Sweet Danger (25 page)

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Authors: Violet Blue

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Anthologies (Multiple Authors), #Erotica, #Romance, #Contemporary

BOOK: Sweet Danger
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You tell me: “Mr. Nice Guy’s gone, Katrina. That dick in your mouth right now? That’s your new daddy’s dick. You whore for
Daddy
now. You walk the streets for
Daddy
now, Katrina.” I keep sucking obediently, hungrily working your cock as I taste the steady drizzle of pre-come leaking onto my tongue. I can hear your voice going weak with the building pleasure. “You’re Daddy’s little moneymaker now, Katrina. You shake that pretty ass and bring it home for your new daddy. Five dollars for a blow, ten dollars for a fuck, fifteen for Greek. No kissing, no hand jobs, no freebies for the cops, no rough stuff from anyone but me. You got that, Katrina? You’re gonna do everything Daddy says, aren’t you?”
You pull me off your cock. Drool runs down onto my chin and soaks my tube top. I pant and whimper and heave as you pull my hair and force my head back.
You lean down and spit in my face.
“I asked you a question, Katrina.”
I’ve got the fight back in me. I feel it rising in my belly. I’m going to fight you. I’ve got everything it takes.
I cock my head and spit back.
I can tell you’re surprised by that. You don’t expect a reluctant whore. I’m such a horny little cunt day in, day out, you have to practically keep me on a leash. I’m so compliant you can leave a note like TUNA CASSEROLE on the fridge, and I’ll have it served up steaming with a side of I’m-not-wearing-anyunderwear by the time you get home from your Post-Colonial Governmental Intercessions seminar.
And I’m
far
from a smart-assed little masochist.
But I’m a whore tonight. I’m your whore. You’re trying to make me your whore. You’ve got to break me.
So you don’t lose your temper. You just grab me, hair and wrist, and haul me over your lap.
Spank
.
I squeal.
“You wanna play dirty?”
Spank
.
You yank my very short, very tight skirt up over my ass, exposing the whisper of cheap lace that pass as my panties. You yank those down my thighs, to the point where they reach the tops of my stockings.
Spank
.
Spank
.
Spank
.
You yank my panties away, popping my garters. One clasp rattles against the nightstand. You shove my panties to my knees and spank me harder.
Your cock rubs against me. I writhe. My tube top is gone, on my shoulders or my belly or wherever. You spank me again and I squirm. Harder. I fight.
I’m squirming too much for your taste, I guess. You get both your big, leather-jacketed arms around me and hold me tightly in position over your lap, hammering down with your open palm while I cry out. When I try to close my legs you pin those open, too. You’re like an octopus, pinning me everywhere I can move.
And then you’re on my sweet spot, spanking rhythmically, forcing me to orgasm.
Maybe you’ve finally realized why I spat on you.
That was a mean trick, bastard, to get me all close and then make me give you head. I could already taste your pre-come. You would have popped in my mouth in another ten seconds. And then where would we be?
You give it to me slowly, like a maestro building toward the crescendo.
You’re in total control.
Tipped over your lap, my ass in the air, my legs spread, my sweet spot resonating right into my clit with every hard blow of your palm, I’m in total surrender.
I strain desperately against your weight, squirming and fighting and arching my back, trying to stop it from happening. That’s why it happens so
good
.
I come.
You ride me through it, spanking me, holding me down against your lap, tight.
Then you shove me onto the bed and haul my hips up, forcing my ass into the air. You grab my panties and pull one side of them off over one fishnet stocking and one high-heeled shoe, leaving the stiff, sex-soaked slip of cheap lace dangling from my other ankle. You spread my legs.
You shove your cock into me.
My cunt still spasms as you enter me, your big cockhead stretching me open. You slide in deep. I gasp and shove myself onto you, grinding my hips back and forth.
“Understand, Katrina?”
“Yes, Daddy,” I moan.
You start to fuck me as rough as you can manage, which isn’t actually very rough, because you’re struggling to hold back. You’re going to come. You want to pound me, but another three or four thrusts and you’ll be gone.
I take this as the highest form of compliment. Most nights you’ll last for hours if I give you the chance. Tonight you can’t even fuck me properly for fear of blowing your load.
So I think fast: “Daddy,” I moan. “Please don’t make me do Greek.”
You pull your cock out of me. I gasp and moan like I’ve just been deflated.
“Go get the lube,” you say.
I’m not sure how to play this. It’s not a typical experiment. Anal sex is something I do only with an enormous amount of pre-planning and the promise of bubble baths and preferably Porsches. It’s good when it’s good, but it takes a lot out of me. I don’t know why I said it. I just did. Because it was hot. Because you were in control, and I was afraid it was going to end with you coming already. So I escalated things.
Do I break up the scene and say, “Just kidding,” or do I do it? Do I go through with it? Do I let you fuck me in the ass?
When you get tired of waiting, your voice is heavy and heated, hinting at anger.
“Daddy gave you an
order
, Katrina.”
There’s something deeply humiliating about being forced to get up and go get the lube so you can fuck me in the ass. I do so under the loud protest of my more sensible self. I go to the little hot pink plastic purse I stuffed full of condoms and lube and sweaty $5 bills.
I dump it all on the cracked counter and pick out the little tube of KY.
My face feels hot as I bring it back to the bed and give it to you.
It’s deeply degrading to hand over the lube you’re going to use to plow my ass to show my submission to you. The fact that I could end it all with a word or even a look doesn’t make it any less degrading. It just makes the degradation something I can handle, something positive. I don’t understand it any more than you do, or than
anyone
would.
You pluck the lube from my hand, push me away, and gesture at me.
“Take those off,” you say.
You mean my clothes. What is there left to take off? I have to grope to find the tube top. It’s at an angle around my rib cage. The dog collar stays. The clasps of the garters have been popped on both sides. My fishnets hang limp and bunched at my calves. The skirt is just a strip of fabric perched atop my hips.
But I wouldn’t dream of disobeying you, now that I’ve accepted you’re about to own me utterly.
I kick off my high-heeled shoes and fishnets, pull down the skirt, and pull the tube top over my head.
Then I put my shoes back on.
I perch next to you and say meekly, “How do you want me, Daddy?”
Your only answer is a hand in my hair and an arm around my waist. You spill me doggie-style across the bed again and open my legs with your knees. Your mouth descends, unexpectedly, between my cheeks. I feel your tongue wriggling into my ass, and I cry out in shock. This was the last thing I expected. You’ve never done this before.
It tightens me at first, but after a few minutes of the soft, warm sensation of your tongue caressing my asshole, I start to relax. You take your time, your tongue swirling and surging and opening me up: Daddy’s Little Moneymaker. With the weight of your body and the hard thrusts of your tongue, you work me from a face-down, ass-up position into a fully prone one. Then I feel your tongue replaced by your finger, slick with lube. Then another finger. Then both at once.
Then your cock. I let out a gasp. I whimper. You give me time for my ass to get used to your cock, an inch at a time, until you’re mostly in me.
Then you fuck me.
I’ve never enjoyed anal sex the way I do tonight, taking it spread and helpless on a cheap motel bedspread from my new pimp, my new Master, my daddy. You hold me down and fuck me slowly, until you’re sure I can take it. Until I beg for more.
Then you pound me hard, till I beg you to come.
The smooth slick feeling of your come in my ass is humiliating and liberating. I lay underneath you long after you’ve finished.
You kiss the back of my neck and tell me you love me.
And that’s it. It’s over. You’ve put a leash on me. I’m your whore.
Forever after, I’ll be Daddy’s little moneymaker.
My Number One Fan
 
SARAH SANDS
 
Something was up. There was just something about the way Chloe hugged me when I walked into the bar. She held me a little too long, a little too close, a bit too reluctant to give up her grasp on my shoulders. Her hands even lingered a tad along my arms. They gave me goose bumps.
Chloe and I were not what I would call
really
close, which is why what happened later would surprise me so much. Sometimes you do things and they just, like, happen, almost without your input. And Chloe’s energy that night seemed to invite such a “something.”
The feeling creeped me out a little.
I think even Amy, usually clueless to sexual matters, noticed the energy. It would have been kind of hard not to, since it was just the three of us. Every Thursday night, the patio at Rick’s is routinely crowded with our friends. But this was the week of Burning Man, and no one was around except Amy, who couldn’t get off work, and Chloe, famously poor after her layoff, and me. I was in a new relationship, or a relatively new relationship, so I didn’t feel like going out of town. I was having too much fun as it was.
In fact, I had brought Sean to Rick’s about a month ago. He proved a big hit with all my friends. My bringing him there meant it was serious. He’d wanted to come tonight, but he said cryptically that he had “important business,” which did terrible things to my attention span. I couldn’t stop thinking about him, wondering what he was up to.
Amy and Chloe and I chatted. No matter what I said, Chloe hung on my every word. I didn’t get it. I hadn’t been waxed or preened or puffed or had a nose job or a tit job or tried a new perfume since last week, when Chloe was friendly enough but not all over me.
When Amy said she’d get the next round, Chloe, the broke one, practically threw $40 at her and said, “Add a round of bourbon, Ames?”
“Oh, I’m driving,” said Amy.
“Well, then, Sarah and me?”
“All right,” I said defiantly. “I’m game. I’m on the bus.”
“We can take a cab,” said Chloe. “Since we’re going the same direction.”
I looked her over suspiciously.
“Yeah,” I said. “Apparently.”
Amy left the table.
I drew a breath to tell Chloe I thought she was making Amy uncomfortable. Before I could utter a word or even get all my breath in, Chloe was leaning forward and pawing my denim-covered arms.
“Oh. My. God,” she said. “Ohmigod. Ohmigod. Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod, who’s your biggest fan?”
My mouth popped shut. I gave her the “Crazy much?” look.
“Who’s your number one fan? You sick
perv
!”
It still took me a second. I buried my face in my hands.
“Ohmigod, so fucking good,” she said. “Hawt! Hawt! Hawt! Hawt! Hawt! Every word true, Sarah? Every word true, like you promised?”
I
had
promised.
I said, “Yeah.” My voice sounded squeaky and uncomfortable.
“He
did
that to you?”
I shrugged, turning seven shades of red. I nodded.
“When?”
“Recently,” I said nervously.
Chloe looked excited, but as red as I was, she was probably twice as embarrassed. After all, I was the one who had written it.
I’m not saying I object. I’m not a shy person, really. Just
private
. That’s why when I started a blog detailing my sexual adventures with Sean, I never even thought of doing it bareback. Which is to say, without a pseudonym, or at least the barest hint of one.
I was Sleazy Slut Sara, without the “h.” The explicitly detailed stories were true to my pseudonym, in every way except the fact that it was mostly with Sean that I fucked around. But there were exceptions. The boywhore in Las Vegas. The stripper in L.A. The man at the glory hole…mmmm… the glory hole…
The stories were true, or at least I
said
they were true. In a way I took every liberty, but in another I took
no
liberties, owing to Sean’s overwhelming fucking
amazingness
. And mine, if you must know.

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