Take Me for A Ride

"Look at you..." he sighs. "I wasn't wrong about you. I knew it. I knew you needed cock too much to say no. And you love it, don't you? Hm?"

He takes out his cock, gives me room to breathe, to answer.

"Yes." I say. I hate him for it, but yes.

He stoops down, lifts my chin, makes me look at him again.

"Shall I mention your girlfriend again? Since it seems to be what gets you off most. Isn't it?"

My eyes shoot fire. I am not going to answer. Casually, with the back of his hand, he caresses my nipples. It makes my breath tremble. I am instantly aware again of how much I need to get off. With the same casual gesture, he touches one of my hands resting against his upper legs.

"Touch yourself," he says. I hesitate. "Come on. If you don't do it now, I am not going to let you cum."

"Let me?!"

"Touch yourself."

My mind latches onto the idea of his power over my orgasm. Whether I'd give him that. Whether I'd like it. Of course not. To all of it. Really.

It's just a thought.

And before I know it...

"Good boy," he says. He gets up again. "Camille would love to know this." And he pulls my face to his cock again.

"That's it, rub that tiny little cock of yours. That cheating boy cunt your girlfriend eats out without knowing how much cock you take. Does she have any idea about how much of a cumslut you were before you met her?"

Christ this is getting me close. Shut up, Richard, fuck you.

"She will know soon enough, won't she?"

Oh man...

"When she kisses you after I am done with your mouth..."

I grunt around him.

"You didn't seriously still think I would spare your face, right?"

He twists my hair in his fingers, hooks his hand under my chin. In a low voice he tells me:

"You will swallow."

And before I can make a sound, he pulls me onto him, and he cums, in the back of my throat. He cries out a satisfied grunt, like he has scratched an itch. Thick, sticky, warm spurts shoot down my throat. I keep swallowing. He cums so much it fills my mouth. It's impossible not to gag. But I know how to keep it in. I know, because I've done it so many times before. And it's always been the best when I had no choice. It made me feel so used.. Makes me. Feel so used.

I feel so used.

I want to cum. But I don't. It tastes better when I don't.

His hands soften around me. He strokes my hair, my chin. Carefully, he pulls out of me. Don't spill, don't spill... I swallow the last bit. It sticks in my throat. I am still clean. These things matter.

Until he is being a dick and wipes his cock on my face.

"Asshole," I mutter.

"How does that taste?" He asks.

He tastes like coffee. He tastes like memories. Filthy, guilty, cum drenched memories.

He stoops down.

"Remember how that tastes, little boy," he whispers. "Because that is what Camille will taste when you get back home, in half an hour."

I think about Camille's heady kisses. The way her soft lips slide over yours so addictive you can't break it. The sweet taste of her tongue. I can taste whenever she smoked that random cigarette, I can taste when she had coffee, when she hadn't.

I would taste cum on her. I would. I would smell it on her breath even. But then, I would recognize it... Being a sad excuse for a lesbian.

His hand cups one of my breasts, he rolls a nipple between his thumb and finger. It makes me moan.

"Heheh, you slut... You didn't get off, did you?"

He chuckles.

"No," I say. "I want to go."

"No you don't," he says. "You want whatever I want." He snarls at me, hisses his words. "And I want to own you. I want you to be mine. I want you to lie in bed at night next to your smart, stupid girlfriend, and wait until she is asleep, so you can rub your little cock, soaking your boxerbriefs, thinking of me."

My breath trembles. I can't look at him. I can't help it. My hand starts rubbing me. It has a mind of its own.

"See. You like that."

"Fuck you."

"Every orgasm. You will think of me with every orgasm."

"I hate you."

"Even the ones with Camille."

"Shut up."

"Especially the ones with Camille."

Christ, I am getting close. I am getting close.

"Because I own you. Can you still taste me?"

Oh man.

"Now stop."

What?

Richard watches me, amused, fascinated, like a researcher. He caresses my chin.

"You can have your orgasm, but only with Camille."

"Fucking motherfucker," I grunt, almost inaudibly. Frantically,

"Thank me," he says.

"Fuck you."

"Oh you don't want it?"

I am so angry. But I need to get off. Today. So there it goes. "Thank you."

"Good boy. You'll get off, don't worry."

I worry though. About going home like this. About needing Camille so badly, right fucking now, while 'right fucking now' is not a good time to have her mouth on me. About that ride back, that would be pure torture.

But my life wasn't ruined instantly. He was not as big an asshole as he let me believe, I guess. Just a little less. We stopped at a gas station on the way, cleaned me up better than I expected. I would manage. The only real danger was the filth left in my mind.

The filth that was there that same night in bed with Camille, sliding my hands under her shirt, caressing the tits she has and I pretended I don't, so she wouldn't touch them right after this. It was there when she kissed me, with her addictive tongue, and the fear of her tasting Richard on me made me taste everything about her in every detail. There when I asked for a blowjob, with just as much nauseating guilt and fear and disgust I thought I'd have, but ten times the rush.

It was there when I came, hard, like a blow to the stomach. An orgasm I needed so badly, it made me shake and cry out. Different from the sensual orgasms Camille's mouth gave me before. This was a painful, rough one. The kind I get from being fucked by men.

I resented how satisfied I felt...

Camille started wondering what had gotten into me after the second time, third time. Days later, I still came like this. Still full of guilt, still inappropriately satisfied. She was curious, fascinated, 'cause she apparently stumbled upon a new trick. Asked what made it different. What she did that worked. I said I couldn't say what it was, really. Hey I wasn't lying. I was just trying not to be an asshole.

But I was getting it under control, I was. In time I was be pretty sure I wouldn't think of this when I was with her. It was just this one slip up. I was finding it a spot in my head to bury it in. I had a life to live, with my smart girlfriend, who read books and loved to argue politics and pondered getting a new tattoo. Maybe get a driver's license some day?

"Go ahead," I said. "But just so you know: I won't fix your car. I don't know shit about cars."

"You're a sad excuse for a lesbian," she laughed.

And that almost didn't hurt anymore.

And then, curled up on the couch, with my girl's legs in my lap, my phone buzzed. Richard. I hadn't heard from him in forever. He sent a link. A porn video. I ignored it.

But at night, when Camille was asleep, I got my earphones and watched it. Because I am weak.

Dyke abused by stranger on car hood

Holy shit. I stared at it with a pit in my stomach.

Fuck. This had been such a big mistake. Fuck, fuck.

I couldn't stop myself from watching it. Again and again.

I watched myself. And saw myself... doing things I had convinced myself I hadn't done. And then everything that needed to stay buried, forever, flooded back into my consciousness...

I was right. I couldn't trust myself.