“Hey, you were so bragging about loving it, now do it.”
In the bar, he’d done most of the talking when Fifty Shades was the subject. Boldly claiming to be this town’s undiscovered Christian Grey. Okay, he’d had a few beers. Nothing to worry about though; she’d never have hit on him if. He didn’t look bad at all either, even when his outfit made pretty clear he’d never have Grey’s money. But it wasn’t his money she was interested in.
Her stance was nothing short of defiant. She knew it was, she loved it, and it served a purpose. If this bar conversation and subsequent pick-up and taking him to her hotel had given him ideas of her being the doormat sub, this would make him change his mind. It was being tied up that thrilled the heck out of her, not so much the master-slave thing. Neither were there any amorous intentions in this one night stand. Her reason for picking up this guy tonight was that she needed a fuck.
Never knowing what life could bring, she’d always take a few ropes and other toys whenever on a business trip. They were carefully stashed in her suitcase, but it was standard luggage, as was all the stuff she needed for her prosthetic arm. She hated the thing, would never wear it unless business required her to look ‘normal’. Being born with no left arm never made her miss it, and it made the pros an annoying cosmetic compromise without much gain. There were a lot of doings you couldn’t do with one arm. But she was used to that. The things you could do extra with one arm and a substitute weren’t really that overwhelming. Going for a beer to try and score a fuck was not part of them, so he’d seen he got invited for one by a one-armed chick. Nor was having sex, which possessed an extra thrill for her.
She grinned when she saw him fetch a rope. Luckily, this was one of these old town hotels. Not in terms of services but because old hotels had old style beds, beds you could tie a rope to. And he did, as requested, starting with her feet. The shiver of danger went up her spine. Picking up guys was not without risk, and once tied up she’d be at his mercy. But then again life never was. She loved the thrill of it, of doing things decent women were not supposed to.
“Make it tight, baby…” she encouraged him.
A soft groan when the rope cut into her ankle. A louder one when the other followed, forcing her to spread and exposing her naked flesh. She squirmed, tugging the tightness of her becoming restrained. He didn’t talk, unknowingly – or perhaps not – adding to her excitement. Her hand came next, stretching her arm on the verge of rude, the rope closing tight around her wrist as he yanked it. Then their eyes crossed, a vaguely uncertain smile on his face.
“Use your naughty mind…” she whispered, grinning subtly while moving the short stump in circles.
The rope around her throat was not as tight. It was tight enough to trigger her feeling choked though. And very cunningly, it’d left her fully immobilised with her missing arm free to move. She wriggled again, testing her bondage. She saw the subtle smile on his face, the sparkle in his deep blue eyes. The predator sure of his prey. And the lust it was igniting.
The slap came suddenly. Full on the moistness of her wide exposed flesh. The room’s acoustics muffled it, but not enough for the echo to add a second rush of arousal to the jolt that caused the first. And then he did start talking.
“Now, let’s see how kinky this one-armed slut really is…” he said, his tone teasingly triumphant.
It made her eyes open wide, her breathing become heavier. It faltered again when his hand moved between her thighs. He looked straight into her eyes, left her no doubt he wasn’t going to be stopped. A wee bit of tenderness first, but that was for contrast only. His middle finger moving along the length of her slit was the upbeat, the barely touching overture to make her feel the smooth ease her labia were conceding with, and the yearning of a squirming body unable to resist. Unable to resist because it was tied up, but much more importantly because he sensed she didn’t really need the ropes to not resist. A calmly insisting fingertip was playing her inner slut, with a precision that made her urges roar.
“Hmm, this is making you really, really wet,” he whispered with near aggravating confidence.
Another jolt, one of feigned resistance. And the forceless shortness of her missing arm reaching out to him. It made him bend over, move his face towards it. Just out of reach. And then two stretched fingers cleaved into her unprotectable wetness.
“Trying to slap me with that little arm of yours, eh?” he challenged her.
He also groped harder, still looking straight into her eyes, pushing her into being aware he was intruding her sex because he could. A subtle display of power, fed by a certainty he was reading from her face. Her eyes bulged, a guttural groan sounded, and the gesturing of an arm never having existed became frantic as he moved closer without ever coming within reach.
A deep moan when his fingers pulled back, leaving the wanton hunger of her cunt spasm empty. A deeper moan when his cockhead took over, provocatively teasing. First her shockingly lubricated willingness, then the electric sensitivity of her clit. She succumbed to it, allowed the slut inside to take over, made the primary hunger for sexual release take the place of the smart business woman she was as well. In the bar, she’d have placed a bet on him never having read Fifty Shades. He didn’t look like a guy who’d ever touch a book.
Now she wasn’t so sure.
“Fuck me, dammit,” she hissed.
“You want me to, you slutty one-armed cunt?”
She growled, her short arm attempting to slap his smug face so close by. That she’d never hit. And it made her ooze with arousal.
“Yeah, I want you to,” she replied, panting and pushing up against his teasing cock. “Fuck me with your horny big dick.”
“You know I’d also fuck your dripping slit if you wouldn’t want me to…” he continued his tease. And what came next proved his staggering accuracy in sensing what drove her wild. “Of course you know. And there’d be nothing you could do to stop me from thrusting my horny big dick into a tied up amputee slut’s fuckhole, would there…?”
She tugged her bondage with eyes closed, her body spasming out of control. “No! Now fuck me!!”
“First things first, one-armed slut,” he replied, shaking his head with torturous denial.
He was still looking straight into her eyes. And now he moved within reach. His assuredness was as baffling as it was justified. He’d broken her resistance. And he knew he had. Confrontingly confident, he nibbled her short arm, gnawed it with symbolic tease, calmly certain she wasn’t going to slap. Not anymore.
And then the unstoppable thrust of his hips made her his.
Her gasp resounded in the hotel room, as did her wanton groans of encouragement. She was shaking her head with fully unleashed surrender, letting her inner slut control the frantic undulations of her body. Or rather, totally give up control. It was a sheer trance of total connection, as unexpected as it was overwhelming.
It wasn’t Fifty Shades of Grey that was on her mind now. It was a book from years ago, Benoîte Groult’s Salt on Our Skin, an intruiging novel that contained the message she was now experiencing. That great sex wasn’t about education, nor about matching interests. Great sex was about itself, and about the intangible subtleties that made it work.
He was a working guy, just like Benoîte Groult’s fisherman. In a boring town he might never leave. She was a business woman with cultural interest, a woman reading the books he so effortlessly could do without. They’d never met, had a chat of not much more than an hour. Flirty chit-chat too, nothing deep. And yet he was demonstrating an understanding of her she’d never experienced before, even with respect to what made her a little special. She had never missed not having a left arm. It simply wasn’t in her system. And neither was making that kinky a taboo for her. Actually, it worked wonderfully well with her thrill to be tied up, she found. And this working guy who was now fucking her brains out had sensed it like no one else before.
She’d no doubt be the subject of talk over his next evening of having a beer with friends, probably tomorrow. He was never gonna mention how easy a catch she’d been, letting her conquest add to his reputation of being a stud. A stud that taught a little slut what came of letting him seduce her. If common internet qualifications had reached this place, she’d be called a cougar, a one-armed cougar maybe even. And she couldn’t care less. Not because she was unlikely to ever set foot in this town again, but because she really didn’t care. A good fuck when she needed one was her right, every bit as it was his. And as long as this narrow minded world was calling her a slut for it, she’d be one.
And right now, and very willingly, she was being one with one arm. Her stump hungrily stroking his chin and lips was feeding the hardness he was doing her with. Maybe it was just freak interest that made him respond so hefty, she didn’t care. He was playing her thrill to perfection, with no strings attached. She’d playfully pat his very good ass on his way out, not figuring he’d be in for after sex conversation. She wouldn’t shower, not tonight. She’d keep herself soaked in the scents of sex, to wake up with the sticky remains of his soon release. Yes, she’d make him withdraw, make him spurt his load all over her, including her cum begging short arm. The mere prospect of it made her shiver.
“Your tied up amputee slut needs to come,” she groaned, rubbing her clit against his pubis.
There was no reply, meaning he was close as well. She worked him up with experienced clenches. Despite her arousal, she was as self-assured now as he was earlier. He was fucking to come, caught in his own arousal only. An easy prey, like she had been in the bar. But now with roles reversed.
She used the last of his frantic thrusts for proper friction. His teeth gnawed the softness of her short arm end, unknowingly pushing her past the point of no return. The final panting, from both sides, then a unisono “Yes!!”
Tilting her pelvis suddenly, she made his cock flop out. With perfect timing. The gnawing turned to a bite, adding a wince to her grinning broadly.
All over her, as planned.