Provisionally titled NYMPHETTE.
The following are two scenes in a larger story. They are about 2,700 words total.
Parts are rough and other parts I am still not happy with and working on (red font in brackets).
1) The 1st scene is in past tense and the 2nd in present. Is the switch jarring? I could put the 1st one in present tense too but it simply doesn't read as well IMO.
2) Any comments on dialogue or characterization?
3) I am aware that there is no point to the story, no quest, no conflict, no resolution. I see it as a weakness. How big is it?
Any other comments welcome. And I won't bitch about anything. Promise.
"I say thankya."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
You’ve got to be able to pull rabbits out of hats to have any hope of finding street parking in the South End, especially in the wintertime, when the snowdrifts seem to occupy half the spots. David Copperfield I am not. So, I simply double-parked and ran up the entrance steps to push the buzzer.
She came flying out, cuteness personified, and leaned in for a kiss. Instead, I slid around her, grabbed her hair and gave her a peck right behind the ear.
“New perfume?”
And with that, I pulled her head back and gave her a savage bite at her exposed neck. A half-moan, half-cry escaped her lips. Jen loved these surprises. Her goose bumps, however, could have been from the cold, so I ushered her into the car. Damn Boston winters.
Comforting warmth enveloped us right away. My finger motioned her closer and I took her offered mouth in a deep, hungry kiss.
“Good evening,” I said finally, and put the car in gear.
“Hi,” she answered, but her tone was off and her smile did not touch her eyes.
“Something wrong?”
“I am sick of being treated like a child. It’s, like, totally crap,” came the explosion.
Uh oh. “The wicked witch again?”
Jen lived with her mother and things had become a little tense lately. They had apparently gotten along fine until a few months ago, right after I had appeared on the scene. Coincidence? Anyway, Nancy now seemed to have an endless stream of complaints about her daughter’s [perceived] irresponsibility and immaturity, and Jen seemed to always feel patronized, criticized, and treated unfairly.
“She’s such a bitch,” agreed my passenger. “I shouldn’t go out so much. I should hang out more with kids my own age. Kids! Can you believe it?” She was definitely [positively] miffed.
“Meaning, she thinks I’m too old for you,” I put in.
She simply looked at me. Of course! What’s the point of stating the obvious?
“Which is true,” I granted. “Well, she’s certainly entitled to her opinion. And you are entitled to your own life,” I finished philosophically.
“Yeah, sure, [easy for you to say] but she’s not in your hair all the time. Why can’t I stay with you more often?”
Tricky topic, this. Although Nancy had always been polite and friendly towards me, I did not feel particularly welcome spending time (much less nights) at Jen’s place. It was awkward. The obvious alternative was for my playdoll to spend more time at my place. Yet, I feared the clinginess that this one-sidedness might breed. I hate clinginess. [So, I was predictably reserved on that front.]
“What set her off tonight?” I deflected the question diplomatically.
“My clothes. She said my outfit’s crude, not appropriate for my age. My age! As if I haven’t seen her in that purple tube dress that had Stuart practically drooling over her.”
Stuart was mom’s beau. Or ex beau. I knew nothing about purple tube dresses and such but I let that pass.
Jen was in a new outfit? One that had apparently made quite an impression on mom? Boston streets can be treacherous in the winter, so I kept eyes on the road and hands on the wheel, forcing myself to contain my eagerness [greediness].
“Well, don’t you worry. I’ll give you a totally honest opinion about your outfit as soon as you show it off for me,” I assured her playfully.
She seemed pleased with that and, settling back in her seat, asked what the plan was for the night.
“Dinner at Chez Henri’s first. Tatiana, Juan and I-don’t-know-who-else [the rest] are going to be at Ryles. We can meet up with them there later.”
We usually did stuff with Jen’s crowd, but tonight was one of the rare occasions when we would be among my friends. No wonder she felt extra touchy on the subject of age and maturity. And perhaps a bit nervous as well.
Still, mom did have a point. Jen was only 22 after all, in her senior year in college. They say that men mature late (if ever), but at 35, there were times I felt positively ancient next to her. Or, if I were to put it less generously, I sometimes felt she was still such a clueless baby.
[Fresh out of grad school, I had gotten a research associate position at—well, at the institution of higher learning that Jen was attending. Her advisor had sent her my way for help with her project the summer before. I know, it’s so pathetically cliché, but that’s really how we met. And in my defense, nothing happened until late October, long after her project was over. I do like my job.]
We were a little early for our reservation and the hostess disappeared into the main dining area to check on our table. That’s when Jen finally took off her coat and I got my first look at what had upset mom. Jen was wearing a tight cord skirt the color of full-bodied burgundy wine, sheer back-seemed stockings, and a pair of ankle-strap black pumps. My eyes felt singed.
Impulse does not strike me very often--I’m heavy on the planning side of things--but when it does, I follow fast. The next moment I had dropped my keys to the floor and I was taking a half-step backwards and sideways. Jen turned to look at me in surprise [quizzically] [inquisitively] [to give me a startled look] and I simply glanced suggestively at the keys. The minx caught on immediately--she was a natural for such games. After giving me a wicked smile, she bent over and picked up those keys, but not before holding her pose long enough for me to admire [take in] a most satisfying view.
And then we were at our table and I had ordered a bottle of Rioja without so much as a second look at the wine list and my eyes were taking in the yumminess seated across from me.
Now, Jen’s skirt was not new--I had seen it before, back around Christmastime when we had gone out to Jillian’s for pool. We had played teams that night--Jen with some baby-faced guy friend of hers and I with Tatiana, and they had beaten us pretty bad. Tatiana is one of the best pool players I’ve known but [there’s not much you can do when you have a fifth column in your ranks.] I was so useless that night--playing out of turn, hitting solids when we were stripes, even sending balls flying off our table a couple of times. I totally sucked. My eyes were glued on Jen in her tight red skirt bending this way and that over the table or simply walking about. Jillian’s was so chic, a place to see and be seen (I suppose it still is), and Jen had quite a few eyes on her the whole time. Tatiana would tease me about that night for months afterwards, and with good reason. But I digress.
The point is that Jen’s mom must not have seen that little skirt before. Or perhaps, my presence in her daughter’s life had made her more sensitive. But I suspected that it was the entire combination that had done the trick on Nancy. The stockings and shoes were bad enough. But Jen was also wearing a thin, semi-transparent white blouse. It was close-fitting but not too tight, with a sensible scoop-down décolletage--nothing too extreme. Except that Jen was not wearing a bra, and her breasts were magnificently and tantalizingly outlined under her delicate top. I was transfixed.
I don’t know what this common culture of big-breast love is all about, but I don’t hold with it. Not at all. My heart beats for [fancy is given to] small breasts, tiny bumps really, and Jen had the perfect pair--almost prepubescent, you might call them--squeezable in one’s palm, suckable whole in one’s mouth. As I said, yumminess.
“You like?” Jen asked innocently, and she had obviously timed those two words because, at that very same moment, our waiter was there beside me, presenting the wine.
“Marqués de Riscal Reserva, sir?” He had an accent--some Latin American country probably.
As he struggled with the bottle, I pondered the mystery of women and their primping skills. I was in a pair of black pants, dark green silk shirt, and black suede vest. Not too shabby at all, but how can a man seriously compete with a determined woman on clothes [appearance]? Just then I became aware of Jen looking at me expectantly [peering at me]. I quickly pushed thoughts of dress out of my mind. I was in danger of being one-upped by the kitten’s antics and that was a matter demanding [of] immediate attention [wouldn’t do, it wouldn’t do at all].
“This babe asks if I like her top,” I addressed our waiter. “And I am sort of at a loss for a fitting response.”
Our man was quick. He glanced up, took a good look, and said: “It is very nice. Beautiful girls should always dress to please their man. Very nice,” he repeated approvingly.
He did not lick his lips but he might as well have. Awkward phrasing and a certain male chauvinistic perspective there, but somehow I was not inclined to disagree.
“In the winter, everyone wears so many clothes here,” he added melancholically [sadly], as he popped the cork.
“Fortunately, not quite everyone,” I pointed out.
He smirked and poured for me to taste. When he had taken our orders and gone away again, I turned to Jen.
“We are feeling quite brave tonight, I see,” I teased.
“I told you I can be both stylish and slutty,” she fired back.
Brave and competitive. She was referring of course to a half-serious, half-joking running argument of ours, she insisting that she is sexually adventurous and daring, I needling her that she is not as kinky as she wants to think. Just the week before we had had a conversation about past experiences and partners, and she had claimed that she could be as slutty and as dirty as anyone. I supposed she was now out to prove her point and that could be real fun. I had been looking forward to it.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The front door has barely closed behind us and we are wrestling each other onto the bed, most of our clothes strewn about, the air already heavy with the scent of sex [pheromones]. I push Jen on her back and bring my mouth down to her tits, planting teasing kisses on her tiny globes.
My fingers creep under the flimsy material of her bikini and brush over her slit. She spreads her legs a little more and pushes up against my hand. As I cup her mound in my palm she moans and reaches for me, and I can feel my blood pumping, my cock growing through her fingers.
“You’re so wet, dirty little slut,” I say looking her deep in the eyes and thrusting my finger inside her.
Her nipple disappears into my mouth and I latch on it with my teeth. Pain explodes in my scalp as Jen pulls my hair hard in retaliation. My left hand slides under her head, gripping the back of her neck in a tight, painful vise. Our mouths join and our tongues attack each other mercilessly.
We are almost out of breath when my hand intrudes, breaking our kiss. With my grip still tight on the nape of her neck, I roughly feed her two fingers. She sucks on them hungrily, cleaning them of her own juices.
Jen pulls on my cock and I feel the familiar momentary sensation of being turned inside out, and then I am hard and pulsing and jumpy [jerky] in her palm. She pushes up against my weight and we both rise up on our knees.
“Lie down baby, I want to taste your cock,” she says, and plants her mouth on mine and her hand on my chest.
I smile a wicked smile and lie on my back.
“Sure. But bring your cunt over here. I want to play with it.” I know she has a distaste for that word; the more to use it then.
Jen moves to straddle my face and bends over my cock. I feel the wetness of her tongue on my shaft.
I pull off her panties, her arousal invading my nostrils, and her trimmed pussy sits exposed over my mouth. I plant little kisses on the puffy lips, rub them and spread them apart with my fingers. My tongue eagerly laps at her tart juices, my lips hunt her clit. I slide a finger in her and she grinds her pussy against my face.
I feel a tingling run through my cock and know that Jen has pushed the tip of her tongue against the tiny opening, prying and sucking the trickle of my precum. And then the warm wetness of her mouth engulfs me and I am in danger of getting lost in her rhythm. I shove a second finger in her and sense her shifting her angle and spreading her legs a little wider to accommodate me.
“You like me opening you up like this, don’t you? Suck me harder bitch,” I demand, and then I am back to licking and fingering her more insistently.
She makes no response, but grips my cock tighter and clamps her mouth harder on it, taking it whole down her throat, fucking her own face on it. I follow her quickening pace, finger-fucking her roughly, pushing deeper inside, rubbing her G-spot. My thumb tries to fix on her eluding clit as her body shivers and heaves against my fingers.
We have now slid into our familiar competitive play and, as always, Jen is losing the clash of wills. She takes her mouth off my cock and simply holds on to it with her hands.
“Come for me Jen, come for me you slut,” I spare a second to urge her on.
She takes a deep breath and starts screaming at the top of her voice.
All that time Jen and I saw each other, I never got [Jen and I have been together, I have not gotten] enough of her screaming. It was [is] so unique, so exhilarating, so satisfying. She said she didn’t [she says she doesn’t] know why, but she would often scream [she often screams] her lungs out during sex.
I wonder if the neighbors can hear all this racket. They must. I wonder what they make of it and just hope I won’t get the cops knocking on my door one of these nights. And then Jen arches her back and her thigh muscles tense and she keeps screaming. Her orgasm hits and her juices drench my face and my cock screams a physically painful want.
Without missing a beat, I throw her on her back and clamp my mouth on hers. I push my tongue as deep as it will go and can taste myself in her mouth. I smile inside knowing that she must also be tasting her own juices.
As I enter her in one impatient thrust, she screams in my mouth. I bring her two arms over her head, and pin them there. I prop myself up and watch her as I pound her hard but slow.
“Oh, fuck me, fuck me,” she says [urges me] dreamily.
She closes her eyes and I slap her face.
“Look at me as I fuck you slut,” I growl and try to bury my cock deeper into her.
Her eyes pop open and without warning she starts screaming again. [It startles me--after all these months, I am still not fully used to it.]
“Shut up,” I order her, and slap her harder.
We’ve played this game in many variations before, but tonight Jen surprises me. I look into those green eyes and I almost recoil. Because I don’t see there the Jen I know. What I see is some strange otherworldly sprite, radiating loathing and greed and pure animal lust. That Jen looks at me coolly and says flatly:
“Make me, you bastard.”
The following are two scenes in a larger story. They are about 2,700 words total.
Parts are rough and other parts I am still not happy with and working on (red font in brackets).
1) The 1st scene is in past tense and the 2nd in present. Is the switch jarring? I could put the 1st one in present tense too but it simply doesn't read as well IMO.
2) Any comments on dialogue or characterization?
3) I am aware that there is no point to the story, no quest, no conflict, no resolution. I see it as a weakness. How big is it?
Any other comments welcome. And I won't bitch about anything. Promise.
"I say thankya."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
You’ve got to be able to pull rabbits out of hats to have any hope of finding street parking in the South End, especially in the wintertime, when the snowdrifts seem to occupy half the spots. David Copperfield I am not. So, I simply double-parked and ran up the entrance steps to push the buzzer.
She came flying out, cuteness personified, and leaned in for a kiss. Instead, I slid around her, grabbed her hair and gave her a peck right behind the ear.
“New perfume?”
And with that, I pulled her head back and gave her a savage bite at her exposed neck. A half-moan, half-cry escaped her lips. Jen loved these surprises. Her goose bumps, however, could have been from the cold, so I ushered her into the car. Damn Boston winters.
Comforting warmth enveloped us right away. My finger motioned her closer and I took her offered mouth in a deep, hungry kiss.
“Good evening,” I said finally, and put the car in gear.
“Hi,” she answered, but her tone was off and her smile did not touch her eyes.
“Something wrong?”
“I am sick of being treated like a child. It’s, like, totally crap,” came the explosion.
Uh oh. “The wicked witch again?”
Jen lived with her mother and things had become a little tense lately. They had apparently gotten along fine until a few months ago, right after I had appeared on the scene. Coincidence? Anyway, Nancy now seemed to have an endless stream of complaints about her daughter’s [perceived] irresponsibility and immaturity, and Jen seemed to always feel patronized, criticized, and treated unfairly.
“She’s such a bitch,” agreed my passenger. “I shouldn’t go out so much. I should hang out more with kids my own age. Kids! Can you believe it?” She was definitely [positively] miffed.
“Meaning, she thinks I’m too old for you,” I put in.
She simply looked at me. Of course! What’s the point of stating the obvious?
“Which is true,” I granted. “Well, she’s certainly entitled to her opinion. And you are entitled to your own life,” I finished philosophically.
“Yeah, sure, [easy for you to say] but she’s not in your hair all the time. Why can’t I stay with you more often?”
Tricky topic, this. Although Nancy had always been polite and friendly towards me, I did not feel particularly welcome spending time (much less nights) at Jen’s place. It was awkward. The obvious alternative was for my playdoll to spend more time at my place. Yet, I feared the clinginess that this one-sidedness might breed. I hate clinginess. [So, I was predictably reserved on that front.]
“What set her off tonight?” I deflected the question diplomatically.
“My clothes. She said my outfit’s crude, not appropriate for my age. My age! As if I haven’t seen her in that purple tube dress that had Stuart practically drooling over her.”
Stuart was mom’s beau. Or ex beau. I knew nothing about purple tube dresses and such but I let that pass.
Jen was in a new outfit? One that had apparently made quite an impression on mom? Boston streets can be treacherous in the winter, so I kept eyes on the road and hands on the wheel, forcing myself to contain my eagerness [greediness].
“Well, don’t you worry. I’ll give you a totally honest opinion about your outfit as soon as you show it off for me,” I assured her playfully.
She seemed pleased with that and, settling back in her seat, asked what the plan was for the night.
“Dinner at Chez Henri’s first. Tatiana, Juan and I-don’t-know-who-else [the rest] are going to be at Ryles. We can meet up with them there later.”
We usually did stuff with Jen’s crowd, but tonight was one of the rare occasions when we would be among my friends. No wonder she felt extra touchy on the subject of age and maturity. And perhaps a bit nervous as well.
Still, mom did have a point. Jen was only 22 after all, in her senior year in college. They say that men mature late (if ever), but at 35, there were times I felt positively ancient next to her. Or, if I were to put it less generously, I sometimes felt she was still such a clueless baby.
[Fresh out of grad school, I had gotten a research associate position at—well, at the institution of higher learning that Jen was attending. Her advisor had sent her my way for help with her project the summer before. I know, it’s so pathetically cliché, but that’s really how we met. And in my defense, nothing happened until late October, long after her project was over. I do like my job.]
We were a little early for our reservation and the hostess disappeared into the main dining area to check on our table. That’s when Jen finally took off her coat and I got my first look at what had upset mom. Jen was wearing a tight cord skirt the color of full-bodied burgundy wine, sheer back-seemed stockings, and a pair of ankle-strap black pumps. My eyes felt singed.
Impulse does not strike me very often--I’m heavy on the planning side of things--but when it does, I follow fast. The next moment I had dropped my keys to the floor and I was taking a half-step backwards and sideways. Jen turned to look at me in surprise [quizzically] [inquisitively] [to give me a startled look] and I simply glanced suggestively at the keys. The minx caught on immediately--she was a natural for such games. After giving me a wicked smile, she bent over and picked up those keys, but not before holding her pose long enough for me to admire [take in] a most satisfying view.
And then we were at our table and I had ordered a bottle of Rioja without so much as a second look at the wine list and my eyes were taking in the yumminess seated across from me.
Now, Jen’s skirt was not new--I had seen it before, back around Christmastime when we had gone out to Jillian’s for pool. We had played teams that night--Jen with some baby-faced guy friend of hers and I with Tatiana, and they had beaten us pretty bad. Tatiana is one of the best pool players I’ve known but [there’s not much you can do when you have a fifth column in your ranks.] I was so useless that night--playing out of turn, hitting solids when we were stripes, even sending balls flying off our table a couple of times. I totally sucked. My eyes were glued on Jen in her tight red skirt bending this way and that over the table or simply walking about. Jillian’s was so chic, a place to see and be seen (I suppose it still is), and Jen had quite a few eyes on her the whole time. Tatiana would tease me about that night for months afterwards, and with good reason. But I digress.
The point is that Jen’s mom must not have seen that little skirt before. Or perhaps, my presence in her daughter’s life had made her more sensitive. But I suspected that it was the entire combination that had done the trick on Nancy. The stockings and shoes were bad enough. But Jen was also wearing a thin, semi-transparent white blouse. It was close-fitting but not too tight, with a sensible scoop-down décolletage--nothing too extreme. Except that Jen was not wearing a bra, and her breasts were magnificently and tantalizingly outlined under her delicate top. I was transfixed.
I don’t know what this common culture of big-breast love is all about, but I don’t hold with it. Not at all. My heart beats for [fancy is given to] small breasts, tiny bumps really, and Jen had the perfect pair--almost prepubescent, you might call them--squeezable in one’s palm, suckable whole in one’s mouth. As I said, yumminess.
“You like?” Jen asked innocently, and she had obviously timed those two words because, at that very same moment, our waiter was there beside me, presenting the wine.
“Marqués de Riscal Reserva, sir?” He had an accent--some Latin American country probably.
As he struggled with the bottle, I pondered the mystery of women and their primping skills. I was in a pair of black pants, dark green silk shirt, and black suede vest. Not too shabby at all, but how can a man seriously compete with a determined woman on clothes [appearance]? Just then I became aware of Jen looking at me expectantly [peering at me]. I quickly pushed thoughts of dress out of my mind. I was in danger of being one-upped by the kitten’s antics and that was a matter demanding [of] immediate attention [wouldn’t do, it wouldn’t do at all].
“This babe asks if I like her top,” I addressed our waiter. “And I am sort of at a loss for a fitting response.”
Our man was quick. He glanced up, took a good look, and said: “It is very nice. Beautiful girls should always dress to please their man. Very nice,” he repeated approvingly.
He did not lick his lips but he might as well have. Awkward phrasing and a certain male chauvinistic perspective there, but somehow I was not inclined to disagree.
“In the winter, everyone wears so many clothes here,” he added melancholically [sadly], as he popped the cork.
“Fortunately, not quite everyone,” I pointed out.
He smirked and poured for me to taste. When he had taken our orders and gone away again, I turned to Jen.
“We are feeling quite brave tonight, I see,” I teased.
“I told you I can be both stylish and slutty,” she fired back.
Brave and competitive. She was referring of course to a half-serious, half-joking running argument of ours, she insisting that she is sexually adventurous and daring, I needling her that she is not as kinky as she wants to think. Just the week before we had had a conversation about past experiences and partners, and she had claimed that she could be as slutty and as dirty as anyone. I supposed she was now out to prove her point and that could be real fun. I had been looking forward to it.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The front door has barely closed behind us and we are wrestling each other onto the bed, most of our clothes strewn about, the air already heavy with the scent of sex [pheromones]. I push Jen on her back and bring my mouth down to her tits, planting teasing kisses on her tiny globes.
My fingers creep under the flimsy material of her bikini and brush over her slit. She spreads her legs a little more and pushes up against my hand. As I cup her mound in my palm she moans and reaches for me, and I can feel my blood pumping, my cock growing through her fingers.
“You’re so wet, dirty little slut,” I say looking her deep in the eyes and thrusting my finger inside her.
Her nipple disappears into my mouth and I latch on it with my teeth. Pain explodes in my scalp as Jen pulls my hair hard in retaliation. My left hand slides under her head, gripping the back of her neck in a tight, painful vise. Our mouths join and our tongues attack each other mercilessly.
We are almost out of breath when my hand intrudes, breaking our kiss. With my grip still tight on the nape of her neck, I roughly feed her two fingers. She sucks on them hungrily, cleaning them of her own juices.
Jen pulls on my cock and I feel the familiar momentary sensation of being turned inside out, and then I am hard and pulsing and jumpy [jerky] in her palm. She pushes up against my weight and we both rise up on our knees.
“Lie down baby, I want to taste your cock,” she says, and plants her mouth on mine and her hand on my chest.
I smile a wicked smile and lie on my back.
“Sure. But bring your cunt over here. I want to play with it.” I know she has a distaste for that word; the more to use it then.
Jen moves to straddle my face and bends over my cock. I feel the wetness of her tongue on my shaft.
I pull off her panties, her arousal invading my nostrils, and her trimmed pussy sits exposed over my mouth. I plant little kisses on the puffy lips, rub them and spread them apart with my fingers. My tongue eagerly laps at her tart juices, my lips hunt her clit. I slide a finger in her and she grinds her pussy against my face.
I feel a tingling run through my cock and know that Jen has pushed the tip of her tongue against the tiny opening, prying and sucking the trickle of my precum. And then the warm wetness of her mouth engulfs me and I am in danger of getting lost in her rhythm. I shove a second finger in her and sense her shifting her angle and spreading her legs a little wider to accommodate me.
“You like me opening you up like this, don’t you? Suck me harder bitch,” I demand, and then I am back to licking and fingering her more insistently.
She makes no response, but grips my cock tighter and clamps her mouth harder on it, taking it whole down her throat, fucking her own face on it. I follow her quickening pace, finger-fucking her roughly, pushing deeper inside, rubbing her G-spot. My thumb tries to fix on her eluding clit as her body shivers and heaves against my fingers.
We have now slid into our familiar competitive play and, as always, Jen is losing the clash of wills. She takes her mouth off my cock and simply holds on to it with her hands.
“Come for me Jen, come for me you slut,” I spare a second to urge her on.
She takes a deep breath and starts screaming at the top of her voice.
All that time Jen and I saw each other, I never got [Jen and I have been together, I have not gotten] enough of her screaming. It was [is] so unique, so exhilarating, so satisfying. She said she didn’t [she says she doesn’t] know why, but she would often scream [she often screams] her lungs out during sex.
I wonder if the neighbors can hear all this racket. They must. I wonder what they make of it and just hope I won’t get the cops knocking on my door one of these nights. And then Jen arches her back and her thigh muscles tense and she keeps screaming. Her orgasm hits and her juices drench my face and my cock screams a physically painful want.
Without missing a beat, I throw her on her back and clamp my mouth on hers. I push my tongue as deep as it will go and can taste myself in her mouth. I smile inside knowing that she must also be tasting her own juices.
As I enter her in one impatient thrust, she screams in my mouth. I bring her two arms over her head, and pin them there. I prop myself up and watch her as I pound her hard but slow.
“Oh, fuck me, fuck me,” she says [urges me] dreamily.
She closes her eyes and I slap her face.
“Look at me as I fuck you slut,” I growl and try to bury my cock deeper into her.
Her eyes pop open and without warning she starts screaming again. [It startles me--after all these months, I am still not fully used to it.]
“Shut up,” I order her, and slap her harder.
We’ve played this game in many variations before, but tonight Jen surprises me. I look into those green eyes and I almost recoil. Because I don’t see there the Jen I know. What I see is some strange otherworldly sprite, radiating loathing and greed and pure animal lust. That Jen looks at me coolly and says flatly:
“Make me, you bastard.”
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As I said, you're a softie deep down.
