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I’ve been carrying around a hellacious set of blue balls for a couple days, building anticipation rather than jacking myself to relief. It will make the eventual release all the sweeter. I do that sometimes. It’s agonizing, but it’s my thing.
Yeah, I’m fucking weird. But we all have our kinks, right?
It’s not lost on Gwen what I am in need of. In fact, she offered herself, as she sometimes does. But I let her down gently, as always, saying it’s best not to mix business and pleasure, which we both know is total bullshit. But I can’t do her. She’s not my type. Not by a long shot.
No, I like them like Izzy, standing here before me, sporting the quintessential girl-next-door look. What man doesn’t love that?
Every boy’s adolescent fantasies start with some girl in his neighborhood, one he might have grown up with. This little thing, maybe pretty and maybe not, develops into something that sparks his first wet dream, and later his frequent attempts to relieve a never-ending erection. The object of my affection back in the day had been Suzie, or Sandra, or some such, living two houses down, and for my entire fourteenth year, I watched her come and go out of the windows of my house whenever I could. I imagined she was heading right over to take my loathsome, humiliating virginity because we know that when a boy is fourteen, he always thinks he’s the only one in his circle of friends who’s not yet gotten laid.
Just like jerking off, massive lying is one of the hallmarks of a teenage boy’s life.
Standing before me today is a specimen of girl-next-door who puts my teenage crush to shame, notwithstanding the frumpy polyester maid’s dress and the sneakers she’s wearing, made all the sweeter with the long blonde braid pulled forward off her shoulder like a freaking milkmaid.
Which might be another good idea for a roleplay, a scene carrying out some of the kinky shit that haunts my dreams. And, if I’m honest, my waking hours. I’ll have to bring this up with Gwen. See if she has any tricks up her sleeve.
Like what’s before me right now. This girl is perfection. She not only looks like a real, live maid, not one out of a costume shop, but she also has the nervous, innocent thingdown. Like Academy-Award-winning down. Shit, the way she’s wringing her hands and is basically too scared to even speak has my engine revving at high speed.
Fuck, I hope she’s into anal.
I also hope she’s wearing granny panties. I already know I’m gonna come all over them and make her put them back on. I love nothing more than a woman stewing in my cum.
Repugnant, maybe, but I’ve never claimed to be some sort of nice, normal man. I have good manners when I want to, which fools people into thinking I’m a nice guy.
They never realize I’m not until it’s too late.
Suits me well in my line of business.
But this girl, this Izzy, really plays up the fear thing. She’s clenching, then extending her fingers like she’s about to jump out of her own skin. Her eyes are wide, and if I’m not wrong, she’s even trembling a little.
Fucking awesome.
Kicking our scene into gear, I stalk around her, throwing no end of dirty looks. “Now, Izzy, I thought I told you to clean this room,” I growl.
I actually prefer that she start, but I don’t have all day.
Plus, it’s nice to mix it up a bit. The women I usually role play with are always so eager, overacting to the point where it takes some of the wind out of my sails. I mean, sure, we’re playing, but let’s mix shit up a bit.
Her mouth opens and closes. Again. God, she’s good.
I take a couple steps toward her, and she tries to step back, but the bed’s behind her and she falls onto it.
“Um, um… I’m, um… sorry,” she sputters.
“Do I need to take you over my knee? Again?”
Something I can only describe as horror washes over her face. She’s so believable. So fucking believable.
“N… no, sir. I… I don’t want a… spanking,” she spits out with a little more resolve.
I clap my hands so loudly she jumps. “Okay, then. There’s dust over there,” I say, pointing at nothing.
She just looks at me.
“Izzy. What are you going to do about it?”
Understanding washes over her. “Right. Right,” she says, running to the little bucket she brought with her cleaning supplies.
I’ll be damned. She brought real cleaning supplies. No fake shit for this one.
