Audio Version of The Date
Ezra Masters at Naughty Sounds has made an audio version of my story The Date and I think it is wonderfully creepy and hot all at once.
If you like stories with consensual non-consent play I highly recommend giving it a listen.
She missed his wall; his hall. That place he always threw her against when she came into his apartment.
She missed feeling small and afraid. She’d grown up too much, become too jaded, too brave to feel so little.
She missed the anxiety and hunger she felt walking down his block. She missed his pretty cock. She missed the fear that was particular to being in his elevator.
The fear wasn’t about what he’d do to her, she knew he would hurt her and fuck her and use her like a doll. The fear was that she wouldn’t be good enough, tough enough, pretty enough.
All those fears went away when she was against his wall.
She didn’t cover her scars or chubby parts because he would only slap her hands away. She didn’t have time to be embarrassed about her razor burn or that her roots were showing, because she was too busy blushing about the dirty names he called her. She would fall into the whirlpool of humiliation and pleasure and dizzy confusion.
She didn’t have time to apologize because his cock was in her mouth.
She longed for all of it all.
And more than that she knew some other girl was in that hall, against that wall. His thick cock was inside of someone new and his hand was around someone else’s throat.
Perhaps it was strange that the longing could make her come so easily. Remembering that wall in that hall was almost as potent as thinking of another girls face, mascara running down her cheek, pressed against the wall as he fucked her. The humiliation and the jealousy and the heartbreak were poisons and aphrodisiacs.
The sadness kept her wet all day.
I looked down at my phone for the hundredth time, then up at the train as it chugged back into its underground tunnel. People rushed to leave and in moments I was alone on the platform, turned on and scared.
“Take the L train to Lorimer, get out and walk two blocks west…” the instructions started.
I got out of the subway station, looking around the foreign streets of Williamsburg or Greenpoint, I wasn’t sure which. There seemed to be nothing but bars, pizza places, and trendy little boutiques.
Everyone on the street looked hip and pretty. I looked down at my somewhat fashionable jeans and my high heels and suddenly I felt a little like Sandy at the end of Grease, but I walked on. I took out my phone again, more as something to do than for information.
I knew what the email said, I’d been reading it over and over all day.
“I have this good friend Brian, I want to lend you to him for the evening. Six to midnight, or when ever he’s done with you. You’re not to stay over. He’ll be safe, he’ll stop if you say “red” and he knows the things that you are not to have done to you. I’ve negotiated for you, so all you need to remember is “red” and that I am giving you to him for the evening,” I read and realized I missed my turn because the words made my whole body hot and confused.
“You’re my good slut and you will fuck and suck my friend. Maybe all of my friends. Maybe even people I hardly know. You’re such a good little slut I can’t keep you all to myself. What kind of person would I be if I didn’t share my favorite toy with my friends?”
He hadn’t even talked to me about it. Well, not really. We’d talking about it in the very theoretical, but we hadn’t actually spoken about the details face to face, which really made me crazy. I should have said no. I knew I could say no. I knew I could say no and I wouldn’t even get punished. He didn’t punish me for saying no to things or even stopping things once I said yes. He punished me when he wanted to hit me, not to train me, just because he liked it.
Reading the words over I got that warm feeling I always got when I read the word “good” next to the word “slut.”
I looked left to right and found the next street I needed to turn on to. I looked to see if anyone was near and then reached down and felt the crotch of my jeans and cursed because I was wet right through the denim.
The apartment was one of those big modern industrial looking deals in the middle of a row of ancient townhouses. I didn’t have room left in my brain to process what I thought about it. I pressed the code from the email into the keypad. The door clicked.
I climbed three flights of stairs and my heart raced the whole time. I didn’t know what the guy looked like. I didn’t know his name. I didn’t even know if he would be alone.
He was waiting with his door open and I only looked him in the eye for a second before looking down at my feet.
He was younger than I thought he’d be. Perhaps five years younger than Jake, which meant five years older than me. He moved aside to let me in, then he closed the door and locked the various locks NY city apartments always seemed to have.
He was a little shorter than me, a bit chubby but in a stocky solid kind of way. He was a brown haired, nondescript, white guy. He was wearing a Columbia sweatshirt and jeans.
He turned and looked me up and down. He stood motionless and looked very much like he was trying not to look nervous.
The apartment was a large studio. One big room with a bed and a couch and a window that looked out on a church. He walked past me and started looking through his drawers.
“You’re going to go into the bathroom and take a shower and shave your legs and your pussy. Shave it completely,” he explained without looking at me.
He opened and closed drawers, throwing things on the bed as he did. There was a clean looking towel, a pair of long socks still in their package, a small plastic bag of hair ties, a bottle of lube, a pack of condoms.
“When you’re done put these socks on, nothing else. They go up all the way to your thighs. Then put your hair in pigtails and come back to the bedroom,” he ordered as he handed me things.
There was a silence then, and I just stood there in this stranger’s apartment as he waited for me to follow his directions.
“Well?” he said expectantly.
The confusion was part of it; the pressure, too. I knew I could drop the stuff and tell the guy to fuck off and leave. Well, I was 99% sure I could do that. The 1% made me wetter than the 99%, honestly.
The shame of being “given” to this guy was like a drug. Actually better than most drugs I’d tried. He could be anyone. I was nothing more than a toy being passed around. I was a little fuck hole that was good enough that my owner thought his friend might like a try me out.
I liked that. I liked that so much. I watched as he eyed me and I could tell he was already hard. He rubbed his crotch through his jeans as he watched me. It was a perverted and completely honest move, something I guessed he would never do in front of someone, even before sex.
And I was going to have sex with him. This stranger. I knew it. So I turned around and headed for the bathroom.
“Wait,” he said and walked up to me.
He stood behind me and reached around me and felt my left breast. He made a little moan as he touched it. There was an almost high school awkwardness in the act. I realized he was probably just as curious and confused with the situation as I was. He was mauling my breast just to see if he could, to see what I would do.
He pulled up my shirt and I let myself be pushed and pulled by him. I stood up straight and let the upper half of my body become as limp as a rag doll. He pulled down the cup of my bra and rubbed my naked breast, pulling on my nipple possessively.
“Jake said you were a complete slut but I wasn’t sure,” he said half to himself.
“Fuck, I can’t wait for you to get out of the shower. I’m going to fuck you like twenty times. I’m going to use every inch of you until I have to give you back,” he growled as he pulled my other tit out of my bra and pulled at it.
He bit his lip, eyes locked on my tits, which made him look like a pervert. I should have been disgusted, but I was shaking with need.
“Take off your pants, I want to see your pussy before you shave it,” he said greedily.
He had the tiniest of a foreign accent I couldn’t place. He looked smart, his apartment was that of a professional computer something or other, lots of books, but there was an edge of Brooklyn bad boy to his voice.
It was weird taking off my pants while trying to hold on to the towel and socks he gave me. I got them off though and he pulled at my panties and then his hand was rubbing my thighs greedily.
“Fuck, you’re soaking wet. Such a fucking whore, fuck I can’t even wait. Why should I? I’ll fuck you fast then you shower and put on the socks for the second round,” he said taking off his belt.
The sound of the belt, as always, made me squirm with want. He didn’t notice. His eyes were still on my tits.
I looked around and saw a chair and dumped the towel and things onto it.
He took me, with my panties still around my ankles, and pushed me onto the bed.
He pushed the condom onto his cock and noisily squirted a glob of lube onto his fingers. He didn’t realize how unnecessary the lube was, but found out when he roughly pushed the cold wet stuff between my legs and into me.
“Jesus, you’re a wet little slut,” he said to himself.
Then he was on top of me and inside of me all at once and he felt thicker than he looked.
There was that newness of a new person, a new cock, a new body on top of me. He was fucking me, hands on my hips, fingers a little too tight, pushing himself deep a little too fast.
“Fucking tight, fucking slut, fuck, I can’t believe Jake just sent you here. Fuck. I’m going to fuck the shit out of you like a hundred times,” he said as he thrusted.
His hands were all over, on my tits, on my ass then up in my hair. As he closed a fist around the back of my hair and pulled the spark of pain made me go to that familiar dizzy place. The way his cock sort of hurt. The way he was pressing onto my clit with every thrust. I want to reach down and rub myself, but something inside of me reminded me that I was just there to get fucked and used. I was a toy. I was a stupid little fuck hole being passed around.
“Please,” I started saying, the embarrassment of dirty talk choking me a little, “please come inside me, sir,” I whispered.
It was a tiny little voice, I was guessing like the pigtailed pretend schoolgirl he was going to dress me up as. In saying it, in using those words with that voice, I was suddenly that girl. I let myself fall into the role. Innocent, stumbling into his big room, powerless as he used me.
He heard me. He let out a long hard gasp. Another “fuck” in the mantra the word had turned into as he pushed deeper into me.
“Fucking not going to take long with your tight, little, fucking, oh, fuck” and then he was thrusting into me hard, in that way guys did when their body just takes over because they’re near coming.
He was shoving me into the mattress hard and I swear I could feel his cock swell as he shot his come over and over.
Then he was next to me, gasping for breath.
“Fuck,” he said again.
“Go,” he said trying to catch his breath, “go shower and get ready,” he gasped, “we got a long evening.”
Then I was walking, past his little kitchen, which was small and minimalist and German looking.
The bathroom was spotless and high tech. The shower was cavernous and I was happy to be under the strong, warm, clean water.
I rubbed my now reddened and humming little cunt. I liked my tuft of brown hair. Jake had let me grow it out and for some weird reason it pleased me. As my fingers passed over the soft hair I wondered why the fact that a stranger was telling me to get rid of the little patch of hair was making my knees weak with pleasure.
I rubbed hard and found my clit then, as the water rained down on me. I liked a lot of pressure. I rubbed hard and thought about how much of a slut I was. I thought about going back out there and letting the little Brooklyn guy with no name fuck me over and over again.
I thought about sucking his thick cock and swallowing every drop of his thick come and I rocked my hips fast and rubbing myself hard and I came. I came all by myself, before I went out to let him use my body again.
Then a washed off my fingers and soaped up my legs and got ready to be a schoolgirl for the stranger who owned me for another five and half hours.
I felt, with every cell of my body, like a very good slut.
Mister McIntyre’s Secret
Back to work on my 1960’s secretary series, Mister McIntyre’s Secret. Hope to get the series finished and an eBook up soon. It’s damn hard work, but I love the world I created.
Here is the story so far:
Work In Progress
From a work in progress:
"I’m going to fuck you now."
She was face down, hands on the bed, and she turned her head just enough so that he could see one eye and her lips.
"Okay," she whispered.
He reached around her waist and unbuttoned her shorts, pulling them as well as her tights and panties down to her knees. Then he straddled her legs and slipped a hand between her closed thighs, finding her cunt, wet and overheated. He undid his pants and pulled a condom from his pocket while he fingered her. Her arms were spread out to her sides and her hands gripped the bedspread as she raised her ass up to get more of his fingers.
"Bite down on a pillow, this is a family establishment, I don’t want anyone to hear your little slut noises. Do, you understand me?"
She grabbed a pillow and held it to her mouth.
"I asked you if you understood me," he said, punctuating the question with a firm slap on her ass.
She turned her head and glared at him, letting the pillow fall out of her mouth.
"Yes, sir," she said with a hate in her eyes that made him smile.
"I told you not to call me sir," he said slapping her ass again harder.
There were two red hand prints on her white ass and her eyes closed for a moment.
"Yes, Mr. Smith,” she said, pushing her ass further up.
He slapped her ass again and again, holding her in place easy as she writhed and squirmed, falling into lust drunk silence.
He leaned over and grabbed her hair hard.
"Yes, Mr. Smith, what?" he said right into her ear, as loud as he dare.
She bit her lip and struggled against my hand in her hair and my weight on top of her.
"Yes, Mr. Smith I’ll bite down on a pillow when you fuck me, so the nice families next door don’t hear my dirty little slut noises," she whined, enunciating each word with bratty contempt.
“Finally, your figuring it out. Now quiet,” he said as he slipped his cock against her.
“Maybe you shouldn’t slap me so loudly then,” she mumbled as she bit down on the pillow again.
Excerpts from The Diary of Anaïs Nin, as collected for the preface of Delta of Venus
A book collector offered Henry Miller a hundred dollars a month to write erotic stories. It seemed like a Dantesque punishment to condemn Henry to write erotica at a dollar a page. He rebelled because his mood of the moment was the opposite of Rabelaisian, because writing to order was a castrating occupation, because to be writing with a voyeur at the keyhole took all the spontaneity and pleasure out of his fanciful adventures.
I gathered poets around me and we all wrote beautiful erotica. As we were condemned to focus only on sensuality, we had violent explosions of poetry. Writing erotica became a road to sainthood rather than to debauchery.
Harvey Breit, Robert Duncan, George Barker, Caresse Crosby, all of us concentrating our skills in a tour de force, supplying the old man with such an abundance of perverse felicities, that now he begged for more.
The homosexuals wrote as if they were women. The timid ones wrote about orgies. The frigid ones about frenzied fulfillments. The most poetic ones indulged in pure bestiality and the purest ones in perversions. We were haunted by the marvelous tales we could not tell. We sat around, imagined this old man, talked of how much we hated him, because he would not allow us to make a fusion of sexuality and feeling, sensuality and emotion.
George Barker was terribly poor. He wanted to write more erotica. He wrote eighty-five pages. The collector thought they were too surrealistic. I loved them. His scenes of lovemaking were disheveled and fantastic. Love between trapezes. He drank away the first money, and I could not lend him anything but more paper and carbons.
George Barker, the excellent English poet, writing erotica to drink, just as Utrillo painted paintings in exchange for a bottle of wine. I began to think about the old man we all hated. I decided to write to him, address him directly, tell him about our feelings.
We hate you.
Sex loses all its power and magic when it becomes explicit, mechanical, overdone, when it becomes a mechanistic obsession. It becomes a bore. You have taught us more than anyone I know how wrong it is not to mix it with emotion, hunger, desire, lust, whims, caprices, personalties, deeper relationships that change its color, flavor, rhythms, intensities.
You do not know what you are missing by your microscopic examination of sexual activity to the exclusion of aspects which are the fuel that ignites it. Intellectual, imaginative, romantic, emotional. This is what gives sex its surprising textures, its subtle transformations, its aphrodisiac elements. You are shrinking your world of sensations. You are withering it, starving it, draining its blood.
If you nourished your sexual life with all the excitements and adventures which love injects into sensuality, you would be the most potent man in the world. The source of sexual power is curiosity, passion. You are watching its little flame die of asphyxiation. Sex does not thrive on monotony. Without feeling, inventions, moods, no surprises in bed. Sex must be mixed with tears, laughter, words, promises, scenes, jealousy, envy, all the spices of fear, foreign travel, new faces, novels, stories, dreams, fantasies, music, dancing, opium, wine.
How much do you lose by this periscope at the tip of your sex, when you could enjoy a harem of distinct and never repeated wonders? No two hairs alike, but you will not let us waste words on a description of hair; no two odors, but if we expand on this you cry Cut the poetry. No two skins with the same texture, and never the same light, temperature, shadows, never the same gesture; for a lover, when he is aroused by true love, can run the gamut of centuries of love lore. What a range, what changes of age, what variations of maturity and innocence, perversity and art…
We have sat around for hours and wondered how you look. If you have closed your senses upon silk, light, color, odor, character, temperament, you must be by now completely shriveled up. There are so many minor senses, all running like tributaries into the mainstream of sex, nourishing it. Only the united beat of sex and heart together can create ecstasy.
I doubt she knows how my own words can become little daggers in my heart.
As the I hear the water splash about in the other room, the echoes on tile, the faux innocence at its apex, I consider which weapon I should use.
“Wash up all you like, you’ll still be a dirty little whore when you get out of the tub,” I say as I stand at the door of the bathroom.
She covers her breasts (barely) and bites her pouting bottom lip and I see the drug of humiliation slipping into her veins, as her eyes unfocus and her hips move under the bubbles.
The complexity of it all, the alchemy of power and play. It hurts to shame my little girl, even as I remember her explaining how it turns her on more than anything else.
“I don’t know why I buy you pretty dresses,” I explain as she sits on the bed in a perfect white towel.
“When all you are is a little hole for me to fuck,” I say with my back to her.
I can hear her swallow and make the tiniest whimper as I realize my cock has become as hard as my voice.
There was a peace in the courtyard of the hotel that he thought was gone from the world. A good strong pot of coffee wordlessly placed on his table, fresh fruit and fresh croissants, pristine white tablecloths under wide cerulean umbrellas which were in…
“Promise?” she whispered.
Her pink t-shirt was pulled up, as was her bra. Her thick black rimmed glasses were almost falling off and her bangs were in her eyes. Her breasts were big, pert, the imprint of the lace of her bra left pink and red patterns on…
"Promise?" she whispered.
Her pink t-shirt was pulled up, as was her bra. Her thick black rimmed glasses were almost falling off and her bangs were in her eyes. Her breasts were big, pert, the imprint of the lace of her bra left pink and red patterns on the soft skin. Their eyes locked and she squeezed one breasts hard as her hips swayed. Her eyes were thickly rimmed around with black makeup and the corner of one eye was smeared.
She was straddling his legs as he laid back on the couch. She moved one hand down and grasped his cock again, biting her lip as she played with it.
"I promise, but you’re the one on top," he said quietly, aware of roommates who might or might not be asleep in nearby bedroom.
"Fuck it’s so hot," she said, spitting on her hand and then pulling on his cock, letting her wet palm twist around it.
"I just want to rub against it a little, I can’t put it in though," she said.
She’d told him they couldn’t go all the way. They could do everything but. He’d been fine with that, she was beautiful and funny and smart and they’d kissed on the couch for hours, teasing and grinding against each other as their clothes came of a piece an hour.
He looked down as she pressed his cock against the bottom of his stomach and then pushed herself up so she was sitting on it. His cock was laying just in-between the lips of her pussy as she moved up and down, grinding her clit against his hardness. He could see the pink lips slipping against the shaft and the white skin of her tan lined crotch contrasting the tan of her thighs and the bright pink of her thigh high socks.
The sight was almost too much. After she rubbed twice against him, he could feel her wetness making their parts slick against each other. Her breath caught when that happened and she leaned down, unable to sit up anymore, as she continued move against him.
Her breasts swung slowly and so he sat up enough to lean over and lick at one nipple. She let out a moan, her nipples being far more sensitive that most women he knew. As he sucked on it she ground down hard on his cock.
A few times, when she leaned back a bit it almost felt like he was going to slip into her, but she always moved back.
"I think I can come like this," she said, her eyes far away as she moved.
He thought he might be able to too, but he didn’t think that was in the rules. He’d have to move her off him if he felt like he was getting close.
She leaned down and kissed him on the lips, her hips moving faster. Her glasses fell off and clattered to the floor somewhere.
Then, suddenly, some angle changed and the head of his cock slipped in. He gasped and she froze. She just hovered there, breathing hard.
"Bad, bad," she whispered to herself and moved enough so that he popped back out.
Then she was rubbing again, a little harder, short motions forward and back. He could feel her hard clit on the shaft of his cock and his whole body was mourning the feeling of slipping into her tightness.
"So close," she said moving faster again.
He felt like the wetness almost doubled as she slipped against him and then she let out a yelp as she moved and his cock slipped in again, this time almost all the way. She groaned and grunted in frustration, but she didn’t move off of him, his cock was still inside.
"We’re not supposed to," she whined, her hands on his chest almost pushing herself off of his cock, but then sinking down a little lower.
"Oh fuck," he groaned, the feeling of her soaked pussy tight around him after so much friction making his whole body tighten.
"It’s so hard," she said pushing down until his whole cock was inside of her.
"We should stop," he whispered, desperately wanting to fuck her.
"Yeah, it’s bad," she said moving up and then down on his cock.
"We’re not supposed to," he gasped, as his hands moved to her hips.
"We’re not-oh fuck-allowed," she said starting to just ride his cock all the way.
He pulled her down on it by her hips and she pushed herself back up pressing her hands against his chest. She was so wet they could both hear the slick sounds of their fucking.
"I’ll stop, just-in one second," she whined.
"Yeah, we should," he said, suddenly thrusting his hips up and grabbing her hips tight.
"Please, please fuck me," she said, kissing him again, her breasts pressing against his chest and her arms slipping around him.
They rolled over on the couch, most of the cushions falling off. Then she was on her back, her legs open wide and he was driving into her.
"Hit me," she said between moans.
Their eyes locked again as he fucked her hard and then taking her face in one hand slapping her hard across the cheek with the other. Then he moved his hand behind her head and took her hair in his fist and drove into her harder while he kissed her.
She was gone then, her eyes unfocused and her pussy tightening around him so hard it hurt.
"Coming-" she mumbled along with a string of incoherent sounds.
He let her come, feeling his own orgasm almost there, but waiting, waiting as the white hot pressure built.
"I’m-" he started and pulled away from her, but she wouldn’t let him. Her legs wrapped around his waist and her hands around his torso.
"No, I’m going to-" he tried but she was moving her hips, pushing his deep inside of her.
"You better not come inside me," she whispered, a dark smile on her lips.
When he came his body was trapped and confused and he felt her tighten round him as he cock shot come into her again and again and he shouted and grabbed at the couch, slamming into her until his muscles were sore and gave out.
Somehow they were on the floor, wet and sweaty, his cock still inside of her.
"That was bad," she whispered.
"So bad," he agreed.
"Horrible," she giggled.
"Dirty and forbidden," he said moving again, his cock starting to harden once more.
"We’re not supposed to fuck, it’s forbidden," she whispered, moving her hips against him.
"You did it," he laughed.
"You came inside me!" she said with a smile, slapping his chest.
"I know, it’s all slippery now," he said, starting to thrust harder.
"Do it again," she said closing her eyes.
Eventually he did. Then they ate ice cream and tried to figure out something else to make forbidden.
The dirty boys of New York’s underground literary scene will regale us with tales of love, lust, misery, joy, drugs, sex, and rock & roll
June 9th, 2013 at 7pm at
118 Rivington St
(between Essex St & Norfolk St)
New York, NY 10002
Note: The bar is cash only
With readings by:
Guy New York
Guy New York is an author, designer, and degenerate who spends most his time either writing about sex or having it. Sometimes he does both at the same time, much to the chagrin of his partners. He is the creator of the blog Quickies in New York, which has been featured in Playboy Espanol, Violet Blue’s Tiny Nibbles, and Fleshbot, among many others.
Gibson Grand is an old gray punk who has written for the stage and screen. Three collections of his short stories, Trash and Vaudeville, Fireflies, and Accidental Betsy, are available on Amazon.com. His work has also been published in the arts and culture journal, Transgressive Culture. He also writes erotic fiction from time to time. His interests include whisky, tattoos, and science.
Jack Stratton is a writer and bon vivant. He’s been writing on the internet since the internet started and thus often writes about sex. He is pretty deeply enmeshed in the NYC kink/BSDM scene, polyamory, and sex positive/alternative sexuality culture on and offline. His work can be found on writingdirty.com and his books can be found on Amazon.com.
BTW, if you haven’t seen, I recently redesigned my webpage. Take a look!
The first in a series I call “The Gentleman’s Club” which involve the debaucheries of one John “Randy Jack” Sackville, son of the third Earl of Amherst, and the other members of the Club De Lancey, a London gentlemen’s club.
I’m not sure it makes sense, but I like it.
Without further ado I give you:
The Faux Hunt
Winifred stood proudly in the gray light of dawn. A hair over five feet tall, 7 stone, and barely nineteen years old, she was stark naked save a pair of Jack’s childhood hunting boots and a bright red fox hat, its tail flapping in the wind. She blushed down to her navel and her green eyes burned with fear and excitement.
Jack and the others watched her stand there, her cream skin with nary a blemish nor a freckle was sheened with morning dew. Her smallish breasts were high and pert, the curve of her bottom seemed to jut out at a lurid angle. Her chest heaved and her heart raced from the shame of being naked, the joy of being the savior of the foxes and, if Jack guessed correctly, the wicked thrill of being wildly bad.
She turned, the contrast of the black of the boots against her white skin making her seem even more naked and the bright splash of carrot orange between her legs directing ever eye down to the virgin shadow every man in the hunting party almost painfully longed for.
Norman Gordon-Stanton, tallish, lean, bespectacled and wearing a dark gray hunting suit and deerstalker, took off his gloves to shake Jack’s hand properly.
“An outstanding diversion,” he said clasping Jack’s hand and shoulder.
The other seven men murmured “hear hear!”
Lord Strachey, by far the cruelest among the hunters, took a rifle from his valet and aimed it high into the air and away from the group and the girl. Even though they all knew the sound was coming, every man jumped a bit as the thunderous crack of the shot echoed through the woods.
Winifred jumped at the sound and startled, turned in a flash and ran. The poor thing managed only a few feet before she stumbled and tripped forward, her white knees painted green and red with grass and blood. She waited there for a moment on all fours, like the very game she was proxy for, and unknowingly gave the hunters a view of the pink split peach between her thin legs.
Jack’s hands tightened into fists in his leather gloves and he suddenly felt very good about his marital choice.
After a moment the girl finally got up and without looking back she sprinted into the woods.
Strachey fetched something small and white from his saddle bag. Jack saw it was a pair of his child-bride’s knickers. The cruel man rubbed said garments into the noses of the dogs, which waited as patiently as hounds could.
“They’re good boys, they won’t hurt her,” he promised with a steely glare.
The clubmen held the hounds back as they mounted their horses. They gave the girl a fighting chance, then, after a good fifteen minutes, the horn was blown and they were off.
Continue reading at writingdirty.com
To call him handsome was a misnomer; he was pretty. A delicate face, a somewhat chiseled chin, warm brown eyes, always clean shaven and looking slightly younger than his twenty-something years. He had the grace of an old time actor. Cary Grant in leather pants.
The room was large, low ceilinged, all black and red in some budget approximation of chinoiserie. Black lacquered chairs and overstuffed embroidered couches. Gold dragons on the walls and paper lantern hanging from the ceiling.
The crowd was riding the line between a kink party and sex party. As I walked around and eyed the pretty boy it struck me that we’d all become disconnected from the vanilla world. As I watched friends kiss and play kinky games and fuck out in the open, I thought how normal it all seemed to me and how shocking it might be to someone else.
I fell into a pile of five or six half naked people on a couch, which included the pretty boy. There was something of an excuse in our numbers. The legs and arms and lips all around us made it less threatening. Still my proximity to him felt forbidden. He sat with his arms draped around two women and his legs spread open. The bulge at his crotch made my throat tighten.
He smiled at me as I pressed into a buxom girl with huge lips and thickly made up eyes next to me, the one I’d seen get fucked a few minutes before. I met her gaze for a minute and her face was flush, her eyes flirting. She leaned in and kissed my neck, pulling me forward. My hand landed on his leg for support.
He was kissing a pretty blond with a pixie cut and bright blue eyes who then turned and kissed me, her mouth still wet from his. My eyes locked with his as her whiskey flavored tongue swirled in my mouth.
His hand touched mine and he moved it up and up his leg and I felt like I was hyperventilating into the blonde girl’s kiss. With one final nudge my hand was on his leather covered cock. I felt the outline, the familiar hardness.
I stopped kissing the blonde and she moved closer to me, her eyes on my hand and a low lusty groan escaping her lips.
"You should suck his cock," she whispered in my ear and I was scared. My face felt hot and my heart was pounding. It was a fear that was ground deep into my being.
He laughed, a sweet boyish laugh.
"You should," he agreed with a mischievous smile and a squeeze of my hand.
Then the blonde turned and started opening his pants. I was unsure, but I couldn’t turn away. Buttons and a zipper and squirming to pull down the tight black material and then there is was, thicker than I expected. It looked huge, actually.
He laughed again and then groaned as the blonde leaned over and slipped a pink tinged condom that seemed to appear from thin air. Then she slipped the fat cock between her lips, her eyes closing and his head going back.
I was forgotten as she took it into her mouth and her body started the smooth cycle of up and down.
I watched, unsure who I was more jealous of. I bit my lip wondering if I had the courage to ask for my turn. I thought about how it would feel against my lips.
The girl with the kohl rimmed eyes moved in and clawed her nails across my chest.
"You want to suck it, don’t you," she growled into my ear.
I fell into her kiss and we watched the blonde girl suck the pretty boy off.
I promised myself, next time. Next time.