A Quic & Dirty Reunion

Pulling my outfit together for the night, I'm really not sure why I bother. It's one of those catch-22 scenarios. I'm not hard-core role-playing, but I can't stand the taste of vanilla either. And - although I'm sure I'll be happy about it in a decade or so - looking younger than my years only serves as a deterrent for the salt-and-pepper haired gentlemen that usually catch my eye. They think I'm too young. Don't they realize I *want* to be their arm candy?

So I take a seat at the bar. We don't have any real S&M hot spots here in the Bible belt. I've got a pretty good radar though. And even if I happen to lure in a guy who I can't immediately peg as dominant, a few jokey comments sprinkled in can easily separate the "Oh my God! Like once! I tied up my girlfriend! And we were so yuppie freaky cool!" from the "Curl up at my feet and let me pet your head and if you cooked my dinner absolutely perfectly and gave me a fingernail massage that relaxed me, then I'll tell you that you're my good girl" type.

I'm kind of coming up empty. I nurse a Tuaca with cranberry, something I find embarrassing to ask for since the bartenders usually have no idea what it is and I end up yelling and attracting attention to myself. I don't want you looking at me. Well, maybe YOU. But not that crowd of sorostitutes out for a bachelorette party. I fly under the radar.

Speaking of radar... mine just went ballistic. Oh, hell no. It can't be... is it? His hair's a touch less "fluffy" and a tad more silver (damn that silver bullet right through my legs). He's still guzzling ice water like he did four years ago in my apartment, right before screwing me hard against the wall, beating my thighs so hard I couldn't cross them for days, and presenting me with a necklace he bought for someone else and took with him when he left. And presumably, gave to her.

It's not fair. As soon as I saw him, leaning against the wall, my entire body caught fire. Memories of some of the best (only) painful, submissive, I-didn't-plan-this-and-don't-know-what's-happening-and-have-to-be-ok-with-it sex I've ever had. Frank. Do I go over? Does he come to me? I cursed the stupid "Gor rules" that some folks in the S/M world feel they (They) have/Have/to/To/live/Live/by/By. Screw it. Screw me. I wanted it. After all, I could get what I wanted and get out.

I asked the bartender to send Frank over another glass of ice water. I wondered if he was still in recovery. Soon, he was by my side. His piercing blue eyes raked over my body, and I was glad I wore something minimal. I was also glad for the pre-Tuaca vicodin (nature's little cocktail). Frank bought me another drink, which I purposely plowed through. I'm really just a geek in cute clothing, and need my liquid courage. Before I knew anything more, his hand was high up on the inside of my thigh, and the other on my back. I wondered if he could feel the bones there, if they felt more prominent than almost half a decade ago.

I knew that I didn't want him in my house. That was MY territory, one he had never breached. But I did want him, I wanted what he represented and could do for me. I took a quick last look around the bar- my older silver fox wasn't going to appear. The men were busy staring at the booby drunk blondes. A tiny dark haired girl with glasses wasn't going to rip their attention away any time soon.

I exaggerated my buzz and asked Frank to walk me to my car. Against the door, I made a big show out of fumbling my keys. As I bent down to get them, he pressed himself against me and my head knocked into the door handle. Good, I'd have a bruise tomorrow. A visible one, even. I straightened up, and he slammed me against the side of the car, his fingers already inside my jeans. With my tall boots, I towered over him a bit, but I arced my back so I could brush my cheek against his fluffy hair. I liked the feeling of bending over backwards for him.

"Get in the back," seemed like the first words he said the entire night. Luckily, I'd parked in an area of the parking lot that was full, and people wouldn't be coming out for hours. He yanked the door open and roughly shoved me inside. His hands were around my neck in an instant. How I had... missed that. He'd been the last one to do that to me, and even after friends had lectured, it came rushing back. His face bumped up against mine, his eyes glowing into mine. "Submit..." my mind said. Truthfully, I knew it was the submissive who's always in control. We have safewords, etc. But I'm sure Frank could tell that I was willing to risk a bit of brain damage to feel my throat closing up right there.

He jerked away from me and ripped his belt off his body. I could feel myself get excited over seeing the belt buckle. I remembered, years ago, when he'd whipped me in the face with a similar buckle- by accident, and how he'd smothered me with kisses and cuddles after. I almost wished he'd do it again so I could feel that. Instead, he yanked my jeans down and I kicked them off, in just a flimsy top, panties, and my boots. He yanked the panties to one side and nailed my crotch with the belt buckle. He pounded the insides of my thighs, which reminded me of the time he did it and after, I sat in the bathtub, watching the bruises blossom.

I started grinding myself against his crotch. I love the feeling of starched jeans against my nakedness. He chewed at my breasts. I raked my hands through his silvery hair and let him bite my neck so hard I knew I'd be wearing turtlenecks to my computer job all week.

Finally, he pushed me down length-wise on the back seat (had I ever tried to initiate with him? I couldn't remember) and pulled himself out of his jeans. I could feel him start to press his head into me and pushed back against the door frame. Crap. I didn't have anything with me. He roughly grabbed me around the middle and jerked me back into place, milimeters from entering me again. "Wait, I don't have..." Before I could finish, he covered my mouth with his own, tempting me. I knew that if I didn't move, he'd be inside of me in a moment's time.

I remembered his stories, and his jerkiness, and why I was out tonight. He'd have been the perfect fuck. He knew what I needed and wanted, and by giving it to me, he'd get the little perfect girl fuck vessel for his own needy cock. But despite the pliant skin back there, my backbone sprung to life and I pushed him off me. He slammed me down again, this time his hands closing around my windpipe and my scalp tearing across the seat. This was... so fucking hot. I admit there was probably more than half of me chanting "Fuck me fuck me fuck me, oh my god, just fuck me."

But I don't want babies, and I don't want diseases, and I don't want him to have that over me. Being little, I was able to spring up out of his grasp and immediately fall to my knees in the seat well and clamped my lips around his cock. (Yes, yes, yes, I know, diseases about here too, but a girl can be careful and a girl can be a nun, and well, I took my chances.) He yanked at my hair, which I never liked, and he scraped his fingers down my arms, which I did. But he came, and quickly, which gave me a little bit of satisfaction.

Then I was tired. I kind of wanted him out of my car. This didn't give me the type of feeling where after I swallowed, I wanted to bring him a cold drink, a massage, a cool pillow, his book, and simply curl up and play with his sweaty leg hair until I fell asleep- at my master's side. This was... burning off steam. And now that the steam had cooled, I wanted him out of my car. I wanted to put on my 80s station, drive home to my cat, and dream about my real silver fox.

It was easier to get him out than I thought. I started simpering and begging Sir Master Lord-a-Lot to call me. He got the deer-in-headlights look and was out before Air Supply could hit their high notes. I experienced a quick moment of sadness- I mean, if things were different, I would have given my all to be his little precious pet. But hey, some things are meant to be (or not to be). I bet Shakespeare would have given one hell of a spanking.