The really great part about not seeing Bad Idea for some time is that when I do see him, it’s always explosive.

This time I even tried to set up self restraint ahead of time—we could play, but no penetrative sex (you can guess how well that worked out). And: lesson learned, it’s a bad idea to have Bad Idea over while trying to accomplish anything else. I was in the middle of necessary editing, but with him kissing my neck and breathing in my ear, his fingers gripping my nipples through my tshirt—well. Distracting’s the understatement. (When I peeked at the piece I edited this morning, typos and typos.) 

Did I mention: some boys, even as I am making effort, as I’m gagging on cock, I may be hardly physically aroused at all? But him, even trying to focus on something important was completely ineffective from soaking my white lace cotton panties. (He had requested that I dress young, but in our last minute plan, I couldn’t manage the full outfit. Next time.)

I finished as quickly as I could and turned my attention to him. He pulled me down and began to properly suck and nibble at my clit. And, I was more than eager to reciprocate. His thick hard cock fills up my mouth and throat with painful, delirious pleasure. Even better was his whispered encouragement as I met the hazel twists of his green eyes: “Good little slut.”

The gagging, the tears—it didn’t make me want to stop. A moment later he flipped me over, on my stomach, and slipped his talented, hot tongue up my wet pussy and against my ass. I gave up my usual trying-to-be-considerate-roommate policy and allowed the moans to flutter from my lips, arching my back to allow him better access. 

He finally slipped a finger inside my ass—and this time, no pain at all, I only wanted more. I wondered if my ‘no sex’ policy meant he’d try to fuck me in the ass instead—but instead we flipped into sixty-nine. Which, while fun, always tends to be too distracting to multitask properly. I wanted to be fucked. And though I wouldn’t let myself say it, still wanted to hold on to some hint of my self restraint—when he pressed his cock against the entrance and teased, asking if I wanted it inside of me, I couldn’t say no.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, gripping my arms and pinning my wrists at my sides. “You don’t get a choice. I was just going to rape you later anyway.”

He fucked me hard and proper—violent thrusts that me writhing beneath him, played up as a struggle while he kept his grip. I was desperate to have more of him, and any time I leaned up to try to kiss his lips, he forced me down, and reinforced it—“You dirty slut. You just want to be raped, don’t you? Taken in a classroom and left, with cum in your pussy and your clothes torn. So you can tell all your friends what a real slut you are—”

After he came inside of me, and we folded against each other, his hand stroking my hair, our bodies still entwined, I realized that I could never really drop this, him. The unbelievably hot sex, or this moment, intimate, fragile, and wonderful.

As a bonus, in the morning, with his hair still rumpled from sleep, he declared: “I’m gonna jerk off in your bed.” And, did. I threw back the covers to watch. I suddenly understood why boys must like it when I fuck myself in front of them—watching a cute boy play with his hard cock, hearing his rushed moans, while I rested my head on his chest was unbelievably erotic. Not to mention: frustrating. If only we set an alarm for earlier. I already wanted to fuck again.

Being a debaucherous slut is hard.

For instance, I am convinced/terrified that my roommates secretly hate me (though they’ve not brought anything up). Surely this bringing home two different boys on two consecutive school nights is not winning me any points in the pure and quiet and studious scholarly roommate department. And I’d imagine that the sort of noise that’d carries through our thin walls/doors, like the sound of a metal ruler or a sadistic hand smacking hard against skin is not exactly the most reassuring.

Then there is the fact that I’ve hardly gotten any sleep—staying up late and getting up an hour earlier to clean up traces of the night’s dirty deeds is kind of delightful to keep in mind as I stuff ancient morally righteous texts into my schoolbag, but staying conscious in droning lectures becomes that much more unlikely. (This is problem because this slut is also a studious one.)

And the bruises everywhere—sometimes a surprised glimpse when I change in front of the mirror, plum and rose stains from fingers clutching into breasts, snappy red bite marks on exposed thighs, bare stomachs, red ass cheeks…well, given my adoration of reminder marks, perhaps it is not such a bad thing. Though it has become harder to remember/distinguish which ones Bad Idea left and which were the punishments of the Teacher.

The worst of it is, I think, as always, that I still, still, like Bad Idea much more than I should. And his careless affections, painful teasing, ironic compliments, unintended sweetness…his company that inspires anticipation like nothing else, our conversations woven with the too obvious satire of our actually quite wretched affairs—or just mine, I guess.

So much so that when I see the Teacher the night after, half of my thoughts are detached from the cock shoved down my throat and even more so when we are not fucking, and talking, and reading his writing and my cursed mind and hopeless sentimental heart that just can’t connect to the girls he’s fucking/dating and him and me in any way. So that I feel completely interchangeable. And maybe I am.

But to make up for it I have memories painted in raw flesh tones and pure indulgence, of feeling and acting like a perfect dirty slut with two different cute boys on two different nights.

Like Bad Idea’s threats and promises (I’m going to fuck your throat tonight. Think that hurts? It’s going to hurt so much more when that cock is in your ass.) Of dressing him up in my apricot American Apparel deep vneck and a poofy white tutu-like skirt, straddling him to paint on a coat of purple mascara (he looked cute dressed like a girl). Even better when, in those clothes, his expression changed to that of the sadistic dom he does so so wonderfully, tying my wrists to my ankles with a pair of my thick winter tights, choking a patent leather belt around my neck and gripping the free end to position me as he willed. A delicate, precious boy in girl’s clothes fucking me and the pure delight in his eyes when he slapped me, so hard that my cheekbones stung after. Or beating me with his ruler with a ball gag in my mouth, my teeth still straining to bite into the edge of a pillow as to not cry out at the red welts forming on my ass.

Or the Teacher and his fondness of me dressing up, so putting on a too small, too short, nearly school girl dress with a row of buttons up the front. His instructions to unbutton from the top while I did the bottom, and sitting at the edge of the bed with the dress peeled open (but on), spreading my legs and meeting his eye while he told me the next step (stick your fingers down your panties) and the ones after that. Eventually ending up  with me on my knees on the cold marble floor, in front of the mirror while he fucked me from behind, jerking my hair up so we could watch the direct projection of our debauchery. The relentless nature of his tongue flicking and sucking at my clit, and after hours of so much rough sex I could hardly stand another shove of his hips (and yet, still so desperately craved it). The eventual reward of his cum splattering not just across my face but even dripping down my shoulder, a translucent painted line down my back.

Oh, alright, I suppose sexual indulgence has its upsides. Still, on nights when I can only listen to sentimental music and the thoughts running through my head are not just about potential threesomes but potential threesomes where I end up with my head nestled against the chest of the boy I like and the dirty memories on our tongues, I can’t help but wish for…well, a Better Idea.

unseen caresses that tease and thrill
gripping his tie, straining for his lips
whore in red lipstick across my breasts
belt choked around my neck
cock slammed down my throat
don’t stop—too tired, used, abused, to move
he says: you get an A.
(i’d certainly hope so)
cheese & crackers, in bed, & porn

more fucking and more bruises. (thank you, sir.)

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.

When I dressed for my date with the cute high school English teacher I’d been exchanging messages on Okcupid over break,  I considered, briefly, changing out of my heart printed white cotton panties and cutesey bra and into a sexier set of lingerie. We had, after all, both established our hedonistic tendencies in our conversation, and I am generally a big believer in fucking on the first date.

But I decided against it, because, well, I had just moved in (aka dropped off my bundles of possessions) in my new apartment hours earlier in the day, and I hadn’t unpacked a single thing, not even basic bedding. Besides, I didn’t want to subject my  funny old man roommate (who is at once the epitome of the sweet old grandpa and a slightly insane ex-druggie/artist/womanizer whatever in his youth) to debauchery before I even decided on which room to rent.

And, we were going to do dinner and a movie. The movie was a midnight showing of Showgirls. I imagined that he didn’t hold expectations of fucking after that late and intricate of a date. And, he noted a lack of experience in BDSM when we talked about it, so I assumed that meant he was experienced in plenty of fun vanilla but didn’t not share the same dirty, kinky mindset as me. Rendering my underwhelming underwear choice a fully viable and convenient option.

Hours after a faintly unfulfilling meal and a grueling reminder of the beauty of lines like “everybody’s got AIDS and shit” and “you look better than a ten inch dick” from overly enpowered strippers of Showgirls, wandering around the village searching for a coffee shop that I finally learnt had closed down, being the only two patrons of a near closing crepery and discussing our respective explicit debaucheries, he sat on the couch in my not-even-decided-to-be-my room. And waited with his eyes closed.

He had ordered me to strip, change into something better (I decided on a delicate lacey pink and black bra, ruffled translucent panties with a bow, thigh high stockings), then straddle him, and kiss him. I took my time in adjusting the thin fabric of the bra to just cover my nipple and the lines of my stockings straight on my thighs, then followed his instruction, pressing my hips against his jeans and smiling at the thrill of his hard cock already pushing against my pussy. Eyes still closed, he touched the texture of each piece of lingerie and slid his hands down the silky sides of my stockings. He approved.

I smiled at his blind appreciation and kissed him, slightly grinding my hips into his as the anticipation of what was to come tingled and spread across my skin—which turned into electricity when he jerked my hair and pinched my nipples—hard. He switched away his grip for his lips sucking and biting, flickering his tongue at the sensitive pink. When I, in turn, reached to pull off his shirt, he shoved my hands away. “Not until I’m ready to strip.”

Oh, the pain of denial. Moments later I pleaded to suck his cock, its tantalizing tease beneath his jeans nearly unbearable. “Not yet,” he said. But this time it didn’t take too much longer of convincing. He pushed my head lower and told me to pull the tight pants down. I was delighted at the sight of his cock, nearly smooth, the perfect thickness to grip, and even more so to suck and gag on. He gripped my hair and forced me to meet   his eye as his cock fucked my throat. He liked the sight of my tears.

He also liked it when he posed me in front of him, legs spread, bent over to finger my clit and with the mirror placed behind us, a visual feast. Or when he held my legs at his side and told me to lean back and spread wide, leaning so far back that my head hung upside down and stared straight into the exposed and stretched version of my breasts and chest in the mirror.

And even more, when, finally, after much pleading on my part, he allowed me to lower myself onto his cock. For a moment, pain flared, and then the exquisite satisfaction when he entered me fully. And proceeded to fuck me, halfway on the edge of the couch, bent over with my palms straining against the wood floor, punctuated by a slap of the ass or thigh or the side of my breasts (a perfectly round bluish purple bruise adorns it, even now). Anytime I chanced a glance back I saw our vicious motions. It was a hard sight to give up—but I wanted him on top of me, wanted to feel his weight against me.

We climbed up to the bed—a loft bed. He liked the novelty value, but his six foot one frame might have had slight more difficulty not banging against the ceiling overhead. But it was a switch well made. He positioned me in every which way and slammed his cock deep inside my cunt, rapid nonstop heavy breathing interpersed with the sort of deep, intense motion that made me breathless.

He seemed disappointed that he came inside of me rather than on my face, like he wanted to. But I didn’t mind. By then I could hardly move without my body trembling.

Go figure. My first date on my second date back landed me another boy just as enthusiastic about dirty kinky fucking. In the morning, or late afternoon, after I climbed back to bed half dressed and ready to start the day, he lowered my hand on his chest down and around his erection. Minutes later we were fucking again, my face pressed into the pillows as I tried to stifle my moans and screams for fear of the up and awake gramps noticing. Like he said—he had found a brilliant way to bastardize missionary. Or not allowing me to fuck him and instead pounding his hips up as I rode on top of him.

Or finally spurting the come on my face and my stuck out tongue, as he originally planned.

Before he left he told me all the spots in the apartment he wanted to christen, besides my couch and bed. The kitchen counter, the shower, the wall—he picked me up and pushed me against the wall. I wrapped my legs around him and agreed. Yes, that would be fun.

When Bad Idea came over, I braced the 40-something weather in the infamously slutty American Apparel grey deep v-neck, the infamously slutty American Apparel booty running shorts, and a long black cardigan for some small sense of modesty’s sake. Besides, since it was only to open the door and head straight to my room for fucking, I was sure I could handle the two seconds of cold and that he wouldn’t mind the easy access, and me not even wearing a bra. I was home, anyway, I had good reason to be hardly dressed.

He settled on my bed, and after passing ambivalent judgment on The xx’s when I put on the album in iTunes (he might be ambivalent, but I think they’re the perfect sort of low key, effortless, sexy hook up music), ran his cold hand up my thigh. “It’s freezing outside.”

I laughed. “It’s usually pretty bad in my room too.” In fact, my room was sometimes colder than outside, making hangout naked or in minimal clothes more of a challenge unless I was under covers. But he didn’t really need to know that.

I was also still recovering from the cold that had hit me for the past few days, and still coughing (NOT sexy), and although it is generally challenging to see him and not jump on him, I couldn’t exactly grab him and makeout like any other time. I trusted he would take things into hand. And it took him perhaps another two seconds to pull me across, push my shirt up and began to kiss my stomach, his lips soft, warm, wet, perfect little spots of pleasure on exposed flesh. “What do you want?”

I sighed and stared at the ceiling. He kissed down lower, and began teasing me with quick kisses through the fabric of my panties, so that the sensation of his lips against my clit was unmistakable, spaced apart, tentative, as if daring me for a response. But with the cotton between his hot wet tongue and me, it was even more of an excruciating thrill, a painful tease. “If you don’t tell me, I’m just going to do what I want.”

If doing what he wanted involved what he was already doing, it was perfectly fine by me.

He pulled off the shorts and the panties, pushing me up and spreading my legs apart, and went to town on the soft, delicious kisses on my clit, the sucking that had me soaked in about a minute, already. One more reason that I like him so: he really does eat pussy like no other, especially when I can hear his breaths quicken with the motions of my pressed hips, feel the intensity of his lips and my fingers digging into my sheets, pulling at my own hair.

He pulled away for a moment, and pointed at my abandoned shorts. “I have the same ones.” I couldn’t really imagine a boy wearing shorts that short, but I guess if anyone would, it would be him. “What size are they? Because I have a small and a medium. Ha!”

I shook my head at him as he unbuckled his belt and slipped out of his jeans to reveal: more American Apparel underwear. I had to laugh at that. It was a good thing he threw those off and repositioned himself. With his cock hovering above my lips and his lips back at my clit, I could hardly spend time ridiculing his wardrobe. I lapped at the length of his cock and took it between my lips, my tongue wrestling with its sides, struggling suck it properly (and fighting the infuriating cough).

He sat up, and as I was too busy and blissfully in cocksucking land, I nearly forgot about the fact that, expecting his company, I had left my vibrator plugged in and charging in open view on my bed. Not that he would have minded, but still. Which worked out, when a moment later I felt the whirl of its silken firm top nestled against the slippery lips of my cunt. (And, mental sigh of relief that he knew just how to work one. But of course he would.) I only hoped that, as much as I adored my toy, it wouldn’t replace his talented mouth. It didn’t.

In another minute he had pressed my vibrator further in and returned to sucking at my clit. Meanwhile, I wanted something deeper inside of me and he wanted me to come. Despite his talents and the incredible combination of that and a luxury vibrator, I wasn’t that easy. He let go of his hand thrusting with the handle of my vibrator and told me to keep playing with my toy while he looked for condoms.

I watched him start to pull one on before deciding that I was not at all satisfied with the little of his cock I’d gotten earlier. I snatched it from his hand and pushed him to lie down, kneeling between his thighs with my best “I just can’t wait to have your cock in my mouth” eyes. And while I do love a hand pushing my head down on a cock, for the time being, I wanted free reign to do my thing. The slow, sensual licking that turns into a hungrier sucking, nibbling ever so lightly up the length of his shaft and wrapping my lips around the head, pushing back to watch him watch me as I performed my little visual flourishes while he laughed—I was doing it partly out of an agenda, as he’d told me that he’d never come from a blowjob and that simply was not okay with a girl who adored sucking cock so much. He told me that he still wasn’t going to come, just like how I didn’t with him. “But I could just fuck your face.” I gave him a half questioning look.

“Here, lie back.” Okay. Now, his hands gripped my hair while his cock pounded against my mouth, my throat. If I hadn’t been half sick, still, perhaps I’d have been more enthusiastic, but under the circumstances, perhaps it was better that he soon switched to fucking my cunt.

And, in case I haven’t mentioned, another reason I am such a fan of this boy is that his dirty talk rivals no other. He says every filthy thing that I want to hear—and some that I hardly expect. “You little whore,” as he fucked me, “what’s it going to take to make you come? Is it going to take five men, taking their turns with you? Fucking you without a condom and coming inside of you, filling you with their cum. Using you. Beating you. Doing anything they want to you. Fucking you in the ass. I’m going to fuck you in the ass if you don’t come for me, slut. Would you like that?”

I could only respond in delirious moans and yes sir’s.

Although he didn’t fuck me in the ass, with the help of my vibrator and his wonderful cock, I did come. And with the help of his hand gripping his cock, jerking off as he hovered his ass above my face and instructed me to lick (pausing, at times, his quickening pace to enjoy it further, I’d presume), so did he, spilling his milky cum over my (his compliment, not just vanity) perfect breasts.

Next time, Bad Idea. That, and every other item on our long long list of filthy fun.