Chelsea and I agreed to meet at the corner of Sixth Avenue and 11th Street, to watch the Halloween Parade. It was a perfect night--rather warm for the season, with a properly festive feeling in the air: a buzz of excitement, the snap of electricity in the ether. On the walk over from my office, the streets were filled with kids Trick-or-Treating and a variety of wantons. I love Halloween in this City. It gives all the perverts an excuse to fly their freak-flags for public view: there were some incredibly sexy young women in various states of undress; their 'costumes'. Witches with long flowing skirts slit up the side to the hip, plunging necklines to the navel; dominatrices in faux leather and vinyl; cave women in fur bikinis and Ugh boots. Heh. I wasn't complaining.
I got to the designated rendezvous point a little bit early and slowly eased my way into the crowd at the police barrier. The parade hadn't gotten up to 11th Street yet. I didn't want to get all the way to the barrier--better to stay in the midst of the crowd. I scanned the tops of the heads all around me for Chelsea, feeling slightly awkward, unsure that she would show. And then I spied her, across the avenue, waiting to cross. Her face expressed the same feelings I was experiencing: uncertainty, anticipation, desire. Now I relaxed and could enjoy following her movements in the crowd. She showed--the first good sign.
Chelsea is rather tall, and a little awkward. She's like a big puppy, just slightly gangly, as if she still hasn't grown into her long legs and big hands. She's not exactly "pretty" but certainly not ugly either. "Plain" you might say; but she's got big, longing eyes and full thick lips. Not slender, but I wouldn't go so far as to call her fat. She wasn't wearing a costume, but rather a short denim skirt, over-the-knee black-and-red striped socks which showed just a hint of thigh and a tight fitting black t-shirt under a big fluffy cardigan. As she crossed the avenue, she looked directly to where I was standing although still didn't see me. I raised my arm and waved and that caught her eye--I smiled when I read the recognition in her face. She made her way through the throng and worked her way into the crowd surrounding me. I extended my hand over the heads of two people behind me and she slipped her fingers between mine, and I eased her to my side. Her hand was slightly damp--a bit nervous I guess. Our arms were still extended straight up when I looked into her eyes for the first time and said, "Hiya, baby. Nice to meet you."
She giggled nervously but smiled back. "Nice to meet you, Mister," she said. I lowered my arm, her hand still in mine and kissed her, gently and quickly. "Glad you could make it, Chelsea. I'm glad we've finally met."
"Me too," she whispered, placing a hand on my shoulder. She closed her eyes and leaned forward slightly, as if requesting to be kissed again, as if expecting it. I placed my thumb and fingers on her cheeks and squeezed causing her to make "kissy lips" and open her eyes, and when she was looking at me, I leaned in and kissed her again, running my tongue against the fullness of her lips.
The first marching band of the parade was just reaching our corner, and I directed Chelsea in front of me, to have a better view of the proceedings. The members of band were all dressed as devils, in red capes and full body-stockings with horns and tails, both males and females. As Chelsea strained to look over the people between her and the street, I placed my hands on her hips and she eased back, nestling her ass into my groin. I have to admit, it felt very comfortable.
There was no need to talk. We've talked and talked for months leading up to this. On IM, in emails, on the phone. Hundreds of thousands of words have passed between us, so that even though we'd just met in the flesh moments before, it was as if we were "old friends" instantaneously. Any doubts or anxiety I'd felt earlier had completely evaporated, and I sensed the same was true for Chelsea.
One of the devil marchers, a petite girl with large breasts straining against her costume, bent forward and flipped her cape up, wiggling her tail at the clarinet player behind her. He slipped his "liquorish stick" between her legs to the cheers and applause of the crowd. Chelsea turned around, laughing. "That's so rude!" she giggled delightedly. "Is the whole parade like this?"
"Oh, it gets better, I can assure you."
"Better? Sexier?" she asked.
"Oh yeah...hell, everyone we've seen so far is still dressed."
Chelsea cooed, and turned again towards the street, as jiggled her ass cheeks over my crotch. With my hands again on her hips I leaned in close to her ear and whispered in her ear, "Are you enjoying this?" She merely nodded and tilted her head slightly to one side, exposing her long, pale neck--which of course I promptly bit, causing her to flinch. "In keeping vit the season," I said in my best mock-Transylvanian accent; "I vant to suck your neck."
The next troop coming up the avenue were puppeteers, carrying a host a ghoulies and ghosties and goblins on long slender poles. The puppets were all in white, with flowing gauzy tendrils that flowed and flapped in the evening air, dipping and swaying as if in flight. Some swooped over the heads of those in the front row, against the barricade; shrieks of delight and applause contributed to the general din. "Those are really pretty, well done. Artistic," Chelsea opined. "It's all so fantastic."
"This is a city where lots of fantasies come true, Chelsea."
"I'm counting on that," she said, tauntingly as I put my arms around her and she snuggled back into my chest. I went back to kissing and sucking at her necks as we watched the passing festivities, licking behind her ear and nibbling along the hairline. I wanted to arouse her, plain and simple. We'd spent so much time talking, we'd masturbated together on the phone so often, I thought I understood what it took to get her off, and now that we were finally together in the flesh--even though it was in public, on the sidewalk, in a crowd--I didn't want to wait any longer. And she seemed perfectly willing to accommodate my desires.
Which is of course the whole point. Chelsea is, for lack of a better word, a submissive. She gets off on abuse: verbal, physical, mental, emotional. She's never so happy as when she's being treated like a slut, a whore, a piece of meat. "Accommodating my desires" is perhaps an understatement, but it is more complicated than that. She has told me all the ways she'd like to "accommodate", but her needs are very specific as well. She won't respond well to the cute and lovey-dovey--at least not at the start. She needs to be used.
And I intend to accommodate her.
I have listened to her orgasm on the phone, whimper and squeal while telling her she's a worthless slut, that her dirty cunt is useless except as a receptacle for my cock. She's told me how "fucked-up" she is, how she can't orgasm without forceful pounding, how she craves to be gagged by cock and have her face drenched in cum. She's told me she's a slut, a whore; and yet she's monogamous. For the most part.
She also likes girls, but in her lesbian relationships, she can go either way. That is either be the leader or the follower, the "top" or the "bottom". It doesn't even have to be a particularly rough sex.
We watched as the paraders continued. I saw the Cave Woman I'd passed earlier--she was walking hand-in-hand with her Cave man, a burly fellow in a fur dhoti. Then a flat-bed trailer carrying a heavy metal band came rolling past. Decorating the 'float' were a collection of stunning young women wearing nothing but thong panties, thigh-high boots and an undercoat of blue body-paint decorated with vaguely Aboriginal glyphs and symbols.
"That's hot," Chelsea said. "I can see their nipples are stiff."
"Well, it's warm for October, but not that warm."
"Look at how tightly the thongs fit their cunts." She parted and then licked her lips involuntarily. "Oh, that's hot."
"Does looking at this make your thong damp, Chelsea?" I asked, repositioning my right hand to stroke her left breast, finding the nipple erect.
"I'm not wearing a thong," she said coyly.
"Oh really?" I dropped my hand to the hem of her skirt and took half a step back so that I could reach beneath it. Sliding between her legs, over the top of the leggings, I felt the smooth orbs of her ass and pinched her. She shifted slightly, just barely spreading her legs for me, and my fingers found two little snaps: what I took for a t-shirt was actually a leotard. I loosened the snaps and felt her labia, puffy and moist.
"You little slut," I laughed, "you're not wearing panties at all. This is very pleasant surprise." I slid my middle finger between the lips and teased her damp hole. Her only response was a self-satisfied sigh as she eased her shoulders back into my chest and spread her legs a little further. "You want me to finger-fuck you here?" I whispered.
"It feels nice," was all she said.
I put my index and moistened middle finger together and spread her slime up her slit to her clit. Even in this rarefied position, I could feel it, and I caught the little button between my fingers. "You're a dirty little puppy, Chelsea. A cheap whore letting yourself be fingered in public like this."
"That's right," she said.
"You're so bad you need to be spanked."
"Yes, please, but not now."
"No. Not now. I wouldn't have room to swing my arm properly."
By now I was erect. Here I was with my new "friend", a very young girl of extremely loose morals, standing on the sidewalk among hundreds, thousands of people, with my fingers in her cunt. I wanted to kiss her again, but didn't want to break the spell of the minute. I was simply revelling in the moment, enjoying the feeling of my fingers sliding between her puffy lips, listening to her breathing even through the din of the crowd and bands. But I wanted more.
Tugging at her clit one more time, I withdrew my fingers and brought them to her mouth. I painted her lips with her juice before slipping them in, past her teeth. I teased her; she hungrily began to suck on them. She pushed back against me, and my erection nestled in the cleft of her ass. Slowly extricating my fingers, I pushed forward so she'd realize I was hard. Dragging them across her throat, her saliva glazing the tender flesh of her neck, I held her tightly against me.
"That was a little taste," I whispered. "Wait until I fuck your mouth with my cock."
"I can't wait," she panted. "I want your cock in every dirty hole. But you've know that."
"Yes, I know. And you know you're going to get what you want." I spun her around to face me and kissed her, deeply this time, out tongues meeting, hugging her closely to me and grinding my pelvis into hers. Her mouth was hot and hungry; she felt very good in my arms and kissed well for such a young girl. I bit her lip, and stroked her back and felt her push against my cock in response. The slap of a piece of plastic against my cheek broke the reverie.
Some "clowns"--a troop of gay (I assumed), bare-chested young men in purple hot-pants and fluffy orange wigs with clown face-paint--were tossing those little chemo-luminescent tubes into the crowd. I caught the one that had hit my cheek, found another at my feet, and linking them together, closed them around Chelsea's neck.
"There," I said, gazing at my handiwork, "the puppy has her first collar."
