“Sneer again and I’ll push your face into his crotch”
This is a promise. Honesty permeating each syllable. His words a determined threat to realise the obsession that had been consuming me this evening, the deliciously dark desire to be given away. To be made a play-thing for the pleasure of a hot stranger. A fantasy steeped in pride that I would be considered worthy of being a gift.
My egotistical imagination whirls with the specific details of the way the deal would be arranged. His confident stride, chest puffed out, cavalier smile and the brag that doubles as an offer…“Use my little fuck-slut…she’s a good girl…” received with a “Who me? Wow. I’d be honoured” A gentlemanly exchange, talking about me as an object, a toy to be shared and appreciated.
Pushed up against the black leather sofa in the couples room, skirt tucked to the side, I glance back towards him. My beautiful man, hot and rampant, holding firm onto my hips to pull me back against each thrust. Locked in eye contact he repeats his threat
“Keep sneering and I’ll push your face into his crotch”
He’s exchanging looks with the stranger to my right, the one who had sneaked into the couples room alone and silently slipped beside us. Barely in my peripheral vision, my only awareness of the stranger is from my man’s contact. His subtle gestures laden with the pride I’d imagined. He’s offering to share me; he’s going to give me away, my fantasy becoming reality.
My first sneer is automatic, a response to the threat, to his magical words that make me burn, the snarl in his tone and the fire in his eyes. Feeling so small under his hands I am aware of how easily I will be overpowered, all decisions about the placement of my body removed and given to him, to be used. Bent over, speared and abused.
The final consent to be granted by my choice to sneer, the green light for the objectification I craved.
So I sneer, then take a look to my right and change my mind.
My previous single-minded fixation hits a wall of reality, stopping it dead. In my fantasy the stranger is faceless, nameless, a mirage of hotness, oozing charisma and confidence. Yes, he’s honoured to have the privilege of fucking me but he certainly knows how, taking me with passionate embrace. Balancing rocking my world with a healthy respect for my husband who has gifted me to him.
This is a real person, looking small and shameful at what he doing to himself. His pitiful begging eyes directed towards my husband, he’s almost scared to look at me. Realising he has my attention he desperately tries to hide, curling up against the sofa in an attempt to conceal his limp hand moving up and down on his cock.
Too late. He’s not hot. My fantasy crumbles.
I shake my head to signal no, looking over my other shoulder to make eye contact with my man. Facing away from our new wanky friend and his seemingly shameful act. I convey “No” as clearly and firmly as a look will allow, drenched in gratitude that he knows me so well and won’t misinterpret. Fighting to keep from my face the undeniable pleasure from his thick hard cock still moving inside of me, grinding up against my hips.
He moves slower now as he ponders my message. “No..?” he smirks, “Maybe I should do it anyway…” His threat sending a stab of fear, ice cold through my stomach.
He wouldn’t, would he?
I brace myself in preparation for having to really object, relief rushing through me when I see my man denying our strangers request with a shake of his head and a hand gesture that says “It’s her choice.”
Taking his attention back to pounding me, he flashes a broad cheeky smile in response to my mouthing “thank you”. As ever we find the situation humorous, eyes sparkling with a shared smirk. I cover my mouth to hide my laughter with barely time to absorb the joke before I’m lost to bliss. He moves one hand to firmly clamp around my neck sliding the other between my legs, providing delicious friction against my clitoris as he rocks my hips with his thrusts. Our opportunist may not have had my permission to share me but he certainly got a show. My screams heard above the music.
I know I’ll be lovingly mocked later, and that somehow he’ll find a way to make that hot too. I can almost hear it “You said you wanted it, filthy girl…I should have done it…made you take it…a filthy sex sandwich with that guy” Undoubtedly these words would have the same arousing effect as the original infatuation. More so, given the extreme wrongness and how much I now don’t want it, not like that. The worse the idea and the safer I feel exploring it, the hotter it becomes.
Somethings are better kept as dark desires. Unless, of course, I happen to find that real-life perfect stranger…this fantasy will never become reality. Why sacrifice perfectly good foreplay banter by giving it away to the first wanky man who happens to be in the right place?
This blog entry is part 2, read the first part here – Give Me Away