Sweet Life 2

by Violet Blue

  “You’re on your way to one of those clubs tonight, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “What are you going to do tonight, Corey?”

  “I’m going to suck cock,” I whisper.

  “Say it louder.”

  “I’m going to suck cock.”

  “That’s good. Make sure you drive fast to get down there on time, Corey. You want to make it by last call.”

  You pull away from me, tucking your cock into your pants and zipping up.

  “And besides, I’ve got a lot of friends who work this road. The faster you drive, the more cock you’ll suck before you even get there. You’ll be in good practice by the time you get to the club. You can suck cock all night long.”

  I look up at you as you turn and walk away, leaving me kneeling with come all over my face, dripping down onto my small breasts, soaking my push-up bra. I kneel there, watching you as you climb onto your bike and speak into the radio.

  Then you start the engine and roar away.

  I know you’ll be waiting there, in bed when I get home, probably still wearing your strap-on. I know that I will suck cock all night long—your cock, stretched on our bed, hungry for it, coming again and again as you use my pretty face.

  I get into the sports car and start the engine.

  I do eighty the whole way home.

  Wine with Dinner

  ERICA DUMAS

  You told me what to wear tonight. I followed your instructions to the letter. I wore my sexiest dress, a little black number so tight that it shows every curve of my body. You told me not to wear a bra, so I didn’t, my firm nipples tenting the fabric of the dress as they harden in anticipation of your arrival. On my lower half, I wear only the skimpiest of thongs, black mesh, see-through. It’s already soaked before we reach the restaurant.

  The maitre d’ eyes me provocatively, and I see several eyebrows go up as we walk to our table. The waiter holds my chair for me. I don’t even open my menu; you order for me and choose the wine. I sip it as we wait for our salads.

  You drink your wine fast, starting on your second glass before I’m halfway done with mine. I also notice that you’ve drained your water glass. You see my eyes lingering on the empty glass as the busboy hurries over to refill it. I look up and your eyes seize mine, hold them.

  “Do you know why I’m drinking so quickly, Erica?”

  I feel a bolt of emotion and sensation go through my body. What am I feeling? I don’t even know. Fear, terror, apprehension, yes—but, without doubt, there’s excitement, arousal, surrender mingled in there too. I feel my body react as if you’ve just touched my clit, as if you’ve just kissed me so hard that I melt. My pussy goes all liquid, pulsing and aching. My clit hardens in an instant, pressing firm against the tight satin of my thong. My face reddens as I become increasingly aware that my nipples are hardening, showing through the dress.

  Breathing hard, I shake my head.

  You smile, tip your glass toward me. “You will,” you tell me.

  Through the rest of dinner, I’m so turned on I hardly eat a thing. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, pumping blood straight to my nipples, my pussy, my clit. Every time I look at you, I’m fixed by that dominant glare of yours, telling me that you’re utterly in charge—that you own me. For tonight, at least.

  As we sip the coffee, I clear my throat.

  “I…I have to go to the ladies’ room,” I tell you.

  You smile.

  “May I go to the ladies’ room?” I ask meekly.

  You lean forward over the table, very close to me.

  “You may go to the ladies’ room,” you say to me, your voice a low growl of force. “If you take your wine glass and drink every drop you put out.”

  My head spins and I feel short of breath. I feel myself dissolving into the sound of your voice, the humiliation of what you’ve told me to do creating fiery conflicts between my pussy and my head. I can’t possibly do such a thing. It’s much too filthy. Too, too filthy, dirty, disgusting. I’ve never done such a thing before.

  “Do you still wish to go to the ladies’ room?” you ask.

  I feel like I’m in a trance. I shake my head.

  “That’s too bad,” you say. “Because you’re going. Drink every drop, Erica. And no holding back. When you walk out here again, I want you empty down there.”

  Fear and heat wrestle in my body. My safeword is on my lips: your middle name, such a familiar word on most days. But now my mouth is frozen around the syllables, my throat thick as it closes, my mind shorted out as my pussy grabs hold of it and refuses to let me speak my safeword, put an end to the scene. I even open my mouth to utter it, but as I do I feel a greater surge of fear in my belly, and my pussy floods anew as I realize that I’m going to surrender. I’m going to do what you’ve demanded.

  “Here,” you say. “I’ll help.” You dump the remainder of your wine into your water glass, reach under the table, and take my purse. Under the table I hear the zipper, and you tuck the wine glass into the cramped space. You hand it back to me.

  The wine glass is too big; my purse won’t quite close. I clutch it nervously and look at you, pleading, not knowing if I want you to rescind your previous order or reaffirm it, reassure me that I have no choice at all in the matter.

  But I already know which you’re going to do.

  “Go,” you tell me. “And when you come back, I want your panties in your purse.”

  I take my purse, stand up awkwardly, my bladder feeling full and bloated. I wish I hadn’t waited so long. I wish I hadn’t drunk so much wine with dinner, nor had so much water. I wish I hadn’t asked to go to the bathroom.

  The simple act of my thighs rubbing together as I walk is enough to make me feel weak. I can feel the cold sticky moisture at the tops of my thighs, feel the damp cling of my tiny thong molding to the crease of my pussy. I feel your eyes on me, hot, watching me as I disappear into the hallway.

  I feel my heart sink as I walk in. I have to wait for a stall; there are two women in front of me. When I finally enter the stall, I feel my safeword again, filling my throat, refusing to come out. What would it matter if I said it now? You wouldn’t be there to hear. Better yet, I could just walk out and tell you I want to go home. I wouldn’t even have to say my safeword… would I? You would know that I want you to stop. You would know that I want the scene to be over.

  Except that I don’t.

  Slowly, I put my hands under my skirt and pull down my thong. It falls unbidden to my ankles, laying inert between my feet on the tiled floor. I step out of the thong, leaving it like a limp, wet rag next to the toilet. I feel too weak to bend over and pick it up.

  I take the wine glass out of my purse. Breathing hard, I set it on the toilet tank.

  Slowly, my hands shaking, I pull up my skirt until it’s tucked over my waist. I look down at my pussy, shaved at your insistence. I slide my finger between my smooth lips, and the second I touch my cunt I see stars. When I draw my fingertip up to my clit, I almost pass out.

  I’m so aroused I could come right now. I could rub myself…two or three strokes is all it would take.

  I could lie to you. I could go back to the table and tell you I drank it. You’d believe me…wouldn’t you?

  Hands still shaking, I reach behind me and pick up the wine glass. Hearing the rich ladies mingling by the mirrors as they fix their makeup, discussing eyeliner and lipstick, I spread my legs and hold the wine glass in position.

  My whole body shudders as I let the dribble begin. My eyes roam unfocused around the tiny stall, wondering if the women can hear the sound of it, hear that it’s different than it should be.

  The wine glass is full so soon. It’s hard for me to stop the stream, but I force myself to do so, remembering your order to drink every drop. My pussy throbs, my muscles clenched tight with resistance to my need to let it all go.

  I bring the wine glass to my lips. I’m not prepared for the smell; it hits me like a wave of
force. Again the mingled sensations, emotions, reactions are exploding through me. I want to scream. I want to go running. I want to run to you, curl up in your arms, cry for you. I want to give up, admit that you’ve shamed me, confess that you’ve brought me to the brink of utter humiliation.

  That moment, the moment of knowing you’ve won, you’ve destroyed my will, you’ve subjugated me—that’s when I bring the wine glass to my lips and drink.

  It’s so different than I thought it would be. My throat closes tight around it and for a moment I’m afraid I’m going to throw up. But I think of you, imagine you holding my head there, your fist tangled in my hair, forcing me to drink. That makes me wet all over again, and the warm liquid flowing down my throat seems to pulse into my body, making me want you—and making me want this. My throat still closes, and I fight not to gag. But I manage to swallow it all.

  It takes three more glasses to empty my bladder. The first glass and the last glass are the hardest, my body resisting as I open up for it, and as I finish. I feel bloated again, my throat burning with the salty taste. I wipe myself, wipe the glass, and tuck it back into my purse. I pick up my thong and put it in my purse, too. It’s so soaked it’s dripping.

  Outside, there’s still a line. I stop and rinse my mouth in the sink, praying no one can smell me. I fix my lipstick and walk past the line of women waiting for the stall in which I’ve just done the most decadent, filthy thing I can imagine. I blush a fierce red as I pass them.

  As I go to sit down, you seize my hand and pull me over to you.

  “Kiss me,” you say.

  I bend down, my heart pounding, my legs weak. I kiss you, your tongue forcing its way into my mouth. I wonder if you can taste it.

  You can. You smile, telling me that you know—you know I followed your orders. That sends a warm flow of pleasure through my body as I realize I couldn’t have lied to you—if you hadn’t tasted it on my lips and tongue, you would have known I was unfaithful.

  I see the check sitting on the table, ones and a five neatly stacked: the tip.

  “It’s time to go,” you tell me, and the double entendre is not lost on me. It sends heat into my pussy, and I know I could still come with just the barest of touches.

  The waiter retrieves our coats; you lead me to the door. There’s a cab already waiting. It smells like smoke and filthy sex. On the way home you kiss me again, tasting me hungrily as if to prove to yourself that I really did what you asked—what you ordered. Your hand creeps up my thigh and under my skirt. I feel your fingers entering me and I gasp with pleasure as you find that I did the other thing you asked. You finger me slowly in the back of the cab, not even caring if the driver notices. By the time we get to our apartment, I’m right on the edge—just another thrust and I’ll come. But you know my limits, and you stop before you satisfy me. Tonight you’ll satisfy me in another way.

  The moment we’re in the door you push me up against the wall, grab my dress, pull it down over my shoulders, then over my bare tits. Then you force it down over my hips and it falls like a pool of shadow around my feet. You tell me to kick off my shoes, and I do. Now I’m naked, at your mercy.

  “Go into the bathroom,” you tell me. “Kneel in the tub.”

  My pussy feels so hot that just the act of walking to the bathroom is more than I can take. I drop to my knees, grasp the edge of the tub, and have to crawl awkwardly into it and force myself back up onto my knees.

  You walk in a moment later, nude, your cock half-hard and your belly seeming swollen, distended. My eyes follow you, wide with fright and arousal. You step into the tub and tower over me, your cock semifirm, inches from my lips.

  You grasp my hair and pull my face forward onto you. With your other hand you guide your cock into my mouth.

  I begin sucking obediently, hoping for a moment that you’ll let me get away with just giving you a blow job, something I have no ambiguous feelings about—something I love. Then I feel the first hot squirt into my mouth, abortive in its pressure.

  I swallow, my body quivering as I accept you into it. I can feel my own bladder, swollen with its recycled liquid, my lower belly painfully hard and full.

  “Drink it all,” you say. “Swallow.”

  Another hot squirt comes out, resolving into a stream as I open my throat and desperately try to gulp. I feel warm liquid leaking out from the corners of my lips, my filling mouth swollen with your issue. The balmy droplets hit my breasts, dribble down over my stomach, and tickle their way over my pussy and down my thighs. I moan low in my throat, whimper as I gulp down your pulsing flow. I feel my cunt warming in response. You hold my head, your fingers tangled in my hair. I only miss those few drops, and you regulate your stream so as not to choke me.

  The flow comes to an end. I wait for more, but it doesn’t come.

  I look up at you brightly, realizing you’re empty. You look down at me with obvious pleasure on your face. I feel a warm glow of pride that I drank it all.

  Then I feel your cock growing in my mouth and I realize there’s more to drink.

  When my lips start working up and down on your hard cock, it feels like I’ve come home. That cock that just filled me up with the hot, humiliating jet of liquid now sends a hunger into me, a hunger to feel your cock in my cunt. But I want to drink you, drink all your come, swallow everything you have for me.

  You gently pull me off your cock, looking down at me as I pant, my lipstick smeared all over your shaft.

  “Turn around,” you tell me. “Hands and knees.”

  I obey, and you drop down behind me and put your cock against my dripping entrance. You take me in one hard thrust, making me gasp, and as you start to fuck me I know you’re going to make me come. But you’re not finished with me yet.

  You reach underneath me and touch my belly, feeling how hard it is—filled. You push on it and I gasp in pain, moaning as the hard pressure forces my filled bladder against my G-spot. It’s a different kind of orgasm I have when I’m full like this—strange, frightening, almost a little bit painful. And I know, as you rhythmically massage my belly, that there’s no way in hell I’m going to be able to stop it.

  I come so hard I don’t know whether I’m urinating or ejaculating, but I feel the heat squirting all over my thighs. I try to stop it, but the spasms of my lower body have a mind of their own, and you increase the pressure on my bladder so that I can’t stop—no matter what I do. I surrender, feeling my pussy and thighs flood with it, feeling it spray onto both of us, feeling the thickness of my swollen urethra forced wide by the pressure inside me. By the time my orgasm and the ecstatic feeling of release have dwindled deep inside me, I’m gasping and sobbing with an almost violent catharsis.

  You pull out of me, turn me around, pull me up on my knees. You put your cock in my mouth, making me taste both parts of me—salty and tangy, both hot.

  I love sucking your cock. But this time it’s more than that—I want to thank you, love you, worship you for giving this to me. I begged for it so many times, in hastily penned fantasies emailed to you at work, in lovingly composed notes tucked into your briefcase. I begged for it, and you told me you’d give me anything, anything at all—but not that. Maybe I have issues, you said. Maybe I’ll get over them someday.

  Or maybe you were just making me wait. For whatever reason, I love being your bottom more than I love anything. It took me a long time to fully accept your dominance, no matter how passionately I loved it and longed for it. And now, you’ve given me the greatest gift you could have given me: You’ve gone to that place I never thought you would. You’ve pissed on me. You’ve pissed in me. You’ve made me drink it, and an intense fantasy that I’ve been harboring for what seems like forever is now a vivid, explosive reality—a taste and feel and heat that will intoxicate me forever.

  You’re close to coming, now, and I suck you eagerly, desperate for your come to match the taste of your piss in my mouth. I feel tears running down my cheeks as your hot come erupts in my mouth, filling my thr
oat, making me hungry for more. And you give me more—a long, rapturous pulse that tells me the long night of foreplay turned you on as much as it did me. Maybe even more.

  I feel the hot water rushing over me as you rinse both of us clean. I’m so far gone I can’t even stand as you pat me clean with a big clean white towel. You have to help me to my feet, and all but force me into my crisp white robe.

  You take me into the bedroom and we curl up together. I feel surrounded by your warmth, sweetened by your merciless dominance. Freed by your humiliation—even though, now, cuddling and kissing, it’s just the two of us, having shared something so sacred and so simple. Wine with dinner.

  I want to tell you I love you, but I’m well beyond words. Instead, I run my tongue over the inside of my mouth and savor the lingering taste of you, its flavor a love letter from you to me and back again.

  Even though I can’t speak, you seem to get the message.

  Your Secret and Mine

  KC

  The skirt is so short I’m afraid you’ll find out my secret before I want you to. I can definitely tell that the length of my skirt has had the desired effect—you can’t take your eyes off me. It gives me an added thrill to know that I’m about to blow your mind.

  You’ve never asked me for it, and that’s why I did it. Normally I’m a natural girl—you know, no perfume, no deodorant, no razors, no makeup, and only natural fibers, nonalkaline dyes, organic soap with all-natural scents. That’s why, on special occasions like this one, it gets me so hot to tart myself up for you, shaving my legs, wearing rayon, showing off. Chanel No. 5, heavy eye shadow, push-up bra. Lipstick in cocksucker red.

  We do it about twice a year, an early show at the symphony and a late dinner at Rivera’s. By the time we get home, we’re both always so horny that we fuck like bunnies.

  This time, though, I’ve taken it one step further.

  I know I’m bad. I know I’m really, really naughty, so bad that I don’t deserve a trusting guy like you. But then again, you did say it was all right if I used your computer, and you didn’t specifically ask me not to glance through your personal files. Besides, the folder marked DOWNLOADS wasn’t in your personal folder…at least, I don’t think it was, though by now it’s all lost in a haze of surreptitious masturbation sessions at your desk while you were out. I guess I don’t really know if it was personal or not. But I’m about to find out.