Bad Part of Town

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What does she see in her mirror?
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NightRAGES
NightRAGES
21 Followers

Lets face it; I'm a social retard. I'm not good at first meetings, especially when that meeting is with a woman who has spent a few weeks revealing her darker self to me online. My mind had wandered back to that first meeting with Julie, prompted by a contrast. The contrast between that look she had given me, as I had stumbled to make conversation shortly after we first met, and the look she was giving me now as we both sat, facing each other, her legs spread to either side of me. I was stroking the edges of her pubic hair with a razor. We hadn't become best friends or anything, in fact we rarely discussed our other lives. We enjoyed a certain comfort with each other, though, as much as one can be comfortable on the edge.

Julie was thirty-something, married, no children. Anyone could see that she was pretty, anyone but her. Her curly blond hair was cut short because she never felt comfortable with any of the styles when she wore it long. Julie stood about 8 inches shorter than me, and had the slight wiriness of a woman obsessed with working out. Her body was only slightly distorted by age. A few years ago she might have been called a yuppie. Her husband from what I could gather was not a bad man, nor even a bad husband. She seemed convinced what compelled her was her own weakness or depravity, and that normal women didn't have, or at least they had not succumbed to, these deep, dark needs. I said nothing to dissuade her of this conviction. To me she was simply ... delicious. You see, she was a rare find, like a fine scotch, aged to perfection by the oaken planks of her circumstance.

After I had finished my ritual shaving she sat there, staring back at me. I watched her. She had grown accustomed to my silence, and I especially savored these moments. I still was not sure what she thought at these times, if she was anticipating what I would ask of her, or if she was doing a mental penance for the sins she was about to commit. A few minutes passed in such manner, until she repositioned herself, so that she could begin licking my cock. Already erect, it was eager for her attention. Without grasping it she licked it up and down its length, bathing it with her tongue. It was more demeaning for her, somehow nastier, to not use her hands, but to have to maneuver her mouth and face into the nooks and crannies of my body to cleanse both my cock and balls. I was the instrument of the torture to which she had chosen to submit herself, her mind demanding humiliation for the thoughts she allowed herself.

She sat back slightly and looked at me; I glanced towards the table, at the lipstick on it. She rose and went to the table, picked it up, removed the top, and began slowly rotating the case, staring at it as the lipstick emerged further into her sight. She brought it to me and waited for me to begin.

I think it was on her third visit that I had instructed her to buy the lipstick, a fiery red color. She showed up at my door that night wearing the lipstick, not quite a smile on her face (she rarely smiled around me) but at least a look of accomplishment. After I had closed the door I looked at her lips.

"Wipe it off."

"Isn't this the lipstick you wanted?"

"Yes, it is. Wipe it off."

Confused, probably hurt, she started to take a tissue from her purse. Catching her mistake, she stopped, then wiped the lipstick off with the back of her hand. I had taught her not to be too much of a lady in my presence. She looked up at me, unsure. I turned and walked into the living room.

"Get naked."

She complied, folding her clothes neatly. I always allowed her this last dignity.

"Give me the lipstick."

She reached into her purse and pulled the new lipstick from it, handing it to me tentatively, as one would feed a wild animal. I placed it upright on the table. I placed my hand on her shoulder, and needed only a slight downward push for her to lower herself to her knees. My hand ventured from her shoulder downward ... my fingers taking in every smooth sensation ... every goose bump ... until they reached the small of her back. I placed my palm against her there, pushing. She bent forward, pausing only long enough to break the descent with her hands. She lowered herself, turning her head sideways as it reached the floor. Her ass in the air for me. Caressing her ass, I bent down over her until my face was next to hers. I whispered to her.

"Why do you come back to me?"

She started to answer, but I put my finger to her lips.

My hand continued taking in the curves of her ass.

"Why do you come back to me?"

She tried again to speak, but stopped herself. Maybe she was trying to rationalize being here, to defend herself. I would not let her speak.

"When I first met you I thought to myself ... not this one ... she can not possibly be like this."

I began groping her, massaging the folds of her cunt, my fingers penetrating her occasionally. She couldn't help but push her ass out towards my hand. I smiled.

"What are you thinking, when my cock finds the back of your throat?"

Her eyes never leaving me, her eyes never flinching, her eyes full of torment; another man might have stopped. Her nipples, though, told me what I needed to know.

"What are you thinking when your ass is full of my cock?"

I rose and took my place at the back of her, admiring the view for a brief moment, before I began probing her with my cock, pushing the head against her cunt, but not penetrating. I was feeling especially wicked that night and I denied her pussy the pleasure. I moved the head of my cock to her anus, and shortly after I heard her gasp I began pressing into her. Not roughly, persistently perhaps, I entered her, stopping when I felt deep enough. I did not pullout, but instead bent over her, getting my face as close to hers as I could situated as I was behind an in her. I whispered.

"What are you thinking when your ass is full of my cock?"

I buried my face in her hair, inhaling it deeply, my deep breath forcing my chest into her back. I pulled myself back up, and began the rhythmic fucking of Julie's ass. Her face on the floor, sliding back and forth in reaction to my movements. Another precious moment, when the smell of her perfumes, both man-made and natural, combined to create an intoxicant that drove me to fuck her more forcefully, to squeeze her as if I meant to break her. She responded to this, this punishment, for she was convinced she was a bad woman.

Afterwards, I took the lipstick, slowly twisting the case until enough was showing, and I proceeded to write her story on her flesh. I scribbled "ball washer" across the top of her breasts, with an arrow pointed towards her mouth. I drew semi-circles just under each of her areolae, and drew lines from them that came together just above her navel. I wrote "lie detectors" here. In an arc around her freshly-trimmed pubic hair went "put cock here". On her ass cheeks, written emphatically and with many arrows pointing the way, "definitely put cock here"

I wouldn't let her wash it off. She dressed for me, and from her slightly labored breathing I knew the words bothered her. She stood there, waiting for me. I looked her over, walking around her, inhaling her. "Your perfume." She pulled the small bottle from her purse, and applied a fresh scent, covering her sins. I stood in front of her, dismissing her, and she walked out the door. I had watched from the window as she walked to her car. She didn't look back. She never did.

It was like walking a tightrope, for me and for her. Something inside was compelling her, something akin to the allure of the bad part of town, I suppose. Most women feel it at one time or another, some worse than the rest, but Julie had it bad. I don't think it could have been any sweeter if I had blackmailed her. I had to be careful not to break her spirit, to feed the beast within her, but not quench its hunger. Lost in my thoughts of the past I suddenly realized she was still here, waiting for my next move. I could not suppress my smile. You can't imagine the difference between fucking a woman content in life, and fucking a woman whose soul is on fire with her own torments. You just can't imagine.

NightRAGES
NightRAGES
21 Followers
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26thNC26thNCover 3 years ago

Trying to be edgy with your writing? You ended up being very forgettable.

AnonymousAnonymousover 18 years ago
Thank you

Thank you for your stories, they are well written and edited (the lack of editing by those who post here often drive me close to insanity)

Although I have been reading through all your stories I wanted most to comment on a line at the end of this story that says: "You can't imagine the difference between fucking a woman content in life, and fucking a woman whose soul is on fire with her own torments." - you can't imagine the difference between a man who understands the torment and those who do not. Thank you.

In your writting I feel like you don't give it all... there is more you aren't saying perhaps? It is appreciated... and at the same time... causes distress for someone who has no physical release in her life right now... these words are all I have to satisfy my torment.

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