Broken Toys
“You heard me! Get your head down!”
I push her head downwards. “Give me that thing!” I demanded, yanking a pillow out from underneath her face. Her head flops onto the mattress below. Beads of sweat fall from my chin and chest, landing on her back, forming a trickle that runs along the gutter of her spine and down to her neck. I push hard and her shoulder is driven against the post. She flinches as it digs in.
“Stop! Hang on! This hurts. Let me move to the side of it!”
She lets go of the post and wriggles sideways, reaching out for the horizontal bar that forms part of the lower bed head. The bar is no more than fifteen centremetres above the mattress—perfect for squeezing a body part through. This gives me an idea.
“Slide back a bit.”
I pull her away from the bed head and she rises to accommodate. She glances over her a shoulder, lets go of the bar, shuffles backwards on her knees and then lowers herself back down, placing her elbows, hands and forehead onto the mattress. I move back and forth slowly, spying the interesting gap, waiting for her to relax. Little catches at the end of each breath indicate that her body’s tuning to the rhythm of our movement again. It doesn’t take her long to make her move. She leans forward, turns her head sideways and lays her cheek against the soft sheet. Now is my chance. Using all the muscle and might of my body, I push forward, as hard as I can! She’s always liked it a bit rough.
She screams as her head slides forwards and instantly connects to underside of the bar. “Shit! That hurts Mitchell!”
I knew it would but your head was supposed to go through.
“There’s a bar here you know! Can’t you see it? Ouch! Back up a bit. My head is stuck under it.”
Really? Stuck? “Well stay there, don’t move!”
“I can’t. Back up. Ouch! Stop pushing for a moment so I can get my head out!
Get out? Not on your life! Your head was supposed to go through, not get wedged under it. “Down!” I yell, thrusting her forward again.
“Oww! Okay, okay, alright, underneath is what you want. I get it! Why didn’t you say so? You’ll have to push the mattress down first. I can’t get under by myself.”
She grabs hold of the bar and begins to wriggle her head from side to side, waiting for me to abandon her. “Oww! Well I won’t fit under it,” she says sarcastically. “Why don’t you come and stand on the mattress?”
You want me to help? I’ve already accommodated your kind enough. I take a hold of the top of the bed head with both hands and begin to extract myself, letting her believe I’ll assist. Instead of withdrawing entirely, I plough back into her at speed, using my body mass and the power in my legs and arms to shunt her forward again. She shouts as her head slowly slides forward, passing underneath the bar. She grips it, tries to push backwards—it’s useless. I can’t get her right through. The fit is so tight. Damn! I wanted the bar over her neck. She’s stuck!
The noise coming from under the bar is annoying. The wailing is reminiscent of the moment a man finds himself in when he’s confronted with an apprehensive virgin. He wants to push on but discomfort has her holding him back. It’s been a long time since Nina was a virgin and she’d be the first one to say that sex is not all bad once you get through it. She once said to me, “Mitchell, if a girl wasn’t ready, she wouldn’t find herself in that situation in the first place. Besides, it’ll happen one day, so it might as well be then. She’s ready but just doesn’t know it.”
She was absolutely right of course—and she’s has perfect insight. All virgins stopped being virgins at one point or another. The inevitable is inevitable. Nina’s sounding like a virgin, now, screaming, pleading for me to stop, believing that such a big thing won’t fit into such a small space. She needs reminding that the inevitable is inevitable. After all, she put herself in this situation. She’s ready. She just doesn’t know it.
“It’ll hurt just once dear,” I said calmly.
I pull out a little and then give her body one more shove from behind, watching her head scrape on the underside of the bar. “My ears! My ears Mitchell!”
I can hear the awkward sounds of her flesh compressing against the steel. I can see her right ear crumple backwards as it passes beneath it. “YEOOOW!!! NO MITCHELL NOOO!!!”
It’s like listening to a sixteen year old. She’s tensing up, hands flailing about the place grabbing at anything that’ll allow her to push back. She can’t find anything so her head slowly continues to creep forward, grinding against the steel, raking the skin backwards until her head finally pops out on the other side. The gap snaps shut as the mattress rises and clamps her neck against the bar.
“YOU FUCKING COCK-SUCKING FUCKING SON OF A BITCH!”
Now that’s not what virgins usually say!
She rattles the bar and pushes against the wall on the other side and shouts again, “Have you gone totally fucking mad Mitchell? That fucking hurt! Jesus Christ! I told you it was hurting. Didn’t you hear me? Get me out of here! Shit man, I told you and you still did it! You’ve ripped my god damn ears off! What the hell is wrong with you?”
I couldn’t care less. I achieved what I wanted and so move back and forth in a steady rhythm again. “Don’t you do that! I said don’t do that!”
Or what?
“Get me out of here! And don’t do that! I said don’t do that! You son of a bitch! You stop that right now! You get me out of here! Shit, my ear’s bleeding!”
Bleeding? That’s no concern of mine. Blood is supposed to be part of the deal. You’re over the hardest bit. The rest is easy. We’re not stopping. It’s time to pick up the pace!
“I said don’t do that! You pig!”
Pig? Why do women always reach for pig when they’re upset with a man? Is pig supposed to be an insult? Why pig? She’s the one looking like she’s stuck on a spit!
Oh well, another thing I came to learn about virgins was that once they’re past the worst they’re a hell of a lot nicer to deal with.
“Listen to me! Dammit Mitchell! You stop that now!”
Or so I thought. She was supposed to turn that frown upside down and place her trust in experience. “Don’t worry sweetheart, this’ll all be sorted out very soon.”
Look at me, aren’t I the supportive one? Despite her abuse I’m still full of encouragement.
“Shit! I think my ear’s bleeding. I can’t tell. Can you look and see if I’m bleeding? Will you please stop moving? I don’t want you to do that!”
Blood? Who cares? It’s expected. It’s your first time. Can we please get back to the business at hand?
“I said stop doing that!”
She’s not giving in easily. I give her a deeper length of my rod and she moans. It was enough to silence her—only momentarily. “Aren’t you going to stop? Or don’t you care at all?”
Jesus Christ woman! What is it with you? There’s a sting and soreness but it’s not like it’s the end of the world. Hell, if history is anything to go by you’ll like this and probably ask for it again. Now get over it. I know I have. “It looks fine,” I reply.
“How can you tell if I’m bleeding from there?”
It’s true. I can’t see her head. The bit I’m dealing with has everything but one. What’s spoiling things now is all the bloody chatter from the other side of the bar. “Don’t worry, I think the problem will go away soon,”
#
It did and I have her high libido to thank. I knew she’d like it. She does what she always does and, at the moment she rises to climax, her arse bucks vigorously and she screams. She reminds me of a horse racing along the final straight at the Melbourne Cup—picks up speed, and gallops on down to the finishing line. As her breaths of ecstasy subside, a muffled voice on the other side of the bar asks, “Again?”
“Of course my dear.”
Now I have to work out another way to hurt her so I can force her to like pleasure after pain. I like breaking her and putting her back together.
(Inspired by the new novel SEETHINGS ) – Angelwanderer