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I was in my late 20s before I found out there was a term for it. Asocial. All it really means is that there isn’t a drive to socialize with others and you’re usually more comfortable alone or with maybe one other trusted person. I hoped Celeste might be that other person. At least for the duration of our contract.
As I thought about finally getting to do with her what I wanted to do, my cock throbbed and pulsed in my hand. The image of being inside her tight little pussy caused me to start to cum. And the thought of putting it into her ass hole made me explode.
I couldn’t believe my good luck and I only hoped my hand played out as well as I was hoping it would. If so, then Celeste would be mine for the taking before no time at all.
Chapter Two - Celeste
The smell of smoke hung in the air. Both fresh and stale, it was all pot. It must have been like a hot box in there.
At least the noises had stopped. I knew April had her boyfriend in there and at least one other girl. There were a few more people who’d come and gone, but I’d lost track. I wasn’t surprised she wanted to smoke up. She had been really busy in her bedroom.
I both envied her and didn’t. She was even more sexually adventurous than I was and had long ago lost her virginity while I still had mine.
That was probably why I couldn’t imagine being fucked by so many people at once. It likely felt a lot better with your cherry already busted. Though it was hard to imagine, with all the high jinks she got up to. I accidentally walked in on her once – to be fair, she was fucking on the couch – and the phrase ‘sweet fancy Moses’ actually left my lips.
Slipping a hand under the covers, I ventured further into my sweats. My fingers circling my pussy, I tried touching myself. Actually putting a finger inside. It really was a no go. Stroking the outside felt really good but as soon as I tried to go any further, even to put a finger in, I was met with almost a wall of resistance.
I tried to relax and did it again, pressing the flat of my finger up against my pussy and slipping the tip in. It became abundantly clear that this was as far as I was going to get without screaming.
I sighed and slipped my hand out before things could get bad. Too late. I tried not to think about it. Yet the memories come back at an unstoppable bed.
Me lying in my bed, much like I was on April’s couch. Blankets pulled up to my chin as though that was going to protect me. I felt silly and scared at the same time. I’d started wearing two pairs of pajamas and a tightly tied robe to bed but none of it helped.
He would come in no matter what. Slipping into my room, looking like a shadow in the hall light. Nothing I tried to do protected me as he got his hand under the covers and down my pants, putting his finger in there, covering my mouth with his other hand as I screamed and cried.
It really hurt but he kept doing it. Luckily, it never went any further than his finger, but that was enough to make me resistant to penetrative sex forever after that.
I really was grateful to April for taking me in. But her frequent “hobbies” were rather distracting. So, I was trying to find a job and move out on my own for the rest of the lock-down.
The college made me leave my dorm on the same day I lost my job. I’d been working at a bar on the Upper East Side which had also closed down due to COVID. I wasn’t going home and had very few options before April took me in and still didn’t have much going for me. I wanted to try and get back out on my own if possible.
The phone buzzed on the table.
I recognized the number immediately.
Mark.
Shit.
More images flashed through my mind.
They were unwanted but they were coming anyway, just like the fingers under the cover molesting me.
I remember Mark cuffing me and spanking me.
He always made the cuffs too tight and spanked too hard. I would scream to let him know it hurt, but it didn’t work. It just seemed to turn him on even more.
Then there were the nipple clamps. Sometimes the custom-made ones. Other times plain clothespins. They pinched my nipples to the point where I wanted to cry in pain.
It was supposed to be kink. That was what Mark kept calling it, but it wasn’t. It was abuse. He got off on hurting me and didn’t care if I got anything out of it or not.
