A School for Submission:
A Novel of Erotic Reconciliation
By
Imelda Stark
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 Imelda Stark
All Rights Reserved
ISBN-13: 978-0-9829073-2-0
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Imelda Stark is the nom de plume of a teacher and practitioner of psychotherapy at a major East Coast medical school (hence the need for a pseudonym). She has been exploring the psychologically complex realm of BDSM for fifteen novels now. Imelda strives to combine the eroticism she feels around challenging things happening to willing bottoms with an exploration of how we aficionados of these painful pleasures got to be the way we are. She welcomes and will respond to email at otherself@sbcglobal.net. A complete listing of her works, all available on electronic media, may be found in the Afterword.
CHAPTER ONE
I have always known I was weird. I’m not exaggerating. From my earliest memory I had the sense that everyone else saw things differently, felt things differently, and certainly didn’t think at all like I do. If I talked about the way the world seemed to me, my Mother would look at me like I was an alien and just shake her head. So by the time I started school, I figured out that keeping my point of view to myself was a good idea. That’s why writing this all down like my new (well, they’re actually not really new at all, but they still feel that way) Daddy and Mommy want me to feels so odd and risky. After all, no one is supposed to know the sorts of things that have happened to me, that I still like to have happen to me, especially the things about my bottom.
You see, people my age don’t have a Mommy and Daddy the way I do. I’m twenty-eight years old, and most of the time I feel that way and act that way. I have a good job as a psychologist, and dress like a professional in business suits that match, and work out at a gym, and have a nice apartment that I keep clean and tidy, though I don’t sleep there more than half the time any more. I used to have a few more friends. But since I found my new parents, I am busy with them quite often when I’m not at work. Maybe I’m also a little embarrassed that anyone would find out about my secret life. So, once I stopped being available for hanging out in the evenings or on the weekends, my friends gradually got the hint and stopped calling. A part of me is sad about this. But a much bigger part is glad. Since except for errands and keeping in shape, there is nowhere I would rather be once work is done than with my Mommy and Daddy, having them take care of me just the way they understand that I need.
They think it will help me to write about everything: how I got to be this way, and what I feel, and how it goes every day in my new life with them. I trust them a lot, since I have been so much happier since we found each other. They have never lied to me or broken a promise, even if it was a promise I wished they wouldn’t keep. Like doing something painful to my deserving rear end when I’ve been a bad girl (which happens a lot). So even though I’m afraid someone will find this writing and read it and know how weird I really am, I’m going ahead and doing what they think will be best for me.
I used to have boyfriends too, though not too many, and never for too long. Guys have always found me attractive, even though I am convinced I am too fat (in spite of what Mommy and Daddy say), especially in my boobs and hips. I don’t know why they do, but ever since I started having periods and grew my C-cup breasts and my big butt, males have paid attention to me. It’s odd for someone as shy as I am to attract that sort of notice. Part of why I had boyfriends was that I never was able to say “No!” very effectively when it would hurt somebody’s feelings. They would tell me how pretty I was, which I thought was just plain crazy. After all, I could look in a mirror anytime and see the truth. I mean, my face isn’t horrible, and my eyes are big and brown, the same color as my hair, and my teeth are straight, and I can look friendly when I smile. But I know what I am like under my clothes: all that feminine flesh, hanging off my bones and muscles no matter how hard I work out, so soft and vulnerable. Men like it, but I hate it and have wanted it to go away since I turned thirteen.
That was when my Stepfather came on the scene. Up until then, it had just been my Mother and me, since my Father left soon after I was born. Mother had always said that he couldn’t bear the sight of me. Probably it was because I had been a colicky baby and didn’t stop crying much for the first year or so of my life. The pediatrician eventually figured out I was allergic to the formula I was being fed (since Mother’s milk never came in). I got better on soy formula, but by then he was gone and we were left on our own. She said that we were both better off without him. But somehow I always knew she blamed me for driving him away. So I decided the best thing I could do was be as little trouble and as much help as I could. After all, Mother had to work so hard to support us on her own.
She was always pretty tired and cross. So no matter how hard I worked at not adding to her burdens, I still seemed to make her mad quite a bit. Whenever that happened, she would get a certain scary look in her eyes and walk very calmly to a big chair without arms in the living room. Her voice would sound soft, but I knew how mad she was because I could hear the tightness under the softness. She would say: “Olivia, come here and bend over my lap.” I would start crying immediately, but that never seemed to make any difference. Since once she got started she wasn’t going to stop until my bottom had reached what she deemed the proper shade of red. My skirt would go up (she always made me wear skirts), and my panties would be lowered. Then she would take my right wrist and hold it doubled in the small of my back (since when I was a kid I couldn’t help trying to protect my heinie when it was being punished). Then she would begin spanking me with her hard right hand, always lecturing me the entire way through about what I had done wrong. My panties around my knees kept me from kicking too much. But if I still managed to wiggle enough to distract her, she would hike up her skirt and throw her right thigh over my legs. That would pin them between hers and bend me over even more sharply. I hated this, since it showed my pussy more and made me even more embarrassed. So I tried hard to hold still enough, especially since she would spank me twice as long if she had to restrain me this way.
I never knew how long spankings would last, since I was much too upset to look at a clock or a watch if I had been wearing one. They seemed to last an eternity, as my bottom hurt more and more. By the end it seemed like it must be huge from the swelling and I was sure she could see it throbbing with every beat of my pounding heart. She never counted the spanks, at least not out loud. My mother just kept calmly lecturing me in that scary restrained tone of voice until she thought I had enough. I tried begging, saying I was sorry, being as quiet as I could, staying as still as possible. But I never figured out any way to be during a spanking that changed how long it would go or how hard she would hit my bottom cheeks. When she was done, I would know because instead of slapping my bottom she would begin stroking it. She would act almost like she was sorry. My Mom would croon in a sweet voice I never heard any other time: “There, now, Olivia, it’s all better now…I forgive you, and I know you’ll try harder…” I am ashamed to say how much I loved this making up part. I guess it’s because it was the only time she ever touched me kindly. Sometimes I wonder if I even arranged to be bad enough to get spanked just so I could get to that nice part at the end.
I’m not sure how young I was when Mother started spanking me, though I remember it from when I was in kindergarten on. I did try hard to please her, and the spankings became less frequent. By fifth or sixth grade I was good enough that they didn’t happen any more. A part of me was glad about this, but a part missed the stroking she did on my bottom after she was done punishing it. I guess I have to tell that something else started happening in kindergarten around my spankings. When I went to bed after one, I was thinking about her soft hand stroking my throbbing heinie while I was lying on my stomach trying to go to sleep. I got a funny feeling between my legs, kind of tickly, and I touched myself there. I found a little button of skin above where my pee came out. Touching it felt really good, and I kept doing it until I had some kind of wonderful explosion in my body that was the best feeling I had ever felt. After that, I played with myself that way after every spanking. But then I realized I could do it other times too. Soon I was doing it every day before falling asleep. The weird thing was, even when no spanking was involved, and after she had stopped taking me over her knee altogether, I still though about her stroking my burning spanked bottom cheeks every time right before the explosion happened.
So I worked very hard to be a good girl who didn’t make her Mother mad enough to spank her bare bottom, and I got very skilled at that task. My grades were always perfect, and my room was too, and my clothes were just the way she wanted them to be. The kids at school teased me some about being a kiss up. But I just tried to be nice to them and not call attention to myself and they mainly left me alone. I had a few girlfriends, usually other loner-types like myself. And I had my fantasy books where I could always lose myself in worlds filed with magic and mystery. I also had something else my Mother shared with me: running. She would run for half an hour every morning when it was barely light. When I was in third grade I asked to go along with her. She let me, and was surprised I could keep up. She didn’t know I had been running at school during lunch break in hopes I would get good enough that I could join her. Looking back, I suspect the spankings started to lessen when we started running together. But maybe that’s my wistful imagination, trying to see her as being nicer to me because of something we shared.
Running has continued to be a big part of my life since then. I was good enough at it that I was competing successfully by junior high. That was when my boobs and hips started growing, along with the embarrassing hair between my legs and under my arms. I was already struggling with feeling fat, especially compared to the other girls in my track club. They all stayed flat-chested well into high school. Plus, that was when my Stepfather entered the picture, complicating things even further. He transferred in to be the head pharmacist at the big drugstore where my mother worked as a pharmacist as well. In fact, he took the job she thought for sure she’d get, and she first complained about it bitterly. So I was quite surprised when she brought him home to dinner a few weeks later. He was a medium-sized guy, handsome in his way, I suppose, and very fastidious about everything. I felt uncomfortable around him from the start. Especially about the way he looked at my body on the sly, like when Mother was fetching more food from the kitchen. But she seemed extremely pleased with his attention. Within a few weeks more they sat me down and informed me that they were getting married in Reno that weekend and he would be moving in.
Stepfather’s eyes made me even more uncomfortable with my boobs and butt that were suddenly attracting so much attention from guys, both my own age and older. I talked about it a little with a skinny girlfriend from the running club, and she asked me if I had tried throwing up. I was totally grossed out by the thought. She said that if I couldn’t do that, I might want to just stop eating some meals. I first tried it with breakfast the next day. But my Mom went nuclear and refused to go running with me if I didn’t eat before we left. Lunch was easier, since I was at school and no one would know if I dumped my sandwich and fruit in the trash. I noticed after-school runs were harder after this, but my tits and ass stopped growing. Plus I lost five pounds and that seemed worthwhile. Then I kind of got obsessed and found I just couldn’t eat at dinner, especially with stepfather staring at my body and noticing that my plate wasn’t emptying.
I got away with it by moving food around on my plate and hiding it in my napkin for a week or two. But everything came to a head one Sunday dinner. Stepfather had completely taken over the house by then. Mother was meekly subservient to him, just like his Bible said she should be. So she just sat there when he went after me. He said: “Olivia, you are either going to clean that plate in the next half hour or suffer the consequences, and you won’t like them, I can assure you.” I asked what they were, and he smiled nastily and said: “Your Mother has told me that when you were smaller she used spanking to discipline you. I think if you are going to act so immaturely, we should treat you like a child. So if your plate isn’t clean, your bare bottom is going to be very unhappy at the consequences it will face, since I don’t believe in sparing the rod to spoil the child.”
I looked at Mother in horror, hoping for a rescue. But she had that same determined expression on her face that had been there every time I had gone over her lap as a child. Clearly, no relief was coming from that angle. I knew in my heart that my perverted Stepfather just wanted a chance to finally get a really good look at my ass. But I just couldn’t stand being bullied by him. So I sat there stubbornly and stared a hole in the food congealing on my plate. After half an hour had passed, he said to my Mother: “Take away her plate and bring back the wooden spatula from the kitchen. That should be a perfect paddle for spanking rebellious teenage bottoms.” When she returned, he forced me to stand and bend over the table. Then I was made to grab its far rim while my traitor of a Mother held my wrists. Next he flipped up my pleated uniform skirt, and lowered my white cotton panties to my knees. At last the creepy sonofabitch had me just where he wanted me.
I wanted to protest, to accuse him of being a child molester, but it was like my mouth was paralyzed. My only way to be powerful was to not let it show how mortified I was by the whole proceeding. I knew he could see my pussy quite clearly no matter how hard I pressed my legs together. I’d bet anything he was loving it, and I hated him for being such a lech. Then he took up the spatula, which was a blonde wood, and began paddling my bare heinie with it. The cracking sound it made was deafening, and it hurt much worse than any spanking I had ever gotten from Mother’s hand. But I vowed not to give him the satisfaction of crying out or struggling. Suffering in silence was something I was damned good at. That was part of why I could out-endure any other girl on the running team. The silent tears falling down my cheeks into the tablecloth were my only sign he was hurting me. He whaled away on my defenseless rear end for a good ten minutes, until it was red and throbbing. When it was clear he wasn’t going to get a word out of me, he stopped. Then he said: “She’s a stubborn girl, so we may be doing this every night until she learns proper obedience and respect for parental authority.”
Mother let me up, and I pulled up my panties in mortification. Then I stalked off to my room, feeling oddly victorious that they hadn’t broken me. My bedroom shared a wall with theirs. In a few minutes, I could hear them fucking next door. My Mother made loud animal noises that I had never heard before. In addition to appalling me, I’m ashamed to admit that somehow hearing the evidence of them getting aroused by spanking me turned me on too. Before I even realized it I was frigging myself off as I listened to their headboard bumping the wall as he fucked her. I would have bet anything that they were both thinking about my naked wiggling ass while he was giving it to her. She clearly came hard, and several times by the sound of it before I heard his own disgusting sounds of orgasm. So all three of us were thinking about my squirming naked spanked ass while I gave myself at least as many killer orgasms as she had just inches away from them through the thin partition. The irony of this was not lost on me.
So that became our nightly ritual for awhile. And my weight continued to drop. My shrinking rear end danced for my parents’ mutual sadistic pleasure as a kind of dessert. Once it became clear that I wasn’t going to eat, it was skirt up and panties down as soon as my half-hour grace period expired. I would receive at least a hundred spanks on each buttock. I started counting them to help me bear the pain. Then we would all go to our rooms and they would fuck while I masturbated. The whole thing seemed increasingly sick at the time, even more so as I look back on it. The only way I got out of it was by my weight dropping so low I fainted during a run after school. Suddenly I was in a hospital ward, being evaluated for an eating disorder. The staff picked up some weirdness in my vibe around my parents. Then somebody started asking the right questions. Finally, it was no longer a secret that I had been receiving bare-assed spankings bent over a linen tablecloth every night for weeks from my Stepfather while my Mother held my wrists and egged him on. A big confrontation took place, and it seemed like legal charges were going to be pressed. Then he literally packed up one night and disappeared. I don’t think my Mother ever forgave me for it. Our morning runs became history, as did any other friendly contact between us. But even though she was mad at me, I got my own shrink and my eating problem improved. I never got hit again while living at home, and life seemed to get better for awhile.
CHAPTER TWO
High school was a trial for me, much the same as I suppose it is for many teenagers. Of course at the time like everyone else I thought my own unhappiness was unique. I always got straight A’s, and continued to star on the cross-country and track teams in spite of my appalling boobs and rear end. My anorexia never came back. Though I always knew it was there inside me, lurking, just like it still is today. It whispered how disgustingly fat my breasts and buttocks were, and how much faster and sleeker I’d be if I could starve them off again. I always had boys and men after me because of them, wanting to touch them, craving to get my panties off and fuck me with their mindless penises. Saying no to the guys who plagued me was so hard. They seemed so pathetically needy and would look so hurt. So I evolved a whole suite of techniques for getting off the hook without letting them have me.
The first line of defense was to pretend like their eyes and minds were not constantly caressing my boobs and butt. I learned to let their longing just slide past me and go elsewhere. There were other girls, the flirty kind who were boy-crazy and wore clothes actually designed to show off their tits and asses. So why not imagine all that male lust I seemed to attract just slipping by me and going where it would be welcomed, even craved? Sometimes my magical thinking seemed to work, and I would seem to become gratefully invisible. Their fervid glances passing me by like Sauron’s eye barely missing Peregrin Took when he snuck a look into the Palantir of Isengard in Lord of the Rings. But some gazes seemed to scent my defenselessness. In those cases eventually I would have to be contending with more than just visual intrusions.
The boys and men that persisted in spite of my lack of responsiveness seemed to be excited by my passivity. The more listless I seemed, the more avid they became. Eventually I would find myself on a date, in a car, confronted with hot breath and eager hands, and hungry mouths and eyes. I learned early on that many of them would be satisfied if I surprised them by short-circuiting the seduction and taking the initiative myself. Rather than fending off their gropings, I would ignore them while I got my own hands busy. What did it matter to me if I could cut right to the chase by matter-of-factly unzipping their flies, taking out their cocks and balls, and jacking off the former while fondling the latter. I always made sure that they came on their own clothes, a sly sort of passive-aggressive revenge. Once I got really good at hand jobs, some of them achieved heroic trajectories, once even landing in the guy’s own right eye. I don’t think he noticed me giggling as he struggled to get his own spunk out of his eye. But he didn’t ask me out again, for which I was grateful.
The third line of defense, if invisibility and unresponsiveness failed and a hand job wasn’t acceptable, was to take them in my mouth. The problem with blow jobs was that I did have to let their cocks into my body. But at least it was in an orifice that was in my control (and with teeth…though I was too passive to use them). I never minded the taste of their cocks much, since most of them were clean suburban kids. Plus I have to confess that it became a bit of a power trip for me once I got good at it. No matter how big and tough the guy was, once I had his balls in my hands and his cock in my mouth, he was in my control, and I liked that. I drew the line at swallowing, though, and they didn’t seem to mind (or at least no one complained). Right at the end I would switch over from my mouth to my hand, and got them off spurting on their own shirts. I still wonder how they explained the mess to their mothers…
But even in high school, there were a few guys with whom these defenses didn’t work. In all cases they were at least a bit older than my peers, and in one instance a lot. These were the men who seemed to sense my submissiveness, who could sniff out the deep aversion I had to actually saying no to anything they wanted from me if push came to shove. The most important of these was Marty. He was a senior when I was a sophomore. I apparently caught his eye when he competed in a regional track meet where I won the girls’ 10K event. He was a runner too, but in his case unlike my own he was actually built for it. Marty was whippet thin with long legs and an air of animal-like intensity about him. I was sitting by myself as usual on the bus ride back to our own campus when he sat down beside me without asking and fixed me with his unnerving brown-eyed gaze.
At first I looked back at him with whatever defiance I could muster, trying to send the message that he was intruding on my space. Within a minute that resolve crumbled in me, and I looked down and internally kind of gave up. He leaned in close to me and whispered: “I want to get to know you, Olivia, is that okay to you?” I mumbled back: “I guess so…if you want…” Well, he certainly did want, and in the end I had no alternative to giving him exactly what he wanted, whenever he wanted it. It started when the bus got back to school. He said: “I’ll give you a ride back to your house now.” I retorted: “No, that’s okay, I always walk home, since my Mom works swing shift, so no need to trouble yourself.” He leaned in and responded with a touch of fierceness: “No, I insist. So you might as well just go along with the program. You wouldn’t want to disappoint me, now, would you, Olivia?”
I looked up into his intense brown eyes and murmured: “No, of course I wouldn’t…So I guess it’s okay…” The truth was that for the very first time my traitorous pussy was soaking my panties with its characteristic response to anyone dominating me. I had never experienced that reaction before and was absolutely mortified. I clamped my legs together, praying that he couldn’t sense the effect his presumption was having on me. The truth was, I was so turned on that I felt like I could swoon. It only got worse when he calmly took me by the arm and led me to his van right off of the bus. Marty methodically unlocked the passenger door and placing me in the seat before strolling around to get in on the driver side. He asked where I lived and I told him. He then proceeded to drive the opposite direction to a secluded overlook down a dirt road that was notorious as a make-out spot the cops didn’t patrol. There he parked the van.
Marty turned toward me and spoke: “Olivia, I’ve been watching and hearing about you for over a year. I know all about your little games for keeping guys from pawing you. So don’t even think about trying to fob me off with a hand job or a blow job. I’m going to have you the way I want. The less you resist, the more you are going to enjoy yourself. Right now, I want you out of those clothes. I can’t wait to finally see that amazing body of yours that I have been fantasizing about for all these long months.” He was so brazen that it stunned me. Plus the cold fact that he had been tracking me well enough to know about my techniques for keeping guys at bay totally unnerved me. He leaned over and kissed me. I cannot deny that I liked it—a far different kiss than the adolescent slobberings I had experienced before. He took his time, his lips gently sampling mine. Only when mine started to melt did his tongue delicately probe my mouth. The kiss lasted at least ten minutes, with his hands not immediately groping my tits the way every other guy had. Instead they stroked my face and neck until I felt actual longing for him to touch me elsewhere.
Only then, as my body subtly stirred in arousal, did he break free and speak. “I’m going to take your clothes off now, Olivia. I just want you to relax while I strip you and get to know your body. You are not required to do a single thing but just receive, do you understand?” I found myself simply assenting, as though he were using Jedi mind tricks: “Yes, Marty, I understand.” His brown eyes seemed to smolder with intensity as he held my gaze and responded: “That’s my good girl. Let’s move into the back of the van where we both will be more comfortable.” I felt ludicrously pleased at his approval, and docilely clambered through the aperture between the bucket seats. We sat on the foam-mattress-padded floor of the van, which was covered with a clean dark-colored fitted sheet. He closed the venetian blinds to cover the back windows of the van. The only light was a dim glow through the skylight and the front and side windows.
The interior of the vehicle was covered in a dark-colored carpeting that padded the walls and provided some insulation, though the day outside was pleasantly warm. Marty reached forward and started some soothing music playing in the tape deck. After which he lit a candle that he placed on the console between the front seats. It cast a flickering glow and emitting a pleasant floral scent. He then sat down in front of me and kissed me again. This time he was a bit less tentative as his hands stroked my short-cropped brown hair and face and neck. Soon they found the zipper of my track suit. This he pulled slowly down, after which the garment was eased off over my shoulders. The endless kiss continued as his hands slowly wandered over my shoulders, back, and flanks. He clearly was enjoying feeling my body through the still-sweat-dampened runner’s jersey. Once again, I was surprised that he left my boobs alone, since they were the inevitable focus for every guy I had messed around with to that point.
Next, Marty untied the drawstring of my track suit pants. He had me extend my legs as he drew them off over my legs after he had removed my running shoes. He continued the luscious kiss as his hands roamed over my legs, which were long and lean and muscular from all those years of running. By that point, I was so turned on that my panties and running shorts were sopping with my pussy juices. Even I could smell the scent of my arousal, which seemed stronger than usual when added to the sweat of my unshowered post-race body. He still refrained from touching my breasts and crotch. His hands stroked everywhere else as I got more and more turned on. Finally, when I thought I couldn’t bear the suspense, he broke off the kiss and said: “Tell me what you want, Olivia, and I will do it. But only if you ask me nicely.”
I was stunned. For the first time in my life, another human being had actually asked me to declare my own desires. I struggled to find words as he waited patiently, his hands resting lightly on my shoulders, his intense brown eyes piercing mine with their gaze. Finally, I ventured in a halting voice: “I want you to take my clothes off and make love to me…” The words shocked me as they came out of my mouth. That was the first time I had ever thought about sex in that way, as lovemaking. But that was how this unprecedented experience was feeling to me, and that was the language that emerged unsummoned from my brain. He smiled warmly and replied: “You forgot to say please…” I actually smiled back and retorted: “Okay, please?”
Marty smiled back in his quirky way. He responded: “As long as you’re sure it’s what you want…” He proceeded to pull my running jersey out of my shorts and over my head, revealing the sweat-soaked black sports bra that contained my way-too-plentiful boobs. That was the next piece of clothing to go. He pulled it over my head and off of my arms, letting them flop loose right out in the open. He stopped then and sighed, murmuring: “My god, they are so beautiful! And you seem to go out of your way to hide them. Is it because of how much attention they get you from guys?” I blushed at the compliment, which I had a hard time believing. But I responded truthfully: “I’ve never really liked them, and wished they and my ass would just go away. They’re nothing but excess fat that slows me down and gets me noticed in a way I’d rather not be.”
He looked actually a little sad at hearing this. Marty replied: “I’m sorry to hear that, since I think they are the prettiest breasts I’ve ever seen in person. Perhaps I can show you some ways that they are nice to have for you.” With that, he lay me down on the sheet and had me spread my arms wide. He began lightly stroking my skin, which was still slightly damp from my race. I had never been touched like that before, and I found it delicious. But it was also just on the edge of ticklish, which made me squirm slightly. He held my gaze as his hands stroked my shoulders, underarms, flanks, and belly. This last place jumped in some sort of reflex that made me giggle. After a few minutes, I got used to it and relaxed, and eventually started to wish that he would do the same thing to my boobs. That was the first time in my life I can ever recall actually wanting a guy to touch me there.
Marty raised an eyebrow quizzically, clearly asking me for permission. I responded: “Please touch them now…They really need you to.” He grinned slyly and retorted: “It’s a dirty job, but somebody has to do it…” Then he allowed his fingertips to wander from my armpits, which felt surprisingly delicious to be stroked, onto the mounds nearby. I was shocked at how wonderful it felt to have my breasts touched when I wanted them to be, and in a way that was so clearly designed to please me rather than him. Other guys grabbed them roughly and kind of mashed them, which felt jolting and invasive. But not Marty. It was as though he was trying to memorize them with his fingertips. His touch seemed to bring them to life, until by the time he had covered them completely except for my nipples they felt totally electrified.
I realized I wanted him to kiss me there, right on the place he had not yet touched with his fingers. I decided to be bold for the first time in my sex life: “Please kiss my nipples, Marty. They really want you to right now!” He looked surprised but smiled as he leaned forward to gently take my left nipple into his mouth. It felt amazing, sending a warm jolt of electricity right to my crotch, which was dripping with wetness coming out of my pussy. As he softly suckled one nipple while circling it with his tongue, he carefully stroked and massaged the other one with his hand. Soon I was moaning and writhing at the sheer pleasure of it all. Then he started switching back and forth, using his mouth on one side as his hands caressed the other. This went on for about ten minutes as the intensity of his sucking and pinching gradually increased. Suddenly I shocked both of us and came hard, moaning and writhing for over a minute right there on his van floor without anyone even touching my pussy.
Marty sat up looking quite surprised, and said: “Jesus, Olivia, you are even hotter than I had ever imagined! I guess I don’t have any more persuading to do about how nice your breasts can be, do I?” I shyly smiled back at him: “No, I guess you don’t at that. They have never responded like that before, so I had no idea they could…But that was wonderful!” He replied: “Well, we’ve only just gotten started. I don’t think anyone knew when we were due back from the meet. So we have plenty of time. Now it’s your bottom half’s turn, so let’s get those shorts and panties off. I’m pretty sure they are soaking wet, and not just from sweating either, unless my nose deceives me…”
This casual allusion to the scent of my arousal caused me to groan in mortification. Now he surely knew what a dirty little slut I was, just like my Mother always said. But I stayed still as he had commanded. He hooked his fingers under the waistband of my shorts and cotton panties. Then Marty eased them off over my shamefully big hips as I raised up to help him. Every other time a boy had taken down my panties it had seemed like the final capitulation in a struggle. But this time I wanted it to happen more than anything ever in my life before. And then I was completely naked on his van floor in the dim, flickering light of his candle. He cast my clothes aside and sat back and just looked at me with hungry eyes. Then he murmured: “Even more beautiful than I imagined…The prettiest thing I have ever seen in my life, Olivia’s naked body…”
Now, I was a girl who struggled with an eating disorder every day and who hated the sight of her own nakedness. So you can imagine this was a pretty complicated thing to hear. One part of me ate it up, loving to hear just what she had always hoped she would from a man whose opinion actually seemed respectable, given how obviously experienced he was with girls’ naked bodies. Another part screamed silently that he was lying through his teeth. Maybe he was just buttering me up so he could have his way with me. As if it wasn’t already obvious to both of us that he could do anything he wanted. But mainly, I just lay there in my submissive trance. The passive girl waiting to experience whatever was going to happen to her totally nude body, served up for him like it was on a platter.
Marty started by gently parting my legs as he held them by the ankles, until my feet were touching the side walls of his van. He then sat down between my splayed thighs and began stroking my legs with a feather light touch. This phase started from my feet and gently working his way up. Once he reached my inner thighs, which felt totally delicious, my pussy began becoming more and more insistent in its demands to be touched, and soon. My hips began to writhe slightly on their own as he surmounted my inner thighs. He gently traversed the crevice between my legs and my groin, grazing the edges of my bush, making me moan with desire. Then Marty began an incredibly tantalizing stroking of my pubes. He barely brushed them as the electric sensations were carried down to my pussy. All this was succeeding in driving me even more wild with the wish for him to for God’s sake just get on with it.
Finally, I just moaned: “Marty, please…” He sighed, and replied: “If you insist, dear Olivia.” Then he surprised me by placing his hands on the fronts of my hips and gently pulling my pussy lips apart. He bent his head to look at me and murmured: “So beautiful, and now I must kiss it until she comes again…” After all the blow jobs I had given in order to keep guys at bay, this was the first time one of them had gone down on me. To call it a revelation is like saying Johnny Depp is somewhat attractive. He broadened his tongue and softly, slowly laved my pussy from bottom to top, circling my clit lasciviously each time he reached the end of his stroke. By the tenth one, I absolutely exploded, writhing like a madwoman and rocking his van as I outright shouted in sexual release. I had not imagined it possible to come so hard. A part of me was appalled to hear the same sounds coming from my mouth as I used to hear from my Mother through the bedroom wall after she and my Stepfather had whetted their sexual appetites paddling my naked thirteen-year-old buttocks.
I have no idea how long my first orgasm lasted from Marty’s clearly expert cunnilingus. But sometime later (I suspect just minutes) I was collapsed insensate on his mattress. His mouth was still on my pussy, where it felt warm and comforting. I was alarmed to note that his hands were cupping my ass cheeks, holding my crotch up to his face as though it were a communion chalice. I opened my eyes, and his own intense brown ones were riveted on mine. Clearly, he had been watching my face the entire time I was coming. That thought seemed unimaginably naked to me. Between his hands on my rear end and his eyes on my face, I felt frighteningly invaded and vulnerable, but mute to say anything about it. He raised up his head after taking a final appreciative sniff of my pussy, smiled broadly, and said: “I hope that was as amazing for you as it was for me.”
So there I was, just having had two killer orgasms, including the best one of my life by far within the last few minutes, hearing totally reassuring words just as I was feeling overcome with shame. I don’t know how he sensed all this, but he said very gently: “It seems like you don’t have any idea how beautiful and sexy you are, or how perfect your body is, both to look at and in how it responds to me.” I felt stunned by these words, so opposite to what I imagined. Finally I was able to venture a pathetic little: “Do you really think that?” He looked very serious and sincere and responded: “I could spend all evening just holding your glorious ass and eating this sweet little pussy over and over again. Except I’m so horny that I think I’ll die of blue balls if I don’t get to fuck you very soon!”
I felt so grateful that I would have done anything in the world he wanted in that moment, and replied: “I’d really like you to do that, Marty.” That was the first time in my life I had ever actually wanted a guy to fuck me. And at that moment, I wanted it extremely badly. It also felt strangely liberating to actually ask for it. Every other time I had finally capitulated to being fucked after a long struggle of trying to fob the guy’s dick off to my hands or mouth. Always I finally felt like I had no alternative other than to be raped, since it was clear the guy wasn’t taking ‘No’ for an answer.
Marty rose up on his knees with a gentle smile. He held my gaze while he stripped off his own jersey and running shorts and jock strap. This was also the first time I was seeing a naked guy when I really wanted to. I liked his lean, tautly muscled body and firm, medium-sized cock. Somehow, the fact that it was only six inches long and average in girth was comforting to me. A couple of the guys who had battered their way past my defenses were a lot bigger down there and it scared me.
Marty reached into a pocket in the carpet lining his van and took out a condom, which he unwrapped and put on very matter-of-factly. Always before, the guys had grumbled when I had insisted they use one, but not him. He guided his cock against my slit, and began moving it around my pussy with his hand, getting it wet with my juices. That felt really good and sexy until I finally surprised myself again by saying almost fiercely: “I want it inside me, Marty, right now please.” That seemed to be his signal, and he supported his weight on his hands as he held my gaze. Then he pushed it all the way in, while we both groaned at how good it felt. Once he was inside to the hilt I was surprised that the little bone above his cock seemed to hit my clit dead center, sending a sexy jolt through me. That happened each time he pulled out and drove back in. Within about five minutes of this delicious fucking I started to come again. Without realizing it, I found my hands cupping his own taut little ass cheeks, pulling him hard into me as I screamed and bucked. Then his own pupils got huge and he began shouting as he came inside me, so hard I worried he might break the condom, until he collapsed on top of me.
We were both breathing as hard as at the end of a 10K, and our skins were sweaty and sticking together. Marty held me head in his hands and kissed me gently until we were both relaxed and our hearts had stopped pounding like crazy. He said: “Let’s get us both dressed and I’ll take you home. I know we both have homework to do, and I don’t want your Mom to suspect what is happening. But if you’d like, I’ll make myself available after we both finish track practice every day. We can spend some time like this every afternoon. At least for me, doing what we just did is about the best way I can imagine passing my time. How about you?” For someone who had always felt like she was reacting to what boys wanted from her, I was surprised to feel my own desire. I heard my usually wishy-washy voice saying firmly: “I would like that very much, Marty, so count me in.”
CHAPTER THREE
My Mother working the swing shift at the pharmacy turned out to be an even greater blessing than I had previously imagined for the next few months. It meant that Marty and I could have our sex dates every evening after track practice without anyone being the wiser. We both knew from the start that he was graduating in June and was heading off to a summer internship out of state right after the ceremony. After that he was already admitted to a college three thousand miles away. So this late Spring erotic interlude was going to be our only chance. I will have to give us credit for making hay while the sun shone. He seemed to make it his mission to force me to enjoy every part of my body that I most hated. This was an almost impossibly challenging experience for a girl with an eating disorder.
It all started, as you know, with him worshipping my boobs until I had a climax that first time. This became a ritual that had to be repeated every day before he would be willing to go on to the other activities that he had in mind for me. I have to admit that by the time it had been repeated the hundredth time the day before his graduation, a part of me actually believed his appreciation of them. Still, the eating disordered part thought he was certifiably insane for adoring something made almost entirely of fat cells. Now, I didn’t have such a hard a time with his enjoyment of my pussy. Though how he could stand to eat it when I knew it was such a dirty place was mysterious to me then. I have since come to understand that better, as you will find out if you keep reading.
My fat ass was a totally different matter. By our second afternoon interlude in the van Marty had figured this out and gone to work in his usual methodical way. He was waiting and simply beckoned me over when I came out of the gym after showering and changing. My hair was still wet and my heart was pounding for fear he would not be there. As usual, I felt totally passive on the outside, allowing him to guide me to his van with a hand on my arm like I was a docile child. But on the inside, I was ecstatic that the day before wasn’t going to be the only time. I was pathetically grateful that he had enjoyed me enough that he wanted to come back for more. That was the on-going theme of me and Marty: I wanted him and what he did to me more than I ever had anything else. But I almost never showed any desire. My body just reacted to whatever he chose to inflict on it, totally passive and submissive without one exception ever. It was the God-damned sexiest situation imaginable, until I uncovered other layers of my submissiveness years later.
So the second afternoon in the van, Marty undressed me in the back just as before. This time I was relieved to be clean and dry from having just showered. I had thought about it, hoping he was going to be waiting for me. So I had decided to not wear anything under my track suit. He was surprised by this, looking at me very intently as he said: “I think my little mouse of an Olivia is quite a vixen underneath her shy exterior. Here she is, nude and already with a sopping wet pussy, without even any panties or bra on. I shall have to reward her for her courage by making her come even harder, and more times too, before I let her go…” I sat there naked in the warm air of the van, the soft rock music playing in the background and the scent of the candle permeating the still air. I felt totally in his hands. This seemed at that moment like the most complete and joyful freedom I had ever known.
The second time, he followed the path he had started the previous day. Only this time while he gave me an endless opening kiss, his hands eventually found their way to my tits. I was once again shocked how much his touch there turned me on, since when other boys had groped them I never found it even slightly erotic. Apparently, when it was welcomed and done properly, my breasts wanted to be fondled and made love to. Within about twenty minutes he had kissed his way down my neck via my ears (also more of a turn-on than I had ever imagined) and begun suckling my nipples. Soon thereafter I had my first orgasm of that day. Once again I came without anything touching my clit or pussy, just from the wonderful sensation of his mouth on one nipple as his hand deeply caressed the other. He pinched and sucked so hard it almost hurt until all of a sudden it didn’t and I started yelling and writhing as I convulsed into orgasm.
Marty didn’t even pause, just kissed and licked his way down my belly until he found my pussy. Within ten minutes I was coming hard a second time as he held my ass-cheeks in his strong, wiry hands. Then he kept licking my clit as he slipped a finger inside my vagina. He held his palm inverted so the finger pointed towards his nose by the feel of it. His questing finger found a spot in there that sent an electric jolt straight to my clit and nipples. In a dozen minutes or so I was coming again, this time even more wildly. I was shocked at the hoarse noises coming out of my mouth as my body writhed uncontrollably under his hands and mouth for what seemed like a sweet eternity until the spasms passed.
At that point, I expected him to fuck me again, and was quite looking forward to it. But he threw me another curve. Marty said: “Time to turn you over, Olivia, so I can have a chance to play with that gorgeous ass of yours.” I groaned in mortification at the thought of anyone seeing, let alone touching, my fat buttocks. However, I was so spent from coming three times like a madwoman in the past half hour that I couldn’t muster an objection. So he gently rolled me over and spread my legs, with me blushing like crazy at the embarrassment of him seeing my bare bottom. He sat down between my splayed legs. Soon my distress increased as he began gently stroking my ass cheeks. He murmured: “So beautiful and perfectly feminine…They have just the right amount of padding, these delicious moons…So much sexier and more womanly than those other track girls. Except for that black sprinter Kaisha, whose butt is the only one nearly as spectacular as my dear Olivia’s…”
His touch felt wonderful, like nothing that part of me had ever experienced except when my Mother stroked my bottom after spanking it. But I was almost squirming with discomfort at how much I hated anybody looking at my butt, let alone fondling it and talking about it. But as usual my submissiveness carried the day. So I just lay there and took it for God-knows how many minutes. Then it got even worse. Marty began covering the same territory his hands had just navigated, only this time with his mouth. He was honest-to-God kissing and gently licking every bit of my massive buttocks. So this new outrage was going on, which mortified me even more. Then one of his hands had begun massaging my clit while the other had gone back inside me with a couple of fingers to find that amazing spot on the front side of my vagina. Before he had even finished kissing one of my buttocks I came like a freight train. Then I orgasmed a second time just as his lips and tongue reached the very bottom crease of my other ass cheek. Then, worst of all, he kept fingering my pussy inside and out as his tongue made its way down my ass crack, and he actually began licking my bottom hole. It felt amazingly good and sexy, but I was so grossed out by the thought of it that I could hardly contain myself. Then it got even worse as he began actually fucking me there with his tongue. Suddenly I came again, even harder. My whole hips convulsing wildly around him as I screamed into the mattress for a long, long time before I collapsed.
When I came back to my senses, I heard him murmuring: “That’s how a gorgeous womanly ass like Olivia’s ought to be treated! And I’m going to do it every day, whether she likes it or not…” I was mystified as to why he would possibly feel that way or want to do that. But the nice thing about being a submissive is that I didn’t even imagine I could have an objection. Marty said: “I have to fuck you now, I’m just too turned on to wait any longer!” I heard the sounds of his track suit coming off and the condom being ripped open and put on. Soon I felt his cock head rubbing my twat just like it had the day before. I wanted it in my so bad, and it felt different from behind, especially knowing his hips were touching my gross butt, but it was still wonderful. He pulled me up onto my hands and knees as we were fucking. Soon one of his hands found my clit while the other started playing with my repulsive breasts. They dangled loose in that position, grossing me out with how big and fat they were. But I couldn’t hold on to my disgust for long in the face of how good the things he was doing to me felt. Soon I was coming again, howling like an frenzied animal. This time, he joined me, his own hoarse cries of pleasure sounding surprisingly like my own freaky noises. Finally we both collapsed onto the mattress, truly spent.
For three months, that was pretty much how it went with me and Marty. He would wait outside the girls’ gym for me and guide me to his van and we would drive to the hidden spot. First he would make love to my breasts, pussy, and ass with his hands and mouth. Then he would fuck me once until we both came a final time. After which we would get our clothes on and he would drive me home. We didn’t communicate aside from these trysts. He never asked me out on a date, and on the weekends I never saw him. Somehow word got out such that other guys stopped pestering me, though I never knew how. But I was as grateful for that as I was for the mind-blowing sex I had with him five times a week for over four months. After the last time, the day before his graduation, he held me naked once we had both come and talked to me:
“Olivia, I know you are a shy girl, and that you hate your body, regardless of what I say or feel about it. I just want you to hold on to the memory that I think you are the most beautiful girl I have ever been with. You have a wonderful, strong, responsive body, with beautiful breasts and buttocks that deserve to be cherished the way I have. We won’t be seeing each other again. But I want you to remember that the way I have treated you sexually is the way you deserve to be made love to. You shouldn’t be with guys who don’t realize that.”