“Have some wine, Tom; I’ve already had my fill.”
He emphasizes his offer — which sounds more like a request, actually — with a horizontal twisting finger movement, which is perceived as “further and more” everywhere in the world except among the Boku Haram. Among the Boku Haram, it means “I feel like taking your wife and daughter,” but among the Boku Haram, almost every gesture has exactly that meaning.
”Anything new and exciting for you in the last few weeks?” I ask Felix.
”I had a woman in a wheelchair!” he replies with a grin.
”So how was it?”
”Cool story, actually… but I’ll wait for the next few emails from her, then I can tell you more. It bothered me a little that she defined herself very much by her role as a severely disabled person — but, as I said, more later. And you?”
”I had an anorexic young lady.”
”Holy shit! Seriously?”
”Yep. I got lucky. I’ve always wanted to!”
My name is Tom; I’m in my late forties, and I have recently become a member of a forum where men fulfill women’s most unusual wishes (see also “ENTERTAINMENT! An Introduction”), mostly for money, but that’s not a must. Empathy, discretion, and respect are expected — nay, demanded. Monetary compensation is not guaranteed, and the forum is very well policed; the men who manage to both be invited and remain in good standing must be in it primarily “for the love of the game.”
In addition, there is a rating system, and after your visit to the lady, she is briefly asked for the score she wants to give. Of course, no one with a high rating would want to lose it.
I know I don’t want to lose mine.
***
The door opens. A very thin young woman of about 5-foot-7 looks at me seriously, but not in an unfriendly way. The welcoming smile is not at home here.
”Hello, Tom!” she says.
”Hello, person-whose-name-I-don’t-know,” I reply.
”Maybe I’ll tell you later; come in.” She opens the door a little wider and steps slightly to the side. I mentally call her “Stangry,” which is short for “Stay Hungry.”
”You can call me Lizzie,” she suggests, “because I like Lizzie Velásquez.”
”I’m afraid I don’t know her!”
”You don’t have to, but she’s a great woman!”
Oh yes, I think to myself, ‘Great woman’ — the only compliment you can give any woman without her immediately questioning the reason. Rarely do thusly complimented women ask, “Why?” Sometimes they will because they’re hoping for more flattery, but not because they’re questioning the legitimacy of the compliment as such.
We go into the living room. “Hungry like the Wolf” by Duran Duran is playing. For the first time, I look at her fully and extensively, and don’t try to hide it. You should have that kind of self-confidence.
”Wow… you are really… beautiful!” I say it thoughtfully and calmly.
She smiles gently, a little embarrassed.
”I like thin women,” I assure her, “but you have such a fragile and porcelain-like appearance. I imagine it’s quite rare.” It’s one of the most honest compliments I’ve ever given.
”Oh… thank you!” she returns shyly and turns her eyes down to the sofa and to her lower legs. They are slightly larger than her thighs, which I can see immediately, because she is wearing a very short dress. That makes sense to me, because even somebody who’s just skin and bones still has those bones to contend with — and the lower legs boast two, the thighs only one.
She lifts her head for the first time and looks at me briefly and somewhat sheepishly. She’s in her early, mid, or late twenties. You can’t really tell, as such a physique ages a woman prematurely. Her eyes are alert, warm, and beautiful. Her hair is medium brown and not overly thick. It is probably lacking important nutrients. It falls easily over her shoulders and would probably also look very good in a ponytail. Her teeth look quite large in comparison to her mouth, but that’s probably due to the fact that she looks very gaunt, complete with the classic sunken cheeks.
”So… what do you do?” she asks. To me, it sounds more like she’s filling the silence than expressing any real interest.
”Let’s not talk about me. We can do that next time. I’m here because of you.”
”OK,” she replies uncertainly, “then ask me what you want to know!”
”Hungry Child” by Hot Chip is playing in the background.
I don’t bother beating around the bush. “Why did you want me to visit you?”
“Hmmm.. I was afraid you were going to ask me that.”
“Why are you afraid of that question? Do you have to be uncomfortable with the answer? Or is the answer simply unconventional? In the latter case–and I’m convinced there’s no reason for the former–what makes you stand out is that you defied the conventional consensus and invited me.”
For a moment, I’m afraid she doesn’t understand what I mean.
“You’re right,” she says. “Now that you are here, there is no reason for a masquerade or to play the bourgeoise card disguised as convention. You’re here because I finally want to kastamonu escort have sex again after a long time.”
“It’s hard to believe you’d need to make a special request for that, as exceptionally aesthetic as you are.”
I’m serious when I say it. However, at around 5-foot-7, she probably only weighs 83 pounds, and if she carries on like this, she’ll die. Nevertheless, she has a face like Snow White, and her eyes, her cheekbones, her full lips, her gazelle-like neck… there is so much about her that could hardly be more beautiful. Her eyebrows are gently arched, and her eyelashes are long and dark. She has fine dimples, and when she scratches them with her long, skinny fingers, it looks incredibly charming.
“Yes, I could probably get sex anywhere quickly, but there are problems with that. For one thing, I don’t like being touched.”
“OK,” I concede, “that’s certainly a problem for some people during sex.”
“I also really dislike touching other people,” she admits.
“Well, alright, you’re not exactly the ideal candidate for conventional sex, but even that can be managed. Anything else?” I keep my tone optimistic and open-minded. I’m not here to judge, or even interrogate.
“I know I’m weird… but I like to be in control of my life!”
I can see that, I think to myself; I recall that anorexia, as I see it here in living color, is almost always the product of a desire to stay in control. Outsiders immediately think, someone has no control over reality at all, and they are right, but anorexia is a mental illness, and logic only plays a very minor role. I digress, however, because I’m not here to lecture to or convert Stangry. I’m not here to betray her trust.
“What can I do to make you feel good tonight?” It’s the most honest question one could ask in my situation, and so I do — and I mean it.
“I… I really…” She looks at me again — furtively, plaintively, even desperately?. “I…. don’t know!”
“Can I take your hand?” I ask cautiously.
“Yes…” She reaches out her bony fingers to me.
I take it and clasp it with both hands. If I were to put my index and ring fingers next to each other, they’d be the width of her wrist. Her thighs are the size of my forearm. I could enclose her ankles with one hand, like a narrow drinking glass. Her skin is as thin and white as parchment, and the blue veins shimmer through in several places.
I move forward a little, breathe in slowly, and take in her scent. “You smell…like uncompromisingness… but very good!” I don’t think I’ve ever used that word before.
“What does ‘uncompromisingness’ smell like?” she asks.
“Just like you!” I smile back and bring my lips to her ears. “Don’t worry! I’m not going to touch you… or kiss you.”
“Lizzie (I almost forgot her fake name) smiles and mumbles, “Hmm… thank… you.”
I bring my nose and lips to her neck. They do smell incredibly good — maybe because at her weight, no body odor can interfere with the perfume. I tell her that. She smiles.
I unbutton her blouse. I don’t touch her. Her upper body is exposed to me. My lips and my breath hover over veiny, white skin — over ribs, joints, and bones. Lizzie leans back slightly, enjoying herself and offering me a body that fits the description “incredible” pretty well. I tell her that, too, and she smiles again.
Under her unbuttoned blouse, two breasts reveal themselves to me. They don’t even deserve that word — “breasts.” I suppose “tinytits” is a bit immature. They’re not merely boyish; they’re barely there. It should come as no surprise.
“Your titties smell like violets.” I smile at her; I have no idea what violets smell like. I am not a botanist.
She smiles back again. “Thank you!” Surprisingly, she pushes her emaciated body so far towards my lips that I can reach and kiss her tender buds — which, of course, I softly do.
“Far from the Arms of Hunger” by Jackson Browne can be heard in the background.
What makes a good psychologist? What makes a good psychologist is recognizing what the patient needs, even if they don’t know it themselves — or if they know, but can’t say it.
“Would you like to feel my breath on your body?” I ask her.
“Yes…” she answers.
“Would you like to feel it everywhere?”
“Yes…”
I bend over her. I take off her clothes. We go over to the other side of the room, where her bed is. I barely touch her; she lets it happen.
In front of me lies a skeleton with skin and fibers. I start to “smell” her entire body because I’m not allowed to touch it, but I want her to feel my breath — everywhere.
I start with her neck — more imaginary violets. I move on to her bony collarbones — paper; her armpits — deodorant; her ribcage — again, my invented flower; her ribs — cotton; her belly button — musk; her vagina — Tabasco; her thighs — neutral; her calves — neutral; and her feet — both neutral and cotton.
She seems comfortable during my “exploration.” That’s kayseri escort reassuring.
Everything I see and smell has hardly any flesh; you can only see the skin, the veins, and the outlines of the bones everywhere. Her skin has a number of pigment disorders, which means that she lacks any color in many places. However, as “Lizzie” is very fair-skinned anyway, it’s hardly noticeable at first glance. If you kneel in front of the naked creature, it still looks more like a lightly spotted animal than a normal human being. I don’t know of any animal that is so incredibly scrawny; nature didn’t intend something like that. Perhaps I should rather say ‘spotted skeleton,’ or ‘oversized insect.’
My lips come back up to her face — to her incredible, beautiful face. Although I’ve already seen and smelled her most intimate parts, I don’t dare kiss this porcelain skin, because that wasn’t the deal.
I don’t want to overshoot the mark too quickly. If she stipulates that there should be no touching, then it’s up to her to change that, so I go back to her hair, ears, and neck with my lips and nose.
She gently strokes her bony fingers through my hair and whispers — barely audibly –“You can smell my anus now…”
What an unusual offer, I think to myself while “Hungry Eyes” by Eric Carmen plays in the background.
My head slowly moves downwards again as she opens her legs wide — legs that I could almost enclose with my thumb and forefinger.
Her private parts look a little red –or sore– to me, but I have no idea if I’m imagining it because the rest of her skin is so light. She lifts her pelvic bones and pushes a pillow under her buttocks. Her long fingers slide down to her clitoris. My face approaches her perineum, and her hands start to stimulate her pearl at the same time.
My nose explores that sensitive area, and for the first time, I get hard down there. I tell her as much; she doesn’t respond, but she massages her pearl a little faster and harder.
I smell her cunt — salty — and then, as desired, her anus. It doesn’t smell of flowers or perfume, but rather of salt. Does it smell like stool? No, although I suppose some people’s minds would play that trick. Making sure that she feels my breath, I go over the reddish grooves of her rim; it also smells salty, moist, feminine, like skin, and maybe even a little like sweat, but not ‘brown and dirty.’
“Your tongue can touch me there now,” I hear quietly from above.
I accept the offer and run it very carefully over the ridges of her sphincter. Her clitoral fingering intensifies. My cock has gotten even harder. It’s standing at a ninety-degree angle from me, but she can’t see that, so I tell her — quietly and unobtrusively. I think she wants to know but doesn’t want to have to react. When the information reaches her ears, she raises her pelvis a little again, offering me her anal wreath even more directly, then concentrating even more intently on massaging herself. My tongue presses a little harder against her muscle, which she obviously enjoys; I even think I hear a soft moan.
Does she perhaps taste very slightly of a recently-cleaned bathroom? I ask myself, and immediately answer that I’m only imagining it. I’m not mistaken completely, however, because a few fine drops reach my nose and tongue, coming from a little further up. Stangry is still focusing exclusively on her pearl. She gradually releases a thin trickle of urine that is running from her urethral opening; she doesn’t comment on it.
The skinny girl is wetting herself!
It doesn’t bother me; I let my tongue continue to explore her zones unperturbed.
She exhales deeply, continues to massage herself unabashedly, and just lets it all go –on the sheet, on my lips. Her finger play intensifies, and I push my lower lip against her perineum so that most of her urine runs into my mouth. I grasp my foreskin-covered glans with my thumb and forefinger and jerk off lightly. I can’t help it. If I wasn’t allowed to do that now, I would go nuts. That’s how much this praying mantis is turning me on.
I tell her that; she smiles.
Her urine tastes pretty neutral — watery rather than bitter, with a slight note that reminds me of the Sahara. Her sheet is getting wetter and wetter, but it would be soaking wet if I weren’t drinking up. She pees and pees; I drink and drink; she rubs and rubs; and she continues to push her pelvis upwards until the flow slowly subsides and the pee jet stops dripping.
I don’t know if she’s come, but I know I’m still hard as nails down there.
“Would you like to masturbate in front of me?” Lizzie asks me quietly.
“I would love to do anything that makes me cum…”
“You can masturbate in front of me if you let me control your glans!”
I wonder what exactly she means by that.
Her long, bony fingers make a “come here” motion, as it’s easy to understand all over the world — except among the Boku Haram, where its meaning is something else.
I go to her as kıbrıs escort directed, and my cock stands horizontally away from me, pointing at her face. She opens her mouth very slightly. I start to jerk off in front of it, as I don’t see it as an invitation to penetrate.
She slides her mouth over the tip of my cock, but without me touching her lips much. It’s more like I’m allowed to masturbate in her oral cavity — which I do.
My cock gets even bigger and harder, so that I push it past her teeth and into her cheek pockets every now and then. Her molars lower slightly and hold my glans in place. I carry on wanking, a little irritated. I think if I wasn’t so hard and horny, it would hurt. With my erectile tissue between her teeth, I continue to pull my foreskin back and forth, back and forth, and as I make vague attempts to withdraw it from her, she makes a windshield wiper motion with her index finger — understood all over the world as a “No, no!” — well, almost all over the world.
She presses her teeth a little harder into my swollen pleasure tip, and although it elicitssome fear and pain, my boner remains firm and hard. I continue to jerk off at the root of my member, and somehow it makes me really hot how she chews lightly on my glans.
She releases me briefly, slides off the sofa onto the floor, and kneels in front of me. I look down at her; my cock is hungry for more. She opens her mouth again and pulls her lips back so that her white teeth appear almost threateningly.
I dare to do it. I push my horny glans towards her. However, the path for my bulging penis head ends at her incisors. She bites down lightly, holding it there. I flinch a little in fear, take a deep breath through my teeth, and continue to wank my captured cock hesitantly.
Oh my goodness, it’s so hot… but I’m afraid my orgasm will be a long time coming this way.
Stangry releases me a little again, which I take advantage of to bring my pulsing friend back into the light. Her bite marks are clearly visible on the thin skin of the erectile tissue. I don’t care. I can lick my wounds later. Once again, I see how her mouth gently opens and her teeth invite me, while her hand slides down to her vulva. I carefully push my cock head into her right cheek pocket, and I almost enjoy the pointed pressure that once more sinks into my genitals.
She continues working on herself further down.
Her teeth have me firmly in their grip. I jerk off like an addict and believe for the first time that I might come after all, even though my cock is locked between her teeth.
Very hesitantly and barely perceptibly, I think I hear a soft splashing sound. I look down, see the hollow cheekbones and the bulging glans between Stangry’s teeth, and then look down further still, seeing a puddle spread.
The slightly perverted clothes rack obviously likes the contrast between “controlled” and “uncontrolled.” Either that, or the pressure of control is so great that it must be released in this way.
I’m guessing the latter.
She controls her weight and food to the point of self-abandonment.
She controls every kind of touch and closeness.
She even controls my glans in her mouth and my ejaculation.
All this pressure probably has to escape somewhere, and that’s what’s happening here.
As her urine spreads across the floor, she continues to stimulate her cunt rigorously and vigorously, and her chompers take my pleasure bolt in stride. Her bite intensifies, loosens, intensifies, and loosens again… in this way, she inflicts a throbbing, pulsating rhythm of pain upon me.
I don’t understand why my cock is still hard, because her jaw and palate are merciless with it. I think if she goes on much longer, she’ll have my blood in her mouth.
“I have to come right away. Or stop. But I can’t go on like this.” My words are tortured.
Her teeth gently release me. “If you want to come,” she says, “you can come down my throat. But please only thrust it in deep ONCE. Just like your cock, it’s too sore to survive continuous thrusts.”
Once again, she gives her clitoris the finger and invites the tip of my cock to space between her teeth.
Actually, I can’t and shouldn’t give her my sensitive part anymore, but I’m so terribly horny that I dare to do it again and shove it between her teeth.
We both go into the last round wanking — me in front of her mouth, her in front of the images in her head. I don’t flatter myself.
As I pull back my foreskin — sometimes forcefully, sometimes slowly — her clitoral stimulation becomes increasingly violent and wild. I look at her ribs and back, and discover nothing on her that is as thick as my cock. She’s a fragile collection of bones, but she masturbates so vigorously that I would almost call it “reckless.” I myself would never handle one of my lovers as harshly as Lizzie behaves towards her genital area.
After a few more seconds, I feel that I’m ready. The orgasm comes irrevocably. Perhaps hers does, too, because her rows of teeth release my slightly bleeding glans. Her fingers continue to scrub down below, but her mouth opens widely and soundlessly.
I see it as an invitation and my only opportunity. My hands clasp the back of her head, and with a strong and determined jerk, I thrust my hard, bloody, and squirting boner so deep into her throat that she lets out a muffled sound: “NGLCK!”