Demons Pt. 02


I was so wet from sucking his cock that it fell out a few times, but eventually he got it inside me and started pounding. He switched positions a few times, never warning me before his strong arms pulled me into place. It didn’t matter that we both had a little extra fluff, in fact it made it feel amazing, having his weight on top of me. There was no one around for at least a mile to hear me scream when he took my ass dry. He didn’t need lube, I was already wet enough.

He fucked in a way that said “I have deep-seated rage issues with women,” but I loved that.

He came in my ass and got up, turning on the lights. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man sweat that much, and I was glistening myself, strewn across the bed like a discarded cum rag. He took some towels and threw one on my naked body.

He gave me some pajamas and we went out to the porch to smoke. This is where things started to get strange. He started talking about theoretical physics. Now I don’t have a problem with theoretical physics, quite the contrary, in fact. However, as post-coital conversations go it was one of the weirder ones I’ve had. One portion focused on Stephen Hawking’s “A Brief History of Time,” which he told me he wanted me to read. I told him I would, intrigued.

A small mechanical box sat on the porch table. It was a vaporizer for weed, he said, handing me the hose. It hit hard and I coughed like a motherfucker, but it was actually far smoother than I expected. Describing the breakdown of the THC molecules during decarboxylation, he chattered about chemistry for a while. I zoned out, high as fuck after the brief tolerance break from living with my parents.

He told me he obsessed over many different topics, studying them as much as any grad student would. He had a rather condescending manner of speaking that rubbed me the wrong way, but I was fascinated by his idiosyncrasies and kept listening. The conversation switched to psychology, another topic he obsessed over. His gorgeous blue eyes locked on mine.

“You know, you are very easy to read.”

“I know I am, sir. I am an open book.”

“Like, I can read your emotions as easily as if they were written on your forehead.”

I remembered the time a few weeks before when another dom (Jamie, my favorite) had written the words “slut” and “whore” on my forehead for the camera. I smiled and sighed.

“I am a big pile of emotions right now, sir. I just ended a 4.5 year relationship and I’m fucking everybody to try to make the pain go away. You’re number 19 in three weeks.”

“I’m not surprised, I knew this was a rebound. He really messed you up, didn’t he?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let me help you with that…”

He reached out and took my hand şirinevler türbanlı escort in both of his. At first I assumed he was going to lead me back inside and fuck me again, but instead he spread my fingers, touching the skin between them with his own.

“You’re very suggestible, aren’t you? Do you trust me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I want you to release the tension from your body, let your eyes go out of focus and relax your shoulders…”

He proceeded to hypnotize me. I told you it got weird. I let his voice wash over me and take control. Talking me through my own mind, he sent me into an ever-encroaching darkness. He began counting backwards and I felt myself slipping.


It occurred to me that aside from slapping and throat fucking there hadn’t been much in the way of pain, which I was a little disappointed about, but hell I had gotten fucked roughly and got some pizza and was vaping some fine ass weed, and hey free hypnosis! I love those old movies about hypnosis on MST3K, and “Get Out” was really cool and shit.


Why did I want to be fucked so roughly, anyway? Did I enjoy rough fucking or was I just desperately trying to forget Paul? Was I hoping that the stinging of the whips and the belts and the canes would drown out the stinging I felt every morning when I woke up and realized he was gone? When I realized I would never bring him coffee in bed, kiss the back of his neck, and snuggle next to him ever again? Was my self esteem in the toilet from the months of knowing he would leave soon, that I wasn’t good enough for forever? Was I craving being desired, enough to hit my knees for any stranger that told me to suck him off?


What was I even doing here? This guy was clearly messed up, he told me he had a criminal record, was a sociopath, and that he wanted me to be the nexus of a new poly family for him, none of which were things I wanted to get involved with. And for someone with a criminal record, he didn’t even hit me properly! Plus I was miles away from anywhere! If I came back to see him how would I afford the gas or the time? What if his PTSD got triggered and he attacked me? I had known soldiers who blacked out when they were triggered, attacking their loved ones as though they were back in the desert fighting insurgents. I thought of my dad and Miss Ella waiting for me the next day at work, what if I never came back to work? WHO WOULD GET THE BISCUITS? The police would never find my body. And then I heard his voice again.


I let go, my eyes closed, and my mind hurtled backwards, into silence. Silence is great when your brain talks as much as mine does. You think it sucks having şirinevler ucuz escort to read my long-ass blog, imagine listening to a live feed all day long. I don’t think I was asleep, but I was thoroughly relaxed. I could still hear him talking.

“I want you to think back to a couple of months before you met your ex. What were you doing?”

“I was driving. I used to take drives by myself on weekends.”

“What song is playing on the radio?”

“That stupid ‘I Wanna Soak Up the Sun” song by Sheryl Crow.”

“How do you feel?”


I had forgotten about my Sunday morning drives. I would take random country roads with the radio on and the windows down, that summer before college. Before I met Paul, or my other ex, Nicole. My heart was strong and unbroken. I stood alone without a care in the world. I could hear Michael’s voice, reminding me of that time when I was confident and hopeful. Life was good once, maybe it would be again. After what seemed like ages, he counted forwards from 1, and I slowly came out of it.

“That was weird. I don’t know if it worked, if nothing else I am very relaxed and feeling better.”

“Good. You need someone who can make you better. Someone who can fix your flaws and turn you into the person you were meant to be.”

“I’m not looking for anything long-term. I can keep seeing you as a friend, and we can keep fucking, but I don’t think I could handle a relationship, even (or maybe especially) a poly one.”

“That’s why now would be the best time, you would have only a few partners and be faithful only to them. That would preclude any jealousy or hurt feelings and would keep you safe from disease.”

I didn’t want to be safe from disease or jealousy. I wanted to go on fucking whoever I liked, fuck commitment. I had committed to Paul, and now he was gone. What was the point of committing to anyone else? And why is it that every time I find a dominant guy he wants me to go find other women for him? Can he not go find them himself? Must I share my time with another random woman?

I also didn’t like the idea that he wanted to fix me. His eyes scanned me, like he was examining a hamster before some grisly lab experiment. I recalled something he had said to me when I first showed him my pictures. I had said “I’m a big girl, I hope that isn’t going to be a problem,” and he had replied “you’re curvy, but not disgustingly fat, I like it.” That phrase, “disgustingly fat,” stuck in my mind. Something was off here. The peace that had come with the hypnosis began to recede, and in its place was a sinking in my gut. My mother always told me, don’t ignore your gut. But my mother has told me a lot of things, şişli escort and I’ve never been good at listening.

I smoked more weed and soon the bad feeling was gone again. He asked me what my favorite show was, I told him it was Mystery Science Theater 3000 and he surprised me by turning it on the TV. He brought me some yogurt as well, and before I could stop myself, I said “You’re so sweet, thank you, sugar.”

He froze and stared at me. I stuttered.

“I’m sorry, sir, I call everybody ‘sugar’ and it just slipped out. It won’t happen again.”

“It’d better not.”

Then that smirk was back, “I’m not ‘sweet,'” he laughed, “I’ve killed people.”

“I know,” I said, “but that was kinda your job.”

He laughed again and sat down beside me on the couch. “Well, you’re right. I killed people in Iraq, too.”

I just looked at him skeptically, trying to process what he had just said. He looked at me, waiting for a reaction, but I didn’t give him one. My gut was screaming at me to run to my car and bust it back home, but my brain was sure he was joking, or utterly delusional. In fact, the more he talked the more I thought he must be out of touch with reality. Or maybe he was on the autism spectrum and just didn’t have any social skills, other than talking endlessly about his obsessions. Maybe it was me who was out of touch with reality. But I was still high as fuck and I had yogurt to eat and my favorite show was on, so like a dumbass, I just snuggled up next to him and finished my food.

Some time passed and I realized I wasn’t nearly as damaged as I had planned to be by this time, so I asked “are you going to beat the shit out of me?”

“Do you want me to beat the shit out of you?”

“Yes, that’s what I’m into.”

“I would rather have you asleep in bed and surprise you with my cock and dominate you that way. And there won’t be a safeword, just a dom intelligent enough to read body language. But I wouldn’t do anything that would leave marks.”

“Awww, but I like marks. And no safeword is terrifying.”

I remembered the deep purple and red splotches that Jamie had left on me, the times I had come just from the lashes of his belt. I was starting to realize that maybe Michael and I were looking for different things. But soon his cock was in my throat again. He was rougher this time, and I tried to warn him that I had thrown up on multiple guys before while deep-throating, but he didn’t listen. No safeword, and he wasn’t paying a bit of attention to my body language. “Take it, you fucking whore.” He tried fucking my pussy again, but I was still so wet that he couldn’t get the angle right and kept sliding out, so he flipped me over onto my knees and ground my head into the couch, taking my ass dry again. Miles away from civilization, I screamed louder than I had ever screamed before as he drilled my ass again and again, just because I knew I could. Inside I was getting a little bored, if I’m honest, because the more weird and stupid shit he said the less I was connecting with him.

To be continued…

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