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Welcome to the Crescent City in May. New Orleans has a mean elevation of 5 feet above sea level. It is 181 square miles. It is populated by Jews, niggers, hipsters, freaks and do-gooders. Most of the rest of the space is taken up by my big fat ass and bad attitude.
I’m still at work, but the day is winding down. The office is quiet. It’s 5:30pm. Striped sunlight is filtering through the dusty venetian blinds. Fans are quietly whirring, because the company’s too cheap to give us central air.
The boss Mr Wheatley is ambling to and fro, between his office and the photocopier. He must be over seventy. I’m wearing a short sleeved black cardigan. I seldom have completely bare arms, even on the warmest days. I don’t want anyone to see the network of fine scars over my upper arms and shoulders. I am wearing a black and white print tulip skirt, and black knee-high boots. It’s too warm for stockings, but I have little white cotton socks under my boots, to keep my feet from chafing or sweating too bad. My fine light-brown shoulder-length hair is brushed straight, neat and shiny, with bangs cut straight across, just above my thick eyebrows. My fingernails have a reverse French manicure, with a semi-transparent gloss white on the inside part, and black on the tips. I’m wearing a silver charm bracelet on my left wrist. The charms are a lion, a crucifix, a skull, a heart and a unicorn.
I need to visit the bathroom before I go home. I wheel my chair back, get up, and saunter slowly to the corridor.
Welcome to America’s naughtiest city. In the past 12 months I’ve been fucked in the ass more than 400 times.
Not 400 different men. Not even two different men. Just John. He and I have been together just over a year, and in that time we’ve fucked every day, sometimes 2 or 3 times a day. We both love anal sex, and that’s all we do. He’s never fucked my pussy. He won’t even touch it, which is fine by me.
John fucks my ass whenever he likes, and takes me unawares when I’m asleep at night, in the shower, when I’m cooking. He grabs me from behind, I feel his need, I succumb. I have never said no, even when I was desperate to take a shit. My ass is much more important than my face which he hardly looks at, preferring to mount me from behind like a dog. Which is also fine by me.
No one’s looking at me right now as I walk to the bathroom. I am not totally unpretty, I suppose, but most of my co-workers are fifty plus. Besides, I walk like a slump-shouldered duck.
Mrs McGinty, the janitor, has already arrived and is emptying waste-paper baskets. I say hello. Mrs McGinty is all right. She looks ageless. She’s probably about fifty-four years old, 5 foot one, with a gigantic rack and an ass even fatter than mine. Her hair is that buttery blond colour which can’t be for real. She’s got a big, sweet, homely, raw, red-cheeked face.
She’s got a salty tongue. She’s been widowed a long time. She says ‘I thought marriage was going to be a fulfilling experience. Well, not with McGinty. I was seldom filled, and never full.’ I’ve heard her say that lots of times. Almost everyone else has left the office. I enter the ladies bathroom, and lock myself in my favourite cubicle. I lift my skirt to my waist, revealing my panties. They are transparent black stocking mesh, with black lace wavy edging like the outline of a postage stamp. They are cut like boy shorts. If your bottom is as big as mine you’ll always have a fat lemon slice of plump flesh sticking out on each side, no matter what kind of underwear you choose.
The panties are crotchless, split from waistband in front to waistband in back, exposing everything: the deep cleavage of my ass, my vagina and my full hairy bush. They came with pink ribbons which could be used to tie up the panties and close them at front and back. John snipped those out carefully with scissors. He buys all my underwear now.
I can’t sit down yet . I reach behind me and ease out my buttplug. It’s stainless steel, three inches long, one and quarter inches in diameter at its widest point, three-eights of an inch at the neck. It weighs 8 ounces. It has an unfolding rose at the exposed end. I wear the plug all day when I am at work. This was another gift from John. And a gift from me to him.
I sit down. The jewellery hanging from my navel piercing touches the top of my pubic jungle. Apart from my ears, It’s the first piercing I have dared to have. I have more charms hanging here. There is a Prussian iron cross, and a little silver swastika.
My anus is tender but not painful. I don’t think it’s grown any looser from its extensive usage. But the ring of muscle has become more developed, thicker, in a constant state of readiness.
Any girl experienced in receiving her gentleman callers at the back door knows that there are certain side-effects. I bite my fist when I hear a woman in a neighbouring stall, farting and exploding uncontrollably as she tries to retain control of her bowels and her dignity. I know she’s probably been buggered vigorously that morning, or the night before, and her guts are temporarily gaziantep escort bayan a little disturbed. I’ll leave it to scientists to decide whether it’s the act of being thrust into, or opened up, or the resultant flood of semen, that does it, but you do sometimes feel like you’ll shit yourself a bit afterwards. No woman worth her salt would let that stop her indulging in the most exquisite act of sexual intimacy there is.
On this occasion I am alone in the ladies’ bathroom. When I am finished, I arrange all my clothing as well as possible, look in the mirror on the way out. Wet my finger, comb down an eyebrow.
In the offices, most of the strip lights are switched off, but thin shards are still dimly breaking through the venetian blinds.
The door to Mr Wheatley’s office is wide open. He and Mrs McGinty are standing together in the middle of the room. One strap of her pink wifebeater is down, the lacy bra uncupped. He is bent over, sucking on her titty, while she holds his head. The wattles in her neck are wobbling. She murmurs soothingly to him. Her titty looks like a flag, big and flat and white. It has a huge purple centre, standing up like a thumb.
After a minute, he takes her by the hips and turns her round, unbuckling the belt of her stonewashed jeans, and stripping them quite roughly to her knees. She has big black satin panties on, stretched over her hindquarters. He yanks them to her thighs. Her ass is huge, red and spotty. Even mine looks dainty by comparison. She’s got some cellulite, but it’s still a pretty good ass for an older lady. He kneels down behind her, his knees moving uncomfortably on the cheap office carpeting. She leans over the desk offering up her rear end.
He spreads her ass, like pulling on heavy curtains. He peers into the deep crack for a moment. From where I stand I can clearly see it’s rimmed with thick dark brown hair. It’s nasty looking. He buries his face between the cheeks. I am not even sure what he’s doing. Her ass just sucks him up. But she starts making little moans and then articulating in her thick Irish brogue. ‘Eat that ass! Eat that ass, lover.’ It becomes a mantra. She won’t shut up.
I can see the back of his head moving in and out, and around. He looks like he’s massaging her anus with his nose. I’m standing just by the door to the next-door office, I’m barely out of sight, if they turned round they’d see me half-peering into the room, my mouth slightly open like an idiot girl. I can’t move. I am mesmerized.
After a few minutes of analingus, Mr Wheatley stands up. He rubs his face with the palm of his hand. He plucks at the crotch of his pants, opening them up. He rummages around and pulls out his cock. It’s angry-looking. It’s long and thin and red like a turkey’s neck. It sticks straight out, fully erect. Mrs McGinty is still bent over the table. He spits on the head of his penis, uses a finger and thumb to guide his penis home.
‘Ooooooh,’ she breathes, her voice thick. ‘That’s the stuff.’
He’s bent at the knees, starting to thrust in at her. His pants are round his knees and his legs are thin and white and mostly hairless.
He’s pounding. She sucks in a breath with a satisfied-sounding phlegmy click. ‘Fuck that ass. Old McGinty never gave it me. Thattaboy! Fuck that ass, lover, fuck that ass!’
He’s thrusting gamely. He’s making little raspy panting sounds. His brow is furrowed. I get the feeling he is having trouble climaxing. I get the mad idea of helping. I could make the old boy bust his nut. I wanted to walk boldly into his office and go to work on his prostate. I’d use both hands. A moistened and artfully crooked left index finger up his anus, and my right index finger snugly pressing behind the balls, and Mrs McGinty’s intestines would run white in no time. She would be shitting old-man sperm for a week . I’ve never milked a man before, but I am very fascinated by the idea and I’ve read about it. What was it they say? Use no more pressure on the taint than stroking an eyeball.
Mrs McGinty was making this little regular growl, like something was grinding within her. My panties were open. It was easy to start stroking my slippery clit in its nest of humid hair.
The old bitch’s face is scarlet, laid flat on one cheek on the desk. She has had her eyes screwed shut so far. Now she opens one eye a crack, and I seem to catch it, as if she’s looking straight at me, catching me peeping. She doesn’t acknowledge my presence, or act alarmed, and I don’t know if she sees me. But I am scared that I might be caught witnessing their love-making, and I move swiftly and as silently as possible back toward the corridor. I leave the building, the memory of their panting and lust still in my ears.
Outside there’s brilliant sunshine, which hits me like a glove. It’s still May.
It takes me 20 minutes to walk home. I’m trotting down St Charles Avenue, trying not to be hit by careless tourists.
It’s just possible that you think you’d like to get with a woman like me: a crazy whore who take it in the ass, and wears slutty lingerie for her man. Chances are, in reality you wouldn’t. For one thing, I’m heartless. I don’t like anybody much, and I am incapable of treating anyone well. I keep my feelings to myself because it’s easier. People mostly think I’m meek. They think I’m nice because I don’t give them the opportunity to find out I am not. I can recognize civility in others and I am sometimes even grateful for it, but I have no real use for it. I am dead inside. It was only when I realized I was a monster that I found a reason for living.
I am not an elegant monster. I walk slightly splay-footed, like a duck. And I am round shouldered. No prize.
I turn into Toledano. I am nearly home.
‘Hey baby. What’s happening?’ I am accosted by the homeless nigger who walks my street like he owns it. He’s called Too-bad. He gets me most days.
I don’t reply. He never seems to need one. He’d probably fall dead with shock if I spoke to him.
‘Come on baby. You want to get with me? Come on, baby, everyone loves strange. You love some strange, baby. I could take you to heaven.’ I’m ten paces past him by now, but Too-bad still has to get his punchline in. ‘You don’t have to die to go to heaven,’ he shouts.
I left myself into my apartment. John is already there. H He’s sitting with his tie off. He’s got a drink. Probably vodka and club. I’d like one. He’s watching TV, flipping through the channels. Everybody Loves Raymond, Friends, King of Queens, Family Guy. I guess it’s all comedy at 6:30.
We kiss, which is barely kissing at all, more like a bump on the nose. We’re not interested in each other’s day. He’s kind of grabbing at me, at my ass, at where my tits would be if I had any, feeling the huge swollen nubs of my nipples, which always get irritated by lace bra material.
I know he’s hungry. I grab him back so he knows he’ll be feeding soon. His cock is in that thickened state that’s not quite erect, the state of arousal that always makes me think of the word ‘schlong’.
He pulls away. ‘Nina. I want you to go to the bedroom,’ he says, trying to sound casual. ‘And I want you to put on the outfit you’ll find on the chair. I want you to wear all of it.’
I go to the bedroom obediently. I nearly always do what John wants. I think I am going to get what I want in return.
My bedroom is small, mostly taken up by the queen-size bed. On one side is a faded velvet armchair, on the other I’ve stuffed all my romance novels and dolls, my Little Ponies, and Barbies. I don’t own much, but my wardrobe has expanded a lot since I met John.
The new outfit is laid out on the back of the armchair. I start to undress, sitting down to unzip my boots and pull them off. The socks I leave on. Then I unbutton my black blouse and lay it carefully on the bed. My black lacy bra follows. It’s a relief to take it off and give my poor swollen nipples a rest. They look like grapes now, they’re so big. I’ve never seen a woman with bigger nipples than mine, and I’ve watched a lot of porn. They look even bigger because of my almost totally flat chest.
Next is my tulip skirt, which I unzip behind and allow to fall to my ankles. I step out of it and lay it carefully above the discarded blouse. I am naked except for my socks and my crotchless panties. I yank the undies down and throw them across the room. Finally I ease out the plug. It’s fairly clean, just a few trace flecks of shit, glued to the sheen of lubricant. I wipe it with a tissue, and put it on my dresser. I’ll wash it properly later.
I stand for a moment in front of the mirror. My bush is abundant. It’s thick, curly and hairy. John influences my appearance in all ways, but he never asks me to wash or clean myself. He asked me to go natural for him. He likes my fur because it looks good, and it traps my odour. After a warm day in the city, he wants me to dress up for him without showering first. He even likes my ass good and musky. I turn round slightly and look at my big ass over my shoulder in the mirror. It’s a real nigger girl’s ass, meaty and rounded and sticky-outy, especially compared to my childishly undeveloped upper body. There’s some sag there, and some cellulite. It’s not too bad. It’s good to be young, but I am not as young and firm as I was.
I turn to the chair and start to get dressed.
10 minutes later, I am ready. I emerge, walking slightly unsteadily back into the living room. The room is transformed. The coffee table has been pushed against one wall. In the center of the room is an article of furniture I’ve never seen before. It looks like a gymnast’s vaulting horse. A sturdy wooden triangular frame about three and a half feet high, with a broad rectangular black leather top, and four smaller leather rectangular pads, two on each side at different heights. Each has Velcro straps dangling from it.
‘This is a spanking horse, Nina.’ John is trying to control his voice, but I can hear the hoarse excitement in it. ‘You’re going to ride it. I am going to strap you down. Beat your worthless ass. Then bugger you.’
I am a little scared. For one thing I’ve never even been spanked before, let alone beaten. My cunt is a mush of wetness. I am having a little trouble keeping my balance because of the boots. My ensemble consists of a red, clinging fishnet mini dress which barely covers my ass. It has long sleeves which end in fingerless gloves. Over it I am wearing a pvc corset which ends below my breasts. It laces up the back. My grapey nipples poke right through the holes in the dress. There’s no underwear, and I am sure my bush is also poking through the wide netting of the dress. I am in knee-high scarlet patent leather boots which also lace up. The heels are the highest I’ve ever worn. They must be six inches. I am a little unsteady on them, which only adds to my natural ungainliness. My body is awkward. My upper body is long and skinny, but expands into wide child-bearing hips, a huge round ass, and fairly short, chunky legs. Not fat. Just solid. I feel ridiculous in my outfit, like a circus pony, but also wildly aroused.
John pushes me gently forward until my hips are pressing against the upper padding of the spanking horse. He kind of shoves me forward on my belly, sliding me, so that my knees open and find themselves up onto the rear lower pads, which I now realize are designed to keep my legs in place. John quickly puts the Velcro straps around my boot-clad calves, trapping me. The other pads are for my elbows, which I obediently lay in place, only to have my wrists strapped. I am secure, my head down on the leatherette bench. I cannot escape.
John has positioned the head-end of the horse next to my long mirror, so that if I raise my head slightly I can see myself and what he’s doing to me.
I hear a sharp shearing sound. I look up to see John with a roll of silver duct tape. He tears off a strip about three inches wide. He grabs hold of my left ass cheek and places one end of the tape on it near the cleavage, and then pulls the buttock away from the anus, taping it as near to the hip as possible. He then does the same to the other cheek. Although my ass cleavage is very deep, the anus is now completely exposed and available. I feel the air playing over it.
I hear small, unfamiliar sounds behind me, but it’s too difficult to turn to see what’s happening. I hear a swishing sound, and the feeling of air moving fast next to my buttocks. The next moment it starts.
Oh my God. It hurts. I don’t know what he’s using. He’s not starting gently. It’s like he’s trying to mark me permanently. I have no idea of what implement of torture he’s using, but it feels like it’s biting hot lines into my flesh. The tender flower of my anus is also getting some of the punishment, not too much but enough.
But it’s ok though. That’s the main thing. I feel a rush of satisfaction when I realize this is something I can take. John won’t touch it, but I know my cunt must be slippery wet with pleasure.
Thirty, forty strokes. Each one echoes in the room, the sound of leather on meat. I hope the neighbours can’t hear. I don’t care. My head has gone spinning somewhere else. It doesn’t matter. I am not in control. My mouth is open in a fierce grin. I am almost laughing into the leather. I am certainly crying. I can feel the tears against my left eye and cheek, pressed down against the bench.
The beating stops. I hear the light brushing, popping sound. I imagine the thwop of John’s meaty, curly cock being freed from the elastic of his jockeys.
I feel that velvety crown at my anus. I know just how it looks. I’ve seen it thousands of times. It’s a big plum sized knob, distinctly bigger than the fat stem below it. I am a real size queen. It’s more than that. I’d love to have a penis and testicles. A big swinging cock between my legs, balls full of cum, eager to shoot their load up a tight, dirty asshole.
Before he penetrates me, he remembers to squirt some lubricant. You don’t need too much when you do it as often as we do.
He enters me. ‘Rock’n’roll,’ he hisses.
He pumps away, sawing his whole length up my duct taped ass. His cock probes me so deep he’s practically reading my mind. My mouth is open in a wordless cry. Occasionally a tiny, pathetic little sound escapes me.
He goes at me for 10 minutes, or more. It’s a fairly long time to be steadily sodomized hard without stopping. The slap slap of his belly against my buttocks is hypnotic. I think of Mrs McGinty. ‘Fuck that ass, lover. Fuck that ass, lover.’ I’m whimpering. I grow more daring. I scream it out as loud as I can. ‘Fuck that ass, lover!’
He stops without climaxing. He comes round to my head. His cock is monstrously big. It’s glistening, and it has some shit on it. I can smell my earthy insides. I think he’s going to make me suck it. But he wraps a fist around it and jerks with quick firm strokes. He starts to breathe fast. He’s going to ejaculate. Any second now. His penis swells and quivers upward. The glans is bobbing a few inches from my face. I feel the sperm before I see it, as it starts to spurt rapidly, repeatedly and hotly over my red, tear-streaked face. Blast after blast of salty cum, criss-crossing my face like scars, closing one eye, getting into my hairline.
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