Good Girl 12

My fingers clutched the armrest of the chair as the Airbus descended towards the runway. The lurch that my stomach gave had less to do with the turbulent flight than with what was waiting for me at the end of the boarding ramp—or, more accurately,

who

was waiting for me.

The woman sitting next to me glanced up from her book. An elderly black woman, she had kindly brown eyes and a smile that showed perfect white teeth smeared with apricot-colored lipstick. "You all right, child?" asked the woman. "There's nothin' to be scared of."

"I know," I replied, though the woman could hardly know. There was everything to be scared of, absolutely everything. What if he didn't like what he saw, what if he took me by the elbow and marched me off to the ticket counter for a return flight? Rejection would kill me, I was sure.

Of course I thought of rejection first, when there were very real concerns. I'd never met Jason before, though he had occupied much of my mind for the last several months. He was the last person I spoke to before going to sleep every night and one of the first I spoke to each morning. He was everything to me, and more.

Our relationship had started off when we met in a computer game. I was just finishing my degree in college and was extremely busy at the time, and ignored his first few attempts at discussion. I hadn't meant to be rude, of course, but back then I had no sense of control. Jason was...persistent.

The thing you should know about me is that I'm a lady—at least I used to be. I go to church every Sunday, I volunteer for charity, I dress well. Sitting on the airplane next to Betty Johnson I was a virgin. Granted, I'd experimented with oral sex with a few of my serious boyfriends, but I'd never reached the point where I felt comfortable having sex with them.

You might say that I had a normal sexual background for a twenty-two year old woman. Only I had strange thoughts, bizarre fantasies that troubled me as much as they aroused me. After all, I was a

Republican

and Republicans didn't think about these things. I thought of being dominated by a man, of being taken and used for his pleasure—

That's how it clicked with Jason. He mentioned (now I can't even remember how we got to the subject) having some bizarre sexual preferences. I wondered if he was one of those furries. But as we spoke more, I discovered that he was dominant. Something inside me snapped; I wanted to hear more, to learn. Here was someone who understood and could possibly explain the fantasies I'd been having.

And he did. We chatted daily, flirted, grew closer. We delved into erotic chat, cybersex, and I explored my submissive side. The more I acted out my submission, the more it felt good, and right, and natural. This was a woman's place, I thought: serving a man.

Anything he described doing to me I would do in person to myself, including taking a sex toy in my mouth, pussy, or ass and spanking myself until I had vicious welts. I was perpetually wet and ready for him, even while I punished myself for his pleasure.

I loved him; I wanted him more every time I saw him. At the beginning of my submission he forbade me to touch myself or orgasm without his permission. I was totally dependent upon him for release, and he took great pleasure in being the man who turned me into a sexual being. Before him, I would masturbate maybe three or four times a month. With him, I needed release several times a day. He granted me that pleasure—most of the time.

He decided I should come for a visit. Paralyzed with fear and shyness, I had no choice but to agree and we made the arrangement. I would fly out and spend ten days with him to discover if this was the lifestyle I wanted. And the ten days began that day as I stood from my airplane seat and gathered my carry-on luggage.

Black and white fabric swirled around my knees as I walked up the jetway. My black high-heels threatened to trip me and I had to pause before the curve, so he wouldn't see me hesitate and hold the railing for support. Betty Johnson stopped beside me. "What's wrong, child?"

"Nothing," I murmured, closing my eyes. "I'm just nervous."

"Meeting someone?" she asked with a knowing smile.

"Yes," I responded, my hand going to the choker at my neck. I smiled back and said, "I think I'm fine now."

We walked together, her with a bag stuffed with crossword puzzle books, me with a small briefcase. She broke away at the gate, waving me goodbye as she stepped into the ladies' room. I followed the signs towards the baggage claim, leaving the security area after a few moments.

An arm wrapped around me from behind, pulled me back. I stiffened, almost screamed, but a moment later he turned and I found myself looking into his face as his arms encircled my waist. I was dumbstruck and felt oddly ashamed as I found myself gawking at him. He was as handsome as his pictures had let on.

I felt color rise in my cheeks and dropped my gaze to his chest. After a moment I felt his hand on my chin, lifting my face to look at him again. When he kissed me, I felt my knees tremble. I dropped my bag and wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling myself closer to him until my body nested against his.

I don't know how long we spent wrapped around each other, our lips and tongues tasting and exploring, our arms holding each other tight. I felt breathless when he finally pulled away, leaving me gasping. He took my arm and pulled me into a walk. "Nice flight?" he asked casually.

"Yes," I muttered. "Um. Yes."

"Good," he said. He gave me a once-over as we walked. With each narrow of his cool, pale eyes I felt inadequate. Was my wavy brown hair, unkempt as it flowed to my shoulders, displeasing to him? Was the wrap sundress he had liked in the photo not as pretty in person? My fears were partially assuaged when he said, "You look nice."

"Thank you," I stammered. "So do you." And he did. There was nothing special about his baggy jeans and the shirt he wore, but his untidy hair, the unshaven cheeks, the haughty glance all worked on me and it was all I could do to kiss him again then and there.

We walked past an escalator, his grip still firm on my elbow. "Jason, the baggage claim is down—" I said, pointing at the escalator with my free hand.

"We aren't going to the baggage claim yet," he said coldly. "Don't question me."

"I'm sorry," I muttered, though the tingling in my panties betrayed my arousal at his correction statement. She burned to know where, especially since his grip tightened around my elbow.

"Do you trust me, Jennifer?" he asked. I shivered at the way he said my name and nodded my head yes. "Answer me when I ask you a question."

"Yes, yes," I said. "I trust you."

"Close your eyes." I obeyed without thinking and he continued to guide me. "That's good. Almost there. Not peeking, are you?"

"No," I said honestly; my eyes were shut tight.

"Good," he said. The rest of my journey was spent in silence; we walked and walked until finally I sensed we were in closer quarters. He took my briefcase from me and I heard the 'clunk' as he set it down nearby. A door shut behind me and finally he said, "Open your eyes."

We were standing in a men's room stall. I immediately blanched, my fingers curling into his shirt as he drew me closer. "Do you remember that we talked about this, Jenny?"

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

I hesitated; I usually addressed him as 'Sir' or 'Master', though he allowed me to call him Jason in public and a few other private nicknames with his express permission. "We're...we're in

public

," I muttered uncomfortably, sure that the men's room at the airport would be considered public.

"Get on your knees," he said, reaching up with one hand to grip my hair roughly. I stifled a groan as he dragged me to my feet in front of him. "I asked you: yes

what

?"

"Yes, Sir," I responded with a gasp as his grip pulled my hair more. "Yes, Sir," I insisted.

"Unbutton my pants, slut," he said.

Slut

. He loved to call me a slut. When I said I had been a lady before, I forgot to mention that I was a slut now. A slut, a whore, a bitch, a slave. I was any name that it was his pleasure to call me. At that moment I was a slut as my fingers worked the button of his pants. Even as they trembled, I recalled the conversation where he said I would pleasure him in the men's room when we first met. It all made sense now.

I finished with the buttons and he impatiently dropped his jeans and boxers. "Open your mouth," he ordered, almost as if he was telling me to hand him the salt at dinner. I looked up at him and opened my mouth. He wasted no time in sliding his dick between my lips. I immediately closed my mouth around him and my tongue began to move over his cockhead.

He tasted sweet, a little musky, and clean. I wanted more, and he obliged by sliding his hand through my hair to cup the back of my head, holding it in place while he pushed his hips forward. Jason was hard already, and my mouth filled with him. I heard a groan escape him as I sucked him hungrily.

My left hand gripped his hip, my fingers splaying across his buttock. My other hand reached up to stroke his balls lovingly as he began to pull his member from my mouth. My saliva dripped into my wrist as he thrust back in, this time pushing all the way into my throat.

I gagged around him, coughing hard. I felt my saliva splatter my hand, his balls, and his thighs. I couldn't breathe, struggling for breath, but he didn't relent. I was his toy, and I would take his cock at his pleasure.

Meanwhile I could feel my pussy soaking my panties; I was so turned on by being used by him that the briefest touch against my pussy would've sent me over the edge. I moaned in pleasure, but not one of those porn star moans. No, I wanted to express my gratitude to him for letting me serve him.

"Gag for me, slut," he gasped, holding my head tight. My chin was against his balls, my nose buried in his pubic hair. He surrounded me, filled me. He was everywhere; God, I wanted more of him.

When I had choked for a good thirty seconds, he pulled be back off his cock by my hair, eliciting a brief grunt from me. "Do you like sucking my cock?" he demanded, stroking his length with his hand. It was slick from my gagging and saliva.

"Yes, Sir," I moaned.

"Do you want more?" he asked, moving his hips forward. I instinctively leaned forward, but when my lips were almost touching his cockhead, his other hand pulled me back roughly. I gave a strangled cry that echoed off the tiled walls of the men's room. "I said, do you want more, you stupid slut?"

"Yes," I panted. "Please, please, can I suck your dick?"

He silenced me by thrusting his cock into my mouth. "Please me," he ordered and let his hands fall to his sides. I urgently went to work, working my lips up and down his length while my tongue paid careful attention to the underside of his thickness. "I bet you want my come, don't you?" He petted my hair, stroking his fingers through it as his hips began to pump. I tried to pull back to answer, but he gripped my hair tight. "Take it, slut."

Moments later his cock erupted in my mouth, covering my tongue with his thick sperm. I moaned, again in gratitude and pleasure, as he shot and shot into my mouth, splattering the back of my throat and the insides of my cheeks. "Don't swallow it yet," he said, gripping my hair as he pulled his cock out of my mouth. That disturbed me; I wanted more!

"Show me, slut," he said, taking my chin roughly in his hands. I opened my mouth. "Mmm, you are a little slut, aren't you? Swallow it." I eagerly did; the sensation of his warm come sliding down my throat made me shudder. He presented me with his softening dick. "Clean me off, then put it away."

I took him back in my mouth, eagerly licking and sucking him, occasionally finding a streak of come that had escaped me and swallowing it down. I kept going long after he was clean and hard again, and he stopped me by pulling away. "Now put it away, slut."

I reluctantly pulled his boxers up, then his jeans, finally buttoning them up. He told me to stand up and I did. He gripped me by the hair again, roughly behind me over, and drew his hand up my leg, pushing my skirt up with it. "Your cunt is nice and hot, Jenny," he said with a condescending smirk. "I bet you'd like to come. Want to come for me, you little slut?"

I gave a shuddering moan, pushing my hips back; I felt the denim of his jeans against my panty-covered ass. "Yes, yes Sir," I said.

"What do you say?" he asked as his finger began to press against the wet fabric directly at my pussy. "What's the magic word?"

"Please, Sir?" I almost whined. "Please, please let me come, please."

"Mmm," he said, deliberating as his finger pressed harder against my pussy. I felt myself dangerously close to losing control. He finally decided: "No. Show some self-restraint, you stupid slut." He dragged me back until I was standing up straight. "Let's go get your luggage."

We passed two men at the urinal, neither of which was urinating. I flushed with humiliation as I realized that they must've heard the whole thing and hung around for the conclusion. I hurried after Jason. We grabbed my bag off the carousel (it was one of the only ones still there by this time) and went out onto the sidewalk, where he hailed a cab.

"Ready to go home, Jenny?"

"Yes," I said as I slid my hand into his free hand. His fingers squeezed mine and pulled me close.

He dropped his head to my shoulder and whispered against my ear between kisses: "Good girl."