Used Shoes

Karen had once said that she wanted to be 'taken' by a man. It was a direct statement, but it only hinted at the real cravings underneath. Used. To be treated as an object of someone else's pleasure. To be taken (she could barely say it to herself) as a sex slave. That was what she wanted - that was the real truth. To be turned onto her back, legs spread, and mouth open, only because he had forced her into that position. She would do it, because he wanted her that way. And then there would be another way he wanted her. And he might tell her to move to a certain position, so that he could have better access to her, or maybe he might simply grab her legs and roll her over with the force of his own lust. And she would love it. Beg for it.

As she slipped into the stockings, positioning the tight lace on her thighs, Karen's legs were nearly trembling. The trepidation was rising. She was excited about meeting him, but worried. She thought, I don't really know this man, haven't seen him for nearly a year, and here I am meeting him in the middle of the night. I'm meeting him just for sex. There's no denying that.

He had told her what to wear, and she was following his lead. Heels, stockings, a tight top, and no underwear at all - it was slut wear. She was wearing the clothes he told her to, and their meaning was obvious. He would see her wearing what he had asked, and his influence over her would be apparent from the start. With his instructions to her, he was already revealing what waited ahead for them, and she could feel the anticipation in her stomach and the hunger between her legs. Maybe she wasn't doing the lady-like thing - it was definitely something she could never confess to another person - but she was following her most basic wants and deepest needs. These were feelings that had been welling in her for years. The tingling along her legs was proof of that.

Karen took a quick look at herself in the mirror. Her eyes fell immediately down to the area where her hands were staying, instinctively trying to shelter herself. She knew he would push her hands aside, and that she would let him. He wanted her right there. He wanted to be there with his tongue, his fingers, his - she shivered at the honesty of the term - cock. She had never herd someone say the things he had said to her and not be offended. This time, it wasn't meant to be offensive. He really did lust for her, and he could barely contain his feelings.

The drive to the hotel seemed to take hours. She had to stop herself from touching herself unconsciously. Her legs were already starting to spread open in an invitation. She was worried she would be late, then too early. What was he doing now? Perhaps he was already there.

Meeting at a hotel room: that was so to-the-point. He wanted to have sex with her. So she was meeting him there. What did that say? It said, yes, she wanted it too. With him. So bad, in fact, that she would forgo the usual social interactions and conventions before allowing it. They would not meet and have dinner, and then dance around the subject. She would not be able to put him off for another time, reconsider her decision, talk on the phone with him, and then eventually (or not) have him over for a special night. This was it. The moment that I open that hotel room door, he will have me. She said it again to herself. In less than an hour, I will be.... She had to stop the daydreaming; she was driving far too fast now, her foot anxiously pressing the accelerator.

The sign out front said $39.95 per night. It was just a regular hotel off the highway. Probably the guests were the typical family-in-from-out-of-town: kids, grandparents, cousins. She drove into the parking lot, imagining that people were looking down from windows, aware of why she was here. But there was no one to see her. It was, after all, 9:00 p.m. The sun had set and people were in their rooms, watching TV, reading, or still out to dinner.

Then the thought crept up on her. She was scanning the numbers on the doors, looking for lighted rooms, wondering if the rooms next to them would be occupied. She was wondering if the other guests would be able to hear them. Hear her moans, the bed moving, the sounds she would make as she would cum (because she knew she was going to feel it happen over and over with him), and the urgent breathing as he pushed inside her.

That was the moment she would later remember as the most honest she had ever been with herself about sex. She knew what she wanted for once: to be the receiver of absolute lust. She wanted to let him have his way with her. She would let him do what he wanted, and just give herself to his urges. Karen would be a slut for him tonight. The word echoed in her head. Slut. That meant a girl who loved sex above everything else.

She had been trained for years to resist that label. She would look, sometimes despairingly, at girls who wore the fuck-me-heels in public. That was a bit much. Just keep it in the bedroom, she might think. But now, she was walking towards that door, and she was wearing those shoes herself, in public, just to make him happy. Only because they were shoes (she said it) made just for fucking. They would be pointing to the air in just a little while, her legs pushed wide, his arms locking in the soft spot on the backs of her knees, which would be nearly to her ears, and the shoes would stay on all night. They were a symbol of her feelings for him and herself; a sign that she was allowing her other side to show tonight.

She wondered now, what he wanted to do with her. Karen opened her mouth a little wider in practice. He would want her to suck on him. Probably to cum in her mouth, or perhaps somewhere else on her body. He would want to tit-fuck her. That was pure lust, and she would let him do it because of how it made him feel, and then made her feel when she looked into his eyes. It was an incredible thought, to think of the situation, that they would be doing these things with each other. Things that close couples did - sometimes never - and he would do that with her tonight. In only moments it would be happening. She allowed herself the most lustful thought: she hoped he would lick her all night. She wanted that more than anything. She was starting to get woozy. A careless thought entered her head. Maybe when she entered that room, if it wasn't him there, but by some strange twist another man was waiting for her, she would still want it. She would lie down on that bed and offer herself to him.

There was the door, in front of her. She could turn around if she wanted, go home and pretend it was just another night. A moments courage as the fear of the unknown swelled inside, and then she knocked on the door. She could still run. Instead, the door opened. He was standing there, looking at her with that look. He smiled, took her hand, because she was nearly stumbling with a confused air of fear, shame, and a complete need for sex. She walked in. What was he going to do? Perhaps, she thought, she had been expecting something that wouldn't happen. He was wearing a flawless white shirt and tan pants that looked perfect for bringing him along to meet her friends.

Then his hand guided hers to the zipper of those pants. She could barely let him do this without a sound. Her hand instinctively resisted the control of another person, and he used his much greater strength to overcome her impulse. Good girls don't do this, she thought.

Don't say a thing, he said, as if anticipating her first nervous words. He wanted to just do things with her body, not talk. She wasn't here for her opinions or her insights or her humor or any kind of conversation. It wasn't that kind of night. She allowed a sound to come past her lips. Ahmmm. She felt him growing in his pants with her touch. Her whimper only made him want her more. This was going to be big.

He kissed her neck first. He wasn't wasting time. He kissed her lips. He let her feel the shape of them, and then he kissed her more deeply until they were intertwined. She was becoming his now. It happened so fast. Not even a "hello", and she was feeling him pressed against her. Smelling his hair, letting him put his arms around her. It was easy, it was natural. Her breathing was nervous, but subsiding into a rhythmic cadence with an athletic stride - forceful, youthful, energetic.

He then stopped. Sit down on the bed, he told her. She did as she was told, looking up at him for the next instructions. His eyes surveyed her for the first time, and he smiled so genuinely when he saw that she had worn everything he had asked, even the red lipstick. It was no small thing for her to do this. It meant something wonderful. She had crossed that line from a respectable professional woman, into a plaything. His plaything.

Forget expected behavior. It was leaving them behind as he adjusted to the fact that his fantasy was becoming a reality. By the end of the night it might seem as if she had always been like this, but for now, it was so erotic to imagine that she was a proper woman, who had a complete need (and he said it to her) to just be fucked. God, he wanted to do it. She arched her back. It was as if she were offering her tits to him.

He told her, trying to ease the excitement in his voice, that she should pull up her shirt. She was not wearing a bra, and her gorgeous breasts bounced free when she lifted her shirt.

She was nervous, and she looked away as she did this. He took her chin in his hand and made her look in his eyes. They were both in this together. Both experimenting. Both acting outside some boundary. For an unknown reason she had expected him to be accustomed to this. But she could see that he was nearly overwhelmed with the lust to just throw her on the bed. He was showing himself too. It was a silent trusting moment for him and her both.

He told her to get on the bed and wait there on her hands and knees. Her butt was accented against the skirt. Her shoes were on the sheets. He let her stay like that for a long while as he slowly pulled up her skirt, revealing that she was not wearing anything underneath. He looked at her pussy lips, wanting them so badly. He kissed her skin, he licked nearby, he parted them longingly. She could feel his insistence now, and she was letting him expose her, because it was what he wanted. It was pornographic. She didn't know she could be so used. He had turned her into a slut and she was dripping wet now with just the idea that he was turned on by simply looking at her. Give someone a camera and she would have been masturbation material for thousands of men. She got weak at the thought.

He was below her now sucking with complete abandon on her breasts. Her nipples were hard, big. It felt so good. And he was so involved with her body. Any imperfections seemed not to matter. God, he loved her breasts. He was putting as much in as he could fit in his mouth. His hands were squeezing. This is foreplay, she laughed to herself, and it was working. The feeling of his mouth sucking so lustfully was traveling down to her insides, making her start spreading her legs without her even understanding what was happening.

He then couldn't resist anymore. He turned her over onto her back. He kissed her ankles, let his fingers glide on her skin, further up her leg until two of his fingers were inside her, pumping her, making her moan, letting the juice flow out. His mouth went straight towards her. He was lapping her clit. Sticking his tongue inside, loving the feeling of her, the way she moved her hips telling him she so wanted it, and then he started to put his tongue where he could taste her, because that was what he wanted more than anything. He said it now, I want your juice all night, its mine.

Her legs were spread wide open, her hands holding onto his head, grabbing his hair, for fear he would stop. But he wouldn't stop, because she was getting closer and closer. Her breathing had changed. Her rhythm had changed. She was using him now. She was showing him how to best do her, and he let her lead him with her hip movements and thrusts. She would sigh as he pushed his fingers deep into her. He was massaging the inside of her pussy. There was a small section which sent her so well when he gently fingered it. She told him a thousand different ways THAT feeling was what she wanted. He licked and fingered her and she loved it. She came and he stopped moving and allowed her to ride the wave against his face and lips and hand however she wanted.

She was breathing hard, living in the afterglow. He looked at her spread for him on the bed. He allowed her to recover by kissing her thighs, her stomach, the soft skin between her breasts. But that last kiss was too much, and he cupped her breasts together and knew that he wanted to feel his cock in that sexy crease. He told her to push them together and he started pushing in and out. He noticed that she was watching his face, and he smiled back at her. It felt unlike anything else. He reached over by the table and found a tube of massage oil that he had brought and smeared it over her chest. She knew she was now his tit-fuck slave and that it was something not every girl could (or would) do.

His cock buried in her tits. He was so turned on by her. He felt like saying he loved her, but bit his tongue. He loved IT perhaps. And he loved the way she looked like this. She wanted to watch as the head of it came out and nearly touched her lips. He could see that she wanted to take it in her mouth. The thought of her asking to give him a blow job was too much. He came just then. It shot heavily from between her tits and up towards her neck. He could barely stay on his knees. She was looking at the cum now, the sight of what he had just done to her was causing her writhe in passion.

He recovered. He told her he wanted to fuck her. (He had never said that to a girl before, but it meant something so good now. He could use words with her that were wrong, but they came out right anyway. And later, she did tell him that she wanted to give him a blow job, and when she said it, embarrassed but so honest, it was just as erotic as when she actually did it to him. He watched her do it to him, they made eye contact, and he told her she was now his Blow Job Princess. In a way she could never explain, she felt that that was the most adoring thing anyone had ever said to her.)

Other nights would follow that one. She would wait for the message and then spend the day in anticipation, counting down the minutes till she would knock on that hotel door once again. It was always different in detail, but she still would get that feeling driving in her car to the meeting. I am his slut tonight, she would say out loud. She kept the fuck-shoes hidden in a bag in her closet. She didn't want anyone else to ever know about her shoes.