Not That Kind of Girl

I'm dressing "hot" tonight. That's what I do when I'm going out for a night of fun. A short, tight skirt that exposes a lot of leg and shows off my butt, a blouse that is either so tight my breasts are about to burst out or so loose and slinky that it tempts a man to sneak a peek, and, of course, stockings and high ... I mean HIGH ... heels—what more could a girl want? It's everything you need to have absolute power over a man. And that's what I like the most.

Tonight, I'm wearing a short black leather skirt. It comes down only a few inches beyond my ass. Very naughty! My blouse is silk and a dark, sensuous blue. My stockings are black, to match my skirt, and they're the thigh-high type—no pantyhose for me. The laced tops of the stockings show even when I'm standing up straight. That will direct men's attention where I want it. And my shoes are dark blue suede 4-inch heels with a strap around the ankles. I'm dressed to kill, but I'm planning to stop short of lethal.

There's a fine line between just looking really sexy and looking slutty. I like to be a few steps over the line into slutty. The outfit is already there and I'm a pro with make-up and with my hair. When I finish, I admire myself in the mirror. I know I'll catch the intense attention of every heterosexual man who gets a glimpse of me. Women out with other women will say to each other, "she looks like a tramp," but secretly they'll be wishing they could command the attention of men the way I do. Women out with their men will be monitoring their dates' reactions to me. More than a few of those men will get a "talking to" tonight about not leering at other women.

Perfect!

It's late when I head out of the hotel room where I'm getting dolled up for the night. I'm not interested in spending a long evening in mindless chitchat with boring strangers in a bar. My fun starts later and my trolling for it starts just about the time others are getting ready to call it a night.

I've scoped out the neighborhood. There are a few neighborhood bars near my hotel. I pick one at random and head in. I sashay up to the bar, pretending not to notice the looks I provoke. I ask the bartender for a glass of water. Sounds crazy, huh! But, believe me, this is a never-fail strategy. Within a minute, as always happens, some guy comes up and says, "Can I buy you something more interesting to drink?"

Every time this happens, I get the feeling that the guy thinks he's been very creative. I guess it's better than "What's your sign?" or "Do you live around here?" But I've heard variants of it almost every time I do this. I don't care, though. I'm not looking for clever. I'm looking for dominant, confident, assertive. I want the guy who's always sure that he's the alpha male—the lead dog—in the room. And whoever makes the first move is usually exactly the guy I'm looking for.

This time, it's a guy named Jeff. I smile at him coyly and let him buy me a drink. We talk for a while. I find out that he's a lawyer—a litigator—and he thinks very highly of himself. At least, that's the front he puts on. The way he talks about himself in the first five minutes tells me all I need to know, and certainly all I want to know, about him. He's the right guy for tonight. I'm confident that things will work out fine.

Because it's pretty late, I don't have to listen to his self-promoting banter for too long. Jeff asks if I want to go someplace quieter. This is, of course, a euphemism. The bar's not that noisy. But we both know what it's a euphemism for and, so, it works.

"That would be nice," I say, kind of breathlessly. "I don't know the area. I'm just visiting for the weekend." That's always good to say to reassure your prey that he's not in danger of getting "involved" with the person he's hoping to fuck. "I'm staying at a hotel around the corner but we can't go back there." I pause for a moment, then go on, "I'm not that kind of girl." I'm careful to say it flirtatiously, with a little bit of a giggle.

Jeff's good. I've got to give him credit. He's clearly smart enough to see that this is a feint—a ruse. But he suppresses any impulse he has to smirk in anticipation of his success.

"Aw, come on. What kind of girl do you have to be to invite a perfectly respectable gentleman back to your room just to have a night cap and talk?" I hesitate and he presses. "I can see what kind of girl you are. You're intelligent, independent, and strong-willed: the kind of woman that a man has to respect."

Okay, he's laying it on a little thick. What he really thinks is, "You're the kind of woman who will spread her legs for a man she barely knows if he flatters her with empty praise." He doesn't have it quite right, but that doesn't matter to me.

"Well, I guess it's okay if we're just going there to have a drink and talk." Jeff's no doubt thinking, "She's so naïve." I'm thinking the same about him.

As we leave, Jeff puts his arm around my waist, letting it slip down to my hip. I pull his hand up, but not before letting him cop a bit of a feel of my ass. The other men in the bar, even (maybe especially) the ones with dates, notice us leaving and, no doubt, make a mental note of the record time in which Jeff had scored a date with "the hot slutty chick." It might have been a record time for me, too. I'd only been in the bar about 10 minutes.

We stop by the hotel bar on the way in and Jeff buys a bottle of wine for us to take up to our room. In the elevator on the way up, Jeff's free hand finds my ass again. This time, I let him grope a little longer—until we're almost at our floor—before I play the "proper girl" by moving it away. But, as I do, I giggle and smile at him in a way that makes it clear that I'm not saying 'no'—just 'not now'.

My room is a nice one—large enough to have a small table with two chairs in the room. I usually try to get a room like this because I prefer things to start at a table instead of on the bed.

After we've nearly killed the bottle of wine, I'm still playing coy. Jeff is struggling to figure out how to make the transition from talking to fucking. He's pretty smooth, I think. He suggests getting some music on the TV. As we're polishing off the last of the bottle of wine, a torch song comes on and Jeff gets starry-eyed and says: "I love this song. Will you dance with me?"

For all I know, he may have never heard the song before. I'm guessing he was ready to say that no matter what song came on. He figures, "What girl could turn down a request to dance with a sentimental guy to some schmaltzy song?"

Well, I'm not the kind of girl to turn him down. But I do put a condition on it: "Okay, but only if you promise that you're not pining for some lost love when you hear this song."

"Don't worry, honey. I'm thinking only of you tonight." And I'm sure that's right. I'm also sure that he'll be thinking about me, and this night, for years to come.

The "dance" is a high school boy's fantasy: a little rocking back and forth as an excuse for major groping. Now I let Jeff grope my hips and thighs and ass as much as he wants. I don't want his hands on my breasts or in my crotch so I hold him really close. I move responsively to his touch and fill his ear with soft moans of pleasure.

When Jeff kisses me on the neck, I respond with a shiver of pleasure and a soft giggle. I nibble his earlobe and let my own hands do some exploring of his ass. He clenches his buttocks in response and I like the feeling of how firm his ass is.

The song ends and Jeff lays me down on the bed, crawling on top of me. I let him kiss me and I kiss him back. His tongue invades my mouth, a harbinger of things to come (sp?).

He's actually quite good at this. He's masterful without seeming intimidating. He holds my head while he's kissing me in a way that makes me feel desired but not dominated.

I reach down and feel Jeff's crotch. His cock is rigid, pressing up against his belt. As well as one can tell through the fabric, he seems nicely endowed. I like a man with a big cock. It feeds into my fantasy of being with a strong dominant man. I'm the kind of girl who likes to fuck strong, dominant men.

Jeff's groping toward my crotch, too, but I slide down, moving his target out of range. He's not complaining, though because I'm moving down toward his crotch.

I put my lips against his hard cock, separated only by a few layers of thin cloth, and blow my warm breath into his trousers. I feel his hips thrusting gently and hear him moan with pleasure. He's thinking that the night's going better for him than he had any right to expect. He's looking forward to a memorable night, one he can brag to his buddies about. He's going to get a memorable night, alright, but I doubt that he's going to be bragging about it.

And, now, the pivot. When I'm sure I've gotten Jeff about as hot and bothered as possible, I push away from him and say, all coyness drained from my voice, "You've got to go now!"

"What?!?!" Jeff is dumbstruck. He was, he thought, cruising for an easy score. Now it looks as if the game is being called off, and for no apparent reason.

First, he tries being thoughtful and sensitive. He asks me, "What's the matter?" He wants to know if I've been hurt before. I'm pretty sure this is faux sympathy. He's figuring that maybe he can be my consoler and, then, fuck me.

"No. It's nothing like that."

"Then what is it? Did I do something wrong?"

"No. I just don't want to do anything more. You've got to go. I told you before we came here that I'm not 'that kind of girl'."

I can see the thoughtful, sensitive strategy melt from the heat of Jeff's anger. First he tries to control it. He says, "Not that kind of girl?!?! I might have believed that at the bar. I was taking a chance. But everything you did after we left said ... no, it screamed ... that you are that kind of girl."

"Trust me," I say with a little harshness in my tone, "I'm not the kind of girl you think I am."

This doesn't mollify him, of course. He ventures a hypothesis. "Is this something you do?! Do you just like picking up a man, teasing him, then kicking him out? Is that the way you get your kicks?"

I don't respond but I try to give him a slightly guilty look that tells him he's right. He embraces his diagnosis. After all, it's an ego-saving one: "He's great! The problem is just that I'm a ball-busting psycho bitch."

My feigned look of guilt transforms into a smirk of satisfaction. And I see the anger in his eyes. He's not just pissed off; he's filled with righteous indignation. He feels used and abused. He thinks someone needs to teach me a lesson and he's sure he's just the person to do that.

"Listen bitch." He gets up and grabs me by both shoulders and throws me down on the bed. I fall to the bed, lying there helpless. "You don't get to do that to me!" Now he's on top of me, pinning my arms down. "No one gets to do that to me!"

He presses his lips to my mouth. I clench my mouth closed and try to turn away from him. Holding my arms down at my sides, under his knees, he grabs my head with both hands and forces a kiss on me. He presses his fingers into my cheeks, forcing them between my teeth and opening my mouth to his tongue. I can't bite him now so his tongue penetrates—violates—my mouth. He's showing me that he can have me at will.

"You're going to finish what you started here tonight. I didn't come here to be teased and tossed out."

Jeff is trying to unbutton my blouse. As much as I like this phase of the scenario, I need to move to the next one quickly.

I do what I usually do at this point. I go limp. I show every sign of having given up any hope of struggling. I am helpless to resist Jeff's aggression and resigned to the inevitable.

You'd be surprised how easy it is to convince a man that he's won—that his strength and aggression have left him in a position of unchallengeable dominance.

When Jeff concludes that I've yielded to his power, he relaxes. He loosens his grip. Maybe he'd watched a lot of rape fantasy porn where the woman's, "No! Don't! Stop!" quickly becomes "No ... Don't stop!" Maybe he just thinks that, in the end, he's irresistible

Whatever. This is a mistake. As soon as Jeff loosens his grip, I twist out from under him. In the split second during which he's frozen in startlement, I grab the syringe from under my pillow and, before he can react, I've injected the tranquilizer into his neck.

In the few seconds it takes for the tranquilizer to begin taking effect, I watch Jeff's eyes closely. As he's slipping into unconsciousness, I can see him begin to figure out the predicament he's in. He's no danger to me now but I like watching this transition from domination to subjugation. Letting my voice drop an octave, I say, "Don't worry. I'll finish what I started here." I'm not sure that registers for Jeff or whether he can see the look of satisfaction, and eager anticipation, on my face as he drifts into a stupor.

It's a short-acting tranquilizer. I have about an hour to get things ready for the final scene. I have a lot to do, but I work quickly and efficiently. I've had plenty of experience.

When Jeff begins to come to, I want him to have an opportunity to take in the nature of his situation all on his own. So, I'm in the bathroom while he begins to rouse. I won't miss out on the fun of watching him wake up. I'll get to see it later on the video.

The videocamera on the tripod is usually about the fifth thing guys in Jeff's situation notice. The first thing they notice is that they can't move their hands or legs. They are tied, spread-eagled on their backs, to the four corners of the bed. I'm the kind of girl who likes variety so I do this with wrist and ankle cuffs so that I can easily reposition the guy.

The second thing guys usually notice is that they're completely naked. The cool air against their whole body clues them in to that.

Then they notice that they can't make any serious sounds. It wouldn't do to have someone call hotel security to investigate reports of a man screaming for help, so I use a very effective gag. It's kind of high tech—a transformer gag. Right now, it's got a ball in it that fills Jeff's mouth and makes it hard to make any sound at all. But I can swap out that ball for an insert that just keeps him from closing his teeth. Of course, when I use that device, I have to use something else to plug up his mouth and make sure he doesn't make too much noise.

Still focused on the immediate condition of their bodies, the fourth thing most guys notice—at least I think they notice it then—is that they're completely denuded of body hair. I like picking up a hairy guy fine—in fact, I prefer hairy guys—but the reason I do is that I enjoy the dramatic transformation that takes place when I shave them and use a depilatory cream to make their bodies look pre-pubescent.

I'm really only guessing about the timing of their realization that their body hair is gone. It's not like they tell me. But there's something about the way most guys try to pull their thighs together, as if they could somehow cross them and hide their exposed genitals, that makes me think that they're suddenly aware that they're not covered even by their natural hair.

It's only after all of this growing awareness that most guys see the video camera mounted on the tripod with the red recording light flashing. At this point, most of them (and Jeff was no exception here) forget about trying to use their thighs to cover their denuded genitals and begin rocking back and forth violently, trying to break the bonds. Fat chance!

I let Jeff thrash for a bit to come to the realization that "resistance is futile." Then I make my entrance.

Jeff tries again to talk—well, really, he tries to yell—when he sees me walk toward the bed. His protests would be futile even if he could give voice to them. His muffled attempts are pathetic. I'm completely in charge now; it's Jeff who is helpless and has to simply accept his fate.

As I crawl up on the bed, my legs straddling his body, I say, "I'm not sure you heard what I told you just as you were nodding off. I told you not to worry ... that I was, indeed, going to finish what I'd started tonight."

Jeff looks confused. I think that he notices that my voice is lower than it was before. Crawling up his body, my thighs rub against his smooth body. It feels delicious.

When I get up to his chest, I look Jeff in the eye—my domination of him manifestly evident: "We're going to have some fun tonight." And, with that, I crawl up above his shoulders.

His face is now in under my skirt, my crotch inches away from him. He shakes his head violently side to side as he comes to grips with his awareness of my hard cock and full ball sack hovering over him threateningly.

The thrashing is fine with me—part of the fun. Then he tries butting his head up to try to hurt me. That's not fine. I hold him down tightly by his hair. When we're both sure that even his best efforts to thrash about are ineffective, I slowly lower myself down on to his face.

I think that one of my many favorite moments in the scenarios like tonight's is the moment when my balls and the underside of my cock first touch the guy's face. For my partners, this is almost certainly the first time they've ever been touched by a cock. And for me, every time I do this it feels like a first time. I feel such excitement and energy coursing through my body as I tease both myself, and my partner, with the touch of my cock and balls.

I can feel Jeff's breath, now heavy, against the sensitive skin under my ball sack. I wonder whether the hair on my balls is tickling his nose. I move around gently, hoping it is.

This is just a tease, of course. Jeff's mouth is plugged with the ball gag. There will be time for oral pleasures later. For now, I just want him to know what he's going to be dealing with tonight.

"You like that?" I ask as I roll off to his side. Jeff shakes his head but I ignore his attempt to respond. "You wanted to get under my skirt tonight, right? Now that you have, do you like what you see?" More head shaking.

"Well, I hope you do," I lie, "because you're going to get very familiar with it tonight." The last part isn't a lie.

I lie down next to Jeff. "What's the matter? You look sad?" He doesn't really look sad. He looks scared and, perhaps, disgusted. But "sad" works better for my scenario.

"Is tonight not working out the way you hoped and expected? You liked it when I was blowing in your ear earlier tonight. What's the matter now? Isn't that nice anymore?" I blow in his ear and, just for good measure, stick my tongue in his ear, too.

As I caress and nibble at his neck, I run my long, painted fingernails down his chest and abdomen. When I reach his cock, I'm pleasantly surprised. It isn't rigid like it was when he thought he was about to fuck the living daylights out of some cheap slut he picked up in a bar, but it isn't withered, either. It's full, and filling more.

I'm not saying that he was turned on *by the fact that* some very convincing transvestite was blowing in his ear and caressing him with hir fingernails. But I *am* saying that he *was* turned on by a very convincing transvestite blowing in his ear and caressing him with hir fingernails. Most guys I do this to are, I've found. You know: touch is touch.

"You like this, don't you?" I stroke Jeff's cock gently. His shaking head says 'no', but his growing cock screams 'yes'.

As I drag my nails gently over his bare cock, feeling it return to the complete rigidity I'd felt before, my own cock was demanding attention, too. I rock my pelvis, gently humping Jeff's hip. If he's turned off by the thought of another man's cock stroking against him, there isn't any sign of it in his own cock. It remains hard and hot.

I move my head down his body, not touching him but letting him feel my warm breath on his bare skin. I stop over his cock, still not touching him with my lips. (I don't give my partners that kind of pleasure. I'm not that kind of gurl, I guess.) I just let him feel my warm, moist breath and yearn for my touch.