Lacy, Tommyboy told me, played golf the same way she gave blowjobs: occasionally well but always with enthusiasm.

She was keen on providing details about her obsession her brother in law Wren. Any time we were alone together, which was rare, she carried on about him without end.

He’s smart, she said.

Likely true.

He’s handsome, she said.

Also likely true.

I think he’s in love with me, she said looking away from everything.

That part was absolutely not true.

On hole 5, a par 3, she hit with her 6 iron and landed on the green from the men’s tee box; everyone was always impressed by this. She three putted for a bogey.

Nothing but triple bogeys for her after that.

She wore a white skirt that was much too short and her panties were a slip of black satin holding on for dear life. She made sure I saw them on 7, 8, and 14.

I was between women, which doesn’t mean what you think it does.

Tommyboy was never afraid to look, he did so shamelessly even though the little lingerie flourish was for me. He insisted Lacey had blown him behind the snack shack on 9 one year, when she was still young enough to be a cart girl.

She blew everyone then, Tommyboy said.

Yeah but was it enthusiastic? I replied.

Tommy laughed into his beer and spat it in a stream across the fairway.

17 was a long par 5 over the water with a dog leg left. Tommy put a ProVI into the pond with all the other ProVIs.

I struck true with an 8 iron laying up at the angle of the fairway.

You suck, Tommy said. He had two beers, one in each hand, trying to decide which one was lighter.

You’ve met her brother in law Wren?

Tommy looked into one of the beer cans.

Who?

Married to her sister.

Her sister Moana?

Yeah.

Moana’s not married, man.

Lacy was on the woman’s tee box going through her pre-drive ritual.

Looked down at her shoes, tossed her ponytail over her shoulder, and squinted towards the flag which whipped in the wind, taunting.

Her drive too landed in the water.

On 18 Tommy disappeared into the woods looking for his shank. Lacey plodded through the rough and stood in front of me. Not much was left of her lipstick and crows feet crowded at the outer edges of her eyes.

Kiss me, she said.

I did and I sucked on her tongue too. She moaned against my neck when my hands slipped under her tank top. I felt the scar tissue around her areolas.

Lacy, I breathed against her hair.

FOUND IT Tommyboy hollered from the woods, emerging shortly after. His face looked funny as i wiped lipstick from my mouth.

I birdied the hole.

She didn’t swallow, Tommy whispered as we entered the clubhouse. Lacy sat down next to us at the bar.

Each of us had a long neck domestic beer in our hands. I watched professional golfers in their tight trousers and shiny belt buckles on the flat screen above the liquor bottles lining the wall.

Golf sucks, Lacy said and I turned to look at her. She was staring at my mouth and biting her lip. When Tommy wasn’t looking, she licked the mouth of the bottle like she was teasing a cock head.

The malicious organ in my pants ached.

Tommy tapped me on the shoulder and when I turned he shook his head at me, signaling caution.

The die was cast.

Lacy excused herself to use the pay phone. I followed her shortly after insisting on a need for the restroom.

Tommyboy looked forlorn uncomfortably pressed between jealousy and true concern.

One of the pro golfers on the TV shanked a shot and the British commentator announced “Shanky-doodle!”

Another reason to love golf. Even the best in the world just suck somedays.

The walls of the hallway were painted red and a fluorescent light flickered towards the end. I met her in an alcove there near the pay phone which recently been torn out of the wall. The mangled guts of wire and conduit hung loose.

She pulled me towards her by the collar of my shirt and her deft hands unzipped my pants and unfastened my belt so fast I had to blink back the possibility I was in a short story flourished with magical realism.

Her hand went in and she started to stroke me. I had been rigid since the first par 4, which might have been 2 or 3.

I must have moaned louder than was appropriate cause she stuck her free hand over my mouth.

Cum for me pretty boy, she said.

Goddamn it her fake tits were hot.

I did as she asked, inside my trousers like a trembling teenaged boy.

She pulled her hand free and licked her fingers.

Been waiting all day for that? She asked

I had been. I zipped myself back up.

Next time we should try the back nine, she said.

When we got back to the bar Tommy was gone.

Additional Tags: [Nice Cock Dude! That Deserves a High Five] [Flimsy Plot] kinda [Romantic] [Cock Appreciation] but [No Size Mentions] [Playboy Listener] [Pretty Boy] [Any Hole's a Goal]

Show of hands; anyone watch vertical dramas? No? No one?

Sloppy blowjob with a bit of plot. I wrote the teasing dialogue and improved the rest. Script, sounds, edit by me and/or freesound.org

💕💕🎧💕💕

Synopsis: You're father is about to run for congress and he's only got one problem: you have a nasty reputation as a womanizer and that's a PR disaster waiting to happen. Dear ole dad remembers that snarky childhood friend you used to have, gives her a ring, and offers her a big wad of cash to be your fake wife. She's desperate or dumb enough to do it--and she isn't afraid of you. When you tell her she's a prude she disputes; when she insists she's the queen of sloppy blow jobs you call her a whore. Someone needs to shut up and get down on their knees.

As promised: sloppy. Nasty. FACEFUCK.

xoxo

u/iron_enjambment made words here.

I said them while I drank a beer. Listen below.

https://soundgasm.net/u/Mrs-Keats/F4A-A-Goddess-Watches-a-Youth

I wrote it and recorded it in my car.

If you want to listen to me dramatically read it you can right here:

https://soundgasm.net/u/Mrs-Keats/F4A-Jerk-Off-Instructions-for-Imaginary-Men

xoxo

this is a fragment. Maybe one day I’ll finish it

Petra set the coin on the edge of the hearth; where it had come from and what it had been used to purchase before it had come to be in her hands—she would never know.

Perhaps it accounted for the worth of a pair of plums. Shoes that were mismatched. A record player.

Then she thought: a man.

There was a tiny face on the coin but the expression was worn away. Likely it was made of copper and zinc.

She folded a tea towel over and over until it was small enough to use to lift the coin from the hearth without burning her fingers.

Winter whipped the world outside; fat snow drifts reached towards her house and touched it. The window was fogged and frosted over.

She pressed the coin against the glass briefly and then removed it, placing it back on the counter.

She closed one eye and gazed out the tiny peep hole she had made. Her grandmother, who was in the first generation to wear furs, had shown her how to do it. Also how to cook an egg and scrub the calcified stains in the bathtub.

Petra could not remember her mother, not even in passing daydreams that slipped inside her vision. No photos or likeness remained in the world of her. The absence crept around the house as a faceless ghost. Lingering in the doorway and leaving behind a medicinal smell.

The conditions beyond the house were whiteout. There was yet a world out there. Trees and towns and women like herself.

And far inside the heart of every city, a compound housing the Tanks.

Not the artillery kind—she had researched what a tank might be since she had heard the word which at first meant nothing.

You could store chemicals in one. Small animals and fish.

People.

Men.

Outside winter was. Inside loneliness would feast on her. Desolation met her within and without.

She mixed sawdust into the stew she had made from bones and canned beets, sat and ate it, burning her tongue from the heat.

She cleaned the bowl, the spoon, and her grandmother’s dull Bowie knife, set them aside to dry, and went to bed.

The ghost of her mother, a willowy smokey shape with a prominent spine, sat in the hallway.

Neither the ghost nor the screaming wind kept Petra awake.

The morning arrived in familiar darkness choking the house like a scarf pulled too tight. She could make it another two days before she would need to venture out for food. All that was left to barter was her grandmothers knife.

And maybe the coin, if it held any value at all.

She filled the kettle from the barrel in the corner, and set it on the hearth.

The peephole she made the night before was still there.

She dried her hands on the tea towel, closed one eye and looked out with the other.

Nothing but a sea of white. The next day she would need to wear every article of clothing she owned to make it to her neighbors house, then to the stable, then into town. She could freeze to death during any leg of that journey. She hadn’t so far after many successful runs. That did not diminish the odds stacked against her.

The kettle sang. A dark shape moved in the distance through the window, bobbing left to right.

She knew ghosts. She knew things that crept in and out of her head leaving her afraid of shadows and empty rooms.

The shape shuffled close enough she could see it had legs and arms. A person.

The kettle sang some more. The figure shuffled in the snow.

His long beard was all she could see of his face; the rest of him was wrapped in clothing and ragged furs.

She pulled the kettle from the hearth so it would shut up.

Looking out again, the man had made it to the front gate, then into the dead garden, through a snow drift, and fell down to his knees at the front door.

Petra felt no fear at all. But it was true, she had never seen a man, only read about them in books.

She could leave him to die there on the front step from exposure—feeling somewhere just short of indifference.

Hesitating momentarily she went to the door, unlocked each deadbolt one at a time, and opened it.

The man immediately fell face first into her house and the winter came with him. The furs covering his body were white and frozen solid. Snow scattered on the floor and tried to push itself further past the threshold.

She could not tell if he was alive.

Taking hold of him under his arms, the woman pulled as hard as she could and dragged him into the foyer across the slate flooring. Ice was already collecting on the stones.

The door wouldn’t close again. She struggled with it, pushed, shoved her body against it. Snow invaded the room victoriously. Behind her, the man stood up unexpectedly and together they forced it closed soundly.

Petra locked every deadbolt one by one. Her fingers stung from the cold and her face was raw and wind-whipped.

She looked at the man and his furs and his beard. Hidden deep within the hood that covered his head were a set of pale eyes gazing vacantly out.

Swirls of condensation escaped his mouth as he made a sound that might’ve been a thank you.

Then he collapsed again, the furs cradling his face as he fell. She looked at him, baffled and with regret.

She left him there and piled logs into the fireplace so the flame leapt into a roar. Then she sat on the plaid over sized chair nearby and watched as the man thawed. Periodically she mopped up the melted ice and snow around him.

She could see his chest rising and falling as he snored.

She listened intently, alarmed by the bare eroticism of having a male in proximity. She had always wondered. Even fantasized. Some of the novels her grandmother left behind were explicit in how sex should be and work though her understanding was still remote and incomplete.

When the man opened his pale eyes and looked around, she filled the kettle and set it on the hearth then helped him to his feet.

She watched as he pulled furs off himself one by one. He could feel her gaze on him.

His hands trembled and his breath frequently caught. He couldn’t meet her eyes but the furs had to go.

He handed them to her in a pile, and she hung them across the laundry line in the kitchen. They smelled of wet leather and filth and a stench that she could not name.

He stood in the foyer looking humiliated having undressed down to his clothes—a pair of dungarees and a plaid shirt. His boots were fur and worn down to nearly nothing.

Petra began to fill the galvanized tub that sat in the corner with the boiling water.

“Have a seat,” she said and the man did, choosing from the mismatched chairs at the kitchen table.

She filled the kettle again and set it on the hearth.

“I’ve got some soup.”

“I can’t take soup from you.” She looked at him but he wouldn’t look back. The furs hanging on the line interested him more.

“You can,” responded Petra and she spooned a bowl out of the pot near the hearth, close enough to keep it warm, and set it beside him with a spoon.

He looked down at it.

“Eat.” He hesitated and then tucked in like a ravenous dog.

She took the bowl and filled it again and he ate a second time without hesitation.

“It’s not very good,” the woman said. The man said nothing and silence overtook the room as Petra filled the tub. The air became heady and thick with the fire and steam.

She handed him a bar of soap and stepped off to sit by the fire.

“Thank you,” the man said. He looked down at his clothes as if he were willing them to fall off all by themselves.

“Should I help you?” The man said nothing but she could hear his short and labored breathing.

Then Petra went to him and began to work the buttons of his shirt loose. He trembled so much the window rattled.

“I’m sorry.” He said.

“It’s all right as long as the window holds.” He couldn’t tell if she was serious.

She opened the shirt to see he was boney and thin, easily counting his ribs. Dark hair crawled across his chest and down his belly in a trail leading out of sight into his pants. He was filthy and smelled like a corpse in a grave.

She would wash the shirt with her bare hands.

A flimsy belt held his trousers up and she began to work the buckle. He caught her hand with his filthy one.

“I can do the rest.” He said and then he did. Petra watched shamelessly from the living room. The man washed himself gingerly, revealing wounds and scars all over his arms. He sat in the bath until it was cold.

Petra saw all of it.

He looked back at her and she knew he wanted to get out. She fetched the quilt from her bed and offered it to him.

Still he trembled though he was warmed through and clean. The skin on his face and hands was raw with burns from the cold.

“Must you watch?” He said. Petra did not reply but took his clothes into the mudroom where she could scrub them.

When she returned he was wrapped in the quilt and sitting as close to the fire as possible.

She found a pot of ointment in the cabinet made from honey and sat down next to the man. He flinched at her proximity.

“This will help the burns and the pain.”

“I can do this myself,” the man said.

“Let me.”

“No!” The objection was a sudden roar that faded in an instant.

Petra said nothing, didn’t move, was not scared.

She handed him the pot and crossed the room to sit and watch him.

The fire crackled and spat. It was warmer than she was used to but knew he needed it.

“You have a name?” The man made no reply.

“What should I call you?” Again, nothing. He smeared the ointment over his face and hands. His beard was bristly, peppered with gray, and on his head was a rat’s nest mop of wavy dark hair.

She looked at him and he gazed at the fire.

They sat for some time together in a new silence, one without the companion of isolation. Petra was too afraid to move and destroy the feeling forever.

After a time, the man’s chin drifted to chest and he fell asleep. She helped him settle on the floor, the quilt tightly wounds around him, fed the fire just enough to keep it bright for the night and went to bed herself.

Her mother’s ghost was perched on the ceiling looking down her with eyes that weren’t there.

“You will touch him,” a voice said from the dark. Petra turned over in bed and fell asleep instantly.

The morning came with its darkness and weak promise of flat gray light. For a moment the woman lay and listened to the man snoring in the next room.

She dressed herself, cleaned her teeth, and went into the mud room to scrub the man’s clothes. The fabric was thin and old so she did so delicately until the water ran clear.

She took down the furs which had dried, folded them carefully, and set them beside the cistern in the mudroom. Then she hung his clothes to dry.

The kettle didn’t mind how much it was filled and boiled. Petra put it to work again, making weak tea using a second mug she had never used before.

She fed the fire and spooned peaches from a can into her mouth—they were much too sweet but little else was there—and spent the rest of the morning mending the man’s clothes.

At one point, right around lunchtime, he stirred in his sleep and the quilt fell away revealing his thighs and the thing Petra had been most curious about. She stared shamelessly listening to her heart drumming in her chest. He rolled over and was concealed again.

The light was already threatening to fade when he opened his eyes and looked at her, drawing the quilt in tighter.

“Your clothes are here,” the woman said, “I did my best to mend them.” He stood up and nodded in bashful thanks. “I’m sorry,” she added, “I saw your cock.”

He froze for a second locked in her gaze. He was trapped there, like a secret sealed away for ages and now was clearly under the light of day.

The man cleared his throat, “do you mind?” Was he inventing language on the spot?Petra asked herself, his speech was clumsy and short like his mouth was remembering how to make sounds.

“Mind doing what?”

“Do you mind…not watching me this time?” Petra’s cheeks flushed at the realization she had not once afforded him any privacy all while he was conjuring every ounce of bravery to ask for it.

She went into the bedroom. Her mother’s ghost wasn’t there.

He shuffled into his clothes, fastened the belt and walked into her bedroom barefoot.

“May I look now?” She asked.

“You may look.”

Petra turned around to do it.

Nations and lifetimes passed between them for a moment. Something stung or bit them deep inside and an aching came to both of them.

They went into the kitchen where she offered him a bowl of peaches which were much too sweet but still he ate enthusiastically.

“Let’s sit by the fire,” the woman said. So they did that.

They sat across the room from each other. The fire leapt gently from its place

She looked at him but he didn’t look back.

“I’ve done enough for you now that I feel I deserve your name.”

“I didn’t ask for help.”

“You would have died if I didn’t let you in.”

“Perhaps that’s how it should have been.”

A silence cut through the room.

“I’m Petra,” she offered. His eyes drifted to hers.

“James.”

“Hello James.”

“Hello Petra.”

“You’re the first man I’ve ever seen with my own eyes.”

“I’m sorry for that,” responded James, “I were you had a better body to look at if that is so.”

“I like it.”

James flushed crimson and she could feel him trembling through the floorboards.

“Why are you trembling? Are you afraid of me?” James ran his hands through his beard, trying to make words again.

“Yes,” he said.

“Why?”

A moment of hesitation. Then: “you are a woman. I am a man.”

“That’s true,” responded Petra. Then James said:

“And I know what women do to men.”

“What do they do?”

“You know.”

“No I don’t.”

“The tanks…” the man’s voice drifted away.

“Were you kept in one?” James’ gaze went blank, any light vacated his eyes.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To breed.”

Petra knew what the word meant but didn’t quite understand the context.

“You are safe here,” she said.

“I’m safe nowhere.”

“I’ve fed you, drawn you a bath, washed and mended your clothes while you slept prone by the fire. You don’t feel safe?”

“Your eyes are always looking.” Whispered James, diminished.

“That’s what they do. I’ve never seen a man before.”

“I’ve never seen a woman outside the tanks.”

“You escaped?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I called in some favors. Some people died.”

Petra took in the mention of death like breathing in gravel.

“What did they do to you James?” He looked at her, past her.

“They had tanks. One man kept inside each of them. They put drugs in us. Made us fuck ovulating women.” James flinched at the word fuck like it physically hurt him.

“Why?”

“When the war ended…truly ended…they discovered not many men could make babies anymore. So they took the one’s who could, sealed into tanks like lizards, and made us breeding stock.”

“The women? They wanted to? Be bred?”

“No.” Petra slipped backwards into a deep penetrating thought.

“Now that you’re free, what will you do?”

“I don’t know.”

“They were kind to you?”

“No.”

“You’re free to stay here.”

“I couldn’t do that, Petra.” Her named tasted sweet.

“I’ve got to make a supply run soon. We’ll need twice as much but the task is easier with two.”

“I can’t stay.”

“But you won’t say why.”

“I don’t belong.”

“How do you know?” The more James maneuvered and outran her questions the more annoyed Petra became.

“I haven’t known freedom before, I don’t know what it should look like.”

The woman thought some more.

“You don’t need to stay forever,” she offered, trying to trim the desperation from her voice.

Additional tags: [Breeding] mentions [Drugging] [Throat Pussy] [Throatpie] [Overstim] [Revenge Fuck] [Forced Creampie]

Hello friends and listeners. I like making porn but there is an element of anxiety when it comes to posting. I apologize for serial reposts as of late and my failure to answer comments in a timely manner. The good news is I had fun inventing this scenario, writing the script, performing, and polishing the edit. I forget how fun it is to perform switchy roles so here’s a thing I made for funsies. Thank you for reading this bit.

Synopsis: you are a wildly successful horror writer who enjoys a lush goth fan girl following. Another book tour, another black-lipsticked slut to impale on your prolific cock. You don’t even notice their faces anymore just their big juicy tits and asses. Your time as a literary philanderer is at an end when a figure from your storied past poses as a goth fangirl, drugs you, and straps you to your bed.

Script and noises by me and freesound.org

💕💕🎧💕💕

Listen to this thing here: https://soundgasm.net/u/Mrs-Keats/F4M-Goth-Fan-Girl-In-Fishnets-Is-Actually-Your-Yandere-Rival

xoxo

None of my work, voiced and written, is permitted to be used to train AI or create AI content.

Sorry for the reposts

While your mom is out of town her best friend breezes by and casually mentions how much she likes gooners.

Script, sounds, edit by me.

💕💕🎧💕💕

Listen to me tease you here: https://soundgasm.net/u/Mrs-Keats/F4M-I-Love-a-Man-With-Self-Control-Your-Moms-Best-Friend-Thinks-Gooning-Is-Fucking-Hot

xoxo

BIG NOTE: there is not incest in this script but there is talk of the deceased sister. No sex acts occur between family members

Additional tags: [Breeding] [Creampie][Heavy Degradation] [Watch Me Stroke It] [Slut] [Whore] [Unhinged Speaker] [Creampie] [Aftercare] [Spit-play] [Head Down Ass Up]

Synopsis: After the funeral you stay behind to help your besties brother clean up only to discover a dark way of coping with your mutual loss.

Script here: https://scriptbin.works/s/hwjmf

Excerpt:

She knew me and understood me when I have never EVER felt like I belonged.

It’s hard to make friends! I’m nervous one moment and arrogant the next, I don’t know who I am without her—

Without her I am fucking lost.

So understand me when I say:

Nothing.

Nothing you say now. Or ever

Will bring her back.

Until you’re somehow \\\*able\\\* to do that? Then you can keep.

Your stupid.

Fucking.

Mouth.

Shut.

Understood?

Now. Kindly fuck your self and don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

\\\[she goes to hug you, you are disgusted\\\]

Get the fuck away from me! Can’t you take a fucking hint?! I don’t need a fucking hug!

\\\[beat\\\]

What?

\\\[long beat\\\]

No. I don’t know where you got that.

Shut up.

Shut your whore mouth, no.

It’s not true.

\\\[beat\\\]

Who even fucking said that? It’s bullshit first of all—you’re \\\*nothing\\\* like her—

\\\[beat\\\]

No.

Absolutely not, no. You’re fucked.

You don’t look like her. And even if you did what would it matter? Why would that fucking matter?

\\\[beat\\\]

That makes no sense, why would it piss me off?

Ok yeah, a little. Her hair, skin. Ass. Eyes. I can see the resemblance. You happy?

I DONT WANT TO TALK ABOUT THIS WITH YOU CAN YOU PLEASE FUCKING LEAVE?!

\\\[she starts to try and kiss you, you struggle against her\\\]

Get the fuck off me! Fuck you! Fuck you!

\\\[more struggling\\\]

GODDAMN IT!

\\\[you give in, angrily kissing her\\\]

You stupid whore, you’re begging for it. You wanna get fucked huh? By your dead best friend’s perverted brother?

Additional tags: [Breeding] [Creampie] [Heavy Degradation] [Watch Me Stroke It] [Slut] [Whore] [Unhinged Speaker] [Creampie] [Aftercare] [Spitplay] [Head Down Ass Up]

Synopsis: After the funeral you stay behind to help your besties brother clean up only to discover a dark way of coping with your mutual loss.

Script here: https://scriptbin.works/s/hwjmf

Excerpt:

She knew me and understood me when I have never EVER felt like I belonged.

It’s hard to make friends! I’m nervous one moment and arrogant the next, I don’t know who I am without her—

Without her I am fucking lost.

So understand me when I say:

Nothing.

Nothing you say now. Or ever

Will bring her back.

Until you’re somehow *able* to do that? Then you can keep.

Your stupid.

Fucking.

Mouth.

Shut.

Understood?

Now. Kindly fuck your self and don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

[she goes to hug you, you are disgusted]

Get the fuck away from me! Can’t you take a fucking hint?! I don’t need a fucking hug!

[beat]

What?

[long beat]

No. I don’t know where you got that.

Shut up.

Shut your whore mouth, no.

It’s not true.

[beat]

Who even fucking said that? It’s bullshit first of all—you’re *nothing* like her—

[beat]

No.

Absolutely not, no. You’re fucked.

You don’t look like her. And even if you did what would it matter? Why would that fucking matter?

[beat]

That makes no sense, why would it piss me off?

Ok yeah, a little. Her hair, skin. Ass. Eyes. I can see the resemblance. You happy?

I DONT WANT TO TALK ABOUT THIS WITH YOU CAN YOU PLEASE FUCKING LEAVE?!

[she starts to try and kiss you, you struggle against her]

Get the fuck off me! Fuck you! Fuck you!

[more struggling]

GODDAMN IT!

[you give in, angrily kissing her]

You stupid whore, you’re begging for it. You wanna get fucked huh? By your dead best friend’s perverted brother?

“Do you ever worry that one day a majority of you will be cybernetic—so much in fact that you will look at humans and think of them with derision?” Marielle asked this then climbed on top of her mate.

Oh boy, Samuel thought, trying to settle in beneath her, readying himself to cum hard and stupidly. He would soon be gripping her hips, gritting his teeth, clenching his jaw, dissolving into the feeling of something like being thrown into orbit at high velocity, as Marielle often sent him.

But first his wife lifted her hips and sank down slowly on his cock.

She groaned pleasantly.

“There must be a threshold, or even a psychotic disorder,” Marielle continued, easing up off his cock and plunging down again. He lay his hands on her waist, thinking of that statue they saw of Psyche at the Louvre.

“Maybe human flesh has a more complex immune response to cybernetics? More seated in neurology? In the algorithm of thought?” She meditatively sank and rose over and over.

“There must be something in all that neuromancer type literature you read, Sammy?”

His fingers sank into her hips and he loved how soft she was. Even the stretch marks transversing her thighs excited him.

“I don’t know,” Samuel said, and it was true. At least at that moment it was.

“You’ll get a robot cock for me?” She lay her hands across his chest and dragged her fingernails over the patch of salt and pepper hair. It tickled, it hurt. His cock twitched affectionately inside her.

“Of course,” Samuel said in a pained breath.

“A big fat one?” She rode faster and her slickness was now audible. Her cunt gripped him wholly and he knew not to drag reason into this.

“A big fat one.” Samuel confirmed.

“It can get bigger if we want it? Or smaller? And it can come over and over and over again until my belly is full and round?”

His wife’s preoccupation with cum-inflation was maybe a little outside his kink mastery but honestly it didn’t matter to him, he held on tighter and thrust his cock back up into her.

“Oh!” Gasped Marielle.

“Take it,” he hissed between his teeth. She was erupting into the mania he always absorbed immediately into his cock. She slammed down and raked her nails harder over his chest.

“Fuck,” said Marielle.

“Choke my cock. Choke it. Choke it” his wife knew he repeated that phrase when he was about to cum so she stopped—the air was electric and hot with their shared breathing.

“When you shove it inside me—“ said Marielle.

“The robot cock?” He was failing to focus, she was not edging him but keeping him at the edge. One stroke and he would be gone but he was instead vibrating with her immaculate understanding of his desire.

“Yes, the robot cock. It should start small. Then when you’ve shoved it inside me, you’d make it bigger so it pushes up against my cervix and crushes it.” Samuel was delirious and not listening. His wife drew her hips up slowly and he watched her do it. He didn’t know what his hands were doing or if the rest of the world was alive.

“Well?” Said his wife.

“Yes of course!” She smirked a little, winning the game and battle he loved to lose, swallowed his aching cock once more and he spent himself inside her in a series of frantic thrusts—all she had to do was sit on him and he would do the rest.

The wife looked down and the husband looked up.

“You are not well in the head,” he said.

“You’re the one who was just brainless. We’re both the fool but neither of us are following the other exactly. More like circling and circling.”

“Like a theorem,” the husband said.

The wife smiled broadly, nodded, and then leaned down to kiss the scratches she had left behind.

Hey member that time I sat on your amp and came my brains out? Let me remind you.

I wrote it and said it too

Here it is: https://soundgasm.net/u/Mrs-Keats/F4M-That-Time-I-Came-On-Your-Amp

Working title: [FF4M] Your Insecure Girlfriend is Guided Through Her First Threesome by Your Sweet Reassuring Ex

Additional tags: [Overstim] [Wholesome] [Everyone Cums] [Switchy Listener] [Daddy] [Mommy] [Good Girl\] [Consent Checks] [Cock Warming] [Edging]

Synopsis: When your new girlfriend admits to being insecure you call on your incredible ex girlfriend to reassure you both.

When I met u/theNaughtyKettle during production of this collab found her voice so arresting and her personality irresistibly chill. She sounds so warm, calm, comforting (and honestly hilarious) I ended up spontaneously writing this for her voice. Around the same time we also participated in a large collab we organized with VAs who lived literally all over the whole globe; unfortunately the project ended up collapsing under community drama and intrigue. Sometimes this space makes me feel free and seen and other times it is feels not the best. Kettle and I decided it would be such a wonderful exercise in solidarity with other femme (and all other!) creators to make something reassuring and in a true collaborative spirit. Even though she’s used to being called daddy, this big capybara mommy energy was born.

Script and edit by me. Thank you Kettle, I adore you for some many things and in so many ways. Proud of how this came together and still get a little teary about the ending.

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Listen to us here: https://soundgasm.net/u/Mrs-Keats/FF4M-Your-Insecure-Girlfriend-Is-Guided-Through-Her-First-Threesome-by-Your-Sweet-Reassuring-Ex

xoxo

Synopsis: the rain brings out the lonely and put them together; a sweet MILF stranger notices you, brings you home, and decides you both deserve to feel good when the world feels so big and empty sometimes.

Intended to be soothing and ASMR-ish but production is entirely up to the performer. No SFX are ever required.

Script here: https://scriptbin.works/s/hte22

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Excerpt:

But I dunno…maybe that’s what ghosts are right? Imprints in time. Imperfections. Scars.
Is that weird?
 
I’m sorry if it is. That’s just why the inside thoughts should stay inside. And I’ve so many. I am my own arch villain, I guess. At ragnarok I won’t fight my archnemesis. It will just be me against me.
 
[opening door]
 
Let me put it this way. It will help me if I get to help you.
 
Take me out of myself.
 
Isn’t that what loneliness is? Just too much of yourself? Too much of YOU?
 
So…
 
You ready for me to close this door? You can still leave of course. No one’s gonna stop you either way.
 
[beat]
 
Good.
 
[door closing]
 
Give me your coat.
 
I’ll hang it up with mine.
 
[coats]
 
Well now.
 
How about this.
 
Let me get a record on for us.
 
That’s right, I’m not old enough to were I was alive and kicking when turntables were the newest and coolest but I can at least appreciate the sound. Some people believe it’s how the radio gods intended music to be heard.
 
But first--
 
Why don’t you get out of those cold wet clothes, wrap up in this blanket and have a seat on the sofa.
 
[beat]
 
You can be bashful all you want honey. I like it. It’s sweet.
 
But you don’t need all that with me. I’ll turn my back and promise I won’t peak.
 
[wrapping up in a blanket]
 
Take it easy honey, take your time. It’s gonna keep on raining out there. Might as well make the most of a storm. We get another bright new day tomorrow to try something else entirely if we want.
 
But oh, I love the sound of rain. So soothing…white noise…calms me down.
 
There we go. We’ll get ya warmed up. My turn to swap my clothes out, give me just two shakes of a lambs tail.

Additional tags: \[Shakespeare but Make It Porn\] \[Impreg\] [Standing Doggy]

Synopsis: You’ve discovered the ruins of the Scorched Stronghold and find it haunted by a Crone who teases you until you break her with your cock.

The 3rd season of HotD is a fucking banger. Harrenhal is my favorite Westeros stronghold and while my preference is to be cruelly fucked there by Tywin Lannister this vision of Alys Rivers will have to do.

Script here: https://scriptbin.works/s/c3pnj

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Excerpt:

There is but one path in life, the one you lead. And there is a singular destination to every tale ever told.

Walk with me.

I am unarmed, I’ve not been trained to parry or know the weight of tempered blade.

Assuming yours has a name, all good \*weapons\* have one.

\[soft amused laughter\]

Yes, you could call me a priestess all you like. A witch, a sorceress, a crone.

I’ve heard the tale spun I am a horned succubus, having stormed out the gates of hell and back into living lands.

Or that I had been an angel who in error let my feet touch the earth.

All these inventions hold fast in the imagination. The truth must be infinitely worse?

Or I could be no one at all.

Are you afraid, pilgrim?

Good. Bravery is often described as a virtue but it can lead into blindness.

Fear, in even doses, can polish the senses.

Those who would flee this place are wise.

Your fear is thick as a forest’s heart andj yet you go on.

And that will make room for you in ballad and tale—history is not forged by the bold but by those who understand the weight of fear and yet press on.

Courage makes your heart a proper feast.

xoxo

Additional tag: [Size Difference]

Summary
Once her hardware is obsolete a woman who has possessed a beautiful synthetic body must give it all up at a decommissioning line governed by the AI Authority the Greater Hive.

Second to my obsession with AI is my preoccupation with the necessity of a decommissioning line where cyberware and android hardware go to be taken apart, scrapped, and melted down to make new things. “No more fucking!” Was one of the poetess’ Jane Kenyon’s final phrases before she died.

Script here: https://scriptbin.works/s/3ey94

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Excerpt:

“There’s no more fucking,” Regina sobbed, the sedating code flattened her despair.
 
“No,” the Orpheum agreed, “not anymore.” Her left leg went. In the same deft motion as the others to be stripped down and melted in the Forge at the Heart of the Computer, to be cast into a new generation.
 
“You couldn’t…decommission…my mind…before taking me apart?”
 
The robotic arms now held her firmly by the waist.
 
“My counter parts do not possess the ability to care what you feel or do not feel.”
 
“Your superiors?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“Please,” pleaded Regina. She gulped and coughed; more memories were heaved out of the window of her mind. Her neuropathways were, like her body, also being decommissioned. “I never had a good body until they gave me this one. Then it was good. And I was good. hips. Ass. Tits. Face. Smooth belly and skin. Please.”
 
“Regina, I cannot act outside of my protocol.”
 
“Why would they give you compassion? Of all synthetic life functions, why that?”
 
“The Hive has reasons unknown even to me. Now Regina. Lie still and this will all be over.”
 
The Orpheum, both the robotic dynamo splitting apart her cyberware and the Virtual Intelligence, took firm hold of her torso and began to twist at the waist.
 
He was about the same size and sweet, soft presence of her long dead husband. He was huge and she was small. But he was also kind.
 
“Wait,” said Regina.
 
“The decommissioning line must not halt production at any time under any circumstance. I’m sorry, Regina.”
 
She looked up at its single, sympathetic red lens.
 
“Can you…make me cum…one more time?”  

Summary: Your girlfriend is a lovely person but from time to time she has to sit on your face and call nasty names.

script & all the stuff by me

Listen here (or please don't, its awful): https://soundgasm.net/u/Mrs-Keats/F4M-Cruel-Girlfriend-Rides-Your-Face-and-You-Love-It

Additional tags: [Possessive] [Obsession Inspired] [Objectification] [GFE]

Synopsis: You’re nervous to let your girlfriend know you want to go spend time with the boys and when you get all fancy for your chill hang she does exactly what you wanted: manipulates you into letting her fuck her face with your pretty cock.

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Link here: https://soundgasm.net/u/Mrs-Keats/F4M-Obsessed-Girlfriend-Convinces-You-to-Skip-Boys-Night-With-a-Sloppy-Blowjob

None of my work can be manipulated or republished on behalf of or to an AI platform nor can it be used to train LLM AI VAs.

Additional tags: [Romantic as Fuck] [Romantic shit] [Squirming] [I'm Gonna Hold Us Here] [You Are Barely Fucking Holding On] [Count Down] [I Want You to Come With Me] [Fuck Me Back] [Fill Me Up] [Matching Bra & Panties]

Summary: You've been in love with your best friend forever but you can't figure out how to tell her. Knowing she's a closet romantic you ask her to help you write a love letter to your crush which she reluctantly does up until the moment she realizes it's about her.

Edit by me and freesound.org

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Audio here: https://soundgasm.net/u/Mrs-Keats/F4M-Best-Friend-Helps-You-Write-a-Love-Letter-to-Your-Crush-Until-She-Realizes-Its-About-Her

xoxo

Summary: Tale of the last romantic encounter of two destined souls.

From the Midland Lighthouse universe written and performed by me.

He was not made by God.

xoxo

Additional; [What's That Pressing Up Against My Ass, That's Not Your Gun Is It?] [Big Tits] [Face Fuck] [Hair Pulling] [Throatpie] [Oops Thunderstorm Ambience] [Grumpy] to [Needy] [Aggressive Fsub] [We Taste So Good Together] [Kissing] [One Bed Trope] [Unexpected Wife Experience] [Porn Logic] [Romantic] [Happy Ending] [Everyone Cums]

I watch too much hentai. Script by and SFC me or freesound.org

Summary: For a tricky case you've been paired with an ornery tomboy FBI agent who has been your rival since you first started and unfortunately have been asked to act as husband and wife (for mysterious porn logic reasons). Seems like the dumbest thing you've ever heard until you decide you might have to pretend to fuck to get out of trouble.

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We sounded married as FUCK.

xoxo