"Christ, no," I shouted. I pulled at the cuffs. There was no way in the world I could get free, except if they let me go.
"Come now, Paul," Charles said. "Sex should be a total experience. You should try everything. Some people dote on having their ass fucked."
"Not me, you son-of-a-bitch," I shouted. "You're not sticking your cock up in me." I wrestled against the cuffs again, but that only served to tighten them.
"The more you struggle, the more pain you'll have to bear," Clarissa whispered to me. "Relax. You'll like it."
For some reason, Clarissa's voice had a calming reaction on me. I stopped pulling on the cuffs and allowed the blood to flow back into my hands and feet. Then I became aware of my cock, still in Clarissa. I was amazed that it was still hard.
Charles applied some sort of sticky ointment to my ass. "The first time we allow lubrication," he said.
When his finger jammed up into me, lubrication or not, I let out a scream of pain.
"Relax," Charles said harshly, "or I'll really give you something to yell about."
I tried to relax, but I couldn't. All I could think of was the horrendous size of Charles's cock. It was huge. And within seconds it was going to slide into my asshole. And still my cock, deep in Clarissa, stayed hard.
Finally, Charles pulled his finger out of me. He got up on the bed. I felt his semihard cock rub against my ass, forcing itself slightly into the crack of my ass.
"Please don't," I begged. "Please. Please."
"Ah. Now that's what I like to hear," Charles said. "A fucking whiner."
I tossed my head, trying once more to get out of the cuffs, but there was nothing I could do.
"Okay, raise his ass, Clarissa," Charles said and Clarissa immediately pushed her hips up, raising my ass the few inches that the ropes allowed.
I felt totally exposed. My ass was sticking up in the air, all greased and waiting to be fucked. How in the hell had I gotten into such a situation? I felt tears of shame well up in my eyes. If only my Goddamned cock would get soft, I told myself. Then I'd know I wasn't enjoying this. I must be queer, I thought. Or why would my cock be hard?
I didn't have too much time to think about myself, for suddenly I felt the end of Charles's cock pressed up against my asshole. Then he shoved slightly, and I felt the huge knob slide into me. Pain seared through my body. It felt like my asshole was being split apart.
I yelled and screamed and cursed, but I did nothing except cause myself more pain.
"Okay," Charles said. "If you want it that way, here goes."
He pressed brutally against my asshole, and I felt what had to be his whole cock jam into me. I felt dizzy from the pain. My body wanted me to pass out. I knew it. But I didn't. I just lay there suffering.
"Relax, darling," I heard Clarissa whisper. "It won't hurt nearly as bad."
There was nothing else I could do but follow her advice, except that relaxing in the position I was in wasn't easy. But I willed myself. Charles wasn't moving, and after what seemed an interminable time, the pain did seem to lessen. Not much, but to a bearable level.
That's when Charles began to move. He was fucking me. Using my ass like I had used women's cunts. It was shameful, embarrassing, humiliating. I was a pervert… a queer. Somebody to be used. Abused. And still it was exciting. So damned exciting.
Charles fucked for a long time. He realized that I was enjoying the pain he was causing me. And then, after a long, long while of agony, he said to Clarissa, "Move with me."
Suddenly, Clarissa started to milk my cock, which was still in her and which was miraculously still hard.
I hadn't realized how close to an orgasm I was. She had barely begun moving, milking me, when I felt I was near. I was frightened to death that I would come before Charles, and that he would continue.
I moaned, trying to beg Clarissa to at least not make me come. To allow me the incentive of sexual excitement to bear what Charles was forcing on me.
But she didn't stop. She gasped into an orgasm of her own, moving so violently that she took me over the brink with her.
But, thank God, just as I moaned into my own orgasm, I heard Charles moan. He lunged against my ass, spurting into me, as the pressure of his body forced me deeper into Clarissa.
I have to admit that I'd never had a more thrilling orgasm in my life. It seemed to last for a lifetime. It seemed as though it would never stop. I could do nothing but moan, and spurt more and more of my come into Clarissa.
But it had to come to an end. I screamed out in pain as Charles jerked his cock out of me. Already my asshole was sore and raw.
Charles went around the bed, loosening me. When I was free, he told me to get up.
I pulled out of Clarissa, and did as he told me. I wasn't able to look him in the face.
"You'll get better at that," he said. "Now go shower and clean yourself out. You're serving dinner for us tonight."
After I had cleaned up, inside and out, I walked back into the bedroom. Charles and Clarissa were both stretched on the bed, still naked, smoking cigarettes.
"Everything is in the oven," Charles said. "Go start to serve. We'll be out in a minute."
He called after me. "Wear what we have laid out for you," he said.
I walked into the kitchen. Laying on one of the chairs was a maid's outfit. A black skirt and blouse and a white apron. Did they expect me to wear that? They were out of their minds!
"I went to the front door, opened it and ran to the car. I dressed quickly and left. I knew they knew I'd leave… just as well as I knew they knew I'd be back."
As it was mentioned earlier, Paul I. has become so completely preoccupied with searching for a new twist in sexual activity that, even if he permits himself to be subjected to psychotherapy, the chances that he will be able to alter his lifestyle to any appreciable degree is extremely unlikely. Such a pessimistic prognosis is further strengthened by the subject's apparent inability to diversify his interests and by his susceptibility to boredom.
CHAPTER TWO
Ever since I can remember, I've been the plaything of the Gods. They bounce me around for sport, just to see how I'll react, what I'll do about it – which is nothing. What can one do when everything works against you, conspires to make your life one rotten break after another? You hear women all over the world screaming how their lives would be different if only they were beautiful – but I've got news for them. There's a heavy price to pay for beauty, and fate extracts that price gleefully, over and over and over…
I guess I began to realize it when I was twelve years old. Naturally, I was a lovely child. My hair was a flaming red then, and my child's green eyes looked at you innocently from under long, thick lashes. I knew I was exceptionally pretty, of course. Children are painfully – or smugly – aware of such things. But it never dawned on me that my loveliness at so young an age would be a source of sexual assault.
But since Father is a highly successful corporation attorney, we lived in the East 60's, just off Fifth Avenue, and my playground was Central Park. I had a nanny for years, but by the time I was twelve, I'd managed to scream, yell and nag enough to get rid of the old bag. I insisted I was old enough to take care of myself… my first major mistake.
There used to be a man who came to the park every day, sat on a particular bench, and would watch me playing for hours and hours. We spoke to each other occasionally, and I considered him a friend. One day, after I'd won my own independence from nanny, he asked me if I'd like to take a walk with him. His wife had just baked a whole batch of cookies, and I could have some if I went home with him. So I went. I followed him to the west side of the park and into a rundown building on Central Park West. I guess it had been something pretty great in its day, but it was just a shabby boarding house then. We went to the fifth floor and into his room. There was a sagging double bed, a washbasin, and a wardrobe closet that someone had sprayed with that funny spreckle stuff.