I can still feel your cum inside of me.
It makes me ache for more.
I fidget on the floor. My pussy is a little sore; my ass will be bruised for a week. You know the pain keeps me wet.
We have plans tonight, but it’s more like you have plans.
We’re going to the bar, you tell me, as I rest in between your legs, my head laying on one of your thighs. I’m ravaged - my hair is everywhere, my mascara has run down my face, and my lips are swollen and puffy. I have a small bruise on the line of my jaw and a larger one on my cheek from earlier, when you slapped me for… what was it? It might have been something, it might have been nothing at all. But I like the way my face hurts when I pout too much, your way of reminding me to be a good girl.
You reach for me, run your hand softly through my hair, and tell me to lay myself over the ottoman. I can feel that my naked body is warm on the cool leather, worked up from all the abuse, the many times you’ve used me, but my brain is slow and quiet. Just a pleasant buzz.
You place a plug inside of me; my body resists, but once it’s in, the ache grows deeper. Between the plug and your cum, I feel full. You run your fingers along my back, drawing long, angry lines as you tell me to freshen up for the night.
10 minutes later, I’m presentable. My long blonde hair is straight and soft. My face is clean, mascara back in place, and my blue eyes look bright. Innocent.
I wasn’t able to cover the bruises, but that’s okay, they’re faint enough. I’m wearing a light pink mini skirt and a white cardigan.
I look nothing like what I am.
You approach me from the back and wrap something around my neck. It’s tight and cool to the touch, but I can only catch a glimpse of silver when I look down.
You tell me it’s the collar I’ll be wearing tonight, but when I try to look at it, you redirect me, telling me it’s none of my concern and that we should go.
“There should be other things on your mind right now,” you say.
We step into the elevator with two other couples. I can feel a man staring at me. It might be because of what’s around my neck, but I try not to think about it.
It doesn’t matter, anyway. I should focus.
I know I won’t speak tonight unless you give permission. I won’t make decisions for myself. I’ll serve you, stay attentive to you. And that pleasant buzz is still there - the one that keeps my thoughts simple and makes it easy to obey.
My ass is stuffed and I can’t stop aching for more of your cum even as it drips from me. I like this feeling, and I lean into it.
We enter the bar. It’s busy but not packed. Loud but manageable. You tell me to wait as you step out of sight to find seating. A group of men approach me and ask me about my night, who I’m with. I stare at them, my words stuck behind your rule, my cheeks getting a little red. They write me off as stuck-up and walk away.
When you return, you guide us to a small table. It’s raised so that my skirt isn’t far from eye line. I have to cross my legs so people don’t see my little pink panties stained with your cum. I see you smirk as I struggle to adjust my legs, skirt. I make a bratty little noise with my throat almost without thinking, but then I remember myself. I don’t look at you, though I can feel your eyes.
You know people here who will join us soon, and someone comes for our drink orders. You order me an orange juice and yourself a glass of red wine, along with a pitcher of water. Again, you smirk, and my face reddens. You slide your hand over my thigh, drifting up until it’s under my skirt where you rub your fingers against my panties, forcing a whimper from me. I know your cock is already hardening, that you want to bend me over the seat and use me until another load of your cum is dripping out of me for everyone to see. But you don’t. You just pull your hand away and give me a warning look to be quiet, behave. Control my need.
Not long afterward, we’re joined by a small group. You introduce me and I smile. They ask me where I’m from and I look to you for permission. You answer for me this time. Someone frowns at me as his eyes fall down to what’s around my neck. He stares at me for the rest of the night.
I wonder if he’ll ask questions: Is she yours? How much is she yours, exactly? Can I borrow her? Use her?
The possibility lingers in the back of my mind, but I breathe a soft sigh. I know you don’t share your toys.
I notice that your water is empty, that your napkin is wet, so I quickly fill your cup and go to find a new set of napkins for the table. As I walk through the room, I step in front of a mirrored wall and see the piece around my neck for the first time. It’s a bit more discreet than the collars we use at home, sleek and silver and shining in the dim light of the bar. It’s tight around my neck, like a choker, but there’s a small ring at the center. It feels good. It’s also quite a statement, and I wonder about the curious man at our table.
I return to the table with napkins and, as I pass them to you, you say “good girl.” I just smile. Then someone asks me a question about my life, and I freeze. I look at you, but you don’t give your nod of approval. I wait.
I wait what feels like 30 seconds until you finally nod.
I collect myself, turn my head to them and answer the question. I’m talking for some time before I hear a growl from my left - so slight that I’m the only one who could have heard it in the loud bar, but enough for me to know that you’re done listening to me share with someone else. I quickly end my sentence.
The rest of the evening goes on much the same. I can feel the curious man’s eyes on me. I know that he wants to ask. But he doesn’t.
Once I’m done with my orange juice, you order me an apple juice. I avoid eye contact with the others, refill your water, and listen to you speak.
Apple juice is yummy, I tell myself, but I feel a bit like a puppy underneath a dining table as I watch the rest of the group drink their wine and liquor. I try to ignore the ache that grows at the thought but I can feel my wetness on my thighs.
Then you slide your hand back up my skirt. Between your cum and mine, I’m soaked, and as you softly drag your fingers against my panties, I have to stop myself from writhing underneath your hand.
People are still talking. Conversation has flowed all night. But just as I reach a peak of desperation, the chatter ebbs. It’s quiet as I turn my head to you and whisper a breathy “please, Daddy.”
I don’t know if anyone heard. I don’t look. But you look at me, frown, and excuse yourself from the table as you grab my hand and guide me to the restroom, your face stoic.
It’s dark inside and I know why we’re here before you say it.
“I can’t even take you to the bar without you begging for it, huh?” You lecture me, but there’s a hunger in your voice that matches mine.
I start to apologize, but you’re fast. Efficient. I feel you push me forward, bend me over the sink, and rip my panties down. I listen to you unbuckle your belt as you kick my feet apart. You put your hand around my mouth, align your cock with my sore pussy, and ram inside of me.
I allow myself a moan through your hand. You know me, know I’m terrible at being quiet, as much as I (sometimes) try for you. I know the hand around my mouth is a small favor to me.
My eyes have adjusted to the dark, and a sliver of moonlight shines through a small window above us. In the dingy mirror, I can see my little pink skirt ridden up at my waist, my breasts spilling out of the top of my snow white cardigan. I watch myself, collared and exposed, being fucked like a whore while your friends chat outside. I try not to scream, to be quiet as you use me, but my self control is fading. My body knows I was made for this. I’m more at home with your cock buried inside of me than when I’m empty. You use your other hand to grab my ass, leaving angry purple marks just below my tan lines.
Make that 1.5 weeks of bruising.
“You’re lucky I don’t take your panties off so that you’re dripping in front of everyone for the rest of the night,” you tell me in between thrusts. “You’ve been a good girl. Attentive. But you just can’t help yourself. My little bitch in heat.”
I moan louder as your thrusts speed up. I can feel you throbbing inside of me as you pull my hips against you and fill me again, your cum spilling out of me, dripping down my bare legs.
You order me to my knees to clean you up. I drop down to the dirty floor and lick you, softly and thoroughly, keeping eye contact, whether you can see it or not. Now isn’t the time to abandon my training.
Once I’m back up, you look me over. You fix my cardigan and pull down my little skirt, but you drag me out of the restroom before I can properly clean up, leaving me looking every bit the bitch in heat you say I am. It’s a small punishment for making you need to use me in the middle of your outing.
Your cum is running down my legs, but it’s dark and everyone’s drinking and distracted - except the man who can’t stop staring. He’s somehow found himself in line at the restroom right as we step outside.
He looks me up and down and smiles as his attention turns toward you. You don’t spare him a glance, just guide me to the table.
I refill your water as you carry on conversation and I sit quietly, wondering how many people will notice your dried cum marking my legs tonight.
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