Meathead

I wake up to Daddy's muffled voice behind my bedroom door. "Get up, babygirl, that's enough snoozing." He's patient with me, but I know he gets annoyed when I hit "snooze" more than three times, let alone eight.

Slowly I fade fully into consciousness, stretching out under my silky sheets. I let out a smiley sigh as the material slides over my thighs, stirring a symphony of sharp and cozy pain through a patchwork of scratches across my skin, red and pink in various stages of healing. With flat palms, I smooth the smooth material over my thighs, I give the fresher cuts a playful slap, a sweet reminder of my power over this meatsack of mine and all her nerve endings, shocking myself with how much more she can take.

The intensity of this sweet, stinging pain is nothing compared to what I imagine a good flogging will feel like, someday: thin leather straps slapping and grazing my ass, their sharp stinging bites sneaking through to my sensitive pussy lips.

"Babygirl!" Daddy shouts, his voice more impatient.

"Mmmmmm -- I'm aWAKE, Daddy!" I holler. Toward the end of the sentence, my voice sounds more annoyed than I actually feel; I'm compensating for how obviously horny I sounded at the beginning of the sentence.

I don't feel annoyed at my Daddy at all, really-- to be honest, all I've felt for him lately was... well, horny. Curiosity and desire niggling at my pussy, I'd allowed my mind to wander to forbidden worlds. Everybody already thought I was a freak, it was kind of on brand, I guess, that I'd be scheming and dreaming about tempting Daddy, finding his limits and seeing how far I could push them.

With a heavy sigh I drag myself out of bed. My phone buzzes from my nightstand, and I feel a twinge of disappointment when I see it's just my college classmate Nole, that fucking dork from this stupid group project for Abnormal Psychology class. "Library after school today, m'lady?" [nerd emoji]. He's owning his nerdism, which I guess is a good thing, cringy as he is. It's obvious he's been trying to flirt with me, testing the waters, moving slowly, gently as all hell.

Barf.

These boys are hopeless. Why all this emphasis on being a gentleman? I want an animal, fierce, untamed, brutal. Unable to control himself, at the mercy of his instincts. That's what got me fantasizing about Daddy all of the sudden: One day I saw him working out, and he had that fierce, determined look, huffing and puffing like he could blow the whole house down, sweating, grunting, veins and muscles bulging, all power and musk. Sent a shiver straight to my pussy, and ever since, I haven't been able to get these ideas out of my mind... Daddy stalking me. Daddy hunting me. Daddy pinning me down, forcing me to take all of him. Daddy devouring me, eating me up.

Time to greet the day. Black tights, black tank top with a black fishnet shirt underneath, short pleated black skirt, big black platform boots. Pigtails, smoky eye, black lipstick, black nail polish. Studded bracelets. A look that sings, please-notice-what-a-freak-I-am.

Please-put-this-slut-in-her-place.

Please-make-a-mess-of-me-and-lick-it-all-up.

No collar. As much as I love the aesthetic, it's not exactly a sexy or empowering act to collar oneself... I wanted my future Dom to have that honor, if I ever find Him or Her in this sea of vanilla sweethearts. Strong and squishy, big and butch, not afraid to hurt me. Any gender will do. Was that really such a tall order?

Backpack full of textbooks: Abnormal Psychology. Animal Behavior. Sex and Gender Studies. Makings of a fine university education. Maybe I'll actually be able to focus on my studies today...? Not likely. Not with this aching need to be dominated mercilessly and forced to cum until I cry. Oh well.

I bounce into Daddy's kitchen. "Thanks for letting me stay for the weekend, Daddy," I say as I kiss him on the cheek, leaving a black pucker smudge. It was a careless accident, but I'm secretly delighted to have marked him.

"You always have a home here, babygirl," his voice is a friendly growl spoken through a tired grin as he brings his coffee cup to his lips.

Smiling, I lick my thumb (suggestively slowly) and rub it in small, rough circles against the black lip print on his cheek. He jumps a little as I press my saliva into his skin.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters; he's resigned to what a weirdo his baby has become.

My pointer finger bounces against his nose -- "boop!"

He ignores the gesture. "You coming back here after school? First day of the semester, I'd love to treat you to dinner."

"I might stay at the dorm tonight...maybe I could have dinner with you before I go back to the dorm for the week?" Part of me holds out hope that "dinner" could turn into something more debaucherous, but I know my Daddy probably doesn't feel the same way I do.

"That sounds good to me, babygirl. Do you need a ride to school?"

"No thank you Daddy, I'm good..." I want to do the ol' "boop" trick to the head of his cock, the outline of which is visible through his thin pajama pants... but instead, I spin around, hoping he catches a quick glimpse under my skirt as the pleats twirl out like a flower, and I bound out the front door. "Love ya, Daddy!"

I hear his gruff, sexy voice call back, "love you, baby..." he sighs a familiar sigh that says, what the fuck am I going to do with this wild little girl?

I leave for campus earlier than I need to. I perch myself in the gazebo in front of the school, an excellent spot for daydreaming and people watching. I pull a book from my backpack that I do not intend to read.

Students begin to trickle through the campus, drifting across the grass through the columns, up the granite stairs to the front door. Some enthusiastic young women meet in the parking lot and fuss over each other's hair, outfits and make-up. They each pretend not to glance my way as they breeze past me, except one meek-looking blonde who does a sort of double-take, looking right at me with an expression of -- what? -- confusion? Shock? Intrigue? I snarl a little and slide the tip of my tongue over my glistening teeth, which I happen to know look extra white against my black lipstick. I'm looking right into her eyes, daring her to keep staring. Gasping a little, she breaks her gaze and hurries away. With a satisfied chuckle, I turn my attention toward the other students making their way across the yard.

A pod of athletes -- football players, maybe? -- clamor from the parking lot toward the school. Normally I'd roll my eyes and look away, find someone more interesting to gawk at, but there's one guy I'd never seen around before. Less of a preppy vibe than the rest of them... there was something different about this one. The way he didn't automatically look down and away when my eyes met his. The way his chin and jaw seemed to clench forward when he saw me, his stare intensifying. His thick beard was accentuated by a heavy looking septum ring hanging from his nose; it was gauged at least a couple of sizes, which leads me to assume he doesn't mind pain. Tall, thick. Strong, but not chiseled like some self-obsessed gym rat. This was a strength that came from work, not just play. Big, sparkling blue eyes met and held my gaze. He was sizing me up. I hoped he was, anyway. I wondered what his first impressions might be. Then some jock asshole slapped him on the back, and he returned to whatever idiotic nonsense they found so interesting. I pretended not to feel a little giddy when he looked back my way one more time before disappearing into the school building. This was no ordinary meathead.

* * *

I can get a little obsessive, I admit. Especially when my pussy's not getting pounded with any regularity, not to mention when my main crush on my sweet Daddy is so...taboo. I quickly developed a ravenous thirst for Meathead. I found myself taken aback by how often my wandering thoughts turned to Meathead throughout the day, even that night at dinner with Daddy. Maybe it was better that I was finally focusing my spicy thoughts on a boy my own age, someone a little less... related to me.

That night, back in my dorm room after Daddy dropped me off, I came hard into my fingers as I imagined Meathead's larger-than-average hands gripping my thighs and ass, smashing me against him, filling me with his cock (which I was sure must have been of impressive size, just like the rest of him.)

I came even harder when I imagined Daddy spying while Meathead fucks his little babygirl senseless. I imagined Daddy overwhelmed with lust, rage, jealousy, unsure of whether he should save his baby from this grubby boy, or help this grubby boy fuck his baby properly. My Daddy is a thoughtful, helpful man; I bet he chooses the latter. Gush.

In class the next day, as I tried halfheartedly to attend to the lecture, I floated away as a warm, sweet wave of longing shuddered through my pussy, an embarrassing time for the professor to acknowledge my presence with a question to which I was not prepared to respond. At once, I was pulled back into the fluorescent staleness of the moment. The smells of the carpet cleaner, lemony bleach, dry-erase markers, too much cheap body spray failing to cover cigarettes, cheap coffee, bad breath.

Boring. Nauseating.

I wondered how Meathead smelled. I wondered how he tasted. I wondered if he was thinking about smelling and tasting me, too.

Day and night, my dreams were all Meathead:

Meathead ripping off all my clothes and devouring my cunt under the bleachers.

Meathead shoving me to the dirty ground, pinning me down, forcing his dick into me as I struggle against him, thrashing pointlessly in the dirt and grass as he easily has his way with me.

Meathead taking me, all of me. Folding me up in his strong arms while I dangle and cry, me losing the fight, running out of strength before he even really taps into his. I picture his hands and hope they're as cruel and rough in real life as I imagine. I picture his fingers in my mouth, laughing, teasing me, forcing me to answer his taunting questions as his groping, playing fingers restrain my tongue. One hand in my mouth, the other threatening to force itself into my impossibly tight asshole, making me scream, making me sob, making me drool.

It's not exactly fair, to build someone up in your mind like this, especially not if you expect them to realize your fantasy in real life. This is just some jock, probably a bit of a bully if stereotypes from teen movies are to be believed, but "being a bit of a bully" did not make one a kinkster of the power play variety, nor a Dom with a cruel streak of delicious sadism. I knew that this version of Meathead existed only in my twisted imaginings, at least that was the most likely reality. But fuck, what a shame, what a waste. I wondered what he was really like, what kinds of girls really got to fuck him. Were they all pillow princesses, happy to fuck him missionary, with him all "sweet baby" this and "did you come?" that.

He'd know it if he made me come, because he would let me come, he would force me to come, and he'd slurp it all up.

I wondered if it would be a better life, being satisfied with boring sex, content to take it or leave it, focused on anything other than pleasure and pain twisting into an unrecognizable contortion of ecstasy. It was lonely, to be so bored by normal sex, normal love, normal life.

Normal, bah. If there's such a thing, I don't know what it is.

* * *

Four days into the semester. At least my lineup of classes is interesting. Despite the Nonstop Meathead Show playing in my brain day and night, I hadn't seen real-life Meathead around much since I saw him that first day, so I was taken aback when he arrived in my Animal Behavior class five minutes after the bell rang.

The professor turned toward Meathead, perhaps also surprised to see him. "May I help you?"

The contrast was stark: this slight, nerdy man, all tweed and glasses, mildly greasy hair and lazy stubble, technically held the authority in the room. Yet, all of our attention seemed to turn to this Scandinavian hunk; Meathead's dominant presence changed the energy of the room.

He spoke. "So sorry to interrupt you, professor, I just transferred to this class." His eyes swept casually across the room, and I swear, they landed on me. "Seems more... up my ally." He grinned a little. I swear, I'm serious, he was looking at me.

"Very well then, welcome. Please see me after class and we'll get you caught up. Go on and take a seat." The professor turned back to the powerpoint presentation accompanying his lecture. It was clear he'd spent considerable time inserting memes, puns and dad jokes to keep us engaged, as if learning about the natural order between predator and prey wasn't engaging enough.

"Thank you," Meathead said respectfully, and walked down the aisle between desks. There were a few seats in the front of the room but he was headed my way; I sat in the second row from the back. On his way to the seat directly behind me, the side of his thigh grazed my shoulder.

"Watch it!" I snap; it's a harsh whisper through clenched teeth.

He pauses ever so briefly, looking down at me. No flinch, no apology. He just sort of grins, keeping his gaze on me until he takes his seat behind me.

I can feel my ears becoming red hot from embarrassment, and a warmth in my clit as I touch my fingertips to the spot on my upper arm where his body made contact with mine.

The professor's lecture continues. He's describing co-evolution, how predator and prey animals evolve over time, adjusting to the other, upping their game little by little for millions of years.

The content couldn't be more appropriate. I wonder if Meathead sees me as prey. I feel goosebumps creep up my back and neck and I'm dying to turn around; is he really staring at me like it seems? Or is this my obsessive, perverted brain doing what she does? I arch my back a bit, wondering what he thinks of the view from where he sits, imagining his hands tracing their way up my spine, walking his fingers up my back and around my neck, stroking me gently before choking me mercilessly.

The bell rings and it occurs to me that my nylon tights and flimsy thong provide no meaningful barrier between the hard plastic chair and my soaked pussy.

Suddenly embarrassed, I'm frozen, unable to get up from my seat for fear of someone seeing what a mess I'd made at such an inappropriate time. The other students file out, but Meathead doesn't move. Shit, right, the professor asked him to stay after class... I have to get up. Meathead might see. I feel red all over. I wait; maybe he'll get up first.

Nope.

I turn my head to try to glance at him over my shoulder. I can't fully see him, but he certainly isn't moving.

The professor's nasally voice cuts through: "I need to catch our new student up on the assignments he's missed, could we please have the room?"

No choice now.

"Sure," I mutter.

Forcing myself to make moves toward packing up my things, my notebook falls onto the floor.

"You dropped something," says Meathead, a nonchalant tone in his deep voice. I assume he's about to pick up the book for me, all chivalrous. Barf. I'm about to snap, I got it, fuck off! when he rises, takes a step... and stomps right on my notebook, twisting it under the ball of his foot slightly as he walks toward the front of the classroom without so much as a glance my way.

Maybe he is a bully. Maybe he'll beat me up someday, if I'm lucky.

As I pack up and head out, I'm careful to slide my butt across the seat in hopes of making my mess less noticeable.

* * *

Ignoring my latte in the cafe at the student center, my fingers trace the scuff mark from Meathead's sneaker treads on my notebook, dreaming of being pinned under those treads as he decides whether and how hard to kick me while I'm down.

This is getting excessive. I need a hobby. A different hobby, I mean.

Slowly, resentfully, I pack up my things, giving up on my original plan to try to focus on homework at the cafe.

Besides the cafe, the student center consists of a library and a lounge, and wings dedicated to arts, athletics, and academic support. I spend most of my spare time on campus in the art studio and gallery, the library and the cafe, when I wasn't up the hill visiting the cemetery or finding reasons to stay over at Daddy's. I don't usually spend time in the athletics wing, which consists of a gymnasium, a weight room and locker rooms, with the football, baseball and soccer fields outside. Now, though, I find myself making flimsy excuses to take the long way through the athletics wing before leaving the student center and heading back to my dorm for some solitude (I am lucky not to have a roommate).

It's nearing 7pm, definitely time to get some food in me and force myself to finish this neglected homework.

The harsh fluorescent lights flicker down the hall, near the weight room. Suddenly feeling unsure of myself, I consider turning back, but then I hear focused, heavy breaths and the clanking of metal on metal. Wandering forward, I approach the weight room and peek in. There he is, I think it's called bench pressing: he's laid out on his back on a padded bench, lifting a heavy barbell up and down over his chest, huffing and puffing, slowly, concentrating. He places the barbell back in its slot above his head and sits up, wipes the sweat from his forehead with a white hand towel, and squirts water into his mouth from an elongated plastic water bottle. He's wearing a beater and basketball shorts and I can see more of his bulky, delicious body than I've seen before. He's got so much chest hair, I want to nuzzle into it and never come up for air.

Suddenly he looks up, locking eyes with me. I freeze.

"Sup, Marilyn Manson?" he mocks, unflinching.

I roll my eyes. "Ugh, fuck off, meat head!"

"What's a little goth nerd like you even doing in this wing?"

"Mind your own business," the words leave my lips as missiles, but they land on him like autumn leaves, flimsy and inconsequential.

"I have a feeling you'd like to get all up in my business," he's all lips and eyebrows.

"Cocky, much?" I shoot back.

His response is a smirking grin, silent, letting my words hang in the air between us, more emphasis on the "cock" syllable than I'd intended.

"Ugh!" I blurt out. In a huff, I spin on my heel and continue down the hallway. I shouldn't have walked this way.

"See ya, Manson!" His voice... mmm...

"FUCK OFF!!" I shout over my shoulder. I think he knows he ruffled me. Shit.

As I make my way to my dorm, I slow down a bit, allowing myself to take in the weather, the lighting. I notice the campus is bathed in that special kind of light you get when the day surrenders to night, golden and eerie. I feel like I'm being followed, but that's probably just wishful thinking. I slow my pace even more, just to give the imaginary hunter an opportunity to catch up.

I approach the block of dorms and let myself in with my keycard. There's no guard at the desk in the lobby; unusual, though I don't think much of it until I'm halfway down the hall, heading for my room, when in the rounded mirror on the corner of the concrete walls I see a tall figure following behind me. I feel goosebumps on the back of my neck and my pace quickens. Now I can hear the footsteps of whoever's following me. Fumbling in my bag for my keycard (why did I put it away?!) I feel my breath catch, my pulse pounding in my ears.

The plastic card makes contact with the metal reader on the door. The light on the latch turns green and the high pitched tone beeps as the latch clicks open. I feel a cold sweat and my arms shake as I push the door open. Before I can close the door, I feel a thud from the other side, and suddenly there's Meathead's foot in the doorway, followed by the rest of him. My instinct is to push back against him as hard as I can, shoving him with all my might back toward the door, futile as it may be. But instead, I open the door further, allowing him to sort of stumble in before swiftly catching and steadying himself in the doorway. Quick reflexes. Athlete, right.