F.U.C.K.

Part 5 | Fantasies

I knelt for my lunch, sweat dripping into my eyes, his cock hovering so close to my mouth, awaiting the chance to flick my tongue out and taste it.

“You may begin, cunt,” he said, and I felt as much as heard him lean back, the bottle of beer at his lips while my tongue snaked out and slid along the silky smooth skin of the gorgeous boy’s dick. I wasn’t sure if it was the saltiness of my own sweat or his that I tasted, but I lapped it up, sliding my tongue up and down his perfect shaft, my eyes riveted on his. He watched and sipped. I knelt and licked, exactly what a dumb cunt would do. Do as she’s told while the rest of the world went on without her.

And what did I care? I was on sabbatical. I was away for the summer on a retreat. I was off researching my next book. It’s what I’d told my ex when he’d asked why I would be out of town. Get the mail, I’d told him. Look after the plants. He’d leave well enough alone otherwise, but we had an understanding after our mutual break-up. I just needed to put my world on cruise control for a bit. I needed a break.

I’d given the power of attorney to someone else — someone he didn’t need to know about. The person who’d opened my eyes to something new. And I trusted her. She’d said this would be a summer that changed my life, and I was beyond being inclined to agree after just a few days.

I needed his cock buried in my pussy, my ass, my throat. Needed it like nothing I’d ever needed before.

Here I was, my life on pause, my body given away to a stranger — a beautiful, tender, and yet dominant stranger who’d stripped me of everything that I’d seen of myself in the mirror in just — I didn’t know how many days. It was everything I’d dreamed of, fantasized about, masturbated to. Was it even possible? And yet, here I was, naked and kneeling in the hot sun, cool breeze blowing across my nipples, rivulets of sweat dripping down my nose as I looked up and adored the young man whose perfect cock was the only thing that mattered in my world.

He’d fed me by hand after I’d finished the last rose bed. Juicy figs that dripped down my chin and onto my tits, blueberries from the side yard, a few bites of chicken from his salad, and a long, needy suck on the water bottle, which made me moan. I sucked on the bottle like I wanted to suck on his cock, downing every drop like I was told, and then I leaned back, offering him my tits and the juices from the figs. He wasted no time pulling me close, his mouth dancing around my nipples, lapping up the sweet juice and making my bells jingle. And then his tongue was on my throat, my chin and in my mouth. I whimpered when he kissed me, not so much from wanting his fingers to find my clit again but more from wishing I could wrap my arms around him and pull him in, press up against him, let him feel a taste of what I was feeling.

I’d written about those moments, moments that I thought would never come. Long, winding, horny, needy poems of submission and surrender, my fingers trembling over the keyboard while my heart raced and my clit fought for attention. Don’t write, she whispered. Touch me, she begged. Line after line, I let the words flow until my clit won me over. And then I was writhing on the bed again in a long desperate edge, until right there, on the brink of orgasm, I fought for my fingers to find the keyboard again. Don’t cum. Just write. Don’t cum and the words will flow. And flow they did, deep into weekend nights. A bottle of wine, music playing in the background somewhere, and me naked in the darkness with my laptop full of desperation, my clit aching for attention and my orgasms for release.

And then orgasms for days. And then more writing and denial, and on and on and on.

He would come and take it all away from me — the bed, the soft clothes, the luxury of time, decisions, choice. Fingers fluttered over my clit, my pussy empty and begging for his cock, and finally denying myself that release, my fantasy taking away my orgasms with a single, powerful glance, a simple shake of his head. The laptop would fall asleep long before I did — its mission fulfilled, its pages full of my fantasies while I lay on my side in the darkness, grinding my legs together in some futile attempt to find purchase and relief for my throbbing pussy.

And then I would start writing again.

Owned, a poem I wrote. It was a thousand words long before I allowed myself to cum. My first ode to my fantasy master. My challenge to myself. How could I surrender to someone who wasn’t there? My second poem, a ballad dedicated to my denied orgasm, took weeks to write. Then, I was reading short fantasy stories of being kidnapped, of forced slavery, of being a ponygirl on an erotica website I discovered. And then it was only a matter of time before my writing and my exploration delivered me naked and quivering, one late night in bed with my laptop, a nice cab sav and a pussy denied of an orgasm for three weeks, to F.U.C.K.com and the opportunity to lose myself in my own desperation.

The memories of that night played across my mind as I slowly, deliberately worshiped his cock with my tongue, rubbing my face against it between licks. I wanted to feel it everywhere. I wanted to show him how much I adored it, and I hoped beyond hope to make him cum somehow just from my pure, unadulterated devotion, to feel his hot cum on my cheeks, across my lips, dripping from the crown of my skull. I wanted it, in that moment, more than anything, my own cunt completely forgotten.

It was exactly what I’d written in my application to F.U.C.K. They demanded an essay, and I wrote them a novella of submission. Was it a real site? How could it be? But I’d been writing my own love letters to a fictional dominant for months, doing everything to my body to hone that need and refine it into a burning fire up to that point. My orgasms were there for the taking any time, and in the past, I’d taken them all, but I came so rarely by the time I found F.U.C.K., that I begged the acceptance board to take them all away. I underscored my readiness with every paragraph, going into great detail about my own exploitation of my body and how I kept myself on edge day and night. Clamps on my nipples when home, sometimes spending the entire night writing with a clothespin on my clit, the plugs I seated in my ass and wore to class day in and day out. Every day I came home, stripped naked and knelt in the front hall until my watch timer went off, only then releasing myself to put everything away, clean up around the house, cook - always naked and available.

My persuasion had become an obsession, I knew, but it was what I wanted, and my body was my own. My ex-husband was only in my life as a colleague, and there were no children or pets. There was Amy, who came by to hang out with me now and again though. It was her salacious thoughts about power play and BDSM whispered over beers down the street or a bottle of wine on my couch while we watched some horrific romcom that got things going. Or maybe it was how she’d held me down once, and…

Telling her about my summer would become a weeks-long event, I was sure. And maybe she would hold me down again, I thought, and punish me the way she had that night.

His cock was in my mouth before I realized it. Lost somewhere in the fog of my fantasy and cock worship, I blinked as he filled me, pushing to the back of my throat with one smooth stroke. I gagged, shifted my knees to be taller and leaned into him, taking him more easily, more deeply until the choking I felt aligned with the pleasures I’d written countless words about. His hands wrapped around my head, holding me still, and I closed my eyes and opened myself to him, letting him slowly fuck my face. His grunts, the way his body swayed, shivered, shifted was his own sonnet back to me, stanza after stanza. I mouthed his words to me and swallowed every syllable.

Then, no more words in my head as he grunted and filled my mouth with cum. I didn’t need the fantasies anymore. I’d become the fantasies.

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Author’s Notes: Why not make her a writer, too? A teacher. A writer. Someone who works with and is inspired — and turned on by — words is exactly the kind of person who would end up in their own fantasies like this. Writers who drop the words don’t do so because it makes you hot, dear reader — okay, we do; but we write these words because they make us hot.

Imagine her sitting home late at night. She’s reading a tale that excites her, but she wants it to be her tale. She wants to tell it because she wants to star in it. So, she writes. And like all good writers, she puts a little of her soul in there — the parts where she can really feel it, where it sings back to her, are the parts where a sliver of her soul is embedded. And that’s when she knows she’s hooked. She written herself into her own fantasy, and it sings back to her its own erotic lyrics.

And what will happen when the summer is over? Oh, just you wait. We’ve got a long way to go til we get to the fall, but once we do, oh my, it’s going to be something.