I Hate You, Call Me

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Wanting someone I hate.
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This is a bit of a weird story, to say the least. It's got elements of true tales to it. It's part fantasy part reality. Truth is, I like being someone's fantasy girl; but what happens when that desire becomes insatiable?

*

You want to know why I started texting you? Why I started sending you partial nudes and telling you all my dirtiest fantasies?

Let's set the scene.

The first time you messaged me, I dismissed you right away. I rolled my eyes at your machismo, your love for working out. Why would I entertain a guy at all, when I'd only been dating women for the last few years? Why would I consider responding to a guy who was tattooed and muscled when I'd been chasing short, scrawny men with beautiful eyes before that? I was angry at a society that demanded I mutilate myself in order to be attractive, why bother with you? And to make it less appealing for me, I'd just been dumped and trusted no one. I guess you're not no one; and you're upfront with me about just how low your morals go.

Besides, brewing inside me all those years was a secret source of strength that knew how wrong it was for sexism to demand that I erase my strength, for colonialist capitalism to demand that I erase my ethnic whiteness (and that demanded even worse of women of color). Screw the system that made us think we were supposed to get nose jobs, straighten our hair, starve our soft bodies to the bone, and play down our visions and our brainpower, our physical strength and our mental strength and our emotional strength.

But there you were, you who, despite embodying everything I hate about masculinity, validated my femininity. You validated that, though I might not fit some arbitrary beauty ideal, I sure as hell deserve to be a sexual being. And yes, even in a straight context, you made me realize I sure as fuck was a fuckable little freak.

I stopped talking to you when I found out you had a girlfriend. Because I didn't want to get in that, because I didn't want to wonder how you treated her... but most of all because I didn't want to realize I was only good for being the temporary fling, the girl who will say anything over text, but always second to the woman you chose to live with and commit to. That's a whole other level of beauty and poise that I don't possess, someone who has more power over your libido than I do.

But you must know, as you're sitting in front of me, watching me out of the corner of your eye in my short little dress whose youthfulness I can pull off because of my petite frame and D-cup tits... you must know you make me so wet I can't stay away. You must know I'm a serious girl with a serious career, but that for this moment, you make me choose not to think. You must know how coy I play it because I'm afraid to want it, to want you to lead me to the bathroom and pull down my underwear and discover my dripping wet cunt, for you to hold me against you with those powerful arms until I can no longer fight you, all the while soaking the fingers you stuck inside me while you're playing with my throbbing clit. You must know I'm afraid to want you to fuck me as hard as you dare against the bathroom sink. You must know how much I want to taste your cock, lick your shaft and take your head gently past my lips, then take as much of your length as I can into my eager mouth, sucking until you come.

We weren't supposed to meet, because you're an asshole and ostensibly I have self respect. But you also see something in me few others have ever seen. And you make me hot like nobody else knows. I can be sitting in a meeting with my boss, and all it takes is an ever-so-faint vibration of my phone in my jeans pocket, as if it's whispering to my thigh that you've texted me back, for me to pray that my boss doesn't smell my pussy dampening my pants in anticipation. How can he not smell it? He's a pervy old man, he's spread his seed... sitting in front of him, how can we both pretend to ignore the obvious? I can get so slippery from a text from you, that even walking turns me on; on the street I eye-fuck passers-by and wish that one of them would offer to real-fuck me back, right there in the street, because you, you piece of shit, you turned me into an insatiable animal.

You wanted to get this drink, so you could see your little fuckdoll in person. Well here she is, staring daggers at your foolish horny face. Angry, but wishing we didn't have to sneak off to the bathroom, wishing I could just sit on your rapidly hardening cock then and there in the bar. I bared skin on purpose. My nipples are poking through my thin shirt and unpadded bra, and my pussy is soaking the bar stool. I can see your rising bulge. We were so talkative through text, me calling you "sir" and you calling me "fuckdoll"; now it's all we can do to sit here controlling ourselves.

What will happen next? Will you put a hand on my bare thigh, all but guaranteeing that I'll melt into your touch and forget all reason? Will you gently graze your cock with your thumb, through your pants, watching as I bite my lip, wishing I could suck that long shaft dry only to watch it harden again in time to fuck my soaked pussy? Will you be so bold as to lightly graze the crotch of my underwear, brushing my swollen clit gently at first then a little harder, all in public under the table in this dimly lit bar? Yeah you piece of shit, surely you're not above teasing me in public. Surely you're not above pushing the fabric of my underwear aside to feel my smoothly shaved pussy, to find my swollen clit with your bare fingers, and then to withdraw them and bring them up to your nose to smell.

Through all of this, I know my morals are not as strong as my desire; you know I never stopped wanting your thick shaft between my legs. You know I'm a control freak and you know I'm a tough nut to crack and that's what makes you want me. It's not my beauty, it's my petite innocent facade and my uptight persona masking a girl who has fantasies of you, a total stranger, fucking me with abandon, without a condom, in the bathroom. Fucking me until sweat is soaking our shirts and my tits are bouncing out of my bra and I'm standing on tip-toe to let you ram into me harder, until my tiny legs can barely hold me up, until you're holding me up, propping me up, fucking me harder and harder as if I have a choice; physically and sexually, you dominate me, and you take this sweet girl and bring out an animal, and as I cum on your cock, spasms rippling through my vaginal walls around your thick shaft, I feel your cum fill me up, I think about how reckless that was, how I'll have to take the morning-after pill, how I'll have to wait with bated breath for my next period, but how right it feels to have your warm fertile ejaculate fill me up, mixing with my juices, coating your cock, which gets hard again inside me, and though you're too tired to fuck me again right away I anticipate you using me at least once more before the night is through. You'll let me clean up your cock with my mouth, you'll play with my ass (which, from our text conversations, you know I love), and if you keep making me feel the way you have been, you might get to fill that hole with your seed too. For you, I'll stay wet through all of it. Only for you.

And then I'll know why I had a hard time dating anyone else all these months: because even though others might make for better partners, friends, even lovers, all I want is you: a man without morals and without a shred of respect for anyone unless they're begging for your cock, over and over again. That's all we have. That's all we are to each other. But if my pussy has anything to say about it, that's all we need right now.

So that's why I responded to you. Not because I like you in the slightest. Fuck off. I'll send you a dirty pic later.

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