("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text -------------------------------------------------------- This work is copyrighted to the author © 2009. Please don't remove the author information or make any changes to this story. All rights reserved. Thank you for your consideration. -------------------------------------------------------- If I Had You Here by Anonymous (address withheld) *** A man tells his cyber-sex girlfriend what he'd do to her if she where actually there with him instead of just talking dirty through emails. (Mdom/F, voy, toys) *** Sure, you think you're safe, there. At your computer. Mouthing off about what you'd do if you were here with me. Or should I say fingering off? You think it'll never happen. Maybe not. But if I had you here, you wouldn't be so sure. If I had you here you'd have no choice about it. You'd do what I told you to, or out you'd go, back where you came, back where you belong, back at your computer. You wouldn't want that, would you? So you'd do what I say, whatever I say, no matter how low down. No matter how your cheeks burned with the humiliation of it, and your muscles ached from the discomfort. You'd take it, and you'd thank me and ask what next. You'd know you had no choice. You'd give that up. From now on, you'd know who was boss. So when I told you to jump, you wouldn't ask how high, you'd jump as high as you could. And when I told you to strip, you'd start dropping clothes, and you wouldn't stop till I told you to, even after you were naked. Cause I'd toss you the razor, and tell you I want you bare, and you'd start stripping off that patch of hair around your dick, and it would catch and pull and hurt, and I'd smile. And maybe I'd toss you a bar of soap, and tell you to mix it with your spit and lather up, and you'd do it, till your mouth was filled with the taste of soap, and your crotch bare and raw and red, so that every touch is a burning, stinging, painful pleasure. Then I'd toss you the diaper. Blushing already, you'd fumble and fasten it around your waist, almost concealing your hard-on. Cause you'd know what would be about to happen. You'd take your orders like a good little puppy, and walk out the door, with nothing but that flimsy piece of cloth. You'd have no keys, no ID, only enough money to buy the beer, not even any shoes. And you'd know that you'd better come back. You'd ignore the look of the shopkeeper, the taunts of the Hispanics on the corner, the wrathful eyes of somebody's mother. You'd walk to the store, and buy the beer, and start back. But, perhaps knowing you'd be punished for it, perhaps just to wash away the shame, you'd drink one of the beers on the way home. And you'd stand on my doorstep, humbly listening to me tell you how you look, a full grown man in a diaper, standing on a public street, carrying a paper bag full of beer. I'd tell you to put down the bag, and stand up straight, and soil the diaper. And, eyes pleading to be excused, you'd obey. And I'd tell you to take out a beer, and that's when I'd learn that you'd already drunk one, and then I would become angry. I'd order you to run once around the block, leaving the beer on the doorstep. Your eyes would open wide at the idea of running by those guys on the corner, imagining what they'll say about you, in your dirty diaper. But you'd do it. And by the time you'd get back I'd have already taken in the beer, and drunk one. And you'd arrive, out of breath, feet burning and sore, crotch irritated from the damp abrasion of the diaper, and I'd let you in. I'd probably order you to drop the diaper in the slop pail, and dry off with another diaper. That one would go in the bucket too, but before I let you put back on the lid, I'd have you bend down and take a deep whiff, poking your head deep into the half-full filth-pot. When you stand up your face would be green as well as red. Now, for the first time, I would allow you to approach me. Standing, legs spread, eyes downcast, hands clasped behind you, you would wait as I examined, probed and tweaked. I would test your pain threshold, feeling just how far this can be twisted, how low these can be stretched. Mutely, you would allow me to pry open your teeth and run rough fingers around your mouth. Finally, gratefully, you would hear me order you to your knees. I would order you to close your eyes and open your mouth. You would wait, not knowing for how long, until I would be pleased to water your parched throat. It would gall you to realize you had still not seen my body or my cock, had not yet touched me with your hands or mouth. Yet already I have used you, abused you, worse than you imagined possible. Your eyes would stay closed, your hands clasped, your mouth open as you gulp and swallow the acrid stream. When I finished, you would be ordered to stand and follow me into the play room. Your fear would make you hesitate at the door, when you see the framework, and the toys on the wall. I would order you to go to the wall and take the dildo that's the same size as the largest cock you have ever been fucked by. You hesitate, but you know you must be honest, and you select one, knowing how it will hurt you to be impaled upon it. I would grin, and order you to put it back and take the one two sizes larger. Trembling, you would take it, and, as I instruct you, you'd lick and stroke it with your tongue, till the tip is shiny and slick. I would explain to you just how you are to rape yourself with it. I would warn you that if you do not use as much force as I wish, if I do not feel you are being hurtful enough to your asshole, I will take over. You would know enough to fear that, and you would obey. At my command, you would begin by placing the head of the monster phallus at the opening of your anus, and you'd push just slightly, stretching the opening. Generously, I would allow you to remoisten the rubber dick with spit, and reposition it before giving the order to thrust. Taking a deep breath, you would force the dildo into yourself. Contemptuously I would dismiss that so- called-thrust, and urge you to try again, repeatedly, harder and harder. Roughly, brutally you would attack your own butt, pushing, twisting, and literally screwing it deep into your guts. You would be crouching there on the cold cement, and tears would fill your eyes, as the wrenching and tearing continues. Now, suddenly, I would order you to yank it out, and you would do so, leaving your ass exposed, gaping wide and burning to be filled. And now, with brutal candor, I would describe what I see, the miserable wimp who has just allowed his ass to be ravished at his own hand, who now squats there, like a dumb animal, still holding the smeared implement of his abasement, waiting for me to order him to lick it clean again. And so we would proceed. I would teach you new ways to defile and discomfort your body, make you bind your balls with rough sisal rope, force you to run the harsh hemp up and down between your legs faster and faster, till you think you smell smoke. I would instruct you in the proper use of the catheter, watching you grit your teeth and you force the blunt probe up into the hole at the end of your slave dick, pushing it farther and farther, until it penetrates your defenses and your own piss streams out, beyond your control. I would have you bind the tube in place with tape, gradually filling an oversize enema bag with the piss that would soon be used to clean you out, and even after that would not be allowed to go to waste. You would learn the true lifting capacity of your tits, as alligator-toothed clamps bit into them, and ever- growing weights would be hung to swing and bounce and pull. You would, at my bidding, go to the wall to select those implements you fear most: this curt with the thin leather flicks at the tip, this brutal-looking ball- stretcher, this packet of sterile needles, this beeswax candle. Sheepishly, as if suddenly a virgin, you would pick up a couple of condoms and add them to the pitiful pile. And, in time, when I felt you were ready, I would point you to the special table. Without my even having to say the words, you would climb into the stirrups, legs spread wide to expose your sensitivities. Firmly you would strap in your own ankles and thighs, knowing how vulnerable this makes you and doing it anyway. Leaning back, you would tighten the strap across your neck, and adjust the clamps that keep your head in place. You would stretch upward to pull down into place the ring of leather covered wood, until it seems to float just inches over your face, in an unspoken invitation. And, with your own trembling fingers, you would maneuver your wrists into their restraints until you hear them lock into place. Then -- only then -- would I begin. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than a trusted partner. 4-million people around the world contract HIV every year. You only have one body per lifetime, so take good care of it! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Kristen's collection - Directory 63