The Original Ride-or-Die Bitch

Johnny was my first love, and he will always be my one true love. We started going out senior high school, right after my eighteenth birthday. It took me a while to notice that he frequently went somewhere else, to run an errand, before taking me out. Once we were together, at an after-school rally, and we had plans to go to a movie, and he said he had something else to do first. I thought it might another girl. So I followed him. Imagine my surprise and amazement when I found that he parked outside a gas station, left the motor running in his hot black SHO, went into the station, pulled out a pistol, and ran out of the station with a fistfull of bills! I was so thrilled that I found I'd soaked all the way through my panties.

After that I was afraid every time he came to pick me up, afraid that something would happen, afraid he wouldn't be there. Unable to take a full breath until I heard the rumble of his car coming up our street.

So one day, at the drive-in movies, with my blouse all unbuttoned, and wrestling over whether he would get into my pants, I told him what I'd seen. Of course he denied it. Guys deny everything. But I persisted, and finally he admitted he'd been a thief since he was a little boy. I demanded to go with him next time.

"No way!"

"Otherwise I'll always be afraid. Unless I'm with you."

"Never."

"Let me go with you, and I'll let you do what you want to do with me."

That stopped him cold.

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"Cross your heart and hope to die?"

I crossed my heart and swore. And then he let me see his pistol, but he wouldn't let me hold it.

So next Saturday night, he took me with him. He wanted to park a block away. "No, Johnny. I need to see."

I insisted, and finally he parked across the street, so I could watch. When he pulled out that pistol, the look on that man's face, that man was so afraid of him, I was so proud, I found myself getting all wet again. And when Johnny ran across the street and jumped into the car, I wanted him right then. I kept pleading with him as he kept saying he needed to get further away, but finally he pulled into a quiet, dark street, and I climbed on top of him before he even got the car turned off.

It was my first time, so I hope I did all right. I had already taken my panties off, and I just unzipped his pants and let that huge dong of his out, climbed in his lap and sat down on it as hard as I could. I don't' know what he felt. I felt mostly pain, mixed with pride. He was my man, and I was his.

After that we did everything. He taught me how to go down on him, how not to rake his penis with my teeth, how to slide his shaft to give him the most pleasure, how to swallow his hot, salty cum. I came to really crave that taste. In class, when we were supposed to be conjugating French verbs, I'd be thinking of his cock, I'd be imagining the feel of it in my mouth, the bang of it against the back of my throat, and I'd find that I'd slipped down in my seat and was, without realizing it, rubbing my thighs together. I'd sit back up quickly, and hope nobody had noticed, although I think Mr. Altoff did, although it was hard to tell, because he spent all our mentally undressing us anyway.

And the first time I had an orgasm!! Johnny was inside me, and I was mostly conscious of what he was feeling, and how close he was, I wasn't thinking of what was happening inside me at all, until suddenly I exploded. I had never heard that that could happen, nobody ever told me, and I must have looked completely amazed, because Johnny laughed so hard at me he had to pull out.

After I knew that could happen, I wanted that every time. I didn't get it every time, because Johnny was a very goal directed boy. But I got it enough to become an addict.

I could never get started, though, unless I'd seen him pull a robbery first. We tried it a couple of times, but it was terrible. Even Johnny could tell it was terrible, and, as I said, he was a very goal-directed boy.

I didn't know what to do with myself after he died. Not in a robbery. In an accident, racing his car. I tried to kill myself, and it's a good think I didn't know more about how to do it, because it wasn't a cry for help, it was not wanting to be alive on this earth without Johnny. That's how I got these scars.

Right after graduation, Mr. Altoff, my French teacher, asked me to marry him. I was stumbling through my days in shock, I had no idea what day it was, what time it was, I had no plans for my life, I couldn't feel anything about anything, so I said yes, just to give me some way out of that town, and maybe also because it was good to be desired, to have somebody want me, as if that would be my purpose.

He was very good to me. He taught me that men could go down on women, too! That was a wonderful discovery. And he was very good at it. He would lick me, very precisely and methodically, asking me about the pace and doing whatever it said, until that explosion happened.

But, even though I could have all the orgasms I wanted, and he was crazy about me and did everything I wanted, I could just never feel serious about him as a man. I started sneaking out to cheat on him. When he was teaching, I'd go to a bar in the middle of the day, sit down next to the handsomest man, put my hand on his thigh, and let him take me home, or to his car, or even to the men's room. I learned how dangerous that was. Bad things happened to me, and I'd have to tell Bob, as Mr. Altoff became to me, some ridiculous story to make an excuses for my bruises. When he stopped believing the stories, and found out I had unmet sexual needs, he tried to become part of them. He'd bring in friends, and watch them fuck me. We tried three-ways, and four-ways, we tried doing it i public, I had him tie me up, he had me tie him up. None of it mattered. Finally it became clear to him that he was never going to be central in my life, and he left me for one of his students. Little blonde thing with giant breasts. Made me feel way less about myself, that he would leave me for that, as though my individuality didn't matter to him at all, only my youth.

He left me a generous settlement, but I didn't know what to do with it. Besides buying a Porsche, that is. Bob drove a station wagon, and it always made me feel dead, every time I got in that station wagon.

In the newspaper, there were stories about bank robberies, in a town two towns away. Without thinking it through, just following my instinct, I went there. I thought about renting an apartment, but instead I just checked into a cheap motel.

Then I set to work to find the bank robber.

Perhaps I missed my calling in life. I guess they had a whole squad of detectives looking for him, with no luck. I got him in three days.

What I did was to just figure out which bank he would do next. I drove by all the banks he had done, and I didn't exactly make a list, "on a side street," "small," "near a freeway," but more like I just felt what it felt like to be there. Then I drove around town, to every bank, until I found one that felt exactly like that. Then I sat in my Porsche until he came.

When he pulled up outside, in a jacked-up little Subaru WRX, I knew it was him. It wasn't like he had on a black jacket and greased hair, or anything. He was an ordinary man, wearing khaki slacks, a blue t-shirt, and a windbreaker. But I could instantly tell he was mine. I could feel it inside me. I could already feel my panties going wet.

I didn't see the robbery, and he didn't run out of the bank, he walked casually as if nothing had happened. I tried not to let me see me as I followed him home. He drove fast, he made illegal turns, and I almost lost him when he made a U-turn on the freeway, but I was a very goal-directed girl.

He lived in a completely ordinary tract house in the suburbs. My plan had been to just note the address and come back a couple of days, when he would be less jumpy and suspicious, but I couldn't make myself wait. Telling myself not to, I got out of the car. Trying to make myself stop, I crossed the street. Doing everything I could not to, I rang his doorbell. He opened it with the cutest scowl.

"What the fuck do YOU want??"

"What do you think I want?" And I stepped inside and closed the door.

He took me right there, up against the wall. He was huge inside me, and he was forceful, and I came before he did, but neither of us was surprised, because we were making eye contact the whole time.

When he shot inside me, he threw me on the floor, zipped his jeans, and said, "Okay. You got what you want. Now get out of here so I can make myself dinner."

I shook my head. "Never. I am your destiny. I have found you, and I am never going to leave you."

He made as if to kick me in the head, but he did not kick me in the head.

"Tell me when you're ready again, and I'll suck you like you have never been sucked," I said.

"I can be ready right now," he said. And he picked me up, as gently as a hero rescuing the damsel in distress, can carried me to his bedroom. Where he disrobed like a professional stripper, watching me watch him, then took my clothes off, they lay back and waited for my mouth.

When I had made that magnificent thing return to its whole unbelievable size again, he rolled me over and put it in my anus.

I had never had that happen to me, and it was a little bit like Johnny that first time, I was so staggered by the novelty of the situation that I wasn't really sure of my own sensations.

It was like this was "all the way," and I'd never really gone all the way before, though I thought I had. He so completely occupied me that it felt like there was nowhere inside me he was not penetrating. I felt such overwhelming pain that I could not help screaming, and my screams excited him and drove him on. So that time we WERE both completely surprised when I came first. He finished off quickly, got up, went to the bathroom, drank water, then came back and rolled me over like rolling over a rock to see what is underneath it. He looked me deep in the eyes, and it was like having him in my ass, having him in my eyes that way, so deep. "You really are something. Who are you and where did you come from?"

I told him, just like I have told you here. He first didn't believe me, because, like I said, guys never believe you. And then when he did believe him, he laughed a long time, and then he fucked me in my mouth so hard I thought I was going to choke and die, and shot in my mouth. A huge load, for a man who had just already come twice already within the hour. When I swallowed it and smiled, he smiled as well. "Maybe you are," he said. "Maybe there is a God, and maybe you are my angel. Thanks, anyway, for finding me."

We've been together ever since. We've only ever had one fight, I mean one actual serious fight, and that was when I demanded that he let me go in with him. "You'll fuck up everything," he said. "I'm a professional. I don't work with amateurs. I don't work with anybody. I work alone. Never. Never, ever, ever. No." But I had my way with him. I worked on him until I wore him down, and now I always go in with him, and I always make him take me at least once on the way home, then at least once more when we get home.

He's not perfect. He's thoughtless. He never picks up after himself. I do all the work. I have to think of everything. He never remembers my birthday. He runs around. He fucks every cheap piece of meat in town. Sometimes he brings them home. Sometimes makes me help him with them. I've learned to like that well enough, in its own way. I've learned to love the taste of woman on my tongue. I've learned to appreciate the look of fear and surprise on her face as she realizes what's going to happen to her.

He's not perfect, but I love every inch of him. He is mine. He is the one man on this earth who was made for me. I love his smell, in the night, when I've got up to pee, and I come back, and bury my nose deep against him, trying to breathe his whole body into mine. I love his cock. I love his cock in any of my receptacles he want to put it in, however and whenever he wants to take me: at the breakfast table. At the movies. In front of guests. When I'm cooking something that will be completely ruined if it has to wait. At any moment of the day or night.

But especially after a robbery. When he goes to the counter. When he hands the girl the note. The look in her eyes when he discretely shows her what he has in his pocket.

He is my man, and I am the luckiest woman in this world to have found him.