Anorexia affliction targets the glans.
Enjoy some wine, Tom. I've had my fill.
He emphasizes his offer, which seems more like a request, with a horizontal twisting finger movement. This gesture is interpreted as "more" everywhere in the world, except among the Boko Haram. For the Boko Haram, it means "I feel like taking your wife and daughter."
"Anything exciting for you in the last few weeks?" I ask Felix.
"I had a woman in a wheelchair."
"How was that?"
"Quite a cool story, but I'll wait for the next few emails from her before I can share more details. It irked me a little to see how she identified herself primarily by her disability, but I'll tell you more later."
"I encountered an anorexic young woman."
"Holy cow, really?"
"Yes. I was fortunate. I've always wanted to."
My name is Tom. I'm in my late forties and a new member of a forum where men fulfill women's most unusual requests, primarily for money but not always. Empathy, discretion, and respect are expected, if not demanded. Financial compensation isn't a given, and the forum is well-policed—only men who are there for the thrill can remain.
There's a rating system, and after our encounter, the woman is asked to rate her experience. No one with a high rating would want to lose it.
I do not want to lose mine.
The door opens. A very thin young woman, about 5-foot-7, fixes me with a serious gaze but not an unfriendly one. The friendly welcome isn't in evidence here.
"Hello, Tom!" she says.
"Hello, Stranger!" I reply.
"You can call me Lizzie," she suggests. "I like Lizzie VĂ©lez."
"I'm not familiar with her."
"Well, she's a great woman!"
"That's a great compliment," I think. "It's the only compliment you can give to a woman without her questioning the reason."
Rarely does a woman question the reason for a great compliment. Occasionally, she might, hoping for more flattery, but not usually due to doubts about the validity of the compliment itself.
We enter the living room. "Hungry Like the Wolf" by Duran Duran plays. For the first time, I study her carefully, without pretense.
"Wow... you're incredibly... beautiful!" I say thoughtfully and calmly.
She smiles softly, a little embarrassed.
"I prefer thin women," I assure her. "You have such a fragile and porcelain-like appearance. That's quite rare."
"Thank you," she replies meekly, looking down at the sofa and her lower legs. They're slightly larger than her thighs, which I can see because she's wearing a very short dress. It makes sense that larger bones need more space.
She lifts her head and looks at me for the first time, a bit self-consciously. She's in her early, mid, or late twenties. It's hard to tell because her emaciated physique ages women prematurely. Her eyes are bright, warm, and lovely. Her hair is medium brown and not overly thick. It's probably lacking essential nutrients. Her hair falls over her shoulders and would look lovely in a ponytail. Her teeth appear large against her small mouth, likely due to her gaunt appearance with sunken cheeks.
"So, what's your story?" she asks. To me, it sounds like she's breaking the silence.
"Let's not talk about me. I'm here for you."
"Okay, then. Ask me whatever you want to know!"
"Hungry Child" by Hot Chip plays in the background.
I don't mince words. "Why did you want me to visit?"
"I was worried you'd ask that."
"What's making you anxious about this question? Is it because you're uncomfortable with the response? Or is it simply unconventional? If it's the latter, what makes you special is that you went against the mainstream thinking and invited me here."
She appears to understand what I'm getting at but says, "I see your point. Since you're here now, there's no need for pretense or to adopt the conventional approach. You're here because I can't help but want to have sex again after a long time."
"It's hard to comprehend why you'd have to ask for that, given how stunning you are physically."
I speak sincerely when I say it. However, at roughly 5 feet 7 inches tall, she probably weighs only 83 pounds. She continues, talking about disliking touch and not liking to touch others at all.
"I get that; it's indeed a problem for some during sex. Anything else bothering you?" I keep my tone light and receptive, not judging or interrogating.
"I'm... indeed different," she admits. "But I want to be in command of my life!"
I understand where she's coming from; I recall anorexia is usually a result of a desire for control. However, I refrain from lecturing Stangry or converting her beliefs because it's not my place.
"What can I do to create a positive experience for you tonight?" It's a straightforward question I ask, wanting to help and be genuine about it.
"I... I really... " She glances at me - hesitantly, pleadingly, perhaps even desperately. "I... don't know!"
"Can I hold your hand?" I inquire tentatively.
"Yes," she replies, extending her fragile fingers towards me.
I grab her small hands, and, if I were to place my index and ring fingers next to each other, they'd be the size of her wrist. Her thighs are the width of my forearm. I could encircle her ankles with a single hand, as narrow as a water glass. Her skin is delicate and pale, with veins clearly visible in some areas.
I approach her, breathe in deeply, and focus on her scent. "You have an alluring mix of determination and goodness," I say, realizing I've never used this word.
Her eyebrows arch slightly, and her dark, long lashes are captivating. She has subtle dimples, and when she gently scratches them with her long, bony fingers, it looks adorable.
"I know I'm not your typical candidate for conventional sex, but we can certainly find a way," I offer, trying to be encouraging.
"I don't know what to do," she admits.
"Can I put my lips near your skin?" I ask cautiously.
"Yes," she decides, moving closer to me.
I take her hand in mine and cup it with both hands. If my index and ring fingers touch, they're as thick as her wrist. Her legs are smaller than my forearm. I can contain her ankles with a single hand, like a skinny drinking glass. Her skin is thin and white like parchment, with blue veins visible in various places.
I move a bit closer, take a deep breath, and appreciate her fragrance. "This unique mix of unwavering willpower and attractiveness is what you smell like," I comment, not an expert on botany.
"What scent is that?" she inquires.
"Just like you," I grin, leaning down to her ear. "I won't be touching or kissing you."
Lizzie (her alias) responds, "Thank you."
I bring my nose and lips to her neck. Her scent is delightful -- possibly because her light body mass doesn't conflict with her perfume. I tell her as much.
I unbutton her blouse and expose her body. I refrain from touching her. My lips and breath hover over her veiny, pale skin - her ribs, joints, and bones. Lizzie relaxes, providing me with a bodily form that's incredibly rare. I tell her that, too.
Her breasts show underneath her unbuttoned blouse. It's debatable if they can be called "breasts." They're not just boyish; they're barely there. It's understandable.
"Your breasts smell like violets," I inform her as I smile at her.
"Thank you!" She smiles back.
I lean in, kissing her tiny buds without touching. A Jackson Browne song, "Far from the Arms of Hunger," plays in the background.
What makes a great psychologist is being aware of the patient's needs, even when they're not explicitly stated or understandable to them.
"Do you want to experience my touch all over?"
"Yes..."
I lean towards her. I remove her clothes. We move to the other side of the room where her bed is. I barely nudge her; she allows it.
In front of me lies a human being with a minimal amount of flesh. I start to savour her entire body since I'm not allowed to touch, but I want her to feel my breath - everywhere.
I begin with her neck - more imaginary violets. I shift to her bony collarbones - paper; her armpits - deodorant; her ribcage - again, my made-up flower; her ribs - cotton; her belly button - musk; her vagina - Tabasco; her thighs - neutral; her calves - neutral;, and her feet - both neutral and cotton.
Then, I return to her bony collarbones - paper; her armpits - deodorant; her ribcage - again, my made-up 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 appears relaxed during my "investigation." That's reassuring.
Everything I absorb and perceive has barely any flesh; you can only see the skin, the veins, and the shadows of the bones everywhere. The skin seems to have numerous pigment disorders, which means that she lacks any colour in many places. But since "Lizzie" is very fair-skinned in the first place, it's hardly noticeable at a glance. However, if you kneel in front of the naked creature, it's more like a delicately spotted animal than a typical human being. I can't think of any animal that is so uncannily slender; nature didn't intend this. Maybe I should call her 'spotted skeleton,' or 'oversized insect.'
My lips venture back to her face - to her striking, captivating face. Although I've already inspected and smelled her most private parts, I hesitate to kiss this porcelain skin, as it wasn't the arrangement.
I don't want to go overboard too swiftly. If she sets the condition that there should be no contact, then it's up to her to alter that, so I return to her hair, ears, and neck with my lips and nose.
She lightly brushes her bony fingers through my hair and whispers - almost inaudibly - "You can smell my anus now..."
What a peculiar offer, I think to myself as "Hungry Eyes" by Eric Carmen plays in the background.
My head descends slowly towards her again as she spreads her legs wide - legs that I could almost encircle with my thumb and forefinger.
Her private parts appear reddish - or sore - to me, but I can't be sure if I'm imagining it because the rest of her skin is so light. She elevates her pelvic bones and slips a pillow beneath her buttocks. Her slender fingers glide down to her clitoris. My face nears her perineum, and her hands stimulate her pearl simultaneously.
I inhale the scent of her genitalia - salty - and then, as requested, her anus. It doesn't have the aroma of flowers or perfume, but salt. It's not like faeces, but some minds might trick you. It also smells salty, moist, feminine, like skin, and perhaps even a hint of sweat, but not 'brown and dirty.'
"You can place your tongue there now," I hear murmured softly from above.
I comply with the request and press my tongue delicately against the creases of her sphincter. Her clitoral fingering intensifies. My erection stiffens. It's now perpendicular to my body, but she can't see that, so I inform her - gently and discreetly. She raises her pelvis a tad more, presenting her anal cornice more directly, then intensifies her self-stimulation even more fervently. With my tongue, I exert a little more pressure on her muscle, which she enjoys clearly; I even think I hear a tacit moan.
Her clitoral stimulation escalates. My erection stiffens further. It's now nearly at a ninety-degree angle from my body, but she can't see that, so I broadcast the info to her - mutedly and unobtrusively. She raises her pelvis again, offering me her anal circlet more directly, then focusing more intensively on her self-pleasure. My tongue applies slight pressure to her muscle, which she likely delights in; I even believe I hear a soft groan.
Are you thinking her taste is similar to a freshly cleaned bathroom? I question myself, then swiftly declare that it's merely a figment of my imagination. However, a small amount sneaks up, reaching my nostrils and taste buds. Stangry still focuses solely on her pearl. She stops her peeing process but doesn't comment.
The slim woman is urinating upon herself!
It doesn't upset me; I let my tongue roam unrestrained around her areas.
She exhales, continues to touch herself, and lets herself pee straight onto the sheet and my lips. Her fingering becomes more vigorous, and I push my lower lip against her perineum to collect most of her pee. I caress my glans with my thumb and forefinger gently, masturbating lightly. I couldn't resist. This incredible praying mantis is turning me on intensely.
I express my sentiments; she smiles.
Her urine tastes laboriously neutral - watery rather than bitter, with a hint that brings to mind the Sahara. Her sheet gets saturated, but it would be drenched if I didn't drink. She ejaculates and ejaculates; I sip and sip; she touches herself more and more intensely, pushing her pelvis towards me until her urine flow reduces.
I'm not sure if she's reached climax, but I know I'm still hard as can be down there.
"Would you enjoy masturbating in front of me?" Lizzie asks quietly.
"Whatever you want me to do to cum..."
"You may masturbate in front of me, but only if I control your glans."
I ponder what she means by that.
Her long, slender fingers beckon, a gesture recognized worldwide except among Boko Haram, where it signifies something different.
I approach as instructed, and my manhood stands horizontally, pointing at her face. She barely parts her lips. I start masturbating in front of her, not viewing it as an invitation to penetrate.
She runs her mouth over the tip of my penis, but without me penetrating deeply. It's more like I masturbate in her mouth.
My cock hardens even more, so that I push it past her teeth and into the pockets of her jaws. Her molars lower slightly and hold my glans in place. I carry on wanking, somewhat irritated. I'd imagine if I wasn't so aroused and hard, it would hurt. With my erectile tissue wedged between her teeth, I continue stroking, back and forth, and as I try to draw it away, she makes wiper motions with her index finger - understood globally as "No, no, no!" - nearly everywhere except Boko Haram.
She bites down slightly, digging her teeth into my swollen pleasure tip. I cringe slightly yet maintain my erection. I persist in wanking at the foot of my member, and somehow, her teeth chewing on my glans increase my arousal.
She releases me a little, crawls off the couch, and kneels in front of me. I peer down at her; my cock yearns for more. She opens her mouth, revealing her pearly white teeth. I muster the courage and push my girthy glans towards her. However, the path of my bulging head terminates at her incisors. She bites down gently, containing it there. I tense slightly in fear, take a deep breath, and continue to wank hesitantly.
How scorching! Yet, I fear my orgasm may take ages to come by.
Stangry releases me again, depriving me of sunlight. I bring my pulsating member back into the light. Her tooth marks are visible on the delicate skin of my erectile tissue. I don't mind. I'll lick my wounds later. Once again, I spot how her lips slightly part and her teeth invite me, while her hand pinches her vulva. I carefully push my cock head into her right cheek pocket, savoring the pointed pressure that impacts my genitals.
She continues working on herself further down.
Her teeth firmly grip me. I masturbate like an addict, suspecting I might erupt after all, even though my dick is trapped between her teeth.
I faintly hear a faint splashing sound. I glance down, see the prominent cheekbones and my glans wedged in between Stangry's teeth, and then focus lower, noticing a pool form.
The diverse garment hanger obviously relishes the contrast between "restraint" and "release." Either that, or the strain of control is so intense that it needs to find an outlet in this manner.
I suspect it's the latter.
She meticulously regulates her weight and diet to the point of extremes.
She regulates every form of touch and intimacy.
She even regulates my glans in her mouth and my ejaculation.
All this strain likely finds a way to express itself here.
In her urine pool, she persistently stimulates her vulva with fervor, while her chompers simultaneously take my pleasure conduit in their stride. Her bite strengthens, loosens, strengthens, and loosens once more... thereby inflicting a persistent, pounding pulse of agony upon me.
I can't comprehend why my penis remains erect, given her teeth's merciless treatment. I feel if she continues like this, she'll have my blood in her mouth.
"I need to release or cease. But I can't continue like this." Her words strain.
Her teeth gently set my member free. "If you want to release, you can release down my throat. But please only thrust it in deep ONCE. Just like your penis, it's too fragile to withstand constant thrusts."
Once again, she offers her vulva the fingertips and allows the head of my penis to enter the space between her teeth.
Admittedly, I can't and wouldn't provide her my sensitive part again, but I'm so aroused that I risk doing it.
We're both engaged in the final round of self-pleasuring - I in front of her mouth, she in front of the visions in her mind. I don't flatter myself.
As I retract my foreskin - sometimes forcefully, sometimes slowly - her vulva stimulation becomes increasingly frenzied and chaotic. I gaze at her ribs and back, and see nothing on her as wide as my penis. She's a delicate amalgamation of bones, but she self-pleasures with an enthusiasm that borders on rashness. I'd never handled any of my lovers as forcefully as Lizzie does to her own genitals.
After a few more moments, I sense I'm ready. The climax looms unavoidable. Perhaps hers does as well, since her rows of teeth relinquish my somewhat bloodied glans. Her fingers persistently scrub beneath, but her mouth gapes wide without making a sound.
I view it as an invitation and my one opportunity. I clutch the back of her head, and with a solid and purposeful yank, I force my fully erect, slightly bleeding, and erupting member so deep into her throat that she utters a muffled exclamation: "NGLCK!"
I push her head further, but without thrusting again. My glans is firmly lodged within her throat and empties itself in multiple bursts. Swallows obediently; there's no resistance. Her eyes are open, and her fingers grapple my thighs. It's the only time she's touched me sensitively, consciously, and actively, and I imagine it's going to be the last time.
After about ten to twenty seconds of relishing the warmth of her oesophagus against my cock, I gradually draw it out of her throat. It drags two thick, white strands. Remnants of pink ejaculate cling to it. My legs quiver slightly.
Stangry lets herself collapse into her puddle of urine. Her delicate limbs appear as if they've just been discarded, almost as if a skeleton had been shot.
"Was this roughly how you envisioned it?" I ask her, breathless.
She doesn't answer; she simply breathes. When she eventually speaks, it's a query of her own:
"Do you happen to know how many calories sperm contains?"
