by Hew Wolff
(01/19/11)

Are you the kind of person who likes to skip to the end? Let me save you the trouble. He put me face down and teased my cunt brutally, then he fucked me in the ass, and I came a few times. That's it. It was the way he did it, my old lover, that I could never understand. I start by recalling the details that still heat me up years later. Perhaps a particular stifled moan or a casual affectionate shove. But the details are not enough, they are not what really mattered, They are only little things that lead into the main question. Always my mind wanders back to the mystery of how this happened to me.

To begin, he came on my face. His wide, soft hand closed my eyes and flattened on my mouth, and I knew that he wanted me not to look or to speak. It's not that he didn't like to be admired. Later he would watch my pupils widen at his approach, and hear me giggle and yell again, plenty of times. This time he wanted to see me shiver as I felt the impact without crying out. It is intoxicating to have someone so focused on you. A good man with a good job. I had him, I thought, right where I wanted him.

He laid me down on the bed on my back and began grunting. He was allowed to make noises. He was probably imagining what he would do to me later, as I tried not to. I listened to the quick slither of his cock (it was an unusual bright red color), a foot or two from my head, full of force and purpose. I tensed, just in time as it turned out, and was bathed in his spray, which was only a modest amount, but hot. Immediately I felt it start to cool on my cheek, and I understood that it would not only mark me but also keep my eyes shut.

Inside, I rebelled at this treatment and decided to spite him by thinking of whatever I wanted. As my body remained pliant and aroused, I thought about the afternoon sunlight on the dirty dishes in the sink and what a creep he could be sometimes. I even had a little time to plan the presentation I would make to the publishing committee on Tuesday.

He turned me over and lifted my ass high in the air. He adjusted me as he knew I would be comfortable. I would be there for some time. I felt the hint of an affectionate pat on my left hip. He would pride himself on leaving no marks on my skin. The sheet pressing into my face would become sticky and warm, and I would breathe through my nose. There were no restraints except for my utter fucking obedience. My shame kept me warm.

He spread my other lips carefully. He told me once that while my ass was tight and smooth and built for fucking, my wide-open cunt was made for torment. I heard him set down his box of little metal clips. The first one fastened slowly onto my fat, swollen inner lip like a little black bug with gentle persistent jaws. I writhed and swayed, but I knew I did not dare to flinch. I listened to myself whimpering and felt myself gathering moisture, slowly and inevitably, down toward my center.

He spat on my anus, and I jumped.

He took off the clip, and the blood surged back in, making me yell for the first time, through my teeth, pressing my mouth into the mattress. He moved it to a new place. I heard two motorists arguing on the street below, but couldn't make out what they were saying.

He spat on me again, until his spit started trickling down my back. I felt him suspend himself awkwardly above me and then his cock was nudging saliva into my ass, just a little way. His breath was hard and controlled. He moved away, and I heard him step into the next room. He was not in a hurry. I knew he was showing me what to expect, and wanted me to imagine it for a while. As if a drooling receptacle like me had an imagination.

Desperately I thought of something else. Something far away...when my family stayed in a house in Aix-en-Provence one summer, I remembered, I was fascinated by the wooden honey dripper and how its crevices held the honey inside. I could turn it around and hold the honey up in the air for as long as I wanted to. When I stopped twirling, it would begin to sink toward the ground again. Then I would start turning it again. I did this all through the meal. My brothers made fun of me, but I didn't care. I wrote about it in my journal, the first of many journals. I was fascinated by the way the sweetness could hold itself in the air and then fall, or maybe it was always falling. All this was accomplished, somehow, by blades of wood close together. And what about the honey in the deepest cracks, which never seemed to move no matter how long I waited? Would it stay there forever, or creep out gradually over the years? Did it want to come out, or prefer to stay hidden? My parents indulged me in these questions, but couldn't answer them. How was it possible that we did not understand something that was right in front of us every day? My playmate from across the street, a handsome boy slightly older than me, looked at me strangely once, and I stopped talking about the honey.

Then he was back. More clips went on, one by one, squeezing me more. The black bugs marched slowly down toward my clit. I didn't know if I could stand one there (as it happened, I never found out). My lips were sweaty and trembling, terribly charged with blood. I found a moment to wonder if, with all our expertise, his and mine, we might push me too far. Could I be driven to insanity this way?

Sometimes I would secretly open my mouth to pant or grimace for a moment. I was cheating. Probably he knew I was doing it and liked knowing, as I also knew, that it would not help, but that I could not keep from doing it. There was no trick for bearing it, not for the moderate pain or the swelling sensation of warmth that filled and erased me.

It's important not to wait too long, he told me once. The experience must be stretched out by making the victim wait, but not all day so that it becomes diluted by outside discomforts like hunger or cramps. When I tried acting as the master, I found this was true, there was an art to it.

With more spit and more nudging, the head of his cock was inside me, but only for a moment.

He took hold of all the clips on one side, the left side, and gently pulled to see how far my lip would stretch. It stretched quite a lot. I made the noises of an angry cat. Then he began stroking me with his other hand, very gently, all the way down and around the clit. He was experimenting, finding his way. And of course the pain led into this enormous warmth, this consuming sweetness. It was the only way in. I think I made a lot more noise, which must have pleased him greatly. I can imagine his wide eyes and wondering grin.

I dissolved in stupid metaphors of oceans and fire.

Finally his cock was inside me all the way and he gave himself up to fucking. I could feel now that the best was over, but was savagely determined to squeeze out everything I could. I gripped his cock with my muscles, trying to surprise him, but he wanted to fuck and not to come until I was flattened and exhausted. And so he did. We collapsed together and rolled around kissing and laughing, filthy and sticky, our bodies and sheets stained with everything we'd done. Even my tears were sticky. My throat was dry.

He hardly spoke, this time. I remember him saying once, "Higher." Only now I realize he was not intellectual enough for me (my friends were right).

So yes, I came when he did it. I am still coming now, after all this time. And every time I realize that it does not matter how he did it or how it happened, all that matters is the sweetness. It is a simple thing to realize, after all, but I must come back again and again, back to the well, just to remember this.

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