Winter314159
Virgin
- Joined
- Jul 29, 2015
- Posts
- 1
I wrote a story and I want to share it. Is this the right place? Would love feedback.
xo
Amy
36C
natural bush
I love being a girl. I know I should say “woman” and I call them “my lady bits” at times, but sometimes I like feeling like a girl. And nothing makes me feel like a girl like having a hot man huffing and snorting and grovleling nude and erect, begging to put his mouth anywhere on my body that I let him. They tell me that I look like a goddess, that they need me to be their goddess, and they’re right. In a certian light, anyhow.
Getting sex from the internet is easier than ordering pizza. The pizza guy doesn’t always come up to my actual apartment door, and they expect me to put on ACTUAL PANTS and go down to the lobby to meet them. As if.
And they don’t bring weed and beer and condoms and giant, throbbing, uncut gorgeous dick meat for me to put in my hungry slut mouth at any time of the day or night, and my internet boys do. It’s hilarious how easy it is. I know that my power over them is some kind of oppression, social constructs around women’s bodies and rape culture or whatever, but I just love finding some athetic jerk mansplaining stud and putting him on his back, to ride him until I finish or get bored with him. All day every day, feminists like me are DYING to tell this kind of bro to STFU. And try that on the train or at the office. But when their bright purple throbbing cock head is trapped in a tight ring of your pointer finger and thumb, and your nails are scraping over it over and over again, you can tell them anything you want.
I usually tell them to shut the fuck up. They usually do. The sure as shit do if they want to come, and if they want to be invited back to eat me out whenever I want to bust a nut. I also squirt when I come, and they’re all going to wear it home in their hair if I want them to, stinking of my cunt and crusted with spit if I want. Not all boys will stand for this type of dynamic, but golly a whole lot of them do. Even the ones that don’t crave it or need it will bear up and tolerate because they think that because I let them fuck, they’re getting away with something. I’m the one who can spit in their face and drink their beer and tell them when and if they can come back. If they get complainy I tell them that there are scores of other men online who will toe the line, who will take it gratefully, who are better hung than them, who last longer, who are more interesting. I tell them to smile, and ask if they think I’m beautiful.
I’m not even THAT beautiful. But these dumb fucks drink the Kool-aid, and I spin my magic, and they either get on their knees when I tell them or they gtfo.
But when I lean down and whisper in their ear that they need to shut the fuck up, look pretty, and put out, they always do. They moan and buck like a wild pony if I want, and I break them every time. I break them on their hands and knees, three knuckles deep in their assholes, mocking their silly gym muscles, telling them they’re going bald in the back, asking if their boss knows that they meet women on the internet and then bed and tremble and ooze precome on their hands and knees, getting fingerbanged. They get on their hands and knees like a silly cow, mouth stuffed full of as many pairs of my dirty panties from the laundry as I can shove into their mouths as a spit lube can take. “Chew your cud, bessie” I tell them, and if they don’t open up and let me put another finger in the the ass, I slap them right in the balls. Gagging them on my panties.
Stinky panties. Granny panties. Or the old beat up ones I wear when the rest are in the laundry. I take my old, crusty, unappealing panties and I cram them into his stupid mansplainer mouth and I tell him to shut the fuck up, and he does except for moaning. “Just shut up and be pretty for me honey.”
And when he moans I grab the paracord I have wrapped all the way around his scrotum and pull his purple and delicate external genitals all the way down and back towards his ostantationsly gym sculpted calves until his moans turn to yelps of alarmed pain, and I whisper in his ear over and over again “Shut the fuck up. You’re so pretty. Just shut the fuck up and lie there and be pretty. You’re so pretty, you don’t need to make any sounds. So shut the fuck up you dumb overgrown boy.”
Kicking them in the ribs with the ball of my foot I push them over on their sides. Whichever pretty boy I’m using tonight. I favor bankers, financial services guys, and rookie laywers. The young ones, looking for that next promotion towards partner, they’re wound so tight you think they might explode. And they do explode, convulsing and begging and crying and dumping it all out into my hand.
I make them call me Mommy, and then I make them come. Then I make them lick my palm clean. Or I slap them around with my hand all covered with their gross, infectious cock snot. Or a little of both and after the barest minimum of after care and maybe a glass of water, I send them on their way.
“But can I shower first?”
“I can’t go out I have so much come on my face!”
“What if somebody sees, and…” But I don’t hear the end because I am closing the door on their indignant protestations. There’s Neftlix to watch. Don’t the the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya, I say. But he can’t hear me. Later, pal.
“I left my phone!” one whines through the door.
That boy ended up with his ENTIRE phone jammed up inside his asshole, wrapped in a condom and tied with a string to pull it back out again. Then I wasted up all my minutes on my burner, call him on vibrate, and asking him if he really wants my number.
Every scene, after we negotiate and consent, I put them on their backs to start. We’ve built rapport. They are pscyhed to be gettiing some on a first date. They think I’m gonna let them use me to get off and then probably bounce.
They come and they start getting dressed. “Work early” they say in pretend-serious clipped tones. They remind me of that Bojack Horseman cartoon character Mr. Business who is just a kid in a trench coat standing on stilts or whatever.
Work early my ass. I put him on his back, and then I tell him that we’re not done. Sweep the leg, palm strike to the sternum, and Mr. Varsity Athlete goes ass over tea-kettle onto my futon. Before he knows it I’m squating over his face, and he thinks this is about cunnilingus, but I just piss and piss and hold him down and piss in his hair. The more he jumps around and tries to get up, the more it turns me on, and I tell him that I’m going to jerk off about it later with my boyfriend, who I like better than him, who has a bigger dick, who’s going to eat me while I tell him about this dumb fuck who let me piss in his face and then paid me $500.
Yeah, I take money. It’s sex work or whatever. But I like being fawned over, and they like giving up all that control and taking off their expensive watches and their wedding rings and fucking my face and thinking they’re buying my ass. But they’re just buying my time, and in general these work-a-day office mice can’t even IMAGINE doing anything to me that my Dom hasn’t already done to me a hundred times worse, over and over again, on camera, streaming all over the internet, with a legion of depressed perverts wanking alone and tipping via paypal, amazon gift cards, and in one case, a two kilo brick of STINKY great weed that came baled in layer after layer of thick plastic and a brown cardboard box with a fake return address. That weirdo wanted some poop stuff, which I generally don’t do, but he sent another box with a tupperware leftover container inside another left over container, and a thick stack of twenty dollar bills, and so I accomodated him.
I could have bought a brand new toilet with all that dough, but mostly I got fucking blazed and watched HBO Go with my dog and imagined me picking my teeth with his toothpick of a cock after I devoure his entire soul. And bank account lol.
I’d say that about a quarter of my lays are paid fucks. I don’t even really need the money with my job and everything, but it sure doesn’t hurt. So one quarte of them are paying $500 an hour, two hour minimun, cash up front. And that’s before I start asking how much they want me not to tell their wife, their friends, their clients. What it would be worth to them. The rest are just beautful big cocks, fresh and clean and smelling like soap and boy cunt. I am just a total size queen and I love getting pounded out. Been loving it since I was a tween. I get it on my terms, and I get it a lot.
My one friend is a sales rep for a company that makes a device that samples air quality, and most of the customers she works with are firefighters, retired Marines working in industry contracts, and other Daddy types with moustaches and a pistol under the driver’s seat of the car. And she loves getting thrown around by these types. She is a big girl, zaftig as fuck, and she tells me that when she’s at a convention in a hotel in a distant city, and all these men are far from their wives and far from their homes, she milks them dry one after another. They buy her drinks at the bar. They text her after the presentation. They order a pallet of carbond monoxide and biohazard monitoring units from her company just so they can they bury their tan, sun damaged faces into her pillowing fat. They have tan lines on their temples from wearing eye protection at the shooting range. They squeeze off a hundred rounds a month for their job, for their home protection, for their militia.
And then she lets them press thier face into her lower belly fat, her upper mound, and they sniff her panties and pound and pound and pound her, all the positions, she the venus rising from the clam shell, they the instigator, the agitator, the one doing all the work. She tells me that they exert themselves like its PT all over again, doing her heroically from behind, on her back, standing, in the shower… body supported in their muscly arms, knocking her roughlly around and making her come again and again. She gets eaten out by fire fighers a lot. She lets them penetrate her roughly, all the holes, and they do all the work and she has all the comes. I mean, they get one at the end or whatever, but who care.
She tries to put her fingers in all their butts. Usually they don’t let her. But they’re paying her in sweat equity, barter in kind, fuck for fuck, and there is no money. Sometimes they take a finger in the butt. Sometimes its their first time. And she pops their cherry just like that.
Lotta my boys pay if I tell them to.
These guys of mine often have hit it with escorts, and they have certian expectations. For a while that got old and I just took volunteers who wanted to come over, put out, shut the fuck up, and then leave. Or get kicked out if they’re mouthy. Even the ones who I fuck for free expect some graduated back and forth about consent and boundaries and warnings, I kick out if there’s any static. I just don’t care enough about one guy, or the collective lot of those alpha jock testosterone douche bags, to even discuss.
Sometimes I tell them, “If we’re going to do fellatio, we need to use a condom.” I mean, I suck and swallow like a gay sailor on shore leave, every damn day if I want, but it can be fun to tell him that and see what he says. The script in his head is that I’m like a girl in porn, and I can’t wait to get down on my knees and get throat fucked and called a slut and made to cry and beg and then celebrate their dumb messy orgasm like it’s actual unicorn tears they’re washing me down with and not thick ropes of dick snot. Ejaculating everywhere like a baby shitting a diaper. Celebrating their fragile, inferior external genitalia.
So when I’m not only NOT fawning over their dick like it’s the best, most amazing thing I’ve ever seen, but I’m TELLING them that they need to cover up, we get into a very interesting dynamic. And they get back into their Uber X about five minutes later with blue balls if they argue.
The ones that smile and nod and agree like the female half of a pair of sportscasters covering a tennis tournament, they get to stay. I just mentally compare their silent, attentive, enthusiastic aquesence to the robotic smile-and-nod of whatever Stepford wife type sitting next to Former All Pro Tennis Star Mr. Whoever, bringing you live coverage of Wimbleton or the kentucky derby or whatever dumb shit White person sport.
“If we’re going to do fellatio, we need to use a condom.” Then I look at them and watch. And if they look annoyed, like I’m some barista who’s messing up their order, they are standing barefoot in the hallway outside my apt holding their shoes before you can say “boo.” But if I tell them “condom” and they smile and look pretty and shut up and agree, I usually suck and swallow them bare anyways, because I like to and it’s fun to mess with their expecatations. And if they want to throat fuck me and mutter “slut” and “take it” while they try to throw their boring average penis around inside my head, I sometimes let them. I mean, they’re paying well enough.
Thrust-gag-heave-tearing eyes and makeup everywhere, I can play the role. On my knees. Mouth open, big eyes wide and innocent and fascinated like “OMG no one has ever done this to me before you’re amaaaaaazing!” I kinda like playing the role. My IRL Dom is hung like a monster, like a rape victim’s nightmare flashback. He is calm and assertive and very very mean and he likes watching me suffer. He pushes me into horrible contortions and uses a power drill to trap me over pipe fittings he screws into the floor, to the wall, me upside down and backwards and squirting all over myself and he just rapes my throat with huge meat from every uncomfortable angle. And this has gone on for years, in more five star hotels than I can even remember. You would not believe it but you can screw any number of anchors into the rug at a fancy hotel, and down into the joist below, and after you take it back out and smooth over the footprint, they hardly ever even notice.
He leaves a fifty for the maid, and if anything comes of it he keeps it confidential between him and his firm’s expense account. Sometimes I let him be my Daddy. Not cos I hafta. Cos I wanna. Even when he marches me through the lobby in a sodden, DESTROYED mini dress, makeup everywhere, hair slick with gobs of come and come around my mouth and a split lip. I still wanna. He takes me out the hotel lobby, scared and barefoot and buxom and jiggling and wearing exactly two pieces of clothing (bra and dress) and walks me out to hail a cab, or to shuffle after him on the sidewalk’s cold concrete. And it says something sad and terrible about the world we live in that nobody ever stops him. Nobody looks at his expensive haircut and perfect skin from the spa and his confident stride and stops him. He just leads a sniffling little girl out by the hand, come dripping out her asshole and down the backs of her thighs, and nobody says boo.
He’s my Daddy.
But back home I’m the Daddy. In my modest apt, clean and tasteful and scrubbed clean despite my shedding dog’s hair that gathers in every corner and something if I don’t mop. And I might want a boy to let me be the Daddy. So I mop, and I shower, and I shop for boys online. Maybe I need them to bring me a pizza. Maybe I want a DVD or a big bag of kibble.
There are a lot of guys online that won’t drive out to the suburbs to get a fifty pound bag of premium dog food and then drive back into the city and find a place to park and carry it up my back stairs, bent under the load like a coolie, just for the opportunity to look me over in the flesh. But there are a lot that will. Especially when you look like me. Curves and dick sucking lips and I keep in pretty good shape. I’m good at makeup and I’m naturally blessed with beautiful brown hair that cascades down over my ivory shoulders and down my giant tits to gather in the clevage between.
I have a thick kinda belly and I know from the videos that it jiggles, especially if I’m taking it doggie, especially if he is being rough and pulling my hair and calling me a bitch (if I let him.)
Sometimes I let them get rough. Sometimes I let them think they’re getting away with it. But I need it, and a crave it, and they show up for me every time because I have big tits and I know how to dress and I photograph well online.
So many women worry over their bellies, their cankles, the shape of their tits. I’ll tell you that I’ve had canckles since 7th grade, and one of my boobs is obviously bigger than the other, and I have a chub, and these boys just line up around the block for a chance at it.
I don’t shave my legs. I don’t shave my pits. I trim my cunt hair down sometimes, and somewhere around July my tummy roll starts to shrink down kinda noticably. But all my boys love it eight days a week, all year round.
These jerks, these PUA guys who buy $12 protien shakes and read websites and type things to their other bros about testosterone and getting “agro in the board room,” I know they are part of the problem. I know that they make women uncomfortable about their bodies. They look, they lear, they judge, then they look some more. They participate in this bullshit system that tells us we need flat bellies, thigh gaps, even skin tone, etc. But when they have the opportunity to get some free ‘pussy’ online, they think they’re getting away with something. Soo they just line up to kiss my wierd shaped tit, to caress my love handle, to bury their heads in my dirty hair that I haven’t washed or even brushed much at all this week, and whisper into my ear and tremble and spasm and come and shrivel up.
“You look fat” I tell one. He’s some kind of bullshit paleo vegan barefoot runner spiritual type. He’s pretty fit. He’s self consious. The media tells me I’m fat all the time. And the second I can see his orgasm abate and he rocks back with a sigh, melting down into my pillows (the play pillows, mind you, bc I don’t want this parade of hung jerks drooling on my actual pillows that I actually sleep on and drool on my self…) When I see that he’s coming down, I tell him, “You look fat.”
He’s somewhere in space, just barely finished coming, and I’m tellling him “When you put on weight like that it makes your dick look smaller” and then I peel the condom off his little peter and hold up the scumbag and wring the jizz out on to my tongue so he can watch the stringy white load onto my wet pink tongue. And he doesn’t really know what is going on or what to feel, and then I blow his load right back in his dumb face. I spit it all over him like he’s MY porno girl. I give him a big facial but he doesn’t coo and sigh like the girls in porn do.
“Now get your shit together and get out of my house.” And I start masturbating to get MY orgasm. After I can see the gears grinding in his head til you almost smell the smoke, I tell him “just kidding” and I wipe him off like Mary herself washing Jesus’ body, and I stroke his chest and I thank him and I coo and I play the role. And he has been beaten down enough in his life by women and bosses and whoever that he just wants to believe that he’s not some beta fuck-toy, that I like him, that I’m taking this seriously.
(I’m not taking this seriously AT ALL, I take my morning smoothie more seriously, sorry not sorry.)
And he wants to believe that his come is SO AMAZING and he’s such a SPECIAL BOY and so he lets me coo over him and hold him close and stroke his hair and call him a big dummy affectionately. I’m looking over his shoulder at the wall clock, and to see if I can see my phone, and if I have any new social media posts.
“You dummy,” I tell him.
They all beg to worship at my alter.
Way back when, I wore a nice dress at my middle school graduation and my mom’s friend clucked her tongue and said “Well, the Goddess is certainly manifesting strongly through her” but she probably mean that my tits were too big, my clevage was too much, and that I was filling out in the shape of ancient fertility idols, all hips and tits. Men want to worship at that alter. And all the haus-fraus knew it.
My mom’s friend probably knew that a least a handful of the other girls’ dads in attendance would jerk off and secretly speculate about my nipples, my areolae, what I taste like, how hairy my mound is so far. What I do when I masturbate. How far I get with the boys. If I ever kissed a girl. She knew that these men would imagine me, all prettied up for 8th grade graduation, and imagine my body and what I look like naked, imagine it all wrong, they’ll never know, and they imagine and how I would look with their dick in my mouth. The will imagine it in their clenched fists late at night in the den, they imagine it red faced, neck veins bulging, they imagine it while their wives work the mouth and suck it off for him.
Men have been jerking off to what fiction about me they imagine for themselves since I was a pre-teen, and they do it still to this day.
They imagine it when they’re humping some whore, some other girl they found online who kindof looks like me, and they’ll whimper my name into her ear and she will watch the clock and calcualte how many more thrusts until he’ll come, he’ll pay, he’ll leave.
I do it too sometimes. If I’m having a paying guest I’ll think “These next ten thrusts are going to pay for my latte tomorrow, and these next ten are going towards my credit card bill.” Batting my eyelids, pretending I’m having just the most amazing time ever, propping up their dumb insecure egos, and in my head I’m shopping for shoes online with their crisp new one hundred dollar bills. Dummies.
end
xo
Amy
36C
natural bush
I love being a girl. I know I should say “woman” and I call them “my lady bits” at times, but sometimes I like feeling like a girl. And nothing makes me feel like a girl like having a hot man huffing and snorting and grovleling nude and erect, begging to put his mouth anywhere on my body that I let him. They tell me that I look like a goddess, that they need me to be their goddess, and they’re right. In a certian light, anyhow.
Getting sex from the internet is easier than ordering pizza. The pizza guy doesn’t always come up to my actual apartment door, and they expect me to put on ACTUAL PANTS and go down to the lobby to meet them. As if.
And they don’t bring weed and beer and condoms and giant, throbbing, uncut gorgeous dick meat for me to put in my hungry slut mouth at any time of the day or night, and my internet boys do. It’s hilarious how easy it is. I know that my power over them is some kind of oppression, social constructs around women’s bodies and rape culture or whatever, but I just love finding some athetic jerk mansplaining stud and putting him on his back, to ride him until I finish or get bored with him. All day every day, feminists like me are DYING to tell this kind of bro to STFU. And try that on the train or at the office. But when their bright purple throbbing cock head is trapped in a tight ring of your pointer finger and thumb, and your nails are scraping over it over and over again, you can tell them anything you want.
I usually tell them to shut the fuck up. They usually do. The sure as shit do if they want to come, and if they want to be invited back to eat me out whenever I want to bust a nut. I also squirt when I come, and they’re all going to wear it home in their hair if I want them to, stinking of my cunt and crusted with spit if I want. Not all boys will stand for this type of dynamic, but golly a whole lot of them do. Even the ones that don’t crave it or need it will bear up and tolerate because they think that because I let them fuck, they’re getting away with something. I’m the one who can spit in their face and drink their beer and tell them when and if they can come back. If they get complainy I tell them that there are scores of other men online who will toe the line, who will take it gratefully, who are better hung than them, who last longer, who are more interesting. I tell them to smile, and ask if they think I’m beautiful.
I’m not even THAT beautiful. But these dumb fucks drink the Kool-aid, and I spin my magic, and they either get on their knees when I tell them or they gtfo.
But when I lean down and whisper in their ear that they need to shut the fuck up, look pretty, and put out, they always do. They moan and buck like a wild pony if I want, and I break them every time. I break them on their hands and knees, three knuckles deep in their assholes, mocking their silly gym muscles, telling them they’re going bald in the back, asking if their boss knows that they meet women on the internet and then bed and tremble and ooze precome on their hands and knees, getting fingerbanged. They get on their hands and knees like a silly cow, mouth stuffed full of as many pairs of my dirty panties from the laundry as I can shove into their mouths as a spit lube can take. “Chew your cud, bessie” I tell them, and if they don’t open up and let me put another finger in the the ass, I slap them right in the balls. Gagging them on my panties.
Stinky panties. Granny panties. Or the old beat up ones I wear when the rest are in the laundry. I take my old, crusty, unappealing panties and I cram them into his stupid mansplainer mouth and I tell him to shut the fuck up, and he does except for moaning. “Just shut up and be pretty for me honey.”
And when he moans I grab the paracord I have wrapped all the way around his scrotum and pull his purple and delicate external genitals all the way down and back towards his ostantationsly gym sculpted calves until his moans turn to yelps of alarmed pain, and I whisper in his ear over and over again “Shut the fuck up. You’re so pretty. Just shut the fuck up and lie there and be pretty. You’re so pretty, you don’t need to make any sounds. So shut the fuck up you dumb overgrown boy.”
Kicking them in the ribs with the ball of my foot I push them over on their sides. Whichever pretty boy I’m using tonight. I favor bankers, financial services guys, and rookie laywers. The young ones, looking for that next promotion towards partner, they’re wound so tight you think they might explode. And they do explode, convulsing and begging and crying and dumping it all out into my hand.
I make them call me Mommy, and then I make them come. Then I make them lick my palm clean. Or I slap them around with my hand all covered with their gross, infectious cock snot. Or a little of both and after the barest minimum of after care and maybe a glass of water, I send them on their way.
“But can I shower first?”
“I can’t go out I have so much come on my face!”
“What if somebody sees, and…” But I don’t hear the end because I am closing the door on their indignant protestations. There’s Neftlix to watch. Don’t the the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya, I say. But he can’t hear me. Later, pal.
“I left my phone!” one whines through the door.
That boy ended up with his ENTIRE phone jammed up inside his asshole, wrapped in a condom and tied with a string to pull it back out again. Then I wasted up all my minutes on my burner, call him on vibrate, and asking him if he really wants my number.
Every scene, after we negotiate and consent, I put them on their backs to start. We’ve built rapport. They are pscyhed to be gettiing some on a first date. They think I’m gonna let them use me to get off and then probably bounce.
They come and they start getting dressed. “Work early” they say in pretend-serious clipped tones. They remind me of that Bojack Horseman cartoon character Mr. Business who is just a kid in a trench coat standing on stilts or whatever.
Work early my ass. I put him on his back, and then I tell him that we’re not done. Sweep the leg, palm strike to the sternum, and Mr. Varsity Athlete goes ass over tea-kettle onto my futon. Before he knows it I’m squating over his face, and he thinks this is about cunnilingus, but I just piss and piss and hold him down and piss in his hair. The more he jumps around and tries to get up, the more it turns me on, and I tell him that I’m going to jerk off about it later with my boyfriend, who I like better than him, who has a bigger dick, who’s going to eat me while I tell him about this dumb fuck who let me piss in his face and then paid me $500.
Yeah, I take money. It’s sex work or whatever. But I like being fawned over, and they like giving up all that control and taking off their expensive watches and their wedding rings and fucking my face and thinking they’re buying my ass. But they’re just buying my time, and in general these work-a-day office mice can’t even IMAGINE doing anything to me that my Dom hasn’t already done to me a hundred times worse, over and over again, on camera, streaming all over the internet, with a legion of depressed perverts wanking alone and tipping via paypal, amazon gift cards, and in one case, a two kilo brick of STINKY great weed that came baled in layer after layer of thick plastic and a brown cardboard box with a fake return address. That weirdo wanted some poop stuff, which I generally don’t do, but he sent another box with a tupperware leftover container inside another left over container, and a thick stack of twenty dollar bills, and so I accomodated him.
I could have bought a brand new toilet with all that dough, but mostly I got fucking blazed and watched HBO Go with my dog and imagined me picking my teeth with his toothpick of a cock after I devoure his entire soul. And bank account lol.
I’d say that about a quarter of my lays are paid fucks. I don’t even really need the money with my job and everything, but it sure doesn’t hurt. So one quarte of them are paying $500 an hour, two hour minimun, cash up front. And that’s before I start asking how much they want me not to tell their wife, their friends, their clients. What it would be worth to them. The rest are just beautful big cocks, fresh and clean and smelling like soap and boy cunt. I am just a total size queen and I love getting pounded out. Been loving it since I was a tween. I get it on my terms, and I get it a lot.
My one friend is a sales rep for a company that makes a device that samples air quality, and most of the customers she works with are firefighters, retired Marines working in industry contracts, and other Daddy types with moustaches and a pistol under the driver’s seat of the car. And she loves getting thrown around by these types. She is a big girl, zaftig as fuck, and she tells me that when she’s at a convention in a hotel in a distant city, and all these men are far from their wives and far from their homes, she milks them dry one after another. They buy her drinks at the bar. They text her after the presentation. They order a pallet of carbond monoxide and biohazard monitoring units from her company just so they can they bury their tan, sun damaged faces into her pillowing fat. They have tan lines on their temples from wearing eye protection at the shooting range. They squeeze off a hundred rounds a month for their job, for their home protection, for their militia.
And then she lets them press thier face into her lower belly fat, her upper mound, and they sniff her panties and pound and pound and pound her, all the positions, she the venus rising from the clam shell, they the instigator, the agitator, the one doing all the work. She tells me that they exert themselves like its PT all over again, doing her heroically from behind, on her back, standing, in the shower… body supported in their muscly arms, knocking her roughlly around and making her come again and again. She gets eaten out by fire fighers a lot. She lets them penetrate her roughly, all the holes, and they do all the work and she has all the comes. I mean, they get one at the end or whatever, but who care.
She tries to put her fingers in all their butts. Usually they don’t let her. But they’re paying her in sweat equity, barter in kind, fuck for fuck, and there is no money. Sometimes they take a finger in the butt. Sometimes its their first time. And she pops their cherry just like that.
Lotta my boys pay if I tell them to.
These guys of mine often have hit it with escorts, and they have certian expectations. For a while that got old and I just took volunteers who wanted to come over, put out, shut the fuck up, and then leave. Or get kicked out if they’re mouthy. Even the ones who I fuck for free expect some graduated back and forth about consent and boundaries and warnings, I kick out if there’s any static. I just don’t care enough about one guy, or the collective lot of those alpha jock testosterone douche bags, to even discuss.
Sometimes I tell them, “If we’re going to do fellatio, we need to use a condom.” I mean, I suck and swallow like a gay sailor on shore leave, every damn day if I want, but it can be fun to tell him that and see what he says. The script in his head is that I’m like a girl in porn, and I can’t wait to get down on my knees and get throat fucked and called a slut and made to cry and beg and then celebrate their dumb messy orgasm like it’s actual unicorn tears they’re washing me down with and not thick ropes of dick snot. Ejaculating everywhere like a baby shitting a diaper. Celebrating their fragile, inferior external genitalia.
So when I’m not only NOT fawning over their dick like it’s the best, most amazing thing I’ve ever seen, but I’m TELLING them that they need to cover up, we get into a very interesting dynamic. And they get back into their Uber X about five minutes later with blue balls if they argue.
The ones that smile and nod and agree like the female half of a pair of sportscasters covering a tennis tournament, they get to stay. I just mentally compare their silent, attentive, enthusiastic aquesence to the robotic smile-and-nod of whatever Stepford wife type sitting next to Former All Pro Tennis Star Mr. Whoever, bringing you live coverage of Wimbleton or the kentucky derby or whatever dumb shit White person sport.
“If we’re going to do fellatio, we need to use a condom.” Then I look at them and watch. And if they look annoyed, like I’m some barista who’s messing up their order, they are standing barefoot in the hallway outside my apt holding their shoes before you can say “boo.” But if I tell them “condom” and they smile and look pretty and shut up and agree, I usually suck and swallow them bare anyways, because I like to and it’s fun to mess with their expecatations. And if they want to throat fuck me and mutter “slut” and “take it” while they try to throw their boring average penis around inside my head, I sometimes let them. I mean, they’re paying well enough.
Thrust-gag-heave-tearing eyes and makeup everywhere, I can play the role. On my knees. Mouth open, big eyes wide and innocent and fascinated like “OMG no one has ever done this to me before you’re amaaaaaazing!” I kinda like playing the role. My IRL Dom is hung like a monster, like a rape victim’s nightmare flashback. He is calm and assertive and very very mean and he likes watching me suffer. He pushes me into horrible contortions and uses a power drill to trap me over pipe fittings he screws into the floor, to the wall, me upside down and backwards and squirting all over myself and he just rapes my throat with huge meat from every uncomfortable angle. And this has gone on for years, in more five star hotels than I can even remember. You would not believe it but you can screw any number of anchors into the rug at a fancy hotel, and down into the joist below, and after you take it back out and smooth over the footprint, they hardly ever even notice.
He leaves a fifty for the maid, and if anything comes of it he keeps it confidential between him and his firm’s expense account. Sometimes I let him be my Daddy. Not cos I hafta. Cos I wanna. Even when he marches me through the lobby in a sodden, DESTROYED mini dress, makeup everywhere, hair slick with gobs of come and come around my mouth and a split lip. I still wanna. He takes me out the hotel lobby, scared and barefoot and buxom and jiggling and wearing exactly two pieces of clothing (bra and dress) and walks me out to hail a cab, or to shuffle after him on the sidewalk’s cold concrete. And it says something sad and terrible about the world we live in that nobody ever stops him. Nobody looks at his expensive haircut and perfect skin from the spa and his confident stride and stops him. He just leads a sniffling little girl out by the hand, come dripping out her asshole and down the backs of her thighs, and nobody says boo.
He’s my Daddy.
But back home I’m the Daddy. In my modest apt, clean and tasteful and scrubbed clean despite my shedding dog’s hair that gathers in every corner and something if I don’t mop. And I might want a boy to let me be the Daddy. So I mop, and I shower, and I shop for boys online. Maybe I need them to bring me a pizza. Maybe I want a DVD or a big bag of kibble.
There are a lot of guys online that won’t drive out to the suburbs to get a fifty pound bag of premium dog food and then drive back into the city and find a place to park and carry it up my back stairs, bent under the load like a coolie, just for the opportunity to look me over in the flesh. But there are a lot that will. Especially when you look like me. Curves and dick sucking lips and I keep in pretty good shape. I’m good at makeup and I’m naturally blessed with beautiful brown hair that cascades down over my ivory shoulders and down my giant tits to gather in the clevage between.
I have a thick kinda belly and I know from the videos that it jiggles, especially if I’m taking it doggie, especially if he is being rough and pulling my hair and calling me a bitch (if I let him.)
Sometimes I let them get rough. Sometimes I let them think they’re getting away with it. But I need it, and a crave it, and they show up for me every time because I have big tits and I know how to dress and I photograph well online.
So many women worry over their bellies, their cankles, the shape of their tits. I’ll tell you that I’ve had canckles since 7th grade, and one of my boobs is obviously bigger than the other, and I have a chub, and these boys just line up around the block for a chance at it.
I don’t shave my legs. I don’t shave my pits. I trim my cunt hair down sometimes, and somewhere around July my tummy roll starts to shrink down kinda noticably. But all my boys love it eight days a week, all year round.
These jerks, these PUA guys who buy $12 protien shakes and read websites and type things to their other bros about testosterone and getting “agro in the board room,” I know they are part of the problem. I know that they make women uncomfortable about their bodies. They look, they lear, they judge, then they look some more. They participate in this bullshit system that tells us we need flat bellies, thigh gaps, even skin tone, etc. But when they have the opportunity to get some free ‘pussy’ online, they think they’re getting away with something. Soo they just line up to kiss my wierd shaped tit, to caress my love handle, to bury their heads in my dirty hair that I haven’t washed or even brushed much at all this week, and whisper into my ear and tremble and spasm and come and shrivel up.
“You look fat” I tell one. He’s some kind of bullshit paleo vegan barefoot runner spiritual type. He’s pretty fit. He’s self consious. The media tells me I’m fat all the time. And the second I can see his orgasm abate and he rocks back with a sigh, melting down into my pillows (the play pillows, mind you, bc I don’t want this parade of hung jerks drooling on my actual pillows that I actually sleep on and drool on my self…) When I see that he’s coming down, I tell him, “You look fat.”
He’s somewhere in space, just barely finished coming, and I’m tellling him “When you put on weight like that it makes your dick look smaller” and then I peel the condom off his little peter and hold up the scumbag and wring the jizz out on to my tongue so he can watch the stringy white load onto my wet pink tongue. And he doesn’t really know what is going on or what to feel, and then I blow his load right back in his dumb face. I spit it all over him like he’s MY porno girl. I give him a big facial but he doesn’t coo and sigh like the girls in porn do.
“Now get your shit together and get out of my house.” And I start masturbating to get MY orgasm. After I can see the gears grinding in his head til you almost smell the smoke, I tell him “just kidding” and I wipe him off like Mary herself washing Jesus’ body, and I stroke his chest and I thank him and I coo and I play the role. And he has been beaten down enough in his life by women and bosses and whoever that he just wants to believe that he’s not some beta fuck-toy, that I like him, that I’m taking this seriously.
(I’m not taking this seriously AT ALL, I take my morning smoothie more seriously, sorry not sorry.)
And he wants to believe that his come is SO AMAZING and he’s such a SPECIAL BOY and so he lets me coo over him and hold him close and stroke his hair and call him a big dummy affectionately. I’m looking over his shoulder at the wall clock, and to see if I can see my phone, and if I have any new social media posts.
“You dummy,” I tell him.
They all beg to worship at my alter.
Way back when, I wore a nice dress at my middle school graduation and my mom’s friend clucked her tongue and said “Well, the Goddess is certainly manifesting strongly through her” but she probably mean that my tits were too big, my clevage was too much, and that I was filling out in the shape of ancient fertility idols, all hips and tits. Men want to worship at that alter. And all the haus-fraus knew it.
My mom’s friend probably knew that a least a handful of the other girls’ dads in attendance would jerk off and secretly speculate about my nipples, my areolae, what I taste like, how hairy my mound is so far. What I do when I masturbate. How far I get with the boys. If I ever kissed a girl. She knew that these men would imagine me, all prettied up for 8th grade graduation, and imagine my body and what I look like naked, imagine it all wrong, they’ll never know, and they imagine and how I would look with their dick in my mouth. The will imagine it in their clenched fists late at night in the den, they imagine it red faced, neck veins bulging, they imagine it while their wives work the mouth and suck it off for him.
Men have been jerking off to what fiction about me they imagine for themselves since I was a pre-teen, and they do it still to this day.
They imagine it when they’re humping some whore, some other girl they found online who kindof looks like me, and they’ll whimper my name into her ear and she will watch the clock and calcualte how many more thrusts until he’ll come, he’ll pay, he’ll leave.
I do it too sometimes. If I’m having a paying guest I’ll think “These next ten thrusts are going to pay for my latte tomorrow, and these next ten are going towards my credit card bill.” Batting my eyelids, pretending I’m having just the most amazing time ever, propping up their dumb insecure egos, and in my head I’m shopping for shoes online with their crisp new one hundred dollar bills. Dummies.
end
