The Deal of My Life Ch. 01

It wasn't a hard day at work. It never is, not really. The work that I do is time consuming, but not really engaging. My job is not my vocation; it's simply a way to sustain myself monetarily and keep busy. No, my vocation starts when I get home from the long day of sitting and pretending to be normal, or normal enough to keep my job anyway.

A hot summer day outside, but my office is so cold that I'm carrying a jacket as I walk up to the door of my boyfriend's apartment. I don't always go over there right after work, but I've let him know I'll be there today. I have to let him know. It's part of our deal.

Though our current romantic culture goes to great lengths to deny it, all relationships are essentially about deals. A contract that we enter into with another person regarding how we will act towards them and how they will act towards us. I personally think that a lot of misery is created in relationships because most people don't treat their relationships as deals. No one takes the time to set down clear behavioral expectations, or hardly anyone I should say. Romance leads us to believe our perfect lover will know our mind and heart without ever having to ask or learn, and any failures on that front lead to feelings of anger or sadness.

It's been refreshing for me to be with someone who is willing to discuss expectations without dancing endlessly around the subject. We each have wants and needs and desires. The relationship comes about with how we fulfill those for each other, and the ways in which we are not willing to fulfill each other. A dance yes, but one with rules that we have both created and shared with each other, rather than one wherein neither partner knows who's leading, let alone what the rules are.

My heart is pounding as I raise my hand to insert the key. Maybe fear isn't what you should feel when you visit your boyfriend, but for me the fear I feel is a delicious spice that heightens my arousal at the thought of seeing him. After all, I don't know what I will find for myself behind the door, not for sure. A quick turn of the key gains me entry to the foyer, such as it is, of his apartment. I close the door behind me and set down the shoulder bag that doubles as a purse and lunch bag at work. The jacket, I lay carefully across the bag, keeping it out of contact with the dubious cleanliness of the floor. Then I wait.

As far as my employers care, I could wear jeans to work, or even sweatpants, but I care more than that about myself. I wear nice clothes to work, in part because I like being noticed, but it's also part of my deal. Sweatpants, after all, are not sexy. White blouses and black skirts are a start on my sexy work wardrobe, but it doesn't end there. Cunningly concealed under the white blouses are a rotation of waist cinchers. Today I have on a black and white one that has to be pulled on over my head and cinches breath-pinchingly tight. My bras for work are at minimum cute, and mostly sexy, lacy, silky things. For the sake of easy access, I do not wear underwear to work unless specifically told to do so. Also for that sake, I never wear tights. My legs are instead covered with imported stockings, held up by an imported garter belt, because Americans don't buy them often enough for domestic stores to carry anything of quality. At least, they don't where I live. And it's a good thing I have a desk job that doesn't require much walking or standing, because towering high heels are the final touch to my work outfits.

I don't wear makeup to work, mostly because I don't need to, though I will put on a bright red lipstick now and then for variety. I wear my dark hair long, about halfway down my back, and usually it simply floats freely around me. Though I do have contact lenses, I also wear a pair of dark rimmed glasses fit for a sexy librarian for variety or when my eyes are tired. Today it's contacts; one less thing to break if the sex gets rough.

I imagine sometimes that the men I work near must spend time thinking of me when they jack off. From their occasional stumbles at the sight of me, and the number of smiles I garner from them, I find the possibility highly likely. I wonder if someday one of them will have the balls to ask me out, or even proposition me, but so far none have dared.

I can hear my boyfriend's television, some sports channel I think, but the foyer is curtained off from the rest of the apartment, so I can't see anything that might be happening. I just wait. My feet are aching to be out of my heels or at least off of my feet, but I wait. Accepting that I have chosen this doesn't lessen the pain, but it does give me a certain calmness, despite my pounding heart. He usually doesn't keep me waiting this long.

When he pulls back the curtain abruptly, my breath catches in my throat at the sight of him. He is looking at me with undisguised hunger and lust, and I can see through his pants that he is ready to express his desires directly on my body. Neither of us speak. My eyes are riveted to the bulge in his jeans. Peripherally, I do note his slow scan of my body.

"Strip, bitch," are his first words to me. I flush at the sound of his voice, at the heat in it, and take my time for him, starting with my skirt. Though I want to keep staring at his cock, I have to give some attention to the hook on my skirt before I can unzip it and let it fall to the floor in a satiny pool around my heels. Not daring to dally overmuch, I quickly unbutton the blouse and let it too fall away onto the floor. It might be a bitch to clean later, but there's no time for careful placement now. I slide the tank top that I wear as a corset liner down below my breasts, so that I can remove the bra before the waist cincher. I know that he enjoys the sight of my breasts spilling over the cincher, almost as if on a platter for his enjoyment, and I do want him to enjoy me. I unclip my bra and slide it off, leaving the tank top straps on my shoulders so that the shirt doesn't fall down unbecomingly over the cincher. I wait just a beat before untying the cincher. Sometimes he likes me to keep it on, but today he makes no sound so I pull on the strings and loosen my tight, self-imposed prison.

It isn't easy to remove a pull-over waist cincher in a sexy manner. There is a certain amount of unavoidable wriggling and pulling that doesn't lend itself to graceful or sensual movement. While I do have a certain amount of practice at removing this particular pull-over cincher, the best I can manage is to make a show of hip wiggles as I pull, adjust, and pull it over my head. The tank top goes next (and much more easily). I am really hoping at this point that he lets me take my shoes off, and I have to conceal my relief at his continued silence, knowing from past experience that showing discomfort encourages his evil side. I pick my feet up one by one to undo the straps before I daintily step out of my red patent leather five inch heels (they do have a small platform, so it's not quite as bad as it sounds to walk around in them).

Garter straps pose less of a challenge for sexy removal than the waist cincher, but they do have their own little quirks. I've gotten to the point of being able to undo the clips one-handed, most of the time. Every now and then though, one decides that it wants to stick. I manage to unclip five of the six straps without issue, but that sixth one doesn't want to release. I reach back with both hands to get at the stubborn clip under my butt as the stocking on the other side, with nothing to hold it up, starts to billow down my leg. I find the situation rather comical, but smiling might be taken the wrong way, so I try to remain stoic as the last clip releases and I smooth my stockings off my legs. One last set of hooks and the garter belt itself is gone.

Naked, my gaze returns to the bulge of his cock under his jeans. My amusement has faded, replaced by the fear spiced lust I had entered with. I'm afraid of pain, but I also crave it. I want him to fuck me, to take me and just fucking use me, but I also fear the violence that I fantasize about. I've stopped caring if it's normal or not.

He lets me stand, and my anticipation grows for what seems like hours.

He shifts, and undoes his fly. As his cock pops out, my mouth drops open, eager and drooling just a little. He's hard and ready to fuck me and I am so ready to be fucked. I can feel wetness pooling between my legs.

"You want this?" he asks, grabbing his cock and waving it at me. It would be funny if I weren't so horny. I nod, eyes glued to his cock.

He steps over to me, and, grabbing one arm, shoves me against the wall face first. It happens so quickly that my mind is spinning, unable to reason. Slight pains in my shoulder and arm only make me grind my ass against his cock. The pain, like the fear, just spices my lust. His words hardly register in my head.

"I asked you a question, bitch. Answer me properly," he whispers in my ear with a tenderness that belies his actions, and to some extent, his words. A hand caresses my hair and then tightens into a fist, pulling my head back and exposing my neck on the side where I can feel his breath.

"Yes Sir, this bitch wants your cock Sir," I manage to respond in an appropriate, though breathily quiet, manner. The tight pressure on my head is released, and followed by another caress.

"Good girl," he croons. "Good little bitch." He moves his body away from mine, and I sag a little against the wall for a moment, but only a moment. His next move is to grab my hair again, not too painfully, and begin to walk away. I follow my hair to the bedroom, and am tossed to the bed. I lay face down and await further instructions. My brain isn't really up to speed again, still slowly basking in the glow of when he shoved me against the wall.

"Up on all fours, bitch," his voice commands me. I feel as if I have no volition to move on my own, but I spring to obey his voice. I can feel the heat from between my legs radiating to fill the room with the scent of cunt and lust.

He slaps my ass, gently, a few times, more an over-enthused petting than a spank.

"It smells like a bitch in heat in here. What a fucking stench. But little bitches just can't help themselves, can they?"

"No Sir."

"Little bitches need to be fucked, don't they?"

"Yes Sir."

"Little bitches just love being humiliated, don't they? You love this fucking nasty shit, don't you?"

"Yes Sir, this bitch loves nasty shit."

The bed shifts as he joins me. His body is like a beacon of cold to the raging heat of mine. He spreads my knees wider with his hands, and then I can feel cock behind me. I gasp at the feel of it, and my hips shift, offering up the cunt between my legs to him. He is so very large, both long and thick, and I am so hungry for the intense pleasures and pains that cock can provide.

He teasingly rubs his cock near my wet slit, passing briefly by the clit as he wets his cock with my excited juices. My body moves without my will to try and capture the cock inside me. I just want it. I want to be filled. I want to be fucked. This is what gets me through the boredom of work and everyday normal toil. This fuck. This deal.

"Bad bitch," he says calmly as he pulls back and smacks my ass, full on spanks this time that sting. The sting, though, is nothing compared to the pain I feel at the absence of cock. "Be still."

"Yes Sir," I reply softly.

I have to focus now. I must be still or there will be no cock. My mind tries to block out the anticipation of cock inside me in favor of the teasing feelings that are returning with my stillness. As if to compensate for my erroneous movement, he is slower now, sliding his cock gently along my wetness, stopping just short of a hard thrust inside.

I stay still. I breathe. I begin to sweat from the effort of holding my body still, of holding off the lust inside me that wants to explode.

"You may beg now, bitch," he croons to me without ceasing his teasing strokes.

"Please fuck me, please Sir, please shove your cock inside me and fuck me, please fuck me like a little bitch in heat, oh please Sir, please I need it. I need your cock inside me, because I'm a bitch in heat and I'm made to be fucked."

The words, and more like them, gush out of me. Not being able to move makes the words flow forth as if from a bursting dam. I need this release, and I know there's only one way that I might get it. I have to beg well. I have to debased myself, humiliate myself for cock. That's the deal.

My words get cut off as I feel the head of his cock thrust inside me, just a hard little jab, barely penetration, but so intense after all the teasing.

"No one told you to stop," he teases as my silence stretches on just a bit too long. I know I want more than that little taste, so I continue in my litany.

"Oh god yes, please yes, oh god Sir, yes, please fuck this little bitch."

I tremble. I am absolutely caught by his cock inside me, trapped firmly in a cage of my own lust, and I love it. I feel so good as his cock hungry bitch.

Then I lose the capacity for rational thought as his cock plunges deeply inside the cunt between my legs. I can feel his hands on my hips, holding them still as he pulls back and pistons in again, deeper this time. My body struggles to contain him; I can feel myself stretching. His cock is so big and thick that the spice of pain is layering on top of the pleasure it creates inside me.

My arms fail, eventually, not from weakness per se, but from a diversion of all my energies elsewhere. I become nothing but a hole to be fucked, and the rest of me melts into a puddle around his hard pounding cock.

As his speed increases, words pour forth from my mouth.

"Please--" I gasp out, "please cum in me Sir, please cum please please please cum in bitch." He pounds faster, harder in response, but does not cum. My voice spirals from words to squeals and screams of pleasure, louder and louder, when abruptly, cock is gone.

I sag, head down, ass up. He smacks my ass again, just a couple pats, for a good little bitch.

"Leave," he says.

I scramble to the foyer. Once I am between the curtain and the door to the outside, I rearrange myself as best I can. Hair is finger-combed into place, and I put on my shirt and skirt. All the other clothing that I wore to work is shoved into my shoulder bag, along with my shoes. I prefer going barefoot to wearing heels with dirty stockings. Not to mention I don't have the time it would take to get my stockings and garter belt arranged. I exit the apartment as fast as I can, locking the door behind me.

As I walk the block and a half to the house where my Husband lives, I am eager to tell Him all about it. How I begged for Jessica to cum inside me, even though he doesn't have a dildo that can do that. Not yet, anyway. How he was dressed to conceal his femininity; he must have bound his breasts to look so flat-chested today. How he fucked me into a puddle of goo. I know it's disingenuous to refer to Jessica as my boyfriend, but that's the deal. That's our relationship. We fulfill certain needs for each other, and there are other needs that we don't. We role-play for the sake of our own titillation and to respect my Husband's ownership of me. It's all part of the deal.

To be continued...