True Sex Stories: 9:00 PM, By The River, Extended

"I shouldn't do this."  He whispers it into my ear.  I groan softly.  The wind is cold and his hands feel my curves through my wool coat.  He kisses my ear and neck.

"What if we get caught?"  he whispers.

"We won't," I say, and kiss him.  The path is light- it's a full moon.  But it's cold and it's late and there's no one else out here.  Besides, he's not talking about where we are right now.  Or even who.

"Who am I?"

His hand tucks inside my coat, rubbing my pussy through my jeans.

I know what he wants me to say.  We've been joking about Daddy issues all night.  I mentioned with his new facial hair, glasses, and hat, in the moonlight he looks a little like my dad.  It disturbs me.  He teased me about it when we were kissing and I laughed and pushed him away.  He did it again, and I said I couldn't kiss him until he promised he wouldn't say it again.  He laughed, and said it turned him on.  He kissed me again.

We've been talking about my need for approval in general- from The Chef, from my dad, from the world.  It's been a long day.  I feel needy.

"Who am I?"

Fuck.  His hand feels so good.  Is this a place I want to go?  I don't want to fuck my dad.  The idea repulses me.  But I do want to be a good girl.  Not my dad's good girl, sexually, but someone's.

The Chef keeps rubbing and I lean into him.  My face brushes against his wool scarf.  He smells like wood smoke.

"I can't say it,"  I whisper.  But fuck, he feels good.

"Who am I?"  he whispers again, patiently.  I don't want to.  But I want to play along.  And I don't want him to stop.

". . . Daddy."  I choke it out.

His hand rewards me, rubbing gentle firm circles against my pussy.  I whimper a little.

"and what do you want?"  He presses into me with his hand and with his voice, deliberate and purposeful.

Fuck.  I can hardly bring myself to say it.  It's wrong.  But I want it, and I don't want him to stop.  "I want you to touch me," I whisper.

"Louder."

"I want you to touch me!"  I say, just barely louder.

"Good."  That magic word.  I'm instantly wet.  His hand slips inside my pants.  His fingers find my clit.  I know what he feels:  I am hot, swollen, and slick with my own moisture.  I clutch his shoulder, and press my forehead into his coat.  I sigh, and try to rationalize this.  He is not my father.  I don't call my father "Daddy."  He is a new person- the Daddy I need right now.  He is gentle and firm and he's giving me the approval I crave so much.

"My little girl is so wet."  I cling to his shoulders, for both physical and emotional security.  My breath becomes ragged.  He kisses me and I can feel his authority transmitted by his lips.  Shit.  He holds me with one arm while the other hand cups my pussy and rubs my clit.  Fuck.  I am dripping wet.   I cannot hide what this is doing to me.  I stop rationalizing and surrender to the fantasy.

I moan softly and he whispers "good girl" into my ear.  It triggers me and I push myself eagerly against him, moving with his rhythm.  I come, whimpering and pressing my face into him.  He is murmuring things into my ear but I am gone and I can't hear anything.  I'm lose awareness of my surroundings.  Nothing exists but sensation- his lips grazing my earlobe, his warm breath on my cheek, the goosebumps beneath my wool coat, my smallness next to his body, and the circling, circling, circling….

I come again and gasp and cry out against him.  I shoot back into consciousness and look up at him, dazed.  He looks at me and smiles and my cheeks flush hot.  I feel ashamed and humiliated for what I've just gotten off to.  I know he likes it, but I am confused.

"Please don't look at me," I beg.

He reigns me in, gently holding me and coaxing the truth of my wetness.  "I love watching you come.  You're so beautiful."  I shift against him, wanting to be closer to him- impossibly closer.  My pussy betrays my whirring mind.

"Such a good girl…  my little princess.  So fucking wet and tight…"   My pussy is wet- so wet- and all I want is to feel him inside of me.  My knees buckle and he holds me up.  I feel his lips curling into a smile against my ear.  "Say it angel."

"Fuck!  Please fuck me!"  He slips his finger into me and I shudder and gasp.  He fucks me firmly, deliberately, expertly, over and over.  I cling to him as tightly as I can and shout a string of profanity into his jacket.   My voice is muffled.  My mind is gone.  I am shaking, I am sweating, I'm coming hard and falling and being caught and coming and coming and coming.  I cry out, my own voice drowning out his intoxicating words.

I collapse against him and he braces me as I pant.  Everything goes still.  I remember I am outside.  These are him arms.  I breathe.  I shudder.  The wind stings my cheeks.

I regain focus and look up at him.  My mind tumbles clumsily.  My brow furrows.

"Are you ok?"  The Chef asks.

"Yeah."

"It's just sex.  And it was fun.  It's ok."

I meet his eyes and kiss him.  I did have fun.  And I am safe.  And Jesus Fucking Christ What Just Happened.  But he's right.  It was fun, and I am ok.  And he is here with me.

I kiss him again, grateful and drunk on taboo.  I am a little giddy, a little awestruck, and still shuddering from aftershock.  I'm not cold.  I smile and kiss him and feel a rock hard bulge in his pants.   I grind my hips against him, feeling his rush of blood against mine.  I bite my lip and smirk at him as he unzips his fly.

I kiss him again and feel his hot, soft flesh in my hands.  I glance around, kiss him again, and drop to my knees. 

Republished with permission from On Intimacy. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo by John B. Root.