I’d intended to write in this space, but time and tide, as they say. I’ve done nothing but post pictures.

Thus, words.

This could be a true story.

We meet at a party.

We’re not supposed to know each other, but we do. Know each other’s words, minds, souls. Yet we’ve never met.

Drink in my hand, I pretend to ignore her as I chat up some lovely ladies who are intent upon being mine for the evening. She’s nervous never at ease in crowds. I know her eyes are on me, but I do not turn to look. Music plays. I fetch drinks for my erstwhile dates. Lush women, to my taste, normally, but there’s only one woman in the room tonight.

I circulate away from her, but I know where she is. I wait.

I catch her when she goes down the hall to use the bathroom; timing it, I am there behind her just as the door opens, and then in a rush I have her in my arms, and am shutting the door behind us. I turn out the light, and we’re lit only softly, moonlight through a high window.

First kiss. She knows it’s me. Knows my touch before ever a hand is laid on her. I take her mouth, roughly. We speak no words. It’s not time for talk, that’s yesterday. That’s tomorrow.

I guide her down; she’s told me this story, written a script, and for now, that’s how I play it. She’s on her knees, and her hands free my cock, and her mouth takes me. I hold her head, fuck into her mouth. I gag her, make her choke. Later, I’ll touch her gently, but now, we need it to hurt.

She wants my come. She won’t get it yet. I stop her, and she squeals in frustration. I put my cock away, and make her stand.

“Fix your makeup,” I say, and tell her to do whatever else she’s in here for. She does, and I watch her, the lights back on. Her face is flushed, red. Her lipstick is smeared, her lips invitingly puffy. I almost take her again, from behind this time. But not yet; I open the door, distract two people in line while she slips out behind me.

I catch her by the elbow and steer her toward the stairs. There’s a guest room. The door has a lock. I sweep coats and purses off the bed, lock the door behind us. She protests – someone might come looking. I don’t care. I push her down on the bed, rip a filmy thong from her and put it in my pocket as she gasps.

I put a finger in her; she’s incredibly wet, and incredibly tight. It’s going to hurt her when I take her, And I’m looking forward to that. I hold her down, and kiss her, and rub my cock against her slick wetness. Then I’m forcing myself inside, holding her face with one hand, making her look at me so I can see her pain.

God, she’s tight. I can feel her body fighting to keep me out. I fight harder, then kiss her to contain the scream. I thrust in, each stroke deeper, making her fit me, making her yield to me. She screams into my mouth, and kisses, and screams.

I want to take time. I want to make her come. But it’s too much. I give in to her, abandon restraint, and stab her with my cock. My scream meets hers and I come, and keep thrusting, my fingers on her clit, my cock only half hard but still inside.

“Come for me, you little whore,” I whisper, and she’s howling, screaming, her pussy clenching on me. Anyone outside would think murder is being done, and I fantasize the whole house knows how I’ve just taken her. Her screams turn to sobs, and her body shakes, and she begins to whisper that she loves me.

We’ve only started. She thinks I’m going to let her go. I’m not.