Welcome Visitor: Login to the siteJoin the site



They meet for the first time to see if their chemistry is as electric in person as it is online. Alec decides it isn't. Sweet, demure, timid Melissa decides that chemistry has nothing to do with it and takes matters into her own hands.


Submitted:Apr 24, 2013    Reads: 2,461    Comments: 2    Likes: 3   


We decide after a long, flirty friendship that we'll meet in Port Huron at a restaurant near the bridge. We say that we're only meeting to see each other face-to-face for the first and possibly last time and to put to bed those lingering questions about our chemistry, about our desires, and about our willingness to throw caution to the wind.

Our eyes meet for the first time and I'm just as impressed in person by the freshness of your face and that frazzled look in your hair as I was with your photos. But it's your smile that takes me by surprise. You can't help but smile widely and yet, at the same time, you have a touch of self-consciousness about you. I think the overall effect is charming, sweet, and intensely sensual.

I decided to wear clothes that I think you'll like, but I sense that you go out of your way to wear clothes that you've described to me before. I also sense that you just want to be comfortable and in your element. I wish I had done the same, but I try to get it out of my head since it's too late to change it.

We have an awkward dinner and we talk about mundane things that we've already discussed online or that we don't really care to discuss. But we do it anyway to help fill those silent spaces and to mask our nervousness. We find it difficult to be as sexually open in person as we are via our messages and it doesn't take long for both of us to confirm that we're not really meant to be together. I'm too old for you and have too many strings; you're too young for me and can't waste your youth obsessing over a man like me. It has been an erotic thrill for us both, writing and chatting and teasing each other. It had to end eventually and sadly, I feel this is it.

But we still want to enjoy the little time we have left, luxuriating in our physical proximity. As time passes, the restaurant seems to close in on us and begins to feel unwelcoming. "Alec," you say. "I know you only have a short amount of time. Why don't we watch a movie in my room where we can just be ourselves for our last hours together? I don't want our one and only meeting to be in this restaurant."

Your idea sounds reasonable and enjoyable; two friends spending time together in a place where they don't have to look over their shoulders. I'm relieved by your suggestion because I didn't want to be the one to say it even though I wished the same thing. I go with you to your room as we discuss movies. In your room, I see some clothes draped over the arm chair and I see your small bag open on the stand under the mirror. I'm guessing that you checked in, took a quick shower, put on fresh clothes, and went straight to the restaurant. "Grab all the pillows from the other bed. We can make a sofa on that bed and watch the movie from there."

I do as you suggest while you dig into your opened bag. When I finish with the pillows I say, "Alright. What movie should we watch?" I look at you and, for the first time, notice that your posture and stance are a little different. I also notice the gun in your hand pointing directly at me.

"Stand up," you say. With a shocked look on my face and my jaw dropped comically, I slowly stand. The first thought that goes through my head is that this is a joke.

"Is that one of your guns? Why did you bring that here?" It still doesn't occur to me that you are serious and that your gun might be loaded.

"Strip," you say. I just stand there, still unable to comprehend what you're doing. "I said, 'strip.' Don't make me say it again."

"Melissa, is that loaded?" I ask unbelievingly. "Please don't point that at me."

"Do as I say. You know I don't want to shoot you but guns can fire accidentally and you really don't want to risk it... Now strip off your clothes... Right now." You say this last part urgently, like time is of the essence.

I don't begin to understand you mean business until you change your stance - widen your legs and bend slightly at the knees, and extend the gun outwards in both hands toward me and pointing directly at my chest.

I begin to protest but you interrupt me. "You don't understand. I'm not playing games and I'm not asking you. I'm telling you... Remove all of your clothes and do it before I lose my patience." Your voice is stern and serious, not at all timid and hesitant like I've known you to be these last two hours. I slowly start to undress, intending to talk you out of whatever this is before it gets too far out of hand.

I pick up my right foot to untie my shoelace and slide the shoe off. "Melissa, please don't point that thing at me." You say nothing and I remove my left shoe. "Why are you doing this? What's this about?" I take off both socks. You remain silent but with the same determined look on your face and the same threatening stance and posture. I remove my thick cotton sweater and then my t-shirt. "Melissa, I thought we agreed." I stand and wait.

"Keep going," you say, accentuating your point by raising your head and your eyebrows up in a quick nod as if pointing at the rest of my clothes with your face.

My eyebrows furrow as I unbuckle my belt, unbutton my pants, lower my zipper, and step out of my jeans. I let them drop from my hands to the floor and stand before you wearing only my cotton boxers. Stupidly, I wonder if the slit on the front of my boxers is open, like often happens, and you can see my penis through it. But I don't dare look down or touch it to find out.

With your eyes and the gun trained on me, you reach with your right hand into your bag and pull out an authentic looking pair of handcuffs. You toss them on the bed next to me. "Put one on your right wrist." I hesitantly do as you order. The ratcheting sound of the steel cuff sounds impossibly loud. "Now cuff your other wrist behind your back."

My shoulders and head droop visibly as if to say, "Really?" I slowly and reluctantly put myself even more at your mercy by closing the second cuff over my left wrist behind my back and squeezing it tight - click, click, click, click, click - until I feel the cold metal all the way around my wrist. I begin to feel far more vulnerable than I did when it was just you and your gun.

"Turn around. Let me see them." I spin so that you can see that my hands really are captured. "Now lay down on the bed. On your back." I do as you say, relieved that I'm not completely naked. Once I'm stretched out, you place your gun on top of your open bag and begin to undress. You pull your boots off but you leave your socks. Your sweater, which looks cotton and has a very large crocheted kind of weave with large holes everywhere comes next. You turn your t-shirt inside out as you pull it over your head.

This is the first time I've seen your breasts. The satiny feminine bra with the lacy edges around the top of each cup catches me by surprise. Your black combat boots and baggy clothes led me to expect you'd either wear no bra at all or you'd wear something very utilitarian. This bra is very pretty and holds your ample breasts sweetly.

You unfasten your skirt and let it fall to the floor. Your panties match your bra and I am struck by how different you look now, standing before me in your panties and bra and thigh high socks than you did only a few moments ago while holding a gun on me.

"Melissa, why are you doing this? What do you hope to accomplish?"

You don't answer me. Instead, you push down your panties and step out of them. Taking your gun in hand again, you climb on top of me and straddle my chest. Your pussy is just like you described it to me. You are completely bare and your outer lips are smooth, beautifully rounded, tight, and the same pale color as the skin on the inside of your legs. Your inner lips peek through and have a moistened look. They are convoluted in a perfectly haphazard way, like the wrinkled tissue paper poking out of a gift bag, and they are slightly darker than your outer lips, reminding me that they are made of flesh that stays wet most of the time like your lips and tongue.

"Melissa, we talked about this. I thought we both agreed. Why are you doing this?"

"Listen, you bastard. Before you, I never even thought about oral sex. I stupidly told you that I never had it, that my husband wouldn't do it, and you wrote story after story where you licked my pussy and gave me orgasms. Your messages are constantly filled with suggestions that you want your face between my legs and your tongue inside me. And now we meet and you thought you were going to leave me without showing me what it's like? Bullshit!"

She moves herself into position over my face, her pussy inches above me, opened slightly because her legs are spread wide. "Get busy," she says as she lowers herself and her wet lips touch mine. I turn my head an inch or so to the left, as much as I can since my head is trapped between her legs.

"Melissa, please don't. You can't make me do this. It isn't right."

"No, I'll tell you what isn't right. Making me wet every night with your stories and then leaving me dangling and frustrated; that's what isn't right. Coming here to meet me and thinking you can just drive on home without putting your mouth where your money is; that's not right." She cocks her gun and holds it to my forehead. "I told you to get busy. Lick me... Now!"

Your gun doesn't scare me because I think you'll pull the trigger. It scares me because I worry it might accidentally go off, especially if you become agitated or angry. "Please, Melissa, don't point that thing at me. I'll do it. Please." My voice sounds shaky and not a little panicked. It's one thing to imagine having a gun barrel touching your forehead. But it inspires an entirely different level of fear to really have a gun barrel pressed against your head.

"No. You get busy on my pussy. Then, if you please me the way you always say you can please a woman, I might consider taking it away."

I tentatively reach out my tongue and touch it to your lips. You blanche ever so slightly at the touch of my wet tongue against your flesh. I feel your eyes on me as you lean forward on one of your hands, your other hand holding the gun. I decide that I can't talk you out of this and your gun genuinely frightens me. One slip or tiny misjudgment on your part and you could find yourself with my brains splattered all over you. I don't believe for a second that you would do it intentionally but that would be small consolation for me if it happens.

I taste you fully now as I plow my tongue into and between your sweet lips and taste your slick, salty juices. You were already wet before you thrust yourself onto my face. In all of your messages to me, you always told me how wet I made you. It was as if my words and my stories physically touched you and stimulated your senses and your nerves and forced your cunt to prepare itself to be penetrated. I sometimes believed you told me that to make me horny; to flatter my own ego. But now I believe you. You are already wet and I suspect you have been wet since we first walked into your room and you first made me strip.

I won't lie to you. I love your bare pussy and your delightful flesh. I love your flavors. And I love how wet you are. My face is soon covered in your wetness, gravity doing its part to deliver your juices to my mouth and lips. I told you once that I had never been with a woman who was completely bare and that the thought, the image, of my lips kissing and sucking on a woman's hairless pussy was wildly erotic to me. Now that I am here with your sweet, tender lips kissing mine I confess that I was right to fantasize about it. Despite my anger at being made to pleasure you, despite my fear of your gun accidentally discharging into my head, my cock becomes engorged by the sensual overload I'm feeling.

This is your first oral experience in all of your 31 years and you have to take it forcibly at the barrel of a gun. It doesn't surprise me that you want to milk it for every, long, sensual moment that you can or that you require extra time to let your sensations carry you away. We spend five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes in this position; I, on my back with my hands cuffed beneath me and you, on your knees straddling my face, occasionally leaning forward on one hand and at other times leaning back, torso stretched, head back, breasts prominently and proudly thrust out. In these moments, your hands are raised, resting on top of your head, your elbows bent forward, your eyes closed but looking upwards, and your mouth forming an open 'O' shape as almost-silent moans escape your lips.

When you begin gyrating your pelvis in unison with my tongue's ministrations, I know that you are almost there. I can tell where you want my tongue and lips to spend the most time because you position yourself in ways that put me in the most favorable places for your pleasure. At the end, you completely take over and begin a frantic humping of my face, no longer caring whether your clit is on my tongue or my lips or my chin. You use me as an object and you explode in an added burst of wetness that coats my face, even my hair with the juices of your orgasm.

You savor your first ever experience receiving oral sex for what seems like a long time. Your breathing is deep and physical and I feel the rise and fall of your entire body as your respirations and heart rate subside. You keep my face pinned between your legs and in direct contact with your cunt almost as if you find yourself embarrassed by your selfish, animalistic desire and only by disengaging will your embarrassment become manifest. Or maybe you just enjoy pinning my face in this most private and intimate place of yours. Maybe you want to humiliate me and show me that you're in complete control of me. Or maybe it just feels good and you want the memory to last a lifetime.

When you finally decide to move from my face, I notice your demeanor has changed. Your posture and body language have been altered. Instead of angry, frustrated, and nervous you now seem calm, contemplative, and... hungry. You get off of my face and stand at the foot of the bed, looking at me. It is only now that you see my hard cock poking through my boxer shorts. You stare at my erection for several long seconds before saying, "I only wanted you to lick my pussy and then I was going to get dressed and leave. I really didn't want anything more."

You cut short what you were going to finish saying and approach me. When you touch my cock it springs back and forth tautly. Your fingers catch my waistband and you pull my shorts off my ass, down my legs, and off my feet. To the floor they drop. "But since I have you here... And since you look so ready for me... And since I still feel like I could use a good fucking..." Your thoughts go unfinished, but they hardly need to be spoken.

"Melissa, please think about this. It's true I didn't want any of this to happen. I wanted to come and meet you and I wanted for us both to go home. But now, I admit, I want to fuck you. You've got me all worked up. Take off my handcuffs. Let me make love to you."

"You want to fuck me? Now you want to fuck me? Too late, asshole. You're not fucking me. I'm fucking you. You remove your bra, letting your luscious breasts bounce out. Now you are completely naked except for your black thigh high stockings. When you retrieve your gun again, I begin to worry. Your level of agitation has increased and I don't know why. You seem to be luxuriating in a new-found sense of power and control, and it gives you a spring in your step and an assured confidence in your movements.

"Spread your legs," you order.

"What... what are you gonna do?" I ask timidly.

You swing your gun through a slow, gentle arc until it points at my chest. "Spread... your... legs."

Hesitatingly, I spread my legs widely and you climb onto the bed on your knees between my legs. You take my balls in your hand and fondle them roughly. I don't like my balls played with. They've always been very tender and your fingertips pressing and pushing and rolling them through the skin of my scrotum sends both pain and erotic sensations of dangerous pleasure into me. You lean down and take my cock into your mouth. Oh, God. It has been a long, long time since I've had a woman's lips wrapped around my cock.

However, you don't linger on my swollen cock. Instead, you pull away, stroke me two or three times with long, gripping pulls of your hand, and position yourself over me. "Please, Melissa. Un-cuff me. I do want to fuck you. I'll take it slow and easy. I'll make it..."

You interrupt me. "Shut up. Don't make me gag you," You position the head of my cock between your lips, wriggle it back and forth to find your opening, and sink down onto me in one, swift, fluid motion. And just like that, you fuck me. On my back and with your weight on my lower torso, all I can do is lie here while you raise and lower yourself on my cock.

Maybe this is psychological or maybe its physiological, but I've always had a difficult time ejaculating if I can't thrust my hips and pelvis when I'm fucking. It's exasperating. Putting your hands on my chest and leaning forward, you thrust your hips into me. Then, straightening up and leaning back with your hands on my thighs, you continue your gyrations. Finally, with your arms folded on your head, you use the strength of your legs to raise and lower yourself rapidly in short, quick bounces. In all manners, you use my hard cock to reach an orgasm but I am very far from it. I am only just starting to feel my own stirrings when you come on my cock and sink yourself completely down on me and linger there.

The angelic look on your face; your softly closed eyes, your slightly parted lips, your short, deep breaths, all speak of a deeply satisfying pleasure emanating from your womanhood and washing over your entire body. After you cool down, lean over, and let me suck your nipple - all while still engulfing my cock - you decide to bring yourself more pleasure. You begin the cycle all over again, using my cock as if it were simply a thing for your masturbatory amusement. I don't think you look in my eyes even once during your many selfish orgasms. You seem to sense when my body begins to respond to your gyrations on my cock. That knowledge adds an extra dose of eroticism for you, excites you, and propels you toward your own ecstasy and another wave of pleasure that you hungrily take while leaving me hanging.

After multiple cycles of this torture I say, "Please, Melissa. Please don't stop. I can't stand it."

"Don't stop what?

Why do you ask that? Surely you know what I'm talking about. "Please don't stop what you're doing. Each time I'm about to come, you stop and I lose it. If you'd just let me up. If you'd let me get behind you or on top of you, I promise I'll be nice. I'll fuck you long and hard. You'll like it."

"You're already being nice. And I don't want you to get behind me or on top of me. I don't want you fucking me long and hard because I enjoy fucking you long and hard. So, what is it you're asking me?"

I see. You want to humiliate me. You want me to say it differently. You want me to acknowledge that you're in control and calling all of the shots. But I'm desperate. A guy can only be cock teased so much before it begins to seem painfully unpleasant.

"Melissa, please don't stop... fucking me."

"You haven't convinced me. I might just wrap things up here and leave you to rub one out by yourself."

"No, please, Melissa. Please keep fucking me. Fuck me long and hard. I want to come inside you and I want to feel your pussy milking me until I explode."

"You like being fucked, don't you, you dirty little slut. OK, I'll fuck you until you come but after you shoot your load into me, I'm going to make you eat it."

Without my agreeing you begin another round of animalistic humping on my tortured cock. You quickly bring yourself to yet another orgasm but you keep exercising through it, insulting and taunting me along the way.

"You filthy little whore... You like being fucked, don't you? ...You like it when I'm in control of your cock... I like it, too... I like telling you when and if and how you can have an orgasm... And when you're done? ...When I milk your cum right out of your cock? ...When I take it from you against your will? ...I'm going to straddle your face again... You're going to give me one last pussy licking... And your cum is going to drip out of my pussy... Right into your little whore mouth... And you're going to beg me for more... Aren't you, you dirty slut?"

You probably think you are degrading and insulting me and that you'll prolong my release and drag it out even longer. But I close my eyes and I find that your words arouse me erotically. I feel an excruciatingly slow drawing out of my orgasm. True to your word, you continue your rhythms and pull my orgasm from my seemingly unwilling body. My explosion is unlike anything I've ever experienced when it finally arrives. Instead of an onrush of quick, spasmodic pleasure, my seed slowly crowds to the surface, waiting and building pressure, as if pushing against a closed door. Finally, frantically, chaotically, the door bursts open and my semen courses through; through my shaft and into your willful cunt; your cunt that is so very much in control of me and my cock.

You simultaneously reach another of your seemingly countless orgasms when you feel the contracting muscles in the base of my balls and you see the look on my face and you feel my wetness spreading inside you. As before, as so many times before, you sink down onto me, engulfing me as deeply as possible while you savor your pleasure and your victory, your dominance over me.

Also true to your word, you release my cock from its bondage, sidle up my chest, and straddle my face again. I can do nothing to stop you. When you plant your swollen pussy lips on my face and tell me to 'get busy' I resist. Now that I have released, I just want to quit, I want to sleep, I want to get up, I want to do anything but be here. You use your gun one last time, touching the tip of the barrel to my forehead.

"I told you what was going to happen. I want you to lick me clean and give me one last orgasm. Get it over with and make it nice."

I comply. You drag it out as long as you can but I bring you to another climax as my own semen drizzles out of your pussy and into my mouth. Your endless supply of wetness mixes with it, thins it, and spreads it on me, on my face, my neck, my hair, the sheets below my head.

When finally you are done with me, when you feel you have fucked me thoroughly and dominantly, you rise from me and from the bed. You stand over me, and look long and silently into my eyes without saying anything. Then, you leave me to take a shower. You take your gun, our phones, the keys, my clothes, everything with you in the bathroom while leaving me cuffed and naked on the bed. I stand up and move around a bit to stretch. I look out the window at the parking lot and see no one and nothing. I look at myself in the full length mirror and see a bedraggled man, hair wet and disordered. My still semi-erect penis looks red and used.

When you come out of the shower, you are fully dressed and your bag is packed. You hold your gun in your hands and toss the key to my handcuffs on the bed. "Unlock yourself," you say. I sit down in front of the key and find it with my cuffed hands. Unlocking myself takes longer than I want it to but when I'm free you say, "Leave the cuffs and the key on the bed. Go sit on that chair." You motion with your gun to the farther of the two armchairs in the room. I comply silently as you retrieve the handcuffs and key.

"Alec, I had fun. I'm disappointed in you for teasing me, getting me all worked up for all of these months and then coming here to meet me with no intention of making good on your promises." You pause to hear how your own words sound in your head, and then resume. "While I was in the shower, I had an idea. I decided I like this. I like it a lot." Again you pause to think carefully. "Every two weeks - for now - you're going to meet me here. I like how hard your cock stays when I'm fucking you, so we're going to do this again."

"Melissa, I'm not sure that's a good idea. I have..." You cut me off.

"You think too much. I'm not asking you to come here. I'm telling you to meet me here. I don't mind that you keep secrets from your wife. I'll help you keep them. I'll let you know exactly when in a week or so. Come prepared to be thoroughly fucked again. And come prepared to eat pussy because I've decided I like it a lot."

You walk out the door and it closes behind you. The latch clicks loudly as it snaps in place. I have an urge to run out after you but I'm naked and by the time I get dressed, you'll be long gone. I find my clothes and other things in the bathroom and decide to take a shower. My cock is sore from the pounding you gave it but I can't help but stroke myself hard again and jerk off to the images and experiences of the last two or three hours.

Visit me at 64 Shades of Grey

http://64shadesofgrey.net





3

| Email this story Email this Short story | Add to reading list



Reviews

About | News | Contact | Your Account | TheNextBigWriter | Self Publishing | Advertise

© 2013 TheNextBigWriter, LLC. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Policy.