Bad Girls & Dangerous Men

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“We’ll try Wednesday night, you’re off and I’ll leave the hall with Rick. It’ll be a slow night.”

***

Before Bailey, there was Jordan. The man in uniform. Talk about ramrod straight, he was poster boy Marine, buzz cut, polished boots and careful, kindly conversation. Blond, I think, if his hair grew out, pink cheeks, buff muscles and trim waist. His butt was round as two melons and his c**k barely fit inside his jockeys. There was nothing about him that I didn’t want to get my hands on.

Jordon was a different man for me, only because he was official, legitimate, squeaky clean—no criminal past, no bad grades, no nights in the slammer or on a park bench drunk. He kept his clothes pressed, his shoes in a row, and his razor clean. Otherwise, he was as vain, unresponsive and weak as any man I dated. I gave him the usual test, saying with a girlish grin on my face, “Would you tie me up,” just as we were starting to get amorous.

He backed off. “What?”

“I want to be bound when I’m fucked.”

I thought for sure he’d run. His neck reddened, the red almost rising into a first-class blush. “Bound? Like you mean with rope?”

“Or a belt or sash, anything.”

“Never done that,” he informed me. I knew he wouldn’t be interested, but I had to try.

There was a tiny flicker of a reply, a subtle shimmy that most girls wouldn’t see. Under that official uniform, he trembled excitedly.

“Your belt should do,” I hinted, and he fumbled with the thing until he had it out of his belt loops and wrapped around my wrists.

He looked embarrassed but he didn’t stop.

A hot spasm raced down my body, through my arms and into my cunt. It jerked freely as he pulled my wrists above my head, ran off to his bedroom to grab his bathrobe sash, and then returned to tie my hands and arms, out of the way. Diving into the rest of me, the Marine stripped off my clothes, slowly, adoringly looking at everything he revealed. Mesmerized by my erect n*****s, he tongued them, teased them, nibbled the swollen pieces of flesh until they hurt. That hurt tore through me, quickening every nerve. When I moaned, he groveled over me, letting his enthusiasm and my willingness for pain encourage him. This was dangerous territory for a man of principles and protocol, but not dangerous for me. This was my heaven. Pain. Bliss. The two were inseparable, orgasmic states. My heated breath grew short when he pulled up my skirt and began with a quivering hand to caress my thigh and pubic mound. I spread my legs, and his hand dropped between my thighs, slowly thrumming my outer lips, a finger darting in the middle then pulling away. He was lost, unaware how his toying proved tortuous.

I twisted, bucked against his kissing face, and pleadingly pushed my cunt high, wanting him to suck my center. I refused to ask him, as if I were gagged, wishing I were gagged. Thankfully, he took the hint from my body language, and burrowed down, finding my clit with his teeth and sucking hard.

“Ah, Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeezus!” my head thrust back as my body shook and a tiny river of pain from my bitten clit rode every nerve of my body, until the orgasm hit in hard, crunching spasms.

Seeing me come, the Marine pulled off, undressed as if his clothes were on fire. His c**k hit my cunt erect and thrust inside, pounding rough and forcefully—big, hot, widening me with each vigorous plunge. His hands kneaded my breasts as if they were dough, while I listened to his quiet grunts and groans before he came with a low growl and shot his sticky seed inside me. He was neat departing, wiping away any evidence of his sperm—covering his tracks. I sometimes prefer the endings messy, slutty.

Jordan bound me every time we f****d. Sometimes, he bound my feet as well as my hands. I never had to ask him again; this was a given. The boy knew how to follow orders—even though I hated giving them. I always wondered if this was inspiration or simply his regimen once we established the rules for our s****l combat.

The relationship ended because I got antsy for more—not more of the same bondage, but more evil thrills, and the Marine didn’t have the creative juices to suit my twisted taste in s*x.

***

My first time with Bailey was ninety degrees opposite. I wasn’t in charge and never would be with him—a fact that became painfully clear as soon as our second date began.

For three days after the initial dinner of veal and wine, we worked together at the beer hall as if we never knew the other side of his grim, official behavior, as if we’d never talked of relationships and f*****g, or smiled over a glass of Chardonnay. He obviously had the ability to separate his work and private life into neat compartments—something I could never do. Feeling jilted, I let my paranoia take over for any sensible explanation of his behavior, and finally resigned myself to the fact that he didn’t want me.

When Bailey showed up at my apartment at the appointed hour, I wasn’t ready.

“Oh, you’re here?” I said, legitimately surprised.

He looked quizzical, “You expected me not to come? We had a date.”

“You never said a word at work,” I reminded him.

“And I never will.” He looked at my casual dress, my worn out sweats and messy hair. “You obviously don’t believe what I tell you.”

“Probably not.”

“How about starting now. We made a date, let’s keep it.”

“Wasn’t this date for f*****g?” I queried him seriously, remembering our dinner conversation well.

“Maybe, maybe not if you’re going to cop that attitude.”

A pair of painful tears threatened to spill from my eyes. I suddenly felt foolish and embarrassed, and very abrupt. “I don’t like s*x in the normal ways, Bailey,” I unexpectedly blurted out. “I like to be bound, a hard touch, my rear smacked, my ass raped. Is that the kind of girl you want? I want to know now, because if you don’t, I’d rather blow you off as hope something meaningful will develop.”

He was amazed, but he wasn’t put off. He gazed down at his feet, then circled the room with his eyes—a thoughtful hands-in-pockets, easygoing search of his brain. He looked back at me. “I want the kind of girl, Madison, who doesn’t have limits, who likes to break society’s rules, who gets off on surrender and blindfolds and the unknown. That sounds to me exactly like what you want.”

As he changed the drift of his message, I felt my p***y melt, its fluid power rising up and drowning my entire body in sensation. The sticky contents of my insides were slowly sliding down my leg, while a dozen tremors made my belly and my cunt ache. My mouth was parched, dry, thirsting for his next move, but I couldn’t say a word.

“You have a problem with what I said?” he wondered. I’m sure he read my aroused response for what it was, but he had to ask.

“If I knew I could trust you not to f**k me over—take what you want and split.”

“Trust is a tricky word, Madison. People trust too easily, when they have no reason to, with no facts to back up their faith. They assume people will be straight with them, but they’ll never really know until they test it. The only way you can trust me is to test me. See if I flash and burn. See if I come back. I won’t make any promises, because they would be worthless. Even I can’t predict the outcome. I’d like to think I know what I’ll do.”

“And what would that be?” I asked.

“Right now?” He paused to think, “I’d like to bed you in all the usual ways—and the ones you’re asking for—then stay the night and eat breakfast before we go to work. That’s what’s in my mind. What do you want, Madison?”

I thought a long while, doing the usual stalling things: biting my lip, staring around the room as if I’d never seen it before, watching myself in the mirror by the door while I tried to think of something intelligent to say. Every inch, atom, nerve and fiber in me wanted to fling myself at the man. But he scared me, and I couldn’t move, and for a long time I couldn’t speak.

I shook my head, finally replying without answering his question, “I’m sorry I’m putting you through all this trouble. I don’t really know why I have to lay out all the groundwork with you. I usually f**k on a dime and think later. You’re just different.”

His face broke out in a smug smile, “How about you put on some other clothes, and I’ll take you to dinner?”

His proposition was a whole lot easier than dealing with the tougher questions. “Sure,” I answered, and I fled to my room for suitable clothes. My jeans and T-shirt were a lot less racy than the turtleneck and skirt that defined our first date, but they put me at ease. Bailey didn’t seem to care, though I noticed when his eyes looked for two bullet-n*****s at my chest and found a more subdued version than previously advertised poking through the cotton fabric of my shirt.

We ate in a basement jazz club, sitting side by side with Bailey’s hand occasionally straying to my thigh to tease me. My p***y craved move, and I cursed the scairdy-cat in me that chose the sleek, tight jeans. Eating, listening to the music, we needed little conversation. He was wooing me, easing me into the rest of the night, settling down my fears, while I argued away my apprehensions in my mind. Finally, I decided that he didn’t need to be different from the other men who came into my life and disappeared. If he f****d me once and vanished, it wouldn’t hurt me anymore than the others who left me momentarily stung.

Bailey held my hand while walking me to my front door, then moved inside behind me when I entered my apartment. Before the lights came on, he had me gently pinned to the closed door face forward, my hands bound behind me inside his larger ones, his hot breath on my neck. I was swimming, like being drunk, although I hadn’t had a drop of liquor. Intoxicated by surrender, I was ready to succumb.

“Easy, Maddie,” he whispered in my ear.

I was quaking, almost faint.

He smacked my ass, suddenly, unexpectedly. My body revived. My mind stood at attention.

“You do as I say,” he whispered more.

“Yes, sir,” I answered quickly, without thinking.

Drawing me away from the door by my clenched hands, he shoved me toward the living room, leaving me on my feet while he sat in my biggest easy chair.

“Take off your clothes,” he ordered.

I shuddered. Beads of perspiration tickled my face, my underarms felt hot, my lip was nearly bleeding as I bit down hard. I felt like I was in the presence of an unfamiliar being, an aspect of the human race I’d never seen. Not a boy but a man, as sturdy and muscled as my Marine; but unlike the Marine, someone fixed, commanding and superior to me. Rationally, this made no sense, but I was feeling with my body, not my brain.

‘Take off your clothes,’ I whispered to myself, enjoying the feel of the words. My mind finally answered as my hands and limbs responded.

The snap on my jeans sounded with a pop and the zipper ‘sizzed’ as it opened. I thought my wet, hot insides would fall out the moment that I sent my crotch free from the denim. I hopped on one foot, wrenching the fabric off my left leg, and tugged and pulled the right leg until I succeeded.

Bailey watched my efforts passively, silently; although I could see the interest in his eyes, the fine flicker of lust found there, and his pants tent at the crotch as his c**k jumped inside them. Only a tiny, thong panty prevented him from viewing the slit where my c******s throbbed. The pink cloth had darkened where my juice made it wet. Reaching for the bottom of my T-shirt, I crossed my hands and lifted it over my head, showing him my lace-covered t**s underneath. I discarded the bra fast, giving him a first glance at my bare chest. My own lust startled me, and this slow striptease only added to the ache. I stood before him naked and embarrassed.