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                 K R I S T E N' S    C O L L E C T I O N
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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2009.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
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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