Blake Michaels - Ass Reaming

"Yes. My slave."

"But what does a slave do to prove she wants cock?" I asked, trying to remain calm and appear unconcerned.

"A slave, you filthy slut, lets her man know he is her master. She subjugates herself to his will."

"Oh. And how does she do that?"

"Suck my toes," he ordered.

I looked at him.

"I said, suck my toes!" his voice was hard.

I didn't move.

"See? You're not really a slave yet. Any other bitch would have been busy already. You're too wrapped up in your own little pride and independence to be a good slave.

"You're just a whore, a lowdown whore. Give you something up your cunt and you'll do anything. That is, anything so long as you don't have to work for it."

I didn't understand this man. How could he be so cold, so cruel, without moving a muscle?

I was hurt. I wanted to cry.

I moved my hand away from his crotch and danced it down his hard leg, toward his knee. It went down over his calf and onto his foot. I undid the buckle of his sandal and it fell from his foot.

I looked him in the face. He was glaring at me. His eyes were like cold steel. He said nothing. He moved nothing.

Slowly, as though wanting to be certain he was aware of my movements, I changed my position. I slid low on the blanket, moving toward his foot.

I wanted to please this man. I wanted to win him. And to do so, I would have to play by his rules, rules that I really didn't find very difficult. It was only that it was such a new role, such a new experience.

My lips touched the skin of the sole of his foot, gently, lovingly. My tongue crept from between my lips, hesitantly.

Contact was made.

His foot moved. It twitched.

Confidently now, my tongue came full out of my mouth and I ran it the length of his foot. The taste and the smell of his masculine odors was arousing me.

"Ohhhh," I moaned.

"Bitch! Cunt! Whore! Slut!" he replied, pushing his foot harder and harder against my lips, pressing them against my teeth. It hurt.

I retreated so as to reduce the pressure.

He pressed again, hard, turning the toes of his foot downward, flattening my nose against my face.

I continued to suck his foot and lick it all over.

"Eat it, you filthy, cock-loving piece of trash!" he said, his voice once again impersonal. But this time it sounded a bit more excited.

I did as I was bid.

I had wet his foot as much as I could, and moved up his leg as far as his pants would allow.

I was excited, now. My hand was between my legs, rubbing my already moist twat.

"Oh, Bruce," I said. "Oh, Bruce, fuck me. Please fuck me!"

"When you're ready for it," he said. "When you're really ready for it."

"But I am ready," I whimpered, continuing to lick his foot. "I'm ready for you, hungry for you."

"But do you want cock?"

"Oh, yes, I want your cock. I want it in me. I want to feel it stretch me, stab me, poke me, anything! Only please fuck me, now!"

As I was saying this, I was busy removing my clothing. My body was on fire. I was lost in another sea of passion, drenched in desire, drained of restraints.

"Oh, slam it to me," I moaned, spreading my legs and rolling on my back."

"Wait right here," Bruce said, sitting up and putting his sandal back on. "I've got to get something."

I looked at him, longingly, hungrily.

He saw my gaze. "You really are turned on, aren't you-?" he observed.

"For you, yes," I said, "For your cock, for your balls."

"Good. Now you be a nice cunt and lie right there. I'll be right back."

He got to his feet, continuing to stare at my nude body lying there, waiting for him to conquer me. He had already conquered me mentally. Now I wanted him to conquer me physically.

I stroked my cunt gently, pressing my finger against the aroused stem of flesh, my clit. It sent a tingle through my body.

I wanted Bruce back with me. I didn't even want him to go away for a moment.

I watched him as he walked away, his tall frame working like a well-oiled machine. His ass and hips rose and fell under the tight material of his pants.

I watched him as he went down the path toward the car. I heard the car door open and close.

And then I heard the engine!

It roared to life and I heard the car drive away. Very quickly.

I was incensed. I was furious. Forty miles from anywhere and I was stranded. I was so angry and upset that I didn't dress. I kept calling him queer and yelling all sorts of obscenities at him; too bad he couldn't hear me.

I was soon exhausted; I lay down and fumed.

And while I did, I continued stroking into my cunt with my finger!

Warm feelings immersed my body, but my mind would not rest. I had been dumped. I had been left high and dry.

Still feeling the pangs of passion, I slowly got back into my clothing. I folded the blanket and then decided to leave it. It was Bruce's. It wasn't mine.

On the highway, I started walking back toward the city. Forty miles…

The sound of an automobile came to my ears and I turned to see what it was. It was a pickup truck, and as the driver saw me, it slowed down.

Without hesitation or questions, I got in.

"Where are you going?" the driver asked.

He was in his late thirties, stocky of build and well-tanned from plenty of outdoor living. The dirt under his nails told me he was a farmer.

"Back to the city. Back to Boston," I said dejectedly.

"What are you doing out here all by yourself?" he asked.

"You wouldn't believe it if 1 told you," I answered.

"Try me," he prodded.

"How far are you going?" I asked, ignoring his offer to serve as my confessor.

"I'm going into the city, too," he answered, a sharp and even white line of teeth showing from between his lips.

The vehicle started to move back onto the high-way and I relaxed in the seat, slipping my hips forward and resting my head on the back of the seat. I was tired.

"This is no place for a girl to be, dressed the way you're dressed," he commented.

"Why not?" I asked curiously.

"Well, for one thing," he began, "Those togs are for city walking, not for the country. And for another thing, those clothes are too revealing. They show too much. You could get yourself attacked or something."

"The way I feel," I said, "I don't think I could really care."

"Is that right?" he asked.

His hand was on my breast.

I sat up, quickly, brushing his hand away and trying to appear indignant.

The feeling was exciting. The feel of a man's hand on my breast turned on an alarm. My system was ready for him, a man! He was a man! I wanted him, even in spite of my anger with Bruce. Yes, I wanted this man.

I wanted revenge on Bruce. I wanted to show him I could do without his slimy cock, but it was a beautiful, long cock.

"What's your name?" he asked. "Mine is Jim."

"I'm Kim," I answered, feeling his hand close about my tit again.

"Glad to meet you," he said, applying more pressure to my breast.

I looked over at him, seeking out his crotch. There was life there. It promised pleasure.

His tool rested along his left leg, poking down toward his knee. It was fat, and I could see the outline of its head pressing against the material of his jeans.

I reached over and rested my hand on its hardness. It really excited me.

Without saying anything, he pulled off the highway onto an old, little-used dirt road. It went only a short way, ending in a clump of trees, secure from the road.

He switched off the truck's ignition and turned toward me and leaned forward. One of his hands reached for the back of my head and pulled me toward him.

At the same time, his other hand was slipping, quickly, impatiently, up my leg. It went up the inside of my thigh.

Our lips met and his coarse beard scratched into my face.