Monday, November 30, 2009

They can always sniff fresh prey

The funeral was Sunday.

I drove up to Philadelphia Saturday afternoon. Or, rather, to a suburb of Philly. My sister and I and a cousin of my late aunt's (and thus of my mother's) were all staying at a hotel along a road of shopping malls, chain stores, and local favorites, just off the Pennsylvania Turnpike. To avoid the illegal U-turn needed to reach the hotel from the direction I was traveling, I had to cut through the parking lot of a local tavern/bar.

Suddenly, in the pit of my stomach and the folds of my cunt, I sensed a vibe akin to that of the biker/thug bar, which I haven't yet visited but in which I will one day be raped and abused and utterly objectified.

I wanted to go in.
In the worst way, I wanted to go in.
I wanted to go in
and go up to the bar
and...

I didn't.
My cousin was waiting.
My sister was on her way.

Later, as we discussed where to go for dinner, I said "Hey! How about the tavern next door?" Which my sister thought was a reasonable idea. Until one of my late aunt's kids said it was a Hooters wannabe. Idea vetoed.

I was feeling wild.
I was feeling sexy.
I joked about going,
having a wild night out.

The 72-year old cousin seemed to think that was a reasonable idea. She said after all, I had turned 60 this year, and should be able to celebrate.

I was impressed.
My sister deemed it not worthy of response.

(Side bar: the cousin asked how many years older than me my sister is. I'm the older one. By 3 years. And my sister has had a bit of face lift. I'm sorry. Can you blame me for gloating? You take your pleasures where you can get them when you're in mourning. And shameless.)

So we didn't go. But in my mind...

I came to town a day ahead.
I needed time alone.

I arrived late, tired and hungry and moody. Too tired to go looking for good food and a peaceful place to eat. I unpacked my few things, took off my bra and panties, and walked back to the Stone House Tavern next door.

The place was crowded and noisy. In the old days it would have been smokey as well. Instead, there was the smell of sweat, lust, and spilled beer. The waitresses were young, nearly jail bait, in scanty jeans skirts and tops so tight you could see the tiny holes at the ends of their nipples that would one day yield milk.

I went up to the bar.
I went up to the bar and spoiled the mood by ordering a Coke.
No rum.

Heads swiveled. Many turned back to their more appropriate drinks. A few kept their attention on me. I felt their eyes nibbling at my tits after running through my swirling mane of hair. I felt my cunt swell, and knew there was a growing wet spot in the crotch of my jeans. The jeans were tight, cutting into my clit, courtesy of my usual winter weight gain.

My face grew hot.
I was scared and bold.
I tossed my head and stared at my drink.
Waiting.

It didn't take long.

I felt him come behind me even before his body heat bounced off my back. I could tell he was large. I knew he was dominant. There was no way he hadn't sniffed out submissive prey. He was a predator like my Master, a predatory sadistic dom, looking to feed.

He came up behind me and stood just behind me, barely touching, thoroughly threatening. I stopped breathing. He didn't mess around with gradual measures. He reached both arms around me, put his large hands between my thighs, pushed them apart, and ran 2 fingers of his right hand up and down my cunt.

He smelled my want.
He smelled my fear.

"I'm going to have you tonight."

I noticed his choice of words.
He wasn't just going to fuck me.
He was going to have me.

"I'm owned. You'll have to ask my Master."

"Call him."

Now I was truly scared. I only call my Master when he orders me to. But it seemed I had no choice.

I left a voice mail.
The sadist called back 5 minutes later.
I handed the phone to my new admirer.

The phone was put on speaker, so I could hear them discussing my fate. My date for the night had implements of pain stashed in his truck, just in case he happened on an available victim. My Master instructed me to offer myself for whatever the new guy had in mind. The guest dom was to call back afterwards and describe what he had done to me and how well I had served him. I was to e-mail a report as soon as I was alone again. And just before my borrower began whatever activity would hurt me most of all, he was to call my Master and leave him a voice mail of my pain.

I think I was in shock.
I floated in my submission.
And despite my stunned fear,
I knew I had no choice.
Not now.
The choice had been made long ago.

We walked next door and entered the hotel through the side door, avoiding the lobby. I took him up to my room. He locked the door and put on the safety latch. Safety for him. I stood there and trembled while he took his time inspecting me. I could easily have been naked for all the protection I felt.

He gestured with his head.

I took off my clothes.

He took off his belt.

He left just before dawn.
I had to remain standing as I typed up my report.

My Master would be pleased.

4 comments:

Luna Mauvaise said...

I am pleased. This is torrid.

nancy said...

Welcome home~
Love the fantasy of the bar off the oh-too-close-turnpike- (OH MY~)

But .. any bar will do in a pinch~~

baby girl said...

yup. this is definitely torrid. i love it! ;-)

oatmeal girl said...

Torrid, yes, But ultimately, to my master, unsatisfying. He is frustrated with my habit of stopping stories before what he considers the main action. He wants pornography as well as poetry, and when I write for him he insists on my continuing through the torture and the service and the fucking and the orgasm. The man's orgasm, whether it be his or that of some other tormentor who is using me. My own pleasure is irrelevant.

But i didn't write this one for him. I wrote it for myself. And for you guys. And me, what interests me is the tension, the development, the build-up. In real life, what follows is certainly of interest. But when I write it bores me, unless I am describing a specific episode, and even then I tend to poeticize it rather than laying it out in a blow by blow description. (You can of course take those blows to be the flogger striking my vulnerable flesh or my mouth serving his eqully vulnerable cock.)