Go for it, baby!
Every morning I wake up, wash my face, brush my teeth, drink coffee, and wash one of my dildos. It just so happens that I can't fall asleep without a good orgasm. I've tried many times, forced myself to sleep, got drunk, took sleeping pills, and even tried to strangle myself, but all in vain. And so, every morning I wash my next silicone cock. Today is no different. Good morning!
I need to look perfect. I have a date with my beloved today. I perform my meticulously planned daily ritual step by step. Wash my hair, style it, foundation, powder, then eyebrow pencil—to create perfect, flirty arches, black eyeliner
for the eyes, eyeliner, eyeshadow, finishing with a swipe of mascara, then powder—to highlight my Aryan cheekbones, and finally, a final touch of gloss, and "your lips will be the most attractive." Only the red, bloodshot eyes can't be fixed. Damn, I'll have to wear glasses...Moving on. I find the most indecent fishnet stockings, slowly pull them onto my sexy legs while sitting on a soft chair in front of the mirror. By the way, that's exactly why it's here—right in front of the mirror, with nothing else around. I love watching myself get dressed. I feel around for a bra, a green one with black mesh, slowly press it against my chest, fasten it. I examine myself. Yes, my breasts aren't big, of course, but, gods, how sexy they are! I run my hand over them, alternately squeezing the right and left nipple. They, my little pink ones, immediately harden. With my left hand, I gently scratch my lower abdomen. Yes, this is the most attractive body. I want it. I want it fiercely and constantly. It haunts my dreams at night, I fuck it even when I'm sleeping with another man. My hand drops a little lower, to my sweet, hot lips. And suddenly slaps me on the ass. Ooh, what a naughty hand! But really, I need to get ready.
What's next on the plan? Oh yes, underwear... To hell with panties, I'm going to see my guy after all. Today I'm in the image of a depraved lady, a femme fatale, or whatever they call those whores. He likes that, I know. So, I take my little black dress. It's slightly see-through, with a back cut down to the waist. Cute. That little bastard Sam from the next apartment will be staring at me through the window again and furiously jerking off. Well, I don't mind, let the boy have his fun.
I put on black thigh-high boots, grab my purse, one last smile at myself in the mirror, and that's it, heading out. By the way, no deodorant or perfume—he should smell the real scent of my body. Yes, darling, you're magnificent. I leave the building, glance back at the windows on the 2nd floor. There he is, the lustful gaze I expected to meet. Little Sam is watching me from behind the curtain. I notice it moving slightly. He's holding onto it with his free hand, the little rascal. I smile, open the door of my red Cadillac, lean in, stretch all the way to the passenger seat, arching my back just enough to give the kid a view of my perfectly shaved pussy. I count to fifteen seconds, get up, and look back again. Yes, that's exactly what I wanted to see—his raised, sweaty chin, rolled-back eyes, tongue licking dry lips—little Sam is trembling from the approaching orgasm, and the curtains are shaking with him. He cums, and at that moment the curtains fall. Poor boy, overdid it. I smile at him, blow a kiss to his confused and frightened face, and drive away.
Yes, my beloved, I'm on my way to you.
As agreed, I arrive at "Krai, Baby," where we have a table for two reserved. In my hands is the book "120 Days of Sodom" by de Sade—the identification sign. I sit at our table exactly at half past six. I always arrive earlier than the appointed time: in those few seconds when he notices me and approaches, I learn him. I learn him from the edge of his aura to the deepest trauma of his childhood.
I order, as always, a gin and tonic, and wait.
Then—again, everything follows the usual routine. Sweet conversations, discussions about music, movies, weather, news, politics, lots of gin and tonic and whiskey, exquisite food, ardent caresses with my foot under the table, sweet stroking of hands on the table. I'll have to endure this for about three hours. Fuck, I really want to smoke... Okay, I'm a strong girl. You have no idea how strong I am. I'll manage.
I've waited for this moment. Drunken, moist eyes try to focus on my eyes, then on my tits. His tie is already slightly loosened, my boy constantly wets his lips with his tongue. And he says to me: "Shall we go to my place?" Hallelujah, fuck! Here it is, the moment for which this ugly masquerade was arranged. The key here is to be patient until he gets tired of waiting for an invitation from me. Well then, my precious bunny, let's go. I've prepared a wonderful surprise for you.
Good thing the parking lot isn't far. I left my Cadillac there until tomorrow. My beloved shouldn't know I have a car. And he, it turns out, lives quite far. We've been in the taxi for about 20 minutes... At this rate, he'll start sobering up, and I really don't want that. I take matters into my own hands—I pull away from his neck, take my fingers out of his unzipped pants, and say in a languid and slightly guilty voice: "Darling, I want some champagne..." For a few seconds, he looks at me puzzled and a bit confused, but eventually asks the driver to stop near a supermarket. He seems to have returned faster than he thought about my request. That's even better: the sooner we start drinking again, the more fucked up he'll get. I open the champagne, holding it between my legs, the foam spills onto my dress, and my beloved starts licking me. You're doing a great job, trying hard, but I don't need that right now. So, as always, I take an active role—I lift his head, place the champagne between his legs, lean over, take a sip from the bottle but don't swallow, unzip his fly, and take his hard, medium-sized cock into my mouth. I love hearing those moans of pleasure. But I won't let you cum here like this. We're just arriving at his place very timely.
We take an incredibly long time getting up to his apartment. And, as luck would have it, the elevator wasn't working. I'm starting to get a little angry, but I keep my cool and act as I should—laugh loudly, stumble, hang on his neck, kiss, lick, fall, showing off my ass like tomatoes in a store. Perfectly executed—my beloved is ready for anything. We tumble into the apartment exactly as shown in all romantic-erotic-dramatic films—kissing, nibbling, devouring each other, groping everything possible and impossible, probing with fingers into places you can't even reach yourself. At least, with a drunken head and in the place of the main characters, this scene seems so cinematically beautiful.
Quickly, I glance around the apartment unnoticed. Simple, restrained, but not poor. It seems all the furniture was bought exactly as it stood in the store. No imagination, no soul. Men! Clearly, a reserved and practical person, not versed in art, but judging by the number of mirrors, narcissistic. Although, given his appearance, it's forgivable. Okay, now I need to check the documents. Where to send my beloved?
Aha, here's the wallet. On the tasteless nightstand next to another mirror. I wouldn't be surprised if there's a mirror above the bed too. Think, girl, think. Figure out where to send this handsome man, and for as long as possible. Well, Robin Hood, I'll have to shoot blindly. "Sunshine,
Quickly, very quickly, I run to the wallet. So, money, discount cards, credit cards... Oops, a police officer's ID! Shit, shit, shit! This is very bad. I could end up in an extremely unpleasant situation. I should have asked from the start what he does for a living. Hmm, okay. Calm down. You're not a prostitute. You met him online, exchanged photos, and he wanted to fuck you. He only knows your name, and not your real one. So, everything's fine.
I'm not a simple girl. I'll do everything so that he'll be extremely ashamed to tell anyone about this meeting. Phew, I'm happy and calm again. With relief, I fall onto an inconspicuous but not cheap gray sofa, bend one leg at the knee, place the other on the floor, opening up the most wonderful view. And again, I wait for my boyfriend.
He returns to the room with an unsteady gait, holding a plate with some sandwiches, and immediately freezes, stunned by what he sees. I knew that would please you. My beloved quickly approaches, falls to his knees in front of me, and starts licking so fiercely, as if he hasn't eaten for three days. At the same time, he continues to hold the plate of sandwiches above his head, so I can calmly chew while moaning. M-yeah, darling, cunnilingus is clearly not your forte. Well, okay, that's not important at all.
After finishing the sandwiches (they were actually quite tasty), I gently took my pussy-licker by the ears and pulled him up. "Show me your bedroom," I whispered as required, languidly and sexily. And we went, grabbing my purse on the way. Inside it is the main climax of tonight. I just have to hope his bedroom is suitable. In my line of work, there's always a huge risk that something won't go according to plan. Then I just have to fuck and go home.
Oh, super! A bed with a wrought-iron headboard. Exactly as ordered, no need to improvise. Now I need to play the role of a passionate dominatrix. (Specially for .org — ) I lick his lips, suck on his neck, nibble his earlobes, and simultaneously take off his shirt. He's all tense, completely ready to surrender to me. I push him onto the bed, climb on top of him. Yes, he's one of those who likes to be on the bottom. Such strong "steel men" love to submit in bed, here they can be themselves—mommy's weaklings. I run my tongue along his neck and descend to the right nipple, gently scratching his back with my nails. My beloved is already starting to moan with impatience. "I have a surprise for you," I whisper. "Don't get up." I stand up, take off my dress and bra—let the stockings and boots stay on—and go to my purse. From it, I take out 4 pairs of handcuffs. Real, quality handcuffs. I had to work very hard to get a cop to give them to me once.
Oh, his eyes lit up, and a wide smile spread across his face. Happy. Well, who would doubt it! Come to me, handsome, you don't yet know what happiness awaits you. I cuff his hands and feet to the bed. Strong, muscular, and hairy—everything I love. And I go back to my purse. "Do you have another surprise in there?" he asks. Yes, I have an awesome surprise for you, darling.
I take a camera out of my purse. Come on, smile, dear! Why so sad! I'll look at this photo and remember you with tenderness. I love all my ex-girls. But the kid still can't calm down. Well, screw him. Now he's no longer interesting to me. I get dressed, fix myself up, put on lipstick, and get ready to leave. The kid shouted something. Oh right, I completely forgot I left him so helpless. Okay, fine. I go back, throw the phone on the bed for him, and leave. Adiós, beloved.
I return home by hitchhiking. You see, daddy, I didn't let you down. You doubted me for nothing. I was, of course, born without your male equipment. But still, I fuck, I don't get fucked. You told me it was my own fault I was born a girl. I'm to blame for everything, and I'll have to answer for it myself. You, father, told me that every time you came to me at night. I remember. I remember your lessons well. Every time you took me, you taught me that I would feel this way for the rest of my life. For the rest of my life, I would be fucked by some man. That's my lot as a woman—to be a doormat. And that's why you used me. It's my own fault for being so attractive. My very existence provokes animal desire in men, which means I'm meant solely for their satisfaction. If I were destined to become a great scientist, God would have given me a smart brain, not plump lips and a sexy ass. Yes, daddy, I remember everything too well. You can be proud of me. I didn't become a doormat.
When I got home, dawn was already breaking. But at least I'll be able to sleep well today. I throw my purse in the corner and fall onto the bed without even undressing. I'll need to remember to print the photo tomorrow and hang it on the wall. And also... I also need to buy cigarettes. I want to smoke.
I fall asleep.
Something is knocking. I open my eyes, come to my senses, and realize—someone is breaking down the door with tremendous force! What the fuck is going on? I try to think frantically. Phone! I need to call someone! I jump off the bed in an instant, trying to find the phone anywhere. It's in the bag. Shit, they've already broken down the door. Bitch-bitch-bitch! It's that same cop, my beloved! How did he find me? So quickly! In just half a day! And he brought his buddies. Fool, fool, fool! I should have run from him as soon as I saw his badge. Bastard, that hurts! He grabs me by the hair and drags me to the window. A blow to the stomach, another, and another. They're all kicking me—wherever they can. I'm vomiting blood and writhing in pain. Even daddy never hurt me this much.
And he has beautiful eyes, full of undisguised malice.
I don't even have the strength to scream anymore. "Let go..." is all I manage to squeeze out. But they don't hear me. They're shouting something and laughing, making sounds like goats might make. The cop grabs my jaw, looks into my eyes, and hisses something through his teeth. Just think, a couple of hours ago you were so helpless and pathetic. I didn't understand a damn thing he said. There's a continuous ringing in my ears, my head feels like it's swelling from the inside, his face grows darker.
He takes me by the neck.
With strong, beautiful hands... I love those...
He's still shouting something and spitting in my face...
It's hard to breathe...
Everything is happening so fast...
It's getting dark...
I... can't breathe.
I'm sorry, dad.