Special thanks to kenjisato, a generous volunteer in Literotica.com's Volunteer Editors program, for editing this piece. All remaining errors and questionable stylistic choices are the sole responsibility of the author.
***
I'm Dexter Reed, and I'm a loser.
Her hair is blonde tonight, in pigtails. The schoolgirl outfit is shed, but for the panties around her knees. She's on her tummy, on my lap, clutching at the pillow that her face is buried into. She was a good girl for me today, as she almost always is. I only get the urge to spank her once in a while. Most of the time, I like "taking care" of her -- more than perverted enough to earn those quotes. I drink up her innocence, trust, and dependence. I love experiencing her growing arousal blend together with them. It corrupts the first and heightens the other two. It's devilishly divine.
Everything about her is perfect, and what else is there to say? Her pale skin is flawless. She's toned and soft. She's the picture of health and youth. Her smells and flavors are engineered to entice. Her ass is
the
ass for me, and it's presented and vulnerable. It's so incredible that I don't despair for not being able to see her face or tits; that's higher praise than you can know.
I brace her with my left hand at the small of her back, more rubbing than pushing. My right finger encounters the perfect amount of resistance, and then, upon penetration, she gives me all the feedback a horny, addled loser could ever want. Her inner heat is magnificent. Her feigned trepidation melts into guilty confusion. It's dirty and wrong, but I'm always right. I'm taking care of her, so it isn't sexual... but it is, and we both know it. Above all else, she likes it. Secretly, she loves it. The fact that she's pretending to merely like it, and that I know she's pretending, lends layers to lovely lies. They satisfy more than just my throbbing cock. Perversion and lust claim other places, too. Losers know all about that. They understand the mental component of sex better than anyone. Winners have the luxury of thinking only with their massive, girthy, ever-ready members.
"Good girl," I tell her.
She whimpers and nods. She has a praise kink, but we mostly suspend it for this fantasy. It's too much of a shortcut. Her peak needs to be primal. It needs to be about her ass, not about my lust for, or ownership, of it.
I wiggle my finger and fuck her a little with it. I massage her exactly how she likes it -- loves it, if she weren't pretending. She is, though, and that includes more confusion, plus a note of surprise. Her whimpering spikes to a coo, then another. Then it flirts with proper moans and groans. In my lap, I feel heat and motion -- hers, not just mine.
I withdraw my finger, and she tries -- but fails -- to pretend to be relieved. More layers.
"Okay, baby," I say, "time to take your temperature."
There's no mammal in the world that can justify the glass tube's size. It's a sex toy, through and through. That doesn't ruin the visual. My horny brain sees the bulbous head, the general shape, the gradation lines and the phony mercury, and it believes. My satisfaction doubles, triples, and peaks as I slowly slide it into her depths, declaring myself her completely dominant caretaker.
How can she communicate embarrassment and surrender when I can't see her beautiful face? She manages. It's the twitch of the leg that never becomes a kick. It's the shoulders and back relaxing -- slumping, were she standing. She grips the pillow tighter, pushing herself into it harder. She modulates her whine, then gets quiet.
Then I start fucking her, because I just can't resist. The power I feel over her is intoxicating. When her hips start to move, her humiliation blossoms. When I warn her to stop with my left hand, her frustration explodes inside of it, like one of those artful firework tricks. When I reward her obedience with soft caresses all up and down her spine, she surrenders all over again. Trust and dependence win out, because I always know what's best.
"There," I say, and slowly withdraw the toy. I even pretend to check it. "A little warm, but very good. You were very good for me."
I set the tube aside and grasp her panties. I try to slide them back up, but she doesn't cooperate.
"We're all done," I tell her, letting just a hint of warning creep into my voice.
She mumbles something into the pillow. I let go of the panties and move my hands -- one to the back, one to the butt.
"You need to speak up, baby."
"Can I keep them off, please?"
I reward her with caresses. "Because you asked nicely." I do my fair share of lovely lying, too. We're a team. I slide her panties down to her knees, then nudge her to bend her legs. Up the calves and ankles the skimpy white bikinis go, and then they're away.
She awkwardly moves off my lap, then turns around and crawls back to me. I gather her up and surround her with reassurance. If that "reassurance" happens to brush her butt again, or a breast, well, these things happen.
She can do so much pretending with just her body, but with her face, she's a true savant. I see the whole story there -- too many emotions to even name.
I begin to kiss her. She accepts it; each one is a temporary balm for what ails her, but they're not enough.
"What's the matter?" I ask. "You can tell me."
She blushes. I "accidentally" find an erect nipple. She knows she's been caught. She gives up the fight.
"I'm... frustrated," she says, using one of our fun words. "You know..."
"I do, baby," I reply. "But I've told you before: there's nothing to be ashamed of. It's okay to feel good when I take care of you. If you need more help -- or even if you just want it -- you can tell me. Why don't you try it? Face your fears."
She pleads with her eyes -- hazel, tonight, whose brown and blue are practically separate rings. She bites her lip -- not to seduce, but to struggle with herself. That's another lie. They're so delightful.
"I want some help," she whispers.
"And I want to help," I answer, "so tell me."
She gets clingy; I love it. She cuddles and nuzzles into me, trying to hide from the world, even though her silly schoolgirl shame -- another masterful lie -- is telling her that she needs to hide from me most of all. I let it happen. I let her full, wet lips get right next to my ear.
"I need to be fucked," she whispers. "I need you to fuck me... back there. I need it fucked out of me. I need you to
make
me."
The fantasy fast-forwards from there -- another kind of lie, and one I'm happy to partake in. My kisses of encouragement become a passionate makeout session; it takes two to tango, and my partner fully emerges. My cuddles become our gropes. She lets me maul her high, perky tits with my hands, and then with my mouth for just a few moments; reluctance, surprise, pain, and pleasure fly by on her face and in her voice. She claws at my head and hair, pulling and then pushing in tandem with that performance. Then it's time for me to be naked, and it happens in a flash. I stand; she drops to her knees, so impatient for my cock to plunder her depths that the blowjob-cum-lube-job is downright frenzied. She massages the hell out of my ass while she fucks her own face, and I feel like I'm hanging on to her head and hair for dear life, rather than asserting more dominance.
She never stops lying. She communicates that her uncontrollable lust is suppressing confusion, shame, and humiliation, even though those countervailing emotions don't exist, and never did. The lust, I believe. The rest I've stopped caring about either way. I'm fully hard, and the two of us are already tag-teaming another rapid-fire lie: that I'm cajoling, encouraging, and even pressuring her into that most submissive of positions: face down, ass up.
The truth is that she's leaping and bending like a gymnast to get herself ready for my cock, and I'm following behind as quickly as I can, blessedly exempt from any complicated maneuvers. Forty is the new thirty, and so on down the line, except that twenty doesn't get disqualified -- just promoted. I'm that new thirty. She's the double platinum standard, and the Captain America of sex besides. What a cluster of lies that is, and I'm enjoying the hell out of all of them; her unparalleled athleticism is serving a perfect, pink target up to me, and her butt is the silver platter.
The fantasies in my head become stupid and basic. They're embarrassing. I'm her master; she's my bitch. I'm her owner; she's my slave. I'm the daddy; she's my little girl. I've already taken her temperature, and now I'm going to give her her medicine.
They do their job, though. They keep my cock hard, and now it's at her pucker. She gets one line -- one choice.
"Gently?" "Slowly?" "I'm scared?" "I submit?" "Make me your bitch?" "Please?"
"Fuck me," is what she chooses tonight. She's so desperate that she halfway forgets herself. That means I have to remind her.
I slide my cock into her with a single, powerful thrust. I can picture her eyes widening and mouth opening involuntarily to issue forth her shocked surrender. That's the nuance of her choice -- what separates it from its rough siblings: she wanted it, but she didn't fully understand it. Now she does.
I seize her cheeks for leverage and push down while I push in. Her rear passage is built for my pleasure. Every bump offers physical gratification, and her response to my cock sliding over them fellates my fucking brain. Her stretched ring is chaos theory made manifest: unpredictable twitching and squeezing that's calculated by some god in some machine to spur me towards orgasm. It tells a fucking story -- another entendre, another lie -- about how I'm hurting her so good at first, then overwhelming her. She's dependent upon me for the sexual pleasure she desperately needs, and I'm giving it to her. I'm the ultimate provider. She's mine forever.
