Stable Employment Pt. 01

Special thanks to kenjisato, a generous volunteer in Literotica.com's Volunteer Editors program, for editing this piece. All remaining errors and questionable stylistic choices are the sole responsibility of the author.

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So, tell me this isn't relatable:

You're at a bar. You meet a girl. You can fill in the details for your girl, but my girl... oof. She's nice. She's pillowy everywhere, in all the best ways. Even before you get her clothes off, you know she's got tits you could nap on, big nipples that'll melt in your mouth, soft skin, a smooth pussy, ass cheeks you could just keep gripping harder and harder until your hands disappeared... good lord.

Her eyes sparkle, but are still as soft as the rest of her. Her lips are a work of art -- and, yeah, maybe a little bit of science, too. I don't discriminate. Science is awesome. She's also got those front teeth that are just big enough to really pop when she parts those perfect, plump lips -- which she does very often, there at the bar, because she fucking wants me, just like your girl wants you.

Some people go for the pronounced canines; they say it's an indicator of youth or something. That's fine. I like the front teeth through the open lips. It makes a girl look like she's going a little bit stupid for you, even before you fuck her stupid later.

I won't go into the hair or the clothes, but if stuff like that turns your crank, go ahead and fill in some more blanks. Blonde? Redhead? Cocktail dress? Raver chic? Goth chic? I wish you all the extra eye candy you can eat. Safe to say, my girl knows what she's doing. She's got it together from head to toe -- five feet and three inches of sexy marshmallow perfection.

So, you play the game. She's adorably honest -- none of that 'I don't like the games' shit. Instead, she makes it easy. She makes you feel like a winner. When you offer to buy her a drink, she accepts it gladly and gratefully, then sucks it down like it's the best thing ever. She smiles. She plays with her hair. Her lips part -- yeah, I'm mentioning it again, because I'm a sucker for it. She finds an excuse to touch your skin. You ask her to dance; she lights up like a Christmas tree. Lively tunes get her blood pumping, which is a vital part of the process; during the slower songs, she presses into you, and all of her softness comes together to make you feel like you're home. She's your perfectly poetic body pillow, but even though you're a little harder in some places -- har, har -- you're hers, too. You're just the way she likes it.

She's warm all over, but there's also a hot spot, and she makes sure you notice it. Now, granted, this particular girl I'm talking about has a bit of a height disadvantage. I've got eight inches on her -- not to mention the other ten I'm looking to get in her -- so it'd be too awkward for her to get that hot spot right next to my cock. She doesn't let that faze her. As we sway and hug there on the dance floor, she sends me the message through my leg, right above my knee. My leg sends it everywhere else. It's all good. Surely you won't get off this ride just because your girl's pussy hit your junk, your hip, or even your belly button instead. Hey -- no hate for tall girls or short dickgirls. It takes all kinds, and all kinds take it.

Properly emboldened by her subtle humping, you go for the grope. Her eyes widen, but then she smiles that dumb, happy smile while telling you that you're just so bad. When you ask her to come home with you, she lies to your face and tells you that she never does that so soon. Sometimes the "but" is uttered aloud. Sometimes it's just implied. Either way, it's awesome. This girl just keeps letting you win. She truly understands the link between the dick and the brain, and tonight, with you, she's decided to use that knowledge for good.

You get back to your place. It's not a palace, but it's fine. She says she loves it. You offer her coffee or tea. She chooses door number three, which is your pants, and pretty soon either her hand or her mouth is enjoying dessert, and you're enjoying her enjoying it.

This particular girl is one in a million; I hope you can still relate, but if not, maybe just enjoy the story for a minute. She moves in real close and starts with her hand. She tilts her head up; I tilt mine down. Movie magic happens. Her face starts off serenely confident; she knows she has unspoken permission to do anything she wants with my throbbing cock. For just a few moments, she enjoys that power. She turns me into a horny fucking animal, complete with flaring nostrils and desperate huffs. Then she gets submissive on me; her eyes and mouth start begging for my attention and approval, in the form of a kiss -- our first lips-to-lips one.

I'm not sure I manage to match her acting skills. Do I ever stop being the bull, ready to mate, and turn into the wolf, ready to pounce? Honestly, I don't care. I nod eagerly and lean over. I bring my hands up to cradle her soft face, and take the most sexual route possible to get them there -- right over her breasts, in the front, so that I would've been brushing the nipples if not for the bra. She smiles and giggles from the contact; I barely see it because our mouths are so close, but I feel it, and that's even better. Then she gets into the whispers -- god damn, those sexy, horny, giggly girl-whispers.

"Don't worry," she says, "they're all yours tonight."

Our lips meet. Her other hand gets involved downstairs. She trains me to kiss her using a through-the-pants hand job as positive reinforcement. I don't mean to brag, but I'm a quick study. She likes it soft and gentle -- no cliché contradictions for my pillowy girl. For her, mouth-to-mouth kissing is all about love and foreplay.

We break away, and she smiles again. "You're a really good kisser," she says, and I believe her. Isn't it strange how, with some girls, you're never sure if they're blowing smoke? It's always such a relief to be with one where, equally inexplicably, you can get out of your own head and just take the compliments.

"You're really good at everything," I reply. Maybe it's rude to nod to the hand job, but it's a really fuckin' good hand job. She eased up a little so we could talk, but her hands are still working me down there. One finger is tickling my straining length, and her other hand is rubbing all along my underside, finding my balls almost incidentally. I can already tell she won't be shy about teasing my asshole. That hand of hers goes way far back now and then.

"I haven't earned that yet," she says, still all smiles and giggles, "but I want to. What do you like to be called?"

I feel my brow furrow, then instantly panic. I don't want to send the wrong signal, but I don't know how to answer the question. There's one split second where I don't even understand it. I may have to turn in my horny perv card. It finally occurs to me that she's looking for 'Mistress' or 'Mommy' or maybe even a gender swap. I wouldn't mind either of those first two, but, well, they're nothing special. They don't push any buttons.

Like the angel she is, she just laughs off my short-circuit, then pecks my lips off-center. "How about 'babe?'" she suggests. "Is 'baby' too much?"

I can't figure out whether to shake my head or nod it. "Yeah," I exhale, like a fucking idiot.

She feigns concern for a moment, but then it's more smiles and giggles. Her left hand moves back -- far back -- and grips my ass. My pants aren't made for giving people easy access, so she has to put in some work to send the signal she wants to send. Her fingers dig in, trying to reach my back door. It takes me another beat to make the connection, but I do. I find her soft, sparkling eyes and nod my head with purpose. Her smile shifts just a little bit.

"You're just a sexy, horny bull, aren't you?" she says. Her breath is hot against my face. My cock is trying to tear my pants off, and it hurts. My asshole's starting to twitch and throb, too. I nod more urgently, and release a few huffs. She loves that. "That's right. As long as I milk you real good, you'll do whatever I want, right? Do you trust me, babe? Do you believe me when I tell you that I'll milk all of that hot, delicious cum out of you tonight?"

It's nice not having to use my words. I just grunt and nod some more.

"So that means you'll be a good girl for me, right?"

Well, that's a twist. Usually I'm the one telling someone they're a good girl when they manage to take my cock in one of their holes. Still, it's hot -- and I already know my cock is getting into a hole tonight, so I've got literally nothing to lose. She's not a pure top -- nowhere close to it. Not a chance. I keep up my bull routine, although I do add a primitive "Mmm-hmm" just to make sure we don't have to go over any of this again.

"That's good, babe," she says. "That's perfect. My name's Gwyn, by the way -- but you can call me anything you want."

Your girl's probably got a different name. Here's my confession: my girl probably does, too. 'Gwyn' is a placeholder. Yeah, I'm a piece of shit. You don't need to tell me.

'Gwyn' does that thing that short girls do to make you lean over for them, and, of course, I obey. She gets her plump lips next to my ear, and goes full-throttle with the sexy whispering. "You have to be nice at first. Later, when you're breeding me... ummm... nasty and nice. Both at once."

Her fingers try one last time to hit my asshole through my pants. She can't manage it, but I give her a low, submissive moan for her trouble -- a perfect mix of cow and bull, if you like. She loves that, too. I can do no wrong tonight.

"L-bombs?" she asks.

I grunt urgently. You'd never know it if you met me on the street, but horniness turns me into a lovey-dovey dope of a cum factory. Can you relate to that, specifically? I kinda hope so. It'd be nice to know I'm not alone.

I feel the smile next to my ear. "Me too," Gwyn says. "No strings, just pillow talk -- but it feels so good, doesn't it? Not yet, though. We have to earn it -- but we will."

This girl is one in ten million. She could do this for a living. I'm rock-hard in my pants, but putty in her hands, and she knows it. She nips my earlobe with her lips over her teeth; I'm her bull for the night, and she just tagged me.

She moves away; I whine a little in disappointment. She echoes it back to me as sympathy. Then she looks me up and down like a piece of meat she just purchased. It makes my heart flutter. With a hip-shift, a head-cock, and a little nod, she tells me what to do. I start taking off my clothes, right there in the kitchen, my back against the counter, very close to that coffee maker that might not get any action tonight at all. I take a wild guess and do it slowly. Once again, I guess right. Is she reading my mind, or am I reading hers? Is she sending me instructions and making me think they're my own ideas? If I weren't horny, I'd probably obsess over that shit -- maybe even get a little paranoid. I am horny, though, so all those dumb questions just make me hornier.

Gwyn gives me a head start, but pretty soon she's stripping, too. We're not touching each other at all, and that supercharges the whole experience. I can feel the air between us heating up and ionizing. I guess that's the privilege of being hot, and knowing it. My perky titties make her eyes light up, and I think she likes the fact that I wasn't wearing a bra. When she unclasps hers -- and again, I honestly don't give a shit about clothing, so go ahead and Mad Libs it -- her larger pair pushes it off her body; each boob loses some shape and falls down and to the side. Whatever my expression, she likes it. At a guess, my dark-green eyes have gone glassy and smoky, and my face has gone slack with hungry lust -- in other words, how a cock goes stupid for a hole. Her boobs are heavy, begging to be cradled, lifted, and massaged. Her nipples are big and puffy, begging to be kissed, licked, and sucked. I really hope she's into that shit; most girls are these days. That's why it's so fun to hope -- low risk, high reward. That's why I'm not hoping about certain other things.

She slides down her yoga pants, and her legs -- just like her shoulders, her boobs, and her tummy -- fulfill yet another marshmallowy promise that her clothed body made. With a few flicks and kicks, she's naked except for her panties. She looks back at me; she wants more feedback. I do the best I can to express myself without words: wide eyes, urgent nods, clenching muscles, and big swallow.

With her ego well-stroked, she gets dominant again. She smiles her approval, but makes it clear that it's my turn, and that I'm to go all the way. I keep slow-playing it, and decide to add some fake embarrassment to the mix, too. I unbutton, unzip, and then tug my stupid leather pants down. Getting them past my cock is a fucking nightmare, but it's worth it. Gwyn gasps in delight when she sees my panties -- my pretty, purple, girly panties that are nearly ruined from getting stretched out so much. Without looking down, I can tell that my cock isn't even halfway contained, and that my balls are making a mockery of that feminine, down-to-a-vee visual.

"Oh my god," she says. "My big, horny bull is wearing panties. That's so fucking hot, baby. You're fucking perfect."

My best friend makes me wear them -- you know, in that sexy, pervy way where of course I'm into it, too -- so I'm no stranger to pretending to be humiliated. We'll get there later. Right now, focus on the fact that Gwyn is my angel and my lucky charm all rolled into one. I just can't stop winning. That's the major takeaway for part one. That's what I need you to vibe with.

I obviously keep the panties on as I finish struggling against my masochistic wardrobe decision. I know I said I wasn't into the fashion stuff, but, well, other people are. When I can fuck my own asshole, I'll reevaluate -- tech's always twenty years away, right? Anyway, leather pants are a bar-prowling classic. They show you're willing to put in at least some effort, and they pair well with lower-effort tops and shoes, making them look like fashion choices instead of fashion fuck-its. As if that weren't enough to close the deal, they make my ass and legs look great, too. What's a little pain and inconvenience compared to all that?

Hell, Gwyn seems to like seeing me struggle with them.

Finally, we're both down to just panties. Gwyn's shifting her weight and doing that dead-sexy thing with her hands -- brushing so very close to her pussy, feather-touching her breasts, playing with her hair some more, and teasing her own lips. She moves in, and I hold still -- another good guess.

"That's right, baby," she whispers. "You just relax and let me get a closer look."

That means "no touching, yet" and I whine just the right amount. Well, actually, it means "You can't touch me, but I get to touch you." That makes it better... and worse. You'd think losing the leather pants would've helped my cock situation, but the physical relief is dwarfed by the new tension. So close and yet so far, my cock is screaming its horny outrage that it's still restrained by anything at all. I have a feeling it doesn't care so much that it's desperate to get trapped somewhere else. Man, how different would life be if cocks had senses of irony, or humor?

Gwyn knows the effect she's having on me, and I can tell she's enjoying the power trip. That's why she only spares my throbbing, pantied erection one approving glance before refocusing on my titties. It's just enough so that I don't develop a complex. Her hands tease my hips and flanks in the meantime, but my eyes follow hers, and her plump mouth. She looks up at me again with those baby blues, and I see the consideration poking past the dominant play-acting. "I'd really like to take a bite," she says. "It's okay if you're not into that, though. I can be gentle."

"Traffic lights?" I suggest. It doubles as a go-ahead, for now.

She nods. "Traffic lights."

That, ladies and dickgirls, is why getting freaky sex play out into the mainstream was such a good thing. Two seconds, and we're back to the action.

She moves all the way into my space, loosely wrapping me in her nearly-naked softness. Her panties are hot and damp against my leg, and I have to admit, I appreciate the function even if not the form. The fabric is a unique and pleasant sensation -- never as good as pussy, but a wonderful tease while she has her way with my titties.

Good lord, does she have her way with them. She nuzzles, sniffs, kisses, and licks; she sucks one in and does tricks with her tongue once it's imprisoned in her mouth. I'm a titty hound myself, so game recognizes game.

Then comes the biting. It's everything they talk about in those shitty BDSM stories. It's exactly the right kind of pain. I white-knuckle the edge of the counter, and not just because I'm trying to be good for her. I'm also trying to resist the urge to molest the shit out of her -- maybe even push her sucking mouth and nibbling teeth harder into my chest. I love getting my titties played with, even if it doesn't drive me insane like anal does. Gwyn did the work to make this pain a part of our scene, and it's paying off for both of us.

Finally, though, she reminds me that sometimes the dom actually does have the advantage. Hot as it is to think about a short-stack vampire queen breastfeeding in that freakiest of ways, Gwyn pushes me to my limit. It's before blood is actually drawn -- at least I think. God, it pinches, though.

"Yellow," I gasp out.

Smartly, she eases up, rather than stopping all at once. My poor nipple has a chance to readjust to freedom and blood flow. "Thank you," she murmurs. "It turns me on so much."

"You can keep going if you want," I tell her, my voice still a little ragged. "Just... that was a little too intense at the end."

She looks up at me, and the gratitude in her eyes melts my heart. She kisses my other titty tenderly. "Anything I can do to make it a little easier?"

I don't even have time to respond. Her expression gets sly, and her middle finger, out of nowhere, slips into her mouth. I didn't even realize her hand wasn't on my hip anymore. She gets it nice and wet -- puts on a real show -- and we both know exactly where it's going.

I nod, and pretend to be embarrassed again. "Green."

"Good girl," she says. My next round of titty torture is paired with dominant asshole teasing, and for a few minutes, I'm in submissive-bull heaven. I like the way it hurts. I like being teased and denied -- not forever, but just for a while. I look down at my little marshmallow, chomping and sucking away at her prize. It's kinky, nasty, painful breastfeeding, and I'll admit that it's hitting a few more kink buttons than I thought it would. The big takeaway is that she's happy and horny -- and I'm helping. It's the second drug in a cocktail -- or maybe like that old tradition where you always have salt and lime with tequila.

When she's done, she cools me down with more loving kisses, mouth to mouth. We smile and whisper nonsense. She rewards my suffering by letting my hands return the feather touches she's giving my body. Her skin is so unbelievably soft. Her coos, sighs, and moans convince me that it's just one giant erogenous zone, stretched out over all of her muscles and bones. I don't grab or grope, but I do get to feel her breasts and her nipples. They're everything I'd hoped they would be. My mouth waters for them.

Meanwhile, my cock is walking a tightrope between hope and despair. I know she can feel it twitching and throbbing. With another look, though, I also know it's not done getting teased.

"Time to get those sexy panties off," she whispers. My hands go on autopilot, but she instantly seizes my wrists. "No, no, no, baby. You're my bull. I still need to inspect you. Turn around and assume the position. You know the one. I know you do."