The other week, I fucked and dominated the adorably bratty 20-year old Scottish girl working at the b ‘n b I rented for my friend’s bachelor party trip. Within a few hours of meeting her, she’d let me taste her hairy ginger pussy, cum down her throat, and drink way too much whisky. [MF]

My hand found purchase around Maisie’s throat, my thumb sliding, slicked by shower water, along the pounding artery that attested to her excitement. As I tightened my grip, the smile on her freckled face faltered, her top lip curling in a way I was starting to recognize as the mid-point between pleasure and pain.

“Be careful,” she whispered. Her hands found my chest, nails scratching me. “Scotland’s a haunted land. Us Scottish girls turn into ghosts like that.” She found the wherewithal to snap her fingers, though the shower around us deadened the sound. “If you go too far, I will fucking haunt your arse.”

My grip must have slackened at that point because she grinned and added: “But that don’t mean you should go easy on me either.” That earned her a kiss.

Let’s back up, shall we? How was it that I, a relatively unassuming college professor, rapidly and unapologetically approaching middle age, the kind of woke feminist SJW white knight cultural Marxist CRT-pushing hack who haunts your cryptofascist aunt’s Facebook page, ended up in a shower, naked (needless to say), with a twenty-year old Scottish girl (equally naked), and my hand around her neck?

As the best man to my college roommate and best friend, Lars, it was up to me to arrange his bachelor party, and we’d always talked about doing a trip, something wild that we’d talk about for years.

Of course, half the world decided to go traveling this summer, after two pandemic summers, and I found many accommodations already booked. Originally, I had thought we might tour Scotland, staying a night or two at a few places to follow the malty trail of distilled spirits across the verdant nation, but that proved difficult—had we only been two, it might have been possible, but Lars’s wedding party, plus him, amounted to five men, and being that we were all into our thirties now, no one’s lower back would be able to take sleeping on a foldout couch or air mattress.

Rather serendipitously, I found one inn, located in an old decommissioned distillery and positioned less than an hour’s drive from well over a dozen current distilleries. It seemed to have only just opened that summer, and the Tripadvisor reviews, almost solely from Germans, were mostly flattering.

The only really odd thing about it was that it was named Hotel California. Yes. Like the Eagles song, as I later confirmed. They also had a paintball course on the property which none of the other bed and breakfasts or hotels I considered could boast.

Setting that weirdness aside, I saw from their online booking widget that they had five rooms available for a grand total of four nights, with one of the rooms available five nights. Perfect, I thought—I would arrive a day early, make sure everything was arranged, and welcome the rest of the boys in the morning.

Booking was easier said than done. The widget invariably crashed before I could consummate the transaction, and so I was forced to call the Hotel California directly. The number seemed to route to a cell phone belonging to the owner’s daughter, whose unreliability was matched only by the incomprehensibility of her accent over the phone.

“And so, Maisie,” I began one of my many calls to her—I seemed to have caught her just getting off Glasgow’s subway, and heard her cursing at someone in the background—“you’ll send me that confirmation email this time—”

“Yeah, sure, I’ll—” and then a burst of literal fucking Elvish.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“What you just said.”

“I said, yous’ll be—” and then what may as well have been a Robbie Burns poem in eighteenth century Scots.

“Maisie, do you think you could speak more slowly and enunciate when I call you?” I finally asked, once, in my never-ending quest for the confirmation email. That set her off.

“Do you know, not everyone is so fucking concerned about your problems?” she said, one of the few lines that I made out. She seemed to be crying, as well. For the most part, I will not try to represent her accent, since attempting to transcribe accents almost always results in something unreadable, but feel free to imagine her voice—actually quite pleasant and silvery, slightly deep for a girl, with a breathiness to it—producing the thickest, most ridiculous Scottish accent you’ve ever heard. For instance, she never failed to pronounce “fuck” as “fook.”

“I’ll send your bleeding confirmation email when I send it,” I believe she said at some point. I was starting to Google alternative options, and wondering if Canada’s distilleries and scenery might offer a passable and more easily understood alternative to Scotland when, fifteen minutes later, she called me back, contrite, enunciating, advising me to check my email for the confirmation which had, indeed, finally, arrived.

That’s all to say that I wasn’t enthused with Maisie when I first spoke with her. I had apprehensions aplenty about the trip, and even considered buying tents and sleeping bags, in case we would be forced to camp out on our journey over drunken vale and through boozy glen.

When the day came, I took a red-eye to Glasgow, picked up a rental car outside the city, and over the course of two hours of dull left-handed driving panic, punctuated by moments of profound awe at the green undulating landscape surrounding me, I drove north, arriving at the Hotel California.

It was grey and raining when I arrived, by which I mean it was a normal summer’s day for Scotland. The former distillery seemed almost totally deserted, except for a handful of Arnold Clarke rentals in the car park. At the very least, it was situated in truly stunning scenery, with a craggy munroe—that is, a mountain—looming over me, seemingly threatening to collapse at any moment.

Part of the distillery seemed to have been transformed into a pub, and it was here that I peeked my head in. The tables were set, the bar was clean, the lights were on, and the whisky bottles glittered alluringly, but no one was there.

I stepped out of the rain, set my things down, and found myself drawn to the far side of the pub, where a rather ancient record player stood on something like an altar, surrounded by sagging shelves of vinyl records. In college, I had run a small side-hustle buying and selling vintage records—this was at the height of Brooklyn style mustachioed fixed gear hipsterdom—and within seconds of thumbing through the albums, I realized that there was a small fortune sitting right here.

Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors all but fell out into my hands and there are few records whose sound I know better on vinyl, so I set it on the turntable and set it to playing. The record player was clearly loved, and had been cared for meticulously; the sound carried beautifully through to the pub’s sound system, and by the time Dreams came on, I was moving to the beat, tapping my foot, miming the drumwork, when I heard a feminine snort behind me.

A generously freckled redhead stood behind me, a case of whisky discarded on the floor beside her. Flitting green eyes, a pert, upturned nose, and coppery hair parted in the middle. She looked not unlike a slightly older version of the girl from the recent adaptation of It, with a wide grin that only grew wider and more impish as our eyes met.

“Oh, don’t let me interrupt your gig,” the brat said. “I think this could be your big break.”

This, being the type of story it is, I ought to mention that she was quite petite: she barely came up to my shoulder, and the oversized, oatmeal-colored sweater she wore covered the slender body attested to by the thin, pale legs crossed coquettishly beneath it. The hint of hem from a pair of jean shorts threw water on the fantasy that she might have forgotten underwear for the day.

“You’re Maisie, I take it.”

“In the flesh.”

“I hope it’s all right, where I parked—”

“Shut it, I love this part,” she said, lip-synching to Stevie Nicks. I watched for a moment, as she moved, matching the beat, dancing, guiding her lips around each of Stevie’s lyrics till she stopped, dead. “Look, it’s weird if I’m the only one dancing, right? I know, because I just saw you doing it.”

She had a point, undeniably. I caught her hands in mine (“Cheeky!” she cried) and we moved, two distinctly unprofessional dancers in an empty pub on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. I spun her, much to her delight, and she took to jabbing her pointer finger into my chest whenever Stevie Nicks crooned: “You will knoooow…”

As the song ended, I began to ask about my car once more, but she slipped away from me and darted to the record player.

“Here, let’s do this next,” she said, and in moments, the familiar tones of “Rhiannon” filled the pub. “I fucking love Stevie, don’t you?”

“I never get sick of those albums.”

“Right, like, how could you?” In person, I was finding her accent much more legible, and our proximity, as I pulled her close before letting her slip away, only to be caught again, did more than enough to aid understanding.

As the song ended, I tried a different tact with her: “From the website, I understand that there is included a whisky flight upon arrival?”

She repeated my query in a high, nasally voice. “Dance another one with me, and I’ll get your whisky flight.” We skipped forward to “Landslide,” not the most danceable, but definitely a contender for most lip-syncable, most Stevie Nicks emote-able, and we were mouthing the lyrics, making fists for dramatic emphasis as the landslide brought us down, when a portly, red-faced Scottish gentleman stepped into the room, clearing his throat.

“I’m so glad you found the place!” he said, offering no indication that he thought the way I was carrying on with the freckled girl in front of me was in any way inappropriate.

“Oh, dad, I’m just getting things sorted,” Maisie said, suddenly shy. She darted away from me, to the record player, and turned it off.

“I hope she wasn’t annoying you with the music and such—Maisie’s quite an audiophile. She rebuilt that record player herself and did all the wiring for the speakers.”

“That’s impressive.”

Maisie shrugged, but I could tell she was pleased. “Well, we all developed our own weird hobbies during lockdown, didn’t we?”

“These were my wife’s records,” Maisie’s father—Rodney, I was soon to learn, or Rod—told me. “Anything you want from before about 1988, she had.” Were, I noted. Had.

“It’s a great collection. I used to buy and sell records.”

“Oh, did you now? Well, we’re not selling these. Sentimental value, you know.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t dream of it. It’s a feature of the pub too, isn’t it?”

“That’s exactly it. See, Maisie, this bloke gets it. That’s why we call it Hotel California, you see?”

“I do see.” I did not see, unless the joke were that he and Maisie were ghosts but Maisie’s delicate hands and the reed thin small of her back had felt real enough.

“Well, I’ll let you get settled. Maisie’ll pour you some drams, yeah? Ehm, you might have some favorites, but I’d say let her pick for you—she worked a bit at a few of the distilleries around here and she’s got good taste.”

“Thanks, dad.” Her voice was singsong and strained, the usual façade of a child who, despite receiving her fair share of praise, continues to crave it into adulthood.

When Rod had left us, Maisie began pulling bottles off the shelf, seemingly at random. She set them out in front of me, with two sets of four glencairns.

“Your father seems quite nice,” I said, when we’d been silent a few moments too long.

“That’s because he is quite nice.” She began to pour, two drams of each. “I’ll have a flight with you, thanks.”

“Thanks?”

“I’m putting it on your room tab,” she said, with the smallest smirk. She poured three drams for each of us, and Rod was, I learned, quite astute in his estimation of Maisie’s taste.

“We’ve got three Speysides here,” she informed me. “Caramelly and fruity—sort of like Christmas in a glass, with a big bowl of cereal to go with it. Most of yous, when yous come over, yous think scotch is all big smoky peat, but these are almost like cognacs, see?”

This time, I did see. We made faces at each other as we sipped our drams, and she teased me for the tasting notes I offered her.

“Christ Almighty, wet gravel? Where’d you ever taste that?”

When we’d finished our drams, she pulled out another bottle, from beneath the counter.

“Now, this is one of the last bottles from when this place actually used to be a distillery. I don’t usually pour this for visitors, since it’s a bit unusual, but you seem like a man who might appreciate it.”

“I’m honored.”

“You should be.”

I took a sip. It was, indeed, odd. Musky. Fishy. Sea weedy, and oniony. In other words—

“Right,” I said, courage fortified by the drams. I’d tease her right back. “Is it supposed to taste like pussy, or is that wishful thinking on my part?”

“Ding ding ding ding, bingo!” she cried. “That’s right. At least, that’s what I think it tastes like, and I’m not alone.”

“You’re familiar, then, with the flavor?”

That got a laugh. “What do you think? I own a goddamned pussy.”

“Some girls go quite a while without tasting themselves.”

“Well, needless to say, I am not one of those girls.” She was blushing, but it could very well have been the drams. She left me at the bar to sip my pussy whisky while she went to put on a new record. The Smiths. “There is a Light that Never Goes Out.”

“You figured we ought to listen to Morrissey, since we’re discussing twats?”

An enormous smile. “Oh, you’re quite clever, aren’t you?” And then: “Anyway, that last vintage we were just on, I’ll have you know I sample it quite regularly.”

“And is that part of my tasting?”

“Cheeky too! My dad is around, you know. And aren’t you, like, twice my age?”

“How old are you? Am I covered by the NHS if I’m in a British prison?”

“Twenty, so you’re in the clear, old man.”

“I’m only thirty-three. That’s not so scandalous. In the US, we let our legislators go out with seventeen-year-olds.” I held up the empty glass. “Pour me another dram, or give me a taste of that other malt you mentioned.”

She bit her lip.

“What makes you think it’s even—tapped? That there’s anything there for you to taste?”

“Check and tell me it’s not wet. I dare you.”

She flattened her lips. I heard the rustle of fabric, the unsteady rhythm of her breathing under Morrissey’s whining.

“You’re checking?”

“Mhm.”

“Well?”

“Well what?” She scowled and shook her head. “Goodness, but you’re not a very nice man.” She shuddered and then, unceremoniously, drawing her gaze away, thrust a single sticky finger in my face. “I cannot fucking believe I’m doing this.”

I all but swallowed her finger up to the knuckle, suckling away the juices. She tasted quite mild, salty, earthy and even grassy—not at all unpleasant.

“Well? How is it?”

“That’s a malt I could drink every night.”

“And maybe sometimes in the morning before work?”

“A perfect complement to my breakfast. I’ll take two more fingers.”

She snorted. “You’re fucking awful.” I saw her lips shudder and she shivered. “I’m getting you a nice pour here—there’s rather a lot all of a sudden, isn’t that odd?”

“I hope it hasn’t sprung a leak.”

“Aye, me too. Taste.”

I took her by the wrist and, without breaking eye contact, licked her fingers clean. When I dropped her hand, she held it against her chest.

“Well. Fuck me.”

And I may very well have, had not a group of drenched Japanese tourists tumbled inside at that very moment. Maisie gave me an apologetic look and dashed over to them, with pub menus, but they couldn’t understand her accent and she couldn’t wrap her mind around their imperfect, equally accented English.

“Pardon me,” I said, in polite-but-not-too-polite Japanese—I didn’t want to give the indication that I worked there too. “But I may be of some assistance. You’d like a late lunch, yes?

The tourists were delighted. They had questions about the fried scampi (“What the fuck do I know about the scampi? Cod’s too expensive now,” Maisie replied, which I translated as a “modern Scottish delicacy,”) and were eager to knock back a truly astounding number of whiskies before swaying, giggling and shaking my hand, back to their tour bus at the bottom of the road.

“That was something,” Maisie informed me. “It’s mostly Germans and Italians we get—I know a bit of those, but Japanese is beyond me. I only know, uh, kawaii and ‘Is that a Jojo reference?’”

“I’m a professor of East Asian history back in the States.”

She clucked her tongue. “So, you’re actually like a real adult, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, here I was, embarrassing myself, taking the piss, and you’re quite—accomplished, aren’t you?”

“I’ve got social capital instead of financial capital, I suppose.”

“Oh, good, I was hoping you’d turn into a Sally Rooney book to make me feel bad about capitalism without really knowing why.” She sighed. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m a bit of a cunt, if you haven’t noticed.”

“What are you apologizing for?”

“I’ve teased you quite a bit. And that’s not even counting yelling at you on the phone that one time.”

“If it helps, I couldn’t understand anything you were saying.”

“That does help, actually, thanks.” And then, she leaned forward, over the bar, and kissed my cheek. “I’ve got to do some work now, but you get yourself settled in your room. Have a look around the property, if you like. A few trailheads end at the edge, just beyond where we’ve got a paintball course set up, so go hiking if you want.” She was almost out the pub when she shot a look over her shoulder, almost screen by copper hair. “If it’s not too wet for you.”

After unpacking into the tidy little room set aside for me, just above the pub, I took Maisie’s advice and followed one of the trails into the woods, ascending a mossy hill that gave way, within a few miles, to a remarkable few of the valley. It stopped raining as I walked back down, and by the time I was back on the property, the sun was shining.

I spied a red-haired figure carrying laundry and stringing up a line. She returned my wave and I squished over to her, in the mud.

“Good hike?”

“Very good. Very wet.”

She made a face somewhere between a smirk and a pout. “Good.”

“Maybe you can take me on a hike yourself.”

“Some of us aren’t on holiday and have to work,” she said, gesturing to the laundry. She began hanging it up, letting it waft in the sunny breeze. “No matter how much we’d like to run off into the woods.”

“In that case, I’ll have another taste of that special malt from earlier.”

“Oh?” she said, her eyes widening. “Will you now? And wherever will you find it?”

“I’ve got an idea. I can get it myself, if you’re busy.”

“Quite busy.” She turned away from me, back to the laundry. “So you’ll have to help yourself.”

As she stood on her toes to clip up a shirt, I slid my hands around her waist. She let out a soft yelp and leaned back into me.

“Wait, what if someone sees?”

“There’s no one around.”

“But—wait—here, I’ll act like I’m showing you something on my phone.” She dug into her pocket and pulled out her smartphone. She opened Google maps. “There, pretend I’m showing you a hike or a haunted kirkyard or some such nonsense.”

“And that’s where the ancient Pictish stones are?” I said as I slid my hands under her sweater, finding bare flesh, taut, slightly damp with sweat and rain. My hands glided up her belly to find her breasts, less than handfuls, and each capped with an impossibly hard nipple, swollen in excitement.

“Aye, that’s where they are. Kind of like, hard little pebbles, aren’t they?”

“They’re beautiful.”

“You haven’t seen them yet.”

“But I’ve laid hands on them.”

“The Pictish stones.”

“Yes.”

I twisted one of her nipples gently, stroking the other.

“You seem to know your way around them.” I flicked the tip and she all but purred.

“But what I really want is a sip of whisky,” I murmured in her ear, giving her earlobe a nip. As my hands descended, she stopped me, suddenly.

“Wait. Ehm…”

“Is that all right? Am I moving too fast?”

“I mean, it is, and you are, and that’s fine, and you’re an absolute darling for asking,” she said, quickly. “The thing is, I’m rather hairy down there and it’s not everyone’s cup of tea.”

I shook off her hands and pressed one of my own down the front of her shorts.

“That’s not going to be an issue.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m very sure.”

“I’m just going to be very upfront with you, because I am absolutely soaked and going mad, but it was a factor in breaking up with my last boyfriend and I’m still feeling kind of vulnerable about it so if you’re going to take one look and tell me to get waxed or some shit like that, I’m going to fucking scream.”

My fingers found the soft, almost downy fur covering her mound—and, a second later, the soaked lips, and the tiniest hint of a nub, veiled by her hair and flesh.

“Like I said,” I whispered. “It’s not going to be an issue.”

“Oh, thank fucking God, because you’re a bad, bad terrible man and I quite like it.”

I stroked her soft slit, fingers slick with her juices. I tasted them, and then pressed my fingers into her own lips. She suckled, obedient, at the tips.

“So, tell me more about that haunted kirkyard.” I buried a hand in between her thighs once more and she pressed into my hand, whimpering, gasping, as I stroked her. I kept my finger not on her clit, but on the slick hood, and that seemed to do the trick for her. She shook in my arms and I felt one of her hands grasping, ineffectually, looking for my cock. I caught the hand by the wrist, and held it tight instead.

“Well,” she began, voice almost breaking. “There’s a girl there who haunts it because she went crazy during lockdown and developed some weird fetishes and ever since she dumped her asshole boyfriend at uni, she just cries and masturbates all day, and sometimes she overshares with men who are, functionally, strangers to her.”

“Is she a ghost? How’d she die?”

I slid a finger inside of her velvety hole, savored the way her slit clung hard to my digit.

“She masturbated so much she forgot to eat or sleep so she starved to death, I guess.” Then, she dropped her phone. I expected Maisie to stoop to pick it up but instead, she just clung hard to my wrist. “Yes, yes, yes, just like that, I’m so fucking close.”

“Ask for permission to cum.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Fuck you,” she whispered. When my fingers abruptly disappeared from her clit, she let out a long, low moan of disappointment. “Oh, fuck. May I please cum, pretty please? I’m going to lose my mind if you don’t make me cum, please, please, please?”

I began to stroke her again, slower this time, but picking up in speed.

“I’m still not convinced you deserve it.”

“Oh, please, I do deserve, I really do. And I’ll show you how much I deserve it, tonight. You can taste that special malt as much as you want. I’ll do an, ehm, in-room tasting. On the house.”

“That would be perfect.”

“This isn’t a drill. If you keep doing that, I am going to fucking cum so that’d better be all right with you.”

I could feel her muscles tensing and untensing. I twisted her face around, and kissed her, our first real kiss, as her climax descended on her, as she writhed in my arms. As she finished, I slid my fingers out of her, pressed them to her lips, and she suckled them greedily. Then, I replaced my fingers with my lips, and our tongues clashed, eager and hungry.

“I do actually have work to do,” she said, finally, when we broke apart. “Once we finish dinner at the pub and I clean up—if you’re still awake—I’ll come knock on your door, all right?”

After the first of many fish-and-chip dinners, I retreated back to my room with a comically tiny cup of double-espresso and, while fully intending to do some reading, instead found myself watching SVU reruns on British television. I may have nodded off at some point because I remember jumping when I heard a knock at my door.

“Not too late, am I?”

“I started this day in Newark, and in spite of that fact, I’m not eager for it to end.”

She puckered her lips proudly. “Good.” I stepped aside to let her in. She had changed—she wore a short dress, now, blue with white polka dots—a flimsy looking thing I resisted tearing off her. I saw she’d brought a bottle too, a Cardhu 12-year. She’d also done her make up, I realized, when she looked back at me, with pointed blades of makeup curving down along the corners of her eyes.

“You look absolute adorable, you know,” I informed her, and this earned me a grin in response.

“I hope I didn’t take too long getting ready for our tasting.” She bit her lip. “Not to be a complete slut or anything, but I’ve been thinking about this all day and I’m in quite a state. Shall I show you?”

“I’d love nothing more.”

She hopped her ass up onto the small writing desk, and then down, when I asked her to let me remove my laptop.

“Ehm, sorry about that,” she said when I wiped a wet smear off the Apple logo. She returned to the desk and, unlike before with her sweater, my suspicions were proven correct—she pulled her legs up, lifting her dress in the process, and spread them, so she was essentially in a deep squat on the desk, pussy exposed to me completely.

A pink and copper garden greeted me. Her pubic hair was a shade or two lighter than the hair on her head and seemed to spill from her snatch, covering her crotch, her inner thighs, her tight little asshole, barely visible, and threatening to sneak up her belly. When she raised an arm to sweep away her hair, I saw that her armpits were unshaven too.

“I’m impressed.”

“It’s not a turn off?”

“I think it’s sexy as hell.”

“Good!” she cried, half delighted, half relieved. “I won’t tell you the whole sob story now, but my ex, he didn’t like it and he wouldn’t go down on me and then I found out he was cheating on me with my best friend Nora and he’d go down on her, and so—well, I guess I’ve told you the whole sob story.”

I pulled up a chair so I could lower my face to her legs, starting to kiss and nibble my way towards her center. I slid a finger into her folds, and found her cunt dripping already.

“I’ve been like that all fucking day,” she whispered.

“That’s a good girl.”

“Oh, fuck. If you talk like that, I’m in trouble.”

I bit her inner thigh, tugging with my teeth at the tender skin. She yelped and her hands found my hair, fingers digging into my scalp.

“What kind of trouble?”

“The kind of trouble where I do stupid things because I want to please you.” I spread apart her pussy, pink glistening folds and all, and trailed my tongue up her slit to her clit, then left it there to lap at her delicate wetness. “I guess I’m already there, huh.”

I suckled at her clit, pushing my fingers inside her, teasing away the hair with my tongue. Her scent was so much stronger now, like an animal in heat, essentially what she and I both were. My cock throbbed painfully in my jeans but, like any gentleman, I was going to attend to her needs before my own.

With some of the wetness from her pussy, I slid a finger over her asshole, and found that it was already wet, no doubt collecting the juices dripping down from her eager slit.

“Fuck, you’re nasty,” she whispered.

“Tell me now if you don’t want me to do this.”

“You can. Just—be gentle. It’s been a while since I had anything there. Anything big, at least.”

“My fingers aren’t big.”

“They are for me,” she pointed out.

And, indeed, compared to me, she was quite tiny. Here’s the part, I suppose, where I described myself. Imagine a hairy, bearded man, tattooed and be-glasses’d, who once liked weightlifting and tacos and beer, and owing to the pandemic, gave up one of those hobbies, only to get back into it a few months ago, before discovering that his lower back had aged two years and couldn’t stand up to deadlifts like it once did. So, now, for the time being, I am king of the stairmaster and the leg curl.

Maisie’s asshole took my finger quite eagerly, all but sucking it in, while I kept up my steady assault on her clit.

“Fuck,” she whispered. “That feels so nasty.”

“Do you like it?”

“I love it.”

I began to finger her ass, delicately, and by the time I added a second finger, she was ready to blow.

“Please,” she whispered. “May I cum?”

“You’re learning,” I murmured into her clit.

“I want to be a good girl for you. I was a brat earlier but I want to be so, so good for you.”

“Then show me how good it feels.”

That was all the cue she needed. A spasm of pleasure seemed to race through her body as she stiffened and relaxed, her feet slipping off the desk and her thighs clamping around my face as she came. The scent of her arousal only increased, and by the time she was finished, the desk was the site of a small deluge of girlish juices.

“Fucking hell,” she gasped, panting. “I needed that.” Before I could wipe my mouth, she leaned forward, planting a huge kiss on my sticky lips. “And there—see, I’ve tasted myself.”

“I should have never doubted you.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” she scolded, and slid down onto the floor. She eased her dress over her head—no bra, either, and not that she needed it either, with her firm, tiny breasts—and stood before me, hands on her hips. “Well? Where would you like me?”

“Lie on the bed.”

“On my back?”

“Mhm.” She obeyed, and spread her legs once more. She reached down to tease open her hole, grinning at me from the bathroom as I washed her hands.

“Like this, d—I almost called you something quite foolish.”

“What was that?”

“Fuck me now and I’ll tell you later.”

I was undressing now, letting her watch me.

“I like how hairy you are.”

“I guessed you might.”

“I stopped shaving, you know, during lockdown, just a practical thing, but I really liked it, I found. The way it looks and feels. I felt so much sexier. I, ehm, may even have made an OnlyFans to show it all off—oh, there he is!” I grasped my cock in my hand as I straddled her, sitting back and taking her by the hair, pulling ever so slightly, as I guided her lips to my shaft.

“You can show me that OnlyFans later tonight.” She nodded, without a word, letting her soft lips suckle the flesh of my cock. She kissed down to my balls, nipping and suckling at the flesh, and then back up the shaft, up to the plump cockhead, and took it into her lips, nibbling gently on it, almost chewing it in a way I was surprised to find I liked.

Then, suddenly, she stopped.

“Listen,” she said. “I’ll suck your cock pretty much any time you want, but I really, really, really want to feel you inside me right now.”

“Oh, do you? Then tell me what you were about to call me.”

“It’s quite shameful.”

“Any more shameful that what you’ve already done?”

“Oh, fuck you. I was going to call you daddy, all right? I know that’s ever so cringey now.”

“I don’t mind one bit.”

She pursed her lips. “Maybe. I’ve never had someone like that. I’ve only ever been with guys my own age, and they weren’t particularly dominant or anything.”

I let her lay back and she wrapped her legs around my waist. I gathered her ass in my hands as I slid the tip of my cock into her.

“I should have asked before but—”

“I’m on protection. I should have asked too, but you don’t have a million diseases, do you?”

“I got tested the other week, so unless I caught something from an airplane toilet—” As I said this, I pushed into her, tight satiny wetness hugging my cock as her arms mimicked her cunt and hugged me close to her.

“I could tell you’re a playboy. I’ve only been with two boys.” She let out a sigh. “Three now, I suppose.”

“I’m fairly ethical about it.”

I felt her lips on my neck, on my collar bone and chest. “I bet you are. I bet you assure yourself that you’re a good feminist as long as you make me cum first.”

Pressing forward, I leaned into her. My cock was buried in her up to the hilt and good god, was she tight. Even with her so wet, I felt like I was tearing her apart.

“Should I go slow?” She shook her head.

“Take me however you want, daddy.”

“That’s my good girl.”

I found a nice rhythm, pumping into her, a silent scream of pleasure on her face. Gradually, I had her doubled over, a position she informed me later that Gen Z was calling the “mating press.” My cock practically dove into her, each thrust guiding my slick shaft out of her almost completely before I slammed it into her once more.

“Fuck me, daddy,” she groaned. “Fuck me up.”

I slid a hand around her neck and felt her stiffen. “Is that something you like?”

She nodded, frantically, and I felt her pulse speeding, blood roaring as I held her by the throat, not squeezing so hard that I would make her pass out, but just enough to put her in her place—so the brat knew who was in charge.

Time seemed to slow down. I couldn’t tell you how long I fucked her like that. Pride makes it feel longer than it probably was, but to my credit, Maisie did let out a sob and came on my cock, thrashing and squirming.

“I never cum from getting fucked,” she whimpered. “Fucking never.”

That was enough to push me over the edge and I unleashed a sticky torrent into her swollen hole.

“Holy shit,” she muttered when I finally slid out of her. She did a crunch trying to look at her own pussy. “I love seeing the cum in it like this. Would you take a picture, actually? I want to put it on the Only Fans. I haven’t posted in a while.”

I obliged, and we produced several glamour shots of my cum glistening against her raw, red pussy, matting her pubic hair to her flesh.

“The lads absolutely love this shit. I just show off my pussy, my pits, and my feet. That’s enough for them.” We took a few more pictures, having scooped some of my seed out of her slit to spread on her toes and on the glistening hair beneath her arms. Maisie regarded me curiously, a sweet grin on her lips. “You’re remarkably cool about this, you know. Lots of guys would think a girl with an Only Fans is pretty dodgy.”

“Well, lots of girls would think calling a man she barely knows daddy is pretty dodgy too.”

“I mean, I think it’s dodgy, I just can’t help it!” Maisie cried. I was already getting hard at that point and gestured to my cock.

“You’ll be a good girl and clean up the mess you made, won’t you?”

“Yes, daddy!” she chirped. She leapt to it, kneeling before my cock, running it over her face, smearing the cum clinging to it over her make up. She took me into her mouth, gagged, and tried to take me deeper. I placed a hand on the back of her head, and eased my cock deeper into her throat until she began to choke and pulled off me. “I really need to practice. Back during lockdown, I could practically deepthroat my entire shampoo bottle.”

“You were practicing deepthroating during the pandemic?”

“Like I said—weird pandemic hobbies. And I wanted to make sure I was good and ready to catch some dick once lockdown ended. I had just turned eighteen and this seemed incredibly important to me, you know.”

She bobbed her head on my cock eagerly, green eyes gazing up at me, pausing every so often to suck my balls, to lick from my sack to the tip of my cock and back, even to lick up my belly, darting her tongue into my belly button, and then licking my nipples, before returning to my cock.

“I might as well train with the real thing, right?” She spat onto it before she slid it back down her throat. Somehow, that pushed me over the edge—the eagerness to please me, and the way her makeup had started to run with the occasional tear. I gripped her hard by the hair—she yelped onto my cock—and thrust into her mouth. I felt her choke and gag but she only pushed herself harder onto my cock, until, finally, I came, a rush of cum erupting from the tip of my cock and flooding her mouth.

Maisie sat back, panting, gagging, coughing, before finally forcing her mouth shut and forcing herself to swallow.

“There,” she said, hoarsely, smiling at me with tear-stained cheeks. “All gone. You were holding out on me—I didn’t know you had a rare malt to taste too.”

After that, she curled up in my arms, nuzzling my chest.

“I could get used to this. Are there any universities in Scotland you could teach at?”

“Academic hiring is bad enough as it is,” I started to say but she shushed me.

“Oh, just let me fantasize a bit.” She kissed me hard. “At least while you’re staying here, you’ll be my daddy, won’t you?”

I agreed, of course, and we laid some ground rules. Mostly, me—having a certain amount of experience with nasty things of this nature, I suggested we decide on a system of safety words, and discuss any hard limits (“No poo, and don’t mark me up where my dad will see,” Maisie said). When we were finished, Maisie’s lower lip quivered and I realized her eyes had welled with tears.

“What’s wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong—I’m just feeling lucky that the guy I decided to let chat me up actually turned out to give a damn about my safety and pleasure and shit.” She kissed me again. “I’m not even drunk. I’m just happy and grateful, I guess.”

“I mean, I’m happy and grateful you let me cum inside of you within hours of meeting you.”

“We’d met before,” she cried. “I mean, on the phone.”

“I really ought to punish you for how you acted before.”

“That’s a good idea. In general, I probably need to be put in my place quite a bit. Don’t hesitate to punish me. I’m aching for a good spanking, in particularly. But now, I’ve really got to go. Ever since mom died, dad gets anxious if he doesn’t know where I am.”

“Of course.”

“I’ve got to change. And clean up my face. So that’s it for tonight. I hope you enjoyed your tasting, please leave a review on Tripadvisor.” She leaned over me for a goodnight kiss and when my hands slid down her slender body, and between her thighs, she giggled and pulled away. “If you do that, I won’t be able to leave. Seriously. I need to have self-control for both of us, daddy.”

Later, I was just about to turn in when I noticed she’d left the bottle of Cardhu.

Well, I thought, as I poured myself a dram. Not a bad first day of the trip.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/wnn1dz/the_other_week_i_fucked_and_dominated_the