Moby — Feeling So Real (1994)
My anal ring slowly succumbed to the pressure as a cold adrenaline rush shot to my head.
He grunted when he came in my ass. It wasn’t a refreshing sound either, like the kind you idealize when reading erotica. It was heavy, hard, and labored, as if he had a heart attack. He fucked me on my back, with my ass hanging off the edge of the sling. He told me to wrap my thin, muscular, and brown legs around his similarly small, and comparatively not so well-toned waist. My ankles dug into his back, while my thighs melted into his doughy, yet bony frame. His cock was pale white and unnaturally thick to be attached to his six-foot-tall and 160-pound frame. Shaped like a bell-clapper, his cock was thin and easy to take in my ass. At the point of orgasm, it turned a particularly intriguing shade of dark lavender, and then he grunted.
Shane was his name. Mistress commanded him to fuck me after I deep-throated his dick to the point of gagging, spitting, and having tears well in my eyes and fall slick against my face. He then put his dick, unprotected, in my ass. As my first whimpers of discomfort melted away, I locked hands with him, and then exhaled my breath into the slut that lives in my soul, birthing her into the reality of this hyper-intense fuck fest.
I’d never felt more seen for who I was, given what I needed and being accepted for what I wanted in my entire life. It felt so real. When I heard his grunt and felt his cum, piping hot, leaking out my anus and splattering in slow drips on the dungeon floor, I felt not just real. I felt a little bit less like myself, and a whole lot more like Mistress’ whore.
Shane had a shaggy, white-blonde, Owen Wilson-style surfer haircut, chestnut brown eyes, a sharp nose that looks like it was stolen from Michelangelo’s David, and a thin-lipped smile that hides a chip in his left front tooth and a crooked bottom row. “I’m not gay,” he whispered to me as his arrhythmic pounding introduced unknown shock waves to my spinal column. He was the rugged type and from my limited vantage point, was wearing a vintage country music concert t-shirt and stonewashed jeans around his ankles.
I wasn’t sure if he was lying to me, but if he were gay, I’d hope he’d be the kind of gay whose fingertips, nail beds, and fingernails wouldn’t look like he’d dipped his hand in soot and roughly wiped them off before defiling me. He wasn’t. He also smelled like he’d sprayed himself with dollar-store Axe body spray to hide his lightly sweaty and musty scent, too. No, he’s not gay. This man was a straight man who had just dutifully, for Mistress, fucked my ass so well that I was weeping so hard that my chest was heaving, and I was on the edge of orgasm.
This whole scenario was all Mistress’ fault. She’d hypnotically steeled my will and softened my mind long before we’d even met. Mistress is the fetish pin-up Chola of my dreams with a dash of Eric Stanton art tossed in to put me over the edge. If someone were able to be mentally everything simultaneously and physically nothing to you — but still fill your senses and body with emotions that exploded in thick, milky heat that you immediately swallowed upon video command — that’d be Her relationship to me.
I’d spend hours upon hours feverishly masturbating with my eyes closed and just the sound of her clips playing as the moving images were as much a part of my psyche as my heart was to my soul or my skin was to my bones. I’d open my eyes at an exact moment, and there were twin, nippled mounds of cafe con leche skin, exquisitely-manicured and dagger-like nails, dark, piercing eyes, and lusciously plump lips interlocked with mine. Running the ridge of the crease where my left thumb bends over the tip of my cock while staring into Mistresses’ eyes never failed me. I’d close my eyes again and immediately feel my cum dripping down the palm and back of my hand. Opening my mouth, I’d always try to look like I was luxuriating in the slow drips of cum leaking down my throat. Then, my greed for the taste, and need to please Mistress — because She’s there, in my mind, staring at me impatiently while sitting behind my eyes, and I know She wants me to practically fist-fuck my mouth with my jizz-soaked hand, savoring every bit of my flavor and essence.
I told Mistress this, and she teased me with the hope of it happening. We’d been in session, and I had been kneeling in front of Mistress, naked and trembling in excitement after having my slender ass heavy flogged and paddle-beaten to the point that my overheated skin was noticeably welting. Mistress had promised that I was to be fucked. She was dressed in bubble-gum pink, stiletto-heeled, and clear-topped stripper heels, and had on a matching bubble-gum pink string bikini. I felt overwhelmed, and in over my head at the first second the session began. With every advancing minute, I accepted whatever punishment she doled out to my willing body.
My cock, erect, stands at nine inches. I used to be proud of this fact. Now, I only know this to be just more square footage upon which for Mistress to attach clothespins to my penis. I’d never felt more humiliated, yet still aroused, than to have Mistress explain to me that given how much I was hurting from having the pins slowly, quickly, then slowly again pulled from my erect cock, that I was more sissy than man. My mind as a pool, and Mistress’ energy was like an ocean, enveloping it entirely.
“You’re going to get fucked. But, I really want to see how much of a sissy you are? How much of a sissy can you be for your Mistress, huh?”
Again, I’d never felt more seen for who I was, given what I needed and being accepted for what I wanted in my entire life. It felt so real.
After Shane’s cock had assaulted my tonsils, I carefully got into the leather sling and felt my cuffed legs being lifted, then locked into each side.
“You’re definitely a sissy,” Mistress said. “I told you this, and now, I’m going to cum hard enough for both of us while I watch Shane fuck you. I saw that fear in your eyes when you saw his cock. I saw how you looked away. I also know how much you needed and wanted me to hold you, by the back of your head, and command you to suck his dick. Now, he’s going to fuck you, and you, you’re going to love every second of it, aren’t you, slut?”
My anal ring slowly succumbed to the pressure as a cold adrenaline rush shot to my head.
I closed my eyes. It felt so real.
