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Subject: Kink (FMM)
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The following story contains scenes which might , if you are too young or
sexually conservative, alarm or offend.  I would suggest, humbly, that you
reconsider reading  my story if, for any reason:  1)  it is illegal in your
state of mind to imbibe such material; 2)  it is, in fact, against your
current conscience to  absorb such material; or  3)  it is dangerous, in
effect, for your innocent eyeballs to take such notions as can be found inside
the lines of the story that follows.  If none of this is offensive or
qualitatively difficult for you to consume, then, by all means, progress.

Kink


part one

	Fantasies can dangerous playthings.  I found that out the hard way.  My last
boyfriend taught me that it was a good idea to keep some fantasies locked in
the dreamworld where they were born.  At least it’s best to really know a
lover before sharing the most private of fantasies.

	I’ve learned over the years that a lot of people, guys in particular, call
themselves kinky without having a clue as to what it truly means.  My first
boyfriend thought he was kinky, and I guess I thought so too, at the time.
Since then, though, I’ve come to discover that, while he was an excellent
lover, he was nowhere near the level of kink I’ve seen.  Of course, when
you’re eighteen, nineteen years old, anything out of the ordinary can seem
kinky.  I used to think that masturbating was kinky.  I had never done it
before, and my boyfriend urged me on, telling me that it was the quickest way
to get to know my body, to figure out what I liked and didn’t like.  He was
right.  Unfortunately, the first time I tried it, my mother walked in on me!
I was incredibly embarrassed, but I was also hooked for life.  

Still, kinky to an eighteen year old isn’t exactly grounds for arrest, is it?

	After that first time, I masturbated pretty frequently, usually once a day
but sometimes two and three times.  The other thing my first boyfriend
introduced to me was anal sex, but my nervousness and shyness prevented actual
penetration.  That would come later, in college, when I met a guy who really
loved anal sex.  I learned pretty quickly to love it myself.  When we had anal
sex, my orgasms were incredibly powerful; in fact, I first experienced
multiple orgasms during anal sex with that guy.  Now, I have multiple orgasms
almost every time I have sex – it’s a character trait that reduces men to
foppish grinning and to this day still leaves me with a sense of fluttering
accomplishment.

	But none of that is what I would call kinky.

	My figure has always attracted a lot of attention.  Perhaps ogling my breasts
feels kinky to some men.  In the sixth grade, my breasts started growing and
didn’t stop.  By the time I was in middle school, I wore a C cup, and by the
ninth grade I was up to a D.  Ack!  I hated it, especially the drooling
attention.  I covered my chest with my books and three-ring binders.  My big
tits gave me bad posture.  But the way they looked at me, creepy as it was
then, must have been the height of kink to those poor boys.
 
I’ve always felt that I have a great ass – I’m not one to complain about my
ass being too big.  I think mine is perfect:  prominent, round as a
provocative melon in the produce section.  And I’ve learned to use it to my
advantage.  Even now, when I notice that some stranger is checking out my ass,
I feel kinky, my mind sores to the possibilities, and my cheeks flush with
excitement.  There’s something taboo about the ass.  Still.  And perhaps
that’s kinky, eh?

But my boobs have always garnered the most attention, whether I like it or
not.  (Mostly, I don’t like it at all.)  I’ve been told by other women with
large breasts that their nipples aren’t very sensitive, but that hasn’t been
my experience.  My areolae are very small and dark, and my nipples poke out
nearly an inch – several guys have measured them!  (That’s kind of kinky in
the right circumstance!)  Once or twice, I achieved  orgasms from nipple
stimulation.  Usually, though, it helps if I’m tied up – for some reason, my
nipples are extra sensitive when I’m bound.  Am I getting ahead of myself
here?  Will you forgive me?

	My first truly kinky experience happened when I was a freshman in college.
My friend and I were at her boyfriend’s dorm room, playing drinking games.  I
had met her boyfriend a couple of times, but I didn’t know the other guy at
all.  Both of them were pretty good looking, though they didn’t really flirt
well – I’m an ant to sugar when a man flirts well.  At any rate, we played a
game of quarters, and in a little over an hour, we had finished a bottle of
tequila.  My friend ended up passing out, her head in my lap.  Feeling
raunchy, stupidly drunk and young, I winked at the two boys and unscrewed the
cap to another bottle:  I was big trouble then.  

	Before we knew it, we were getting pretty cozy with one another, and I have
to admit, I was pretty flattered to have the attention of two men at once.  My
friend had all but vanished from my mind now.  (We had scooted to another part
of the room and left her snoring away her drunk on the floor – horrible, I
know, but that’s the way college parties sometimes develop.  I was surprised,
though, when the guilt feelings didn’t hunt me down.  At one point I spilled
some tequila down the front of my top, and it became almost entirely
transparent.  It was petty obvious that I wasn’t wearing a bra – my nipples
were hard as rocks, not shy at all!  From that point, the guys had trouble
looking at my eyes, and I was feeling pretty wild, so I said:  "You want to
see more?"  They almost fell over.
 
So I took my top off without drama and sat there as if everything were
completely natural.  I felt a kind of slow surge of power loping through my
body, a tingling like take-off in my chest – nothing comparable had happened
before.  Clearly, the tequila acted as catalyst, but something else, something
dark and outside of control, settled over my body.  I leaned back and for the
first time in my life, I didn’t feel that familiar awkwardness, that quarrel
between my brain and my boobs.  I was who I was.  Yes, of course.  It was so
simple!  And suddenly so kinky!
	It wasn’t as if accepted the curse of my endowment (and it had been a giant
curse up to that point!); it was more like a vague contract to let this new
openness have its time in the candle light.  And the fact that these two boys
were near complete strangers seemed to add spice to the experiment.  
And the boys!  My god how they ogled in silence.  Their eyes registered the
kind of goofy spark that betrays charmless worship from a mile away.  Their
mouths dragged in the thick air like the answer to Pavlov’s wildest dreams.
And when I cleared my throat to startle them out of their extreme lack of
grace, they glanced at each other and smiled like idiots.

	In a phrase:  they were mine!

We decided to keep playing quarters, their eyes hungry, only now the stakes
were changed at my request – whoever won was granted a command.  I felt
controlling and nasty, knowing that I could hold my liquor.  Naturally, they
licked their chops.  I should have been leery – I mean, here I was with two
guys I hardly knew, and my friend could wake up at any minute and see me with
her boyfriend.  But that made it more exciting for me.  I felt inspired by a
raunchy version of Helen.

I was pretty good at quarters, so it didn’t take long for me to get the guys
out of their clothes, and they seemed eager to comply. Several shots after my
empowerment (did I say that?!), the two of them sat virtually knee to drunken
knee, quite naked and quite erect.  Much as I desired to gawk, to check them
out, size them up and gauge the goodies, I chose instead to keep my manners:
my periphery had a vague little party, but my eyes never glanced further south
than their naked chests.  I became the quintessential dom, drunk as I was.
That minor little control on my part seemed to set the stage for everything
that occurred afterwards.

Not surprisingly, the game balanced out, and the guys made me take my jeans
off.  They were amazed when they saw that I was wearing crotchless panties
underneath.  Apparently, although I had expected nothing at all to happen
during this night of drinking, I had nonetheless decided to keep a little
secret beneath my Levi’s.   
 
	Things got serious quickly.  I won the next round and announced that I wanted
to see them masturbate until they came.  Any hint of coyness had left my body
long ago by now, and I sat with back tremendously stiff, chest resting
naturally and heavily, elbows resting on knees spread not yet terribly sleazy.
They were somewhat shy at first – homophobia stunting their eagerness only a
few moments – but soon their athletic young arms began the slow dance I’ve
come to love so intensely.  And it didn’t take very long for them to get off
either – in about four minutes, first one and then the other (like singing
rounds) came.  They both grunted and twitched, shook their heads, and finally
let loose of whatever control they might have previously possessed.  One or
two spurts made their way across the foot or so that separated our eager legs.
I almost came myself, and I wasn’t even touching myself.  It was quite the
vision:  I had never seen so much come in my life.  I took a drop with my
fingertip and smiled warmly at the  two of them, placed it in my mouth – a
serene,  hungry Jezebel.  It drove them nuts.  They twitched a little bit
more.  One of them might have grunted again.  It’s hard to remember all of the
details.

We had just begun.  My girlfriend snored on the floor several feet away.

"That was very nice," I said.  Randomly, I touched my left breast, felt the
dark nipple snap against the pads of each finger. 

They had calmed down now, still holding their cocks.  I made long and slow eye
contact with each of them.  I was still hungry.  I hadn’t come yet.  It was
time for the next round.

	They wiped themselves off with their underwear:  perfectly crude and
beautiful.  Their eyelids looked heavier now, and something inside of them had
clearly shifted into a more relaxed, a more natural state.  I leaned back
again, knowing without a quick search that I was glistening with excitement.
My skin felt tight, savagely sensitive, and my insides churned and gushed:
somewhere in the middle of all of this, I was in control, right?  I had a
clear sense of the way things would develop, right?  

Uh huh.  

At long last (and this is where I think I lost control of the situation) I
finally gave in to the urge to look at them, to actually gaze at their naked
bodies – their sweat-sheened and hairless chests, their goose flesh, their
long athletic legs, their youthful cocks, still-hard cocks, their ravenous
urge for more and more and more.  For the first time in the evening, they
seemed horrendously beautiful to me.  After orgasm, their bodies had taken on
a kind of obvious charm.  Men were not, suddenly, only hard-ons:  they were
soft/hard, sweet/bitter, smooth/coarse, triumphant/struggling testaments to
everything wonderful in my world.  And I realized that it was best that they
were relative strangers to me, that our little drunken encounter, so far at
least, was not reliant on emotional conviction.  I felt remarkably free
looking at their beautiful bodies.  Even moreso with them looking at my body. 

 Plus, I was enormously horny.

We started the game again – the quarters bouncing off the table, the glug of
throats, the toxic reality of an idea gone too far to turn back.  I lost on
purpose.  The first commands were simple enough:  "Kiss him" and "Spread your
pussy for us."  (My moist could not be concealed, you see!)  But the third
loss landed me in new territory.  Glancing nervously over at his snoring
girlfriend a million miles away, the boyfriend said, "I want to tie you to the
chair and then fuck you with a dildo."  His eyes:  bullets of serious intent.

Wow!  I was stunned.  He was leaping right past the usual stuff.  But I was
even more stunned when I noticed that the suggestion had not bothered me a
bit.  I disarranged myself and stumbled as provocatively as I could (not very,
in my recollection) to the nearest chair, sat down, spread my legs and smiled.

	So they tied me to the chair with neckties.  First my wrists, then my ankles,
until I was helpless and spread-eagle and without a care in the world, and
delta-wet.  And they weren’t gentle either, which pleased me.  For the first
time I reveled in lack of control, recognizing instantly that that meant
complete control – and recognizing in retrospect one of the central precepts
of kink.  I couldn’t move my legs or my hands behind me.  I was spread wide
for their viewing pleasure.  From another part of the room I couldn’t see now,
he produced the dildo.  A ten inch vibrator, black with veins.  (Why do white
boys love the big black dildo?  Still a mystery to me!)  My eyes grew large,
I’m sure I had never taken anything that big before, so it was kind of scary.
I watched him rub KY jelly over the head and the shaft.  Then, gently as a
feather, he caressed my pussy.  I could hear the rhythmic snores of his
girlfriend, could feel the gawking.  I closed my eyes and waited.  He said to
his friend, "She’s wet as a river."
It happened slowly and rapidly.  I shook my head when I felt the tip enter me.
I heard guttural noises.  Strangely, I still felt in control.  More of the
dildo eased into me:  too cold, not hot like the real thing, but still
enjoyable.  Soon, the rhythm increased, the dildo reached further inside, I
let out a moan.  It felt incredible:  it was so big and so long, and the
vibrations made me feel like I was riding a tide.  He started slowly but in no
time he started fucking me with it, hard and fast, nearly rude, but still
wonderful as it gets.  Normally I’m a screamer, but I didn’t want to wake my
friend.  I came explosively, but I knew it was only the first of several
climaxes.  
I felt a cock against my cheek, hot and harder than any cock I’d ever felt.  I
didn’t need prompting.  His glans felt like velvet.  I surrounded him, tried
to keep my focus, to arrange my focus on the two wonderful sensations, but I
lost control and began to moan and scrape against the cock in my mouth.  I
heard moans, a deep panther sound.  My mouth was like a piston.  I came again,
this time loudly, and felt absolutely mad with passion.  The cock in my mouth
tensed and exploded, and I swallowed.  And swallowed.  Nearly gagged, but
didn’t.  The vibrations in my vagina didn’t let up, the thrusting didn’t stop.
I felt him coming on my chest:  wonderful, but suddenly I didn’t want to be
tied up anymore, I wanted to be set free, let loose, turned out.  Anything but
where I was at.  I let go of the cock in my mouth and made a sound that must
have made sense to the two of them.  Enough was enough.  I passed out.
When I opened my eyes, I was greeted with two boyish grins.  "Are you okay?"
one of them said.  "Did we hurt you?" the other said.  
	I pulled the mysterious cover over me and mumbled, "No, you were great."  
	I opened my eyes again to a queer urgency.  "You’ve gotta go now," one voice
said.  "She’s waking up," another said.
	I woke up moaning in my own bed several hours later.  I was sore and vacant.
And alone.  No trace of anything save my hangover and the rub burns on my
wrists and ankles.  And a twitch in my thighs that hasn’t left me since that
horrible morning.  I never got the complete story.  Apparently the one guy –
the one who watched and who wasn’t the boyfriend – took me home (dragged me
across campus? Fucked me in my sleep? Tucked me in with a gentle kiss?).  My
girl friend (apparently) is no wiser after the fact.  Strangely, I haven’t
kept in touch with her at all.  Why do you suppose that is?
Naturally, both of the beautiful boys desired repeat performances, and I might
have gone for it were it not for the blank time, the untraceable hours, and
the horrendous hangover I suffered.  I felt sort of guilty.  I turned down
their repeated offers, and eventually they let it drop.  Mostly I kept to
myself for a few months after that.
That night I discovered kink.  I think.  I don’t think there’s a moral to this
story.


               (continued in part two)


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