As I mentioned before, I'm done with BN because it has proven, at least for my geographic location, to be useless in meeting real people. However, at another site I have had more success at meeting real people, though no success in taking the next steps in the experiment.
With that said, I thought I might share something. In email with a prospective playmate I mentioned, jokingly, that my safeword was "Macaroni". Her response was enthusiastic, "Now we're talking!" and she requested I tell her a fantasy in which she were to submit to me, from start to safeword... so, I put on my writer's hat and set to it with some trepidation. What follows is what followed...
I was imagining a first meeting. Very civil, very nice. Public place, a coffee shop. Black coffee. Nervous twitches. Rambling monologues clumsily running into eachother almost like a real dialogue because both of us are too busy running **** equations through our heads to really be present enough to maintain anything beyond ****. To a bystander, it appears as two savants carrying on in nearly the same subject, speaking just past eachother.
Clocks start to get watched. There it is. The killer yawn. She's talked herself tired or I've bored her silly. Either way, it feels like things have gone great. Both very amiable, both very similar. Ok, well, time to go.
It is very cold outside. You are not dressed appropriately for it, you wanted to look nice, or maybe you had something at work you needed to be dressed up for? Who knows. I don't care. I just know that in my mind, while we had been blathering on about ourselves, so pleased that we got the same references, or at least knew enough about similar worlds to respond correctly even when the exact meaning was not exactly grasped, during that time when my big man brain was doing the math on "does **** and y and z add up to yes I want to **** this person" a **** subsection was worrying the exact logistics of that skirt or those tights, worrying it like a loose tooth, turning and prodding, trying to get that last piece of the puzzle to let go, release, figure odds on if it would stretch or tear if pulled.
What do you know, we parked right next to eachother. My car is not my car, but a rental provided by my insurance company. As such, it is a sort of a small truckish-SUVish thing, some marketing campaign gone wrong, with only the saving grace that the windows are tinted and the back seat is relatively uncomplicated terrain.
As we walk towards the cars, an idea takes hold. I get very anxious because there is a lot of risk involved. I got signals, I think I got them correctly. But to verify and clarify would also neuter the whole thing. I decide to risk it. We're still chatting as we walk, nervous cliches trotted out, fake laughter. We get to the car. I can't remember if we mentioned the words during our conversation. One to start, one to stop. Well, I guess I'll find out.
I put my hand on the door handle and turn towards you. You're just a waif, a breezy paper ****. I'm resolved. I say the word for go, my throat suddenly very hoarse. It doesn't even come out right. But I think you heard it. You notice my eyes suddenly get very hard. I see your eyes get big, huge, panicking. In a surprisingly quick motion I somehow opened the back door of my car and threw you in. It didn't take much. You were so surprised you barely even got out a "No, I-" but I'm committed. I'm assuming we both know the rules. I've climbed in right behind you. The thoughts in my head, they are disturbing, off putting, against what I believe in, but in the moment it tastes like pure water and sunshine. I didn't realize that the **** noise you made as I closed and locked the door behind me triggered it. I was so hard I could barely breathe. And you look very scared. And. Hungry.
"No," I growl. "Quiet."
I'm not even thinking about other people anymore. Tunnel vision? I feel like I've cornered a tiny **** bunny. I should be ashamed of myself. I reach out and take your shoulders and pull you back over to my side of the car. I can feel your **** bones quivering. I put my hand in your hair, take a big slow whiff. Mmmmm.
"I've been wanting to do that for the past hour."
"Stop, please?" you say, "I wasn't ready!"
"What's the magic word?"
"Please???" Please is not the magic word. I press your shoulders back, down to the seat. I feel like if I leaned on you I might break something. You start to move your leg, like you might kick. I grab your ankle with my other hand, give it a **** hug.
"Sure about that? Do you want bruises?" I ask.
You stop moving. I slowly move my hand up your leg, You look directly into my eyes. I can feel that things are about to go wrong, soft, "Don't look at me!" I say sternly. You quickly look away, a ghost of a cry slipping from your throat. My hand has reached the top of your hip, under the skirt. This feels like a line in the sand, like a point of no return. My hand brushes down, across the front of your panties, drinking the warmth from you. It's like a green light.
I flip you over onto your stomach and pull your hands behind your back. I've got you pinned under my knee right near the bottom of your ****, as I wrap the middle seatbelt around your wrists and snug it tight with a sloppy knot. I flip up the back of your skirt. You are wearing special occasion panties. They are pretty and fun and a **** **** and **** irrelevant. I slide them down without too much trouble. You resist a **** here and there but there's not much you can do. Panties around your ankles, hands bound, face pressed into the leather seat. I put one hand under your pelvis, right above your ****, and give it a **** pressure.
"Up, up," I say, increasing the pressure minutely. You grunt and whimper a **** as you try to shimmy your knees in, lifting your **** into the air.
Suddenly I'm struck by how beautiful it is. Soft skin. I glide my fingers along the side of your leg, tracing the bends and straights. It feels nice. I like the feel of your body. I like that I have it. I give you a **** kiss on the hip. "Isn't this nice?" I ask, finally adding some softness.
You turn your head so I can see the side of your face thats not pressed into the car seat.
"**** you," you whisper.
I smile and my eyes look hard again. I hit the right cheek of your **** with my open hand, giving off a satisfying "****". Then the left, "****"
I get behind you. You are **** open to me. There's nothing you can do. And I can see you, scared, shivering, goosebumps a mile high, dripping.
I slide my hands up your inner thighs from knee to ****, stopping just short.
"Is this what you want?" I ask, gently squeezing with my fingers.
You don't say anything.
"Is this... what you want?" Now squeezing harder. If this goes much harder there will be bruises.
"Yes" you say.
"Wrong!" I smack your **** again, hard.
I like this ****. It is just right. I think I'm going to own it. I reach under it, between your legs, letting my fingers find their natural places. A slow, rhythmic pulsing just here and there.
"How about now?" I ask.
"Yes" you say
"NO!" I shout, and smack your **** again. You can't help but to yelp.
I go back to the last position, slowly stroking your ****. It stands up at attention, pushes back against me.
"And now?" I ask.
"No," you say timidly.
"What?" I demand
"No!" you choke on it.
I slide around your **** once more and then my finger goes into you, slowly, just enough to announce its presence. It doesn't say, "Can I come in?" it says, "I'm here. I'm hanging up my coat."
"What about this?" I ask, slowly rubbing the floor of your ****, like I'm wiping off my feet before entering the house.
A **** further, I'm past the foyer and into the hall.
My finger is as far in as I can go. Its not much use. Just an instrument. The temperature is perfect, as is the humidity and barometer.
"What about now? I think I could keep you here all day, playing with you like this, like a **** with his mouse, how do you like that, mouse?" I ask.
"Stop!" you say through clenched teeth.
I reach up for my zipper. I have been so hard this whole time its almost painful. I make a big show of it, aurally, getting the metal teeth to sing their jagged chorus. I notice a **** twitch, a spasm in your shoulder blade. I'm pushing out through my jeans, looking like casper rising from the denim graveyard. I lean into you, letting my member press against your **** cheek. My underwear is still in the way but you can tell instantly what it is. I can feel something change in the tension of your skin. I slide down my shorts and pull out a condom. Something about the unmistakable "crinkle" of the wrapper sets off alarms in your head.
"Uh...uh...uh...MACARONI!" you blurt out, "Jesus, don't you have to get back to work???"
I quickly zip up and help you get your things back in order.
"Wow," I say, "we should, uh, get coffee again sometime."
"Ha!" you say, "You can count on it."