An Easy Touch Pt3— a Naked story.

You will want to have read the earlier parts of Easy Touch before reading this.

When, eventually, whatever it was which inhabited the body had any attention at all for anything but the aftermath of that mindless delirium of sensation which had occupied all existence for some unknown length of time, the most powerful feeling was fear.

The real world, the world where there were social consequences of things like this, where lives could be ruined, where there were norms, lines which could not be crossed, shame that would be beyond bearing, where there would be His eyes, His knowledge of what this body had just asked for from Him, had just accepted from him— that world was, very simply, too much; unbearable, would crush the tiny little being which was yearningly looking backward at the fireball which had engulfed it, which wanted to stay as it was— a burned-out ember in the aftermath of an explosion, content to have been destroyed.

It was aware— powerfully and intimately aware of a deep reservoir of past thoughts, past hopes and dreams— a whole personality— but for now; forever came the urgent thought— that must remain locked away, no matter that parts of it repeatedly made demands for recognition, access, control of the body, even— for along with it there was something terrifying— a vast burden of shame and horror— the very things which were sure to bring about destruction, terrible, unbearable contradictions, pain, despair.

Another reason to retreat, to curl up and huddle to itself the memory of being memoryless, of being nothing but heat…

But it was impossible— the body itself demanded attention— still held up in the air with tight ropes, only the slightest point of contact with the ground, everything hurting, everything raw, it forced the eyes to open, the brain to consider options for relief, and the world crashed in on an unwilling, hardly capable mind, on a spirit that had been turned inside out, on an ‘I’ which no longer dared granted itself access to anything it had clung to as true about itself.

There was nothing, nothing to believe in, in fact, but the body and its sensations— and Him.

Him! It was immediate; He was the lifeline— the only possible lifeline— which could make sense of things; He was the architect of this situation, He was the constant which— whatever He might be, would be reliably Him; strong of will, full of certainty, unafraid of the future, unafraid to ordain for others what their future might be, powerful enough to control the body, under which control it might not be safe, but at least be spared the appalling prospect of having to choose what it could be, after what had just happened.

He could be the source of something; something which might make being in this aftermath possible— bearable enough to actually think about, rather than wanting nothing so much as to be able to give up, go back into mindlessness.

But would He? Why should He care about this pathetic wreck? This creature which had proven itself to be weak, degenerate, helpless in the face of its basest animal desires. Whom He himself had wrecked?

It became of paramount importance, and at the same time, horribly frightening, to seek to discover something about Him, how He was now, after … after the end of everything.

The eyes had to open, seek Him out. It had to be risked, never mind the weakness and the fear. There was nothing else which would satisfy the desperate, demanding, suffering body.

But He was not to be engaged with— He was operating something, and, immediately the leg was lowering, then the arms; blessed relief— He was kind!

But relief was not enough and, enfeebled, lacking any but the tiniest willpower of purpose, the body simply folded to the floor, noises of pain, distress and weakness coming from its mouth as the release simply brought new urgent signals of damage from many different places.

Then He spoke, and the effect on the body was like electricity, causing instant reaction, stiffening, the head lifting; it was as if the universe spoke, so powerful was it; all meaning was in the words, for there was nothing else that meant anything at all— every prior meaning suppressed, so that there was nothing but background noise and pain. Here was something important; here was a signal.

He was as mild and calm as ever; observational almost;

“Typically, after hard usage, the pretty should be concerned to make efforts to display herself in an attractive manner, encouraging thoughts of sexual availability, working hard to offset the inevitable damage to her appearance with the obvious neediness and sincerity of her presentation.”

Immediate concern, immediate urgency, as she scrambled, not to her feet, not daring to try, so weak was she, so quickly did she feel the need to respond, but to her knees, His earlier instructions presenting themselves;

… hands behind you a little, out from your sides, limp, palms backwards; feet shoulder width apart, head upright, eyes on my groin, lips parted, tongue tip visible, shoulders back, hips thrust forwards …

It was hard, warning signals sounding in her mind, ruthlessly ignored— this was all there could be— it had to be so, and she did all she could to present herself to Him, hearing her breath noisy, soft little high-pitched murmurs betraying her weakness, her urgent need to please, despite the knowledge that this was wrong, that this was nothing but a pathway to more shame, more consequences.

It didn’t matter; there was nothing but Him. There was already shame, consequences were already sure to crush her; this, for Him, was hard, perhaps, but it meant something— because He wanted it (and too, the body discovered, because it felt good; felt good to know that He was looking at her as she showed herself to Him that way— as sexually available— and immediately the idea was strong, it all fit together; ‘hard usage’ was the way to feel that dissolution of self into pure sensation again— crudely— and she was aware that the old version of her would not have used the word without distaste— crudely, being fucked hard, fucked rough - letting herself feel the impact of such words, said of herself, letting herself accept that she wanted that, wanted it hard, wanted it with her groin, as if she were hungry for it, starving for it, the animal reality of it). Presenting herself to Him like this was the most important thing she could do, now; would ever do, perhaps— and the body doubled down, visiting each part of itself, looking for ways to tighten, soften, exaggerate, minimise, looking to make her offer to Him as blatant and welcoming as it could be.

Her reward— a soft, tolerant, easy laugh; this was all just fun to Him, when He had destroyed a whole person with His careless, casual greed— was like the memory of His hand between her legs; deeply shaming, but met with melting, helpless gratitude and surging joy, and the body responded to Him, with a tearstained, hoarse little giggle, an utterly servile noise, complicit in its own shameful, shameless willingness to give Him exactly what He wanted, intentionally giving Him to understand just how deep her dependence on Him was, after the outrage, after the savaging of who she had been.

And the first layer of the new self was laid down; no longer just a body and fugitive, inchoate thoughts; not much at all, perhaps, but something;

I’m His; His girl, His girl to fuck and hurt, and I’ll do just what He wants me to, try my hardest for Him, so that He wants to fuck me, fuck me hard, and I want to do it, even though I know I ought not, because it makes me feel good. And sometimes He’ll hurt me, and I’ll try, try my best to love that, too, because there will be nothing else to be done about being hurt but to suffer.

She wondered at the words that had formed in her mind; so thin, such a small, pathetic basis to build a personality with, to base meaning on. And yet it was good; really, very good to have had such a thought, she realised. Good that it was simple. She had been so complicated before— the old her; unable to be straightforward about anything, always sabotaging herself, always making things hard for herself; wanting things which could not be reconciled; all sorts of abstract, airy ideas, got from books and thinking, which she used to fence herself in.

There was something in all that, she knew; she did not hate the older version of herself— not at all, was not angry with it; in fact, easily accessible— almost overwhelming, if she let it be— was a deep, tragic sadness, a plangent sympathy for the defeat, the final meaninglessness of the effort, the care, the love, the good intentions which had built that old self.

But that self was over; broken, done; had sacrificed itself, even, so that this new, simple thing could be.

This simple thing which thought to move its shoulders a little, just to set its nipples moving; to shift her tongue to remind Him of her mouth, that she could be kissed, lift and then lower her hips, just a little, shuffle her knee out further, to offer Him her pussy (the atrocious blaze of pain there so fresh in her mind, using it to make the movement more intense, more loaded with meaning; yes, you can hurt me there, too; I know you want to, and that I can’t stop you, and still I offer…), which delighted in being free to do those shameful things for Him, which discovered that it derived energy from the tension between the shame and the arousal which accompanied the thought of being fucked, and the fear which came from the certainty of being hurt, which gave itself to that never ending triangle, since it had nothing else in prospect.

Which offered itself to Him more obviously, rising up on its haunches a little, as He came toward her, fully dressed, but with a kerchief tied around His cock, protecting His clothes; still half-hard, deep red, veined, fascinating (I have never actually looked properly at a cock before), feeling its heart begin thumping, knowing without knowing what was coming, wanting it and fearing it; joyous that He was with her, wanting her, fearful of the intensity she also craves; Oh Jesus God let it start, let Him just do me!

But He was in no hurry at all, measured, certain as always; irresistible, and she knew she must learn to live with that, to offer Him her trembling, her nervousness, her need, her weakness, her utter and complete submission to His will— show Him how complete was His dominion over her. Nothing less would do, so deep was her fear of losing His interest, His attention, breathless with it. Knowing she was pathetic, showing Him that, too, her worthlessness, except in the reflection of herself she might find in His use of her, His hand soft on her hair, His other hand cupping her jawline, dropping to take her breast, she raising herself further to give herself to Him, sighing as He crushed her in His powerful grasp, panting to release the pain without losing her pose, feeling the tears, her eyes fastened on His cock, seeing it jerk, knowing that He was enjoying hurting her, that hurting her drove His arousal, filing the reality away; the new reality, so much sharper and harder and unforgiving than the old;

He likes hurting me sexually, so I must offer myself to Him so He can hurt me, because I need Him to want me, so He can enjoy hurting me.

It was hard to keep her hands limp, palms backwards— they are her body’s defenders; she must teach herself not to defend against hurt, against Him. She felt them flapping, uselessly, felt the conflict in her, felt the shame at being so weak, so needy that she could not even protest at pain, let alone protect herself, not even pull away, not even bring up her hands as a shield, never mind actually hit out at Him.

I’m going to have to suppress even imagining protecting myself; burn it out of me, if I am to be with Him like this, and there is no other way than this to be with Him. And there is no way to be without Him, not any more.

“It is your job, pretty, to clean my body of your slutty juices with your tongue; Never presume to begin, though, without asking permission— not with your voice, but with your body; a quick look up may be permissible at these times; at others, I’ll haul off and backhand you for presumption; you’ll have to learn.”

“Of course, there is a chance for you during this clean-up work, to see if you can provoke me to fuck you again; fuck your throat, most obviously, but that’s not up to you.”

“See what you can do. I’m not going to force you to go deep; you should show me, since you present yourself so prettily, so willingly, how far you can push yourself. See if you can suffocate yourself, is always my advice, see if you can pass out on my cock; it’s a great feeling, you know, that a girl will risk ending herself for a moment of your pleasure.”

She was trembling violently, then; that the only thing in her world which made sense was a terrifying monster, a depraved sadist, without morality. How could He talk so casually about the end of her?

The answer was obvious, of course; He had already ended the sweet and eager innocent who had been His secretary for months, softly and weakly falling in love with Him; crushed her in an hour, from first shocking announcement to brutal violation. Why should He shy away from discussing the end of this new, shameful nothing?

Indeed, wouldn’t that be the right thing? The safest thing? Because she will always be there, always inside me and so full of hurt and fear and shame and she’ll never have rest; I’ll always be fighting to keep her from overwhelming me, suppressing all that fear and despair and it can’t end well. The moments of intensity will be few, and short; He can’t fuck me all the time, and I’ll never be at rest. Why not be ended?

She shook herself at these crazy thoughts, and made herself pay attention to His request, to; ask permission— not with your voice, but with your body. That wasn’t awful and dark and grotesque— that was exciting, and gave her a fizzy feeling— the fear of the darkness met by the shame of being so slutty and the arousal at the possibility of Him choosing to fuck her again.

Suddenly it was as lovely as it had ever been with Him; she felt free, free to give herself to Him, and she felt her lips soften into a weak, shamed little smile as she did something she’d never imagined herself doing, shook her shoulders, twisting back and forth to set her breasts jiggling for Him, stuck her tongue out, really quite far, and wiggled the tip of it at Him, feeling a rush of heat between her legs and almost a sledge-hammer strike of weak need in the depths of her belly, and when the hand in her pair gently indicated a pull toward Him, she gave herself to His cock; naively, wonderingly, without the slightest reserve, and there was nothing in her head for a glorious while then but His cock in her mouth, and His hand— light on the back of her head, encouraging but not forcing, the other hand on her breast, gentle but with the promise of pain never far from her mind, as she began to lick at Him, laving His cock with her tongue, sensitive to everything about it, subordinating everything to the signals His body gave her, no knowing, no thoughts of technique, not thinking at all, just giving, astonished and half appalled when He twitched for the first time on her tongue, shocking powerfully, and she knew she loved His strong and greedy cock then, that she could come to worship it, that she wanted to worship it, since it was so much the instrument of her hopes of being invaded, fucked, taken away from the tawdry mess of what she was, into something else, and she had no idea how or why, but He was in her mouth then, the tip of His cock banging at the tender, responsive membranes at the back of her throat and she felt her chest heave, felt herself close off, felt the gag— with its attendant automatic feeling of danger and- yes— revulsion, and she let it all be true, but let it ride through her, protected the delightful, worshipful cock from being disturbed by these things, and indeed gave herself to it more deeply, letting the spasm be the way He entered her more deeply, judging the moment carefully, giving her throat to His cock when it was at its most vulnerable, least able to resist, feeling immediately again the power of the instinctive response, and seeing it, then as easy to outwit, since it was just an automaton, while she, she was a clever and willing servant of the eager energy of the cock that was thickening and stiffening and jerking in her throat and she worked with her instincts then, to achieve exactly what they sought to prevent— the point where she could no longer breathe; the point where He filled her airway completely, where she had given herself to Him, and she went all the way, burying her nose in His wiry, musky pubic hair, feeling her chest convulsing, letting it be, all her care reserved for the response of the cock, His cock, feeling the tears spurt from her eyes, feeling her chest automatically heaving; giving Him that movement too, managing it for Him, feeling her hands, still flapping at the ends of her back-thrust, hanging wrists, felt them jerk into life, needing to do something to address this terrible risk, laughing at herself almost for her pathetic stupidity, her wantonness, even as she was crying soft tears of defeat and helplessness that it might have come to this, that this could be the end of her; such a small, meaningless thing, a naked, cock-sucking slut, on her knees, her tits swaying wildly, naked for her boss who had turned out to be a suave and cruel despoiler of innocence, unable to find anything in her which changed anything, until the cock started spurting inside her and He pulled her head back to spray her face with His sticky, salty cum as she gagged and retched and looked up at Him, greatly daring, smiling at Him desperately, tears blurring her vision, to be slain by His own casual grin, followed immediately by a plunge back into the depths of her;

“Another clean up job, cutie.”