by Violet Blue
I fuck you very gently, but there’s not much I can do to hold myself back.
I last a minute at most.
You sense my climax arriving. You wrap your come-slick legs around me and pull me close and hard onto you. You grip me and moan as I come in your pussy. You caress me. You sigh.
You’ve got one last orgasm in you, I’ve decided. I lick my way down your body, tasting other men’s come.
It’s only lube in your pussy, of course—weirdly sweet lube mingled with my own come. I lick it tenderly, well aware that you’re hypersensitive. I go slow, take my time, and take your time. You’re exhausted, but you prop yourself up in the bed and look down at me, gazing into my eyes as my face works between your spread thighs. I lap at your cunt and then, when it’s time, I lick up to your clit.
I know your body well enough to make you come even when you swear you can’t. This time, you don’t swear you can’t. Your exhaustion has given way to a superhuman kind of need. You want to give me this. You want to grant me this last chance to please you.
Your thighs close tight around my head as you explode. You ride me as you come. I keep working my tongue on your clit until you’ve clawed away the contour sheets, and they go bunched and moist off under your back—until your moaning turns to whimpers.
Then I kiss my way back up your come-soiled body and kiss you gently on the mouth.
The last of the ritual has to wait, I guess. I had planned to bathe you gently in warm water, with sponges and flowerscented body wash. But you’re snoring before I can even discuss it with you.
So I stretch out next to you and feel the sticky warmth of your come-covered body against mine.
I kiss your neck and fall asleep.
Moneymaker
ISABELLE ROSS
You slam the motel room door and shove me up hard against it. My breath quickens. I watch in trembling fear as you reach around me and lift the chain lock. You put it in the notch and slide it home.
“I’ll need the money first,” I say, my voice trembling.
You push up hard against me, your cock stiff in leather pants. You brush my bottle-blonde hair out of my face and say: “You’ll need the money never. You work for me now.”
I open my mouth as if to scream, but you get your hand across my face. You tell me, “Shhhhh” and put your hand up my skirt, squeeze my asscheeks, and kick my legs open.
You shove your hand into my panties and feel my cunt. I’m shaved and wet. You start fingering my pussy.
“How long you been turning tricks?” you ask me.
“A while,” I say.
You shove two fingers into me. I gasp and moan.
“Bullshit,” you say. “I know what a well-used cunt feels like, and this ain’t it. You’re fresh, darling. Not for long, but you’re fresh. I get to sample you. Now tell Daddy the truth. How long you been turning tricks?”
My voice shakes. “You’re my first,” I say.
“I doubt that.” You spank me, pull my hair. “Nice sweet college girl. Thought she’d dabble a little? Make some extra cash between internships?”
“Something like that,” I say.
You pull my hair and make me squeal. You smack my ass.
“You lose that smart mouth or I’ll bury it,” you tell me. “You got a boyfriend?”
“Fiancé.”
“He know what you are?”
“Yeah,” I nod.
“He know you’re a whore?”
“Uh-huh,” I nod.
“He know you suck strange cocks for money?”
“Yes.” I’m breathing hard now, increasingly aroused.
“He know you take strange cocks in your holes?”
I nod and moan.
“He know you take dick in your ass?”
I shake my head fervently. “I don’t. I don’t do Greek!”
You spank me, making me grunt in rising pain. “You do now. He get off on it?”
I gasp: “Who?”
“See? You’re forgetting about him already. Good girl. I mean your fiancé. He get off on fucking a whore?”
I whimper. You spank me again. You shove your hand around my body, up my skirt, into my panties, and finger me hard, grinding your stiffening cock against my ass.
“Kinda,” I say.
“Sounds like more than ‘kinda,’” you say, rubbing my clit. I moan and rub back against you.
You drag me away from the door and shove me over the bed, pinning me under you. You kick my legs open wide again and hold me there, spread and exposed, half on the bed with my high-heeled shoes dangling. You spank me five or six more times, making me wriggle and fight. You pull my hair and spank me harder in response. You start to finger me.
I’m wetter than when you started, much wetter.
“Your boyfriend the one who sends you out on the street to whore?”
“Fiancé,” I correct, and you pull your fingers out of me and spank my ass again, harder than ever this time, maybe ten times, sharp smacks echoing through the small motel room as you do. I cry out as the stinging pain gets too much to take.
You shove your fingers back in my panties and finger me.
“I asked you a question,” you say.
“Yes,” I say. “He’s the one who whores me out.”
“You like making money for your man?”
I nod, squirming on your fingers.
“You like making money for your daddy?” you say.
I nod more eagerly, pushing my ass up into the air to fuck myself onto your fingers.
“You like taking strange cock for your daddy? What was your name again?”
“Katrina,” I murmur, my words muffled by the pillow I’ve shoved my face into.
“Oh, don’t worry about screaming, Katrina. They hear all sorts of funny things here. They don’t ever call the cops. I asked you if you like taking strange cocks bareback and begging for it up your ass and sucking filthy men’s cocks for your big, bad, loving daddy, Katrina. You like all that?”
I throw back my head and gasp and squeal, on the very brink of orgasm. I shake back and forth. I hump on your fingers.
“I asked you a question, Katrina. You like all that? You like being a whore for your daddy?”
“Yes,” I manage to choke out, as I fuck myself up against your hand. I’m incredibly close. But you don’t let me come.
You pull me off the bed and shove me onto my knees. I kneel there, heaving and panting, as you sit on the bed and unzip your pants.
“Not anymore you don’t,” you say. “You like doing all those things for me. I’m your daddy now, Katrina. That old boyfriend of yours? Mr. Nice Guy? The one who wanted to put a ring on your finger?”
Your zipper comes down and your cock comes out. Holding my hair, you guide my face to your cock and shove it in my mouth.
I know I should fight, but I haven’t got it in me. I start sucking obediently, my mouth leaving tracks of cheap red lipstick up and down your pole. As I suck, you hold my hair out of the way so I can’t hide from your cold, probing eyes.
You tell me: “Mr. Nice Guy’s gone, Katrina. That dick in your mouth right now? That’s your new daddy’s dick. You whore for Daddy now. You walk the streets for Daddy now, Katrina.” I keep sucking obediently, hungrily working your cock as I taste the steady drizzle of pre-come leaking onto my tongue. I can hear your voice going weak with the building pleasure. “You’re Daddy’s little moneymaker now, Katrina. You shake that pretty ass and bring it home for your new daddy. Five dollars for a blow, ten dollars for a fuck, fifteen for Greek. No kissing, no hand jobs, no freebies for the cops, no rough stuff from anyone but me. You got that, Katrina? You’re gonna do everything Daddy says, aren’t you?”
You pull me off your cock. Drool runs down onto my chin and soaks my tube top. I pant and whimper and heave as you pull my hair and force my head back.
You lean down and spit in my face.
“I asked you a question, Katrina.”
I’ve got the fight back in me. I
feel it rising in my belly. I’m going to fight you. I’ve got everything it takes.
I cock my head and spit back.
I can tell you’re surprised by that. You don’t expect a reluctant whore. I’m such a horny little cunt day in, day out, you have to practically keep me on a leash. I’m so compliant you can leave a note like TUNA CASSEROLE on the fridge, and I’ll have it served up steaming with a side of I’m-not-wearing-anyunderwear by the time you get home from your Post-Colonial Governmental Intercessions seminar.
And I’m far from a smart-assed little masochist.
But I’m a whore tonight. I’m your whore. You’re trying to make me your whore. You’ve got to break me.
So you don’t lose your temper. You just grab me, hair and wrist, and haul me over your lap.
Spank.
I squeal.
“You wanna play dirty?”
Spank.
You yank my very short, very tight skirt up over my ass, exposing the whisper of cheap lace that pass as my panties. You yank those down my thighs, to the point where they reach the tops of my stockings.
Spank. Spank. Spank.
You yank my panties away, popping my garters. One clasp rattles against the nightstand. You shove my panties to my knees and spank me harder.
Your cock rubs against me. I writhe. My tube top is gone, on my shoulders or my belly or wherever. You spank me again and I squirm. Harder. I fight.
I’m squirming too much for your taste, I guess. You get both your big, leather-jacketed arms around me and hold me tightly in position over your lap, hammering down with your open palm while I cry out. When I try to close my legs you pin those open, too. You’re like an octopus, pinning me everywhere I can move.
And then you’re on my sweet spot, spanking rhythmically, forcing me to orgasm.
Maybe you’ve finally realized why I spat on you.
That was a mean trick, bastard, to get me all close and then make me give you head. I could already taste your pre-come. You would have popped in my mouth in another ten seconds. And then where would we be?
You give it to me slowly, like a maestro building toward the crescendo.
You’re in total control.
Tipped over your lap, my ass in the air, my legs spread, my sweet spot resonating right into my clit with every hard blow of your palm, I’m in total surrender.
I strain desperately against your weight, squirming and fighting and arching my back, trying to stop it from happening. That’s why it happens so good.
I come.
You ride me through it, spanking me, holding me down against your lap, tight.
Then you shove me onto the bed and haul my hips up, forcing my ass into the air. You grab my panties and pull one side of them off over one fishnet stocking and one high-heeled shoe, leaving the stiff, sex-soaked slip of cheap lace dangling from my other ankle. You spread my legs.
You shove your cock into me.
My cunt still spasms as you enter me, your big cockhead stretching me open. You slide in deep. I gasp and shove myself onto you, grinding my hips back and forth.
“Understand, Katrina?”
“Yes, Daddy,” I moan.
You start to fuck me as rough as you can manage, which isn’t actually very rough, because you’re struggling to hold back. You’re going to come. You want to pound me, but another three or four thrusts and you’ll be gone.
I take this as the highest form of compliment. Most nights you’ll last for hours if I give you the chance. Tonight you can’t even fuck me properly for fear of blowing your load.
So I think fast: “Daddy,” I moan. “Please don’t make me do Greek.”
You pull your cock out of me. I gasp and moan like I’ve just been deflated.
“Go get the lube,” you say.
I’m not sure how to play this. It’s not a typical experiment. Anal sex is something I do only with an enormous amount of pre-planning and the promise of bubble baths and preferably Porsches. It’s good when it’s good, but it takes a lot out of me. I don’t know why I said it. I just did. Because it was hot. Because you were in control, and I was afraid it was going to end with you coming already. So I escalated things.
Do I break up the scene and say, “Just kidding,” or do I do it? Do I go through with it? Do I let you fuck me in the ass?
When you get tired of waiting, your voice is heavy and heated, hinting at anger.
“Daddy gave you an order, Katrina.”
There’s something deeply humiliating about being forced to get up and go get the lube so you can fuck me in the ass. I do so under the loud protest of my more sensible self. I go to the little hot pink plastic purse I stuffed full of condoms and lube and sweaty $5 bills.
I dump it all on the cracked counter and pick out the little tube of KY.
My face feels hot as I bring it back to the bed and give it to you.
It’s deeply degrading to hand over the lube you’re going to use to plow my ass to show my submission to you. The fact that I could end it all with a word or even a look doesn’t make it any less degrading. It just makes the degradation something I can handle, something positive. I don’t understand it any more than you do, or than anyone would.
You pluck the lube from my hand, push me away, and gesture at me.
“Take those off,” you say.
You mean my clothes. What is there left to take off? I have to grope to find the tube top. It’s at an angle around my rib cage. The dog collar stays. The clasps of the garters have been popped on both sides. My fishnets hang limp and bunched at my calves. The skirt is just a strip of fabric perched atop my hips.
But I wouldn’t dream of disobeying you, now that I’ve accepted you’re about to own me utterly.
I kick off my high-heeled shoes and fishnets, pull down the skirt, and pull the tube top over my head.
Then I put my shoes back on.
I perch next to you and say meekly, “How do you want me, Daddy?”
Your only answer is a hand in my hair and an arm around my waist. You spill me doggie-style across the bed again and open my legs with your knees. Your mouth descends, unexpectedly, between my cheeks. I feel your tongue wriggling into my ass, and I cry out in shock. This was the last thing I expected. You’ve never done this before.
It tightens me at first, but after a few minutes of the soft, warm sensation of your tongue caressing my asshole, I start to relax. You take your time, your tongue swirling and surging and opening me up: Daddy’s Little Moneymaker. With the weight of your body and the hard thrusts of your tongue, you work me from a face-down, ass-up position into a fully prone one. Then I feel your tongue replaced by your finger, slick with lube. Then another finger. Then both at once.
Then your cock. I let out a gasp. I whimper. You give me time for my ass to get used to your cock, an inch at a time, until you’re mostly in me.
Then you fuck me.
I’ve never enjoyed anal sex the way I do tonight, taking it spread and helpless on a cheap motel bedspread from my new pimp, my new Master, my daddy. You hold me down and fuck me slowly, until you’re sure I can take it. Until I beg for more.
Then you pound me hard, till I beg you to come.
The smooth slick feeling of your come in my ass is humiliating and liberating. I lay underneath you long after you’ve finished.
You kiss the back of my neck and tell me you love me.
And that’s it. It’s over. You’ve put a leash on me. I’m your whore.
Forever after, I’ll be Daddy’s little moneymaker.
My Number One Fan
SARAH SANDS
Something was up. There was just something about the way Chloe hugged me when I walked into the bar. She held me a little too long, a little too close, a bit too reluctant to give up her grasp on my shoulders. Her hands even lingered a tad along my arms. They gave me goose bumps.
Chloe and I were not what I would call really close, which is why what happened later would surprise me so much. Sometimes you do thin
gs and they just, like, happen, almost without your input. And Chloe’s energy that night seemed to invite such a “something.”
The feeling creeped me out a little.
I think even Amy, usually clueless to sexual matters, noticed the energy. It would have been kind of hard not to, since it was just the three of us. Every Thursday night, the patio at Rick’s is routinely crowded with our friends. But this was the week of Burning Man, and no one was around except Amy, who couldn’t get off work, and Chloe, famously poor after her layoff, and me. I was in a new relationship, or a relatively new relationship, so I didn’t feel like going out of town. I was having too much fun as it was.
In fact, I had brought Sean to Rick’s about a month ago. He proved a big hit with all my friends. My bringing him there meant it was serious. He’d wanted to come tonight, but he said cryptically that he had “important business,” which did terrible things to my attention span. I couldn’t stop thinking about him, wondering what he was up to.
Amy and Chloe and I chatted. No matter what I said, Chloe hung on my every word. I didn’t get it. I hadn’t been waxed or preened or puffed or had a nose job or a tit job or tried a new perfume since last week, when Chloe was friendly enough but not all over me.
When Amy said she’d get the next round, Chloe, the broke one, practically threw $40 at her and said, “Add a round of bourbon, Ames?”
“Oh, I’m driving,” said Amy.
“Well, then, Sarah and me?”
“All right,” I said defiantly. “I’m game. I’m on the bus.”
“We can take a cab,” said Chloe. “Since we’re going the same direction.”
I looked her over suspiciously.
“Yeah,” I said. “Apparently.”
Amy left the table.
I drew a breath to tell Chloe I thought she was making Amy uncomfortable. Before I could utter a word or even get all my breath in, Chloe was leaning forward and pawing my denim-covered arms.