Cleaned 25 By timos111@hotmail.com Evidently Janelle was enjoying her evening art classes. Twice a week she’d be away for two or three hours, arriving mid-evening after Doug had already been home and rattling around in the silent apartment for what seemed to him like ages. Not that he could really grumble because he’d always been a bit of a loner, who liked having time to potter about in peace or watch obscure sports on TV without let or hindrance. But these days it wasn’t the same. He preferred having her around, even if they were each doing their own thing at opposite ends of the house. He wanted to be on hand. Ready for any chance to prove himself, or improve himself, in ways measurable in terms of her own satisfaction. The quality of her sketches was steadily rising. He’d take time to leaf through the jumble of discards on her workspace. She was getting technically quite proficient now that she knew about perspective and stuff like that, thought the subject matter was often weirdly fantasti-magorical. Then she’d burst into the apartment again, a dark and petite dynamo with difficult-to-contain chest, wearing trendy gear and bearing a large brown-cardboard folio under one arm, ready to tell him all about her evening. Possessing as she did such deep and ill-concealed cleavage, he wondered about the amount of individual attention she might be getting from the instructor. He’d bet his bottom dollar she was a lot more popular with the men of the class than the other women! “So, wotcher do tonight?” he greeted her. “We’re onto the history of art right now. It’s good. Some of it’s stuff I’ve come across before, but never really paid attention to.” “Like what?” “Like how the Egyptians always drew people from the side, but the eyes’d be, like, lookin’ right at you ...” “Yeah? Why?” “Fenton says it’s because they didn’t know any different. They were still figuring out how to draw.” Doug knew this already. It just so happened he’d taken some art history in his college days. He’d done so because of a girl in the class who he really liked. As it turned out, this stratagem was a waste of time because she ignored him totally all semester. He’d completed the course feeling chastened, but culturally enriched. Not one to spoil Janelle’s moment by showing off his own knowledge, he nevertheless got to his feet and went out to the bookcase - the one they’d relocated to the hallway. Must still have the textbooks from that class here someplace. He never threw out anything like that. Sure enough, there was still an introductory art text reposing among the macro- and micro-economics. He extracted it, and took it across to her. “That’s it!” she exclaimed, the pages falling open at so-called “Primitive art” (Africa and Oceania) and flipping on to the Egyptians with their funny stilted poses. “That’s what we were talkin’ about tonight” she enthused, her finger indicating some bas relief tomb friezes. “Though Fenton has a problem with African art being described as “primitive”” she continued. “He says there were great civilizations in Africa when these white-boy authors’ ancestors were still living in caves and painting themselves blue!” “You go, girl!” he dead-panned, “You tell ‘em!” “You gotta admit, Doug, this book is pretty Euro- centric. For another thing, it hardly covers Asia at all!” “What’s a Euro-centric? Sounds like a type of vibrator!” “Don’t mock me, Doug. Fenton and I reckon this kind of thing is pretty unbalanced, as histories go.” “It’s the winners who get to write history,” he murmured, the libertarian in him coming to the fore. “Plus that book’s about twenty years old now. Anyway, who in the hell is this Fenton?” She hesitated slightly before answering. “He’s in the class. We get along okay, I guess.” “I guess.” From that time on, Fenton-isms cropped up quite frequently in Janelle’s conversation. It emerged bit- by-bit from her various remarks that he was black, radical in terms of politics, very talented as an amateur artist, and had an athletic, powerfully- muscled physique. Probably well-hung too, Doug reflected sourly. She brought him home one evening after class, to show him her “studio” set-up. Doug was watching a cable sport channel at the time. Brad was out, as usual. He got to his feet in surprise at this unexpected visitor, though guessed straightaway who it was. “Honey, can I introduce you to Fenton?” said Janelle. “I just want to show him what kind of materials I got here to work with. Fenton, this is Doug.” Janelle did not offer Fenton any words of explanation as to who Doug was. Presumably this had already been covered long before now. “Pleased to meet you, Doug” said Fenton, extending a hand. Doug shook it, and winced at the powerful grip. The rest of Fenton was equally powerful, and handsome too. He was shorter than Doug but broader, with the barrel chest and sloping shoulders of a body-builder. He also had an irritating air of seeming to already know everything about Doug, which made Doug wonder what exactly Janelle had been saying to him. The two of them spent twenty minutes or so in Janelle’s “studio” (actually, half of Doug’s study) before emerging again. “Coffee?” Janelle asked, but mercifully Fenton was no dummy and declined on the basis that it was getting late. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Doug” was his parting shot as he left. “So, that’s the famous Fenton” Doug remarked. Janelle put her hands on the hips of her cut-off shorts and regarded him in silence for a few moments. “You got a problem with the “famous” Fenton?” she asked quietly. “No” he lied. “Don’t bullshit me, Doug. It’s in your contract. You gotta come clean to me on all your innermost feelings.” Oh shit, here we go. Coming clean on feelings had never come naturally. The first hint of emotion from anybody was always guaranteed to make him withdraw into his shell. It used to drive his ex-wife bananas. He took a deep breath. “Everything these days is Fenton this, Fenton that.” He subsided into silence again. “You don’t like him?” “What’s not to like? I only just met him.” “But he bothers you?” “I wonder what he is to you, that’s all.” A hesitation on her part. Then – “He’s a friend.” “That’s all? Just a friend?” “Yeah. Just a friend.” “A close friend?” “I … I been finding he’s someone I can open up to. We got a lot in common.” This was not making Doug feel any better. It’s not that he was a jealous type, unable to have anyone even glance at Janelle. Quite the reverse - he got a real kick out of others ogling her, seeing them getting off on visual promises that she’d never fill. But he felt it ought to be him she was close to. The one she’d come home to. The one she’d confide in. How could he get this across to her, without sounding petulant and juvenile? “Have you told him about us? The kind of stuff we do?” “Nah!” “Are you attracted to him?” “To be honest, Doug, I could fuck him in a New York minute. What a body! If I were into straight sex, I’d drop my draws for him the instant he said the word.” Finding it difficult to conceal his irritation at this, Doug snapped “So why don't you then?" "He hasn’t said the word. Besides, you know me. I could only do it if he were trussed up like a turkey, and I think he's too much of a bull to be into that". There she goes again. Not at all the answer he was looking for. She spoke as though the option of fucking Fenton were foreclosed only by circumstances beyond her control. If not for that, it wouldn’t be ruled out. She always stopped short of ruling this kind of thing out. “Anyway, what gives you the right to say who my friends are gonna be?” she demanded defensively. “Sounds like it’s gonna be a lot more than “friends”!” he shot back. “And what of it? What’s it to you anyway?” Her anger was now beginning to build at being challenged like this. He wanted to say “It’s everything to me! You’re everything to me!” But he couldn’t get out the words. This void in the conversation left her focussing only upon her own anger. “I been horny all day! I wuz lookin’ forward to some action with you tonight, and now you’ve made me mad! Fuck you, Doug!” “Fuck me? Promises, promises …” She paused to glare at him, dark face tight with fury, big eyes glinting. “I can fuck you all right. I can fuck you in ways you’ll never forget! But I’m so mad right now, that first I’m gonna have to fight you!” “Yeah? How, exactly?” He was smug about this. Like, did she really think … POW! Her bunched fist drove out from her side, straight and sure and with the power of a coiled steel spring, right into his solar plexus. If pugilism such as this was being featured on one of his sports channels, he’d have said it was beautiful to watch. She was not at all a big person, but her stance was perfect. In martial arts terms, rock-solid. Low and squat, an excellent platform from which to focus every ounce of strength into that straight-driving fore-arm. Her hips whirled round in an arc, extending her follow-through to give it all she got. Sure, she wasn’t very big, but she could hurt. He doubled over and went down onto the carpet like a rag-doll. The urge to vomit was almost overwhelming. Then she was upon him, grabbing, wrestling, manipulating him onto his back and getting astride. He tried to resist but she was too quick for him. She scooted up onto his chest and next his arms were pinned back by her knees, her hands encircling his wrists and pressing them to the carpet above his head. He was panting from the exertion of trying to free himself, wriggling and rolling his shoulders against the floor in an effort to buck her off. Her response was to slide further up, to keep those shoulders pinned but let the rest of him flail uselessly behind her, unable to get at her. He tried to use his head to lever those dark smooth thighs apart, and became suddenly aware of the very close proximity of the crutch of her denim cut-offs. In fact, it was chiefly her crutch that now kept him prisoner. The point of his chin was digging in to her pubic mound as she used it to apply pressure, to keep his head still and force it backwards, upwards. Very stimulating! To her, that is. The feel of the crisp linen of his business shirt against her bare thighs. The look of dawning helplessness on his face. The nudging and pressing of his chin against the furrow of her denim-clad sex, by now feeling all tingly inside as it gathered heat. The hunger that had been nagging at her all day was now reaching its height. He gave up, and lay there limply. A dull ache radiated out from his midriff. He could strongly smell her pussy through the denim jammed up against his jaw. “Give up?” she demanded. “I give up.” “I’m not finished with you. I wanna tie your hands.” “Should you be using that stuff on me in anger? I mean, is it advisable?” “I ain’t so mad at you, now that we’re even. Now that I got you right where I want you.” “If I do allow you to tie me, I don’t wanna be hurt anymore.” “I won’t hurt you. Promise.” She released him diffidently. He remained passive, so she quickly took the opportunity to whisk her tank-top off and use it to bind his wrists. This left her black-enlaced bust bulging and wobbling in fairly close proximity to his hungry gaze. God, she’s got fabulous tits! “I want to get off you for a moment. Can you promise not to move?” “Okay.” She stood and bent down to undo his belt and fly. He watched her swinging, swaying bra-clad boobs in awe and fascination while she ooched off his trousers and briefs. The sight of her deep dark cleavage was always instant hard-on material. Quickly she slid out of her own cut-offs and panties, then got back astride his be-shirted chest to pin him down once more. “Bad news, Doug. I AM still a teeny bit mad at you. You’re gonna have to really suffer ‘til you beg before I’ll be satisfied this time.” “You said you wouldn’t hurt me!” “I ain’t gonna hurt you. But you’ll come to find that it’d probably be the softer option.” “Huh?” “I’m gonna do a cock torture on you.” He looked up past her luscious bust into the pretty, sweet, ever-so-slightly malicious face above him. She reached back with one hand, and lightly with her nails she slowly scratched his dick. From its base up to its tip, she traced and re-traced the same delicate path with the tips of her fingers. He found it exquisite, yet wholly insufficient for his needs. The pain in his middle was subsiding, and he was getting turned on. Which was exactly what she intended. “Want me to fuck you?” He tried to act cool and nonchalant for a few seconds but his answer, when it came, was almost blurted out. “Yeah!” She kept up her teasing touch a while longer, until satisfied he had reached full stiffness. Then she eased herself back down his torso, leaving a slight wet-spot in his shirtfront where her pussy had been. She held his dick up at an acute angle until their genitals made contact, then pressed herself down until impaled on about half its length. It’d been a few weeks since he’d been allowed in there. He was thus acutely sensitized to this warm salty contact with the velvety clinging walls of her. Felt good to her, too. She did so like cocks. What a pity their owners’ attentiveness to one’s needs was so adversely affected, if such delightful and handy tools were put to too-frequent use! She was slithering about on him a bit, adjusting her position, pinning his bound arms and entwining his legs with her own. He thought she was being snuggly, or maybe showing concern for his sensual pleasure. Until he tried to thrust up into her. He only had about two inches of himself inserted, and he wanted to get deeper. A natural enough urge, under the circumstances. But that didn’t seem to be in her game-plan. Because she rode his thrust in a way that gave almost nil movement at the juncture of their genitals. He tried again. Repeatedly. And each time with the same result. It was a lot of work for very little friction. His cock never got to move deeper in or out of her than just a few millimetres at each thrust, and was each time returned to its original position. “Fuck me, Doug!” she urged. His answer was a grunt of exertion as he applied sudden and Herculean effort to try and catch her off- guard. But the way she had him held by her hands and legs, and the way she angled her pelvis away each time he thrust at her, made the stimulation minimal and maddening. “Fuck me! Don’t-cha wanna fuck me?” “Lemme go in deep.” “Oh. You mean like this?” She suddenly sat up straight on him, shoulders back and big bra-clad tits out-thrust, to drive herself down on him until his cock was buried in her to the very hilt. Christ! That felt really good for both of them! Then she was promptly back as before. Only his tip was inside, twitching and hunting, dabbing and darting. “Did-ja like that?” “Fuck yeah! Do it again.” “Mmmmm … nah!” “Whaddya mean – “nah”?” “Not until you beg.” “Huh?” “Beg me to fuck you.” Silence, while he chewed that one over. Then, in a tiny voice, he said - “Fuck me!” “Make it good! That’s not very convincing!” “Janelle, fuck me please! I can’t stand it!” “Why don’t YOU fuck ME? Come on, give it your best shot!” He did. To no avail. He could feel her slick heat, her clingy passage enveloping his tip, and the urge to get himself really moving in her was becoming more unbearable the longer it was denied. He raised his head to look yearningly downward, able to see his pale shaft greatly exposed, with only its very end hidden from sight by her fuzzy mound. “I can’t get it in deep enough. Meanwhile my balls are boiling over!” “You gotta beg for it. And make it good!” “Janelle, PLEEEEEEEAAAAAZZZZZEE!” “Please - what?” “Please hunny-bunches darlin’ sweetness-‘n-light with peaches and cream ‘n hundreds-and-thousands with cherries on top, fer chrissakes FUCK ME!!!” “Like this?” Another back-arching downward thrust, sinking herself on him up to his balls. Beautiful! Then back to tip-only insertion. He couldn’t bear it. He had to get in deeper. He had to somehow trigger a release for the pressure building in his testicles. “Please, Janelle. I gotta hump you. Please let me fuck you.” “You’re a sorry sight, Doug. You are totally helpless. Right now you can’t do a damn thing without my say-so!” This statement seemed to make his body go even more limp, even more ineffectual as he tried desperately to get a fuck motion going. Her body just rode up with it, her legs hooked over his and moving with him the way a ship rides each swell - with almost no net movement at the waterline. “You’re turned on by this, aren’t you? You really like the feeling of my cunt.” She didn’t normally use the c-word, preferring mostly to use the term “pussy”. Her saying “cunt” sounded deliciously dirty. “Yeah, I wanna fuck it! Let me fuck it!’’ “You wanna fuck my cunt?” “Yes! Yes-yes-yes-yes-yes!” “Like this?” Again she drove down hard. Fuckin’ hell! He nearly lost it that time! But she sprang straight back up again and he was no better off. “How was that?” “I wanna cummm!!!” he pleaded. “Go on, then.” “I can’t!” “Poor Dougsie-wuggsie! Isn’t able to cum! You’re really helpless, alright!” “You gotta help me out here!” “I’ve really got you under control, haven’t I! I can control you, just with my cunt.” “Untie me! I’ll jack off instead!” “Really? But I thought you don’t do that? Least- ways, not in front of somebody!” “I’ll do it! I’ll jack off!” “No. You asked for a fuck, and a fuck’s what you’ll get.” “Then let me fuck you!” “I AM letting you fuck me. A magnanimous gesture on my part, I must say.” “This is fuckin’ torture!” In blurting this out, it escaped him how literally yet inadvertently accurate this statement was. So Janelle decided to rub it in. “Yep. It’s torture by fucking. I’m going to show you that you CAN have too much of a good thing!” “TOO MUCH?!!? I can’t get enough! Please let me cum!” Janelle was getting close herself by this time. This was exquisite! His reactions to her teasing were as good as she’d expected. It always touched a chord in her psyche to see such desperate striving, such humble supplication, from the man in her life. The whole idea of it was getting her so hot, she reckoned she could probably reach orgasm soon enough without hardly moving a muscle. But this was no time to experiment. She had a man on the verge of nervous collapse here. The caring, nurturing side of her took over, and she decided to do what she could to ease this suffering. But instantly replace it with another. She sat down hard on him again, and this time she kept at it. Repeatedly she bounced herself up and down on his dick, plunging it into her as deep as he could ever wish for. Her boobs flung about vigorously, threatening to over-top the black-lace cups of her bra. He came in short order, and boy it was a whopper. His various ducts had accumulated a backlog of juice like you wouldn’t believe. She felt the extra hotness gush into her insides and felt the change of friction, the sudden sloppiness in there. This was the cue for Plan B to swing into action. She steeled her pelvic-floor to hold his prick inside her with an almost vice-like grip, and continued to hump him vigorously. Long, arcing strokes, riding the full length of his prick and not letting it escape. She used a tempo to match the natural inclinations of any man approaching his vinegar stroke. Which was fine, so long as he was still cumming. But now Doug was past cumming. In fact, he’d reached the stage when normally one would roll over, lay back, and light a cigarette. Janelle didn’t allow any chance of that. She kept it up - indeed, she kept him up. Unrelenting in her thrusts, she maintaining the full suite of sensations, stimulating and squeezing his cockhead, not allowing it to deflate. He stayed fully erect, the blood seemingly unable to subside, cum muscles still involuntarily pumping at his internal ducts. But now those muscles had nothing to pump on. He had jizzed well and truly. Already it was seeping out of her, trickling into his pubic hair, getting matted and slick upon her own short crispy black foliage. He badly wanted her to stop. This was getting really uncomfortable now. It was starting to hurt. He hadn’t known that what she was doing to him was even possible. Simply did not understand the physiology of it. He’d never ever realized that the very thing he’d craved only minutes ago could now become such an anathema. “Janelle! Stop!” “What?” “Please, stop!” “But … I’m fucking you! You wanted me to fuck you, remember? “But now I don’t! It hurts! “You were begging me!” “Stop!!!” He was close to tears, this was getting so intensely uncomfortable. Janelle herself was panting hard from this exertion. Both from the hard humping, and from the internal muscular control she was employing on him. But she wasn’t about to stop. Because now she herself was cumming. With his cock still hard in her and unable to subside, with the pained look on his face as she fucked him hard against his will, the fact that he was helpless to stop it, all this drove her over the edge. Now, at last, it was her turn. “Oh-oh-oh-ohhhhh! Fuck! Oh, fuck! Ohhhnnnnggggghhhh!” Gutteral groans continued to escape her throat as, oblivious to his continued pleading, she rode his captive cock until her last spasm had subsided. Then she fell away, finally sated. His cock flopped out, and at last the ring of pressure that had been damming up his blood flow was removed. He quivered and twitched where he lay upon the carpet. She rolled to his side and snuggled there, resting her head on the shirt-linen of his shoulder. Almost five minutes passed while he regained his composure. They both stared with unfocussed eyes at the ceiling, as if in a day-dream. At last, he turned his head to look at her. “What the hell was that?” “Like I told you at the start. Cock torture.” “I’ve never experienced anything like that in all my born days!” “Let it be a lesson to you. One which it’ll be my particular pleasure to repeat, if ever you argue with me like that again!” “Cock torture, huh?” “Yep. When I do that, I have total power over you.” “How so?” “You’re a victim of your own inclinations. First I can make you beg for me to fuck you. And immediately afterward, I can make you beg for me to stop fucking you!” “Point taken. But it’s something you’ll only ever get the chance to do to me once.” “I can do this to you as many times as I please.” “But I’m on to it now! You just revealed the secret!” “Knowledge of how helpless you are in that situation will not prevent you from letting yourself get into that situation!” “Oh yeah?” “Oh yeah.” “Explain!” “The male urge to cum is very strong. Even if you knew in advance that the price of cumming was going to be cock torture immediately afterwards, I’ll bet my bottom dollar you’d still want me to make you cum!” “Oh yeah?” “Oh yeah.” He dwelt upon this dire prediction for a minute or so. “How on earth did you get to figure this kind of stuff out?” “Trial and error.” “But … how did you even get the idea?” “Very few women know about it. When men cum, women think their job is done and all action stops. Not many carry on, just to find out what would happen. I did once, and my partner just about went up the fuckin’ wall! It was incredible.” “Does it take skill?” “Yeah, it does. It’s essential I hold you firmly inside me and keep your balls pumping. If your dick slips out or the rhythm gets broken, you’ll be able to find relief.” “Thanks for that information.” “It won’t do you any good!” He pondered this for a while longer. “Well” he said at last, “if nothing else, tonight I’ve learned that it’s better not to argue with you!” “Honey, that’s so sweet!” She kissed him tenderly on the cheek. Kissed him in a way she could never imagine herself doing with Fenton.