[MF] It started with an actual pearl necklace | 2016

I’m living a fantasy. Or rather I’m living all of my fantasies, rolled up into one man and the things he does to me.

He is my work fantasy, my stranger fantasy, my lover fantasy, and the fantasies I didn’t know were lurking in this, um, not so straight-laced mind of mine.

I met him at a conference. Months later, I found myself in a hotel room with him, impossibly being scheduled on a work trip together, and asking him to show me what it was like to be pinned down with enough force that I couldn’t move. We hadn’t had sex before this, and we didn’t plan on having sex on this trip. But oh god, I was like a moth to an intense flame, and he seemed to read my mind. Especially when it was the kinkier recesses of my mind.

He instructed me in choosing a safe word, in the aspects of play that make such a thing play, and told me to undress, as he did. I moved toward him, cautiously, to kiss him, and he took my wrists in his hands and effortlessly pushed me backwards onto the bed. He pinned my arms above me, roughly attacking my boobs with his mouth while I squirmed underneath him, flooded with pleasure and an odd rage at not being able to break free.

I struggled against him harder, and he slid his knee forward and pushed my legs open. But instead of plunging into me as I wanted him to, though we hadn’t agreed to, he somehow grabbed my hips and flipped me over, pinning my arms to my side. I kicked back, trying to gain leverage, looking for some way to writhe free, but then he pulled my arms down farther along my sides while pushing my thighs forward with his knee, forcing my ass in the air toward him. He pressed his cock against my ass cheek, breathing heavily while I panted, then leaned into my ear and calmly commented, “This is where I would fuck you, if I were going to.” And then he let go.

I’d never felt force like that.

Rewinding to when I met him. Both of us were on our way out of our current relationships, but not saying anything publicly, operating under the facades of happy and functioning coupledom.

We spent the week crossing paths, building up to our final night where we ducked out of a happy hour to get dinner together. Four hours of conversation later, I made a silly joke about the people we’d observed at the conference, many obviously on the prowl to hook up with someone.

He raised an expressive eyebrow at me. A wry smile crept across his—wait, oh god, yes, witheringly handsome face—and suddenly my heart started racing, because all the pieces were falling into place.

We weren’t out to dinner as friends. This was something else.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, what was happening? Yeah, he was really attractive and terribly smart, but we’d presented ourselves as taken, so this was an innocent thing, right?

Oh shit.

I think I actually said all those oh shits, but I don’t remember exactly. What I do remember is how evenly and confidently he said, “Well. I would like nothing more than to take you back to your hotel room and do all kinds of amazing things to you.”

I’m sure I turned bright red. No one has ever so boldly suggested something like this to me. I was terrified.

I was also extremely turned on.

I mumbled something about getting the check, either to him or the waiter or the napkin in my lap. He seemed amused at my discomfort, and also entirely comfortable with my reaction. He wasn’t going to cry in his pillow if I said no.

“Well?” he asked me.

I realized how close his knee was to mine, his shoulder, his face. When had this proximity narrowed? The corner booth we’d snagged suddenly seemed less a prime dinner spot than a cozy cuddle pod. I knew I should scoot away, tell him no, thank you, and leave.

But oh my god. He wanted to do amazing things to me. He seemed to know what they would be. I could tell he had plans for me.

Holy shit I could’ve slid off that bench with desire.

He was waiting for a response to his question. I stammered something about not being able to control my blush response to embarrassment. Something about being a pale redhead, something about being a very sheltered girl with nothing but awkward things to say. Yes, I dress like I’m going to a conservative bake sale most of the time.

Maybe I do that so that no one guesses the nature of what I crave.

He leaned in closer. “Your necklace is twisted. Here.” He reached up and adjusted the strand of pearls (hey, not kidding about that bake sale) around my neck so that the clasp landed back at that most protruding part of my spine.

This action took eons. Civilizations came and went, the pyramids turned to dust, humans colonized Mars…all while his long, light brown fingers casually brushed against my certainly flushed skin. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t move.

Somehow I survived.

I found myself cursing my ridiculous old lady outfit—boring jeans, a loose high-necked shirt, sensible boots, ordinarily crazy red hair carefully pulled back into a bun.

This is probably the part where I’m supposed to describe how I look so that this reads as a sexy story and not as a YA summer camp saga.

All I really want to do is describe what this man ended up doing to me, with me, for me, but it seems appropriate to help readers follow along. Fine. I’m really about average height and weight, C cup, a bit above average ass size because I like to exercise but I also really love food and beer. This is no manic pixie bullshit; I did not wake up like this. I do my makeup and blow out my hair and wear jewelry and a dainty belt because I like to put myself together and I like how I look…and in the middle of the night, when I am horny as fuck, I touch myself and imagine a stranger dragging me to a public bathroom and fucking me silly.

If I’m really horny and need a quick round two, I fantasize about being made love to. At a bake sale.

Well, I used to imagine this. Now I imagine this guy, this man, because he cracked my perfectly tailored façade and outfits and hairdos and managed to penetrate my buttoned-up exterior.

And my pussy.

Back to the restaurant and the awkward pause after the pearl adjustment. Yeah, we’re still talking about my necklace.

I finally managed to look at him again. He was sitting back, no longer leaning close in to me, and watching me like he was the waiter and patiently expecting me to order what I wanted. Glasses, dark scruff on his face, shiny dark hair on his head that I wanted to touch, to weave my fingers into while he took me.

I was certain everyone in the restaurant knew what was happening, maybe the whole city. Surely I couldn’t escape anyone’s gaze. Surely it was no secret how wet I’d become.

What did he want to do to me?

Oh god it would be so easy to say yes.

“I don’t want to put pressure on you,” he floated from his comfortable, terribly casual position next to me. Too close, way too close. How had we ended up so close?

“Hahahahaha okay thanks. Right. Right right right. Gosh, the music in here sure is great.” I stared at the unsexy flatware on the table, the food I’d forgotten to touch, anything other than him.

“So. You don’t want to then?” That sexy man was not going to be redirected.

I mustered all my will to say no, of course not, I have at least 10 Hail Marys to say tonight, and some volunteer work to do, and all of my shirts need ironing. I probably ought to vote, and shampoo, and exfoliate.

Oh, nope. I forgot to say all that. Instead, “Um. Uh. No.” And I looked as far in the other direction I could, so he couldn’t see my face.

He laughed, as if I had told the most hilarious joke. I imagined what his skin would feel like, his cock inside me, while he laughed like that.

“I can see right through you,” he said, somehow gently, and entirely accurately.

I looked back at him. I have no doubt he could read all the need in my expression. I wanted his hands on me, to adjust my necklace after ripping my shirt off over my head and pushing me in to the bed in my hotel room.

I forgot to speak. I was a puddle.

“Well, let’s sl;dkfnasd;ljanbe;oitba, or let’s get out of here,” he said. What was the first option? I don’t remember. I just squeaked that I wanted to get out of there, and launched from the booth like I’d been shocked with a cattle prod.

And suddenly we were out of the restaurant, his arm was around me, and we were walking into the slightly chilly night. I could feel his warmth. I could smell his scent. I was more conscious than I ever have been of how incredibly wet I was. God I might have made squishing noises while I walked.

“I’m glad you decided you wanted to leave,” he said quietly, as if he were confiding a special secret. His hand on my hip, my body tucked in under his arm, he squeezed me slightly closer.

I will disappoint you now and tell you that he did not fuck me that night. The closest we got was a hug in the hotel lobby. No, three hugs. It was hard for me to say no; he didn’t pressure me, other than being so fucking attractive with that hair and that skin and that serious expression, with those occasional laughing eyes, that sharp wit and that casual sexuality that made me want to rip his clothes off, or lie still while he did mine.

A few hours later, in the light of day, and the coldness of sobriety, I agonized over…everything. Some part of me was sure that HR had seen it all and would fire me promptly when I returned to normal work.

But a greater part wondered: what had I missed?

And then I found out.

Months later, in a hotel room in a different city, at his calm demand, his insistent request—I felt his cock and his cum inside me. This was after the trip where he showed me what it was like to be overpowered, after he wrestled me naked into a position where I was wet and open to his hard cock, and he let me go and stepped away—that constant, insane control that just drove me wild.

This was after all of that.

It was the slowest of the slow burns, after months of hearing him growl my name into the phone, crafting night after night of intimate situations over text, and then voice, responding to my mood and my need with endless combinations of force, affection, and equal desire.

He’d tell me how he wanted to fuck me, or make love to me, or feel me ride him—in public, in a quiet room, in his car, in the bed of my one past lover.

He’d make me wait until he gave me permission to cum, and what could I do but whisper, “yes sir,” until he commanded me to cum for him, using my name before I called out his.

When real life was coming apart around me, and I was unmoored and wild, he messaged me one morning and simply told me to book a flight and come meet him. He gave me his hotel information, the timeframe, and informed me that he was going to take me.

I knew I could opt out at any time. I understood the safe word, and all the control I had. He knew it was time. He knew it, and I knew it, and this was the way it should have been—at his command.

He knew my desire to be controlled, the unique shape of it, and how to respond to it. Better yet, he knew how to direct it. I knew his desire to dominate. We’d both explored it over voice, in the solitude of our own nights from half a world away from each other.

I booked the flight. I boarded the plane. I left the pearls at home, blew out my hair big and wild, shaved my legs in the morning knowing he’d be inside me that night, ditched the proper lady clothes for a small dress this time to show off my cleavage and abs, and wore the black bra and panties that I assumed were sexy, but that I also hoped would spend a lot of time on the floor or across a lamp or torn to fucking shreds.

I was terrified, overwhelmed, and full of lust.

He met me at the airport, late at night, with just a few strangers around to witness the beginning of our weekend. I almost turned and ran away when I saw him. He strode toward me when he saw me, not a doubt in his mind of how this would go. He took my hand and led me to the car.

I’d already ducked into the bathroom of the airport and slid my panties off, slipped them into my purse, again at his instruction. But this wasn’t even that odd; I’d taken to carrying a spare pair around for months, changing in the middle of the day to counter the effect his messages had on me over the course of the day, or the memory of the things he’d said to me the night before, or from watching him present to a room of people like a fucking badass.

He made me wet, so wet, daily. In case that wasn’t clear.

I tucked in close to him in the car as the Uber driver took us to his hotel. My heart was racing, but I could feel how calm he was, one arm around me, another on the inside of my thigh. His fingers slid up the soft skin of my leg. What could I do but slide my legs open as he did? His hand made it to where my legs met, and he stopped, stroking the hairs slightly, making me twitch and twist, and he observed my panty-less state, which he had required in his instructions, and said evenly, “Good girl.”

I stifled a moan. Surely he wasn’t surprised. This was what he’d told me to do. I was helpless, ever since that initial “no,” so many months ago, and he knew it. He’d spent countless hours combing the recesses of my mind for my every desire, painting the landscape of my sexuality, and he knew it intimately without having actually put his cock inside me.

He’d earned this power over me.

I searched for an adequate response, something beyond the lizard brain noises I was capable of, but suddenly his finger was sliding inside me.

It wasn’t exploratory, like in my limited experience. This was decisive motion, a drive towards a goal that was obviously my pleasure, or something else entirely that just happened to make me wild in the process. I lifted off the seat, barely able to remain quiet.

He slid in further, then hooked forward and I couldn’t keep from moaning.

The driver’s eyes lifted into the rearview. I gripped this man’s thigh, imploring him to preserve me until we made it to some place where I could be taken and not also sent to jail for whatever indecency was sure to ensue. He laughed softly, withdrew his finger, and brushed it over his tongue. Then he kissed me.

Oh, fuck. Oh fuck fuckity fuck fuck. I was ruined. It’s one thing to read about sex, to watch sex, to hear descriptions of the things that really get you off. But for someone else to intimately touch you and basically set fire to your body with the slightest contact—this is hot. This is sexy. And that’s what his kiss did, even more than his nightly growl into the phone, even more than his penetrative finger.

The ride up the elevator in the hotel was agony. He didn’t push me against the wall or rip any clothes. He held my hand like a fucking gentleman. He asked me about my flight, made inane small talk…clearly amused at his total power over me.

And then we walked into the room. As the door latched shut, and my legs ceased to function, he turned and pressed me into the wall. His lips and his tongue made their way over mine, his whole body leaning into me and against the immovable presence of the wall, the hardness of his cock impossible to ignore.

My hips already moved involuntarily when I thought of him, absent his actual presence. There in that room, with his whole body pinning me, it was more than those slight involuntary movements; my everything pushed forward, rocking into him, seeking out his heat and his hardness.

Suddenly and roughly he spun me around, and I was face-first into the hard wall, unrelentingly solid, and his hand was back on the inside of my thigh, sliding up toward my pussy, pausing before entering me so that I actually shook with anticipation. And then…overwhelming pleasure. His thumb must have been inside me, pressing forward from behind, while his other fingers brushed lightly over my clit. Another hand slid up the back of my leg, over my ass, tracing the side of my abdomen, and over my right breast. The right sleeve of my dress shifted down over my shoulder, then lower down my arm to expose my bra, and then his hand and his five beautiful fingers peeled my strapless bra down and had full access to my nipple.

I might have exploded, but he was kissing and biting my neck, and pushing his thumb inside me in a way that was almost a grip. If I moved, I was certain he’d pull me back into place by my pussy.

So I stood there, barely stood, being played like a goddamn instrument, his fingers and his lips working me like a one-man orchestra. I moaned and my knees buckled, and he pushed me back up with his hand and squeezed my breast hard with the other. I gasped and turned my head, looking for his mouth, and found it briefly, so that I was exhaling into him. He let go of my breast and pussy, grabbed my right hand in his, my left in his, and brought them together over my head, pinning them against the wall with one hand.

He resumed his concert, and I thought I would cum right there against the wall, struggling against his impossible grip on my arms and my pussy. His fingers stopped, holding me still, and he pressed his lips to my ear and his cock, still in his pants, harder against my ass. “I could take you now, like this.”

Time suspended. The pyramids were rebuilt and we got tired of Mars and moved on to another solar system.

My heart waited to beat. I swear I could hear him blink.

“Is that how you want it, this time?”

Oh, coy man. He knew I would take him any way he’d offer. He knew I was there so that he would take me.

“Yes.” I whispered, unnecessarily. He already knew the answer. All those months, invading my mind, learning my desires to an extent that I didn’t know myself…of course I’d brought him my body, and of course it was his for the taking.

“Yes,” I said, louder this time, rocking my hips backward to press harder against him. Why was his cock still in his pants? Why couldn’t I use my hands to get at it?

I could hear the amusement in his voice. “Good girl.”

And he relented, withdrawing his hands and gently turning me around.

Time slowed down again. He kissed me, taking his time, and it was so lovely I almost forgot I was in pain for wanting his cock inside me. Slowly he slid my dress off my shoulders and down to the floor. I unbuttoned his shirt in turn, remembering, thank god, how to work buttons.

He walked me backwards toward the bed, unclasping my bra and letting it fall as I pushed his shirt off his shoulders. He ran his hands over my breasts and grazed my nipples while I unbuckled his belt.

There’s a whole separate story for that belt, or a few really, but that will come later. So to speak. In another story.

For now, it was just to be undone in order to get at his jeans, undo them, and let them drop. I believe I commented on how stupid pants were, how idiotic underwear were, as I awkwardly tried to peel these off and still maintain as much skin contact as possible.

He laughed and tolerated this business, and I got to finally see his cock again. It had been months since he’d shown me just how strong he was, and while I’d touched him then, I hadn’t freely worshipped this instrument of pleasure the way I had wanted. My sheltered inexperience meant that the…um…cut and color of his cock were entirely unique to my experience. I was delighted and fascinated. I regretted that I couldn’t watch the contrast of his dark hard cock sliding into my pale soft pussy when it came to pass. So to speak. Men really are quite lucky to get to witness this vantage point more easily during sex. Yes, I’m jealous.

I reached down to touch him. I looked down to see as I did, his black hair against my red, the way his cock looked in my hand as I lightly slid my fingers over it.

But that didn’t last. He practically picked me up and threw me on the bed, easily lifting my hips to position me as he wanted.

And then he made me fly. Or at least it felt like he did. He settled in between my legs, barely licking me at first, his tongue lightly grazing my clit, his eyes watching me for the reactions he wanted so he could decide what to do to me next. He lifted to his knees after a few minutes of this and reached a hand up to my left nipple, somehow expertly pinching and then stroking it so that I thought I might actually cum from just that.

Oh, except no, he was still torturing me with his mouth. It was bad enough that his cock was nowhere near me, but he was licking me so lightly that it felt incredible, and I also thought, “I’ll never cum, not in a million years, I’ll just die of pleasure right here.”

But he had nowhere he had to be. When I begged him to use more force, he stopped, looked at me, and then lightened up. I moaned in agony. Where were those magical fingers? Why wouldn’t he make me finish?

I must have said this, because then he stopped and said, matter-of-factly, “I’m going to retrain you for what it takes to make you cum.”

Oh.

And he was back to it, lightly tracing the entrance to my pussy with his tongue, carefully dragging it up over my clit and then back around again, and pressing inside…holy fucking Christ, what? His tongue inside me? I sat straight up, shocked at this, because I’d never had this before. He calmly instructed me to lie down again, and carried on licking me, never giving me the pressure I craved, never releasing me from his control, the infuriating agony that is a slow-build of pleasure.

And then I came, in long rolling waves that made me lift my hips up off the bed and yell his name with all the energy I had. It lasted so long. And that’s when he applied that pressure, as I was coming, pushing his tongue up against me so that I thought I might just explode twice.

Then I couldn’t stand it. I needed him. I needed his cock inside me, and I moaned for it, begging him to give it to me. And finally, he was face-to-face with me on the bed, over me, nothing between us, nothing holding us back, and his cock hard and ready at the entrance to my still-throbbing pussy.

I think I actually said, “Please,” when he was there, I was so insane for him. My hips raised to meet his, and I hoped that somehow he would magically slide in from that action. Maybe he would have, if he were small.

Maybe this is what happens, when a man’s cock is shaped perfectly for you. It feels incredible going in, while it’s in, and it’s fucking hell to release it. He pushed in slowly, deliberately, looking at me the whole time with that dual expression of control and desire. He was hot and hard and pressed in me in a way I’d not felt before, and he held still for a moment after he was completely inside me. I pushed my hips against his pressure, doubling down on the feeling of his cock deep within me.

“Lie still,” he said, simply. More agonizing and incredible moments, just holding his cock inside me, shuddering from the realized desire of it.

Then he began to move.

It wasn’t crazy. It was measured, slow, even. The movements changed as he watched me, as he moved inside me and responded to what he felt and observed. Basically it started at YES! and just kept building. His body was in so much contact with mine, and his cock was so deep within me, and to watch his beautiful shoulders move back and forth within my immediate eyesight as he thrust into me, oh god this was incredible.

I reached and grabbed his ass to push him deeper into me. I heard him moan. I actually felt his cock grow bigger inside me, running out of room. He pushed into me faster, just barely, and I responded in turn by pushing up to meet him. Every sensation was so overwhelming now, everything felt so good, the weight and touch and taste of him was so intense that I didn't want it to end, I didn't want to cum, I didn't want anything but exactly what was happening.

He slid a hand under the small of my back to control me as he thrust, and another grabbed my left leg and pulled it up toward my chest, managing to pull him in more deeply and giving him more contact with my body.

Then he got really big, and really hard, and it was almost painful…but in a really good way, and I gasped from the pain and from feeling pleasure from pain, and he cried out my name and pushed very hard a few more times, and then he came inside me, eventually shuddering still, still breathing in gasps.

The pressure of his body was pretty damn nice afterward as we were plastered together, exhausted, and I held as still as I could to keep his cock inside me for as long as I could.

But this was silly, because of course he had plans for me. When he finally shifted off me and on to his back, he instructed me, “I want you to clean me off.”

This is another magic thing about this man—he’s got the recharge time of an 18-year old. Okay, well I think so, as I said I’ve had limited experience so I don’t actually know the recharge time of an 18-year-old firsthand.

But as I licked his cock clean of our sex, and tasted the mix of both of us, he became hard again, enough so that he could slide into me again, and he could claim me again.

Oh, there’s so much more to this. There are always more incredible experiences. This man is still making me cum, and more often than I’ve ever before, and for the first time I find myself fantasizing about someone’s cock in my mouth. And not just for the sake of doing it for him, but because I find it incredibly alluring to have that man’s cock in my mouth. His flavor is so good, his shape and size are so good.

I don’t know how to end these things, especially when it’s not really the end of anything. This was the beginning, is the beginning. I dream about his cock when I’m away from him, I fantasize about him, and now I write anonymous stories about what he does to me on the internet.