So I don’t know how it happened. It started out with me making this guy my bitch behind his wife’s back, throwing him down, dominating him, playing at this mock-rape thing… playing on his fetish for cross-dressing, buying him lingerie and then ripping the lacy black delicate things off his hard frame. Forcing apart his butt cheeks to get at his tight little pink man-cunt while he’d squirm under me. It was heaven.
He’d get all dressed up in his pretty things and tremble and whimper while I tore them off him, bite his nipples hard, force his head down onto my cock and make him choke on it. But then the shit hit the fan, and now the tables have turned.
It’s been about four months since his girlfriend bust in on us during his first foray into topping me and he hasn’t looked back. He’s an ass-raping face-fucking dominator and I am sore all over.
It’s just after midnight and he’s deep inside me. He’s got me hog-tied on my hands and knees in some complicated arrangement of ropes and knots that tightens a loop around my balls just a little tighter if I try to struggle. So I struggle a little. Just a little.
He’s half-crouched behind me, hands gripping my waist, pushing his long, fat cock deeper into me than a cock ever has been. I can feel his coarse red pubes scratching at my tender ass lips while he concentrates, working himself in deeper.
The day his wife busted in on us, my hands tied behind my back with his belt, ass in the air, we had crashed to the floor behind my apartment door with her close behind. The whole complex had witnessed us running across the lawn, buck naked, with her screaming after us. We lay on the floor busting our guts laughing. Now, months later, it was like nothing of that life had ever existed. I was his now. It was as if some kind of essential program had changed in his head. It had been different when he was in the closet, different when he had to hide himself and sneak around behind her back. Now, he made no effort to conceal the newfound power he had over me. I guess it’s what he’d always wanted, and I’m figuring out fast it’s what I want.
He’d not let my hands free from the belt he’d looped around them, that day, and had hoisted me to my feet by my bound hands. Pushing me forward to my room he’d shoved me face down on the bed and, hard-on raging, had taken me for round two. Using my assload of his cum as lube he plowed into me, fucking me hard and loud, like he was making a declaration to the neighbourhood. I was humiliated and more turned on than I had ever been. He made sure she could hear him and he never looked back.
It was my hands cinched behind my back that started it I think. He held my bound wrists in one hand, pressed the other against the back of my neck, and fucked me with the focussed purpose of an engineered machine.
The next day he brought home a length of nylon rope.
That night we sat in front of my computer and surfed bondage sites.
The week after that he bought a large leather duffel bag and started filling it with the things he had been collecting. Cord, rope, a pair of handcuffs, blindfolds, ankle cuffs, and a ball gag. He called it his kit.
We do all the regular stuff, slipping into a routine in those four months almost like it was a dream. He’d go to work… after he’d push my head down on him in the morning and feed me a thick helping of hot protein before jumping into the shower.
He’d call me during the day and growl at me about how he was gonna come home and split me open and how I had better be ready.
I’d get texts from him at the job site… pictures of his fat cock in his hands in the porta-john, lewd comments included.
About 4′Oclock I’d get out the douce and get in the shower. He expected me clean, naked, lubed and hungry when he walked through the door, and I would be, cold beer cracked in my had for him, dinner in the oven.
What the fuck.
He’d take me there in the front hall, ass or mouth, his choice. He’d get off and head for his after work shower. I’d follow, his cum running down my chin or the back of my thighs, undress him, get the water just like he likes it, and step in behind him. Fuck it was erotic. He’d stand in the hot stream like a prize stud horse and I would wash him. Service him. Scrubbing the soapy washcloth into his pits, under his balls, his hairy chest, I’d wash away the grime from the yard. He’d lift a foot and put it on the edge of the tub and I would get down between his ass cheeks with the cloth and stroke that beautiful pink hole, kissing his lower back. Of course his cock would be hard again, and sometimes I’d be a able to get another load out of him with my mouth, or hands, but usually he’d push me off and say “I’m hungry”.
It was after dinner, after I’d served him and cleaned up after him, done the dishes, when, if he was in the mood -and he was never not in the mood- that he would tell me to go to the bedroom, get out his kit, and wait for him. I’d look serious, and head for the bedroom – out of sight, my grin felt like it was gonna bust my face apart while I waited, naked, in the dark.
