I think it started when the thought struck me: What if they had drugged the candy?

I was sucking the sweet peppermint, rolling it around on my tongue, tracing over the red swirls with the tip of my tongue and thinking absolutely nothing at all except simple pleasure.

Mmmmm.

Somewhere inside me with that association muscle memory kicked in and right then all I wanted was sweet, slippery sex. Cock. Pussy. Wet tongues and grasping fingers and the primal base thrusting of fucking motions, which were what I was making right then, fucking the air.

It wasn’t someone I wanted. It wasn’t even particularly an orgasm. I just wanted sex, anywhere, anyhow I could get it. I didn’t really care with whom.

I thought of walking up to the man across the room, having him follow me into the hall. We’d stand in the doorway outside. I would take his hand, run it along the sheer nude pantyhose covering my inner thigh, rumple up my navy suit skirt. I’d whisper in his ear. It’d be commands. I was feeling urgent.

“Make me come. Use those thick fingers and make me come. Fingerfuck me… push your fingers right into my tight cunt.”

Oh yes. I’d use that word. I’d use it and he’d know I meant business.

I didn’t wear panties underneath my pantyhose today. Maybe that’s why I was like that. The seam’d been sliding across my pussy lips all day. (The peppermint melted, sticky, on my tongue…) My legs were crossed. That pushed the nylon seam right between and right up against my poor raw clit.

I squeezed my thighs together, riding the seam. Rocking back and forth. The lawyer was talking, but I was looking over her shoulder at her paralegal. Sheer gray nylons – were they stockings? No, pantyhose. Her skirt was short enough for me to see when she crossed her thick thighs one over the other. My lust heard the nylon swish from across the room.

God how I wanted to eat her through the damp crotch of her pantyhose.

I thought of the brown-haired man, forgettable in face but with muscular shoulders and strong contractor’s hands. I’d be leaning up against the entryway, my skirt hiked up around my waist now, his fingers jammed up my cunt, curling in and out against my pressure in a come-hither motion. I’d come on his fingers. I wouldn’t care who saw. God, they could all fuck me for what I cared. Just line up and service my hungry cunt.

That’s when I thought it: they must have drugged the candy.

The room was watching me, and they could tell, I know it. I was rubbing my thighs together like a greedy slattern and my lips were parted, wet. I was ready to verbally, physically, forcibly and too publicly demand sex from a total stranger.

Total strangers.

I wanted all of them. Yes, even the lawyer, though she looked like a rode-hard middle-aged dyke in a $300 suit and a good highlight job. Her I’d have tonguing my ass. I thought she looked like she knew dirty.

And then she smiled.

God. It was all over then.

I stood up and I dropped my clipboard and she handed me a smooth black pen.

It read: “Moore & Owen Law Firm.”

I uncapped it and stuck it into my cunt. The ballpoint pen nib poked a hole through my pantyhose; they stretched more, being wet, then tore just enough.

The paralegal – Kirstie? – handed me her fat yellow highlighter. The salesman next to me took it from me and pushed it in beside the pen.

Someone went for the umbrella stand. I saw the turned wooden handle – and clenched. The brown-haired man got straight to the point: he unzipped his khakis and pulled out his vein-ridged cock.

I don’t remember when I was moved onto the conference table. I’d been slapped, pushed, spit on. There were folder clips attached to my nipples and labia. They acted as both clamps and mild weights. The lawyer held my hair in her fist and pulled my head back so I couldn’t escape the cock coming at my mouth from what looked like upside down. I tongued first his dick, then her clit. They kept alternating. I lost track. His balls were heavy in my mouth and I had to fight not to bite down on them when the first cock pushed into my ass.

At least I think it was a cock. The first time, it could have been anything, maybe the umbrella handle. It had a curve. The second and third I felt the weight of a person and hands on my legs.

Grey – my company’s lawyer – actually held the walls of my pussy open for one particularly fat cock. I heard myself screaming at him… to stop dicking around and fuck me.

I have a plump bare mound and they beat it… they were beating it with the rolled-up contract. All that work, all those hours of research and I couldn’t help but jump and arch into each smack. I could feel my butt jiggle. It must have looked obscene.

I know they were laughing at the way I begged but if I ever had my mouth free of a hard dick or a hot pussy they’d pop in another mint, close my mouth and let it melt on my tongue. And I couldn’t stop wanting it.

-Alissa Bell, 29, commercial developer.

(Written 11/17/2006. I found this one finished in my drafts folder and thought it could use a little love. Happy Valentine’s Day?)

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I could see her shadow on the other side of the folding screen, a moving sculpture of feminine grace with her round hips and shapely legs. My handmaiden.

She draped a pair of filmy stockings over the screen. I snugged my basque up against my body and exhaled. “Willow. Come cinch me up, dear.”

She tugged the ribbon – I breathed in, exhaled to feel the basque compressing my form. Yes. My girl knelt before me to smooth each stocking free of wrinkles. She tugged on her white satin gloves – and I saw the loose thread.

The slap was automatic; I didn’t feel it, only saw her recoil with shock and shame in her wide green eyes.

“Girl. Your dress is out of place. Your gloves-!”

She flushed. “Ma’am, I- I-”

“Willow Green. Fetch me the hairbrush.”

Her lips parted, then closed. She obeyed.

The sway of her ass kindled my hunger. She knelt before me, the boar-bristle hairbrush face-up in her hands. I pulled her to her feet and bent her over my knees. It took one arm to pin her across my lap – she was all rustling petticoats and squirming curves, my girl, with those long legs kicking out. I slid my dark-gloved hand beneath her skirts, exposing the undercurve of her plump ass.

The first strikes fell on her thighs, reddening them, taunting her. Sharp and swift where she could take the least. Crack. Wood met flesh, and flesh yielded.

I spanked her bare ass and she squealed.

Updated! Read the other participants’ 250 word story entries:

Naughty Abby
Casey Morgan (no relation, alas)
The Spanking Resource

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I’m reading erotic post after erotic post and the naked pictures turn me on in a way they haven’t in months. Stray sexual phrases catch my attention where I would’ve ignored them before and I know it’s because I’m too sick to fuck.

I fall down walking up the stairs. I won’t get to see him this weekend, and if I will it’ll be briefly, and we won’t have time. I don’t want him to catch this.

I know if I filled my mouth and throat with the thickness of his cock right now I couldn’t breathe. Not sexy struggling couldn’t-breathe, serious couldn’t-breathe. A part of me doesn’t care.

There is nothing at all sexy about me right now. That’s the worst of it. My lips are chapped and I look like a girl with a cold, which is what I am.

What I want is to get underneath my fluffiest blankets, warm my hands on his skin, and once they’ve lost their chill wrap them both around his shaft and stroke, and lick, and tease until his head falls back on the pillow and his eyes roll back and close and his lips part just enough to let that last breath of release out.

I don’t want him to get sick so I’d have to kiss only below his neck.

The medicine has me fading in and out of consciousness. I know soon after I rest my head on his chest I’ll pass out. Maybe I’ll have a chance to lick his come off my hand or maybe I’ll fall asleep with one hand still curled around his cock. The drugs will wear off in six hours and I’ll be ready for more. I’ll roll over onto my belly; my ass looks good, sick or not. It’s a head cold. There’s nothing wrong with my pussy.

This post is for all of you who criticize sex bloggers for only showing the “perfect” side of sex. To the rest of you, I apologize.

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I love to show you just what you’re missing.

I straddle you in your chair, throw my bare legs over your thighs and around your hips. The satin slides against the fabric of your pants and I almost slip off – I press my hips down and forward, a quick thrust into your swelling cock, half-innocent and accidental.

My fingers brush the skin at the back of your neck and trace a lazy trail up and down before twisting to rub your scalp right there at the back of your skull. Your head tilts back reflexively; you can’t help yourself.

That’s when I lean forward and kiss along your jawline… slow hungry pressings of soft lips and hot breath with just the barest hint of tongue. Something about wearing satin makes me feel langorous and sensual and I take my time devouring you. One soft suck at your earlobe and I whisper:

“Touch my breasts… squeeze them through the satin. I want to feel your hands on me while I kiss you.”

My little black panties are thin and I’m making sure you feel it, rubbing my slit against the bulge in your pants, pressing your cockhead right into the wettest spot. I grind my hips in a circle, in a dance, and run my hands through my long red hair, and flash you a teasing smile.

“No hands, now. Keep them at your sides.”

I use my right hand to grip the back of the chair and hold myself steady… conveniently pressing my breasts right into your face. My left hand unbuttons the top button of my satin pajama top, then the second, then the third. I let it fall open and my hand slides on down.

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I think it would be fun to pick a guy up, toy with him, tie him up, and leave him wanting. It’s a little crazy, a little risky, but it would be so decadently wicked…

I’d pick him up someplace where he’d be expecting a quick and easy lay; a bar or a club maybe, maybe a pool hall. Sure it’s a cliche, but that’s the whole point. He’s got to want it, he’s got to be looking for it and he’s got to know he’s going to get it.

I’ll let him buy me a drink – or maybe I’ll buy him one. Maybe more than one. We’ll be taking a cab to my place. If he tries anything funny, there’s a witness. After that we’re on my turf.

Before we leave the club I’m going to grind and dance him into submission. Twist my fingers in his hair, push my ass against his cock and look back over my shoulder to see his face: sweat and lowered eyelids and openmouthed lust under blue strobe lighting. Perfect. I’ll drop down low, slide down his tense body like it’s a pole. He’ll feel the back of my head brush his prick – I’ll make him think about what would happen if I turned around.

And then I will… hot pink lipstick outlining my lips as they make an O right in front of his cockhead. My tongue will flick out, wet my bottom lip, and I’ll slink up his body and do that thing where you quietly shout in his ear, “Let’s get another drink…”

Sure I look Irish, but he’s going to be looking at my height, and the unsteady way I’m walking in these knee-high black vinyl high heel boots, and think I started before I arrived. He’s going to think I’m a little bitty two-drink drunk. And when I play up the buzz, he’s going to believe it.

I’m going to take him home and have my way with him.

My way is vinyl locking cuffs and my lace thong panties for a gag. My way is letting him taste me in the only way I’ll allow him. Teasing him with my hands and legs and lips. My way is yanking out the gag, pushing his head down to my crotch and making him lick my pussy til I’ve had enough, then forcing the whiskey down his throat to kill the aftertaste. My way is fucking him up the ass when he’s drunk, making him suck my clit purple, and calling the cab to pick him up again… No, no head for you, darling; sorry, what did you think this was?

I just wanted to pick you up, get you drunk, and fuck your pretty little mouth.

Sorry.

He’s going to slump into the back of that cab with a hickey to explain, a stiff dick, and nothing to show for it – and he’s going to sit very carefully on Monday. What’s he going to do, say I slipped him a Mickey?

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned… and I’m just getting warmed up.

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I like to remember.

Right now it’s like this:

Tonight I just went back to the first place he gave me an orgasm.

…Kissing in the kitchen – all over the kitchen, up on the counter, bent against the stove. I was bent over against the table and I don’t know if his hand was down the front of my pink capris or over them but I remember thinking they could all hear me from the next room, even though I bit my lip…

…And he just lay on top of me, and kissed and kissed me until I came…

…That was the first time anyone had ever facefucked me. I mean, grabbed my hair and just used my mouth. And I liked it. The next time he stroked my hair and told me how beautiful I looked like that (on my knees, licking the underside of his shaft) and I believed him.

…When I saw the lightning, I looked over, sure it was a camera flash and we were caught with our pants around our ankles, in the woods, with me bent over presenting my ass to him. Oh my God, I twined my fingers in the grass and clutched at the earth and the thunder sounded, and the lightning crackled overhead, and I know the earth didn’t move but we were shaking and sweating and I fell forward and all I could think was I’m not drunk, I’m not drunk, I’m holding onto a blade of grass and I haven’t fallen off the earth. The rain didn’t start until we were clothed and out of the woods…

…He holds me down and spanks with his whole arm. Mmh. And waits for me to safeword, no matter how I squirm.

I told him I liked leather. I like to smell it, touch it – I just love the way it looks. He put on a leather jacket, leather pants, leather boots, a leather belt, and a skintight spandex shirt. All black. I creamed my panties right there and I was so obviously in his thrall… He looked over his shoulder at me and said, “You can call me Master now, if you want.” So I did.

I wore a little red plaid skirt and fuck-me boots up to there. And he did. Up to there. In the backseat. Pray for us sinners now, indeed.

…”Have you ever done it on your computer before?” Clearly cybersex doesn’t count. Neither does masturbating to internet porn. Neither do naked pictures, or recording orgasms… So, no. And damn.

“We’re running out of places to have sex in this town. Soon, it’ll be like, ‘Oh, look, it’s yet another place we’ve done it in _______.’”

…Can’t keep his hands off me long enough for me to install this damn case fan. Curses! Another screw lost. Can’t… fumble for screw… Hands on clit… clit on fire… Oh holy gods what is he DOING?…

…He bound my wrists together above my head with the pantyhose. Brand new pair. Silky, tan, reinforced toe. The nylon tightened around my wrists, and he gagged me with my own lace panties… He took the gag out of my mouth once. “How many times did you come?” “I… I don’t know?” “Wrong answer.” Then his fingers slammed into me and oh. my. GOD. My panties were filling my mouth and the lace scratching on my tongue kept me here holding on for half a second before I was just gone.

…Exhilirating, that’s what this has been. A fucking mental rollercoaster ride, but not in the moody sense. I love it.

This time he let me, or rather I did, well…

He was in the chair and I was tugging at his hair and kissing him slow and I decided to have some fun, so I did, and he got sort of still and passive and receptive and I think this boy could really dig on a little T&D.

Also being bitten and manhandled makes him twitch down low and YUM.

That’s promising.

Goosebumps on his neck when I kissed it, and held his hair back, tugging his head back, running my teeth along his neck, and he liked the vulnerability, he didn’t have to say a word. My tongue licking right where his pulse was, the goosebumps when I ran a nail down the side of his neck slowly, the little moans when I just straddled his thighs, fully clothed the both of us, and didn’t touch anything below his collarbone except his arms and back, but touched everything above his collarbone with fingers and lips and teeth and tongue.

I swear we went into a trance when we kissed. It was very sensual and still and sacramental…

…Bent over doggystyle on his bed and I can’t walk right for a week after, he’s pounding me so hard, and it’s worth every limping step…

And there are so many times he’s just gone to town on me, and I’ve become nothing more than a bundle of oversensitized nerve endings and jumbled rushing feelings, and I’ll just lie there with my arms bound above my head and twitch, and rise up toward his touch, and whimper, and moan, and scream into the gag because it’s all I can do, just respond, as he overwhelms my body with sensations of warm breath and wet lips and strong hands and thick cock…

There you have it, chronological order be damned. The juiciest parts, of course, I’ll keep to myself. I’m not going to regale you with every saucy detail – he likes his privacy and my face is attached to these posts. I’m just going to start keeping a private journal, so that my private life can inspire my public fiction. And vice versa.

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“Queen of Pentacles, reversed: The dark essence of earth behaving as water, such as ice. A cold but generous host, driven by an overwhelming need to accumulate and maintain opulence. A person so preoccupied with wealth and security that they can never stop to enjoy either. One who reflects the weaknesses of others, breeding suspicion and mistrust.”

I cross my legs. He jerks his head up at the nylon swish. He can’t see up my black pencil skirt from this angle, but maybe if I crossed my thigh a little higher… I slide my nylon-covered thigh up maybe half an inch, just to feel the faint silky texture rub against my skin. His eyes follow but he gains nothing.

“Do you think I’m cold? If I were cold I wouldn’t be keeping you company right now. I’d leave you where you’re sitting, with the bowl of water next to you, go upstairs, and lock the door. The best part of living in the mountains is the privacy, you know. I could turn up the Voltaire and never hear you yelling.”

He kicks the stainless steel dog dish; water splashes over his bare feet and the bowl slides a few inches to his left. I let the metal clang die in the air and wait for him to ask his questions.

His eyes have gone from panicked to blazing but he isn’t saying a word. Oh. I lean forward and pull his wife’s panties out of his mouth.

His mouth opens and he breathes in sharp, then out in puffs. Hyperventillating. His face is red and his fists are tight, and the words finally burst through: “Why am I here? Where’s my – what did you do with my clothes?”

“You know why you’re here, Paul. Or did you think you could just get away with embezzlement?”

“-It was only a little skim! I promise I can pay you back. I had some, ah, some gambling debts, and-”

“…and you were being blackmailed, by an anonymous stranger. I’ve heard your crap before, Paul. The money wasn’t coming fast enough for your blackmailer and you were getting nervous. But you didn’t just mess with me; you messed with my money.”

He works his jaw but no words come out. Then: “You knew about the blackmail?”

My crisp white blouse was buttoned obscenely low, just below my breasts. I’d had the fabric pulled forward to conceal my bra and make a last stab at decency. I lean forward and the blouse edges fall back and my breasts are pushed out over the tops of my bra cups, almost spilling out. I let the tarot card I was holding fall to my feet. His exposed cockhead twitches and stretches forward, toward what he can see of my areolae. He’s cold; he’s got to be cold, he’s naked in my basement and covered in goosebumps.

“You can’t just keep me here. The police will blah blah blah…”

I like watching his soft cock extend and swell with blood. I liked feeling it harden in my mouth, right against my tongue. I wet my lips (red lipstick, his favorite) and smile. “I found out about your wife.”

He looks like I’d hit him with a brick. Not that I would – the red and yellow bruises on his side said he was fun to kick with high heels on. “No – I never told her about us.”

“Thank you for that, at least.”

He spits the words out like they taste more bitter than the cum-soaked panties that were just crammed between his teeth.

“Thank you? Sarcasm doesn’t work with a hard cock, Paul.” He winces. “Go ahead.” My fingers are at that one button just below my breasts. My eyes never leave Paul’s cock. “I want you to look at my breasts while we talk about this.” Second-to-last button: undone. “Maybe it’ll help you pay attention.” The last button pops loose, and I draw the sides of my shirt back, baring my white lace bra and my belly. “Tits and money, Paul? Predictable.” I stand up and pull the white cotton blouse from my arms.

“You were freakier in bed than she was, oh, I’ll give you that.” He’s sitting up now, on his knees. Half-laughing. He’s seen the steel doors, the rolls of duct tape. “But she has a fucking heart! She’d never put some guy she fucked in a basement with a dog dish and… she… she would never just fuck some guy.”

My back is to him. I unhook my bra, pull the straps over my arms. My pink nipples stiffen in the cold air. I kick the pile of white lace out of my way and turn to face him, cupping my hands over my bare breasts. My palms feel good and warm drawn over my nipples, down my tits, my sides. I don’t need to look up to know he’s watching. “Really? I wonder…”

I pick up the deck of tarot cards and hold it out to him. “We’re going to play a card game. Take one.”

He does. I’m watching a bead of sweat roll down his forehead, timed perfectly with the first clear drop of precum oozing from his slit.

“Show me.”

He shows me the king of pentacles. It’s the traditional Rider-Waite artwork, nothing fancy.

The zipper on my skirt sticks before opening to flash Paul the top of my black lace garter belt and prove to him that I was serious the day I said underwear were a waste of time. I tug my skirt from my hips – slowly.

“That was you. That was you. Another.”

He draws from the middle of the deck: three dancing women, raising their feasting cups, smiling. They’re dancing upside down.

Three of Cups, reversed. I start laughing. “A time of shallow overindulgence, followed by depletion. The successful but utterly unfulfilling conclusion of a matter. Satisfaction from sensual pleasures divorced from any sense of love. May indicate problems prematurely dismissed or a victory claimed before it is certain. Good choice, Paul. This is going to be all about shallow overindulgence.”

I step out of my skirt and bend over to take off my heels. I take my time – Paul loves breasts and legs and nude stockinged feet and he’s getting an eyeful of all three.

I grab his hand and put it on his cock. I curl his fingers loosely around the shaft and move his hand up and down, to get him started. My tits are in his face, close enough to lick, and he tries to catch a nipple in his mouth. I lean closer to whisper in his ear: “Stroke it.” I step back. “Stroke it for me while I watch.” He rubs his thumb over the head of his cock and nods a yes.

I lie on the couch, in my stockings and garter belt and almost-bare feet, and I caress my inner thighs through the nylon, and I tease my nipples with my nails, and I watch him circle the palm of his hand over the head of his cock.

He has a well-shaped, girthy cock and it’s always a treat to watch him stroke it. I like to watch him do it like I did it for him, use what I showed him. I like to guess which tricks were his and which were hers…

“I have some pictures for you, Paul. Pictures of me, new ones, for you to look at while you jerk that cock for me. Look in the deck.”

I’m not cold. I gave him something to remember her by before I offed her: cum-soaked panties and dozens of photographs of her and me in every possible position (and a few that stretched belief), photos of her tied, legs apart and begging like a whore, photos of her angel’s face in absolute bliss as the man I brought for her slid home, of her tear-streaked and screaming as the fifth, and the fifteenth, slammed her raw.

They’re mixed in with the cards. He finds them all. He cries, full-body racking sobs, broken and screaming and horrified and resigned. He doesn’t stop moving his fist up and down, up and down.

“Did you recognize the panties you were gagged with?” He’s nodding and crying and saying yes, yes, he thought they were hers, he knew they had to be hers, and oh God, her taste is still in his mouth…

“She was a good little slut for me, Paul. Your wife loved it when I told her I’d keep her secrets, never tell you what a whore she is, but she wanted you to taste her panties. She was wearing those when I fingered her until she came all over my fingers. I had the boys wipe off with them… thought you might like that touch.”

“Oh God… oh God. Where is she? Where’s Amy?”

I smile at him from the couch. “Last picture.”

He knew before he looked that he’d see her limbs splayed, legs wide open, cum staining her thighs, lips parted as if sucking a ghostly cock, and a dark red blotch where her heart was. The photo is blurry; I hadn’t used the tripod for that one, and my hands shook a little when I thought of that poor bitch on her knees for him, someone sad enough to cheat on such a vixen and stupid enough to steal money from me to pay me off.

I watch his expression change. His face is blank for the moment it’s too much and he steps out of himself. Then it’s over, and he’s aching visibly, and he’s beat up and empty inside and still crying. His erection somehow never wilts. The man makes me look sane.

In that perfect moment I slide my fingers into my wet, waiting cunt. My toes curl inside my nude stockings. What a perfect, perfect cock that bastard has…

“You’re going to kill me.” He groans. His hand squeezes tighter around his dick; his knuckles are almost white. His wrist keeps working; the head of his cock keeps reappearing above his fist, then disappearing from view. I don’t think he wants to stop, but he doesn’t want to come either. He doesn’t know what will happen after.

“I’m going to… I’m going to rub my stockinged feet all over your face, let you lick my soles through the nylon. I’ll let you unfasten one of my stockings, pull it down my leg, rub that cock all over my just-bare skin, maybe I’ll let you jerk off using my stocking – Mmmh, I’d love to watch that! – let you flick your tongue over my clit, 69 me, and I’d press my lips against your cock, let you push it into my mouth slowly, feel them tight around your shaft as I take you down my throat…”

I’m stream-of-consciousness sexing him from across the room, and he’s moaning, and loosening his grip, and his hand is sliding on a cock slick with precum and it just looks so juicy and I want it in my mouth right then…

He’s waiting for something.

“Yes.” He gasps, and shakes, and his body bends in half to curl over itself. I fuck myself hard and fast watching the cum shoot out of his swollen, poisoned cock and drip down his chest, thick and sticky. I’d lick it off if I could.

“Yeah, I’m going to kill you.” And he smiles, and looks up at me from the floor, and his lips blow me a kiss right before he screams.

I come hard.

—

…That is the most fucked up thing I have ever written. Gah.

That was fun!

In other news, you’re going to want to check out Audacia’s thing if you’re in New York. She’s curating a sex worker art exhibit, and it is going to be crazy fun. The press release with details is up on Full Frontal Politics (which will experience a relaunch soon, it’s been quiet for a reason).

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Shut up.

Hold still.

You could tug my garters off with your teeth, from where you’re sitting.

You know it’s never going to happen, but I want you to think about it. Think about kissing me right where the nylon stocking tops almost give way to skin. Think about darting your tongue over that border, feeling the smooth texture of the nylon, tasting my thigh.

You’re leaning in so close; your head is almost under my skirt. My panties are just out of view but you can barely smell the tang of heat and musk. The nylon swish when I crisscross my legs distracts you, then you feel my bare stockinged foot pressed against you there – firmly – my toes pointed to heaven.

Do you want it?

Do you want me to touch you there, again, with my hands? Do you want to feel me run them over your thighs, up your sides, rubbing my palms over your nipples?

Do you want my tongue – I wet my lips – do you want my tongue there, or higher up? Tell me where you want it. I’ll straddle your lap and grind my wet lace panties against you right where my foot was and there will be no mercy until you tell me exactly where you want it.

You don’t have to use words. I’ll just experiment… you can just twitch, and breathe, and moan. Just don’t hold back. I love to see you squirm.

Want the audio? Right-click here and save to keep. (just under 3MB, 192kbps, mp3 format) Who loves ya, baby?

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Turn.

One quarter turn to the right, lengthen the spine, flex the leg. I stretch out my curves – arms at my sides – and your eyes trace them. Appraise them.

I know why I’m here. You’re just here to look. If I’m not good enough – if I don’t measure up – I won’t get touched, no, not right where it throbs.

I won’t get to touch you.

My hands curve reflexively and I want to feel your skin stretch and firm against my palm. I want to put on a show, but I can’t. You said no. I’m on display.

The skirt. Off.

Your commands are bitten off, but the edge in your voice is husky, not sharp. I reach back, pull down my zipper. I tug the black pleated skirt below my hips and feel it slide down over my stockings.

I step out. I keep my heels on.

Now the bra. Turn around, I want to see you.

Oh gods I’m wet and you’re right there and I hadn’t seen you before not like this and my nipples are hard and pink and there are goosebumps on my skin and I kept my garter belt on and I’m not wearing any panties and I’m wet and you’re right here…

One quarter turn to the right. I hesitate. You touch my cheek.

Then my face.

The landing strip follows the line of my garters and your eyes follow the line of the landing strip. You’re tracing my verticals and I want to taste you, horizontal. I wet my lips.

Spread your legs for me. Just enough.

You’re such a tease. Breath on the back of my neck, your lips not touching me. The whispering of your rough fingerpads along my satin garter straps but not my skin. My thighs apart just enough for you to slide your hand between, draw a finger from my plump ass to my eager clit. (You tell me you will, if I…) Enough to feel the heat of your cock brush against my ass right at that downcurving detour line, then bob away.

‘Enough.’

‘Please.’

I can’t tell if I whisper the words or yell them, if I said them out loud or mouthed them as I arched my hips back and raised my ass in a primal wordless invitation.

Your smooth rounded head slides along my slit so easily, pushes apart my pouty lips so that they straddle your shaft. You grip my hips. Fingers. Digging into skin. Sliding agains skin. Stop. Teasing. Me.

You work my pussy over with the length of your cock, making me whimper, quiver, beg. I’m feeling every inch of you but not where I need to and I’m grinding that aching pink emptiness – I’m grinding my cunt down against your cock so tightly you can feel me clenching and unclenching, shivering and waiting. Slide back. Slide up. Slide in.

One slow push and I half-scream.

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The knock on the door froze me. I stopped unbuckling my heels.

“Room service.”

Not likely. I hadn’t ordered any. Your voice caught my attention – it was familiar in an impossible way. You couldn’t be here. Not now.

I knew better, and I answered the door anyway, with my shirt half unbuttoned and my pale pink bra strap peeking out. You had the fucking nerve to be on the other side of it, without warning me, without any…

“Hi. Sabrina.”

…any precursor other than the emails, the voicemails, and then nothing for a month.

“…Hi. What are you doing here?” You looked good. I didn’t tell you where I was staying. But you looked so, so good.

“I came to see you. Surprise.”

You came in – I don’t remember if I invited you in, or if I just stepped backwards and you followed me into the room. I looked at my feet, at your feet, at the cheap teal hotel carpet; never at your eyes. You were smiling, I was smiling, but I wasn’t sure why. I think I said something about being glad to see you. Funny thing to say, but I was too confused to be mad. Yet.

I just wanted revenge.

I could feel your eyes on me and I knew just how to start. One hand, along the unbuttoned collar of my blouse, like so. Tugging it open. I’d stopped unbuttoning it just under my breasts – you were getting a narrow eyeful of cleavage edged in a crisp white cotton blouse. The deep V gave my hand enough room to caress the swell of my breasts and almost, but not quite, cut off your view.

“So you came to see me… Do you like what you see?”

My left hand slid up, stroked the back of my neck. My right was toying with the bottom two buttons of my blouse. Pop. It’s a trick I learned from a stripper. Pop. Start at the bottom and work your way up… builds anticipation. He sees bare belly before he sees breasts.

I only looked down once, the second to last button; I looked down, and smiled coyly, and played innocent. I liked keeping my eyes on you, watching you smile, and shift, and run your eyes over my tits like you were using them as stand-ins for your hands. I liked watching your pants tent up when I let the shirt slide off my arms and crumple by my feet. I stepped on it, kicked it aside; you’re next.

Cherry red lips shifted into a grin. My tongue flicked out, danced over my lower lip for a second too long. Yours followed. Mirror mirror. I stepped into your space. My hips were shifting in some slow unconscious dance. I rested my high-heeled foot on the arm of the chair you were pinned to; my fingers circled my ankle, slid up, broke apart. The faint hiss of my palms sliding up my calves over the sheer black nylon of my stockings… I closed my eyes, and when they flickered open your mouth was parted. Hungry and wanting.

My skirt slid up just enough to expose the lace band at the top of my stocking. I wiggled my stockinged foot inside my shoe and kicked it off, flexed my now almost bare foot for you. You knew what was coming. You leaned back and thrust your hips forward. Your breath stuttered.

Your cock stretched out your pants obscenely – I could see where your shaft ended and your cockhead began, and I followed that sweet hard line with my nyloned toes. The ball of my foot pressed your shaft up against your stomach and when I released you from that firmness the arch of my foot just barely rubbed right above your balls.

I made you unzip, watched you pull your cock out. Were you hoping I’d touch it?

I raised my leg and rested my foot on your shoulder and I know you could see my panties underneath my skirt. You could see how the pale pink satin clung to my mound and the wet spot, that giveaway trace of juices right along my slit… It made your cock jump. Oh, and when I ran my hand up my inner thigh, tracing the garter strap and then the edging of my panties…

My fingers slid to the side. Just enough. I ran two fingers over my panty-clad lips.

My breath caught. I leaned forward until my satin-and-lace bra was pushing my breasts right into your face. One pink nipple popped out and your greedy lips rubbed it raw.

I straddled your thighs and grazed your pulsing cock with my silky panties. I know you could feel the warmth and wetness of my pussy right through them. Your shaft pressed the crotch of my panties between my pussy lips so that the length of your cock was wedged between them. I could feel the head of your cock twitching against my throbbing clit.

You groaned. I slid – up and down along your shaft, teasing you with the wettest part of my pussy, right where you could feel me indent and imagine pushing up – I think you did push up, but so did I – and feeling my slick walls tighten, then expand around you. I’d hover right above the aching tip of your cock and laugh as you bucked your hips into the air. I held your arms down. You were pinned to the chair. You were hoarse, begging – it just made me wetter, and you could feel it, and it drove you crazy.

“I need to come, babe… Let me slide down just like this, feel you parting my lips, pressing up against them…” Right in your ear, whispering. Voice husky and almost moaning and I could feel the weight and thickness of your swollen cock pressed up against my slit, against my belly as I slid down, then back up.

I pressed forward, riding your cock with my clit, sliding every inch against my silk-covered pussy lips. Faster – the friction had to hurt, had to burn a little, but you let out a low moan and worked your cock pressed against my pink panties, worked every bump and curve against my throbbing pussy.

You weren’t getting enough – I made sure of that. Your legs shook as you got close and I’d raise my ass, denying you enough touch to get off. Your face was flushed and your whole body was trembling. Mine was too. I was so, so close just seeing how much you ached. The quivering was a low rumble coming from somewhere deep and my cunt clenched around nothing as I rocked back and forth against your body, my hair in your face…

11:10 PM. I slid down your cock and left a streak of sweet girl-juice. My smile wasn’t a smile. It was the biggest shit-eating grin you’d ever seen on a face this flushed. I dismounted and left you, sweaty palms, soaking wet dick, and blue balls, in my hotel room.I took your key, your coffee, my purse, and your wallet and walked out.

The door locked behind me. I didn’t need to look back to know you were nearly crying.

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