I have, for nearly all of my life, enjoyed having a greedy pussy. I’m not impressively orgasmic or anything, but I could always cum when I wanted, how I wanted. No kids, so I came whenever I had a free moment and was horny. Once I came during the movie The Hall Pass. I disliked the movie so much that I shut my eyes, squeezed my pelvis, and rocked my way to a nice, hands-free orgasm. 

I cannot, in good conscience, recommend that movie. 

Point is, I enjoyed cumming whenever I wanted but as soon as I found out what orgasm control was, I had little seeds of doubt in the back of my mind making me wonder if I was really getting what I needed. 

Here’s the evil, no-good, goddamn insidious part about orgasm control: it’s a devilish paradox. On one hand, you crave discipline and control of your orgasms, even if it means going without for a while and no longer being able to squeeze your stomach muscles and rock your pelvis when movies get boring. Well, you probably could, but you just can’t make yourself cum without permission. That permission is the siren song. 

On the other hand, this thought of being denied your god-given right to make yourself cum whenever you want makes you gush and cum like crazy. You cum at the thought of not cumming. 

The game is rigged before you even start. 

I recently gave up control of my own orgasms for the first time ever which is fucking terrifying. I’ve been in a car with a drunk driver (really, really scary) and once saw a guy without a shirt (probably on meth) pull a gun. That was scary. Those were moments I thought I could possibly die. Those were scary. 

But ceding orgasm control is terrifying. You feel like you’re giving up a vital piece of what makes you human, the ability to make yourself cum. The loss of control is terrifying because of all the unknowns: what if he wants me to cum and I can’t? What if he won’t allow me to cum and it’s all I think about? For the first time, I put my greedy pussy on the table as a bargaining chip and no longer get to cum for me, only for others. 

So far, it’s been as I expected: impossibly hard and impossibly wonderful. He’s controlled me by not allowing me to cum, despite begging for permission. This made the need amplified by a thousand and made it all I could think about. He’s also controlled me by making me cum all the time, testing my limits of what I think is physically possible. 

I have soaked panties. I have zoned out on entire hour-long meetings. I have edged (bringing yourself to the point of orgasm but stopping short of actually cumming) to release some of the pressure only to find it was more like gasoline to a flame, not water. I have failed. 

That’s right, I failed, right off the bat, came when I wasn’t supposed to and entirely by accident. I was punished and I learned my lesson. 

I haven’t experienced this for long but each day, I think about being the kind of girl with dirty little secrets. When I put up my hair in a tight bun and put on my suit for the day, nobody would suspect that, underneath, my pussy is either dripping from denial or raw and sore from overuse. They can’t tell I’m a dirty girl who gives up control and craves the nasty things I get in return. 

I don’t want to get too Girls-y, but I’m an adventurous woman. I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

The storm hit yesterday evening as the sun was going down. The storm passed but the power still hasn’t come back on. The air was still (no air conditioning) and silent (no fans, computers, TVs to make noise). I put on my weekend cotton dress, sassy belt, hair in a bun. No panties. 

It was morning and we were on the couch, drinking coffee. I was huddled under the window, using the sun to read on old copy of Wired. He was reading some paperback. 

My feet were jammed under him, warming my toes. Then I parted my legs, lifted my skirt, let him take a look at his goods. 

He glanced over briefly but didn’t immediately look at me even though this was clearly a ploy for his attention. After a minute or so, he reached his hand over, his eyes never leaving the page, and ran his hand up my leg to the lips of my now-bare pussy. 

“You shaved?” he asked. 

“Yes. It’s dark but the hot water works,” I said, casually flipping past an ad to some full-page infograph. 

He began running his fingers gently across my pussy. 

“Want to play a game?” he asked, finally looking up from his page. I nodded and put on a big smile. 

“Here’s the rule: you can’t cum unless I’m licking your pussy. Understood?” he asked. 

Another nod. I lifted my skirt even higher and dropped my knees a little more to the side. 

“Touch yourself,” he said and turned his eyes back to the book. 

A little confused but still wet from the attention, I began rubbing my clit, lightly and gently, as I would if I were alone and wanting to cum. Soon light whimpers began, then moans. 

“Do you want to cum, little girl?” he asked, looking away from his book to see me, legs spread wide so close to him, fingers drenched in wetness.

“Yes, Sir. May I please cum now?” I asked. 

He gave me a sly smile. 

“Nope. You know the rules,” he answered. 

I groaned in frustration. At that point, I thought I’d try begging. 

I kept rubbing and tried out some more, “pretty please with a cherry on top” talk about how I would suck the cum out of his cock so well, how I’d lick his balls and let him fuck me however he wanted. 

“Mmm,” he mouthed and didn’t budge. It didn’t work. 

More direct action was needed. I moved to my knees and began lightly rubbing myself while also kissing his neck, nuzzling my mouth to his neck and chest, whispering “please.” 

That didn’t work either. 

“I’ll do anything to cum,” I managed to get out.

“You mean anything?” he asked, finally turning his attention to me. He turned to face me, shifting both his hands to my inner thighs and the lips of my wet pussy. 

He moved my own hands out of the way and replaced them with his own. He began soft and slow. More groans. 

“Would you suck my toes right now? Would you do that so I would lick your pussy and make you cum?” he asked, his fingers tracing the skin on my inner thighs. 

“Yes, Sir,” I said. I meant it. My knees were shaky. 

“Would you… I don’t know… let me cum on your tits and send you back to work without letting you clean up?” 

“Yes,” i got out. I meant that, too, very seriously. Now I started thinking about it, how much I wanted to do those things. I realized he was fucking with my head, probably, because if the intended effect was to make me want these things, it worked. 

His fingers kept going.

“Would you drink my piss?” he asked. 

It felt the same because I would and I meant it. I almost lusted after it. 

“Yes,” I said. I turned my head away and shut my eyes tight. 

“Would you lick my asshole?” he asked. 

The question derailed me but after a pause, the answer was clear. 

“Yes,” I answered. 

“Good. Good girl,” he answered and slid down to his knees on the floor. 

His tongue met my clit like ice to a hot pan. My body convulsed.

He really knew how to fuck with every part of me. I open my eyes and smiled as I came. 

I half-groan, half squeal in frustration. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, fingers still on my very wet clit. 

“I… I just can’t seem to cum. I want to cum so badly…” I trail off. I’d been on the precipice for what seemed like hours (though was probably only minutes in actuality). My pussy is throbbing. I feel ready to cum. I want to cum, but I just can’t fall over that cliff for some reason. 

“So what? Maybe I won’t allow you to cum,” he says. 

I groan again because it was the perfect thing to say in that moment. His hands continued working my clit and pussy. Now I was at a whole new level of agony. I put his cock back in my mouth. 

“Why don’t you get on top?” he asks. 

I nod, wordless, and impale myself on him, finally taking off my shirt and bra but not bothering to remove the skirt or the strappy shoes still on my feet. 

He grabs my hair and jerks my head hard. 

“You do not cum unless I give you permission, understand?” 

“Yes,” I shout and begin riding him. 

He reaches up and begins playing with my nipples, the sure way to make me cum hard. That bastard. 

“May I please cum?” I beg, still riding him, using every ounce of my strength not to cum until I get permission. 

“No, you may not,” he says and twists my nipples harder. 

An “oh god” escapes my lips and I keep going. 

“May I please cum? I’m begging you. Please?” I ask again, barely able to stand it. 

He grabs my throat, choking me a little. He’s never done this to me before, but I like it. 

“No, you may not,” he growls and I keep going, feeling myself growing more and more desperate as the minutes pass. He lets go of my neck and his hands are cruelly back on my nipples again. 

I suck air like it’s going out of style, trying to calm myself, trying to follow his orders. 

“May I cum now? Please, I beg of you, have mercy…” I say, almost crying out of desperation. 

“Yes, you may” he says and I instantly react. My pussy begins burning, almost without my control or consent, and I feel myself tighten around him, my head swimming in nothing but the intense feeling in my pussy. 

I screech like  my house is on fire, loud enough that I’m sure neighbors could hear, as my orgasm washes over me. I feel the pulse and energy run through me, all while my mouth is screaming. 

I keep riding. He soon cums inside me and I collapse in his arms like a puddle, fulfilled. 

Goddamn it, my hand is sore. 

First, chalk part of this up to my own stupidity. I decided on Friday that I was going to lift heavy, so I ended up doing 70 lb deadlifts, partly because it made me look like a badass at the gym and partly because I just want a spectacular ass. Combine this with arm work and, at the end of Friday, my forearms were so weak that I was finding it difficult to grasp a glass of water. 

I’m a goddamn genius. 

Then I made the mistake, which i say now with a wink and a nod, of letting Sir know that orgasm control turns me on. This wasn’t something I had discussed before, just something that came up while chatting about the banal shit we normally do. 

I ran my mouth about how I wanted to beg to cum and earn the orgasms I was allowed to have, how I always wanted to hear that I have permission to cum but sometimes secretly want to be told that I don’t have that permission. I wanted him to see me in this state, a sweaty, messy pile of a woman, reduced to begging and pleading. 

You see? I have hobbies. 

So Sir’s game began soon after. How many times can you cum in one weekend, he asked. 

I had to think about this really, really hard because I don’t have multiple orgasms and find it only on very rare occasions that I cum more than twice in one sitting.

Ten, I answer, 12 if I’m being ambitious. He told me it’s cute that I think there’s some kind of negotiation and ordered me to cum 13 times during the weekend, beginning Friday and ending Sunday. 

Well, fuck, I ran straight into that one. 

The idea that my orgasms are out of my hands is very exciting. So with a box full of toys by my bed, I went to work on Friday, horny as fuck, ready to do this. I wanted to cum hard and often with the realization that these weren’t really my orgasms. I mean, I was the one having them, but they weren’t really for me. 

Friday ended without a hitch, though my pussy ended up sore from the overzealous use of my favorite curved glass apparatus. Still, it ended well, without struggle. 

Saturday ended mostly with smiles and sighs. The orgasms came more slowly, but if I could ignore the soreness of my pussy, I could concentrate on the sensation and loosen up, have a good time. I’m pretty sure that’s how Sir would have wanted it. 

Then Sunday rolled around. My grip strength was nearly gone two days out from such a heavy workout and after two days of furious masturbation. My forearms were on fire and moving my fingers around (kind of an important part of this process, to say the least) was challenging. I ended up sweating profusely after orgasm number 10 on Sunday, my hands and pussy sore from the kind of torture that seemed like a good idea initially. 

Eleven took ages, probably over an hour. I tried to focus my energy and concentrate on the fun parts. I eventually coasted into 12 and 13 with the aid of strong electrical appliances, the device I’d been trying to avoid all weekend, lest I numb myself and make the torture even greater. 

But I did it! I accepted and completed the challenge on time and under budget. 

Still, in the back of my mind, I imagined the inevitable conclusion. This time, I conquered the system. I won. I was the good girl I always envisioned myself to be and did it for his pleasure, though silently having thoughts about possible rewards for my good behavior. Perhaps he might lick my clit, tease me without mercy until I beg to cum, and meet little resistance. He would gently stroke my body, massage me, make me feel beautiful and amazing. 

Then there’s the more dark and dangerous scenario: what if I hadn’t made it? What then? What inevitably foul punishment would I suffer for not following his orders? Perhaps I’d be stimulated exquisitely, made to be on the verge of orgasm, and then never allowed the release, even though I beg and plead and bargain for the orgasm that I desire. Perhaps he fucks me in my ass or pussy, fingers me, plays with my tits. It doesn’t matter because I broke the rules and don’t get to cum. 

As a perfectionist and all-around competitive person, I strive to be the good girl, the one who gets rewards and warm fuzzies. I like being this girl a lot. 

The darker side of me, though, wishes I was the bad girl. Punish me, take me, ravage me. I am dangerous and I can’t be contained. 

Seriously, though, maybe some ice? Perhaps some ibuprofen? Will my hand feel better then???

It’s a perfect storm: adult woman with a lifelong kinky side that isn’t being met, a naughty stranger who’s offered to discreetly introduce her to what she wants, horniness, endless online conversations in secret, pillow talk over the meaning of the ending of Life of Pi. 

What happens when she gets a taste of what she wants? Feelings. Woah, woah, woah, feelings. 

I’m not going to discuss the kink appeal issue at length, but I think it’s pretty well understood that kinky sex is appealing to some (not all) because of the complicated side effects it produces that are fucking amazing. The highest highs you can possibly imagine, no nasty side effects, no hangover. It’s all coming from inside your brain, man, but it’s wicked awesome. 

So here you are, your ass is a stinging red mess of tiny little welts from your lover’s flogger. You’ve never felt these things before, so you’re amped on the adrenaline and soaring with endorphins. Then you cum really hard and your brain enjoys the beautiful chemical soup that it’s been stewing in for the last hour or two. 

Then you feel some shit you didn’t want to feel. It feels like… Jesus, really? Is this what I’m feeling right now? Because it feels kind of like love. 

Your rational mind knows better. Your rational mind is the one that reminds you all the time that your ovaries and lady brain play tricks on you. Sure, you’re biologically designed to want to nurture children and stay monogamous to some dude and make lovey-eyes at him after you fuck. But your rational mind kicks you swiftly in the crotch and reminds you that you choose how you want to feel. You don’t have to kowtow to the reptilian part of you that wants to breed and cry over old AT&T ads. You are modern and independent and you can choose these things.  

But what happens when it’s so intense? What happens when you have to work your rational brain extra hard? 

It’s not love, not really. It could be, but it’s not the kind of strong, enduring love you think about when you think about love, the kind that drives to the drugstore late at night to buy you super absorbent tampons, the kind that understands and accepts that thing you did that one time and will always keep it a secret. You know, Paul Newman/Joanne Woodward love. It’s not that. 

Still, now you have some shit to think about, to sort through, shit you weren’t intending to have to deal with when all you were thinking was coming to you was a sore ass and perhaps a mouthful of his jizz. 

I don’t know that I can offer the best advice in these situations other than to be smart. Make good choices. 

Fuck it, maybe throw caution to the wind and give in? What the fuck do I know? 

Glad there are perverts out there like me because I’m very close to 100 followers!

Thank you so much for your support of my pervy girl-brain. I must prepare something special when I reach 100. 

I know I hardly share anything non-sex on here, but I enjoy when you share or comment on my stuff. I have no problem spreading the love. So do so freely. 

Thanks!

Years ago, I thought I wanted to engage in rough sex, the kind that doesn’t hurt that much. 

Turns out that may not quite be the case. I guess that means I’ve been thinking a lot about how pain works as it’s an ever-evolving mystery, a push-and-pull between what I thought I knew and what I’m actually feeling. 

Then I think about MMA. I’ve loved fighting and have been an MMA fan for several years now, since the days when Tito Ortiz was still a good fighter and Wanderlei Silva’s ever-evolving face looked much different. 

I think about what it must take to be punched in the face, to take a swift kick to the inner thigh, and keep going. Some fighters (the Chris Lebens of the world) actually gain strength from the pain of getting struck, feed off the energy, and come back swinging harder than before. 

I wonder where that comes from. 

I think about how I want to process pain. If I feel pain during sex, it still hurts. It still sucks in its own way, but something in my mind processes it differently, makes the challenge of the sensation feel pleasurable. The mind plays amazing tricks on you. 

I think about what it must be like to be locked in a cage for 15 minutes with someone who wants to tear your face off. What do they feel when they get that first painful strike? Where does it go? How do they process it and come back from it? 

Can you compare these types of pain? 

Somehow word got out that I gave some of the world’s best blow jobs.

Sir and I showed up at the dingy hotel by the airport. He hadn’t said much to me about what we were doing there other than to say that I’d gained quite a reputation as of late with my world-famous blow jobs. I was excited and nervous as to what he had planned.

We ended up in a room at the end of the long, one-story building. The doors opened up to the outside, motel-style. The carpet was a darkened brown, matted over the years with God knows what. The bedspread was a swirled pattern of blues and greens, perhaps trying to add some cheer to the otherwise dreary room. The walls had wood paneling. Wood paneling!

“They should be here in about an hour, so why don’t we get you ready?” He said to me. At that point, I was wearing my street clothes.

I stripped out of my jeans and v-neck t-shirt and put on what he’d packed for me: patterned stockings, garter belt, black patent high heels. He left my hair down to drape around my shoulders. My nice little tits were hanging out, of course.

“Bend over,” He said, pointing to the bed.

I obliged, bending over the bead, laying my face on that bedspread that could have been caked in filth for all I knew.

He proceeded to give me a good, firm spanking, the kind that lit my ass on fire and gave my cheeks a nice, red glow. It was the kind of spanking I would remember for a few hours, reminding me of how special I was to Him.

He slipped his fingers gently into my pussy, feeling out how wet I was, how ready I was for what was about to happen. I was wet with anticipation but my heart pounded out of nerves.

“Very good, girl. I’m glad you’re responding like I’d hoped. Any minute now…” He said and his voice trailed off as he went back into the bathroom. He returned with all the towels and a bottle of water.

“You’ll need these,” He said, and set them beside me. “Why don’t you get on your knees right here because we should have a guest any minute now.”

I did as I was told and knelt in the middle of the room, feet folded underneath me. He walked behind me and I felt cold metal and the click of handcuffs behind my back. He’d locked up my wrists so my hands were no longer in use.

“Now don’t panic, girl. I trust your skills so much, I’m not going to let you use your hands.”

I gulped.

A knock came to the door and Sir walked over to open in. In walked a tall, skinny man, probably in his early twenties, with artfully disheveled hair. He was cute. I looked up at him and couldn’t help but give a little smirk. I knew I was supposed to be all seriousness but I couldn’t help it.

Sir noticed this and smirked back.

“Come on in, kid. Feel free to take off whatever you want.”

“So is she really that good?” the kid asked, unbuckling his belt and pulling off his brightly-colored kicks.

“Oh, yes. She really is,” He said.

Soon his rock hard cock was in my face and it was big: long and thick, cut with a slight bend in the middle.

It was at this moment I realized how handicapped I was. My hands were bound behind me and I couldn’t use them in the ways I usually do, to tease and entice. Sir must have noticed my squirm and how I shifted my hands behind me.

“I have faith in you, girl,” He said behind me. 

I parted my lips and slowly slid my mouth onto the kid’s cock, lubing it up, feeling the skin of his cock on the soft skin of my lips, the hardness of his cock head as it ran across my tongue.

He was so large that I needed more spit to make this work. I didn’t have a lot of my own, so I wolfed down his cock in one fell swoop, letting the head of his cock hit the back of my throat and push forward.

This brought the precious spit I needed. He groaned as I pulled off him, my mouth now full of spit which I promptly spit back onto his cock, lubing him, getting him ready for another assault from my expert mouth.

“Good girl,” I heard Sir say from behind me. I wasn’t sure what He was doing anymore. I could only concentrate on the dizzying sensation of the kid’s giant cock in my mouth as I sucked him and licked in, slow and steady, making him wait and letting him build.

“Uh, can I grab her hair?” the kid asked.

“Sure thing, kid,” He said. He tangled his fingers in my long, blond hair and soon his cock was deep in my throat. He pulled out just a little and with a loud groan, he came in my mouth, hot forceful spurts.

“You can swallow, girl. I want you do,” He said behind me and I did just that, happily swallowing every drop of the kid’s juice.

The kid quickly got dressed.

“Uh, thanks,” he said as he opened the door. As he did, another man walked in. This man was older, probably in his early fifties. He had a pot belly and a kind face, gray hair, and a mustache. I smiled at him.

He looked back, a little alarmed at my smile but smiled back, noticing my slick face and my tousled hair.

“Can I just…” the guy started and pointed to the bed.

“Sure. Just take off whatever. She’s ready to go when you are,” Sir said behind me.

Soon the man was undressed and I could now see his saggy balls and his cock, short and fat. I smiled.

“I like this one,” I said. Sir chuckled behind me.

The man stood in front of me and I began licking and kissing him, taking his balls in my mouth until he was quickly hard, sliding his cock in my open and waiting mouth.

“Can I fuck your throat?” The man asked.

“Mmmm” I managed to get out and he roughly shoved himself into my mouth. My nose was tickled by his thick pubes. I extended my tongue at the base of his cock, teasing the top of his balls with it.

He groaned.

“Jesus, she’s a keeper,” the man said. Sir chuckled behind me.

He pulled his cock out roughly, probably so he could see my face. I was slicker than ever, mouth covered with spit, but with the same smile.

“You like this, don’t you?” he asked.

“Fuck yeah. I love sucking cock,” I said and he forced his cock in again.

Soon he was in my mouth again, groaning hard, cock suddenly rock hard. I knew he was about to cum.

He erupted in my mouth, his cum oozing onto my tongue.

“Swallow, won’t you?” the man said. I did, swallowing while he was still inside me, growing soft.

The man dressed quickly, just like the last one, and made some random small talk about the overcast sky outside. Sir indulged him in his chatter and I shifted on my knees, trying to find a comfortable position since it appears I would be here a while.

The man left and another man stepped inside. I hadn’t realized it before but there was a line of men outside, all of whom were waiting outside for their turn with my expert mouth. As the third man entered, I turned around until I could see Sir. He was sitting in a chair behind me and I could barely see him out of the side of my eye from my position.

“How many more cocks?” I asked. He chuckled in that cute way he usually does.

“Oh, just until you’ve had your fill. It’s your special lunch treat,” He said.

Aside from shifting around on my poor, aching knees, I didn’t move from that position for quite a while. I didn’t have any concept of time, so it could have been an hour, it could have been six. I didn’t know anymore. All my thoughts were lips, tongues, spit, cocks.

I ended up sucking ten more cocks, twelve in all. A nice, round dozen seemed like a good number. All of them groaned in pleasure and were all visibly pleased with the skills of my mouth, even without my hands to help me out.

I swallowed each and every load. After 12, though, my stomach began to feel a little full. The thought of this, swallowing so much cum that I could feel it sloshing around inside me, turned me on even more than I already was.

After the last one dressed and left, Sir allowed me to get up and sit on the bed, giving my knees some sweet relief. My face was still a slick mess.

He ruffled my hair.

“How you doing, girl?”

I smiled again. Even after all that, I couldn’t contain my excitement.

“Want to cum for being such a good girl?” He asked.

I nodded.

“Well lay back then,” He said. I pulled my my knees up and enjoyed the sensation of his tongue on my clit and came hard knowing I’d made both of us very happy. 

“Do you want to go out back and smoke some weed?” I asked. I put my hand on his shoulder. 

He looked weirdly nervous and I couldn’t blame him. I took a big swig from my IPA. He held his beer close to his chest. Everywhere you looked there were twenty-somethings with beards and soft printed dresses. The hipster glasses were out in full force this evening. It looked like some weird hipster mating season in here. I’m sure he felt like a weird sore thumb. 

I chugged the rest of my beer. 

“Follow me,” I said and dragged him by the arm. On the way out, I set my empty bottle on some random table. We ended up out the front door, around the corner to the back alley where I pulled out a joint from my purse. 

I lit up and inhaled deeply. I knew he was looking at me and could tell a million thoughts were going through his head. I excited him, made his dick hard when he looked at me in my sheer blouse. Of course there was also the fact that more than a decade separated us. 

I was forbidden, too, because we were both married. He, of course, had a mortgage and kids. I had student loan payments and a weed dealer in my phone contacts. I could stay up late and show up to work hung over if I wanted. 

Maybe it was my freedom that made me so attractive. 

I passed him the joint. He finally took it, reluctantly. 

“It’s only pot, you know. This shit’s legal in two states now,” I said, air held in my lungs so it came out as a croak. 

“I haven’t tried this since college. And that was a long time ago.” 

“You do know that weed is a lot better these days, right?” I asked. 

We finished the thin joint together. There wasn’t much to finish since it was packed with medical-grade Cali bud, not the kind of weed you need much of to start flying. 

I reached for his pants and began pawing at his crotch. Here I was, brazen by pot and booze, by live music from an unknown local act and by being out, looking good. I was ready to have a good time. 

He grabbed my wrist, of course, and forced my hand to my side. 

“I don’t believe we should be doing that here.” 

“Why? Afraid we’ll get arrested?”

He looked at me sternly. I pulled out my phone to check if anything was new. No new calls, no new messages. No husband freakouts or angry texts. Good. I was free to continue to enjoy my evening, out on the town with the man whose cock I really wanted. 

I put my phone away. 

“You’ve been very aggressive this evening. Too much to drink?” He asked. I smirked smacked my lips. Weed mouth. 

“Fuck, man, I’m just trying to have a good time. I want to have a good time with your cock in my mouth,” I said, playfully, again reaching out for the waist of his pants. 

This time he smacked my hand away and I was temporarily taken aback. 

“I really don’t appreciate your behavior and I’d like to treat you accordingly,” he said. 

I had a momentary explosion in my head, like a lightning bolt. This shit just got real. 

He grabbed my waist and turned me around, forcing me to double over the blue Mazda, my ass in front of him. I wore a big, flouncy skirt over patterned tights. Bending over so low meant he could probably see my panties and ass now, exposed. He grabbed my wrists and held them behind me, pinning me to the car. 

“I want you to apologize for your behavior.” 

He landed his first blow, an open-palmed smack on my ass that sent a loud clap across the abandoned parking lot. I yelped, mostly in surprise, but it stung. 

“I’m sorry, Sir,” I croaked out. 

Several more strikes landed in quick succession and he spread them over both cheeks. He continued to hold my wrists tightly and I knew he had little concern for the loud sounds that could have been heard by anyone around us. 

“Why do you keep grabbing for my pants?” He asked. 

Smack, smack, smack. 

“I’m sorry, Sir, but I just wanted to suck your cock,” I said, my cheek pressed hard against the hood of the car, slurring my words for me. 

“Why do you want to do that?” He asked. Another hard smack. Another loud crack. My ass was starting to feel raw from the stinging blows and the rough nylon of my tights.

“I just want you to appreciate me and… treasure me, I guess.” I said, my words still clipped by my squashed cheek. 

“You do know, girl, that I appreciate and treasure you, right?” He said, not letting go for a second.

“I think so,” I said.

He let go of my wrists and I popped upright again, rubbing my stinging ass with both hands. 

“Why don’t you squat down and show me what you mean,” he said. 

That night, I’d worn high heels, helpful for these situations. I squatted in front of him, mouth-to-cock, and began unzipping his pants. I fished out his cock, hard already, no doubt from the angry spanking. 

I put my lips on his cock gently, teasing and licking, sucking lightly like any competent blow job artist would begin. His cock tasted salty and wonderful, and the skin brushed past my lips, soft and warm. 

But soon the teasing was no longer enough and he grabbed my head, running his hands through my hair, pulling my head towards him in forceful passion. 

His cock was now forced very deep inside my mouth. But I loved the struggle. His cock was currently dry but was soon coated with spit as he forced it deep in my mouth and held it there, insistent  even as I tried to pull my head away. 

He let go. I gasped for air, taking big gulps of it. Drool dripped down my lips. 

“More?” He asked. 

“Fuck yeah,” I said and smiled. 

He roughly grabbed my head again, grasping my hair tightly and forcing himself further into my mouth. 

I bobbed my head as much as I could, stroking him with my tongue and throat. Thick spit rose up, coating him and spilling from my mouth but I just simply didn’t give a shit. 

He let me up for air again. 

“Do you want to taste my cum?” He asked. 

I nodded and smiled again. His fingers grabbed my head again and his cock was buried in my mouth again, this time more shallow so I could suck and lick the head of his cock, feel the full thickness in the most sensitive part of my mouth. 

He came as I stroked him with my hand, moving my tongue back and forth and moaning like crazy. 

I swallowed his cum. I wiped my face with the back of my hand. My face was covered in thick, slick goo.

We went back inside where I cleaned up. I drank another beer and we talked some more about anything and everything. 

Even though I’d washed my hands, my fingers still smelled faintly of his crotch. Every so often, I’d sniff them and smile. 

Several years ago, when I had a boyfriend, I was at a friend’s house with some dude I’d just met. We were watching reruns of Perfect Strangers on Nick at Night (Balki!!!). We’d been drinking. We were alone. We made out and he put my hand on his dick and made it very clear he wanted to fuck me. 

I told him no, I had a boyfriend, and went to bed in the spare bedroom. I slept naked that night but I didn’t sleep well. I wanted desperately for him to come to my room and fuck me, even though I said no. He never did. 

My boyfriend found out and confronted me. I told him he took advantage of me and my boyfriend forgave me. I never told him, though, that I desperately wanted to fuck that dude but I just didn’t know how to say yes.