"Did anyone ever tell you what a pretty little cocksucker you are?" he asked.
Of course nobody had. But frankly the assumption that he could just talk to me that way was the sexiest thing I'd ever heard of. What woman in her right mind would agree to suck this magnificent fuck-tool at a moment's notice, let alone be degraded in the process? Maybe he was under the impression that I had a hard time attracting male attention. For his information, guys hit on me all the time. Hell, just last week at the gym I'd overheard two college boys quietly arguing over the treadmill right behind mine.
"Dude, c'mon, I saw her first," one whined.
"Get your own machine," the other answered, "Besides, you wouldn’t even know what to do with that ass."
"Fuck, whatever" came the reply, "I'd eat that thing for breakfast, lunch and dinner, biatch."
"Yeah, well you go think about that from the next machine over. I'll be right here, looking straight down Broadway."
And with that, I decided to cut my workout twelve minutes short. After all, I wasn't just some plaything, put on this earth to entertain every swinging dick that comes along. Still, here I was with the left nut of a man whose hand I had yet to shake rolling around on my tongue.
"Can I at least ask your name?" I requested after a long, slurpy lick.
"You can," he said, "but it seems like a waste of a perfectly good set of lips."
"Maybe it's time to take my lips and go home?" I teased.
"Not likely," he said, ridiculously sure of himself.
I gave the swollen head a playful little smooch.
"And why is that?" I asked.
Smiling, he reached down and took my hand from his love muscle, running it up under his silky suit jacket. My fingers bounced along his shockingly defined abs as they were led in darkness to something even harder than the cock still pointing at my face. There was leather at first, then the cool sting of machined metal.
“Show me,” I begged.
Tightening the grip on my wrist, he reached inside with his other hand, removed the gun from a shoulder harness and aligned it with the shaft of his cock. Together they made quite an arsenal.
I stared down both barrels, frozen on an image I knew I would take to my grave whether I lived another minute or another seventy years.
I swallowed hard and looked up into a whole new set of eyes. Yes, they were still green, but the light was gone from them now. Their cool matte finish told me everything I needed to know. This was a man who was capable of anything. Playing cute was off the table.
I did my best to manufacture a smile, then extended my tongue and licked the ends of both barrels. Seeing his face unchanged, I closed my own eyes and slowly deepthroated the steel shaft, allowing the meat version to smudge the make-up along my trembling cheekbone. I'd shot enough guns with my father and brothers to know that I was now tasting gunpowder residue. This .44-calibre cock wasn't just for show.
I made sure to curl my lips over my teeth to protect them as I worked that beautiful tool. It was a technique I'd been taught by my first boyfriend in an effort to spare his tiny, hair-triggered prick from would-be scrapes or gouges. He'd read about it in his step-mom's Cosmopolitan Magazine and an irrational fear of female dental work was born. He was the only kid I knew who was more clueless about sex than I was at the time. No wonder we got married the moment we turned eighteen.
About ten months into our marriage, my older brother came home from semester break at college. He'd brought his girlfriend and the two of them stayed in the living room of our tiny apartment, since our parents wouldn't let them sleep together under their roof.
That first night, Duane and I lay in bed quietly laughing as we listened to our guests gently moaning in unison through the paper-thin walls. Then an interesting thing happened. Instead of ending in a spastic yelp, it continued on, getting louder and louder. Our laughter was replaced by genuine confusion as we listened to the girlfriend moan and gasp so intensely that I wondered if she was okay. Then I heard my brother tell her what a little "whore" she was for letting him "fuck" her "cunt" this way. And instead of getting mad, she actually admitted to it, saying she was "sorry" and that she "couldn't help it." But instead of accepting her apology, my brother insisted on spanking her, as if he was completely innocent in all this! Enough was enough, and I started to get up to go break up the argument, but Duane caught me by the arm.
"I think this is just how they do it," he whispered.
"What are you talking about, he's hurting her," I said.
"I don't think so," he said, "I think they're just freaks. Listen."
I lay back and listened intently as she actually begged him to pull her hair. He must have obliged because her groans got even louder with each thrust as I heard my brother's balls slapping against her ass or leg, or whatever the hell they were slapping against.
A good twenty minutes had passed and still there was no sign that they would be winding down anytime soon. My young husband lay next to me, motionless, as my brother fucked his girl with reckless abandon. Suddenly I started becoming moist in my panties even though I hadn't touched myself, a first for me. I rolled over and snuggled up to Duane, placing my hand on his stomach. He did not move as I slid my young, hopeful fingers under the waistband of his Dale Earnhardt pajamas and found his four-inch cock standing at full attention. Putting my lips directly to his ear, I whispered, "Make me your whore." And with that, his cock lurched and shot three thin spurts of warm cum in my hand.
Now, ten years after that first miserably failed attempt at being dominated, I found myself swallowing a loaded pistol in the sincere hope that I was pleasing my…whateverhewas.
By the way, don't knock giving a blowjob to a loaded Smith and Wesson until you've tried it. Somehow, I managed to become completely lost in the moment, forgetting that the slightest twitch could make each breath my last. Still, after a minute or so, I slowly opened my eyes to find him smiling down at me once again. My trembling had stopped, and so had any residual fear.
I opened wide as he slowly, carefully removed the weapon from my mouth and placed it back inside the harness.
"Are you a thug?" I asked, "Or some sort of assassin?"
"Which do you prefer?" he asked in return, slapping his still-hard cock against my cheek a few times.
"I like the idea of an assassin better," I said. "It seems more artful somehow."
"Then I'm a thug," he said.
Chapter 6
I don't know why I was so shocked when I heard the electric garage door open at the opposite end of the home. After all, the open house had been scheduled to end two hours ago, and the Rasmussens were bound to come home eventually.
"Oh fuck!" I said, scrambling to my feet, "They're home."
"Bend over," he said.
"What?!" I asked, my mind on fire.
"You heard me," he said, "Bend over and put your hands behind your back."
"But the Rasmussens!" I protested.
In what seemed like a single motion he turned me around, pushed my head down to my knees and literally ripped the purple thong off of my ass. A nanosecond later my hands were bound behind my back with what was left of the now ruined panties.
I heard the garage door come to a stop and the Rasmussen's car pull in as he yanked my skirt above my ass and parked his cock inside my still wet pussy. Taking my hips into two strong hands, he fucked me with the entire length of that perfect tool.
"There isn't time," I protested as both he and my own blissful cunt ignored me.
Car doors now slammed inside the garage as he, in turn, slammed against my pink, round ass. Spreading my feet a little wider, I looked down between my shaking thighs to watch his cock take long, delicious strokes until a wave of girl-juice drenched his fearless balls.
"Oh God, you're making me cum you naughty gangster," I whispered.
Just then he crashed into me one last time as his cock expanded, firing off round after round, each with just a hint of delicious recoil.
I h
eard the door to the kitchen open and grocery bags hit the counter as he slowly removed himself and zipped up his pants. I stood on wobbly legs and let him smooth my skirt down over my ass for me.
"Hurry and untie me," I whispered.
"No," he whispered back.
I struggled to free my hands but it was no use.
"Please, I begged," hearing footsteps enter the hallway.
He grabbed a handful of hair, pulled my head back and kissed me on the neck.
"Deal with it," he said.
My pussy was still in spasm, taking an orgasmic victory lap as Mr. Rasmussen opened the door and peered inside.
"Oh, Lauren, you're still here," he said, stating the obvious.
"Yes," I managed, "I was…just showing the house to one last interested party."
Then suddenly I realized an opportunity.
"Mr. Rasmussen, this is…I'm sorry, sir, I don't believe I caught your name," I said with a smile.
He smiled bigger and offered me his hand.
"That's true, how rude of me," he said, "I'm Marcus."
The moment, like his hand, hung in awkward silence. The mischief in his eyes was so pure and unapologetic that I wanted to scream at him almost as much as I wanted to turn around and beg for round two.
I did my best girlish chuckle and pretended the hand was simply not there.
"I'd like you to meet Thomas Rasmussen," I said with a sideways nod.
"Oh, yes," he said, extending his hand to Mr. Rasmussen, "How do you do?"
Mr. Rasmussen took the hand, "Marcus, call me Tom," he said.
Oh well, at least I had a first name. Theoretically.
"You certainly have a beautiful home," Marcus told Tom, "Lauren here was just giving me the VIP tour."
"Isn't she great," Tom gushed, "Janet and I knew we had the right girl for the job the moment we met her."
They both smiled at me as if I were a 6-year-old playing the fairy princess in the school play. Considering my hands remained helplessly bound behind my back, I could only give a coy little shrug.
As the two of them made small talk, I felt a slow river of white-hot lava inching down my inner thigh. I did my best to squeeze off the flow at its source, but my floodgates were still busy quivering at the moment. By my rough calculations, I had no more than a minute or two before my skirt would be too short to conceal just how dedicated a saleswoman I was.
"Can I interest anyone in a cup of coffee?" Mr. Rasmussen offered.
"That sounds like just the thing," Marcus quickly replied, "If it's no trouble, of course."
"Not at all, it'll just be a few minutes," Mr. Rasmussen said, "But first, I think I'll stand here a little while longer until the sticky cum reaches Lauren's knees so that I can see what an inappropriate little slut she has been and proceed to have her real estate license revoked."
Okay, he didn't actually say that. Instead he mentioned something about the cedar-lined closet and double-sink master bath, but in my mind there was really only one topic of conversation and it was running straight down my leg.
“As a matter of fact we were just going to have a look at that master bath,” I said. “We’ll catch up with you and Janet in a moment.”
“Fine,” he said, turning and mercifully exiting the room.
I immediately pivoted and shuffled to the bathroom as cum now flowed freely down both of my thighs. Stopping in the doorway to look back, I waved him over with just my head.
“Get in here,” I whispered.
He looked around, playing dumb.
“Who? Me?” he asked.
“Oh, hardeehar-har!” I said, trying not to actually laugh. “Now hurry up before I get pissed.”
He shrugged and did as I requested, pretending to be actually evaluating the bathroom once inside.
“Nice vanity mirror,” he said.
I pushed the door shut with my shoulder.
“Untie me,” I demanded.
“Is that granite?” he asked.
I laughed a little, damn it.
“Look, I like you,” I said, “But enough is enough.”
He walked over to one of the double sinks and tested the faucet, still ignoring my urgent pleas.
“In about thirty seconds,” I said, “I’m going to have a mess on my hands. A mess most guys aren't even aware of and probably don’t want think about, let alone witness.”
He looked up at his own reflection in the mirror, then over at mine, seemingly weighing my words.
“You’re right,” he said, “I’m out of here.”
He walked right past me and opened the door.
"Please," I begged, my eyes welling up.
He turned on his heels and looked back.
"I know you're just testing me. Exploring my limits. But believe me, you've found them, at least for the moment," I said, "I understand that you have the control here, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I can't wait to see where all of this goes from here, but right now I just really need you to untie me."
He walked back to me as a tear slid from my eye and clung to my upper lip. Kissing it away, he reached behind and deftly freed my hands with a single tug then placed the frayed panties in the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
I smiled.
"Take your time," he said before exiting and quietly closing the door.
Chapter 7
As I entered the kitchen, Tom and Janet Rasmussen greeted me with sympathetic smiles. Unfortunately, a partial cup of coffee sat cold and abandoned on the opposite end of the counter.
"He said to tell you it just wasn't what he was looking for," Janet said as she poured me a cup of my own.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” I managed to reply without crying or stomping my feet.
“I know, I was just telling Tom that if that guy had bought this place I’d have thrown myself in for free,” she said, “Was that a beautiful man or what?”
“You think so?” I said.
“Are you kidding? Did you see those eyes?” She asked.
“Maybe,” I said taking a sip of coffee and trying not to have an anxiety attack.
So that was it then. I’d had my chance and blown it. It was back to the old me again. Me and the Rasmussens sipping cheap coffee in a split-level rancher. Me and Norm Larson trading phone sex for a quick sale. Me flirting with young baristas one minute and dodging the pathetic advances of middle-aged dads the next.
What I would have given to feel ripped panties cutting the circulation to my hands again. To feel hot cum streaming down my thighs, knees, calves, ankles until this gentle couple saw me for what I really was: a beautiful and daring plaything who didn’t belong in their world.
But no, I had to talk back, questioning the authority of the one man who instinctively knew my potential. I was a budding Kentucky Derby winner who would never be saddled; doomed instead to wander the endless plains without rider or destination.
"We've decided on breakfast for dinner if you'd like to join us," Janet offered.
"Oh, no, I'm fine," I said.
"Are you sure?" Tom asked removing a carton of eggs from the fridge, "I make a mean omelet."
"No really, I should go," I said.
Suddenly the thought of being back at my impeccably designed yet perfectly empty apartment was more than I could bear. My eyes filled with tears, throwing the world out of focus.
"Hey, what's all this?" Tom asked setting down the eggs.
Janet rushed to my side, "Honey have a seat," she said inching me toward a stool. "There will be other buyers," she assured me, "You'll see."
"I know that," I said, "I'm sorry."
"Lauren, we're in no particular hurry to sell," Tom chimed in, "You're doing all you can. We understand that it's a buyer's market out there and, really, we've got all the time in the…"
"Tom," Janet interrupted, "Make the eggs, honey."
She reached for a tissue box and pulled a few out.
"I'm sorry," I repeated, "It's been a long day."
"L
et me walk you to the door," Janet offered.
I gave Tom a hug and he asked me to reconsider breakfast.
"I can't," I said, "I've taken up enough of your evening."
Janet led me toward the front door, tissue box still in hand. I took a few extras for the road.
"Hey," Janet said placing a hand on my arm, "Look at me."
I wiped my own puffy eyes then looked into her kind and knowing ones.
"There will be other buyers," she said, "You just wait and see."
We exchanged hugs and agreed that I would call her in the morning as I stepped out into the cool night air. After fumbling around for my keys, I turned over the engine and waited for the car to warm.
Pathetically, I double-checked my phone on the crazy off chance that I'd missed a text message or call, and got my answer. I turned on the radio, heard a note and a half of a sad song, and turned it back off with a sigh.
As I placed the car in gear, I felt a sudden twinge of cold steel press against the base of my skull.
"Don't say a word," he said, "Just drive, you little cunt."
Plaything II, now available on a gadget near you.
m. kay moran is an advertising copywriter in Washington State. This is her first published story. If you enjoyed reading it, be sure to check out the recently released Plaything II, the second installment of this three part series. Reviews and other feedback always appreciated. [email protected]
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