As we come up on a year in captivity, I’ve been reminiscing about the last time I went to a bar. Forgive my meanderings, but this story will likely contain random moments I fondly recall as well as reflections I only realize the import of in retrospect. I promise you, however, you’ll get your smut…
** Content warning– some consentual noncon; explicit namecalling and language **
It was for a tinder date, of course, a first date. She had a bit on her bio about how she’d be taking bunker applications, and of course, I went to the fruitful well of my yoga teacher certification. We talked about how useful it would be to have a private instructor during quarantine (before that word had the meaning it does now), and while our messaging got a little salacious, we decided to meet at a bar first.
It was a year ago this Friday, before masks were commonplace but the looming threat was still on people’s minds and mouths. The rooftop bar accepted payment via app only; I remember thinking that was somewhat ominous. I walked there in a henley, a leather jacket, and jeans.
She had on a tight pair of jeans also, as well as one of those sweaters that revealed her midriff. She was a little shorter than me, clearly kept in shape, and was blonde haired and green eyed. Her name was Melinda, but she went by Mel.
We met on the line outside and hugged hello. I could tell she was a little tipsy from her work happy hour, but I didn’t mind. She was in good spirits and by no means too drunk to engage in conversation.
We got drinks, a pair of margaritas, and the conversation flowed easily. We discussed d&d, acid, online gaming. We traded banter and got closer to each other– to keep our distance from others, of course.
At one point, I saw a girl reach into her pocket for her phone and unwittingly drop a bag of small white powder. I’ve no interest in coke (what I assume it was), but I looked at Mel, wondering how she’d play it. She shrugged, and I kindly tapped the stranger on her shoulder to warn her that she dropped… *something*. She went red-faced and thanked me, even buying me my next drink.
Mel and I kept getting closer, and we were only inches apart at one point. I had my hand on her hip, and while there was a lull in the conversation, I asked her, “Your place or mine?” We determined hers was closer, and began our trek.
** naughty bit starts here **
Making out in the cold between walk signals, we got to her house and washed our hands. As if that would have done anything. She showed me her place and she offered me a drink, but I had only interest in her. I pulled her into bed and we continued our furious kissing.
Clothes began coming off, but she started to reject my affections. Dodging kisses, pushing away my hands. We had talked about this somewhat over text, but I don’t mess around with consent, especially not where bdsm-y things are concerned, and especially not on a first date. I called timeout.
I made sure she still wanted this, and had to drag the verbal consent out of her feisty mouth. Slapping, choking, pulling hair, all on the table. More than that, she wanted me to physically subdue her. Game on.
Every time my hands were batted away or refuted entry to her thighs, I slapped her across the face. Her C cups were exposed, and they received some of the pain as well. I wrenched her thighs open– her soul cycle apparently wasn’t enough for my yoga– and put my thighs there.
I could see on her face that she felt the bulge under my jeans, and I jumped on the moment of weakness. I held her by the throat and bit her neck and her ear lobe, telling her how badly she wanted it. How she’d been creaming herself since we started texting, and how she’d be embarrassingly wet for me once I bothered to touch her cunt.
She denied it, her face was red from exertion or because she knew I was right. I couldn’t tell and it didn’t matter. I kept grinding my stiffness against her, and her struggling weakened. I reminded her with a growl that she was just a pathetic little slut, aching to be used and mounted. She denied it further, her voice weaker now.
I repositioned to shove a hand between her thighs and into her panties. I was right– she was soaked. I told her as much and she said, “Fuck you, limp dick.” I slapped her for that remark, a couple times, and hard. I brought my wet fingers to her face and smeared them on her cheeks, taunting her over what a whore she was.
I made her taste herself, but she bit my finger *hard*. I would have cried out if it wouldn’t have made me look weak. Instead, I wrenched my hand away. I assaulted her in retaliation, smacking her breasts, her face, even her pussy in retaliation. She never called her safeword, but she was pleading to stop. Just to be safe, I paused for a moment to make sure she was ok, and she said, “Don’t stop… bitch.”
Ok, fuck you. I doubled down on the barrage of blows until my palm was sore. I turned her over and gave her a ruthless spanking that would leave her bruised the next day. I occasionally fingered her or spread her cheeks to spit on her, and I taunted her back for being a bitch in heat. I told her I was getting a condom, and she asked me if they made kid’s sizes.
I held her down flat against the bed and entered her from behind, roughly. I was met with no resistance. She trembled a bit, even as I held still, and she would later tell me she had a mini orgasm. I put my hands, and my weight, on her shoulders, and began absolutely railing her. As hard as I could. The lady did indeed protest too much, methought.
Her cries of, “No,” and “Fuck you,” because, “Yes,” and “Fuck me,” and I took the opportunity to lie my chest on her back and reach a hand around for her clit. I fingered her through god knows how many more climaxes, teasing her for each one and telling her what a fucking slut she was. Drunk dick was my friend that night, and I was nowhere near close to cumming, and I used that to fuck her into oblivion.
My dick was a little desensitized, so I knew I should take a break. Her voice was ragged by this point, and she was done playing hard to get. She spread her legs for me and the entire area was bright red and wet. I ate her out for a good ten minutes, until her climaxes were no longer accompanied by verbal screams, but silent ones.
When I made her squirt, she began to pull away, but I held her down and fingered her until my forearm was tired. She was shaking when I was done, and the bed was a mess, but I still hadn’t cum. I put on a second condom and positioned her ankles on my shoulders before plunging inside. Her eyes were half closed with pleasure, but when I was ready to cum, I slapped her face one last time and had her look at me. “Watch me cum inside of you.” And I did, expelling hours of lust and kissing her while it happened.
We untangled, exhausted, and passed out almost immediately.
She had soul cycle the next day, but I took my time getting breakfast, enough to wait for her. We ate at a biscuit place, one of the first local restaurant casualties of the pandemic, and the last time I ate in a restaurant. I remember doing the saturday crossword and browsing /r/coronavirus with mounting anxiety before she arrived. She looked good in her workout attire, even sweaty.
She bootycalled me later that night after a wedding, and we saw each other a couple more times before adjusting to quarantine took up too much headspace, and we drifted apart. So it goes.
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/lz4p1z/mf_the_taming_of_the_shrew_my_last_date_before