0 comments/ 38582 views/ 2 favorites Be A Good Girl By: drqangelatl She hummed to the beat of their heels clicking along the wood. She liked this time of year. Warm enough to be out without a jacket or sweater but cold enough to need at least some jeans. Tonight she wore short jean mini skirt and a soft cotton blouse which clung to her ample breasts. Every time the wind blew in off the gulf, it teased her nipples, making them hard points. She giggles knowing it was more than the wind blowing her nipples. The wind also teased her bare clit when it was strong enough to blow under her skirt. She had to maintain a little control. The moisture gathering between her legs would soon slide down her thighs. He wouldn't like that. She yanked a little on the thin chain keeping her tied to him. Passersby wouldn't notice it. They would just assume two lovebirds couldn't stand to be apart. In actuality, a small silver chain was hooked to a slave set on her right hand. The chain ended at the belt loop on the left side of his jeans. She yanked again and giggled. Her giggle halted when he turned to her. She looked up to stern eyes and her smile faded to a grimace. "Excuse me Master," she whispered softly, lowering her eyes to the wooden planks beneath her feet. The masked irritation in his voice caused a slight chill to race down her spine. Now she knew his reason for coming to the beach and insisting she wear no underwear. She was in trouble. Her mind raced trying to think of what she had done. He had emailed her an assignment before going to work that morning. He wanted her to strap her vibe inside and wear it for three hours. She was to also make sure the small stud on the harness rested on her clit. During those three hours, she would alternate, fifteen minutes vibrating, ten minutes off. The only thing is she was only allowed to cum once at the hour and a half mark. When she read the email, she groaned. She had errands to do this morning so the assignment would have to wait. She had left the apartment around nine and didn't return until almost two. She barely had enough time to complete the assignment. She checked her voicemail. Four messages in the last two hours. He must have forgotten her errands? She hurriedly strapped on the vibrator and went to make dinner. He would be there at seven. He called at six. "Slut. We're going out tonight. I want you to wear that little skirt we just bought and a tight fitting blouse. I need to enjoy myself while we eat. Oh and no underwear." She knew the drill. He would be there promptly at seven and she should be waiting at the bottom of the stairs. She was and jumped in the car as soon as he pulled up. she greeted him warmly. He smiled. He leaned over, hooked the chain to her and put the car in gear. They drove the short distance to the beach in silence. She still had no clue he was upset until he nearly growled at her for yanking the chain. He grabbed her and pulled her toward one of the benches under a light. He pushed her down onto the bench before sitting beside her. He sat for a couple minutes watching people. She stole sidelong glances under her lowered eyelids. He turned and looked at her while playing with her hair. "So tell me girl, did you deliberately disobey me or not?" He yanked on her hair. She winced. He was really angry. Before she could answer, he grabbed a fist full of her hair and pulled her head toward his mouth. She pasted on a smile so no one would see the grimace from the slight pain and fear. "I gave you an assignment. I know you read it because I got the read receipt. Yet when I call, you do not answer your phone. Four times and you do not answer your phone. So I think to myself. I say self is my bitch sick or crazy. I say self no my bitch obeys me." He pulled harder. "I say self my bitch would have to be incapacitated to not have done what I told her and ignore my calls." He let her go and turned toward her on the bench. "Explain yourself before I really get angry." She held in a whimper, knowing it would only push him further. Softly, "Master I love you. I would never deliberately disobey you. I had errands to do this morning. I told you about them. I did my assignment when I returned and they took longer than I had planned. But I did complete the assignment Master. Your pussy is still throbbing with need." Her voice trembled with fear. She had no idea what he planned but she knew it was something she would hate. She cringed inwardly. She hated most when he made her do things to bare herself to the public. No underwear. Tight blouse. She looked at her nipples, still pointy. She realized this was only the beginning. "Who are you to decide when you shall do something? I did not forget your errands." Shocked she looked his way. A cynical smirk crossed his face. "Yes my dear horny slut. Now that you realize your mistake, you can accept your punishment. On my lap." She climbed onto his lap and spread her legs over his thighs. He always made her sit this way so he would have access to her. The skirt rode high on her thighs baring the curve of her ass and a glimpse of her shaved pussy. "Wider whore." She hestitated. He slapped her on her bare thigh. She whimpered softly and spread her legs more. Her pussy now open for anyone who cared to look their way. She knew she must be red because wind she had enjoyed now cooled her heated skin. She silently thanked God there were few people out walking the boardwalk. He began to rub her sides. His thumbs repeatedly brushed her breasts. She began to squirm. She stopped as she noticed a man a few steps away take a seat and stare at her. He laughed. "Oh so you see your admirer. I bet he's enjoying that sweet pussy of yours. Look he's licking his lips wondering what you taste like. " He leaned around her. "Sir? Could you come over here a minute." She felt as if she would die. He never offered her to anyone. As the man approached, she knew that rule would be altered tonight. The man came to stand inches from them. His eyes were still glued to the flesh bared under her skirt. "Sir I saw you looking at my slut. Doesn't the pink of her pussy look lovely against the darkness of her skin? Very tasty I have to say. Would you care for a taste?" The man blinked. He looked at her Master then back at her pussy. He looked back at her Master. "I don't know what sick game you are up to but let's see how far you go. I'd love to taste." Master chuckled. "Ok slut give him a taste. Dip your fingers into my pussy and offer them to him." Nervously she stuck her fingers inside her. Pulling them out, she extended her hand to the stranger. Her eyes glimpsed him growing hard. "No girl. I said give him a taste." Closing her eyes in total embarassment, she brought her fingers back to her pussy. Knowing now what Master wanted, she masturbated. Her already aroused pussy not taking much to begin to drip. Soft moans escaped her lips and she felt her Master shift. "Stop whore. Let him taste." Slowly she pulled her fingers from her dripping pussy and extended her hand to the stranger again. The man moved forward and licked her hand. "Damn she tastes good. Do I get to fuck her?" Master growled. "No imbecile. You have served your purpose. I think she has learned her lesson. Thank you for your help." The man stood there laughing. "Yeah well my dick is hard and I need to fuck something. Since you've gone this far, you should let me finish what you started." Master looked at the man. Gently he lifted her from his lap and sat her on the bench. He unhooked the chain and stood. He grabbed the man's arm and pulled him a little bit away from her. Shortly Master returned and attached the chain again. "Let's go whore." She stood on shakey legs and followed him back to the car. He opened the door and helped her inside. She sat shivering on the brink of an orgasm. The vibration from the car starting caused her to moan deep. She pressed her thighs together. They reached her apartment and he carried her inside. Once inside the door, he let her slide to the floor while holding her against him. He led her into her bedroom and undressed her. "On the bed." She stretched out naked on the bed. She lay on her back knowing he wanted to look at her while he undressed. He crawled onto the bed and pressed her legs open. Picking up her legs and pushing them back, he entered her throbbing pussy. He stroked her slowly building his momentum. She was only half aware of his grunts of pleasure. She was way beyond coherent thought. Her mind could only register a few words. He seemed not to hear her pleas. Just before she dissolved into oblivion, she heard him grunt. "Cum whore." Be A Good Girl Ch. 01 If you have something to say, I can be contacted by clicking on my name. ***** “Be a good girl, Angeline, and turn around for me?” Not entirely a question, not entirely a request, not entirely a demand. I turn around obediently and feel your hand press into my back. “Bend over Angeline.” I tip forward and catch myself on the hood of your car. Looking back, I catch you admiring me, and I smile at you. “Eyes forward,” you tell me with just a hint of menace. I murmur an apology, and turn back to look over your hood at the Atlantic Ocean and the few remaining sunbathers that dot the beach. I feel your foot between my feet, prodding them apart; I feel like I’m being arrested. You walk around me, talking under your breath, but I can’t hear what you are saying. Finally you come back and put your hands on my sides; I love the strength of them. I feel you lean into me until your mouth is by my ear, and you whisper. “Have you done your homework?” I nod breathlessly that I have. “I won’t be disappointed? I’d hate to be disappointed.” I shake my head that you won’t. “Tell me.” “You won’t be disappointed.” “Good girl.” I feel my skirt rise up my thighs until it rests on my back. The ocean air is cool on my bottom and on my legs. Your fingers hook into the elastic of my panties, and pull them down till they are halfway down my thighs. I feel so vulnerable and foolish bent over like this, and I have to fight my instinct to stand and cover myself. But I want so badly for you to see, so I stay where I am. “Oh good girl,” you murmur. Your hand drops and tests the pink plastic handle protruding from my bottom. Gently, you pull on it but it doesn’t budge. I rest my forehead on the cool hood of your car and command myself not to hyperventilate. I want you to ask me about shopping for it. I want you to ask me about how hard it was to get in. About it’s size and shape and the awful way it opened me up. I think I’ve earned that much, but you don’t ask, you take it for granted that I’ll do whatever you suggest. It hits me that I prefer it that way, and the thought reddens my face. You leave me standing bent over your hood, and sit down on the car beside me. I dare a glance upwards. You are surveying the parking lot. You spot something and hop up and trot away from me. I want to look back and see what it is, but I remember the last time, and the way you tricked me and caught me disobeying you. I’m not prepared for that again. I wait, trying to forget how silly I must look, and watch a man running with his dog down by the water. You return, but you aren’t alone. “Angie, this is Davy. Davy, Angie.” “Jesus Christ dude.” The voice is so young. What are you up to? “Dude are you sure this is cool?” “Angie, tell Davy, it’s cool.” You’re really working me over; you know what this is doing to me – to have to submit to this boy. “Davy, it’s cool.” “So Davy, are you still interested in what I mentioned?” “Ah, yeah, that would be really cool. Man I wish Tim was here, he’s never going to believe this shit.” “Well why don’t you go ahead and tell her what to do.” “Me? Okay, sure man, but you’re sure I can’t touch her?” “No touching, Davy.” “And I have to stand here?” “That’s the deal. If you move, Angie will stop, we’ll get in our car and leave.” “Okay, that’s cool, man. Whatever. So can I just tell her to?” “She’s all yours, Davy.” I haven’t been this tense since the time I thought I was pregnant. I just want to know what is coming, or even to see the face of this boy behind me. “Angie?” Trying to sound sure of himself. How sweet. “Yes Davy?” Trying to sound sure of myself. It’s a battle of wills, even if I know I’m going to lose. “I want to watch you masturbate.” You don’t say anything; so I know this was your idea. That this is what I’m supposed to do. “Will you?” “Yes, Davy.” “Cool.” I can’t believe you’ve got me doing this for some kid that says cool. I think of ways I’d like to punish you, but I know I’ve brought this on myself. Anyway, whom am I fooling? I want this more than the kid. I let my hand drop down between my legs, dragging a fingernail the length of my pussy. I feel shots of warmth run up my spine. I am insanely turned on. I wonder how it must look from where the boy is standing. I am surprised how comfortable I am bent over a car; maybe I was Henry Ford in a previous existence. I try to slow my breathing, make this last for the boy, but I’m close almost immediately. I slip a finger inside myself, leaving my clit alone for a minute, hoping that slows this freight train down. “Dude, is it cool if I jerk off?” I know I’m lost. “Davy as long as you don’t move, you can strip naked and bay at the moon, for all I care.” “Cool.” Davy is closer to me than I thought, because I can hear him unzip and begin to jerk off. The sound he makes just begins to torment my mind, and almost every little movement I make feels like the beginning of an orgasm, I’m determined not to come before him. It’s a matter of pride. “Davy, do me a favor and jerk off into this cup for me.” You say. “Sure man, whatever. How come?” “Don’t worry about it.” “Okay, man.” I hate when you have your little inspirations. I shudder to think what you may want this boy’s semen for. I start to think of reasons and that little shove pushes me over my edge. I can feel the familiar panicked tremors in my midriff as they spread out through my body. I hold the car for dear life because my knees begin to shake and I’m afraid I’m going to collapse onto the concrete. It feels so wonderful, so dirty and so primal all at the same time. I hear the boy grunting, and I know he is coming too. I let my hand slide from my pussy and use it to help support myself against the car. “Dude that was awesome. Tim is never going to believe this shit.” “And that would be bad?” “Well it would be cool if he thought it was true.” “I see you point. How about a trade?” “What kind of trade?” You’re up to something again. I can feel it. “Angie will trade her underwear for that cup.” “Dude that’s fucked up.” “Is that a no?” “Ah, no dude, whatever, yeah I’ll trade.” “Angie? Would you take your underwear off for Davy, here?” By way of an answer I bring my legs together and let them fall down to my ankles. Stepping out of them, I pick them off my toe and hold them out to you. Never looking back. “Good girl.” You take them and you exchange them with the boy. “Dude how do you get a girl to do shit like this?” “You make it worth her while.” That cracks the boy up. I hear him break out into a run and in a moment we are alone again. You come up behind me and lower my skirt over my bottom, giving it a little pat. “Get in the car.” I stand up and try to regain some of my lost composure. I’d kill for hairbrush. I want to try and catch a glimpse of the boy, but I dare not. I get in beside you. There is a paper cup in the beverage holder; I know what is in it. “What is that for?” I ask as you start the car. You think it over for a minute. “Motivation,” you offer. “Motivation for what?” “Let’s just say, I wouldn’t recommend getting out of line.” I nod, understanding, as you pull the car out into traffic. I wonder about where we are off to next. I know this is only the beginning. “So,” you say. “Tell me everything you were thinking. It’ll make the drive go by faster.” I smile, and put on my seatbelt. Be A Good Girl Ch. 02 Chapter 02: IVO We drive towards town. You pepper me questions about our little adventure at the beach. I answer as best I can, but my thoughts are skipping around like a scratched and dirty CD. I have questions of my own; I am dying to know all about Davy, but I know that I never will. You enjoy leaving me to my own devices far too much. My imagination can be my own worst enemy in that regard. Never far from my thoughts is the paper cup in the cup holder, and what is in it. The car comes to a stop, idling outside a cobbler. It is the only store on the block amid walls and closed down establishments with blacked-out windows. It's a sleepy, threadbare shop -- a few workbenches, a counter that can barely support the heavy, black cash register atop it, and then racks and racks of shoes of every style, color and material. Inside a middle-aged man is hunched over a workbench plying his trade. "Angeline, be a good girl, and run in and pick up my shoes?" You hand me a ticket. I look at the ticket. It has today's date and a printed number on the back. Seems innocent enough. I give you a kiss, grab my purse and get out of the car. "Angeline?" I stop and lean back in the window. "Yes?" "Leave your purse." I'm not getting it. I open it and take two twenties out, figuring that will cover it. I drop my purse on my seat and start back to the shop. You let me get halfway there. "Angeline?" I can smell trouble; that tone is back in your voice -- that tone that means something is in the works. I turn back to the car; smiling as sweetly as I can knowing you have that kid's sperm in a paper cup. "Yes?" "Leave the money." "How am I going to pay?" "It's taken care of." I could argue but what's the point? I drop the money into my purse and shrug. "Happy?" I ask. "Delirious. Don't dawdle, we have dinner reservations." "Well quit calling me back." I say, rolling my eyes at you. You make a shooing motion with your hand. I take a few steps towards the store and spin back towards you as a joke, but you're already engrossed in a magazine -- also a bad sign. The inside of the shop is warm, and over years the smell of leather and saddle soap has been worked into the texture of the air. The walls are a moldy shade of green; the only decoration is a tattered Greek holiday poster. A small radio plays a concerto quietly in the background. When I open the shop door it rings an old bell and the shopkeeper looks up from his work. He might be fifty, or he might just be tired -- bifocals pushed to the tip of his nose, and skin that has the sheen of a man who has been hard at work all day. He is completely bald but for wisps of gray around his ears. I think that if a man was ever born to do his job it is this man. His hands are magnificent: large, worn and hard. Studded with calluses earned over years. He wipes those same hands together and puts down a black mule he is resoling. "What can I do for you?" I meet him at the counter with the ticket. Hi, I say, I'm here to pick up some shoes. Taking the ticket, he pokes around through the back of his store. To the untrained eyes it looks like absolute chaos, but there must be method to the madness because he returns quickly with three shoeboxes and sets them on the counter. He takes out a calculator and adds up numbers, tallying them on an invoice he writes by hands in heavy block letters. "It comes to thirty-seven dollars and fifty-nine cents with tax." "I think it's already been paid for." He shakes his head. "I'm pretty sure it hasn't." "Could you check? I'm sorry. I think it has." I say without sounding very sure of myself. I cast a baleful eye back towards you sitting reading the Economist. "Miss, I don't mean to be difficult, but I don't have to check, because no one pays ahead of time. I can't predict what something will cost to repair so it makes sense for customers to pay when they pick up." "I apologize. I must have misunderstood my friend." "That's alright. I've been married 26 years, and I can barely make myself understood." "How much was it?" "Ah, that was thirty-seven dollars and fifty-nine cents." "With tax." "Right." "Thing is I didn't bring my purse with me. Didn't think I would need it, you know?" He nods sympathetically, but his eyes have stopped reflecting light, and those glorious hands have slipped behind his back; he looks like a military officer listening to a private trying to bullshit their way out of KP. "Is there any chance I can swing by tomorrow? I'll be in the neighborhood anyway. If it wouldn't be any trouble." "I don't like to do it as a rule. You look like a nice girl, but it's bad business. If you were a regular customer I might make an exception. Look, I'll be open for another hour. Just come back. If the doors locked, knock, I'll just be in the back." I make a lame excuse about having somewhere to be. About not being able to get back in time before he closes. I stop talking and an eternity passes; he barely moves, barely breathes. I want to play with my hair. It is almost impossible not to fidget under this man's gaze. Finally he seems to draw some inward conclusion. "I take it you have no ID. If you have no purse." I nod my head sheepishly. "No money, no ID, no credit cards. Where are your keys?" "I don't have them." It's preposterous. "You travel light, don't you?" "Sort of silly, isn't it." "Well you tell me, would you give you the shoes if it were your shop." "No." "You can't even leave anything as collateral. There's no way to know if you'd ever come back." This is that make or break point. Either, I tuck tail and run, go back to the car empty handed, or I get creative. I know this is your idea of fun. You're reading the Economist and listening to the news, but you're right here beside me; it's all about you and me. If I fail in this little task of yours, it will be months before I hear the end of it. Little jabs, small joking reminders. I know how you operate. Plus there is that paper cup to think about. What did you call it? Motivation? Right there I decide that even if I have to mug this man, those shoes are coming with me. I'm going to save mugging him for last. I smile at him as sweetly as I can. How to start? "Let me ask you this, sir. What would it take for me to leave with those shoes now?" Cutting him off quickly, "besides the money." "I think you're out of luck. I'm sorry." "Sir, I really need to have those shoes. I'm going to be really embarrassed if I go home empty-handed. He's planning on wearing them tonight, and I offered to pick them up for him, and it'll be all my fault." "It's not the end of the world." "No, but I'd still like to avoid it if possible." "You're accustomed to getting your own way aren't you?" "I'm not trying to be a pain in the ass. I just wish we could figure this out. I'm an upstanding citizen. I have a checkbook and everything." "Yes. Just not on you." I'm trying to be cute, but it is just bouncing off him. Have a heart. I'm giving him my A material; this is supposed to work, goddamn it, I'm a girl. He's not having it. Phase one is a bust. I had a feeling this was going to take more than sweet-talking, but it would have been so satisfying to walk out of your little trap without incident. That is clearly not to be. "Look. I need those shoes. I want you to want to give them to me. There has to be something. What is it going to take? I'll do anything." I think something in how I said 'need' and 'want' and followed up with 'anything' caught his ear. He cocks his head to one side like a dog, I think, a dog that just caught a scent. He seems suddenly in a more receptive mood. "What exactly are we talking about?" I take a deep breath, "we are talking about me walking out of here with those three boxes, and you being happy about it." "That's going to take some doing." "I kind of imagine it will." "We're not talking about you sweeping up in back. I just want to make sure we understand each other" "I know we're not." "Well that's good. Are you sure? Prove it." "How?" "Lift up your shirt." He finally admits to what we're talking around. "What's it worth to you?" He thinks it over, "fifty-nine cents." "Fifty-nine cents? Well at least that isn't insulting." "Well to be honest you're a little small up top. I don't mean any offense, but you aren't my ideal." I have several choice things to say here, but I bite my tongue. "Fifty-nine cents?" "That'll bring you to an even thirty-seven dollars." "Fifty-nine cents?" "Consider it a show of good faith." I don't think he really expects me to do it. I think he is trying to call my bluff, because when I lift my shirt up he becomes unnaturally quiet. His lips slightly parted, and a look in his face as if he's only half seeing me, as if the other half of him is somewhere else or sometime else entirely. He isn't wrong; my breasts are small so I let my shoulders fall forward to help plead their case. It reminds me of beach week during high school and a game of strip poker I played in. This has the same 'I dare you to' vibe about it. I count slowly to ten and let the shirt fall back to my midriff. "Thank you," he says with a smile. "I'm certainly going to have a hard time justifying spending fifty cents on a candy bar from now on." "Well I'm flattered that I rate higher than a Snickers." "Oh quite, quite." "I thought I wasn't your ideal." "You aren't, but it's been a long time, and at my age you begin to forget what makes a young woman's body so unforgettable. There is a certain quality to young women that make you every man's type. Thank you." "You're welcome," I say and mean it. He takes his glasses off, wiping them clean with a fold in his shirt. There is a faint, nostalgic smile on his lips. "So is this the point where you congratulate me on being brave, let me off the hook, I take the shoes and come back with the money tomorrow?" I figure it's worth a shot. "That would be the gentlemanly thing to do." "But?" I hear it in his tone. "But, I am thinking that I am always a gentleman. My whole life, and I don't have much to show for it. Just this shop and a wife that hasn't heard a word I've said since they cancelled Dynasty. I think I would regret letting this slip past me out of some misguided sense of chivalry. Besides, I can be twice as gentlemanly tomorrow to make up for today." "That's very Catholic of you." I say and laugh. "I hope you understand." "I'll get over it." "So about that thirty-seven dollars?" "How about it?" "I thought we could go in the back and... You know. Just work it out." He's back to beating around the bush. "Work it out? You want to fuck me, you mean." I think that surprises him a little. Maybe in his day women didn't talk like that. He is too easy. This is like messing with my father. On second thought, probably better not to think about dear old dad. "Well I wouldn't have put it that way, but that's about the size of it." "I don't think so." "Why not?" He asks as if he were surprised, then a little hurt. "Look," I start. "It's nothing personal. I know they say everyone has their price, and I'm sure that's true of me too, but thirty-seven dollars isn't it. I want the shoes but not that badly." I'm bluffing, but he doesn't know that. Actually, I'm trying to shake the mental image of this man on me - him fucking me right here in his store. That's been a taboo between you and I, and some part of me wants to violate it. Violate it while you are reading the letters to the editor in the Economist. I wonder how you would react. One could argue that you had it coming. Would I want to win or lose that argument? The shopkeeper is staring intently at me. Have I misjudged him? It can be dangerous to spurn a man's advances too glibly. Have I overstepped myself? I should stay focused on the task at hand. He punches the cash register purposefully. He takes out a stack of ones and begins counting them out onto the counter between us - three stacks of ten and one stack of seven. He puts the rest of the bills back and spoons out two quarters, a nickel and four pennies; this he slides across the counter to me. The thirty-seven singles he gathers up in his hands. "I think you earned that," he says and there is a shot of bitterness in his tone. I eye the money without picking it up. "Should I count it now?" "I think you should quit being so cute. You're lousy at it." "Oh." "Come around here. I think you should stop acting cute and start thinking about the fact that you need something from me. I don't need anything you've got little lady. My little princess. I've had it all in my time, and far better than you. Maybe it's been awhile, but I know where I've been. Look at you. You barely know where you're going. You think you're going to skate through life being skinny, flat chested and blonde?" I loop around the end of the counter obediently. I'm a little breathless, because he's hitting a lot of sensitive nerves all at once, and I'm supposed to smile sweetly and take it. We're about the same height, but he has about 80 pounds on me. I can't quite bring myself to make eye contact with him. Instead, I stare at those hands of his. "If this is going to be a waste of my time then get out. I have better things to do then stand around while you tell me all the things you're too good to do. Get on your knees." His voice has an earthy, deep register to it that make my knees buckle of their own accord. I start to protest, back to my original line about not being that cheap. It's starting to sound a little hollow to me too. I don't get very far. He snaps at me; my jaw keeps working for a moment but the words stop coming. "Shut up and get on your knees." He tosses a dollar on the ground between us. "Get on the ground and get your money." I guess I'm through posturing. Down I go. I scoop up my dollar. Thirty-six to go. We look at each other for a minute. "I have to say you look good down there," he considers me. I pick up the dollar and keep my eyes on the floor. I've played this game before, but never with a complete stranger. What does it mean about me that he can put his finger on me that easily? It's different with this man, but different how? More insulting maybe? More presumptuous? Maybe that's why I like it immediately. His attention shifts to the door, but from behind the counter I can't see at what he is looking. He holds a dollar out to me, and points to the corner where the wall and counter intersect. "Get in the corner. Face the wall. Stay low and keep quiet." He takes me by the neck and guides me into position. I'm walking on my knees, which reinforces the sense of being childlike. "Hold your skirt up so I can see your ass." Another dollar. I do as I am told. In the rush, I forget about the pink plug. He makes a clicking sound with his tongue, and I feel his hand pressing down on my shoulder blades. His hand takes hold of the pink handle, I feel it shift slightly inside me and for half a second I'm terrified he's going to try to lift me by it. But I am saved by the proverbial bell -- the shop door opens and I hear an old woman's voice. His hand goes away and he stands to wait on his customer. Best as I can work out the woman must be eighty years old; she has that doddering quaver to her voice. She has one of those little-old-lady-dogs that are angry at the world for being born so small. It is scrabbling about at the end of its leash making a racket. She keeps shushing it, but it isn't having it. He greets her by name, takes her ticket and gets her shoes. The dog gets loose when she goes to pay; it makes a beeline around the counter and plants its cold little nose in the crack of my ass. I am being sniffed. Somehow I don't squeal or do anything else stereotypically girly to give myself away, but if the dog licks me chances are I will loose it. I shut my eyes and will the dog away from me. The old lady apologizes profusely for letting her dog get loose. "Not to worry, Mrs. Dutton, nothing back here it can hurt." They finish their transaction. The dog's claws are scratching the back of my calves. He scoops up the dog and walks Mrs. Dutton to the door. "Closing early? That's so unlike you." "I promise not to make a habit of it, but something came up at the last minute." "Nothing serious I hope." "Well that remains to be seen." I hear the door open and close, and the clack of a deadbolt being turned. He doesn't come back right away. What is he doing? I'm locked into the shop of a man I don't know. If this goes badly, really badly, you wouldn't be able to get to me in time. Even if you breakdown the front door, I wonder if you could overpower him. He has the kind of strength that comes from working for a living, not earned pumping stacks of ten-pound Nautilus weights. This is not the position a rational woman should put herself in. This isn't the controlled environment we've played with before. I'm a little bit scared, and not in the way I like. This isn't the safe scared you get on a roller coaster. This is the scared you get when you realize that your little hobby could actually get you hurt, and you start to wonder what you're doing up on this ledge anyway. I think of a friend of mine who I give a hard time for his obsession with parachuting. I make a hasty vow to lay off him. I mean look at me. He's behind me. He takes the back of my head in one of his huge hands, and I feel the scruff of his stubble on my neck. "Who's the guy in the car?" "My boyfriend." I don't see where lying would get me, and part of me is glad to let this guy know I'm not here alone. "You think he might have forty bucks on him?" "Yes." He exhales through his nose, his breath like sandpaper on my neck. "So what is this? Some kind of joke? I do not understand what is going on." The idea of actually explaining it to someone else, when I can't even really explain it to myself, renders me mute. "Are you two fucking with me?" His grip on my head tightens, and he twists my head back so we're eye to eye. "Answer me now." "No. We're not fucking with you." "Then what?" "We're fucking with each other." He stops to ponder that one. "So this is your idea of fun? He sets little task for you?" "Yes." "And that makes you feel alive, or your version of alive? What's the matter with you? Don't feel alive unless you're flashing someone for a pair of shoes?" "You don't have to be so mean. It's just a little harmless fun." "Shut up." I do shut up. I want to be far away from him and far away from here. He stands up and mutters the words 'harmless fun' to himself. He goes back to the door and stares out towards you. When he comes back he has a magic marker in his hand. He stands me up and hands me two dollars. "Lift your shirt. Look at the ceiling." He takes the cap off the marker. I start to say something. "Get out or shut up. You've been paid." He waits; I don't say anything. Satisfied he starts writing something across my chest in block letters. He's pressing hard with the tip of the pen, and if I were not so emotional I'd probably be able to figure out what he is writing. As it is I'm feeling a little chaotic inside. This angry mix of embarrassed, humiliated and scared...and the other thing that I don't want to admit -- that circle of heat in the small of my back that is making it so hard to stand still. That edge that I have to have before anything really seems to count. Someday I should figure out why crying is erotic to me but for now, I'm a human billboard. "You know if you weren't so flat this would be a lot harder." I'm trembling now. He finishes writing and tugs my shirt back into place. He hands me two more dollars. Be A Good Girl Ch. 02 "Look at me. Go out to your boyfriend. Show him. Do not look at it; it isn't for you. Do not discuss it with him. I'll be here if he wants his shoes," he puts the magic marker in my hand. "Now go." I look around like I'm leaving a party and don't remember where I put my purse. I'm dazed and not moving fast enough for his liking. He steers me towards the door, hands on my shoulders like I'm five again. He unlocks the shop, lets me out and locks up behind me. I wobble over to your car. I try the door, but it's locked so I knock on the window. "Where are my shoes?" "Just let me in." The door unlocks; I get in. "I send you in for shoes. You come back with a pen. You want to explain?" I shake my head and instead lift up my shirt. You become very quiet. I look out the window and see him standing in his shop door looking at us, hands behind his back. "Well," you begin. "This is very, very interesting." I want you to start the car and get me out of here, but instead you ask for the pen. You write a single word below his message. The letters are I, V, and O. Ivo...what does that mean? You pull my shirt back down. I look at you searchingly for some sign, but you are stone. "Go on," you prod. "Please don't make me go back in there." I'm on the verge of tears. You run a hand through my hair. "Doll, you know I'm not making you." And he's right. I want to go back. I know I shouldn't but I have to have whatever is waiting for me. I take the pen and go back to the shop where he's waiting. He leads me to the bathroom; it's just a dingy washroom with a toilet, a sink and mirror. We are completely out of sight of the front window. For another two dollars he reads your response. When he is done he has a pitying but cold smile. "You're a lucky girl." He steps behind me so we are both looking in the mirror. "Are you ready for your harmless fun? Read." I'm reading backwards in a mirror off my own body. It takes me a minute to make full sense of what I say. The cobbler's message is simple, "YOUR WHORE IS TOO GOOD TO FUCK ME? Your response is even simpler, 'NO'. I was seriously wrong about IVO. For such a simple message I have a hard time digesting it. The ramifications are too many to count. He stands behind me watching. Probably getting off on my distress the fucking creep. When I finally make eye contact with him, he is ready. "So. No more bullshit." I shake my head. "So say it." "No more bullshit." "What are you?" "A whore." The words come out like a struck match. I feel them burn. "Whose whore?" Clearly in a sadistic bastard contest you and he would finish in a dead heat. It's pissing me off. "Yours okay, yours. I'm your whore. You win. Can we just do it, please?" Bending, I place a hand on both sides of the sink. "It's not that simple." "What?" "You are a tiresome, annoying girl. All your talking, how does he live with it? You are pretty enough, but the sound of your voice has taken all the pleasure out of it for me. I cannot fuck you in my present state so I suggest you get on your knees and see if your mouth is good for something after all." On my knees the bathroom tile is cold. I reach for his zipper, but he slaps my hands away. "Don't touch me, did I ask you to touch me? Put your hands behind your back." I do as he tells me. He unzipped himself. Drum roll please. He is neither long nor short but like his hands there is something strangely rugged about it. He also isn't lying; I must not do anything for him because he is not at all hard. He drops three dollars onto my lap, and tells me to get to work. Without hands I don't have any choice but to just take him straight into my mouth. I take as much as I can and try to bring him alive, but no matter how I try, he just sits there limp. I take great pleasure in giving head, and this is not good for an ego that's been taking a beating since it walked into this dump. "Oh my god you are useless. I would never have thought that a three-dollar blowjob could be a rip off, and then along you come. Look at me when I am talking to you." His hands go to either side of my head, strong and controlling. It's a dizzying embrace. I feel my head begin to move under his supervision, guiding me up and down his length. When he's as far inside my mouth as I can manage he holds me there till my throat begins to contract trying to expel him. I'm familiar with this game. You like it too, but with you I know that if I tap you on the leg you will let me get some air. This is the real thing and there is no safety net. This is clearly more to his liking. His eyes close, and his head tilt back. He begins to grow in my mouth, and I quickly learn that what he may lack in length he more than compensates for in girth. When I was seven I bet my sister I could get a whole orange into my mouth. I did it; I never lost a dare, but I couldn't get it back out. My father had to scoop it out with a spoon. It took forever, and my jaw felt dislocated for a week. That's how I'm starting to feel now. My mouth is open past the point where it's even a little bit comfortable, and after a bit it's going to start aching. I feel drool run down my chin. I want desperately to swallow but it's too big; it's the same feeling as when the dentist won't let you rinse. I don't know what it says about me that I like it. And hate it. I like it because I hate it. That is me when you get right down to the dirty little center of my soul. The worse I feel the better I feel. There are any number of these paradoxes that can be used to explain me. Sometimes it troubles me afterwards when I'm in the shower alone. He doesn't seem troubled by my paradoxes. Far from it. He is staring down at me now; I'm staring back. I'm tearing and my eyeliner is running, but I don't look away. He clearly loves it. He's a mean son of a bitch and that's just fine by me. He fills my mouth and holds me there. Longer than before. I will myself to remain still, but he pushes me right up to the point where self-preservation kicks in. He's watching for it and pulls out of me just in time. I fall forward onto my hands gasping for breath while he gets a box of condoms out of the medicine cabinet. He puts it on and tells me to stand up and turn around. I'm back holding onto the sink. He nudges my legs apart and then I feel him touch me. I want to be bone dry. Uninterested like him, but I've betrayed myself. I am anything but dry. The inside of my thighs are wet. I'm a dirty little mess. "Well, well," he says and dries his fingers on my hair. I feel him test me and I am so happy. To me there is simply no better moment, and I've really had to work for this one. He is thick and I see the word 'fuck' in hazy red letters in front of my eyes. It's only then that I remember that I have something not insubstantial in my bottom. I feel his cock shifting it up; the two jostle each other like new lovers unaccustomed to sharing a bed. I hear someone whimpering and then realize that it's me. Somehow he pushes until he finds his way into me, and when I feel his belt buckle on my back, I lower my forehead to the cool porcelain of the sink and exhale slowly. The pressure on my tiny hips is ungodly. A shower of one dollar bills cascade into the sink. I will never be able to say how long it went on, because wherever I was had no clocks. What I know is that he had a wonderful stride, and each time, back and forth, is complete and whole and there is nothing left of me that he does not put his mark on. I lose track of where I am, or whom I am with; there is only my body and this primal thing that is being done to it. I am set to come several times without a thought if he doesn't take a fist of my hair and yank me out of my stupor. We lock eyes in the mirror, and when he brings his hand down on my backside it almost knocks me flat. I'm pretty good with pain, but his hands are gifted. There is a cruelty in his eyes that make me hate him, and that brings me very close. I reach out and feel the orgasm I am going to have; its size and weight; its sharp edges. I reach out to pull it to me, but then have a change of heart. This man has had everything of mine he's getting. It's a lot to sacrifice, but I have always been stubborn about cutting off my nose to spite my face. I focus on the discomfort of having two such large things inside me at one, and use it to push my orgasm away. We battle for a while. He wants me to come and knows he almost had me. He tries everything he can think of to knock me off my perch. His hand drops under, and I feel his fingers playing with my clit, but I'm dug in and I am not coming now. I can outlast him. His face is red from his exertion. He's old and I am young, and he doesn't have the stamina to win this battle. He begins to get frustrated and takes it out on my backside. "Why are you fighting me?" "I don't know what you mean." "Yes you do." "Sorry." I grunt noncommittally. "You were going to." He sounds bratty and petulant. "If you say so." "You were, and then you stopped. Why?" "I guess the moment passed." "I want you to." As if to prove it, he picks up his tempo and I have to brace myself for him. "I can't help you." "Please." There's a new, longing tone there. Longing I can work with. "Alright but it's going to cost you." "You want money? A pair of shoes?" I have a weakness for shoes, and hadn't thought of that. But I like my idea better. "No, just get me the magic marker." "What for?" "Oh I think you know." "No, that's impossible I have a wife." "Well I guess you'll be wearing tee shirts for a couple of weeks just like me. You want this then that's the deal. Otherwise finish fucking me so I can go to dinner." He slows then stops, and pulled out of me. When I turn around he has the magic marker in his hand. I tell him to unbutton his shirt, which he does, although I can see in his eyes that he isn't sure how he has lost control. His torso is broad and strong, and twenty-five years ago he must have been unbelievable. I take the pen and write ANGIE'S COCK and draw an arrow straight down. I've thought of cleverer things since then that I could have written, but at the time, it was simple, effective and to the point. Plus there is no way he would be able to explaining it if his wife ever saw it. I look up at him and grin playfully. I pop the cap back on and hold it out to him. The look on his face should be in an encyclopedia. It is a mixture of irritation, admiration, fear and lust. Lust won. He spins me back around, and he is inside me. But this time it is different. We have both made fools of each other and ourselves. We have battled each other to a draw, and called it a day. There is solidarity there. His hands are on me again, but this time they don't batter me. They settle on my hips, and there they stay while he works me into a state that I didn't think was possible with a stranger. I fuck him back, and show him just a little bit of what I really am. That part of me that you helped me find, and that you think is yours and yours alone, but I showed it to him anyway. You were fine about him fucking me, but I think that would have bothered you to know. When my orgasm came back from wherever I had sent it, my body leaps at it angrily daring me to deny it again. I barely have time to find his eyes in the bathroom mirror to warn him before it tore into me like a claw hammer. Something reaches into me twisting my spine around its fist until I feel my body buckle as it searches for those missing vertebrae. I sometimes see colors and shapes when I come particularly hard. Usually just a blob of color that might look like a flower or a firework, but this is a fucking purple bicycle and the tires keep getting larger until the backside of my orgasm hits and then the whole shape just dissolves, and I am clinging to the sink for dear life. I'd like to say I feel him come, am there with him, but I am in a world of my own...okay, I am in a world and I have no idea whose it is. When I open my eyes I am sitting on the bathroom floor. His shirt is buttoned, his fly is zipped, and he is smiling warmly for the first time. He helps me up, and gently puts my clothes back in order. He handed me a hairbrush that I hadn't asked for, and watches while I attempt to make myself presentable. When I am done he walks me out to the front. He has the door open before either of us remembers the shoes that brought me here. He goes and gets them, and for no reason at all, I kiss him goodbye. It surprises him, I think. "I'm sorry," he says. "For..." But he didn't finish. "Don't be sorry. Don't ever be sorry. Thanks for the shoes." I try to saunter out, but my legs are wobbly and I settle for walking in a straight line. We are at the end of the block before you say anything. You have pushed the envelope with this one. You know it, and are maybe a little afraid of me now. That's my story anyway. "Well," you finally ask. "Don't I get a kiss?" "You're a son of a bitch," I say, not ready to look at you, and turn on the radio. "Yes, but I'm buying." Yes you are. Be A Good Girl Ch. 03 Chapter 03: The Road to Ruin The ride to the restaurant is an ordeal. You try two or three times to initiate conversation, but I don't bite. I've never been anything but wide eyed and thrilled to be near you – everything fun, everything light, everything you say charming and funny. So my silent treatment comes across as deadly serious. A challenge to our orthodoxy. You stop trying and change the station to classic rock. I stare out the window trying to calm down. To tame the urge to get the hell out of this car at the next light. To get far, far away from you and your insane ideas, inspirations and tortures. To get far, far away from my desire to follow you blindly anywhere. Problem is that I while I can outrun you, I can't ever outrun me. Instead, I just get angrier. The valet opens my door, and I beeline for the restaurant lobby. The maitre d' looks up at me pleasantly and registers my scowl with a practiced smile. "Reynolds, party of two." I hiss at him through my teeth and feel immediately guilty. He scans his book and puts a red line neatly through your name. I watch you in the polished metal ornament above his head. Out on the curb, you are looking down, turning the valet stub over and over in your hand like it's a puzzle box. Lost in thought. I don't wait for you and follow the maitre d' to our table: a high backed, red leather booth along the elevated back wall. It is both private and on display – the very essence of your personality. I'm underdressed, my skirt and baby tee better suited for one of the casual eateries along the shore. And I'm not wearing a bra, which in the air conditioning is painfully obvious. I can only imagine how bad my hair looks given the mauling it's taken. The maitre d' pulls the table out three feet so I can slide in with minimum effort. I thank him, and he presents two menus and a wine list. I admire his professionalism – this scowling, windblown girl gives him attitude and he still treats her like a princess and not the whore she is. I pretend to look at the menu, while I try and find a comfortable sitting position. I have to sit with my back arched and my butt out or the plug catches on the leather cushioned banquet and presses in on me. Of course that means I have to stick my chest out, which is a little awkward. So it's a toss up. I wish I hadn't worn a baby tee, and I wish it was a little loose...like I own anything loose. And where the hell are you? You're standing over at the bar. This place is a warren of mirrors and reflective surfaces so I can see you around the corner. To the casual observer you look perfectly composed and at ease, but your left ring finger is tapping on the bar top. I don't know how to interpret it, only that it can't be good. You are so maddeningly hard to read and give away nothing. My anger moves over to share space with a growing nervousness. I order a drink from the waiter, and offer him my ID. Apparently this isn't an under twenty-one kind of place because he waves me off. It's a little disappointing because I am cursed with looking much younger than I am. Finally I'm legal, and no one wants to card me. I tuck it back in my purse and resist the urge to fidget. My Grey Goose and tonic comes. I order a second as he serves the first. I crush my lime into it, and jab at it viciously with my stirrer. It's gone much too fast and I wait impatiently for the waiter to come back. The nearby tables are filling up. I am the youngest person in the restaurant by at least a decade. You haven't budged from the corner of the bar. I don't understand why you get to be angry. Or why I suddenly feel like I've fucked up. How do you do that? Why do I want to get up and go and plead with you to sit down? The waiter brings my drink, and you're standing behind him when he leaves. Do I smell a whiff of brimstone? You sit without comment. Side by side. Our conversation is terse, and you won't look at me. Instead you page through the menu aggressively – too fast to actually read it. You already know what you want. "Do you want me to take you home? Because I'll be happy to." "No." I say too quickly and I stifle my natural impulse to elaborate. That he's willing to take me home stings, and it stings that it stings. "Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?" The answer to that is complex, but my answer is simple. "No." "Is this different than you expected? Than what you've fantasized about?" No it isn't, and I know that. "Then what?" For the first time irritation creeps into your voice, and that spurs my anger. I lean in sharply. "You let him fuck me." I stumble over the word 'fuck'; funny since it's one of my favorites ordinarily, and I've had a lot of practice saying it. I try to make eye contact but the waiter appears with uncanny timing to take our order. You order the rib eye medium rare, and the potato leak soup as a starter. I have no idea what I want. The waiter makes several suggestions each worse than the last. You snatch the menu from me. "She'll have the foie gras and the quail," you snap. The waiter cannot get away from us fast enough. "No, what I said was you weren't too good to fuck him. You let him fuck you. You did. For shoes. Men's shoes to be precise. I was in the car, or have you forgotten?" You look at me for the first time in what feels like years. I can't meet your eyes, and stare intently at my vast empire of forks. "I know this is what you wanted. Or are you just all talk?" I shake my head. "So what is it? You just want to be loved, and cuddled and watch reruns of The West Wing? And get briefly fucked missionary on Saturday night while you secretly dream your sordid dreams? You're much too smart to think this 'I'm a good girl, no I'm a bad girl, no I'm a good girl routine' is really going to save you. You're not even fooling yourself. Or do you really have that little self-respect?" I'm mute. Chastised. I've never seen you this angry. Your neck is red although you haven't raised your voice a notch. You drink your drink. The appetizers come. You eat. I play with my food, my head down, my eyes down. The silence stretches out between us. I want to speak but can't will my mouth to move...there is literally a first time for everything, I guess. It's not until the entrees arrive that you resume your thought. You stare at me hard. I don't move, and I don't say anything. My face flush. I can feel your next words coming down like a hammer. "I think it best if we end this now." So much finality in your tone. You smile at me warmly but all I see is condescension. I feel the pressure of tears behind my eyes. I can't breathe. "Why?" I plead. "Angeline. I'm not trying to be cruel, and I suspect most people would say I am a cruel man. I am for once trying to do the right thing here. For you. Go away from me. Far away. Turn your back on this now. Some people can dabble, not you. It's exactly why I want you. But I don't know if I can live with the things I find myself wanting to do to you. It's for the best." You look sad as you say all this. Your hand slips over mine. I want to crawl into your arms. "Eat your dinner. It's getting cold." "Please." I whisper. "Please, what?" You ask genuinely. "Please don't leave me." You place your fork on plate, deliberately, tines down. "I'm not the man for you, Angie. We've had some fun and we've played a little game, but this is no longer a game. I am the road to ruin." "Then ruin me." I answer forcefully. You look startled. "Do you know what you're asking?" "Ruin me. Ruin me. Ruin me." The words come out a jumble. I feel like I'm begging for my life. I can't loose the only man that begins to understand me. No matter the price. It's a weak cowardly decision but in the moment it feels like no decision at all. I want to be sick. The waiter approaches. You squeeze my hand hard, mashing my fingers together painfully. I stifle a reaction. "How is everything?" "Perfect," you say. "And Miss? How is the quail?" As I begin to reply, your grip on my hand triples. You crush my fingers together. My voice hiccups with surprise at the pain, but otherwise I don't break. The only word I can think of is yours. "Perfect," I parrot. When the waiter departs, I exhale deeply. You don't release my hand. Instead you draw closer to me, and whisper in my ear. "I will. Ruin you. Don't say things you think I want to hear just to put off the inevitable for another six months. I am thirty six years old. I'm on a clock. My looks will fade; a girl like you won't be interested in me in another ten years. I look at you, and I think I see my masterpiece, but if you aren't it then better I know it now before you waste another year of my life." "Masterpiece?" "Masterpiece, Angeline. You, Angeline are my masterpiece. Smart, well educated, independent. And you know better than to go with me. So much better. Because you know where I'm leading you, what it means and what it will do to you, but you can't help yourself. Against all your better judgments. I won't have to do a thing: no tricks, no deception, no coercion. You'll come because you're called. To a man like me that is the most erotic thing in the world. For you to fuck that old man today...that was nothing compared to what it's doing to you now. All your hurt and confusion and doubt about today – that's what I crave. To watch it eat away at you. To hear you try and intellectualize your way out of your depravity, and always you wind up back at zero whimpering for more. It makes me delirious." You sigh. "Don't you realize how bad I am for you?" I nod. "How is your hand?" "It kills. How do you think it is?" "Do you want me to let go?" "Yes, badly." "So why aren't you pulling it away? Why aren't you saying anything?" You stump me there. "Why?" You ask again. "Because," I begin. "Because. Because, I need you." "Need me...?" "To ruin me?" "Are you asking me or telling me?" Your grip tightens causing me to lean forward in pain. "Telling." "Be very sure, Angeline. Whisper in my ear." I lean my body against yours, my head on your shoulder craned up to your ear. "I want you to ruin me. I want to be with you. No matter what. No matter what you want. I want you to take me with you. I don't want you to leave. I can't go back. I'm sorry for earlier. I was wrong. Please, you're breaking my hand. Please. I love you." Of course I don't love you, but I know you want to hear me say it. I catch the eye of a middle aged woman at the next table. Her spoon hovers halfway between her bowl and her mouth. She's wondering if she should call the police. How do I explain to her that you are my police? "And if I want to take you back to the cobbler and let him fuck you again, is that alright with you?" "Yes." "You're going to be my good girl?" "Yes...please...my hand." "Tell me." "I'm your good girl." You release me and slide back to your dinner. I cradle my hand in my lap until the pain fades. When it does, and I'm certain I'm not going to cry I look up. You're staring at me with a sad, oddly compassionate look on your face. "What?" I ask. "Why, Angie?" And I realize you don't know why. You don't know how it is to be me. To be like me. I'm essentially a mystery to you. You know the what, and the how, and the how hard – of all that you are a master. But you don't know the why, and your confusion is so endearing to me. I think it is better that you not know. Why spoil things for you? "Because you make me feel." Is my simple answer and it seems to satisfy you. "Eat your dinner, it's getting cold," you say tenderly. "I don't think I'm hungry anymore." "Eat your dinner, Angeline," tenderly gone in the blink of an eye. I pick up my knife and fork, and nod. You watch me take the first bite before returning to your steak.