Dream whore

Adapted from a dream I had a cou­ple of night ago…

A Sat­ur­day night, some ran­dom party, and I’m alone. Ner­vous, hav­ing left D at home, I try to min­gle, end up talk­ing to the bar­tender, knock­ing back a few shots. The vodka takes the edge off, and socially lubri­cated, I make my way around the room, chat­ting and laugh­ing. Before I know it, it’s late and peo­ple are mak­ing their way home. I have my own car, but some­thing prompts me to ask the cute guy whom I’ve been eye­ing all night if he’d like some company.

The ride to his place is quiet — I’m still buzzed and though we make small talk, it peters off com­fort­able silence. He tells me he lives alone, the off­spring of some minor actress whose name doesn’t ring any bells, even when I look it up on Wikipedia the next day. He’s a lit­tle odd, that geeky eccen­tric­ity that I love so much, dark hair, too messy to be styl­ish, dark rimmed glasses fram­ing beau­ti­ful eyes. He doesn’t make a move on me, and sex doesn’t even enter the equa­tion, though I can feel his eyes on the long expanse of leg revealed by my ruched up dress.

His place is nice, much nicer than I expected. Kind of yup­pi­fied, kind of gen­tri­fied, lots of glass and steel along­side the orig­i­nal brick­work. I fol­low him in, and we head down­stairs –not to his apart­ment, like I expected, but instead to a cafe for break­fast. The place is packed, too crowded for my taste, and though I don’t know any­one, he seems to know plenty of peo­ple. Espe­cially women… one after another walks by our table, shoot­ing poi­so­nous glances at me. I smile back, amused. Jeal­ousy, I won­der? What kind of guy is this? A tall leggy brunette stalks up to our table, spit­ting out words of fury. He barely pays her any atten­tion, instead turn­ing to me, lift­ing my breast free of the clingy bodice and suck­ing the taut nip­ple into his mouth. She gasps, and I smile, encour­ag­ing his fin­gers up under the hem of my dress. He bites down as his fin­gers encounter no resis­tance, no panties, just the smooth flesh and the wet cleft. I hiss in pain and plea­sure as his fin­gers enter me.

His hand in my hair, pulling me to my feet, push­ing me against the wall, and he’s on his knees behind me, bury­ing his face between my cheeks, tongue stab­bing into my puck­ered ass­hole while his fin­gers work inside me, first two fin­gers, then three. Some part of my mind rebels, try­ing to make me aware of the scene that we must be mak­ing, but the plea­sure wins out, and I can’t bring myself to care about all the eyes that surely must be watch­ing. He rises from his knees, cock out and hard, enter­ing me, fill­ing me, his hot breath against the base of my neck.

It’s hot and fast, over before I know it, and I’m sticky wet down my thighs, won­der­ing if that’s him or me… Then he’s pro­pelling me out of the cafe, and up the stairs to his apart­ment. It’s like another side of his per­son­al­ity has been unleashed. The quiet geek from the car has gone into hid­ing, and in its place is a mon­ster whom I like, very much. He pushes me ahead of him, call­ing me a slut, ask­ing if my whore pussy liked it. I melt beneath each slap, becom­ing more mal­leable, feel­ing my sub­mis­sive nature take over. On the land­ing, he pushes me to the ground before him, using his foot to push my dress up, expos­ing my swollen well-fucked cunt. He looks over me, like some detached appraisal, before tak­ing out his cell­phone and mak­ing a brief call.

The rest of the trip up the stairs to his apart­ment passes in a blur — his hand in my hair, tears in my eyes, his other hand slap­ping my thighs apart, rip­ping at my dress. We make it to the door of his place, and he opens it, push­ing me ahead of him. I stum­ble over the thresh­old, falling to me knees, and his hand on my shoul­der keeps me there. He tells me that I look good on my knees. His hot stare burns into me — I can only look back at him, watch­ing as he takes his cock out, stroking it, while he watches me. My breasts fall out of my ripped bodice, the dress lit­tle more than a belt of fab­ric around my waist, cov­er­ing noth­ing. He tells me to open my legs, to show him my slut pussy, telling me to pull my lips apart so that he can see the swollen flesh inside. Cheeks red with shame, I do as he tells him, pinch­ing my ten­der swollen clit, push­ing two fin­gers inside my wet hole. His voice grows rougher as his breath­ing quick­ens, then he’s com­ing all over my exposed body, on my face, in my hair, on my torn dress.

The door opens behind him, and two tall blonde women who could be sis­ters walk into the apart­ment. I’m so sur­prised that it hardly occurs to me to cover myself. Instead my eyes are drawn to the match­ing strapons, to the thick cocks, one black, one pur­ple, in match­ing har­nesses hang­ing men­ac­ingly between their tanned thighs. When they greet my host, not at all sur­prised to find a  half naked woman cov­ered with come in his foyer, I start to sus­pect that I’m in over my head. When they yank me to my feet, strip me naked, and start to bind me, I know I’m in over my head. And a lit­tle while later, when I’m sus­pended from the ceil­ing, hang­ing between the two girls of them, ser­vic­ing their cocks in my wet and will­ing holes while my host fucks my mouth and throat until I choke and gag — I real­ize that I really don’t care, not one bit. In fact, I can’t wait to see what they make me do next.