Hit and Run

Seizing inspiration from the TSA the last time she was on an international flight, she grabbed a wooden spoon and used the handle to poke through his things. The first thing to take her attention was a gallon freezer bag full of weed. She was no expert, but this seemed like a hell of a lot of pot. She pushed that to the side for now. The rest was smaller, a couple trade paperback textbooks, some change, a few crumpled dollar bills, some old gum, three condoms, candy bars, and his wallet.

Using the wooden spoon, she opened the wallet and found his driver's license. She took another belt of Scotch, carried the license and spoon over to the kid. She looked down at him, fingering the license. "Well, Michael Theodore Collins. Nice to meet you."

The kid, Michael, wouldn't meet her eyes.

She tapped him on the head, lightly, with the wooden spoon, to make him pay attention. He glared up at her.

She smiled sweetly back.

Somewhere, way down deep, she knew she wasn't supposed to be enjoying this. But goddamnit, this feeling of power, of being in control, this was so new and intoxicating, she couldn't help herself. She felt herself growing wet, making the gentle rubbing of her panties that much more intense.

She reached out, grabbed a fistful of his long hair. "Maybe," she whispered, "we got off on the wrong foot." She kissed him, tongue tracing his lips around the bulge of the panties wedged in his mouth.

He started to breathe heavier through his nose.

She drew back, stared into his eyes. "I'm about to take my panties out of your mouth. You are not to say a word. Instead, you're going to thank me by doing exactly what I tell you. Do you understand?"

He gave a slight nod, eyes full of confusion, fear, and lust.

She dragged two fingers over his bottom lip, then pinched the smooth fabric between her thumb and index finger, pulling it slowly out of his mouth. A long, unbroken string of saliva hung for a moment from his tongue and the panties. She twirled it around her fingers, same as he had done with the beer bottle.

"Look, lady, I-" he began, but she popped him in the head with the wooden spoon.

"My instructions were quite clear. You. Will. Not. Speak." She propped her right foot on the stair next to his upraised left arm and slowly, slowly rubbed herself against his chest.

He flinched, rattling the handcuffs against the balustrade when she brushed her breasts against the metal barbs still stuck in his skin. She giggled again and ground herself against his groin. He was already hard. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was pain, maybe it was the lingering aftereffects of being shocked with the Taser. Either way, neither of them were complaining.

She stood and pulled her dress up to her hips. He stared, slack jawed, at her smooth red thong. She brought her left foot up the stair next to his right armpit, and lowered herself to his face until she could just feel his breathing on the red silk.

When she made no other move, he lifted his head, gently kissing her mound. She felt the tentative probing of his tongue. It grew stronger, more insistent. She knew her wetness was soaking through the material and gasped, suddenly grasping his head and jamming it between her legs. She rocked her hips up and down, pinning his head against the stairs, then gyrated in circular motions.

Luckily, he could still breathe through his nose.

She grabbed a fistful of his hair again, rubbing herself ecstatically against his mouth and thrusting tongue. With her other hand, she yanked her panties so hard to the side the fabric tore and fell limply down her left ass cheek. The abrupt, slick sensation of wet skin on wet skin was enough to send a shudder through her small frame. Unimpeded, his tongue slipped up inside of her, just enough to release even more of her nectar. She pushed down even harder, grinding her clitoris against his upper front teeth, cushioned only by his upper lip.

Her hips started moving all on their own. The friction became unbearable. His tongue curled and slipped in and out, in and out. He had to swallow her juices just to breathe. She wriggled, faster and faster, scraping her throbbing clitoris against the knife-edge of his teeth.

The orgasm caught her almost off guard, like a summer downpour in the middle of sunny day. She bucked against his face, enveloping him from his nose to his chin. As the last of her spasms drained away, she finally pulled away and he gasped, sucking in as much air as possible. She had left nearly his entire face wet and glistening. It even dripped off his chin. She wondered idly if it stung his abrasions.

"Holy shit," he wheezed.

She grabbed the wooden spoon and smacked him in the forehead again. Twice. "Was I not clear? Not one word."

He bit his lip and nodded.

She reached down, unbuttoning his plaid, tattered shorts, and slipped his hard cock out. Before he could screw up and say anything else, she moved down a few stairs and lowered herself over him. She was already so wet she slid down his shaft to his balls with ease.

For several seconds, neither moved. Their breaths were short, shallow. Jillian raised herself until just the tip of his dick was kissing the lips of her pussy, then slid back just enough so that his cock slipped out. She slid up and down, rubbing her clit up and down his shaft. She tilted her hips and guided him into her yet again, moving slow. It took her nearly ten seconds to reach the bottom. She groaned and used the stair bannister to push herself down even harder.

She raised herself, dropped again, faster this time. He made an involuntary noise and she thought about reaching for the spoon but decided not to hold it against him. Besides, she had other things on her mind. The first orgasm had left her eager, wanting more.

Their movements became less controlled, more frantic. He started bucking his hips to meet her as she dropped onto him, over and over. He clutched the balustrade tightly for leverage, feet spread flat on the floor, using his muscles as a bike rider to meet her demanding, punishing pounding as her inner thighs slammed against his hips.

She put her hands flat on his chest, squeezing his pectoral muscles and she rode him, harder and harder. His eyes rolled back and he grunted again, arching his back. "No, no, not yet," she ordered. But it was too late. Lost in the throes of an orgasm, he couldn't stop.

She curled her hand around the coils of wire still connected to the barbs in his flesh and tugged lightly. That got his attention. "Don't you dare stop," she said and he immediately shook his head. She kept the wires taut and kept moving, sliding up and down, like a cowgirl riding a mechanical bull.

The pressure built. This time, she could see the orgasm coming from far away, and had a chance to enjoy every moment, savoring each sensation as it crept closer and closer. She slapped against his stomach so fast it sounded almost like someone clapping.

And then it was on her, erupting from inside, and she squealed, grinding him into the stairs, pulling on the wires so unmercifully they ripped out of his chest. He cried out as well and they both shuddered to a faltering stop.

Once she could breathe again, Jillian climbed off and stood over him. She raised the wooden spoon menacingly and he winced, smart enough to keep his mouth shut. "I want to make sure we understand each other. You are still not allowed to speak. Just nod or shake your head."

He nodded.

"Good. Here's the deal. I'm keeping your bag. You will clean up everything in this house. You will go find me the exact beer to replace the one you drank. Are you clear so far?"

He nodded again.

"Then you will return tomorrow. I highly suggest you bandage yourself up. You will also shower and shave and put on clean clothes before I see you again."

He nodded. Tried to suppress a smile.

She bit back her own smile. She could get used to being in control. It was far, far better than being scared all the time. When Derek came home at the end of the week, he was in for a surprise.

Jillian kicked off her torn panties and walked barefoot to the dining room table where she retrieved the Scotch and took another swallow. When she turned around, the kid was still silent, watching her.

Now she just had to find the damn handcuff key.