“You’re late,” you hiss as I arrive. I frown. I hadn’t thought I was late at all. I check my watch again and I cringe. Crap… late.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” I whisper, knowing the words are empty to you. We'd already spoken about my tardiness before, and this was meant to be my "last strike". Fuck.
You turn to your friends and make conversation. The bartender offers me a drink, and I order Jameson and Sprite, knowing I’ll need a stronger drink to get through the punishment you’re dreaming up.
If only the Uber driver had listened to my directions. We wouldn’t have gotten lost. But he didn’t, we did, and here I am: squirming.
You place your hand on my leg and squeeze. Oops, guess I’m squirming more than I thought.
The evening continues with a smile plastered to my face. I participate in each topic as as they come. I make your friends laugh and smile. I can see that they like me, and hope that wins points in my favor. A tiny spark of hope flutters in my mind, hopefully the brownie points I win with your friends can get me out of my punishment. A sideways glance from you tells me I'm mistaken.
Your friends leave about an hour from last call. I look around, noticing the very few patrons the bar has now.
“Bathroom,” you whisper, disappearing into the men’s room. Ah, shit. Here we go…
I check myself in the mirror. My long red-brown hair is down in softly tousled waves. My brown eyes are framed by dark brown liner and black mascara. My makeup is fairly neutral, except for my lips. Earlier tonight I’d put on a deep burgundy – almost black lipstick, with a mid-length dress that matched. I’m ready.
No sooner did I enter the men’s room did I feel your hand in my hair. You curl your fingers at the nape of my neck, and I drop to my knees with no additional prompting from you.
“Open your mouth,” you demand, your voice cold.
I already know what’s going to happen, but I still gag around your cock as you force it into my throat. My first instinct is to pull back, but I ignore it. Instead, I push forward, loosening my jaw and letting my tongue loll out of my mouth so that it grazes the top of your balls. I hear you groan in pleasure.
“That’s it, slut. Take my cock into your little whore mouth,” you drawl, holding the back of my head. Your hips begin thrusting, using my skull as your personal fuck-toy. Your free hand pulls down the top of my dress, exposing my breasts.
The sound of the slaps reaches me before the sting does. I moan on your cock, choking as you push forward again. Tears well up in my eyes.
“Did you miss gagging on my cock, filthy slut?” You ask, still thrusting.
It’s hard to answer with your cock in my throat, but I do anyway. My “Yes, Sir” comes out a muffled garble, but it appeases you, and I’m awarded more slaps on my breasts. I squeeze my eyes shut, tears spilling over my cheeks.
You suddenly pull out, strings of my saliva follow your cock as you withdraw from my lips. “Fucking skank, you made a mess,” you grin.
I resist the urge to grin back. I really am a mess… my lipstick marks the length of your shaft, making a slightly smudgy impression on your pelvis. Tears leave trails of my liner and mascara, making the rest of my makeup streaky.
You reach down and throw me to my hands and knees – the cold linoleum biting my knees. The air cold on my ass as my dress is yanked up. No panties – just like you want.
The sound of your slaps echo in the restroom. I wince but make no moves and no sounds of my own. I can feel my skin rising and melting with each slap now.