Cross Your Heart

OhmyGod!
You can't tell aaannnyone.

I've got...
a bit of a...




crush.

Eye rolling.



I know, right?!?

E-Mud Wrestling Pt. 3

Part 3: A's return email to Lola

Okay, first of all, not that it's any of your business (well, nooo...but you'll make it mine shortly), but J and I decided that we both really care about each other (as friends) and were planning on keeping a friendship. (And just for the record, J was NOT one of my "many one night stands." He said he was "fascinated" with me (yeah, fascinated being the operative word...think monkey in a cage) etc etc, (he said everything I wanted to hear (yeah, remember that I told him what she wanted to hear)) so he came over. We had what seemed like a nice time...lots of hugs, and sweetness, and then when I returned his message the next day, he talked to me and then out of the blue (most likely, not so much "out of the blue"), he hung up on me?

So, yeah I was persistent. I was trying to figure out what the fuck was going on--if he was mad at me etc etc (I take it back...my 'etc' was not nearly this ridiculous). But, in NO WAY was I "stalking" him, and the fact that YOU come to me and tell me all this shit about how J says I'm "stalking" him makes me feel like we've regressed back to grade school (Grade school? You getting a picture of what 'grade school' would have been like for A and her peers? "WHY DON'T YOU LOVE ME?!?"...yeah, still a bitch.) It's fucking ridiculous and I wish J was just some stranger that I met off the internet rahter than being part of your gossipy cirlce. It's disgusting.

Second of all (this is going to be a looong email if we're only at 'second of all'), you spend very little time or energy concerning yourself with my problems (Okay--hold the phone! Here, I'm steamed...can I just say *cough* multiple prenancy scares *cough* morning after pills *cough* psychotic strangers in her house *cough* her desire to date rape all of my friends *cough* hundreds of panicked phone calls *cough* break ups *cough* makeups...Jesus, I think 'etc etc' is in order. Appalled. Simply appalled at her obvious lifetime black outs.); I've had accquaintences that cared more about my life. You are only my "friend" (when you want a ride? when you want to copy my homework? when you want me to buy you dinner? when you want to camp out at my house forever?) when it's convenient for you, and most of the time, you're nitpicking my flaws or insulting me (technically, it's a 'good portion of', not 'most of the' time) in front of other people (both of which I can do without).

You are one of the most judgemental people I have ever known and somehow think you have the right to judge me. You know VERY little about my life, Lola...all you know is the bits and pieces I've come to you about when I'm upset (which I should never have done...I know that now (fuck, where was the enlightenment fairy for the two years I've been begging her to leave me out of shit?)...that was a BIG mistake on my part) because with what you DO know about me, and what you THINK you know about me, you've created this person that I am NOT. This is a troubled person with all these misconceptions on life that you think you can look down upon (Note: Lives in an apartment that Mommy pays for, without a job, unable to pass the single art class that she is taking because she won't take the bus six stops to school ONE DAY A WEEK...shall I go on?).

So, in the end, you end up feeling better about yourself...99% of what oyu said about me in that letter...who you THINK I am, is totally and completely wrong (Oh, and another thing, I was very faded when I said the GAP commercial thing two years ago, so you can drop it (lies...all lies...not even remotely high) and stop holding it above my head as yet another thing you use to make me look lower than you.).

If you have good intentions, Lola, and you want to be a TRUE friend (I don't...honestly, she just won't stop calling me...what a sucker I am), you'll stop treating me so inferior and using me to boost your own ego. You, my dear, should not be judging anybody.

Dear Sir

Been seeing some similar themes with fellow submissives lately, particularly randi's Public Apology and poiesia's Little Match Girl. I had a long conversation with JB Sir the other evening and I realized that I am not trying hard enough anymore. I have to make changes. But first, I have to make him understand that I am prepared to be a good girl:

Thomas Eakins, Study of a Seated
Nude Woman Wearing Mask, c. 1865-66

Dear Sir,

I was thinking a lot about what you said last night. If I want to do this, and do it the right way, really be the submissive I know I can be and the submissive I know you want me to be, I have to start lowering myself. I will try to keep all my justifications out of this letter, except to say that, it proves harder to reduce myself than I would like. I feel like, in many cases, it is second nature to submit, to give power and control over to someone I trust. Conversely, many times, I feel myself outwardly fighting it, but inside, really wanting to be owned, to be responsible to. I know that I sound insincere when I apologize--in part, because I do it so automatically when I know that you are right. I know that you perceive it as a smartass, martyr tone, but in actuality, I think that I really feel your disapproval, Sir, and it is upsetting to me. I go too far and then I can only apologize, and it's not always enough.

I realize that your rules are two-fold; on one hand, you are trying to see that I am cared for and reaching my potential as a person, and on the other hand, you have to establish boundaries and parameters in which you make decisions and I unreservedly obey. I know that you want me to be happy; I know that you want to spend time with me. I know that it's not so hard to manipulate you on both these counts, and I do it, more often than I should. Well, technically speaking, I should not manipulate you at all, but I will never be a girl of no resistance. I am willful, stubborn, and shamelessly disobedient, but I am not without remorse, Sir. I want you to draw lines in the sand. I want you to say no and mean it. I want you to be my tether, my bridle, my rock, and my endgame.

That you have given up on attempting to enforce rules makes me anxious; I don't want to be too much. I never, in my life, wanted to be someone's 'too much.' In fact, much of my personality was shaped around being invisible, acquiescent, obliging. I test you because I haven't been able to do that in the past. You've said: "No matter what happens, I'll always be your Sir. Understand?" I want to know that is true. It is not a question of believing you, because I do. I just want reminders. I want to fuck up and know that you can be upset, that I can upset you, that I am important enough that no matter what happens, you will be constant and steady, reaffirming your position, your expectations, and your perseverance. In return, I can and will be able to give myself, without fear and without defiance. I want to be whole, Sir.

And so, I truly do want to complete the tasks that you have ascribed me. I want to be obedient, submissive, respectful and kind. I want to be responsible, accountable, and beholden. I will keep track of my language. I will refer to you respectfully. I will go to bed and follow my (sigh, I feel like such a child) schedule of inhalers closely. I will be on time. I will be obedient. I will do what I am told when I am told. I will put forth effort and work beyond my normal level of effectiveness. I want to be a good girl. Ahh, the refrain of the sub masses. But I mean it, Sir. I really do.

Yours.

E-Mud Wrestling Pt. 2

Part Two: Lola's letter to A

A,

The way that you are acting is despicable. I'm not ready for all your self-loathing bullshit. You chose to fuck J after you knew my role in it. Thereby, you absolve me of any responsibility. If all this had been orchestrated by me, don't you think I'd invest more interest in it?

I don't fucking care if you have a sexual complex that makes you fuck anyone you can, as a substitute for love. (Uh, kettle...) And furthermore, when when you become attached to these men and they treat you like a one-night stand, why are you surprised? And how long do I have to pat you on the back? Maybe if you would stop being as shallow and superficial as the boys who reject you, you might find love one night, rather than lust (sage, sage advice).

But what the fuck do I know, right? You always say I don't know what I'm talking about. If you really believe that, then get off my ass. You whine and bitch constantly about what's wrong with your life, but freak out if I suggest change. So, fuck you. I'll stop suggesting, stop telling you what I know...but you had better never fucking mention K (an ex that she stalked for months, nay years, after they broke up), or your family, or your homelessness, or your slutting around, or your meeting strangers on the internet, or doing obscene amounts of drugs, etc (so fucking succinct and poetic, ain't I?...'etc'?). I never want another request for information about J or M, or what one said to the other, or to me, or anything. Because obviously, we have two different views of friendship. (So Mean Girls!)

I don't give my time easily, but I do give it to you (and lucky, lucky her). And it's never enough for you but it's substantially more than I give to others. If you have such issues, then stop calling me. And never, ever again, even think of about blaming me for the life that you have. It disgusts me (strong words, Lola) that you won't take responsibility for yourself. Maybe that isn't the rosy GAP commercial comment you want to hear, but face it for one fucking instant--it's the reality we live in.

Now, if you want to be happy...and I mean, truly happy, A...the best thing you can do for yourself is to suck it up (boy, could she...hee hee) and move on. Stop dwelling on past wrongs. There's no time in life to think about what could have or would have; it didn't. So go out and find someone who loves you. He's out there (highly dubious). If you are true to yourself, there are men out there who want your warmth, your doting, your kindness, your persistence...who know you are beautiful and mysterious. Stop wasting your time on losers with magazine faces and a passing interest in Harold and Maude.

I have faith that you can do all of this and I've based part of our friendship on trying to help you achieve it (I mean really...where do I get off!?!). I do call myself your friend and I think it's ridiculous for someone as morally detestable as J to wreck that.

Think about it,
Lola

E-Mud Wrestling Pt. 1

Part One: The Premise

Okay, so I was going through some old writing that I had squirrelled away and I found this email fight between me and my girlfriend, A. It's from college a few years ago, and technically, it was the last of our communications. I had saved it because it was one of the only times I broke out of my regular passive-agressive mode and flat out said what I was thinking.

I can't really remember what happened in terms of events, but something like she had slept with a friend of mine. I was trying to teach her a little life lesson about fucking around with internet hook-ups (granted it was totally fucked up of me, but she was always calling me to get her out of scrapes with the psychos she met online) and had given my friend a bit of information about her to play with her head.

Okay, here's the 'Lola is a bitch' thing. I know I'm a bitch...JB tells me daily. Oddly, I don't think I'm that much of a bitch while I'm doing it. But, this girl irritated the FUCK out of me (did I mention that she was obsessed with the Smashing Pumpkins, would call my house twenty-five times a day and leave looong droning messages, and insisted that living in a perfume commercial would be "magical"?). Although, she was damn near retarded and I might have gone too far.

The Road Again

It seemed a good time for him to let go. And so I can tell that he is. At least, preliminarily. Maybe it's a good thing. It'll hurt less in the long run.

But I've never been one for hurting less.


I know how to hurt more; I know how to hurt alone. I know that everything, everything will be fine. You can go.

In Lieu of Lecture

Okay, so what happens when two pseudo-intellectuals get together and run with it? Let me show you. Neither one of us can stop and say, "No, no. Now you're just getting weird." Everything's normal; everything is accepted as fact. We think we're sooo funny. And so the following (Sir/lola):

We have France.
Oh? The country?
Booze cruises? No? ...nay mind.
Sweet.
Cheap and convenient way to supply a party. Get one truck…
Mm hm.
Some people to load beer…go over and stock truck…maybe pick up an immigrant.
Nice, always wanted one.
Then drive truck to party.
A dirty one, at that…truck or French immigrant.
Just have to get it, and him, past immigration. Booze is very cheap…and in bottle form…
Nice...liking France...me and M are staying there.
…for the later fight.
Oo, bottle fights. How West Side Story!
Indeed.
I like it.
So many choices for the modern day smuggler or immigrant…the chunnel…air travel…sea…cannon.
Excellent. I see you've thought this out. I like a man with a plan.
Yeah well… I'm really from Eractneepuss. The accents are uncannily similar. Very handy.
Sounds like an STD.
Or a baby…apparently.
Yes. Like a baby. Like a baby STD.
We were a big nation…now there’s only an old man and a goat left…we all live here.
You know what's going to happen one lonely night then...
Yes.
Baby STDs.
That’s why we built a wall. Berlin style.
I think that was a good plan, Sir. Berlin had a point. Not a good point, but what can you expect? They're too busy reserving things with towels.
Quiet.
I think it's nice they had a plan at all.
…and making good cars. Yes. Plus…we covered the goat in a full body condom…just in case.
Oh, good thinking with the goat. Protect the innocent. Though I've heard things about that goat. Slut.
You’re forgetting the Russians in this though…I think it was more their plan.
Forgetting nothing. The Russians were too busy getting drunk. Or maybe it was perms. Yeah, getting perms. Or tans? I forget. I just know they weren't there.
Why do you think they got the perms?
Well, I assume they were just up with the times and being fashionably sensible.
No, to dampen the orange tan, which they got when they fell asleep on the tanning bed, pissed.
Ahh, I KNEW there was a reason I talk to you. I learn so much. Wily Brits.
Mm hmm. Sigh, le sigh.
What?
Nuttin.
You all silly bantered out?
Nuttela nips. Never!
Grin. I know; it's why I like ya.
I'll banter up to the point I pull the trigger.
I fear that's the truth.
Yeah, well.

Jesus. What the fuck was that? Sigh. n gets her lovely lectures, p gets her, "Are you being a good girl?" I get this. Always had to be different, didn'tcha lola? Always liked the odd ones. Grin.

Norm Beat Denny

OMG.

That's right. Chat speak. It seemed appropriate. I had QUITE the evening, babies.

I went to Denny's with B a couple of hours ago. It was a new Denny's for me...he had been to this one in the past with a work friend. I was like, "Jesus, I didn't know we had a Denny's this close. Why have we been going to Norm's?"

"Because it's Denny's." Yes, fair enough.

So, we walked in and I was trying to tell him that he should get me an iced tea as I was planning on hazarding a trip to the loo. The hostess was behind the register with her ugly friend. Well, they were both ugly, but in the whole scheme of things, our waitress will heretofore be referred to as "Ugly Friend." In any case, the hostess slaps on her most jovial of grins (people in their early twenties shouldn't look jovial...jovial is for Santa...it's just not right) and asks, "How many?"

I looked around. No one there but us.

"Two," we both said. She started laughing, "Looks like four to me."

Really? It does? Can you count? I mean two's not one, but it sure as shit ain't one of them tricky numbers like four. Calmblueocean clamblueocean. We assure her that there are, in fact, only two of us. At this point Ugly Friend leaned over to us, gaffawing like a fat Cabbage Patch Kid, and whispers, "Sheee's beeeen driiiink-ing."

Dear Lord. Danger, danger! Abort! (Maybe here I should mention that Ugly Friend has to slow down and explain to our hostess that you can tell the Spanish menus from the English menus because, if you look at the words, THEY'RE IN SPANISH! Yeeee-ah.) Calmblueocean clamblueocean.

But we didn't...we chanced it; we were starving. I'd just sat through two and a half hours of LA traffic to go the twelve miles from my work to home. I needed food. Even Denny's food.

We got seated, and as you'd expect, it took literally twenty minutes to get my damn iced tea (which is in this fucking bigass metal container that I can see...right there), but whatever. I'm mellow. Calmblueocean clamblueocean. Caught up on the gossip at B's work. It's been pretty crazy and there was lots to tell.

I may not have mentioned this before, but B goes through periods of insane ADD. Not to mention, he's got one of those personalities where he has to know what's going on all around him at all times. So, no matter what I'm saying, I know half his attention is on the environment. I've accepted that; so it came as no surprise when this horrified look crossed his face and he started shaking his head, "You just don't say that to people!"

I was like, "What? What's been said?"

He shushed me and assured me he'll tell me later. Calmblueocean clamblueocean. I let it go and started commenting on the weird, new-age family next to us. Dad, Mom, four children--three of which looked like they were far too familiar with serial arson and probably kept lists of the people at school that called them mean names or looked at them funny-like. I'm not very discreet, by the way. I tried to do the whole "face frame" so they couldn't see my lips, but it doesn't work when you're still shouting your judgements across the table. In fact, it acted very much like a megaphone. So there you go. I'm sure I'm on the list now. Calmblueocean clamblueocean.

So the other family behind us leaves and B informs me that I had missed a delightful conversation in which Ugly Friend, admiring the couple's baby told them, "What a beautiful child. I almost had one once--until I lost it."

WTF?!? (I know. More chat speak.) What the hell was that?!? Come on Denny's! In the training manual do you like, instruct your workers to serve their depressing life baggage on the side?: "Yeah, that reminds me of the time when the life in my womb was instantly snuffed out. Enjoy your onion rings!" Or, "I have colon cancer and you have the All American Slam! Eat up!"

Jesus. I mean, Jesus.

I'm going back to Norm's.

PS. Did I mention that I had taken a bit of a Denny's hiatus after I tried to go to one, but it was closed because someone died at the restaurant mere hours earlier...of food poisoning...and his body was yet to be removed? Calmblueocean clamblueocean. I really never learn.

Pre-Heating

It's nearly Thanksgiving!!

B and I are taking our two cats to my mom's house!! I'm so excited. I love to travel with them. They hate it, but I don't care because I get to drug them and they get so cute and cuddley.

B got a bunch of days off from work so he gets to come too. I'm stoked because I love to make the whole Thanksgiving Day meal and he really appreciates it. He just eats and eats and eats. Especially that green bean casserole. He loves that shit. Me personally? I think it looks like snow sludge. It has never passed my lips. But mashed potatoes and candied yams? Mmm!

Last Year: "I need some more of Kaga-san's dark meat."

We're gonna have fun. What should I name the turkey this year? I'm looking for suggestions. I've run out of Iron Chef namesakes and I have to name it...it freaks my mom out. And I live for that!

Reassessment

Sir: "Shut. Up. You really don't know when to hush, do you?"

I know I've said it before, but I really did intend to behave myself...to be obedient, to shut my big fat mouth. I meant to be a good girl. I really wanted to please. So, what's wrong with me?

I know when it's coming. I know I should just hang up before I dig a great big hole that I can't find my way out of.

But I don't. I keep talking; I say the wretched, horrible things that ruin the evening. I hate myself in that moment. I hate not being able to fix it. He's been patient, but I can't expect patience indefinitely.

I have to lower myself; I have to respect the rules and boundaries. It's just hard.

We're not the same.
There is no fair but his fair.
I am responsible to him.

Lola Gets

Thought it would be awhile, right, S? Let's just say that your last story was THAT good. Hope you like it, and hope you think of it next time you're at work!

You could barely tell by my walk. If you knew my games, you would say, “That right there? That’s a bad girl. See how behind that cocky smile, there’s the tiniest grimace? She’s trying right now to deny that her backside is aching, bruised.

“If you were to stop her and slide up that short denim skirt, you would see how, from her narrow hips tapering to the backs of her firm thighs, she is fading pink burns and welted ridges from a fierce hand. She doesn’t want you to know, but she can’t deny how it changes her step, how every time her thighs cross, the rough material scrapes against her damaged skin, how her bruises run so deep that she’s been sitting on her hip.

“If you were to slide it up, you would know how comfortable she is in that position, bent double beneath your arm, legs parted, ass taut and overly accessible. That girl has gotten a spanking. Recently. And by the look of it, a thorough one. That girl loved that spanking. She is laughing at you right now, because she thinks you don’t know.

“Watch her mouth when she brushes against the door, the counter. A little gasp, her lips puckered in surprise, eyes wide. Whoever administered that spanking knew what he was doing. She forgets how much that pressure hurts. That spanking was long, but not vicious. Controlled; her bottom meted out pain methodically, wholly.

“Look at her face. She loved every second of it. And she wants to thank him.”

I do. I wanted to thank Him. And so I had made arrangements with my favorite security guard, who led me down into the basement with his hand on my ass the whole way. I didn’t care. It made me wickedly wet to have dirty paws cupped around His work, squeezing me roughly before pointing me toward the hallway. My step slowed when I saw that last door.

He’d be alone in His dungeon. And if He wasn’t, He would send them away when I arrived. I didn’t understand why my hand trembled on the door knob; I took a small breath and ran my fingers through my hair, shoving it away from my face. Shifting on my hip, I could feel his work and the blood began to pound through my ears, loud, churning, nearly able to drown out the gravelly loop that accompanied the ache in my ass: Oh, I'll spank you alright. I'm going to spank you until you are fucking broken. Until you are weak and tired. I will spank you until you can't fucking stand it...

I squared my shoulders, my chin higher, eyes flashing, and entered.

There was someone there; I glanced quickly at him. The gaze was brief; he was appreciative but subtle, locking eyes with Him, tilting his head up the flight of stairs. Two steps, three steps, four—He knew I was there. He shook His head at His coworker, who nodded and disappeared down a corridor, one I had not noticed when I had been to His office in the past.

“What are you doing here, my pet?” He asked, not looking up from the stacks of paper He was managing. I paused, foot stopping on the step, hovering, tickling the concrete slab; I wasn’t ready to cross the room yet. My lip snuck between my teeth and I chewed it absently, tracing the railing grooves and not meeting His eyes.

I shrugged.

He turned, half-turned, glancing back at me from His work, “A social visit then. It’s good to see you.”

His voice was sun-lit honey and I wanted more. Step down; we were level now. Step down; I sunk below Him. Step down; lower. It felt good here, beneath Him as I was.

His back was to me again and it made me angry; it was easier to cross the floor, to stop behind Him, to clear my throat, to tap impatiently, to stomp lightly, waiting. It was easier to grab His shirt sleeve, to pull irritably on it.

His response was quick, covering my fingers and squeezing them between His own, turning slowly, my hand trapped in His.

“What is it then, my pet?” He asked, choosing to ignore my transgression for the time being.

He wasn’t making this easy for me, but then it wouldn’t be Him to do so. I looked up at Him, resigned to surrendering all dignity and composure. My bottom was sore, my cunt polished, lacquered slick. I wanted my thighs around Him, His hands raking my ass, my hips, while He slammed into me. I was salivating with these thoughts, unable to swallow fast enough.

I set my bag down, purposefully, slowly, sweeping my body briefly against His. My pulse electric, my breath caught between parted lips.

“I was trying to think of a way to thank you,” I said, slipping my hand from His and untucking my shirt. His breath was slowing; His eyes were following my hands. I was in my element and it felt good. I would take my time.

One button, at the bottom, in the wrinkled fabric of my blouse. His eyes were there, on my waist. A smile threatened the corner of my mouth, my eyes already laughing at how easily He could be manipulated. But He wasn’t looking at my eyes; two buttons and my belly was exposed, the draft in the room playing across my warm, golden skin. His hands twitched. Three buttons, four buttons and the bottom of my lacy black bra peeked through the curtain of silk. One more.

I stopped, opening my legs a bit wider, closing the gap between us. The smile was broad now, my eyebrow crooked. He saw it before I could rearrange my disposition. Without a word, He scooped me up and dumped me down on an empty table, my tender backside colliding with unforgiving solidness. I groaned loudly, cursing Him under my breath.

“That doesn’t sound like a thank you,” He smirked, pleased with Himself. I sat up straighter, eyes narrowed and breath a low growl. I scooted to the edge of the table, but His hands were on my shoulders, holding me upright and heavily on my sore bottom. I wriggled, trying to turn to the side, get some of the pressure off my bruised skin.

“What’s funny now, my pet?” He whispered wickedly, one hand snaking up my thigh, fingers on the outside of my leg, gripping my flesh, biting at my ass. I gasped hotly, clawing at His hands.

His palm was on top of my leg, higher, thumb clutching my inner thigh, slick and wet. His eyes blazed, “You like this, don’t you?”

He laughed, pushing me back onto my elbows, grabbing the bottom of my shirt with both hands. He stepped between my legs, yanking free the flimsy last button. I was trying to be quiet, trying to compose; He was leaning down between my legs, sliding my skirt up over my thighs, lifting me and yanking up to my waist. His breath was on my lap, on my pussy; I was panting softly, throbbing ass, smoldering cunt.

“No panties,” He noted, grinning at the word, “Good.”

His hand was on my belly, pinning me to the table, my bottom writhing in itchy, scalding pain, my skin hot, flushed, scraping against the tabletop. With a free hand, He slid his belt through the loops of his pants, catching my wrists and tying them together crudely, then affixing the belt to the heavy copier behind me. I was stuck, my beaten ass trapped against the merciless plastic slab. He looked down at me; I twisted to the side, but He was too fast. He grabbed my thigh and held it down, leaning across my body, fingers knotting into my hair, weight crushing me against the table, breath on my neck.

“You wanted to thank me, pet,” He whispered, condescension oozing off His tongue. I loved the feeling of His chest above me, slowing my breath; His lap pressed against my liquid hot cunt, cock thickly nearby. My pussy was howling for Him.

I nodded, and I could feel His mouth on my ear, my neck, sucking hard on my too-responsive skin. I could feel Him let go of my thigh, drag the zipper of His pants down, drop them to His hips. My thighs curled around Him instinctively, my hips bucking up against His cock.

“Shh, shh,” He chided, hands reaching between my bound forearms, caressing my lips, allowing me to suck briefly on His fingertips, melodic mewls in my throat. Moving lower, my throat, my collarbone, my breast, skimming over my nipple through the rutted lace. Moans, more insistent as my cunt dripped. His dick was aching for me, the underside rubbing against my slit as my hips sought Him.

“Please, please,” I begged, composure gone, a twisting mess of raw ache, “I need…you to…. Fuck me. Jesus, fuck!”

My words were erratic like my breath, my pulse. I was groaning, thrashing, pulling hard on the belt. My hair was in my face, my shoulders unable to lie flat. He was pleased.

I felt His hands on my hips first, palms flat against the sides of my ass, raising me up slightly, and then, without a word, felt Him plunge into me, illogically, foolish, irrational. He was holding me snugly, short nails digging into my ass, fucking me fast and deep, solid, grinding furiously into my pleading slit.

I was not quiet; I was not careful. I howled, wailed, and hiccupped moans that silenced the thunder of copiers around me. My ass was grated, scoured; His hands slashing against my skin, as He yanked my sloppywet cunt up and down his cock, slapping me against His lap. I was breathless, glistening.

He fucked me religiously, His thumb brushing my clit so gently, a breath and I came, belly tight, breath caught. He slammed into me, promising with the thrust that he was filling my pussy with liquid heat. His hand was on my neck, fingers pressed beneath my jaw. He climbed up my chest, His voice in my ear, breath scraping past His clenched teeth.

“You’re welcome,” He whispered, scratching into my ass cruelly and licking the smile onto His lips.

Nesting

I have been spending a lot of time in bed lately. Not sleeping, really, but laying around. It's been nice. It's sort of that time of year that you can immerse yourself in nesting. It's very gray in my room. Gray walls, gray carpet, gray bedding. It's like my favorite weather inside. I've been cozy.

Fuck you, cheese fries.

Does your job ever make you furious?

Like so furious that the homicidal rage you have for all things around you becomes this massive ball and shoots forth from your fingertips like that guy in Street Fighter? (Quick note: I Wikipedia-ed Street Fighter to see if I could remember which character was the one that did that, as I don't play video games anymore, and there was this insane abundance of information on each character...it was just fucking strange to see the bios of goddamn video game characters...does anyone else think that's just not right? Raising Ryu to the epic heights of South African apartheid and the jet aircraft?)

Anyway, I sort of had that moment today, but of course, not as cool and fluidly. So, I know this is the twelve billionth time I've mentioned it, but I work with children. And I hate them now. All of them. I used to like them. I used to be patient and kind, nurturing even.

Not. Any. More.

After the 716th "Lola, Lola, Lola, Lola, Lola (tap, tap, tap, tap)...did you write down my homework? (tap, tap) Do I have all my books? (tap, tap) Where's my paper? (tap, tap) Where's my paper? (tap, tap) I JUST HAD IT! (tap, tap, tap, taptaptap) Where's my paper?!?", I decided that his friends were too right: little Dickie was the most killable of all of them, and I'd be picking up a gunny sack the next time I was in Ye Olde General Mercantile. Wanna see a river, Dickie? Best view's at the bottom.

So, I am seconds from screaming at them now. I've got my metal ruler in my hand; the sharp edges are digging into my skin. I am wielding it fiercely, waving the pointy bits very near their defenseless little eyes, when thankfully the bell rings.

"OOOUUUTTT!!!!! Everyone. Now! I hate you. I don't want to see your grubby little faces until tomorrow!" (This, by the way, is not an exaggeration. I say this so much to them that I can play it off as a funny little joke we share...most of the time...unless the rage gets the better of my delivery.)

I usher them out, mouths hanging open, cowering visibly. And don't get me wrong, I am relishing every second of it. I lock my door and flee to the teacher's lounge where I find one of my colleagues heating his food--cheese fries. He is aware that I'm upset. His mouth opens slowly; I can see the words forming, pushing past his tongue.

"Wha--"

"Fuck you, cheese fries!"

I know. It's not even coherent. It's totally misdirected. I am pointing at him, pressed against the back of the door, evil eyebrows and all. I realize how crazy I look.

"Heh, heh. Kidding. Heh, heh."

Awkward smiles all around, little ooookay's. I--yeah, wait for it--give him one of those "shooting a couple of fake guns" hand signs, then retreat to the ladies room to question my sanity for the sixty-seventh time this week.

WHY AM I HERE? Ah, yes. I'm a fucking humanitarian.

Savages.

Learning Slowly

Simple tasks. Do this, do that. Just shut up and do it, right? But I say no. And so I pay. My ass hurts and it's my own fault. Next time will be different. Yeeeah. Well, I mean well, anyway.



Bad, bad girl.

Rejected, Reschmected!

What Rejected Crayon Are You?

Fuck yeah, I am. I think p was too. I can live with this...but I think a spank me red, or spank me bruised would do it, too. Grin.

And maybe then, I could be less of a ridiculously incorrigible brat. Grin. Not likely, but a girl can always dream.

Not Another Jesus Movie

"You get me slapped with a fine, you argue with the customers and I have to patch everything up, you get us thrown out of a funeral by violating the corpse, and then to top it off, you ruin my relationship. I mean, what's your encore? Do you, like, anally rape my mother while pouring sugar in my gas tank?"

--Dante Hicks

And so abreviates the plot to one of the GREATEST MOVIES EVER MADE. If you haven't seen Clerks, you are one dismally ill-informed individual and I am making it my personal mission to change your life.

So here are your main, and most important, characters:

Randal Graves and Dante Hicks

Dante: Hey, whatcha rent? [reads the cover to Randal's videotape]
Dante: "Best of Both Worlds"?
Randal: Hermaphroditic porn. Starlets with both organs. You should see the box. Beautiful chicks with dicks that put mine to shame.
Dante: And you rented this?
Randal: Hey, I like to expand my horizons.


Randal Graves is the smartass video store clerk who works next door to Dante's Stop-N-Go convenience store. His attitude can be summed up in the following movie tagline: Just because they serve you doesn't mean they like you. Let me illustrate.

Customer: They say so much, but they never tell you if it's any good... are either one of these any good? [Randal ignores her]
Randal: What?
Customer: Are either one of these any good?
Randal: I don't watch movies.
Customer: Well, have you heard anything about either one of them?
Randal: I find it's best to stay out of other people's affairs.
Customer: You mean you've haven't heard anybody say anything about either one of these?
Randal: Nope.
Customer: [Turns around, then shows Randal the same movies] Well, what about these two?
Randal: Oh, they suck.
Customer: These are the same two movies! You weren't paying any attention!
Randal: No, I wasn't.
Customer: I don't think your manager would appreciate...
Randal: I don't appreciate your ruse, ma'am.
Customer: I beg your pardon?
Randal: Your ruse; your cunning attempt to trick me.
Customer: I was only pointing out that you weren't paying any attention to what I was saying!
Randal: And, I hope it feels good.
Customer: You hope WHAT feels good?
Randal: I hope it feels so good to be right. There's nothing more exhilarating than pointing out the shortcomings of others, is there?
Customer: Well, this is the last time I rent here!
Randal: You'll be missed.
Customer: Screw you! [leaves]
Randal: [runs to the door] Hey! You're not allowed to rent here anymore!

Then, magically, there's also Jay and his "hetero lifemate" (as we later find out when the series continues in Mallrats, Chasing Amy, Dogma, and Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back...but I'll leave those for subsequent posts), Silent Bob, two degenerate drug dealers who sell their wares outside the convenience store.

Jay and Silent Bob

Jay: Yeah, Silent Bob, you're a rude motherfucker, you know that? But you're cute has hell. I could go down on you, suck you, line up three other guys and make like a circus seal. [Jay makes a rude head gesture and car horn honks]
Jay: Ewww, you fucking faggot, I HATE guys. I LOVE WOMEN!

Last big quote, I promise. This is one of those movies that you have to just sort of feel the mood of; if these quotes amused you in any manner, you should really consider renting it. In anycase, click to continue this epic quote, both hilarious and insightful in nature.

Dante: My friend is trying to convince me that any contractors working on the uncompleted Death Star were innocent victims when the space station was destroyed by the rebels...

Director Kevin Smith (who also plays the character Silent Bob) starts a sound career with this witty, pants-wetting comedy about the overlooked and underpaid video jockeys, convenience store monkeys, and other servants of our daily impedimenta. Live it, love it. And so, my fellow cinematians, I leave you with sage advice from Dante to his girlfriend, Veronica:

"Try not to suck any dick on the way out of the parking lot!"

Happy Birthday L!

Last night, I was drunk.

bashed, befuddled, boozed up, buzzed, canned, crocked, flushed, flying, fuddled, gassed, glazed, groggy, hammered, high, hosed, in orbit, inebriated, jolly, jugged, juiced, laced, liquored up, lit, lush, merry, muddled, oiled, on a bun, overcome, pie-eyed, pissed, plastered, plowed, potted, seeing double, sloshed, soaked, sotted, soused, stewed, stoned, tanked, tight, tipsy, totaled, wasted, zonked

(How was that for a little Martha Rosler moment, inspired by The Bowery in Two Inadequate Descriptive Systems?)

It was good, too. I'm not a smart lush, you see, but last night I drank the perfect amount. It's the stumble when you walk, but never actually hit the ground drunk. The molested by your friends, but no regrets in the morning drunk. The fall asleep in someone else's bed, but get up an hour later, clothes still in all the right places, and successfully drive yourself the three blocks home--past a police car--while fiddling with your phone--no hassles drunk. The delightfully slutty, but no one saw nip, peep-showin' drunk. The massively hungover, but not one instance of puking, nor nearly puking, drunk. The taking shoes off and putting them in the closet before passing out drunk. Yeah, I'd like to see a party girl handle that one!

In short, what a good girl am I? Indeed, baby. Last night was a good night. On a bun?

Cunt

His words are past her ear, filtering, resonating deeper into to a place that exists on a lonely plane, a worried, anxious space. Hammering the doors of her soul, slipping beneath the cracks, invading, encroaching, entrenching in her secret recesses. She cannot breath; she locks her body against the submission to these burglars, these theives of will.


They are deep, dark scratches along her walls, "You are mine. You are owned. You are for my use, for my pleasure and it pleases me."

Her resistance is a weakened sigh. Their teeth devour her flesh, her obstinance, "You are mine. Your thoughts, your mouth, your cunt. Mine."

The words are alive, violently twisting and crashing, shaking and obliterating her separateness. She is no longer distinct, but of his essence, an extention, a tool. She is tied to him a dog, a freight, a hand, a heart. All that she is reflects and she is free.

"Cum, cunt. Now."

And she does, with euphoric relief she has never known, possessed, obsessed, used and addicted, craving and dedicated, depleted, drained, consumed and spoilt-spent, disgusting in her vitality, "I am yours, Sir. My cunt, my mouth, my thoughts. And I am happy."

TBI with Aaron Cometbus

I'm blowin' it. TBI, as B would say: Team Blowin' It. I'm the goddamn captain. I had been posting once a day for awhile, and now...DAYS go by and not a peep. Partially, it's cause I am working my ass off. Partially it's because I have a habit of only writing or drawing, not both at once. Partially, cause I am not feeling at liberty to do a lot of disclosing.

Well, hm. Let's see then. Something totally lame that takes no laborious thought or deep introspection. Is this the right time to bring up my love of all things Aaron Cometbus? (Shitty segue, I know...just want to get away from the why do I feel this ways and the despairdespairs. And Aaron's fun, and deep, but that palatable, simple deep. Not that rigorous, ostentacious deep.) You see, I grew up in the East Bay; Berkely, Piedmont, Richmond, Oakland, San Fransisco. I have subsequently, moved to the grimy-ass, plastic tits, envelope-toothed, little-dogs-in-sweaters, Mochachino-drinking, roach-coaching, worst public transportation ever, (this could go on a while, but I think were on the same 'page of rage'), cattle call casting, waiter-has-a-script-for-you, most deplorable metropolitan filth explosion on the planet.

I miss the East Bay.

So, there's this little thing I do whenever I get home to visit family: Fanzines. Zines. Any zine, all zines. The shittier the better. Bullshit diatribe about Veganism, prolific rants about the current state of punk, hiakus about drugs, sketchy little images. I love the cheapness, the look of Xerox, the tactile ephemerality. I love it all. Two bucks or trade. What else can you get for two bucks or trade that will offer you such a naked, unfettered peek at the underpinnings of our generation? Fucking zines feel like home.

And Cometbus is my favorite. But enough gushing. I'll let you decide. An excerpt from #42 Double Duce: A Novel, story 72. Giant Burger:

“Get your mod garbage ass out of the bathroom and in the car already. Don’t you think your hair is combed enough by now?”

“Will you fucking hold on just a goddamn minute? God damn cultural Philistines! Fucking intangible miseried shitbags!”

“Aaron, what are you doing up there, making a list of your piss bottles? Come on, we gotta go!”

“Wait, wait, I’m coming too. Just let me finish changing.”

“Changing? What are you changing into this time, Sluggo?”

“Shut up, you fucking hick. At least I can read.”

“Fine, I’m leaving. I told you guys I was gonna go, I guess I’ll just go by myself.”

“Do you have enough gas to get there this time? Seriously, Little G, we don’t want to have to push the car again.”

“I just filled it up two hours and eleven minutes ago.”

“Yeah, I have to work in the morning. I can’t get stranded all night in one of your bullshit schemes this time.”

“Look, I told you, I just filled it up. Do you want to go or not?”

“Jed, could you sit down in the fucking seat? Just sit down like a normal person. Just pretend, for once.”

“Do you think it would be alright to eat spray paint? Do you think if I was a flea, they would let me have a driver’s license? Do you think, um, you could stop at this light? I just remembered something I have to do.”

“Goddamn it. What the fuck. I think we’re out of gas. Get out and push while I steer.”

And an excerpt from #45, story 22. Lucinda:

We stayed up all night, ditched her friends, and then, sitting against the big tree in the middle of Ho Chi Mihn Park, we kissed. We just sat there kissing and kissing for ages. It was that good. But then, when we got up and headed down the avenue holding hands, we stopped cold after half a block and she looked at me with big eyes. She said, “I feel funky.”

Not funky like, “I wanna dance,” but funky like, “Give me my hand back,” and I knew exactly what she meant. I felt funky too. Walking around like that just wasn’t in the cards, nor the stars, for me and Lucinda.

What kind of cruel trick was life playing on us? Falling in love but keeping us from being together. It was weird. We liked each other, we were attracted to each other, yet to be seen holding hands would be the ultimate embarrassment. I couldn’t tell what it was, but anyone from a mile away would have known.

“Even your mom hates me,” she said.

“That’s ridiculous,” I said, but women have a way of telling the truth. In fact, my mom despised her, and that shocked me because that had never happened before with anyone I brought home. Obviously there was something special about this girl.

Fucking Lucinda. She walked through life like a sweet pea, buildings and safes falling all around, people shooting and shooting up and freaking out, and none of it touched her. Not at all. Luthinda and Thethilia with the fake lithps and the self-imposed handicaps, frolicking through the needle gallery on the way to meet me, lucky me, every night that summer, to sit on the steam grates, on cocaine of all things, hidden by the tall buildings and enveloped in clouds of steam, leaning on each other and lost in warm and dreamy secrecy, knowing that the minute we got up and went back to into the world we’d be wet, cold and awkward.

Late at night on the roof of the Hotel Carlton, in the moonlight and the cool breeze, chewing gum, wrapped in each others skinny arms, we’d kiss, then pull away and shake our heads. She’d light a smoke. I’d hit my head against the wall, cursing the stars.

One more. Click for the larger image, to read. This is what the zine really looks like:

I miss the East Bay. I'm still thinking about how to get back home. I gotta just do it though, and soon.

Wanna Play?

For S. I wasn't even late with this one, so you can just knock that stomping right off. See, I just take time to finesse the edges, to lick before I fuck, so to speak. Grin. Hope you like it, bad boy.

“Let’s play a game,” I suggested, crossing my arms over my chest and raising an eyebrow at him. The couch behind me was digging into my ass, and I shifted a bit, running one naked leg against the other and settling more comfortably. I could see him straighten up, pause and then turn the computer chair slowly around to face me.

“What kind of a game?” he asked, tilting his head at me. He was chewing his lip absently, and I wondered if he wasn’t just a little afraid of what I was about to say.

“It’s a fun game. You’ll like it. Do you want to play?” I asked, stalling for time, trying to secure an all-purpose commitment. He stood and walked over to me, his footsteps heavy in the carpet. He stopped inches away and fingered a lock of my hair, twisting it around his palm, his eyes traveling to my throat, my mouth, my eyes. I felt naked and pulled the bottom of my tee-shirt down farther over my panties.

“What kind of game, Lola?” he repeated, giving the curl a soft tug. I smiled and scooted up onto the back of the sofa, pulling my hair free and creating a bit more space. He followed me around the side and sat down in the middle, pulling my thigh over his shoulder and kissing the inside of my knee.

I shivered, “It’s a guessing game. You’re good at guessing things. Do you want to play?”

He was amused; I could tell. He was not used to evasive answers and for now he was humoring me. I smiled, curling my leg over his chest and tucking my foot behind his back. I ran my fingers through his short, dark hair and swung my other leg around his neck, squeezing him gently between my thighs. I knew how to make him compliant; it was a matter of him accepting my advances.

And he was in a good mood. And so, without anymore explanation I heard a brief, low grunt followed by a nod.

“Good,” I squeaked, clapping my hands and pulling my thighs quickly from his shoulders. I slid down the couch and into the seat next to him.

“So, here’s how it works,” I began, as he smiled gently, slipping his hands between my legs and caressing me through my panties. My breath caught momentarily and I realized that I would never get through my game if he continued along that path. I clamped my legs together tightly around his wrist and trapped him, motionless. He smirked and shook his head, acquiescing to the rest of my explanation.

“Okay, so,” I continued, letting go of his roaming fingers, “I ask you a series of questions—”

His eyebrow was moving up his forehead, and his head was bobbing up and down, indicating that he had already figured that part out. I took a deep breath.

“Yeah, yeah. Okay, okay,” I sighed, irritably.

“No attitude necessary, my pet. I said I’d play your game,” he admonished, the playful smile slipping from his lips.

“Mm, yes. Sorry. Okay,” I took another deep breath, hating to have to apologize, and always doing it as quietly, quickly and unobtrusively as possible, “Well, anyway. I ask you these questions and if you get them right, then I give you a series of prizes.”

I looked at him, quickly, fleetingly, wondering if he’d go for it. He was skeptical—he knew me too well.

“That’s it?” he asked, hesitantly. I thought very carefully about the next part.

“Almost,” I said, fiddling with my sleeve and avoiding all eye contact.

“What are you leaving out then?” he asked, slapping my hand away from my shirt.

“I’m not leaving anything out,” I protested indignantly, too indignantly. His eyes locked on mine, sharp and aggravated.

“Behave yourself or we will be playing one of my little games, my pet,” he promised, reaching over and squeezing my thigh, cruelly. I bit my lip hard and winced.

“Yes,” I gasped loudly, nearly growling, my body shaking a bit, angrily, hating being patronized, hating being reminded of my place. His hand closed over my wrist and tugged lightly, pulling me forward and across his lap, my hips resting on his thighs. The pout on my lips was unmistakable. I fidgeted into the cushions, digging my knees into the fabric and trying to get back up.

His hand was on the small of my back and pressing me down, locking my thighs and belly against his lap. I could hear his soft shushing and tried to be still. He was stroking my back, my thighs, my ass, sliding his large hands across my panties, grabbing the waistband and drawing them up higher. I put my head down against the sofa and glanced back at him, soothed by his petting.

“What are you leaving out?” he asked softly, his fingertips skimming the line of my panties, trailing down between my legs, making my pulse hiccup erratically. It isn’t going to work, I thought resolutely, steeling myself to his touch. I had a goal, an objective.

“Well, you see, if you get the questions wrong, then you have to give me a series of prizes,” I waited, holding my breath.

“What sorts of prizes, my pet?” he asked, cupping my ass and pinching it absently. I squeaked quietly and leaned up, glancing back at him. I began to explain what I had been rehearsing all morning in the bathroom mirror.

“Well, I could do lots of things,” I grinned, “You know, sexual favors, things involving licking and touching, rubbing, stroking…you know, debased things, unimaginably debased. And you could do things like getridifthesillyandpointlessbedtimerule.”

He chuckled to himself.

“What was that last part?” he asked, leaning down to my mouth. I groaned a little, dropping my head back onto the sofa, dejectedly.

“I hate bedtimes. I don’t want one. So, if you don’t get the questions right, then you could like, start peeling off hours indefinitely. What do you think?” I asked hopefully.

His face was full of arrogant delight.

“Well, first off, why do I need a game to get you to do debased things, darlin’? If I want you to do something slutty or dirty, I will simply tell you to. It’s not something I have to earn, my pet. You’re mine. You’ll do what I tell you,” he began, his voice light, but holding a distinctive sincerity and earnestness meant to remind me.

My brows were pulling closer together and my lip dipping lower; it’s no fair. I had no leverage. So what he said next came as a tremendous surprise.

“Okay, we’ll play your game,” he said quietly, peeling my panties down my legs and dropping them on the floor, slipping his fingers between my cheeks and over my slick cunt lips. I could never help how wet I got when in that position. Exposed and vulnerable, my pussy and ass so accessible. The breath was sucked through my lips loudly, and I kicked my feet against the sofa pillows.

“Really?” I purred, happily, grinning at him.

“Mm hm,” he nodded, fucking my wet cunt slowly with his fingers, his thumb circling my tightly puckered asshole. I turned my head and groaned into the sofa, my hips digging hard against his lap, “Mm hm, but with one little alteration.”

Alteration? I whimpered unhappily, banging my fist down onto the couch cushions, “Fuck!”

The sharp slap was so fast, I couldn’t prepare myself for it. My mind swung between the moment of being deliciously stroked to embarrassing wetness and being spanked, hard and fast on my unsuspecting and very naked bottom. I reached back instantly to protect myself. He caught my wrist and smacked me again, again, my backside dawning warm, wet heat like daybreak.

“You don’t want to play, my pet?” he asked, the grin audible as his heavy hand marked me. I yelped, shaking my head forcefully, twisting hard against his grip, “Are you ready to answer my questions?”

He stopped spanking me, but held me tight, pinned to his lap and I could feel him, firm and thick under me. My breath was short gasps, wheezing wet; my hair cloaking my face, neck, weighty and warm, suffocating. I flipped it back and looked at him.

“Question number one,” he began, his hands were tide down my back, slow ripples over my ass, breath, breath, parting my thighs. He looked, long look, fucking my cunt with his eyes, famished. I grinned—privately, but he knew, saw it. His palm left my thigh and traveled quickly up the length of my body, covering the back of my head and shoving my face into the cushions. I felt his fingers leave my scalp and then a slap, cruel and quick to the untouched, inner moon of my ass. I moaned. He did not let go of my cheek as he proceeded with his question, his fingers biting my flesh, “Answer this correctly, and you’ll get something nice. Answer it incorrectly, and I’ll make you cry.”

He was waiting. I nodded, my shoulders tense.

“Do you like it when I spank your naughty bottom, my pet?”

I didn’t know how to answer this. My pussy was liquid, steam at the mere insinuation that he was about to bend me over, but to say, yes yes, would more than likely earn me an aching backside. This is not the way I saw this game going.

My nod was nearly imperceptible. His fingers laced into my hair and dragged my head up from the couch, “Speak up, Lola.”

“Yes,” I whispered and he let go of my hair. He spanked me hard and fast, covering my sore bottom with devastation, as I kicked and howled, twisting away from his painful onslaught.

“No, no, my pet. You were correct and you deserve your prize,” he grinned, smacking the back of my thighs brutally. I grabbed the arm of the couch tunneling, burrowing into the fabric, holding tightly for dear life. My skin was firelicked, my cunt dripping, blooming, dewy warm petals between thrashing thighs. My breath was coming in sobbing gasps, face soaked, mouth swollen. I groaned, low and guttural, my throat stripped. He spanked me again, one ruinous slap where my thighs meet my cheeks. I gasped, broken.

“Next question,” he continued, as my breath slowed and the ache slipped deeper into my muscles, “Do you like to touch your pussy?”

I nodded quickly this time, my cunt drenched and heavy. He pushed my thighs apart, his fingers dipping into my sugar slit. I trembled, low, my hips grinding against his lap, swimming against his dick, soft clay, hard marble. He pushed me off him, abruptly. I blinked, puzzled, and then he gestured at the coffee table.

“Sit, my pet,” he instructed, running his hand across the heavy, glass surface. It was cold, cool, my burnt cheeks flattened against the pane. It felt good.

“Open them, sweetheart,” he directed, pushing my knees apart, and then sitting back on the sofa to watch me.

I did as I was told, spreading my thighs wide apart for him. My pussy flowered, slick, trickling, tropical hot. I sat back on my palm and scratched lightly over my inner thighs, dancing across my skin towards my begging cunt. He smirked.

“What a beautiful pussy,” he whispered, his voice throaty. He was controlled, contained, but his eyes gave him away. In any other circumstance, I would fuck him here. I would take myself up and down, I would leave the table slippery and stained with my juice; I would make him crazy, blind, twitchy. But I was past that point today.

I closed my eyes and slipped my fingers into my slit, gloving my hand with warm, tight pussy, flicking my clit as my body writhed. I could hear his breath change; I sped up, leaking down my thighs, close, closer. His groan was loud.

“Suck me,” he commanded, standing and unzipping his jeans, shoving them down his legs. His dick was inches from my face, the cloth barrier between us stretched tight.

“That wasn’t a question,” I replied before I could even think. His eyes flashed and he slapped my face. It wasn’t hard, but it was sudden.

“Get your fucking hands out of your cunt and suck my cock. Now,” he added, glaring at me. I did as I was told, quickly, removing his shorts and wrapping my fist around his thick cock, opening my full cherry mouth and sliding him into my throat. He grabbed my hair and pulled my face farther, my lips sliding over him and locking around the base, flush with his lap.

I could feel his heartbeat, his firm sack on my lower lip. My hands were on his thighs, digging into his skin; I was trying hard not to breathe. Saliva was leaking down my chin and my pussy was sizzling. He fucked my face slow and deliberately, controlling both the speed and depth, thrusting, using. I could feel the ache in my ass spreading up my spine, the nerves alive, racing down my arms and legs.

My brain had stopped working; my hands were independent now and they wanted more pussy. My fingers were on my clit, plucking, circling, twisting, grinding. I groaned around his cock, sure I was going to cum. He looked down and grabbed my hands roughly, yanking them out of my glowing slit.

“Don’t fucking touch yourself! Did I fucking say you could touch yourself?” he growled, angrily, slamming his cock into my throat and holding me there. My eyes were wide, scared; I shook my head slightly, mouth full, body screaming for release.

“I was going to fuck your pretty cunt, my pet,” he said, low and measured, “But you had to be a bad girl, didn’t you?”

He was almost disgusted, “Next question.”

I was choking, blinking hard, my nipples furious points of ache, my cunt throbbing.

“Do you like me fucking your mouth until you can’t breathe,” he snarled, thrusting hard, clutching my hair tightly, dragging my lips along his cock, slapping his balls against my chin and neck, “And then cumming...hot and sticky...all over your pretty face and hair?”

His grin was wicked.