he growled against my ear, barely audible against the panicked beat of my heart.

“shut your fucking piehole. Not a fucking sound. Got it?”

His hand, fisted into the hair at the nape of my neck tightened. I nodded, though the movement cost me. I felt the prick of tears in my eyes, even as I heard buttons pinging against the cracked linoleum floor. It smelled back here, this old, unused room was once a kitchen but was now just a storehouse of eclectic junk.

It was also the room I was about to be fucked in.

He tugged me across the room, bent me over a cold, sheet metal table. The stainless steel was gritty with dirt; I felt it grinding into the skin of my right cheek as he pressed my head against the unyielding surface.

“Don’t fucking move,” he hissed, and I heard the sound of his fly. I shuddered, but remained still. My arms were behind me as he’d ordered me, my tits were starting to fall free of my now-buttonless blouse, and my hair was coming out of my once-tidy French braid.

There was a tug and my skirt was pulled up and over my ass, and my pantyhose pulled down to bare my bottom. He rubbed the roundness there, then rough fingers probed at my exposed holes.

I expected his cock to thrust into me, rutting through his hunger. But instead, his fingers played along my folds. Caresses and pinches as he fingered my slit, and the unbelievable sensation of him rubbing my clit.  I wanted to moan with the pleasure.

I was being taken advantage of. Someone had let it be known that I liked sex. Loved sex. It was scrawled on the wall of the teacher’s bathroom, as if we were the kids, not the leaders.

“Justina loves sex. Force her and she’ll love ya for it.”

It has been erased within the hour. Sure, I could have traced the lipstick. Found the perp, as they say on those tv cop shows. But instead, Mr. Williams was preparing to complete a quadratic triangle on my pussy.

When he pinched my swelling clit, I came, hard.

“So, it’s true. You do cum buckets.” His voice was low. There weren’t many teachers left in the building this late on Friday. But I’d had paperwork to finish, and the big copier was just on the other side of the old kitchen door, in the new office.

His big fingers slid up into my sodden tunnel, gliding easily along the trail of wetness.  He filled me, fucked me, banging me with his hand. I came again, embarrassed by the sounds of wet splatter on the linoleum.

His hands gathered on my hips as he pulled me back and onto his cock at last. It was thick, and he was quite firm in bucking it into me.  I don’t think I’ve ever had a cock that thick inside me before this,  but it didn’t make me want to fight it off. No, it made me want to press harder back on it.

Those words on the bathroom wall were true. I liked to be fucked. The harder, the meaner, the better. He began to piston into my pussy, and I moaned softly. He struck me between my shoulder blades. My lip banged on the table, my teeth biting it.

The copper taste of blood in my mouth told me my lip was split, before the soft ache came. All my attention was focused on my cunt. On the cock working to split me in half. It hurt, the hard, relentless thrusts.

And it felt so fucking good.

I pressed back, wanting more. His hand found one breast, grabbing it and growling. I winced at the pinching grip, as his fingers found and rolled my nipple. I reared up a bit, but the grip was unrelenting.

He fucked faster.

He fucked deeper, way up into my belly. There was growling again, but this time I think it came from me.

I came again, the wet spatter on the floor even louder than the slap of his balls against me.

He pulled me abruptly off the table, and to my knees on the dirty, wet floor. There was a grunt and a hot splash on my left tit. Another spurt on my cheek, another almost in my eye. It stung and I groaned. He slapped me, hard.

When I opened my eyes again, cheek throbbing, he was gone.

It was only me, and my cum-soaked face, tits, and floor. Rising unsteadily, I tugged up my panties, and went in search of a mop.

Before I left,  I found my purse tipped over. My favorite red lipstick was tucked inside with a note taped to it.

“You’re welcome.”



7 thoughts on “growl”

    1. nodding…this is the more “violent” and “graphic” of my stories…this is where I park my dragons! There is “lighter” fare on the vanillamom blogpost…

      but I’m really glad you left here, throbbing! 🙂


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s