By: Alyssa Forelsket
To: The Keeper

[Our first moments, Scenario 2]

Bar stools and butt plugs are just not meant to be. Not even on the luxurious, pillowy seats of the Ritz.  I fidget uncomfortably, watching the door intently as a warding spell against the other men in the room. I’m dressed to be well fucked and they can smell pheramones at their biological peak wafting off of me, mingled with a sweet herbal aroma. The bartender doesn’t even ask about a bill or tab – he’s seen this game before.

I lick my glossy lips as you finally stride toward me. My eyes meet yours with a dare, body turning toward you and legs falling subtly open. You grab the hair at the nape of my neck, tilt my head toward your mouth, about to boldly claim me.

But my fingers plant themselves definitely on your lips. “Not a chance.” Normally I fall to pieces when you touch me, but this was a hard won moment. I’ve paid dearly.  I want to feel you fight for yours. That wolfish hard glare comes over your face and your jaw sets. 

The bartender is confused. Should he intervene? 

Your hand lets go of my hair and rests on my throat as you murmur: “Your ass is gonna hurt when I’m through.”

“It already does,” I say with a pout and wiggle.

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