Fifty Shades of Pussy Spray

Fifty Shades of Pussy Spray

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

A perverse and intense relationship takes a sex fuelled descent into sado-masochistic hell as the psycho drama descends into sadistic madness.

Summary

A perverse and intense relationship takes a sex fuelled descent into sado-masochistic hell as the psycho drama descends into sadistic madness.

Content

Submitted: February 22, 2015

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: February 22, 2015

A A A

A A A


~~Fifty Seven Varieties of Grey


‘O’ For Men
The hum of the kazoo signified that the vigorous working in and out of the strap on dildo up Conan’s arse had breached even his high pain threshold.  Alexandra, still mindful of the occasion he had left her trussed her up for hours in darkness, gave one last sphincter stretching thrust before withdrawing the ersatz member.  It was coated with rectal mucus and lubricant, a faint smattering of shit. Alexandra couldn’t resist giving his arse a good slap with the studded paddle he had disciplined her with earlier. Before she released him from the bondage stocks she kissed him passionately on the lips.  Alexandra felt closer to him than she had ever done; surely this proved there was some depth and sincerity of the emotions he professed to feel towards her. While he had never told her he loved her, or liked her for that matter, his eagerness to assuage her and genuine despair at the prospect of her breaking off their arrangement must surely hint at something beneath his chilly abstracted demeanour she had surmised.
“I love you,” said Alexandra, momentarily drowning in his blue eyes. She immediately regretted saying it, seeing a curious mixture of alarm and disgust wash over his face.  Then his face relaxed into a broad grin and he croaked, “I love you…”
On his release from the bondage stocks he scooped her into arms and kissed her passionately, holding her tight. They dressed and smoked cigarettes.  Alexandra felt exhilarated, feeling they now both wanted the same thing, to be a ‘proper’ couple in a secure and loving relationship.  Driving home in the car there was an easy atmosphere, and she had never seen Conan so relaxed. Alexandra was not neurotically needy and was smart enough to know pushing him for a further declaration of love would be counter productive so she just enjoyed the inane chit chat.  Yet when he dropped her off at her parents’ house he did not glance back or offer a wave. Disconcerted, Alexandra fumbled and dropped the front door key.


Metal Fingers in my Body
Alexandra’s parents were elderly and clinically depressed and were always comatose on Zopiclone come 10 o’clock at night. She could troop around the house with impunity.  Asleep her parents carried on as if they were their waking selves, bickering and mumbling, her father loosing farts of frightening velocity at regular intervals.  She had her hair combed back severely and collected in a bead crochet scrunchie and looked like she’d just got back from the gym (which was her intention) in tracksuit and trainers. She threw the sports holdall, which contained her switch hitter costume, onto the kitchen floor. Alexandra poured herself a generous measure of her father’s vodka, dropped a couple of ice cubes into the glass and sat at the kitchen table. She lit a cigarette, using a saucer as an ashtray. She liked neat vodka and hated the fact that at social gatherings she was always offered white wine and hated the fact even more she never had the courage to tell them to fuck off and get her proper drink, one that would put ‘hair on her tits’ as her father charmingly put it. She could hear her parents’ synchronous rattling snores downstairs and derived comfort from it.  If she was honest Alexandra enjoyed being at home, while her parents were cranky and demanding she felt secure there, and there was little stigma attached to her about still being in the family domicile. Everyone knew how hard it was to rent never mind to buy in the fucked economic climate and in most people’s eyes her continuing residence made her a saintly figure. There she was a beautiful intelligent young woman, who could go anywhere and be with anyone, yet she stayed at home to devotedly look after her aged and confused parents. She felt little real affection for them, as they had been cold and diffident parents, and she enjoyed the control she now exerted over them. Alexandra bought dozens of strips of tranquilizers from a black market source and kept them topped up morning and night so their lives were largely somnambulant. Increasingly, she felt a compulsion to assert her power in relationships, to control, to pay back perceived slights.  Alexandra wondered why she was still here. Her life with Conan was to her knowledge was still a secret and she was regarded as shy and virginal, a good girl.  She should be a model, people would say. Why are you still in this shit hole town. She’d mention her internship and hopes for the future and lowering her voice mention her parents. That was her cover story. Truth be told she was struggling to figure herself out. She was that rarest of things, a female outsider. She disliked the company of males, who she found on the whole to be boorish, arrogant or weak and yet she had no female friends either. Alexandra reserved her most vehement loathing for ‘girly’ girls, like her erstwhile flatmate in the University Halls, who would squeal at the sight of anything pink and was endlessly pampering herself and preening. Alexandra poured another drink and lit another cigarette and got her smartphone from the holdall. No texts or missed calls. The prick was freezing her out she just knew it. In Conan she could sense a certain duality with herself; they were both in possession of compressed passions, paradoxical needs and confused emotional states. They were both repressed, despite their uninhibited sex sessions, reserved and aloof yet insecure and needy. It was a case of who blinked first, she thought, and I, Alexandra Rasputin, self styled ice maiden, have been a silly bitch and blown the ruse. I love you Conan. Fuck me. She started to text him, to apologise for her emotional incontinence, but halfway through decided it would exacerbate matters so she deleted the draft and concentrated on the vodka instead. Normally a couple of belts loosened her but she felt increasingly agitated, like something bad was about to enter stage right. The sex. She enjoys the sex. Alexandra had been called a frigid bitch and a lesbian at school and college because she repelled all sexual advances, but while she was curious about sex she felt nauseous at the thought of any emotional attachment intercourse may engender and the thought of giving her virginity away cheaply to some oaf on a one night stand offended her intellect deeply. Plus all the men she had met were arseholes, not remotely worthy of her pussy.  If she hadn’t met Conan, or any potential suitors had hit the £100,000 minimum imposed on the e-bay auction for her hymen, her cherry would no doubt be still there for the picking.  When she first saw Conan she desired him instantly, what woman wouldn’t, cool, sardonic, handsome with a gym buffed body. It was the contract though that made the sex possible, the thought of the fucking being a commercial arrangement, though she did worry it made her look whorish, but her rationale was that the arrangement made her financially independent and sexually empowered.  Also, the heavily stylised nature of their sexual liaisons, with the theatricality of their role play performances, the dressing up, the use of props, it seemed they did more acting now than actual fucking. Alexandra couldn’t remember the last time she’d sucked his cock or had it in her. It was all studded paddles and whips and butt plugs and nipple clamps with mutual masturbation at the end of it. Conan liked to wank off on her face while she sucked his balls and she didn’t mind this as it saved the wearisome prospect of performing fellatio for Christ knows how long (he always took a seeming eternity to come) and the obligatory catching his ejaculate at the back of her throat. She’d only swallowed his cum a few times; he seemed to enjoy having it passed back into his mouth or spat on his balls. And they had never had penetrative sex in the Rumpo Room. He’d tried to stick his cock up her arse once when she was trussed up in the strappado but her frantic thrashings (she’d nearly dislocated a fucking shoulder) dissuaded him from forced entry. So she had the best of all things; a financial contract obliging her to have sex, an obligation that actually entailed very little fucking. And she enjoyed the moderate pain. The paddles and whips she found frankly ridiculous and just left her with a sore arse, but she enjoyed the ropes and the spreader bar, the hot wax, it made her feel cool and clear inside and helped dispel her neuroses and self loathing. It kept the horror at a distant, those crippling feelings of futility and insignificance that would creep up on her during the wolf hour. She rubs her temples and lights another cigarette, the kitchen now wreathed in smoke. Her phone vibrates. A text from Conan. He can never see her again. He will continue to finance her but she should never contact him or turn up at work again. The prick. Even though she had been half expecting it she feels a cold rage and hurls the glass of vodka at the wall. He’s got some balls, especially after the Al Jolson shit he’d pulled the week before. Was this some power play shit? Was she meant to ring him (no doubt to greeted by his anodyne voice mail message) to confirm she was needy and possessive, a hysterical wandering womb? Or was it some repressed faggot thing because she’d polished his prostate? Give him his due, he had acquiesced and let his asshole be roundly fucked while she had refused him the pleasure of taking her arse virginity.  It wasn’t so much a sense of propriety that made Alexandra repel his anal advances but rather the prospect of pain and the hygiene implications.  After he’d suggested to her they make the taking of her arse virginity the centrepiece of a Rumpo Room assignation she’d had a dry run, alone in her bedroom and her parents snorting incongruously in chemical slumber next door, with a vibrator. Lubed up she only got it a few inches in before she felt a sharp stab of pain and more alarmingly thought she was going to shit herself.  Dirty anal.  She’d watched a programme the other week, a peek behind the scenes of the porn industry, mainly to gauge the extent of her whorishness.  Her perception of herself was that she was on a par with or slightly superior to the wife or girlfriend of a successful professional footballer. The porn actresses spoke about the adult industry obsession with anal and double penetrations. Contrary to Alexandra’s preconception of porn actresses being either lobotomised bimbos or fucked up drug cases they came across as hard nosed and business orientated, while their male counterparts were whiny and emasculated away from the cameras. The actresses spoke in a matter of fact way about their gym routines and diets, how they eschewed alcohol and the need to watch their food and drink intake around shoots. No heavy meals before a deep throat scene else you were liable to leave your lunch on your co-stars balls. And coffee was a no no up to a day before an anal extravaganza, indeed you practically had to fast in case you shit everywhere on set. At this point Ron Jeremy was wheeled in to provide an evidential anecdote, explaining how a ‘chick’ had once excreted all over him after an energetic pounding in the reverse cowgirl position. The actresses were technocrats of the body, more akin to athletes in their corporeal discipline than the whores of Babylon of At this point Ron Jeremy was wheeled in to provide an evidential anecdote, explaining how a ‘chick’ had once excreted all over him after an energetic pounding in the reverse cowgirl position. The actresses were technocrats of the body, more akin to athletes in their corporeal discipline than the whores of Babylon of popular conception. Where the fuck was her mind going? The vodka was affecting her now, muddying her thought processes. She kicked off a trainer and stubbed her cigarette out on the sole of her foot. Alexandra bit her hand to stifle a scream. The pain helped focus her mind and roused her from her stupor more effectively than half a dozen black coffees. Yes she could make excuses for Conan, consider the mitigating circumstances. Fuck that, thinks Alexandra. That is what good girls do.  Keep away from the phone for a start. What to do? She puts the kettle on. Alexandra considers making an espresso but remembering the shitting porn star settles for a cup of green tea. Conan you old slut, let me think about this.
To be continued…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

~~Fifty Seven Varieties of Grey


‘O’ For Men
The hum of the kazoo signified that the vigorous working in and out of the strap on dildo up Conan’s arse had breached even his high pain threshold.  Alexandra, still mindful of the occasion he had left her trussed her up for hours in darkness, gave one last sphincter stretching thrust before withdrawing the ersatz member.  It was coated with rectal mucus and lubricant, a faint smattering of shit. Alexandra couldn’t resist giving his arse a good slap with the studded paddle he had disciplined her with earlier. Before she released him from the bondage stocks she kissed him passionately on the lips.  Alexandra felt closer to him than she had ever done; surely this proved there was some depth and sincerity of the emotions he professed to feel towards her. While he had never told her he loved her, or liked her for that matter, his eagerness to assuage her and genuine despair at the prospect of her breaking off their arrangement must surely hint at something beneath his chilly abstracted demeanour she had surmised.
“I love you,” said Alexandra, momentarily drowning in his blue eyes. She immediately regretted saying it, seeing a curious mixture of alarm and disgust wash over his face.  Then his face relaxed into a broad grin and he croaked, “I love you…”
On his release from the bondage stocks he scooped her into arms and kissed her passionately, holding her tight. They dressed and smoked cigarettes.  Alexandra felt exhilarated, feeling they now both wanted the same thing, to be a ‘proper’ couple in a secure and loving relationship.  Driving home in the car there was an easy atmosphere, and she had never seen Conan so relaxed. Alexandra was not neurotically needy and was smart enough to know pushing him for a further declaration of love would be counter productive so she just enjoyed the inane chit chat.  Yet when he dropped her off at her parents’ house he did not glance back or offer a wave. Disconcerted, Alexandra fumbled and dropped the front door key.


Metal Fingers in my Body
Alexandra’s parents were elderly and clinically depressed and were always comatose on Zopiclone come 10 o’clock at night. She could troop around the house with impunity.  Asleep her parents carried on as if they were their waking selves, bickering and mumbling, her father loosing farts of frightening velocity at regular intervals.  She had her hair combed back severely and collected in a bead crochet scrunchie and looked like she’d just got back from the gym (which was her intention) in tracksuit and trainers. She threw the sports holdall, which contained her switch hitter costume, onto the kitchen floor. Alexandra poured herself a generous measure of her father’s vodka, dropped a couple of ice cubes into the glass and sat at the kitchen table. She lit a cigarette, using a saucer as an ashtray. She liked neat vodka and hated the fact that at social gatherings she was always offered white wine and hated the fact even more she never had the courage to tell them to fuck off and get her proper drink, one that would put ‘hair on her tits’ as her father charmingly put it. She could hear her parents’ synchronous rattling snores downstairs and derived comfort from it.  If she was honest Alexandra enjoyed being at home, while her parents were cranky and demanding she felt secure there, and there was little stigma attached to her about still being in the family domicile. Everyone knew how hard it was to rent never mind to buy in the fucked economic climate and in most people’s eyes her continuing residence made her a saintly figure. There she was a beautiful intelligent young woman, who could go anywhere and be with anyone, yet she stayed at home to devotedly look after her aged and confused parents. She felt little real affection for them, as they had been cold and diffident parents, and she enjoyed the control she now exerted over them. Alexandra bought dozens of strips of tranquilizers from a black market source and kept them topped up morning and night so their lives were largely somnambulant. Increasingly, she felt a compulsion to assert her power in relationships, to control, to pay back perceived slights.  Alexandra wondered why she was still here. Her life with Conan was to her knowledge was still a secret and she was regarded as shy and virginal, a good girl.  She should be a model, people would say. Why are you still in this shit hole town. She’d mention her internship and hopes for the future and lowering her voice mention her parents. That was her cover story. Truth be told she was struggling to figure herself out. She was that rarest of things, a female outsider. She disliked the company of males, who she found on the whole to be boorish, arrogant or weak and yet she had no female friends either. Alexandra reserved her most vehement loathing for ‘girly’ girls, like her erstwhile flatmate in the University Halls, who would squeal at the sight of anything pink and was endlessly pampering herself and preening. Alexandra poured another drink and lit another cigarette and got her smartphone from the holdall. No texts or missed calls. The prick was freezing her out she just knew it. In Conan she could sense a certain duality with herself; they were both in possession of compressed passions, paradoxical needs and confused emotional states. They were both repressed, despite their uninhibited sex sessions, reserved and aloof yet insecure and needy. It was a case of who blinked first, she thought, and I, Alexandra Rasputin, self styled ice maiden, have been a silly bitch and blown the ruse. I love you Conan. Fuck me. She started to text him, to apologise for her emotional incontinence, but halfway through decided it would exacerbate matters so she deleted the draft and concentrated on the vodka instead. Normally a couple of belts loosened her but she felt increasingly agitated, like something bad was about to enter stage right. The sex. She enjoys the sex. Alexandra had been called a frigid bitch and a lesbian at school and college because she repelled all sexual advances, but while she was curious about sex she felt nauseous at the thought of any emotional attachment intercourse may engender and the thought of giving her virginity away cheaply to some oaf on a one night stand offended her intellect deeply. Plus all the men she had met were arseholes, not remotely worthy of her pussy.  If she hadn’t met Conan, or any potential suitors had hit the £100,000 minimum imposed on the e-bay auction for her hymen, her cherry would no doubt be still there for the picking.  When she first saw Conan she desired him instantly, what woman wouldn’t, cool, sardonic, handsome with a gym buffed body. It was the contract though that made the sex possible, the thought of the fucking being a commercial arrangement, though she did worry it made her look whorish, but her rationale was that the arrangement made her financially independent and sexually empowered.  Also, the heavily stylised nature of their sexual liaisons, with the theatricality of their role play performances, the dressing up, the use of props, it seemed they did more acting now than actual fucking. Alexandra couldn’t remember the last time she’d sucked his cock or had it in her. It was all studded paddles and whips and butt plugs and nipple clamps with mutual masturbation at the end of it. Conan liked to wank off on her face while she sucked his balls and she didn’t mind this as it saved the wearisome prospect of performing fellatio for Christ knows how long (he always took a seeming eternity to come) and the obligatory catching his ejaculate at the back of her throat. She’d only swallowed his cum a few times; he seemed to enjoy having it passed back into his mouth or spat on his balls. And they had never had penetrative sex in the Rumpo Room. He’d tried to stick his cock up her arse once when she was trussed up in the strappado but her frantic thrashings (she’d nearly dislocated a fucking shoulder) dissuaded him from forced entry. So she had the best of all things; a financial contract obliging her to have sex, an obligation that actually entailed very little fucking. And she enjoyed the moderate pain. The paddles and whips she found frankly ridiculous and just left her with a sore arse, but she enjoyed the ropes and the spreader bar, the hot wax, it made her feel cool and clear inside and helped dispel her neuroses and self loathing. It kept the horror at a distant, those crippling feelings of futility and insignificance that would creep up on her during the wolf hour. She rubs her temples and lights another cigarette, the kitchen now wreathed in smoke. Her phone vibrates. A text from Conan. He can never see her again. He will continue to finance her but she should never contact him or turn up at work again. The prick. Even though she had been half expecting it she feels a cold rage and hurls the glass of vodka at the wall. He’s got some balls, especially after the Al Jolson shit he’d pulled the week before. Was this some power play shit? Was she meant to ring him (no doubt to greeted by his anodyne voice mail message) to confirm she was needy and possessive, a hysterical wandering womb? Or was it some repressed faggot thing because she’d polished his prostate? Give him his due, he had acquiesced and let his asshole be roundly fucked while she had refused him the pleasure of taking her arse virginity.  It wasn’t so much a sense of propriety that made Alexandra repel his anal advances but rather the prospect of pain and the hygiene implications.  After he’d suggested to her they make the taking of her arse virginity the centrepiece of a Rumpo Room assignation she’d had a dry run, alone in her bedroom and her parents snorting incongruously in chemical slumber next door, with a vibrator. Lubed up she only got it a few inches in before she felt a sharp stab of pain and more alarmingly thought she was going to shit herself.  Dirty anal.  She’d watched a programme the other week, a peek behind the scenes of the porn industry, mainly to gauge the extent of her whorishness.  Her perception of herself was that she was on a par with or slightly superior to the wife or girlfriend of a successful professional footballer. The porn actresses spoke about the adult industry obsession with anal and double penetrations. Contrary to Alexandra’s preconception of porn actresses being either lobotomised bimbos or fucked up drug cases they came across as hard nosed and business orientated, while their male counterparts were whiny and emasculated away from the cameras. The actresses spoke in a matter of fact way about their gym routines and diets, how they eschewed alcohol and the need to watch their food and drink intake around shoots. No heavy meals before a deep throat scene else you were liable to leave your lunch on your co-stars balls. And coffee was a no no up to a day before an anal extravaganza, indeed you practically had to fast in case you shit everywhere on set. At this point Ron Jeremy was wheeled in to provide an evidential anecdote, explaining how a ‘chick’ had once excreted all over him after an energetic pounding in the reverse cowgirl position. The actresses were technocrats of the body, more akin to athletes in their corporeal discipline than the whores of Babylon of At this point Ron Jeremy was wheeled in to provide an evidential anecdote, explaining how a ‘chick’ had once excreted all over him after an energetic pounding in the reverse cowgirl position. The actresses were technocrats of the body, more akin to athletes in their corporeal discipline than the whores of Babylon of popular conception. Where the fuck was her mind going? The vodka was affecting her now, muddying her thought processes. She kicked off a trainer and stubbed her cigarette out on the sole of her foot. Alexandra bit her hand to stifle a scream. The pain helped focus her mind and roused her from her stupor more effectively than half a dozen black coffees. Yes she could make excuses for Conan, consider the mitigating circumstances. Fuck that, thinks Alexandra. That is what good girls do.  Keep away from the phone for a start. What to do? She puts the kettle on. Alexandra considers making an espresso but remembering the shitting porn star settles for a cup of green tea. Conan you old slut, let me think about this.
To be continued…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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