Little Deaths

by Cal Y. Pygia

 

"Don't you know I have the power to deliver you or to crucify you?" Pilate had asked Jesus.

"You would have no power over me whatsoever," Jesus had replied, "unless it were given to you from above."

That exchange of dialogue had always fascinated Bobbie. Sex, she knew, was less about love than it was about power—about the power that one's lover gave her over him—about power, as it were, which came from "above" (or, occasionally, from behind).

With Carl, the power was always given to her from behind; he preferred to fuck her doggy style, mounting her from the rear. That way, he said, he could pound his cock harder and deeper up her ass than he could otherwise. In other words, it gave him more power over her than he'd have over her if he fucked her face to face, in the missionary position—and it made his orgasm more intense.

He didn't have to ask (or command) her to assume the position. She knew what he liked, and she was only too happy to oblige him.

"You're a great lay," he told her, as he knelt behind her on the king-size bed.

She was on her elbows and knees, with her ass high in the air and her legs parted wide. Carl could see her tight asshole between the smooth globes of her creamy buttocks. As he lubricated her anus and his erection, he nearly came. He loved nothing more than assaulting her ass with his cock. "You're a fantastic piece of ass," he said. His voice was hoarse with need.

Bobbie said nothing. She knew that he wasn't speaking to her as much as he was to talking to himself. He was psyching himself up, the way some athletes did before a sporting event.

He gripped her hips, and she felt the tip of his penis slide between the cheeks of her ass. His glans pressed against her anus. He paused, then shoved his hips forward, and she felt her sphincter open to admit his thick, hard prick. Carl watched as the length of his swollen member vanished inside Bobbie's impaled buttocks.

Bobbie squinted, grimacing, as she felt his huge cock force its way through her sphincter. Carl had a huge penis—nine inches, erect, and thick as her forearm. She'd taken his prick up her ass before, of course, but never without a measure of discomfort, even pain. He was hurting her now, despite the liberal quantity of lubricant he'd applied to both her asshole and his cock, but she closed her eyes tightly and choked back the sob that threatened to escape her clenched teeth. At least, she consoled herself, Carl's whole prick was buried inside her. His huge penis filled her rectum, stuffing her bowel.

After a moment, during which he luxuriated in the feel of the tight circle of her sphincter around his organ, Carl began to fuck Bobbie in earnest. He drew his hips back, pulling his manhood through Bobbie's asshole until only his rubbery, purple glans remained within the opening to her bowels. Then, he plunged his cock home again, shoving all nine inches into her ass as hard and fast as he could. His pubes flattened her ass cheeks before them as he ground his groin against her buttocks on each down stroke. They sprung back to their sleek fullness upon his every temporary withdrawal.

He forgot about everything but the sensations of his cock pounding Bobbie's ass. He felt only the smooth cushions of her buttocks, the tight fit of her snug anus, his pubes grinding into her sleek, impaled ass cheeks, and his balls slapping her perineum as he assaulted her ass with greater and greater fervor and intensity, all but raping her.

Bobbie was rocked by his every lunge into her bottom, and her full breasts, like her dangling cock and balls, swayed and bounced beneath her. She moaned, sweat pouring dripping from her enflamed body. "Uhhh! Uhhh! Uhhh!"

Just as he was about to ejaculate, Bobby withdrew his lurching, straining cock from her rectum. He'd much prefer to have come inside his partner's ass, but Bobbie made his use of her rectum contingent upon his withdrawal prior to his ejaculation. It was a bummer, but, he'd agreed, a small price to pay to fuck Bobbie's ass.

As soon as she felt his penis pull out of her anus, Bobbie grabbed the camera she kept in the bed beside her, turned, and snapped several photographs of her lover, catching him in the midst of orgasm, his eyes shut tight, his brow furrowed, and the deep lines at the corners of his mouth accentuating a grimace that made him look as if he were experiencing agony rather than ecstasy as a streamer of his thick, white semen jetted from his rigid, swollen cock. She might be, as he said, a great piece of ass, but, caught in the moment of orgasm, he looked the very picture of a dying man.

Le petite mortes, the French called the orgasm—the little deaths.

In the nineteenth century, people had taken photographs of deceased loved ones. Usually, the corpses were positioned in a reclining posture, as if they were resting or asleep. They called their collections of such pictures "books of the dead." They were meant as memorials to the spouses and offspring and siblings who'd died.

Since learning of this old-fashioned practice, Bobbie had begun to keep her own "book of the dead," a photographic account of le petite mortes she'd inflicted upon Carl and her other lovers. To her, they were not so much memorials of their lives as they were records of her conquests of them. They were proof of her power over men—the power that they gave to her from above or, occasionally, as with Carl, from behind.

Her album, which she called Little Deaths, was a memento mori of sorts, reminding her that, in satisfying their lust, she took command of them, which, consequently, gave her the power both to "deliver" and to "crucify" the men who became her lovers. Such power might not make her a goddess, exactly, but it made her the equivalent of a Pontius Pilate, which wasn't bad for a shemale who earned minimum wage as a fast food worker when she wasn't helping men to find the sweet release of the little death.

  

  

  

*********************************************
© 2004 by Cal Y. Pygia. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, and compilation design) may be printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without the express written consent of StorySite and the copyright holder.