Where am I right now? Am I still on my knees, worshiping your cock?

Of course I am.

Your hands are in my hair. Perhaps one is around my throat and I have to move slowly up and down your cock because to go any faster would mean the end of my air supply.

You can feel every movement of my lips and my tongue on your rock hard cock. Every lick, every suck. Every little bit of pressure.

Maybe one of my hands is in my cunt, so I can fuck myself while I’m pleasing you.  But not enough so that I’d cum. Just enough so that I’m wet for you. Until you’re ready to make me cum. I think you’d like that. But that’s ok; that’s the way I like it, too.

Can you stand it anymore? The excruciatingly slow way I’m servicing your cock? Or do you grab my hair in both of your hands and bring my head forward, as you thrust into the back of my throat?

Why not? You’ve already done it. You know how good it feels. How good it feels to have every inch of your cock in my mouth, while I’m helpless to resist.

Maybe I try to pull away because it’s too much. But you won’t let me. You just keep fucking my mouth because it’s not about me. It’s about you. I’m your whore, remember? It’s my job.

Oh, you’re close? Then let me have it.

All of it.

I’m waiting for it.




What is my favorite way to be fucked?

I’m on my hands and knees and you are behind me. You ask me to play with myself, but this is purely for your benefit; I’ve been wet since you walked through the door. I wait dripping, trembling, for you to enter me; to take what’s yours. Just when I think I’m unable to bear it any longer, you grab my hips and thrust inside me in one swift movement. I cry out in shock and pleasure as my body adjusts to you. You start slowly, moving purposefully into and out of me, inch by inch. You want to see how much of your cock you can fit inside me; how much of you I can take. I moan and raise my ass higher, begging to be filled.

It’s not long before your patience runs out. Whatever self-control you’ve managed to maintain is gone and you begin to fuck me, hard. Your fingers dig into my hips as you pull me into you; onto your cock. My moans turn to yelps as you fuck me deeper, harder. I start to sink to my forearms, seeking to ride out the storm with the added support of the bed, but you aren’t having any of it.

You gather my long, red hair in one massive fist and give it a sharp tug. My head and torso snap up and all of me is once again within your reach. From this position, every move you make is somehow magnified, more intense. You’re deep inside of me and it’s almost too much. You pull my hair again and I arch my back. How much more of me can you want? My silent question is answered when your other hand comes up to grab my throat. You apply just enough pressure to let me know that your hand is there. You’re not trying to choke me; this isn’t breath play. You just want me to know that you possess me–all of me–even if only for this brief moment. And that there’s nothing I can do about it.

All the while, you’re pounding into me again and again. Faster and harder. Faster and harder. My vision has gone black; I can no longer see. I can only feel.

All I feel is cock and cunt.

In and out.

Empty and full.

I make grunting noises, low and guttural in my throat. It is primal, inhuman, because that is what I have been reduced to.

In that moment, I am nothing, nor have I ever been.

And in that moment, I find truth, because I am more myself than I ever was.


“I like the stockings,” you say, as you run your fingers over the tops of my black lace thigh-highs. “But I’m old-fashioned.”

I’m straddling you, my face hovering an inch above yours. “Not too old-fashioned, I hope,” I whisper, as I lean in for the kiss I’ve been dying for all night.


You climb on top of me, using all of your weight to pin me down. You slide your hand down my body, lightly caressing me. Without warning, you bring it down heavily on my cunt, slapping it, hard. “I’m going to miss this,” you whisper, grabbing me possessively.

You put your hand around my neck and squeeze gently, but firmly.

Our eyes meet.

Everything stops.

This is what we’ve meant to each other.


“You’re such a vile little whore. You make me want to do these things to you. Does it make you feel dirty or good when I use your body like that?”

Can I help it that my body responds to cruelty more deeply than it ever could to kindness? Is it an accident of birth; a defect of the mind?

Why should the feel of your hand closing around my throat excite me more than any caress? Does it make sense that with each slap, each bite, each threat, each slur, the harder my cunt throbs, the wetter I get?

Anyone in their right mind would run when you get that look about you. Your eyes narrow, your teeth clench. A sneer begins to spread where a smile once was. All traces of the man I know are gone. I am terrified and you know it.

Still you do not stop. With me, you can go farther than you have with anyone, and you love it. I can take whatever you have to give; I will not break. With you, I can be used the way I need to be used.  The more I am debased, the more abuse I crave.

“Come on baby, ” he repeated. “OK,” I said, breathlessly, haltingly. Christ. I sounded just like the girl in Paradise by the Dashboard Light. He smiled and returned to the utility table. In an eerily hot reenactment of his earlier advances towards me, he picked up a condom and tore open the wrapper, slipping the latex sheath over his cock with the easy confidence of a man who knows he’s finally won. He was looking at me the entire time, too, grinning almost maniacally; fucking me with his bloodshot blue eyes as they devoured every inch of my body. In a second, he was ready, closing the short span of empty space that still remained between us with one quick stride.

He climbed onto the table and knelt between my open legs. Scared shitless, I waited for the pain that would surely come when he finally entered me. I had only lost my virginity three months before and every time I’d had sex since then still felt like the first time for me. It was great for the guy–who doesn’t want to fuck a girl with a tight pussy?–but less than ideal for me. This was, no doubt, God punishing me for being a whore.

The shock of him plunging inside of me took my breath away. As my body expanded to accommodate him, I gasped and realized that I was actually having sex with this man. Reaching down to grab my breasts, he pushed himself deeper into me. He closed his eyes and grimaced in pleasure. I, on the other hand, had broken out into a cold sweat and begun to tremble. My breath grew short and my vision wavered. A feverish stream of thoughts beat a tattoo in my head, keeping time with his thrusts, as my overloaded mind tried to process what was going on.

“This is really happening.”

“I’m really doing this.”

“We’re really doing this.”

I fought to keep my breath steady and my heart from pounding out of my chest. This was no way for a mature woman like myself to behave; certainly not in front of this man. Who knows what he would do to me if I passed out? I sure as hell didn’t trust him and the though of being left his care while unconscious frankly terrified me. So, for the second time, I willed myself not to lose it in that nasty little room.

Propping myself up with my left arm, I swung my right around his shoulders and tried to get more control. He began to thrust harder and I moved to meet his pace. Soon, we had a nice rhythm going and I was finally beginning to enjoy myself. We moved at breakneck speed, barely able to catch a breath, definitely unable to get enough of each other. This was what I had wanted all along–hot, dirty sex with a bad boy–and it was amazing. Then, without warning, it stopped. He had thrusted right out of me, our sweat and the slippery vinyl of the tattoo bench combining to make it impossible for him to keep stable.

“Come here, baby.” He shoved his tongue roughly into my mouth, sliding me down to the end of the bench so he could fuck me while standing. We’d only just gotten our rhythm back when he slid out again. Shit. This was getting ridiculous. I shifted my weight, getting ready to try another position but by then, he had stopped completely. “I’m sorry, baby; the condom is making me go soft,” he said, as he peeled the offending piece of latex off his previously virile member. “I guess you’re just going to have to finish me off this way,” he said, gesturing to the wheeled stool next to him. As he stood there, naked except for his white gym socks, holding his half limp dick in his hand, I realized that he intended to have me sit on the stool and suck him off.

Still shaking and slightly breathless, I got up off the bench and brushed the dripping strands of hair from my sweaty face in preparation for my next task. I sat down and obediently put my mouth on his cock. I have to give him credit; it was pretty nice, as far as cocks go. Neatly manicured and pleasant enough to the taste, it certainly didn’t seem nearly as dirty as the rest of him. And, strangely enough, it was completely devoid of any ink. The man was literally covered head to toe in tattoos, but his penis was pristine. And in my mouth.

I went to my task with relish, curling my tongue around his shaft, working it back to its previously erect state. As I worked my mouth up and down, I kept my eyes locked on his, as I normally do when I’m blowing a guy. As I met the steel in his gaze, however, I began to lose my nerve. “I can’t do this,” I thought. “I’m never going to be able to get him off. He’s just so much more experienced than I am, and not just in matters of sex. I mean, shit, he’s probably killed more men than I’ve slept with. This is never going to work.” The torrent of negative thoughts assaulted me, taking me out of the moment completely.

I started jerking him off, hoping that a switch in sensations would send him over the edge. “Does that feel good?” I asked, making a desperate attempt at sounding seductive, hoping against hope for a little positive feedback. “Yeah, baby,” he groaned, pushing my head back down onto his cock. As I swallowed him, drawing him deep into to the back of my throat, he dug his nails into the skin of my back. “Do you like pain?” he asked, pressing harder. Obviously unable to speak and far beyond coherent thought at this point, I just nodded and went back to deepthroating him, praying that he would come and it would be over. It’s not that I was surprised that he was into BDSM, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a bit intrigued by the idea. But, adventurous as I was, being alone with a skinhead tattooist in a room full of sharps did not seem to be the best situation in which to explore that side of my sexuality.

I broke off and came up for air, desperately needing a break; I was beginning to tire. I looked up at him. “Why isn’t it tattooed?” I asked, unable to contain the question any longer. “I’m working my way in,” he said, with that same deadpan expression. Again; my fault for asking.

Just as I was getting ready to get back to work, he took mercy on me. Putting his hand on my shoulder, he pushed me back gently. “Let me do it, baby,” he said, as he began to stroke his cock. It’s an amazing thing watching a man jerk himself off. His hand glides effortlessly over his skin, back and forth, with intoxicating precision. He has practiced this countless times since he first entered puberty. He knows what he likes–where to touch, how to move, what amount of pressure to apply, which cadence works best for him. He will get himself off, because he knows he can. It’s as simple as that.

Within a minute and a half, he was ready to burst. “I’m there,” he said, breathlessly. Mesmerized, I missed his subtle cue and sat staring as he came, groaning, doubling over in ecstasy. Snapping back to reality, I rushed to put my mouth on his cock, doing my best to swallow every remaining drop of his spendings, like the good little slut I was. It was over.

As the orgasmic bliss wore off, so did all of his charm. He recovered himself and started to tease me. Pointing to the white drops on the floor, he asked, “who did you think I was talking to when I said ‘I’m there’?” At a loss for words, I rose from the stool and walked over to the tattoo bench where my clothing had been hastily thrown. He continued to deride me, asking why I had taken my socks off; telling me that it wasn’t “smart” to go barefoot in a tattoo shop. I laughed feebly and shoved my shirt over my head, my arms shaking with the exertion and adrenaline. In a stunned silence, I put on the rest of my clothes and picked up my bag. There was nothing left to say.

I walked with him to the front door and waited as he unlocked and opened it wide. He leaned down and gave me a short, close-mouthed peck on the lips, no doubt to avoid tasting himself. “Come back anytime, baby. I mean any time,” he said. He turned and walked back to the front desk. I had been effectively dismissed. He’d gotten what he wanted and he was clearly done with me.

Feeling slightly hollow, I stepped out onto the stoop and made the most dignified exit I could. I paused at the top of the stairs and took one last look back. There he was, the same way I had found him, sitting in that ratty old desk chair, with that same shit-eating grin on his face. Heat rose in my cheeks as my eyes met his for the last time. For just a moment, I felt what I knew he was feeling: the smugness of satisfaction. He may have gotten what he wanted, but, then again, so had I.

photo by A. Ribando

His lips touched mine and I was astounded; there was no way a skinhead’s lips were allowed to be that soft. I returned the kiss eagerly, with an aggression almost equal to the aggression he displayed in pursuing me. The kiss deepened and we grabbed each other tightly, groping each other as we thrashed around wildly on top of the table. Before long, his hands slid downward and he quickly unbuttoned my jeans.

He put a finger inside me, drew it out, and thrust it back in again, watching me squirm; enjoying the tortured look on my face as I realized that there was no way I could hide the effect he was having on me. I was dripping wet and his hand was covered in it. He stopped abruptly. Then, stooping, he kissed me again and murmured, “let me eat your pussy.” “Yeah,” I said, my voice tiny and breathless. “Let me lock my door,” he said. He zipped up his pants and walked out of the booth.

There was a video monitor in the tattoo booth, making the waiting room and the front door visible to the artist. Laying on the table, in nothing but my black thong, I watched him on the screen as he shut and locked the front door. It seemed unreal: a grainy black-and-white representation of a stranger who had somehow gotten past all my defenses. And yet, I knew that he would soon return to the room and do very real things to me. It was unnerving, like being at the doctor’s office. Alone, uncomfortable, undressed; your heart beating faster with each footstep coming closer towards the strange room you’ve been placed in. I knew I shouldn’t be afraid, but I couldn’t help it. By the time he returned from his necessary errand, my heart was thudding wildly in my chest and my breathing was ragged.

He slammed the door and began to matter-of-factly remove his clothes, all except his socks, their whiteness contrasting starkly with his multi-hued skin and the rest of the room. He stepped up to the table and without missing a beat, buried his face in my cunt. He wasn’t gentle, but then again, I never expected him to be. What good was hooking up with a skinhead tattooist in his shop if it wasn’t dirty, rough, and dangerous?

He went down on me the way a starving man eats. His tongue roamed every inch of my anatomy, lapping up my excitement, probing deeper and deeper inside me. He fucked me with his fingers, invading me, penetrating me, driving me into a mental and physical frenzy. Desperate to take ownership of the moment, I grabbed his cock, wonderfully erect, (since the moment I’d come through the front door, no doubt) and brought my mouth down onto it. As I sucked him off, he, still standing, continued to eat me out. Heads bobbing, hands grasping, we formed an obscene tableau that the Marquis de Sade himself would have been proud of.

We continued that way for a while, touching and licking, fucking and sucking, driving each other to the brink. Suddenly, he broke off, and moving to the head of the table, he climbed on top of me. A warning light flashed bright crimson in my head. I reached down and put my hand between my legs, catching the tip of him, as he was about to plunge inside of me.

“Wait a minute,” I gasped. “I don’t…” I trailed off. He nodded and started to climb back down. I was simultaneously relieved and confused; that was way too easy. He turned away and began rummaging in his supply drawer. He withdrew his hand victoriously, grasping a condom. He ripped open the wrapper and rolled it on, climbing back into position. This was it, he was two seconds away from having sex with me. Or, rather, I was two seconds away from fucking a skinhead. As I watched his cock inch closer and closer, something within me broke. It had gone too far and I had to stop. I just couldn’t go through with it; I just wasn’t that kind of girl.

“No,” I said, as I scooted back on my hands and sat up. “I don’t do that. I don’t mind hooking up or giving blowjobs and stuff, but I don’t just have sex with people.” He stopped and looked at me. As long as I live, I will never forget the look on his face. It was a wonderful mixture of anger, disappointment, disgust, and just a little bit of plain old disbelief. “Oh,” he said, flatly. He peeled the condom off. “I thought you were going to say you didn’t fuck without a condom.” It was my turn to be incredulous. “No,” I thought. “Because I really want to have your skinhead babies and flood my liver with the Hepatitis C you’re most likely carrying.” The balls on this guy. “No, I’m sorry,” I said instead, my eyes cast down dejectedly. I was mortified and more than a bit disappointed, myself.

At a loss, we continued to fuck around halfheartedly. He was not really that into it anymore, and I was trying too hard, tugging aimlessly on his cock in an effort to make up for the pleasure I had denied him by refusing him so dramatically. Then, he stopped.

“What are you doing?” he said, his voice turning to acid. “Come on, let me fuck you, baby. Come on; don’t waste your twenties.” He stood, staring at me with a pained look on his face. I froze. He had me. He had somehow seen through my carefully cultivated psychological smokescreen and gotten straight inside the center of my head. Of all the things in the world that anyone could have said in that situation, he had said the one thing that had the power to move me.

All my life, I’d been the good girl, the A+ honors student who never strayed from the straight and narrow and always did what was expected of her. The “good child” who never let anyone down. The overachiever who reached so high she couldn’t even remember what it was she was reaching for anymore. I’d been so obsessed with being perfect that I’d nearly killed myself; my quest for perfection manifesting itself in a two-year struggle with anorexia that landed me in a psych ward the week after graduating as valedictorian of my college class. Ever since then, I’d decided to do things a bit differently.

After spending the summer in a waking nightmare–the chicken wire on the windows; the drab gray carpet; the interminable group therapy sessions; the endless array of overbearing, unpleasant mental health aides; the inept therapists; the uncaring psychiatrists; the flood of emotions; the medications; the bottomless depression–I’d vowed that I’d never waste another day, another hour, another second.

Now, there were no more classes to worry about. No more grades to obsess over. No more unrealistic standards to hold myself to. No. More. Rules. No, dear reader, I was going to live life to the fullest, no matter how messy, dangerous, or uncertain it may seem. So there, perched on this moral precipice, staring down the barrel of his gun, I did the only thing I could do. I jumped in head first.

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