The Tailgate Party

You gather with the guys for an afternoon of football, beer, and debauchery.

"Toss me a beer," one friend says.
"Send over the chips," says another.
"Have some pussy," you offer.

I crawl from my place at your feet to the middle of the room and lie down on my back.

"Touch yourself, my pet," you say. "Spread your legs and touch yourself. Writhe for them. Moan for them. Pull apart your lips so they can see the heat rising from within."

I obey. My middle right finger curls up under my vestigial cock, caressing tenderly. My clit smiles at this rare visit; you tightly control my access to such pleasure. The delicate tissues swell and blush, the tiny button hardens, and moisture gathers and swirls. Little sounds without a name issue from my throat. Per standing order, I give my eyes to yours and you feast on the film of arousal that coats my pupils.

My pelvis rocks into my hand, and the finger slips inside the begging hole.

"Don't cum," you warn me.

"No, my Lord." I gasp, hoping it's not too late.

It's half-time. The men give their full attention to the floor show. I glance around. There's not a floppy in the house. The host stands up and cocks his head towards me. You nod. It’s his house. He should have the first shot.

"Sleen," you say.

I comply. Jeans and briefs are left on the floor by the sofa. The host kneels behind me. He shoves two fingers in my cunt, like a mechanic testing the level of oil. He comments crudely on my readiness for use, then slams his cock into me with a surprising degree of aggression. He holds my hips as he rams into me again and again, almost as if he resents his desire and hates his need. I can feel my expression change. His violence frightens me. There is nothing erotic about it. I dry up.

It's simple rape now. His dick is a rod covered with sandpaper. He curses me, but doesn't stop. I'm crying now, my red eyes telegraphing agony and submission. Your cock is pleading for release.

Suddenly my assailant pulls out. He reaches for his jeans and yanks the belt out through the loops. He stands behind me. I take a deep breath.

I feel my pussy open at the first blow of the belt. It opens and flows. I blush as I scream. After ten leather slashes, he resumes his place behind me. As he re-enters, he reaches around and under and twists my right nipple almost as cruelly as you do. I yelp with pain and surprise and the last reservoir of juices floods the delta as if my nipple were a handy spigot.

Again, he fucks me hard. His balls slap against my perineum. There is something about this man that I do not like, but my pussy has disconnected from my head and my heart. My pelvis pushes back into him; my beatable bottom, welted and sore, collides with his crotch.

The other guys are cheering him on. They're enjoying the scene, but they want a chance, too. "Enough already," one of them grumbles. "Give the rest of us a chance!"

His movements change. His prick moves fast and deep. He's large and long, and I feel him banging into the end of the channel. We're both grunting now. And then I feel it. I feel the semen surging through his exulting cock, and whatever he has been harboring bursts out and paints my pussy walls cream.

I suspect he'd like to walk away nonchalantly, kicking me over to the next taker, but he can't. He falls on me, and we both lie there a minute or two, catching our now synchronized breaths.

He forgoes the desired nap with regrets. Only his cock gets to curl up and sleep. He gets off me, giving my ass a slap as he parts, and throwing a compliment towards you by way of thanks.

"That's a hot little fucktoy you've got there, man."

"Good girl," you say.

Written for my sadistic Master and originally posted with his permission here on M. Christian's site frequently felt*.

Saturday, 5 December 2009