Miranda felt a flutter of nervous excitement in her stomach and she tried to remain calm but her breathing increased.
She was no stranger to sex, but still, she’d never engaged in anything quite so cold and impersonal, so devoid of affection or any sort of intimacy, and being forced to parade around for his sexual enjoyment was humiliating and yet terribly arousing at the same time.
‘It excites you, doesn’t it, Miranda?’ he asked her in a low voice. ‘Showing off for me like this.’
‘No,’ she answered.
‘Don’t lie to me. Your nipples are hard. I can see them from here. I’ll bet if I put my fingers between your legs I’d find out you were wet, wouldn’t I?’
The thought filled her with heat, and she tried to look at him without seeing him, as if she could see through him.
It was true. She had felt her own lubrication as she’d walked, but she was damned if she would admit it.
He shifted in the chair, sliding his ass down and spreading his legs, an arrogant, male gesture.
‘I trust you can see what you’ve done to me?’ he said. ‘In fact, you haven’t been able to take your eyes away.’
She would have blushed had her face not already been so red with shame and excitement. She hadn’t been aware that she’d been staring, but she had.
She’d been almost entranced looking at his cock, and now she tried to compose herself.
She looked at his eyes and caught that predatory gleam again, so she looked away, studying a cigarette burn in the carpet at the side of his chair. Even as she tried to hide her gaze, she could feel her nipples reaching for him. She heard him laugh.
‘I wasn’t wrong about you.’ he said. ‘You’re a gorgeous woman, but you’re a tramp. Not that you’d ever admit it, not that you’d ever act on it, but this excites you, having a man look at you like this, having this power over you.’
‘No,’ she said.
She was sinking again into that strange, trance-like lethargy: boiling on the inside, while on the surface everything was like a languid dream.
‘Take off your bra,’ he told her.
‘No. I can’t. Really, I can’t.’
In an instant he was out of his chair. Miranda gasped in alarm but he took her and spun her roughly around so that her back was to him and she felt his fingers on the clasp of her bra. She raised her hands to stop him, but then thought better of it and clasped her hands over her breasts.
‘Look,’ he said, and Miranda opened her eyes to see that he held her facing the mirror over the dresser.
She saw herself standing there in the middle of the room, his face looking over her right shoulder like an evil spirit, that hot, predatory gleam in his eye.
‘Put your hands down at your sides and look,’ he said. ‘I want you to see this.’
Miranda forced her hands away from her breasts. Again, she couldn’t look at his reflection, so she looked at her bra as he slowly relaxed his grip and drew it down and away from her breasts, pulling the thin straps down her arms.
She watched transfixed as the wispy garment left her body and her breasts came into view, her traitorous nipples puckered and apparently ready for anything. His big hands held the flimsy garment as he drew it down and away from her, revealing her nakedness, then dropped it on the floor.
His empty hands came up, fingers spread wide and he took her breasts in his hands, pulling her against him once more.
The sight of his hands on her in the mirror finally set it off, and she felt her own desire surge through her body with such force that it actually made her knees weak. The way he held her: so possessive, so greedy.
She raised her hands and gripped his fingers, thinking to pull his hands away, but his arms were like cast-iron, immovable.
‘Don’t,’ he said with sudden anger. ‘You don’t touch me unless and until I tell you to, is that understood? Now put your hands down, tramp.’
Miranda dropped her hands. It was just as well. Her fingers were shaking with need. They way he touched her was is if he were the real owner of this body, as if he knew what it was for, not her; as if he had a better use for her than anything she could think of.
‘Now just watch,’ he said. ‘I want you to see this about yourself.’
She raised her eyes reluctantly to the mirror where his big hands covered her breasts. He stoked her, sliding his fingers along the cones of her breasts and Miranda felt her eyes lids fluttering closed in helpless pleasure.
The Thug circled her nipples with his fingertips, all the while keeping her pressed against him so that she could feel his furiously hard cock throbbing against her ass. She watched as he took her nipples daintily between his thumbs and first fingers, and then squeezed.
The discomfort became a pain, a pain that shot through her body like a bolt of lightening and struck her deep between her legs, making her cry out and jerk in his embrace. He let go of her nipples but still held her tight as Miranda was suddenly panting for breath.
She could feel herself gush with wetness, as if she’d just been wounded.
‘Don’t do that,’ she gasped. ‘Please!’
‘Hurts, doesn’t it?’ he asked. ‘But you like the way it hurts.’
‘I don’t like it. It just hurts.’
He laughed. ‘You can stop pretending. We both know what’s going on here. You’re excited as hell, aren’t you? You’re a hot little piece, and you’ve made your entire career out of teasing the boys, out of using your sex to get what you want, with your hot little suits like the one you wore here today. You dangle yourself in front of their eyes and then cry “foul” when somebody reaches for you, don’t you? Well you’ve made this bed, Miranda, and now you’re going to get fucked in it.’
She pushed back against him, trying to get away.
This had gotten entirely out of hand. She had been willing to take off her outer clothes for him, but this had gone beyond that, and he was showing her things about herself that she didn’t want to see.
She’d been willing to strip. She’d even have been willing to let him have sex with her if that’s what he wanted, but now he was playing with her mind, with her own understanding of herself, and that frightened her.
She would never admit it, but it had felt good when he’d pinched her nipples. It had hurt, but within the pain there was a delicious helplessness and intensity that filled some need deep inside her. It was something she deserved, and something she needed, and it scared her.
‘I’ll scream,’ she said. ‘I’ll scream and call the police. I don’t care about your damned pictures. Just let me go now …’
He made no move to release her.
‘I’ll show you,’ he said.
Her arms were drawn up to cover her breasts, her hands balled into helpless fists. With his left hand he reached around her and took her right forearm, encircling her with his strong arm and holding her pressed against him.
She watched nervously in the mirror as his right hand came down and slid over her smooth stomach and over her silky panties, heading for her pussy.
His finger touched her between her legs, and she felt a jolt of feverish electricity shoot through her body. She reached up with her free left hand and dug her nails into his forearm, trying to hurt him, but he ignored her. He managed to pull the crotch of her panties to the side and his fingers dipped into the pool of wetness between her thighs.
She was soaking wet. She’d been lubricating since he first made her strip, and now her pussy was swollen and wet, dripping like an over-ripe peach.
She felt his finger splashing around in her wetness and sneaking its way easily inside of her, playing on the edge of her opening, and she could feel his grin of arrogant male victory as he held her.
‘Tell me, Miranda,’ whispered The Thug in mock concern, ‘are you always so wet? Do
you always walk around with your pussy dripping like this?’
She couldn’t answer. There was nothing to say. Besides, his finger was sliding in greasy circles around her clit, forcing her stomach to clench in hot, eager spasms that brought little grunts of obscene pleasure to her lips.
He stood there holding her and playing with her pussy as her struggles grew weaker and more half-hearted and finally ceased. He held her tight, leaning back slightly so that her body was extended, and she was shamefully aware that she’d spread her legs for him and was working her hips against his hand, fucking back at him and trying to entice him to enter her, to put his finger where she needed to feel it.
She thought she’d die of embarrassment but she couldn’t stop. It was as if he spoke directly to her body, and she was just a horrified observer clinging to his arm, her eyes closed so that she wouldn’t have to witness her own degradation.
Then he let her go.
Just like that.
‘Take off your panties,’ he said.
He went to his chair and began to undress.
Miranda felt dizzy.
‘No,’ she said.
He gave her a look of mild surprise but he didn’t stop undressing.
‘No,’ she said again. ‘Not that. I won’t.’
He dropped his pants and stepped out of them, skinned off his briefs and Miranda saw his massive cock spring into view, long and thick and as proud as a rampant stallion, standing out from between his shirt tails.
Her throat went dry.
The Thug came over to her and took her easily by the back of the neck, pushed her down over the dresser so that she was forced to bend over, her breasts pressing against the cold surface, her ass in the air. He held her like that with one hand while with the other he yanked her panties down her legs, ripping the thin fabric and leaving it tangled around her thighs.
Before she could do anything he began spanking her with flat, angry blows, hitting her on the meatiest part of her ass and making her flesh vibrate and jiggle.
She was completely outraged, speechless, so shocked that she just leaned there and took it before she even thought to do anything. But there was nothing to be done. His hand on the back of her neck was like iron and her hands were trapped beneath her, useless.
He slapped her with the flat of his hand, and each slap was like a pistol shot in the room, a sharp, flat sound accompanied by her squeal of pain and outrage. All she could do was wiggle and roll her hips, trying to escape the blows, and all that did was distribute the spanks all over her trembling ass cheeks until her entire bottom was red and on fire with masochistic heat.
She screamed, a snarling, feral sound of violation, but he didn’t stop. His fingers dug into the back of her neck and the blows rained down upon her and through the haze of shock and outrage Miranda became aware of a new sensation.
The shaking and jiggling of her ass communicated itself to her already-aroused pussy and lit a fire there, a fire that burned deep and began to glow with hot incandescence.
Her skin burned, and each sting from a blow melted into the molten liquid at her core until she was burning with need.
She needed to be touched and filled.
She needed him.
And he needed her too. He was hitting her not out of anger but out of lust. She could feel it in the way his spanking hand lingered for a brief moment on her hot skin, the way his other hand trembled as he held her down: not because it took any strength – she had stopped struggling after the first few blows – but because of his own need for her.
He wanted her, and that’s what this was about. This man wanted her so much he was shaking.
There was no possibility of her escaping now; she no longer wanted to. When he let go of her neck and stepped back she stayed where she was, the violence and humiliation of the blows echoing through her body like the ringing of a gong, the feel of his trembling hand still on the back of her neck.
She lay there panting with her chest pressed down on top of the dresser and her knees locked, her buttocks thrust lewdly into the air, red and burning from his lustful punishment.
‘Touch yourself,’ he told her. ‘Reach down between your legs and play with your pussy. Do it, whore!’
Miranda reached back between her legs and ran a manicured nail down her wet slit. She was totally exposed to his gaze, and in the mirror she could see him behind her stripping off his shirt, getting ready to fuck her.
He looked like a Greek God, like Zeus himself with his thick curls and salt-and-pepper beard, a dark and furious glower on his face. His cock stood out before him like the god’s own thunderbolt.
Miranda felt no shame now, no compunction. He’d won, and she was the spoils. He’d been right about her, just as he’d said, and suddenly she felt an overwhelming urge to show him how right he’d been, show him what a slut she really was. It was just like her masturbation fantasies now, but this one was real, and at last she didn’t have to hide herself from anyone and play the demure princess.
He knew she was a whore and she knew it too, and now she wanted to prove it to him.
She was filled with a fierce female pride. She was no match for his strength and his male power, but she had power of her own: the power of her own sexuality and desirability which made him every bit as weak as she was now.
She slid her finger up and down her empty and hungry slit with obscene deliberation, smearing her wetness around, spreading herself open with two fingers and showing him what she had for him, what she was. In the mirror she could see his eyes grow wild with hunger and pure, naked lust, and she wanted to laugh with joy for the sudden freedom she felt.
He went into her savagely, just like she wanted, fucking into her so hard that he lifted her feet off the floor and made her eyes roll up into her head.
He reached beneath her and grabbed a breast in one hand and dug into her pussy with the other, finding her clit and forking his fingers around it, rubbing her in rhythm to his powerful thrusts. Miranda arched her back to take him deeper and covered the hand on her breast with her own, feeling the strength in his fingers.
She reached down between her legs and showed him where to touch her, and then gasped, shocked by her own savage joy as his own hand took over and did to her what she’d always wanted a man to do: take her, use her.
He dug his fingers into her tender flesh and punished her, insisting that she yield up her pleasure to him, and all the while his big prick sluiced in and out of her cunt with desperate male fury, wanting to possess her and make her his.
He stuffed her full and then pulled out, leaving her aching for him, and the fury of his cock sent her higher and higher into her own dizzy heaven of lust.
Miranda glanced in the mirror and saw him standing behind her, leaning back slightly, the big muscles on his chest hard and filmed with perspiration, a look on his face of satisfaction mixed with mild disdain, the look of a haughty conqueror.
It was the disdain that did it for her, that look of arrogant satisfaction that caused an emotional thrill to burn through her body, bringing her to the very edge of a shattering orgasm, because she knew that he’d been right about her, that he’d been right all along.
It was no accident that she’d been out masturbating on her roof when he’d caught her, fucking herself with her fingers while she dreamed of a man shoving his hot cock up into her ass, showing her slutty self to the world.
It was no accident that Miranda Absentia had come here and stripped for this Thug, let him bend her over the dresser and spank her ass, and then fuck her within an inch of her life, as if she were a common whore.
A slut.
A tramp.
Trollop.
Strumpet.
Wanton wench.
It was who she was, who she’d always known she was; it was all she wanted to be.
>
Needless to say, Miranda left the motel room bed sheets stained after all was said and done.
Accidental Hitchhiker
by K D Grace
‘I’m lucky it got me this far,’ Liz said, squinting through the driving rain at the Ford Escort now dead by the side of the road.
The lorry driver looked like some strange phantom in his over-sized rain poncho with the hood swallowing up his face. He slammed the bonnet shut and turned to her. ‘You’ve got a hole in your radiator,’ he shouted above the wind. ‘You’re not going anywhere tonight.’ He nodded to his truck, which sat idling behind her deceased car, bathing both of them in a wet halo of incandescent light. ‘You’re soaked. Get in the truck and get warm.’
In spite of the horror stories she had heard about people hitch-hiking in America, Liz grabbed what she needed from the car and followed him back to the truck. She wasn’t really hitch-hiking, she reminded herself; she simply didn’t have other options.
She climbed in the passenger side and sat shivering, relishing the warmth of the humming heater. The unfamiliar twang of country music played softly on the radio. She jumped as he opened his door, stripping off the poncho and giving it a shake before he crawled into the cab.
What had been hidden beneath the poncho was not the stereotypical American trucker she had expected. He ran a hand through damp auburn hair in need of a cut. It hung in unruly curls around the soft stubble on his face. There was no beer belly, no good-ole-boy tattoos, no missing teeth. He wore a faded T-shirt stretched over his chest. His eyes seemed black in the dim light. His lips were full and sensuous, incongruous with the thin pale scar running low along his right jawbone, making him look a bit dangerous. The overall effect made her pulse race, and the feeling low in her belly was like the deep vibration of the lorry motor, only inside her.
‘Can’t I call roadside assistance?’ She asked between chattering teeth.
He offered a sympathetic smile. ‘Not in the middle of bumfuck South Dakota you can’t, at least not tonight.’
Between the Sheets Page 7