Oh Martin, How Do I Adore Thee? Let me Count The Ways
The one particular way that Martin was like the other Men – I supposed it was just a thing that all Men did, certainly all the ones I slept with (though we never actually slept) – was take photographs. They all seemed to have fancy heavy 35mm cameras, with remote control cables so that they could position it a bit away from us. It never bothered me, because what was happening on the bed or the dfloor or up against the wall, or on the table or wherever it was, took all my attention. I felt I was learning all the time, and I tried to learn new things with each Man – because early on, I worked out that they were all ever so slightly different in the way they liked to fuck, be sucked, or even jerked off by hand. I actually found it quite fascinating and I tried, if I had some time afterwards, to make a few notes – not so much to actually keep, but I've always found that if I write something down, I remember it better. So I always asked the Man, whoever it was, or if there were several, the one whose camera was being used, to give me some prints for my album. It didn't matter that the men's faces were rarely shown – I suppose in case of blackmail – I only suppose that now, at the time I didn't care, it was ME I wanted, whether it was all of me or a close-up, I wanted to be able to look back at what I had done on a particular date and I'd make a note of who I was with. And that list grew longer over the next few years.
     But right there and then and for a period of time I was totally wrapped up in Martin Elginbrod and he could have done absolutely anything to me and I would have been blissfully happy because it was me he was doing it to – me he handcuffed to the bed, arms and legs akimbo and all ready for him to
Fuck. And then there came the time that I was ready for him but it wasn't him - I had been prepared as a gift for hs Father to fuck! That wasn't expected. It was the last thing I expected. Or wanted. It was quite a shock emotionally. And more.
      And he was a Hard Fucker! His Cock was bigger and thicker than Martin's and when it was erect it felt as hard as ebony and it was dark and when he first penetrated me – without any lubrication or even stimulation to prepare me for it, it felt like I was being torn apart by something covered in sandpaper and I screamed and he seemed to like that so he drove it in deeper and harder and kept doing it but not because he was waiting for me to reach my orgasm. Because there was no way this would ever bring me to that, it was so brutal, no, it was because his Cock had been so hardened over the years that it took more and more and more thrusting and pushing and battering before he could ever reach that point where he was going to Cum and once he had – and it was still a load, still a gush, sometimes inside or mostly over my belly or my face, because he really seemed to like seeing it spurt over me – that was him, he'd shake off the last drops, perhaps wipe the head on my skin somewhere and go off for a drink and a smoke. And then Martin came in – every time. After his Father had Shagged me – and he released my wrists and ankles, and I curled up on the bed, and he covered me with a blanket, and he slid under it and wrapped himself around me, and soothed and hushed me and kissed away my tears, and wiped his Father's spunk off me and held me safe and then, when I was relaxed and calm, he applied cream to my See You Next Tuesday, outside and in, and it eased away the pain and the hurt and the degradation and so still I adored Martin.