by D. M. Dewey
“No, you stupid slut, that was one.” I had to laugh. “When you make a mistake, you begin again. Now start back at one.” I cracked the crop down on his ass cheek again. I began to see little welts forming. This, for some reason, gave me courage.
“That’s one, Goddess. Thank you, Goddess. May I have another?” He winced.
CRACK!
“Two!” He yelped a little. “Thank you, Goddess. May I have another?”
CRACK!
“Three!” That one clearly hurt Sam. He struggled to get the next part out. “Thank you, Goddess. May I have another?”
I raised my arm and brought it down with tremendous force but stopped short. FAKE OUT! Sam cried out in anticipated pain. He relaxed.
CRACK!
“Yeeow! Four!” He wriggled around between my legs, trying to escape. My legs locked, his head gripped between my calves. There was no escape for poor Sam. “Thank you, Goddess. May I have another?”
CRACK!
“Oh my God! Five! Goddess. Fuck!” He struggled a little to get out the next sentence. “Thank you, Goddess. May I have another?”
“Look at what a big talker you are, slut?” I taunted.
CRACK!
This one landed hard against the sweet spot of his ass.
“Shit! Six!” He gasped and began breathing hard to help absorb the sting of the hit. “Thank you, Goddess.”
I released his head. He thought he was in the clear so… CRACK! “That is to remind you to not waste my fucking time, slut.” I scowled at him.
“Yes, Goddess!” he rolled over onto his side.
Oops! Did that last one hit his balls? My bad!
“Get up!” I ordered. I swatted at him with my crop, making him hurry into standing position. He tried to sneak a peek at my face. I swatted at him again. “Mind your manners, whore!”
“I want to look at you, Goddess. You are so hot.” He smiled.
Of course he wanted to look at me. I was dressed in a corset, garter belt, fishnet stockings, and patent leather thigh-high boots with six-inch spiked heels. I didn’t walk around like this as a rule, mind you. I was strictly a jeans and T-shirt kind of gal.
For some reason, this really made me mad. I wasn't there to make him happy. I wasn't there to turn him on. I didn't care if he thought I was hot. (Okay, maybe I did a little). But who did he think he was? Time to knock him down a rung or two. I grabbed a pair of frilly red ruffled panties, thinking. Now, should I stuff them in his mouth? Or… make him wear them? I decided to make him wear them, but I decided to also bide my time.
I circled around him, dragging my crop across his hard cock. Teasing him. I got very close to his face, daring him to make eye contact with me. He didn't. I was surprised. I continued circling him, scanning his body for imperfections. I saw a scar on his side. “What is this, slut?” I struck the scar with my crop.
“I was shot once, Goddess.” He replied at full attention, looking like a little naked soldier. His body was covered in tattoo work. His back was one giant piece depicting hell with devils and flames. His arms were fully sleeved. I did love tattoos. Okay, this shooting business had to be another lie. Jesus, when would he stop?
“Aw, poor little slut was shot?” I grabbed his dick hard and twisted. “Care to tell me the truth, loser?” I kept twisting.
“Ahhh! OHHHH! Please, Goddess! I’m not lying to you. I grew up in a very bad neighborhood and was shot in a drive by. I was just walking down the street.” He pleaded some more. “Please, Goddess, AHHHH!”
I tightened my grip, watching his face contort in pain. I dropped his dick as if disgusted by its presence and slapped it away. “Loser.” I took his moment of relief from my grip as an opportunity to throw the panties in his face. They caught on his nose somehow, making it the perfect toss. God, I had luck on my side that day. “Put these on, fuck face!” I ordered.
He scrambled to put them on. I stood by, watching and laughing at him as he slipped a leg in the dainty leg hole. “Do I have to, Goddess?” he pleaded. “Have you at least worn these?”
I smacked him on the chest with my crop. “Shut up, loser! Do as I say. Of course I have worn them!” I slapped his dick and it bounced around happily.
Chapter 3
Okay, I have worn them once. And it was a really funny story that I’m tempted to tell you about now. I’m trying to decide if it would be a good break for you if I were to show the other side of me—my story as a submissive that turned into a comedy of sorts. All right, here goes. It's all part of the bigger story, so why not? Let’s just freeze on Sam for a moment. Sam, with his gnarled-up pain face and his freshly slapped dick.
AND:
Flash back to about one year earlier. It was winter and I’d been on that vanilla dating website for about two months now. All I’d come up with so far were horny weirdoes. That was actually okay, since I myself was a horny weirdo, but that wasn’t exactly what I was looking for at the time. I was looking for someone who could really turn me on.
I stumbled upon a handsome guy’s profile and began a simple conversation. We exchanged names and stats (pretty par for the course) that quickly led to more provocative suggestions. He was quick and direct and all too willing to show me what he had to work with in his nether-region, and let me just say that it was a happy and perky beast. I liked how he manhandled me with his words, and I was curious about how he would do that to me in person. I found myself behaving very submissively for the first time in my life, and I was really enjoying the thrill of relinquishing control to him. So we devised a plan.
We agreed he'd sneak into my apartment in the middle of the night and just go nuts on my big ass. I was nervous, scared, and excited all at the same time, and then the door opened. He crept into my apartment as quietly as a cat burglar and slipped into my bed. On that fateful night, he slapped me, spanked me, gagged me, choked me, and when he came on my face, I thought… I am home! This ignited in me a whole new fantasy of someone taking me completely and now I wanted to experience more. I saw that guy a few more times, but it was never quite the same after that first night. It was a very tough act to follow, even if he had been the one performing.
So I was meeting men with the forever-hopeful idea that I would find one that could really top me, and I mean REALLY top me. Not just bang away in a missionary passion until they grunted before falling into a fitful snooze. What I was hoping to find was someone to really take control of my inner dialogue and slap the shit out its dirty mouth. You know, the voice that constantly bitches at you for being a dirty whore while you try to get off? Or is that just me? I doubt it’s just me. Who cares?
Enter, John—shaved-head, earring-wearing, and pseudo-punk kind of guy. He claimed to be an energy vampire, but more importantly, he said he was a dominant in the BDSM world. I barely even knew what that meant at that point. He explained to me that he liked to totally take a woman… (DING, DING, DING, we have a winner, folks!) and fuck for hours.
I sure did like that sound of that. I was single, had no responsibilities other than myself, loved sex, always was careful to “bag the goods,” if you know what I mean, so why not? I told him I was in! I was so in I told him in an email that I would love to get some Ecstasy and roll with him. I don’t know why I wanted to do that since I hadn’t taken any drugs in pretty much a lifetime, but for some reason, I felt like going balls out on this one. Let’s do it! Let’s get high! He was so excited I think he nearly took a squirt right then and there. He was all too happy to supply the Molly if I would host the night.
We made a plan to meet that Saturday night… What is it with Saturday? Is it the go-to day for hedonists? Anyway, he slipped up and admitted he was feeling a little self-conscious about his weight. Uh-oh…
I would meet my close friend, Janet, for coffee the shameful day after a tryst and dish in great detail about the previous night. She was my sounding board throughout all of this. Since she understood my slutty shenanigans, I told her about his worries about his weight.
“He’s a fatty!” She laughed.
I showed her his picture. It was a headshot at best. “Does he look fat to you?” I asked.
“Well, he doesn’t look like he couldn’t be fat,” Janet replied.
Oh my God, she was right; there was definite fat potential in his cheeks. Fuck.
Saturday came and so did its night. I had bought a bottle of wine and lit some candles and burned a little incense. He said he was coming straight from work and he would need a shower upon arriving and asked if that would be okay. Sure, why not? He’d also mentioned that he’d gone shopping for our night together and had bought stuff for us to play with and for me to wear. See how this is coming full circle? I was thinking he must have bought some latex slinky black number to make me look like the Gimp from Pulp Fiction. Not sure why my mind went right to that, but I was into it. I thought I would look pretty badass in a shiny black onesie. John also mentioned on his way to my place that he was hungry (uh-oh) and was going to stop at his favorite deli and grab some stuff to eat.
It was at this point that I took a Xanax. The food comment got me really nervous. Not the toys, sex, or possible BDSM situation I was getting myself into, mind you; it was the food. Eventually there was a knock at the door.
Janet texted me: Is he there yet?
I texted back: He just knocked.
I went to the door and opened it. Bingo! A fat, bald man stood at my door. I swallowed visibly, I’m sure of it.
“Hi there. Come on in.” I opened the door to the big man -baby.
“Hey. How are you?” He walked inside, we hugged briefly, and then he headed straight to the kitchen with a bag of goodies in his hands. He made himself a drink with bourbon and some kind of orange-flavored energy drink. “You ever have this?” he asked. “It's so good. You should try it.”
“No thanks.” My upper lip pulled up in disgust almost by reflex. “Did you still want to take a shower?”
“Oh, yeah. Definitely. Let me just cut a line first. I brought some coke for us.” He pulled out a plate and dumped out some of the white powder. “Have a line if you want.” He snorted.
“Well, there are towels in there and the shower is pretty self-explanatory,” I said as I sipped some wine and took in the hot mess taking over my personal space.
“Cool, thanks. Be right out.” He snuffed his nose a bit and then disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
My phone beeped: Well?
He’s fucking fat!
Janet was not having any of this, as she was a self-proclaimed “Anti-Fattist.”
Tell him to leave right now! she wrote back.
I knew I should, but I have this weird thing about dares. I can’t back down to one and on some level I felt “dared” to do this.
Nope, I’m fucking him anyway. I knew I'd done it. She was going to go ballistic, so I turned off my phone. I needed total uninterrupted concentration for this challenge.
John lumbered out of the bathroom a few minutes later. He sat next to me and said, “I’m wearing your necklace that I found in the bathroom. It's totally my style.” He looked very pleased with himself.
“Oh, well, okay.” I felt violated. “So how was work?” I asked. I had no idea what to say to him. I could barely look him in the face. I wanted to slap him and rip my necklace off of him in one continuous motion.
“It was good. I bought some stuff to eat. I need to refuel. I haven’t eaten all day.” He got up from the couch and went to the counter where he began unloading the brown bag full of food. He pulled out hummus, tuna salad, a cheese ball, crackers, and some hard salami.
Well, I don’t know about you, but breath full of tuna-hummus-cheese-salami wasn’t exactly what I wanted to fuck. This night was getting more and more challenging by the second.
He stuffed the food in his face like a squirrel hoarding for the winter. “Want some?” he asked as if on second thought. He held out a handful of cheese.
“No thanks, I’m good,” I replied with a lame smile and a toss of my hair. I tried to disguise my disgust.
He then asked if he could change the music. Okay, now I officially hated him.
John said the coke had killed his hunger, but the mouthful of tuna and Hummus suggested otherwise. I proposed we take the Molly to get things rolling. So we did. I was hoping it would magically turn this frog into some kind of tolerable prince, but I was very doubtful.
We sat on the couch together and he began to get a little handsy as we chatted about unmemorable bullshit. I was full of dread. But I was still curious about what he had in store for me. He let me know that he was starting to feel the Molly. I didn’t feel anything at all, so I kept drinking my wine. And then he leaned in to kiss me. Oh well, I guess it's on now, motherfucker.
We made out for a little bit and I tried really hard to get into it. He then said he wanted to undress me and give me a full body massage with one of the items he brought. He pulled out of the bag a round tin. “This is a candle that becomes massage oil once hot. ”
“Oh cool! May I see?” I reached for the tin in his hand. I read the label. “Sugar cookie scented.” Um, I’m pretty sure that the least sexy thing on Earth was a sugar cookie, but it's food scented, so of course it gave him a hard-on.
He told me to stand up and take off my clothes. I did. He then took out a pair of red ruffled frilly panties (yes, THE red frilly ruffled pair of panties that Sam is wearing now) and a pink feather boa from the bag. I am not kidding. He told me to put on the panties. They aren’t small panties, more like boy shorts. He proceeded to undress and started this strange feather boa dance around me. He tried to make it wrap around me in a seductive way, but it just felt really awkward and funny. I muffled a giggle. He kept up this little wood-nymph dance around me for about ten minutes. I think I caught him frolicking.
So then he told me to go lie facedown on the bed. I obeyed and he lit the stinky candle. Cookie smells started to waft over me. The oil from the candle splashed down on me like a sticky, smelly nightmare. He rubbed me all over (okay, that part wasn’t so bad), and I mean he rubbed EVERYWHERE. This got him all hot and bothered, so he thought since I smelled so edible maybe he should take a bite. He began to lick and bite his way around my body, his mouth finding my very uninspired pussy. I looked up at the ceiling and wondered how long this would take.
He suddenly rolled me over and started really munching away at my lady parts. I tried my best to be enthusiastic and to forget that a big fat bald man that smelled like hummus, tuna fish salad, salami, and fake sugar cookies was between my legs.
Finally, he felt it was time to really show me who was boss. He put a condom on his less-than-adequate penis and plunged forward. I was hoping for an eye-popping moment of shear passion from his penetration, but instead I felt more like laughing because I could see that he was very impressed with himself. He gave me some short, choppy pumps and then backed up onto his knees so I could really see who was buttering my bread. He posed as he revealed himself as the fuck god he thought he was. He wiggled around inside me for a few minutes and then decided he wasn’t done eating my goods.
Back down he went. His nibbles becoming more like bites. He flipped me over again and really started going to town on my inner ass cheeks and around the danger zone of my starfish. He bit and sucked and moaned and wreathed around. I yawned. And then finally it was over. The Mister had finished his business. AMEN! He rolled over and fell asleep. Thank you for the little things.
The next morning I awoke to him flat on his big back with the huge mound of a stomach facing up to the ceiling. He snored. I hated him so much. I got up and took a shower. My ass hurt, so I bent over to see what was causing all of the soreness. What I saw nearly made me blow a gasket! I had deep, dark purple bruises all over the inside of my ass. BIG ONES! I took a shower, heated by my rage. I wasn’t so much angry about the actual bruises as I was about him leaving his mark on me. Bruises take a long time to heal and that means I wouldn’t be able to have any other fun with a m
an for quite some time. I mean, no man wants to go down there and see that! It's like getting a gift that you know has already been unwrapped.
When I got out of the shower and sufficiently felt like I had washed off the stink of last night along with the nauseating smell of sugar cookies, I got my phone and texted Janet, who would want a full report.
It was the worst and he is still here, snoring like a giant fat asshole.
She quickly texted back: I really need to talk to you. Meet me in twenty minutes for coffee.
God, she was a good friend. Now I have an out. I walked over to John and poked him. “Hey!” I said loudly. “Wake up!” He began to move a bit and realized I was leaning over him with my hands on my hips. “I need to go to work.” I lied. “You need to get up.”
John tried to focus, completely disoriented and slightly confused. “Are you serious? What about morning sex?”
“Not a fucking chance.” I poked him again to get him moving. “I need you to leave.”
“Well, can I at least lay here for a bit and then take off when I wake up?” he asked.
I felt like I was going to punch him in the mouth.
“I have something I want to say to you and you are not going to like it.” I spoke clearly and calmly. “I don’t ever want to see you again.”
He laughed, thinking I was kidding. “Are you serious? I thought we could get breakfast and maybe go to MOCA later.”
“I don’t ever want to see you again,” I repeated calmly. He actually thought I was going to spend time with him after that disaster of a night? I supposed he thought there was a connection that would lead to picking out curtains together eventually. I didn’t see how he had gotten that. “I have to leave now. You can close the door behind you when you go. Have a nice day.” Have a nice day? What was I, a fucking slutty flight attendant? I opened the door and ran.
When I came home several hours later, all traces of him were gone. He had even taken his fucking sausage and hummus, but… he had forgotten to take the red panties.