daddy's grammatical little whore.

it’s your friend’s party, his engagement party, and while i was out on the dance floor i had felt your eyes on me without even seeing them. i turned, locking eye contact with you immediately. it was so hard to look away; the sheer power of your gaze had me stopped in my tracks.

it felt like hours under the pressure of your stare. when you finally broke away and walked towards the exit, i knew deep in my core that i had to follow, lest i receive a beating when we got home.

as soon as i met with you in the lobby, you walked behind me, pinning my arms tightly behind my back until my shoulders as well as my wrists started to ache. 

“you look so fucking delicious, kitty,” you growled into my ear. i only whimpered in pain, not really able to answer coherently. “all dressed up in this slutty outfit, so men can watch you and picture themselves fucking your little whore body.”

i shook my head. “no, daddy i didn’t mean to—”

“shut up, slut.” your grip on my arms tightened and i yelped. you were enjoying it; i can feel you get harder as your body rubs against mine. “don’t say a fucking word until i give you permission to.”

i nodded, fighting the whimper that was threatening to surface. you said no words, but there was no way to tell if my sounds would make you mad too, and it’s always better safe than sorry.

people were walking past us, and it got me so wet knowing that i was being seen like this, used like the little slut i am. 

you started walking to the cloakroom where our bags and coats were nestled, and my body walked with you, my arms numb by then behind my back. as soon as the door shut behind us, the last slights of light waning until we were surrounded by complete darkness.

~

your hand around my throat is enough to drive me insane.

you’re squeezing tightly, and, being pressed against the wall, i feel like there’s no escape from you. you lean forward and as our faces meet my lips part automatically. it’s evident i want a taste of your lips, but all i get is less air as you grip my throat tighter. i can’t help the little splutter that slips out; the dark air around us feels like it’s spinning and i’m beyond dizzy,

you release me, only to growl into my ear, “see, the difference between me and those men you love to tease with you’re slutty clothes, is that i can fuck your little holes, whenever. i. want. to.”

the speed at which the floor is spinning is starting to slow down. my eyes are beginning to adjust to the darkness of the cloakroom and i can see the whites of your eyes as they bore into mine. i shudder in true fear, knowing that you are going to take me, right here. the only thing is: i don’t know how. 

“on your knees, kitty.”

i rush too quickly to meet your command. my knees scuff painfully along the carpet and it burns, but not as much as the need i feel in my throbbing little pussy. i can see you unbuckle your belt and unzip your pants and my eyes look up at you in the darkness, begging. i’m desperate to have you, and i almost, almost, ask you for a taste, but i remember your order from earlier and shut my mouth. my heart is pounding.

“open your mouth.”

before i can even think to comply you’re pushing hard against my closed lips.  i can smell you and i part my lips, your strong hands worming their way into my hair and scrunching tight. you taste so good. i open my jaw to take you deeper, and you push deeper, holding yourself inside my throat until i start to splutter and raise my hands to push against your thighs.

you’re mad at this; you withdraw, slapping me hard across the left cheek. my eyes water from the sting and you growl: “hands behind your back, slut.” 

i am eager to comply, to please you. i lock my hands behind my back even though it hurts where you  grabbed me earlier, and open my mouth wide— a silent invitation. you oblige and fill my mouth with your cock, and the sounds of your heavy breathing as you stroke in and out of my mouth, can surely be heard from outside the thin walls of the cloakroom. especially when they are mixed with my little yelping moans and the squishy squishy sounds of my spit as you fuck me.

as you use my hair to pull me, my thighs rub together, creating friction not nearly enough to be satisfying, but more than present enough to remind me of my need. i need you, so fucking much it’s unreal. tasting you is driving me even more wild; i’ve always loved how you taste, and by now my pussy knows to expect your cock as soon as you’re in my mouth.

i can tell you’re close now. you’re fucking my throat, and you are speeding up, your movements losing refinement, precision. i try my hardest to make it good for you, letting a loud moan rumble in my throat and preparing to swallow everything you give me, but instead of cumming down my throat you pull out, jacking off in my face until your perfect load of creamy cum drips in thick ropes onto my forehead. it’s warm and my lips twitch a little.

you pat my head and scratch behind my ear and ask: “what do good little cum-sluts say?” i can hear the pleasure still rolling in your voice from your orgasm.

“thank you, daddy.”

“good girl.” break. “i suppose you’re wondering what to do now. right, slut?”

i nod.

“get up.”

i do so, almost tripping in my heels.

“you look so pretty covered in my cum, kitty.”

i beam, fighting the urge to lick up a drop that’s sliding down just beside my lip. “thank you, daddy.”

“well.” you tuck yourself back into your slacks and zip and belt up. “i called for a taxi. it’s waiting two blocks from here. you’re going to walk out of here with my cum all over you, and get inside. you’re also going to make eye-contact with everyone you walk past. i want them to see what a filthy little whore you are, and how much you love wearing my load. is this understood?”

i shudder, knowing that there will be quite a few people i’d walk past. it’s only around eleven o’clock on a friday night. walking two blocks with cum on my face would be so shameful, so disgustingly degrading.

i love it.

“yes, daddy.”

it’s raining—
thick droplets of liquid lust
water for the thirsty
in the midst of drought.

come taste it;
i promise it’s the best
rain you’ll ever fucking taste
in your life.

green envy seeps
through red-hot veins
black thoughts then blue
white hope away

her purple prince
now, grey he seems
the brown result
of yellow dreams.

i could feel his hands
around my throat
taking my breath away.

i could hear his voice
in my ear
degrading and humiliating me.

i could feel his weight
on my body
crushing me until i feel contained.

i could sense his frustrations
in the air
reminding me of my purpose.

i could answer his commands
in my tiny voice
stroking his ego, his pride, his alpha-male.

i could suffer his rage
at his hands
knowing he is in full and utter control.

i could take in his seed
wherever he sees fit
reducing my body to little more than a hole.

i could take my place
at his feet
rubbing my head in his lap in contentment.

i wish.

her skin quivers, want flooding
through her body like
a bursting dam.

he watches

she feels bound; not by rope,
chain or any physical restraint, but by his command.

his word
is her law,
and she must obey.

he watches

the way her body aches
for him
the way she tries to slow her intake
of breath
the way she hates
how

he watches

yet she loves
how

he watches

the way her body aches
 
she would stoop and
degrade herself while he
watches her, with eager eyes

as she is bound by him, by her intrinsic
need to please him

he watches

as she breaks
shakes
quivers
aches

but never finds release.

but there is something so beautiful about words. yes, words.

those little things we throw about so flippantly in conversation. they’re so perfect, so absolute, yet for the most part we cast them aside, deem them unimportant and continue with our lives.

we’ve all had that feeling, when we can’t remember that word, and we panic, asking friends to help fill in the gap. more often than not we give up and settle for a less adequate word, a workaround, and it leaves us with a dissatisfied ache in our stomachs. that is, until hours or maybe even days later, when the context is long forgotten, and we remember that word, and all is well.

i’m learning that the correct choice of words is essential for writers, for the purposes of variation and more importantly, effect. even the simplest of sentences could be transformed by substituting just two little words.

the man walked towards the woman.

after changing one word that sentence becomes:

the man walked towards the girl.

now, there is an implied age difference between the two, with the man seemingly much older than the girl. another word change gives us:

the man stalked towards the girl.

…which changes the whole feel of the sentence. stalking suggests secrecy and ill intentions, shadows and obsession, and that coupled with the girl’s youth and innocence makes for a scary six-worded sentence. writing horror really opens your eyes to how much effect your words have on your reader, and i think you can’t get away with as much with horror than you can with say, romance.

.

i’m such a geek.

but you love me for it.

enchanting, entrancing.
once dormant, now rampant, triumphant and dancing
it speaks, nay, it beckons, it draws me completely
appalling; it’s calling, hell’s song it sings sweetly.

but futile it is to avoid it with stealth,
for the beautiful darkness is within myself.