textfiles/sex/EROTICA/I/ifihad.txt

If I Had You Here


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 til 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, til 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 goes 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 threshhold, 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 relize 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, til 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, 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 yous 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
ravshed 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, til 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 strech upward to
pull down into place the ring of leather covered wood, until
it seems to float just incles 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.