By Raul Roget
All Rights Reserved. Not for minors.
If I see one more story - just one more story - about what a perfect first time "We" had, I'm going to puke. I don't care whether it was a pickup at the Corner Bar, a blind date, or the culmination of six months of key pounding on the computer, NOTHING goes as smoothly as they would like you to believe.
OK, it's supposed to be fantasy. Really, it has to be fantasy because nothing ever, ever is perfect. I know, some of it is written by professional writers, but how do you explain the ones that write in the wrong person, can't spell and can't compose a simple sentence? Where do they get the idea that first meetings are always smooth as silk and always culminate in a night/weekend of passion?
Bah! Sounds to me like wishful thinking at its worst.
Then of course you have the clones who want to rewrite history. They take a real weekend, delete all the troublesome spots and make up enough to fill the gaping gaps. Bah! I say.
Just look at the way they describe their subbies. They are always
next-to-virgins with Big D
tits and mouths that never have touched a cock before but give a thousand-mile checkup without even scraping their teeth. To coin a word, Bah!
For the benefit of those of you who have been brainwashed into believing fantasy, let me relate a true story, with all its warts and scars. This happened, and I'm sure it's happened to some, or a lot, of you.
Yeah, I met Lucy (her real name) on the Internet. I swear to God I will never ever go to a chat room again. I met Lucy. First she was coy. Then she came on like a ton of bricks, Instant Messages every five minutes. A self-described super-sub. She said she was into chains, rope, handcuffs, gags, collars, whips........(what did I miss?) Fresh out of Masters, looking for a long term relationship.
Sent a picture. Blonde, upper and lower, a pair of hooters that would make grown men cry. Body to match. I bit. Sent her my picture, clothed. Sent her a plane ticket. Naturally she was off the beaten path, so the ticket was double what a big city would have cost.
This of course took several months. Lots of key pounding. Hot sex pouring out of the screen. She talked the talk and walked the walk. I was hot to trot and she was oozing submission all over the place.
So, I met the plane. "She" walked up to me. Not the blonde, not the
tits, not the bod.
Mousy brown hair, padded B cups and 20 pounds of fat in all the wrong places. "Hi, I'm Lucy!"
Eyes down, submissive, but whatinhell? I'm not one to start an argument
or a fight in a public place so I grabbed her arm and headed for baggage
claim. I was working up a head of steam but I didn't say a word. Just stood
there, staring at her until the carousel started moving.
She had sense enough to keep her mouth shut.
Guess what happened next. Oh, Hell, I'll tell you. Her bag, big enough for a round-the-world cruise, comes over the top and drops like a lead brick, flopping open and spilling the contents. Handcuffs. Leg shackles. Chain. A penis gag. Of course the chain hangs up on something, making a terrible racket. I grab the bag and heave it onto the floor. She goes for the goodies, but I have to push through the crowd and retrieve that damn chain. By now every man within a quarter mile knows what's going on and are grinning like banshees. The women pretended not to know what it was all about, noses high, sneaking peeks at grubby little subbie.
A couple of women close to where she was standing apparently were needling her because she was red as a radish when I got back. They looked at me and sniffed. I muttered "lesbians" and promptly got an extended lecture on manners, along with threats to call the cops and charge me with harassing them. I got that fire put out, the bag closed and on a cart and headed for the door, subbie trailing.
As we waited for the shuttle to the parking garage I considered my next move. There wasn't a chance in Hell of changing her ticket and sending her home. I had reservations at an upscale restaurant, but that was O U T. The motel reservation looked like the only out. There was a greasy spoon next door that would have to do.
Except that she got sick from the food and started barfing. She'd come out of the bathroom nude, turn green and roll right back in. I'm sitting on the bed about as limp as a dishrag. This went on for a couple of hours before she finally calmed down and headed for the bed.
I slipped in beside her, to be greeted by her back. "Not tonight, I've got a headache."
Headache, smedache! By now I was primed to play. I slipped a condom on Junior and started prodding. I rather tartly reminded her that she had come to serve me, not the other way around. She gave one of those "let's get it over with" sighs and sprawled on her back. I looked down at her, wished fervently that I had a full head helmet with me and turned out the lights.
Given all that she wasn't really a bad lay. Or was until the rubber broke, or she pierced it with a nail, which is what I think happened. I hadn't bothered to put her in restraints, figuring she was worn out enough. Who said nice guys finish last? I agee.
The bottom sheet had a wet spot the size of a barrel head and it was way too late to call housekeeping. I did find an extra blanket in the bottom drawer of the dresser, so I covered the sheet with that and remade the bed. She's standing there watching me, like I was the chambermaid. I'm pissed, getting pissier and even beyond that. I get back in bed. She gets in like there was a torpedo in there set to go off. I turn out the light. She doesn't say a word. Neither do I.
Morning comes. She won't eat at the Spoon, so I have to drive ten miles to find a restaurant that's open. For some unknown reason she is now pissed. Something I said, or did?
No point in going back to the motel. She is in no mood to play and I couldn't get it up with a floor jack. We drive around. We drive around. We drive around. I suggest something. She shakes her head. We drive around. I suggest something else. She shakes her head. I ask her bluntly what she'd like to do, or see. "Whatever you want." No Master, of course. We drive around some more. We eat lunch. We drive around some more. "Whatever you want" is her unswerving answer. I'm considering the penalty for first degree murder. I spend my time wondering if I could get away with it, or at least plea bargain that she wasn't as advertised.
We eat dinner, gas up, and drive, mile after silent mile. We arrive back at the motel at midnight. Her plane leaves at 9:30, it's 30 minutes to the airport so we need to leave at 7. I tell her this. She nods. Then for some weird reason she starts unpacking. She has everything out of her suitcase by 1 a,m., but it takes her nearly two hours to get repacked. I triple check the bedside radio-alarm, even running the time by it to make sure it will go off at 6. We obviously won't have time for breakfast.
By some miracle we do wake up on time, get the car loaded (me) while she takes 45 minutes to put a dab of something on her face that should have taken 10 seconds.. We scoot for the airport, hand over her bag and send her on to the gate. Not a word about coming back, call me or go to Hell, from either of us. I watch as she goes through the X-ray machine. She is stopped, and one of the security people holds up a pair of handcuffs that were forgotten in her handbag. They let her through, but confiscate the cuffs.
I go home, repeating the S-word at 30 second intervals the entire trip. I chalk this one up to experience, make my vows never to enter a chat room again and resume my normal life.
That is, until my lawyer calls. Lucy it seems is crying rape. I read him some of her e-mails, asking for it, and a lot more. Lawyer reluctantly agrees I have enough evidence to get me off the hook.
That lasts about three weeks. Lawyer calls. Lucy is pregnant.