An adult stories – Do That, Don’t Do That by neuroparenthetical,neuroparenthetical Look, I’m sure some of you have filthy sluts for girlfriends. Good for you. Me? I have a slut who generally likes things to be clean. You’ve got your costs and benefits, and I’ve got mine.
I clean the bathroom. I change the sheets. I clean the couch.
I did it without fail for a year and change before everything clicked for my pretty little Sadie. When it did, though… man oh man. That’s when she finally revealed what I’d suspected all along: that she was a horny, perverted — but not filthy — slut. It was one of the happiest days of my life.
Sadie pads into the room, wearing cute little white socks that further soften every footfall. You hate that shit, I know. You’re sick of reading about women padding into rooms. Well, they do, and it’s awesome, so fuck you. It makes a woman pushing thirty seem more like she’s nineteen, complete with that perfect mixture of naughtiness and innocence. Her tits bounce more than they sway; her mousy brown hair joins in the fun. Her ass isn’t thundering; it’s flexing. Her hips aren’t hitting a drum on both sides of a push-assisted pendulum swing, but they could. They hold back. They tease.
Her low-cut panties aren’t showing off her lips and slit, but they’re doing that thing they do. They create mounds and lines of their own — hints and allegations of real bodies and real sex, landing on the surprising side of the uncanny valley. Legs and hips in motion make a good pair of panties even sexier. Whenever that fabric moves, it ignites both imagination and desire. You get the animation, and it makes you crave the live-action version, still hidden from view. Move just a little bit more. Let me see just a little bit more.
You want to know why we use the word “padding?” Because that’s what cats do. It’s about grace. It’s about being light on one’s feet due to skill, not just the flatteringly low number on the digital scale. It’s about a sleek predator who’s so well-fed that she’s become a pet. She doesn’t need to go into full hunter mode, but can still flaunt all of those natural advantages. I’m not going around sticking my dick into literal felines, but cats are sexy, and they know it. You know it, too.
Sadie pads into the room, motherfuckers. She’s sexy, and she knows it. She does it wearing those cute little white socks, those cute little white panties, and a barely-there babydoll shirt that’s tight enough to cling a bit, but loose enough to be taken off in a hurry.
I’m already watching some stupid bullshit on TV. She plops down next to me, and her eyes light up — just not for me.
“Ooh, snacks.”
She’s such a tease.
She leans over and grabs a gummy bear. They’re her favorite. I’ve got some chips and dip out, too, plus some veggie sticks. The veggie sticks are another part of the mind games, by the way, right alongside cleaning the bathroom. I have a whole monologue about them. I’m sparing you. You’re welcome.
She leans back onto the couch; she’s close, but she’s not crowding me. I can feel her body heat, and I can smell her — shampoo, soap, lotion, and the hint of femininity they all somehow manage to accentuate. We were talking about the uncanny valley, right? She smells like a beautiful woman should, even though that’s not really how people smell. I wonder if she ever whispers a similar “thank you” to the geniuses who invented my deodorant and shaving gel.
Even though I’m not touching her — maybe a quick brush of my pajama bottoms against her hips, or our shirts near the shoulders — she feels and smells soft. Cats are soft because of their fur. Sadie is soft because she’s smooth — except for the hair on her head, I suppose, which dares me to stroke it. The rest of her body presents the same unspoken challenge. I desperately want to, but I can be patient. When Sadie joins me on this particular couch, with the TV on and the snacks out, we both know it’s time to play. For us, play is what comes before foreplay — and I wish I could come up with some extra wordplay, because that combination has some potential, doesn’t it?
“My Best Friend Is From Another Dimension Where Waifu Pillows Are Outlawed,” I tell her.
“Irony meter?” she asks. It comes out clear enough, even though she’s still chewing on the gummy bear. It’s adorable. I love the sound of girls snacking, and how happy and satisfied they are when they’re doing it.
“Eight,” I reply.
“Which means six at best,” she scoffs. “You’re such a fucking nerd.”
“Right now I’m a watching-TV nerd.”
She glances over at me — at my pajama bottoms, specifically. Something’s already happening beneath them, though it’s subtle for now. “At least tell me that’s because of me, and not from the show.”
“Why? You’ll call me a horny pervert anyway.”
“Because you are one. I’ll be a lot less disturbed if it’s because of me, though.”
“Always.”
“Always? You watch porn.”
“I think of you.”
“Bullshit.” The transcription doesn’t do it justice; she stretches it out — both syllables. It’s got goofy bombast. She knows her cliches.
She shifts around, offering up her feet — though not before artfully rearranging the snacks so that her favorite will still be within easy reach. “Make yourself useful,” she says casually, turning to gaze disinterestedly at the screen. It’s the second episode, and… oh, right, nobody cares.
I do make myself useful — off come the socks, in preparation for the foot rub — but I also take the opportunity to stare at her panties, because they’re really doing that thing they do as she gets comfy on some pillows and rests her ankles on my lap. She can’t call me out for it, because she just called bullshit that I’m always perving on her and only her. She’s smart like that. So am I.
When I start rubbing her feet, she releases the cutest fucking noise in the universe. My heart melts and my cock swells. It’s the grand balance of my love for little Sadie Brown, who’s actually of perfectly average height and weight. I just like calling her ‘little,’ among other things.
“So what do you think about?” she asks. “If you confess all your pervy sins, I might reward you.” She’s teasing, but there’s none of it in her tone. She’s snacking, not-really-watching TV, and acting more like a frat bro than a girlfriend. I love it.
It’s my turn to scoff at her. “You couldn’t handle it.”
“Bitch, I handle you all the time.”
“You handle what I let you handle. You’re asking me what’s in my head. They say the brain’s the biggest sex organ.”
“I mean, compared to your dick…”
“Compared to your tits…”
“Fuck you, bitch!”
Sadie loves her tiny tits. I do, too. We’re fucking with each other, and everything’s okay. She still kicks at me, obviously, because that’s what frat-bro fuck-friends do. I had a “no hitting” stage earlier in the relationship. I needed it then, but I’m glad we’re past it.
“No sex today unless you confess,” she declares, turning the carrot into a stick. “Submit to my authori-tay!” We both ignore the fact that we sucked and fucked right after we woke up. Mentioning that would ruin the fun.
“Lots of sex if I do,” I counter.
“I need to be satisfied.”
“With how pervy I am?”
“And the foot rub.”
“Game on.”
I squeeze one of her favorite spots. I get another cutest-ever noise. “You’re really good at that,” she begrudgingly admits. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
“Game on, you said.”
I can’t help but chuckle. The stuff nobody cares about keeps playing on the TV. The volume’s down pretty low. How convenient.
“Blowjob face,” I begin. “Full eye contact. Smooth transition into a skullfucking — a gentle one, though. Huge load of cum right into your tummy.”
“Pffft, do that,” she replies. Just in case you’re confused, that’s short for “I do that in real life,”, “we do that in real life,” or whatever other variant makes the most sense.
“Sucking on your titties all day long.”
“Lame.”
“You love it so much you cum from it — long, smooth, rolling orgasms, nonstop.”
“… Okay, that counts as a fantasy. Milk?”
“Yeah, sometimes.”
“Fair enough. Still lame, but no, don’t do that — well, not all of it. It tickles the perv scale, I guess.”
I lift her foot and lean down at the same time. Her toe and my lips meet in the middle. It doesn’t do much for her physically, but I know she likes it. I gently lower her foot again and continue my work. Her muscles and tendons down there are warm and relaxed; I’m good at what I do. Over on the other side of the couch, she’s still pretending to be bored, save for the snacking.
“Man,” she says, “I really don’t want to move, but I wish you had that lotion I like.”
Out comes the lotion from behind a pillow. I play it up. I’m a genius!
She rolls her eyes, but then rewards me with a smile. “Thanks, babe,” she says. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
It’s mild — aloe and lavender. I’m very thankful she doesn’t go in for the intense stuff. I warm it up with my hands a little bit, then resume the enhanced foot rub.
“Mmmm,” she says. “See, I’m not a pervert like you. This is the kind of stuff I fantasize about — foot rubs, back rubs, innocent hugs and kisses, slow-dancing, you cleaning the house…”
“And those are your sexual fantasies?” I tease. “So lame.”
“They set the mood,” she says prissily, “and the tender lovemaking afterwards is implied — not like your dumb porn and your dumb anime.”
“I don’t watch that teasing shit,” I remind her. “I hate it just as much as you.”
“They never fuck!” she exclaims, and I say it right along with her — though in a soporific deadpan, mocking the outburst we both knew was coming. Then I let her take over. “Schoolgirl outfits, panty shots, giant titties, and nobody ever fucking does anything! Nobody needs to see it, but for fuck’s sake, have somebody actually get a boyfriend or girlfriend and have some sex. Maybe they’d stop randomly shouting about bullshit all the time if they just got laid.”
I chuckle and give her foot another squeeze. “I love you,” I tell her again.
She gets a little bashful. “Yeah, okay, dead horse. I know. I get up your ass about that, so I shouldn’t be a hypocrite.”
“I love it,” I say with a shrug. “I love that passion. I love the ranting. You know, there’s something special about it when it’s a girl’s voice. It feels… real, I guess. Girls hold back. It’s refreshing when they don’t.”
“Huh,” she says. “So you don’t mind it when the stupid girly-girls in the anime start shouting and whacking the stupid boys over the head or whatever?”
“Ugh, no, that shit is awful.”
“Good. I don’t have to break up with you then.”
“Surely you’d have waited until after the foot rub.”
“Well yeah, obviously — and until I’ve had my fill of gummy bears. Girl’s gotta eat.”
“And hey,” I say, “you can get up my ass anytime. Pegging. Fingering. Your tongue. Sex toy.”
“Do that,” she replies. Notice what she doesn’t do or say: no scoffing, no “Lame,” no pooh-poohing noises. There’s also some squirming on the couch for the first time — a little bit of delicious discomfort. Her panties do that thing again, just for a moment. It draws my attention like a hawk spotting a mouse — or perhaps a very small house cat. I also catch her looking at me, and see a hint of lust in her hazel eyes. She doesn’t pretend she didn’t look, but she shrugs it off and retrieves another gummy bear.
“Got a little off track there, champ, but you’re actually doing okay. Keep going.” She punctuates the demand with some foot action near my half-swollen cock. It responds, of course, which prompts the followup. “Footjobs?”
“Not really, no. I wouldn’t turn one down, but it doesn’t make the cut.”
“Huh. Good to know.”
“How so?”
“Well now that I know you don’t obsess over them, we’ll definitely do it sometime.”
That doesn’t make any sense, but that’s the point. She’s teasing by way of knee-jerk contrarianism. I don’t love it as much as the ranting, but it’s all part of our play. She’s being a friendly, casual bitch to me — and she can take it as well as she dishes it out. That’s huge for me. It’s right up there with her being a slut.
“Mind control,” I say next.
“Oh? All the usual boring and lame stuff, right?”
“Right.”
“Say it, though.”
I sigh. “I fantasize about turning you into a sex slave that feels nothing but happiness and pleasure all the time, because your entire existence is about serving, pleasing, and obeying me.”
“And that loves you and everything about you unconditionally.”
“Right.”
“Meh. That’s just every man in the world being pathologically insecure and needing intense psychotherapy. Whatever. Do you turn me into a cat or a dog or anything?”
“Nah.”
“Oh well. That’d be less boring — only just. A bird would be a lot less boring, though… don’t know why. Whatever. Moving on.” She lazily waves her hand. It reminds me of that robot from Futurama — the one who’s always on the couch, or who actually is part couch. I think he’s the pleasure bot or the hedonism bot or something, which is strangely fitting. I like it. It’s not merely funny; it hooks into that whole thing about girls being sexier when they let it all hang out. I imagine my little Sadie lazily demanding snacks and sex from slaves. It works for me.
“What are you thinkin’ about?” she asks.
I give her the recap.
“You are so fucking weird.”
I cop to it with a shrug.
“… You wanna be my slave?”
“Only for the sex stuff,” I reply.
“Boooooooo.”
“Well, that includes foot rubs and back rubs and whatnot.”
“… Okay, slightly less ‘Boooooooo.’ Doesn’t include chores, though, so still a fair amount of ‘Boooooooo.'”
God, I love her.
With another round of lotion, my foot rub has turned into a leg rub, and Sadie’s happy to accept it. Play gets closer to foreplay, just like my hands get closer to her pussy. There’s still a ways to go.
“You know,” she says, “I’d have respected you more if you’d started with butt stuff. Too late now. Say it, though.”
“‘Butt stuff.'”
She kicks me lightly. “Say it better.”
I take a breath. It’s one of the big ones for me. “Over my knee, panties down or off, thermometer or a finger. Maybe I spank you first.”
“Okay,” she says, “that’s something. I’m sensing some age play in the mix, you filthy pederast. Am I wrong?”
“No.”
“Mmmm. That’s why you like my pussy all smooth, too. You’re such a pervert it’s practically criminal.” All of that’s still with the same casual frat-bro tone, by the way. I honestly don’t know why that makes it okay, but it does. I’m completely okay with my twenty-nine-year old girlfriend, of perfectly average height and weight, whom I fuck all the time, casually calling me a pedophile, and telling me that I need intense psychotherapy.
“Okay, what else?” she asks.
“Well, there’s really no other way to say it: I fuck you in the ass.”
“Do that,” she says in that same dismissive way — sing-songy, but almost atonal. “But really? ‘No other way?’ Come on. Be creative. I know you’re a wordy-nerdy little freak. Put in some effort. Pretend you’re a little schoolgirl confessing to a priest that you’re actually trying to seduce.”
“Or a nun with a huge strap-on.”
“Okay! Yes! Here we go!” She kicks her legs again, but only to signal excitement — still a stark contrast with the upper part of her body. I sneak a peek anyway. Her shirt never fully hid her nipples, but they’re obviously taller and stiffer than they were ten minutes ago. I think her tiny tits are a tiny bit bigger, too. Call it a trick of the mind, but I feel more heat from her pussy, and her smell has shifted ever so slightly. We’re getting even closer. I love playing with Sadie.
“‘Hot semen enema,'” I tell her. “That one’s been on my mind a lot. I imagine us out somewhere — some cocktail party or get-together — and at some point, after mingling like perfectly civilized people, we find each other again. You lean back into me in your fancy dress or pantsuit, and you whisper it in my ear: ‘Let’s go home. I need my hot semen enema.’ My cock swells and presses into you, near your ass. Maybe it feels a plug — one that I didn’t know was there until just then.”
“Plugged in public. Sneaky sex talk in public. Anal. Cum enemas. Okay. This is pervy shit. Sister Sadie is pleased, you filthy sinner.”
“Obviously I give it to you, too.”
“Obviously. Say it better.”
“Prone. Bent over. On your side. From behind, almost always, though. Nothing against missionary anal, but from behind does something extra for me most of the time. I stick my hot, throbbing nozzle up your defenseless little bum.”
“From behind, because I’m taking it like a bitch.”
“Taking it in the ass like a bitch,” I readily amend.
“And I cum from my ass like a bitch, because your cock and your cum are just so amazing. And you’ve mind controlled me to love anal, and to crave my hot semen enemas. I turn into an orgasm-zombie, and that turns my whole body into your vibrating, squeezing cocksleeve. I’m a drooling, incoherent mess of sexual pleasure.”
“Almost. You can still talk, sort of.”
“And what do I say?”
“Well, at the beginning, there’s ‘I’m your bitch, and you own me,’ to which I reply, ‘That’s right, baby girl. I own you, and I love you.’ That’s before you really start to lose it.”
“And then?”
“””Yes, Daddy.’ ‘Love you, Daddy.’ Lots of cooing and babbling, too, though.”
“And eventually, you fill me up.”
“I fill you up completely. I fill you up with so much cum that it reaches your stomach and becomes a meal. Sometimes I plug you. Sometimes I don’t.”
“Sounds like an awfully big mess if you don’t,” she says.
“Well, sometimes there’s someone else there to clean it up.”
“Oh? Some other girl, right? Never a man. Too insecure for that.”
“Does a caged femboy or sissy count?”
“No,” she says flatly. “Core concept.”
She’s right, of course.
She leans up for the first time in ages and grabs the remote from the table. “If we’re going to watch dumb shit, we might as well watch your dumb porn.”
I keep my mouth shut. She works the remote like an expert — gee, almost as if we’ve done all of this before. She finds some girl-girl stuff. That’s how it starts, because that’s where we are in the script. Now we all care about what’s on the TV screen.
Two girls are in separate rooms; we cut back and forth. They’re casually naked or near enough, picking through piles of clothes, clearly dissatisfied.
“These two?” my little Sadie asks. She’s back upright, and crowding into my space. She’s in full-on hypocrite mode, paying attention to ‘dumb’ things that only I care about because I’m a pervert. Her heat and smell are undeniable — absolutely not my imagination. Her nipples are poking at her shirt, and her left hand — the one not dedicated to snacks — is getting far too familiar with the crotch area of my pajamas for somebody who’s only looking to extract confessions, and not, say, semen.
“The auburn-haired one, maybe,” I answer honestly. “The other one, well, the blonde hair works, the petite body works, but the face… I dunno.”
“Mmm, new sins,” Sadie says smugly. “Hyperjudgmental. Body shaming. Reducing women to nothing but sex. You’re the absolute worst.”
“It’s porn. They’re porn actors.”
“And you don’t have to watch it in the first place.”
She has a point. It’s a damn good thing she doesn’t actually give a shit. Remember what I said about her being able to take it as well as she dishes it out? Well, here we are, at ground zero — or maybe the Chernobyl — of relationship conversations. She’s totally fine. She uses it as pre-foreplay, while watching girl-on-girl porn with me. The porn doesn’t actually do much for her, granted, but it’s not grossing her out or turning her off, either.
“Who, then?” she asks. “Confess.”
“Polly, from school.”
“Pedophile.”
“Polly from college at nineteen. Calm the fuck down, Torquemada Hansen.”
“Liar, but fine. What’s so great about her?”
“What’s so great about you?” I counter. “You remind me of her in so many ways. It’s the face and the eyes, mostly, but also the tits; the pale, creamy skin; maybe the ass, too — high and tight, narrow hips. Polly was a stringbean.”
“I’m not a stringbean.”
“You are, though,” I say. I bump her, then kiss her shoulder. “You’re just not a super tall one.”
I see her face screw up skeptically in profile. “Well that’s some bullshit, too, but okay. I feel like you’re trying to compliment me.”
“I am. Lips and cheeks. The look, the feel, the smell of softness. So many beautiful, feminine features, but a stronger chin. Don’t know why that offsets everything else so perfectly, but it does. She was blonde, I think — naturally? Couldn’t say.”
“I’m not blonde, either.”
“And you know I’m not a hair-color guy.”
She shrugs. “Yeah, that’s true. You’re all over the place with that. Too much perv for a single category I guess. The chin, though, huh? That’s not perverted, really, but it’s fucking weird. Partial credit.”
The two girls on the screen have discovered they were supposed to go out on a date with the same guy. They get pissed off for a nanosecond, then start lezzing out with each other. Ah, porn logic. I love it so much. I don’t know how Sadie feels about it. For her, there is no porn without play. That means there are no honest conversations about whether or not she likes it.
“Polly at nineteen from college,” she repeats, her voice dripping with skepticism. “That’s one. That’s one girl you want to see sucking your giant creampie out of my freshly fucked asshole.”
“Submitting to you and licking your pussy while I butt fuck you, too, if you’d like.”
“Too lazy to give me a reach-around yourself, huh?”
“Because it’s hot as fuck.”
“For you.”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t want a man down there.”
“I really don’t.”
“Coward. More girls. Confess!”
I laugh. She doesn’t react to it. “Amanda from my first job — — Olivia, too. Maybe Shanti. Not Maria.”
“Not Darla?” she asks immediately. “The one that almost gave you a nervous breakdown?”
“Not so much anymore,” I answer. “I think time really did heal that wound — well, time, and you.”
Sadie glances over at me. For one moment, we’re boyfriend and girlfriend, all the way. She asks the question with a look — for real? — and I answer with one of my own. She’s genuinely happy for me. Then it’s game on.
“More girls!” she demands again. She says it with her mouth half full of a dip-slathered chip, and there’s more verve behind it than before. Hedonism-bot is becoming impatient, or perhaps drunk on all the confessions it’s already consumed. I’m losing track of the analogy a bit, I know.
What comes next is an avalanche of celebrities and porn stars — most of them qualified with utterly piggish statements like “from that one movie or “in her prime” or, just for the sake of the callback, “at nineteen.”
“Okay,” she says. “Pretty good list. Getting boring, though.” Then she gets contemplative — an amusing contrast to the dramatic face-riding happening on the big screen. My cock is almost fully hard, and Sadie’s getting progressively less circumspect about brushing and tickling it. “It’s almost like you don’t have a type. That’s weird — but in a good way, I guess. That means you’re not with me just because I’m your type.”
“Well…” I say, intentionally trailing off, playing up the hesitation and the guilt.
She plays her part to perfection, too. She raises her eyebrows, glances sidelong, cocks her head, and narrows her eyes. “‘Well’ what?”
“There is one more.”
“Bore me and I’ll cockblock you for a week.”
I strain my face — not really a scowl, but I can’t think of a better word. Call it bracing one’s self for blowback. “Josie.”
Sadie’s eyes widen, then narrow again — down to slits so sharp they could cut my skin. “Say it.”
“You know… your sister.”
My sexy little Sadie fucking explodes, and it’s hilarious.
“WHORE!” she shouts, practically jumping up from the couch. “FUCK. PIG. WHORE!”
I do all the things the guy’s supposed to do, just like in a movie. I lean away from her, raise up my hands defensively, hunch my shoulders, and pretend like I’m praying for a miracle. I’m also trying really, really hard not to laugh, because this is the part that I just don’t get. I don’t understand what satisfaction she gets from blowing up at me like this, when we both know that she simply does not care.
I don’t understand why she doesn’t care, either. She’s a slut, I guess. Her boyfriend wouldn’t mind fucking her younger sister, and somehow she’s just okay with that… but she likes pretending that she’s not. I may be a pervert with a lot of sick fantasies, but don’t you agree that this one — hers — playing out right in front of me, is, in some very important and obvious way, just flat-out weirder than anything else you’ve read so far? Tell me I’m not the crazy one, here.
She’s on her feet, angrily pointing, pacing, and ranting. The TV screen’s faded out to black, leaving me entirely alone with my bloodthirsty nun — my angel of vengeance –with nothing to distract her from my ultimate confession. There are no more questions — only denouncements.
“You… FUCK! You. Fuck. You want to fucking cuck me with my own fucking sister! You want a lesbian-incest-anal-creampie-eating threesome! You want to do everything to her you do to me, and then watch us do everything to each other, and then line up those other girls for it all, too. And you want to mind-control all of us so we’re you’re drooling-idiot, blissed-out slaves forever.”
She leans in quickly, getting in close. Then she gets quiet. Then she drops the Simpsons reference, which is just more proof that she’s the perfect woman for me.
“David,” she says calmly, “you are the worst human being I have ever met.”
I pause for a beat. The fear and the shame on my face transform: I’m the goofball, red-face comedian, playing off the straight man — or, ever so appropriately, that same happy hobo mugging for his audience after just having made another joke about what a piece of shit he is.
Sadie’s struggling to keep a straight face, too. It’s nice to know I’m not alone.
“Okay,” I say slowly, “but I confessed to it.”
Sadie pretends to be stunned. She stands upright and takes her beat. She blinks a few times. Across her face flits memory, disgust, and then resignation. “Fuck,” she says. “Fuck, you’re right. You did.”
She sighs heavily, then confesses the one thing that her utterly fake alter-ego desperately doesn’t want to. “… And it was a really good foot rub.”
She snaps into business mode, because it’s business time. “Take off your clothes if you want,” she says. She strips off her flimsy babydoll shirt in a single, smooth motion. Her tiny tits bounce a little bit, and it makes my mouth water. She shucks her panties with the same sexy efficiency, and it’s a watershed moment. All of that teasing promise is finally delivered upon. I finally get to see my girl’s pussy in all its glory — you know, since last I saw it this morning. It’s still amazing, every single time — and not just the visual, but the sheer satisfaction. I get to see it — not you, and not any other man.
Because I’m a weirdo, I wonder exactly how rapid the cycle would have to be for me to lose some interest. Panties off, panties right back on, panties off again… would that do it? I honestly don’t know. I’m trying to picture it in my head, and my imaginary self is like a kid playing peek-a-boo, giggling happily like a complete fucking idiot every single time the pussy reappears.
Incidentally, I made the most of the time it took her to strip naked. My T-shirt is off and my pajama pants are down. My cock is finally free, after all this time — though I was freeballing it before, so it wasn’t all that bad.
“On your back,” she says. “I’m a woman of my word, but I’m going to get mine, too.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. I lie down for her, and she mounts my face with her silky-smooth, already warm, already wet pussy. I sigh happily right into it, then start to worship.
Sadie’s hips start moving right away. Her hands come down to grasp at my hair. She rides me slowly at first, but it’s still intense. She gives me chances to breathe here and there, too, but I know I’m going to have to use our tap-tap-tap code at least once. She really gets into it, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“You really hurt my feelings, you know,” she lies. “All of that, and you never once talked about eating my pussy. No credit for outsourcing. You’re so selfish. You’re such a pig. You’re a filthy, nasty, disgusting pervert, and this is the only sex you deserve. You deserve to die worshiping pussy — well, maybe my asshole, too. Ironic punishment for the irredeemable sodomite.”
I moan my agreement into her holy mound, just like a man who’s high on the drug that’s about to kill him. My hands drift upwards, seeking more of her softness out. She releases my hair, grasps my wrists, and forces them back down. “No,” she says. “You don’t get to do that. Submit to my pussy.”
I do.
“Look at me,” she commands.
I do. I get to see her lose control of her insane performance. I get to see her turn back into the horny, perverted slut who loves me. She cums on my face once, then releases my wrists. For the next round, her own hands come up over her body, teasing it the way I desperately want to, which teases me in turn. She performs an erotic dance for me — one I get to see from that strangest and most wonderful of vantages. She cums again. I tap out, and she gives me a full thirty seconds to breathe. Then, before her pussy returns for the finale, she leans down and kisses my soaked face. She even licks it a few times, which sends electricity straight down into my cock. Why? Because sexy sluts love the taste of their own juices.
“All done, now, babe,” she whispers, and I know exactly what she means. “Thank you so much for playing with me. You can touch me however you want.”
As I worship, I desecrate. I fondle every part of her I can reach. I massage her tits, her thighs, and her ass. I seek out her hidden pucker and tease it with a finger. I keep doing that until she cums, because she had me pegged: I’m an ass freak. She likes it, too — at least enough so that she doesn’t break up with me over it. She threatens to crush my skull one last time, and then she’s flopping down, which reintroduces my face to the world beyond her thighs and cunt. We’re both breathing heavily. We both need air, but for slightly different reasons.
“I love you,” I say simply.
I feel her smile. “Love you, too.” She slurs the words on purpose. She can’t answer “do that” to everything that’s rattling around in my perverted head, but she does her best, and I’m forever grateful.
We take our time, but eventually shift positions — and pillows. I sit upright again, more or less. She drapes herself over me.
“Back rub, please,” she half-sings. I feign frustration, but I’m also already warming up the lotion in my hands. When they touch her skin, she releases yet another cutest sound in the fucking universe — pure happiness and contentment, and all because of me.
After a few minutes, I turn on some more porn. It’s guy-girl, and though I still don’t quite know how much Sadie enjoys it, I know it does more for her than the girl-girl stuff. We’re not really playing anymore, but in a way, it’s still a part of the script. I’m a guy, and she’s a girl, and the rest of the day is going to be dedicated to foreplay and what comes after foreplay. The porn helps set the tone.
“Anal,” she says, totally unnecessarily. “Nice dick. Not a bad-looking guy, actually. Tell me why you like this one.”
“You can’t tell?”
“Maybe I can and maybe I can’t. Maybe go fuck yourself.”
God, I love her.
“Look at how she’s whipping that batter,” I say. “It’s a compromise fantasy. The ultimate fantasy is that the girl loves anal so much she just has submissive anal bitchgasms over and over again, but that’s one in a billion, if that. It’s approaching zero.”
“How reassuring that you actually know that,” Sadie says dryly. “Also, talk about a missed opportunity. ‘Submissive anal bitchgasms?’ I would’ve raked you over the coals for that twenty minutes ago. I would’ve loved it.”
“Good note,” I reply with a nod. “I’ll remember.”
“Good.”
“Anyway,” I continue, cocking my head up towards the action on the TV, “there’s no telling how much she likes the anal — well enough, sure — but she’s committed. She wants to cum. She’s chasing her orgasm. Even if that makes it some weird parallel play with the guy whose dick is in her ass, it’s just… it’s comforting. She actually wants sex and orgasms.”
“Or she’s making the best of a bad situation,” Sadie teases.
“You’ll note that the term ‘compromise fantasy’ still has the word ‘fantasy’ in it, my darling.”
“Fair enough, my love.” Then she gets contemplative again, there on my lap, where I’m engaged in a sexy compromise of my own: giving her her back rub, but also very much enjoying touching her sexy body. Her butt cheeks are definitely getting a lot of love.
I really like that — the contemplative part to be more specific. Just like the girl on the big screen looks like she’s committed to the sex, Sadie is committed to the conversation. She’s not teasing — not just teasing. She’s my girlfriend, we’re talking, and she’s putting effort into it. That’s nice. That’s gratifying. I love that we do that.
“In all seriousness,” she says, “I get it. That ‘parallel play’ comment… that’s really interesting. Kind of a strange mix of selfishness and selflessness, too — in the fantasies, I mean. Obviously guys want their egos stroked. They want to be the best at sex. They want their girls so utterly overwhelmed by their sex skills that they’ll never leave, never get mad, and do absolutely anything for the guy who provided for them in that way.
“But then, well… some guys don’t give a shit at all. Some guys want girls to hurt. So there’s definitely some weird kind of selflessness in the mix, too, for that first group. In their perfect world, girls are happy and satisfied, and that’s something, at least. Such a mindfuck: selfish, but selfless; creepy, but nice; right for the wrong reasons; completely repulsed by the possibility that the female experience could be fundamentally different, and yet… It does suck to be a girl a lot of the time, so, there’s another one: totally misogynist, but out of the best of intentions. Maybe they genuinely believe girls would be happier if they could be more like guys.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” I reply.
I can feel her roll her eyes. “Yeah, almost like you wrote the words for me, nerdy-wordy. You’re rubbing off on me.”
“Maybe a little,” I reply, “but that’s not how I plan on finishing.”
Sadie groans at the worldplay. Then she sighs, adding a hint of teasing frustration. “You know,” she says, “I really don’t want to move right now, but it’s a shame you didn’t think to bring the lube out here. Then I would’ve let you play with my asshole.”
Out comes the lube, because I’m a genius. I think I told you that already. When my slick finger makes contact with her puckered promise, my little Sadie makes another noise that works its magic on my heart, my cock, and every other part of me.
“Oh, Daddy!” she coos.
“That’s right, baby girl,” I say. “Relax and submit. It’s okay to like it, too. It’s not a sin.”
She does, and she does — well enough, at least.
The story doesn’t end there, because nothing ever ends. At the same time, there’s also ending after ending to add.
Does it end when my baby girl — all doe-eyed and vulnerable — asks me if I’m going to sodomize her? When I assure her I am? When I do?
Does it end when, in a brief moment between both foreplay and sex, Sadie casually talks about inviting Josie over for dinner some night soon, prompting an utterly cringeworthy chorus of “Don’t tell Josie; Josie doesn’t know?” I don’t want to read too deeply into it, but I do suspect sometimes that Sadie gets off on that — on hiding the fact that we use her younger sister as a prop-by-proxy in our play. Of course, concealing our perversity would only be satisfying if there were some risk of it getting revealed unintentionally.
Does it end with vanilla missionary sex? With pegging? With a shower? With a proper meal, sitting at the kitchen table? With a movie that Sadie actually wants to watch, while I very quietly and politely molest her without making any snide comments about how sappy and stupid it is?
Upon reflection, I think it should end the next day. After all, that’s when I change the sheets. It’s when I clean the bathroom. It’s when I clean the couch. Wanna know the worst-kept secret ever? I fuckin’ hate doing all of that — but I love fucking my horny, perverted, not-dirty, not-filthy slut so, so much more.
Sexy Sadie knows she’ll never have to clean the couch, or even sit down on it when it’s still dirty the next day. That’s why she’ll fuck me any time, anywhere, and in any which way — just me and her, of course, but both of our biggest sex organs can add quite a lot of smoke and mirrors to those performances. Josie will never know. Neither will Polly, Amanda, Olivia, Shanti, dozens of celebrities and porn stars, and Sadie’s secret list that I have never asked and will never ask about, ever. It’s not my kink. I mean, George and Brad, and Shawn from the farmer’s market, obviously, but shut up already.
Ladies and gentlemen, that is a fair trade. I think it’s the best ratio of “do that” to “don’t do that” that any man could ever ask for.
Who knows, though? Maybe the “do that” list isn’t quite done getting longer.