N Morley: Packing Heat: Femdom Strap-On Stories

The valet was cute, and Simone made a point of flirting with him as she handed him the ticket. If she could have, she would have brought the poor boy home with her to watch; that thought made her press her thighs together and try hard not to drip on the pavement.

Standing on the street smoking one of her rarely-indulged-in cigarettes, Simone felt the dizzy spin of arousal that made her a little bit worried she would pass out or maybe just fall down. Her cunt felt so swollen and tight that it hurt. Her clit throbbed with every thought that went through her mind. Her nipples were as hard as the pencil erasers everyone always mentions in those porn stories she wanked to from the internet, and it wasn’t because of the late-evening chill.

Did she dare tell him that, at least as far as this particular activity went, she was a virgin, too? I mean, sure, a finger or two during a particularly enthusiastic blowjob, the occasional rim job that she always felt guilty about afterwards and worried about parasites for six fucking months—but she’d never given a man a whole fucking dildo. She’d never even worn the fucking thing. She could only hope she hadn’t thrown it away in her last flurry of spring cleaning.

No, she couldn’t tell him. She was the top, she knew everything, right? Her job was to run the fuck like she knew what she was doing. Bill’s job was to bend over and take it.

At least, she hoped that was the way it worked.

When Bill came out, she saw that he still had a lump in his pants, and his face was red with humiliation. That didn’t do anything to make her feel more steady; on the contrary, she thought she might shove him to his knees right there.

The valet pulled up in Simone’s Jetta. “You’re driving,” she said to Bill. His eyebrows went up, but he opened the passenger side door for her. Really, Simone just wasn’t sure she should drive, not because of the three glasses of wine she’d had to Bill’s two, but because she could barely focus her eyes, she was so fucking turned on. It felt deliciously dominant of her to make Bill be her chauffeur, anyway.

He drove slowly, respecting the fact that this was Simone’s car. That annoyed the living shit out of her, because all she wanted to do was fucking get the fuck home and fuck Bill’s fucking brains out. She opened her mouth several times to say exactly that, more or less in those words, but she couldn’t figure out how to say it without sounding totally out of control.

And control is what it was all about.

“Where to?” he asked as he pulled onto the main road. Right went to Simone’s place on West 51st, left to Bill’s in Tribeca.

“Right,” she said.

“My bed is bigger,” he said.

“But mine has all the strap-ons,” she said.

Bill swallowed nervously.

“You’re not really going to fuck me, are you?”

Simone sighed, laughed a little, and reached out to caress his face. Then she dropped her hand to his crotch and grabbed it, squeezing his cock as hard as she could.

Just then the light turned green, or Simone probably wouldn’t have been able to stop herself from bending down and sucking Bill’s cock—which would have spoiled everything.

“What do you think?” she asked him, and took her hand away. The car behind them honked.

It was a two-block walk from the parking space that Simone rented to her one-bedroom apartment. She walked with her hand in Bill’s back pocket, the way a particularly possessive metal-listening mullet-head might walk with his girlfriend.

Except that Simone’s cock was bigger than any mullethead’s.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” asked Bill as Simone handed him her house keys. On a “regular” date, it would have meant “Are you sure you want to sleep together? Really, it’s okay if you don’t. I like you as a person. We can just stay up all night and talk about the rainforest and French cinema. After all, it’s only our second date.”

But in this instance, it meant—and both of them knew it—“are you sure you want to shove your cock into my ass?”

To which Simone responded with one hand grabbing Bill’s cock and the other grabbing his ass—not one of his well-toned cheeks, but right in the middle, so her finger pushed firmly against his ass, right there under the klieg-light glare of West 51st Street.

“You’d better fucking believe I do,” she said. “And I’m going to, no matter what you say, so shut the fuck up and get upstairs.”

Bill’s cock gave a spasm as she said that—she suspected more because of the words than because of her hand on his cock.

Simone was a potty mouth—she never ceased to amaze her lovers with the rank filth that could pour from her mouth in moments of passion. Except that usually it was “fuck me in my fucking ass like I’m your fucking whore, Daddy,” rather than “I fucking said get the fucking fuck upstairs you fucking little bitch, so I can fucking fuck your fucking tight virgin fucking ass, bitch,” which is what she said, her body pressed up behind him and her lips against his ear, as Bill fumbled with the keys. In fact, she was rather impressed with herself, rarely being able to squeeze so many of her favorite word into one sentence. Maybe being a top was for her.

She punctuated her verbal filth with another firm grab of Bill’s ass, which helped camouflage the fact that she needed to hold on to him to keep from falling down.

Bill finally found the right key and unlocked the three locks of Simone’s apartment building. He stepped aside to let her enter first, which gave her a thrill—for an inexperienced bottom, he certainly knew how to be deferent. She gripped the railing and tried to make it look casual. She didn’t feel drunk at all, but if she didn’t get Bill into bed soon, she was going to fall down on the threadbare carpet and start twitching. She had never, ever been this turned on, certainly not after a second date.

She stepped aside and let Bill open her apartment door. He stepped aside and let her enter first.

As soon as the door was closed, she grabbed him and shoved him against it, planting her mouth on his. If she hadn’t been wearing three-inch heels, she wouldn’t have even be able to reach him. His cock, however, would have been right at mouth height—if she dropped to her knees. But fuck that, those were her old habits. Tonight, Bill was going to be the one sucking.

“Get your clothes off,” she said, pointing at the tiny bathroom. Bill scampered in there and closed the door behind him.

“And no stalling!” she said as she raced for the bedroom.

In fact, Simone hoped that Bill would stall, because not only did she have to get undressed, but she had no fucking idea how the strap-on worked. She had never worn it herself; it was a remnant of a bi fling she’d had five years ago, one of those things an ex forgets at your place when she or he leaves for the last time, like his Harry Connick, Jr. albums or her ancient, faded I Got A Blowjob On Bourbon Street T-shirt.

Simone stripped off her clothes in record time, kicking off her shoes, stuffing the coat, the blouse, the skirt and the bra into the black of the closet—she’d cleaned for six hours on the off chance that they’d come here instead of going to Bill’s place, and she wasn’t going to start throwing clothes around now.

She muttered one of her potty-words when she realized that she’d put her panties on over her garters. Should I wear my garter belt with a strap-on ? she thought. No time to worry about it. She unhitched the garters, stripped off the belt and left the black seamed stockings. Thank God they were stay-ups.

Between digging under her old blankets and looking under the bed, she decided she should put the shoes back on. They gave her kind of a femme-fatale look, and besides, if she found herself standing up the last thing she wanted was to be a whole foot taller than her little ass-bitch, as she’d begun to affectionately think of him.