Rilke was all set to teasingly kiss him lightly on the lips when she heard a stern voice say, “Get your ass in my truck right now!” It was Brock. He’d followed her as closely as he could as she drove. It took him a while to catch up because she’d weaved through the traffic so crazily.
Damone’s big man with the bad attitude told Brock to shut the fuck up and get his own ass in his truck and get the hell out of there before he got stomped. Actually the man never finished his threat because Brock promptly stepped to him and put his lights out with one punch.
“Woman, do as I say,” Brock commanded Rilke, “before I knock the crap out of the asshole that’s got his hands all over you.” Rilke moved to obey but Damone made a big mistake, he pulled her closer to his body protectively. The other two workers that were still standing came at Brock and he knocked them both on their asses before either of them could lay a finger on him.
Rilke told Damone to let her go and he hesitated but he finally did. She got in Brock’s truck. But Brock still went over and bitch-slapped Damone to the pavement. “Next time keep your hands off women that don’t belong to you, Dipshit!” Brock scolded.
Rilke got immensely turned-on witnessing Brock assaulting the crew in such a dominating fashion. Brock had owned them. Damone didn’t deserve that. He was a total gentleman and a very sweet guy. But, in a way, it was Damone’s own fault. Brock had warned him to let her go.
Brock did it all for Rilke. That was sweet. As much as she liked Damone for being a good guy, watching Brock slap him down aroused the hell out of Rilke. Damone had been crazy to defy an alpha stud like Brock. He wouldn’t stand for any man to lay a hand on her.
When the tow truck appeared the driver got out and hooked it up while the ruckus was going on. By the time Brock had finished with Damone and his crew the tow-truck was ready to haul Rilke’s car away.
Brock and Rilke drove off as Damone’s crew was just gathering their wits about them. Slowly lifting themselves off the sidewalk.
“Where’d you learn to fight like that?” Rilke asked in amazement.
“Hell, that was no fight,” Brock said. “That was a slaughter.”
“I’ll say it was,” Rilke dreamily agreed, her eyes glazed with admiration. She had never wanted to fuck a man so bad in her entire life as she wanted to fuck Brock right that minute—fuck him until she couldn’t stop cumming.
Rilke snuggled up to Brock as he drove and planted a kiss on his bristle-bearded cheek. She acted as though he had rescued her from certain death.
She fantasized that ‘Sir’ had waded into a desperately dangerous gang situation and saved her from grievous bodily harm and sexual assault. When you think about it, from Brock’s point of view, he had every reason to believe that is exactly the situation Rilke faced.
His fearless actions were absolutely breathtaking. He came, he saw, he conquered.
‘Sir’ was her hero.
Rilke had never felt so completely protected as she felt that very minute, riding through that ghetto with Sir by her side. She fondled his crotch as she nibbled his neck. Rilke felt a strong desire to express her gratitude in a very sexual way. So she did. She went down on him right there.
Rilke gave such tremendous head Sir had to stop driving. He quickly pulled his truck to the curb and ended up jumping the curb with two wheels on the sidewalk.
Sir’s truck was a big American-made pickup with a huge bench-style seat. Rilke knelt on all fours beside him on the seat and bobbed on his giant throbbing cock without using her hands. She sucked cock like a pro.
Rilke wore holes in the knees of her shear stockings so she peeled them off and threw them down on the floor. She looked at Sir with an expectant smile on her beautiful face as cum dribbled from the corner of her mouth and glistened down her chin.
Sir took his thumb and wiped the cum off her face with one firm swipe. Then he inserted it in Rilke’s mouth for her to lick clean. She slowly sucked his cum-drenched thumb while staring sensuously into her Hero’s eyes.
“God, you’re such a fucking Slut,” he promptly stated.
Rilke’s eyes went from sensuously seductive to just plain angry. She bit down hard on his thumb.
“Ouch!” Sir yelped. “What was that for?”
“That was for calling me a slut like you meant it,” Rilke said. “I could let you get away with calling me a slut in the heat of getting head. But I won’t stand for seriously being ridiculed.”
“I meant it as a compliment.”
Rilke just stared at him.
“Honest,” he said.
“I guess I’m just not hip to your redneck vocabulary,” Rilke said, with sarcasm. “Apparently words mean something different ‘where you come from’, eh?” she asked rhetorically. “Like that ‘ass on a platter’ comment? Where you come from there’s nothing offensive about it, right? Well, why don’t I just haul off and punch you square in the face as hard as I can and we’ll pretend it’s a love tap. We’ll say that’s just how we do things where I come from, huh? No offense intended.”
“It works for me,” he said, without batting an eye.
“Arrgh!” Rilke reared back and made a fist to punch him in the face but he caught it in mid-air and twisted her fist behind her back, in all one motion, and pulled Rilke’s fine body close to his and kissed her hard on the mouth.
Rilke’s teeming rage bottled-up helplessly inside her as he crushed her heaving breasts tightly against his muscular body. His full, firm, lips moved passionately on hers in a spontaneous display of wanton need that would accept no denial. His mouth on hers melted everything raging inside her except the naked lust of pure womanly desire.
Just when Rilke was clearly panting for more of everything this deliciously sinful clinch had to offer—Sir cut her loose and shrugged her away.
Rilke sat stunned and panting. It took awhile for her head to clear. When it did her rage reappeared unabated at this sadistic toying with her amorous emotions. “God, you are such a fucking asshole!” she told him, once she’d caught her breath.
“Coming from you,” he told her, “that’s quite an endorsement.”
Rilke screamed and started beating Sir about the head, arms, and shoulders with her balled fists as he just laughed at her. She was only hurting herself as her fists bounced off his thick muscles and stung her hands.
Rilke sat back in her seat and crossed her arms tightly against her chest in a wicked pout and demanded to be driven home. It was too late to show the house now.
Her big day had turned into The Day from Hell. She spent the entire ride home in a fog of emotional confusion. She hated Brock. He made her crazier than any man she’d ever met—including her ex—and that’s saying something. But the thing that really made her crazy was the fact she couldn’t look at Brock without seething with rage and, at the same time, seething with a potent desire to become his sexual conquest.
As Rilke entered her home Sir followed her inside. “Where do you think you’re going?” she asked, angrily.
“I intend to collect my debt,” he said.
Rilke looked at him quizzically.
“Hey, you may not have gone to your sales call,” Sir told her, “but I held up my part of the bargain. You owe me. I expect to get everything I’ve got coming to me. In fact, I’ve been looking forward to it more than you know.”
“I owe you what, exactly?” Rilke demanded.
“Your ass on a platter.”
Rilke was in no mood for games right now. This was probably just another ploy to get her all worked up and then left hanging again.
“Fuck off,” she told him.
Sir chuckled at her. “Honey, you’re getting a little too big for your britches, I think,” he said.
“Is that another one of your ‘down home’ sayings?” she countered, wryly. “I’ve got news for you. I can have as much fun as the next girl. But not the way you play it. You need to learn how to act in the big city. You play your shit too far. Why don’t you take your down home, redn
eck, games, and shove them up your ass? Okay, Cowboy?”
Sir grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into the kitchen where he pulled a high stool away from the counter.
“I’m going to sit right down and lay you across my lap and spank your sweet ass just like I promised,” Sir announced. “You’d better remove your skirt, top, and jacket so they don’t get messed up.”
Rilke did as he said while shooting him dirty looks all the while. She hated giving in to him almost as much as she loved the idea of getting spanked. “I’m only doing this because we made a verbal contract and you helped me out,” she growled. “I keep my word—but that doesn’t mean I like it.”
“Shut up and strip,” Sir commanded.
“I’m keeping my bra and panties on,” Rilke told him.
Sir shrugged indifferently. That’s what he meant in the first place.
The main reason Rilke wanted to keep her panties on was the thought of getting spanked made her so damn wet she was afraid her panties would splash as they hit the floor. That would be embarrassing.
God, she was so turned-on! When Sir laid her across his lap the first thing he did was pull her panties down her thighs to expose her bare ass. She was certain steam must be rising from her pussy as it met the cool air. She could feel her juices getting all worked up inside her. Her pussy was a frothing slit of liquid arousal.
Sir slid his hand between her thighs and got his fingers and palm copiously slick with her juices. He rubbed a film of Rilke’s own sticky wetness over the buns of her ass. All the better to achieve that loud wet ‘Smack!’ that Rilke so enjoyed hearing. It was like Sir read her mind. Rilke loved the sharp wet sound effect. She couldn’t wait to hear it! And feel it! Her pussy could not have been wetter if she’d peed herself—and the spanking hadn’t yet commenced!
Sir rubbed his hands together to warm them. Then he cupped her ass in his paddle-hand for a feel.
The hand felt good on Rilke’s tender bottom. His skin was callused hard, it’s true, but smooth. It felt like warm hickory tenderly caressing her soft sweet ass.
“You are about to get a Grade ‘A’ spanking,” Sir announced.
“Yes, Sir,” Rilke said, her voice wavering.
“Do you know why I am going to spank you?”
“Because I deserve a good spanking for being such a naughty girl?” she said, tentatively, bravely playing her role.
“You’re damn right you do, you mouthy whore,” Sir affirmed. “But that’s not why you’re getting a spanking. You’re getting a spanking whether you deserve it or not for one simple reason: you’ve got the sweetest ass I’ve ever seen. Your ass is perfect. It is easily the most incredible bottom I have ever laid my hands on.
“So keep your fifty bucks,” he said. “That’s chump change compared to what I’m going to get out of spanking your million-dollar ass.”
Rilke trembled with incredible glee. She was getting spanked by a Man that understood God’s true purpose in creating a Woman’s Bottom—feminine asses were made to be spanked.
Her pussy slobbered into Sir’s pant-leg, down her own thighs and dripped onto the floor.
The entire room smelled of Rilke’s wet sex.
“I will give you ten good whacks and we’ll call it even for helping you out,” Sir told her. “Are there any questions?“
“No, Sir.”
“You keep track of the count,” he said. “Speak clearly so I can hear you.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The first spank shattered the air with a sharp ‘Crack!’ like the combination of a bullwhip lash and a pistol shot. Rilke heard the sound in her ears and felt the pressure on her ass a split second before the pain deliciously registered in her nerve endings and then seemed to reverberate in the meat of her ass like the residual ringing of a tower bell.
“One!” she counted out.
The insanity of the situation suddenly hit her. A perfect stranger was spanking her bottom, in the middle of her own home, as though she was a naughty schoolgirl, and she was absolutely loving it.
“Two!” she cried out as the searing pain of Sir’s strict discipline sizzled on her ass and seeped through her body supercharging her lust.
Her counting continued as Rilke’s mind detached from her body as though she were outside of herself watching a movie. Her out-of-body experience brought everything into sharp focus. Time slowed to a crawl. Her eyes and ears became hyper-aware of her surroundings.
Far from distancing her emotions from the actions, her shift in perceptions allowed her to savor the moment from all angles. Her pain and humiliation became tangible in a way that allowed her to luxuriate in them as though they were ingredients of her favorite bath oil. Totally immersing her in this deliciously twisted experience as intimately as slipping into a warm satisfying bath.
As she heard herself count, “Nine!” Rilke felt a tug of regret as she realized the session was almost through.
Suddenly Sir spoke harshly, ”You don’t think you’re getting off that easily, do you, Slut?”
Rilke was puzzled as to what he meant.
“The deal is I give you ten good strokes and we’re even,” he said. “I put you in charge of counting but I won’t tolerate being cheated. With all the excitement of handling your gorgeous ass I’m so excited I can hardly spank straight. I think I just creamed my pants. My cock has been throbbing like a monster ever since you first laid across my lap. The point is you are supposed to get ten ‘good’ whacks and I let your ass distract me. You’ve been totaling up some half-ass smacks that shouldn’t be counted as ‘good’.
“Honor your word like you promised,” Sir reminded her. “Don’t advance the grand total unless the stroke is good enough to count.”
“Yesh, S-ssir,” Rilke answered feebly. Her mind was very willing—and duly excited—to prolong the count at her discretion, but her body was weak with each deliciously sharp interval of humiliating pain. Each commanding masterstroke burst through the dull ache of submission that warmed her luscious bottom. The eroticism of controlled humiliation held her physical fatigue at bay. She willed herself to go on for as long as Sir could dish it out.
Rilke heard herself counting the word, “Nine!” over and over again—no matter how hard Sir spanked her. She didn’t want it to end but—when it did—she sure as hell wanted Sir to be the one to call it off. That would be her ultimate triumph.
“Nine!”
Crack!
“Nine!”
Krr-Ack!
“Nine!”
Kerr-Ack!
On she continued, refusing to acknowledge a qualified stroke.
Rilke finally passed out from the pain.
She awoke to find herself lying facedown, naked on her bed. Sir had tied a stocking around each of her wrists and bound her to the bed. He must have pocketed the stockings she’d discarded in his truck and now used them to bind her. He definitely knew how to turn her on. At least he was considerate enough of her condition to place her butt-up in bed. Her ass still glowed with pain.
Rilke heard him showering in the adjacent bathroom. She could hardly wait for him to continue dominating her. She kind of hated herself a little for succumbing so easily to the whims of his dominant charms. But she had to admit the spanking, and now being tied up, pushed her sexual buttons and got her aroused beyond her wildest dreams. She couldn’t wait to have his giant cock planted deep inside her.
As the shower stream stopped her pussy once again dripped moist with anticipation. At the rate she’d been getting aroused Rilke wondered that she hadn’t dehydrated herself. God, she felt weak—but in a good way.
Rilke’s face was tilted at such an angle she could see Sir’s reflection, through the open bathroom doorway, as he toweled off. His enormous cock grew stiff as he stood and looked at her lying, cheeks up, ready to go.
“God, you have a pretty butt,” was the first thing he said upon entering the bedroom. “I hope you didn’t force me to hurt you too bad. It looks incredible in that shade of
red—like a deep red rose. But it would be a shame if it bruises into a mess of black and blue and purple. You should’ve called ‘Ten’ before you passed out, you stubborn wench.”
“I wouldn’t dream of giving you the satisfaction,” Rilke barked. “Your ego is enormous as it is. You think you’re God’s gift to women but in my book you’re not. You’re nothing but a smart-ass country hick with a pea brain, bloated muscles, and a big dick that you seem to want to keep to yourself.
“So far I’ve been manhandled and ordered around like a slave, and now, tied up,” she said. “Are you finally going to man-up and fuck me—once and for all—or just stand there and talk me to death?”
Rilke didn’t see any upside to worrying about her predicament. If Brock was a deranged killer she’d have already been dead. She liked giving him a hard time.
“I thought I was being a real gentleman by getting cleaned up first,” he said. “There’s no call for you to hurt my feelings like that. I’ll feed that hungry pussy of yours, no problem.”
“Hungry’s not the word for it,” Rilke thought. Her pussy was aching to feast on that cock. If this was another one of his ploys to get her all worked up and then not follow through, she’d have to kill him.
He crawled onto the foot of her bed. “Let’s see if I can’t cool you off a little first,” he said, as he blew on her ass cheeks. Rilke groaned with sweet relief as the cool air bathed her fiery ass with soothing comfort.
Then he gently kissed her ass with tender lips and it felt sublime. He continued kissing Rilke up the groove of her spine as he knelt over her. When his lips reached her neck his hard, stiff, cock skimmed under Rilke’s belly and its pulsing madness throbbed against her body. He kissed behind her ear and nuzzled her cheek. Rilke nuzzled back against his crotch to feel the pressure of his cock lengthwise across her slit.
“Motherfucker!” she hissed a scream. “Put it in me already, you asshole!”
Alpha Male Laborer Of Lust! Page 2
