u/zombies-never-saydie

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

************

"A sex shop?" I raised an eyebrow at Kylee, who was playing passenger princess as I drove us west on I-80, heading past the suburbs.

"Mhm," she twirled one of her wavy locks around her index fingers, eyes glued to the slowly unfurling desert. Dust and shrubbery took over as the new builds sank into the distance.

"Couldn't go to one of the shops in town, huh?"

"What if someone recognized me? Or you?"

"Well, me--I don't care about that. But yeah, I get why you don't want to be seen walking into a sex shop." I looked over at her. She was dressed casually today--not in her typical skin-baring summer wear. Instead, she had an oversized navy hoodie on and a pair of matching sweat shorts.

It was a fairly long drive. Probably twenty miles outside the suburbs.

It stood alone on the side of the highway, with a vast gravel lot that I couldn't imagine ever holding more than a few cars at once.

I chuckled at the name--Latter Day Restraints--as I pulled in and parked

"Okay, so here's the plan." Kylee turned to face me with a devious look in her eyes.

"Oh, there's a plan now?"

"There's always been a plan, but you're on a 'need to know' basis."

"I hope to one day be promoted to an 'in the know' basis."

"Anyway, this shop has a glory hole." Her bright eyes darted from side to side as she said it, as if someone might overhear.

"What? No way. I didn't think that was still a thing."

"It's definitely a thing."

"Says you?"

"I mean, yes, listen I heard it has a glory hole. I don't know for sure. But, I mean, look at this place. Looks like it'd have one."

"Sure, I can see that."

"So, you're going to go in first. Then I'm going to follow after a couple of minutes. We don't know each other."

"Hold up--since when are you interested in glory holes?"

"It's a fantasy I've been tending to for a while--now stop interrupting!" She grabbed me by the shoulders. "Listen very carefully. We don't know each other. You're going to walk into wherever the glory hole is, which I trust you to figure out. I'm going to do the same."

My eyes went wide with understanding. "Ah, so..."

"Yes. I'm going to suck your beautiful cock through that glory hole."

Incredible.

"Okay, well, now I already have a hard on."

"Good! Keep it. I want it so very hard when you push it through that wall. Now, go!"

***

Despite it's cheeky name, Latter Day Restraints was a fairly typical sex shop. Dildos. Vibrators. Novelty gag gifts like penis lollipops, penis sweet tarts, penis gummies, penis headbands, And on and on. I imagined it would all be rather new and exciting to Kylee but I'd been in enough sex stores to know what to expect.

Of course, I'd never been in a shop with an actual glory hole. But as soon as I saw the sign for "private booths" above an unlit hallway at the rear of the store, I knew that Kylee had solid info. It was there, beyond the extensive, technicolor g-string collection that I found a row of nondescript doors. I opened one and entered a small viewing booth. It was definitely vintage and didn't seem operational anymore. I definitely didn't have change to find out. But what it did have was a crotch-high cutout in the wall, leading into the next booth.

I locked the door and waited.

A few minutes later, I heard a click in the booth next to mine.

She didn't say anything, but I knew it was Kylee. I recognized her breathing. I sat for a while, listening to what sounded like rustling and then--a soft moan.

I unzipped my jeans.

I was already hard. Pushing my pants to my ankles, I maneuvered my erection to the hole, pushed it through, and waited.

***

After a few seconds, I felt Kylee's tongue pressing against my frenulum. She was starting like that--with that perfect fucking flick she loved to do. I could tell it was her. Knew her moves. But it was a different experience, not being able to see and watch her. In a way, it made me hyper-focused on the physical sensation. I savored every twirl of her tongue as it traced the rim of my cockhead. Soon, I was inside her mouth, her soft lips closing around that very same rim as she began to suck my tip.

"Mmph," she moaned slightly as she began to take me up my shaft.

I pressed my palms against the walls of the small room, wishing they were in Kylee's hair.

She sucked deeper and I heard the sounds of slight gagging as she took me into her throat.

"More," a curt but firm command that she immediately obeyed.

My ballsack was pressed against the cool wall. I looked down at it, trying to imagine what Kylee must look like on the other side. Was she naked? Did she have a hand down her panties?

"Mmph, mmph, mmph," she went back and forth, taking my shaft into her throat and then pulling back to swirl her tongue around my tip.

"Deeper. All the way. And hold it while I count."
"Mhm," she replied, lips never leaving my cock. Kylee was now deliriously good at deepthroating. The first time she gave me head she could only take a few inches into her mouth, but now she could consistently take my shaft to its hilt, which she did--as much as possible with the wall between us--now.

"One...two...three..." I counted slowly, feeling Kylee's saliva pool along the underside of my shaft. The longer she held me, the more her spit started to wash forward in her mouth, running towards the base of my cock.

"Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen," I knew it was spilling over her bottom lip now. I could feel it. I pushed my hands hard against the wall, imagining they were grasping Kylee's head.

"Glu--uck," her throat constricted around me, trying to push me out.

"Thirty--good girl." I pulled back, giving her the smallest window to catch her breath, then pushed forward. I took control. Fucked her mouth through the wall. It was clear to me that her mouth was dripping spit from the noises my cock made pushing over her tongue.

"Fuck, this is going to make me cum."

"Mhm, mhm, please," small whiny pleas around my shaft.

Harder. Faster. Deeper. My fingers flexing into the wall the way they'd push against her scalp and then--"Agh!"

Cum shooting into her throat.

I kept going. Fucking her mouth even as my sticky cum filled it. I didn't stop until several seconds after the last convulsion. I felt her swallowing around me and I wondered if any had spilled down onto her shirt--or her tits, if she was naked.

I stopped, letting my soft cock hang on the other side of the glory hole. I felt Kylee's tongue again as she licked me clean. When she was done, I heard her smacking her lips. Finally, I pulled my flaccid cock back through the glory hole. Then I leaned down, spoke through the wall to her, "Bend over. Shove your pussy right here. I want to feel how wet you are."

"Mm," she moaned in response and quickly shifted. It wasn't the easiest positioning, but she was able to squeeze her thighs together and shove her pussy lips against the glory hole.

Kneeling down, I tried my tongue first, but I was only barely able to taste her with the wall between us. Still, she was delicious. Soaked. Needy. She pushed her ass back against the wall, trying to get more of my tongue inside of her. I flicked and teased her labia, but soon settled for my fingers.

I plunged my index finger inside her. Felt her gush around me. She moaned. I could feel a slight vibration and knew she was teasing her clit. Felt her fingers dip down near mine as she gathered her own wetness to use as lubricant. I added my middle finger and began to fingerfuck her as she aggressively circled her nub.

"Are you going to cum for me?"

"Uh-huh, ah, ah, I already came when you were in my throat."

"A second time then."

"Yes, please, don't stop, please."

Her juices running down either side of my fingers. Between them. Coating them. Sticky. Sweet. I felt her in my palm.

She was rolling her hips, grinding against me, and fuck it was so needy. My cock--hanging limply against my inner thigh--throbbed in response.

"Ah, ah, ah!" Kylee bucked her hips and I felt her clench around my fingers. She shoved herself back on me, shaking. After a few seconds, she shifted forward. My fingers hung through the glory hole, her juices dripping from them. I could tell she was shivering.

"Whew, that was--wow, I came hard." She spoke between pants.

"It was really, really hot," I agreed, pulling up my jeans. "Once you're ready, you go out first. I'll meet you back at the car."

"Okay, okay," she was still breathing heavily. "Give it, like, three or four minutes."

***

When I got back to the car, Kylee was slumped in the passenger seat with her hood up.

"Looking pretty suspicious," I teased her as I slid into the driver's side.

She looked at me with that sly smile, "I got something before I left."

"Oh?" I raised an eyebrow as she opened her purse and produced a thick pink dildo.

"Think it's as big as yours?"

"Probably close to it," I replied, taking the toy in my hand and feeling the weight of it.

"I want to give it a try."

I nodded, "With my help?"

"Always. I also purchased my first g-string."

I went slack-jawed for a moment, staring at Kylee and imagining what this g-string might look like on her. Regaining my composure, I nodded solemnly, "Thank you for an incredible day."

There you go again–flaunting that perfect fucking couloir between your legs. That slight passage that haunts my everlasting dreams. Makes me salivate. Makes the blood drain from my fucking brain like an hour-long meeting (but, you know, in a good way). South. Filling. Throbbing. Pumping. Pulsing.

You think I don’t notice the tops of your thighs when you wear that skirt? Or the way the fabric rides up when you’re wearing too-short shorts? You think my eyes don’t wander and my cock doesn’t wonder what color, what fabric, what thong or hipsters or boyshorts is rubbing against those lips? What is it, sugar? What’s hiding up that tight ravine, just waiting for my fingers to slip under and over so I can pull ‘em aside?

Call it Fort Fucking Knox. Or Black Iris by O’Keefe. Tell one of these yonic artists to cast your perfect fucking vulva and hang it next to The Death of Socrates at the Met. Yeah, I know the difference between the vulva and vagina–one’s for licking, the other’s for fucking. Let’s call that progress, sweetheart.

And with knowledge like this, god, I’ll be lucky if those old-world fanatics don’t burn me at the stake. But fuck the Roganites and the trad wives–I’ll die for what I love. Let ‘im have their toxic affairs and bottomless despair. Because you and me? We got some actual fun to get to. Ain’t got time to be so bloody insecure. Rebellion–no matter how small or simple–tastes a helluva lot better than the heel of a boot. And you? Well, honey, you taste fucking supreme.

So, okay, we’ve established that I’m no monk. But it ain’t like you’re a saint either. Nope. You’re the type of girl to walk into the candy shop and come out with a lollipop. The type that lets a melting popsicle stain your cool, freckled skin on a hot summer day. Babe, you may be pretty, but you sure ain’t dumb. You know exactly what you’re doing to me. Do I mind? Not one fucking bit. I know your type. On the holy dawn of Sunday–with the slickness of my spit still on your lips–you’ll be up early, putting on your ruffled floral dress before skipping off to the confessional. Got a lot to get off your chest today, dontcha?

Really, though? Who says you’ve got a place to be? This sweaty morning could stretch into a soaked afternoon. And ain’t that more comfortable than a hard wooden pew? You and me. We could get undressed and stay covered in dew.

Know what I mean?

I think you do.

Babe, I’m just as bad as you, so why shouldn’t we be bad together? We could be like Sailor and Lula. Wild at heart and unquenchable. We could lie here wrapped in these satin sheets soaked with our sweat and your juices and close out the day on a high note. Just lemme at it. Two fingers inside and a tongue pressed flat against your little nub. All that blood’ll rush straight below, making you ruby red against my chin.

Lay back and let me part your legs. Like the Song of Solomon. Let me enjoy your fruit. Push my vessel through and then close in to wrap me in your undulating walls. Yeah, buttercup, send me straight to Hell. God knows I deserve it for romping with perfection like you.

Honey, I know I’m vulgar and sinful and rude. But I’ve been cast outta the real Eden for far too long. I keep wandering these cold, marble halls when all I want is to return to the fold, to tie you to a chair, to spread your legs, and draw out that sweet, desperate moan that tingles the corners of your mouth and sends chills up my spine. Let’s hear you take the Lord’s name in vain. Let’s hear that tittering tongue devolve into a gush of profanities. Let’s close the door, cast aside our clothes, and sink into the wet rhythm of indiscretion.

Is that so much to ask? Am I wrong here? When I come knockin’ on the garden’s gates, won’t you please let me back in?

What?

You were expecting something else?

You think I don’t fucking love the way your pussy tastes?

You think I won’t drop to my knees right now and here, spread your legs apart, and nuzzle my beard against your inner thighs?

You think I’m not about to flatten my tongue against that perfect little pearl while you trade turnips or quick-scope noobs or murder all of your sad sack simulated people by deleting the doors in their houses or trapping them in a room without a bed?

Fucking bet. I think you’re kinda fucked up, but I like it. I know you’re a nerd. A straight-up slut for your virtual farm. Yeah, it’s cute, but all I care about is lapping that precious pink slit while you try to concentrate on something else. Give it a shot. We’ll see how long you last.

How long until your hands are running through my hair while my tongue treats your beatific bead like the last ice cream cone on Earth? Don’t worry. I’m not gonna do that doorbell shit. Like I’m a Mormon missionary begging for you to let me in so that I can pontificate and proselytize. All I care about is the glory of that biblical pussy. I’m a glutton for it. Lustful and avaricious and maybe even a bit prideful. I’m not known for being a standup fella, y’know? But there isn’t a pious person on this planet who’s gonna play the kinda games I play with you.

Lemme be more clear–it ain’t gonna be antediluvian in this fucking house for much longer. Know what I’m saying? I’m gonna lick and flick and twirl and tease and dip in and out and all around your gushing little sleeve. And when the deluge comes…fuck is it gonna cum. You dig?

I know you fucking dig. Just try to squirm away. I’ll reach my hands right under your ass and hold you in place. Don’t take this delicious fucking pussy away. Don’t you dare interrupt me while I’m doing the Good Lord’s Work. Because a woman unpleasured is a woman scorned. If my beard doesn’t smell like you the rest of the day–if that piece of shit Greg doesn’t say, “Damn, you been tonguefucking your girl again?”--then I’m not gonna be happy.

Fucking Greg. A man so devoid of common sense that he thinks his girl is the one fucking woman on this godforsaken planet who comes exclusively from penetrative sex. I feel bad for her, y’know? A shame. While you’re busy dripping down my chin and holding a pillow to your face, his girl is scrolling through Instagram while he jackhammers her from behind.

Don’t be afraid to scream, honey. Can I call you honey? I wanna be respectful while I’ve got your plush thighs squeezing my cheekbones. Anyway, babe, don’t be shy. I want the neighbors to hear what real pleasure sounds like. Not that fake Pornhub shit. Like a hyena stuck in a washing machine. Some bored starlet forgetting she’s supposed to be acting.

Nope. I’m sick of that Photoshop-AI-filtered-fucking bullshit. Gimme that Kendrick Lamar fucking natural shit. Wanna feel the stretch marks. Wanna feel the imperfect perfection of freckles and scars and razor knicks. I’ll be humble until you sit your ass down and lemme go for it.

You think it doesn’t make me hard as a slab of fucking granite when you try to squirm away? I’ve got my cock in one hand while my other is two-fingers deep. Not fingerblasting. Nope. I’m not a noob, not like all those ignorant pricks you indiscriminately murder in your games. Two fingers pressing down so you can squeeze around me and feel full while I slobber up and down your vulva.

Give me that grool, girl. I’m coming to take it. Just lean back and enjoy the way I do this oral massage. I’ll graze and munch and kiss and beckon. You just relax.

Now spread your fucking legs and game.

---

This is an invitation to chat. You in?

The first time you told me, “I like it rough,” we were in our hotel room overlooking the Strip. You were just slightly tipsy on mini champagne bottles, the effervescence still popping on your lips. I’m surprised I didn’t lose it right there with the hair-raising goosebumps of possibility.

Instead, I said quite matter-of-factly, “Oh yeah?” in the cool, comfortable baritone that I know makes you want to grind the nearest object (preferably, me). But, as I unhooked my belt, I pushed a little further, “You don’t even know what rough is.”

You bit your bottom lip, did that cute little nod, and then titled your head to the side. Of course it drives me wild when you play dumb. A vivacious nymph pretending to be a nun. Your hand–so small and cold and weak--grasped mine. You laced your short digits through my long ones and brought my palm to your neck. And you just barely whispered, ”It’s like this”. And it was the hottest thing you’ve ever done.

My palm slipped past and my forearm squeezed gently but firmly around your throat. You knew that you could trust me to be careful–firm, but sweet, just the way you like. And then I was climbing on top of you, pushing you face-first into the plush white comforter familiar to any hotel guest. Your dress was already half-unzipped, the smooth slender arch of your back warmed beneath my hand.

ZIP

“Let’s get the rest of that outta the way,” I teased as my hand slipped beneath the spread hem to cup your ass. You curled up against me, encouraging me to fill my palm. Easily done with an ass like yours. And suddenly, all those memories of groping and lightly smacking it turned into fantasies of bending you over my knee and bruising you like a peach.

“This is mine,” I hissed in your ear. And to make it slightly unclear which part of you I was referring to, I lifted your cheek and threaded my middle finger between your thighs. But of course you knew. You knew it was all mine.

You managed to free yourself from a pile of pillows and made your voice quiver, “What are you going to do to me, Sir?” There it was–that word. You weren’t as green as I thought.

I considered my reply. My options seemed limitless. But this wasn’t some Fifty Shades bullshit. Consent is hot. Even more so when it takes the form of begging, groveling, whining, or moaning. You were going to come clean. You were going to submit and admit what you wanted me to do to you.

So I grasped your ass, your hips now wiggling out of your dress, “Tell me what you want me to do with this.” I ended the sentence with emphasis, my fingers digging the punctuation into your firm flesh.

“I want you to smack it,” you replied, your teeth already chewing into Egyptian cotton.

“How hard? Like this.”

SMACK

The sound bounced between us and the high ceilings. I reached over, turned up the TV. Another CSI rerun.

“Mmphf. More.”

“More what? Be specific.” I was looming over you, my shadow making you look tiny. I leaned forward to whisper into your ear, “Your mouth is good for two things: sucking my cock and telling me how you want to be fucked.” God, what a word to use when I’m talking about you.

“Make it red.”

SMACK

You cried out before biting down to muffle the sound. Your hair was tousled now, falling in cascading waves across your blushing cheeks.

“Just red?” I dug my fingers into the sore spots.

“Maybe blue.”

SMACK

“Blue would look good on you.” And I didn’t realize it then, but I was growing into this burgeoning dynamic. All it took were those four words from you–I like it rough–and I was shifting comfortably into Dom space. The thought of leaving marks on you–bruises, welts, and more–had my erection demanding freedom.

I wanted to feel how wet you were–not with my hand, but while I was deep inside you. I wanted it to pour over me, to coat my cock as I stretched you.

How many times had we fucked before that night? And yet, it felt like the first. You were so remarkably tight. As soon as my cockhead was against your slit I knew it’d be a fight. But I let you squeeze my hand while I claimed you anew. You were running like a stream over me. Your juices pouring down my balls as I squished them against your lips.

Then–fuck–then I really started fucking you. I’ve never heard your ass clap that loudly against my thighs. Bottoming out at the apex of every thrust. You were moaning with satisfaction, undoubtedly giving the guests next to us an entertaining show. You kept bouncing your hips backwards, desperate to have me inside you each time I retracted.

You arched your back, let out a gasp, and your pussy clenched around my shaft like a fucking glove. I don’t think I could have pulled out if I wanted.

Tighter, tighter, tighter.

I was panting and huffing and grunting and—-------fuck.

There it goes. All of it. Inside of you. My cum spilling out, filling you up, drenching your pretty pink pussy with me.

“Good girl,” a phrase that made you shudder around me. Followed by another hearty SMACK. Who knew I’d enjoy watching your ass jiggle so much. It wasn’t quite bruised, but it was a beautiful red. A good start. I knew there was plenty of time ahead of us. But, for now, I told you to get dressed. We were going back out.

“No panties and no tissues.” Back out indeed. And you were going to let my cum roll right down your legs while I kept one hand ‘round your waist. Because–now–you were mine.

The first time you told me, “I like it rough,” we were in our hotel room overlooking the Strip. You were just slightly tipsy on mini champagne bottles, the effervescence still popping on your lips. I’m surprised I didn’t lose it right there with the hair-raising goosebumps of possibility.

Instead, I said quite matter-of-factly, “Oh yeah?” in the cool, comfortable baritone that I know makes you want to grind the nearest object (preferably, me). But, as I unhooked my belt, I pushed a little further, “You don’t even know what rough is.”

You bit your bottom lip, did that cute little nod, and then titled your head to the side. Of course it drives me wild when you play dumb. A vivacious nymph pretending to be a nun. Your hand–so small and cold and weak--grasped mine. You laced your short digits through my long ones and brought my palm to your neck. And you just barely whispered, ”It’s like this”. And it was the hottest thing you’ve ever done.

My palm slipped past and my forearm squeezed gently but firmly around your throat. You knew that you could trust me to be careful–firm, but sweet, just the way you like. And then I was climbing on top of you, pushing you face-first into the plush white comforter familiar to any hotel guest. Your dress was already half-unzipped, the smooth slender arch of your back warmed beneath my hand.

ZIP

“Let’s get the rest of that outta the way,” I teased as my hand slipped beneath the spread hem to cup your ass. You curled up against me, encouraging me to fill my palm. Easily done with an ass like yours. And suddenly, all those memories of groping and lightly smacking it turned into fantasies of bending you over my knee and bruising you like a peach.

“This is mine,” I hissed in your ear. And to make it slightly unclear which part of you I was referring to, I lifted your cheek and threaded my middle finger between your thighs. But of course you knew. You knew it was all mine.

You managed to free yourself from a pile of pillows and made your voice quiver, “What are you going to do to me, Sir?” There it was–that word. You weren’t as green as I thought.

I considered my reply. My options seemed limitless. But this wasn’t some Fifty Shades bullshit. Consent is hot. Even more so when it takes the form of begging, groveling, whining, or moaning. You were going to come clean. You were going to submit and admit what you wanted me to do to you.

So I grasped your ass, your hips now wiggling out of your dress, “Tell me what you want me to do with this.” I ended the sentence with emphasis, my fingers digging the punctuation into your firm flesh.

“I want you to smack it,” you replied, your teeth already chewing into Egyptian cotton.

“How hard? Like this.”

SMACK

The sound bounced between us and the high ceilings. I reached over, turned up the TV. Another CSI rerun.

“Mmphf. More.”

“More what? Be specific.” I was looming over you, my shadow making you look tiny. I leaned forward to whisper into your ear, “Your mouth is good for two things: sucking my cock and telling me how you want to be fucked.” God, what a word to use when I’m talking about you.

“Make it red.”

SMACK

You cried out before biting down to muffle the sound. Your hair was tousled now, falling in cascading waves across your blushing cheeks.

“Just red?” I dug my fingers into the sore spots.

“Maybe blue.”

SMACK

“Blue would look good on you.” And I didn’t realize it then, but I was growing into this burgeoning dynamic. All it took were those four words from you–I like it rough–and I was shifting comfortably into Dom space. The thought of leaving marks on you–bruises, welts, and more–had my erection demanding freedom.

I wanted to feel how wet you were–not with my hand, but while I was deep inside you. I wanted it to pour over me, to coat my cock as I stretched you.

How many times had we fucked before that night? And yet, it felt like the first. You were so remarkably tight. As soon as my cockhead was against your slit I knew it’d be a fight. But I let you squeeze my hand while I claimed you anew. You were running like a stream over me. Your juices pouring down my balls as I squished them against your lips.

Then–fuck–then I really started fucking you. I’ve never heard your ass clap that loudly against my thighs. Bottoming out at the apex of every thrust. You were moaning with satisfaction, undoubtedly giving the guests next to us an entertaining show. You kept bouncing your hips backwards, desperate to have me inside you each time I retracted.

You arched your back, let out a gasp, and your pussy clenched around my shaft like a fucking glove. I don’t think I could have pulled out if I wanted.

Tighter, tighter, tighter.

I was panting and huffing and grunting and—-------fuck.

There it goes. All of it. Inside of you. My cum spilling out, filling you up, drenching your pretty pink pussy with me.

“Good girl,” a phrase that made you shudder around me. Followed by another hearty SMACK. Who knew I’d enjoy watching your ass jiggle so much. It wasn’t quite bruised, but it was a beautiful red. A good start. I knew there was plenty of time ahead of us. But, for now, I told you to get dressed. We were going back out.

“No panties and no tissues.” Back out indeed. And you were going to let my cum roll right down your legs while I kept one hand ‘round your waist. Because–now–you were mine.

The first time you told me, “I like it rough,” we were in our hotel room overlooking the Strip. You were just slightly tipsy on mini champagne bottles, the effervescence still popping on your lips. I’m surprised I didn’t lose it right there with the hair-raising goosebumps of possibility.

Instead, I said quite matter-of-factly, “Oh yeah?” in the cool, comfortable baritone that I know makes you want to grind the nearest object (preferably, me). But, as I unhooked my belt, I pushed a little further, “You don’t even know what rough is.”

You bit your bottom lip, did that cute little nod, and then titled your head to the side. Of course it drives me wild when you play dumb. A vivacious nymph pretending to be a nun. Your hand–so small and cold and weak--grasped mine. You laced your short digits through my long ones and brought my palm to your neck. And you just barely whispered, ”It’s like this”. And it was the hottest thing you’ve ever done.

My palm slipped past and my forearm squeezed gently but firmly around your throat. You knew that you could trust me to be careful–firm, but sweet, just the way you like. And then I was climbing on top of you, pushing you face-first into the plush white comforter familiar to any hotel guest. Your dress was already half-unzipped, the smooth slender arch of your back warmed beneath my hand.

ZIP

“Let’s get the rest of that outta the way,” I teased as my hand slipped beneath the spread hem to cup your ass. You curled up against me, encouraging me to fill my palm. Easily done with an ass like yours. And suddenly, all those memories of groping and lightly smacking it turned into fantasies of bending you over my knee and bruising you like a peach.

“This is mine,” I hissed in your ear. And to make it slightly unclear which part of you I was referring to, I lifted your cheek and threaded my middle finger between your thighs. But of course you knew. You knew it was all mine.

You managed to free yourself from a pile of pillows and made your voice quiver, “What are you going to do to me, Sir?” There it was–that word. You weren’t as green as I thought.

I considered my reply. My options seemed limitless. But this wasn’t some Fifty Shades bullshit. Consent is hot. Even more so when it takes the form of begging, groveling, whining, or moaning. You were going to come clean. You were going to submit and admit what you wanted me to do to you.

So I grasped your ass, your hips now wiggling out of your dress, “Tell me what you want me to do with this.” I ended the sentence with emphasis, my fingers digging the punctuation into your firm flesh.

“I want you to smack it,” you replied, your teeth already chewing into Egyptian cotton.

“How hard? Like this.”

SMACK

The sound bounced between us and the high ceilings. I reached over, turned up the TV. Another CSI rerun.

“Mmphf. More.”

“More what? Be specific.” I was looming over you, my shadow making you look tiny. I leaned forward to whisper into your ear, “Your mouth is good for two things: sucking my cock and telling me how you want to be fucked.” God, what a word to use when I’m talking about you.

“Make it red.”

SMACK

You cried out before biting down to muffle the sound. Your hair was tousled now, falling in cascading waves across your blushing cheeks.

“Just red?” I dug my fingers into the sore spots.

“Maybe blue.”

SMACK

“Blue would look good on you.” And I didn’t realize it then, but I was growing into this burgeoning dynamic. All it took were those four words from you–I like it rough–and I was shifting comfortably into Dom space. The thought of leaving marks on you–bruises, welts, and more–had my erection demanding freedom.

I wanted to feel how wet you were–not with my hand, but while I was deep inside you. I wanted it to pour over me, to coat my cock as I stretched you.

How many times had we fucked before that night? And yet, it felt like the first. You were so remarkably tight. As soon as my cockhead was against your slit I knew it’d be a fight. But I let you squeeze my hand while I claimed you anew. You were running like a stream over me. Your juices pouring down my balls as I squished them against your lips.

Then–fuck–then I really started fucking you. I’ve never heard your ass clap that loudly against my thighs. Bottoming out at the apex of every thrust. You were moaning with satisfaction, undoubtedly giving the guests next to us an entertaining show. You kept bouncing your hips backwards, desperate to have me inside you each time I retracted.

You arched your back, let out a gasp, and your pussy clenched around my shaft like a fucking glove. I don’t think I could have pulled out if I wanted.

Tighter, tighter, tighter.

I was panting and huffing and grunting and—-------fuck.

There it goes. All of it. Inside of you. My cum spilling out, filling you up, drenching your pretty pink pussy with me.

“Good girl,” a phrase that made you shudder around me. Followed by another hearty SMACK. Who knew I’d enjoy watching your ass jiggle so much. It wasn’t quite bruised, but it was a beautiful red. A good start. I knew there was plenty of time ahead of us. But, for now, I told you to get dressed. We were going back out.

“No panties and no tissues.” Back out indeed. And you were going to let my cum roll right down your legs while I kept one hand ‘round your waist. Because–now–you were mine.

Hip thrusts are diabolical. Distracting. Iniquitous. Perhaps even a little bit disreputable.

They're my one true weakness. My kryptonite.

Olivia knows this.

It's just...

I mean, can you blame me? All that thrusting. The clenching of those glutes. Those same glutes packed into ridiculously form-fitting, compressive, and brightly colored 7/8 leggings. I could die of arousal just thinking about it.

The point being, that I really enjoy "spotting" Olivia when we tag-team the gym together. She has a preference for Bulgarian split squats, hip thrusts, and dumbbell rows--all exercises that pollute my normally pure and anodyne imagination. Ordinarily, I have to wait until at least the car ride home before taking advantage of the seed that Olivia has planted with her suggestive bending and soft moaning.

But...one night I was extremely fortunate.

I can't recall what exactly precipitated it, but Olivia and I were at the gym near closing one Friday. It was dead. A ghost town. We might as well have been seeing Megalopolis at the local megaplex. Olivia was rocking a lovely burgundy sports bra and legging combo set. ("I like things that match." As she puts it.) Her hair was in a high ponytail and my constitution was already frail.

"Are you actively trying to torture me?" I whispered to her as he sauntered pass the empty reception desk.

"I could do much worse," she assured me with a callous flip of her hair.

And she did do much worse.

Because I swear she was swaying her hips with ludicrous aplomb after that. By the time we got to the fabled hip thrusts--after some warm up cardio, squats, and tricep extensions--I was near my breaking point. Could I survive the salaciousness of the weighted hip bridge?

The answer was a resounding "no."

Olivia set up on one of the benches near the free weights. A long mirror lined the wall behind the rack of dumbbells. A TV overhead played the muted and aimless drama of competitive cornhole for some reason. Much as I would have liked to get wrapped up in the thrill of grown men crying over sacks of corn, I was quickly distracted by Olivia laying with her shoulders against the bench and setting the barbell just below her hips. She lowered her waist. Thrust it upwards. Again. She looked at me. Let out a little moan while she clenched her ass. She even bit her lip!

Ah, so it's going to be like that.

I walked closer to the bench, standing at Olivia's head and facing towards her feet. I loomed over her. "You can go lower. Fix your form."

She glared up at me, but on the next dip, she lowered her hips nearer to the ground.

I glanced around as she shot back up. No one. "That's a good girl," I crossed my arms, watched her flush.

"Do-don't--"

"Keep going," I interrupted. "Focus."

She dipped again and I felt the long, indulgent pulse of blood in my groin. A bulge started to form against my 5-inch shorts. Olivia kept going, finishing her set, but her eyes were glued to me, watching as I grew bigger and bigger and bigger.

"You're--you're starting to distract me with that--" she was panting now.

"What? This?" I slid my hand down to my shorts and began to rub my erection over the stretchy polyester. Good thing--that stretch--because I was rock hard now and my shorts looked like someone had seen fit to pitch a tent with them.

She blushed more deeply, "You can't do that here." Her voice was a hiss of a whisper.

"I can do what I want, remember? And there's no one around. Do another set. You've rested enough."

Olivia obliged. Her arms were pressed against her side, pushing her breasts tightly together, and giving me a lovely view of her cleavage.

"That's a good girl, keep going." I pushed my shorts down.

"Oh my god," Olivia let out a soft gasp and nearly dropped the bar.

My cock was about a foot above her face and with a fluorescent light behind me, it cast a shadow across her forehead. I leaned down slightly, cupped Olivia's chin with my right hand, and pushed the index and middle finger of my left into her mouth.

"Suck," I demanded.

And she did. Her tongue ran between my fingers, wrapping around each in turn. Her body shivered beneath the weight of the barbell, but she kept it steady.

After several long seconds, I slowly pulled my fingers free, leaving a brief trail of spit connecting my nail and her lips.

"Go." And she did. Dipping. Thrusting. All while I rubbed her saliva across my throbbing cock. "There it is, keep going." I rubbed faster.

She grunted, panted, looked up at me with a half-open mouth and moaned. I pushed her sports bra down and grabbed her breasts, rolled her pert pink nipple while I kept stroking my cock.

"Harder. Deeper. Stick your tongue out."
She did. Her eyes practically crossed, like she was making the infamous ahegao face.

Fuck, here it is.

I didn't bother to stop myself.

The first rope of cum shot far, landing at Olivia's belly button. The next splattered across her nipple. Another jetted across the top of her clavicle. And then I was dripping several drops of sticky cum directly onto her forehead. I bent my knees and pushed my still aching cock into her mouth. She sucked, her body shivering from the exercise or the excitement or both.

"You're bad," was all she could muster in a small, distant voice.

Finally, I freed her from the barbell and helped her up. She was a mess. Disheveled. I could see a dark spot at the base of her deep red leggings. I wanted to fuck her right there. Bend her over the bench, smack her tight fucking ass and make her take my cum-drenched cock. Instead, I hurried her to the locker room. Told her to hop in the shower. Then...well, there was always the sauna...

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

************************************

Hip thrusts are diabolical. Distracting. Iniquitous. Perhaps even a little bit disreputable.

They're my one true weakness. My kryptonite.

Olivia knows this.

It's just...

I mean, can you blame me? All that thrusting. The clenching of those glutes. Those same glutes packed into ridiculously form-fitting, compressive, and brightly colored 7/8 leggings. I could die of arousal just thinking about it.

The point being, that I really enjoy "spotting" Olivia when we tag-team the gym together. She has a preference for Bulgarian split squats, hip thrusts, and dumbbell rows--all exercises that pollute my normally pure and anodyne imagination. Ordinarily, I have to wait until at least the car ride home before taking advantage of the seed that Olivia has planted with her suggestive bending and soft moaning.

But...one night I was extremely fortunate.

I can't recall what exactly precipitated it, but Olivia and I were at the gym near closing one Friday. It was dead. A ghost town. We might as well have been seeing Megalopolis at the local megaplex. Olivia was rocking a lovely burgundy sports bra and legging combo set. ("I like things that match." As she puts it.) Her hair was in a high ponytail and my constitution was already frail.

"Are you actively trying to torture me?" I whispered to her as he sauntered pass the empty reception desk.

"I could do much worse," she assured me with a callous flip of her hair.

And she did do much worse.

Because I swear she was swaying her hips with ludicrous aplomb after that. By the time we got to the fabled hip thrusts--after some warm up cardio, squats, and tricep extensions--I was near my breaking point. Could I survive the salaciousness of the weighted hip bridge?

The answer was a resounding "no."

Olivia set up on one of the benches near the free weights. A long mirror lined the wall behind the rack of dumbbells. A TV overhead played the muted and aimless drama of competitive cornhole for some reason. Much as I would have liked to get wrapped up in the thrill of grown men crying over sacks of corn, I was quickly distracted by Olivia laying with her shoulders against the bench and setting the barbell just below her hips. She lowered her waist. Thrust it upwards. Again. She looked at me. Let out a little moan while she clenched her ass. She even bit her lip!

Ah, so it's going to be like that.

I walked closer to the bench, standing at Olivia's head and facing towards her feet. I loomed over her. "You can go lower. Fix your form."

She glared up at me, but on the next dip, she lowered her hips nearer to the ground.

I glanced around as she shot back up. No one. "That's a good girl," I crossed my arms, watched her flush.

"Do-don't--"

"Keep going," I interrupted. "Focus."

She dipped again and I felt the long, indulgent pulse of blood in my groin. A bulge started to form against my 5-inch shorts. Olivia kept going, finishing her set, but her eyes were glued to me, watching as I grew bigger and bigger and bigger.

"You're--you're starting to distract me with that--" she was panting now.

"What? This?" I slid my hand down to my shorts and began to rub my erection over the stretchy polyester. Good thing--that stretch--because I was rock hard now and my shorts looked like someone had seen fit to pitch a tent with them.

She blushed more deeply, "You can't do that here." Her voice was a hiss of a whisper.

"I can do what I want, remember? And there's no one around. Do another set. You've rested enough."

Olivia obliged. Her arms were pressed against her side, pushing her breasts tightly together, and giving me a lovely view of her cleavage.

"That's a good girl, keep going." I pushed my shorts down.

"Oh my god," Olivia let out a soft gasp and nearly dropped the bar.

My cock was about a foot above her face and with a fluorescent light behind me, it cast a shadow across her forehead. I leaned down slightly, cupped Olivia's chin with my right hand, and pushed the index and middle finger of my left into her mouth.

"Suck," I demanded.

And she did. Her tongue ran between my fingers, wrapping around each in turn. Her body shivered beneath the weight of the barbell, but she kept it steady.

After several long seconds, I slowly pulled my fingers free, leaving a brief trail of spit connecting my nail and her lips.

"Go." And she did. Dipping. Thrusting. All while I rubbed her saliva across my throbbing cock. "There it is, keep going." I rubbed faster.

She grunted, panted, looked up at me with a half-open mouth and moaned. I pushed her sports bra down and grabbed her breasts, rolled her pert pink nipple while I kept stroking my cock.

"Harder. Deeper. Stick your tongue out."
She did. Her eyes practically crossed, like she was making the infamous ahegao face.

Fuck, here it is.

I didn't bother to stop myself.

The first rope of cum shot far, landing at Olivia's belly button. The next splattered across her nipple. Another jetted across the top of her clavicle. And then I was dripping several drops of sticky cum directly onto her forehead. I bent my knees and pushed my still aching cock into her mouth. She sucked, her body shivering from the exercise or the excitement or both.

"You're bad," was all she could muster in a small, distant voice.

Finally, I freed her from the barbell and helped her up. She was a mess. Disheveled. I could see a dark spot at the base of her deep red leggings. I wanted to fuck her right there. Bend her over the bench, smack her tight fucking ass and make her take my cum-drenched cock. Instead, I hurried her to the locker room. Told her to hop in the shower. Then...well, there was always the sauna...

One finger.

Isn’t that how it starts?

I tell you, without a hint of irony, “Just the tip, babe, what’s the problem?”

“But there are people around…” You squirm, whine. Wanting it but putting up a play fight.

“Nobody’ll know. Spread your legs a little, let me see those thighs.”

There’s a reason I like you in skirts. In dresses. In anything that can be hiked up to your waist. That one finger starting at your bare knee. Though, sometimes you wear thigh-highs or tights or fishnets. So I tease you–just like you tease me. Why’d you wear that today, huh? Trying to get me hard? Want me to show you how much I need to fucking tear it off you?

Lemme stretch the fabric. Pretend like I’m going to rip it. Sometimes I do. And then you’ll pout, but only for a minute, your brain a blank slate of need as soon as I drag my digit along your thong. Well, when you wear one, that is. Sometimes you’re bad. Or maybe just over-eager. I push my hand along your thigh to find nothing impeding my progress towards your slit.

“No thong today?”

You bite your lip and try to look innocent. Bat your pretty eyes at me and act like you forgot.

“You didn’t fucking forget. You wanted to feel the fucking ocean breeze against your pussy. You were hoping that I’d find you like this.”

Oh, you’ll protest and act like that couldn’t possibly be true. But you’ll shut up as soon as my index finger is spreading your folds, knocking at your entrance, pushing its way in–isn’t that wetness enough of an invitation?

Look at me while I do it. Keep those big round eyes on mine. I wanna watch them go wide as I push slowly inside you. Watch you close ‘em, squirm, and hold ‘em. Once I’m two knuckles in I’ll double-back, following a similar path to exit with a rude little flick. Back in. A few more times. Until I stop to let you catch your breath–you’re getting so fucking noisy, aren’t you? I’ll pull free of your reflexive grip and slowly raise my hand to your mouth.

“Suck it. Tastes like a bad fucking girl.”

And god do you ever suck it. Like a famished, desperate little thing. Sweet and tangy and salty. When you get into it, I mean, you really get into it. Sucking my finger like it’s my cock. Spit across my cuticle. Drool over my knuckle. The tactile bump of your tastebuds over each distinct line.

Two fingers.

That’s all it takes to make you absolutely simmer with need. Two fingers in your pussy. Index. Middle. Spreading just enough to fill you up. Dragging back and forth intermittently. Slowly. Steadily. Deliberately.

This is when you have to spread your legs wider. Put your feet up on your seat and let me get deeper. Deeper. Deeper still. You know my fingers are long and I like to push ‘em in right up to my palm. And when I get going you start to get so noisy you have to bite on your sweater or I have to squeeze your neck just enough to shut you up. Do you want everyone to hear you sounding so desperately insatiable? Surely not. Actually, let’s be honest, I know that thought turns you on too.

Your thighs glisten. Your moans quicken. My fingers dart in and out, leaving prints all along the walls of your cunt. That’s what makes it mine, right? Let me leave my marks. Let me gesture come hither along the anterior until I hit the spot. Then flick outwards again, making a V as I squeeze on either side of your tumescent clit. Push your folds together around that needy nub, making it jump. Making you fidget.

Three fingers?

Think you can take that?

Sometimes you can. Other times you just beg for me to replace my hand with my dick. It’s hard. Of course it’s hard for you. And if we were somewhere quieter I’d be bending you over, squeezing your ass with these slick hands and fucking you bareback. But we’re not, so quit begging and wait. You’ll cum one way or another, won’t you? I always make sure of that. Whether with my tongue, or a toy, or–quite simply–with a single, solitary finger.

And yeah, maybe I should punish you differently. With a belt or a paddle or some other tool. But, you know me, I really like to work with my hands. I like to be direct. Like to feel you myself. Like to make you learn the location of every little callous. Because, ultimately, what I want is for you to buck and moan and writhe and twist.

So do it for me now. Don’t be shy. You can bite my ear as you cum against my wrist.

---

This is an invitation to chat. You in?

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

************************************

Hip thrusts are diabolical. Distracting. Iniquitous. Perhaps even a little bit disreputable.

They're my one true weakness. My kryptonite.

Olivia knows this.

It's just...

I mean, can you blame me? All that thrusting. The clenching of those glutes. Those same glutes packed into ridiculously form-fitting, compressive, and brightly colored 7/8 leggings. I could die of arousal just thinking about it.

The point being, that I really enjoy "spotting" Olivia when we tag-team the gym together. She has a preference for Bulgarian split squats, hip thrusts, and dumbbell rows--all exercises that pollute my normally pure and anodyne imagination. Ordinarily, I have to wait until at least the car ride home before taking advantage of the seed that Olivia has planted with her suggestive bending and soft moaning.

But...one night I was extremely fortunate.

I can't recall what exactly precipitated it, but Olivia and I were at the gym near closing one Friday. It was dead. A ghost town. We might as well have been seeing Megalopolis at the local megaplex. Olivia was rocking a lovely burgundy sports bra and legging combo set. ("I like things that match." As she puts it.) Her hair was in a high ponytail and my constitution was already frail.

"Are you actively trying to torture me?" I whispered to her as he sauntered pass the empty reception desk.

"I could do much worse," she assured me with a callous flip of her hair.

And she did do much worse.

Because I swear she was swaying her hips with ludicrous aplomb after that. By the time we got to the fabled hip thrusts--after some warm up cardio, squats, and tricep extensions--I was near my breaking point. Could I survive the salaciousness of the weighted hip bridge?

The answer was a resounding "no."

Olivia set up on one of the benches near the free weights. A long mirror lined the wall behind the rack of dumbbells. A TV overhead played the muted and aimless drama of competitive cornhole for some reason. Much as I would have liked to get wrapped up in the thrill of grown men crying over sacks of corn, I was quickly distracted by Olivia laying with her shoulders against the bench and setting the barbell just below her hips. She lowered her waist. Thrust it upwards. Again. She looked at me. Let out a little moan while she clenched her ass. She even bit her lip!

Ah, so it's going to be like that.

I walked closer to the bench, standing at Olivia's head and facing towards her feet. I loomed over her. "You can go lower. Fix your form."

She glared up at me, but on the next dip, she lowered her hips nearer to the ground.

I glanced around as she shot back up. No one. "That's a good girl," I crossed my arms, watched her flush.

"Do-don't--"

"Keep going," I interrupted. "Focus."

She dipped again and I felt the long, indulgent pulse of blood in my groin. A bulge started to form against my 5-inch shorts. Olivia kept going, finishing her set, but her eyes were glued to me, watching as I grew bigger and bigger and bigger.

"You're--you're starting to distract me with that--" she was panting now.

"What? This?" I slid my hand down to my shorts and began to rub my erection over the stretchy polyester. Good thing--that stretch--because I was rock hard now and my shorts looked like someone had seen fit to pitch a tent with them.

She blushed more deeply, "You can't do that here." Her voice was a hiss of a whisper.

"I can do what I want, remember? And there's no one around. Do another set. You've rested enough."

Olivia obliged. Her arms were pressed against her side, pushing her breasts tightly together, and giving me a lovely view of her cleavage.

"That's a good girl, keep going." I pushed my shorts down.

"Oh my god," Olivia let out a soft gasp and nearly dropped the bar.

My cock was about a foot above her face and with a fluorescent light behind me, it cast a shadow across her forehead. I leaned down slightly, cupped Olivia's chin with my right hand, and pushed the index and middle finger of my left into her mouth.

"Suck," I demanded.

And she did. Her tongue ran between my fingers, wrapping around each in turn. Her body shivered beneath the weight of the barbell, but she kept it steady.

After several long seconds, I slowly pulled my fingers free, leaving a brief trail of spit connecting my nail and her lips.

"Go." And she did. Dipping. Thrusting. All while I rubbed her saliva across my throbbing cock. "There it is, keep going." I rubbed faster.

She grunted, panted, looked up at me with a half-open mouth and moaned. I pushed her sports bra down and grabbed her breasts, rolled her pert pink nipple while I kept stroking my cock.

"Harder. Deeper. Stick your tongue out."
She did. Her eyes practically crossed, like she was making the infamous ahegao face.

Fuck, here it is.

I didn't bother to stop myself.

The first rope of cum shot far, landing at Olivia's belly button. The next splattered across her nipple. Another jetted across the top of her clavicle. And then I was dripping several drops of sticky cum directly onto her forehead. I bent my knees and pushed my still aching cock into her mouth. She sucked, her body shivering from the exercise or the excitement or both.

"You're bad," was all she could muster in a small, distant voice.

Finally, I freed her from the barbell and helped her up. She was a mess. Disheveled. I could see a dark spot at the base of her deep red leggings. I wanted to fuck her right there. Bend her over the bench, smack her tight fucking ass and make her take my cum-drenched cock. Instead, I hurried her to the locker room. Told her to hop in the shower. Then...well, there was always the sauna...

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

************************************

Hip thrusts are diabolical. Distracting. Iniquitous. Perhaps even a little bit disreputable.

They're my one true weakness. My kryptonite.

Olivia knows this.

It's just...

I mean, can you blame me? All that thrusting. The clenching of those glutes. Those same glutes packed into ridiculously form-fitting, compressive, and brightly colored 7/8 leggings. I could die of arousal just thinking about it.

The point being, that I really enjoy "spotting" Olivia when we tag-team the gym together. She has a preference for Bulgarian split squats, hip thrusts, and dumbbell rows--all exercises that pollute my normally pure and anodyne imagination. Ordinarily, I have to wait until at least the car ride home before taking advantage of the seed that Olivia has planted with her suggestive bending and soft moaning.

But...one night I was extremely fortunate.

I can't recall what exactly precipitated it, but Olivia and I were at the gym near closing one Friday. It was dead. A ghost town. We might as well have been seeing Megalopolis at the local megaplex. Olivia was rocking a lovely burgundy sports bra and legging combo set. ("I like things that match." As she puts it.) Her hair was in a high ponytail and my constitution was already frail.

"Are you actively trying to torture me?" I whispered to her as he sauntered pass the empty reception desk.

"I could do much worse," she assured me with a callous flip of her hair.

And she did do much worse.

Because I swear she was swaying her hips with ludicrous aplomb after that. By the time we got to the fabled hip thrusts--after some warm up cardio, squats, and tricep extensions--I was near my breaking point. Could I survive the salaciousness of the weighted hip bridge?

The answer was a resounding "no."

Olivia set up on one of the benches near the free weights. A long mirror lined the wall behind the rack of dumbbells. A TV overhead played the muted and aimless drama of competitive cornhole for some reason. Much as I would have liked to get wrapped up in the thrill of grown men crying over sacks of corn, I was quickly distracted by Olivia laying with her shoulders against the bench and setting the barbell just below her hips. She lowered her waist. Thrust it upwards. Again. She looked at me. Let out a little moan while she clenched her ass. She even bit her lip!

Ah, so it's going to be like that.

I walked closer to the bench, standing at Olivia's head and facing towards her feet. I loomed over her. "You can go lower. Fix your form."

She glared up at me, but on the next dip, she lowered her hips nearer to the ground.

I glanced around as she shot back up. No one. "That's a good girl," I crossed my arms, watched her flush.

"Do-don't--"

"Keep going," I interrupted. "Focus."

She dipped again and I felt the long, indulgent pulse of blood in my groin. A bulge started to form against my 5-inch shorts. Olivia kept going, finishing her set, but her eyes were glued to me, watching as I grew bigger and bigger and bigger.

"You're--you're starting to distract me with that--" she was panting now.

"What? This?" I slid my hand down to my shorts and began to rub my erection over the stretchy polyester. Good thing--that stretch--because I was rock hard now and my shorts looked like someone had seen fit to pitch a tent with them.

She blushed more deeply, "You can't do that here." Her voice was a hiss of a whisper.

"I can do what I want, remember? And there's no one around. Do another set. You've rested enough."

Olivia obliged. Her arms were pressed against her side, pushing her breasts tightly together, and giving me a lovely view of her cleavage.

"That's a good girl, keep going." I pushed my shorts down.

"Oh my god," Olivia let out a soft gasp and nearly dropped the bar.

My cock was about a foot above her face and with a fluorescent light behind me, it cast a shadow across her forehead. I leaned down slightly, cupped Olivia's chin with my right hand, and pushed the index and middle finger of my left into her mouth.

"Suck," I demanded.

And she did. Her tongue ran between my fingers, wrapping around each in turn. Her body shivered beneath the weight of the barbell, but she kept it steady.

After several long seconds, I slowly pulled my fingers free, leaving a brief trail of spit connecting my nail and her lips.

"Go." And she did. Dipping. Thrusting. All while I rubbed her saliva across my throbbing cock. "There it is, keep going." I rubbed faster.

She grunted, panted, looked up at me with a half-open mouth and moaned. I pushed her sports bra down and grabbed her breasts, rolled her pert pink nipple while I kept stroking my cock.

"Harder. Deeper. Stick your tongue out."
She did. Her eyes practically crossed, like she was making the infamous ahegao face.

Fuck, here it is.

I didn't bother to stop myself.

The first rope of cum shot far, landing at Olivia's belly button. The next splattered across her nipple. Another jetted across the top of her clavicle. And then I was dripping several drops of sticky cum directly onto her forehead. I bent my knees and pushed my still aching cock into her mouth. She sucked, her body shivering from the exercise or the excitement or both.

"You're bad," was all she could muster in a small, distant voice.

Finally, I freed her from the barbell and helped her up. She was a mess. Disheveled. I could see a dark spot at the base of her deep red leggings. I wanted to fuck her right there. Bend her over the bench, smack her tight fucking ass and make her take my cum-drenched cock. Instead, I hurried her to the locker room. Told her to hop in the shower. Then...well, there was always the sauna...

One finger.

Isn’t that how it starts?

I tell you, without a hint of irony, “Just the tip, babe, what’s the problem?”

“But there are people around…” You squirm, whine. Wanting it but putting up a play fight.

“Nobody’ll know. Spread your legs a little, let me see those thighs.”

There’s a reason I like you in skirts. In dresses. In anything that can be hiked up to your waist. That one finger starting at your bare knee. Though, sometimes you wear thigh-highs or tights or fishnets. So I tease you–just like you tease me. Why’d you wear that today, huh? Trying to get me hard? Want me to show you how much I need to fucking tear it off you?

Lemme stretch the fabric. Pretend like I’m going to rip it. Sometimes I do. And then you’ll pout, but only for a minute, your brain a blank slate of need as soon as I drag my digit along your thong. Well, when you wear one, that is. Sometimes you’re bad. Or maybe just over-eager. I push my hand along your thigh to find nothing impeding my progress towards your slit.

“No thong today?”

You bite your lip and try to look innocent. Bat your pretty eyes at me and act like you forgot.

“You didn’t fucking forget. You wanted to feel the fucking ocean breeze against your pussy. You were hoping that I’d find you like this.”

Oh, you’ll protest and act like that couldn’t possibly be true. But you’ll shut up as soon as my index finger is spreading your folds, knocking at your entrance, pushing its way in–isn’t that wetness enough of an invitation?

Look at me while I do it. Keep those big round eyes on mine. I wanna watch them go wide as I push slowly inside you. Watch you close ‘em, squirm, and hold ‘em. Once I’m two knuckles in I’ll double-back, following a similar path to exit with a rude little flick. Back in. A few more times. Until I stop to let you catch your breath–you’re getting so fucking noisy, aren’t you? I’ll pull free of your reflexive grip and slowly raise my hand to your mouth.

“Suck it. Tastes like a bad fucking girl.”

And god do you ever suck it. Like a famished, desperate little thing. Sweet and tangy and salty. When you get into it, I mean, you really get into it. Sucking my finger like it’s my cock. Spit across my cuticle. Drool over my knuckle. The tactile bump of your tastebuds over each distinct line.

Two fingers.

That’s all it takes to make you absolutely simmer with need. Two fingers in your pussy. Index. Middle. Spreading just enough to fill you up. Dragging back and forth intermittently. Slowly. Steadily. Deliberately.

This is when you have to spread your legs wider. Put your feet up on your seat and let me get deeper. Deeper. Deeper still. You know my fingers are long and I like to push ‘em in right up to my palm. And when I get going you start to get so noisy you have to bite on your sweater or I have to squeeze your neck just enough to shut you up. Do you want everyone to hear you sounding so desperately insatiable? Surely not. Actually, let’s be honest, I know that thought turns you on too.

Your thighs glisten. Your moans quicken. My fingers dart in and out, leaving prints all along the walls of your cunt. That’s what makes it mine, right? Let me leave my marks. Let me gesture come hither along the anterior until I hit the spot. Then flick outwards again, making a V as I squeeze on either side of your tumescent clit. Push your folds together around that needy nub, making it jump. Making you fidget.

Three fingers?

Think you can take that?

Sometimes you can. Other times you just beg for me to replace my hand with my dick. It’s hard. Of course it’s hard for you. And if we were somewhere quieter I’d be bending you over, squeezing your ass with these slick hands and fucking you bareback. But we’re not, so quit begging and wait. You’ll cum one way or another, won’t you? I always make sure of that. Whether with my tongue, or a toy, or–quite simply–with a single, solitary finger.

And yeah, maybe I should punish you differently. With a belt or a paddle or some other tool. But, you know me, I really like to work with my hands. I like to be direct. Like to feel you myself. Like to make you learn the location of every little callous. Because, ultimately, what I want is for you to buck and moan and writhe and twist.

So do it for me now. Don’t be shy. You can bite my ear as you cum against my wrist.

---

This is an invitation to chat. You in?

One finger.

Isn’t that how it starts?

I tell you, without a hint of irony, “Just the tip, babe, what’s the problem?”

“But there are people around…” You squirm, whine. Wanting it but putting up a play fight.

“Nobody’ll know. Spread your legs a little, let me see those thighs.”

There’s a reason I like you in skirts. In dresses. In anything that can be hiked up to your waist. That one finger starting at your bare knee. Though, sometimes you wear thigh-highs or tights or fishnets. So I tease you–just like you tease me. Why’d you wear that today, huh? Trying to get me hard? Want me to show you how much I need to fucking tear it off you?

Lemme stretch the fabric. Pretend like I’m going to rip it. Sometimes I do. And then you’ll pout, but only for a minute, your brain a blank slate of need as soon as I drag my digit along your thong. Well, when you wear one, that is. Sometimes you’re bad. Or maybe just over-eager. I push my hand along your thigh to find nothing impeding my progress towards your slit.

“No thong today?”

You bite your lip and try to look innocent. Bat your pretty eyes at me and act like you forgot.

“You didn’t fucking forget. You wanted to feel the fucking ocean breeze against your pussy. You were hoping that I’d find you like this.”

Oh, you’ll protest and act like that couldn’t possibly be true. But you’ll shut up as soon as my index finger is spreading your folds, knocking at your entrance, pushing its way in–isn’t that wetness enough of an invitation?

Look at me while I do it. Keep those big round eyes on mine. I wanna watch them go wide as I push slowly inside you. Watch you close ‘em, squirm, and hold ‘em. Once I’m two knuckles in I’ll double-back, following a similar path to exit with a rude little flick. Back in. A few more times. Until I stop to let you catch your breath–you’re getting so fucking noisy, aren’t you? I’ll pull free of your reflexive grip and slowly raise my hand to your mouth.

“Suck it. Tastes like a bad fucking girl.”

And god do you ever suck it. Like a famished, desperate little thing. Sweet and tangy and salty. When you get into it, I mean, you really get into it. Sucking my finger like it’s my cock. Spit across my cuticle. Drool over my knuckle. The tactile bump of your tastebuds over each distinct line.

Two fingers.

That’s all it takes to make you absolutely simmer with need. Two fingers in your pussy. Index. Middle. Spreading just enough to fill you up. Dragging back and forth intermittently. Slowly. Steadily. Deliberately.

This is when you have to spread your legs wider. Put your feet up on your seat and let me get deeper. Deeper. Deeper still. You know my fingers are long and I like to push ‘em in right up to my palm. And when I get going you start to get so noisy you have to bite on your sweater or I have to squeeze your neck just enough to shut you up. Do you want everyone to hear you sounding so desperately insatiable? Surely not. Actually, let’s be honest, I know that thought turns you on too.

Your thighs glisten. Your moans quicken. My fingers dart in and out, leaving prints all along the walls of your cunt. That’s what makes it mine, right? Let me leave my marks. Let me gesture come hither along the anterior until I hit the spot. Then flick outwards again, making a V as I squeeze on either side of your tumescent clit. Push your folds together around that needy nub, making it jump. Making you fidget.

Three fingers?

Think you can take that?

Sometimes you can. Other times you just beg for me to replace my hand with my dick. It’s hard. Of course it’s hard for you. And if we were somewhere quieter I’d be bending you over, squeezing your ass with these slick hands and fucking you bareback. But we’re not, so quit begging and wait. You’ll cum one way or another, won’t you? I always make sure of that. Whether with my tongue, or a toy, or–quite simply–with a single, solitary finger.

And yeah, maybe I should punish you differently. With a belt or a paddle or some other tool. But, you know me, I really like to work with my hands. I like to be direct. Like to feel you myself. Like to make you learn the location of every little callous. Because, ultimately, what I want is for you to buck and moan and writhe and twist.

So do it for me now. Don’t be shy. You can bite my ear as you cum against my wrist.

---

This is an invitation to chat. You in?

Waverly Pines would be the perfect spot to finally do it.

It was out in the sticks—way down County Road 73. Formerly a farm of some sort, it now served as the seasonal home of the titular haunt. Every mid-September through October 31 it opened with a sizzling air of anticipation. It was the only haunt within 50 or so miles of Monroeville, so, naturally, all the thrill-seekers were drawn to it.

The orange string lights lined the private drive that splintered off 73 and wound through the trees to the shadowy field that served as a parking lot. From there, attendees were ushered on a hayride to haunt itself, which was set even further back from the main road, buried beyond the tightly-packed dirt path in a little enclave among the pines.

There was the central square that served as a hub prior to the haunt proper. There was a bar serving White Claws and “spooky” cocktails, an escape room, various small games like hatchet throwing and a dunk tank, and a motley crew of costumed actors wandering around for “Insta-worthy” photo ops.

The haunt itself was long and labyrinthine. It was unique because it offered various split paths, which encouraged going through more than once. There was the blood-drenched farmhouse, the big red barn housing all manner of torture devices as well as a massive, two-story slide, a spiraling corn maze with enough dead ends to trap any drunken goth girl, and a back woods area complete with hanging corpses and Blair Witch-esque trappings.

While you would have the benefit of being able to take the normal route to the haunt—I’d have to be more creative. Sneaking in meant parking in a dirt patch off the main road and traipsing through dead, crunchy soybean fields. I’d slip in, dressed appropriately as a psychopathic killer, and blend with the rest of the costumed crew. There, I’d find you, make sure I got you some place suitably private and finally do every fucking thing I’ve been fantasizing about doing to you.

---

It may be June, but it's always Halloween in my heart.

I like to chat with my partners. If that isn’t your vibe, then we probably won’t get along.

Yes, please: final girls, haunted houses and their attendant dollar-store decorations, sexual tension, imaginative domination/submission, impact play (spanking, slapping, etc.), fingering, degradation/humiliation, name-calling, very sloppy facefucking, dubcon/blackmail/noncon, cunnilingus, intense/rough sex, gagging/choking, manipulation/corruption, outercourse, overwhelming urges, cumplay, facials, sexy outfits/partially-clothed sex/torn clothing/costumes and a sense of humor.

No: underage characters, incest, animals, snuff, scat/watersports, people with no chill.

---

If you’re reading this sentence it must mean that this prompt is still very much open.

Waverly Pines would be the perfect spot to finally do it.

It was out in the sticks—way down County Road 73. Formerly a farm of some sort, it now served as the seasonal home of the titular haunt. Every mid-September through October 31 it opened with a sizzling air of anticipation. It was the only haunt within 50 or so miles of Monroeville, so, naturally, all the thrill-seekers were drawn to it.

The orange string lights lined the private drive that splintered off 73 and wound through the trees to the shadowy field that served as a parking lot. From there, attendees were ushered on a hayride to haunt itself, which was set even further back from the main road, buried beyond the tightly-packed dirt path in a little enclave among the pines.

There was the central square that served as a hub prior to the haunt proper. There was a bar serving White Claws and “spooky” cocktails, an escape room, various small games like hatchet throwing and a dunk tank, and a motley crew of costumed actors wandering around for “Insta-worthy” photo ops.

The haunt itself was long and labyrinthine. It was unique because it offered various split paths, which encouraged going through more than once. There was the blood-drenched farmhouse, the big red barn housing all manner of torture devices as well as a massive, two-story slide, a spiraling corn maze with enough dead ends to trap any drunken goth girl, and a back woods area complete with hanging corpses and Blair Witch-esque trappings.

While you would have the benefit of being able to take the normal route to the haunt—I’d have to be more creative. Sneaking in meant parking in a dirt patch off the main road and traipsing through dead, crunchy soybean fields. I’d slip in, dressed appropriately as a psychopathic killer, and blend with the rest of the costumed crew. There, I’d find you, make sure I got you some place suitably private and finally do every fucking thing I’ve been fantasizing about doing to you.

---

It may be June, but it's always Halloween in my heart.

I like to chat with my partners. If that isn’t your vibe, then we probably won’t get along.

Yes, please: haunted houses and their attendant dollar-store decorations, sexual tension, imaginative domination/submission, impact play (spanking, slapping, etc.), fingering, degradation/humiliation, name-calling, very sloppy facefucking, dubcon/blackmail/noncon, cunnilingus, intense/rough sex, gagging/choking, manipulation/corruption, outercourse, overwhelming urges, cumplay, facials, sexy outfits/partially-clothed sex/torn clothing/costumes and a sense of humor.

No: underage characters, incest, animals, snuff, scat/watersports, people with no chill.

---

If you’re reading this sentence it must mean that this prompt is still very much open.

Waverly Pines would be the perfect spot to finally do it.

It was out in the sticks—way down County Road 73. Formerly a farm of some sort, it now served as the seasonal home of the titular haunt. Every mid-September through October 31 it opened with a sizzling air of anticipation. It was the only haunt within 50 or so miles of Monroeville, so, naturally, all the thrill-seekers were drawn to it.

The orange string lights lined the private drive that splintered off 73 and wound through the trees to the shadowy field that served as a parking lot. From there, attendees were ushered on a hayride to haunt itself, which was set even further back from the main road, buried beyond the tightly-packed dirt path in a little enclave among the pines.

There was the central square that served as a hub prior to the haunt proper. There was a bar serving White Claws and “spooky” cocktails, an escape room, various small games like hatchet throwing and a dunk tank, and a motley crew of costumed actors wandering around for “Insta-worthy” photo ops.

The haunt itself was long and labyrinthine. It was unique because it offered various split paths, which encouraged going through more than once. There was the blood-drenched farmhouse, the big red barn housing all manner of torture devices as well as a massive, two-story slide, a spiraling corn maze with enough dead ends to trap any drunken goth girl, and a back woods area complete with hanging corpses and Blair Witch-esque trappings.

While you would have the benefit of being able to take the normal route to the haunt—I’d have to be more creative. Sneaking in meant parking in a dirt patch off the main road and traipsing through dead, crunchy soybean fields. I’d slip in, dressed appropriately as a psychopathic killer, and blend with the rest of the costumed crew. There, I’d find you, make sure I got you some place suitably private and finally do every fucking thing I’ve been fantasizing about doing to you.

---

It may be June, but it's always Halloween in my heart.

I like to chat with my partners. If that isn’t your vibe, then we probably won’t get along.

Yes, please: final girls, haunted houses and their attendant dollar-store decorations, sexual tension, imaginative domination/submission, impact play (spanking, slapping, etc.), fingering, degradation/humiliation, name-calling, very sloppy facefucking, dubcon/blackmail/noncon, cunnilingus, intense/rough sex, gagging/choking, manipulation/corruption, outercourse, overwhelming urges, cumplay, facials, sexy outfits/partially-clothed sex/torn clothing/costumes and a sense of humor.

No: underage characters, incest, animals, snuff, scat/watersports, people with no chill.

---

If you’re reading this sentence it must mean that this prompt is still very much open.

"You really picked out the shortest possible pair of jean shorts, huh?" Kylee was deliberately swaying her hips as she walked in front of me. Even though I was behind her, following her to the pool house with my things, I knew she could tell that my gaze was firmly fixed on her ass. Where else would they be? Her shorts were so miniscule that I could see the bottoms of her cheeks poking out beneath the frayed edges.

***

Summer had been good to me so far. I was working part-time at a state park--doing general maintenance and idiot management. I spent much of my free time with Kylee, who seemed to have an endless supply of time to spend with me. Can't say it didn't feel special to be a priority in her life.

She was working for her family's business (which she would only describe as "super boring and probably immoral") and doing odd jobs like house-sitting her for her parent's excessively wealthy friends on the side. And that's precisely what brought us to the present moment. Kylee had invited me to one such house--some gleaming but aggressively boring mansion in a gated community called The Avenues--to hang out for the weekend.

After giving me a tour involving a fairly absurd amount of bending over on Kylee's part, she showed me to the pool and, finally, the pool house. At this point, my erection was plainly obvious and I'm certain Kylee was enjoying herself. She had come a long way from being "naive."

If I stopped to think about Kylee's progression from horny but inexperienced to a straight up temptress, I got a little wistful recalling my part in her development. Of course, I rarely stopped to think about it because my cock was hard and I was incapable of having any deep thoughts in this state.

So it was that I pushed Kylee against the kitchen island--yes, this "pool house" had its own full kitchen--grabbed her ass with both palms and fell into a deep make out session as soon as the opportunity arose.

We were a tangle of tongues and limbs. She pushed against me as I pushed against her. I lifted her up by her ass and set her on the kitchen island, pulling her top up so that I could tease one of her pert, pink nipples. Soon, my lips descended from hers to that same nipple--licking it, sucking it, teasing it in half-circles. She moaned and lifted her hips, trying to grind her pussy against my abdomen.

Still sucking her nipple, I grasped her other breast, teasing it with my thumb and forefinger while she fumbled with my shorts. They were down. Cock out. Hard. Curved slightly upwards. Pointing to her. She pushed her thumb against the sensitive head, teased it, started to stroke.

I pulled her tank top up, tossed it onto the tile, pulled her closer to me. She leaned forward, barely managing to take my cock into her mouth while sitting on the edge of the island.

"Oh fuck," I grabbed her ponytail with one hand while the other ran along her spine. I was throbbing in her mouth. Warm and wet. "Deeper."

She obliged. She cradled my balls with one hand while pushing herself further along my shaft, "Gah, mhm, glun." She sputtered along my cock, leaving a thick trail of saliva as she pulled back.

"I love the way you taste," she looked up at me, breathing heavily, a strand of precum still attached to her lower lip.

"Let's go to the bedroom." I picked her up, positioning her so that she could grind along my cock as I clumsily made my way to the bedroom.

We fell onto the bed, into another sloppy kiss. Kylee's hand on my erection as I unbuttoned her jean shorts and pushed inside. No panties. What a surprise. Kylee helped, wigging her hips while I pushed her shorts down. I cupped her pussy, running my index finger along her labia and feeling the slight, sticky wetness. I teased her opening gently, warming her up until she moaned into my mouth--then I slowly pushed inside.

It was a slow flood.

She opened gingerly for me, soaking my fingers as I pushed further inside. I directed my index and middle finger backwards, towards my palm, as if beckoning her forward. I could feel the ridges, pressed against the ceiling of her pussy, making her whine as she struggled to focus on kissing me.

"I want to suck you," she managed.

"And I want to suck you," I replied.

Her eyes were fiery.

I knew what to do.

We switched positions. Me laying down as Kylee climbed on top of me, her now glistening pussy mere inches from my face.

I grabbed her ass, pulling her pussy against my lips and lapping at it. I pressed my tongue firmly against her labia, pulling it up to a slight flick as I reached the edge. She, in turn, did her best to focus on my cock, swirling her tongue around the tip as I pushed my tongue inside of her.

Kylee began to move her hips, grinding lightly against my tongue while I moved up to tease her swollen clit. I moved one hand from her ass, drawing my index finger along her now wet slit and slowly pushing it inside, knuckle by knuckle. She responded by moaning around my cock and sucking more rapidly. Deeper. She pushed her self towards my abdomen until I could feel her throat start to reject me.

"Agh, ah, whew," she gasped against me, holding my cock against her lips while a long trail of saliva ran down my shaft.

I added my middle finger to her pussy, now pushing two fingers inside of her while I continued to suck her clit. I could feel her dripping down, her wetness running over the curves of my fingers towards my palm. But it wasn't only her pussy that was soaking--she drooled down my cock at the same time. Saliva ran over the thick, throbbing veins and collected in a pool against my tight ballsack.

The thought of what was happening--Kylee sucking my cock in the extravagant property she was house-sitting--was enough to send me barreling towards orgasm. That and her ridiculous tongue work, of course. But I held on, because I could tell Kylee was heading in the same direction. She was shifting her hips, grinding against my tongue, moaning around my cock.

"Cum for me. I know you want to." I grunted against her pussy.

She gasped around my cockhead in response. Then--

"Ah!"

Her entire body shook. I kept my two fingers inside of her, holding them in place while my other hand gripped her ass, digging in, holding her in place.

After the shock waves passed, she leaned forward, pressing her nose against my balls, panting against the hilt of my shaft.

"That was so good," she murmured.

I slowly retracted my fingers, drawing out a length of sticky wetness and closing it into my palm. "You might say we're pretty fucking great at this."

Still panting against me, she went on, "I want you to cum all over my pussy."

"Fuck, god, really?" My hand went to my cock stroking it using Kylee's wetness and her saliva as lubricant.

"Mhm," she flipped over, getting onto her back on the bed, spreading her legs open.

I climbed on top quickly, sensing I didn't have much time. My hand squeezed my slick cock as I pumped it mere centimeters from Kylee's opening.

"Yes, please. Please spray it all over me. I want to feel your cum on me." She was rubbing her clit fiercely, looking at me with hungry eyes.

"Here it comes." I kept pumping, stopping at the apex of each stroke to squeeze my swollen, sensitive cockhead.

"Do it. Please." She was biting her lip, consistently rubbing her clit. She was close again.

I leaned forward, running I hand through Kylee's hair and holding her tightly. "Agh!" The first hot rope of cum shot against her pink labia. The next against her hands and clit. She kept rubbing, spreading my cum along her nub. Another rope ran over her mound and up towards her navel.

"Fu-fu-ah!" Kylee came as I shot another rope against her hand. She snatched her fingers away from her overstimulated clit and pushed them into her mouth, sucking my seed off each fingertip.

"Oh my god," I was panting now, wishing I could get hard again. Watching Kylee suck my cum off her fingers while some dripped down her pussy was the type of image I was never going to forget.

"Wow," Kylee let her hand fall from her mouth to her stomach. She ran her index finger from her belly button down to her clit, collecting more of my cum. Then it was back between her lips. She smirked at me, "I think we ought to go skinny dipping in that pool..."

I nodded, "You're brilliant, Kylee. Truly brilliant."

Avery stomped his foot into the smoldering ash of the campfire. It was sunrise and the rogue was up early–as usual–ready to break camp and get back on the road.

“Soren!” He called to the monk, who he believed to be still sleeping in his tent.

“Shush,” a voice came from the tree branch above Avery, “I’m meditating.”

“Well, on with it, Soren. We’ve got places to be.” The rogue rolled his pack closed, latching the leather straps while scanning a shaking bush.

“Hm, hm, hm,” a thin, tall wizard hummed to himself as he emerged from the foliage.

“And where the hell have you been, Ambrose?” Avery felt especially perturbed this morning.

“Looking for gripweed. There’s an old battleground nearby. It grows near corpses.”

“Well, that’s bloody morbid…did you find any?”

The wizard held up a stack of curling, gray weeds that looked like they’d been dead for years. “I’m going to make a fabulous poison with this stuff!”

Ambrose was a tad obsessed with poisons. To an obviously dangerous degree.

There was a soft thud behind the men as Soren landed gracefully, palms clasped together. He gave them a small bow before straightening his gi.

“Shall we then?” His voice was calm, low. His eyes a fierce, fiery red. “To Royal Crest, correct?”

The wizard smiled, remembering their plan, “Ah, yes, to post our ad.”

The monk nodded in response, “The girl.”

“Well, a girl,” Avery corrected him. “Royal Crest is big enough. Hopefully we get some takers.”

“Who wouldn’t want to serve as the personal fucktoy for three veteran adventurers such as ourselves?” Ambrose chuckled as he pulled an ornate wooden pipe from his robe and began to pack it with shimmering emerald leaves.

“Of course, we can’t outright say that but I’m sure we can find someone interested in getting a ‘leg up’ on their questing career.” Avery pulled his pack over his shoulder and led the way back to the dirt parth.

---

Royal Crest was a sea-faring town. Its harbor made it a key trading outpost within the Border Kingdoms. Though the region was unstable–subject to the tribal infighting of orcs and the exploratory pushes of humans and elves–it was also rich in natural resources and especially so in the opportunities for adventurers. The relative danger of the area made it an ideal place for Soren, Ambrose, and Avery to not only look for more work, but also a companion. So it was that they posted their ad on the board outside the Frothy Mug:

Legendary heroes Soren Lightfist, Ambrose of Averdell, and the dashing rogue Avery Sommer seek a new comrade to join their merry band. Work already lined up. Must be willing to dive headfirst into dangerous situations. High stamina greatly preferred. As an equal-opportunity partnership female adventurers are encouraged to apply! Please call on Avery at the Frothy Mug to arrange an interview.

---

OOC

Welp, this one should be pretty clear. Your character–perhaps some wide-eyed new adventurer, a cocky veteran looking for a new crew, or some princess seeking adventure–responds to the ad, thinking that she’s about to fall in with a lovely band of quest-mates. Turns out–they’re looking to turn her into their personal cocksleeve. Yay.

I'll be writing in third-person, past-tense. You do whatever POV suits you. I write at a relaxed pace and appreciate the same. I'm not looking to engage in a rapid-fire exchange or burn through this prompt in a day.

Yes, please: absurdly sexual situations, good girls and very bad girls, imaginative domination/submission, impact play (spanking, slapping, etc.), fingering, degradation/humiliation, name-calling, very sloppy facefucking, dubcon/blackmail, cunnilingus, intense/rough sex, gagging/choking, manipulation/corruption, outercourse, overwhelming urges, cumplay, facials, sexy outfits/partially-clothed sex/torn clothing/costumes and a sense of humor.

Overall, my preference is for writing rough, sloppy, and intense sex scenes. I also enjoy chatting with my partners, so if you’re all business we likely won’t get on.

No: underage characters, incest, animals, scat/watersports, people with no chill.

---

If you’re reading this sentence, it means this prompt is still open. I’m rarely in a rush and always happy to entertain good partners.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

************

"You really picked out the shortest possible pair of jean shorts, huh?" Kylee was deliberately swaying her hips as she walked in front of me. Even though I was behind her, following her to the pool house with my things, I knew she could tell that my gaze was firmly fixed on her ass. Where else would they be? Her shorts were so miniscule that I could see the bottoms of her cheeks poking out beneath the frayed edges.

***

Summer had been good to me so far. I was working part-time at a state park--doing general maintenance and idiot management. I spent much of my free time with Kylee, who seemed to have an endless supply of time to spend with me. Can't say it didn't feel special to be a priority in her life.

She was working for her family's business (which she would only describe as "super boring and probably immoral") and doing odd jobs like house-sitting her for her parent's excessively wealthy friends on the side. And that's precisely what brought us to the present moment. Kylee had invited me to one such house--some gleaming but aggressively boring mansion in a gated community called The Avenues--to hang out for the weekend.

After giving me a tour involving a fairly absurd amount of bending over on Kylee's part, she showed me to the pool and, finally, the pool house. At this point, my erection was plainly obvious and I'm certain Kylee was enjoying herself. She had come a long way from being "naive."

If I stopped to think about Kylee's progression from horny but inexperienced to a straight up temptress, I got a little wistful recalling my part in her development. Of course, I rarely stopped to think about it because my cock was hard and I was incapable of having any deep thoughts in this state.

So it was that I pushed Kylee against the kitchen island--yes, this "pool house" had its own full kitchen--grabbed her ass with both palms and fell into a deep make out session as soon as the opportunity arose.

We were a tangle of tongues and limbs. She pushed against me as I pushed against her. I lifted her up by her ass and set her on the kitchen island, pulling her top up so that I could tease one of her pert, pink nipples. Soon, my lips descended from hers to that same nipple--licking it, sucking it, teasing it in half-circles. She moaned and lifted her hips, trying to grind her pussy against my abdomen.

Still sucking her nipple, I grasped her other breast, teasing it with my thumb and forefinger while she fumbled with my shorts. They were down. Cock out. Hard. Curved slightly upwards. Pointing to her. She pushed her thumb against the sensitive head, teased it, started to stroke.

I pulled her tank top up, tossed it onto the tile, pulled her closer to me. She leaned forward, barely managing to take my cock into her mouth while sitting on the edge of the island.

"Oh fuck," I grabbed her ponytail with one hand while the other ran along her spine. I was throbbing in her mouth. Warm and wet. "Deeper."

She obliged. She cradled my balls with one hand while pushing herself further along my shaft, "Gah, mhm, glun." She sputtered along my cock, leaving a thick trail of saliva as she pulled back.

"I love the way you taste," she looked up at me, breathing heavily, a strand of precum still attached to her lower lip.

"Let's go to the bedroom." I picked her up, positioning her so that she could grind along my cock as I clumsily made my way to the bedroom.

We fell onto the bed, into another sloppy kiss. Kylee's hand on my erection as I unbuttoned her jean shorts and pushed inside. No panties. What a surprise. Kylee helped, wigging her hips while I pushed her shorts down. I cupped her pussy, running my index finger along her labia and feeling the slight, sticky wetness. I teased her opening gently, warming her up until she moaned into my mouth--then I slowly pushed inside.

It was a slow flood.

She opened gingerly for me, soaking my fingers as I pushed further inside. I directed my index and middle finger backwards, towards my palm, as if beckoning her forward. I could feel the ridges, pressed against the ceiling of her pussy, making her whine as she struggled to focus on kissing me.

"I want to suck you," she managed.

"And I want to suck you," I replied.

Her eyes were fiery.

I knew what to do.

We switched positions. Me laying down as Kylee climbed on top of me, her now glistening pussy mere inches from my face.

I grabbed her ass, pulling her pussy against my lips and lapping at it. I pressed my tongue firmly against her labia, pulling it up to a slight flick as I reached the edge. She, in turn, did her best to focus on my cock, swirling her tongue around the tip as I pushed my tongue inside of her.

Kylee began to move her hips, grinding lightly against my tongue while I moved up to tease her swollen clit. I moved one hand from her ass, drawing my index finger along her now wet slit and slowly pushing it inside, knuckle by knuckle. She responded by moaning around my cock and sucking more rapidly. Deeper. She pushed her self towards my abdomen until I could feel her throat start to reject me.

"Agh, ah, whew," she gasped against me, holding my cock against her lips while a long trail of saliva ran down my shaft.

I added my middle finger to her pussy, now pushing two fingers inside of her while I continued to suck her clit. I could feel her dripping down, her wetness running over the curves of my fingers towards my palm. But it wasn't only her pussy that was soaking--she drooled down my cock at the same time. Saliva ran over the thick, throbbing veins and collected in a pool against my tight ballsack.

The thought of what was happening--Kylee sucking my cock in the extravagant property she was house-sitting--was enough to send me barreling towards orgasm. That and her ridiculous tongue work, of course. But I held on, because I could tell Kylee was heading in the same direction. She was shifting her hips, grinding against my tongue, moaning around my cock.

"Cum for me. I know you want to." I grunted against her pussy.

She gasped around my cockhead in response. Then--

"Ah!"

Her entire body shook. I kept my two fingers inside of her, holding them in place while my other hand gripped her ass, digging in, holding her in place.

After the shock waves passed, she leaned forward, pressing her nose against my balls, panting against the hilt of my shaft.

"That was so good," she murmured.

I slowly retracted my fingers, drawing out a length of sticky wetness and closing it into my palm. "You might say we're pretty fucking great at this."

Still panting against me, she went on, "I want you to cum all over my pussy."

"Fuck, god, really?" My hand went to my cock stroking it using Kylee's wetness and her saliva as lubricant.

"Mhm," she flipped over, getting onto her back on the bed, spreading her legs open.

I climbed on top quickly, sensing I didn't have much time. My hand squeezed my slick cock as I pumped it mere centimeters from Kylee's opening.

"Yes, please. Please spray it all over me. I want to feel your cum on me." She was rubbing her clit fiercely, looking at me with hungry eyes.

"Here it comes." I kept pumping, stopping at the apex of each stroke to squeeze my swollen, sensitive cockhead.

"Do it. Please." She was biting her lip, consistently rubbing her clit. She was close again.

I leaned forward, running I hand through Kylee's hair and holding her tightly. "Agh!" The first hot rope of cum shot against her pink labia. The next against her hands and clit. She kept rubbing, spreading my cum along her nub. Another rope ran over her mound and up towards her navel.

"Fu-fu-ah!" Kylee came as I shot another rope against her hand. She snatched her fingers away from her overstimulated clit and pushed them into her mouth, sucking my seed off each fingertip.

"Oh my god," I was panting now, wishing I could get hard again. Watching Kylee suck my cum off her fingers while some dripped down her pussy was the type of image I was never going to forget.

"Wow," Kylee let her hand fall from her mouth to her stomach. She ran her index finger from her belly button down to her clit, collecting more of my cum. Then it was back between her lips. She smirked at me, "I think we ought to go skinny dipping in that pool..."

I nodded, "You're brilliant, Kylee. Truly brilliant."

I know it’s something you’ve been thinking about quite a lot. Why exactly does he like cumming inside of me so much? I appreciate your inquisitive nature. And it’s a completely valid thing to wonder about. Allow me to explain.

Part One: The Dress

You knew it’d have to be this way, from the moment you bit your bottom lip to give it that extra pop of blood plumping color. Sitting at the dinner table, legs crossed, black dress–fucking that black dress–riding up your thighs. Like I didn’t see you scotch around in an attempt to pull it down. As if that would prevent me from taking a peek under the tablecloth to see what skimpy piece of lace might be barely concealing your place. Your warm embrace. My homebase.

Tie and blazer cast aside with little regard for their fate as soon as the apartment door is thrust opened and then kicked closed. My hands pulling at the stretchy fabric of your dress—which you always tease me for finding so enchanting–to find what ensemble you hid beneath. Sometimes it’s nothing. And nothing can be a very pleasant gift. You always have a tendency to pout and playfully squirm when my hands advance down that gorgeous dip of your child-bearing hips until they’re rolling inward towards the treasure clutched between your thighs.

I’ll fall to my knees right here in the foyer, scrunch up the hem of your dress–and you’ll surely roll your eyes at the way I wrinkle it–and shove my tongue against your lace.

“Already soaking through your panties?”

My words always sound a bit more powerful when my lips are a perfect vacuum around your clit. I’ll tease you for a little while, my tastebuds pushing ever so slightly through the gaps in the fabric. Then I’ll hook my finger through that drenched thong, pull it aside and replace it with my tongue. I’m not one to disappoint. Maybe you’ll cum shivering against my face right here, your fingers searching for support along the wall or through my hair.

And it’s all so that–

Part Two: The Caveman

When you’re on your back, mouth half-open in the drooling pleasure of a mind-melting fuck, your pussy will already be soaking wet with my spit and your cum. I can slide right into that torrid room and fall into a deep, bass-like rhythm until I finish. And you know when I wrap my fingers around your neck, thumb just to the side of your esophagus, my cockhead goes swollen with anticipation. Tighter and tighter and tighter makes me drunk with a ball-bursting need.

You and I both know that men are barely-evolved Neanderthals. We like to mark what’s ours. So let me paint a sticky, dripping portrait of webbed sperm inside your picture perfect pussy. Let me ruin it with a temporary mess. And when I pull out I’ll be sheathed in the uncourtly mingling of your juices and mine, so when you suck me off like a good girl you can taste the culmination of our fuck. Then I can pat you on the head, smack you on the ass, and help you clean it up.

Part Three: Our Anatomy

Of course it wouldn’t always happen that way. But I don’t see how I could possibly pull out when you’re on your belly, face smushed into a bevy of decorative pillows–why do you have so many fucking pillows?--and both of your ass cheeks are squeezed between my palms. I’ll push inward, your legs pressed tightly together, so that I can see them get slightly displaced each time my cock disappears inside your bright pink cunt. And, god, it’s fucking tight. Do you have any idea what it feels like to count each individual rugae drag over my taut skin? You’re fucking ribbed for my pleasure, so what do I need a condom for?

Speaking of those glorious ridges, did you know they’re there so that your perfect little slit can stretch just enough to accomodate me? I mean, you have to fit me somehow, don’t you? God knows you’re much to shallow without a little elasticity.

Are you gonna unnnnnnffff when I stretch you out? Because when my fingers are digging in enough to leave the slightest purple of bruises, I can’t hear anything other than that wet sliding of dick and suction, those muffled moans and frantic breathing, and the bed frame creaking from our sacrilegious sex (the neighbors must hate us). So, really, can I stop then and remember to pull out? Can you even afford to remind me? When my weight is on top of you, driving my swollen cock as deep as it’ll go, are you really going to care if I squish my sack against your outer lips and empty a tablespoon of cum against your cervix?

Conclusion

Let’s be real. You want it. You always grab at me, your nails slipping and sliding until they dig a little into my shoulder blades. Your legs closing around my hips in a needy embrace. You know that you want to feel that violent convulsion of my cock unloading like a pop of champagne. Pumping and pumping and finally dripping the final threads of an elixir that soothes you better than any bubble bath or lavender oil or pedicure.

So, won’t you be such a good girl and let me finish inside?

Because when we’re done and sharing a bit of Rocky Road in bed, I want to see the slightly sticky sparkle of my cum is still glistening on your legs.

I rest my case. Does that about square it away for you?

---

This is an invitation to chat. You in?