I ordered a beer, leaned on my daypack, and was idly checking out some trouser bulges—speculatively, but not very seriously—when Twylla walked in front of me, putting her crotch directly in the sight line between me and the bulge I was admiring at the moment.
Twylla didn't have a bulge, just a mound, with pussy lips shaped like a camel's toe, clearly outlined against her tight black leather pants—did I say tight? It looked like they were spray-painted on. It looked so slutty, and so good! I took a nice long look, getting a little tingle in my pussy. Then I looked up, and there she was, looking right back at me. It was obvious that she knew exactly what was going through my head.
I blushed. She didn't. She gave me a knowing, evaluating look.
"You like what you see," she said, by way of introduction. It wasn't a question.
She maintained eye contact, then broke it to look me up and down. In that moment my eyes were drawn back to that yummy-looking mound of hers. Our eyes met again and it was as if we had felt each other up. I blushed again. She didn't.
She had dark red hair that looked exotic but natural, a strong face—more handsome than pretty—and smallish, upturned breasts. She was lean, but with well-defined curves. Her lips and fingernails were painted a dark red shade that matched her hair and she was dressed, neck to ankles, in skin-tight black leather. I didn't see her tattoos until later.
She was so hot. Everyone in the place was looking at her, men and women, secretly or openly.
But she was looking at me.
She took the beer out of my hand, put it on the bar, took my arm, and walked me right out into the parking lot. The night air was damp and cool, but her lips were hot as she pressed me up against the brick wall of the building. Her tongue didn't twine with mine, it came into my mouth and took over. Her face and breasts pressed into mine. She stood against me with her legs wide, straddling my own legs.
She took my hand in hers and cupped it under her pussy, pulling my wrist upward. To someone passing by, it would look like I had grabbed her crotch and was lifting her up by it.
And I was. I hadn't initiated it—it wasn't something I would do!—but I found myself doing it anyway, under her wordless direction. She squeezed my hand with her thighs, and I squeezed back, compressing her pussy lips through the thin leather of her pants. She gave a short gasp of approval. I was passionately groping her sex now, and completely under her control.
I realized just then that I was going to do whatever she wanted—I was overpowered by my desire to please her, to satisfy her. It didn't completely surprise me—I knew I had submissive tendencies. But it caught me off guard. I had always fallen under someone else's sway gradually. No one had ever taken immediate, total control of me like this. It was disconcerting.
It was also arousing. It was actually making me wet. But at the same time, my newly developing independence and confidence drove me to rebel. I found myself giving her whatever she indicated as her desire, but doing it forcefully, not passively.
She nipped at my lips. "Oh! A tiger! I like pussycats. Come with me, pussy." So much for my rebellion.
I followed as she led me by the hand to a shiny black SUV in a dark corner of the lot, chirped it open with a fob hanging from a small chain on her jacket, opened the back passenger door, and hustled me inside. The interior was dark—no cab light came on—and roomy. She gently shoved me down into a sitting position on the thickly carpeted floor, with my back against the far door. She stepped inside, standing with her slender body directly in front of me, her legs straddling my body, her back to the still open door. It was clear she had done this before with others. But I didn't care. I wanted her to do it to me.
She took my hand and put in a zipper that started at the top of her ass, running under her crotch and up almost to her belt. "Open me," she grated, her breath coming harder. I pulled open the zipper, exposing her pale shaved pussy through the opening of her now crotchless pants.
"Now, eat me," she demanded quietly. "Eat and suck. Come and eat me, little pussy."
She stood with her hips tilted forward, her pussy pressed against my mouth. She wrapped her fingers in my hair and guided my head. "Lick," she whispered, "Lick and suck." She began to hump my mouth, rubbing herself up and down against my lips and tongue, making me taste her, from the dark tunnel of her rich, winey cunt to her thick, engorged clit and back. "Lick, yes… Lick, yes… Lick," she prompted, establishing the pace she wanted from me.
When I was licking her in a steady rhythm—her rhythm—she angled her hips so her clit drifted across my moving tongue, and started to move her pelvis in small circles, fucking her clit with my tongue. "Mmmm," she said. "Good. That's right."
She pulled my head hard against her crotch and began to move faster, grinding her clit against my mouth in tighter circles. "Uh, uh, uh. Yes. Yes, you little trollop. Yes, slut. Fuck me with that pretty mouth. Ahh! Now suck my cunt. Suck my cunt!"
I latched my lips onto her vulva and sucked, licking her clit in the same steady rhythm, while she fucked my mouth, her hands gripping the back of my head.
And then my heart opened, and instead of letting her use me, I gave myself to her, with a will. I sucked and licked with the same rhythm, but my heart was in it. I was feeling her clit feel my tongue, and shaping myself to it, joyfully, passionately. "Yes! Yes! Oh, you beautiful cunt. You. Suck. So. . Uh. Uh! Mmmm.
"Oh! Fuck! Fuck! You little minx! you're… Uhh. Fuck…"
Her wet slipperiness increased as she shuddered and came, her hips bucking uncontrollably. I kept on sucking, moving my tongue more softly now, gradually easing as I prolonged and milked the last tremors of her orgasm.
She shifted back minutely in the low space between the seats, wiping spittle from her lips with the back of her hand. She zipped up, shaking but trying not to show it. "Fuck." she said shakily. "You. You're really something."
I had worshiped her clit like a cock, and drawn the same satisfaction from squeezing every trembling iota of her orgasm out of it. She backed down out of the still open passenger door, the chill night air rushing in, contrasting with her heat, and offered me her hand to help me up.
"Are you in a hurry to be somewhere?" she asked, as I climbed down out of the SUV.
I shook my head. I hadn't spoken a word yet. I didn't want to spoil it now. She nodded. "Let's go for a ride, then." She closed the back door, opening the front passenger door for me courteously. "You can ride shotgun."
I climbed wordlessly into her SUV, shrugging off my daypack for her to catch. She gracefully caught it and tucked it down by my feet as I buckled in. "Your loftiness," she intoned, bowing sardonically, but smiling. She got behind the wheel and we went for a ride.
She drove us up a winding, two-lane road that climbed up through dark trees, then opened onto a curve with a broad shoulder overlooking the town. She pulled off, and I looked down at the view, while she looked at me. The city lights glistened in the mist. It was cold and empty and beautiful, which I suspected was also true of my companion. She had, you know, just pussy-fucked my mouth—with my enthusiastic cooperation, yeah, but not my actual consent.