Summary: this story features no public transportation. none. honestly. ok, there's some transportation, but there's no hanky-panky in it. well, hardly any. it's all a's fault; she sent me the link. olive.
Keywords: MF rom oral blasphemous
Author: Meme Misspelt
Title: WWJD?

WWJD?

Maybe I don't want to examine the reasons too closely, but I really do 
like it when you wear that outfit -- the tight white blouse, the plaid 
skirt, the knee-socks, your hair up in saucy pigtails.

Or maybe I do want to examine the reasons -- it's not like I actually wish 
you were a teenager, for God's sake.  But I do find something undeniably 
provoking about the notion of corrupting innocence.  To get all scientific 
and clinical for a minute, I read a book once that claimed that the 
cultural fetish for nubile young virgins is genetically based: the best 
odds for a male to propagate his genetic material are with a female who 
has never reproduced.  Maybe; I don't really buy it, but whatever the 
reason, it's a kick to think about leading sweet young flesh into 
temptation. I like to think about all the words for it: despoiling, 
astray, fallen, corruption.  They make my cock twitch in my pants.  

But then, those words do a little something for you, too, don't they?  
After all, love, you're the one wearing the outfit.  Which is ultimately 
what makes it all work so well: you may keep your legs pressed tight 
together, but when my finger finally insinuates your defenses, I know how 
wet I'll find you.  I don't need to worry, like I would with a real 
schoolgirl, that my tastes might prove a bit too, mmm, "sophisticated" for 
you -- you're just about exactly as much of a libertine as I am.  Thank 
God.

So, anyway.  The Bad Catholic Schoolgirl bit has had me throbbing most of 
the night.  This evening, uncharacteristically, you've overdone your 
makeup a bit, emphasizing the promise of the "bad."  It would be too much 
to say that you're tarted up; you've stopped well short of "slutty." 
There's still a fundamental innocence about it, as if it's in imitation of 
a music video or something, but the eyeliner is just a little too heavy, 
and your lipstick is just shy of the blatant smear.  You play the role to 
the hilt in the cab on the way home from the club; when I put my hand on 
your knee, you slap it away playfully with a perfect coquette giggle, but 
in the strobing slats of streetlight, the glint of your eyes is purely 
wicked.

We dispatch the cabby.  You hesitate before the lobby entrance.

"Are you going to walk me to my door?" you ask, wide-eyed, with a nervous 
catch in your voice.

I slip through the doorway behind you, grab your shoulders, and let my 
weight press you against the wall.  I slump just a little bit, so my cock 
can press hard between the cheeks of your ass. We're in full view of the 
street; you could scream, or struggle.  If you wanted to.

"No," I whisper into your ear.  "You're going to invite me in for a nightcap."

You shiver deliciously.  "I don't think that's such a good idea," you 
gasp.

I slide one hand down your front.  Your nipple is swollen hard even 
through your bra and blouse.  I pinch it, and twist, just a little bit.  
"I didn't ask you," I say.  "I told you."

You can't quite stifle your moan.  You try to turn it into a protest, but 
it would convince no one.  I twist harder.  "Invite me in."

"Please, sir," you manage.  "Won't you come in for a little drink?"

"That's better," I growl, releasing you.  I let you walk up the stairs a 
few steps ahead of me, so I can enjoy the view.  I love the muscular bulge 
of your calves.

You start to slip out of character just a bit -- you're eager to open the 
door, but you certainly don't take the chance I give you to shut it on me. 
That's an important part of the game for me -- the seductee can deny it, 
but she has to want to be seduced.  

Once we're inside your apartment, you head for the kitchen, to make the 
drink you offered me, but I've already had enough to drink; I want 
something else from you.  You open the refrigerator and bend over, 
probably a bit more than is really necessary to see what's inside.  I 
catch your wrists and hold them behind your back with one hand.  I run the 
other hand up the inside of your thigh, pushing your skirt up just a bit.

You gasp.  I grin.  I've never known anyone with skin as incredibly 
sensitive as yours; it's an endless delight.  I reach my free hand around, 
fumbling with the buttons on your blouse.  You squirm just a little bit, 
making it just a little more difficult than it needs to be.  "Oh no," you 
squeak.  "You shouldn't!"  I have to let go of your wrists to pull the 
blouse off, of course.  You turn around, bumping the fridge door shut, and 
cross your arms to try to cover your breasts, but it is still obvious that 
your bra is black and lacy.

"That doesn't look like something a good girl would wear," I say. I pull 
your arms down to your side.

"I try to be good," you sigh, and sorry, darling, no one is convinced this 
time, either.

I grab the hem of your skirt and tug it down in one swift motion. 

Then I have to stop for a bit, because it's hard to play the vile rake 
when I'm cracking up.  You're laughing pretty hard too, all of a sudden, 
and I'm the brunt of the joke.  When I was much younger someone quipped 
that "sex is the most fun you can have without laughing," and I feel bad 
for whoever that was -- there's always something just a little absurd 
about sex, and it doesn't always hurt to realize it.

So: you're wearing white cotton panties, which isn't surprising; there 
are words on them, which is.  They say:

REMEMBER
you pray
with that
mouth!

"Where on God's green earth did you find those?" I ask when I can breathe 
again.

"I found them on some web site," you say.*

"Jesus, that's hilarious."  

Impulsively, I drop to my knees, bringing my hands together mockingly.  
You have stepped out of your skirt while I was laughing, and it's wound up 
bunched under my knees, making them much more comfortable than the tile 
floor would usually be.  

"That's right," you say, in a completely different tone, stern and a 
little chilly.  You step away from the fridge and adopt a commanding posture. "Worship me."

It's not like I need to count up reasons I love you, but if I did, this 
would be one of them: how you slip easily from a submissive role to a 
dominating one.  I might think you're just a little more convincing as a 
sub; maybe that's because I'm a little afraid of enjoying being dominated 
too much, and maybe not.  Mostly I dig the complexity and richness of the 
dance. And its surprises.  I like surprises.

It's not as if what you just said was ambiguous, but you clarify it 
anyway, mostly, I suspect, because you know how much I like to hear you 
talk dirty.

"Worship my cunt," you growl.

A lot of guys, when they are in locker-room bragging mode about what 
cocksmen they are, say that they find eating pussy distasteful -- 
something to be avoided, or a favor to be bestowed reluctantly.  I've 
never figured out if that's all macho posing or if I should really be 
sorry for those guys.  I've certainly never thought of it as something 
that should be rushed through, and although you're calling the shots just 
now, you're leaving the details up to me.  Worship?  Baby, I do.  I mean, 
I will.

I flick my tongue gently against the backs of your knees. I make little 
lines of nibbles up the back of your thigh.  I write in swirly cursive 
with a fingernail tip on your leg and you shudder.  I love the way you 
whimper "lick me..."

When I'm sure you're good and ready, I gently pull those silly panties 
down your hips.  I tease just a little more: a long slow lap up and down 
the very top of each thigh before I touch my tongue to your cunt.  I lick 
the length of your lips before giving your clit its first little flick of 
the day.  You moan.

I slip one finger inside the moist sweetness of you and lick delicate 
small circles around your clit.  I pump my finger gently at first, then 
harder.  "I want another finger," you say.

I oblige.  I lick harder.  I feel your breathing start to change.  "Oh, 
God," you say, after a minute or three, half laughing, "I can't keep 
standing up."  I pull away for a moment and you toddle awkardly into the living room, with the "REMEMBER" panties binding your ankles.  You don't quite collapse onto the carpet; it's more of a controlled fall.  I pull the offending panty over your shoes.  You raise your knees and spread your legs wide; you look so lovely and so wanton.

"Lick me," you say.  "Eat my pussy and fuck me with your fingers."  Your 
wish is my command, lover, and my wish too.  I lap you eagerly, devouring 
your bountiful tangy juices.  I suck your clit right into my hungry mouth. 
 "Oh, God, yes, suck it hard..."  When I look up, you're tugging and 
twisting your nipples.  

When I'm going down on you, I can feel little tremors running through you. 
 They build up, and your breathing gets ragged and fast. You clench hard 
around my fingers and your clit stiffens, pulses under my loving tongue. 
Then you relax a bit, and the tremors subside for a few moments before 
they start to increase again. It sometimes seems to me like breakers on 
the shore, with each wave a little bigger, higher than the last. I try to 
match your rhythm, giving you a little respite, then gradually increasing 
my onslaught. 

Even with all those little cues, the forcefulness of your climax almost 
always takes me a little by surprise -- if I didn't know you better, I 
might thinking you were acting for my benefit.  You scream so that I'm 
afraid you're going to make yourself hoarse, and shudder violently under 
me.  I press my tongue against you and twist my fingers gently, as deep 
inside you as they will go, in the long wonderful seconds it takes the 
orgasm to wash over and through you.

I lie there afterwards, listening to your breathing grow steadier as you 
come back to yourself.  I give your clit a teasing little kiss and you 
writhe under me again.  I slide my fingers out of you slowly, and you grab 
my wrist and pull my slick fingers into your mouth.  I love the way you 
taste, and it excites me beyond compare to know that you do, too.  None of 
my other lovers would ever taste themselves; this is another special thing 
I love to share with you,

A kiss now, tender and passionate.  You take the opportunity to clean your 
juices from my face.  I fold my arms around you and hold you close.  My 
erection still throbs almost painfully in my pants, but I'm not in any 
hurry; you know a lot of tricks to make me come so hard I think I might 
lose my mind, and they're all well worth waiting for.

And see: "I got you a pair of boxers,**" you say, after a while, after 
you're good and ready, and sure I am, too.  "Would you like to see what 
they say?"

-- Fin --

* www.jesus21.com/poppydixon/product/panties/panties.html

** artistic license, or a logical extension of the product line? you 
decide.


-- Meme Misspelt
-- /~meme_misspelt/