That Didn’t Work as Planned

I called Him this morning to arrange our meeting–and almost didn’t recognize His voice. His voice, usually a warm mid-range tone was deep and raw.

Yes, M is sick.

Really wicked awful sick.

I cancelled with Him. Told Him that He needed to stay home, to sleep, to heal. He would have come to meet me, would have had our time together, but I could tell His energy was not good. So we’ll reschedule when He is better, likely after the holidays. Hopefully we’ll get some face time in before the holiday’s but we’ll see how He is feeling. That is the most important thing.

I Can’t…

I know, I know…

You came hoping for the next chapter, which is locked between my ears, still.

I can’t write. I’m going to see Him in a few hours. It’s been 3 weeks since I last saw Him. Three. Fucking. Long. Weeks.

And when I see Him, it will be playtime!

Is it any wonder that I can’t compose more than a few words? I’m excited, and nervous, and happy, and lusty, and want to fall on my knees for Him, and want to kiss His beardy face, and…

…be beaten.

Be fucked half to death.

Be put against the Wall and tormented by His dastardly toys, and thrown on the bed and wildly fucked, and turned over His knee and spanked until I can’t bear it…

…and somehow still want more.

So you see, now, why I can’t? My head is too full of moving pictures of what could be–and of my deepest longing to see Him, touch Him, smell Him, taste Him.

I can’t…and I’m sure you understand.


nilla the yearning slut…

(is it tomorrow yet?)

The Job (3)

He watched. She felt it, sometimes. But it felt–and how stupid did this sound–protective. He was definitely checking her work, but with an openhandedness that was relaxing. She set her own pace, coming in early most mornings. She began to get a feel for the building; each place had its own resonance. She eventually found all the light switches, knew which doors would swing back fast and try to slap the vacuum out of her hands, and which step creaked the loudest in the back hallway on the 2nd floor.

So too she began to feel the rhythms of the place. By the end of the third week, she had met many of the ‘dominants’. She knew a little bit about female ones from tv shows, which wasn’t the best forum for facts, but at least gave her some knowledge. Of male dominants she’d been mostly unaware, except for that whole ‘gray’ book which had come out a few summers ago. According to both media forms, they were all mysterious and dark. With that lack of information, she had no idea what one would be like in person.  So far she’d met a few of each gender, and it had been an experience. For one thing, they almost unilaterally had a wicked sense of humor. All of them -male or female- often had a terseness in their manner of speaking. Or maybe “terse” wasn’t the right word, more, that they were very intense, very direct. They were often very kind, and their busy eyes missed nothing. Her contact with them was, by virtue of her early schedule, limited.

A few times she’d shrugged off offers to “play”–as if play could be defined by paddles and whips. Shaking her head as she vacuumed, she thought about Roderick, the latest dominant to proposition her. He certainly had a magnetic personality; intense, focused. She’d actually seen him do a scene one afternoon as she was finishing up for the day. A leggy blonde with a really big ass had been spread over that pommel horse, her wrists tied together and secured to a large bolt in the floor. Mandy had stopped, transfixed. She thought about all those “women in jeopardy” movies that she’d enjoyed as a teen. It was playing out in real-time right in front of her. And then the man had stepped forward, the many-tailed whip swinging like the tail of a horse. The blonde jolted as the leather lines had landed on her skin, and Mandy gasped at the sound it made. The woman was moaning, red stripes appearing on her pale bottom.

“She is enjoying this, not being tortured.”

She’d about jumped out of her skin then, having her boss appear magically, silently, beside her.

“She’s … crying…”

“Well, sure. She’s being hit with a very painful instrument. But it’s part of her ‘thing’. People come here, Mandy, to explore. Some kinks may look ‘horrible’ to someone not used to them, but I assure you, we are all about getting consent first.”

“She wanted someone to beat her with that…that thing?”

“The flogger is an interesting toy. And she wanted Sir Roderick to do it as he is a master at that particular toy.”

“A doll is a toy. A truck is a toy. That–that’s a weapon.”

“In this setting it is a toy. If you went over there right now and put your fingers against her cunt, you would find her dripping wet. She gets off on this. It’s her thing. It helps her de-stress from her day-to-day life.”

Mandy blushed at the crude word. She watched for a moment more, then excused herself to finish the work on the main floor. It was while she was cleaning the men’s room on the second floor that she met Sir Roderick face-to-face. She backed out of the stall she’d just cleaned, and there he was, coming through the door.

“Well, if it isn’t my little voyeur.”

” I’m not. I was walking through and there you were.”

She’d adopted a no-nonsense, brisk tone when brushing off club members. It didn’t always work, but it usually deflected some attention.

“It’s my job to be here in the mornings, and your session wasn’t on the calendar; sorry if you feel that I interrupted.”

“On the contrary, I was intrigued by your interest. And then you scurried away…”

“On the contrary. I was going back to my job, which I need to continue doing. I don’t have free time to fritter away, sorry.”

He stood for a moment, just looking at her, with that amused smile on his face. It made her nervous, which made her mad.

“Excuse me. I need to go. And obviously, so do you or you wouldn’t be in the men’s room.”

Sliding past him, she heard him laugh as the door closed between them.


And now here it was, a full week after that first embarrassing meeting and he was here again, solo this time. She didn’t see any sub kneeling at his feet, hadn’t seen anyone in the main room. Jakob was talking to him in the corner, the two men sitting and drinking coffee at 930 in the morning, for crissakes. Not that she could begrudge her boss time to sit and have morning coffee, it was just…awkward.

And the awkward stuff needed to be faced. With a deep sigh she took up her tool bucket and walked through the room.

“Morning Boss, morning Roderick.”

And she was through the room and in the back hallway. Breathing a sigh of relief, she pelted up the steps to the third floor. It was easiest to start at the top and work her way down. Already the work had settled into a comfortable routine. Slipping her headphone buds into her ears, she put on her music and began to clean. Thirty minutes later she jogged downstairs,  slipped her cleaning bucket into the first room, then dashed upstairs to sweep them. Backing her way down, a step at at time, she was humming under her breath until she fetched up hard against a solid object. A solid, warm, man-type of object. With a small shriek of surprise, she whipped around, taking in the amused smile on Roderick’s face.

“That was really stupid,” she fumed, tugging out one earpiece. “I could have hit you with my broom.”

“Oh my, that’s a terrifying scenario,” he replied, his lips twitching.

She rolled her eyes.

“I’m ever so glad you’re amused.”

“Good, then perhaps you’ll consent to play with me sometime.”

“Sure! Perhaps when Hell freezes over!” 

Shoving past him, she muttered imprecations under her breath, then drew up short as she saw Jakob standing near the door.

“What?” she growled.

“Nothing, calm down little one. I did tell you that she would not be responsive, friend.” This to Roderick.

“So you did. Perhaps another time, then,” he spoke to her, giving her a look that she was sure wet the panties of all those little subbie girls who swooned over him night after night.

“Or perhaps not. You’re not my type. I’m not interested. Like–at all. Sorry. Now, I have to go scrub some toilets.”

Turning on her heel she left the dirt pile where it was. She’d get back to it once the other pile of…men…left.


“You have to expect that the members here will be intrigued by you. You’re a pure vanilla girl and some will find that–a challenge.”

Jakob handed half of  his sandwich to her.

“It’s stupid. I’m not a challenge. I’m a fucking janitor. Not a side of beef. Not a…submissive. NOT interested in that shit.”

Waving her hand to encompass the playroom on the other side of the building, she bit into her half of the sandwich. If he thought that she protested overmuch, he kept that strictly to himself.




Thanks(giving) for the Mammory Memories

It’s Thanksgiving here in the States, and the annual tradition of turkey and stuffing and all that good food and companionship and family and friends–and the time to give thanks for our many blessings–is upon us.

I do give thanks for the vanilla parts of my life, very deeply rooted gratitudes for the blessings of my family, my home, my life.

But with this other side of me, there is a different richness of blessings.

I’m blessed to have a Master who knows me as well as He does, who spoils me and teases me and urges me to be a better me. Who loves me for being the slutty little whore who begs for His attention, for being the painslut who loves the slap of His hands upon my body as much as I love the gentle kisses He sometimes bestows. I love the feel of His fist curled up in my hair, the slap of His toys on my ass, the brutal bite of His teeth on my shoulder, the way I go in looking nice, and come out looking used. I love the pain of being fucked to orgasm so many times, (with so many toys, with His cock, with His fingers, with His mouth,) that I can barely walk when our time is over. I love that we’ve made it work for all these years and keep growing closer entwined in each others needs.

And I love the way He marks me.

Three months ago He did this….(it still makes me very wet to look at these pictures…) and I’m ready for more. So yes, I’m greedy–but I have deep gratitude that His needs mesh so well with mine, that He is the answer to the question I discovered lived inside of me. So I’ll have that turkey and veggies, to be sure, and enjoy them fully. And later, not much later, I’ll enjoy the feast of His time and attention. And maybe come out looking somewhat like this once again.


Happy Thanksgiving, and Blessings to you, pervy peeps!


The Job (2)

It turned out that Nettles, the bar where she’d hoped to land a job as a janitor, was way more than a bar. The entire building was the bar. And the bar was a dungeon.

She kept trying to wrap her brain around it, as her boss–for certain she was not going to call him Sir–Jakob led her around through the various rooms.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of kink. BDSM, right?”

“You mean like all that fifty shades stuff? Well, yeah. It’s been on tv and that book and now–well. Yeah, I’ve heard of it. I just didn’t imagine all this…”

Her voice trailed off as she spun a slow circle on her heel, taking in the largest play space. Whips and chains didn’t begin to cover it, she mused eyeing a variety of implements hung meticulously on the wall closest to where they stood. Paddles with large holes in them, fer gosh sakes. Enormous contraptions including a cross, a ginormous wheel, a pommel horse..

“I don’t suppose you use that for gymnastics,” she murmured, making the giant man laugh with delight.

“No! No we don’t. Would you like a demonstration?”

Her hands flashed a warning ‘no no no’ as she shook her head vehemently.

“I’m not into all that sex crap.”

“Sex. Crap.”

He pondered that, pondered her, looking at her in a way that made her feel uneasy.

“Look–I don’t have a boyfriend or girlfriend or significant pet or anything. I’m…I’m just not into all that.”

His head canted to the side, his curiosity piqued.  “Sex is normal and healthy and fun. In here it can be painful, erotic–or not present at all. Not all painsluts want sex. Not all sadists do either. A plethora of sensual, erotic and/or sexual proclivities are explored within these walls. This is a safe place for those types of activities. Why are you not interested in sex?”

“I don’t think that matters much for my job.”

“Only inasmuch as you may be around during some of my client’s activities. It wouldn’t do to have one of my employees sneering at them for their choice of play.”

“I wouldn’t–it’s not that I don’t appreciate people having sex. It just isn’t for me.”

“Maybe your prior sexual experiences just weren’t the right ones. Perhaps your partners were lousy in bed.”

She blushed, staring at her toes.

“Not them. Me. I’m…broken, if you must know.”

A large finger lifted her chin until she was looking up into his dark eyes.

“In here is a place where sex, bodies, and temperaments are all explored. We push boundaries, we push limits, we fully enjoy the experience of being living, sentient beings. Some enjoy controlling others, some enjoy submitting to that control. Some come for events, some come for a safe place to try new things, to find friends who understand the lifestyle, people they can be “out” to, in a setting that is not judgmental, or calling “abusive”. I don’t believe that someone who calls themselves “broken” finds their way here by accident. In here, we can often fix the “broken” bits…”

“I don’t need to be fixed…any more than I need to learn the right liquor to drink. I’m here for a job, Mr. Jakob. A regular paycheck, a place to show that I do have skills. I *like* cleaning. It’s a peaceful, yet useful skill. I enjoy the quiet of dusting, the hum of a vacuum under my hand, the feel of a place as I transform it from scruffy to shining. That’s what I do, and it makes me happy. And I’m damned good at it.”

He knew when to leave a seed planted in the soil, to let it germinate. While she wasn’t defensive, there was definitely a story there. And he didn’t have to fix her, she was correct. But he liked her somewhat abrasive, honest style.

“Well, consider yourself hired. There is usually some activity each night here except for Monday when we’re closed. That’s when I do inventory, shuffle stock, check equipment for failures, and when you’d do your deepest weekly work. Players are expected to wipe down the equipment, it’s not for you to attend to that. I have a girl who takes care of the play room floor as it gets very…moist…and she enjoys that task.  Different strokes for different folks,” he spoke with a smile in his voice.

He clarified the pay, which was generous, and her hours.

“You are allowed to explore the place to your leisure. If you play, you do so on your free time, not on the clock. Mostly that won’t happen as I’ll want you here in the mornings. The club is open until 3 a.m. most days, excepting for special events which go longer. But the optimum time for clean up is in the pre-noon until 3 p.m. time slot and I’m flexible as to when you choose to come in. If I feel you’re abusing my privilege, I’ll put a stop to it, but I suspect you’ll be diligent.  You’re also invited to watch any evening–no attendance fee for my staff. Maybe you’ll begin to understand a bit more what the Lifestyle is once you’ve met some people, seen some scenes played out. What you choose to experience–or not experience–is up to you, little one.”

She snorted at that.

“I’m hardly a little one.”

“I thought you’d prefer that to ‘midget’…”

Infinitely. Though you could just…you know…use my name?”

“Mandy, you’re a fine girl. What a good ….cleaner….you will be.”

She grinned. Wouldn’t be the first time someone had misquoted that song on purpose. Only he was funnier about it. This might be the strangest place she’d ever been, but in an odd way, it suited her kind of strange, too.

Funny, though, a girl who had never, could never, have an orgasm, working for a sex club. The gods worked in mysterious ways. And likely laughed about it, too.

He Throws me a (curve) Ball…

so…ya’ll know that M and I are wicked football fanatics, yes? (American football, that.)

So we’ve had this bet thing going all season and I’ve been *wicked* good at it, earning O’s like crazy each gameday. So this week I sent Him my bet without talking to Him first.


What the fuck was I thinking? We’re not a vanilla couple. We’re not equals. I never *asked* but I did ASSume.

Yeah. That makes me an ass.

So the game starts and I’m all happy, and suddenly the Patriots are winning by a mile and the points rack up much higher than all the talking heads on sports radio had anticipated (after all, Detroit was reputed to have a blazing defense.)…and I read a text from Him.

In this game, you LOSE an O from your O-Bank for every point scored over your prediction.

I …my heart just *fell*. We were already 3 points over when I read that, and a sudden touchdown (7 points) totally wiped out my bank. Like–ZERO. And then we headed into negative territory. I have no way to call Him, as I’m home with the family, and only minimal text ability for the same reason and I’m dying inside to know what the ramifications are for going in the hole.

When I leave for work, I call Him, but the game is still on, and He won’t tell me what happens now.

I do recall sputtering….”but…but Master!!  This means I have NO O’s before our playday….”

and His unsympathetic, “aww, that’s too bad, isn’t it?”

So…I still have no idea about what the bill will be…but the advantage has all fallen into His hands.

It’s totally unfair…

…and perfectly right within our dynamic for it to be so.

(Isn’t that maddeningly hawt???!)


The Job

I’m not sure where these sort of tales come from. Maybe because I’ve had an extended mental vacation from writing, or maybe it’s the change in seasons, or maybe I’m just super horny right now, but idea’s for stories are just burning through my brain. Unlike the last one, this tale begs to be a long drawn out affair. ~nilla~

“Local bar looking for a janitor. Must be reliable, have references. No free booze, don’t apply if that’s your goal. Looking for self-motivated person that takes pride in their work. WE do, you should too. Respond to this ad by texting to 555-111-5555.”

Mandy picked up her phone and sent the text.

Looking for work. Never missed a day at my old job, just got laid off when new owner cleaned house. Ha ha. (not) Have experience, transportation, and references. And I don’t drink.

The ping of her phone less than two minutes after sending the text shocked her. There had been too many dead ends to hope…yet the text was a response to hers.

134 So. Main Street. Be there at 3 and the job could be yours. Why don’t you drink? AA?

She supposed that was a reasonable question.

I hate the taste of alcohol. And I get drunk super easy, and…I guess I’m too much of a self-control freak to let go like that.

She frowned. Three o’clock was in 90 minutes. She should likely put on somewhat decent jeans, janitor or not. And a bra. Definitely a bra. And run a comb through the rat’s nest that she hadn’t bothered to brush when she got up this morning.

*ping* her phone chimed.

You just haven’t had the right sort of alcohol then. See you at 3.

Pompous, was her first thought.

whatever. you said no drinking. that won’t be a problem, so you don’t need to ‘solve’ it.

He or she should know up front that she was a no bullshit kind of woman.

excellent response

Whomever it was, male or female, there was a hint of condescension that irked a bit. Still, she was desperate for a job. Her unemployment bennies would end soon, and there were not that many offerings there, at least not for permanent jobs. One-offs had helped, to be sure, but she needed steady income. She trudged off to prepare to impress.

***   ***   ***

Finding the parking space right out front had to be a good omen, right? She slid out of her car, locking it, then looked across the street. The bar, Nettles, looked pretty nondescript, though it was the only business housed in the large brick building. She slide her purse over her shoulder, took a deep breath, and crossed. There was a door that looked like it might have once graced the front door of a medieval manor, thick and imposing. Though there was a gargoyle-faced knocker, she chose the modern route and depressed the doorbell under the brass numerals ‘134’.

The door swung open, soundless on the thick brass hinges.

She was uncertain for a moment, then taking a deep breath, stepped up, and in.

***   ***   ***

“You’re here for the job, right?”

The girl who closed the door behind Mandy looked to be about 12, but was maybe early 20’s. Her hair was center-parted and drawn up into two high ponytails on each side of her head. Her  outfit was schoolgirlish, in that slutty way. Super short, her blouse tight, unbuttoned, and tied below a set of impressive breasts. Mandy might have felt out of place–if she gave a shit.

Which she didn’t.

She was here for a job, and not to be a dressed up slutty barmaid. She nodded briefly, yes, and tried not to stare at where the hemline landed as the girl turned. Sashaying, for surely that was the epitome of that odd word, the girl abjured her to “walk this way.” Mandy had never walked that way in her life. If she was a super-feminist type she might have gotten all protest-y about the girls attire, but really it was none of her concern how the kid dressed.

They walked through the open bar area, and then behind to a full kitchen. Through the kitchen, into a hallway, and Mandy figured they must be at the back of the huge building now.  Behind the kitchen was another hallway with three doors. The girl knocked on the door with a brass plate on it that read “NO!” and opened the door when a man’s voice spoke.

“Your three O’clock appointment is here, Sir.”

The barmaid’s attitude was shy, almost.

“Show him in.”

“Actually, Sir, he is a she.”

There was a muttered curse, then a curt “show her in.”

The girl stepped away from the door, and ushered Mandy inside. She had a quick glance around at what was very obviously a man’s domain; leather tall-backed chairs on each side of the huge desk, dark curtains at the tall window, and a large man with tattooed ‘sleeves’ up both bare arms. He stared at Mandy for a long moment. She spoke, as much to fill the awkward silence as to speak her mind.

“So I’m not a guy. I work hard. I’m honest. If you think you can’t hire me because I don’t have the same plumbing as you do, then that’s your loss.”

She had NO idea where that spurt of rage had come from. Maybe months of job hunting and never quite being enough. This time the lack of “enough” was a penis? No, she wasn’t going to deal with this shit any more. She turned on her heel and started for the door. Her hand was on the knob when the voice from behind her spoke.

“So, you’re a quitter then?”

“You’re the one who freaked when you discovered I’m not a guy.”

“Just to clarify, saying “oh fuck” is not freaking. You’re not what I expected, but I can live with it. As long as you show up, and do your job, that’s what I need.”

“I’m not planning on dressing up like her.”

Mandy turned, her back against the door, and thumbed her finger behind her. He laughed, deep and genuine.

“I should hope not! I sincerely doubt you are a little…and it isn’t the right attire for an industrial engineer anyway.”

She cracked a smile. People always wanted to fancy up the title.

“I’m fine with being a janitor, doesn’t bother me a bit. I like the work most days. Mostly right now?  I need the work. I want a chance. Okay, I don’t have a penis. But I work steady, quickly, hard.”

“How about I show you around and see if this is something you feel….comfortable with.”

Something in the way he looked when he said that made her wonder. What exactly was this bar expecting her to do? Scrub the floor with a toothbrush? He rose, and she had to stare a moment. The guy was a fucking giant! She was, as she often described herself, vertically challenged. This guy was going to make her feel like a damned midget!

“Something wrong?”

“No…just…you’re really tall.”

“Funny. I was just thinking you’re really short.”

She didn’t intend to giggle, but it just spurted out from her mouth. With a smile, He took her arm , drew her out into the hallway, and began showing her around.

Time (3)”

Tell me you want my cock.”

He was across the garage bay, leaning against the front fender of her car. Head tilted to one side, he looked at her. She was a beautiful mess; tits peppered with bruises, skirt hiked up to her hips, her breasts quivering. Her bottom lip was swollen from his hand and from his brutal kisses. Her face showed the strain of having her arms behind her, bearing the weight of the chain . The long length of  it trailed from her wrists to the ground,  pooled between her feet. She was close, he knew, to tumbling headlong into submission.

The tip of her tongue peeked out, her lips glistened with moisture as she licked. His cock twitched as his eyes followed the quick darting movement.

I want your cock.”

Her voice, though raspy, was audible even here. He pushed off the car, sauntering over to where she stood swaying.

“You’ve wanted my cock ever since you stood there watching me take a piss, didn’t you? You wanted to put your lips around it, feel my shaft in your hands, wanted me to shove deep into your sopping wet cunt, didn’t you?”

His words made her burn. Embarrassment warred with greed. She did want his cock. Wanted, yes, exactly as he described. Her fingers itched to hold him, feel the velvet hardness, the strong length of his shaft. Her cunt wanted to feel  him pummel her. He’d stretch her good, ride her hard. He wouldn’t be a gentle lover; he’d take, and use, and …

His hand closed in her hair, tipping her head back. His mouth moved over hers, biting hard into her sore bottom lip. She moaned into his mouth.

“You need to work harder for it.”

He stepped back, then circled behind her. She felt him tug on the chain around her wrists, heard the clank of metal. Before she could wonder what he was up to, he was in front of her once more. He was holding a box, some kind remote control. With a half-smile, he depressed the button. From above her came a click, then a soft whirring sound. She felt the jolt as the slack was taken from the chain, then her arms came up. She cried out as her shoulders protested.

“Best bend over, girl.”

She folded, her wrists and hands rising painfully above her back.  He stepped back, placing the remote on the hood of her car, clicking off the hoist moments before she thought she’d start screaming. He looked at her for a long minute, then unzipped the fly of his work coveralls. Keeping his eyes on hers, he released his shaft. He was half hard as it was; seeing her at her most vulnerable made his cock continue to stiffen. Her head tilted as she followed his progress towards her. He stopped a full two feet away.

“Come get it.”

She took a half step forward, halted by the tug on her wrists.

“C’mon girl, you can reach it–if you want it enough.”

She whimpered as her arms strained, tugged high by her need to taste him with her mouth. He was so close–and just out of reach.

“Please…” she sobbed out the word, her mouth scant inches from the tip of his shaft. The head was swollen, red, glistening right there. Right out of her reach.

“What will you give me for a taste?”

She looked up at him, confused.  The corner of his mouth turned upward.

“You know. You’ll let me fuck you? Let me spank what I think is a pretty fine ass? Let me fuck that ass? What? What will you give me in return for my letting you taste my cock?”

He watched the thoughts flicker across her face. The anal bit certainly made her shift in place, even contorted as she was. He was sure he saw the glisten of juice on her inner thigh–he could smell the arousal.

He shifted his hips, making his cock sway and bounce.


She was more aroused than she had ever been in her life. Her clit pulsed with its miniature version of his erection. Her pussy was so hot that she could feel the press of her swollen lips on her thighs, the taunting rub of her panties jammed in her slit adding to her excitement. Other than slapping her around a bit, he’d barely touched her, and she knew she had to have more.



“Anything you want to do…I’ll …yes. You can do it all.”

He nodded, that half-smile still in place, almost mocking her, or her plight, or her wantonness.

He took a small step forward.

“Offer accepted.”

Stretching out to the furthest she could bear, her tongue barely brushed against the head. She moaned in frustration, stretched herself to her limit, and dragged the top of her yearning tongue across the slit of his cock.

He stepped forward, his hand soft on the back of her head, encouraging her.

“Good girl. Keep working for it.”

She  ignored the scream from her shoulders, and the tears tracing lines of pain down her face as  he slid between her yearning lips. The silky, salty taste of him consumed her, his hand on his head taught her. Her lips stretched wide, the bottom one aching with a throb that was answered between her wet legs.

As he stepped closer, as his cock slid into the hot depths of her wet, succulent mouth, she moaned. It was so big, this magnificent penis, thick and hard, with the tender yielding skin gliding over her tongue. She tasted the sweet saltiness of him, would have taken more, swallowed every drop, but he withdrew from her hot, greedy mouth.

Her moan was answered by his laugh.

“Time to pay your bill, slut.”

Time (2)

The girls voices droned on and on, faint annoying buzzes in the background. Twirling the olive in her martini, her body was here, but her mind and pussy were back in the garage, replaying the scene where he was standing there peeing, cock in hand and…

“Sarah!” A hard poke in her shoulder jostled her out of the moment. Pasting a quick smile on her face, she tried to recall what, exactly, the girls had been giggling about.

“Ashley.” She replied with a poke back at the blonde on her left.

“Can you believe that Ringer is retiring?”


“They say his replacement will be announced tomorrow,” Ashley walked over Sarah’s comment, per usual. Well that was fine. She could stun them all into silence by naming Ringer’s replacement now, but why not wait and hold that close to her vest for a while longer.

“Aaaand,” Miranda took up the tale, her dark eyes flashing around the table, holding everyone in suspense. Before she could continue, the waiters returned with the horderves, laying platters around the table. It was the perfect opportunity to break away.

“I’m sorry ladies,.” She pushed her chair from the table, rising with a look of regret.  “I have to run. I’m borrowing someone’s car and have promised to get it back …”  pausing to glance at her watch she was shocked to note that less than an hour had passed since she’d left the garage  “….very soon.”

There was that hot, slick feeling between her legs as she moved around the table hugging her coworkers, saying her goodbyes, the kind of wet heat that only  came from deep arousal. Day-ammmmm. All from watching a man take a piss?

There were a few pouts, a breath full of mixed perfumes, a bevy of air kisses, and then she was away. Why ever had she agreed to go out with them in the first place, she wondered, feeling a sudden release of pressure. She chose to ignore the equally sudden sharp slap of lust.

She made her way to his car. It was a slick little machine for a grease monkey. She could tell that he’d customized it. The engine purred as she slid through the gears and raced off into the night. Fuck him! Wouldn’t it just serve him right if she took it home with her for the night?  Or went to a club and picked up some man-whore and fucked him senseless in the backseat. Not that there was much in the way of backseat. Yet the car kept heading homeward, despite her half-formed plans to thwart him. She spent the last moments as she nudged up to the battered garage building pretending that her pulse didn’t bump up a few notches.

“Damn that big cock,” she muttered. She had not been able to get the image of it, the stream of urine gushing out of the thick head, the knowing look in his eyes as he saw her watching him pee.

She pulled into his parking spot, slid out of the hot ride. A shiver danced down her back as the frigid  breeze blew up her skirt;  such a sharp contrast to the intense heat between her legs.

The bell over the door swung wildly as she entered the waiting area. The lights here were dim, as was the garage.


Shedding her coat, she strode into the garage, but didn’t see him. It would be too much to hope that he’d be taking another piss, she imagined, but she opened the door anyway. It was empty, but before she could move, arms came around her from behind. She caught an image of his face in the mirror before he tugged her away.

“Look who came back.”

She would have replied but his hand around her throat made it difficult. His other hand was cupped under her right tit, as if weighing it. Like the hand around her throat, it kept clenching, releasing.

“I figured you’d wait until tomorrow to return my ride, and you know,  I’da really been pissed. But now you have me all kinds of happy that you came back.”

The hands clenched harder this time, and her head fell back against his shoulder, seeking air. Her breast ached where his fingers dug into the soft skin, yet she could feel her nipple pressing into his palm. There’d be grease marks on her blouse, she was sure.

He bit her earlobe.

“All kinds of happy,” he whispered. “Say no, and this stops now.”

He paused but her mouth stayed shut. For better or worse she had to see, to feel that cock.

“Figured you for a chicken-shit coward. Guess I was wrong again. Let’s see if I can shake up that confidence a wee bit, eh?”

Both hands cupped her tits now, and they weren’t being gentle as they mauled at her. It took him seconds to undo the buttons, though she had pegged him for a rip-it-apart kind of guy. Her bra was tugged up, her tits fell free. His voice hummed against her neck as his fingers tortured her nipples, twisting, tugging, pinching.  The crotch of her panties went from damp to soaked.

Releasing her, ordering her to “stay put” he moved across the garage. She saw the length of chain he stalked toward her. A lightning-quick slap on her right tit made her squeal.

“Hands behind your back.” His voice was a growl, not to be argued with.  There was a tug, the icy touch of metal around her wrists, moving up her arms. A snick and tug informed her that he’d locked her in the chains.

She was helplessly aroused. Standing, tits thrust forward by the tight binding of her arms, she was both vulnerable and brazen. He stepped to her front. Pinching both nipples, she had to rise to her toes as he lifted her tits high. Her breath came in fast spurts, a combination of fear and fascination. Never had she been treated this way. Never had she been this wet, felt this intense need. Heat burned in her clit, wetness leaked from her pussy. Around and around her he moved, continuing his torture of her naked breasts. She felt the heat in them, the glow from the constant rain of blows. And then he was against her, face to face, his mouth crushing hers, his tongue sweeping through her mouth, as his palm raced up her thigh and cupped her mound.

Fingers slid up and over the sodden fabric, drawing a line from front to back, deepening the crease until her panties were drawn tight into her slit.

“You’re a fucking wanton slut, you are. Tell me.”

His hand fisted in her hair and shook her head. Eyes the color of graphite burned into hers. Her lips stayed shut, refusing this final capitulation.

“Tell me,” he ordered, refusing to break his gaze from hers.

Heart thudding hard in her chest, she met his gaze with her own haughty look, despite her naked tits, despite the burning wetness of her cunt.

His slap came hard against her cheek, then a second, a third.

She shook as the orgasm claimed her.