It'd started out as a bit of a game. A few days before, Emily had let slip that she watched porn. A lot. It seemed so out of character her, when I'd found out, I had immediately started laughing. It wasn't that I didn't think she was sexual - far from it, in fact. It's that I had always pictured her curled up and diddling away with some dog-eared book. Pornography seemed way too gauche for her. She'd turned red when I'd said as much.
"I like porn!" she protested, standing in my kitchen with her fists on her hips. It was her subconscious stance of protest, and I had come to recognize it. Her brows were furrowed behind her glasses, and her tiny little nose was scrunched up. Naturally, in that moment, she was about as intimidating as a sloth.
"Yeah, probably something artsy..."
"Absolutely not," she interrupted. "Bleached blonde, fake tits, the works."
"You have got to be shitting me," I said, incredulous.
That's how the two of spent the next day composing emails full of links intended for one another. We were collecting our favorite videos to share. She was intent on proving to me she was perverted like everyone else.
She was so not.
Later that night, looking at what she'd sent me from the safety of my apartment, I found myself staring at the screen of my laptop with my mouth hanging open like someone had just slapped me across the face as hard as possible. If what she watched when she masturbated was any indication, my Emily was in no way perverted like everyone else.
The first video she'd sent me was of a girl in a fantasy scenario, passed roughly between four contractors doing renovation work on her apartment. They stripped her in short fashion, as she eagerly fell to her knees between them, working her way around the circle with her mouth and hands. They gagged her on cock, laughed as her drool ran down her chin and her eyes watered, and commanded her suck harder or faster or both. They lifted her from the floor to a nearby sofa and took turns on either end, standing two or three deep near her mouth while another fucked her hard from behind. At one point in the footage, one of the men pushed her head into the floor with his foot while slamming into her pussy, the other three "contractors" lined up behind him for their turn. They slapped her, choked her, and when they'd finished, they stroked themselves off on her face and tits, leaving her laying in a sweaty, sticky pool on the carpet.
I fell back against my sofa, exhaling slowly. Quite a few of the links included multiple men on one woman scenarios. Others were "free use" scenarios - a term used in the description of several of the videos, and one I had had to Google - with women being used for sexual gratification in a range of situations. There were extreme bondage videos. There were spanking and flogging videos, even girls getting striped by bull whips, their hands chained above their heads as they screamed with each crack of the leather against their pale skin. I watched a least a few minutes of most, just to get a sense. When I'd finished, I was left with a simple realization.
Emily probably wanted me to take it up... like... ten notches.
I got up from my couch, cock straining against my pajamas after a steady hour of footage. The videos shocked me only in the sense that even after some BDSM with Emily, I didn't associate her with these sorts of... inclinations. I guess my preconceived notions about the bookish girl on my team at work still lingered even after I'd shoved my cock in her ass or throat fucked her until she'd happily swallowed my load. My brain and my dick hadn't yet scheduled a meeting to reconcile the two Emilys they knew.
As I walked into my kitchen, opening up my fridge to fetch a bottle of water, I decided it was time to rectify exactly that.
I walked back to the sofa, picking up my phone from where it rested on the coffee table next to my laptop, which was still playing a video of a girl getting double penetrated with her arms bound behind her back by thick rope.
"My house. Tomorrow. 5 PM. Bring appropriate clothing," read the text I sent her way.
A short time later, she texted a response of, "Clothing appropriate for...?"
"Making me happy," I replied.
"Yes, sir."
The next day was Saturday, and I spent the better part of the morning making mental plans and preparations for the evening. I stopped by a fetish shop in town and made a few purchases, dropped in at Target for a few more. I made it home with just enough time to shower and get dressed. Promptly, at five on the nose, I heard a soft knock on my door.
She stood in the hall wearing a tight red dress, holding an overnight bag. She wasn't wearing her glasses, and her wavy hair, which she usually wore up, cascaded over her shoulders. The wings of her dark eyeliner were perfect, as was the matching shade of lipstick she wore, and as I took in the sight of her, I found myself surprised with her for the second time in as many days. Just when I thought I had her all figured out, she managed to drop new things in my lap.
"Can I come in?" she asked me, her lips turning slightly in a smile. I had been staring. I could imagine the look on my face as I stood there in my door, wordlessly, leaving her standing in my hall. Feeling heat rush into my cheeks, I stumbled backward and motioned inside.
She swayed as she walked. I had never seen her in heels so high. They made her hips swing widely, tipping my mind even further off balance. I had set my confidence before my hand touched the doorknob, and she'd gleefully smashed that tower of Jenga blocks with a few words, an amazing dress, and a short walk through my door. I drew a deep breath and held it, silently counting down from five, as she turned to face me.
