The Night I Let a Stranger Cream-Pie Me in My Little Black Dress
looking at this photo still makes my pussy throb. It was taken right in the middle of that club, maybe an hour before I ended up bent over a hotel bed with my legs spread for a man I’d just met. This was right after uni, early twenties, when I was still pretending to be a “good girl” with my boyfriend. He’d left that morning for a two-week training course up north. I told him I’d miss him, kissed him goodbye, then spent the rest of the day shaving everything smooth and picking out the sluttiest outfit I owned.
The dress in the picture, Jet black, tight as a second skin, with a deep scoop neck that pushed my tits up and made them look full and heavy. The real tease was the sleeves—long, sheer black mesh that ran from my shoulders all the way to my wrists, so sheer you could see the outline of my arms. The hem barely reached the top of my thighs, and underneath I wore nothing but sheer black tights. No knickers. Just the thin nylon hugging my bare pussy and arse, already a little damp from the anticipation.
The club was packed, lights low, bass thumping through my body like a heartbeat between my legs. I was on my third vodka cranberry when he walked up—him, the guy smiling next to me in the photo. Tall, broad shoulders, that cocky grin that said he already knew he was going to fuck me. We danced. His hands slid down my back, over the curve of my ass, squeezing through the dress while the sheer sleeves fluttered every time I moved. I could feel his thick cock pressing against me through his jeans, already hard, already promising.
By 2 a.m. we were in a cheap hotel two streets away. The second the door clicked shut he spun me around and shoved me against the wall. “Look at you, you little cheating slut,” he growled in my ear, yanking the hem of my dress up. “Boyfriend’s away and you’re out hunting cock in this whore dress.” His fingers hooked into the waistband of my tights and took them down my thighs in one rough motion, leaving the dress exactly where it was.
His cock was thick. Long and fat, the kind of cock that made my eyes water the second he pushed inside. He didn’t ease in—he slammed home, pinning me to the wall and fucking me so hard the cheap hotel mirror rattled. “That’s it, take it, you dirty little cumdump,” he snarled, one hand fisted in my hair, the other slapping my ass. “Your boyfriend know you’re getting stretched by a real dick?” I came so fast I saw stars, pussy clenching around him as he flooded me with the first thick load. He didn’t pull out. Just kept grinding, pushing his cum deeper while I shook.
We took a break after the first round. Collapsed on the bed, still half-dressed, his cum already leaking out of me and soaking the sheets. I lay there in my black dress, sheer sleeves sticking to my sweaty skin. We chatted like we hadn’t just fucked like animals. He told me he worked in finance, I told him about uni, about how my boyfriend was “nice” but never fucked me like this. He laughed, called me a “greedy little whore” again, and I felt my pussy flutter. Round two was slower at first. He laid me on my back, dress still on, and pushed my legs wide. “Look at that messy cunt,” he said, smearing his cum over my clit with the fat head of his cock. Then he drove in again, hard and deep, pounding me into the mattress. The name-calling got filthier—“cheating whore,” “boyfriend’s little secret slut,” “dress-on fucktoy.” He fucked me until I was begging, until I came again screaming, and then he unloaded the second massive load right against my cervix. We lay there after, his cock still twitching inside me, my tights crumpled on the floor, my dress soaked with sweat and cum at the hem.
Third time was pure filth. He flipped me onto all fours, yanked my hair back like reins, and railed me so hard the headboard slammed the wall. “Tell me you’re a cheating whore,” he demanded. I moaned it, over and over, while he called me every dirty name he could think of. When he came the third time he held himself balls-deep, pumping rope after rope until I was overflowing. I could feel it running down my thighs even before he pulled out.
By the time we were done the sky was starting to lighten. I peeled myself off the bed, legs shaky, and slid my sheer tights back on. They were ruined—dark, sticky streaks of his cum smeared all over the crotch and inner thighs, the nylon clinging wetly to my skin. I didn’t wipe. I wanted to feel him leaking out of me on the walk home. The dress stayed on too, wrinkled and smelling of sex and club smoke, sheer sleeves now clinging to my arm. I kissed him goodbye at the hotel door, his cum still dripping into my tights, and walked out into the early morning. Every step reminded me what a filthy little cheater I’d become… and how much I fucking loved it.
