Our Story by Drea DeMarra, bdsm
One year in the life of a sub and Dom who have a unique sense of humor and a style of their own.

Copyright 2009 by Drea DeMarra, all rights reserved, Not For Sale

I’m not a slave.  I made that really clear way back when.  Back when we were talking, experimenting, visiting on weekends.  It seems a lifetime ago, but it’s only been about twelve months, one week and some number of days.   Anyway, it’s been over a year, and I’m still not a slave.

I remember he asked me once, “What do you have against the prospect of belonging to me?” 

He was scrunching up his eyebrows, a little bushy but very expressive.  When he does that, his eyes squint a little, and he looks like he’s trying to drill a hole in my skull so he can just pluck out my thoughts instead of have me filter them.  It’s a pretty sexy look and always reminds me that he’s a force to be reckoned with.

“I don’t mind belonging to you; for heaven’s sake, I do belong to you.  I just don’t want to be owned, collared, calling you master, 24/7.  You know, those things.  I like it how we are.”

Jeffrey is a big guy, a big teddy bear huggy type of guy.  He could lose a few pounds, but then again, so could I.  Neither of us really cares about that kind of stuff.  We cook together, we eat together, we eat each other.  We’re very oral – oh, and vaginal and anal and phallic, too.  We like it all.

Anyhow, Jeffrey is the one who got me into D/s.  He never quite called it that in the beginning.  It’s just how he is  –  dominating.  First in the bedroom.  Sex like I never had before.  He grabbed my hair, pinned me down, smacked my ass, bit my neck, tweaked my nipples, scratched my back.  Jesus, I went from non-orgasmic to over-the-top in a week.  I used to call him my big bad Klingon (yeah, we both love Trek, and that Worf makes me so hot).

Gradually, he started telling me what to do outside of the bedroom.  I remember the first time.  Of course, it helped that I was still dripping from a two hour tryst in his bed.  I was pretty malleable about then.  I went to get dressed, and when he saw what I chose, he just said “Put that away.  Wear the blue one.”  His voice was very possessive, like he was dressing his own Barbie Doll.  I did it, right away.  It was a turn on.

Soon after that, he was issuing orders all of the time, and mostly, I just did what he said.  He always spoke in this firm voice, expecting compliance.  I complied.  I might grumble, but generally, I’d go along.  He said I could complain away, as long as I did what I was told.  Lots of times, he would remind me that he was the boss, and that if I didn’t like it, he would put me over his knee until I did.  Sometimes, he would just grab me and smack my ass once or twice, even in public.  I would make some little fuss or pout, but God, I was turned on and he knew it.

I still lived in my little condo then, and mostly stayed with him on the weekends.  Our weekends gradually lengthened to three and then four days.  Soon, I was just going home for a day or two, to get the mail, check the apartment.  He told me I should sell the place and move into his big old ranch style house so he could tie me up and use me every day.  I laughed at the image, but it got me hot and bothered just the same.  I told him that I didn’t want to sell my place, that I liked the independence it gave me.  He cracked up.  He said that I liked the illusion of independence and that I was all his – mind, body, heart and soul.  He grabbed me and I was lost in one of his big overwhelming hugs.  They made me feel so small, so protected.  I could smell him all around me, and that’s all I could smell.  His body was all I could feel – his beard tickling me, his arms crushing me, his cock pressing against me.  No one can hug a gal like Jeffrey. 

So, time passes.  I work at the library, he’s a photographer.  Monday through Friday, we work, and at night, we play a little.  On the weekends, we play most of the time.  We were honeymooning. 

One weekend, he told me he had some surprises for me.  He ordered me to strip. By this time, I was used to being ordered around, and I stripped quickly, excited by his devious expression.  My pussy was already throbbing.  Then he did things to me…things I’d blush to write about. 

He tied me up at the head of our bed.  I was sitting up on a pillow leaning on the headboard with a pillow at my back. He tied my hands over my head and pulled my knees apart, binding them to the headboard.  He went to work on me with vibrators, clamps, his fingers, his tongue, some feathers.  I was frantic, I was screaming, I was delirious and I was cumming, again and again and again.

 I lost count of the orgasms, but he wouldn’t let up.  I thought he’d never let me go.  I hoped he’d never let me go.  When he unbound me, I grabbed him and held on so tight, I thought my arms would fall off.  I told him that I loved him, would always love him, that I was his.  And I was.  I still am.  But I’m not a slave.

A few weeks later, I told him that I need to go home to get my mail.  He said “Don’t bother, I’ve had it all sent here.  This is your home.”   He told me that we’d be interviewing potential renters next week, that it was a waste of money for me to keep paying all the expenses on that condo, especially on a librarian’s salary.  He said, “Don’t be stubborn about it or I’ll wallop your ass.  I’m not asking you to sell the place, just to be practical.”  We found a tenant; entered into a three year lease.  I moved my stuff into Jeffrey’s house.  Now I live here 24/7, but I’m not a slave.

Things gradually shifted a little.  I had no place to run to, and even though I didn’t want to run, there was a psychological aspect to knowing that I could, if I had to.  Once I rented my place, I committed myself to Jeffrey, to our home.   He always treated me like a princess, his princess, and if I was a disobedient little princess, he made sure my butt was sore and my attitude was improved.  He was my world.

Jeffrey cut me a lot of slack, considering.  If I wanted to go out with friends, all I had to do was ask.  If he told me do something, I could complain all I want, as long as I did it.  We had other D/s friends, and they told him I was mouthy and he should be firmer.  He said that he liked my mouth, especially when it was clamped around his big hard cock. 

Sometimes, he would tell me to do things I really didn’t want to.  When that happened, my complaints were a bit more vociferous, and once in awhile, I chose not to obey.  Jeffrey really didn’t like that at all.  He invented the “two day cure.”  The first time was terrible.  I was so mad at him.  Here’s what happened…

When Jeffrey came home one Friday night, he walked in the door and told me to strip.  So far, so good; nothing unusual about that.  But then he told me to get on all fours, crawl to our bedroom and bring him his slippers, in my mouth.  I was appalled.  I’m not a tiny woman; I have big breasts and a big rear end.  It’s not that I’m huge, I can still fit into my size 12 jeans (OK, size 14, really, except for my skinny pair), but I’ve never been a size 4 and never will be.  I couldn’t stand the thought of my boobs wobbling under me and my ass jiggling along while he watched.  It made me sick.  I said no.  Now remember, Jeffrey doesn’t usually care what I say, and if I was getting down on all fours while complaining, that would have worked.  But I said no, and I meant it. 

He must have expected it, he was prepared.  He explained that this was one hang up I was going to get over.  He took my wrists and connected them with a long piece of rope; he did the same to my ankles.  My limbs could move apart, but only so far as the slack in the rope permitted.  He put knee pads on me.  Then he forced me down on all fours and told me about the two day cure. He said I’d be on all fours until Sunday night.  And that’s just what happened.  I tried to get up to walk once or twice, but with the ropes, it was really hard, and if I succeeded, he dropped me again and smacked my rear end until I cried.  I ate out of a dish on the floor or our coffee table or if he was in a good mood, he fed me from his plate. 

Of course, I couldn’t stay on all fours literally all weekend; my wrists would break, and Jeffrey is not a sadist.  I sat back on my thighs or otherwise tried to get comfortable, but I couldn’t move around unless I was on all fours.  If Jeffrey thought I had been sitting around too long, he made up some errand for me to do, something to fetch for him.  Once, he just told me to go into every room in the house and come back to him. We live in a sprawling 50s style ranch house, so I didn’t have any stairs to contend with, but it was a long walk (I mean crawl) anyway.  For a nice guy, Jeffrey was kind of an SOB that weekend.  But he let me sit up to use the toilet (after I crawled into the bathroom) and he picked me up to put me in the bed at night, wrists and ankles still bound.  While I was on all fours, Jeffrey took me from behind whenever he felt the urge – at least it was easy from that position, and he made sure that I had a good time too.  I told you, he’s no sadist.

All weekend, I complained non-stop.  Jeffrey didn’t care (OK, once he gagged me because I was disturbing him when he was watching the football game).  He kept me tied up until Sunday night, and then he untied me, but not before I promised to be a good obedient girl and I sucked his cock hard to prove it.  If you’ve been paying attention, you know that sucking Jeffrey’s cock is not exactly a punishment for me, so if that was his point, oh well, too bad.

Anyway, the two day cure is awful, but it worked.  These days, I crawl around naked for Jeffrey any time he tells me to, and I drop to the floor without any hesitation whatsoever.  But I’m not a slave.  

So more time goes by.  Jeffrey comes up with a fun way for us to make extra money.  He starts taking kinky photographs of me and sells them to sex sites on the Internet.  I don’t mind at all.  It brings out my inner exhibitionist.   He always reddens my cheeks before a shoot, and then he sets up the shot.  Maybe I’m on my knees, with a crop in my mouth and my hands on my head.  Or he takes a picture from behind, with me holding his paddle over my pink butt, peeking back at the camera with a surprised look on my face.  I’d be a plus size model in the vanilla world, but people really like my not-so-skinny rear end on the porn sites.  We’re kind of a hit.

One night, we’re getting ready to go out to dinner.  Jeffrey is wearing Khakis, loafers and a button down plaid cotton shirt. He looks like a big burly preppy. I’m wearing whatever he told me to put on, I can’t really remember.  I look at him and say “Jeffrey, that shirt’s really wrinkled; you need to go change.”  He gives me this strange kind of look, but then he does it, goes to the bedroom and changes his shirt.  I don’t give this exchange a second thought; it’s forgotten, at least by me.

A week later, Jeffrey tells me that we’re doing a shoot.  He brings me into our den where there’s an ironing board set up and a huge pile of shirts, I mean huge.  I ask him where all the shirts came from, and he says he got them at a thrift store.  Then he gives me the costume for the shoot.  It’s really sexy.  I’m naked with a little frilly apron tied around my waist. I’m also wearing two nipple clamps decorated with bows and hot looking high-heeled sandals.  Then he tells me we’re going to do this one with a butt plug, which he proceeds to fill me with.  He also puts this G-string on me that looks like a pearl necklace and scrunches up into my pussy hugging my clit.  Then he lugs over this funky looking ball and chain thing which he attaches to the ironing board, and he chains me to it and to the ironing board as well.  He smacks my ass a bit and starts taking pictures. 

I pose this way and that, all while I’m ironing shirts.  I thought it was a cute concept, a twisted version of the tireless, smiling 1950s housewife, you know, “the old ball and chain.”  Then he takes off the nipple clamps (ouch!), puts the camera away, and tells me to finish ironing the shirts.  I look at him like he’s from Mars.  “There must be a hundred shirts here.  Unchain me now.”

Jeffrey reminds me of our little conversation about his shirt.  He tells me that his friends are right, I do have a big mouth, and that if I’m going to yap all the time, I should at least learn some manners.  He says I’m not allowed to order him around, and that if I have a criticism, it has to be polite and constructive, like “Your shirt’s a little wrinkled, would you like me to iron it for you?”  Then he leans me over the ironing board and lays into my rear end.  After that, the plug in my ass and the pearls on my clit start vibrating.  He laughs when he sees the surprised look on my face.  Between his little spanking and the excitement down below, I’m really getting horny.  He tells me to iron all of the shirts, neatly, and if I do a good a job, he’ll fuck my brains out.  If the shirts aren’t ironed perfectly, I’ll do them all again.  He also tells me to mind my manners when I speak to him. 

I stood there livid, chained to the goddamn ironing board and horny as hell.  It takes me most of the night to finish those shirts, and Jeffrey is off somewhere else in the house, so I can’t even complain to him.  I iron the shirts, every one, and then Jeffrey takes me to the bedroom and delivers on his promise.  I never tell Jeffrey what to do again, and you better believe I’m polite to him, all of the time.  But I’m not a slave.

A few weeks ago, another D/s couple came over to hang out.  Mario and his little pet angela.  I like them OK, but Mario is a bit of a hardass in my opinion.  He looks kind of GQ, and seems kind of humorless.  He’s really strict with angela, too.  I think he’s the one who complains to Jeffrey about me being a big mouth.  When they get to the house, the guys tell us to strip.  They want to watch the football game, and we serve them dinner, beer, chips, whatever they want.

 When we’re not serving, angela and I are on the floor next to our guys, sitting on floor pillows and leaning up against their legs.  My head is on Jeffrey’s lap, and he’s petting my hair.  angela has her head on Mario’s lap too, and he’s petting her head and rubbing his fingers down her neck and back.  She’s squirming a little, and then she reaches her hand up to rub her collar.  It’s a classic leather job, with something monogrammed into it in gold letters.  I can’t read from where I sit, but I can’t take my eyes off of angela and her collar, as she squirms around on her pillow. Feeling a little woozy myself, my hand involuntarily reaches up to my bare neck.  She sees me touching my neck, staring at her, and I blush furiously.  The guys don’t notice.  That night, though I’m used to being nude in our house, I feel self-consciously naked next to angela and her collar.  I’m not a slave.

Two weeks ago Friday, Jeffrey comes home with some composition books, the kind they use in elementary schools.  He tells me that I’m going to start writing things, things he’ll read, like essays and journal entries.  This does not sound like fun to me.  I don’t see the point and I hate writing.  I always have.  I tell him, “No, I’m not into writing.”

 That was a big mistake.  Next thing I know, he’s announcing another two day cure.  He grabs one of his old college textbooks off of the shelf – Psychology 101 – and slams it down in front of me.  He says I’m going to be copying pages out of that book for two days. 

I start crying right away, and pleading with him.  I tell him that I’ll write his stupid essays and journal entries if he’ll just reconsider.  He tells me that this isn’t a negotiation, and that I better damn well start copying pages.  He says that if I’m good, he’ll keep the sessions to school hours, 9am-3:30pm, but if I act up, I’ll be in detention writing lines with a blistering ass.  He holds up a ruler and, with an evil look in his eyes, and he warns me not to be tardy.  Honestly, where does he get this stuff from?

I write for one hour Friday night (“just to get his point across”) and then for six hours on Saturday and again on Sunday, with half an hour off for lunch and a blow job.  Luckily for me, I love sucking Jeffrey’s cock even when I’m pissed as all get go.  By Sunday afternoon, I can’t hold the goddamn pen another minute.  The next week, Jeffrey brings me another composition book, and tells me that we’re going to start weekly essays.  I don’t argue; I just ask him what he wants me to write about.  He says he’ll come up with assignments, but for the first one, I should pick whatever I want to write about and show it to him when I’m done.

So, this is my first essay, and Jeffrey, I hope you like it.  You are my love and my life, and I would do anything you asked me to do – anything at all.  I sort of liked writing this essay.  I thought of a better title for it, too.  I’m going to call it “I’m Not a Slave.”

Hugs and Kisses,

Your penelope

Well, Jeffrey read my little personal exposé entitled Our Story, and he liked it; most of it anyway.  I wrote it because he told me to, and he’s my Dom and I always do whatever he says with a sweet smile and a sigh of contentment.  (OK, only part of that sentence is true.)

Anyway, here I am writing again because Jeffrey has decreed that I’m going to write weekly on topics of his choice for our mutual edification.  The topic for this week is “Fix the Holes in Last Week’s Story.”  Yes, I got a whole critique from Jeffrey about my summary of our life in D/s so far and I guess he thinks it’s best for me to set the record straight and add a few things I might have left out.  That’s what I get for being so creative.

Now, I did get the basics right –

Jeffrey is my Dom of about one year, and he is a great big teddy bear of a guy, but for some reason, he objects to that image, so let’s just say he’s a big tall solid looking guy who can squeeze the life out of me with one big hug and whose beard is kind of soft and tickly. If he rubs it just right across my neck, he can make me fall down in a jiggly heap of jello.

I’m Jeffrey’s sub and I have womanly curves (my little euphemism for my plus size rear and D-cup boobs) and I tend to talk too much and to complain and when I run my mouth incessantly for too long, Jeffrey puts it to better use (which suits me just fine, because he has a big velvety smooth great tasting cock and I’d be happy to suck on it for a day and half if either of us could survive that).

I’m a librarian and Jeffrey is a photographer.  On the side, we sell photographs of me in kinky costumes and poses.  These end up on Internet sites and you can probably see my image if you cruise the net – most recently, I’m the one with the curly brown hair, bright red full-size ass, sporting a black bodice and a garter belt and a holding up a lexan paddle like I’m in an Infomercial.  I’m smiling my trademark rueful smile through my tears (and yes, those are real tears because, for some reason, Jeffrey decided to test out his new paddle right before the shoot).

Oh, and I’m not a slave (but I pretty much covered that last week).

So, here comes the mea culpa.  Yes, it’s true that Jeffrey chained me to an ironing board for most of a night and made me iron at least a hundred shirts all because I told him he needed to change out of his wrinkled shirt.  But, as I have recently been reminded (ouch!), it’s not so much what I say, but how I say it.  

So, for the sake of total accuracy, this is pretty much how the conversation went:  Jeffrey walked into the room in a great mood with his usual mellow attitude all ready to take his sweetie out to a fantastic dinner at an expensive restaurant.  His sweetie said (and I quote): “[Hands on hips, rolling eyes] Jeffrey [big sigh] that shirt is wrinkled [big whine on that last word], you need to go change [huffy tone, barking like a drill sergeant].”  (Did I get that right, honey?) 

So, as you can see, somebody needed to be taught a lesson, and Jeffrey is nothing if not a creative teacher.  As for me, I’ll be happy if I never have to see an iron or ironing board again for the rest of my life.

Also, for the record, Jeffrey’s friend Mario is not “humorless “and any little sub who says he is will get her ass whipped with someone’s new lexan paddle.  (Did I get that right too?)

Lastly, while I did spend a weekend crawling around on all fours, I did not eat off of the floor at any time; that’s for a puppy not for a naughty little sub with a penchant for exaggeration, but of course if said naughty little sub wants to try eating off of the floor, that can be arranged.  (OK, OK, I get it.)

So, that should set the record straight and the editor apologizes profusely for any and all errors or omissions!

Since I got to choose the subject matter of my last story, I picked the highlights of my year with Jeffrey from my point of view, but it’s true (as someone recently told me) that I left out a few really good parts.  There’s one adventure that Jeffrey and I are particularly fond of; what follows is the factual unadulterated account of how Jeffrey saved my ass one night a few months ago. 

I had spent the weekend visiting friends in Pennsylvania, and I was driving home to New Jersey, where Jeffrey and I live.  The route I usually take goes through lots of small towns and every time you cross another town line, there’s a different speed limit.  That night, I wasn’t paying much attention to speed limits, because I was tired and just wanted to get home.  Sure enough, somewhere between Putzey PA and Numchuck NJ, I got pulled over by a cop. 

He was one surly cop, very serious and looking like he was short on his ticket quota for the month.  He started to write me a speeding ticket before I could say how are you this evening officer?  All of a sudden, he stopped writing and looked over to the passenger seat and then told me to step out of the car (just like in the movies).   I started sputtering, asking why and all, and this obviously pissed him off.  He told me in his loud authoritative cop voice to “Get Out”, and then he cuffed me, just like that.  He reached into my car, pulled something out and told me to get into his cruiser.  Then he put me in the backseat with all the amenities, even pressing my head down so I didn’t hit it on the doorframe.  What a guy. 

He left my car on the side of the road and told me it would be towed later.  He took me to this dinky small town police HQ that looked like something out of Mayberry RFD.  There was no one there.  He told me that he was the only on-duty cop that night.  Then he cuffed me to a chair in front of the one big desk in the room and he went to sit on the other side of the desk.  He put a bag of white powder down on the desk and asked me if I knew what was in the bag.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.  It was like something out of a B movie; girl gets pulled over, girl gets set up, girl has to do unspeakable things to save herself.  You’ve seen it, right?  Anyhow, this guy was not playing around.  I started to say all of the usual things, like it isn’t mine, I don’t’ know where that came from, etc., but he was just writing things up on official looking paper.  Meanwhile, I started to mentally review the weekend, trying to remember which of my girlfriends took the front seat when we went out partying.  I was thinking -- if it was that flaky, scatterbrained slut Marlene, well, it wasn’t out of the question that she had accidentally left her stash in my front seat.  With that unhappy realization in my mind, I stopped protesting and started paying attention to the cop.

He kept writing, ignoring me.  While he was at it, I got a good look at him. Of course, he was big; I don’t know, maybe it’s a job requirement.  He was fully loaded too, with all kinds of cop paraphernalia on him, like guns, a stick, more handcuffs.  He was also good looking, with black hair and blue eyes, an unusual combination.  I was thinking he’d be hot with dimples, but he hadn’t cracked a smile once, and he kept writing away furiously on his little pads of police issued paper.

When he was done, he came over to me and unlocked the cuffs. He asked me if I wanted to make a phone call and I said “Yes sir” like a good citizen.  He picked up a phone and asked me what number I wanted to call.  I gave him Jeffrey’s cell phone number.  He dialed and handed me his phone and my stomach clenched when I heard Jeffrey’s message pick up after only one ring.  That meant he had turned off the cell phone and that meant that he was probably at the movies.  He always turns off the phone at the movies even though I’ve told him (I mean politely suggested) that he could just put it on vibrate.  Anyway, I left him a message explaining my situation and cursed him under my breath for turning off the phone when I really needed him.

The officer then took me to the corner of the room that had a camera, you know, like those cameras they have at the Department of Motor Vehicles.  He stood me up against the blue screen and took my picture, facing front and then in profile.  For some reason, that was the first time I got really scared, when he was taking my picture in profile.  It was a creepy, unnatural feeling, because I realized that the only time someone would pose that way for a picture was when they were being arrested. 

So I asked him, “Am I being arrested?”

He stared at me and said, “I guess that depends on you.”  (I swear, that’s a line straight from that B movie I mentioned.)

I don’t know what got into me, but I just went nuts after he said that to me.  I suppose it was because I couldn’t reach Jeffrey and I was on my own and it was so obvious what this cop was up to and after all, this is America and we don’t do that kind of stuff here, right?   I started yelling, “You small town thug, you’ll never get away with this, and I’m not sucking your dick because you don’t have jack shit on me and…”  I don’t think I ever finished that sentence, because that jerk tasered me.  That’s right, he “subdued” me “by delivering an electrical current that interfered with my body's neuromuscular system, temporarily incapacitating me.”  (I looked that up.)  In other words, he put me down, right on the floor.  When I recovered, I was shaky, dazed and sore.  But I was quiet, for sure.  

The cop brought me back to the desk and put three pieces of paper down with the writing facing me so I could read them – they said Speeding; Drug Possession; Resisting Arrest.  I was scared shitless.  I felt my heart rate increasing, my adrenalin pumping, sweat dampening my arm pits.  It finally hit me - if this guy would taser me, he’s not kidding around, and he’ll pretty much do whatever else he wants.  I started missing Jeffrey so badly, I closed my eyes and imagined that he was just outside, about to walk in and get me out of this place.  Of course, he wasn’t, and I heard the cop start talking again.

“Young lady, if you open your mouth like that again, I’m not only going to taser you, I’m going to add “assaulting an officer” to this list of charges, because if that toxic tirade of yours isn’t an assault, I don’t what is.”

I just sat there, for once in my life, too scared to speak.  Then, he started explaining things to me, and the explanation was exactly what I thought it would be – a shake down.

“See these three pieces of paper?  These are the charges I’m going have brought against you.  The attorney’s fees alone will lay you out flat, even if you think you can get off in the end.  Drug possession carries a mandatory jail sentence.   If you don’t want to cooperate with me, let’s just get on with it; I’ll book you and you can spend your first night in jail.  Otherwise, here’s what we’re going to do.  You can turn over each of those pieces of paper, one at a time, and the price for me to drop that charge will be written on the back.  You can follow the instructions or you can be charged, your choice.  And I don’t want one bit of trouble out of you, whatever you decide, or you will be very sorry.  You got that?”

I shook my head yes and felt nauseous.  I couldn’t believe I let myself get into this situation.  I silently swore that if I got out of there in one piece and without a criminal record, I’d never speed again.  Slowly, I reached to the desk and turned over the first piece of paper.  On the back, it said STRIP.

I looked at the cop and he looked back.  Neither of us spoke.  With a lump in my throat, I stood up and started undressing.  He just watched me, a smug expression on his face.  I pulled my T-shirt up over my head, took my shoes off and wriggled out of my jeans.  I was standing in front of him in a white bra and panties and white ankle socks. 

I was hoping against hope that maybe he’d let me keep those things on, but when he saw me pause, he shook his head no.  “Keep going, honey.  You can leave the socks; the floor is cold.”

I took off my bra and panties, and I felt like I would die right then and there.  He was inspecting me and zeroing in on my large bouncy breasts.  He said crude things, like “Whoo-eee, if icebergs had headlights like those, the Titanic would still be cruising the ocean today.  Girl, you are built like a brick shit house.”  I felt my face turning red.  Now I was doubly embarrassed, first because of his arrogant scrutiny and then because my reaction was just what he was aiming for; he was clearly relishing forcing color to my cheeks.  I glanced at the floor trying to avoid his probing eyes.  He was positively gloating at my obvious discomfort. 

“Do you want to try for the next one?” he asked, literally leering. 

I had never seen a leer before, just read about them, and let me tell you, a leer is every bit as nasty as you’d imagine.  I turned over the next piece of paper, and predictably, it said SUCK.  When I looked over at the cop, he was beckoning me with his hands, indicating that I should stand in front of him.  I walked over to him, and what do you know, his dick was out of his pants already, thrust up in the air waiting for service.

I decided to get it over with.  I dropped to my knees and gave it my all.  He was squirming and trying to hold himself steady.  With all his bucking around, he had to brace himself on my shoulders to keep from pushing his wheeled desk chair backwards.  You’d think that no one had ever gone down on this guy before (well, actually, I am pretty good, so maybe he just wasn’t used to a quality knob job).  Anyway, I made short shrift of his erection and his volcano erupted in record time.  The minute I felt the first tremors, I pulled back and let him paint my breasts white.  No way was I swallowing for that piece of shit.

When he was done looking sated, he looked pissed.  “You think your throat’s too good for my cum?  That wasn’t very smart honey, we’re just beginning here.”

I didn’t feel too cocky after he said that.  I was naked, he was armed and Jeffrey was MIA – fuck was the only word that came to mind.

I stood up, and he didn’t even offer me a napkin to wipe off my chest.  As his gunk dripped and stuck to my breasts, my plan didn’t seem nearly as clever.  Obviously, he was punishing me – making me wear it since I didn’t swallow it.  Feeling foolish with my new shirt of crud, I walked back to get the next piece of paper.

I turned it over.  It said SPREAD ‘EM.  How creative.  It was however, open to interpretation, so I looked at the cop and he said, “Get down, ass in the air, head on the floor.”  The man had quite a way with words.

Truthfully, at that point, I was feeling defeated.  I just did what he said, hoping he would be done with me soon.  However, he wasn’t done humiliating me yet.  When I was on the floor, he said, “Can’t you read? It said “spread ‘em,” so get those hands on those big ass cheeks of yours and spread ‘em.  Now.”

With this last order, I pretty much reached my breaking point.  I had never done that particular thing for anyone ever, not even Jeffrey.  I was simply incapable of putting my hands behind me and spreading my cheeks in order for that scumbag to examine my crack.  I froze. 

Then he said, “Girl, if you don’t spread those cheeks right now, I’m going see what happens when you stick a taser up someone’s asshole and pull the trigger.”

That’s all it took, just a little motivation.  I reached back and spread my cheeks just as wide as I could.  I was mortified.

Just then, like in an old western, the Calvary arrived.  Jeffrey, that is, walking right in the door where he could get a good look at my rear end split like a chicken breast.   He said “Wow, penelope, you did get yourself in a mess.”

I stood up and spun around and threw myself in his arms.  He hugged me back and said, “It’s okay honey, I’m here.”  Then he said, “Now turn yourself around and get your sexy behind right back where it was, pronto.  Did anyone tell you to get up?”

OK, maybe I was scared and shell-shocked and naked, but I wasn’t stupid.  “You goddamn prick,” I said.  “You set this up?”

Jeffrey and his cop friend burst into hysterical gales of laughter, but then Jeffrey got really solemn and he said, “Seriously, penelope, get back down and spread ‘em.  This isn’t done yet.”

I started to protest again, but before I could get two words out, Jeffrey said, “If you’re not face down ass spread in thirty seconds, I’m leaving, and my friend Bill can have you for the rest of the night, with my blessing.”

I moved fast.   Jeffrey does not make idle threats.

With Bill watching, Jeffrey got down behind me and fucked my ass this way to Sunday.  He even brought his own lube, so he had obviously thought this through.  I squirmed and moaned and thanked the Lord that it was my Jeffrey behind me and not his sadistic bastard of a friend.

When Jeffrey was done, he helped me to my feet and got me cleaned up a little.  I got dressed.  I couldn’t look Bill in the eye; hell, I couldn’t even look Jeffrey in the eye.  Jeffrey drove me back to my car, and the last thing he said before I drove away was, “Don’t speed on the way home, penelope.”  Of course, he drove behind me the whole way, so the warning was more like the moral of a story than a literal directive.

Later that night, when we were cuddling in bed, I asked Jeffrey outright, “Were you really going to let that nasty friend of yours stick his boner up my behind?”

Jeffrey laughed, though I didn’t get the joke.  He said “Hell no, sweetie, I was saving that back door action for yours truly.”

With Jeffrey’s arms tight around me, I was too comfy and tired to be angry.  Just as we started drifting off, I whispered to him – “STRIP, SUCK and SPREAD ‘EM?  Really?  That’s the best you two hillbillies could come up with?”  Jeffrey smacked my rear end once, his idea of a good night kiss, and we fell asleep in each other’s arms.

So, like I said in the beginning of this story, Jeffrey did save my ass that night – he saved it for himself.

Epilogue:  You’ll be happy to hear that, these days, I do not exceed the speed limit, ever.  I don’t like tasers or guns or guys who leer.  When I’m on the road, I drive safely and carefully so I can get my butt home to my Jeffrey so he can do whatever the hell he wants with it.  And believe me, he does!