Little Vixen Ch. 02

He steers her through the aimlessly milling shoppers, his right hand pressed firmly against her lower back.

She likes that. A tingle of excitement runs down her spine. Could Seth be the one she has been looking for, for so long?

She has dated a few men, including older men the same age as Seth, looking for someone who understands her sexual desires and needs. Someone who could be her partner in experimenting and understanding her sexuality.

None of them worked out. Not because they weren't attractive, or reasonably open minded about exploring sexual fantasies, but rather because they were just so unimaginative.

She identifies strongly as a submissive but all too often she found that she had to take the lead with these men, who typically claimed to be "dominant" but were anything but.

She is no prude. A frequent visitor to local sex clubs and BDSM events, she has a pretty good idea of what turns her on. It has just been a mission to find that somebody who could flip her switches.

When she and Seth started exchanging direct messages, it had started off very promising. Seth was so different from the others she was texting with or had gone on play dates with. He didn't so much slide into her DMs as he crashed, headfirst, and then completely obliterated her mind with his quirky, on point messages.

However, her optimism soon waned. Seth had a good sexting game, but he remained uncommitted to taking things any further than just texting.

Until, to her surprise, from complete vanilla to knife play, he had suggested this coffee date.

Her thoughts are interrupted when he squeezes her back and steers her into a clothes shop. She hesitates, half stopping in her tracks.

"What are we doing?" She says, "Are we going shopping now, Sir?"

Really, what is up with this guy? Surely, given the size of his erection and the waterfall between her legs, shopping should be at the bottom of the list of "let's go have fun"?

He chuckles and pushes her rather forcefully forward and into the shop.

"You have no idea how much fun you are about to have, Fuck Bunny."

He takes a moment to gather his bearings, before steering her to the woman's clothing section. It is a large shop, one of the national chains of department stores that seems to sell everything to all ages.

He stops at a row of dresses hanging on a rack. He pulls one out, shakes his head in disapproval and repeats the process several times, until, at last, he takes one from the rack and holds it up.

"I like this one." He says.

"No self-respecting Fuck Bunny walks around in jeans and a t-shirt."

She looks at the dress. It is pretty. A little summer dress, with thin straps over the shoulder, a low-cut V top and... and, quite short.

"You will look great in this." Seth says, then continues, "I mean, I would have preferred something a bit shorter, but I don't think they sell what I would really want to dress you in, here."

She nods, uncertainly.

"I know its not purple, but I already bought you something purple today." He says, head cocked to the side in a mocking gesture.

Reluctantly she takes the dress from his outstretched hand. Out of habit she looks at the price tag. Holy moly, it may be a chain department store, but the dress is way more expensive than anything she would ever have had the budget to buy.

Having just started her own practice, money was, tight, which mirrored the condition of her pussy.

"Sir?" She shifts uncomfortably, "I don't feel comfortable with you buying me a dress, Sir."

"Who said I am buying it for you?"

She gulps.

What does that even mean?

Does he imply that she will have to pay for the dress herself? That is a bit forward. She is flat broke. And even if she was not, she would never spend this much, just for the amusement of somebody she has just met.

She is not sure how to broach the subject.

Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. This is one of the downsides of being naturally submissive.

"Let's go try it on. I insist." He says.

She frowns.

The bullet vibrator inside her comes to life in the same unexpected way Seth had crashed into her DMs. It is a persuasive argument, if only to get her to go with him to the changing room so she can be somewhere private and not have to worry about people seeing her squirm and clenching every limb together, like a reverse contortionist.

What the fuck is she getting herself into?

She feels the familiar urge to take flight. This is what she has always done when confronted with something she felt she couldn't deal with. Run. But running has not always worked out.

Running has landed her head over heels in things she didn't want and are unable to deal with. This is how she ended up way outside her comfort zone, in her own practice long before she was ready for it. It was entirely her fault. She allowed her insecurity to force her into resigning and then doing her own thing, as a consequence of having bolted, rather than to confront her previous employer about how she felt she was being treated unfairly, and, more importantly, disrespectfully.

Fuck. Running isn't always a great idea then.

She bites her lip, which she does far too often, points her chin determinately forward and allows him to steer her to the changing rooms at the back of the shop.

Seth doesn't let up on the intensity of the vibrations in her pussy. She feels her pussy leaking against her inner thighs. She is convinced everyone can hear the buzzing inside her. Everyone must be staring at her.

Judging her.

Yet, when she looks around furtively, nobody seemed to give a damn about her. Nobody is staring at her, pointing at her, laughing behind hands clasped over their mouths or ranting in damned outrage at her sin.

Ok, you can do this. Everything is going to be all right.

Until it suddenly isn't.

Seth, unexpectedly, veers off, and seconds later Little Vixen finds herself looking at rows and rows of shoes.

Because he has changed plans, and directions on her again, it leaves her afloat in a sea of waves of uncertainty, exposed to drown. Fears, she would rather not have to deal with. She needs to know what is happening. With Seth, it seems she will never know the next step. This uncertainty is new to her. And, naturally, makes her wet.

Very wet.

He was always unpredictable in his texts but experiencing his unpredictability in real life, is very different to anything she knowns.

"I love heels." He says.

Of course you do, she thinks.

He scans the shelves and picks out a pair of silver strappy heels, the heel medium height.

"These would look great on you and will go super well with the dress."

The buzzing in her pussy has finally become too much to bear. She looks around in panic. She is going to cum.

Right here.

Now, in plain view of all the stay-at-home moms and the grannies.

He hooks the heals on his index finger and saunters off towards the changing rooms.

She stands still for a moment. Too petrified to move, watching him walk nonchalantly with the dress draped over his arm and the sparkly shoes dangling from his finger.

Her panic grows.

The familiar tightening of her pussy muscles does not lie.

Fuck.

She scurries after him, trying as best as she can not to look like a drunk walrus trying to balance on a circus ball.

She is relieved when she reaches the change rooms without a streak of dripping pussy juice on the floor. A quick glance tells her that the only reason why there isn't a streak of her pussy juice on the floor, is due to the absorptive nature of her jeans, which are noticeably discoloured around the zipper.

It is somewhat consoling to find the changing room, but for them, empty.

Seth stands at the furthest stall from the entrance, holding the curtain partition open for her.

She dashes inside, spurred on by her imminent climax and desperate to reach the relative safety of the changing cubicle.

"Step to it." He says.

He slaps her playfully on the butt as she squeezes past him, into the small cubicle. There is a full-length mirror on the wall. She is dismayed to see the red tint on her face and the droplets of sweat forming below her hairline on her brow.

That is as sexy as miss Piggy in the Muppets, she thinks, mortified yet simultaneously aroused by her obvious appearance of weakness in the mirror. She feels, looking at her Bridget Jones appearance in the mirror, unworthy and deserving of embarrassment.

She doesn't have much time to put herself down and wallow in her, of which there are many, insecurities.

As soon as he lets the curtain fall closed behind her, he is on top of her. His hands grab her butt, squeezing her against him. His mouth is on hers, devouring her tongue in what feels like the most delicious dual to pleasurable death.

And she comes.

Cumming has always been easy for her, with the right stimulation. One night she had made herself come a total of nineteen times, while very unsuccessfully trying to read an arousing story on LitErotica.

She slumps forward, legs quivering, into his arms. Her pussy expels the bullet vibrator, causing it to wedge in her panties and press directly on her clit.

"Fuck." She says.

He pulls his mouth away from hers and expertly lifts her T-shirt over her head. He tosses the T-shirt on the floor behind him. He unclips her bra one handed, pushes her shoulders away from him so that he can pull it away and free her breasts.

She is absolutely his. She wraps her arms around him, her bare nipples pleasured by his taught chest, even through his shirt.

He pushes her away abruptly. One second, she was in union with him, her pussy releasing her desire, with thigh quivering force. But by the next second, scarcely time for a breath, he holds her at arm's length, his long fingers boring into her now naked shoulders.

Pushing her down.

Pushing her onto her knees.

She complies. It is her nature.

He does not utter the banalities of her previous partners. He does not defile the moment with cliché. He does not order her to suck his cock. He just makes her. He does not ask what she wants. He simply takes what he wants, knowing that she wants that too.

Of course, this Jungian insight does not come to her in the moment. She cannot process or understand her actions or her emotions, but she will later.

He simply tells her with his hands that he wants her on her knees. It is not a position she is uncomfortable with. It is what she wants. It is this moment that she had filmed in her imagination all those nights when all she had was her own fingers to please herself.

He unzips his trousers.

She fumbles with his belt buckle, angry at herself for not being as adept at taking what she craves as he had been with taking what he wants when he had unclipped her bra, with no effort at all.

She gets it right, fumbling, amateurishly, and embarrassingly, long seconds later.

She hooks her fingers into the waistband of his trousers and pulls them down, until they get stuck around the thickness of his knees. It is ok, she does not need them to be any lower than this.

He does not wear underwear. Of course, he wouldn't.

She kneels below his fully erect penis, looking up, trying to find his eyes but they are obscured by his balls and his erect shaft. She licks, upward, from the base of his balls, then onward, to the base of his cock.

He is clean shaven. She likes that. Hairs on his genitalia are as absent as her mind at this moment, consumed only by the fire in her loins, the want in her pussy, the lust that shouts from her green blue eyes.

Seth stays quiet. He does not say, like many of her partners previous, "suck my balls, or lick my dick, or take it deep, slut" or any of that.

He says nothing.

She knows, instinctively, that it means he expects everything. From her.

This, does to her already soaked and greedy pussy, everything she has dreamt about, everything she craves and needs. His actions more than his words are everything she wants, and have craved, from her partners until now.

He takes her head, a hand on either side, and simply places her lips onto his cock.

The bullet vibrator is still trapped between her panties and her clit. She is not sure what is best, and preferable, the vibrator inside her pussy, or outside, on her engorged clit? It seems equally unbearable and wanted.

She takes his cock in her mouth.

It grows even harder, and bigger in her mouth. She feels the veins on his cock pulse against her tongue. He guides her head down his rigid shaft. She complies, taking him deeper into her mouth. The mushroom head of his cock, pulsing with expectation, pushes against the back of her throat.

She gags, spit filling her mouth. She pulls back, but only for a second. She takes him in her mouth again, deeper this time. The saliva in her mouth helps her to take him deeper than she ever thought she would be able to take a cock.

She does not gag this time.

He grips two fistfuls of hair in either hand, holding her head in a tight grip, and starts to face fuck her. She lets her tongue lie down, relaxes her cheek muscles, opens her mouth as far as she can, and takes the pounding of his throbbing, hard cock.

The faster, the deeper he thrusts inside her mouth, the faster and more intense the bullet vibrator against her clit works her into a frenzy.

"Gurgl, gurgle, gurglegurg, gluck." Says her mouth, as wet and as wanton as her pussy.

As suddenly as he had steered her into the shop, he changes direction on her. She would have contentedly kept sucking him off until he exploded inside her mouth, but that was not to be, it was not what Seth wanted.

He lets go of his vice grip on the hair at the sides of her head and steps back. She falls forward from the sudden loss of support, her mouth gaping and saliva dripping from her lips.

He stops her from toppling forward with a firm push of his palm against her forehead.

She looks up, bewildered.

He smiles.

"Get up." He says.

No smiles in his tone.

She gets up.

He steps back, his back against the cubicle wall.

"Take off your shoes."

Fuck. Is he for real? His cock in her mouth, and the vibrator against her clit, felt so good. Why would he stop such a good moment, close to the pinnacle of mutual orgasm?

Despite the rational questions bounding inside her head, she feels compelled to take of her shoes in compliance with his instruction. So, she does. Not as elegantly as she had hoped. She bounced off the walls of the cubicle a few times and nearly landed with her arse flat on the floor at one point, but, inelegantly and all, she manages.

"Socks". He says.

The socks are more difficult than the shoes. A lot more difficult.

And whilst she has an inkling, at this precise moment, she has no frame of reference to understand just how difficult and extraordinary satisfying, her life is about to become.