As anyone who knows me knows, I am always afraid of something terrible happening. And, as “something terrible” for me is “anything which isn’t exactly as I want it to be”, terrible things are quite frequently happening. But why, oh why, did it have to happen with my beloved Cherry Popper?
But, to be honest, even before that, I was feeling a little… I don’t know. A little disappointed. I’d been so turned on when he leaned over me to kiss me in that lecherous, predatory way he has. And I did come a few times while riding him, of course, but… it was a little forced. (This is generally what I refer to by “faking it”, by the way – not outright acting, which I’ve only done once or twice, under exceptional and completely justifiable circumstances. It’s a well-known fact that by contracting certain muscles, one can help an orgasm along its way, which is how one can make oneself come without touching oneself. But these are always small, unsatisfactory orgasms. I far prefer the kind which are completely out of my control!)
He did give me quite a hard slap at one point – my hair flew across my face – and then said, as he often does, “You just tell me if it’s ever too hard.”
“Never,” I answered defiantly.
“Oh, one day,” he assured me, with a rather peculiar smile. “It will be.”
WTF does that mean??
Then I did something quite unusual. He had brought his hand up to my cheek, no doubt to slap me again, but I grabbed it and moved it to my neck instead. He tightened it a little around my throat.
“Do you like this?” he asked.
“Yes,” I nodded.
At once, and in a way that suggested he really knew what he was doing, his fingers pressed down on my carotid artery, and everything began to go white. I didn’t pass out – I would hate to – but between this and the creepy smile before, I was beginning to wonder if he might not be a serial killer in the making.
Somehow, though, this wasn’t enough to cool my ardour – that came later. I got a little too excited, I think, and things became really crazy and then Something Terrible happened. He still came shortly after that with his cock at the back of my throat and a jet of come shooting straight down it, so I guess it was not as terrible as it could have been. And then we had a bit of light-hearted conversation afterwards.
“So how’s that sex-crazed psychotherapist you were seeing?”
“Who?? Oh, her – no, I never saw her again.”
“What? Why not?”
“Well, she’s a little…”
“Oh no, she’s completely normal. She’s the most normal person you could ever meet.”
“Well… just a little… overweight.”
“Oh?! Cherry Popper, you’re so size-ist!”
“I am not size-ist! She’s like… a 12 or 14, even! But… she is a really good candidate for us going over there together, tying her up and having our way with her. You could fuck her with a strap-on. I know you’ve played with girls before but have you ever used strap-ons?”
“Would you want to?”
“Well, only if I were… receiving.”
“Oh really? You wouldn’t want to see what it feels like to be the man? Doing the fucking?”
“It’s not really my thing. Unless you make me, of course.”
“You want me to make you do it?”
“Oh yes! I’ll do it if a man is making me do it.”
“You’ll do it if a man is making you do it… hmm.”
Then he almost forgot to pay me (I love it when that happens), and then we sauntered off together down the road, talking about sports (“You need to have something to keep yourself fit, after this sex thing wears out…” “I run half-marathons, for God’s sake!” “Oh yeah… I forgot.”) and he asked me if I would like to be fucked on a squash court. Not at his club, he hastened to add, because that would be madness. And then he texted me the number of “the lovely Angela” – the last girl we played with – and then he ended with, “see you in Nov”.
But I don’t know… how will I ever get over the shame??
I trudged homeward, despondent, and had stopped at a café to console myself with coffee and cake when I got a message from the Anal Rapist.
“So you can’t come over today?”
“No, sorry. I had a little accident.”
“Oh?? Are you OK?”
“I’m OK. But can’t meet today, sorry.”
“Well, can I come by in my car? Just to say hello.”
“No, I think it’s a bad idea.”
“I’m not wearing stockings.”
“I’m in my way. Where are you?”
“Walking home from the high street.”
“Turn around and walk to the park. I’m in my way.”
I was freezing by then, in a short skirt and bare legs, and getting irritated by all the idiotic “I’m in my way” messages. It was just a typo, surely, but over and over? And what did he mean by coming by “to say hello”? I couldn’t really see the point of that. Unless it’s a euphemism for a blow-job, the way “coming over for coffee” is a euphemism for sex. But in public, in broad daylight? That surely couldn’t really be what he meant…
…or could it?!