Dirty Erotic Oneshots, Mistress_ Red [autobiographies to read txt] 📗

"Uh-oh." 

"A lot of people at school are talking about you." 

"What are they saying?" 

"You're getting a reputation as a 'size king.'" 

"A what?" 

"A size king. That's like a well-hung dude that actively looks for hookups with size queens." 

"What's wrong with that?" 

"Because you're wearing tight pants to show off your package. It's kind of pervy." 

"Babe, it's not the pants. It's the size. I just got really lucky in that department. Don't hate the player. Hate the game." 

"See, that's what I mean." 

"Huh?" 

"You've got this preposterous sense of entitlement. It's wearing thin. You are treating the cheerleading squad like your personal harem." 

Lance tried to restrain a smirk. He secretly loved the idea of a harem. His ultimate sexual fantasy would be to have a no-holds-barred orgy with all twelve cheerleaders after winning the state football championship. He had thought through his imaginary thirteensome to the smallest detail. 

After beating the other team 72-0, a stadium-sized bed would be erected in the football field for Lance's victory lay. 

As the all-female crowd cheered him on from the stands, he would chuck his helmet to the ground, strip off his uniform, and climb on top of the colossal mattress. The naked cheerleaders would mount one another to form a human pyramid, wagging their asses at him in lewd invitation. And, over the next eight hours, Lance would fuck each and every girl into cross-eyed oblivion. The scoreboard would tally the rocketing number of vaginal orgasms he yielded from his team. 

Lance wisely kept his lewd thoughts to himself. But Morgan zeroed in on his orgiastic ambitions anyway. 

"And stop asking every girl you know for a threesome." 

"A what?" 

"A threesome!" 

"Hey, that's a good idea. Would you like to try that?" 

Morgan rolled her eyes. 

"Listen, babe," he countered with studied nonchalance. "I'm just helping a few bi-curious females explore their sexuality. Women in love can be a beautiful thing." 

"Bye!" Morgan replied abruptly before walking away. 

Lance admired her ass as she exited the store and perhaps his life. His phone vibrated with a Tinder notification. He pulled it out to figure out his plans for the evening. 

 

 

 

 

******

 

 

 

Sandra saw her court-mandated psychiatrist on Mondays. Dr. Joffe assessed the progress of her anger management skills since she beat up the captain of the wrestling team. 

"I had sworn not to see him again," his patient confessed. "But when Lance asked me for help on his algebra test, I saw no harm in meeting him at the library." 

Dr. Joffe looked at her skeptically. 

"OK, fine," she continued defensively. "I wanted to fuck him." 

"I thought we were making progress, Sandra," chided the doctor. "You previously called Lance a 'black hole of toxic masculinity.'" 

"I didn't say that. I said he wasn't a pussy." 

"You also said your family would 'lose face' if anyone heard about your relationship with him." 

"That's true but so what? Don't you get it? I never wanted the violin lessons. I never wanted computer science camp. I never wanted tiger mother and father breathing down my fucking neck. I am me, not the 'good girl' someone else chose me to be." 

Dr. Joffe feverishly took notes. 

"If you want to call that 'teenage rebellion,' go ahead. For once in my life, I'd like to make my own decision. Maybe Lance is not the safest choice or the smartest choice but, at least, it's mine." 

"So you're looking for a thrill?" 

"I'm looking for an orgasm. And maybe it requires a bad boy with a big cock." 

"Did you not agree that your desire for 'unattainable' men derived from a lack of self-esteem?" 

"Stop putting words in my mouth. You know damn well I won't take any shit from Lance. If I ever dated him, you damn better believe he'd clean up his act." 

"And you think he would do that?" 

"Yeah," smiled Sandra defiantly. "You know why?" 

"Why?" 

"Because I'm special, dickweed. Men like him are easy to control. And I'll change him as sure as he is born. So don't tell me I suffer from daddy issues." 

"So why did you hesitate?" 

Sandra paused. She had trouble revealing the truth even to her shrink. Yes, Lance got her hot and bothered. The 'hot' part was cool. The 'bothered' part was not. She craved him so badly that it scared her. To use an old cliché, it felt like flirting with disaster. Could she control him? Probably not. Would he control her? Probably so. 

Before daring to approach him, Sandra had stalked Lance for a month. The huntress studied her prey carefully. Tracking his movements with a GPS device planted underneath the wheel well of his Harley, she avidly followed his private exploits from the cab of her windowless van. He slept with a staggering number and variety of females: cheerleaders, emo chicks, teachers, exotic dancers, and cougar divorcees. 

c o n s e n s u a l ( ii )

As her surveillance grew from days to weeks, Sandra got bolder. She left her van to listen in on his lovemaking. Behind the door of every cheap walk-up motel, sounded the cry of an ecstatic woman in heat. Though barely 18, the master of seduction had learned how to drive a female berserk with pleasure long before he learned how to drive an automobile. 

Part of that success was owed to the youth's ten-and-a-half inch ladykiller. Lance probed his lovers in the most thrilling of ways. He was fully aware of his forbidden gift and that awareness manifested itself in a preternatural self-confidence. The ladies of Peoria Tech referred to it as "big dick energy." When he flirted with a woman, Lance possessed the smile and swagger of a man with an enormous penis that knew how to use it. 

Lance's persona both repelled and fascinated her. Outside of scoring touchdowns and pumping iron, the student athlete dedicated his entire life to sex. In a twisted way, Sandra admired his focus. The foxy valedictorian also strived for perfection in whatever endeavor she undertook. But their commonality ended there. Sandra loathed his vulgarity and smug hedonism. However, she wondered if those very flaws also fueled her longing for him. 

Though the archetype captivated the popular imagination, an authentic Casanova was a truly rare phenomenon. And she hardly expected to encounter one at a high school in flyover country. 

"Sandra?" asked Dr. Joffe. "Are you listening to me?" 

She looked at the clock. Thank God the session was almost over. 

 

 

 

******

 

Lance finished football practice around 5pm. He scanned his most recent texts to decide which chick to bang that night. His phone vibrated with a new message. 

"Hey," wrote Sandra. 

His fingers hovered motionlessly over the touchscreen. Should he text back? There were risks. Sandra not only had stalked him. She had bludgeoned him with a large dildo during a routine hook up that went awry. But, worst of all, the psycho-babe hadn't put out. He never got further than a hand job with her. Maybe that explained his decision to reply. She not only had piqued his libido. She piqued his curiosity. 

Lance never met a girl he couldn't close within a few hours. Sure, there were tons of prudes at his school but they all steered clear of the playboy. Like it or not, his mouth watered at the prospect of strange trim. Undressing a girl for the first time felt like unwrapping a present on Christmas morning. The anticipation delighted him. 

Lance imagined himself with Sandra in the back of her windowless van. She had outfitted the vehicle like a mobile boudoir with a queen-sized mattress that lined the floor of the storage space. It definitely beat the backseat of a Trans Am. There would be plenty of room for both of them to play. Lance almost could see her expression of bliss as he sank himself into the hilt. 

"Hey," he wrote back... 

 

 

******

 

Sandra set their date for 8pm the next day: dinner and a movie. It had been a huge concession on Lance's part. He never went on dates. However, the cocksman had a reason. Lance wanted to fuck Sandra come hell or high water. He respected her too much not to. 

All his life, Lance never found a woman that could keep up with him in bed. The multi-orgasmic megastud was bigger, stronger, faster, harder than anyone... He did not merely seduce females. He conquered them. Lance made his girlfriends squirt, faint, and weep tears of joy. And they all came back for more. Despite their public distaste for womanizers, the ladies filled his dance card with requests for repeat performances. 

Lance soon gravitated towards threesomes because two foxes made better matched his prowess. Even then, the champion cocksman aspired to reverse gangbangs in which an even greater number of females joined forces in bed to indulge him. In truth, his desires knew no limit. The teen fancied himself as an erotic superhero dedicated to the carnal satisfaction of a sex-starved womankind. 

On the other hand, Sandra possessed an unequaled ferocity about her. The woman proved willful and wanton, a seductive black widow spinning an invisible web from which no man could escape. Sandra represented a challenge in a game that Lance found increasingly easy to win. 

He arrived at the Italian restaurant two minutes after 8pm. She didn't. Lance stood awkwardly by the hostess station by the entrance. A foxy blonde waitress made eyes at him from across the room. He banged the looker a few months ago but forgot her name. 

"How many in your party?" asked another server, a Rubenesque Latina with a cute smile. 

Lance held up two fingers. 

"Too bad," she half-joked. "I get off in an hour." 

Lance got a table by a window with a scenic view of the Peoria Mall parking lot. The Latina babe brought a menu, a glass of water, and a napkin with her mobile number scrawled on the back. Lance pocketed the napkin in case his date didn't work out. 

"So who's the lucky girl?" asked a voice behind him. With an air of presumption, the unknown blonde took the seat across from him. 

"Sandra Kong," he told her point blank. 

"Wow," she gushed. "That takes balls." 

"It's just a date." 

"And the Titanic was just a ship." 

The blonde stood up to leave after leaving another scrap of paper on the table. 

"Don't worry," she told him "I wrote down my name in case you forgot it." 

"Thanks, uh..." 

"Jill." 

Suddenly, Jill's expression paled. Neither of them saw Sandra approach the table. 

"Get the fuck out of here," she hissed. "Or I'll call the manager." 

Sandra took her seat. She snatched Jill's scrap of paper, crumpled it into a ball, and flicked the wad off the table.