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The place looks haunted.
Over the door there’s a sign that reads: WET PUSSY WANTED in big red-painted letters. I lick the drool that gathers at the corners of my lips, swallowing back nervous excitement. Images of swaying breasts, flicking tongues, wet pussies stretching over silicone churn around in my head, causing my skin to tingle and a pulsing throb to ache between my legs.
Last night while we were on the phone, Tamara had suggested I wear very little clothing, or to wear noth
ing I may not want torn/ripped off of me. The thought of having my clothes torn off, then being tossed to the ground and having my pussy fucked to shreds excites me. However, I have chosen to wear a simple red wrapdress with red six-inch fuck-me heels. Beneath my dress, I am only wearing red lace panties. No bra so my breasts can bounce freely.
I am covered in red.
Red like a hot, blazing fire.
Red like a well-fucked whore.
Red like the cum-loving slut I want to be, split open and raw. Fierce and on fire and fucked by a group of strangers.
My cunt dripping wet hotness.
I am red with passion.
Red with desire.
Red with lust.
I am full of fiery heat.
“So, are you nervous?” Tamara asks as we walk up the steps.
I shake my head. “Not really? I mean. Yes, kind of. I’m excited. But I’d be remiss if I said that I didn’t have a few nervous butterflies beating in my stomach. But that’s to be expected.”
She holds my gaze. “Yes, it is. Truthfully, I’d think there was something wrong with you if you weren’t feeling some level of anxiety about tonight. Although this is your fantasy, one I have helped you bring to reality, you are still about to walk into the den of the unknown. And that in itself can be a bit nerve-racking.”
I nod knowingly as I take a deep breath, shaking my hands out. Now that this, my fantasy of being gang-banged, is finally about to become a real experience for me, my anxiety-level is starting to kick up a notch.
What the fuck am I doing? Some fantasies aren’t meant to be fulfilled, right? Maybe this is one of them.
But why live with regret?
Life is about exploring and experimenting. It’s about being daring and living on the edge. There is nothing wrong with role-playing and indulging in our secret fantasies.
Tamara must sense my budding apprehension. She touches my arm. “Even though it took a great deal of coordinating to pull this scenario off for you, I want you to know you can change your mind, right here, right now. No worries, no hard feelings. But, if you chose to go through with it, be clear. Once you walk through those doors, there’ll be no turning back. You will be fucked, and you will be tossed around. You might even be spit on, if that’s what you desire.”
I cringe at the thought of that. I said I wanted it rough and dirty. And I know being spit on can be a form of that. But that level of degradation I think I’d rather do without. I tell her this.
“Okay, understood. There’ll be no spitting. I’ll be sure to let that be known.”
“I know I said I wanted to be treated like a whore, but there are some things I draw the line at. Spitting is one of them.”
She may have set the stage for what’s to come. But it is my fantasy. And I want it to be lived out exactly—or as close as possible—the way I’ve envisioned it. So the only bodily fluids I want to taste, or be drenched in, is that of sweet, sticky cum.
“And I don’t want,” I add, “anyone squatting over me and taking a shit or pissing in my face or anywhere else on my body.”
She frowns. “Now you’re taking it to a whole other level of kink. There will definitely be none of that. Unless of course…”
“No, thank you. Not interested.”
She smiles. “But you’re okay with everything else. And you are absolutely sure this is what you want…?”
You have no idea. I’ve never been more ready.
