I was going to wait until I had sorted out my emotions about this story before I wrote it, but then I remembered I have felt this way before. When I wrote Consensual Nonconsent, I had to write it for myself. I did not know how I felt about that event until I had written it out, and when I was done I felt purged. I have to get this one out, too. The flavors of some of these feelings are not pleasant.
I have no idea where this story will end up. I am just along for the ride. I apologize to any readers, but first I think I’m going to ramble.
I remember losing my virginity. Every virginity. Every First. Each thing I have done for the first time or had done to me has a story. The perfect person, the perfect setting, the perfect feel. Yes, surprise! I am a romantic about some things. I treasure those memories.
Now one of my Firsts has been stolen from me. I am still stunned. Some of those flavors I spoke of taste like anger, hate, grief, exposure, shame, humiliation, violation, rape, defeat.
I must stop at this point to remind myself that nothing was done to me without consent. I willingly and very happily put myself in that situation. Objectification and Humiliation was the theme of the past few weeks, and I was enjoying the hell out of it! Now back to the rambling.
So there I was at this gangbang… (LOL! Now it’s bound to get interesting.) Actually it was my second gangbang/Bukkake party of the day. It was also my first day officially serving as Sir’s property. Pet was with us. I loved every minute of it, and was completely lost in sheer pleasure and bliss.
Any further parts of this story are more my impressions than a factual retelling. After that many hours of endless cock, orgasms, submission, and pain my mental faculties were impaired. Some things I do remember though. That’s why I am writing this. It isn’t about the facts, it’s about the feelings.
The second party had started, pet and I had already been busy entertaining the men (or entertaining ourselves with them) when another man arrived. Normally that would not even be noted in my mind, it happened often at these parties. This man however was loud, annoying, and apparently known. I ignored him and happily continued my task, which was to suck every cock in the room. He kept talking, though, and I remember him asking in a voice likely intended to get the attention of every person in the room if it was all right to make the sluts squirt on the conference room floor. Yeah. Good luck with that, dude.
He then sat apart from the other men seated in chairs. They all faced him, as if he were king. What an arrogant ass! I ignored him. Wait, I thought I already was ignoring him. I could hear pet being fucked hard, and she was enjoying it. Good for her! I finished sucking the men seated on the short wall on one side of the room, and turned toward the long wall, the one with only one chair. His seat was empty. Good. I moved on to the other short wall and the first man seated there.
With yet another cock down my throat, I heard him start to complain loudly that he had been skipped. Tough shit, I thought. The party planner was teasingly telling him the same thing, old friends joking. I finished introducing myself to the man I was on and started to move on to the next.
Sir stopped me. I looked at Him, pleading. I sighed, turned back toward the long wall, and crawled up to this man that I already did not like. I opened my mouth and began sucking him. This is when things began to get fragmented in my telling of this tale. There are very strong, vivid impressions but only shards of memories.
This guy played rough. Hair pulling. Face fucking. Thrown down. Pulled, dragged, lifted, tossed about like a rag doll. Pounded hard and fast. Used. There may have been words. There may have been pain. Seconds, minutes, hours? Screaming. Cuming. Turned. Fingers…
Ha! You can make me cum all you want, dude. I don’t squirt!
Apparently it’s time to ramble again. I have been close to squirting several times. Each time it would have been perfect, the right person, and the right moment. And each time just the mere thought that I might squirt would pull me back enough from my ‘letting go’ to prevent it. It was never my major focus. It would happen sooner or later, and be amazing. I would add it to my cherished memories. Now back to the story.
There was no way on Earth this guy was going to make me squirt. Like any stranger could walk in off the street, shove his fingers in my cunt, and make me. Ha again! Not. Gonna. Happen. Arrogant ass or not, I was going to let him make me cum again. So I relaxed, but only for a moment.
His fingers were not moving sensually, sexually. They knew exactly what they were doing, and they were doing it precisely, forcefully, almost violently. My body tensed and began to fight him. He pinned me and continued. Did I still struggle, I wonder. My mind fought him. No! You will not make me squirt!
A few more movements of his fingers and I came unwillingly, squirting. He had taken it from me, ripped it out of my body, and I doubt it took him more than a minute. It wasn’t special. It wasn’t about me. It was just a trick he used to impress the guys.
He left me curled up, unable to move and went to go collect his high-fives or whatever from the audience. Oh, yes, the audience. I had forgotten about the others there. I had forgotten everything. Apparently there was some question about if I really did squirt, or perhaps it was more friendly joking. My body was moved and rolled around to verify I had indeed. He was two for two that day. Pet had been manhandled first. He got his praise. I lay there.
The submissive in me brought me back. I brushed it off. There were still more cocks. I wasn’t done. My task, the party, evening, and weekend continued. Much fun was had by all including a few more firsts that were perfect.
So now the story is written. I have brought it out to examine. It will tell me what it wants. Those nasty tastes of emotions linger. The mark is still there for now. It may be for a while.