Free Slave Lover by Marco Vassi

plush leather table. The difference was that it was double width, and while her left leg and arm were fastened to the sides of the table, the right leg and arm were manacled to the center. When the attendant left, Henry took off his clothes and climbed on the table, his flesh rolling and jiggling. Even that minor exertion had him perspiring and breathing hard. Constance looked at him with undisguised distaste, but instantly she realized that that was precisely what he wanted to inspire. There could be few aphrodisiacs more powerful to an insecure man than to have a beautiful woman, who is tied down and at his mercy, disgusted by what he intends to do to her.
    “Oh shit,” she thought, “this is going to be unpleasant.”
    He kissed her for over two hours, pressing, insisting, insinuating. He licked her lips, thrust his tongue into her throat. He sucked on her mouth and spit on her tongue. He drooled into her. She would have bitten off his tongue if she could.
    His moans and sighs and grunts were as repulsive as his actions. His enjoyment was gluttonous, regressive, beyond simple self-indulgence. He gloried in the degree to which he could impose himself on her.
    His basic scenario seemed to be, from what she could glean from his mutterings and exclamations, that of teenage virgin and college football star necking on the couch. Her passivity signified the trembling fear of the young girl giving in to her most forbidden, secret, and luscious desires. He not only had her, but he was simultaneously bragging about his conquest to the other players on the team. He was fucking her in public. He was bringing the proud and pristine pussy to its metaphoric knees. Then he was giving her to his friends, watching her gang-banged. He was sullying purity itself and so revenging himself on the God that disappointed him by not existing.
    Fatigue finally overtook him and he rolled over and lay there for several minutes. Then he got up, and drew a bottle out of one of the pockets of his coat. It was whiskey. He began sipping at it and smoking a cigar. He frowned and flung himself into an armchair. He started addressing imaginary enemies.
    “They laugh at me, they pinch their noses with their fingers when I pass by. Rotten cunts. But I’ll show them. I’ll buy them all. I’ll make them beg.”
    The tears of self-pity followed the anger, and within a half hour he was ready to visit his girlfriend again. During this time Constance had been able to piece together a fairly cohesive, if basic, psychological profile of the man, although she wryly admitted to herself that it would do her no good whatsoever, seeing as how she couldn’t move or talk.
    With his renewed ardor, Henry’s kisses became unusually prolonged and passionate. Constance now had to contend with the stench of cigar and booze as well as Henry’s ordinarily oppressive manner. She imagined that the teenager was at the point of allowing greater liberties, for Henry’s hands began to slide down her chest and finally cupped her breasts. He let out an anguished cry and for the next half hour rode the transports of rapture which that relatively simple touch inspired.
    “If he weren’t so dangerous, he’d be harmless,” Constance thought.
    The conclusion came further down as he finally allowed his hand to cup her cunt and one finger to slip into the moist slit. In grand style, he shoved the entire pudgy middle finger into her and finger-fucked her with a fine frenzy for almost an hour, all the while kissing her madly.
    “If he weren’t such a distorted little creep, he’d be a great lover.”
    He balled himself into a knot of sexual tension, working harder and harder, sluicing the secretion-logged digit in and out of her juicing cunt with an energetic abandon. Constance found herself responding simply on the level of pure heat, the movement creating so much friction that she wondered whether her clit might burst into flames and Henry’s fancy frothing write a new chapter on