Amanda

from “A Tortured Soul”

In this excerpt from A Tortured Soul, Paul takes his new friend back to his room in his university hall of residence.

Please be aware that A Tortured Soul is an adult novel with adult scenes – and this is one of them. Please don’t read any further if you are easily offended.


We hurried back to Wintersmith where I struggled to work out how to open the outer door with my new keys. Being ever so slightly more than a little tipsy didn’t help. In the end, Amanda snatched the keys from me and opened the door with practiced ease—she had lived in this very hall the previous year after all.

No sooner were we in my room, the door slamming shut behind us, then we were all over each other. Lips mashed against lips. Tongues danced and duelled. Hands groped when fingers weren’t fumbling with buttons and zips and clasps in a mad scramble to get us both naked as quickly as possible.

This wasn’t about love. There were no gentle caressing of newly exposed flesh. No tender kisses lavished upon the skin. This was about passion—the joy of the physical act. Nothing more.

Being the generous soul that I am, I let Amanda attempt to prove that her boasts about her fellatio skills weren’t exaggerated before I set about my self-appointed task of making her pass out. And while my brain most definitely didn’t shoot out the end of my cock, something else certainly did. And in record time too. I’ll give her credit, she was good. Very good. And she took a full load, swallowing down all the salty goodness.

Blowjobs are funny things. Standing naked in the centre of a room with an equally naked woman on her knees in front of you, lavishing attention of your prick, gives a man a feeling of power. Sure, the physical pleasure is great, but it’s the mental rush from that feeling of power as you place your hand on the back of her head that really gets a guy going.

But who really has the power in that situation? How many men have promised the earth as long as she keeps on sucking?

The orgasm she coaxed out of me certainly did scramble my senses—but not nearly as much as she’d bragged it would. I still had enough about me to pick her up, carry her to the bed and set to work.

The thing a lot of guys don’t ever get about women is that every single one of them is different. You can’t use the same technique on all of them and expect the same response every time. Oh, sure, some of the buttons are the same, one hard little button in particular, but even then, some like it to get all the attention, some like it teased, with flighty little touches every now and then having much more of an effect than an all-out assault.

The key is to watch and learn. For example, a couple of days ago, when I brushed Lisa’s anus with my finger, she flinched and pulled away slightly, but I focused back on her pussy and she probably never even noticed her unconscious reaction. But I did.

Whereas when I touched Amanda’s puckered rosebud, she pushed her body towards it, almost as if she was trying to force my finger inside. Clearly, this was a girl who didn’t guard the backdoor as fiercely as most. So I lodged that titbit away for future reference and licked and probed her through her next orgasm—her third, not that I was counting.

After her body finished shaking with a fifth climax (okay, so I was counting), she pushed at my forehead with one hand and propped herself up on the bed with the other. It didn’t exactly count as begging me to stop, but it was close enough for me.

The light from the lamp on the desk twinkled in her dilated pupils. Her breathing was laboured, but she was no more done for the night than I’d been after she’d finished with me.

With a cheeky, challenging smile, she said, “I thought you were going to make me pass out? I mean, that was pretty good and all—very good in fact—but I’m still cognisant enough to use a word like cognisant.” She raised her eyebrows at the end of the sentence.

I grinned. “You really are a nerd, aren’t you?”

She shrugged. “What can I say, guys like smart girls. But the point is—”

“The point is, I’m just getting you warmed up.” I climbed up on the bed and crawled on top of her. She opened her legs to let me settle between them and, as my cock easily slipped in to her waiting, welcoming depths, I gave her my best, most passionate kiss.

This was going to be fun.

I started slowly. Then sped up. Then slowed down again. I controlled the pace, never letting her get into her stride, always keeping her guessing.

I caressed her whole body with my hands and rubbed my body against hers during the slow sections, watching for the clues to her most sensitive spots. On picking up the pace, I really let her have it, pounding her into the mattress while willing myself to hold back my own release to give me the time I needed to accomplish my goal.

I swapped positions, holding her close as I rolled on to my back. Why? Well, most girls like to ride cowgirl—even if they don’t know it. It gives them a chance to be in control of the tempo and the depth. But I wasn’t particularly worried about relinquishing control to Amanda at this point—I could tell she was so worked up she’d drive herself on to the next orgasm without any prompting from me.

No, I was more interested in the access the position gave me to all those sensitive spots I’d noted earlier. While she hammered herself down on my cock, I touched, caressed, pinched and tweaked my way around the mental map I’d built up of her body.

Here’s the thing about pleasure—it’s almost the direct opposite of pain. It’s the same nerves that carry pain signals up to the brain as carry the pleasure. Pleasure and pain enter the brain through the same gateway, only usually there’s receptor on guard to direct the pleasure one way and the pain the other.

But overwhelm the guard with too much pleasure—particularly if that pleasure comes from all over the body, the way I’d been working on with Amanda—and it gives up. It’s no longer able to divert the pain off to the side, to separate it out from all that lovely, glorious pleasure.

In other words, pain and pleasure become the same thing.

So when I sat up and bit hard on Amanda’s nipple, she didn’t register it as pain, but as an immense jolt of extraordinary pleasure.

When I picked her up and planted her on all fours so I could slam into her from behind, the rough treatment just added to her joy. The smacks on her arse that reddened her cheeks, didn’t hurt her one bit. They just drove her on. And on. And on.

And when, without warning, I popped my thumb through the tight ring of muscle guarding her rear entrance, the orgasm that racked her body was too much for her poor, overwhelmed pleasure centres to take. So they did the only thing they could do. They shut her down.

Her body was still shaking as her limbs gave out and she collapsed face down on the bed beneath me. And while I pulled my cock free as it started to squirt, her eyes glazed over, her mouth dribbled saliva onto the sheets, and I knew she couldn’t feel my come splashing on her back. She wasn’t capable of feeling anything at that point.

Not quite murder by fucking. But not far off.

Now I had to think of something to claim as my prize for winning our bet.

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