BDSM
Good Girl
She was sitting there in a pink dress at Sal’s, looking like she’d taken a wrong turn on her way to a homecoming dance, and something about her made me forget every reason I had for staying out of trouble. The neighborhood was still haunted by its gang past, rents were cheap, and the kink bars pulled in all kinds of outsiders, but she wasn’t one of them. At least that’s what I thought until I leaned over and asked if she was waiting for someone.
I live in an apartment right above this little factory that turns old clothes into rags for the metal-finishing trade. It's in Bridgetown, a run-down industrial part of the city that most businesses fled long ago, mainly because it sits in the shadow of one of the worst gang-infested housing projects in the city. Or did. The projects are gone now, torn down and replaced with luxury high-rise condos, but the neighborhood still has the dark, haunted feel of gang turf, with decrepit and abandoned buildings and trash-strewn empty lots, urban wreckage everywhere. The neighborhood's pretty safe now, but the people in the high-rises live behind heavy security and still drive through it with their car doors locked and their windows rolled up, eyes kept straight ahead.
Because of all that, urban renewal's been slow in coming, and rents are dirt cheap in the buildings still standing, and parking is easy on the deserted streets. The neighborhood's really a kind of hidden gem, and it attracts a certain kind of urban pioneers: outsiders, misfits, artists, drop-outs. Sexual outsiders too. The area's no-man's-land atmosphere seems to attract these little specialty kink bars with heavy front doors and barred windows, catering to a whole spectrum of freaks and deviants -- flaming gays, trannies, D/s and leather people, dopers, swingers. The area's getting a rep as a Mecca for kink tourism and we get a lot of people from the burbs and the better parts of town coming down to slum and show-off in a real life urban dystopia. That means we get a lot of amateurs and wannabes, but that's okay. They keep the place relaxed and there's rarely any trouble. It's lawless in the best sense of the word.
I ended up here after my last life crashed and burned, so I generally didn't take advantage of the various entertainments and opportunities at the kink bars. Sex had become kind of stale to me, and the whole idea of relationships just too complicated to deal with. It was a cold-cereal-and-TV existence, and it didn't help that this story happened during the winter, when the cracked sidewalks and potholed streets were already crusted with old snow and black ice. It was hot in my place, though, because the factory downstairs left the boilers running all the time and the steam leaked into my place through the ancient plumbing. So even on nights when the wind howled off the lake and rattled the glass in my windows, I could still sit around in my shorts, my apartment hot as a greenhouse from the leaking steam.
And I spent a lot of time sitting around in my shorts, staring at the lights of downtown and wondering how I'd managed to fuck things up so royally.
But on occasion I needed to get out, and when that happened I'd just walk a few blocks down to one of the bars, buy a beer and sit in a corner and watch people. That's as close as I really wanted to get to them. I liked Sal's 850 Club, an ancient workingman's bar that had somehow become the center for the specialty clubs, a kind of jumping off point. There were all sorts of pervs at Sal's, though the leather-and-Lurex crowd predominated. People drove for miles to get to Sal's, and after a while you recognized the same people week after week. That gave the place an unusually festive air for a BDSM joint. People came in groups to party and schmooze with their friends, so they didn't bother a solo drinker.
So it was at Sal's on a Friday night that I saw this girl sitting at the bar in a pink dress. She must have been there a while because I certainly would have noticed her coming in, but as it was, I didn't pay her any attention till I was well into my beer. She was a beautiful girl, dark and Spanish-looking, and her dress stood out mainly for its plainness. It was a nice dress but looked overly formal and old-fashioned for Sal's, kind of girly and wholesome. It almost looked like a prom dress, the kind they wore when I was in high school, and for a while I wondered whether she might have gotten lost on her way to a homecoming dance and had ducked into Sal's to wait for someone to come pick her up. She wore very un-prom-like high black boots with wicked heels, but maybe her good shoes were in her car. Or maybe she was a hooker who specialized in this homecoming queen look.
It all seemed very odd. She was alone at the bar with her coat draped over the stool, nursing what looked like a coke. People entered and walked by her without a glance, and she didn't seem very interested in them, so there went the hooker theory. She just sat there looking a little bit lost, but politely so. I couldn't figure her out—definitely younger than most of the crowd, with long curly black hair, and from what I could tell, a fantastic body. What really fascinated me was her look of wholesomeness. She almost glowed, like a rose in a briar patch. She intrigued me.
She had to be lost. She had to be someone whose car had broken down or had otherwise become stranded here and was huddling in Sal's awaiting rescue. It didn't seem like a good position for a girl like her to be in.
After a time, when it was just the two of us at the bar, I leaned toward her. "Excuse me? I don't mean to pry, but are you waiting for someone?"
Her look was polite and guileless and the innocence of her eyes surprised me. I was wearing a plain old sweater and jeans and must have looked pretty non-threatening compared to the rest of the crowd, and I'm older too, which sometimes has its advantages. She decided to trust me.
"Yes. Sort of. But he's awfully late, and I'm getting kind of worried. Maybe I should call a cab..."
"Oh? Is he a regular? Maybe he's someone I know. I'm here a lot 'cause I live just down the street. Does he live around here?"
"I don't really know where he lives," she said. "His name is Calvin but I don't know his last name. He says people call him Sir Calvin."
"Sir Calvin?" I asked. A lot of people here were Sir Someone or Lord Something or Mistress Whatever. "I don't think I know any Sir Calvins. What's he look like?"
She played with the straw in her drink and shrugged. "He had brown hair, around shoulder length? But he dyed it so he said now he's blond. And a beard, kind of like a goatee, but that's blond too now, with brown streaks. He said I'd recognize him from his brown leathers and his cowboy boots. He wears green cowboy boots, he said. He said everyone knows his boots."
I immediately knew who she was talking about: a loud and burly dom who liked leading his women around on a dog leash and making them kneel at his stool as he held court. The man was an asshole if I was any judge, one of those guys who confuses egomania with sexual dominance.
I didn't see any reason to tell her any of that, though.
"So you're meeting him for the first time?"
"Yes."
"Kind of a blind date?"
She shrugged. "I guess."
She turned those brown eyes on me. "I met him online. He's an online friend."
Down at the far end of the bar a man in vinyl chaps was leaning over and hooting in mock pain as a woman pretended to slap his exposed ass with a paddle. Friends stood around and laughed and offered advice.
I picked up my drink and moved over so I was one seat away from her. "Let me buy you a drink. You've been nursing that one for a long time, and I don't know if you really want to be sitting here alone. I'll keep you company till your guy gets here."
She sighed. "I don't think he's coming. He's like two hours late."
"No messages?"
"No. And he won't let me call him. He has a rule."
I nodded. I didn't know exactly what she was looking for down here dressed like that, but I was pretty sure it wasn't anything she was going to get from Sir Calvin and his dog leash.
I called Skip the bartender over and ordered refills. Skip was a flamboyant twink with an attitude, but we got on well enough. He poured me some Irish and made her a rum and coke and put the glasses down in front of us. I paid and slid him a five and signaled with my eyes to keep them coming.
I turned to her and put my hand out. "My name's Aiden."
"Becca." Her lipstick was fresh and shiny, and she had a gorgeous mouth, her lips full and a bit pouty and a beautiful contrast to the innocence of her eyes. All her makeup was perfect and flawless, which was something rare around here.
"Glad to meet you, Becca." I shook her hand, small and soft in mine. "Again, I don't know if this is any of my business, but did this guy tell you what kind of place this was you were going to be meeting him in?"
"He told me it was in a bad neighborhood, and that I should take a cab and not drive myself, but he said it was pretty safe once I got inside. He's supposed to drive me home. "
"Uh huh. But this...?" I nodded toward the spanking scene at the end of the bar, which by now had dissolved into general laughter.
She glanced over. "Oh, that? That doesn't bother me. I thought it would be something like this. That's why I wanted to come. I wanted to see what it was like."
"Ah. Okay." I sat up. "Just wanted to make sure you weren't lost, or someplace you didn't want to be."
Oh no," she said. "That's very sweet but I'm alright. It doesn't bother me at all."
She took a sip of her drink and smiled at me over the rim of her glass, holding my eyes for a moment. "I guess I don't look the type?"
"Oh, I don't know. I mean, who knows? You can never tell. It's not— I mean..." I backpedaled frantically and then gave it up. "No, actually. You don't look like the type. Not from the way you're dressed and all. Your attitude, your look."
Her smile widened and took on a bit of slyness. "Good. 'Cause I'm not, really. I'd never do this kind of thing usually, coming to a bar to meet some guy. And especially not this kind of bar. I don't do those kinds of things."
I smiled. "But what? You're curious?"
She didn't blush, but she came close. "I guess you could call it that. Curious."
She tossed back a strand of hair in a way that was both innocent and provocative, then took a sip of her drink. She looked right into my eyes. "And what about you? You don't seem quite the type either. No leather, no chains, no makeup..."
"No," I smiled. "I was never much of a one for high fashion. It gets expensive. And it's not what's important anyhow."
"But don't you miss out? You still hang around here?"
"I live around here. And yeah, I like to watch. Old habits die hard."
She finished her drink and pushed the glass away, and I ordered her another. She didn't object.
"So tell me: how does it work, then? Do you have a slave?"
She'd taken me by surprise. "A slave? No. No, I don't have a slave. I don't do things like that."
"But you're a Master, right? A dom?"
I smiled. "I don't know what I am anymore, and I don't worry about it. But yeah, I do like having my way with a woman, that kind of control. Or did."
"Did?"
"I'm in a slow period now. A lull. It's kind of complicated." I turned back to my drink. "It's a relationship at heart, like any other. And relationships take work, and have problems, and issues. It's not just a matter of putting on your leathers and chains and giving someone orders."
"That's too bad. I'm sorry to hear it. Maybe it's just a matter of inspiration?"
I looked up into those clear brown eyes. "Maybe."
"Did you beat them and make them kneel? Did you call them names and make them do whatever you wanted? Did you make them call you Sir or Master, like Calvin?"
Her face was serious. I shook my head. "Everyone's different. You do what works for you."
"I'm asking because I really want to know."
She drew herself up and looked into her drink. "I know I'm not the type. I've always been the good girl. Never been in trouble, never hung out with the bad crowd. And it's worked. I've got a good job now and I work with some really nice people. I don't get paid a lot, but I have a good future so... That's who I am. I'm kind of stuck with it. I even still live at home with my mom so I can help out. Kind of pathetic, isn't it?"
She shrugged. "And then I come here..."
I nodded. I unwrapped a cigar and put it in my mouth.
She went on: "I mean, I'm not a prude. I dated a lot and the guys were always very nice to me, very respectful. One even proposed. Can you imagine? Of course I said no. I'm not ready for that. I'm not sure I'll ever be... So I don't know why I'm suddenly curious about all this, or why I should be meeting men online and even agreeing to meet them in real life. It's just not who I am. It's almost kind of creepy."
"Yes it is," I said. "The meeting strangers in bars part is."
"Of course, it really depends on who that stranger is," I quickly added, and she laughed.
"You seem like a very nice man. Like someone I can talk to. Because, honestly, that Cal was a little bit of a jerk."
"Sir Calvin? I wouldn't be surprised."
She looked at me and I looked at her, and in an instant all the memories of what it is to want someone came flooding back. I felt a stirring in my chest and in my groin, and I felt desire rise in me like a dinosaur from a swamp, jaws strong and teeth gleaming.
As if sensing this, Becca took the opportunity to spin slowly around on her stool and look toward the back of the bar, turning like a model on a turntable, letting me see the complete package. I had to smile but my heart was starting to race.
"Oh wow!" she said. "That's a real jukebox back there, isn't it?"
I tore my eyes from her and glanced back at the old Seeburg. "Yeah. Came with the place. Still works too, far as I know."
"Can I play it?"
I pushed a dollar at her. "Hope you like '80s music."
She slid happily off her stool and went to the box. I sucked on the unlit cigar and studied her more closely. The dress might be odd but it fit her amazingly. Just the right amount of cling to show off her ass as she walked; just enough tension in the front to strain a bit against her big tits. It had just the right mix of suggestiveness and naiveté: the kind of dress a good girl would wear.
I hadn't planned on this. I wasn't even sure it was really happening. But there was little doubt that she was showing herself off to me as she leaned against the jukebox. Some guy from the spanking party looked her over, and a biker type in a muscle shirt approached and spoke to her. She gestured toward me in an I'm-with-him kind of way and the guy left.
There was always the chance that it was some kind of pick-up scam, but if so, why pick on me, the shabbiest guy in here? And why the almost home-made dress?
She came back to the bar and slid onto her stool. "I don't know any of those songs. And that guy was creepy."
She nodded at my cigar. "Are you going to light that thing? Or just suck on it?" She smiled.
I took it out of my mouth and looked at it. "Oh! Right. What am I doing? You can't smoke in here anyhow."
"I didn't think so."
"Listen, Becca: it's getting pretty late. If you're going to call a cab, you'd better do it now. A lot of cabbies won't pick up down here this late. They still think it's gangland."
"Oh?"
"But don't worry. I'm just a couple blocks from here. I can drive you home."
"Oh," she said. "That's so sweet. But I really don't want to be any trouble."
I stood up and dropped some money on the bar. "No trouble. Come on, Becca. I'm just down the street."
She didn't take long to decide. She stood up and I helped her on with her good-girl coat and waited as she pulled on a gray stocking cap and leather gloves. She even had a knitted scarf she threw around her neck. She looked adorable bundled up like that.
I put on my coat and led her out into the night.
The street was dark and the wind was fiercely cold. The stores around here had been boarded up years ago and the streetlights were dim and neglected so it was hard to see, but I was used to it. When I offered her my arm, she took it and pressed close. If she was reminding me that she had breasts, she needn't have bothered.
"You kind of remind me of my Uncle Mike," she said.
"Is that good?"
"Yeah. He's my favorite. He always called me princess."
"Princess," I repeated. "Yeah, I can see that."
We came to an intersection illuminated only by a hanging traffic light, which dutifully turned red as we approached. Automatically we stopped, though there wasn't a car or a soul in sight. Some trash blew down the cross street and the wind gusted cold. I turned my face away from the bitter wind. Becca clung to my arm and shivered against me.
I pulled her back and out of the wind, back into the shelter of a long-shuttered pharmacy doorway and I looked at her face, tinted red by the glow of the stoplight. Without even thinking about it, I kissed her. I just took her coat in my hands and pulled her close and kissed her. She wasn't startled or surprised. She'd known it was going to happen so she let it. She didn't resist, but she didn't really kiss back either. She just stood there and let me kiss her.
But the effect on me was electric and instantaneous. I pushed her back into the darkness of the doorway, back against the cold brick wall and pressed myself against her, holding her face in my hands as I kissed her and fed on her mouth as if drawing sustenance from those lips. I was suddenly on fire for her, as if all the pent-up need of the last year had suddenly burst like a dam and flooded me with desire. I kissed her and she let me but I needed to feel more of a response than that, some acknowledgement of the ferocity of my need. Instinctively I opened two buttons on her coat and slid my hand inside, seeking her warmth. I found her breast, heavy and full in my hand, and warm through the fabric of her dress. I squeezed it. I massaged it. I pressed her against the wall and kissed her and squeezed her breast and finally I felt it: the barest whisper of a moan against my lips, her admission of desire.
I stopped, a little shocked by my loss of control, still holding her breast in my hand. I leaned my forehead against hers and tried to regain some composure, and we stood there like that, the steam from our breaths mingling in the cold air. My hand continued its exploration inside her coat and my fingers found the little bump of her nipple beneath her bra and I stroked it. I felt it rise up to me as if begging for attention and I took it in my fingers and pinched it, softly at first, and when I heard her moan I did it harder. She gasped, a little sound of surprise, and leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, waiting.
I pinched it again and again she groaned, arching her back against the brick and pushing herself into my hand. Then she caught herself and pulled back, bringing her shoulders up shyly. But I'd seen. I'd heard that little cry.
She liked the pain, the roughness. She liked the way I squeezed her breast and pinched her nipple and there was no hiding it now. I pinched it again and gave it a little twist and her gasp was louder this time, her pleasure more obvious. She bit her lip but didn't pull away and didn't try to stop me and right then I knew who she was and what she wanted. I knew it exactly, like I knew my own name, and it was just what I wanted too, what I'd been looking for.
"Good girl," I whispered. "You are a good girl, aren't you Becca? And aren't you a little tired of it."
She whined softly and kept her eyes closed, but I knew she was listening to me with the same rapt attention she was giving to my fingers on her nipple.
"Aren't you a little tired of everyone treating you like a little princess and being so nice to you and polite showing you so much respect that you're starting to choke on it?"
I pinched her again and she trembled.
"No," she breathed. "No. You're wrong. No..."
I had the urge to reach my hand up under her dress and shock her with my touch, but it was too damned cold and I didn't want it to be that kind of shock.
I pulled my hand from her coat and took her wrist. "Come on. Let's go. Before we freeze out here."
We walked quickly and in silence, our heads ducked against the wind. She held her coat closed but didn't rebutton it, and pressed herself close against me again, but differently now, as if she didn't want to break contact. I could feel her trying to say something, struggling for words. When we were almost at my place I stopped and turned to her.
"Look," I said. "I know what you want to say. I know you really are a nice girl and you really don't do things like this usually, and I believe it. But I also know why you came down here tonight to meet that guy and what you were hoping he'd do. He wouldn't have, but I will. I'll give you exactly what you want."
I gestured down the block. "There's my car. Say the word and I'll drive you home right now or wherever else you want to go. Otherwise you're coming upstairs with me."
She said nothing, keeping her eyes down, and that was answer enough.
I took her wrist and led her through the door and up the stairs to my place.
As soon as we entered, the close, cloying warmth of the steam escaping from downstairs surrounded us, as if we'd stepped from the arctic into some tropical jungle. I closed the door and threw our coats on a chair and immediately turned to her and backed her up against the door. I liked having her against a barrier. I liked that she couldn't back away.
I kissed her, leaning my weight against her, holding her face in my hands.
She turned her head, breaking the kiss. "I really don't do things like this. I'm not--"
"I know. But you like this, don't you? It excites you."
"I don't know. I mean I... Are you going to tell me what to do?"
"Yes. Everything."
"I'm kind of nervous."
"I know. That's good. I like that."
I kissed her again and her eyes closed. Her lips yielded expectantly to mine, her resistance fading like an ebbing tide. I took her tits in my hands and she jumped when I touched her, as if she were wired with high voltage. She didn't know what to do with her hands, so I took her wrists and pressed them against the door at shoulder level, pinning her there.
That brought a little mewl from her throat, a sound of submission and surrender as her desires overtook her. She stiffened briefly on instinct, but then melted into my hands, her body going slack and her breath deepening. She liked being held. She liked the security of being forced.
"Come with me." I led her into the living room and sat down on the sofa and pulled her down into my lap. I pulled her mouth to mine and kissed her as I found the buttons on her dress and started undoing them, then broke the kiss and took her hair and pulled her away so I could watch her face. I wanted to see her face as I undressed her. I wanted to see how it made her feel. The buttons popped open easily from the pressure of her breasts, and soon the bodice split apart like an overripe seed pod and she was revealed: red satin bra a size or two too small. It overflowed with tit flesh.
I took a breast in my hand and felt her shudder. I let go of her hair and she looked down at my hand on her. Her face was flushed, almost as pink as her dress.
"They're sensitive, huh?"
She answered in a breathless whisper: "No. Not usually. Not like this. Your hands... "
The bra was tight. I worked my fingers into it and saw her look of agonized pleasure as I found her nipple and began to tease it, I felt it tighten and spike into hardness. Becca put her arms around my head as if cradling me and drawing close would protect her.
"No," I said. "You don't do anything unless I tell you to. No touching, no hugging."
She removed her arms and bit her lip but said nothing.
I tried to free a breast but the bra was too damned tight. I made her sit up and worked an arm out of her sleeve so I could slide the strap down her shoulder, and when I finally peeled the cup down her breast spilled into my hand like a piece of fruit. She felt incredibly good —warm, soft, giving. I traced circles around her areola and then pinched her lightly and tugged, letting my fingers slide off. Becca shuddered and repressed a groan.
"You like this, don't you? You like when I'm rough with them."
She whined softly and turned her face in denial but I could tell she did. She was a good girl and men had always treated her with respect, and she didn't want that anymore. That's why she'd dressed up and put on her best bra and come down to that seedy dead-end club to meet this Cal: because she wanted to be taken and forced and pulled out of herself. Because she was tired of polite love and wanted to feel some passion and desire. I pinched her nipple and twisted it, then lowered my head and sucked it into my mouth and Becca moaned and held my head against her, forgetting my instructions. She held me and offered herself, wanting me to take more.
I slid her off my lap and onto the sofa so she was half-reclining. Her skirt rode up her thighs, exposing the stockings she wore. Red stockings. I hadn't noticed because I hadn't really looked, but she wore red stockings and knee-high boots. She'd really pulled out all the stops when she'd dressed for Sir Calvin.
But stockings or pantyhose?
"Pull your skirt up," I said.
"What?"
"Pull it up. Up to your hips. I want to see what you're wearing."
She hesitated. It wasn't something she was used to doing, revealing herself like that. She couldn't bring herself to do it.
I got up and took her wrist and pulled her to the center of the room. "Stand up. Take your dress off. Let me have a look at you."
"Aiden!" She tried to pull the dress closed over her exposed boob, but it was no go. Suddenly she was shy.
I flopped down onto the couch. "Go on," I said. "Take it off. Take your dress off. I want to see you."
It's a much different thing for a woman to be undressed in the heat of passion than it is for her to stand there and coldly reveal herself to a man's gaze, and Becca was uncomfortable and uncertain.
"You wanted to be told what to do. So I'm telling you." I said. "Do it. Undress for me."
She slowly finished unbuttoning the dress and opened the belt. A wisp of hair fell into her face but she ignored it. She drew her other arm from the sleeve and pushed the dress down over her hips. It slid to the floor.
"Let it fall. You can pick it up later. Now stand up straight."
She was wearing stockings. And a garter belt. They were both red. Her panties were red too, and she was stunning. She stood up straight so I could see her, her eyes focused on a point
"Did Cal tell you to dress like this for him?" I asked.
"No," she said. "He just asked me to wear a skirt."
I took my time looking at her. The black boots, the red stockings and garter belt, the red panties and the bra half off, one breast exposed. Aside from a thin gold chain around her neck and some metal bangles, that's all she wore.
"Turn around."
She turned slowly so I could see the taut stretch of her panties across her ass, the pinch of her waist and her soft feminine back.
"Face me."
She turned back, her face and chest flushed pink with embarrassment, but maybe with a little pride too. She still wouldn't meet my eyes but she knew how I was looking at her.
My cock was still hard. It had been hard ever since I'd brought her inside, and now I made a show of how uncomfortable I was. She knew. She knew what she was doing to me, and she fed off my arousal. I opened my pants and pulled down the zipper and I saw her eyes flick to the bulge in my shorts—just a glance.
I ran my fingers over my cock. "Take off your panties," I said. "Leave the stockings and garter belt. Take off your bra. Just drop them where you stand."
"Aiden..."
"You call me 'Sir'. It's Sir from now on."
"I thought you didn't care about that."
"Things have changed," I said. "You call me Sir. I don't want any doubt as to who's in charge. Now do it."
The thrill of command. The even bigger thrill of obedience. Becca unsnapped her garters so she could remove her panties and I kicked off my shoes and socks and worked my pants and shorts down over my hips. I peeled off my sweater and tee. It was sweltering in there and it felt good to get my clothes off, and I sat there naked on the couch and watched her. She wasn't quite so shy anymore.
Even so she turned away to remove her bra. She was starting to perspire, and tendrils of black hair clung to her back and shoulders as she let it slip down her arms. The bra had left red marks on her shoulders and back from the weight of her breasts, though when she turned to me I didn't see where she'd lost much lift. She was trimmed, her pubic hair shaped into a small patch. She didn't seem to have much trouble showing me her pussy, but she kept on nervously covering her tits.
"I'll tell you what I want you to do," I said. "I want you to come over here and stand in front of me with your legs outside of mine. I want you to lean over and put your hands on the back of the sofa on either side of me and stay like that. You're not to touch me or do anything else. Understand?"
She nodded.
I scowled. "'Yes, Sir' is the customary response."
"Yes. Sir."
She came over and did as I said, her legs outside mine as she leaned over and put her hands on the back of the couch above my shoulders. Her breasts hung heavily over my chest. Her pussy was inches from my cock, and her face was close enough to lick. For the first time I noticed she had freckles.
I gripped my prick and started to slowly pump it. "So how is it? Taking orders and not being treated like such a good little girl? Does it make you angry?"
"No, Sir."
"Does it embarrass you?" I reached up and stroked her hanging breasts with my fingertips till I found her nipples again and began to tease them.
"Yes, Sir. A little."
I smiled. "Does it embarrass you because you suspect you're a little slut inside and you want me to prove it? Because you want me to make you do things? Does it embarrass you because I saw how you dressed beneath your clothes to meet a stranger in a bar so you could give yourself to him?"
I could hear her breathing. She bit her lip to keep it from trembling, and even in the heat of my apartment I could feel her radiating something, some sort of feral need.
"Your nipples are getting hard," I whispered as I continued to play with them. "They're like two little lie detectors, Becca. I can tell when you're telling the truth, so don't lie. Are you wet now? Are you starting to feel all slippery and empty down there? Are you thinking about how I'm going to fuck you?"
Again a little moan, a slight shudder. I hadn't been lying. Her nipples were growing stiff and turgid as I played with them.
"Does it excite you when I call you bad names and tell you you're a slut and a whore? Do you like that I know what you want? Does it excite you that I know what you're thinking?"
Her face was flushed and her lips swollen and parted. Her eyes were squeezed shut but she nodded, whining softly. "Yes," she breathed. "Yes."
I felt a little thrill in my chest, a sudden flush of heat at her confession.
"You know, sometimes I have to spank good girls or use a little whip on them to teach them to be bad. Am I going to have to do that with you? Do you need to be spanked, Becca? Do you need that hot little ass whipped? Answer me."
She shook her head, eyes closed.
"There are only two reasons to spank a woman. Either because she's too slutty, or because she's not slutty enough. Which one are you, Becca?"
"I don't know, Sir." Her voice was a whisper.
I let go of her breasts and held her hips. "Spread your feet. Lower yourself onto my cock. Just a bit. Slow. Slow. I'll tell you when to stop."
I guided her hips and pulled her down till her naked pussy just made contact with my dick. I let go of her and took my cock and used the head it like a plow to open her furrow and spread her labia. She was hot and sticky and more than ready for me, and she groaned deeply when I made contact with her. I studied her face at first, excited by her look of rapt concentration, but then had to look down at the sight of the tip of my cockhead between her lips, just beginning to penetrate her.
Her voice was all breath. "Please. Please..."
I pushed her back and stood up, took her arms and guided her down onto the sofa the way I wanted her. She was totally compliant, a rag doll burning with need and willing to do whatever I wanted. I arranged her with her knees near the edge of the sofa, elbows on the back, ass up, thighs apart.
She mewled softly, especially when I made her part her legs and sway her back down to expose herself. It was a lewd and revealing posture, and it excited her. Her labia were puffy and swollen, her little slit glistening with a stream of moisture. I stood behind her and ran my hands over her body, over her ass and up her flanks, over her back and beneath her to grab those heavy swinging tits. I was breathing hard myself and made no effort to disguise it. I was on fire and excited as hell at having her in this obsequious and submissive posture. My cock felt like it might burst, but I had to maintain my control.
"This is how a slut kneels for her master," I said. "This is how she presents when she wants to be used. You look gorgeous like this, Becca, like you were made for it. You look impossibly fucking beautiful!"
I parted her labia with my thumbs and she jumped, shocked at being touched so intimately. Automatically I swatted her ass, a sharp little smack that brought a squeal of alarm.
"Don't move! I told you you're not allowed to move!"
"Yes, Sir."
She was all pink and glistening inside, wet with arousal. I slid the first knuckle of my middle finger into her and watched it disappear into that puddle of torrid female flesh. Becca gasped and put her head down on her arms.
"Push back." I said. "Take my finger. Show me you're ready."
"Oh God! No! I can't move!"
"Come on. You've certainly had a finger in you before. Push back. You expect me to do all the work?"
I swatted her again and Becca whined and stole a glance at me over her shoulder. She started to press back. I felt that little pussy yielding, sliding up my finger. I felt her muscles working, clenching and relaxing as she swallowed me. Her garters were stretched tight down the cheeks of her ass like big red welts. Her fingers gripped the back of the sofa as she dug in with those her carefully manicured nails.
"Push!" I yelled.
She rocked back and I slid my finger into her heat. It sank into her pussy like into quicksand and she stifled a wail. I knew it wasn't the pain. It was the humiliation, the exposure. It was her embarrassment over the pleasure she felt at being used this way.
I pulled it out and wiped it on her ass so she could feel her own wetness, and returned with two fingers, working them into her as she gasped and moaned kneeling on the sofa before me like some pagan sacrifice.
"Ohh!" she moaned. "Slow, please! I'm not used to it."
So I did it slow, giving her time to adapt. Once they were in I stroked the backs of her thighs, calming her, petting her. I stroked her ass, soothing the spots where I'd spanked her. I began to move my fingers slowly in and out. Not very far, just to give her some sensation and make her aware she'd been penetrated.
She was breathing hard, little moans escaping her parted lips. She felt feverish inside, unusually hot. Her thighs clenched and quivered.
"She's a greedy little pussy, isn't she? Is that what makes you so bad, Becca? This hungry, greedy little cunt? And you such a nice girl."
I spoke low, barely above a whisper, but she shivered at my words, actually shuddered. It excited her when I called her names.
"She likes being fucked like this. She likes when I play with her, Becca. She's all wet and swollen, and opening like a little flower. She's starting to leak. Pretty soon that juice will be running down your thighs."
She tried not to breathe. She didn't want me to hear the way she was panting or her moans of pleasure and shame. But I had her just where I wanted her, on the knife edge between being good and her desire to give in to all her dirty desires.
The room was quiet. There was only the soft hiss of leaking steam and the gentle sound of the plastic on the windows bellying in from the wind outside. It was so quiet I could hear the thick, viscous sounds of my fingers working in the wet swamp of her cunt, and I could hear Becca's muffled whimpers as she heard it too. Or maybe it was her reaction to the finger I'd extended to slide along the slippery hood of her clit as she knelt before me.
"And you were going to give this to that Cal you met online? I know that guy. I've seen him there. He would have put you on a leash and made you crawl around. He would have made you get down on your hands and knees and lick his boots. Is that what you wanted? Is that what you were looking for?"
"No, Sir," she said. "No..."
"It's this, isn't it? This is what you wanted. You wanted someone to teach you how to be bad. Tell me, Becca: are you very orgasmic? Do you cum from sex?"
"Mmmm... Only sometimes, Sir." Her voice was soft and far away.
"And are you going to cum now? Is this going to make you orgasm?"
She laid her head on her arms, eyes closed. Her hips had started moving. "I'm already close, Sir."
I pulled my fingers out of her clutching pussy and she slumped as if I'd let the air out of her. I went to the desk and got a condom and tore it open. I didn't know her and she didn't know me and I didn't want to take any chances. It was the least I could do. I unwrapped it and peeled it down over my cock. It was whitish and made my prick look like some surgical device.
She knew what I was doing. She must have. There's a big black picture on the wall above the sofa and she would have seen my reflection in the glass if nothing else. She said nothing, keeping the position I'd put her in, kneeling on the edge of the couch with her ass up and elbows on the back. But she knew what was coming.
I got behind her and put the head of my cock against her. I ran my hands down her back, then under her. Of course she knew what was coming. She hung her head and bit her lip as I pushed into her and I saw the toes of her boots curl up as far as they were able. Her whine turned into a wail as I filled her, and I pushed until that wail became a little cry and there I stopped. I leaned back till I could look down between us and see her pussy stretched around my cock like a fat rubber band. She was amazingly hot inside and wonderfully tight. I could feel my racing heartbeat echoing in the throbbing of my cock.
"Oh fuck!" I growled. "Fuck!" She felt so good and it had been so long, and the image of her kneeling there and presenting to me like a bitch in heat was almost more than I could bear. I filled my hands with her soft tits and pushed harder, leaning over her back and flattening her ass cheeks against me.
"Come on, Becca! Come on. Push back, baby! Take me!"
I straightened up and started to fuck her, my hands going to her flared hips and rocking her back against me. "You want to be a bad girl? You want to be my little whore? Well this is how you do it. Fucking me like this on your hands and knees. Taking my prick inside you and loving it!"
"Oh God!" she moaned. "Oh God!"
Her fist was in her mouth, the other still clenched on the sofa as I pumped into her, and I could feel her excitement just by looking at her.
tell just by looking at her how good it felt to be fucked this way, to be taken without choice and without reservation and with no thought for the consequences. She didn't have to impress me and I didn't have to impress her. She didn't have to do anything to prove herself or make it good. She only had to kneel there and be fucked. She had the freedom of a sub, freedom from responsibility and freedom from guilt or doubt, freedom to feel everything I was doing as I slid my cock in and out.
I reached under her and forked my fingers around the hood of her clit and squeezed and Becca wailed. She immediately tried to grab my wrist but I smacked her ass again.
"Hands on the sofa, slut!"
"Oh please! I'm close! I'm so close!"
My hand was too much. Too intense. I removed it and grabbed her hips again and pumped into her, slammed it into her. She fucked me back, holding onto the back of the couch and rocking on her knees, screwing her hips around obscenely so she could feel me everywhere. The flat, wet smack of my loins against her ass forced anxious little grunts from her lips and made her big tits swing wildly. It was dirty, primal fucking in all its savage glory and I wanted her to feel what it was like. I wanted her to know what it was like to be taken utterly and without apology or excuse.
But it was too much for her and she was already halfway gone. She tried to fight it. She tried to hold it back and deny it, but I was fucking her like a runaway train and there was nothing going to stop me now or get in my way. The condom numbed me and insulated me from the sweet suck of her pussy, so I was able to watch her go. I was able to see her dissolve into orgasm. I grabbed her hair and pulled her back against me, thrusting deep to make her feel me.
"Oh God I'm cumming! I'm cumming!" she wailed. "Oh God! Don't stop! Don't stop...!"
I didn't stop. I didn't stop. I fucked her through her orgasm, punching it into her when she needed it hard, holding still inside her as I felt her pussy weaken and tremble in the reflexive spasms of sexual climax. I looped an arm under her belly and held her against me as her legs turned to jelly and all strength left her body, and I held her there till the crisis passed and she managed to collect the shattered bits of herself.
I hadn't cum. I wasn't done with her.
"Come here," I said, and she moaned wearily.
I picked her up and flopped heavily down on my back on the sofa. My cock slipped out but I still held her against me with her back against my front. Again I showed her what I wanted her to do, not even giving her time to recover. I made her sit on my lap and straddle me, and I slid down on the sofa so my cock was more or less vertical. When she tried to close her legs, I pulled them open so she knew what I wanted.
"I can't, I can't. Not now. I can't move! I can't do anything!"
"Try," I said. "Just try it. Get on me. You want to know what it's like? Then do it. Try."
She managed to lift her body enough that I could reach between us and take my cock in my hand and press the head against her opening. Her legs were still weak and shaky, but we managed, and after that it was mostly a matter of gravity and sexual anatomy. Becca slid down over my cock with a strangled cry. She squeezed her eyes closed as she sensed the betrayal of her own body. She slumped back against me, defeated.
I put my hands under her thighs and lifted. Her stockings were damp with perspiration and slippery, but I lifted her up an inch or so and then let her fall, skewering her on my cock. I did it again. And again, and finally she moaned and started to revive. She pressed back against me and dug her nails into my thighs, then tried to close her legs.
"No! Keep them open!" I pulled her knees apart so they were obscenely spread and she was totally exposed. "Wide! Like this. Like a dirty little slut. That's how a bad girl does it, legs wide, crazy to be fucked."
"Oh God you're so deep! You're still hard!"
"Yes, baby. I am. Now you do it. Fuck me. Fuck me like a little whore, Becca. Ride me and make me cum!"
"I can't!" she mewled. "I can't!"
"You can!" I smacked her ass again and she yelped. It was like cracking a whip over a pony. Suddenly she found the strength to lift herself up and slide back down, taking my dick into her. She held my knees and lifted with her thighs, but soon she was bouncing on top of me, head back, groaning, tits jouncing. Her hot juices trickled down my balls. Her pussy was limp from orgasm and almost flaccid, but I didn't care. I wanted my cum. I needed it, and I was going to get it.
I took one of her hands and pressed it against her pussy.
"Play with it! Masturbate as you fuck me! I want my little whore to beat off for me! Rub your clit!"
She moaned loudly and refused, but I held her hand against her and pressed and finally she relented. She started to vibrate her fingers against her clit, the tips brushing my prick as it pistoned in and out of her. I could feel the vibrations inside her.
That was it for me. Her ultimate barrier had been breached and there was nothing left to do but give myself over to the pleasure of the beautiful girl. She was conquered, freed, liberated, and she started fucking me harder, putting her heart into it, glorying in her new role. She was in bad girl heaven, the very image of what she'd both wanted and feared to be.
I heard her whine that she was going to cum again and heard the astonishment in her voice, but I wasn't thinking about her now. I was close myself, and the pressure was unbearable. There was just one more thing to do.
I pushed her off me and stood up. I yanked off the rubber and made her get down on her knees and beat me off.
"Watch it!" I gasped as she pumped me frantically. "Look at it! I'm gonna cum. I want to you to see it. I want you to see what you did to me!"
My head fell back and I groaned. I felt my thighs clench and my balls pull tight as electricity shot up my legs and my spine and finally my scalp. Pleasure so intense it almost hurt, and then the exquisite explosion of all that tension and desire. Thick gouts of semen spurted from my cock and splattered in her hair and against her shoulder and breasts as Becca gasped in shock at the violence of my release and the volume of cum that poured out.
She kept pumping till I was empty and beyond and it started to hurt my over stimulated nerves. I had to tell her to stop. She looked up at me with eyes shining. And then she opened her mouth and licked me clean, and when she was finished she gathered my cum from her body and licked that up too, lapping and swallowing and humming softly in her throat.
The story's long enough so let me summarize— I became her lover, her secret sin tucked away in this bad part of the city. She'd come over at night and on the weekends and hang up her office clothes and put on whatever I told her and I'd take her as a slut, pushing her up against a wall or tying her to my bed or to a chair, violating her and making her do things.
"My slut," I'd whisper. "My dirty little cock-loving whore!"
Becca would writhe and moan and whisper, "Only for you. Master! Only for you!"
And I'd smile as I tightened the ropes that held her ankles apart or got the vibrator out of the nightstand and slid it along her thighs. "Yes, baby. Only for me..."
Then in the morning she'd shower and dress and do her makeup and turn back into the good little girl, all sweetness, innocence, and light, and off into the world she'd go.