I was 17. He was a virgin.

Even early on I was insatiable and had an attraction to the shy boys, the big boys who bragged bigger but had wants they could never admit to themselves, the boys who I could corrupt. The ones who could be willingly corrupted, and then pushed further, and then molded – or discarded when they broke.

It was easy. They were drawn to me. They could sense I would draw them in, then push them.

I was insatiable and I was a teenager, a pretty, developed teenager, and I was insatiable. And no one would say yes to me.

I felt it was owed me. I feel like I’m entitled to sex, and not just the sex, the playing with men’s minds. That’s what makes me what I am, right?

And what makes my minions what they are is that they can’t say no to a gal like me, not even if they want to. I love hearing them say no when they mean yes – then twisting it to yes when they mean no, know they should be saying no but can’t bring themselves to say it.

I was a virgin, and I was sick of it.

Before the virgin I took was the one who wouldn’t take me. He had a girlfriend, and I had a boyfriend, or a minion who loved me and took me to dinner at any rate. (I think I loved him, but I don’t enjoy love, so it’s really hard to say.) He was older and almost as frustrated as I was… his girlfriend didn’t enjoy riding his cock, and I thought I might.

He said no. “I’d feel like I was intruding on your boyfriend’s claim.”

…

I am mine to give or withhold, to buy or sell at or above market value, and no one else’s.

My love for tease and denial was born that night. He denied me – I returned the favor and left his cock swollen and aching. I rode the train home that night sleek and sated on the lust in that hotel room. I didn’t come, then. I didn’t need to. It satisfied me to watch him squirm, and moan, and beg, to feel the heat and crackle in the air, to feel his skin shiver when I ran my fingers down his back. I felt his cock hard against my thigh and I knew that the sex I imagined having with him, taunted him with, and then never gave him, would be so much better than any sex he could ever actually give me.

It’s revenge, sure. Shameless. But that’s what makes me a villain. Every villainess needs a revenge story.

My virgin – my minion – denied me too.

He was a fucking fool. I owned him, in every sense that counted, every sense that mattered.

I pushed, and touched, and asked, and invited, and pressured, and stroked until his no turned into a “Yes, please, now,” and then I told him “No, I wouldn’t want you to feel pressured.”

And I pressured him. Over and over. I wore long, black lacy slips to bed instead of nightgowns. I asked him for kinky sex, romantic sex, hard and horny sex, I’ll-be-flying-home-tomorrow sex… I bought stockings, garters, and a red satin corset. If you think my tits look good now you should’ve seen them then. I wore a purple bra and matching panties of see-through mesh trimmed with satin and lace. He was hard instantly, he had to touch my ass through the sheer mesh panel but it wasn’t enough to make him fuck me, or let me fuck him.

What a gal like me loves – and hates – is a man who says no, but not enough no to make me believe it.

I don’t remember what made him finally say yes after saying yes and then falling asleep on me twice before (the first of many let-downs). I did pull out all the stops to seduce him. I was wasting my time, but he was very submissive and more masochistic than was healthy for either of us and I found that rush addictive.

I remember the caresses, his fingers stroking my slit until I was wet and opening and hungry. I remember my lips sliding, wet, over his shaft. Making him groan. I remember finally (finally!) helping him roll the condom down the length of his cock, then climbing astride him and lowering myself down onto his cock, feeling stretched, feeling no pain, only a sweet, sweet tight fit and a fullness that was almost exactly what I had been craving. I wasn’t in heaven, it was someplace better, earthier… the blessed isles maybe, or Elyssium.

What was it, five minutes?

He kept asking to kiss me, asking me to bend down and kiss him. I didn’t need kisses; I needed to not lean forward and risk his cock slipping out (I’m a short girl). They always think I’m sweeter than I am, or maybe it’s just they can’t admit they need what I don’t; the cuddling, the hand-holding, the flowers. He’d give me flowers and I’d ask for him to talk to me, and to let me fuck him. It was about the show and not the substance – all I got was the hollowed-out shell. I’d rather do without the shell and have the creamy center, or for the rare men with both, drain out that center and leave only the shell holding him together…

He made me breakfast and gave me footrubs and let me torture him and that made him useful but no one minion is good for everything. I deserve good service (and many minions).

Our game played out like this: Tease. Deny. Tease. Deny. That’s what I was receiving, but what I dished out in return was the promise (unintended) of sweet, romantic love and sensuality and the reality of a mercurial, sexual bitch.

I ate him alive. It took seven years. I think of it as paying my fey tithe to hell.

I cut him loose, after it was too late. He says he’s getting better but he’ll never be the same.

It’s not that I have no mercy – I tried to give him mercy. He refused it. I offered to release him and he begged me to stop being so mean to him and let him stay. He couldn’t recognize my mercy and he punished me in denying it.

I don’t like what I became with him, you understand? Words were always my weapons, and I only used them to play, before. With him I found a new arsenal and a vicious streak – no, it went beyond vicious. It was evil. It wasn’t even human, or controllable. It was totally unthinking, pure blind rage.

I’m dangerous then, but I’m more dangerous when I go cold.

This is what I am now. I use men for my gain and my pleasure. I take their sex from them, and their money. I take their pride. I eat their lust. They serve me. I’m evil, la belle dame sans merci, a femme fatale.

And I love it.”

Written back sometime in mid-March, posted today. I decided to give my cartoonishly villainous alter ego her own dominatrix account on Niteflirt – and the saucy bitch is live.

“Queen of Pentacles, reversed: The dark essence of earth behaving as water, such as ice. A cold but generous host, driven by an overwhelming need to accumulate and maintain opulence. A person so preoccupied with wealth and security that they can never stop to enjoy either. One who reflects the weaknesses of others, breeding suspicion and mistrust.”

I cross my legs. He jerks his head up at the nylon swish. He can’t see up my black pencil skirt from this angle, but maybe if I crossed my thigh a little higher… I slide my nylon-covered thigh up maybe half an inch, just to feel the faint silky texture rub against my skin. His eyes follow but he gains nothing.

“Do you think I’m cold? If I were cold I wouldn’t be keeping you company right now. I’d leave you where you’re sitting, with the bowl of water next to you, go upstairs, and lock the door. The best part of living in the mountains is the privacy, you know. I could turn up the Voltaire and never hear you yelling.”

He kicks the stainless steel dog dish; water splashes over his bare feet and the bowl slides a few inches to his left. I let the metal clang die in the air and wait for him to ask his questions.

His eyes have gone from panicked to blazing but he isn’t saying a word. Oh. I lean forward and pull his wife’s panties out of his mouth.

His mouth opens and he breathes in sharp, then out in puffs. Hyperventillating. His face is red and his fists are tight, and the words finally burst through: “Why am I here? Where’s my – what did you do with my clothes?”

“You know why you’re here, Paul. Or did you think you could just get away with embezzlement?”

“-It was only a little skim! I promise I can pay you back. I had some, ah, some gambling debts, and-”

“…and you were being blackmailed, by an anonymous stranger. I’ve heard your crap before, Paul. The money wasn’t coming fast enough for your blackmailer and you were getting nervous. But you didn’t just mess with me; you messed with my money.”

He works his jaw but no words come out. Then: “You knew about the blackmail?”

My crisp white blouse was buttoned obscenely low, just below my breasts. I’d had the fabric pulled forward to conceal my bra and make a last stab at decency. I lean forward and the blouse edges fall back and my breasts are pushed out over the tops of my bra cups, almost spilling out. I let the tarot card I was holding fall to my feet. His exposed cockhead twitches and stretches forward, toward what he can see of my areolae. He’s cold; he’s got to be cold, he’s naked in my basement and covered in goosebumps.

“You can’t just keep me here. The police will blah blah blah…”

I like watching his soft cock extend and swell with blood. I liked feeling it harden in my mouth, right against my tongue. I wet my lips (red lipstick, his favorite) and smile. “I found out about your wife.”

He looks like I’d hit him with a brick. Not that I would – the red and yellow bruises on his side said he was fun to kick with high heels on. “No – I never told her about us.”

“Thank you for that, at least.”

He spits the words out like they taste more bitter than the cum-soaked panties that were just crammed between his teeth.

“Thank you? Sarcasm doesn’t work with a hard cock, Paul.” He winces. “Go ahead.” My fingers are at that one button just below my breasts. My eyes never leave Paul’s cock. “I want you to look at my breasts while we talk about this.” Second-to-last button: undone. “Maybe it’ll help you pay attention.” The last button pops loose, and I draw the sides of my shirt back, baring my white lace bra and my belly. “Tits and money, Paul? Predictable.” I stand up and pull the white cotton blouse from my arms.

“You were freakier in bed than she was, oh, I’ll give you that.” He’s sitting up now, on his knees. Half-laughing. He’s seen the steel doors, the rolls of duct tape. “But she has a fucking heart! She’d never put some guy she fucked in a basement with a dog dish and… she… she would never just fuck some guy.”

My back is to him. I unhook my bra, pull the straps over my arms. My pink nipples stiffen in the cold air. I kick the pile of white lace out of my way and turn to face him, cupping my hands over my bare breasts. My palms feel good and warm drawn over my nipples, down my tits, my sides. I don’t need to look up to know he’s watching. “Really? I wonder…”

I pick up the deck of tarot cards and hold it out to him. “We’re going to play a card game. Take one.”

He does. I’m watching a bead of sweat roll down his forehead, timed perfectly with the first clear drop of precum oozing from his slit.

“Show me.”

He shows me the king of pentacles. It’s the traditional Rider-Waite artwork, nothing fancy.

The zipper on my skirt sticks before opening to flash Paul the top of my black lace garter belt and prove to him that I was serious the day I said underwear were a waste of time. I tug my skirt from my hips – slowly.

“That was you. That was you. Another.”

He draws from the middle of the deck: three dancing women, raising their feasting cups, smiling. They’re dancing upside down.

Three of Cups, reversed. I start laughing. “A time of shallow overindulgence, followed by depletion. The successful but utterly unfulfilling conclusion of a matter. Satisfaction from sensual pleasures divorced from any sense of love. May indicate problems prematurely dismissed or a victory claimed before it is certain. Good choice, Paul. This is going to be all about shallow overindulgence.”

I step out of my skirt and bend over to take off my heels. I take my time – Paul loves breasts and legs and nude stockinged feet and he’s getting an eyeful of all three.

I grab his hand and put it on his cock. I curl his fingers loosely around the shaft and move his hand up and down, to get him started. My tits are in his face, close enough to lick, and he tries to catch a nipple in his mouth. I lean closer to whisper in his ear: “Stroke it.” I step back. “Stroke it for me while I watch.” He rubs his thumb over the head of his cock and nods a yes.

I lie on the couch, in my stockings and garter belt and almost-bare feet, and I caress my inner thighs through the nylon, and I tease my nipples with my nails, and I watch him circle the palm of his hand over the head of his cock.

He has a well-shaped, girthy cock and it’s always a treat to watch him stroke it. I like to watch him do it like I did it for him, use what I showed him. I like to guess which tricks were his and which were hers…

“I have some pictures for you, Paul. Pictures of me, new ones, for you to look at while you jerk that cock for me. Look in the deck.”

I’m not cold. I gave him something to remember her by before I offed her: cum-soaked panties and dozens of photographs of her and me in every possible position (and a few that stretched belief), photos of her tied, legs apart and begging like a whore, photos of her angel’s face in absolute bliss as the man I brought for her slid home, of her tear-streaked and screaming as the fifth, and the fifteenth, slammed her raw.

They’re mixed in with the cards. He finds them all. He cries, full-body racking sobs, broken and screaming and horrified and resigned. He doesn’t stop moving his fist up and down, up and down.

“Did you recognize the panties you were gagged with?” He’s nodding and crying and saying yes, yes, he thought they were hers, he knew they had to be hers, and oh God, her taste is still in his mouth…

“She was a good little slut for me, Paul. Your wife loved it when I told her I’d keep her secrets, never tell you what a whore she is, but she wanted you to taste her panties. She was wearing those when I fingered her until she came all over my fingers. I had the boys wipe off with them… thought you might like that touch.”

“Oh God… oh God. Where is she? Where’s Amy?”

I smile at him from the couch. “Last picture.”

He knew before he looked that he’d see her limbs splayed, legs wide open, cum staining her thighs, lips parted as if sucking a ghostly cock, and a dark red blotch where her heart was. The photo is blurry; I hadn’t used the tripod for that one, and my hands shook a little when I thought of that poor bitch on her knees for him, someone sad enough to cheat on such a vixen and stupid enough to steal money from me to pay me off.

I watch his expression change. His face is blank for the moment it’s too much and he steps out of himself. Then it’s over, and he’s aching visibly, and he’s beat up and empty inside and still crying. His erection somehow never wilts. The man makes me look sane.

In that perfect moment I slide my fingers into my wet, waiting cunt. My toes curl inside my nude stockings. What a perfect, perfect cock that bastard has…

“You’re going to kill me.” He groans. His hand squeezes tighter around his dick; his knuckles are almost white. His wrist keeps working; the head of his cock keeps reappearing above his fist, then disappearing from view. I don’t think he wants to stop, but he doesn’t want to come either. He doesn’t know what will happen after.

“I’m going to… I’m going to rub my stockinged feet all over your face, let you lick my soles through the nylon. I’ll let you unfasten one of my stockings, pull it down my leg, rub that cock all over my just-bare skin, maybe I’ll let you jerk off using my stocking – Mmmh, I’d love to watch that! – let you flick your tongue over my clit, 69 me, and I’d press my lips against your cock, let you push it into my mouth slowly, feel them tight around your shaft as I take you down my throat…”

I’m stream-of-consciousness sexing him from across the room, and he’s moaning, and loosening his grip, and his hand is sliding on a cock slick with precum and it just looks so juicy and I want it in my mouth right then…

He’s waiting for something.

“Yes.” He gasps, and shakes, and his body bends in half to curl over itself. I fuck myself hard and fast watching the cum shoot out of his swollen, poisoned cock and drip down his chest, thick and sticky. I’d lick it off if I could.

“Yeah, I’m going to kill you.” And he smiles, and looks up at me from the floor, and his lips blow me a kiss right before he screams.

I come hard.

—

…That is the most fucked up thing I have ever written. Gah.

That was fun!

In other news, you’re going to want to check out Audacia’s thing if you’re in New York. She’s curating a sex worker art exhibit, and it is going to be crazy fun. The press release with details is up on Full Frontal Politics (which will experience a relaunch soon, it’s been quiet for a reason).