I was watching a story of mine on Literotica for reasons, and there was a certain number of starts and voters (i.e., 4.5 stars based on 192 votes, depicted as 4.5/192). The problem is that yesterday it was, for example, 4.52/194.

I understand that star ratings can go up and down based on people voting - in this case 5 stars, rating goes up. 4 stars or fewer, rating goes down. But in this case I lost voters. Can you unvote in Literotica? Did someone close their account? How the heck did that number drop?

Keeping it in house, with family fun Friday! Share your favourites or something new!

Like reading stories from Don Silver about wives slowly transforming in to sluts for men other than their husbands.. any other suggestions?

Joel

He was in her driveway by five-thirty.

Old habit, he was always early, she was always exactly on time, and the fifteen minutes in between were just his. He used them to finish his coffee in the car, watching the sky go from black to the particular bruised purple that preceded sunrise in early June. The neighborhood was still. A sprinkler somewhere. A dog that hadn't decided if it was worth barking at him.

He was halfway through his second mental rehearsal of this is just a road trip when her front door opened.

Cara came down the porch steps in an oversized jacket and bare ankles above her sneakers, two coffees balanced in a cardboard tray, her dark hair pulled back in a way that meant she hadn't looked in a mirror yet. She looked like herself. She looked the way she always looked at this hour, before the day got its hands on her.

He got out of the car and opened the trunk and started rearranging things so his duffel would fit, mostly so he'd have something to do with his hands.

"You packed half your apartment," she said, appearing beside him.

"I packed efficiently." He got the bag in, shut the trunk, and turned to take the coffee she was holding out. Their fingers didn't touch. He noted this with the particular, practiced neutrality he'd developed over, he didn't want to count how many months. "Morning."

"Morning." She turned away.

He drank his coffee and watched the sky.

Two weeks, he told himself. Friends take road trips. This is a thing friends do.

They'd been friends for six years.

He knew what that meant. He knew all the arguments, that it worked, that it was good, that the thing he'd been quietly carrying around for the last however-long was a complication nobody needed. She was the person he called when things went sideways. She was the throughline of the last half-decade of his life, the constant in every version of circumstances he'd found himself in.

He was not going to detonate that.

He was going to sit in the car seat for two thousand miles and listen to music and eat diner food and be her friend at a time when she needed it, and by the time they got back to Chicago he was going to have gotten a handle on himself.

He paired his phone to the bluetooth before Cara even had a chance to sit her coffee down in the cup holder.

"You always do that," she said.

"Do what?"

"Take control of the music before we've even discussed it."

He looked over at her. She was watching the road, jaw set in the particular way that meant she was more amused than she was letting on. He'd learned her tells the way you learn a language, slowly, then all at once, until you couldn't remember not knowing them.

"You want to make the decisions?" he asked.

"I want input."

"You have input." He held the phone toward her. "Tell me what you want."

"I don't want to negotiate. I want collaboration."

"That's a very polished way to say you want control."

"That's a very cheap deflection."

He laughed before he could stop himself. She didn't look at him, but something in her shoulders shifted, relaxed a half-degree. He'd noticed that too, over the years. That she loosened slightly when he laughed. He tried not to think about what that meant.

"Fine," he said. "Collaborative playlist. But I have an advisory veto."

"That's not a real thing."

"We're going to be miles away from anyone who can tell us otherwise."

She glanced at him, fast, sideways, and then back to the road. "Fine. Advisory veto."

He put something on. Something that felt like the morning felt: a little uncertain, a little open. The kind of song that didn't demand anything.

Neither of them spoke for a while. Illinois fell away behind them in long flat increments and he watched the landscape through the window and tried to be a person who was simply on a road trip with his friend.

He was mostly successful.

The diner outside Iowa City smelled like coffee and bacon grease and something sweetly burnt, and the booths were the deep red of old vinyl and he slid into one across from Cara and picked up the laminated menu and read it the way he always did, fully, because he had learned early that decisions made in haste compounded poorly.

He was still reading when she spoke.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You're going to regardless."

"When did we stop talking about real things?"

He set the menu down.

He looked at her, at the way she was turning her mug in slow circles, not meeting his eyes, the small crease between her brows that appeared when she was working up to something. She'd been working up to something for months. He'd watched it build the way you watch weather build, tracking it from a careful distance, waiting to see which way it would break.

He'd told himself he was imagining it. He'd been less and less convinced.

"What do you mean?" he said, because he needed to hear what she meant.

She explained, reporting instead of saying things, giving updates instead of actually talking, and he listened and understood what she was really asking, the thing underneath the thing, and his chest did what it had been doing in her vicinity for a long time now: tightened around something with no clean name.

"Maybe around the time things got complicated," he said.

"What things?"

He held her gaze. "You know what things."

A beat. Her fingers stilled on the mug.

She did know. He could see it, the slight shift in her expression, the recognition she was working to keep neutral. She'd always been good at neutral. So had he. They'd both gotten very good at it, which was either a testament to their friendship or an indictment of it, and he hadn't decided which.

"I thought the whole point of this trip," she said, her voice careful, "was to stop doing that."

"Stop doing what?"

"Not saying things."

He held her gaze for a moment that went on long enough to be something. The thing he'd been not-saying for months pressed up against the back of his teeth, and he was about to, he didn't know what he was about to do, actually. Something.

Then the waitress materialized with a coffee refill and a pen and the moment passed through his fingers like water.

"Eggs," he said. "I'll have the eggs."

"Coward," Cara said quietly.

"Absolutely."

He looked back down at the menu he didn't need to read. Heard her exhale. Felt the word she hadn't said sitting in the space between them, patient and warm and not going anywhere.

He knew what he was doing. He was waiting for the right moment the way he always waited for the right moment, which was both his best quality and his worst one, depending on who you asked.

But two weeks. Two thousand miles.

He'd been carrying this thing carefully for long enough that he'd almost convinced himself it was manageable. Something about being in her car with her, watching the same sky, sharing the same bad diner coffee, it made careful feel like a word that was running out of road.

Outside the window, the highway stretched west in a long flat line.

Something is going to give, he thought.

He wasn't afraid of that anymore. That was what surprised him.

He picked up his coffee and didn't say anything, and across the table Cara ordered eggs too, and they ate breakfast in the particularly comfortable silence of two people who knew each other very well and were perhaps, finally, running out of reasons not to say so.

As they finished their sub par breakfast and coffee, they paid the bill and headed back to the old ford focus. Seat belts clicked, engine roaring to life, and the music agreed on, they left the diner behind.

Sitting in the passenger seat, Joel turned his head slightly so Cara was sitting in his peripheral vision. It had been a while since they were this close, and he used this opportunity to rediscover the person who was a part of his everyday life a few years ago, when they were in high school.

She tapped her fingers on the top of the steering wheel along with the tempo of the music, her shoulders dancing ever so slightly. Her brown eyes scanning the road, as if she was waiting for something to jump out.

Why did you do this to yourself, he thought.

Because he knew the answer, which was the problem. He'd said yes to two weeks in a car with Cara Hensley because she'd asked and he was constitutionally incapable of saying no to her, had been since the eleventh grade when she'd turned around in AP English and borrowed his pen and handed it back at the end of class without a word, like it was the most natural transaction in the world. He'd been off-balance around her ever since. Twenty-three years old now and apparently no better at it.

He continued to watch her from the corner of his eye. The way she drove was the way she did most things, unhurried, attentive, quietly in command. One hand on the wheel, elbow resting on the window ledge, the warm air coming in lifting a few loose strands of hair around her face. She didn't push them back. She let them be.

He used to know this face the way he knew his own. In high school they'd spent so many hours in each other's orbits that he'd sometimes caught himself unconsciously mapping her, the angle she tilted her head when she was thinking, the small movement of her mouth before she said something she actually meant rather than something polite. Then college happened and geography happened and life happened, and then a mutual friend's birthday brought them back into the same room three years ago, and she'd looked at him across a kitchen full of people and said Joel the way you say someone's name when you're surprised to find you still know exactly how it feels in your mouth.

They'd rebuilt it, the friendship, the ease, the daily-ness of each other. What he hadn't anticipated was that rebuilding it would mean building something slightly different on the same foundation. Something that fit differently than before. Something he couldn't quite call just friendship without feeling like a person telling a small, careful lie.

The song changed. She made a quiet sound of approval.

"Good one," she said.

"Advisory veto goes both ways," he said. "I can also approve things."

She smiled at the road. Not the polished smile she deployed socially, the one that was warm but managed, this was the other one, the smaller one, the one she didn't seem to know she was making. He'd spent an unreasonable amount of time thinking about the difference between those two smiles.

Why did you do this to yourself.

Because the honest answer was that six years of friendship and three of almost-daily contact had not made the wanting smaller. If anything, knowing her better had made it worse, had given him more material, more texture, more of her to carry around in his chest at low-level frequency. And somewhere in the grey fog of February, when she'd called him from her apartment and said I need to go somewhere, I need to move, I need two weeks of nothing that looks like regular life, he'd heard something underneath the words. Something that might have just been longing for open road. Something that might have been more.

He'd said yes before she finished the sentence.

Now here he was, ninety miles west of the city, watching her shoulders keep time with a song they'd both agreed on, and telling himself he had two weeks to figure out whether the thing underneath the words had been real or invented.

The highway opened up ahead of them , wide and straight and patient.

He turned back to the window.

Two weeks.

Cara

The motel was called The Wanderer Inn, which was either charming or ominous depending on your mood, and Cara's mood at eight-thirty in the evening after seven hours of driving was somewhere in between.

It sat off a two-lane highway outside of Des Moines, low and long, the kind of place built in the seventies and maintained just enough to keep the lights on. The vacancy sign buzzed faintly in the purple dusk. The parking lot was half-empty. Somewhere to the west, the sky had gone the colour of a bruise.

"Storm's coming," Joel said, looking at it through the windshield.

"I know."

"We could push on. There's probably something better in forty miles."

"I'm not driving forty miles in that." She nodded at the sky. "We're stopping here."

He didn't argue. He never argued about practical things, only ideas. She'd always liked that about him, the ability to distinguish between a hill worth dying on and one that wasn't. She liked a lot of things about him that she spent considerable energy trying to categorise as ordinary.

The man at the front desk had a white moustache and the energy of someone who had seen everything and found most of it acceptable.

"One room or two?" he asked.

Cara opened her mouth.

"One's fine," Joel said, at the same moment.

She closed her mouth. Felt something happen in her chest that she immediately classified as practical, one room is cheaper, this is not a thing.

"One queen or one king, one queen and a double, or two doubles?" the man said, without looking up.

"Two doubles," Cara said.

"Queen and a double's bigger room," the man offered.

"Two doubles," she said again.

Joel said nothing. She didn't look at him.

The room smelled like cedar and old carpet and the particular staleness of air conditioning that had been running since the Clinton administration. It was clean, though, in the spartan way of places that didn't bother with aesthetics and therefore accidentally achieved them. Two beds with white coverlets. A window unit humming steadily. A bathroom with a door that didn't quite close all the way and a showerhead that Cara could already tell was going to be either scalding or freezing with nothing in between.

Joel dropped his bag on the far bed and went to the window.

"It's going to be a big one," he said.

She looked past him. The sky to the west had gone from bruised to black, the kind of black that moved. Lightning flickered in the distance, still too far for thunder, just light, silent and enormous.

"Storms in the midwest are different," she said, moving to stand beside him. Not close. Appropriate distance. "They have more intention than east coast storms."

"More intention."

"Like they mean it."

He turned his head slightly to look at her, and she kept her eyes on the sky. She was very aware of the six inches of air between them. She was very aware that she was aware of it, which was the more embarrassing part.

"You always anthropomorphize weather," he said.

"Weather deserves it."

"I'm not disagreeing." He turned back to the window. "I'm just noting the pattern."

She made herself step away, back into the room, and started unpacking the things she'd need for the night. Toiletries. The oversized t-shirt she slept in. She kept her back to him and tried to remember how to be a normal person in a normal room with her normal friend.

One room, said a small treacherous voice in the back of her mind. You didn't even hesitate.

She had not hesitated. She'd been prepared to, had her mouth open to say two rooms, separate rooms, rooms with a wall between them and ideally a small ocean, and then he'd said one's fine and her body had made the decision before her brain could weigh in.

That happened with him sometimes. Had been happening more lately.

The storm hit at ten-fifteen.

Not gently. There was a distant rumble that escalated in the space of about ninety seconds into something that shook the window in its frame, and then the rain came, not gradually but all at once, the way midwest storms delivered on their intentions. Sheet lightning turned the curtains white every few minutes. The thunder was the kind you felt in your back teeth.

Cara was in bed, on top of the covers in her t-shirt, theoretically reading. She was on the same paragraph she'd been on for twenty minutes.

Joel was in the other bed. She could hear him shifting occasionally. The lamp between them was on. Neither of them had suggested turning it off.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I'm not afraid of storms."

"I know. I was asking in general."

She looked up from her book. He was lying on his back, one arm behind his head, looking at the ceiling. The lamp put him in warm light and soft shadow and she made herself look back at her page.

"I'm fine," she said. "In general."

"You've been quiet since the diner."

"I'm often quiet."

"You're often selectively quiet," he said. "There's a difference."

She turned a page she hadn't read. "What's the difference?"

"When you're just quiet, you seem settled. When you're selectively quiet, you seem like you're solving something."

She stared at the page. Outside, thunder rolled across the sky in a long slow wave and the window turned white.

"Maybe I'm solving something," she said.

"Want to talk about it?"

No, she thought. The thing I'm solving is you and I don't know how to say that without detonating six years of something I'm not willing to lose.

"Not particularly," she said.

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "okay”

Cara watched as Joel pushed himself up of the bed and trod towards his duffle bag, pulling out a fresh pair of boxers and his wash kit.

“I’m jumping in the shower quickly, don’t get top scared while I’m gone” he said with a sly smirk.

“Oh fuck off” was all Cara could muster after hours on the road.

She buried her nose back into the book she was using as an excuse to let her mind wonder without disruption. Listening to the sound of the water of the shower smashing against the floor, imagining what it would be like to be in their with Joel.

“Jesus Christ, get it together, he doesn’t see you like that” she muttered to herself.

Slamming the book down between her legs, she reefed the pillow from under her head and used it to cover her face.

“This was so STUPID” Cara screamed into the pillow.

The sound of the shower cuts out.

Cara scrambles back into position and pulls the book back into her face. After a couple of minutes she hears the door unlock and swing open.

Joel walks out with a towel around his waist.

Cara continues pretending to read her book, acting as if she hasn’t noticed Joel appear in the room again.

She lowers her book slightly, peeking over the top of the paper pages.

He had his back to her, crouched over his duffel, and the towel hung low enough that she could see the two shallow dimples at the base of his spine. He was broader than she remembered, or maybe she'd just been successfully not-looking for long enough that she'd let herself forget. The kind of build that came from actually using your body rather than performing fitness, solid through the shoulders and chest, tapering to a waist that the towel clung to with very little encouragement.

She was looking. She knew she was looking. She told herself she was simply observing, in a detached and anthropological sense, and that this was completely fine.

Then he straightened and turned to toss something onto his bed and the towel shifted and she saw, briefly, unmistakably, the shape of him beneath the fabric, and her brain went completely white.

She snapped the book up to her face.

Page forty-seven. She was reading page forty-seven. She was a person who was reading a book, in a bed, minding her own business, and whatever she had just seen was not something she was going to think about. At all. Ever.

Her face was on fire.

She heard him move to his bed. The creak of the mattress. The quiet sounds of him settling, shifting, getting comfortable, and she stared at page forty-seven with the intensity of someone defusing something.

The lamp clicked off on his side.

She lowered the book by degrees, the way you lower yourself into cold water.

He was on his back, one arm folded behind his head, eyes on the ceiling. The storm light moved across the room in slow pulses, white, dark, white, dark, and in it she could see the rise and fall of his chest, the line of his throat, the jaw she had been carefully not-studying all day in the car.

He looked completely unbothered.

She hated that. She hated how well he wore stillness, how he could just lie there looking like that while she was over here internally combusting over a towel.

Get it together, she told herself. He is your friend. He does not think about you like that. You have two weeks in a car together and you are not going to make it weird.

Two weeks.

She looked at the ceiling.

Outside, the storm kept every promise it had made.

Bro sis stories like SIBLINGS WITH BENEFITS by Lovecraft looking for that same toxic sibling dynamic plus hiding it from there parents should not be a pure jerk story and should have length also looking for bro sis stories that have enemies to lovers if you could find something with both that would be nice but not needed also preferably older sis or twins

Looking for stories about good girls turning into sluts. Would prefer non cheating stories but will take what I can get.

Some of them I even had to resubmit because they were flagged as AI even though they weren’t. I’m getting tired of it. Are there any easier sites?

Looking for any stories where a husbands friend is feeling down after a separation and the husband convinces his wife to help him out by fucking him. The husband might watch or hear them but not take part.

(Apologies, DM is closed now as I am too busy with work and not looking currently).

 Who: This post is about me and one of my FWBs.

 What: Break-Up Sex (Unless I can prove my worth for a reason to stay?)

 When: This happened about a week ago, so it's still fresh in my mind.

 Where: A beautiful hotel room with a King Size Bed in the GTA.

 Why: As the saying goes at work, different people call it different things. It may be “lessons learned,” a “hot wash,” “introspection,” or “retrospection” (yes, if you are in one of those Agile / DevOps type shops, hehe 😊). But in r2rToronto, I suppose you would call this a success story.

 

 And the story begins here ...

“Daddy”

 I am no stranger to Reddit for asking random questions, but the concepts of personals and hook-ups were completely new to me until about five months ago. After this discovery (born out of disappointment and failing relationships), I met my first Redditor IRL, whom I will call “Daddy.”

 

“Daddy” is actually younger than I am, but because of the dominance he exerted over me, I loved to worship and fear him. One of the first few pictures he shared with me showed him holding a paddle, and another holding a belt. This put me—a submissive and a brat—into instant drooling mode.

 

Pre-Meet

 “Daddy” and I had been chatting a lot and hooked up a few times until he decided we were looking for completely different things and daddy wanted to break it off (to my disappointment).

 

I came to realize that “moving on” is involuntary and inevitable, but I wanted to have one last rendezvous on my own terms. It was late Monday night when I told him how sad I felt about where things were going and asked if we could meet up again—perhaps for one last time. He granted my wish. Immediately, I decided to book a hotel. He was surprised by how quickly I moved ahead and needed to check if he had any work meetings on Wednesday. While waiting for his confirmation, I looked through my collection of toys to decide what to pack for this “staycation.”

  

The Meet

 On Wednesday afternoon, after some delays with work, I was able to trek on the bus and walk to the hotel with my treasure trove. As soon as I walked into the room, I was so excited by how it looked (with a separate seating and bedroom area) that I sent pictures back to Daddy. I took a shower and put on nice lingerie with a short skirt over it. I proceeded to lay out all my toys (paddle, flogger, cuffs, vibrators, mask, etc.) neatly onto the bedside bench.

 

I was almost ready to go down to the lobby in my high heels when Daddy came to the door around 7 PM (we surprised each other). Since Daddy loves swimming, I asked him if he wanted to use the hotel amenities first before we got into our acts. Daddy was just as horny as I was. After giving me a hug and pinching my butt cheek, he took a quick shower and we went straight to the bedroom.

  

The Sex…

  

Part 1 – Teasing with the Toys

 This was the first time Daddy saw that I had brought all these toys. Immediately, he pushed me onto the bed face down. Daddy put the wrist cuffs on me and made me cross my arms behind my back. He then had me bend my legs with my feet up, kind of like a hogtie without the spreader bar. After inspecting the implements, Daddy stuffed my pussy with a pink vibrator, and after glistening my chrysanthemum with some lube, he inserted a blue butt plug into my tight space. Immediately, I felt exhilarated but fearful at the same time.

 

Daddy then proceeded to hit me with the paddle, then with the flogger, and then with the riding crop. I was screaming for Daddy, my butt cheeks turning red, the soles of my feet twitching a little, and my thighs worrying whether they would come between the instruments or Daddy’s dick.

 

Daddy was holding the riding crop so hard that the feathers at the handle all fell off (a shame, I just bought this toy lol). I did not get any tickles or light teasing; instead, the whole time, I was moaning and yelping like a puppy, begging for Daddy. Begging for him to hit me, this little slut, this little bad girl. As I confessed to Daddy and asked him what I should do, Daddy "DP'd" me by pulling the butt plug and the vibrator in and out in tandem. I was so excited. My ass rose up and down, waiting for him to spank me again.

  

Part 2 – Monster Cock

 Daddy has an 8-inch, girthy, uncut cock that would make any tiny woman feel fearful if they had never tried one before. While I still had my wrists bound and my legs up in the air, Daddy made me “bow” and held my head to assist in worshipping his dick by bobbing up and down. Daddy had me start licking him, pleasuring the tip of his head and the frenulum, licking up, down, and around the shaft like my favorite lollipop, and then licking his balls. Daddy smelled of fresh bubble bath and virility. When I did well, Daddy would praise me. But I enjoyed it even more when Daddy spanked me while I was sucking him. He made me bring my feet together so that my butt would be pushed out and even meatier for spanking.

 

Daddy gave me a break and released my wrist cuffs so that I could hold his dick while going tabletop in front of him. Daddy fondled my breasts and twisted my nipples (my favorite tease) while I continued to suck his dick and get flogged. I was wearing a submission mask, so I couldn't see how pleased Daddy was; I just had to rely on his spanks and praises.

 

After a short tease, Daddy was ready to let me ride his cock. I carefully rolled the condom onto his huge cock (his foreskin was now peeled back, revealing the plum, flushed head), and I lowered myself cowgirl-style onto this handsome man. I tried going up and down a little but eventually changed to a rocking motion back and forth. Daddy was squeezing my small boobs and slapping them, driving me to rock even harder. As I started getting tired, I gripped the headboard with both arms so that I could fuck Daddy hard. Even though Daddy didn't have time to work out with me in the gym, I felt like I was getting a full-body workout.

 

Daddy wasn't satisfied with the front view, so next, I did reverse cowgirl. With the butt plug still intact, I turned around and sat on his cock. I knew I hadn't been doing enough squats and glute exercises, which is why Daddy made me practice hard, slapping my ass when I didn't go fast enough. Thank you, Daddy.

 

Finally, Daddy was ready to show me who was boss. He made me bend down with my ass sticking up so that we could enjoy doggy style. Daddy proceeded to ram his cock into me while I rubbed my clit and begged for more. Knowing my clit was getting bigger and my tasty lips were engorged and plump, he removed my hands, made me squeeze my cunt harder, and—with his hands grabbing my butt cheeks—rocked me back and forth even more so I could enjoy the full depth of his cock while begging and moaning.

  

Part 3 - The Finale

 Daddy figured we both needed a slow treat, so he lay on his back, half-seated, with his beautiful cock pointing to the sky. I proceeded to lick his cock all over while wearing my submissive hood, so all Daddy could see were my slutty, luscious lips ferociously licking his cock and balls, sticking out my tongue like a helpless puppy to catch every drop of pre-cum.

 

Daddy and I enjoyed this quiet moment a lot, so instead of loud slapping, he rewarded me by grabbing my boobs and twisting my nipples. My nipples are like joysticks that respond to pressure and the right amount of twisting; they were flushed with blood, getting harder and darker. Even without a dildo or cock inside me at that moment, I could just imagine how amazing it would feel if there were one.

 

Finally, Daddy rewarded me with spanking again. He made me go doggy style, face down, ass up. My ass was getting so red and blushed by the riding crop, and my moaning grew louder. I told Daddy, “Please spank me, I am a fucking whore… yes Daddy, yes Daddy, please…” Daddy rocked his cock even harder while my butt plug remained intact, making me feel so stimulated and wishing I had brought a thicker plug.

 

Finally, Daddy made me go back to sucking him. As I licked more and played with his balls and perineum, Daddy was about to come. Without me even trying too hard, squeezing, or twisting, Daddy exploded inside my mouth with his full load of cum. I felt like a satisfied slut. I was fed. Once Daddy regained his composure, I came up to put my breasts around his mouth so he could suck on my nipples, making me feel like a worthy slut who received a gentle closure.

 

Post-Sex

 I had already brought some takeout from the fridge with Daddy’s favorite food, ready to reheat in the microwave. Daddy figured I was such a hardworking slut that he needed to top up the takeout with some more fast food. We enjoyed the food, had our small talk, and channel-surfed a little. Daddy is an avid movie watcher and noticed a movie with Matt Damon and Chinese stars, whereas I know nothing about movies. The night was getting late and Daddy needed to wrap up some work, so he proceeded to enjoy his office desk and chair with his laptop (yes, I feel like that’s the perfect nerd setup with the TV and couch all in close proximity, a perfect Man Cave), while I went to the sleeping alcove.

 

The Morning After

 To my surprise, Daddy and I did not have a chance to go for a morning round. Daddy had his alarm set for 6:15 AM or so with no time to snooze. He got up and ran right into work meetings. Given the white noise of his work meeting (even though it wasn't too loud), I couldn't fall back to sleep. So, I got up with my laptop and worked a little bit after I showered and enjoyed the steam and bath gels. Unfortunately, due to his meetings and business, neither of us got to try the jetted tub, which I thought would be a treat for Daddy. We went according to plan with breakfast around 9 AM, and then shortly after, we checked out and went our separate ways once Daddy dropped me off at the bus stop.

 

What I Learned (In No Particular Order):

 

1. I still have a hard time separating my upbringing from coming to grips with my sexuality and enjoying BDSM. During this whole experience, I realized I truly enjoy spanking, crying, and feeling helpless (when done right—neither too light nor excruciatingly painful). I turned all my silence into actual cries and yelps, and it had a wonderful cathartic effect.

2. My sexual desire is sometimes fulfilled just by watching, imagining, and writing down the experience. The idea of planning what to bring, the journey getting there, and the moments spent waiting—from the hotel booking to getting naked—is just as important as the sex itself.

3. I am not good at deep throating. The position where I am perpendicular to the guy with my head thrown back while he drives his cock into my throat... while that view is beautiful for the guy, I haven’t been able to cope with the gag reflex.

4. I have always hated breaking up with people and have a hard time facing rejection. It felt like, at least for the first time, I could actually talk about it and plan around it a little more than I did in the past.

5. I snore when I sleep. I didn’t know I did that, but now someone has proof. Maybe I should go to a sleep clinic and see if I need a CPAP machine.

6. After this whole experience, I realized my desire to get back with my ex and the attachments I felt were all smoke and mirrors. It was like… I was hungry, and then I was no longer hungry. I can finally be at peace and focus on myself, my work, other pleasures, and new adventures.

7. I consider this meetup to be a 90% success, but it could still be better. For instance, maybe I could be more prepared for Daddy and bring the right supplies. If I knew the room was going to be so big, we could potentially plan for group play and bring in another couple(s). I also could have talked more about what I wanted for my own pleasure—for example, I enjoy nipple play, being caressed, and perhaps receiving oral. But I felt like this time I put so much focus on just being a good submissive for my Daddy, u/friendanni (tagged with his permission) , because this may be the last time I see him IRL.

 

Now please share your lessons learned and thank you for reading! Appreciate gentle comments and constructive criticism too and sorry again I cannot take any DM. 😊

The ones on Lit are not that great. Most of them are exhibitionism or playing. Im talking about good storyline from possible embarassment/dislike to actual fetish

Stories where wife is involved in incest and husband finds out and gets involved into it.

Maybe not bdsm or slave kink where its a command. Im talking about regular ones. Would be even better if they are mom/son or bro/ sis but others are fine too. Looking for a postive response!!

Stories where wife is shy or reluctant at first then she gets converted into being a hotwife ? She starts to enjoy being a slut ?

I used chatgpt to make a story for my husband to get off to but chatgpt isn't allowed to go into explicit details/make anything pornographic. Chatgpt did a fantastic job getting him worked up but I would much rather it had gotten intense. Before y'all tell me to write my own I am not a good writer like my husband. We like to write stories using ourselves as the characters for each other.