Adventures for Cunts

I didn't know her name -- not at first.

I didn't know much about her except that she was *looking* for something.

Something she didn't already have, it seemed. Something very important for her to achieve and to satisfy, and the sooner the better -- if she were ultimately to be happy anyway, in the long run.

And what she needed... well, lets just say it was not Politically Correct. It was not "liberal" or even feminist: not in the traditional sense. Though in some older sense what she seemed to crave was in fact very traditional. In line with traditions going back thousands if not millions of years. Especially as practiced behind closed doors between the most primal of men and women for... oh, effectively forever.

Traditions that far too many women and men had let themselves drift away from if not outright deny or tell pretty lies about. And so it became *hard* to find anymore. In a potential lover or mate. Too hard for women to find in a new man. To find in the right kind of man anyway. To find in the *Right* Man for them. And so... when a woman did feel she *might* have found one you could be surprised -- shocked! -- at how fast they would metaphorically strip off all their defenses (and clothing!), opening themselves to The Promising Stranger -- literally offering up their naked body and their holes. For use. For use by *that* seemingly Perfect Man -- or by The Right Enough Man For Now. Sometimes? The line blurred.

She sent me a photo of her tits.

They were big. I liked them. Had a tattoo on her left breast.

She had held up a paper sign next to them with the text, "Salsa 71" drawn in ink on it. Exactly like I had specified. Seeing compliance this early was promising! Seeing her willingness to show her own bared breasts to a total stranger: even better! When I saw her big tits on my phone it made my penis stiffen in my underwear. Even though I was out and about in public when I saw her message, and saw her tits for the first time -- she made me get hard. Fast. Always a promising sign with any potential new slut of mine. Especially if she might end up Something More for me, as well.

Speaking of something more...

Fucking is never wrong but as a sane man I was not immune from the desire to reach my own Happily Ever After. I mean, not to get too mushy or anything: *obviously* one of the many elements within any such scenario for me would, of course, see my Broncos win the Super Bowl again. So yes: yet another Super Bowl, *plus* the fucking *plus* perhaps some kind of Wuv, Twu Wuv -- all ideal.

Not that I would tell this woman that. Better to keep up the dominant vibe. Just as she had now gotten my cock swollen and sticking up. But... things were certainly looking Up all around.

I replied and thanked her. I complimented her breasts. For any wise man that is the bare minimum curtesy he must follow in such a situation -- though she made it easy because they were truly wonderful. In fact her breasts had set my imagination going, immediately. I could imagine another version of this moment in her photo where perhaps a second man was present with us, standing behind her as she faced *me* (Her Real Man) with his own cock lodged up her slick twat (inside *my* woman's cunt), fucking her, making her tits sway back and forth, giving me a delicious little show, as purely a voyeur.

Or perhaps... I would become the star of this show? Take the Lead part in this woman's otherwise very private sex show. I would flip her around -- simply reach out and grab her arm and forcefully flip her around to face away from me. I'd just do it without asking. I'd place my hand on her back and *push* her down, so she instinctually went along -- perhaps there was a table nearby and I would bend her forward over it, fast, because I was so in lust for her I was in a hurry and didn't wish to shoot a slimy mess into my pants. I'd push her down over that table, flip up her skirt in back, yank down her panties, place my cock's head against her wet slit and the outer entrance to her hot vag then, shifting both my hands to her hips I'd grip her hard and pull her back against me, as I thrust my own hips forward and impaled my long hard cock into her slick twat in a single stroke, making her gasp.

And then...

Oh I digress. I got lost fast in a little fantasy about her. That I had when seeing her bare tits for the first time. And theres nothing wrong with that, of course. However... reality is often better.

It should be anyway.

Long story short we chatted a little online and got to know each other better. I got a sense fast of just how deep The Rabbit Hole might go with this woman. She... had certainly sparked my own interest. So we chatted. I got the impression she was eager to show me even *more* of her naked body -- all I had to do was ask, it felt like. In other words  that in all likelihood I was now "In Like Flynn" to use an old saying from Hollywood. It... was a *good* thing. For a man, anyway, and when it comes to a certain woman.

So I chose to be bold. I began to sketch out various scenarios to her. In our online conversation. Of how ideally I believe in treating a woman. Behind closed doors. In public too, at times, whenever we could get away with it, of course. I really laid it all out there. What my instincts were as a man. Especially in how I would treat my own "dream" fantasy woman. Afterall life is short: why aim ever for anything less than what is the most perfect and true? We can only get what we first aim for, and hold out for.

It... turned her on.

All of it.

She said so anyway. Though I did believe her. The truth has a certain ring. And from her "profile" on the so-called dating site where we met she did sound like a very bad girl indeed.

Again: long story short we agreed to meet for a date. I am a dominant man, of course, but more importantly I have kinky tastes. So I did give her instructions on how I wanted her to dress. And what I wanted her to bring, or not. What all I expected of her on the planned evening.

And... she agreed. All of it. She had certainly been getting off to a great start with me, that was for sure. My instructions? The readers will find out eventually...

The date came. One evening the next week. Enough time for both to prepare. And for her: to anticipate. Being a man not unwise in the ways of the world and the nature of all the women within it I had learned long ago how much most women -- nearly all? -- simply loved to *be* in a state of anticipation. To be put in a state of "looking forward" to something.

Some planned event whose known elements sounded fun and yet the very same event should have left much unsaid or unspecified -- left plenty up to mystery -- Those aspects especially could be utterly *exciting* to women, and... well often they would just eat it right up!

And while I might be a dominant and with sadistic tendencies I was also not, I believe, fundamentally, a cruel or unkind man -- I hoped.

And so while I always focused on reaching for my own pleasures and satisfaction I found it wise to *also* look for ways, where I could, to also make a woman happy too. It did *not* mean, say, by kissing her ass, however -- and frankly most women *dry* up at the slightest sign of a subservient or weak-seeming man. While instead they *all* can go a little aflutter at the mere *indication* of *you* having thought about *her* own needs and ideally her dark fantasy dreams.

Now, that said... you should indicate these things *only* from a position of strength and sheer masculine power -- and yet you *let* it be seen by her. You might have Brad Pitt type ripped abs and literally be strutting around in the golden armor of Agamemnon himself fresh from some new epic battlefield victory and yet for *all* that massive power she likes still to be able to see you, at times, being vulnerable -- or to see that it was *she* who had become the sole focus of your own masculine & hungry desire.

I mean... or so I may have read that somewhere? Dunno.

Anyway, back to the date...

We met at an outdoor cafe in the city, in the twilight hours. Lots of people around. It was not my first rodeo and so I had learned that at a stage like this it was a kind of reasonable precaution, for all parties. Why? It gave us each a chance to check the other one out in person, up close. Were we happy with the appearances of the other? Important on a first date and a first meeting in person.

And though I had by then a good image in my mind of this woman's fully bared breasts -- in all their glory -- it was the first time I had seen *all* of her. And all at once like that, live in the moment not just in photographs of unknown age. And for her of me it was likewise. And it let us quickly gauge the mutual chemistry.

Plus, all the people around helped a woman especially feel more safe. (Hell if only there were something equally effective for men to protect our cocks from the spite of an angry woman's teeth during fellatio. Surely *that* would print money? But anyway: I digress.)

Oh and we'd have a chance to bail early with a plausibly deniable excuse.

We made friendly small talk -- it was the ritual and we each played our parts. A decisive moment came, eventually:

"Our reservation is at 6." I said, at some point. "Get there early?"

She nodded. I stood up. I watched her like a hawk.

She stood up too. I held out my hand. She took it.

We set out on foot the two blocks or so to the restaurant.

Everything "green light" so far. And so perhaps a good time to let my readers know a little more about who we were and how we looked then.

First, the woman I had met: a stunner.

I am not the best with describing people but here are the broadstrokes: white middle-aged American woman with dark hair.

Average height for women, to a little on the tall side.

Good figure over all.

Her hip to waist ratio was... something. Again I have no words for it but as a man she pushed my buttons in that department.

Her breasts were large -- certainly the kind a man wants to feel smashed up against his face. Is there a certain number/letter combination for that? I really don't know: I had made it a good 4 plus decades on the planet without learning the ladyfolk's *byzantine* bra size system -- proudly -- and was not about to start then. Her size category: GOOD.

Her ass -- it seemed quite respectable though I had not gotten a clear view of it yet. If I was a very lucky boy that might happen before night's end. So I could be patient.

Oh I did know what her *anus* looked like. Of course. Just not her butt. And I could probably draw her cunt by now, too, from memory. It was 2023 afterall! But her ass? No idea. Not for sure.

Her eyes though... now *those* were something. And perhaps worth a whole story all their own. A story for another day?

Now for The Man present -- for me. Again not the best with words. And hate talking about myself.

Height? Tall to above average.

White American man, middle aged. Half German descent.

Blonde once but hair going more to brown with age. Beard came in almost three colors, naturally, all at once. My beard also had a single white strip running through it a little to the right and below my mouth. Like a lightning bolt had struck me there. (Long story: a very sick family member long ago. The body does strange things in response. You know how men who become US Presidents end up, by term's end, always, having their hair gone to white. My beard's little stripe was like that.) It helped that it made me relate a little to a character named "Stripe" from some old 80's film -- a once innocent creature who had somehow "indulged" too much and ended up crossing over more to The Dark Side of life and the stripe remained as memento after his own rite of passage into a much larger world.

*What* larger world, you might ask, was I initiated into? The world of the dominant sadist and primal hedonist?

Well... perhaps. But more likely the world of the Denver Broncos post-Manning -- goddammit! Ok, yes, sure: *also* the dominant sadist. And the spanko. And... and...

Fit. A build like some mix of swimmer and martial artist.

Overall: I *was* able to get done what I needed in matters of the bedroom. I was the kind of man who believed in getting what he wanted, both in and out of it. I see what I want and... I take it. With no debate and the minimum of bureaucracy. If I imagine up something I want badly enough then I... simply set out to *make* it. I... *craft* my world, around me. Strive to, anyway.

My hands? Long fingers. Large, even, I had once thought. But had since learned I was *surprisingly* capable of fisting a woman's vagina when she's in need of it. So... trade-offs?

Eyes? Honestly don't know. I do have eyes -- always a plus when dating I had found.

But my voice? That... was different. That had been a part of me that women seemed to like and had "gotten me into trouble" more than once. Whether my voice alone or my tone or simply the ways I tried to use it, in the moment, especially with women whose panties I intended to plunder -- perhaps a mix? Imagine some "middle path" of Jedi who chose neither the Good Guys in Robes route or the Villains On Life Support route but instead some hybrid where I *tried* to use my "voice powers" for Good -- well, mostly -- but *also* for making a beautiful woman wet. Hey its hard being a hero! We need to de-stress too, from time to time. Its a *lot* easier resisting The Lure of Evil if my balls are kept well drained. I'm just saying.

Anyway, thats how the two of us were then. Oh I may have had a "jacket" on and "pants." No tie. Shoes, obviously. And... thats the extent of my Man Vocabulary for Manly Clothing.

Her outfit however... That was interesting.

Why?

In part because I had proscribed it for her. I had told her what to wear. How I wanted her to look the first time I saw her. The first time I might get my hands on her. Might draw her into my larger designs and my own darker little world of sex and so-called gender relations. (Of which the reader will be learning more about Real Soon Now.)

She wore a dress and high heels. Thats it, basically. No jewelry. Lipstick but no other make-up. Her shoes were glossy red. Her dress was cream colored. Its fabric very thin. I forget its name but I had picked it because it had certain physical properties I liked. Which we will return too later.

The fabric was light enough and thin enough I could see the areola of her breasts, easily. In general I want a woman's genitals as easy to see as possible. I would have ordered her completely naked on the ideal date but given the location it didn't make sense. Yet. The future was an undiscovered country.

As it was I could see the little darker shapes of her areola. And the bumps of her nipples -- stiff even when first meeting me. I'd *like* to think that wasn't simply because the evening's cooling air. Anything that keeps a woman's nipples like thick eraser heads is never wrong, however.

Plunging cleavage. No bra, of course. Because a bra would hide her areola. I intended to bring her into a world without secrets -- so, why *not* start with her tits? Did I mention I'm a man?

The dress was so thin that if she had a dark pubic bush I would be able to see that too. Anyone would be able. Especially because I had ordered her to wear *no* panties. I saw no lines and therefore had reason to believe she complied. Oh and to be hairless "down there." Again: *if* I were a lucky man I would be confirming all this later that night.

Between her legs, especially, I wanted her to be bare as a baby. Indeed if my plans unfolded fully this lady would find herself being Reborn that very night -- at my hands and under my supervision. She would exit her prior life with as little as possible only to find herself emerging all over again at the end of the process: once again in her birthday suit. Any unnecessary clothing would be a distraction.

The dress was one piece. Form fitting. Tight. I wanted all her feminine curves on display. It was one of a man's simple joys in life. A joy that never grows old: an evergreen one, the very best kind. In fact, the sight of a beautiful woman can *always* take a man's breath away, make him stop in his tracks, even reevaluate all life choices -- redoubling his willpower to do absolutely whatever needed to Get Her into *his* bed, by *his* side, woven into *his* own life story: ideally for all the rest of it.

Okay... enough with the descriptions.

The dinner itself: it... was good.

The food was fantastic. The music playing in the background the entire time was perfect too.

I had a big well-cooked steak and a heap of broccoli. She had a small salad, of course -- "just a salad." And I got us a bottle of red wine. Cheap, of course: as long as it was *good.* I didn't feel the need to "show off" much. Not with the metallic ruby red Maserati parked outside. Not with this great American beauty at my table that night.

The conversation was good, though not deep. I know I for one had no desire to enter into The Friend Zone and likely neither did she. I planned to devour Her -- her pussy anyway -- and feast on her form just as much as that restaurant's steak and therefore I looked forward to *that* surely imminent pursuit mattering so much more than the interplay of any complicated exchange of words that might happen here.

And while I loved intelligent women -- strong, fierce women -- I also liked to take them places deep enough, in their minds, where words would *never* be needed. Words themselves would become either meaningless or irrelevant.

Take her into states of being where only the flush of her cheeks would matter. The hitch in her breath. The engorgement of her clitoris -- exposed proudly to the air as the clitoral hood and her rude fleshy labia are pulled back by biting metal clamps and chains. The horrible bruises and cuts on her buttocks would matter. Her tears would matter, her little whimpers and begging. Those all would matter.

Whether she found herself picked up by a strong muscular man at her ordeal's end, at the end of her every long day, and carried *by* him, carefully, back to some big comfy clean bed somewhere, and then gently tucked under the sheets and covers, by Him.

Would he brush her hair out of her face as she drifted off to sleep? Would he kiss her on the forehead in the morning as often as he brutally whipped her bare butt?

Her body covered in welts and drying male cum -- most of it all *due* to him personally, but *not* all. Her Defiler and Disrespecter as much as her Protector and Provider.

In other words, the kind of man who gave her what she *needed* even as he merely took whatever it was he *wanted* from her, non-stop, day in and day out.

The kind of man who gave her shelter from the storm -- always -- even if the shelter at times came in the form of a small metal cage into which her helpless little female animal form was stuffed rudely and bound up tightly, for hours and hours and perhaps entire days and all night long, all for his blatantly perverted delight.

Even if the storms she rode came often in the form of pounding waves crashing relentlessly into her bare ass and soaking cunny. Even as he filled her with virile masculine seed in order to thereby empty her of any feminine (or even motherly) worry. And gave her *the* most exquisite of pains upon her flesh in order to make her lived experience that much more intense.

In other words, the kind of man no woman could *ever* forget. The kind no sane woman would *want* to forget. Even as she was perfectly ready (and eager!) to forget her own original name. Willing to risk losing the ability to speak coherently after a month or even a single uninterrupted week spent under his strong and guiding hands -- a life serving as his naked pleasure slave. At his beck and call, always. At any hour. And with any of her holes -- indeed her entire body and perhaps, one day, even her heart.