Steve and I met when we were in university. We were both majoring in optometry, and our conversations consisted mainly of discussing science and cracking lame math jokes. Well, perhaps to an outsider, they were lame, but we always had our own way of understanding the world.
We were very much alike, beyond the scope of our interest in science. We listened to the same music, had the same taste in film, and enjoyed the same foods. This means we're identical twins, right? No. Hardly. It wasn't until a few months into our friendship that I developed a good sense of our differences and what this implied in a variety of positions and situations.
All friendships are not equal. One's usually smarter, more sophisticated than the other. In the case of Steve and I, I was the one with the scholarships and the good marks, and he was the underdog in some respects. Although this was very much a paradox. What seemed to baffle most people was that I came off sort of stupid to people. I asked a lot of questions in our lectures, and generally did not prevail in terms of marks until the very end, in which I beat Steve in all of our mutual courses. Steve, a bit of a competitor, as a result was slightly bitter, and his history in high school explained it.
"Yeah, I was always second to my best friend. In everything, really. Sports, school. So I just learnt to except it -- that second was good enough for me."
Despite this seemingly pragmatic approach to dealing with his insecurities, Steve nevertheless was bitter towards me. If ever I made a remark that was slightly off -- whether about the nature of science or religion - he'd be the first to correct me. If ever I embarrassed myself, he was the first to laugh -- and not in a "laugh with you manner", but rather in a malicious and spiteful fashion.
In all, I didn't really care. Despite his jealousy, we had a good friendship, with interesting conversations ranging from God (he's a strong atheist) to sex. "Perhaps the two are one in the same?" he once said to me. I considered this for a moment, and agreed -- perhaps not with the idea itself, but rather with the implication that anything in this world is possible. And that certainly came true on one particular night that would forever change the dynamics of our friendship.
One night, Steve and I were studying together in his dorm. We had a midterm examination in three days, and we thought it might be a good idea to quiz each other. And so we did for about two hours, until we finally felt ready to put our books down and take a breather.
"Are you liking university so far?" Steve asked me, passing a soda. "Yeah, I mean, it's a change. A lot of work." "Yeah, you're telling me. But I'm glad I'm away from home, you know? I love the independence in this place. I like having my own place. I can finally masturbate without having to worry about anyone walking in on me."
I nearly choked on the soda when he said the word "masturbate". I wasn't aware that we had become THAT close that we could talk about masturbation in such a casual manner.
"I see," I said, a couple seconds late. "Meh, I shoot off in the shower good enough."
I looked the other way, finding it hard to look in his eyes. This guy was dead serious. He was not afraid to tell me that he touched himself. I looked back at him, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. He stared right back at me, his eyes sincere and the expression on his face intense. I got the feeling that Steve had many joy rides on the bed I was sitting on.
"You know, masturbation is supposed to hinder prostate cancer," I said matter-of-factly. "Oh, yeah. I'm glad. Makes me want to do it more.... you know, for the good of my health."
We both had a huge laugh over this, and I relaxed a little, reminding myself that I was a regular masturbator myself, and had on several occasions taken a small sip of my own cum, pretending it was Steve's juice.
"Do you stroke yourself?" He suddenly asked. "I tried it a few times and didn't like it much." "Didn't like it much?" Pause. "Yeah, I guess it sort of hurts the first time. You gotta do it the right way, you know? Be more gentle and take it nice and slowly."
With that Steve plopped himself beside me on the bed. "Here, take it out, I'll show you how to do it properly."
"I don't think I want to right now, I told you it hurt," I said weakly. "Come on, I mean, man-to-man here, I'll teach you."
With that I slowly unzipped my jeans, exposing the white briefs I was wearing. And I took out my cock.
"All right, cool," Steve said under his breath. "Now take your hand, like this, and cup it gently... ah, you got it!"
If you were to take a picture of both of us right now, you'd see both of us sitting on the bed, Steve smiling and looking down at my cock, my hand clenched around my dick, and my head looking down at the circus show I was putting on down in my crotch.
"Now sort of, rub it up and down... yeah, like that... good, now you're taking it too fast... no, no... slower... let it... yeah... like that... and if you feel the need to come, hold it in! Honestly, you want a big explosion when you finally get to it."
I suddenly stopped, and shivered. "Shit, I don't want to do this. I feel weird." "Weird?" he said, soothingly. "Yeah, I mean... it kind of hurts too." "Here let me have a hold of it."
He was dead serious, and our eyes locked for a moment, and I knew that he really wanted it from me. "Lie down," he said, in the same soothing voice as before. "Just close your eyes, and try not to think of me."
So, I lay down on his pillow, my cock fully erected at this point, and I felt his hand come over my cock. His hands were remarkably smooth, and he shafted my cock with his hands slowly. I began to moan slightly as he took his thumb and began fiddling with the top of my dick's head, and he made a shushing sound that silenced me. I can't quite explain how it felt. It was a mix of extreme pleasure and extreme pain. The source of the pain came from not being able to control the sensations. When I masturbated, I had complete control of my hand, and my mind and body worked together to create a harmonious unity in pleasure that was not divided by pain. But I couldn't control Steve's hand. I couldn't control his rhythm. I couldn't control the way he would start off slowly, and then speed up, and then slow down, as if to get me all excited, and then to be mean, and not let me the relief of ejaculation. For, each time he slowed down, I was nearly at the brink of climaxing, and had to endure the feeling of my cum crouching back down the interior of my penis. It got to the point where his rhythm got me so hot and heavy that I began to moan uncontrollably like "a horny dog that needed to be fucked" he'd later say.
"I can't do this anymore!" I yelled in a feeble pathetic voice, pushing his hand away. And with that the orgasm that Steve had been meticulously saving squirted all over his bed, his walls, and partly down his neck.
"Fuck. Look what you did!" he said, laughing. I was barely amused. Here I was, laying over some guy's bed, my cock sticking out, and drenched in my own cum.
"Shit, I'm sorry."
"You know what this means. I get to come on you now."
He wouldn't let me dispute, and he pushed be back onto the bed. He came on top of me, kneeling, his knees straddling my shoulders. He brought out his monster. It was big. Bigger than I had ever imagined. He looked down at me, his hands on his hips, his cock waving back and forth across my face like I was a naughty boy about to be punished. He smiled a bit, and told me that I "looked good".
Although I had several fantasies about him, I was fucking scared. After giving me a facial with his pre-cum, he took hold of his monster and began to furiously zip away at it. After about one or two minutes of his furious efforts, he would slow down, much the same way he did with me, and shaft his cock only slowly, his upper chest moving back and forth in spasms of pleasure, like a really hot lap dancer. Slowly, but surely, his cum began to spit out. He closed his eyes when he began to ejaculate and then looked up into the ceiling, his eyes fluttering, as if what we were doing was some religious ritual. He eventually squeezed all the cum out of his cock and looked down at me smiling like a drunk, only for his face to reform in rage.
"Shit. It didn't get on your face!" he almost screamed. I thought he was going to cry. His cum had accumulated as a drooping piece of artwork against the backboard of his bed.
Quickly, as if time was of the essence, he began scooping up his cum, and transferred his masterpiece onto my face. A few of the scoops he placed into my mouth, and I swallowed, obediently.
As much fun as some of it was, in hindsight, I remember the absolute fear that was running through my mind. Here was someone who I thought was just one of the "buddies", straddling my body down and violently rubbing his cream juices across my face and down my throat, as if I was famished, and his cum was the only cure that would bring me back to life. "My cum's like water to you," he'd later say. "It's the fundamental compound the keeps your body functioning."
After he was done giving me my facial, he got off my shoulders, only to re-position himself over my body. He began to lick his cum off my face, and with his tongue, fed it to me. "I don't want any of this to go to waste," he said boldly.
This whole process of cleaning my face took a good twenty minutes, as I resisted a bit at the beginning. During those twenty minutes, I became far more familiar with the sensuality of his body. He had taken off his shirt (left mine on because he didn't want any of his cum lost on my shirt) and the smell of his body flooded my senses. It was the smell of raw sweat, which he'd later attribute to "hard work". He also had curious eyes. As he was licking the juice off my face, he kept his eyes wide open, looking straight into my own. His eyes screamed an intense determination that startled me, and I couldn't look away. The feel of his arms were also incredible. I never knew he was that built.
Looking back at that night, his cum certainly wasn't a "fundamental compound" that I needed for my survival, but nonetheless, a tasty treat.
When he finished, he used his hands and pushed his upper body off of me, carefully making sure his legs were still holding me down. Perhaps if you were to take a picture of that moment, you'd see Steve, shirtless, with his jeans halfway down his legs, perched up over me and me, laying beneath him, my hands brought to the side of my head as if I was surrendering to some cop yelling, "Put your hands in the air!"
"How did that feel?" he asked me. I couldn't answer him. I was speechless. He began to stroke his hands through my hair, and made his way down to my pants. He untucked my shirt, and unbuttoned it slowly. Something told me that he wasn't satisfied with just giving me a facial.
My shirt, our jeans and our underwear eventually came off. At this point, I was getting used to the idea of what I was in for, and like a pro, he made me feel relaxed with his encouraging words: "You'll be fine. I can tell already that your ass is going to be tight. I love challenges. (I was on my back at this point, and his hands were sliding off my undies)"
He also said tenderly: "You're so beautiful, you know that. Do you know how many times I've thought about you? About being your first?"
How on earth did he know I was a virgin, I thought? This offended me at first, and I got back to the old feelings of being hurt by his remarks, but that, obviously, did not last long.
We were both naked, he was sitting on top of my pelvis, and he pointed to a mirror on the wall. "Look at yourself. Look at how much you want it. You want me in you," he crooned. I turned towards the mirror, and agreed. I was more than happy to have Steve's monster in my body.
And that was the last of his tenderness for the next thirty five minutes, as his body would not stop jerking and dancing on me even when I, in my moans of unbearable pleasure, asked him to please stop so I could "catch some air".
For the first half of our lovemaking, I was basically in his crotch. My mouth encompassed his cock like a nervous kid who was ready to please. Of course, I was anything but a kid, but a "fully fuckable slut" which he would moan out when my mouth touched the most sensitive parts of his cock. Looking back, I don't think I really enjoyed our first oral sex session. I was too eager to please him, and I would, with every pump of my mouth, look up to his face for approval. 90% of the time I sucked him, he coldly looked down at me, a condemning smirk across his face. For the rest of the 10% of time, I pleasured him, and he rewarded me with approval by moaning like a werewolf and calling me a slut. It's sort of sick, to feel accepted by these things, but it nonetheless made me feel like I was doing a good job.
Then came what he called "a face fuck". These weren't facials, which I still kind of fear because of the intensity that Steve brought to it, but they are stimulated cock pumps that are brought on not by the sucker, but by the sucked. More plainly, he brought me down under and beneath him, and moved his pelvis up and down into my face, his cock bridging his manhood into my mouth. It was during this "face fuck" that I got my second dosage of his sweet cum. He hadn't ejaculated when I first gave him oral sex (he has incredible "restraint"), but he unloaded a truck full of dairy product into my mouth during this particular acrobat. Some of the cum itself was dripping down the side of my mouth, and with the same anger that had scared the shit out of me before, he scraped the cum from the side of my face and shoved his index finger down my tongue.
"Drink it, you slut," he'd scream at me. As I was drinking his cum, once again a bit frightened, he grabbed my ass, which made me wail a slight bit. He started murmuring in a taunting sort of way, "I want your ass, I want your ass, I want your ass".
Who was I to say no. I couldn't, nor did I particularly want to, as I wanted to see how far this night could go. So he turned me over onto my back and for a moment he got off me. I wasn't sure what he was doing. I heard the rip of a wrapper, turned around, and saw him pulling out a condom from a package.
"Fuck, it's not pulling on!" He was pissed off, almost as if every extra second he had to deal with this problem, it was taking away from his "entitled pleasure", which he later told me I owed him. "My cock's so fucking huge, it's not pulling on."
Then he threw the condom on the ground, and looked at me thoughtfully. "Well, you've already swallowed my cum, this condom is a fucking matter of formality."
And with that, he got back on the bed, with a newfound energy. "Yeah, baby, I'm gonna hump you raw," he started to chant, with a fake country accent, cowboy-twanged, which nonetheless turned me on.
With that, he pulled my hips up so that my body automatically jerked into the doggie position. "You were made for this, weren't you fuckable slut?"
And with that, he plummeted his cock up my ass. No warnings. No nothing. I nearly screamed, and it didn't help that he slapped the side of my ass ten times as punishment. He suddenly stopped, and his voice changed back into the normal Steve tone that I heard in school. "I'll take it slow, just hold your screaming in."
And so I did. And so he did as well. He slid his cock into my ass slowly as I adjusted to this new sensation, making sure that he softened the most sensitive of blows that he could have given me. He gave me five minutes to adjust before he felt I was comfortable with having his monster up my anus. And after that, he was merciless. He pumped his cock in me like I was a racehorse, and he, a man determined to win the race.
As he pumped, he showed his first signs of true weakness by groaning. Not the kind of groaning like when we face fucked. But a wild moaning that he couldn't quite control. I could tell that I DID have a tight ass, or more formally, a tight hole.
We fucked in this position for a good ten minutes before my hands became too weak to hold myself up. I told him this, and he refused to listen. To him, we were in a fucking race and we still had 100 miles to go. I panted, I groaned, I moaned, and I begged. Somehow I think because I was so out of breath, he didn't hear me pleading for him to stop.
And with that, my hands twisted inwards, my arms collapsed, and I fell onto the bed, and consequently, out of his cock, breathless. I was trying to regain composure; I wasn't sure how mad he'd be -- as I undoubtedly was the one who made him lose his marathon race. I looked up at him, and he was panting uncontrollably as well, his hand holding the side of the wall where my cum was still plastered. He got himself together much quicker than I did, and as if suddenly recharged, he dropped down behind me, lifted my leg up and told me it wasn't the end.
So he began to fuck me again, but now we were on our sides. His hot tongue began its journey down my spine as he did this to me. The simultaneous pleasures of both his hard pumping cock up my ass and the soft feel of his tongue made me shiver, and I held onto a side of the bedpost for support. I looked into the mirror, which was ironically, in a position that I could see the whole of our writhing bodies moving in perfect unison. I remember feeling like a slut at that point, a fuckrag. And he made it abundantly clear that in that moment, I was HIS fuckrag by tearing off my hand from the bedpost and bringing it behind our bodies to his ass, as if he wanted to further emphasize the force that his body was generating into my own.
The image in the mirror of us fucking in this manner haunts me. The sight of both of us naked, on our sides, and a slightly larger body than my own behind me fucking the hell out of me as I groan and pant makes me feel so completely dirty. The sight of my hands restrained behind Steve's back, grasping his buttocks, as he thrust his manhood in me made me feel illegal.
His rhythm began to slow, and our bodies fell limply into each other. The air suddenly flooded with warmth and romanticism as we kissed, exhaustedly and slowly. In his kiss, I suddenly forgot the savage fuck and suck that had occurred. In his kiss, I suddenly forgot and perhaps forgave him for calling me a "fuckable fuck". In his kiss, the image of the mirror and me being a fuckrag suddenly faded, and all I could concentrate on was how beautiful it felt for our bodies to be holding each other and our kiss being our salvation.
He broke away, breathless, and whispered the words "I love you". I told him I loved him too. It was all in a moment. I'm not sure if I actually loved him in that moment, but I knew that I felt prepared to love him, and that was good enough -- even to perhaps God, who I knew was witnessing our souls unifying.
He peeled his body off of mine, and laid down beside me.
"I don't know what came over me. I'm sorry." "Why are you sorry?" "Because I've always wanted to ... I've...," he was fumbling for words. "Say it as it is," I suddenly said. "Because I've always wanted to dominate you. What we just did, the way I -- how I scared you, excited me."
Silence. His hands began to crawl up my leg.
"If I could jack you off and make you orgasm three times, it would make me happy."
Naively, I told him that he could do so. I couldn't resist the sincerity in his eyes in saying that. Although, with that being said, anything romantic about the evening was suddenly broken. Now I understand what he meant by "controlling" me, which he displayed perfectly with his relentless hands that shafted my cock for the next half hour. He certainly had control of me, especially when he refused to let go of my cock after the first ejaculation. The second and third ejaculations came, but far less soon as the first, as my body was trying to resist the sensations that Steve was forcing upon me. And he refused to stop until I got to the third. Now I knew what his idea of control meant.
After he was done shafting my cock, he laid on top of me again, and began whispering naughty little nicknames that he thought suited me. Some of the more thoughtless nicknames included "doggy", "good ride", and "cock slave". Some of the more original names included "Cowboy's favourite pet" and "Thirsty". He told me to pick a favourite and I told him "Thirsty". And with that he re-enforced it.
For the whole first year of university, I had sex with Steve. He'd call me up, asked if I wanted to "study" with him, and like a horny animal that couldn't say no, I told him "Yeah, that would be... great." Some days I'd lie to myself and convince myself that I was doing it so that he could relieve his need to dominate me. Other days I would be pragmatic, and realize it was I who WANTED to be dominated. And on more hopeful days, I was hoping that he'd say "I love you" again. Much of our sex continued on in the same way -- oral sex, anal sex, facials, and masturbation. Other days when he was feeling particularly kinky, he liked shoving his middle finger up my anus and with just that, he made me orgasm a good two or three times. Needless to say, we had a great relationship.