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Could I Get A Ride, Guest Post by Betty Shade

Content warning: this story contains Daddy/girl dynamics and talk, jealousy, break-up sex, emotional sex and BDSM, and name calling.

You’re still there, sitting at the end of the bar, when it comes time for me to close up. The other patrons at the bar set down their glasses, pay their tabs, and invite one another to bed, but not you. You’re still there, very still, with a coldness in your eyes.

I made you cold. A thrill passes through me, leaving me wet like melting ice.

I left you this morning, before my shift at the bar and grill. I shook you awake and said that I was leaving you for a woman I met at work. She waits tables; I tend bar. I swore to you that I had not yet slept with her, but I was lying.

When you first sat down at the bar, I thought, Good thing my new girl left hours ago. She’s a cute little thing and you could kick her ass easy, with your calloused hands and heavy leather work boots.

But when you asked me for a whiskey sour, I knew that you had come to see me and not to take revenge. You came with your big brown eyes full of heartache and helpless longing, and long lashes matted with tears. You wore a stocking cap pulled low over your ears, with a few short curls clinging to your forehead. You’d just come to drink, and to look. You wanted me to hurt you if I couldn’t love you anymore.

I got hot off your desperation, wrapping it around me like your softest leather jacket. What is it about me? I wondered. What a decadent question. Was it the backs of my thighs in these tight black jeans? Was it the way I zipped my boots from my seat on the edge of your bed? What might you endure to keep on loving me?

A patron made me laugh, so I leaned toward him, letting his eyes trail down my neck and clavicle, lingering on the hot pink cups peeking out from the scoop neck of my shirt. I glanced at you and saw pain in your eyes like jagged glass, and anger. You knew what I was doing. No one knows me like you do.

From that moment until closing, I sharpened the edge of your jealous rage. I let your glass go unfilled. I welcomed the attention of patrons who normally repulsed me. I even accepted a drink or two, risking the wrath of my boss to incur yours. It wasn’t hard. You wanted me to hurt you. Poor thing, I thought. It’s better to be angry than to be sad. Let me hurt you to help you.

Now it’s closing time and it’s my job to lock up. I send my coworkers home and close out the register. Then I sink onto the stool beside yours and fix you with my widest, sweetest smile. “Could I get a ride home?”

You turn your cold eyes on me.

I did this, I think, and shudder with excitement.

You say, “Don’t fuck with me.”

I lean toward you like I did to that customer, oozing impersonal, subservient charm. “Why? Don’t you want to take me home?” I lean in closer, and you tilt your face toward mine. To kiss me now, after I cheated you and left you and teased you, would be the ultimate submission.

You cup the back of my head softly, so softly that I sigh without a sound, before grabbing a fistful of my hair at the root.

I gasp. Then I giggle. “Ooh, Daddy, that hurt. Do you feel better now, Daddy?”

You yank my head back, making me whimper mid-speech. “I’m not your Daddy anymore,” you hiss.

I pout my lips.

You lean back, still holding me by the hair, and regard my body, the body I offer instead of my love. You pull up the hem of my shirt to expose my rhinestone-pierced belly button. Next, you stretch out the neck of my shirt and pull it down to expose first one hot-pink C cup, then the other. My cunt throbs under your icy stare.

Without warning, you release my hair and grab my hips instead. You turn me around and bend me over the stool before cracking me hard across my ass with the flat of your palm. I whimper with pain and fear and delight. You spanked me sometimes when we were together. Sometimes I spanked you. But it was never quite like this.

I want you to lay into me right there at my place of work, but one spank is all I get. I look back at you over my shoulder, long hair falling in my face, and see that you’ve settled back onto your stool.

“Sure, I’ll give you a ride,” you say evenly.

“Really?” I ask, my voice quavering. What are you playing at?

“Really. My car is outside.” Then you smirk and cross your arms. “But I want you to take down your pants and walk ahead of me to the car, so I can see that ass shake.”

If you didn’t want revenge before, you sure want it now. Unlike the cruel and slutty show that I put on before closing, this one will be on your terms. The erotic irony hits me, sending all the blood in my body straight to my cunt.

I stand, without adjusting my shirt, and unzip my jeans. They are so tight I have to peel them off. I step out of my heeled boots and roll my jeans down my thighs and calves. When I finally get them off, you take my jeans and appraise my pink boyshort panties. They are cut so high on my hips that half of each cheek hangs out, bare and round against my thighs.

“Do you like them?” I ask in a small voice.

You shrug. “They make you look like what you are – a slut. Now walk.”

I step back into my boots and walk slowly toward the coatroom. Usually I move with ease, mesmerizing strangers with the careless sway of my hips. But under your command, I feel shameful and shy. I feel the way my ass shifts with every step I take. I feel my vulva swell inside my panties. And as I approach the door, I feel the cold bite of the October wind outside.

“Ooh,” I say, shivering and rubbing my arms. I reach for my coat, which hangs on a hook by the door, but you catch my wrist in your hand.

“I’ll take that,” you say, and drape my coat over your arm, along with my jeans.

So with my bra and panties exposed to the elements, I open the door and lock it behind you. A gust of wind ruffles my hair, raising goosebumps on my arms and thighs. Cool air licks between my thighs, arousing my hot, sodden clit.

“After you,” you say, gesturing gallantly toward your car, which is parked halfway across the lot.

I step out in front of you, my heeled boots crunching on the crumbling blacktop. I can almost feel your eyes on my jiggling ass, my juicy thighs, on the clasp of my hot pink bra. I know you want to tear it off and spill me out. We cross the parking lot like that – you keeping several paces behind and out of sight, my body exposed for your pleasure.

When we get to your car, you open the door to the backseat and bend me over, pressing my chest to the leather seat while keeping my boots on the ground. You take my panties down to my ankles, exposing my ass and wet, swollen cunt to the parking lot, to the bar and grill, to the October sky. I sigh with pleasure and surrender.

“How did we get here, brat?” you murmur, running your hand up my flank, raising goosebumps on the backs of my thighs.

I shiver, as much from your touch as from the cold night air, and struggle to raise myself onto my elbows. I crane my neck to get a look at you.

The light from the moon and a streetlamp illuminates the parking lot but casts you in shadow. I can’t see your face in the dark, but I can feel your touch. You grab one of my ass cheeks roughly and jiggle it with humiliating scrutiny. The bar and grill looms behind you, locked and shuttered. But what if it’s not empty? I locked the door myself, but still. Could there be someone inside, looking out, watching us?

You draw your hand back and crack me across the same ass cheek you were just fondling. “Answer me,” you say sharply. “How did we get here?”

I gasp and giggle. I want a little more fire from you, and a little less composure. “I made you jealous, didn’t I?”

I hear a sharp intake of breath from you, followed by the crack of your palm on my ass. I hear it before I feel it, but I feel it soon enough, as I do every slap that comes after. You take me firmly by one hip and spank me with your other hand, alternating between my ass cheeks. You spank me on the upper part of my ass, which you never did before and which hurts but feels right. You spank me on the backs of my thighs too, so hard I begin to kick and cry.

At that, you grab me by my hips and pull me towards you, so that only my head and shoulders remain braced against the backseat of the car. My ass sticks out further into the parking lot, upturned and naked and ripe for violation.

Then I feel the warmth of your body on my back, followed by your weight. You drape yourself over my back, your long, curly hair tickling my ears, with nothing but your ribbed tank top between your breasts and my shoulder blades. “How did we get here, brat?” you hiss.

My eyes well up with tears at the softness of your body and the harshness of your words. “I – I -” Shame swells in my throat, silencing me. I took your love for granted and played with your pain and I will never get it back.

“Bratty little girl,” you whisper in my ear. “Used to getting what you want, when you want it.” I shudder against you as you unclip my bra with one hand and slide your other hand deep into the cup of my bra. Your hands are cold but gentle and drive me to distraction. “You like showing your tits, don’t you? You like giving my pussy away?”

I moan and try desperately rub my aching cunt against the seat.

A cruel twist to my nipple brings me back to your question. “Is that a yes, slut? You like giving away my pussy?”

Through a fog of lust and pain, I try to determine what you want to hear. Saying yes might only anger you more, and finally, finally, you seem angry enough to me. But saying no would be a lie, and I think you want the truth from me.

You twist my nipple again, sending rays of agony through my body.

“I did,” I wail. “I did it. I did it.” And I burst into tears.

You draw back, making a hissing noise of disgust. “I fucking knew it.” I hear the click of your belt buckle, I hear your zipper come undone, and I feel your big, thick strap-on cock press against the lips of my slick, swollen pussy. “Beg for it,” you snap. “One last time, beg for my cock.”

“Please, Daddy,” I whimper, lifting my ass to give you easier access. When you pull away, I moan with frustration. “Please fuck me. I want it so bad.”

“You don’t deserve it. Tell me you don’t deserve it.”

“I don’t deserve it,” I cry. I wiggle my ass, hoping against hope to entice you. “I’ve been so bad, Daddy. Please, let me take your strap one last – ”

Before I can finish my plea, you drive your cock into my cunt with such force that I nearly pass out. All my shame and your pain and my terror and our grief thuds into a hard core between my legs. Gasping, desperate, I work my fingers against my clit in time with your strokes while you call me a filthy fucking hole. And riding the tide of our worst fears, I fucking cum and fall face forward, crying, against the vinyl seat.

You drive me home eventually, but you won’t let me crawl into the passenger seat. Instead, you insist that I remain in the backseat with my panties in a thin roll across my thighs and my bare ass against the vinyl. I sit in silence, bottom lipping protruding, watching your rough hands turn the steering wheel. I wish you’d put your hand inside me one last time. I wish you’d let me taste you but when I tugged on your harness after you fucked me, you caught my wrist with your hand. Now, as you drive me home, I want to reach around the driver’s seat, cup your breasts in my hands, and beg you to give me a taste, beg you like you begged me this morning not to leave.

Published by Betty Shade

Betty Shade is a bisexual polyamorous submissive living and writing in New York City.

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