A few nights ago, I ended up walking home not wearing a bra. It felt naughty and sexy, and gave me all sorts of wonderful ideas… including this written-as-erotica fantasy about someone I like.
Content note for semi-public sex and elements of consensual non-consent.
She had a feeling that the more she thought about him, the more he slipped into her fantasies. And thus walking home, her bra in her hand and feeling excited and naughty, he slipped into her mind and her filthy thoughts rearranged themselves around him.
She knew what she wanted, an idea that was a mixture of things read and things seen and things dreamed up by her own mind. She also knew that such a scene would be possible – it could be pulled off with consent and negotiation and a bit of cunning, giving her the thrill of the dirty sex that was still with someone she trusted. Yet she was sure that with him, it wouldn’t loose the tingle of danger that she was craving today.
Thus as she walked home, she imagined being forced to her knees, there at the side of the path. The orange glow of the street lights made everything feel more filthy somehow. It suggested that even though there would be mud and grit on her knees, she wouldn’t be allowed to hide in the darkness. No, he would want to show off the fact that he had her on her knees… no, that wasn’t right. It was more that he would think it was his right to take his pleasure wherever he chose, regardless of who might see.
Yes, that was better. It wasn’t about her comfort or even her shame, it was simply about using her. He would force her to her knees, after some comment that a girl carrying her bra about in her hand must be a little whore who was just looking to get fucked. He’d say that she was clearly asking for it, and when he stepped a little closer he’d find the arousal between her legs and grin at the confirmation it gave.
She imagined the pressure on her shoulders as pushed her down. Her hands would fumble at his fly, trying to undo the buttons, but he’d knock them aside and order her to clasp her hands behind her back. When she hesitated, the look he gave her scared and thrilled her in equal measure, and she instantly obeyed. There was no good girl, no good little slut, but suddenly she wished that there was. There was instead simply a nod, which awoke in her a desire for more of his approval.
Then there was his cock, something that she had imagined less often than his hands or his eyes, but she could still picture quite well. In this fantasy she would barely have a chance to look at it before she was taking it in her mouth. It would be half-hard already, she decided, and she would want to do her best to show him her small skill in giving a blow job.
He wouldn’t be interested in what she offered though. She was simply a hole for him to fuck. Her hands behind her back would unbalance her and make it easier for him to take control. In her mind, he would push her to her very limits, leaving her choking and breathless. She would be completely overpowered by him, and while she was sucking his cock she would be unable to forget that there was dirt under her knees and anyone could walk past at any time.
He would come on her face, she decided, because when she was dressed – bra aside – that was the filthiest place he could do so. Would he leave her there and simply walk away? As she began to get closer to her flat, she briefly imagined slipping her hand down to her knickers to rub herself to quick orgasm at thoughts of being used by him. Preparing to return to reality, she shook the fantasy aside.
Then she heard a voice from behind her, and words spoken with such command that made her blood run cold as well as her cunt grow wet.
“What are you doing out without a bra, filthy little slut?”
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.
