This is Not a Love Story

The place isn’t crowded, but it certainly isn’t abandoned either. We are sitting at a picnic table in a neglected corner of the park, underneath an enormous old tree that is more dead than alive. It is Oliver’s lunch hour, and we are eating sandwiches, and he is playing with my pussy under the table, and it is driving me insane.

I tell him that I want to mark him as mine, my own property. Just saying the words makes my pussy flood, my clit swell and twitch. I feel his fingers pause inside my panties, hesitate, and then resume their meandering journey even more eagerly than before. I tell him that I want to brand him. He nods, but his eyes get real wide. Boys are so funny about pain!

I ask him where he wants me to do it, someplace where only he and I will know about it, somewhere where his wife won’t see it. He smiles shyly, licks my joy juice off his finger, and points coyly down at his crotch.

I tell him to unbutton his jeans and lie down on the bench, and he starts to panic.


“Yes. Now.”

There are people around, but I don’t think anyone is probably looking at us. We’re just another unremarkable couple, having lunch outside together on a nice early summer day.

He does as I say. Of course. He is wearing boxers, and his dick makes an impressive tent in the soft tartan material. My pussy is squelchy wet, juicy and hot and horny, missing the attention of his strong, talented fingers.

From my purse, I take a small piece of rigid steel wire, twisted and bent into a stylized LC, my initials. I clamp a little set of vice-grips to the wire, and turn on a tiny butane torch, holding the wire inside the flame until it glows white hot and emits sparks. I can hear his breathing coming fast and shallow.

“Will it hurt?” he asks, trying to sound brave.

“Oh yes,” I say, “This should hurt quite a bit.”

I pull his boxers down, letting his dick spring free like a jack-in-the-box. It is tall and thick and proud and kind of beautiful. His pubes are shaved bald, balls and all, which was not the case when we first me. I idly wonder what his wife thinks of this new look. I wonder if she will notice the mark I am about to make, but I don’t really care.

He whimpers a little. He is afraid. I am enjoying the anticipation immensely. I bend his dick to one side, out of the way, and press the hot metal against his bare flesh, just above the base of his cock. It makes a tiny hiss as it makes contact, and he flinches hard and grunts through clenched teeth. It really hurts, I can tell. He is breathing hard and fast, making noises like a woman in labor. I hold it there, on his smooth skin, for a count of three, then lift it off. My initials stared back at me, livid red on his pale, untanned flesh.

I apply a towelette soaked in alcohol to the wound, and am rewarded with another flinch and a stifled, choked-down scream. My pussy is positively drooling into my panties, my clit is twitching with lust.

I long to sit down on his dick, and fuck him like this, in pain, outside, and in public; but that is the one thing he has absolutely forbidden me. So instead, I do a quick check to see if anyone is obviously staring at us, wet one finger, and stick it straight up his asshole. I wrap my other hand around his dick and pump, hard and fast, like I’m playing Nintendo and winning. His cock is harder than ever.

With my long finger clamped securely inside his tight anus, I stick out my tongue and flick at the swollen red crown of his dick. He comes almost instantaneously, arching his back, and crying out in a throaty rasp that definitely makes people nearby turn their heads and look at us. Pearly-white semen splashes up his chest, in a long, beautiful arc, staining his white button-down shirt. I feed him a fat drop off my finger, mop up the rest with a handi-wipe. I hope he has something to change into back at his office.

Lunch hour is almost over, and it is time for Oliver to be getting back to his office. Self-consciously, we straighten out our clothes and try to look presentable. My own pussy is squishy hot and slippery, clamoring for release, but that will have to wait. Looking sheepish, Oliver rubs a little burn ointment onto his brand new scar, favors me with a half-smile, and buttons his jeans one last time. His dick still makes a noticeable lump in the front of his pants. I could eat that thing all day, every day, if I had the chance.

I am left to pick up the pieces: half eaten sandwiches and wrappers, branding paraphernalia scattered all around the picnic table, my own moistened panties, which I shove into my purse.

The first time I meet him, flesh-and-blood meet him, it is very early in the morning, at a park-and-ride off Route 9. For some reason I am taken aback: he really is that cute in person!

We’ve played on the internet before: I’ve made him put clothespins on his tiny nipples and snap his own sensitive parts with rubber bands, and had him cram his wife’s pearl necklace up his cute little butt. I’ve watched him jerk off plenty of times, but this is very different. The traffic is a constant low-level roar: the morning commute in full swing. My heart feels like it wants to rip out of my chest.

His hair is mussed up, and he still has bed-face. I told him to go commando, and I can clearly see the outline of his cock through his pants.

He steps out of the car, and we kiss. He tastes like coffee. He slips a hand up inside my t-shirt and cups my breast, covering it entirely with the palm of his large, strong hand. My pussy melts.

I tell him he how bad I want this, how hard it has been to wait, how I’m really nervous, and it is mostly true. He kisses me harder and squeezes my nipple. I bite his lip, bearing down hard, until I taste blood. He pulls away. The gold band on the fourth finger of his left hand taunts me.

I position him behind his car, facing away from me, and I tell him to pull down his pants. His ass is bare underneath, in all its taut, muscular, pale glory. His dick is fully erect, straining up and out, swollen and leaking and slightly curved. It would fit inside me deliciously. The traffic on Route 9 is heavy. Anyone could see us now, from inside their car, if they were looking. But they probably aren’t. I tell him to bend over and touch his toes.

I spank his ass hard, alternating cheeks, one and then the other. I spank him until my hand stings, my arm aches. His white ass is covered in raised red finger-shaped welts. I want his wife to see my hand-prints later on, to ask him where they came from.

I want it to hurt. I take off my belt and use that. It makes a satisfying *whack* as it contacts his flesh. He flinches away, but does not ask me to stop. He knows better than that. By the time I am done, tears are running down his cheeks, splashing onto the asphalt pavement like salty rain. His cock is harder than ever.

I tell him to stand up and reach for the sky, and he does so slowly, almost reluctantly. When he is finally standing up straight, with his hands laced together on top of his head, I start going down on him.

His pants are in a pile, crumpled on top of his shoes, his dick juts eagerly out. I don’t swallow him whole, the way I might with someone else. Instead, I stick out my tongue, softly trace my way up and down his length, and back again, stopping to swirl around the ridges of the crown, as if he were an exotic hard candy. He is quivering under my tongue. His dick twitches and shudders, and he moans out loud. With one hand, I softly pet the underside of his ball sac, trace tiny little hidden paths up the crevice between his cheeks, tormenting and avoiding his asshole, tracing intricate spirals on that soft, secret flesh, while my tongue still travels its lazy traverse, up, down, and back up again. I am going to make him late for work, and I don’t care.

He goes off without warning. He gasps, he cock suddenly jumps and goes harder than hard, and he spurts off, directly into my open mouth, squirting his hot, thick, salty semen straight onto my outstretched tongue. He will pay for this later on. Meanwhile, I swallow every drop, even as he milks himself into my mouth.

I sit on the tail gate of his car, with my skirt hiked up and my legs pornographically spread, and he earnestly goes down on me, flicking my clit with his tongue and fingering my cunt until I come, but it isn’t what I want. It is good, don’t get me wrong, but it isn’t fulfilling. It doesn’t fill that void.

With my wetness still sticky on his face, he buttons up, kisses me one last time, and gets back in his car. He is definitely going to be late for work. I hope his ass pains him all day long. I hope he thinks of me every time he sits down or shifts his weight in his chair during a long, stifling meeting. I will send him filthy texts, just to make sure.

At home I masturbate furiously. I use my vibrator, but I keep the switch turned off. I want to come just from this. It takes a while, but I can do it. I am certainly wet enough.

I imagine crucifying him spread-eagled to my hardwood floor with sixteen-penny duplex nails and a framing hammer. There would be a butt-plug the size of a Volkswagen up his ass, and his dick would be harder than steel. With every blow of the hammer, as I drive cold iron through the flesh of his hands and his feet, I ask him over and over again, “Do you like it now?” and he’d moan back “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

I squat over him, hovering just above his straining erection. “Do you want it? Do you want it now? Do you want me to fuck you?”

“No,” he says, “Please no.” I do it anyway.

I lower myself onto his dick and ride him, savoring every centimeter of his cock filling me up, bouncing up and down like a wild woman, lifting off and letting his penis flop helplessly, straining up toward my slick and drooling cunt like a drowning thing, coated in my juices. Again and again, I plunge back down on him, relishing the sensation of penetration, fullness, feeling his cock inside me. I grind down and back and forth, my scarlet initials peering back up at me past my swollen clitoris, where my pussy lips have swallowed his penis whole.

He is arching his back, fucking up at me, fucking my cunt. I know he is close, and I draw it out of him, balanced on the tip of his cock, the livid head of his dick captured just inside my pussy lips, rocking back and forth, stimulating my clit while my juice runs down his cock like syrup. He comes, with an anguished scream, arching his back up to me, fingers and toes clenching spasmodically, tearing at the spikes I have driven through his flesh, filling me with his seed, and I come too, lowering myself onto him one last time until he is completely inside me, his balls mashed against my skin, pounding on his chest and twisting and pulling on his nipples all the way through my orgasm.

I have pissed on him; he has drank my urine straight from the source as if I were a human water fountain; I have smeared my menstrual blood all over his face; I have beat him and bitten him and branded his skin; I have jerked him off and sucked his cock; I have even sodomized him, but I will never possess him.

The vibrator finally slips regretfully out from between my tired and buzzing labia. I feel empty inside. My breasts are pink and flushed from my orgasm; my hands are still trembling. It is another Saturday night and I ain’t got nobody.



  1. Stairways said

    Aww, LC, hot but soooooo sad. Hope it isn’t your world.

  2. erikabarcelona said

    Wow, quite a story. I can sympathise with the theme, the aggresiveness even if you take it further than I would. Very hot.

  3. David said

    Reading this one, I’m reminded of Margaret’s tale from Nancy Friday’s book, “Beyond My Control”, where Margaret fantasizes about putting a gun to a man’s throat, and cutting off his hands. This one was hard to read, especially knowing actual people harbor these fantasies.

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