Pretty Girl, Dirty Girl


Tonight I will go out to dinner with Ad.  I will wear a white and black party dress with velvet cut-outs and a wide, black bow.  It’s a sweet dress, not my usual vampy type of dress, a “pretty girl” dress.  And I will be a pretty girl, out on a date with my handsome boyfriend, dining at a lovely, romantic, roof-top restaurant overlooking the city.  The fairy lights strung all around the deck will twinkle above us and a crackling fire in the firepit will warm us if the air is chill.  We’ll drink wine, and eat delicious food, and flirt and talk and tease and enjoy.  I’ll be a pretty girl.
At least on the outside.
This morning, laying in W’s bed, he held me close and stroked his hand down my arm and back as we woke up. I told him about my dinner plans, and my dress, and he smiled and told me what a pretty girl I’d be—and how everyone there would look at me and see that “outside” image, and they’d think I really was just a pretty girl.
“They won’t know what a dirty girl you are,” he said.
They won’t know the things I do, the things I like, what a slut I am for him, how he can make do anything he wants me to, make me a beat-up girl, a fuckmeat girl, a ponygirl, a piss-drinking girl. How I’ll fuck anyone he tells me to and let them shoot their loads on me and come home with it dried on my shirt just because I know he’ll like it.  How I love it when he hurts me, and when he holds me down and grabs my hair and fucks me in the ass with my face smashed into the pillow, hardly able to breathe.
He told me all this while we lay there, snuggled together.  I started to think about getting up to get ready for work.
He had other ideas.
One moment he was talking quietly to me, still running his hand gently over my skin, the next he pushed me over onto my stomach and shoved his cock between my legs, poking at my tight, resisting asshole.  I tried not to struggle but couldn’t help myself, so he pinned one arm behind me with his body, clenched my hair in his fist and held my other hand down by the wrist.  And then, slowly, inexorably, he forced himself inside of me, forcing me to open up to him, made me accept him, stretch around him, as he stroked his cock into me, slowly, deeper and deeper, until, finally, there was no more resistance, in my mind or my body.  Soon I was rocking back against him, open and grasping and greedy, wanting him as deep as he could go, loving the feel of his hand fisted in my hair, my arm twisted up behind me, his weight on me, my own struggle to breathe.  And loving the feel of his excitement, of his cock swelling in my ass as shot his load into me, growling that I might wear a pretty dress, and everyone might think I was just a pretty girl, but inside I was a dirty girl, and always would be.
His dirty girl.


Edit: This was written yesterday but I got busy and forgot to publish it–so “tonight” was actually last night.  More on my birthday day and night to come…

2 thoughts on “Pretty Girl, Dirty Girl

  1. Is it the dichotomy of this I find so appealing? Did you enjoy being the pretty girl/dirty girl?
    By the way you make a very pretty girl and a filthy dirty girl – both of you are gorgeous.

    1. Oh yes, I enjoyed it very much. Knowing that what ppl saw on the outside wasn’t ALL there was…knowing I had a dirty secret inside. Like wearing a buttplug or tit collars or other “accouterments” under my clothing when we go out someplace, knowing I had his mark on me–in me–and more than that, knowing inside that no matter what they *thought* they knew, they didn’t know the *real* me, was so very hot.
      And thank you! (blush)

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