jab to the chest of pure physical bliss, of that sparkling, undiluted, animalistic, psychological pleasure that just cut straight through my heart and ran chills down my spine. 'A man's hands on my breasts,' I thought. That was all I could think. No narration, no prose could do it any better... A man's hands were on my breasts, and they were squeezing with a sense of entitlement. And it felt good, the way he so hungrily possessed my chest with his strong, masculine, dominant hands.

Before I could even register those hands on me, we were back in that orgasmic make-out fest. Tongues doing a tango, doing a duel. "Mmmmph..." I murmured with as much protest as I could manage. I knew that when my protesting was erotic moaning, I was doomed to a fate I wanted more than I didn't want.

And so his tongue stroked my mouth, and so we tasted each other till we became one taste, and so he held onto my breasts like they were his to own. And those primal, nasty feelings of overwhelming lust returned again.

Neuroses be damned, I thought. Societal ideals be damned, I thought. Biology be damned, I thought. Lesbianism and feminism be damned, I thought, and then stopped.

I pulled away, cold. He could see my thought processes through my eyes. He stopped out of respect, drifting his hands off my breasts.

Lesbianism. Since I was 13, I was a lesbian. Lost my virginity to another woman. Loved women. Had pictures of beautiful women up on my walls. Kissed women. Danced with women. Fucked with women. Had intense relationships with women. Loved women. Loved pissing off my parents.

Feminism. My state of being a woman, being equal in society. And him—his kiss, his touch, making me feel so submissive. I'd do anything for him and he'd make me do it. I'd drop out of school. I'd cook for him. I'd clean, scrubbing on my hands and knees for him. I'd get knocked up for him—and that's a thought that bitch-slapped me to a very cold and frightening core.

We met eyes again, this time with no shame, and all the shame in the world.

The first man I've ever kissed. The first man to touch my body. And he did it better than any woman ever had in my nine years of dykedom. One touch and I was out—I couldn't even think of woman in that way, ever again. He turned me straight. His touch turned me straight. And I hated him for that just like I hated him for a lot of things. I hated that when I came out, he instructed me that it was just a phase, and here, all years later, father knows best.

Father.

Dad.

"Daddy."

My voice quivered with all the vulnerability in the world.

"What baby doll?" he muttered, with all the masked impatience in the world.

"I don't know if I can do this."

"Then get off this couch and leave the room," he said coldly, forcefully. "Because I know what I can and can't do. And I can do this. And I won't have you being a cock-tease, Connie. Let's get this straight. I've worked damn hard this weekend to get you here, to get you to this moment. You're not my great love. You're a conquest. I've always wanted to convert a lesbian, and my cock told me this weekend you were the best chance I had. And it was so easy. You start off my feisty and defiant and end up cock-hungry like the rest of them. And make no mistake. Once I have you—assuming I don't already—I'll treat you as one of my best girls. Clothes, an apartment, anything you want. But rest assured... I fuck you, I own you. There's no co-dependence in our relationship from this night on. You surrender your body and soul to me in a contract."

It's amazing he knew every word to cut into my female rebellious psyche and appeal to its most dark, repressed desires. It was horrifying to realize at long last I had those desires.

I hesitated with gobsmacked eyes and a quivering lip.

Decision came in one of those instants where the whole world instantly changed around me. Black became white; night became day; strong became weak. And my body weakly but decisively fell towards him.

It all went so fast. My thick sweater being torn. My ample chest being revealed. My jeans sliding off me so easily. Our naked flesh pressed together, sealed together, sweat and skin and sensation locking us in. My breasts against his chest. His hands grabbing onto my firm ass. My hands swaying across his back holding on for dear life in preparation. Those messy, intense, bursting, boiling kisses. The site of that eight and a half inches, that rock hard, solid, thick, towering, God of a member.

He entered me. I gasped. He thrust. I moaned. He reached his end point and held. I screamed. I clawed. I cried. I came, I came, I came. I was a flower torn open into full bloom. It was bliss. It was ecstasy. It was the way it was meant to be.

To Be Continued...