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🕑 Added 2022-09-15 23:00:03 +0000 UTC“I wish you were here, John. I wish you were doing this to me.”
I am, Karen. I’m making you want to do it and I’m letting you do it. I see you lying there in just your underwear and you look even better than I’d imagined. What kind of panties are those?
Karen smiled teasingly. She didn’t know if John really could see her or if he was being poetic. Her curiosity rivaled her desire to avoid raising his ire and ruining the mood. “Can’t you see?” she trilled.
I want you to tell me. C’mon. Admit it.
“A thong… the kind with really just a little patch of fabric in the front and those thin little straps everywhere else.”
You certainly don’t much care for having a lot in the way, now do you?
“No. But I’m not a slut,” Karen reminded him.
Of course you’re not. Now take off your bra. Do it slowly—take your time with it. I know you want to be naked, Peej, but remember: you’re not doing this for yourself. You’re doing it for me. And I want a nice, long look at my property.
Karen bit the inside of her lip. He had to needle her now, when her arousal was at its height.
She undid her bra and watched as her breasts slowly came into view. They were more than big, they were succulent—fulsome and almost overripe in their lusciousness. Just looking at them, Karen wanted to touch them. She felt like she was seeing them through John’s eyes. That he was there watching her, waiting to take her in his arms. Ready to do more than look, far more… actually put to use her magnificent body, give it the delicious excess it was so well-suited for.
She had the longing; it filled her body. So too did she have the conviction that John would be able to do as he claimed. Own her. It made no more sense than her lust, but it felt good to believe it. Just for a moment.
Now I want you to touch yourself, but don’t just touch yourself. You’re not a mechanic repairing an engine. Not even a woman tending a need. You’re my woman and you’re going to touch yourself the way I would. Put your hands at the outer slopes of your breasts and just feel a little. Don’t try to please yourself, not yet. Just get a taste.
Karen felt her fingers caress her velvet skin as if they were a stranger’s—though their intimate touch was far too knowing for that. Her nipples hardened, reddened, just waiting for her own caress.
Now your nipples. Use only your thumbs and forefingers on them. And only squeeze them a little. We’re not working on an engine, remember, not using a wrench. You’re delicate, exquisite… a work of art. We’re using brushstrokes, Karen.
Soft pangs of delight rippled through Karen when she obeyed, pinching the little rosebuds. There was a frisson, a discomfort with how John vacillated between such loving words and his view of her as little more than a piece of meat. It was awkward, but not… uncomfortable.
More like Karen would’ve liked it not to work… would’ve liked if his treating her like a whore turned her off… but all her feminism seemingly couldn’t compete with his sexual sleight of hand. It went right past her mind and spoke directly to her body.
Harder. It’s alright to hurt yourself a little. You’re not here to go unharmed. You’re here to enjoy yourself. You’re still having fun even when it hurts, aren’t you? After all, you are a superhero.
Karen panted heavily. Her lust built. She was a superhero—she took pride in it—and he was molesting that pride with his words, but she couldn’t help herself. She responded to it.
“I’m the one who’s doing the touching,” she reminded him. Or maybe herself. She wasn’t sure.
But you’re pretending I’m there with you. Go on—tell me what you’re doing. I know how much you like knowing you’re on my mind.
“I’m feeling my breasts now… not just my nipples… all of my tits… they feel so soft, I love it… is this how they feel to you, future-boy?”
You really are needy. Yes, Karen, they feel like just about the greatest thing in the world. But I’m not here to fuck your tits, I’m here to fuck you. Start moving your hands down your belly. Touch the skin on the way down. Just use your fingertips, nothing else. Now take your panties off. See how much time you can spend just feeling them going down your legs, brushing against your skin, making you more and more naked. Tell me when they’re off; let’s see how patient you can be.
It took a while for Karen to speak next. She could’ve scoffed, could’ve laughed at how bizarre it was. John had told her to keep him waiting; the tension she felt was that she didn’t want him waiting, that she wanted to please him now, shower him with her affection right now. Her own pleasure was tied up in that. She almost wanted him to stop cooing to her with his sweet words and call her a…
Karen couldn’t even finish the thought. She kicked her panties off and spoke in a slow, heavy voice. “They’re off. I’m not wearing anything now.”
Put your hands on your thighs. Push them apart. Get them as wide as you can. Then you have my permission to touch your pussy.
Karen moaned as her hands moved over her naked flesh, the mirror unremittingly showing her each sensual motion. He didn’t have to call her a whore. She looked like one. But what was so wrong with that? A slut was just a word for a being of pure sexuality and she liked feeling that way—why shouldn’t she like the word?
You’re quiet… don’t you want to tell me what you’re doing?
“I have my hands between my legs,” Karen gasped out. “My pussy feels—I’m opening it up with my fingers. It’s so wet. My clit is… I’m afraid to touch it. It’ll make me explode, I just know it, and then I won’t be able to touch myself anymore. It’ll sting too much. But it feels so nice, too. I’m going to come really soon—really, really soon!”
That’s good. Keep your hands where they are. I wouldn’t stop touching you—wouldn’t stop making you feel good—so you’re not allowed to stop either.
Karen dared to rub her throbbing clit, staring at her wanton reflection in the mirror. She begged: “John, what are you doing? Are you stroking your cock?”
If you were here, would you be doing it for me?
His voice made her head spin. She couldn’t wait much longer. As much as an orgasm might put a stop to her fun, she was too greedy to be content with anything less than that ultimate pleasure. Her fingers raced over her clit.
“Fuck me, John! Fuck me!” she cried. Slipping two fingers into her slippery womanhood, she fucked herself and her engorged clit.
You’re a good girl to fuck, aren’t you Karen? That’s what you were born for: to be a slut. This feels good because you were meant to be a good little cock-whore for some lucky guy like me.
Tears ran from Karen’s eyes—not wholly of discomfort or distress. This couldn’t be happening to her. She was a good person, a hero. She shouldn’t be getting off on something so wrong. Yet she could picture her sister, Supergirl, getting her brains fucked out by that tentacled monster and she suddenly wished she was back there, her legs spread wide, her pussy obscenely dripping while one or even more tentacles forced their way into her womb.
That was the only point of comparison she had to John. She wanted him to fuck her, but it didn’t seem like any human could do what she needed from him.
Her fingers worked more insistently at her sex, making her inner muscles churn, making herself put out more of her juices. She smeared them all over her folds, then went at the tiny bud of her clitoris. She didn’t have to coax it out of its sheath. It was standing well clear of it, virtually demanding her own touch, and she brutalized it as she knew John would’ve if he were more than a voice. It hurt, but she realized now that some things felt too good not to hurt. She squeezed her fingers on her invulnerable clit and slid their pressure to the very tip of it.
There was no denying the thrill that exploded through her body. She gasped, her breasts heaving like an avalanche that could somehow move both up and down, while her heart raced. She couldn’t stop herself; John wasn’t even talking to her. Wasn’t calling her a slut. She was just acting like one. She fingered her clit until the tensions in her cunt were irresistible. Then she curled her fingers inside of her sensitive slot and that was it. She came.
“I’m a slut, I’m a slut, I’m a slut,” she whimpered, but it didn’t sound like she was abusing herself. It sounded like a magnificent confession.
The orgasm was as good as it had been with the beast, with the orgy of tentacles… enough to let her know that there was all kinds of potential for satisfaction locked up inside her, but her climax still only just took the edge off her arousal. It left her with a whetted appetite—a gnawing, empty feeling inside her sex that she knew was waiting for John.
She wanted more. She feared more. Maybe she might be able to disarm her sex drive of its tormenting ways if she could at least lay eyes on John. Maybe watch him while she touched herself, the way he seemed to be looking at her.
Could she feel his eyes on her now or was it just wishful thinking? What was the difference, anyway, between his presence and the sheer need she felt? So far, there was none—but the hunger was exquisite. It was like she’d never felt anything but this craving. As awful as it was, there was such passion in her longing. It was something to live for.
Karen felt amazingly guilty for that. It might be romantic to love a man from afar, but it seemed pathetic—even traitorous—to be addicted to him.
It felt so good that it had to be a sin.
“Peej? Are you in here? Who are you talking to?”
Karen’s heart leapt. For a millisecond, her muddled senses led her to believe it could be John, finally here for her. Then she sorted through her satiation and got to reality—just in time for that feminine voice to come into the room and resolve itself into Supergirl. Staring at her naked on the bed. Seeing her with her hand between her legs.
Oh good, company. You can’t touch me yet… but you can certainly touch her.
If you keep doing as you’re told.
Comments
Shendude
Ohohohoh. Now that's an intriguing development.
