I greeted Bad Idea with a kiss at the door in a black satin nightie before he had a chance to say hello. That whole month (and then some) of endless dirty texting and IMs, obsessive fantasies and anxiety, indecision between just what I should do and what I want to do…none of it mattered much when I had his red curls in my hands, and could feel the slight cold of his lip ring against my lips.

He liked my nightie, too, flicking up the already short back brushing against the ruffled edge of my panties as his hand playfully squeezed my ass. Outside, Gramps insisted on a photoshoot first, with red lipstick and a black hat in the seductive pose of a random girl’s photo tacked on our wall. I agreed but hardly had the patience to sit still, my mind reeling of what I wanted and couldn’t wait to do with the boy I’d been waiting for too long.

I cut our photo session short, promising a later date and turned my attention to the boy at hand, who, after a few moments of teasing caresses, unzipped his backpack to show me the toys he’d gotten over break and planned to use tonight. Each promised a painful delight. Indecision, my biggest weakness, took over me as he asked what I wanted to do. After all, we had discussed so much, and now that I had him next to me, fingering my panties and biting at my nipples, I could not think well enough to settle on one thing. It didn’t matter, anyway.

He pulled up my slip and uncapped the thick sharpie he’d brought in his bag, and wrote the words “I am a slut” in the triangle of naked skin between my hips and above my clit. I giggled as he wrote. He looked up and met my eye, “Well, it’s true. That’s what you are.”

“Yes I am.” I agreed. He’d noticed the still not yet faded bruises The Teacher had left on my breasts and asked about him. (“What does he like that I don’t? Who’s a better kisser? But you still like me more, right?” Well, of course.)

A  branded slut like me gets the treatment she deserves. He found the bright red ball gag and shoved it into my mouth, clasping the buckle tight so that my teeth seared into the gag. He pushed my head into the pillow and began his long awaited punishment. First, his hand hitting the curve of my ass and thigh, meticulous, after breath holding moments of anticipation, slapping so that the impact and pain tingled up my ass and nudged at my pussy. Then he took out the cold, metal ruler. I tried to relax and breath, like I remembered all my reading told me to do, but I’d told him before, I was an ironic masochist whose pain tolerance was really quite low. The idea of metal on skin scared me.

He traced the edge of the ruler down the straight line of my spine, a caress of a different sort. I was breathing fast but trying to stay calm as he toyed with the edge of the ruler against the entrance of my wet pussy. Then brought it down on my ass. The pain was sharp and harsh. He delivered a few more hits, and rewarded me with his hands on my back, and his teeth biting into my skin. I stifled a scream against the pillow—his teeth made a worse weapon than the ruler.

Then the flogger. A thin, sexy stick of woven hard fabric around a metal stick. When he swiped it in the air the song of its motion was like a sharp intake of air, dangerous, beautiful. I closed my eyes and grimaced for it, struggling to remind myself to stay calm, breath, relax. When the strokes came, I’m sure he didn’t hit as hard as he could have, stopping the quick motions just before it touched my skin. I’d asked him to go easy, but still, the metal stung.

I guess it never made the red marks he wanted to see clearly defined on my ass. To compromise, he found two spots on my back and bit hard, threatening to break skin. I was half crying against the ball gag and the pillow…and wished I could have seen the perfect red rectangles I’m sure he’d just made.

“Good girl,” he finally said, and unclasped the ball gag as I took in a deep breath of air, of relief. My reward was his cock, and licking the drops of precum on its tip as he asked me where I wanted it first.

“In my cunt,” I told him, against instincts to first suck cock.

“Just like this?” He pressed it against my pussy, rubbing and teasing.

I couldn’t properly respond. I was on birth control, he was safe, I didn’t want another second of a condom, I wanted him inside of me and fucking me right there and then. So he did, and it was exquisite. “Does it hurt?” He asked in between slamming his cock deep.

“Yes,” I gasped and he smiled.

“Good.”

***

After his wretched talks of tying me against the edge of a bed with my head hanging over the edge so that he could shove his cock nonstop down my throat and the pleasures of orgasm and utter escape siezed me in his fantastic filth, after he watched me wipe his come from my face and suck it from my fingers, I lay next to him and traced my fingers against the tattoo on his chest. I’d almost forgotten it was there.

I had to know, the real explaination, for the no dating thing. I couldn’t stand the idea that there was something so wrong with me as for him to never want anything more than the hot, fucked up sex we have. When he finally explained it and told me about his friend-with-benefit who might have been a bit more than just that, his desire to leave New York and how love might interfer, looked me in the eye and told me that “I’m not going to fall in love with you” and “just because I don’t want to date you doesn’t mean I don’t care about you,” I felt better. About him, about us, all of it.

Twisted on my part too, probably. But hearing him say it made me realize my unrealisic dreams were just a nusiance, and instead, we could have so so much fun without fear or need of anything more. Besides, as we kept up our affectionate snark in between  Boggle on his iPod and waiting for our long past midnight breakfast delivery, the company he offered then was enough.