Made to Beg

November 9th, 2017

Every day, I am to make her cum with my mouth. She expects to wake with her thighs spread and her nether regions being worshiped by my tongue. If the room isn’t awash with the sounds of oral, she will be most displeased.

We repeat this routine in reverse every night, and sometimes she’ll call me on her break at work. I’ll rush to her office, kneel beneath her desk, slip her skirt up her creamy thighs and pull the fabric of her panties to her side. I’ll push her buttons while her fingers grace her keyboard. She sends a memo, answers a call. I kiss the inside of her thighs, nuzzle her clit with my nose and drag my tongue along the inside of her labia.

At home. At work. In the back of a cab. This is what she expects. This is what she allows.

Tonight is no different. She lets me lick her clit. I cannot dance my tongue across her nipples or kiss her neck, but I can delve between her folds and smell her natural aroma. I can grasp her hips and roll her labia between my fingers, but I cannot stroke her hair or face. I bury my face between her legs and bury any wistful thinking about the rest of her body.

But it’s certainly not a bad job. Her taste, as I run the tip of my tongue on either side of her clit, somehow matches her personality. It’s like her soul has become tangible, and I feel more connected to her when I’m tonguing her hole.

I know to start with flat, broad strokes and when to dart my tongue inside her. Her moans are familiar music to my ears, encouraging me to suck her clit and nibble on her lower lips. I recognize the tremor in her thighs — thick from working out more than I would ever do — just before she orgasms, and revel in the pressure on my head when she clamps down, her body tense before the final release.

I breathe in her scent, slow my ministrations and remain silently poised until her legs release their grip on my head. Only then do I come up for air, remembering that I have nearly forgotten to breathe.

To an observer, we might be calling it a night at that point. The pussy worship is done, but the night is still young.

It’s then that my lady turns from a demanding diva — okay, never quite that — into the passionate giver the most people would never suspect.

She gazes deeply into my eyes while penetrating me with her fingers. Like magic, she’s working my G-spot with her thumb on my clit. I can never quite tell what the difference is between someone who is good at this and someone who’s not, but is the best of the best, making me sigh with pleasure and lift my hips closer to her. She’s like a goddess, showing me glimpses of Heaven. She knows how to keep my on that edge longer than should be humanly possible before stroking me to orgasm. My body shudders; waves of ecstasy wash over me.

You might think we would be done, but we’re not.

This woman, this beautiful and capable woman, knows what to do next. She secures her favorite harness around her waist and thighs, carefully chooses a bright silicone dildo for the night’s activities and puts it in place before returning to her place beside me. Lightning quick, her hands are in my hair, tugging and pulling me closer to her. Her tongue invades my mouth as if she owns it. If we’re honest, she really does.

Her kisses are ferocious, the type that take your breath away and leaves your head spinning. But isn’t my head always spinning with her? She’s never been one for long makeout sessions, though. This isn’t the position she wants me in, so she breaks our kiss.

Toned arms flex as she grabs me by the hips and turns my body away from her. On hands and knees, I know exactly what’s coming for me. She coaxes that dildo, slick with lube, between my lips. With one hand wrapped around the base, she rubs it against my clit, which is already swollen with desire. I try to press my body back against her, but her free hand slaps my ass. It’s always her pace, her plot.

I never really mind, of course. I’m moving my hips to grind against the slippery dildo, and my own juices have added to the mess. If I were controlling the pace, I would be fucking myself senseless without a second thought to prolonging orgasm. I’m a greedy slut when it comes down right to it, and she knows my every weakness.

It may feel like forever, but it’s just a few minutes of teasing. She likes seeing me come undone just as much as I love losing myself. She’s the darkness to my light or something cheesy like that. Luckily, I don’t really have long to think about it. Instead, I’m nearly howling when she slams that cock into my pussy. As greedy as I may be, it’s always a shock to have a toy rammed into your cunt without any heads up.

But it’s always a thrill to be filled and stretched, to be taken and to know your value directly corresponds to how well you take it. I always take it like a champ, and she likes that about me. I might worship her pussy, but she respects the lengths I’m willing to go to to please her and how much I respond to negative stimulation.

That’s why she grasps the hair at the back of my head and yanks it back. My scalp tingles and a shiver runs down my spine. She’s fucking me at a steady rhythm now, fast but shallow. My nipples are painfully erect, but she can’t see that from her vantage point. If my hair weren’t in her hand, I would lower my body to sway my breasts against the bed beneath me, but I cannot.

I’m at her whim, so when she picks up her pace and sinks the nails of one hand into my hip for better purchase, all I can do is gasp. It’s not unwanted, though. Any attention she lavishes on me is welcomed. I cannot believe that this woman is with me, marking my body with her own, working so feverishly to bring me to orgasm and so generous with her cunt. I don’t know how I get so lucky.

And I continue to get lucky. Her thrusting isn’t effortless. Sweat causes the backs of my thighs to stick to the front of hers. She pushes her knees further under mine, pulling my hair so that I am nearly upright in her lap. Instead of in-and-out, she moves her hips in circles, blissfully stroking my G-spot.

She’s leaning so hard against my back that I rest my head on the headboard. My cheek squishes against the cool wood. My mouth gapes open awkwardly; a bit of saliva drips out. I don’t care, either way. If I did, I would care even less because she tells me to rub my clit. This is the sign that she wants me to orgasm — and soon.

I reach my hand beneath my legs and work my clit as if my life depends on it. Sometimes that feels true when we’re in the throes of passion. Nothing can be more important than fucking this woman or letting her fuck me. How could it?

I block out the rest of the world, focusing on the way my fingers feel on my clit. I try to match the pace of her cock deep inside me. We find our perfect rhythm. Yin and yang, right?


Could she sound any more perfect?

And I do. I furiously rub my clit until my muscles are spasming. She listens to my body’s response and pulls the dildo free of my pussy after milking my G-spot to a squirting orgasm. I ejaculate onto her thighs, my legs, the bed beneath me. My body has never felt so much pleasure. I moan, jerk my hips, and throw my head back. I’m not sure I’m even still human. Something, not primal but more natural, takes over. I’m more fully myself and experiencing such clarity that the world seems full of limitless possibilities.

As soon as my orgasm subsides, my muscles go slack. I sag against her body and the bed. I try to calm my ragged breathing, but I’m not quite sure that I’ll ever be able to get enough air. Still, there’s a stupid grin on my face. It never gets old, the way she fucks me, the way my orgasms feel. She sits patiently as we both wait for my heartbeat and breathing to return to normal. She lightly caresses my arms, and I feel grounded.

I smell our sex. My arousal. Hers. By this time, I am practically begging to kneel between her legs. I may be covered in sweat and fighting exhaustion, but still I do her bidding.

It might seem like prison from an outsider’s perspective, but we both know this is my home. It’s where I belong.


The Other Side

March 28th, 2016

It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair. This was supposed to be her fairy tale, not the dream-come-true of a snot-nosed brat.

How would you like to finally meet the man of your dreams, only to realize that he was a king? He marries you and sweeps you off to his castle, and you’re excited that you’re finally able to live happily ever after. You even try to befriend his daughter, whose mother died long before the girl can even remember. You know you can’t replace her mother, but you try to love her anyway.

And she rejects you. You try and try again, but she continues to snub you. Eventually, you give up, retiring to dark corners of the castle when you can, feeling safe and loved only when your husband, the king, is by your side.

But then the unthinkable happens. Your husband, the king, dies. It is sudden and it is a shock, and you experience a feeling of loss so overwhelming that you’re not quite sure you can climb out of this black pit of despair. Somehow, someway, the princess claims the loss as her own. The country weeps for her. They shun you, even as you don the crown and all the responsibility that comes with it.

This is the story of that queen.

The king, when he was alive, doted on his daughter. She was forever his little girl, even though she had stopped being that little girl years prior. She had developed from a lanky, awkward child with eyes too big for her face into a raven-haired beauty with porcelain skin and lips the perfect shade of rose. They called her Snow White.

And every day the queen looked into her mirror, the stress hanging heavier on her shoulders and the lines on her face growing deeper. The widowed queen was heartbroken and saw no way out of her situation

But she saw everything that went on in the palace. At first, it started with Snow’s canoodling with kitchen boys in the corners. It was innocent — for a while. As Snow grew, her desires and curves followed, and the eyes of every male in the castle did, too.

It wasn’t long before the princess moved on to never-ending kisses, leaving serving boys with their eyes glazed over and cocks hard. Any teenaged boy who managed to find his way into the palace would stand in line just for the chance to slip his clammy hand into the princess’s bodice. And she knew it.

Snow quickly learned to use her sway over men to her advantage. A coy smile and a wave of her hand would have them falling over each other to do her bidding.  But this wasn’t why Snow did it. It wasn’t about the favors.

She liked the attention. She liked batting her eyelashes and smiling at serving staff so that spoons and platters crashed to the floor as they temporarily forgot how to do anything but stare. The princess liked playfully pushing hands away from her body in mock resistance; she liked it even better when the hands pushed back — forcefully.

She liked the awkward groping beneath her petticoats and pawing at her corset, the kisses down her throat, grasping and pulling of her hair, the rush of blood between her legs and the way her breathing quickened. And when they finally managed to find the right spots with their fingers, their tongues, their cocks? She was in heaven. She loved it all.

She was fantastic at encouraging the attention, too. A slight brush of her hand across a boy’s arm, a not-so-covert wink and a shuffle to an empty room or a hallway was all that Snow needed to do, and a boy would follow in tow.  The princess continued the flirtatious dance for years, luring defenseless boys to her side with her feminine wiles.

Those boys turned into teenagers, and those teenagers turned into men. At nineteen, Snow White  had moved on from servant boys, who always seemed to stay the same age. She turned her eye to the young men delivering goods to the castle, the local woodsman and politicians who would attend galas at the castle. It didn’t matter their color hair or facial features. If he arrived on the arm of a gorgeous young woman, Snow could find a way to steal him away from the ball if she wanted, and he would soon be between her legs.

Snow Would leave them in a sweaty heap, not caring that their cum was dripping down her creamy thighs as she slunk back to her chambers. The queen had discovered Snow’s disheveled, half-dressed paramours more than once as they guiltily returned to their  duties or their wives, stupid grins glued to their faces. They would shrivel as the queen walked past, but they wouldn’t be able to stop smiling.

It was a miracle that the palace wasn’t in shambles. The princess must have wrapped her mouth around a hundred cocks, lifted her skirt to allow dozens of lustful men between her legs and yet, somehow, not a fight broke out in the castle’s halls. The queen just couldn’t understand it.

Nor could the queen compete. Whenever she would meet a possible suitor, he wound find himself tumbling around with Snow. It was almost as if the princess had planned it. She would give the queen an evil eye as she bit down on a crisp apple, the sound of it ringing through the breakfast hall as the queen simply tried to enjoy her morning meal in peace. She was sure that Snow White was hellbent on ruining the queen’s life. Some night, in the dark of her chambers, the queen would cry silently, wishing she had never met her beloved king to begin with.

Of course, she never meant it, but her despair had grown to such proportions that the queen slowly found herself not caring at all. She went from hopeful to ambivalent, from ambivalent to cold. As she swept through the castle, a chill followed behind her. She barred her heart within a frigid sheath, and even the warmth between her legs seemed to cool.

Snow, with her charm and guile that only the queen could sense, remained everyone’s favorite orphan while the queen’s reputation tarnished. Had she any benevolence to extend to her subjects, she forgot to do so in her despondent state. Those who worked more closely with her in the palace grew impatient with her depression and heartbreak. The queen responded in kind.

This is how she became the queen that all the stories talk about, and this is her story.

But like any story, the end can only be seen in hindsight. The queen expected a happy ending when she married the king, but her story wasn’t going to wrap up so nicely.

Somewhere in the middle, the queen found herself a hostage in her own castle and the kingdom she didn’t care to rule. She heard her stepdaughter’s joyous laughter in the hall and cringed as if only one of them had lost someone they loved. At night — and sometimes during the light of day — the queen could detect deep grunts and high-pitched moans echoing through the halls. She had to escape.

So she began walking the kingdom. It didn’t take much to escape the palace. As it turns out, people weren’t looking for her. She would meander among the markets, secure in her anonymity. But she preferred to roam in the forests, content to be one with nature.

It was here that the queen would watch the forest animals — deer, squirrels, and rabbits on the forest floor and birds perched in branches — go about their daily lives. There was no hatred or contempt. Animals didn’t play games. The queen thought them to be more human than most of the people she knew.

The queen would wander for hours, and it was during one of these strolls that she discovered a large outcropping of stones that looked like a throne. Perched on the rocks, the queen could look at the forest and fields stretched out before her. In the distance, she could just make out small carts hauling between the country and the castle. From her perch, she could usually detect a gentle breeze and the smell of flowers wafting through the air. With the sun beating down on her skin, she almost felt herself again.

From her perch, she could usually detect a gentle breeze and the smell of flowers wafting through the air. With the sun beating down on her skin, she almost felt herself again. She would visit her stone throne almost every day. While she had first laughed bitterly at the idea that the only throne where she felt comfortable was made of rock, she would soon come to feel comfort when visiting her special place.

One particularly hopeful day, she laid sprawled atop her throne and the light wind brushed the revealed skin of her chest. Something struck a chord deep inside, and she felt a desire to warm her heart. Hesitantly, she loosened the laces of her bodice so that her breasts could spill out ever-so-slightly. The sun beamed down on the exposed skin between her breasts, and her heart felt a warmth she almost forgot she was capable of experiencing.

The queen breathed breaths that were full and cathartic for the first time in months. She exhaled slowly, feeling every bit of breath leave her pursed lips. Although that should have been the only sound she could hear, a rustling of leaves startled her. The queen bolted upright and glanced around wide-eyed, her breasts spilling out from their confines. She didn’t notice as she locked eyes with a man who had been the source of the noise.He was tanned from the sun, his skin more leathery than any man who lived in the palace. His dark hair was cut to frame his face but fell disheveled that day/

He was tanned from the sun, his skin more leathery than any man who lived in the palace. His dark hair was cut to frame his face but fell disheveled that day. Still, it couldn’t hide his angular cheekbones or friendly eyes, eyes that barely seemed to stray from her gaze, even though her breasts were hanging out. This rugged man was decked in typical huntsman garb, soft leather adorning his upper body, hands and feet.

But what was most apparent was the raging hard-on he sported, apparently from stumbling across the queen.

“I’m sorry,” he started, as surprised as she was that the forest would contain another human.

If you guessed that the queen was completely stunned, at a loss for words and also strangely aroused, you would be right. Out there, on her throne on the woods, the queen was the object of a man’s lust for the first time in years. And she loved it. Any other thought slipped out of her mind.

“It’s okay,” she tried to reassure the huntsman who was blushing a deep crimson. “I didn’t realize anyone else would be out here. It’s just so nice.” The queen trailed off.

“Yes, it is quite lovely.” He seemed to be agreeing, but his eyes strayed downward to focus on her breasts. It was a bold move, indeed. In the castle, it would have gotten him carted off to the dungeon, but in the woods? It was a different matter entirely.

The queen smiled, not a coy smile like the princess would have offered but a smile that was self-possessed, confident even. The huntsman must have felt particularly arrogant himself because he moved closer to the queen, not giving any indication that he was aware of her status, and fell to her knees. Removing the leather gloves from his hands, he reached out to touch her breasts. His hands were calloused, but his touch was gentle and deliberate.

He kneaded her flesh, leaving temporary marks on her skin. The huntsman carefully loosened the queen’s bodice even more, revealing her full breasts. Leaning forward, he eagerly sucked each of her nipples into his mouth as though he was thirsty for her body. The queen hadn’t felt this wanted since before her husband had passed, and she surprised both of them with the intensity of her moans.

The huntsman seemed intent on pleasuring the woman, who was described as a matronly crone by those who compared her with the princess. But here it was just the two of them, and he certainly saw her as a vibrant woman worth pleasing. As she leaned back on her rocky throne, the huntsman worshiped her body, adorning her with attention and kisses. He wasn’t content to stay above the

He wasn’t content to stay above the belt however, and he lifted the layers of her skirts. The queen thought it was abrupt for him to move to penetration so quickly, and she felt a pang of apprehension at the thought. She had been madly in love with the last man who had been between her legs, and while she wasn’t necessarily a prude, it seemed like the huntsman was too goal oriented.

Her fears were allayed, however, when he ducked his head beneath those layers, instead. His hands might have been rough, but his mouth was soft and warm, and it seemed to melt the chill she had felt inside for so long. He lavished her clit and lapped at her opening just further south. He quickly found a rhythm that the queen couldn’t resist, and she rocked her hips to the same tune.

As she leaned back on her arms, her head tipped back and her golden-brown hair fell backward. Rays of sun caught the tresses, which she had decided against putting up shortly into her depression. Inside the castle, it was nearly scandalous, but on the sun-warmed rocks with the huntsman between her legs, she seemed wild and free.The huntsman continued with his licking,

The huntsman continued with his licking, swirling his tongue around her clit and using the flat for wide strokes that made her shudder. For the first time in what felt like forever, the queen felt her orgasm building. She had forgotten how powerful her body was, what it could feel like when she loosened that power. She did so then, her orgasm a disruptive crash in the peaceful woods. Her thighs squeezed against the huntsman’s head as she came.

And then the tears came. You wouldn’t think of crying as sexy, but her orgasm was the catharsis she needed to finally allow herself to feel. All those months and days she had kept it all inside, and now everything was rushing forward. The queen’s orgasm ushered a torrent of tears and emotion that she couldn’t seem to stop.

The huntsman was alarmed as he extricated himself from her skirts, but he gently asked if she was okay.

“No, it’s fine.” She queen replied in a shaky voice. “Please, don’t stop?” The monarch rarely asked anything of any person these days, but vulnerability was all she had left. And the huntsman listened.

He loosened his own trousers, and they dropped to the ground. His hardened cock was now in view, and the queen could tell it was a beautiful specimen even through the curtain of tears. Again, he was on his knees, pushing his way between her skirts. The queen lay back awkwardly, and he removed his jacket to place it behind her back before he thrust into her. The queen allowed herself to lie back as this stranger penetrated her, a sigh escaping her lips as she had done before she even knew of his existence.

As he fucked her, he was thoughtful and precise. He was skilled and likely experienced, and he was giving her pleasure that she needed. His own heavy breathing and grunts indicated that perhaps he was in need of the very same treatment, and he quickened his pace as he neared orgasm.

But the queen was finally becoming herself again, and her place was not beneath this huntsman, a stranger whose name she didn’t know. Instead, she pushed him from her thighs and instructed him to lie down. She carefully straddled his bare legs, lowering herself onto the cock that arced toward the sky. The huntsman laid his gloves and jacket beneath her knees to prevent them from scraping against the rock beneath them, and the queen ground her hips downward with renewed passion.

Again, she could gaze out from her position on the throne, but it wasn’t calming this time. Her pulse quickened as she rode the man beneath her, breath coming heavier. The queen wasn’t typically so forward about seeking her own orgasm, but she worked toward it like she might die if she didn’t experience another release.

The queen’s orgasm was short-lived, almost violent, but it was an orgasm nonetheless. Her muscular contractions around the huntsman brought him to his own release, and she could feel the spasms and he came deep inside her.

Finally spent, the queen collapsed down upon the huntsman. It was all she could do to catch her breath. But she knew, and she was certain that he did, too, the time couldn’t last forever. Sooner than she would have liked, the queen sat up and began tightening the laces of her bodice, once against constricting her body and breathing.

The huntsman finally spoke. “That was wonderful, my queen. Quite lovely.” The queen was taken aback by his recognition, but it didn’t matter, now did it?

Though the queen and the huntsman would continue to have their rendezvous, a few in the woods, some in his cabin and some carefully-planned meetings in her own palace, happiness seemed to be something that would be doomed to slip from the queen’s grasp. It just wasn’t fair.

After one particularly fun romp, the pair lay awake in the queen’s plush bed. She had learned to let go of the guilt of fucking another man in her marital bed. After all, her husband was dead. More than that, however, the queen was sure her late husband would want her to find happiness even if she didn’t dare think she deserved it.

Their pillow talk turned to the situation in the palace, as it often did. Slowly but surely, the huntsman had stripped the queen of her layers until he knew her entire sob story. Perhaps it was because he had never spent any time in the castle or even because he wasn’t one of her many staff members, but he expressed sadness and respect of the queen’s difficulties. He softly caressed her ivory thigh with his sunkissed fingertips before breaking the comfortable silence.

“I don’t understand why you stay, my lady. You could go anywhere you wanted. You don’t seem attached to your home or the people who live her. Those same people would just as soon see Snow become queen. You’re not from her to begin with.”

The queen couldn’t argue, truthfully. She had just never considered leaving. She laughed off the idea that day, but it stayed with her for weeks.

Wouldn’t you know, he was right?

One evening, after a naked romp in nature and a luxurious walk in the woods — their meetings were becoming more like romantic dates by the day — the queen finally blurted her feelings to her beau.

“I think you’re right. I can leave. And maybe I should. But where would I go?”

Her question ignited a conversation among them, one that started hesitantly but soon became excited and hopeful, as they planned a future together.

The two plotted their escape. The queen knew the search for her would be brief if at all, should she disappear. The huntsman had even less obligation to the kingdom, and he had the skills they would need to start a home and a life of their own. The queen had never been particularly fond of being waited on and was even excited to learn skills she would need — as his wife.

They ended their discussion and walk at the door of the huntsman’s simple cabin, but they stayed together far through the night, making feverish love for the last time in his home. The queen spread her legs for him as she lay on her back on the rug in front of the fire. The flames created shapes on the ceiling above him and warmed her skin as she stared into the fire on all fours. The huntsman roughly gripped her fleshy hips as he came in this position, and the pair collapsed together before he would walk her back to the palace.

The next week passed in a blur as the queen picked out the items she would need. So many of her belongings were fit for a queen, but she realized that the position was never really right for her, especially since the death of her beloved king. As she packed the most practical of her clothing and shoes and a few beloved trinkets, the queen realized she valued little more than the company of the huntsman.

She had fallen in love, and her life was falling back into place.

You might think that the queen’s story could end here, another chance at a happy ending, but you’d be wrong.

The queen and huntsman met on what was intended to be her last day in the castle. They kissed and laughed and tumbled into her bed for one last session under the plush covers. Would she miss them? Perhaps, but she was more excited for the future.

The gleam in the huntsman’s eyes indicated that he felt the same, and he hugged her close before his departure. He smuggled her small packs out of the palace, promising to meet the queen at the rock outcropping where they had first met.

Time seemed to crawl by, but the queen was intent on filling it. She thought she might say goodbye to her friends in the palace, but as she made her way through the rooms, the faces that greeted her belonged to strangers. Perhaps they had been warm once, but they were barely cordial as the queen moved from room to room. Upon realizing this, the queen considered whether she might say goodbye to the princess. The two barely spoke to begin with, but the pair had rarely seen one another since the queen became so focused, first on the huntsman and then on making her escape.

Finally, it was time for the queen to begin her stroll through the forest. No one thought anything of it as she donned her cloak and slipped out through one of the lesser-used doors. They were used to the queen leaving and, perhaps, preferred it that way.

The familiar walk through the forest path was less calm and more exciting than usual, and the queen had to fight a skip in her step. While there were few people around, she was still the queen, after all.

As she approached the curve in the path that would lead directly to nature’s throne, she thought she heard the huntsman’s voice. She slowed her pace, careful not to give away her location. Perhaps he had run into someone who would question a secret meeting in the woods between the two.

But as the throne came into view, so did the huntsman. And so did the visage of the princess, her bare skin nearly reflecting the sunlight as her body bounced haphazardly on top of the huntsman’s. Her frame looked tiny in comparison to his. It was almost comical, this nearly-girl atop a middle-aged man.

Yet it wasn’t funny at all to the queen, the broken woman who had fallen in love with this man. She was equal parts angry and confused as she stormed toward the couple. Her eyes shined with emotion as she approached the pair, unfortunately, at the exact time when the huntsman was releasing his seed into her stepdaughter’s cunt. The picture came into painful focus for the queen, and the rest of the world seemed to fade around them.

The queen made eye contact with him first. He looked startled and ashamed, much like he had at her first meeting. But it was his shame that was predominant as he stammered, trying to say something, anything, to the queen.

Snow, on the other hand, was her typical self: cute bordering on oblivious to the world around her. But her eyes betrayed her. There the queen could see deception and the princess’s plot come to fruition. She locked eyed with the queen, her cruelty so obvious that the queen could no longer deny the truth. Snow White had always been in control. It had always been her intent to make the queen’s life a living hell. She had succeeded with such subtlety that even the queen herself had been blind to the fact let alone everyone else.

You might say it was this very moment when the queen became evil, but it was what happened next that would truly harden her heart so impenetrably that she would only be remembered for her actions after the fact.

“Mother dearest,” spoke up Snow as she rose from the huntsman’s body. “You’ve caught me at such an inopportune time, my thighs wrapped around this huntsman, a nobody who is certainly below my station and old enough to be my father. How a woman like me could find herself in such a position,” the princess nearly giggled at this, “I don’t know. I’m sure you understand what I mean, stepmother.”

It was Snow’s words, unkind and chosen so carefully, that finally sent the queen over the edge. But the queen realized that she could never let this monster know that. Instead, she drew all of her resolve, lifted her royal skirt and turned around to return to the castle.

It wasn’t fair. It never was, but the queen would stop caring around what was fair after that.

The huntsman scrambled after her, but his state of undress and the queen’s hurried steps allowed her to return to the castle well before he could. Rather than hide away in her room like she had for months before, the queen returned to her throne room.

So the princess and the peasants thought she didn’t belong there? She would show them!

The queen sat regally upon her throne, the crown she had been willing to part with forever just a few hours prior upon her head. It was this visage that the huntsman was presented with when he entered the throne room. He had never seen her like this before, their class differences so obvious. With an icy command, the queen cleared the room of all personnel. As the huntsman made his way down the carpet that ended just in front of her throne, there was nothing but stillness in the room. When the doors finally closed after the last person left, the sounded echoed through the chamber.

Oh, the huntsman would bed and plead. His apologies and there were many of them, fell on ears that were suddenly deaf to his pleas. She would hear none of it, but when he was finally silent and on his knees in front of her, much like he had been during their first meeting, she would finally speak.

“Huntsman, you are a member of the kingdom, the kingdom that I rule. As your queen, you are to obey me. Do you know what would please me?”

The huntsman was eager to gain her favor again. Had anyone else been privy to the seen, they would remark that the huntsman was certainly sincere in his regret and absolutely in love with the queen. The right person might even have realized that the queen’s actions, cold as they seemed, were only because she had once been in love with the man. But no one was there. No one heard the huntsman ask without any pride how he might please the queen.

And no one was there to hear the queen command the huntsman to kill Snow White, her manipulative yet beautiful stepdaughter, the princess who was adored by her kingdom.

No one but the queen saw how crestfallen the huntsman became at this suggestion, and the queen certainly didn’t care. He hadn’t cared when he had ripped her heart from her chest. It only seemed poetic that the huntsman bring the queen Snow’s very own heart, a heart that had never loved and broken as intensely as the queen’s own heart.

There were no witnesses to this exchange. The huntsman only nodded silently in agreement, knowing that he not only deserved the punishment but also that it was no redemption. It was too late for that.

Yet, somehow, everyone knows the story as it continues. They know that the huntsman couldn’t bring himself to do this. They know that he brought the queen a pig’s heart, instead. They know that Snow White found refuge with seven small men in a cottage in the woods, a woods that the queen had once loved. They do not know, however, that these were lascivious and lecherous men whom Snow would allow to penetrate her every orifice at any time of day.

No one knows that this is where the story actually ends: with a young woman content to live out her days covered in semen from any number of man, an old queen whose heart had been hardened to coal and a huntsman so haunted by his actions that he would drink himself a slow death.

But now you know.

Like I said, it’s entirely unfair.



On Life’s Unfairness

February 3rd, 2016

Time always slows down when I’m waiting for a tongue to make contact. It’s excruciating.

And then it does. And I melt. The tongue is an amazing muscle, so soft and warm and capable. Nothing comes close.

That’s really the only thing I miss when I’m not fucking someone. I can abuse my pussy with a toy until my hips hurt the next day, but a mouth!

The mouth doesn’t even matter when I’m about to cum because I’ll be pulling your hair and grinding my hips against you so hard that it doesn’t matter who or what is between my legs so long as something is. And I get off.

But the second best part is when you come up for air and I kiss you, and you smell and taste like me. Absolutely delicious. I think I was surprised when I realized just how much I love my taste, and I can;t get enough because I will never be able to do what you just did to me.

I think I was surprised when I realized just how much I love my taste, and I can;t get enough because I will never be able to do what you just did to me.

And it’s not fair that you get to fuck me and lick me and make me cum like that. I’d kill to be the person who gets to fuck me.

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Point of View

February 1st, 2016


He rummages through a drawer, selects something with careful consideration. Stepping toward her, he reaches out, producing the item. It’s a gag he’s carefully chosen. Instead of the ball is a miniature silicone cock. She purchased this one specifically because it fit inside her small mouth better than most.

Her eyes light up and jaw slacks open. She doesn’t even realize it’s happening, he thinks to himself. Her mouth is practically agape as he traverses the distance between them — just a few steps really — a silent beg to be filled. His cock has been stirring since he first laid eyes on her tonight, and the lascivious response has him fully erect now.

Rather than strap the gag around her head, he reaches for his own belt, letting the gag drop to the floor. The black leather is supple and warm from his own body temperature as he releases the buckle. The button and zipper follow, all the while his eyes remain locked on hers. He hasn’t allowed her to break eye contact since they broke from their first kiss.

She’s reluctant to break that gaze as he moves his hand to the back of her head, gently pushing the young woman to her knees in front of him.

“If your mouth is so hungry for a cock, girl, then I’ve got something to gag you with,” he snarls. But his touch is gentle as he strokes her hair, nudging her beautiful mouth closer to his open fly. Carefully, she reaches into his boxers to release his cock. Now free of its constraints, his member points toward the sky, engorged and darkening as blood rushes to the spot.

He pushes his cock toward her mouth like he had planned with the gag. Her lips stretch open around him as she takes her cock into her mouth. Her mouth is warm and wet, and he sighs as she envelopes him.


She’s been waiting all night to taste him. She hopes her impatience hasn’t been obvious. While he’s never been one for punishment, it doesn’t strike her as terribly ladylike to let it show.

She had to steady herself as he brought her to her knees. She wanted to fall straight down and rip his cock free from his boxers. But she knelt gracefully. She allowed him to set the pace. She languishes both in pleasure and pain as the seconds seemed to stretch forever.

She was rewarded for her restraint. She always is. And now his cock, in all its heat and rigidity, is sliding into her mouth. He’s larger, both in width and girth, than the gag he was holding before, and she focuses on relaxing her throat at the head of his cock moves toward the back of her mouth. Her breaths are measured and careful through her nose, and she squeezes her eyes shut and she begins to work his cock.

She can feel his eyes on her, on the top of the head and traveling down her back toward her ass, which is resting on her ankles. She could feel his gaze on her all night, from the first time she stepped into the room. It never made her feel self-conscious, however. She felt his lust but also his adoration and approval. It made submitting to his every whim thrilling, despite her typical resistance to taking commands.

And as she slides her tongue along his shaft and around the head of his cock, seals her lips around his skin and suckles gently, there isn’t a single part of her that resists. She’s so content to kneel in front of him, to service his cock, that time seems to melt away around her.


He feels the tension rising in his body as he gets closer to orgasm. It happens exactly as expected from her mouth expertly working his member. Almost like clockwork, his testicles tight and taut, move closer to his body. He strokes her hair, the side of her cheek. He can feel his cock through the side of her face. His fingers break contact, and he reaches for her chin, carefully lifting and pushing her back.

As his cock leaves her mouth, trails of her saliva hang in the air. He feels suddenly cold, his dick devoid of her warmth. But he’ll soon rectify that.

As he pulls her to her feet, she again makes eye contact. There’s an eager twinkle that he finds both charming and arousing at once. He places his hands on her shoulders and turns her body away from him. His eyes pass over the swell of her ass, highlighted by the classic black dress she’s wearing. He leans forward to unzip the silver zipper, revealing her pale flesh beneath.

He slides a hand beneath the fabric at either shoulder to push the dress down her shoulders, and he can feel her shiver against his touch. He wonders what the expression on her face looks like and if her eyes are open. Without visual confirmation, he can only guess.

The dress falls to the floor, exposing her lingerie-clad body. A red bra wraps around her back, the lacy band adding texture against her smooth skin. Per his instructions, she’s wearing a classic black garter belt to hold up her thigh-high stockings. Three stripes of material wrap around the middle of her thighs, but the rest of her body is bare.

He drops his gaze from her back to the curve of her butt. Instinctively, he reaches out with a hand and smacks the bare skin at the fleshiest part of her ass. She yelps, at first moving away from him. But then she backs toward him, bending slightly at the waist, to give him better access. His little pain slut. She makes it too easy.


She’s standing in front of him, slightly bent. Her ass feels warm and tingly from the unexpected smack. Her pussy feels even hotter, aching for more skin contact. It’s not enough for her to simply feel his gaze anymore. But she knows she must stay in the position he’s put her in.

It seems like an eternity that she’s standing there, with what feels like miles of space between them. She practically jumps out of her skin when he finally reaches out, tracing his fingers lightly down her spine. He slides them over the garter belt, and his hand cups her ass and pushes her forward.

When her knees touch the bed, she kneels on the mattress. His hand on her ass moves between her legs, fingers just pressing into her cunt. She feels him pull upward, raising her ass toward him. She leans her shoulders toward the bed with her back arched in the way she knows he likes.

She stays in this position while he rustles about in the toy box once more. She wonders what he might be looking for but doesn’t have to wait long before she sees him approach from the side and grab one of her wrists. Her arm is stretch outward and upward as he secures a cuff to the bed frame. He walks around the other side and repeats the motion with her other arm.

She can already feel the ache in her shoulder blades as her weight shifts and hangs in this position. She anxiously waits for him to finish his work as he moves behind her and pushes her thighs apart with his knees. Then, her ankles are being secured into cuffs attached to a spreader bar. She feels the cool breeze move against her ass and the exposed flesh of her pussy lips. But it’s the appreciate noise that he makes that makes her shiver.


He seems her bound, open and ready for him. If possible, his cock seems to grow even harder. He hasn’t put a blindfold on her, but she’s facing away and can see what he’s doing. He’s sure she can hear his trousers hitting the ground. The belt buckle jingles as it lands in a pile around his ankles.

He steps forward and places a hand on each cheek in front of him. He squeezes and pushes them outward to reveal her puckered asshole. He’s made it a home for his cock many times in the past, and he certainly will again.

But it’s her pussy that he wants to drive his cock into again and again. The head of his cock nuzzles her lips, searching for the entrance to the place he’s so come to cherish. He guides his cock into her hole. It takes no effort for him to penetrate her with every in of his dick. She’s amazingly wet, obviously turned on beyond belief. He’s impressed with the amount of restraint she’s shown thus far.

He’s having a hard time showing as much restraint. She’s wrapped around him tightly, and he groans in response to the sensation. Her own feminine moans echo his as his thrusts begin to pick up speed. He positions her hips so that every stroke will graze her most sensitive spot, and he reaches around with one hand to rub her clitoris.

Her nub is already hard when his fingers press into her. Despite her restraints, he can feel her rocking her hips to grind his body against his hand. He presses his palm firmly against her as if to pin her body between hand and hips. in response, she pushes her hips even closer to his, slightly rotating as he thrusts. Their hips find a way to move in sync, his fingers complementing their rhythm.

He pays close attention to her sighs, her uninhibited moans and her ragged breaths. As if on cue, he rubs her hard, faster. He knows the signs of her impending orgasm, and he doesn’t let up as it approaches.

She forgets to move her hips as she comes, muscles contracting around his cock. He forgets composure as he bellows loudly, his cock pulsing and emptying into her pussy. It never fails to make him come, the way her muscles feel when she comes unbound.

He smiles and stops his thrusts, simply resting inside her. This, he thinks, is where he belongs.

She agrees.




September 25th, 2015

I guess I didn’t know what I expected when I kiss her for the first time. Her lips were soft, breath warm on my own mouth. But that wasn’t any different from any of them men I’d kissed before; although, I wouldn’t complain about the lack of stubble. But what was really different was the taste. Her lipstick had just a hint of sweetness mixed with the waxy base. It was what I imagined kissing my own self would be like, and I liked it.

Still, she felt so much more than me. While I had felt like a new woman when I’d walked out of the house in my dress, a bright blue-with-polka-dots pinup number, the flared skirt and petticoat beneath it were like a princess, almost juvenile. In comparison, her curve-hugging dress and bold red lips reminded me of Audrey Hepburn. She was every bit a woman. She owned it.

And I couldn’t have been more aware of it. I was spellbound as she reached to a zipper hidden in the center of her dress, pulling it up to the waistband. The materially suddenly loosened around her hips. Somehow she still looked elegant as fuck.

I felt a twinge of self-consciousness as her svelte leg pushed between mine, her hands pushing aside layers of tulle. It all seemed so silly now. Why had I worn a petticoat, anyway? Her lean frame seemed to dwarf my own, short and with a few extra pounds. I instinctively leaned back as she bent down to kiss me, wedging her thigh firmly between mine.

The grill of the van I found myself leaning on for support dug into my back, and I could feel the metal, cold against the bare of my arms and even through the back of my dress. It wasn’t unwelcome, however. It felt so real. It grounded me.

Nothing about this felt real. I hadn’t had a single drink, yet I couldn’t seem to get my bearings. I had lost complete control. It was all surreal.

It was all amazing. Her lips continued to press against mine, her tongue, as lithe and long as her body, probing my mouth. I did the best I could to respond with as little awkwardness as possible, but I was positive kissing wasn’t my strong suit.

The only part of my body I wasn’t second guessing? My hips. I rocked them forward and back, grinding my vulva against her leg, trying to shift my panties to the side so I could feel her skin, porcelain and softer than her lips, I was sure.

This movement elicited soft moans from my lips, against hers. She laughed. Oh, her laugh! The epitome of femininity. I’d been with many people who were silent and rigid during sex. She managed to be amused, a twinkle in her eye, rigid and soft all at once. I was, for that moment in time, in love like I’d never been before.

In a moment of boldness, I slid my hands up her sides, feeling the satin of her dress beneath my fingertips. My hands reached the swell of her breasts, and I found myself nearly clawing through the dress and the bra she wore beneath it to feel the weight, the softness of her flesh. I slipped one hand beneath her bra, a barely-there lace cup indicating her breasts were as close to perfect as nature allowed, to graze her breasts.

It this was a woman felt like? My god, why hadn’t I been doing this all along?

She chuckled. That laugh again. It was like a drug in my veins. It sent a shiver down my spine as if my nipples could get any tighter.

“So you’re finally brave enough to taste what’s been thrown at you?” she taunted in response to my wandering hands. I blushed. She removed her thigh from between my legs, and my hips gyrated around nothing until I had time to process. We had intertwined so perfectly. My clit nearly ached at the sudden loss. All I wanted was to ride her leg until I came.

Just as quickly, she pulled my hand from her bra. I worried, for a brief moment, that my heavenly experience was over nearly as quickly as it began. But she pulled me toward the side of the van, opening the passenger and crawling over the seat to the back. I knew I was to follow. I clambered behind her, a sight to see in my many layers, I’m sure.

Once inside, she pushed me back against the driver’s side wall. The front door remained open, providing a shaft of light that allowed us to see, but she paid it no mind. Instead, she reached beneath my skirt and yanked down the petticoat that had been separating us all day. My panties followed, being flung on the floor of some stranger’s van. It didn’t even cross my mind that we might get in trouble for what we were doing.

She traced invisible lines down my thigh with her nails, but these weren’t the fake, manicured tips you see in porn. They were nearly shaped and painted to a shine, but no longer than the tips of her fingers. This was a woman, I surmised, who was frequently wrist-deep in other women.

Perfectly polished and thin, those fingers snaked their way between my legs, parting my folds of skin and penetrating my cunt with and expert touch that every man I’d ever been with had lacked. Her fingers curled around my pubic bone, targeting my G-spot like a missile while her hand bent at the wrist.

Free of my frilly bonds, I wrapped my legs around her waist and her hand between my cunt and her thigh, so I could return to my grinding. A matter of minutes had passed since we’d moved into the back of the van, but it felt as though time had slowed.

She caressed and cajoled, curling her fingers back and forth, and pressing them against my G-spot. She seemed to know when I needed more pressure. None of my male partners had picked up on that before, and it took me far longer to realize than I’d like to admit.

I seemed to melt with the heat of her body. I wasn’t sure where the upholstery beneath me began. My dress splayed out around me like I had become liquid.

I was too enthralled with her motions to enjoy her body further, but she wasn’t done with mine. With her free hand, she reached back to untie the bow that secured my halter and pulled it down in front. I assisted by pushing the cups of my strapless bra down so my breasts spilled out above them. She tweaked and pinched my nipple, maneuvering her body so she could lean down.

Her tongue danced across my skin, sending a jolt like lightning through my body. The hand buried inside my worked diligently, and I felt the pressure building. Orgasm was imminent, even though her tactics were so different from my own.

I ground my clit against her hand, having found the heel of her palm, while she tugged at my nipple with her teeth. The combination of pain and pleasure sent me over the edge, my muscles contracting around her fingers and breath coming in short, rapid bursts. She knew, too, to withdraw from my over-sensitive clit as my orgasm subsided. She was a professional.

I assumed she was done, but I was wrong. With a surprising show of force, she grasped my thighs and pulled me down the seat so I was laying flat. With grace I couldn’t have mustered had I had all the space in the world, she lifted the bottom of her dress to her hips and shimmied from her underwear – a lacy thong that most certainly would match the bra.

The seat shifted beneath me as she joined me on it, positioning her knees to either side of my head. There was barely light to see to begin with, but my world was engulfed in black as she lowered her cunt to my lips.

My other senses immediately took over. Her musky scent, similar but not identical to mine, filled my nostrils. I could feel the heat from between her legs against my face, and a short tuft of hair tickled my nose.

I had never performed cunnilingus before; although, I had thought about it on many occasions. My first react was to taste every bit of her. I traced my tongue from her perineum along the length of one of her lips to the vertex, and back down again. I lapped the flat of my tongue over her vulva, passing the entrance to her vagina and barely grazing her clit, as hard as mine had been just moments ago.

Then, I curled my tongue to a point, swirling it around her clit, causing her to produce a delicious gasp. It was the first time she sounded not entirely in control. I quickly darted my tongue as far into her cunt as I could reach – not far due to its limited length – and traced the opening.

I savored the smell. The smoothness and folds of flesh. The slickness. The hard nub of her clit. The softness of her pubic hair. I wanted to experience her so fully that I would use her up. So I wrapped my arms around her thighs and buried my face as deeply into her as I could.

My mouth kissed and suckled at any part of her flesh it could reach, my tongue running up and down and side to side over her clit. There wasn’t a single area between her legs left untouched by my saliva. And went I felt sated enough to focus on her needs, I listened acutely for gasps and moans, repeating the motions that had her grinding against my own face and moving closer to a loss of control.

The way it felt as her thighs and cunt began to tense mirrored my own pre-orgasm, but it was never something I’d had the chance to experience before. It felt rewarding to my very core to experience such feedback. I pressed on, licking and lapping. My own moans were muffled by the body straddling my face.

I stretched my tongue as far as it would go, straining to penetrate her deeper, to lick her further, to have her in my mouth in a way that I knew to be impossible, but it felt inevitable if I would simply refuse to surrender.

My jaw hurt as her thighs squeezed inward, and my scalp tingled as she tugged a handful of hair sharply. She was going to cum. I was making her cum.

And there it was. Beautiful. Majestic. Uninhibited. Her muscles spasming the way mine always did when I was at the point of no return. Her cries of pleasure absorbed by the plush lining of the van’s walls. The passenger door still stood open. I thought I heard mumbled voices passing by. It didn’t matter.

All that matter was this beautiful woman, a picture of grace, was sitting on my face. And I had just given her an orgasm. I breathed heavily and let the back of my head drop to the seat beneath me. I hadn’t even realized I had lifted myself so far up. My arms felt sore with the intensity that I had held her thighs.

My mind, assured that the end of our rendez-vous was soon over, began processing what had happened rather than what was happening. This beautiful woman, who just so happened to be attending the same pinup fundraiser that I had so boldly decided to dress up for, had approached me. My stomach had tightened anxiously the way it does when I meet strangers. And she was so perfect.

I hadn’t realized then that her entire story was a facade. She’d not forgotten her lipstick in her car. She didn’t need company to the parking lot to retrieve it. She had simply wanted to get me alone, so she could push me up against some stranger’s van and be the first woman who had ever kissed me with an open mouth.

Just like I hadn’t seen that coming, I wasn’t anticipating her to bark a command.

“On your hands and knees!” Her voice and tone were clear as she removed her body from above mine, kneeling half on the floor on the seat behind me. I sat up, awkwardly getting on hands and knees, facing the open door, light cascading against my skin.

The top of my dress hung below me, breasts bouncing free of my bra. From behind me, she pushed the bottom up around my back, willing the fabric into place. Her hands pushed my knees as far apart as they could go on the narrow seat. It seems she was about to return the favor.

I felt her fingers part my nether lips with skill, her tongue lapped at my clit. I wasn’t normally a fan of receiving oral from this angle, but I wasn’t about to complain. She nipped at my lips with her teeth. I suddenly felt relieved to have shaved them clean. But her lips and tongue soon returned to my clit. I was almost giddy with anticipation.

It took me by surprise when she began playing with my ass. The pad of her finger traced my puckered asshole, pressed against it. Immediately, I felt enveloped in sensation, as if it were coming from every angle. I groaned. Oh! How had she known?

Anal play had always done it for me. Just a little felt so good. I’d had an ex lover who always pressed just the tip of his thumb into my asshole as I rode him. It drove me wild, fucking him faster and harder until we both came.

I wasn’t far from that point, already with an orgasm under my belt. I leaned back as much as I could, her finger slipping further inside me. I craved to make contact and to grind myself against her pretty face, but she wouldn’t let me.

She stayed just far enough away to drive me crazy. My moans had never been delicate, but they turned low and guttural. I was going to cum again.

“Ho-ly shit.” A man’s voice broke through my thoughts. I froze and looked up. My body was tense, my mouth frozen open as a moan silently escaped my lips. A stranger imitating James Dean watched us through the open door. His slicked-back hair was falling forward across his forehead, and his attire seemed cheap and modern in contrast to the classic hunk. I suddenly remembered where we were, who I was and that we weren’t supposed to be doing what we were doing.

My pussy didn’t seem to get the message, though. It betrayed me as it shuddered against her mouth. Breath hissed from my mouth and I retained enough control not to make a sound, but my arms collapsed beneath me and I felt onto the velvety-seat below me as the last waves of my orgasm rippled through my body.

If she was surprised by the man who was watching us, she made no move or comment to indicate as such. Instead, she reached for her shoes and bag to return them to their rightful place on her body. She opened the opposite door in the back of the van to exit so she wouldn’t have to walk past the man who had become our audience.

She stepped out of the van, one long leg bending at the knee to reach the ground. After both feet rested on the ground, she reached to effortlessly zip her dress once more. I watched the fabric hug the curves of her swaying hips as she walked back toward the party, nary a hair out of place. There was no sign of what we had just done. I was yet again scrambling after this picture of perfection.



March 31st, 2015

He was a virgin. That was something I’d sworn I would never do. It felt so sex negative, judging someone based on their virginity. After all, it was a social construct that really meant very little. However, I just couldn’t bring myself to deal with the responsibility of being someone’s first let alone the awkwardness and having to be patient with someone learning.

Okay, I admit it: I’m selfish. But I’m okay with that, and I’m fine using that as my excuse not to sleep with virgins. So how exactly did we get on the topic of this virgin?

Now, I didn’t know he was a virgin at first. He was a reasonably good-looking guy I scrolled past on one of the many dating sites I frequent. And by frequent, I don’t mean that I troll them for NSA encounters. I’m not opposed to them, but if that’s the kind of mood I’m in, it’s Tinder for me.

So I see this guy who isn’t totally offensive to my eyes and whose profile has better spelling than a middle schooler. I flick through his photos and see a couple of tattoos and decide that asking about his ink will be my ice-breaker.

Flash forward a few weeks and daily messages. The conversation is fun, and I think I might actually want to meet him, and I never would have gotten this far if he had advertised his virginity. It wasn’t something he wanted to brag about, and I understand why. People like me would have looked right past him.

But I did look at him and the idea that maybe I want to meet him has crossed my mind a time or two when I sign in one night to see a picture of his newest tattoo, an intricate tribal-inspired sleeve that shoots right down his perfectly-sculpted bicep, flows across his arm and ends right below his fingers. I may be a sucker for ink, but his artist definitely had skill, and the design was done well even if it wasn’t something I would have chosen for myself.

So I express my admiration for this new tattoo while wondering what exactly that arm might look like with his fingers buried in my cunt, and he takes me by surprise by offering to show me in person. It was certainly an offer I couldn’t resist.

A few nights later and we’ve sitting across from one another at my favorite dive bar. It’s a quiet night, with a few rough-around-the-edges trucker types and a pair of barely-legal patrons who are taking turns picking top 40 hits on the jukebox.

I’m surprised I took note at all, to be honest. This guy, the virgin, was even better looking in person. His hair was artfully tousled, and he wore a pair of glasses he’d neglected to post photos of. That was quite all right with me, however; I’m a sucker for a guy in a nice pair of specs.

We do the awkward introduction thing, but the ink conversation gives us a good excuse to talk about something, anything, other than the weather. But it doesn’t feel forced like all those terrible first dates I’d been on in the past. He seems genuinely interested me, smiles often and teases me the way guys do when they’re attracted to you. I can tell I’m blushing. I can’t help it, but I’m not sure I want to, either.

We sip a few drinks, volley questions back and forth and make commentary about the other customers. He, as it turns out, likes little dives like this, too. I nod approvingly as one of my favorite Bad Company songs comes on the speaker, and my head begins bobbing to the music.

He surprises me with a completely casual comment about how he’d always wanted to have sex to the song. I’m pretty sure my ovaries are singing his praises, and that’s when he says it.

“But I’m a virgin.”

I try to pass it off that this sexy, flirtatious guy with ultra-hot tattoos has somehow avoided having sex. I’m sure my lack of a poker face did me no favors, but I tried to hide it by taking a long drink from my glass.

He’s obviously accustomed to negative reactions, and he rolls with it, segueing into a question about my own tattoos, which we have somehow failed to remark upon. I show him the symbol of my favorite singer on my forearm, and a spiderweb lace piece on my shoulder while talking about my plan for a black-and-white sleeve on the other arm.

I mention the sugar skull on my left thigh, regretting that I’d worn jeans so he won’t be able to see it, but he doesn’t miss a bit as he grins mischievously and asks if I want to drop trou in the bathroom to show him. It’s so hard to believe he’s a virgin.

While I certainly would have declined that invitation had it come from a stranger at the bar, it didn’t seem quite so odd coming out of his mouth, and his charm was irresistible. I downed my drink and we made our way to the bathroom, trying not to be obvious in a bar with only a handful of customers.

There’s a strange sort of anxiety I feel about virgins, and it certainly reared its head as I wiggled out of my jeans. I wonder if this was the first time he’d seen a woman undress in any way, or if he’d perhaps had heated make out sessions with a former fling that just never lead anywhere.

Under the unflattering bathroom light, my tattoo comes into view, and he seems to take it all in while the last few notes of the sexy song faded away through the door behind me. I take a moment to myself, trying to quietly exhale while his inquisitive eyes were on me.

But then they are back on my face, and I am reaching to pull my jeans up from around my knees. This wasn’t part of his plan, it seems, as he steps forward, pressing my back against the door and leaning down to kiss me fiercely. It’s unbelievable, the type of chemistry I am feeling with this, this, virgin.

It was like electricity courses through his mouth, straight to my lips, jolting across my tongue and igniting throughout my body. If I’ve ever considered breaking my virgin rule, this was the best reason I’d yet had. And if he were to bend me over that grimy bar bathroom sink, I would have my legs and braced my ankles while greedily taking every inch of his cock.

He doesn’t. I knew he wouldn’t, so why is it that his hands have pushed my jeans further down my calves? Why would he carefully lift one foot out of the leg of my pants? And why is he leaving the other entrapped? The swirling has barely stopped from our kiss. Now, my head is swirling with other thoughts.

I don’t know if everyone else experiences it this way, but when someone’s mouth and tongue first make contact with my clit, it’s like a switch flips. There are no more thoughts. It’s feeling, it’s energy, it’s adrenaline and it’s noises that can barely be qualified as human, but it’s not about thinking.

So when he pulls aside my panties and pushes his tongue between my folds against my clit, I’m not relieved that I had worn underwear worthy of showing someone else. I’m not thinking that we’re in a dingy bar or that the bartender, a friend who willy surely give me hell later, has likely noticed our extended absence.

What I do is sigh, my chest heaving with the effort, gasp and allow him to lift my free leg over his shoulder. I lean back to support myself, ruffle my hand through his hair, and let this near-stranger swirl his tongue around my clit and lap at my body with wide, soft licks that cause my legs to quiver.

I bite my lip to stop myself from moaning loud enough that anyone in a two-block radius could hear me, and I push my hips toward my new friend as he adeptly slides three fingers into me, my most sensitive parts surrounded by my body. His tattooed arm, just like I had imagined it, stretches out between my legs.

His mouth and his hand work in tandem, as my body threatens to give out beneath me. For a brief moment, an image flashes in my mind of the bathroom door breaking behind me and us tumbling out, me with only one leg in my jeans and him with his hand up my cunt.

But his eager attentiveness to my needs quickly snaps me back to the present, and I press his face against my body with renewed vigor. As best as I can, I grind my cunt against his face, glasses be damned.

Now, I may be lucky that I can cum easily, but there’s denying that this guy is damned good at what he was doing. It’s one of those moments that feels like it both takes a lifetime and is over in a heartbeat, but I’m sure it’s no more than a few minutes before I am cumming — shuddering and nearly collapsing against him as only the muscles in my pussy seem able of working correctly for that brief moment.

And then he is done, sliding the fabric of my panties back across my vulva, lifting my jeans back up to my hips and buttoning them as he leans into me for another fiery kiss, the taste of me still on his mouth. I can feel him, his hardness and heat, as he presses his body against me.

Sure, he might have been a virgin, but he won’t be one for long.


A Brand Spanking New Idea

December 22nd, 2014

Spank my pussy

“What?” my request seems to pull him into the present. “Why?” He seems to consider.

“Because it will feel good”

He seems unsure but reaches out and playfully pats my lower lips.

“Like this?”

But that’s not at all like what I want.


Another slap. Does less terrible count as good? I don’t think so. I didn’t my head”no.” It seems to make him think I’m challenging him on purpose but I’m not. He reaches out and suddenly smacks my cunt with a resounding and rewarding “thwack.”

He can’t even open his cocky mouth to ask if that’s what I want before I’m yelling “yes.” I know he was trying to prove a point but that’s exactly how I like it. He likes it too, I can tell.

“I see.” He seems to be processing the data. I can almost see the gears in good brain moving. He comes to the right decision when he decides to kneel between my legs and spank my pussy again.

And again.

And again.

Again and again.

Once more for good measure.

My pussy lips sting and I’m sure they’re red to look at, but it’s not just the external parts that have responded to his smacks. He slips his fingers inside me. First two, then three. We usually don’t do any more than that but then he pushes in another. It feels like there’s room for all of him inside of me I’m so wet.  He murmurs appreciatively at this, his fingers inside me working at my g-spot as he mirrors the movement with his thumb on my clit. It seems like it doesn’t take any time at all before I’m coming.

This becomes a regular thing and not just during sex. Whenever I can, I wear a skirt and he pushes it up around my hips. His fingers push my panties — if I’m wearing any — to the side side and he spanks my pussy. Sometimes he readjusts my panties and skirt and we go on about our lives.

Other times, he bends me over the nearest piece of furniture — the back of a love seat, a railing, a desk. And with my skirt hiked up over my hips, I spread my legs and he answers me from behind, thrusting deep into my cunt, which is wet from him spanking me. Neither of us seems to last long. Whether it’s from the spanking or the fact that we’re usually in a public place I don’t know. But we fuck our way to our impending orgasms before pulling my skirt back down around my thighs and I’m walking away like nothing happened.

It was his idea that we let someone else watcher but I wasn’t opposed. The more I thought about it, the hotter it sounded. So you put out an ad on Craigslist and waited for the right person to reply. I wasn’t positive if this was the best way to go about it, so I was surprised one day when we had not one but two responses that seemed realistic.

One was a woman, and aspiring dominant, who just wanted to see a little power play in person. She said she wanted to dress up the way she thought her future clients would enjoy and relax while she watch my partner spank my pussy. She didn’t even wanna join in, and it didn’t sound like it was going to arouse her but maybe that’s just what we needed our first time.

The other was a middle-aged man who made no secret of how erotic he found the entire situation. He wanted to watch and would it be too much to ask if he also jerked off? Since we were putting on a show and there would be no touching, we didn’t see anything wrong with it. We said “Yes” to them both.

We invited her over one afternoon. She arrived in a modest sedan. She was clad head to foot in a mixture of black leather and PVC. At first, I asked myself if this could be real. Did people really dressed like that? But here she was.

I made nervous small talk as I ushered her into our home. She sounded less confident than she looked, but she followed me, making polite comments about our decor. We stopped in the living room and I perched on the sofa. My partner entered with three glasses of wine, and I took one but she declined. She informed us that we could proceed whenever we wanted. I sipped at my wine to take the edge off, but I decided that it wasn’t going to get any less awkward.

I reached for my lover’s hands pulling him closer to me. As I lay back on the sofa, I pulled him down on top of me. We quickly kissed before he moved his way down my body, pulling my shorts and panties with him. By then his hands had gotten used to spreading my legs in preparation for the spanking. My body must have gotten used to this, too, because I could already feel myself getting wet.

He caressed the palm of his hand against my vulva and my clit in an attempt to calm me. I breathed deeply through my nose through my nose to allow the tension to leave my body. As I did this, the first smack landed on my skin. I squealed even though it was much lighter than I was accustomed to. With her eyes on us, everything seemed to feel more intense.

I saw her try not to flinch. I regained my composure when he hit me the second time and managed nothing but a small smile. She seem to follow my lead, sitting upright in our overstuffed armchair with her legs crossed in front of her. His eyes never strayed from me. He kept glancing between my face and my pussy. I could tell that he wanted to make sure it was still okay with this and that he would stop it at any moment if I indicated otherwise, but I wanted to continue.

What followed was a barrage of smacks, landing at different angles and intensities. He changed his method more than he typically did so I wouldn’t tired before we provided our strange guest with a satisfying show. I found the inconsistency arousing and could feel myself getting wetter. He would pause to rub my vulva,  and subtle eye contact revealed that he was well aware of my level of arousal. But like so many times before, it wasn’t going to go any further.

He finished the session with the series of loud and rapid spanks. Some of them even seem to echo off the walls and push my body away from him. I couldn’t help but gasp and moan. Our guest widened  her eyes at this approach. I don’t think she had anticipated that my lover was going to end with such a grand finale. When he finally stopped, I could tell from the heat between my legs that my pussy was glowing red. I knew I wasn’t going to put on another pair of panties until the next morning at the very least.

My partner stood up, slowly making eye contact with the stranger in our living room. He smiled and motioned at me.

“As you can see, she’s has quite enough.”

“Yes, I agree,” the woman replied as they both moved out of the room. I stayed where I was, forcing my heavy breathing to normalize. I heard the front door close in the other room and then his footsteps for coming back to me.

“Well, darling, how was that?” he asked if he approached me.

“It was different.” I was still processing. “But not bad.”

“Good,”he replied, One hand one his belt. He quickly undid the button and dropped those jeans around his feet. As he did this, his cock sprang free. It was hard and already a drop of precum glistened on the head. I hadn’t closed my legs and he took advantage of that to enter me. He was on top of me in one swift movement.

My labia burned, and with every thrust his day-old stubble felt like a million pins digging into my skin. But as much as it hurt, it felt twice as good. We had barely gotten settled before my arousal grew into an orgasm. As my muscles contracted around his cock, he couldn’t stop from coming either. We collapsed in a sweaty pile on our sofa.

With the first try a relative success, we decided to invite the man we met on Craigslist to our home. The more my mind played over the events with the reserved woman, the more it seemed liked something that I liked. And while I realized that, the man wanted to do a bit more, I felt bold enough to invite him into our private lives.

His eager replies plainly painted a picture of his voyeuristic tendencies. It was obviously too late for my partner and I to claim that we weren’t exhibitionists, but the woman we had met on our first encounter had been so passive that it almost hadn’t felt like we were putting on a show. I couldn’t help but wondered if she had judged me, my partner or us as a couple, but I had no idea. Either way, I felt as though I had to put on a show for the second go around.

I expressed a hesitant sort of excitement to my partner, who was quick to allay any lingering fears I might have. He was certain the second time would be even better than the first. So with a little trepidation and a little more alcohol in my system, we invited another stranger into our home.

While the fledgling domme might have been memorable due to her stereotypical garb, this man was entirely forgettable. He was like the sort of man who walks around in the background on TV shows: nondescript. He seemed the sort of polo-wearing IT professional that I’d have chatted with at work when my computer went down. In short, he was not intimidating.

He also wasn’t arousing. His presence in our home didn’t do anything for me. So as my partner helped me shimmy out of my skirt and panties, my lips weren’t swollen and glistening with my arousal. Nor did my nipples show any sign of excitement as he pushed the cups of my bra beneath my breasts.

My partner, observant and loving, seemed to notice this when his first few blows seemed to catch me off guard. My body remained tense, the impact uncomfortable. As I prepared for another, my lover shocked me by instead grabbing my ass and pulling my hips forward so that my clit met his mouth. His practiced tongue sliding along the side of my clit that always seemed to be more sensitive. I sighed and pushed my hips toward him, a sign that he correctly took for my finally being in the right head space.

As quickly as his oral attentions had begun, he pulled away and begun raining blows upon my cunt. His hand seem to hit the mark every time, sometimes making contact with his soft but strong palm. At other times, I could feel his knuckles against my clit and vulva, making sore the spots that had received the most contact.

I was thoroughly enraptured, my gaze intent upon his face as he administered his craft when I heard the jingle of the stranger’s pants. I had forgotten all about him, when I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. As he rested in a chair, he’d unbuttoned and unzipped his khakis to reveal a hardon that was anything but forgettable. It was suddenly apparently where all the focus had gone during the creation of this man. His thick shaft and the perfectly contoured corona held my gaze for longer than I would have thought when he first walked into my living room.

As the man’s hand wrapped around his dick, my partner drew my attention back to him with a smack across the side of my face. My cheek stung, and I could suddenly smell the musk of myself so close to my nose.

“So you want a cock, do you?” His voice sounded stern, but I could see the glimmer in his eye.

Just like that first time he had spanked me, he was ready to take me, quickly pulling his belt free from its confines.  His jeans dropped to the ground around his ankles and his cock straining against perfectly-fitted boxer briefs. This hadn’t been part of the plan at all, but I couldn’t bring myself to say “No.”

Instead, I just nodded, and he knelt in front of the couch, pulling my legs around his hips so the tip of his cock could glide into my pussy. I bent my knees to hold him between my legs as tightly as possible. My nipples stood erect now, and somewhere in my periphery the stranger panted heavily as he worked his own cock.

My partner’s cock was buried in my cunt, slick with my juices and fitting perfectly like it always seemed to. While I was used to measured thrusts that would typically enable my partner to last longer, his own desire resulted in fervent strokes. His hips seemed to be moving quicker than my eyes could follow, but I could feel every time his hips pressed into mine and my labia burned after my spankings.  I had underestimated just how arousing this situation might be for him.

I imagined that the stranger’s eyes were glazed over just like those of my lover’s as he gaze somewhere over my shoulder. A few minutes of thrusting, and he was ready to come. But he hadn’t forgotten why we were here after all. Before he let himself be overtaken by a powerful orgasm, he reached out to slap my clit. I yelped, shocked, then moaned as this sudden smack brought on my own orgasm.

It was quick and shallow, but it was enough. My partner’s own orgasm seemed to burst from him, sapping him of strength as he collapse onto me. A jagged moan from across the room reminded us that we weren’t alone. This new stranger — as if you can call a man who has jerked off while watching you fuck a stranger! — had also come. His seed stained the front of his pants and dripped down his knuckles.

I managed to direct him to the bathroom sink. He nodded graciously before disappearing into the hallway. My partner lifted himself from me, and I pulled myself from the sofa, which I had almost seemed to become a part of. As he pulled his pants up, I grasped for my own clothes that were strewn upon the cushions.

His familiar smile was too much. I smiled back, feeling a warmth overcome my body and almost forgetting the burning of my pussy due to his spankings.

At that moment, the stranger reemerged, making his way toward the front door. He paused and turned to us, struggling for words.

“Thank you. That was,” an awkward pause, “something else.”

My lover nodded in the man’s direction. I remained motionless, unsure of the decorum that would be more appropriate in the situation. The stranger exited our home, quietly closing the door behind him. But I had a feeling that many more would use that door in the days to come.