He throws a blanket over my upper body and my head, leaving me exposed below the waist. This casual disregard for my comfort and humanity instantly shifts my headspace. Most of the time, I feel like his partner or his little one. His princess, doted on and cared for. His submissive, serving and obeying without question. But this is different. In this moment, I am his thing, his holes, his property. I am just his, without regard for my wants—without recognition that I even have wants.
He pushes himself inside me, and he edges. He thinks only of his own enjoyment, keeping the pace that pleases him. This is not sex; he is masturbating with my body. He doesn’t talk to me. He doesn’t caress or grab me. He’s not looking for and my gasps and moans. At this point, I am more living fleshlight than person. He goes slow and steady, then he picks up speed until he has to stop. His breath quivers as he tries not to move. Then when he regains control, he picks up again.
His full body weight is on me as he uses my hole. In and out, in and out. Then he pulls out and pushes into my ass. I gasp a little, but I try to keep quiet. He has never told me I can’t speak in moments like this; I just intuitively know. There is no me anymore—no self, no independent thought, no wants. I am just a hole. An object. Fuckable furniture.
It would be a lie to say it doesn’t feel good. But the pleasure comes and goes. I just let it wash over me; I don’t try to hold onto it. I don’t try to build toward orgasm. He doesn’t care about that, even to deny me. My pleasure is irrelevant here. Besides, I know I won’t cum, because I would have to ask and that would require speaking. And holes don’t talk.
Porn starts playing, and his cock grows even harder in my ass. He edges a few more times. I now exist in a space outside of time. My mind isn’t focused on service or his pleasure. It isn’t focused on anything at all. I have no idea how long he’s been using his holes. It doesn’t matter. He could leave and come back, and this body would still be here. Half-uncovered, laying in the exact same position. Waiting.
Then something about the porn sounds familiar. The pattern of moans. That guttural, primal sound she’s making. And then I hear the man’s voice. The French accent. And then I hear her begging, “Daddy, please…” And I know that needy whore with the guttural moans is me. The other me. The one who is teased and denied and ruined. The one whose pleasure matters, even when it’s withheld. But right now, I am just a hole. I do not have to beg. I do not have to think about how best to please him. I just have to exist.
The girl on the video reaches a fever pitch, and he fucks his hole harder, faster, deeper. He won’t stop himself this time. He finishes with a deep groan and lays his weight on the body under him. When the aftershocks have subsided, he withdraws. He wipes the hole and pulls the blanket over my lower half. And I lay there where he left me, waiting to be of use again.
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