Leopard man – Part 2
Foreign
Submit Report This story is part of the Leopard man series After the first time with my Indian ‘Leopard man’, I wondered if I would ever see him again. For a while, I didn’t hear anything, and I thought he must have regretted what happened between us. He was married, after all, and even if he wasn’t getting what he needed from his wife, perhaps he hadn’t wanted to be unfaithful. But then, after ten days or so, I got a brief text – a couple of words, and rather more kisses – and I knew I hadn’t lost him. I texted back – nothing very intimate, but enough so he’d know I was still available if he wanted. And then one afternoon, a few weeks later – well, this is what happened, told in my own words from that time, years ago: He’s messaged me. “I’m in town. I want to see you.” – which means, “I want to fuck you”; and what he wants, he’ll get. Tonight, I’ll be his. His white bitch, his bit on the side. Tonight, I’ll dress just for him. Not like before; not the fitted dress, the designer lingerie, the neat, smart shoes. Tonight will be different. I’ll show him another side of me that he hasn’t even imagined. Tonight, I’ll be his tart. I strip nude in front of the mirror. Not bad, girl. You’ll do. For him, you’ll be a dream. For the shy, fierce Indian man who loves his wife, adores his kid, lusts for me. Tonight, girl, you’re going to get fucked. A pair of black, skimpy, high-cut panties. They don’t hide much, either behind or in front. Underneath, they’re barely enough to cover my pussy lips. A black bra that cups me under the breasts, lifting them. I have to wear the panties, though I know he’d like it better if I didn’t. I’m already wet with wanting him; and with a skirt as short as the one I’ll be in… My clit’s begging to be fingered; but I have to resist. Tonight, my sex is only for him. Tights – black fishnet. Not new ones. The pair with the rip high up on the inside of the thigh, where my white flesh shows; and another on the other side, just above the knee. A cheap girl’s tights. Has another lover clawed at them already? Leather skirt, red, very short, that clings to my bum, and barely comes below it. Sheer blouse, in bright magenta, a size too small so the front pulls open between the buttons, though you can see everything through it anyway. Makeup: dark shadows round the eyes; a touch of purple; thick mascara. Lipstick, slut-red. Shoes to match the blouse: strappy, high heels that make my bottom sway as I walk. Oh, just look at me – there, in the mirror. Whore. “No,” says a voice in my head. “A whore is an honest professional. You’re lower than that. You’re the cheapest kind of tart, giving it away; giving it for free to your married Indian man, your leopard man with the dark skin and the thick cock. The one who can hold you down and take what he wants. You’re slutting for another woman’s husband and you’ll spread your legs and let him come in you, over and over, as many times as he wants.” A coat to cover me, because it’s all for his eyes only. That I’ll open to show him what he’s getting, the dirty kind of girl he’s with. I know which bar he’ll be in, waiting for me. Not in the nice part of town, where I picked him up the first time. He doesn’t want to risk being seen there, near his hotel, not with his bit on the side. We’ll meet in a street down near the docks, in a small bar where the lights aren’t too bright and people mind their own business. When I walk in, he’s already there. Of course; he’s impatient. Wants me. I go over, look at him out of painted eyes. “Buy me a drink,” I say, and he does. I sit down, turn towards him, and let my coat fall open a little so he sees the cheap, torn tights; sees up my skirt, through my blouse. And he takes a good long look at it all. Oh yes. And already there’s a bulge in his tight jeans. I can read him from the first look he gives me: he was expecting the demure, stylish, could-almost-be-his-daughter girlie; but instead, he’s getting a dark-eyed, red-lipped tart with torn tights and everything on show. He stares, flushes, licks his lips. Talks to me in a different way. Starts to turn from the mild, kindly, cautious man into something altogether more predatory. I remember his eyes, the first time he fucked me, his face close above mine and his dark body heaving between my legs – hungry, smouldering, fierce. Tonight, I get that look from him before we even leave the bar. Like a leopard, he’s soft and gentle with his mate, with his young; but when he leaves them to go off hunting, then sometimes he comes across a young female in heat; and he stalks her, overpowers her, and covers her, pressing her into the dirt. So we sit drinking, flirting. I talk dirty and he responds. My hand, under the table where no-one can see, covers his crotch, and I feel his prick, hard already. His hand strokes my thigh, running up the inside, finding my moist heat. We have more than one drink. When we’re tipsy, I whisper into his ear: “Want to get dirty with this little tart? Have what you want? There’s a place nearby.” He drags me up and out of the bar. I hold onto his arm, strut beside him on my heels, and I lead him down a side street, and then another, and into a dead-end alley with one dim light, past the litter and the bins, into a shadow. I pull him close, and he kisses me hard. Presses me back against the wall, pushing his body against mine. His leopard eyes… He drags my coat back over my shoulders, and it drops to the ground. His hands grab at the front of my blouse, tear it open; lift my bra, take possession of my breasts; get rough with the nipples.
He rucks up the skirt until it’s round my waist, looks down at the tights with their holes and then takes them in both hands and rips them again and again until they’re no more than shreds dangling from my thighs and groin and nothing to get in his way. One hand drags my panties to one side. His fingers play with my wet hole; he slides two inside and then brings them up to my mouth, for me to suck. “Taste that, tart.” I fumble his jeans open, push them down over his hips; take his lovely cock in my hands, so thick, so hard. I stand with my legs wide and tilt my hips up towards him. The heels bring my sex high enough and he pushes his cock into me in one thrust, all of it, and then he’s fucking me. Desperate for him, for his sex, his seed, my belly clenches and all the muscles in there tighten onto it. He forces my arms up above my head and holds my crossed wrists against the brick with one hand. The other takes my jaw in a fierce grip as he forces his kisses on me. He’s driving into me hard and fast, nailing me to the wall, as I groan and whimper, “Babe, oh babe,” a little alley-cat helpless before the lust of this dark-skinned man. My body surrenders to him, it craves him, craves orgasm; but he’s hungry, impatient, he’s been waiting a long time for this. And before I can cum, he’s growling and snarling and his hips press me hard against the rough bricks. And I know he’s cumming, over and over, pumping his seed deep into me. When he’s finished, he pulls out, but he holds me there, looking me up and down; clothes torn and disheveled, makeup smeared, his semen dripping out of me; and my chest still heaving, my eyes full of sex. “Take me home with you…” and it’s not a request. It’s an order. He hasn’t finished with me yet. Which is good, because I’m still crazy with need. I get a tissue out and clean myself up as best I can; try to pull my torn clothes together; pick my coat up and put it on. We go back to the main street, find a taxi. In the back seat, I lean against him, trembling with desire, with frustration. Take his hand, press it between my thighs. The driver glances at me in his mirror. He’s thinking I’m a new girl working the streets. At my house, he lets me go to the bathroom but orders me not to wash or change my clothes, not to do anything to my face. He wants me still to be the little alleycat he’s just filled; my thighs still a slippery mess, smelling of him. When I come back down, he’s naked: my Indian man, dark brown skin, his muscled body, his leopard eyes; and, yes, his thick erection, even darker than the rest of him, the foreskin peeled back. I go to him, hoping for tenderness, but he catches hold of me and drags me over to the dining table. Forces me down on my back. Pulls off what’s left of my tights, and my panties, and separates my legs. Stares down at my bare, swollen sex, a predator ready to feed. He bends down and starts to lick. His lips and tongue crawl over my cunt, sliming and probing the lips, the hole, the swollen clit. I look down and see him looking up at me with the eyes of a leopard I saw in a photo once drinking from a pool, looking up at a camera. God knows, he could drink from my sex. I’m dripping. He knows how to tease me, torture me, keep me on the edge. I’m his to play with; his bad girl, his white bint. Time and again, I think he’s going to let me cum, only to feel his mouth come away from me as I sob, “Darling,” and beg him “Please let me cum, please, do whatever you want with me, anything, just let me cum, oh please,” until at last, he straightens up, spreads my legs as wide as they’ll go. “Now I’m going to fuck you, you little slut,” and he pierces me with his dark Indian cock, driving it deep into my belly. He thrusts and thrusts, as hard and deep as he can. And I push back against him, wild for him, for his fucking, until my flesh catches fire and I come in a wild orgasm, all over his lovely prick, on and on. When I’ve finished, and I’m lying helpless, shaking. He drags me off the table, shoves me down to kneel on the floor, grabs my hair and forces my head back as he mounts me like a leopard mounting its mate; his heavy, sweating body covers me like an animal. And yes, his cock finds my dripping hole again and yes, he pushes in and yes, he’s thrusting, calling me tart, bint, fuck-slut, until his words break up into beast-noises and his naked thighs press even harder against mine and he cums and cums into me. We rest awhile; but now we’re hungry, and we find food and eat, greedily, feeding each other, rubbing against each other’s bodies like two animals. He sits on a chair and I straddle him, his rod already hard again and filling me. And we laugh and eat and fuck all at once. We take mouthfuls of mango and cream, kiss, and pass it between our mouths, dribbling most of it over his chest and my breasts, smearing it over one another. “You’re just a tart all over, Ellie; you’re a crazy little slut with an insatiable cunt”. “Cheating Indian with your big brown cock and your thick cream. Fuck me all night, darling. Fill me.” I ride him, my white legs spread wide across his dark body; rub my pulsing clit on his black pubes; flood his thighs with pussy juice, press my breasts against his chest so black hairs come off on them and stick to my sweaty skin. He kneads and pinches my nipples. I dig my nails into his back, gasping and moaning and then I am cumming all over him, soaking his lap, squeezing him with my cunt, and he shoots another load into me, calling me bitch, whore. He won’t let me clean myself, he hasn’t cleaned himself either, and we go to bed like that, each scent-marked by the other. But I’m not ready to sleep yet. I’m still hungry for him; and I burrow down and find his prick with my mouth, his prick that tastes of us.
And after a while, when it’s hard again, I suck it in deep, slavering over it, letting it press against my throat, half-choking myself, until at last, I taste his warm semen flowing across my tongue. Much later, in the night, I wake to find him on top of me again; his animal body a dense weight of pleasure between my thighs; and he has me for a long time, slow and strong, my Indian lover, my married man, fucking his white bitch. And I spread my thighs for him and lock my ankles behind his back, and look at him with my tart’s eyes, and whisper dirty, tarty words to him. And at the end of forever, I come beautifully, and he fills me again; and then he licks me clean. You can write and tell me if you like this story, or any of my others: [email protected] I like to hear from my readers, but please be respectful.