What Bad Girls Do Best


Image used with permission of Molly’s Daily Kiss

He’s at it again. The guy next door. Every Friday it’s someone new. Two weeks ago it was the purple haired geek who serves popcorn and hotdogs at the cinema. Last week it was a bronzed, toned metalhead from the local gym.

Gods, the noise they’d made! Never had a one night stand sounded so much like a pissing contest. They’d vied for power, for volume, for dominance. Just when one seemed to have accepted that they were there to bottom for the other there’d been a series of crashes and yells, swiftly followed by the one who was no longer in command groaning and begging for reprieve. He’d taken the upper hand in the end, though, naturally.

This week? This week his play mate is different, and I must confess I’m a little surprised. Usually, his partners have one thing in common; they’re all men. But tonight’s choice is a woman. Long legs, big hair, small tits… if I’d been choosing a girl for myself, I’d probably have picked her, too.

Smirking, I close the blinds. Darkness falls over most of the room, the only light coming from the black and white movie on the TV in the corner. It’s a silent movie, so all I can hear is the electrical buzz coming from the socket.

I stand, loose limbed, watching the girls on the screen waving fans and rustling their bloomers. I should take a bath. Submerge myself in hot water, forget the trials of my day. Forget that the stud next door has a gorgeous woman in his bed while the only person sleeping in my bed tonight will be me.

Mind made up, I head for the door. I don’t even make it past the bottom of the bed when my ears pick up the faintest of sounds. Knocking. Soft, steady knocking, a rhythm as lazy as waves crawling up a beach.

I hesitate. Bite my lip. Glance from the door to a picture on the wall then back again, repeating the motion until my eyes fix on the brass doorknob. I take two steps toward it but stop when I hear something else.

She’s giggling. The sound is sweet. I’d bet she has a lovely voice. She gets louder, a few hard thuds on the wall turning that girlish tinkle into a sharp cry.

Before I even realise I’ve moved I’m standing inches from the wall. My fingers trail over the blown vinyl hearts and I tilt my head, not wanting to listen but straining to hear all the same. Soft, muffled grunts, a masculine fuck, a feminine moan accompanied by an almost pained you’re so fucking good.

Lifting my hand to my chest, I stroke my collarbone. Trace the edge of my dresses plunging neckline, brushing my thumb over my bottom lip. I have my eyes closed and I’m imagining it’s his fingers that are doing the walking.

“Oh God yes, fuck me!”

My eyes snap open. That isn’t her shouting, it’s him. I know she’s on top. Her hands flat on his chest, her cunt slamming down on his cock, making his balls jump. It isn’t him making the headboard hammer against the wall, it’s her.

“Ride it, you sexy fucking bitch!”

I sink into the chair by the wall, hating everything I’m hearing. Hating myself. Why did I always have to upset Master? Why did I flirt so shamelessly at the club every Thursday and earn myself Friday nights alone?

The racket of wild fucking grows louder, making me feel sick. I’d give anything to be fucked like that right now. I’d do anything for a hair pulling, ass slapping fuck that makes my eyes roll back, my legs give way beneath me so I fall helpless onto the bed. I shiver, thinking of how good it feels to have strong, callused hands pressing my torso into the mattress while Master drills my pussy. I love it when he takes me like that. Yanking my head back so he can growl whore into my ear before slamming my head back down and smothering me in my pillow.

Leather creaks and I realise I’ve lifted my foot to the chair. My knees are as far apart as I can get them, my dress pooled around my stomach. Trickles run down my ass cheeks, tickling me. I tell myself I’m only reaching down to scratch that maddening itch, but just as my fingers brush my skin the woman next door screeches.

“Yes, yes, yes, I’m gonna come, oh fuck yes!”

Anger. I’m so fucking angry that she’s coming and I’m sat alone with an aching cunt and wet fingers. But still, I’d promised Master I would be a good girl, so I don’t give my clit the stroking it’s desperate for.

Well, not until I hear him groan, “No, don’t suck it, baby, that’ll make me come,” I don’t.

The knocking slows to a less frantic, more deliberate pace. Each loud bang is accompanied by a sharp slap, and an ecstatic cry follows every…single…fucking…one. I despair, knowing he has her face down. His thighs will be pinning hers to the bed and he’ll be burying every inch of his cock deep inside her.

“Bastard,” I hiss.

My heart is pounding in my chest. Eyes closed, I imagine his rippled stomach flexing as his ass rises high in the air above her, and the way he’ll scowl in fury when he slams back down, fucking her so hard his foreskin will sting under the tension of the stretch.

She’s fallen silent but he’s making enough noise for us all. Growling, moaning, yelling, whimpering. “Slut!” he bellows. “Spoiled brat, dirty prick teasing fucking whore! How many times do you need to be taught this lesson?”

“Oh God!”

The words burst from my mouth as my toes curl, gripping the leather that’s squeaking beneath my sweat soaked skin. My hips snap, my body shakes, my fingers don’t know if they’re supposed to be flicking my clit or fucking my cunt. I’m knuckles deep one minute, spreading myself wide and stroking with my thumb the next.

All the while the couple in the other room moan and howl, fucking each other to orgasm almost as angrily as I’m fucking myself.

Then, wide mouthed, eyes scrunched shut, I come. The knocking stops, everything next door going quiet as I rock my hips, squeeze my tits and stroke my clit, trying to make the orgasm last for as long as I can.

I’m still in my chair, trying to catch my breath when the front door slams. A few minutes later the brass knob turns and my bedroom door opens.

Master stands there, framed in the orange glow that bleeds in from the hall. He’s naked, his hard cock pointing toward me. When my eyes adjust to the new light I see red scratches covering his hard chest.

He shakes his head slowly, eyeing the sopping mess I’ve made of the chair. Levelling me with a fake pout, he starts to stroke himself. I lick my lips in anticipation.

“Do you think you’ve learned this time or are you still a prick teasing whore?” he asks.

There’s nothing fake about the pout I level at him. “I’ve learned, Master.”

“Do you think the woman getting fucked in the spare room will be you next weekend?”

“Only if you wish it, Master.” In the moment, I truly mean it, but we both know my brattish side will win as soon as we get to the club.

He takes slow, measured steps toward me and I slide off the chair, opening my mouth as I go so that, when he reaches me, I’ll be ready for him. I’ll be waiting to receive what he’s more than ready to give. What he didn’t give to her because, just like always, he’d saved it for me. Maybe next week I’ll be a good girl and be fucked like good girls deserve to be. But for now I’ll take the final part of my punishment without complaint, because I’ve been a bad girl, and that’s what bad girls do best.


Week #140

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16 thoughts on “What Bad Girls Do Best

  1. I didn’t know if I should feel bad for her or revel in her punishment. Such an excellent story. I’m wondering if she will be a good girl next weekend… Can she pull it off? Or perhaps not get caught being a Bad Girl?

    1. Thank you, Mischa <3 Her track history is one of being bad and being caught every time, so by law of averages she's got to get away with it at some point. I think there's a possibility that she revels in her own punishment, though, and so she times her misdeeds carefully.x

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