On nice girls from nice families with sharp teeth…

She was atop me the moment I correctly identified her vintage Oliver Peoples glasses, her hands stroking down my hips as I caressed her breasts. The Commander was a tricky woman, with frizzy hair and the cutest of grey streaks, smiling eyes and dancing fingers. We met online and quickly established a complete lack of interest outside of genital exploration, and explore we did.

I demanded she bring cupcakes as I had been craving sugar in the wildest way, my sweet tooth almost as ravenous as my lust for her sweet body. The Commander impressed in multiple fashions – she brought cupcakes, completely non-euphemistic baked goods, six of them from my favorite bakery and held them out to me as an offering before I stripped her and threw her on my bed.

Her pussy was hot and ready for me and I dove inside of her with a hunger, a pleasant, if mechanical movement. She was insatiable to a fault, demanding in her desires and spoke with her hands and her lips. She screamed, she flailed, it was an exercise in personal headiness to hold her fast to me with the curve of my fingers. She came more times than I cared to count and collapsed on the bed, moving atop me with the slow weightiness arresting her fluidity, snagging her in the ebb of her jerky orgasm and we talked for a while. She wanted so much more than I was able to give, absorbed so much less than the physical strain of my muscles indicated.

Her admission of her former life as a Colonel in a foreign army took me by surprise, the supple coolness of her skin and rush of friction from her hair belied her past. I was intrigued, I was a little stunned when she rose atop me.

“I don’t like to discipline, but I know how to give pain.” She bit harder than I’ve ever been bitten before, the savagery of someone who has seen and known sights beyond sex and New England. It flashed a white-hot pain above my eyes and distracted me from my orgasm, distanced me from it into a power I’d have preferred not to experience. Each dot blossomed into a bruise, each bruise rang deep beneath the skin and hovered above it, raised and purple and yellowed at the edges, small pieces of fallout from controlled disturbances.

I fucked her again, harder and harder and had to shove her head into the pillow to keep her from screaming as loud as she wanted to. The neighbors were restless, my thrust was endless. She collapsed, a long, slow blink later it was 4AM and I wanted her to leave the confines of my deflating air mattress so I could make brisket and eat another cupcake and wash the feeling of strange marks off my skin, and she languished and blinked under the covers as I bustled, manic in the witching hours.

“You’ll never see a pussy like mine again, I’m sure.”

Her statement curled the edges of my mouth, my self-importance has ebbed since such days and she knows not to whom she speaks. Still, I walk her to her car, I move my head from side to side and I kiss her good morning and move back into the dark.



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