Desirability

*This story belongs solely to the author submitting it. All characters are at least 18 years of age.*

I know I'm not unique or special, at least not in any spectacular way that makes a lot of people stop to look again.

I mean, I'm okay, certainly not repulsive. If I'm looking at myself objectively, I guess I have a decent figure, keep in pretty good shape, you know, at least as good as I can expect while wanting to eat real meals and not spend 3 hours a day at the gym. Slightly curvy, in a fairly toned way. Average height. Dark brown hair, currently in something like a long pixie cut, so it stands out from my peaches and cream complexion. I've been told I have a 'cute' face, with the only really outstanding part being my eyes, which are large and just about the color of pine in late summer, but a shade darker, and fringed with thick brown lashes.

Could be worse, sure, but here's the thing...I want to be an object of insane lust. I always have.

I don't mean that in a romantic way, obviously. What I really want...I don't know if I can describe it accurately this way. Scratch that.

I haven't been with tons of guys, but I'm no virgin either. I've never had a guy bail after he's gotten in my pants. A lot of girls are all show, you know, acting a lot more adventurous before sex than they actually are in bed. A lot of other girls feel like it's not feminine of them to like it as much as guys. I don't believe in any of that bullshit. If a guy is a bad lay, he's out unless I like him enough to teach him. Or want to make a new slave. If a guy is good though, he's rewarded with bruises where I've slammed him into walls and furniture, paving stones, whatever I find around really, and claw marks just about anywhere I can reach.

I want to be wanted desperately, though, by guys who get it. Really get it.

I don't want a guy to get to know me, find me interesting, and make love to me. The other stuff is fun, but guys who let me always push them around aren't what I really want, either. Nothing more than passing the time.

I'm not looking for rape; I'm a hell of a lot stronger than you'd think looking at me and have no compunctions about causing serious injury if the situation calls for it. They need to see the line and understand how to navigate it. I want guys to know I'm clawing them so they'll pin my wrists. That I'm bruising them so they'll bruise me. That brutally hard fucks bring devastating orgasms.

Why don't any of the men I've met get how to please a girl like me? I've been out trying to find one. Decking myself out in different styles to see what I can catch. I haven't gotten there yet, but there have been some worth the trolling. Like last night.

I dolled up it up punk-glam style. Lots of dark eyeliner, cut-outs on the sides of my dress so my hips and part of my abs showed. Combat boots and glitter. I think I put on underwear, but have no clue where they went.

The club I went to is known for having a lot of fights and more than a few result in ambulances and cop cars showing up, so this guy stood out even more than his eclectic style would have made him somewhere else. Dressed like a cross between a bohemian college professor and a Mormon missionary. First thought was it was laundry day and he decided to go out anyway, but he pulled it off. Not traditionally good looking, but with a sexy confidence, and his shirt clinging to his shoulders just enough to hint at strength, with a feline grace in the way he moved. We danced together off and on for hours. The music was too loud to allow for much conversation. Body language was more than enough.

We stepped outside and walked to a park close by, continuing through the center toward the treeline at the river's edge. I could still feel the thumping base beat coming from the club when he pushed me against a large oak tree, his hands quickly catching and restraining my own against the rough bark, his mouth on my neck, working his way up to my ear where he paused, teeth around my lobe, waiting for me to answer his unspoken request for permission. I turned my head ever-so-slightly to give him better access.

He took me on a note somewhere between a hum and growl, breathed into my collarbone where his teeth were planted, my legs around his hips and the heels of my feet digging into his firmly muscled ass, as he rammed me into the tree. I wasn't keeping count of how many times I sobbed out an orgasm, my breath hitching too much to do more.

I didn't catch his name, but he took my phone out of my bra to call his and give himself my number. With the pleasant soreness I'm feeling right now, I'm considering him for another go.