If she wins (i.e., gets to top me) by more than thirty votes, I have agreed that she gets to fuck my ass, too.
That’s the new deal.
Uh, so, you’re gonna help me win, right?
It has also been pointed out to me that I didn’t sell my topping her all that well in that last post. That is probably because I still have this vision of her ordering an entire roomful of people around while I was in Seattle, and, for whatever reason, I wanted to be kneeling in front of her with my hands on her leather boots, saying, “yes, ma’am.”
Now, though, I am telling her I want her in lingerie, garters and a bra and a thong, tall tall boots, blindfolded. Waiting for me on that hotel bed.
At that, she laughed. “I don’t think that’s what your readers want.”
Have I mentioned that she’s a grassroots organizer? She’s threatened to organize a voting block.
And yeah, I am hard and wanting with the ideas of submitting to her. A new place to be in, I don’t ever remember getting this worked up at the idea of bottoming to a femme. Yowza.
But, underneath it, all this talk just makes me want to take her down all the more.
I want to twist her arm around her back and shove her against a wall, kick her legs apart, fuck her until she comes, dripping down her legs and leaving a mess on the concrete at our feet. (I hear she’s a gusher.)
I want to feel my cock at the back of her throat as she swallows it in the car in the parking lot at the sketchy by-the-hour hotel.
I want to finger her while she blows me.
I want a fistful of her hair.
I want to split her open with that huge new cock of mine.
Like a watermelon, she wrote.
I want that look in her eyes, on her face, when she wallows in it, gives her body over to me, drops, opens. I want that stroking of her skin, after, when she’s shaken.
I don’t want her to be disappointed.