Authors: Emilee Brown
Tags: #BDSM, #Erotic Fiction, #Interracial, #Romance, #Short Stories (Single Author)
He shifted behind me, and caressed my hips. “If this is truly your first time,” he said, “you won't cum and I'll make that up to you. If you've lied,” he dug his fingers hard into the welts on my fanny then and I gasped and tried desperately to squirm away for a moment. “If you cum, I will be disappointed.”
I shuddered. He had me so thoroughly aroused, was it possible I wouldn't orgasm? I couldn't disappoint him again, I was sure he wouldn't forgive me if he thought I'd lied to him.
He began to thrust into me then, hard, impatient, urgent. The battering, tearing sensation increased and soon it felt like he was filling me up with hot coals. I tried to slide away from him, but he pressed me hard to the vinyl table and there was no escape from the thick, hard rod he pounded ever deeper inside of me.
His fingers pressed hard against the blisters on my fanny, holding me locked in place, and his cock thrust deep inside of me, tearing me in two. “That's it,” he cooed. “That's my beautiful ebony queen.” The pain was so overwhelmingly intense, I whimpered. Yet somehow even the depth of this extraordinary pain was nearly overtaken by my desperate, hungry need for him.
Each thrust nearly did me in with the pain and the lust and the craving. I was splitting in two from his size and from the war between my desires, wanting him harder, faster, deeper, and wanting him slower, gentler, but everything I was wanted him. On that much, at least, I was clear.
He grunted against me and then his cock began to spasm deliciously and my thighs tightened around him as he met me with his own naked desire.
My breath was coming so fast and so hard as his cock crashed deeper inside of me, ferocious and rough and still not satiated. “That’s it,” he whispered, his own breath unbearably fast. “That’s my good, good girl.” He moaned, a deep, beautiful, sexy sound, and then came deep inside of me then, filling me up with his hot, thick cum and my body held him fast inside of me, the already tight muscles getting tighter still.
“You’re mine now,” he said. “Mine to posses and mine to punish. And in exchange I’ll take care of you. But you must know that if I ever catch you selling your panties again, your punishment will be much more severe than this one.”
“Yes, Mr. Barrows,” I breathed, collapsing against the table in surrender, already craving my next punishment from my neighbor.
Never Tease a Teenie Weenie
Humiliated by my Neighbor
by Emilee Brown
My first venture into selling my panties landed me in a taboo BDSM relationship with my punishing, much older neighbor who’d lived next door when I was younger. So why when we broke up was I back at it again? Posting online ads looking for men who wanted to buy my dirty, dirty thongs.
I might have been a coed masochist, but you’re not going to want to miss this opportunity to read about the second guy I met selling my panties. Between his tiny penis and his inability to take no for an answer, it’s about to be an interesting summer that gives new meaning to the wisdom to never, ever get involved with the neighbors. When I take a guy with a micro penis to bed, things get humiliating and dangerous. I was seriously tempted to skip sharing this story with you because it's so humiliating! But I’m committed to being honest with you. Perhaps you’ll learn from my mistakes in getting involved with Mr. Teeny Weenie.
I’d spent the month since Mr. Barrows unceremoniously dumped me drowning my sorrows in carton after carton of ice cream. On the plus side, my breasts had never looked better. On the downside, I was a mess. Seldom showering, skipping class as much as possible, not job hunting and with no income because of the financial dependence Mr. Barrows had demanded.
It was, as breakups often are, bad.
So, when Dominique and a couple other friends insisted I go out with them for a girls night of drinking and hitting on cute guys, I tried to get out of it, but ultimately they won. They dragged me along with them as we bar hopped and man hopped and drank one too many (or, more truthfully, many too many) tequila shots.
I stumbled to my apartment while Dom and the rest watched from the taxi to make sure I made it in safely before zipping away to the next apartment. My shoes were off before I had the front door closed and I collapsed on the couch with a brand new carton of ice cream and a brand new episode of my favorite show on my tablet.
I’d just gotten settled when there was a knock at the door. Groaning, I peeked out the peep hole and recognized my next door neighbor, though I wasn’t sure of his name--Mike, maybe? I left the chain in place and opened the door, “Hi,” I said.
The guy on the other side of the door was a gangly sort, almost as if he’d been stretched somehow--long face, long limbs, even his feet were long--and he definitely wasn’t my type. But, he was also the exact opposite of Mr. Barrows, young, and skinny, and red-headed with a swath of freckles on his cheeks and bad skin to Mr. Barrow’s mature, muscular, brown hair and beautiful ivory skin.
I noticed this fellow still hadn’t spoken, so I finally shrugged and said, “Did you need something?”
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he spoke in a jumbled, stammering rush.
“I’m fine,” I said, annoyed.
He gave a little squeak. “Because I know you haven’t been going out much, and then tonight you were out so late.”
“Breakup,” I knew my voice was terse and that was making him more nervous, but shouldn’t he get the hint. It was late. “Friends dragged me out tonight. You know how it is.”
He nodded, thoughtfully. “Anything I can do?”
“I’m just really beat, but thanks for checking in.”
He smiled an earnest smile and I noticed just how much his ears stuck out on either side of his head. Poor guy, he really was quite awkward. “Well, if you need anything, I’m just right next door and I’d be happy to help. You know, apartment trouble, spiders you need smooshed, or if you...” He waggled his skinny, stretched eyebrows. “Get tired of being lonely and would like a little company.”
“Thanks,” I said, trying to be friendly. “Good night.”
“Night,” he said, his voice sounding like a bit of a challenge.
I fought the urge to slam the door and instead closed it softly, a shiver creeping over my skin. What a weirdo!
Two days later, hangover gone, I was finally starting to feel a bit more like myself again. Still heartbroken, still desperate for a good thrashing or fucking, but a little more willing to get out of bed in the morning and a little more ready to face my future without Mr. Barrows.
My first step was to list some panties online. I figured since it had given me such confidence--and led to such a delicious outcome--the first time, it might be the right next step this time too.
And though I enjoyed taking the photos and writing a story and playing in the panties so they’d be properly ready for their new home, it wasn’t the same. To be honest, masturbating had lost much of its appeal since Mr. Barrows. Without the pain--and self-inflicted pain is a poor substitute for a proper spanking--an orgasm is just a series of rather enjoyable sensations.
I clicked post and sat back and waited for my first taker. Like the first time, I didn’t have long to wait, and within about a half hour I had eight solid offers. But none of them really called to me. None of them stood out as anything special.
I was about to email the first responder to get their payment when another email came in.
“My gorgeous ebony queen, all I want is to worship you. To know I hold something that had caressed your flesh would be the most supreme honor. Please allow me the privilege of possessing your sexy panties. I’ll pay $200 for in-person delivery.”
I remembered all the times Mr. Barrows called me his ebony queen and though the syntax didn’t sound anything like him, it was his original request to take delivery in person that had led to the happiest eight months of my life and an affair that I would never forget. What if this was his way of saying he wanted me back?
Of course I emailed back and agreed to meet in person. We set up a time to meet up at a local coffee shop in twenty minutes, and I could barely contain my excitement. I showered quickly and dressed in the same red lace bra I’d worn the day I’d first gone to Mr. Barrows’ home. I thought I’d give him a surprise and skip the panties. I dressed in his favorite of my dresses, a light sundress with cherries printed all over it, and left my braids lose around my shoulders.
I made it to the coffee shop with five minutes to spare and ordered a chamomile tea to help me calm my nerves. Sitting out on the back patio, I observed the people who came and went, imagining what Mr. Barrows might wear, imagining what he might say, imagining what he might have stocked his cabinet with since the last time he’d stripped me naked and punished me.
I was so caught up in my fantasy that I didn’t notice a man had approached my table until he cleared his throat and pulled a chair out from the table. “May I sit?” he asked, his voice high pitched and nasally.
I glanced at the intruder who clearly wasn’t Mr. Barrows. It was the neighbor from the other night. I blinked at him, completely at a loss for what to say. He really did have terrible timing, but I couldn’t just dismiss him even though Mr. Barrows wouldn’t like it if he arrived and I were talking to a strange man. The thought made me smile--imagine how much he’d have to punish me for flirting.
“Of course,” I said, a smile curling my lips at the thought of fresh welts raising on my inner thighs as a result of Mr. Barrows’ firm, disapproving strokes.
“So how does this work?” He asked after he’d folded his long, skinny legs under the table.
I absentmindedly stirred my tea a moment longer before removing the spoon and taking a sip. “How does what work?”
He leaned so close I could smell his lunch on his breath--a meatball sub, from the scent. “Our transaction,” he said, his voice low.
A waitress bumped an empty table and it teetered for a moment, its metal pedestal clanging against the concrete. I was grateful for the interruption because it gave me a moment to swallow my disappointment. Mr. Barrows wasn’t coming after all.
“It’s pretty easy,” I said now that I understood why he was here. “You give me the money and I give you the package.”
He brushed his shaggy brown hair off his forehead and leaned close to my ear, “And if I wanted to make a special request?”
My stomach churned. He wasn’t going to ask to kiss me, was he? But then something Dominique had said to me flashed back into my head: that I wasn’t going to get over Mr. Barrows until I’d fucked someone else. It seemed sensible to think the step between here and there was kissing someone else. I dropped my voice low, seductive and whispered, “What did you have in mind?”
A flush rose on his narrow face. “I want the pair of panties you’re wearing right now. I’ll pay an extra $100 for them.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and was surprised to find I was growing wet. How could I possibly be attracted to this stretched out, skinny white guy? But again, I heard Dom’s admonishment and I reached out a hand and placed it on his thigh. I looked him straight in the eye, his bright blue eyes so different from Mr. Barrow’s dark, fierce ones. “I’m not wearing any.”
He blinked and blustered and stammered a moment. “For real?” He reached over and placed his sweaty palm on my knee. “Show me?” he squeaked.
I swallowed and decided it was time to do this if I was going to do it. “I’ll do better than that,” I said. “Where’s your car?”
He led me to where he’d parked, and I climbed into the backseat, pulling him in after me. Mr. Barrows had only gone down on me once, and the memory of that one time was still so fresh for me even though it had happened many months before. I sprawled on the back seat of my neighbor’s car and he lunged to kiss me, but I steered him away. “I thought you wanted proof I wasn’t wearing any panties,” I said, tangling my fingers in his hair and guiding him between my legs. “Close your eyes.” He did as he was told and I lifted my dress out of the way before guiding him to where I wanted him. I pulled his head hard against me and he burrowed deep between my legs, licking me softly.
“Harder,” I whispered, as I began to twist underneath him to get the angle better. His narrow, sharp tongue continued darting against me, exploring deeper and more insistently, lapping up my juices desperately. I could feel myself getting wetter and wetter beneath his inexpert touch.
He moaned and my breath quickened. I dug my fingernails into his scalp, my back arching involuntarily. He was no match for Mr. Barrows, but it had been so long my body wasn’t especially picky. My breath came in hard, fast pants. I couldn’t help but yearn for pain to wrack my body along with pleasure, wishing he’d rake his fingernails over my inner thighs, or slap fresh welts behind my knees. But this wasn’t awful. I wrapped my legs tight against his neck, drawing him closer. Spasms began to wrack my body. “That’s nice,” I whispered. “So nice.”
He pulled away suddenly, and I almost protested I wasn’t finished. But the memory of the brutal fury Mr. Barrows had unleashed on me the one time I’d been foolish enough to say that out loud was enough to keep me quiet. Most of Mr. Barrow’s punishments were ones I’d repeat again and again, but not that one.
“I’ve got to get you home,” he said, gasping ravenously. He scrambled between the seats and buckled his belt. He sped through the streets to our apartment building, my heart hammering. He dodged oncoming traffic and swerved in and out of lanes, I held my breath sure we were going to be in an accident.
But somehow we arrived at our apartment building safely. Once there, he opened my car door like a gentleman, but dragged me to his apartment like a neanderthal. His apartment door slammed closed behind us, he whirled me into the wall, face first, grinding my cheek against the rough plaster. He fumbled with his pants and jerked out of his underwear.
“Do you have a condom?” I asked before he crushed me back in place against the wall.
“No,” he grunted as he wrenched my dress up out of the way and groped for how to enter me. His fingers poked and prodded in a most indelicate, clumsy way, and he was already panting so desperately behind me I was sure he’d cum before he even managed to wrestle himself inside me. He crushed my breasts into the wall, grinding against me, and finally managing to enter me. “Hold still, whore,” he commanded. “I’m going to tear you in two. I’m going to fuck you senseless. Never been with a white man so big as me, have you. Even all those black cocks you’ve had, they’re no match for me.”
He bit down on my neck and I squealed in pain, but he didn’t stop, still clumsily banging me against the wall. I was too mortified to say something, anything, to him to break his delusion.
After Mr. Barrows’ spectacular girth, this barely felt like a finger poking around inside me. Four quick thrusts and my neighbor was spent, sputtering and spurting cum in me, gasping and proclaiming, “You like that don’t you, you dumb slut. That’s right. You dirty, filthy whore. Selling your panties, everyone knows what a whore you are.”
He collapsed on the floor behind me and I sat against the wall as far as I could get from him, taking in the sight of him, still mostly dressed, his micro penis in his hands, shriveled and spent.
It was sad, really, that that was all he had to work with, and no wonder I’d barely felt a thing. Length-wise, it wouldn’t have been terrible--not quite as long as his hand was wide, so nothing impressive, but more than the stereotypical “angry inch.” But the width of it was a joke. It seemed rude to compare, but from my vantage point, it looked barely as wide around as my own fat index finger.
A true cosmic joke that there was so much variety in the endowment of men, and this poor, pitiful man clearly was never going to be able to satisfy a woman with that.