Page 9 of Hurts So Good
The submissive dropped his eyes and lowered himself to one knee. “I asked if I could lick your pussy, Mistress,” he said. “I know it’s rude. I’m so sorry. But I’ve been trying to catch your attention for an hour—”
“Did I give you permission to kneel?”
The submissive’s mouth hung open for an instant, and he said “I apologize for—” as he began to stand.
“Did I give you permission to stand?” Claire spat.
The submissive stood there tottering in mid-crouch, unsure what to do. She let him hover there for a moment, taking pleasure in his insecurity. When his eyes raised to Claire’s to beg direction before his impressive thigh muscles gave way, she snapped “Did I give you permission to look at me?” and he went back to one knee, shaking his head.
“Do you honestly think that cunnilingus involves licking pussy?”
He shook his head rapidly.
“What does a little bitch like you lick, then?” She cut him off when he opened his mouth, by hissing “One word!”
“Clit,” he murmured. “Mistress.”
Which, seriously, was the only right answer; if he’d said anything else, he would have been kneeling in front of an empty barstool, and the next day Claire would have been complaining to her friends about how fucking clueless guys were. The fact that he’d actually said two words, Claire totally let slide.
Claire stuck her foot out and poked the front of his tighty-whiteys with her pointy toe. She was somewhat dismayed to discover that her read on the guy a moment ago had been wrong; he had not, in fact, been hard. He was now, though, hard enough that the jock strap could not contain him, and he was definitely breaking the rules by letting his swelling dickhead poke out over the waistband.
“Did I tell you to put that away?” growled Claire as he reached for his cock to shuffle it back into his underwear. He looked cowed and put his hands at his sides while she planted her butt on the barstool and teased his cockhead with the bottom of her shoe. She continued to tease it with one stiletto heel and smiled as he squirmed.
“What kind of a man asks that of a strange woman at a bar?” she asked. “Without introducing himself.”
He opened his mouth to speak, and she snapped, “Did I tell you to introduce yourself?” His face went red and he fell silent. She laughed and his cock swelled under the assault of her stiletto heel and her contempt. She could feel herself swelling, too, her clit engorging against the mesh G-string. She hooked the front of his jockeys with her heel and pulled them down to his balls, tucking them under and taking a moment to scrape the stiletto under them, forcing the tightly cinched orbs on the far side of his waistband, leaving his cock pointing out invitingly and, more importantly, with staggering vulnerability.
Claire was kind of amazed she’d pulled it off; six weeks ago, she’d barely been able to walk in high heels; now she was performing complicated cock and ball torture moves with stiletto heels, all while feeling her heart pound with swiftly mounting arousal.
Every few seconds, she glanced around for bar monitors; they were not supposed to be playing here, which was just one of the many things that made her so wet.
She planted her stilettos on either side of him, leaning forward both to shroud his exposed cock from any potential narcs nearby and to give him a look up her skirt, which did not react modestly to being on a barstool. In fact, the look on his face told Claire that he could see just about everything.
“Speak,” she said.
He did not say anything. “I can’t hear you,” she growled.
“I’m sorry, Mistress,” said the submissive. “I’ve… I’ve been watching you, and I wanted—”
“You already said what you wanted,” Claire cut him off, taking great pleasure in it. “And I’m considering the offer, but I can’t let a pickup line like that go unpunished. If I’m going to even consider it, first I’m going to have to make you pay for being rude.”
“Of course, Mistress,” said the submissive. “I—I’d—I’d like that.”
She leaned forward, chuckling, and caressed his face, from hair to temple to cheek to throat and then hard with her thumb into his mouth, deep, forcing his tongue down, which made him whimper.
“I don’t think you will,” said Claire, and he went hot-red from face to chest to cock. He obediently sucked her thumb while she dug her nails firmly into the flesh of his throat. He whimpered some more when she pushed her thumb far enough back.
Oh motherfucking holy Hell she got hot when he whimpered and gagged like that. It was like a hot wave of angry need from her sex to the back of her throat. She’d been performing her final test of the courtship ritual—five o’clock shadow test; if the fucker was anything less than baby smooth it would be a flogging at best, maybe a caning—no way Claire was going home with razor burn on a friggin’ Tuesday. Her fingers had caressed a face like silk or satin, but her thumb had found a tongue as warm and wet and supple as they came, with one added feature that would have been the deal closer if she wasn’t already sold: a tongue stud, smooth and flat and heavy.
She had her hand out of his mouth in an instant, was off the barstool and had her skirt up and her panties down, giving him (and anyone else in the bar who was looking) a glimpse of her smooth sex. Then she’d stepped out of her panties and spread her legs, which made her skirt crawl up and put her smooth, exposed sex right at face level. She bent close, caressing his face some more; she liked her clit so much better without the fucking mesh. “You want a taste of this?”
He knew, as she did, that they weren’t supposed to play at the bar; but on a Tuesday, anything might happen, especially since Dylan was making out with his sailor boy instead of getting drinks or monitoring the bar area. It was evident from the way his eyes went bright and hungry, the way his mouth hung slack, that he was ready and eager to eat Claire’s perfect pussy; the way his tongue lolled out when she hooked one leg over his shoulder and began to pull him closer told her everything she needed to know. Which was what gave her such perverse pleasure in planting her other knee against his shoulder. She held him well out of reach but close enough to smell her, a fact attested to by the long, deep breaths he was taking.
Claire had never been much for toys, really; she liked hands and claws and teeth most of all. But her ex-boyfriend Steve had purchased her the most wicked little toy, pleading the twin male prerogatives of being concerned about her well-being and wanting to know she could beat him up. She kept it tucked at the top of her right boot, lacing that side slightly looser. She snapped open the expanding baton and watched him go pale.
“What’s that?” blurted the submissive.
She caressed his face with it. She tried to surreptitiously glance around to see if any bar staff were watching, but truth is she didn’t care anymore; the fact that these things were illegal in this state only made her wetter, knowing she was going to apply it to this cheeky stranger’s ass.