Of rough men and dark passages......!

Guss66

Often it is what is already inside the head that makes the difference.

She told me once, as she wiped my cum from her chin, that when she was first married (and was as unhappy as she would ever be), she would lie in the empty bed beside her husband and keep herself awake with thoughts of big rough men. One would hold her down while the others (sometimes countless) filled her up with their fingers and their tongues and their thick-hard cocks. And still never enough, she sighed, licking at her fingers.

Sometimes, she said, when she was sure that her husband was asleep she would sneak downstairs and fuck herself with whatever she could find. And the rough, forceful men would come out from inside her head and they would watch from the shadows.

“It wasn’t madness,” she insisted.

“I knew they weren’t real… But they were real to my senses… if you know what I mean. I could hear them tugging on their huge cocks, and I could smell their sweat… and the heat of their cum as they sprayed me with it.”

She could feel their eyes on her, she said, as she splayed herself out on the cold floor and plunged whatever object she had found deep into her cunt. And as she spoke of these things she flicked her tongue over my balls and stroked the wet shaft of my cock with her slippery hands. Despite her labours she barely ever stumbled over her words.

“There was a young woman in our street who was reputed to put on a show for some of the local lads of a Friday night… round the back of the Dog and Bone. And we’d all ‘tut-tut’…the rest of us women… in our gardens, and over the hedges. And we’d all shake out heads call her a dirty whore, and worse… even though none of them really knew what she was… or if she really did those things we said she did.

And I’d be the one tutting loudest and shaking my head the hardest! Even though… all the time it was… envy. I would have denied it was that… even to myself! But I know better now.”

She said that the shadow-men who came to her in the night would say such… unkind things.

“They’d call me a slut and a fucking filthy whore and… words I didn’t even know I knew. And I should have been… ashamed to be called those things. But it only made me hotter… and wetter, and so I’d fuck myself even harder… and faster. And when I couldn’t cum any more, and I was all used up, then they would come out of the shadows and they would use me again… and again. Taking it in turns.”

“What did you fuck yourself with on that floor?” I asked.

“What…? Oh… anything that I could find. There was a glass ornament that his mother had given us as a wedding present. Sometimes I’d find something in the salad drawer. There were a couple of knives with big thick handles – I liked those. And he had a collection of ‘fine wines’… that’s what he said. ‘They’re not for drinking,’ he’d say. He thought of himself as a bit of a connoisseur. So I’d fuck myself with the neck of one of his most precious bottles. And I wouldn’t wipe it after so it still smelled of me for days after….”

One day, she said, one of her neighbours told her that the girl behind the pub would line up the drunks and let them ‘put it in her mouth’.

“Can you imagine such a thing?” the neighbour had almost demanded.

“I told her I couldn’t,” she said, just before she slipped her lips over the end of my cock and began to suckle.

A little later she told me that she really hadn’t imagined such a thing before her neighbour mentioned it. She said that after her neighbour had mentioned it, she imagined it a lot. And the men in the shadows, when they visited her again, they must her read her thoughts because they added it to their list of violations.

“My neighbour said that she would have cut her husband’s ‘thing’ off before she would have let him put it in her mouth. But I though it sounded… exotic.”

The word made her giggle.

“You never sucked your husband’s cock?” I asked.

“Not then… no! Later… when we were dead to one another… yes! But in the beginning it was always the same. He’d go up to bed before me. By the time I got there he’d be pumping on it while looking at some girl a magazine. ‘This,’ he’d say. ‘This is a woman.’ And he’d hold up the picture so I could see all the things that I wasn’t. Then I’d lie on the bed and when he was ready he’d put it in me and he would… cum. Sometimes he’d cum before he even got it inside…. And that was that! And do you know the worst thing about it? He’d ask my permission. Like that made him feel better even though it made me feel much worse.”

She looked angry then.

“But my… rough strangers… they would fuck my cunt and my mouth, and they wouldn’t ask permission.”

She said that some time later the same neighbour (who gave every sign of being obsessed) told her that the woman behind the pub let the local lads use her ‘dirty back passage’.

“I think she just wanted to shock me. Or at least to see how I would react. Maybe it turned her on… or something. It’s hard to tell what’s going on in someone else’s head. Or maybe she was just vicious old woman with nothing better to do…! Anyway it took me a while to even understand what she meant. But when I did the rough men seemed to understand it too and then there was nothing they wouldn’t do to me.”

As she spoke she straddled my hips and began to slide her cunt along the length of my cock. Almost achingly she glided over my pulsing shaft, wriggling and flowing over me and drenching my balls. The heat of her was intense.

“They said such dirty things to me, from the shadows….”, she rasped as she humped my cock.

“They made me do such… disgusting things….! And they made me do it. And they never took their eyes off me.”

She said that one night when she thought she had fucked herself enough, and with a bottle, they wouldn’t let her stop. Spent, she thought, and still they told her to keep going – the rough watchers. And they made her turn over onto her heaving belly and made her press the neck of that bottle against her anus.

“They made me do it…. I knew it was wrong and… dirty… and I would never have done it if they hadn’t… made me. And if I hadn’t known they were.. watching me… and touching themselves. And it was so fucking… beautiful… and… perfect.”

By then she was almost a frenzy, grinding her clit against me, and the juices from her cunt pooling under the cheeks of my arse.

“Did I give you permission to cum?” I asked, calmly.

Reluctantly she held herself still.

“No,” she said.

“Did I give you permission to fuck your dirty hole with your fingers?”

“No,” she whispered.


I told her to get off me. I told her to get down on the cold-hard floor on her knees and her elbows. I told her to press the side of her head to the wood and to say nothing more. Hooking my fingers into her cunt I forced her hips upwards and told her to hold that position.

“Don’t touch yourself,” I said.

It was not a suggestion.

“And don’t fucking move.”

It took me almost twenty minutes to find what I was looking for. She had not moved even so much as a millimetre (though her haunches shook with the effort of maintaining her position). I placed the bottle beside her head where she could see it clearly.

“It’s a Pomerol. Claret… 1964. They say it was a good year.”

The neck of the bottle was thick and dark. Perhaps in anticipation of what was to come she pissed herself a little.

“Sorry… Sir!” she breathed.

“Do you know what I’m going to do to you next?” I asked.

Her lip trembled, though it was not fear. She could not seem to form the words to tell me that she knew exactly what I planned, but it was clear that she did know. She pressed her buttocks upwards, stretching them apart. Her anus, soaked with cunt-juice, visibly softened.

“But not yet,” I told her.

“Soon… but not yet.”

A sound something like a whimper leaked from her quivering mouth. I closed her eyes with my fingers.

“You see… I was thinking about all those rough men in the shadows. How it was for you… knowing that they were watching. Knowing what they would do to you when you were done fucking yourself. Holding you down and… and using you. Making a filthy whore of you. So I… invited them here.”

I got down on my knees and leaned over her so that I could press my mouth almost against her ear. In the darkness she listened to my voice.

“Can you smell them?” I breathed, softly, into her ear.

“Can you hear them playing with their cocks?”

Even with her eyes closed tight she knew the precise moment when I took the bottle into my hand.

And though I had not given permission to cum… she came. And as she came (wetly) I worked the neck of the bottle inside her so that she could not stop herself from cumming all the harder.

“I can hear them,” she almost screamed, as her cunt squirted out its entire contents, in big arcing spurts.

Months later, towards the end of her training, I arranged for her to have a genuine audience (it seemed the least that I could do after all the hours of pleasure she had given me). But I can honestly say that she never came quite so intensely, or so often as she did when we were alone in the quiet room, with the shadow men.

As I said: sometimes it is what is inside the head that makes the difference.

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