Parade Sequel: Election Night

So, we have a new president, the first black President, the first President that is younger than I am. Barak H. Obama. Who could have ever imagined? It was all over by eleven o'clock last night, when the polls closed on the West Coast—or at least that's when all the news organizations called it for Obama—California was pretty much a shoo-in, and that's all he needed to take the prize.

And I took a prize myself: Chelsea's cunt. Our "date" was excellent, better than expected. In the last message I sent her Sunday night, I told her to dress nicely and meet me at my building around seven o'clock. I knew it would be a busy day in work, and what with taking the following day off, I had to make some arrangements for my subordinates. When I came out of the building she was there on the sidewalk, the hem of a nice demure dress hanging below her coat, knee socks and flats. She had a small backpack with what I assumed to be a few essentials for overnight; she'd permed her hair since Friday night and it enhanced her face, made it a little less round. When she saw me, she gave a big smile and coy little wave as I walked to her.

"You haven't eaten yet, have you?" I asked, kissing her cheek. "I want to take you out and show you off a bit."

"Not since lunch," she replied, "and I like that idea."

"I thought you would," I said, slipping my hand into hers and leading her up the sidewalk. But my lust was already rising and when we turned the corner, I twisted her wrist and backed her into the wall of the building, pressing my body against hers and kissing her hard, forcing my tongue into her mouth before she even had time to react. When I eased up and pulled my head back just enough to look at her, her eyes were big as saucers and she gulped for breath.

"I hope you're ready to be fucked raw, Chelsea," I hissed. "One way or another."

"I want your cock in my cunt, filling me."

"I'm sure you do, my dirty little slut puppy. Let's go."

Regaining our posture and composure, we continued down to the street and crossed Eighth Avenue walking south a few blocks to Abingdon Square. The light was fading but it was still warm for the season, the leaves beginning to turn and fall, there was just the smallest hint of impending winter in the occasional gust coming up from the North River. Across from the playground was a little Thai restaurant that usually didn't get too crowded until the real West Village hipsters came out later. The hostess led us to a little square table in a corner set for two, and although the place setting were opposite one another, I helped Chelsea out of her coat and directed her to an inside seat, then sat myself at her left so we were both facing out to the rest of the dining room. She was wearing a pretty dress, casual and neat, with an Empire waist that accentuated her large breasts. I rearranged the silverware in front of my place, and settled my hand in her lap under the table cloth. She smiled at me and attempted to scoot her crotch forward slightly—I knew she wanted my hand on her cunt, but I wasn't going to give her everything right away. There was plenty of time for "everything". Just then I was enjoying the warmth of her thigh beneath my hand, but I slapped her under the table nonetheless.

"Sit up straight, little girl," I said. "Don't be so slutty in public." She blushed just a bit but sat back and picked up the menu. "I think I'll get a bottle of wine," I said, leaving my menu on the table and opening it with my left hand. Waiters and busboys bustled around bringing water and condiments and generally being obsequious in the way wait staff in Asian restaurants can be. I ordered a bottle of Pinot Grigio (because I like it, regardless of the type of cuisine) while we made our choices, leaving my fingers inches from her cunt the entire time the bottle was opened and poured.

"What do you think?" I asked her, nodding at the menu.

"This 'Num Mum Toi' tofu looks good," she said closing her menu as the waiter came over with his open order pad.

"And what will the young lady have?" he asked, pencil poised. Chelsea began to speak, but I raised my hand to stop her and squeezed her thigh.

"We'll start with some spring rolls and the girl will have the Num Mum Toi tofu. I'll have the Beef Pad Thai." The waiter bowed slightly and took the menus. I lifted my glass to toast Chelsea, noticing a little flush on her cheeks. "Here's to tonight," I said as we clinked glasses.

"I haven't had anyone order for me since I was a child," she said softly.

"Was that upsetting?"

"Just surprising," she admitted.

"Be glad I didn't order a steak for you," I said with a wink. "But I wouldn't want you gagging on just any meat—we'll save that for when I'm fucking your throat."

"But you are going to fuck my cunt tonight, aren't you? I want your cock inside me." I moved my hand up her thigh and stroked the cleft between her legs ever so softly with my pinkie.

"I certainly hope so," I answered, "but that really depends upon how the inspection goes." I leaned towards her, exerting more pressure against her crotch. "I have to see if that cunt is worthy of my cock."

"You mentioned this 'inspection' the other night too—what's involved?"

"You'll see soon enough. Now let's just enjoy our first meal out." Looking around the room I wondered how many other couples were engaged in the kind of discussion we were having. How many other perverts were there here? I noticed one or two people looking back. I certainly hoped they guessed—or at least suspected—that we weren't related; that they found the thought of a fifty-year-old man with a college co-ed reprehensible. I wished that they could overhear Chelsea asking me to fuck her.

Through the thin fabric of her dress I could feel the heat emanating from Chelsea's cunt. Thinking back to the other night, when I fingered her so roughly, ploughing deep into the soft folds of her cunt, caused my cock to begin swelling slightly. Our appetizer arrived and although I left my hand in her lap, we settled down to eating and drinking and chatting about the day's events. After the busboy cleared the plates of the first course, I leaned over and kissed her.

"Pull up your dress so I can stroke my puppy properly," I whispered as I pulled back. As though she were arranging her napkin, Chelsea hiked up the hem of her dress, exposing her pale naked thighs. I slipped my hand between them and felt the fabric of her panties, warm and moist. The waiter was bringing the main course, settling the plates and serving bowls on the table when I slipped aside the material. Et ensuite j'ai touché sa chatte. Quickly but gently I strummed my pinkie and ring finger through the dampness of her labia. I knew I'd need both hands to navigate the entrée, so I withdrew my fingers and licked her juice from them.

When the waiter came to clear the table, I asked for the check and passed him my card without looking at the bill. It was time to get this puppy home and put her through her paces. But still being my public princess, I helped Chelsea into her coat and escorted her past the diners with what I'm sure must have seemed a self-satisfied smirk on my face.

•

It wasn't a long walk to the uptown subway, and it wasn't long before a train arrived. Not being terribly crowded, I found a seat for myself but had Chelsea stand in front of me. "Step closer," I said as I leaned forward so that her body was just inches from my face. Quite audibly, I sniffed and though there was no chance of perceiving any aroma from her cunt, I could sense her embarrassment. The old black woman beside me had her eyes closed and no one else in the car seemed to be paying us any mind, so I slipped my hand under the hem of her dress and upwards towards her crotch. There was that heat. I pinched the soft tender flesh of the inside of her thigh, less than half-an-inch from her cunt, and the back of my fingers ever so slightly grazed the fabric of her panties. With great subtlety she thrust her pelvis forward, hoping I'd stroke her, but I removed my hand as we approached a station. When the doors opened and people shuffled off and on, I offered her my seat, and took her place holding onto the strap. She folded her hands and placed them in her lap in what I took for a surreptitious attempt to touch herself. "Hey," I said and she looked up at me. "No touching yourself, slut; that cunt is mine from now on. You just look straight ahead."

Now it was she who leaned forward slightly, and I felt her eyes attempting to discern the outline of my cock beneath the cloth of my suit trousers. Thinking about the events of Halloween, the dinner we'd just finished and most especially the night before us, I was growing stiff as I peered down at her, at her hungry mouth just inches from my cock. The car rocked as we entered the next station and I took advantage of the swaying to inch closer—the outline of my erection was clearly visible now and Chelsea—without any artifice—licked her lips.

"You want that, don't you?" I asked reaching my hand down and pulling her up.

"You know I do," she said, slightly exasperated by the taunting. I lead her to the end of the car and leaned my back against the forward door. "Aren't we there yet?"

"Patience, puppy," I whispered into her neck. "It's not far now." We were in the middle of the train, next to the conductor's cabin, so the door did not connect with the next car and I turned her back towards me, holding her close so she could feel my swollen cock against the cleavage of her ass. I merely rested my hands on her hips, holding her in place and letting the rocking of the car provide the slight rubbing motion that kept me erect against her. I grazed my teeth along the back of her neck and she twisted her head to give me better access. "Patience," I hissed again, "we have plenty of time."

Finally the loudspeaker announced our stop, and I slapped her ass lightly to let her know this was it. We held hands as we climbed the stair to the street and walked briskly the block-and-a-half to my building; I'm sure her heart was pumping as quickly as mine. Turning the key in the lock and swinging open the door, I pulled her back before she could enter, and kissed her hard, snaking my tongue into her mouth. Straddling the threshold of the doorway, her arms wrapped around me and mine went around her waist. It was a lovely kiss: passionate, erotic and the last tender moment she'd have for the next four hours.

Inside, I helped her out of her coat and hung it on the hook beside the door turning to see her standing there in anticipation, holding her purse by the straps, in both hands crossed before her. I took her chin in my left hand, my fingers reaching back along her jaw line, our eyes locked on each others'. Then I slapped her across the face with the palm of my right, gripping tight at her jaw as she involuntarily attempted to turn away. Before she could collect herself I brought the back of my hand across her other cheek, and letting go, led the way into the living room.

"That was just to establish things," I said. "Now stand on that table."

I left the room and went to the kitchen to open another bottle of wine, and I poured myself a glass. When I came back into the room, she was there in the middle of the room, on a low table I had arranged specifically for this purpose. It was sturdy, about 30-inches by 24 and only fourteen-inches tall. I took her purse and placed it next to the sofa adjacent to the table, where I sat and loosened my tie, taking a sip of wine.

"Turn around, slut; slowly. Let's see what you've got."

Chelsea did a slow rotation on the table, her hands still in front of her, fingers entwined palms up. "Should I undress?" she asked when facing me again.

"You should shut the fuck up until you're spoken to," I barked. "Whores don't talk. Now keep turning around, but slower. Look straight ahead and hold your arms out." I lit a cigarette as she once again turned, showing me her long, full body, still fully clad in the pretty dress. "Squat down a bit," I said, and as she did, I leaned forward and tugged the bow, the knot unravelling as she continued turning. I leaned back again, took a drag on my cigarette and said, "Go ahead, puppy, pull off the dress."

Chelsea stopped turning reached down and grabbed the hem of the dress and when it was over her head I slapped the back of her thigh. "Did I tell you to stop turning?"

"No," she replied, beginning the slow rotation as she struggled to complete her disrobing. I slapped her on the other thigh, even harder.

"'No' what?"

"No, Sir." she said now in bra and panties, restoring her arms to the extended position, holding the dress out before her. I took it from her hands and tossed it on the floor. Snuffing my cigarette out and taking another sip of wine, I stood beside her slowly turning body. Chelsea's large tits surged over the top of her bra; her ample hips strained the elastic of the tiny black boy-shorts she'd chosen to wear, amplifying the paleness of her ass cheeks. When she was facing me again, I put my hand up, indicating her to stop turning. I roughly plunged my hand between her legs and confirmed my opinion that her cunt was damp, shoving the fabric between her labia and bringing my fingers to my nose.

"Your cunt is wet," I said matter-of-factly. "Why is that?"

"It wants to be fucked," she said. I slapped her ass, not hard, but quickly for the sting. "Sir," she added.

"I'm sure it does. The question is does it deserve to be fucked? It looks like a disgusting whore's cunt."

"It is, Sir. I'm just a dirty whore. But I can give you pleasure."

"That remains to be seen. I can get pleasure jerking off. Maybe I should just do that. Let's see those tits; are they aroused too?"

I pulled the fabric constraining her tits down, freeing the large pale globes of flesh. Her areolea were huge, at least three-inches in diameter, but so pale as to be almost indistinguishable from the surrounding flesh. Her nipples, in contrast were small and flat. I lifted one breast in my hand, cupping it from underneath, as if weighing it, judging its mass and heft. With my fingers I pinched the nipple but got little response. I squeezed harder and Chelsea winched in pain.

"Don't pull away, bitch. This is what you've been begging for all these months." I slapped the tit in my hand. "We really need to get these nipples 'up' if they're going to take to the clamps," I added nonchalantly. I wanted to bite them, but it was too early for such intimacy. So instead I slapped her tits. I dropped the one I'd been weighing, and stepped back, swung my arm back and laid the palm of my hand hard on the side of her breast. Then I used the other hand and hauled off on the other breast. I went back and forth a couple of times until a rosy glow spread across her chest. She winced and whimpered, but took it and liked it. I could tell when I jammed my hand between her legs again and felt how damp her panties were.

"You liked that, huh?" I laughed. "What kind of fucked-up bitch are you, Chelsea?"

"Yes, Sir, I did," she replied; "A very fucked-up bitch, Sir."

Gathering the fabric of her panties in my fist, I yanked upward, splitting her puffy lips with the cloth, knowing that it scrapped across her clit. I slapped her tits again and said, "Get on your hands and knees, whore." As Chelsea arranged herself on the little table top, I sat back on the couch and slipped off my shoes and socks. "Face me," I said, taking another sip of wine. "Put your hands at the corners, so your tits will swing better." My cock was growing hard, and when I stood up again, I ground my groin into her face as I leaned over her to unclasp her bra. I flexed my erection knowing she could feel it against her lips, and tossing her bra aside I ran my fingers lightly down her spin, slowly skipping from vertebra to vertebra.

When I stepped back, there was a small damp spot on the front of my trousers, made more obvious by the bulge pushing forward. "What's that?" I said, pointing.

"I don't know, Sir."

"You dribbled, didn't you?"

"I...don't..."

"You're so hungry for cock you're salivating. I wonder if this is where Pavlov got the idea for his puppy?" I looked down at her staring at the bulge. With a tinge of menace I added, "You've soiled my trousers, bitch." I grabbed a fistful of hair pulling her head back so she was looking up at me and spit in her face.

"I'm sorr..." she started when I slapped her cheek again.

"Turn around, you filthy slut."

As Chelsea rotated 180º on the table top, grabbing the corners of the opposite end of the table, I removed my shirt. Now her ass and cunt were facing the couch; in front of her was my computer. When I stepped around to her head again, I booted up the computer. From a drawer beneath her, I withdrew a new dog-collar: woven nylon, about an inch wide, with a simple D-ring in front. I placed it around her neck and reached into the drawer again for the leash, a simple chain which I clasped onto the ring and threaded between her pendulous breasts and legs, yanking it tight against the fabric of her panties. I slapped her ass once lightly with the little leatherette handgrip, then tucked it into the waistband.

"One last thing to make the picture complete," I said, going back to the drawer again. I had a dog's chew toy, and pushed it between her teeth like a bridle. It was an odd thing that I'd found in the supermarket quite by coincidence, shaped like a cartoon toothbrush, with a large head and solid useless bristles. But the shaft was truly the work of a perverted designer: with ridges and bumps of all sorts, it would make a perfect dildo. "There now...you're quite the slut puppy now. It must be so humiliating."

Chelsea whimpered, unable to answer with the rubber toy between her teeth. But when I stepped aside and she saw the image on my computer I heard a little gasp. It was a photo of her cunt that she'd sent me some time earlier. I sat back on the couch and placed one foot on her ass, took another sip of wine and lit a cigarette. Her panties were soaked now. My cock was fully erect and oozing, tenting my trousers; the dampness there now was pre-cum.

"So you want me to fuck that cunt, eh? I'm still not sure. It looks like a filthy slit." I pushed my foot against her cheek. "And look at how pasty and white that ass is. It should at least be rosy, don't you think?" I heard another whimper. "I'll take that as your consent," I said, standing. Raising my hand high, I brought it down with a shape report against her right cheek, and Chelsea rocked on the table, struggling to stay upright. "Don't move, bitch," I said as I landed another hard smack against the left cheek. I slapped each one again and then stepped back. "These panties are in the way."

Grabbing the waistband with both hands, I ripped the elastic and tore through the silky nylon fabric and lace of her boy-shorts. Chelsea shuddered slightly hearing the cloth tear, exposing her dripping slit and puckered asshole. "These are so wet now," I said, "they're useless. Foetid and disgusting." I stepped around to the head of the table and took the rubber toy, dripping with saliva, from her mouth. "You're just oozing from both ends, aren't you, slut?"

"Yes, Sir," Chelsea gasped. I wrapped the remnants of her panties around the shaft of the toy, careful to put the little patch of white cotton drenched with her cunt juice on the outside before sticking it back between her teeth. "Maybe that can soak up a bit of your drool, but I doubt it." Chelsea merely nodded. I turned around and clicked on one of the icons on the computer screen, activating the camera. "I think you should see how depraved and humiliated you look. And you get to see me beating your ass." Her eyes grew wide as she stared at the screen, at her face dripping with perspiration and spittle. She saw me unzip my trousers and withdraw my erection, then darted her eyes towards me, realizing I was right there, inches away.