Alissa: The Sweet Taste of Humiliation

This one is definitely not my usual stuff. Read on if you’re feeling adventurous. Pantyhose, bad SF pulp plot, gangbangs, female humiliation, hard candy, strange insertions, lawyers. I was in a strange mood. The next piece of fiction I post won’t be an attempt to break your spirits, promise.

I think it started when the thought struck me: What if they had drugged the candy?

I was sucking the sweet peppermint, rolling it around on my tongue, tracing over the red swirls with the tip of my tongue and thinking absolutely nothing at all except simple pleasure.


Somewhere inside me with that association muscle memory kicked in and right then all I wanted was sweet, slippery sex. Cock. Pussy. Wet tongues and grasping fingers and the primal base thrusting of fucking motions, which were what I was making right then, fucking the air.

It wasn’t someone I wanted. It wasn’t even particularly an orgasm. I just wanted sex, anywhere, anyhow I could get it. I didn’t really care with whom.

I thought of walking up to the man across the room, having him follow me into the hall. We’d stand in the doorway outside. I would take his hand, run it along the sheer nude pantyhose covering my inner thigh, rumple up my navy suit skirt. I’d whisper in his ear. It’d be commands. I was feeling urgent.

“Make me come. Use those thick fingers and make me come. Fingerfuck me… push your fingers right into my tight cunt.”

Oh yes. I’d use that word. I’d use it and he’d know I meant business.

I didn’t wear panties underneath my pantyhose today. Maybe that’s why I was like that. The seam’d been sliding across my pussy lips all day. (The peppermint melted, sticky, on my tongue…) My legs were crossed. That pushed the nylon seam right between and right up against my poor raw clit.

I squeezed my thighs together, riding the seam. Rocking back and forth. The lawyer was talking, but I was looking over her shoulder at her paralegal. Sheer gray nylons – were they stockings? No, pantyhose. Her skirt was short enough for me to see when she crossed her thick thighs one over the other. My lust heard the nylon swish from across the room.

God how I wanted to eat her through the damp crotch of her pantyhose.

I thought of the brown-haired man, forgettable in face but with muscular shoulders and strong contractor’s hands. I’d be leaning up against the entryway, my skirt hiked up around my waist now, his fingers jammed up my cunt, curling in and out against my pressure in a come-hither motion. I’d come on his fingers. I wouldn’t care who saw. God, they could all fuck me for what I cared. Just line up and service my hungry cunt.

That’s when I thought it: they must have drugged the candy.

The room was watching me, and they could tell, I know it. I was rubbing my thighs together like a greedy slattern and my lips were parted, wet. I was ready to verbally, physically, forcibly and too publicly demand sex from a total stranger.

Total strangers.

I wanted all of them. Yes, even the lawyer, though she looked like a rode-hard middle-aged dyke in a $300 suit and a good highlight job. Her I’d have tonguing my ass. I thought she looked like she knew dirty.

And then she smiled.

God. It was all over then.

I stood up and I dropped my clipboard and she handed me a smooth black pen.

It read: “Moore & Owen Law Firm.”

I uncapped it and stuck it into my cunt. The ballpoint pen nib poked a hole through my pantyhose; they stretched more, being wet, then tore just enough.

The paralegal – Kirstie? – handed me her fat yellow highlighter. The salesman next to me took it from me and pushed it in beside the pen.

Someone went for the umbrella stand. I saw the turned wooden handle – and clenched. The brown-haired man got straight to the point: he unzipped his khakis and pulled out his vein-ridged cock.

I don’t remember when I was moved onto the conference table. I’d been slapped, pushed, spit on. There were folder clips attached to my nipples and labia. They acted as both clamps and mild weights. The lawyer held my hair in her fist and pulled my head back so I couldn’t escape the cock coming at my mouth from what looked like upside down. I tongued first his dick, then her clit. They kept alternating. I lost track. His balls were heavy in my mouth and I had to fight not to bite down on them when the first cock pushed into my ass.

At least I think it was a cock. The first time, it could have been anything, maybe the umbrella handle. It had a curve. The second and third I felt the weight of a person and hands on my legs.

Grey – my company’s lawyer – actually held the walls of my pussy open for one particularly fat cock. I heard myself screaming at him… to stop dicking around and fuck me.

I have a plump bare mound and they beat it… they were beating it with the rolled-up contract. All that work, all those hours of research and I couldn’t help but jump and arch into each smack. I could feel my butt jiggle. It must have looked obscene.

I know they were laughing at the way I begged but if I ever had my mouth free of a hard dick or a hot pussy they’d pop in another mint, close my mouth and let it melt on my tongue. And I couldn’t stop wanting it.

-Alissa Bell, 29, commercial developer.

(Written 11/17/2006. I found this one finished in my drafts folder and thought it could use a little love. Happy Valentine’s Day?)

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4 Responses to “Alissa: The Sweet Taste of Humiliation”

  1. PuppyJuice says:

    Wow, that was definitely one hot story. I have to run and get some ice.

  2. jewel says:

    I liked the premise of the story, and the delivery system of a peppermintstick swirled about a warm wet willing mouth of an oral fixated “slattern” (good word!) was cute.

    I noticed you haven’t posted in a while thought if someone showed some love to your last post maybe you’d browse old folders some more?


  3. Sabrina Morgan says:

    Thank you! Mmm, now what exactly is that ice meant to cool off?

  4. Sabrina Morgan says:

    Thanks dear! It means a lot to me. I think I just might, for you.

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