The Secret Ownership of Tim Ch. 03

Author's Note to readers: This is a prequel to the other two stories about poor Timmy.

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Yellow eyes. Have you ever known anyone with yellow eyes? Except for Natasha Bodinski, I have never known anyone with yellow eyes.

Yellow eyes are eerie. Hers eyes spear me, penetrate me, render me helpless. Lionesses have yellow eyes. Surely some snakes have yellow eyes. Owls have yellow eyes. Predators, all of them. Natasha included.

I remember the first time I was captured by her eyes. Her Russian parents had just immigrated to the neighborhood. She -- their only child -- quickly began to integrate into the community. Her accent, rather than alienating her, made her exotic. She attracted friends at college easily, almost as if they were mesmerized by her ease as a foreigner in this country. Even my sister, who was in biology with her at UVM, became enamored with her. At the dinner table my sister gushed about Natasha's poise and charm. Whenever I saw her on campus, I made a wide detour.

Maybe some of it had to do with our fascination with Russia at the time. The superpower against which we had armored ourselves. The competitor we were taught to hate, to distrust. The grand USSR was hidden behind an Iron Curtain. It gave the country and Natasha an air of mystery. And here she was, not in our country by defeat, or to escape the ruins of her politics, but as if to come and claim our country. How was it that she seemed more cosmopolitan than we? Why did the friends around her, guys and gals alike, talk and act as if they felt compelled to prove to her that they were suave and sophisticated.

She jogged every morning. Usually some kind of tight white shirt, tank top or sometimes tee shirt. Shorts. Short shorts. Very short shorts. White, with the UVM logo in green and yellow. White sneakers. Anklet socks. Every morning. Punctually.

The rigidity of her punctuality almost scared me. It was a discipline to which I knew I could only hope to aspire.

My bedroom window in my parents' house faced the street of our quiet neighborhood. At first, when I saw her jog by, I just stood there in my room and watched, hypnotized to immobility like prey charmed by a snake. Then I began standing by the window, just off to the side and out of sight from the street. I waited. Soon, I began to notice that it was always at seven thirty. In fact, it was exactly at 7:36. And that's when I first felt a stab in my groin. That preciseness frightened me as much as it entranced me.

I don't know why it became terrifying. I couldn't help myself: I made sure to be done with my shower and back in my room, watching my watch until 7:35. Then I would raise my gaze slowly with trepidation as if looking up at the tortured Christ nailed to a cross. Sure enough, exactly a minute later, the crucifier would round the corner. The gorgeous Russian was on her victory parade down my American street. Her tits bound in a jogging bra under her white top, but bouncing ever so proudly, ever so confidently.

This might be strange to say, but it became almost claustrophobic. It was like a bad repetitive dream. I became obsessed with timing it. My breath would quicken as the time ticked toward the toll of her arrival. Adrenaline surged into my heart when I saw her come into view. The trot of her lithe legs. Her muscular thighs tightening and relaxing. Her calves extending and pushing off. Her arms slightly bent. And between them, her round breasts riding the rhythm of her rigid determination.

Surely you can predict what started happening. I set up in front of the window. Naked and dried from the shower. Bent on my knees so that only my head showed above the sill. It was uncontrollable. I was possessed by her command. It is silly to admit, but I felt as if I were a soldier in her army, whose bidding it was to stand at salute for her passing. Somehow I was convinced that other guys, and possibly girls, in the neighborhood along her route were being brought to their knees as well. Volunteering ourselves into the service of her command.

Shameful then. Shameful that what began to salute her was my cock. But I had no choice. I was not volunteering at all. I was being pressed into service. I had been conscripted into submission. I was mesmerized by fear and fascination. And both thrilling feelings gorged my saluting cock so hard, it throbbed.

All throughout my adolescence I had always feared that my masturbation was too frequent and urgent. I was always deeply shamed by the dirty, degrading and despicable images in my head as I pumped by swollen cock into my bed sheets. I feared cumming and having the stains discovered my Mama when she did the laundry. And so I taught myself to rub but not cum. I taught myself denial. And yet the more I denied myself, the more I needed release. I started cumming in my socks or tee-shirts, hoping it wouldn't be noticed and simply thrown into the washing machine. I would cum and every time, I was instantly guilty about cumming.

But this ... this horrifying act of stroking my cock while a women jogged by ... this was final proof of how disgusting and utterly out of control my masturbation had become.

There I was, on my knees, a soft tee-shirt wrapped around my hard, stiff cock, stroking while the Zsar of Lusciousness demonstrated her command over me. The contrast was not lost on me. She demonstrated utter self-discipline. While all I could demonstrate was my demonic, disgusting degradation into nothing more than a dick-stroking cum boy.

On one bright sunny morning, my timing was perfect, my dick hard with devotion. I was using a tee-shirt to stroke myself. I slowly slid loosely up and down my dick, sometimes squeezing my hand a bit so I had to push my cock in as if having the outrageous fortune of her pussy descending on my cock. The sensations pulsed through my dick and shivered straight up my spine. I watched her jog by my window. Such a perfect body. Her tits, her strong legs, her round ass, all now undressed by my lecherous eyes. I stroked and was planning to throw myself on my bed after she passed, pump my pathetic dick into the tee-shirt covered pillow and blow my cum.

It was at that moment, for the first time -- I swear Natasha somehow read my mind -- that she turned her head in mid-stride and looked straight at me. Instantly and involuntarily my face distorted, my mouth opened in that urgent "oh" expression which accompanies complete loss of control, and I saw her eyes. Her yellow eyes. Her strict, relentless eyes. Her glare hit me, invaded me, went deep into my groin and set off an explosion of shame. My cum spurted out and hit my chest and chin.

I fell away from the sill. Cum was spattered on my chest and stomach. I lay there and was too terrified to move. I was scared Natasha had stopped jogging and was waiting for me to reappear. That she knew exactly what I had been doing. I panicked that the doorbell would ring any second and she would tell my parents that she was going to call the police on me and have me arrested for being a pervert, a demented peeping tom.

I got a hold of myself and peeked over the sill. No Natasha. I wiped my cum off with the tee shirt and stuffed it under my bed. Then I glanced out the window trying to see if she was anywhere. Nowhere. I breathed for the first time, but my heart was still pounding as if I had just finished a 50-yard sprint.

All day I fretted. Maybe it was just a glance. How could she possibly have known what I was doing? But inside, I knew. Worse yet, the same illogical thinking that led me to believe all the other foolish things like being a soldier in her army and such... it was that deranged thinking which made me know she knew. And she knew I knew she knew. That whole double, triple, dividing snake of thoughts in your head that just leads you to get further lost in obsession. And obsession is addiction.

Yes, that was it: the incident made me addicted to her.

So it was no surprise the next morning that even though I had pulled the blinds and left them slanted just enough to peek out, that she, upon jogging by, (my dick hard again, but this time I was too paralyzed with fear and anticipation to masturbate) she looked straight at me again, through the blinds, through my denial, right through to my pathetically predictably uncontrollable cock. With her yellow eyes.

It was a quick side-glance. But I saw it all in slow motion: The turn of her lovely neck, her chin lifting through the turn, her eyes seeking their prey, and once finding me, assaulting me with a barrage of invisible needles of addictive serum like porcupine quills. I was hers. Her eyes sucked right through mine and onto my dick.

It lasted but a second or two, and her body never lost its prefect stride. Insignificant almost, by any objective measure. But this was not being measured objectively. This was intensely personal. Now I knew for a fact that she knew. The glance was her statement: "I own you."

Oh god, listen to how pathetically sick I was. To imagine that some stranger approved of my perverted pud-pulling? What was I thinking? Sick, sick, sick! I was nothing more than a chronic masturbator who now was yanking my filthy meat while spying on an innocent woman.

I deserved to be reprimanded for my demented thoughts. Punished. Made to feel violated, just as I had violated her privacy. Yes, my very privacy should be violated. My ass raped and fucked in punishment. By all the women I had ever fantasized about. With Natasha watching. And laughing. And asking: How does it feel to be violated, pervert boy? Huh? And then screaming while yanking my hair back: Answer me!

Would I be crying? Would my answer be my sorry, spurting dick?

During the next few days, the vigilance of my routine matched Natasha's. I began waking before the alarm, having a bowl of Cheerios mixed with Granola and then returning to my room to complete my workout of squats, pushups, sit-ups and weights. I was in the bathroom by 7 to weigh myself, shower, towel off, and shave. Between 7:32 and 7:34 I was in position: kneeling, naked, my chin resting on the window sill. I no longer pulled the blinds, since Natasha knew I knew. And she wanted me there on my knees, worshipping her.

Waiting for two to four minutes is an eternity. My cock would begin swelling, enlarging. I would look down and watch it grow as it flooded and harden itself. It was strange. Almost as if it was not under my command, but hers. Soon it was straight and erect, with the veins pronounced. Sometimes, I would get excited too early, while I was shaving naked in front of the mirror. Then I would have to find a way to hide my protruding boner to get from the bathroom to my room. I was worried my sister would see me.

I was exactly in that state one morning, and had "casually" draped a towel over my arm to hide my boner. I was about to open the door and take the two or three steps to my door. But as soon as I opened the door, I startled. My older sister, Devina, was standing directly in front of the door, almost as if she had been eavesdropping. What's more, she was wearing just her pajama bottoms and nothing on top. Her gorgeous breasts were staring right at me.

"Oh," I yelped. As I jerked back, the towel dropped. I bent quickly and fumbled the towel to my crotch. I looked up but instead of meeting her gaze, my eyes instinctively strayed to her tits with her small areolas and erect nipples.

It's not like we hadn't seen each other naked before. Our house is casual that way. I swear it verges on exhibitionist. I wonder if Mama and Devina would have run around like that if there were a father in the house. Sometimes I even wondered if Mama and Dev pranced around naked just to tease me. Just to goad my cock into gorging. I bet they laughed at my prudishness behind my back.

This was the first time Dev had seen me with my dick hard and pointing right at her like a torpedo waiting to be launched. I don't think she caught more than a glance because I reacted swiftly, but still, it was embarrassing.

Dev put her hands on her hips now and cocked them to the left shifting her weight to one side. Her mouth spread to an evil grin.

"Timmy, you just fucking stared at your sister's tits. A bit of a perv, aren't you? Oh, and look at that!" Now she crossed her arms and flicked one finger casually at my erection.

"I guess you weren't quite done in there, were you?"

"Whatever!" I mumbled as I tried to get by.

She didn't move, forcing me to squeeze my naked body past hers, past her boobs, and fumble into my room, shutting the door behind me.

My cock had deflated a bit at the moment but as soon as I was in my room and thinking about it, I got hard again. What the fuck? Why was I getting hard at the thought of my sister shaming me? It made me angry with myself. And even harder. The boiling heat of revenge flushed through me. I had a shocking image of her tied to a bed and me straddling her torso, fucking her tits and then cumming on her face. I blushed with guilt that I could be such a fucking pervert to have such thoughts. I was a sick, hopeless sex monster.

Anyway, it was time for Natasha and I was in position. My position of honor and shame. Kneeling. A pathetic, chronic masturbator, kneeling with his dick hard. Stroking it into a soft sock. It felt so good. And now it felt extra hard because of the run-in with Dev. All these females towering over me in my life. I had my hand gently wrapped around my sock-enveloped cock and I was slowly stroking. It felt so soft and smooth in the cotton.

It was a soft pussy. A soft pussy that made every nerve in my hard dick tingle with pleasure. Slowly but regularly, I ran my dick in and out of that pleasure hole. Then I firmed up my grip and pumped like I was pushing into her pussy for the first time. Pushing her cunt lips open. Slowly. Easing my fat head into her. Opening her with my dick. Completely enveloped in pleasure. Then I relaxed my grip as I felt the tension building up too much. I backed off on the firmness. And when I did, the precum began to ooze from my cock head. I couldn't help but pull the sock off and put my finger to the clear goo and watch how it dragged a spider web from my cock to my lips. It was so fucking sweet.

Then I held the sock against the underside of my cock, along the fat vein. I slid it back and forth. Just like that. Just fucking that pussy with my fat cock-meat. In, out. Oh god. It was so good. So fucking good.

It was seconds past 7:35. With the tenacity of inescapable fate, Natasha rounded the corner. Her graceful legs, her white shorts, and a tee-shirt that was cut off raggedly just below her breasts leaving her stomach bare. Her stomach was so smooth. In just about 45 seconds, she would pass my window, turn her head, stab my eyes with hers, and command me to cum.

I stroked a bit faster now. My fat meat was so swollen this morning. Especially after getting hard in the shower, then staring into Dev's tits, having her humiliate me for it, and now seeing Natasha prancing her control over me; all this was boiling in my mind just like the cum was boiling in my balls. This was going to be an explosive cum. With one hand I stroked my meat and with the other, I reached down and cupped by balls. I swore I could feel how cum-laden they were. I was entranced and my cock thrilled to the tingles of my masturbation. For a second, I remembered my dick was unsheathed and my cum would make a mess, but it was too late. Besides I wanted to cum so badly I didn't care about anything else in the world. While kneeling there, my body started to twitch with anticipation and pleasure. It was like little electric shocks were being jolted between my balls and my brain. Another 20 seconds at most.

"Oh you are in so much fucking trouble!"

What the fuck?! I turned and saw Dev, standing there, arms crossed, all her weight on one hip, one leg extended out, tapping her bare foot. She was still just in her pajama bottoms and her arms were crossed under her naked breasts.

"What the fuck are you doing, you pathetic pervert? Are you fucking jerking off to Natasha jogging by?"

Now she saw me in all my despicable glory, my hard meat in hand. I looked at her, I turned back to look at Natasha, then back at Dev. And then, I swear to god, I saw Dev wink at Natasha. Terrified, I swung back to see Natasha. But she was jogging down the road, never having missed a stride.

"Look at you, you disgusting pud-puller. You are stroking that fat piece of meat while watching her jog? How fucking twisted is that? What are you? Some kind of pathetic peeping tom? Actually I think you're fucking lower than that because you don't have the balls to be outside doing it. You're wanking your dick while hiding here in the house with Mama and me. You a fucking little Mama's boy wanker. Holy shit! That's exactly what you are."

I began to get up.

"Stay right there!"

She walked up to me. My eyes flashed to the door, worried Mama would be coming in, but Dev had closed it. I couldn't help it but when I looked back my eyes fell to her tits and followed them until they were towering over me. She stood so close that her waist was inches in front of my face. Now, just as involuntarily, my eyes dropped to straight ahead where her smooth belly was edged by her pajama waistband. From behind that, her pussy taunted me with its odor. Instinctively, I inhaled deeply and my eyelids half closed as wisps of her sex invaded my nostrils like opium.

My cock, which had deflated a bit from the incident, now gorged to full rock hardness again. Kneeling there, I felt a hot rush of adrenaline gush into a bottomless pit of degradation, shame and humiliation. The melding of all those sensations burned into my mind like a hot branding iron.

That exact moment in my life permanently sealed my sexual fate. I knew I would forever be a depraved, wanton, cum-fixated, boy-whore who wanted women to dominate me, control me, abuse me, humiliate me, and own me. I knelt there with my hard cock and this epiphany was so bright it was blinding. It was terrifying. I was kneeling at the gates of hell and couldn't help myself from being erect, hard and full of cum that longed to gush out.

"You are one sick fuck. Wanking off to a girl jogging down the street. Beating your fucking disgusting meat. And now you're staring at my crotch with a fucking erection in your hands."

I tore my eyes away and looked straight up until my eyes met hers.

"Don't fucking look at me! Did I tell you you could take your fucking eyes off my crotch? Do you think I want to look in your pathetic eyes? That's right, wank boy, that's better. Look at my fucking crotch. You're so fucking twisted. You want to see my pussy, don't you, you fucking sick wanker. You're so sicko that you want to see your sister's pussy. That's fucking twisted. You know how twisted that is?"

I swallowed. I couldn't believe the words coming out of her mouth and raining down on me.

"Answer me!" she grabbed my hair and yanked my head back. Now I was staring at her tits hanging right in front of my face as she bent over me. Her hard nipples were so close to my mouth.

My heart beat so hard I could feel it pulse in my dick. I swallowed and couldn't answer. I just tried to shake my head in denial, but her hand had my hair so tight I could barely move my head. Meanwhile, my eyes were locked on her tits.

"No?! Is that what you're trying to fucking say? Are you denying that you're a vile fucking worm who can't control himself?"

I tried to nod. She let go of my hair and with an instant move smacked me across the face. My face was turned to the side from the impact. My left hand finally let go of my balls and went to my burning cheek.

"You can try to deny it all you want, but now I know you. I know your filthy, dirty secret. You are a chronic masturbator who can't control himself. Look at you, on your knees naked in front your sister. And you've got a hard-on. You know what would happen if I told Natasha about this?"