Watching other people shagging was a complete turn off, and I failed to understand why Gabe made such a fuss about it. I’d tried to watch it with him many times before. Thankfully, he’d given up a few years ago, or so I’d thought. Giving him total control had been a mistake.
“ Drink.” A wineglass materialised in front of my lips, Gabe tilting my head slightly to sip from it. I gulped, glad to shift the salty taste in my mouth, and then I realised he was still manoeuvring me into the position he wanted. My bum in the air, an unnatural angle, and my chest squashed into the beanbag. “God, you’re fucking gorgeous like this. All open and ready for me.” Probing fingers slipped beneath my thong, finding only disappointment. “You’re not very wet.” It was a disparaging tone that made me cringe. He expected me to feel desirable, like this ?
The next hour played back in my head as a series of disjointed images. Gabe grunting in time with the noises from the screen, fucking me as I lay helpless before him. Totally intent on his own pleasure, his hands like iron on my hips, my mouth submerged in the beanbag, eyes unable to avoid the frenzied activity on the screen. The varied positions and noises from the men and women coupling, and Gabe’s enthusiasm to copy what they were doing.
One particularly athletic pose had my legs raised and splayed wide as Gabe plunged into me, hammering so hard I swore I was bruised inside. His cold insistence that I come for him, at his command, as though that would be enough. His fingers hurting as they squeezed my nipples. My feeble attempt at faking yet another orgasm. God knows I’d done it often enough, I should find it easy to turn in an Oscar-winning performance, but I struggled tonight.
A brief respite, more wine—a longing to blot it all out—and yet another film Gabe wanted me to watch. Something to get me more “in the mood”. A young woman tied down to her bed, a line of men waiting to service her. I shuddered, only to find Gabe thinking I was aroused. “You like that? I might tie you up, next time.”
I shook my head to dispel the images playing inside it. It only served to increase the pounding headache. What had I done? I’d unleashed a different Gabe, one I’d never guessed at before. And it frightened the hell out of me.
3.6 Josh
I would have to use a different approach with my latest target. The tiny village where she lived didn’t have much in the way of hotels and, this time of year, most places were fully booked anyway. I decided to head up there and check out the area. In the worst instance, I had a tent and camping gear to fall back on. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d posed as a backpacker.
Leaving the Welsh mainland to drive onto the small Isle of Anglesey, I felt a flickering memory stirring as I cruised across the Menai Bridge. I’d chosen the old road instead of the modern tourist route and I was sure I’d been there before. I’d seen a picture of myself here, a photograph of me as a very small boy. I could see it in my head; I’d been wearing shorts and sandals, Talisman around my wrist, a t-shirt and a floppy sun hat. I’d been staring out at the Menai Straits below, clutching the stonework of the bridge. I could remember the heat of the stones beneath my palms, and it’d been summer. I had an ice cream spill down my t-shirt. I blinked. Where had the memory surfaced from? I couldn’t even remember going on holiday as a child. None of my foster families had ever taken me away.
According to the email, Anita Craigowan had a partnership in a riding school and could be found there when she was in the country. The rest of her time was spent with her husband, following him from one racing circuit to the next, their baby daughter accompanying them on their travels. The riding school was an obvious place to start. Half an hour later, I drove carefully up a dusty track, avoiding a teenage girl with two ponies, one lead rope in
“ Drink.” A wineglass materialised in front of my lips, Gabe tilting my head slightly to sip from it. I gulped, glad to shift the salty taste in my mouth, and then I realised he was still manoeuvring me into the position he wanted. My bum in the air, an unnatural angle, and my chest squashed into the beanbag. “God, you’re fucking gorgeous like this. All open and ready for me.” Probing fingers slipped beneath my thong, finding only disappointment. “You’re not very wet.” It was a disparaging tone that made me cringe. He expected me to feel desirable, like this ?
The next hour played back in my head as a series of disjointed images. Gabe grunting in time with the noises from the screen, fucking me as I lay helpless before him. Totally intent on his own pleasure, his hands like iron on my hips, my mouth submerged in the beanbag, eyes unable to avoid the frenzied activity on the screen. The varied positions and noises from the men and women coupling, and Gabe’s enthusiasm to copy what they were doing.
One particularly athletic pose had my legs raised and splayed wide as Gabe plunged into me, hammering so hard I swore I was bruised inside. His cold insistence that I come for him, at his command, as though that would be enough. His fingers hurting as they squeezed my nipples. My feeble attempt at faking yet another orgasm. God knows I’d done it often enough, I should find it easy to turn in an Oscar-winning performance, but I struggled tonight.
A brief respite, more wine—a longing to blot it all out—and yet another film Gabe wanted me to watch. Something to get me more “in the mood”. A young woman tied down to her bed, a line of men waiting to service her. I shuddered, only to find Gabe thinking I was aroused. “You like that? I might tie you up, next time.”
I shook my head to dispel the images playing inside it. It only served to increase the pounding headache. What had I done? I’d unleashed a different Gabe, one I’d never guessed at before. And it frightened the hell out of me.
3.6 Josh
I would have to use a different approach with my latest target. The tiny village where she lived didn’t have much in the way of hotels and, this time of year, most places were fully booked anyway. I decided to head up there and check out the area. In the worst instance, I had a tent and camping gear to fall back on. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d posed as a backpacker.
Leaving the Welsh mainland to drive onto the small Isle of Anglesey, I felt a flickering memory stirring as I cruised across the Menai Bridge. I’d chosen the old road instead of the modern tourist route and I was sure I’d been there before. I’d seen a picture of myself here, a photograph of me as a very small boy. I could see it in my head; I’d been wearing shorts and sandals, Talisman around my wrist, a t-shirt and a floppy sun hat. I’d been staring out at the Menai Straits below, clutching the stonework of the bridge. I could remember the heat of the stones beneath my palms, and it’d been summer. I had an ice cream spill down my t-shirt. I blinked. Where had the memory surfaced from? I couldn’t even remember going on holiday as a child. None of my foster families had ever taken me away.
According to the email, Anita Craigowan had a partnership in a riding school and could be found there when she was in the country. The rest of her time was spent with her husband, following him from one racing circuit to the next, their baby daughter accompanying them on their travels. The riding school was an obvious place to start. Half an hour later, I drove carefully up a dusty track, avoiding a teenage girl with two ponies, one lead rope in
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