S is for Story

S might stand for a Story, but I have no story! The dungeon story that carried me over for most of the A-to-Z challenge, the story that spanned from E to R, came to its inevitable conclusion. That story ended with me slipping into a dreamless sleep. Which can be true, after a night of embarrassment and onslaught, a night of riding crops, kilt belts, and barber strop, with a trip to the fairyland as its grand finale, who wouldn’t slip into a dreamless sleep? Wait! Did I tell you about my trip to Fairyland last night? Or I was so tired and happy to end Nick’s attempt at Southern drawl I skipped the best part.

Soooo, Nick McDreamson: y’all know, it’s not his real name. I call him McDreamson to differentiate Nick from my dreams and fantasies from the real Nick. Neither of the two Nicks has not one drop of Scottish blood. Another confusion to clear: it’s a well-known fact that Nick’s aunt raised him in England, and like most Englishmen, he is a die-hard soccer fan. Of course, he calls it football. A less known fact is that Nick is not so well versed in American football, especially the Southern college teams, as he would like to admit. Emory, of course, doesn’t have a football team. And Atlanta Dawgs, whose formal name is Georgia Bulldogs, play their home games not in Atlanta but in Athens, GA. Gators are indeed their famed rivals and play for the University of Florida. Nick would rather pontificate about the rivalry between his beloved Man U and the twats that call themselves Man City.

Or, I have another explanation for Nick’s confusion: the prospect of tanning my hide distracted him too much to keep his Georgian ducks in a row.

So strange, I don’t watch neither football nor soccer. Why this debate? Why don’t we go back to when I struggle on Nick’s lap? The gag prevents me from screaming, but not from letting out some muffled yelps. A subsided version of kicking and screaming, that’s me. 

“Beg for it.” Nick leans over to untie the gag.

“Aghhhhhh!”

“That’s not begging.” The strop resumes its dance over my poor ass.

“Please please please!” I chant.

Nick stops and nudges me to get up. 

I jump on my feet. No! I don’t want it to end, yet I can’t find the words. It’s like my brain is rewired only to beg and plead. I look up at him and repeat, “Please.”

Without breaking eye contact, Nick opens his knees wide. One tug on the waistband, and his cock bounces free. He’s been waiting for too long. Thank fuck, it’s not the end, but intermission. I drop to my knees and lick off the first drops before he urges himself into my mouth.  

“Suck, baby girl, suck me dry.” McDreamson doesn’t mince his words.

Steady, smooth, swift, he seeks his release in my hands and my mouth. And the second act can wait.