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Forced Sale

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The fourth book was the one that really took off. It was recommended both by Larry King and by Oprah, and my agent said he had never seen such a reaction—and that it would be a while before it ever happened again.

It was a surprise to me, too. I didn’t think the way that I had written about the old south would have been so well-received. I had anticipated that the book would have been too stuffy, since I felt like it was over-researched. And that it would have been too scandalous.

I had expected that the old money families I had written about, whose debutante daughters still worked their charms to maximize the benefit of both their purses and their pussies; and whose young sons manipulated and pursued in order to add women, companies, and real estate to their conquests, would balk at the frank and detailed stories. But the south turned out to be highly receptive of the book.

And I also thought I would kill my own sales. Personally, I stood in sharp contrast to the elegant, mysterious, old south. I was new money. I had a successful career earned by working in the high-tech industry, back when the long nights and inventive thoughts had counted for more than being in the right place at the right time. The fruits of that success were allowing me to regain control of my own life. No longer did I need to slave away for eighteen hours a day, six days a week. I was semi-retired. I managed some rental property, lived off the dividends of my assets, and pursued my true dreams—one of which was writing.

My belief was that my first interview would cause my exploding writing career to crumble. Who would buy books from a guy who was already worth millions? Who worked hard for a fortune, then hit a home-run working his hobby? A scruffy, rich, technical guy wasn’t what the people who bought this book wanted to see on the back cover when they were reading about the elegance and mystery of the old south.

But for the time being, I wasn’t without spoils. I purchased a couple of exotic sports cars, which I rove as often as I could, and as aggressively as I could. My workhorse pickup truck was still with me. It was my first vehicle, now more than 25 years old. It was great for hauling those big things I seemed to need when maintaining one of my rental properties, or even taking care of my own home.

And my house—my house was modest, though not of a size that a single man my age would nominally purchase for himself. I lived in a neighborhood where most residents weren’t so young, and where nobody else in the neighborhood association’s contact list was single.

I reveled in the rift my success created, though. When I bought the cars, for instance, I went to the dealership in torn jeans and a tee-shirt. At the time I was working hard and I had just received my first sizable royalty check. I was flush with cash, but I was also in the middle of a wave of work on the next book and hadn’t shaved in a while. And I wasn’t sleeping a lot, either. When I get into the swing of things like that, I don’t always have time to take care of myself. I had run out of allergy medicine and was sneezing frequently, and I was about three weeks overdue for a haircut. At the dealership, I had to mill around the parking lot for a while before a salesman finally approached me.

I told him that I wanted to buy a new one, and he chuckled. I shook it off, and persisted with questions about options—without asking of the prices. We returned to his desk in a low cubicle at the back of the showroom, and before the afternoon was over I spent more than a eighty thousand dollars and he learned a lesson about judging customers for their looks.

Whenever I return to the dealership for parts or service, I beam. All the employees greet me warmly by name. And quickly.

Since going starting my semi-retirement plan, though, incidents of my appearance betraying my status were not quite as common. I had time to take care of myself; I could work three or four days a week, quietly at home and as productively as ever. I had pursued my fiction writing more aggressively. Since I wasn’t working another job at the time I was writing it, this new seemed as if it had rolled off my printer. And on the other days, I could relax, work out, and have time to enjoy my own self.

Of course, I stubbornly didn’t dress or speak the part. I still wore jeans, though they weren’t often as ragged. And I was still a direct, and blunt, and earthy, and honest. Nothing like the southern old-money society families I had been writing about.

In retrospect, I suppose that behavior and attitude is what caused me trouble with my new real estate agent. That newest title was only just released, but renewed swarm of media attention had it selling like hotcakes, and I didn’t realize that my literary agent had anticipated it—bless his soul. He had negotiated an aggressive deal which brought me a better royalty percentage, and managed my withholding in such a way that, as the book took off, the publisher owed me even more money because of the successful sales.

With those funds burning a hole in my pocket, and with my success solidifying instead of crumbling away under me, I had called my previous real estate agent to see about buying a new place. I was pretty particular about a couple of exclusive neighborhoods in town. They were on a hill, surrounding a rolling, plush golf course. I had no interest in golf, but I supposed that I’d use the tennis courts and weight room at the club. And even if I didn’t have a view of the golf course, the hill overlooked a wonderful valley that ran east towards the bigger mountains.

When I made the call, I was disappointed to find that my original real estate agent had left the firm and moved out of state. But the office receptionist remembered me, and offered to get someone new to call me back right away. And she did: within the hour, I received a call from a new agent. On the phone, her voice struck me as tremendously alluring, though I talked myself out of thinking that she’d be attractive because a long string of disappointments has taught me that one can’t make an accurate physical appraisal over the phone.

We agreed we would meet at her office and go over some maps. I’d talk to her a bit about other neighborhoods, I guessed, and then spring my interest about Fairway Ridge.

When I arrived at the office, she kept me waiting for only a couple of minutes. She introduced herself as Monica, I as Joe, and we shook hands warmly. I was pleasantly surprised: she was very trim and petite, in a snappy grey skirt and a cream silk blouse. My over-the-phone appraisal, for once, was somewhat accurate.

While she was about five-foot-six, she was very thin with broad shoulders and nice curves. She had flowing blonde hair, though it was only just long enough to reach her shoulders. Her blouse had a deep neckline, and immodestly revealed the ample swell of her chest. A gray jacket covered her chest and conserved her appearance. Her look was very subtle, but quite sexy.

As I noticed her figure, I smiled warmly. And as she noticed my attire, she seemed to wince. Just as I met eyes with her, I caught a cloud pass over her face—as if she was deciding that her chance at a commission was too small and this trip wouldn’t be worth her effort.

She led me back into the offices, and I watched her ass. Her jacket was fitted and suggested narrow waist, and her skirt ended a few inches above her knee. The slit in the back spread just a bit with each stride, and I saw glimpses of the backs of her thighs.

I declined her offer of coffee or a soft drink. “What sort of areas are you interested in, Joe?” she asked, as we entered her office.

“Well, I’d like to upgrade a little bit. I’ve been thinking of a larger home with some acreage, maybe a little seclusion. And I’ve thought a bit about Fairway Ridge.” I abandoned any plan of waiting and teasing. Why not go right for my goal?

She stopped where she stood, behind her desk before sitting down. “Oh, really?” she asked. She was beyond cold, now—she was baiting me. “And have you arranged for financing?”

“I don’t think that will be a problem.”

She looked at me up and down again. My appearance had been improving, but I was still far from being a clothes horse. My polo shirt wasn’t tucked into my jeans, and the Velcro strap on my sandal had ripped so it flopped with each step. I wore a nice watch, but by an obscure Swiss manufacturer that only watch collectors seem to recognize. I really like platinum jewelry, but my ring was old and tired—most people assume it’s silver, or even that it’s as cheap steel piece from a folk fair vendor.

“Well, I suppose I can show you what’s there. And I think there are actually two homes listed at this time. But that is a very exclusive neighborhood. Your earnest money, alone, will be an amount over fifty thousand dollars. Are you prepared for that?”

“I don’t think it will be a problem, Monica,” I said. I locked eyes with her and gently stressed my words. I hoped she would get the idea and make this fun instead of challenging.

“Where’s your wife?”

“I’m single.” As if it’s your business, you cunt. Why are they pretty ones so bitchy?

“Mmmm. Well, okay.” She seemed to be resigning herself showing me the properties, as if she fully expected me to falter when it came to the finances. She turned to her computer and used the Multiple Listing Service software to print pages for the two listings in the neighborhood.

I thought of bluntly asking for an agent that was more motivated. I watched her pick up the phone and contact the Fairway Ridge home owner’s association security service. She talked with them quickly, and it was apparent she knew the neighborhood well.

After providing her state agent license number, the security firm gave her a security code for the neighborhood gate. “Is this Alexander?”

I could only hear one half of the conversation, of course.

“Yeah! How have you been?”

Another pause. She smiled.

“About twenty minutes from now.” Then she laughed, and another pause while she listened.

“I don’t think so.” She looked at me. I was staring directly at her. Apparently, she didn’t expect that and turned quickly away, busying herself with something on her desk. Guessing by her reaction, she was talking about me. “But we’ll see. OK—OK, bye!”

She replaced the phone in its cradle, grabbed her car keys, and stood.

“We can go out for a look right now, if you’d like.” Again, her tone belied her. In direct contrast with her phone conversation, she was clearly cold to me. She was warm and all smiles with the security guard. I consoled my disappointment by studying her for just a second longer than I should have, and maybe just a second or two longer than was socially acceptable. Her posture held her shoulders high, making a wonderful presentation of her breasts and neckline. Her wide stance conveyed her confidence, which before it became bitchy, was actually attractive. Even with her jacket obscuring my view, I could that her flat stomach relieved the fabric of her skirt over the flat of her belly, and her hips were plainly visible in the contour.

Finally I rose too, and met her eyes. “Thank you,” I said.

She asked if I needed to use the restroom, and I declined. She said she wanted to, and would meet me in front in a couple of minutes.

I walked through the lobby and outside into the parking lot. There weren’t many cars here; I guessed that the luxury import or the SUV would be hers. The sports car I drove to the meeting was parked near the entrance but facing the street. But I noticed a beaten economy car, so I stood next to it and waited for her. I decided I would bait her, just a little bit.

Monica emerged from the office, scanned the parking lot, and found me. “I can drive,” I offered, and pointed over my shoulder at the car. I suddenly hopped it didn’t belong to anyone she knew. “Jesus Christ,” she muttered under her breath. She looked away, then back at me. “That’s fine. I can take us both comfortably.” She pointed at the black SUV.

I climbed into the passenger seat, chuckling to myself. As we started driving away from town, I wondered why she hadn’t tried to initiate some small-talk. Or why she hadn’t tried to ask me about the kind of house I wanted, or what parameters in my home would be most important to me. There wasn’t much reason to wonder, of course: my appearance and demeanor had put her off. We passed the drive in silence, then, until we entered the gate. She entered her code, and the gate began sliding open.

Just as she entered the gate, a security guard popped out of a tiny outbuilding. She stopped and rolled down her window. “Hi, Alex!”

“Morning, Monica. How long will you be?”

“Not more than an hour, I don’t expect. We’ll have exclusive access, won’t we?”

“Yes, you will,” he said, and smiled.

“Great. Thank you!” She rolled up the window and didn’t wait for a reply from the security guard.

As she drove forward, she addressed me again. “There are two properties for sale here, now,” she announced coldly.

“Does one have a better view?”

“Of the—yes. But it’s a little more expensive,” she replied. I felt that she stopped her intended answer. She should be telling me about the property itself instead of fixating on its price.

“Let’s try that one, then.”

She sighed, quietly. “It’s not occupied, as the owners have already left. But they’re doing some repairs in anticipation of a move in. So, the upstairs is a bit of a mess.” She glanced at me. “I guess that won’t matter to you.”

I chuckled. “No, it won’t bother me a bit.” I paused a beat before addressing her. “Monica, look. I have the money. I’m interested in living here for the security and seclusion. If you want to make a sale, you really need to improve your attitude.”

She gasped, and said: “What about you? Look at the way you’re dressed. Do you think that’s appropriate? Don’t you think—”

“Do you want the sale or not?” I was getting a little angry. Sell me the fucking house, you bitch. This will be over soon enough, and you’ll get your six percent.

She didn’t respond. We pulled into the driveway, which rolled over a little hill and then snaked its way through some thick trees to the house. There were lights along the driveway. I enjoyed that kind of detail.

She parked the SUV in a loop at the top of the driveway, in front of the four-bay garage. She got out. With her door still open, she took off her jacket in the warm sunshine, opened the back door, and hung it carefully in the rear of the truck.

I shook my head; this wasn’t going to be fun at all. Even the car salesman warmed-up to me, and I found that amusing. But Monica wasn’t warming up at all. She hadn’t asked what I did for a living, or where I had found the money, or what interested me in this neighborhood. My responses to those questions would reduce her fears and let us get on with business. But she wasn’t asking them.

And the exchange we just had? How far would any business get if they treated their customers like that? She hadn’t even offered an apology. In fact, her attitude was making me just a little bit angry. Someone in her position should work with their clients, not judge them. Perhaps I had taken my own game just a little bit too far.

She opened the lock box at the front of the house, a sprawling architectural feat that faced the golf course. But the course wasn’t visible from the turnaround because of the trees in the front of the lot. The landscaping was very natural; the grass gently gave way to the denser trees at the edge of the front yard. Inside the turnaround, there were thick green bushes and small landscaping trees in the flower beds.

The home opened into a huge, sunken grand room with windows that faced towards the front. We walked through there into the formal dining room, and that led into the kitchen. The dining room had bay windows which looked into the valley. The view was marvelous; there were far fewer trees in the back yard than out front, and the hills appeared over the lush grass of the fairway in a breathtaking perspective. The kitchen had some large windows, too, facing in the same direction. Sliding glass doors just past the breakfast nook opened on to a wooden deck.

Monica turned to watch me for a second, and then continued walking. I took note of her behavior and immediately became interested in the appliances. If she felt like she was dragging me around now, I’d make sure she felt the weight.

I knew I already wanted the house. I’d found a website by the selling agent which had a walk-through multimedia tour, and even included floor plans that I downloaded and studied. But I took my time. I was looking out the kitchen windows at the view, and just wasting time.

She returned to the far doorway. “The rest of the house is this way.”

I ignored her. “Isn’t this a wonderful breakfast area?” It really was. There was a breakfast bar—a real one, not just the end of a countertop facing an open area. The other side of the room opened to a marvelous deck that rose over the sloping grounds towards the golf course. The door that Monica guarded led off in the other direction to the rest of the first floor. A walk-in pantry, a door that I figured lead to the basement, a narrow private stairway to the second floor, and a yawning door with an arch top that went back to the formal dining room—the doorway which we entered to get here, into the kitchen.

“Yes, it is,” she said impatiently. Not really in sales mode, are we, Monica?

“How wide is this area? Fifteen feet?”

“I guess,” she said.

“Well, uh, I have a big table to put in here. Do you have a tape measure?”

She rolled her eyes, digging in her purse for the tape. We measured the room—twenty-one feet wide.

“I’m sure your table will fit.”

I thought about questioning her, perhaps insisting that it wouldn’t fit just to milk her a little bit more. But I decided to let it drop. A little slack in the line now would let me reel her in harder, later.

We toured the rest of the first floor. The kitchen nook opened into a den, with a fireplace and impressive built-in bookshelves. Well—Monica had called this room a “den”. It was really a library. The built-in bookshelves were simply beautiful, rising to windows that opened towards the high ceiling. The interior wall needed to be painted, but it was the only flaw I had found so far. That same wall rose to a balcony which made the hallway for the second floor after the landing for the stairs in the formal entry curled around. It was very open and airy.

The shelves were incredibly tall, with a two rolling ladders hooked to rails above the shelves. In the middle of the room, under the windows, there was a niche for some paintings or a desk.

A home theater room was behind the den in a small hallway leading to the garage. The theater room included no equipment, but Monica said that the movie house chairs would stay with the home. The room had both a false back and a false front; perfect for hiding all the electronics. I thought about mounting a projector and speakers, and made Monica take some more measurements. Then, I asked her to write them down for me. She didn’t seem to like that. She tore the page from her notebook and handed it to me as if she was giving away a used tissue.

We moved on through the mud room—a real mud room, with a rack for coats and a utility basin, and room enough for a bench and shoes and an umbrella rack—into the garage. There were two pull-through bays, so the garage housed six. I was really falling in love with the home, and Monica was getting impatient. I made her help me measure the ceiling; I was looking forward to working on my own cars in my spare time, and wanted to install a lift. She rolled her eyes when I mentioned my plan.

We proceeded back through the mud room, and Monica pointed out the laundry room opposite the mud room in the hallway. It was giant; two washers and two dryers, a giant ironing area, and an island countertop in the middle. The layout was very sensible, absolutely maximizing utility from the already large space. I thought of my first apartment, where I couldn’t open the door on the oven and the dishwasher at the same time because they’d block the floor in-between. Now, I’m moving into a house with a laundry room that must have been designed by a team work efficiency experts.

I asked Monica about the living area. She told me matter-of-factly that there was 7200 square feet total, 4100 here downstairs. We were back in the foyer, now, and heading upstairs. I followed Monica, again watching her ass. It was just about perfect. Her legs were thin, though still very well defined. Her calves were toned and sinewy, pumping muscles into the back of her sensible high-heeled shoes.

We moved through each bedroom, then into the master suite.

“I guess they’ve made a lot of progress up here. They’re just finishing with the drywall patches, and you can request any paint you’d like if you offer the asking price. They’ll also replace the carpets, too.”

Maybe Monica was warming up a little, I thought. She sounded like a saleswoman for a moment. I thought about having hard wood floors and area rugs in the master bedroom, and walked around a bit. This room also had high ceilings, opening to giant windows. I looked out—standing at the windows, I was over the kitchen. We hadn’t toured the outside, yet, but I imagined that the tall windows looked out over the golf course and made an impressive sight. We were facing northwest, I guessed.

I turned, and Monica led me into the master bath suite. At the entrance to the bath, there was a doorway that led to a true walk-in closet. Most homes have a large closet that is big enough for its own door and a place to stand. This home had a separate room for closet space, big enough for a love seat in the middle. It would made the changing room area at the uppity department store in the mall seem gauche. But this closet was not quite as polished: there was a giant roll of carpet padding, and a carpet stretcher and some more tools in the corner.

The tools and remnants left behind didn’t bother me. But Monica rolled her eyes. “Why can’t they clean this up?”

In the bathroom, we saw that there were more tools left behind and some small equipment in the corner. We went in, and examined the area where the bathtub would be.

“The pump failed just as the family moved out,” Monica said. “They decided to leave the repair undone and let you install whatever you wanted, again giving an allowance if you met the asking price.”

I nodded. I wasn’t sure what to do with the bathroom. I would never use a soaking tub, but wanted a real hot tub outside. Maybe I’d make the shower area larger and install one of those six-head systems found in fancy hotel suites. Or remove the tub plumbing and put in a small box sauna. That would be nice.

To this day, I’m not sure what my motivation was for what I did next. Maybe I really was just that angry at Monica, or maybe I was really that attracted to her. I guess it had to be some combination of both. When I did it, I thought it was one of the dumbest things I had ever done. Big, public trouble like I was inviting would submarine my career just as it was beginning to blossom. But somehow I did it anyway.

As we turned to leave the bathroom, Monica tripped on a small tray of tools left behind by the workers. The wenches and parts rattled and then sprayed all over the floor. She lost her balance and fell, face first, onto the carpet. She was trying to get up and had her knees under her, her ass in the air provocatively.

I rushed behind her, planting a knee between hers. I grabbed her arm, and twisted it behind her back.

“Do you want this sale?”

“What?!” she shrieked.

“Do you want to finish this sale? I’ll make a cash offer, for the asking price, if you do what I tell you.” I jerked her arm.

“Ouch! Yes, I want the sale.”

“Good,” I said. I twisted her purse strap off her other arm and tossed it back into the closet. Who knows what she had in there.

I looped an arm under her hips and pulled them up. With my other hand, I pushed her skirt up. Since I let her arm free, she immediately tried to wiggle away from me. Rising up on her hands then pushing with her feet, she lurched forward. I stood up and tackled her again; now, we were just outside of the master bathroom and nearly inside the master closet.

The roll of carpet padding was in here, sloppily rolled and ready to discard. I had grabbed her waist, and again took her arms and flipped her over. Pinning her under my weight, I slapped her face hard. I had never done anything like this, but I had a surging feeling; that I was unstoppable, invincible. My cock was engorging.

“Ungh!” she cried as my hand hit her.

“I thought you were going to cooperate.”

“Whatever you want,” she spat.

“I’m going to fuck you.”


“You’re pretty bitchy. Don’t you think I have enough money to buy this house? Maybe a good hard fuck will take your nose out of the air.”

Under me, she was panting, but I noticed that she wasn’t trembling. There wasn’t much sunlight entering the closet, but I noticed a roll of duct tape against the wall. I reached for it. I held one wrist in my hand, twisting it hard. “Roll over”, I commanded.

She winced, so I twisted more. “Roll over!” She finally did.

“Give me your other hand.”

“Don’t hurt me,” she murmured.

“Do what I say, and I won’t, you snooty bitch.”

She pushed her other hand behind her back. I took her thin wrists together in one hand, and I pulled off a generous strip of tape with the other. I began wrapping and twisting her wrists together. I pushed her shoulder, throwing her on her back. She was lying face down on the carpet padding.

I said nothing, and began taking her skirt off of her. It zipped, then unbuttoned, and I pulled it off her legs. I wasn’t that shocked to see that she was wearing a garterbelt and hose.

“Well! Look at these fancies! Are you a little slut?”

“No,” she whined.

“You look pretty slutty to me. Who else wears this kind of underwear, huh?”

She whined again, “No!”

Reaching under her shoulder, I flipped her over roughly. I began to unbutton her blouse. After the first couple of buttons, I caught a glimpse of her bra. I kept unbuttoning, and taunted her: “Did you get the matching set?”

She did. The bra was three-quarters cup, covering her nipples but leaving the tops of her breasts exposed. With modest lace trim, the bra’s under wire was clearly visible. She had beautiful tits; big and round, wider than her feminine but square shoulders, held up and open into a delectable shelf by the bra. The white fabric of her bra and panties clashed with the darker tan stockings she was wearing, now that she was stripped of her grey skirt. Certainly, she chose the color so that it wouldn’t show through the fabric of her blouse.

“Wait here,” I said. I sprang up and returned to the bathroom, just steps away, and got a pair of bolt cutters I had noticed in one of the tool boxes. I returned.

When she saw them, Monica shrieked. “Don’t hurt me!”

I knelt over her. “Shut up,” I muttered. I put a jaw of the cutters into her cleavage, under her bra. With a very easy push, the cutters snapped the under wire and cut the fabric, letting her breasts spring free. The cutters landed with a thump on the floor and I pushed aside the remaining fabric.

Her breasts were perfect, with dome shaped areola and thick, rubbery nipples. I tweaked them. “These are very nice. Why don’t you show them off more?”

Monica’s breathing quickened. Her nipples stiffened at my touch. She didn’t resist, I noticed, and she didn’t recoil. I huskily pawed at her full breasts. They were firm, soft, and just wonderful. Her skin, across her chest and belly, was taut but not bony. It was flawless, pale. My hands continued to roam over her chest, squeezing her breasts and pawing at her flesh.

“Huh? You should show them off more. Or don’t you think anyone else deserves to see them?”

I decided to stand up. My cock was raging in my pants, stiff, ready. Kicking off my sandals, I pulled my shirt over my head. Then I unzipped my pants and pulled off my boxers in one move. I stood over her with my cock erect.

“What are you going to do?” she asked, almost inaudibly.

“I’m going to fuck you, just like I said. Don’t you think that’s what you need? You’re going to get a nice, hard, attitude adjustment.”

She writhed, her hands still secure behind her. “No!” she cried.

I slapped her again, harder than last time, right across her face. It shut her up. Planting my knee at her side and my foot at her shoulder, I began rubbing my cock on her chest. “You don’t want it? You don’t want a good hard fuck, Monica?” My cockhead twirled in my hand, pressing against her nipple.

“Unh,” she said. Her chest rose and fell rapidly with her breathing.

I lurched forward, showing my penis rudely in front of her face. “A good fucking is what you need. You won’t be such a high-toned bitch when I’m done with you.” With my fingers at its base, I slapped her in the face with my dick; from the left, then the right. I pressed my cockhead against her mouth. She pursed her lips, twisting her head, resisting me.

Pushing forward with my hips, I let go of myself and grabbed the back of her head. A few seconds more resistance was all she could muster; she opened her mouth and I slipped in side her. She swirled her tongue around my purple head, then let her lips rest against it.

For a moment I was worried she would bite me; when she didn’t, I realized that I had her. I consciously chose, at this moment, that I would not treat her as a lover, or even as a woman. Instead, I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t show her mercy; despite any protests she might make, I would fuck her as aggressively and carelessly as I desired. I would work her for my pleasure. She wanted it—she wasn’t resisting, and if she had pleaded to me in earnest, I would have actually stopped. But she hadn’t, and so that must have meant she was playing my game with me. What she didn’t do spoke to me more; she wasn’t biting me, she didn’t fight, she didn’t scream or scratch.

And with my resolve, I pressed myself into her mouth. My fingers tangled themselves into her hair, and I pressed her head firmly to the ground. I fucked her face, rocking my hips. Her tongue lapped at my cock inside her mouth, her lips gently circling my girth. Rocking, gently, I worked her face, pressing her head down and my penis inside her.

I was ready for more, so I left her. She gasped, and panted to catch her breath. Her body was fantastic, splayed before me. Her chest was falling and rising with her excitement.

The cutters were nearby, and I leaned over to get them. I put a finger into the crotch of her panties, brushing against her pussy lips, and I felt her wetness.

“You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?” I smiled, coyly.

“Fuck you,” she hissed.

I yanked her panties away from her, my finger hooked in their crotch. Twisting my finger, I bunched the fabric together, then brought the tool down and snipped through the fabric easily and then discarded the bolt cutters. As quickly as I could, I pushed my hips between her knees, forcing myself between her thighs. My manhood found its target; I pushed into her. Her vagina was slippery, but accepted only the head of my cock before I felt her resistance. I planted my knees carefully beneath me.

“No,” I told her. “Fuck you.” I lurched forward, pushing myself into her as abruptly as I could manage.


With myself in her, I put my hands at either side of her and began pressing myself into her and pulling myself out of her. She moaned and murmured with each thrust, and her reactions struck me as terribly feminine. I was driven by the pursuit of her, by my own overwhelming desire to mate her. She writhed under me, gently squirming but not quite resisting. Her eyes were closed, and I felt her warmth encompass and cover me.

Despite her vulgar rebuttal, despite her hissing, she wanted it. She was wet and getting wetter. Arching my back, I could see her juices shiny on my dick as I withdrew. I pressed into her, then grabbed her hips and rocked back onto my knees. Drawing her waist up, her ass left the padding under us and I started fucking her harder. I tossed her feet over my shoulders, and gave her everything I had.

From this position, I could easily see myself penetrating her. As I withdrew, her thick lips were clinging to my cock. They stretched away from her body, as if I was drawing her tunnel out of her. When I pushed myself back in, they disappeared and her cunt caved in around my pressure.

I began concentrating on my strokes into her, thrusting into her and following with my hips only to collide against her buttocks. My bucking surges put ripples through her body, jiggling her breasts and shocking her whole body. She was very wet. I was surprised, in fact, at how juicy her pussy was in response to my abrupt treatment of her.

Each thrust I made resulted in a more insistent moan until I felt her legs tense. She was coming: my unwilling partner was reaching an orgasm. Never yielding to her screams or stopping for her moans, I continued screwing her until she subsided. Renewed wetness seeped from her pussy, comforting my cock as I thrust into and pulled out of her body.

Reaching to my own shoulders, I took both of her ankles in one hand and pulled them to my left. She rolled over, onto her side, exposing her bound hands. The tape was twisting around her wrists, but wasn’t fraying or binding. Reaching under her ass, I pulled her up on her knees. I knelt behind her, holding my cock in my hand and guiding it back into her pussy.

This entry was far easier than my first, and I immediately began thrusting into her again. She groaned loudly, awkwardly lying with her face against the ground and her bound hands behind her at the small of her back.

Her ass was beautiful, round and shapely. Her hips swelled beautifully from her thighs. The cleft of her ass was between two rounded cheeks, beautifully marked with tan lines. I grabbed her hips, my fingertips over her pelvic bone and my thumbs digging into her soft backside. I squzeed her, pressing in and out of her smoothly and assertively. She seemed weakened by her orgasm, and I was enjoying the way she had yielded to me.

“Do you ever get it like this from your boyfriends?”

“Unh, unh, unh.” Monica just kept grunting with each of my thrusts.

“Huh, Monica? Are you married? Does your husband fuck you good and hard like this?”

“Not married,” she murmured.

“That must be the problem. You’re not getting enough dick, and it’s turning you into quite a snob.”

I steadied myself on my knees and kept still. I began pulling Monica’s hips back onto my cock, then shoving her forward away from me. She resisted at first, then let go.

“God, you’re strong.”

“Yes, I am.” I let go of her hips and grabbed her wrists, pulling backwards.

“Oh, God, oh…”

I leaned forward, letting go of her wrists and grabbing her hair. Her soft ass was pressed against my groin and belly, and my angle into her changed subtly. Her tight pussy was holding me inside, warming me, rubbing my cockhead as I pulled backward and pushed forward within her taut body.

“Jesus!” she yelled.

I pulled her hair. “You like it? Huh?” I tugged her hair again, continuing my thrusts. Her soft ass felt great against my gut. I looked down, and watched as her flesh rippled when I inserted myself in her.

“Unh, coming again! Uuuuunh,” and she broke off into a murmur. I could feel the walls of her pussy cling to me as I with drew, caressing the head of my dick. I kept thrusting, pushing back into her, working against her contractions as she came again.

“Yeah, you like it, don’t you?” I tugged her hair once more just as she subsided. I withdrew from her, my cock slick with her juices. “I bet you’d like to get fucked up the ass.”

She was panting. “No!”

“No, you wouldn’t? That’s what you said last time. And look at how much fun you’re having.”

I leaned toward her purse. I popped it open, it was tiny and demure, very professional. Looking back towards her body, I saw that her breasts were crushed under her weight, pressed hard against the carpet padding.

“Oh, God, no,” she protested, weakly.

Finally, I found what I was looking for. She had a small tube of hand cream in her purse. I opened it, then spread a bead of cream around her asshole.

“Uuunh, no, not my ass, please,” she continued. I could see her little bud clench. It was beautiful, pink, clean, tight.

“Oh, I’m going to fuck your ass. It’s so pretty.” With my index finger, I began spreading the cream around her hole, and then pressed in gently. She resisted.

“Let go of it. It’s going in,” I told her. I swirled my finger around, then pressed again. I could feel her quiver, then relax. My finger disappeared inside of her to the first knuckle.

“Yeah, there you go. Give it up, you bitch. You’ll come down a notch when you feel my come running down out of your asshole, won’t you? It’ll be hard to be so prim and proper with your ass burning from my fat cock.”

“Let me go!” she cried.

“Nope,” I said flatly. I smeared some more lotion onto my cock, stroking it up and down my shaft, then adding more to my head.

“Here it comes,” I told her. I pushed behind her, rising a little higher by planting one knee under her and putting more weight on my foot. I put my hand around her hip and under her belly. With my other hand, I gently guided my cock towards her asshole, pressing insistently.

“No, it won’t fit, you’ll hurt me!”

I pressed harder. I was surprised that she yielded so quickly, my cockhead disappearing inside her just as my finger had done before. Her asshole was tight, clenching me.

“Ooooh, God, ooooooh,” she moaned.

Without hesitation, I continued to press into her. My hand under her belly pulled her back to me, and I pushed forward with my hips, feeding myself into her. I watched her ass take my meat, my penis disappearing into her anus. Her tight ring was accepting my advance, her body going limp under me.

“Oooh, God, oh, oh,” she hitched, and then a low moan escaped her. I was all the way in.

“Feel it? It’s not so bad, is it? I bet you love getting fucked up the ass.”

“Unnnnh,” she said.

I started pulling back. Slowly, then more aggressively. And then I started fucking her ass. I worked at a slower pace than when I fucked her pussy, but I pressed into her insistently and withdrew abruptly. Again, and again, Monica moaned with each thrust. Her body was quivering under me.

“You’re so tight. I’m going to dump a load of cum in your belly. You ready for that? Huh?”

She just groaned again. I quickend the pace, my orgasm approaching. My balls tightened, and each plunge of my cock into her clenching anus brought me closer to the edge of my excitement. And as I reached it, I mercilessly thrust my hips into her, crashing against her ass.

“God, yeah! I’m going to dump a big load right in your ass, oh, you fucking bitch. Oh!” I began to clench, then spurt. I didn’t stop thrusting. I felt myself let go with a blast of come.

“Feel it? Feel it in your belly? Huh? Oh, God!” Three, four, five, six times into her I injected another squirt of my juices.

Then I was spent, and withdrew from her. I lay by her side, panting.

She looked at me. “Will you untie me?” she asked, quietly, flatly.

“Yeah.” I went behind her, grabbing the cutters. I used the blade to slit through the thick, sticky tape and quickly ripped it off her hands.

She flopped to her side, and I lay next to her. I turned to look at her and she started crying.

“Oh, come on. You’re going to cry? After that? I gave you the fuck of your life. And you were good, too. Your pussy is really tight.” It was the meanest thing I could think of saying, though it was something of a kinky little compliment. I meant it in a demeaning way.

Another wave of sobs hit her, and she was crying in earnest.

I pressed her verbally, just a little more. “Christ, look at you. You got a screwing other broads would wish for, and you’re crying about it. What’s wrong with you?”

Her sobs eased. “I don’t know,” she said. Then, after a pause: “Will you do that to me again?”

“Now? Jesus!”

She shook her head. “I need it. More. Later,” she stammered. She sobbed once more, and then took a deep breath. “You’re right, I’m really a bitch.”

I smiled. She started rambling about how she worked hard. She didn’t understand why, but she really tightened up in reaction to stress. She really felt that everything had to go her way, and she only lately started noticing how she treated other people.

“I’m really sorry for the way that I talked to you,” she continued. “You seem nice, and I’m really much better with customers. It sounds really cliché to say this, but the way you fucked me like that really made me feel better. I’ve never—I mean, when you started, I was really scared. But it felt so good to give myself up, and then it got really sexy. I never came so hard, twice in a row. And now I feel relieved. I want more, I want you to take over my body—”

“Well, good. Then I’m sure you can get me a deal on this house,” I interrupted her. I never expected her startled confession, or how she revealed herself to me by confessing all these feelings. She was mine; I completely owned her now. I fucked her pussy, and her ass, and now I was going to go after her spirit.

“Ten percent less than the asking price sounds like a good deal,” I added. The opening was too much to walk away from. I just forced myself on her, and she says I seem “nice”?

She stopped and stared at me. “I guess I can ask—”

“You’ll get it,” I said firmly, interrupting her again. “It has been on the market for six months. In this economy, nobody is buying houses of this size, and certainly not at the price your seller is asking.”

Monica didn’t say anything, thinking. After a few seconds, she blurted: “But you have to do that to me again.”

I stood up and started pulling my pants on. “We’ll see about that.”

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