I want you to do very bad things to me. Bad things that feel very good. Bad things that sometimes cause you to question the moral fibres of your being. Bad things with your hands, like say slap my face or my hairless aching need, use my peachy arse, which if allowed a voice, would deafen you with it's incessant begging for violation.
Might you look at me with an adoration that I only know in my stories, so that we can call these bad things, Terribly lovely things.
"Please!" my eyes tell you before the word itself is out.
"What darlin'?" you ask, but I don't know, I only know that I'm so without what I need, so without it that words won't come, they've bailed out.
In my head I can hear my voice, it sounds a little pathetic, like another person, a best friend I've come to love, despite her flaws. I hush her.
"I've got this under control," I tell her as I turn my attention back to you.
"Please!" I say again and you aren't frustrated. You can hear in my tone that it's the only word I can speak.
My voice sounds as if it might belong to somebody else, somebody who isn't in control, somebody pained.
Behind me now as if it might be your designated position, your aching cock, the one I desire so much, touches my arse which twitches involuntarily.
"Are you going to be a good girl and take this?" you ask me, but you already know the answer.
"Yes" I respond, nodding as if perhaps the "yes" isn't valid without the nod.
If the answers to all the un-asked questions are in my arse, you're going to find them.
You press your weight forward and I wince slightly as the futile resistance buckles. As your desire to be in the coolest, darkest, depths of me, overpowers it and we both voice our approval.
I cry out wantonly in resignation, and you allow a sound to escape your throat, it tells of your need. When you're at the end of your welcome journey in, the ecstasy hits me. I move myself forward, away from you and then throw my weight back onto it. you watch as my tight hole grips you, swallows you whole. Your opinion that women merely tolerate anal sex instantly becoming a myth.
You plunge into me time and time again, my mewling, except it's really more than that, threatens to wake the neighbours. The only way for you to stop it, to quieten me, is to give me what I need.
"Harder!" I would cry if only your fingers weren't plugging my mouth now. If your fingers weren't violating the back of my throat, saliva spilling onto your hand.
You strive to get deeper now, my arse and your cock, new best friends, so at ease with one another.
"Good girl," you tell me as the pace we've established starts to induce a tingling in your balls as they slap against my hairless playground.
"Do you want it?" you ask me, and of course I do, the question is the most awesome thing I've ever heard.
"Yes yes!" I try to plead as I gag on your hand. The gagging causes my muscles to squeeze you, just as your delicious hot seed races ecstatically into me and I fall forward and accept it gratefully, like the needy girl that I am."Thank you," I say, sated by your eruption.
Withdrawing from me, you watch closely as my arse quickly shrinks tight again. I think I might like a rest and a cigarette now but you have other plans for me.
"Suck it all clean!" you order, and the filth factor that appeals so greatly to me, causes a moan from me, from renewed arousal. You stroke the hair that hangs loosely around my face, behind my ears and avidly I get to work, eager to please you, willing to be everything you could ever desire.
I look up at you, seeking a sign of approval, and the very sight of my big adoring eyes is too much, it's too nice, it will never make you hard again! You slap my face, the wounded look I wear well, sends new blood flowing through your veins and I feel you grow in my mouth. It pleases me, I foolishly think it's my skill. Clutching handfuls of my knotted hair, you move me faster on you, push me down brutally, you need it, I need you.
Both ends of me are dripping, both ends of me ache.
I pull away from you now and you show me a small amount of mercy. I need to compose myself, I need to look at you, smile at you, remind you of who I am. I smile sweetly in contrast, and then I fall backwards, parting my legs, and then my lips, my fingers seeking out my wetness, my own physical need, the underdog, finally rallying.
"Is it nice and wet?" you ask me though you're in no doubt.
"Yes," I whisper while nodding and feigning innocence. I finish it off with a nervous little lip bite.
"Put two fingers inside your cunt and taste them for me!" You tell me in your best 'bad uncle' voice.
I do exactly as you say of course, and the slick sounds which would have made me cringe with embarrassment in my teens, urge me to finger fuck myself a few times before I comply with your wish for me to commence taste testing.
I suck my fingers, genuinely greedy for the taste of my juices. I imagine how I seem, slurping hungrily at a product of my own body.
My fingers use their initiative and drive themselves back into me, I don't fight them, and then newly coated, I run them across your mouth which you open, and I push my fingers inside.
All at once, I understand why you like to put your fingers inside things! Mouths, pussies, and arses, and I find myself torn between violating your soft wet mouth, and giving myself some more attention.
You won't let me finger your mouth anymore though, you figure that if my cunt really is as wet and juicy as it seems, then 'it' really is deserving of reward.
The sound I make can't be spelt with letters. You might think it's rehearsed, it's not! If I was going to create a soundtrack to complement our playtime, I'd take my time over it, make sure I sounded attractive! I wouldn't sound like some inbred wild animal in need of a merciful bullet to the brain.
I suppose I sound a little like a whore who's been chastised for years and is finally getting some.
My cunt, if it had it's very own voice, besides the squelching under your fierce thrust, would tell you secrets it hasn't told to me.
Your efforts are admirable as you work it with insurmountable enthusiasm. You feel me swelling inside, building up to a magnificent 'fountain like' explosion. You know it won't be too much longer, your practised fingers, they know the drill, they know me.
"Please please please pleeeasseee," it's pained
I start again now, but I know what's coming, and it deserves a commotion.
The bewilderment on your lovely face as you work your fingers, and juices spray from any exit gaps they can find, in a desperate bid for evacuation, soak you and the floor beneath us. You couldn't care any less about the mess, and I make a mental note to piss all over you later.
My cunt has sobbed with relief, I muse, as we accept silently that I am drained, and finally we've earned a smoke.
" I need to pee!" I tell you, I always tell you.
"Can I pee on your fingers please?" I ask, and you can't fault my manners. I think I'd be quite upset if you ever said no to me, but fortunately you're as obliging, and terrible as me, well, nearly!
I'm eagerly ahead of you, sat on the toilet as you join me, your cock dangling around in front of you, like a nerdy friend.
You plug me with your fingers, somehow as always, finding the right spot, and preventing the flow, until it drives me insane. Then you work the insides of me, fast like a 'high' piston, as golden piss, is plentiful, and pouring over you, spraying us both.
"Dirty bitch!" you tell me in that bad uncle tone again, and I correct you "Lovely dirty bitch!" to which you respond with a smile.
"Time for a shower?" I ask as I switch it on and climb in.
"Are you going to piss on me now?" I offer, It's only fair!
You do piss on me, all over my face and hair, it pleases you immensely that some finds it's way into my mouth, and causes me to open my mouth in an effort to get more clean water in, this allowing you to aim purposely at my mouth now.
Afterwards, you shampoo and rinse my hair, and then as we sit on the bed, our matching towels wrapped around us, you brush my hair, and remind me, that these things we enjoy together, are not dirty, or filthy, or bad, they are terribly lovely things.
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