Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica


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Moral Injury

Neither the Las Vegas skyline during the dawn of dusk just when the desert mountains in the horizon start to give way to sprinkles of neon lights up and down the avenue, nor the neo-trance music aimed to push young hearts into “funtoxication” complimented the fact that I was stuck at a nearly filled to capacity AARP Boulevard Pool venue gathering at the Cosmopolitan. Not that I am a sprouting bean but, at least two decades of life experience separated me from the next youngest attendee.

I remained at the edge of pool staring due south South towards the disappearing distance that made the strip lively. It is of little wonder why this place is known as Sin City. This is where capitalism thrives and people die; where hopes are lost and adventures won; where calves protrude and men intrude; where ignorance is of use to the women that know how to abuse. I stood chest out, shoulders back, and armed with morals dissecting and accusing the evil in the place that would have gratified me at different stage of my life.

Soon enough the cool of the night suffocated the avenue, with it taking the sole beauty that gave solace: those very distant mountains that gave this empty place a heartbeat. I wondered how, singles as well as couples being surrounded by so much irony, rejoiced at the potential to “succeed” or “fail”. Whatever those two verbs mean to anyone. I looked down at passer-bys, at busses loaded with cash(people) to embrace slot machines. They walked into the casinos in groups of coins, dollars, twenties and hundreds. Each with visions of wealth beaming out of their hopes. I wasn’t one of them; no sir, I wasn’t. I was the voice of reason, of honesty… and so I returned to my drenched prejudices to complain.

Standing in Sin City yet, I could hardly accept that even my one vice hadn’t been clenched. Cheap wine took the place of American Rye Whiskey. I sipped on white and red wine trying to fit in. Eventually, I struck a conversation with two mature women about their attire, my attire and their unexpectedly fit physiques. They were very educated women. They spoke of their young tree-hugging ways, college tuition, the state of American greed, the days of free drugs and, activism.

The Swiss women came to the desert for the same reason as I: to gain a competitive edge on the *competition* by attending an invitation only, business conference. The place finally didn’t seem as repulsive as I’d concluded earlier. They brought a pulse to a place in need of one. At 10 PM, the hosted party at the Boulevard Pool venue ended. They looked at me, asked to head down to the sports bar to watch the Rugby Championship.

They switched the cheap wine to cheap beer and began to root like only a soccer nation fan can. For a country disinterested in anything but American pride, a crowd gathered around us to root for a sport that will never again matter as it did that night. Their tight dresses, flexing arms, and perky butts had the attention of everyone each time they rose to cheer; me included. I still don’t think I saw much of the men but, I can vividly tell you what each was wearing and how many times I got a peek at their underpants tightly adjusted to their persona. I even caught a smile when each noticed my head tilted looking for a more appropriate viewing angle.

It took us a while to leave the sports bar after the game. We remained behind small chatting and flirting. Men after men failed to draw their interest away me. I was sort of happy about it, about the idea that they were there with me while everyone else attempted to infringe my joyful times. The harassment eventually got to the three of us. The one with long blond hair down to the small of her back stood up, grabbed my hand and in her native tongue instructed and motioned us to leave. We dashed out to the strip hailing down cabs. They ran ahead of me with their high heels in their hands in what appeared to be some sort of plot to leave me behind.

They stopped for a moment speaking to one of those very trendy fellows searching to make a quick buck by handing out strip club cards and directions to a good time. I caught up to them looking somewhat alarmed, I wasn’t really going to spend money at a strip joint to see teens spreading their ideas to me for a dirty dollar. Yet, that’s exactly what happened. The two women convinced me to join them in some sort of bodyguard duty to prevent drunken men from approaching them at the strip joint. Easy picking, I’m a gentleman and easily influenced as well. So, there wasn’t much to do but to accompany them.

A limo pulls up to the curb to pick us up. The “entrepreneur” who had succeeded bringing customers to the gentleman’s club hands us tickets for discounted entrance and free drinks. We hop inside the limo and by golly of cheap spirits and wine, the women pull out a bag full of cocaine. I stare at it, they stare at me and proceed to inform me that we would be having that at the club. Ha! Plenty of time for me to plan an escape.

We spoke about our families back home, traded pictures and laughs. Once at the club we were directed right to the back. The worst of fears scared my feet cold. I should have fled at that point but, for whatever reason I followed them to the back of the room where red night lights allowed just enough visibility to see alluring figures staring in our direction. We wedged ourselves in a corner, opened up a tab to be expensed as business entertainment then began to drank the night away until a suitable candidate came to give my companions a lap dance.

I stared more at the women enjoying the dance than did I at the gal fully nude parading her well sculpted physique in all directions. I washed them kiss the striper, slap her ass and touch themselves. I hadn’t felt that much vigor since losing my virginity at twenty six years of age. The bag of coke held firmly in my hand. What in the world was I to do with it? I had never ever held one. I looked it, placed it on the table in which the stripper danced then, the woman with shoulder length blond hair grabbed it from me and asked the stripper to leave. Off to the bathroom we went. All three of us, half wasted, jammed into a stall drawing lines of cocaine atop the toilet paper dispenser.

We traded line snorts, kisses and gropes until about a quarter of the bag was left. We walked back to our spot; I watched them get one last dance from the very same girl then left in search of a regular bar with cheaper drinks and less of a greed for cash. A beggar accompanied us for some twenty minutes of a walk time to a rather cowboy-sh looking bar. I ordered some more cheap beer as did they. While they got lost in the bathroom to finish off the white substance, the bartender, a sweet young girl from back east brought me a wet cloth to wipe my nose that revealed to have just sinned. We struck a friendly conversation until the girls returned. We spoke of her mostly, of me, well, what led to the happy nose and what not.

At the bar we danced to country songs and sang until the mixture of alcohol and street drugs sent us into the street exited to find the way back to the Cosmopolitan on the south end of the strip. More of the same continued during the ride back to the hotel. The girls took turns sitting on my lap kissing me and grinding pelvis against my pants. In all honesty, against my unbuckled pants with more of me than should have been out peeking back at them. I zipped up and stared at their bottoms as each exited the taxi. We laughed through the casino and into the elevator to the west tower. I clicked my floor on the elevator… they theirs.

We stood on opposite ends of the elevator, laughing, breathing heavily and deviantly looking at one another. My floor, the 48th, came first. The doors didn’t really get a chance to open much before the lady with the long blond hair down to her waist pressed the “close door” button repeatedly. “Be a gentleman and walk us to our quarters, won’t you?”
I didn’t even know I responded because by the time my body managed to find an equilibrium between sanity and drugged induced oblivion I sat naked on the bed looking up at them on the inside ledge of the window butt naked dancing for me.

Their bodies could have been clones of one another other. The type of body that young American women are sold as a must by propaganda. They differed from each other in bodily hair. One was bald down below; the other had a landing strip. Maturity had never looked this delicious. The bag of coke still had some life in it. The one with the long hair down to the small of the back and landing strip stayed up seducing me from a window. The second girl came down, slide her tongue inside the bag — it came out white in residue — then, she kissed me numb.

Covered in sin I grabbed a fistful of hair and directed her towards my cock. She sucked with an experience I had yet to live. The soft, thin and straight hair tickled my lap, a tickle that had me fantasizing about the long hair of the woman still dancing on the inside ledge of the window. Both of us stood up simultaneously and walk in that direction. On the nightstand, an opened Whistle Pig bottle of Rye looked at me. I reached over, grabbed it and brought it with me. I still wonder how it got there. We stopped in front of the window where I looked up straight at the pussy of the beautiful dancer in front of me. Through the break of her inner thighs the city gleamed at me. I took a deep breath, inhaling what residue was left of cocaine on my nose, and thought about all that was to remain behind when I left Vegas.

I dropped my head to realize I was being orally stimulated. Suck and suck, gag and gag, the noises of a stellar performance. On the ledge, legs spread, speaking in her native tongue coupled to “Viva Las Vegas” in that sweet accent, said the second lady. She looked towards the nightlife missing on feeling alive along with us and shook her ass after running one of her digits right split down the middle. She arched her back and I stuck my face right where the warmth of Las Vegas knew I would like. I bit, licked, sucked pussy and ass. Her hair tickled my face fancy, tickled my dick harder. She tasted of lust waiting to come out without care or judgment.

She must still have my paw prints on her butt. What do I know! I don’t even recall but waking up mid day with the two passed out by my crotch with stains of dried cum on their faces. “Not bad,” I thought to myself then, stood up inspected their bodies for quite a long time and, awoke them to say goodbye.

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, I’m told; but, what am I do to with the moral injury leaving with me? At home it surely doesn’t feel the same as it did coked up, drunk and with my penis being shared by two women.


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The Pleasure of Outrage

We’ve all been in this very situation where the outrage is the very reason why it all suddenly feels “better”. It is when that feeling of helplessness seems to disappear. When we feel that we’ve taken a handle of the situation and made it better. It feels as if control has returned to its rightful place. The feeling of taking it out on someone else… whatever “it” really is.

This past Saturday I worked sixteen hours straight; no breakfast, no lunch, no dinner. Even snacks weren’t remembered. I got off of my station for one thing and, that was to be scolded by my superior on how he feels demeaned by my ideas of improving departmental processes. For an hour I sat there listening to the fragile ego spew garbage about being the boss and how I should learn to treat him as my superior.

Had I been a male, he would have had me by the balls! There was no defense in the face of been threatened with job safety. I had to sit there and swallow a pill handed out by brutal insecurity. I left annoyed about the hours worked and angered by the maltreatment from my boss.

Sometimes I hate it, but others, I absolutely love it. Love that my husband is so damn submissive. Saturday night at about eleven forty two post meridian I couldn’t wait to arrive home and find his obedient bottom half undressed working on his clay statues. I’m not even sure why he’s an artist when all he wants to do is please others rather than display what’s inside of him. I drove fast with nothing but my bosses words resonating through my thoughts as if neon traffic signs spelling out “EF. U. CEE. KAY,” obey me or else!

Our residence is my husbands ex-wife’s penthouse apartment. He got the penthouse and she got to keep her business intact. I love the arrangement because, well, we don’t get to pay rent! I drove right up to the concierge, tossed him the keys and asked him to get my car to where it belonged. It’s good feeling wealthy, even if I am not, makes others sort of… obliged. I left my laptop, purse, high-heels and stockings in my husband’s ex-wife’s car that I so gladly drive everyday.

I got in the elevator, shot up to the last floor where the elevator’s door opens to our apartment. It is the twenty second floor, tall floor-to-ceiling-windows prevent the outside from coming in on all sides of the apartment. It’s a gorgeous apartment she has for us. We are the lowest complex in the area by at least forty floors. A quarter of the floor-length penthouse is an outdoor patio with a beautiful garden that we converted when we removed the pool just to piss off his ex.

There is no other place that my hubby would be at this time except for his studio slapping clay on unsellable statues. When the elevator door opened, I walked in furious still. I yelled out for the stereo to go on and play my “pissed off” playlist — a combination of heavy metal with super fast 1960’s Latin Big Band descargas. I wasn’t even sure if he heard the stereo blare out Black Sabbath but, I didn’t give a hoot if he heard (it usually notifies him I’m going to get mine).

As I expected, he was so deeply concentrated with his work that he didn’t hear the stereo. I rushed into his studio, slapped the statue he’d been working on for over three months to the floor, grasped his short hair and shoved my pelvis into his mouth. “Suck you son of the no good mother. Suck right there.” He was taken somewhat by surprise; maybe at a total surprise as we’ve always talked about what we are going to do before we, more properly, I carry out my aggressive whims.

I didn’t like how his tongue responded. He was pleasuring me as if my vulva wasn’t tasty enough for his fancy artistic mouth. I pulled him by the hair and slapped him right across the face, commanding to get on his knees and shove that face against my lips. He looked at me like a lost teen in front of a naked cheer leading squad. The unresponsiveness pissed me off. The damn fool was acting as if he didn’t know how to suck a good climax out of me. So, I stood him back up, forcefully kissed him then, caught his lower lip with my teeth hard enough to make him whine about the minute pleasurable pain. I pushed and shoved him all the way out to the garden.

It was cold that Saturday night, but the fury in me didn’t care whether the outcome of my outrage was pneumonia or the release of sexual tension.

Right onto the rose bush I pushed him. The poor chap had thorn marks throughout the back — the rush a little blood gives me! The shove against the bush he was used to; it’s happened many-a-times before. All of which I’ve taken rather good care of him. Be it way of a good lay that he’ll always remember or the soothing of his back until it returns to full health.

He was finally getting into the mood: panting, looking at me waiting for orders. “Good boy, my good boy! Wouldn’t your ex like to see you this way.” I placed both my hands on his chest and down go all ten of my nails from his pecs to his well sculpted stomach. I know he loves the pleasure of pain. If he didn’t, I wouldn’t give a nickel either because I’m in acute outrage that needs to explode on someone who won’t fight back. So, I put my palm against his face, called him a bitch then asked him to get naked. He was about to say it was cold but, a swift slap right on the lips hushed him. I got him to all fours and began to massage his anus nicely and well, spitting on it for lubrication. Males don’t really have the ability to self lubricate, at least not like we girls do.

That aroused him! The submissive gal he is became engorged and willing to take my digit right in. “Ah, you enjoy that don’t you little girl. Want me to strap it on and give you a lot of pain?” “Mhmm,” he replied. Nah, I wanted to use my finger as if I was beating my boss about the face with my fist. I reached around to his phallus and jerked him while I pushed hard with my hand in his ass. The poor boy hung his head feeling the joy of my finger and my hand stroking him. He didn’t close his mouth; saliva dripping from his lips; he salivated in my control.

His joy turned to wonderful pain when I squeezed his sack handedly and told him to come suck again. This time he was aggressive, ignoring that I was playing the leading role. He shoved his index in my anus followed by the thumb in my vulva. He stroked his tongue aggressively and intensely. I cursed the lord that gave me desire to love being pleased. I smacked him across the face each time he looked up to look at me. His face was red and might have even displayed a black eye with a bloody nose. That’s the sort of beating the male I married likes to receive.

At that point I had forgotten why I was being violent, just as I had forgotten about whatever insecurities my boss had dished out at me. I was sprawled out in our garden in a cold of a night that I didn’t feel. My ass was grinding against the stones on the floor making me enjoy the discomfort of rocks against skin. Still, I didn’t want to come. All I wanted to do was subdue my emotions by screaming obscenities and watching my submissive partner beg to be controlled.

He crawled about the garden with a hard-on following my pussy around. “Come take this! Crawl faster! See this, this is going up your ass, and hard.”

I walked over to him, turned around and shoved his face right between my butt cheeks. I asked him to stand up and stroke until he came while I watched. I told him to beg for my vulva with each jerk. Yeah. I sat across from him massaging myself until I got bored of watching. He stayed out there until he came. I was no longer interested in what he had to offer. But, he walked in with his bulging boy covered in manly agent of lust. That dripping thing, I’d like to suck it clean.

Hell, even if it didn’t come out as expected, I did get a little pleasure out of the outrage. Look at him. Now, if that were only my boss’ face. The goosebumps feeling the return of control.


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The Brownstone at Park Place

Between tall modern buildings is the unrestored, yet impressive facade of the century old Brownstone Bank. It gives forth the impression that it can speak of what was, what is and what will be long after everything around it has become casualty to progress. It might no longer safeguard the fruit of labor of its patrons, but the demand for its presence at Park Place hasn’t been this great since a large fire down at the basement about half a century ago threatened its very foundation.

The fire burned out of control for over three hours. The Bank was believed to have been totally devastated. They said it wouldn’t recover from such fate but, when it all subsided, the fire and its cleaning, it became obvious that the solid marble walls and floors were unharmed. It withstood what others buildings, especially around it at the time, would have failed to undertake. It wasn’t until decades later that it closed its doors to the last few financiers in the city. The world grew too complex for the bank; too large and too corporate. The Brownstone remained untouched until I purchased it. I wanted it to become solely my home, but after much thought and my eager, restless personality, it also became my place of business.

The intentions were to restore it to past glory. I wanted it to look as it did in the pictures with the wealthy looking fellows with long beards, pocket watches and clean suits. Then, something peeked at my curiosity. That idea of it being just my home was short lived. I shied away from restoring the facade, instead concentrated completely on the inside. That’s where this story begins; just short of ten years ago when I became the proprietor. The new concept was crude, costly, perhaps too progressive and boorish for Park Place; however, that’s who I am. I would try even if I failed, even if I had to relinquish The Brownstone to the city.

As visitors walk in to my “bank”, nothing inside reminds them of it’s past battles. In fact, not one visitor, but I, knows about its forgotten glories. All that my clientèle knows is what happens at night when the tall modern buildings bid farewell to the multitude of pressed suits, and knee-high skirts. That’s when the lights outside dim, the streets all around come to a halt, giving sole attention to what goes inside of these marble walls.

The Brownstone is opened all day long, everyday of the week… on and on. There is only one nightly event. It’s been the very same since opening night. Most protagonist selected for the event are of unfamiliar faces but, our regulars always attend hoping their number is draw as the winner;so I wish to believe. Some purchase, one, two, and too many tickets begging for luck to increase their chances… it’s really never worked. Any one person can purchase as many tickets as wished. Anyone wishing to come inside the building must also pay an entry fee. That’s the crowd that comes here; from housewives to right-wing righteous personalities all in one room hoping to be selected.

Our first few months were slow. Word-of-mouth sort of establishments have their drawbacks. So, I waited for my idea to gain thrust with the public. We don’t sell food, nor drinks, we sell an ambiance. People come here because being around us might allow them to explore more than ever intended; they may even come hoping to leave as the chosen one. Now-a-days there is a day-long caravan of curiosity purchasing entry fares. A limited amount, as law prescribes, is sold. Once the show is sold out, a line begins to form outside. There is but so much space to fill inside the bank. We can fit no more than a thousand people. Even while inside, witnessing the event is not guaranteed. Most days, patrons patrol the floors, speak to employees, ask questions, hope to have an “in” to be selected.

The line that forms outside is lengthy. They wait because every so often, the selected one freaks out, and another protagonist is chosen randomly by me, paying or not. I walk around, see what’s available, then choose. Those who complain about the rules are never again allowed inside. Anyone inebriated, anyone under any sort of influence is escorted out, thereby placed on a blacklist until I feel it’s been long enough a punishment.

Exactly at midnight, lights, large screens all around, music, the catwalk leading into the five-story-high vault, take center stage. The cast is alerted that we are about to commence by the turning on of a single candle placed on the ledge of each outside facing window. The cast makes its way to the basement from where tunnels lead them across the street, up and out to the sidewalk at the front alley facing The Brownstone. In a single line, they walk from across the street, through the main entrance right onto the catwalk. Accompanied by the cheering of the crowd deafening any and all discernible sound, they strut towards the vault chasing the dimming of pink lights on the catwalk.

The cast is a rowdy group. They are unassuming in appearance, but everyone knows that inside those facades there is always a Brownstone. It takes over an hour for all members to traverse from the catwalk into their rightful position inside the vault. Once everyone inside, wire cables are dropped from the ceiling. The strong syncopated rhythms of 70s Latin music is simultaneously increased as each associate is raised into their position: angels raising into the heavens. Smoke is released from vents on the floor to help the glory of angels in the skies. The crowds content flashes throughout the room. Soon, the entire backside of the wall is covered with my dear coworkers.

Then without any warning… hush goes the entire room. Even the walk of a hobbit can be heard through the silence. That’s when I come into the vault. No one talks, no one but I, is allowed to speak. The lights are directed at me in the center of the vault where I find my rightful position. I look up and around to the three sides of five floors of balconies filled with onlookers; they all stare down at me with eager eyes… fearful eyes. The heavy breathing of those in fear can be heard all the way down from the top floor.

“Welcome, everyone. The rules are simple. You may engage in the physical altercation, or you may not. It is your choice as to how to proceed.”

“Stop!”

“…is the keyword. Just once it needs to be heard by any of our cast members. You’ll be promptly escorted into the nurturing room, your money refunded, and driven home by my very own driver.”

“Those of you new to The Brownstone at Park Place, do not speak until a number is called out. Tickets matching one of your numbers will be dropped from the ceiling. Large fans from (there, there, there, and there) will go on to beat about each ticket until the very last lands on this marble floor. Once it lands, I’ll walk around, look at up at the balconies, at the floor, and from the side I find most deserving, one of you will be chosen to come down and select a ticket from the floor.”

“You’ll grab the ticket, hand it to me, and I’ll read it aloud. You’ll be allowed to watch the scene from down here next to me. Then, and only then, can the multitude release a roar.”

“Shall we begin?”

The still of the crowd while I walk around looking up and down the floors of standing-room-only balconies is breathtaking. Many, very many faces I don’t know, just as I see the very many I’ve come to meet in the past decade. The first go around is quick, merely looking for people who catch my eye. There is no particular anything I look for. What calls my attention one night, might not the next. There is no rhyme or reason to the process. I simply stay calm and wait for someone to pop out from the crowd.

The second go-around is more detailed. I keep mental notes of the balconies that appear interesting, just as I do of those that are outright disregarded. By the time I’m down to two sections, quite a long time has past.

Tonight is no different, except for the fire sprinklers just installed inside the vault that will mist throughout the event.

… I am at my second and final go-around. Two balconies this night have caught my attention. Both are filled with women, one is a bunch of young girls, while the other seems like some sort group only here because they lost a wager. I point to it, and call out for the woman without makeup and dressed in a sweat-suit to come down. No other reason, really, than to see her sweat-suit soaked. I dislike them to my hearts content; the sweat-suits that is. She may ride home wet in mist.

I expected her to scream but she didn’t, very calm woman. She was grabbed and passed down from balcony to balcony. A small part of the process I normally forget to cover. On the way down she’s lost the bottom of her sweat pants. Those jolly fellows enjoy removing the clothing of everyone who travels down from floor to floor. Had she been on the fifth floor, she would have ended up totally nude by the time she arrived down below.

I welcome her with a smile and warm handshake. I turn her around allowing everyone to get a good look at her lower body covered by very small undergarments, then release her to her duty. She walks about looking up at the crowd that’s pointing here, there, and over there; she doesn’t know what ticket to select. Finally, she stops just shy of exiting the vault where a few tickets landed looking to leave the party.

She picks up a hand full, shuffles them in her hand until just one is left. I walk over to her, walk back to the center of the room, and read: FATMDP7-897. A brutal roar shakes the very columns holding up the ceiling. Everyone screams waiting for the person to find their way to the center vault. Out of the very first floor comes this curvaceous woman — and here today I had hoped for a man. She’s not a little girl, she’s a woman. Not the model type with the skinny legs that wouldn’t hold up the extra weight if carrying another lipstick. No! This is a woman that one wishes to have for oneself with toys, ropes, and slippery creams.

Upon seeing her, I call for a hush of the crowd, the music, and the lights; but the mist, that I cue to start. I ask her if she is sure she wishes to proceed beyond the winning ticket. Instead of replying, she bares her chest and pumps her fists in the air as if ready for some sort of wet t-shirt contest. I raise my hands, introducer her as Toy — there are no names at the Brownstone, ask for any remaining lights to be turned off yet, leave the spotlight directed at the center of the vault, on. With its ever changing colours, it adds just the prettiest of touches to the event.

While I walk away to find my strategically located seating arrangement, along with the semi nude lady who chose the winning ticket, a music compilation with seven tracks of African beats plays increasingly louder; each time a new song mixes in, a female cast member appears at the edge of the circle looking in at the woman. By the final track, seven of my very dearest of employees surround the woman. The crowd roars the building into a vibrating frenzy. The girls stand looking at her, giving each other signals, then at the harmony of new age classical violin…

…the cast rushes her. A physical confrontation ensues. It’s difficult to see many details while bodies attack another. I always wonder what is going on and how Toy is handling it. It takes no more than five minutes to subdue her, and there we have it. Her clothing has been cut to pieces. Her chest, back, face and hair show signs of the lost confrontation. She’s forced to stand up; hands tied behind the back while being held by the hair by the leader of the girls –a tall brunette with intoxicating body art down her right flank. There is but just them two people under the spotlight, the rest of the cast has disappeared from the light.

The sight of blood emerging from nostrils has always aroused me, especially the slow drops falling upon full sized breasts.

After she’s been shoved by the hair to face each cardinal point, the remaining cast members return from the dark fully nude. Each holding various apparatus of enjoyment. They circle the woman, forcibly spanking her ass fleshy red. She doesn’t move, takes it pretty smoothly, in fact. She is then pushed face up against the floor, landing on her hands that are tied behind the back. Her face is that of pain, but nothing comes from her lips. Two girls grab her legs and spread them while the lead cast member comes closer, softly slashing the woman’s genitalia with a reddish party whip. Once her mouth is close enough to the it, the lead cast member, Paz is my name for her, sinks her lips and tongue against her vagina. She tries to fight back by scooting around and trying to close her legs, but it’s far too late for the antics. Her legs are spread wide apart, and tied to handles on the floor.

Another member quickly kneels above Toy’s face, sitting on it. The music doesn’t allow the sound of her commands to carry, but she screams at Toy to open her mouth and taste… and not in that eloquent of articulations. One by one the girls make a human chain. The next associate lays face-up in front of the cast member who is kneeling on the protagonist’s face, and down she goes to taste her while making Toy savor her. A second also kneels over the face of the cast member now laying on her back, puts her vagina on the mouth of the girl on the floor, and so on until the final link to the human chain connects in a consuming circle. Butts on faces, genitalia against mouth, the taste of The Brownstone wouldn’t have it any other way. They give and receive until Paz calls an end to it before Toy enjoys it far too much. One by one they stand up, except for Paz. She stays on all fours, slightly backhand-slapping Toy’s vulva.

The cast begins to take turns grinding our protagonists face, smothering their secrets upon her mouth, each slapping, suckling her breasts, even including Paz in the fun by spanking her bottom red as she whips our lucky winner. Two of them grab Paz, lift her by the legs while a third girl spreads her butt cheeks and licks therein. Paz, the doll, balances on her hands, screaming obscenities at Toy about what will soon happen to her. I’ve had Paz, in more than one way and occasion. I must reveal, she’s a woman that refuses to be tamed.

Because I am the host who can’t deny himself the very few needs of life. I unzip, pull out the joy of my life, then ask the semi nude “ticket girl” sitting next to me to stroke while I watch.

Paz is now showing various apparatuses to the crowd. The loudest of the cheers comes when a strap-on device is raised. The entire cast is to wear one. They look down at the woman, body totally soaked, mostly by the mist steadily falling from the ceiling, but also sweat and the affections from many a secrets recently presented to her.

I slap down hard on the arm of the seat, the girl stroking me startles, pulling her hand away in response. It’s just that the built-in remote inside the arm of my seat requires a heavy slap to function. It stops the music, turns on the lights, lowers a mic, and shuts off the spotlight simultaneously. I place my hand under her chin, bring her close, and slowly lead myself into her mouth for a quick soaking. The mic finally reaches me from the ceiling. I grab it, then ask for Toy to be stood up so that I may walk over to inspect the situation. She looks well. All the good places tender from the continuous attention. I bring the microphone close to her mouth…

…she leans close to it, and with a firm yet indifferent tone, says: “I haven’t given much a thought about what you do me. Whatever it is, make it hard, plenty, and leave me feeling the size of the apparatuses hanging from each of your girls for a week or two. To be debilitated, abused for a while to appease the many ill thoughts that have ran through my mind when I want to be physically devastated yet all I’ve taken are the pecks of status quo. That’s why am I am here. To feel what I haven’t before, even if it leaves me… in the raw.”

Far too eloquent for someone — in my opinion at least, spanked and tied up. Though I enjoyed her indifferent tone that should be attributed to someone who’s been defeated, I understood it more so as a failing sign of my girls. I expected her to plead for less, rather than recite her desires of lust. It was a joy to see her up close and somewhat battered. Her body revealing that she wasn’t the fragile type. Pretty thing! Plentiful wherever one looks; she came here to be had.

The crowd yells unreasonable requests as if in a butcher shop slicing meat on a block. They want her filled everywhere anything fits. They want her passed around the crowd for anyone who deems her not fully satisfied to have. They want to taste between the valley of her glutes… just to verify she’s as tasty as she looks from afar. Some more open personalities scream of things I wouldn’t dare mention. I’m not sure there is much pleasure associated with such requests. However, I don’t know if I’ve passed that limit myself, or here today.

I don’t respond to her. I smile, raise my hand and tap her on the lips saying: “naughty lady, naughty.”

We have quite the crowd tonight. The Russian group occupying their usual balcony attends more nights than not. They are unaware that I know of their lewd acts while the lights are off. Grandma, obviously wealthy, with her shirtless puppets; I’m not sure I want her to ever be drawn. I wave at those I recognize, raise both my hands… the lights go out, the spotlight on, as does the music.

I return to the comfort of my chair, awaited by the delightful semi nude ticket-girl already in disbelief.

Looking at her reaction makes me wonder how many people do come here for the show, as opposed to the decadent comportment of stranger on stranger when the lights are off. It’s of no consequence, I enjoy the thought of bad girls behaving well as much as the next hedonist.

Paz grabs a scented lubricant then strokes the phallus hanging from the strap on; points to Toy with her lips to turn around and bend over. The instructions don’t go very well. Not that they were well crafted, but that no one who hasn’t been previ to the event would know what in the world they meant. This is the good part, though. Shackles are forced on Toys hands and ankles, she’s consequently bent into the fetal position with her arms falling between the knees and her hands touching the ankles.

She’s helped to her knees, gagged, but not with a ball. That would be too nice of Paz. She shoves a small, about four inches or so, device into her mouth. It’s wide enough that Toy has to open her mouth as wide as she can. That elongation enunciated by the wide opening of her jaw says she’ll encounter difficulties telling us to stop. That might be a big deal for her, but not for us. We’ll enjoy her inability to concede defeat. After the device goes in her mouth, her face is brought down against the floor. She looks to the side, her butt up in the air supported by her knees, and her arms between the very knees on the floor.

The girls sing songs of pain and sorrow, of melancholy, all while Toy’s nostrils flare from fear and search of oxygen. She’s soaked in lubricant, even warm wax from the very candles that alerted the team at the start of the show find their way against the tender skin of Toy’s bottom. It’s a colourful mess matched only the agent of suppression spewed by males against the genitals of the opposite sex. The liquid is spread by seven sets of hands. Her butt jerks so and so often. I presume from the tender penetration of digits going beyond the surface of the her skin. One cast member has to place her right foot on Toy’s back pressing firmly to impede her movement upwards. Two other associates press against her thighs preventing any side to side movement. She can escape exactly nowhere; she must now resist digital stimulation with unwilling acceptance.

These girls don’t go easy. There is no easing into the entry, they reach inside commanding she try to push back against the digits. But hand stimuli is not what any of us here expect.

I’ve always wonder how the cast manages to thrust that phallus on the strap-on with such ease — they must practice on each other. Paz was first, and it was a heavenly sight, that of Toy taking it like a lady. She appears to have been in relative pain. Her face moves from side to side, her hands straighten as if spasming; Paz colliding against her butt. A second girl maneuvers her mouth to Toy’s vulva, soothing the shoves she’s withstanding with tongue strokes. My girl reaches behind, is given another phallic device… in it goes, but this time Toy handles it with much ease. The second girl massages Toy’s secret, she inserts and retracts the object with smooth intention.

It takes not long at all. Had Toy not been gagged, it would have been easy to hear the pleasure of climaxing during double penetration. It didn’t end there, they took turns using Toy’s rear. Before the next cast member took a turn, Toy’s ass is massaged with lotion. Her butt cheeks spread apart to let the light show what hides in between. Even the separation of her outer labia throbbed deep in my heart.

I rarely do this. Very rarely. I can remember the times I have. Perhaps four, no more than five. I slapped hard against the arm of my chair. All but the mist stops. I’m wet, so is the semi nude ticket-girl, just as are the bodies of the girls in action. I walk over to the group pleasing Toy and bring the ticket-girl with me. I’ve removed her sweater top, and bra. She stands just in her underwear.

I pass her on to the my ladies. They kiss her, fondle her, hold her, then one from behind and the other from the front penetrate ticket-girl. She screams in painful delight. I, on the other hand, run my hand through the marks on Toy’s bottom. I kiss them, lick her buttocks, tasting the good in this world. The feel of her warmth in my mouth is devastating. I feel like the world has just begun and Toy is here to make me feel alive.

The screams of ticket-girl catch my attention. She screams in tongues. She speaks in a few Romance languages as she does in Arabic. I walk over to watch her pretty face feeling the joy brought about pain and pleasure. Then, ask of her face be brought down to my waist level. I gently place me in her mouth and tell her to speak… if she can. Rhetorical of me. With me inside of her, all she can do is feel the choke against the vocal cords. I pull out, because the desire was to feel the tongue of a multi-lingual speak within me.

I return to Toy, the poor thing, she looks sort of envious. At least so I’d like to think. The order is given to kneel her. I retract the device in her mouth and replace it with my penis. Some of the free girls guide Toy’s face back and forth, pushing it forward, forcing all of me inside of her. Toy coughs and tears from her eyes. I smack her lips with me, once and again. She sticks her tongue out as if wanting to savor more of me. But, I’m here to be shared.

The ticket-girl is knelt next to Toy where she’s commanded to put her hands behind her back and hold each elbow. A girl kneels behind her, grabs ticket-girl by the shoulders and lowers her completely onto the phallus. The same happens to Toy.

I trade mouths from Toy, who has me intoxicated in lust, to the ticket-girl with her mouth of many tongues. Their faces express the difficulty adjusting to anal penetration when women hold them by the shoulders, preventing any escape from the thrusts. I shove from throat to throat until I’m about to ejaculate, just then, I retract and flow onto both girls. Their lips, chin, eyes, nose, even breast are tended to. And to be cleaned, Paz, my trusted joy, walks over to me, and cleans all and any residue left in me. I have always loved how tightly wound her mouth makes me feel.

The remaining girls standing around frolicking with one another, kiss and lick the two kneeling subjects. They are cleaned from my semen, but not before parting photographs are taken of a job well done. Of faces covered in the most alluring of makeups.

It’s easy to forget the ruckus of the crowd during these times… Many of them will still be here in the morning, talking, chatting, doing whatever it is they do when they think I’m not watching. But here at The Brownstone at Park Place… well, I know what happens.


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Marian Woods

Priest Walking in a long corridorIt is the familiar echo caused by leather-bottom shoes dispersing throughout our sleeping quarters that ignites joy before disappointment sets in each night. We are all aware of the footsteps, as are we, of the outcome. Perhaps with out proof but, by experience we all know what they bring to these walls.

For just shy of eight months, only a single one of us has become intimately familiar with the outcome; that one person conceals the proof to put an end to all speculation. The rest of us remain wondering what about that intruder is special enough to obscure everyone else.

The destination of the footsteps isn’t a secret to anyone, nor are the things we assume happen in that location. Nothing is hidden from that room’s walls, less so, those adjacent to mine. The building is one of those where each sleeping quarter has access doors to adjacent rooms; they, the doors do, carry on and on. One may journey from the very first, to the very last dormitory with out having to step outside at any one time.

Most nights I am alone in my room coupling enticing images to each sound coming from them; always wondering how closely related to the truth I come. I smile in an awkward envy wishing that the past months had not carried out it as they have.

Thursday nights specifically bring about the largest gatherings to my room. The noises that find their way to us are used to guess, most times I believe, as personal wishes of what we each would like to be done to us. We quietly congregate about the door leading to their room, passing around a pad and writing utensil… we take liberties on their affair until the end of the night draws to a silence. Presumptions all, of course, is what we write.

In the know it is not even Sister Atel. She dares not to bring it up in conversation, even when it was she who lost her rightful place upon that intruders arrival. No one dares speak of it… and in fact, of us all she seems the most distressed during Thursday nights. Those were her weeknights, while the rest of us waited for our turn whenever, and wherever they might have come. They did come, and often, but not the lengthy durations as Sister Atel withstood for longer than I can remember.

Since it is in my room that we gather, I get first stab at the pad and notebook; just as I do sitting closest to the door. I don’t write what I think is happening right away, instead, I wait until the ambiance becomes more interesting. My many intrusions throughout the past few months dictate that the events are lengthy, and when it is time to write. There isn’t a need to be hasty. The other sisters bring tea and cookies as if movie night. The evenings where the action is more subdued, we read one another’s entries before passing on the pad; however, those nights where the ruckus is chaotic, we jot down quickly, passing the pad around to whomever is most desperate to participate.

A few times we’ve barely written. Not because we haven’t been enticed to make up a storyline but, because the sounds reaching us are vast, explicit and direct where shock is the least of our reactions. I personally enjoy when discernible chatter is heard, and loudly. Though there isn’t visual proof, it becomes apparent what’s taking place on the other side of the wall. He likes to observe her. He enjoys to watch his heart’s content before the screams and orders begin.

Nun Gathering Early in the AMOne of those Thursdays, Lord have mercy on Sister Atel, he mentioned her name loud enough that she walked right out of the room. I chased after her to no avail. She locked herself in the room and cried until falling asleep. By the time I returned, two of the sisters occupied my chair with the excuse that the story had just taken on new meaning. Until the wee hours of the morning, we were creative in depicting stories. The plethora of new audibles struck our creative fancy. None of the sisters, but for Sister Atel, slept that night. We were up all night humoring all our presumptions.

The sound of whips against flesh gave me goosebumps. I got the shakes writing what I thought was happening:

“Sister Marian — oddly, she carries the same name as the convent: Sister Marian Woods — refuses to be gagged, she can’t handle his ego down her throat, so he tore her dress from her body, bent her over the bed, leashed her, and whipped her until she agreed to suck all of him like he wanted.”

Someone else wrote:

“Sister Marian doesn’t play, she’s got a dog collar on Father Sebastian and is whipping him about the room while he walks on all fours; his penis hard against his abdomen excited about being dominated.”

The one I liked the most for that particular event was:

“Father Sebastian and Sister Marian are trading whips on each other whenever each one doesn’t enjoy the outcome of each command. He whips her, forces her to perform the act until satisfied, then she takes her turn making up for being lashed.”

When the slashing stopped, her voice came alive. She commanded him to place the collar around his neck, that she was going to pull it hard enough to raise his hands off of the floor, then digitally stimulate him. She had such a sweet voice, almost too sweet to be commanding anything or anyone. Despite that, behind those closed doors she ordered quite a lot.

I can already imagine him, engorged, being tugged by the collar and digitally simulated. I wonder, and often, if he ejaculated while it all happened. The shoving a digit inside of him making him ejaculate all over the floor. I wonder what they wore when this sort of dog-collar-behaviour took place. Were they totally naked? Was he, or even she tied in chains?

Any-who, it had been eight months with these sort of noises, that sort of “misbehavior” coming from that room. Yet, I can’t imagine why she struggled to be anally penetrated. Sometimes, as that Thursday night, her sweet voice cried, “I can not do this, I can not do this.” Naturally, we assumed anal intercourse just because it seemed fitting. This is when our stories went all over the place. During the moments we’ve anointed anal time, all one can hear is her voice yelling obscenities, moaning, begging of him to carry on. The pleasure lasts until her voice becomes shaky and long “ouches” fill the air. They are reminiscent of someone walking on the hot sand. That’s exactly what the “ouches” sounded like, except prolonged. “Oouucchhhh!”

My note read:

“He’s got her tied to the bed with her bottom up on the air, knees against her chest and her face down against the bed. He’s mouth seduces her vulva while his index finger gives her anus a prelude of what’s to come. He’s gotten so good a seducing many-a-vagina at the convent that he easily makes her squirt. Upon her squirting, he stands on the bed, squats down a bit, and rams his ego hard and deep; each slap of his pelvis against her glutes causes the “ouches”. He’s primed her enough not to hurt too much, but she still unable to effortlessly receive him all the way in.”

Another one of the nurses, she’s sort of psychotic, wrote:

“He’s got her hanging face up by the beam running across the ceiling. He stimulates her with many of his toys… both inside her vulva, as well as in her butt. From time to time he shoves his penis inside her mouth while using Tyron — Tyron is one of his toys, a rather large phallic device — in her butt. When he’s tired her to oblivion, he double-penetrates her ass with Tyron’s help. She’s only saying “ouch” because the exhaustion doesn’t afford the energy to fully depict what she’s handling.”

Who knows what goes on in there, or if even Tyron is inside of him while he penetrates her in the rear. I wouldn’t put anything past that man’s libido.

I really do enjoy the parts when she speaks. I guess because I never took control. I’ve always been fearful of what demons are dormant inside of me. So I allowed him to use me as he wished. He enjoyed it too; told me he liked watching himself become engulfed by me most… of all the nuns. That I wrapped him tightly and plenty. Makes me feel good he said that sort of thing, even if they were all lies.

There is this part that normally ends the night — not that Thursday night though — that she seems to have rehearsed to perfection. She says, in the least of commanding voices, this is verbatim, too: “You think you can leave that gooey residue dripping out of me, you come suck it clean, and make me come while you are at it. Do you enjoy hair pulling? Because I do!”

I would have gotten tired of that line after a few times but, it is followed by loud slaps against the skin. I presume back or buttocks, and his, too.

I imagine she pulls his hair and leads him to her dripping anus,has him lick it clean, then he performs cunnilingus until she climaxes.

That night they went beyond that point. They must have engaged in some sort of physical altercation. It sounded like she beat him silly with stone hands, while he slapped her hard and long. Ooh, I have always enjoyed a little shove and slap. I like to be grabbed by the neck tightly enough to prevent some air from flowing, then slapped on the mouth. After that, I love getting it in my mouth.

I imagine that’s what he does to her. After he subdues her, he chokes her, then as she gasps for air his penis goes deep in her throat. He tells her, suck it all in, suck it all in, sister.

One of the less perverse sisters had the following visions:

“Her torso is bare out the window exposing her breasts to the night. He spanks her vagina red trying to teach her to be a good sexual partner. He pulls on her dog collar forcing a bounce of her breasts with each collision of his pelvis against her vulva. Because she’s already sore, even the slap of his sack against her is cause for pain. She tries to fight back, but he quickly grabs both her arms and locks them in place behind her back. She can barely move because the pain keeps her just where he feels good taking her.”

And so are many of the other stories from that night. Secret is… even we don’t keep it hidden that some of us have touched ourselves while listening in. It’s hard not to when one wishes to be the one making the sounds for everyone to hear.


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Public Dive

No disrespect intended but, my offense is far more “pardonable” than yours. Don’t think for one moment that sharing mine with you means that I agree with what you’ve done. Before I depart for good, I’ll share my wrong doing. You are a jerk! You do know that, don’t you? Any who, I’ll try to be brief.

Sunday morning I was sitting at the bleachers by the first-base-side cheering our softball squad. We were playing against Amherst College with a playoff berth at stake. It had been quite the duel up to that point. We were up at bat, down by two runs in the bottom of the seventh inning. The meat of the order was up, their pitcher was tiring. I was sured we’d capitalize on our chances in this inning.

Sexy female softball fanThroughout the game, there was this Amherst student sitting behind the catcher; obviously rooting against us. A group of people sat on the small bleacher back there trying to opaque her chant. She wasn’t sitting on the seats rather, she sat to its left with her legs ups against it. From where I was standing I had a perfect view of her. She wore a white shirt with white purple lettering in front, along with jean shorts. I turned my camera towards her and flipped a few photos. She must have noticed me because she wrote something on her VHS-sized smartphone, and pointed it in my direction. I drew as closed as my handy SLR allowed and clicked a few pictures. I turned the LCD screen on to review results, and it took no more than one digital zoom to see that it was a ten digit number. Being a mathematics major, I instantly calculated it that it was a phone number.

I took out my mobile, dialed the number… ring, ring… I looked in her direction to see her answering her phone. She heckled me on the phone. Taunting about all the bad things that Amherst was going to dish out in the last innings. I, in a moment of uncontrolled form, told her that I had something bad to give her right then and there in front of everyone. She quickly hung up, stuck her finger out at me, and motioned with her tongue the “universal” sign for cunnilingus. I ignored her because I honestly felt defeated. I am not the type of guy with quick comebacks, I’m more of a think-now-act-later sort of person. It didn’t even take an instance for me to give up hope about teasing her where it hurts, when then a message notification snapped me out of defeat.

Sexy Crotch Area of a WomanThe message was from her. Upon opening it, a frontal picture of her shorts she’d obviously just taken teased me hello. It was accompanied with a text caption that read: “you can lick that, loser(s).” I gave my roommate the SLR, grabbed my mobile device, turned its camera on and walked over to her. The sun was against my back shading her from it. I hovered over then told her — paraphrasing of course, I don’t recall much of what I said: Spread them right there, I’m taking my own picture.

I must have tickled her funny because she burst in laughter. Nearby spectators looked at us wondering what the laughter was about. I thought short and not very thoroughly, got on my knees, grabbed my mobile, pulled her legs apart, and took a photo. She didn’t say a word! What happened next…

I brought my hands down there, pulled her shorts to the side and placed me lips right against her lips. She did absolutely nothing for a good few seconds. Then, “how dare you! not here, not here” repeatedly escaped her mouth. She tried to push my face off from her, but I had my hands against her thighs almost glued to her crotch. Say what you may, but the satisfaction I tasted came accompanied with a little sweat she had worked up while seated under the sun for seven innings. I loved it! I have never been much of a clean freak when taking what I want. I wanted it to feel decadent and irreversible. I grabbed a-whole-lot-of-bunch from her down there in a sucking action; I swear I must have had half her body inside my mouth. Visions of the Cheeto’s Panther came to mind as if I was a young child gobbling down a pack of cheese doodles before my mother caught me red handed.

She gave up pushing away my head and was now holding it against her crotch. All of this took not two, tops three minutes. I got smacked on the head with, god knows what, interrupting my lewdness. Three other women created such a dynamic jolt of my body prying me away from her. Amid the chaos I got a beautiful look down at her. She was spread like a butterfly drying her wings from the night’s mist against the sun. Her shorts pushed to the side and her vulva glistening from the residues of my mouth, her sweat and secretion. She looked up in disbelief, piercing me with a devilish smile.

Security guards came, and that’s why I’m here. Two days later still waiting for my brother who purposely left me in the holding cell to teach me a lesson. He said he’d come today. That he’d be here soon. But, that’s been his story since I came in here. The good thing about all of this, aside from being kicked out of school — I didn’t really like it anyhow — is that I got her phone number, and a last message telling me that she was still wet.

I don’t know if she has been detained, nor do I remember exactly what she looks like. All I distinctly remember is her long black hair, thick eyebrows, and taste of euphoria! Once my brother gets me out, I’m heading to the softball field.


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Professor Robinson

Mr. Robinson from the Movie, The GraduateDr. Robinson: As I see it, you have three options if you’d like to graduate on time, Benjamin. You must restart, update, or reach a non-related to the dissertation agreement with me. It’s due in a month. It is up to you how to proceed.

Benjamin was fully cognizant that a month’s time wasn’t enough to neither correct, or begin a new dissertation. It had taken him months to get this far! He wondered why, after all the supervision sessions leading up to today’s, did she wait until now to tell me that the thesis isn’t good enough to even be graded? There really wasn’t any three choices. The feasible decision was to reach an arrangement, both he and she knew that. With a once-in-a-lifetime job opportunity upon graduation, what was he to do? Outright fail by trying to update or restart the thesis?

Benjamin: I feel like I’m behind the eight ball. I don’t have but the choice imposed upon me; let’s examine the alternate plan.

Dr. Robinson: How bad do you want to graduate? If you are anything like I was, you should be willing to do just about anything to enter the “real” world. Either that, or spend another year here; and, I’ll make sure of that.

Benjamin: I’m pretty sure I want to graduate this year. I have to. My family has pulled a lot of favors to get me a job upon graduation. If I fail, the chance won’t be presented again. I’ve been warned about it.

Dr. Robinson: I tell you what. Go home, read that dissertation over, ensure that your best option isn’t to update or start it over. We’ll reconvene here in my office at Levermore Hall tomorrow. I’m here by 9AM. You may come anytime after that up until noon.

That night Benjamin didn’t sleep reformatting, correcting grammatical errors, even adding substance to his dissertation. By four fifty AM, seven cups of black coffee, he had given up. He didn’t think much about what the alternative presented to him could be. At worst, he thought, grading final exams and papers, perhaps carrying some books for the professor, even if he had to bring her donuts and coffee each morning.

He fell asleep on the study desk to awaken bathed in stress at around 10 AM. He gathered himself, took a bath, got dressed, grabbed his dissertation, toss it in the garbage and left to meet with the professor. The walk from the dorm to the office was about 15 minutes. He walked it the same as any other day, accompanied by the sounds of whistles into the wind.

He mockingly greeted a few of his classmates before entering Levermore Hall. He walked up the stairs to the third floor, took a left a the top towards her office, the proceeded a few feet to her door. He’s welcomed in, asked to have a seat: “Well, what’s it going to be, Ben?” It took no time at all to inform her that he’d selected the alternative path to graduation.

Dr. Robinson: Close the door for me, will you.Return to your seat and lets enter the arrangement.

The door closes, Benjamin turns around to the view of the professor sitting on the desk with her right leg crossed over the left, and skirt raised to her crotch. Her panties had question mark patterns throughout. She didn’t bother saying much.

Benjamin quickly nodded in agreement as if hypnotized by the question marks on the undies. The professor had very long and strong legs. And her scent was reminiscent of the unknown, had he been in a better mental conditions, he would have quickly familiarized himself with the scent.

Dr. Robinson: I’m going to tell you how this is going to work. You tell me when I should stop, and how far you want to go.

She stands up, walks over to the smart board. Stands with her legs spread apart accentuating her shapely calves, and draws her skirt up to waist level. She faces the smart board and starts to add line items. She talks while writing, assuring him that he could still go back to his paper and fail if he wishes.

Dr. Robinson: See this ass — smacking herself on the left cheek; you can have it, maybe, if you go through with every choice I give you. If you complete them all to my satisfaction, you get both a grade “A”, and me. You are currently failing, so I think you should be pleased about this option.

On the board it read:
F = Be gagged with a “gag-ball”.
D = Digital stimuli.
C = Masturbation with digital simulation.
B = Once you climax, I’m going to collect it, smear it throughout my vulva, my ass, then force you to lick it clean.
A = If you like what I propose, and I enjoy how you’ve handle it. You get to tie my hands behind my back, and return the favor.

Dr. Robinson: You don’t have to masturbate me. You can use whatever you are packing, that is showing erect on your pants right now, and shove it anywhere you want. Also note that it’s not pick one or the other. To get to a higher grade, you must first pass the lower grade.

Benjamin: Can we talk about this first? I’d like to shift things around, if I can.

Dr. Robinson: The door is right behind you. You don’t come in here with suggestions. You take note of what’s on the board, and be ready with the answer tonight after my last class. I’ll be right here. You may leave now, and close the door behind you.

Benjamin is one people whose never met a smart person, he finds a flaw in everything, and everyone. But he had always been at the mercy of the attractive and dominant Dr. Robinson. At the University, it was well known that there was no leniency in her world. Because of her looks, she was the most demanded adviser in the faculty. From geeks to athletes, they all wanted to say that Dr. Robinson advised them.

He spent the entire day debating one thing: If he could be digitally penetrated. When it did happen, would he enjoy it enough to turn homosexual? He pondered about the idea over and over. Hours he spent on his bed looking up at the ceiling with the sight of the professor’s bottom in his mind. To get a piece of her; he thought risking heterosexuality was worth it. So he got up, had a small snack, took a long shower, “I’m going to masturbate just to last longer” — he thought, then got dressed in a sweat suit. Easy on, easy off was the idea. He was shooting for an “A”, and there was no holding him back. He went in and out of scenarios about how badly he was going to shove his penis inside the Dr. He was going to bound her hands to the desk, put her on her knees and have her swallow him up to the scrota. He came up with the idea to shave himself to appear bigger. He feared that in her years of experience she was going to find him small, which he sort of was…

Gagging DeviceWhen he opened the door to Dr. Robinson’s office, there was a digital recorder, bright lights, handcuffs on a seat, as well as a gagging device with a red ball attached at the center. The professor wasn’t around. But a note read, “Sit and wait for me.”

It took about 20 minutes for her to return to the office. She was held up by the dean of school.

Dr. Robinson: How are you, Benjamin. Do you have a grade in mind?

Benjamin: I do!

Dr. Robinson: Care to share the grade and why you’ve selected it?

Benjamin: I’ve had no other thoughts than your bottom in my mind. And, if I’m going to work this hard to have a shot at valedictorian, I’m going to do it thinking that I also violated every rule in the conduct policy of the University; getting a piece of you, of that fine “onion” that upon seeing it just makes me want to cry, is what I want.

Dr. Robinson: Fair enough. Let’s review the grades and their actions. By the way, because you speak so eloquently of wishes, I’ve just decided to updated the actions tied to one, or maybe more of the grades. Hope you don’t mind. Remind me about grade “F”, oh, yes. Gagged and I just appended to it, handcuffed.

Benjamin: How do we start?

Dr. Robinson: Shut up! Undress! I’m going to strip down to my undies. I’ll remove my bra as well. Once gagged and handcuff, I’m not stopping. You better be positive this is what you want. On second thought, sign this here paper stating you are willingly entering this arrangement.

Benjamin: Why shall I do that?

The professor turns her back to him, leans over, and asks him to come touch her. Anything he wants to feel. Benjamin walks over, puts both his hands on her buttocks, and lightly spanks them.

Benjamin: Ok, I’ll sign it! That’s what I want, to have intercourse with you… more so than the means to get there.

Sexy Professor's Mid-SectionHe strips down to nothing but his socks — no need to remove any underwear, he didn’t wear any. The professor switches on the video camera along with the spotlights. The focus is on her desk with mounds of paper all about it. He’s already aroused by seeing that the professor does not look like the rest of her colleagues. She’s closer to one a female athlete than she is to any professor. She’s not young, but she’s not elderly either. She’s somewhere in her late forties, early fifties. Her physique has handled the passing of time well. The signs of maturity present on her face speak of just that, she knows what she wants and how to attain it, while her body reeks of decadence.

Dr. Robinson: Back to the “F”. Lay on the desk face up, and place the hands to each side. Do you need further description? You don’t get it? As if you are Jesus the Christ about to be crucified. The desk isn’t long enough for you, so bend your knees, and put your feet flat on it.

Before Benjamin moves, the professor grabs the gagging device and approaches him. His eyes opened wide, instantly perspiring.

Dr. Robinson: Oh, don’t be shy. Here let me show you how my mouth feels. I’m going to bite your lower lip, then get on my knees and swallow you for quick second. Give you a taste of what I can be like.

So she does as described. Benjamin is no longer sweating. He’s now looking down enjoying the time it took for her mouth to cover him, then quickly withdraw. It’s obvious that his heart has stopped pumping blood everywhere else in his body simply to direct it towards his average-size penis. The head is considerably wider than the body, Dr. Robinson comments on him not being exactly what she expected, but it will have to do. He responds with a cliché that gets him slapped and hushed instantly.

Dr. Robinson: No, no, no. You don’t get to speak anymore. If you are going to taste the secret, penetrate the secret, you’ll have to take it like you men love to tell us women to take it.

The gagging device goes around his head, the ball fits his mouth perfectly. Benjamin now has no option but to listen. He can only speak through heavy nostril exhalations. He might not want to, but his eyes too, will speak for him, telling the professor of his feelings on the matter. It feels like hours to him, the moment it takes to be gagged and walked over to the desk. The incoherent noises speak of the proper engagement of the gagging device.

After laying down as instructed, two sets of handcuffs bound him uncomfortably immobile. The papers on the desk were never cleared, which added to his discomfort by preventing a totally flat surface.

Dr. Robinson: Ah, you look adorable, really, Benjamin. You must have a look… laying on my desk, naked. Yet, you are still failing. That was your “F”. Tell me how it feels to be underway to a passing grade? Oh, I’m sorry. You can’t speak. Say, it’s time get to studying. Don’t mind me, but I just noticed that you are smaller than I expected. I do hope you didn’t freshly shave for me. Expecting me to be delighted by the “optical” illusion that you are bigger than you really are. What a shame! It’ll have to do, you’re all tied up already. What was the “D” again? Oh, yes. Digital stimuli! One of my favorite words, I have you know, Benjamin: “stimuli”. Spread the legs nicely my little pupil. Spread them without shame, I like the feeling myself.

Out of the desk drawer comes out this tube with the label covered by its price tag. Legible is the “-ese” part of the name. Benjamin’s head is off the desk looking down at what’s going on. The professor pours the agent sloppily on her hands. It drips all around his thighs. She apologizes, saying that she’s a tad messy handling liquids, then proceeds to kiss his inner thighs closely to his crotch. While kissing him, she brings her hand around his right thigh and starts to massage him ever so closely to his bottom. His glutes-clench raising his buttocks up and down from time to time in fear of the unexpected. His nerves were getting the best of him but, the ball shoved halfway down his mouth just didn’t allow eloquence to express how it truly felt.

Dr. Robinson: Here, look at me.

He looked down at her, and as she swallowed him, in went her index finger. He was so concentrated by being inside her mouth that he failed to realize the ease by which she slipped inside him.

Dr. Robinson: There, there, honey. I think you might be ready to go up a grade. Say… we work towards a “C”? Aw. How easy was that!

She had her right hand underneath his right leg, and her left hand jerking him. The harder she shoved her hand down the shaft, the harder she pushed in with the right. Benjamin couldn’t look anymore. Had the indistinguishable sounds been proper verbiage, the warnings that he was about prematurely ejaculate would have escaped. But the only sign of pleasure was that of the aggressive sound of air rushing out of his nostrils. Before she even became excited about the prospects of what she was about to do, Benjamin was shooting about. He dripped everywhere.

Woman Licking Ice Cream from Her HandDr. Robinson: Boy, dear boy. But, you appear to have been backed up. Here, look at you on my hand. That was quick work for a “C”. Let’s see, what was grade “B” again? Oh, yes! I’m going to collect as much as I can to smear it about me. Ah, I bet you enjoy the sound of that.

His eyes opened wide as softballs. Had he been a slug, they would have also reached far out of his face towards her.

The professor brought her hand to her mouth and cleaned some of the residue off of if. With that same hand, she reached down, pulled her underwear to the side, and sat on the semen spread about his abdomen. In a grinding motion she collected every drop she could. Those remaining on her hand, she smeared on her ass; the view stopped time.

She walked on the desk and stood over Benjamin’s face; each foot to one side of his face. It was time to remove the gag ball. Dr. Robinson leaned down, reached behind his head and unsnapped the lock to the leather-belt.

To be breathing heavily, Benjamin was very calm. He didn’t say a word; his eyes were fixated up at the professor’s crotch, admiring his residue against her vulva. He wasn’t given chance to catch his breath. She squatted down and slapped him across the face. He looked up at her; “What the F…”, another slap interrupted him. “Sh, Sh, Sh, no talking, remember!”, said she. He was at a loss, he tried to move but his arms were tightly bound against the desk preventing him from moving much.

Dr. Robinson: The work to earn grade “B” is pretty simple my dear boy: lick me clean!

Once again she slapped him, but this time harder than any she had before rupturing his bottom lip enough to bleed. She sat on his face, and by sitting on it, it wasn’t a slight hover giving him the freedom to frolic as he wished. No, this was a forced shove of her secret on his face. She rubbed it back and forth, sideways, even up and down slapping him with her secret right on the mouth. She stood up for a minute to admire his face reflecting the combined fluids of his saliva, semen and her secretion. His eyes were teary, not from crying, but from the inability to breath from time to time when she pressed harshly against his face asking for a brutal suck.

She sat on his chest, looked at him dead in the eyes, reached down to his face, and bit his lip drawing blood again. While biting his lip, she rhetorically asks, “is your dissertation worth an ‘A’?” He tries to speak once more, and this time he’s hushed by a squeeze of his testicles.

Dr. Robinson: I warned you not to speak one too many times, my student. But, here. I’ll make you feel better.

She scooted down his stomach towards his knees, suffocating his penis with her bottom until coming to rest on his knees. Her mouth came towards his scrota… He gasped, gasped and gasped, and she had yet to put him in her mouth. When he thought he was about to enter deep in her mouth…

Dr. Robinson: Oops, Benjamin! Is that your anus I feel? I’m sorry! I wanted to review some of your grades.

She digitally stimulated looking straight at his eyes. He was enjoying it, enjoying it a little too much. So she decided to make him feel better. She grabbed him and slapped him against her mouth. “Are you going to come again, young mister? I’ll put you on my mouth and make little-you try to reach back at my throat.” Not soon enough does she finish her words that she manages to simultaneously push two fingers in him. He almost died and had to speak: “You are going to make me cum.”

Dr. Robinson shoved him in her mouth all the way in. He moaned like a woman being stimulated in the sweetest of spots, then she withdrew it from her mouth, pulled it down towards his knees and released it to slap against his lower abdomen. She again stood over his face. This time inserting her finger inside her, followed by slow sucks of the finger.

Dr Robinson: Had you not spoken, you would have fucked me. Take the “B” and get out of here. Except, you’ll be getting to your dorm wearing only your sweat-top. Disagree?

Benjamin: I do not. Release me. But, I want to request you to turn around. Please, let me masturbate looking at you.

Dr.Robinson: I’d do you one better. You sound so cute begging for more.

The professor released him, then pushed him against the wall. Turned around for a minute so that he could admire her. She was sweet enough to spread herself apart with her hands so that he could see the rainbows of pink in colour. Then, to his surprise, she slapped his penis between her butt cheeks, and roughly moved up and down until he came again.

Before he realized that his dissertation had take a turn for the best, he was pulling the sweat-top down to cover himself on the way back to the dorms… the happy boy had forgotten about all the work wasted on his thesis.

Dr.Robinson: Poor fool. Doesn’t he know nobody ever reads those!


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Park & Ride

Prior to the fall of the housing market some years ago, my life was both difficult and simple. The thought of losing the lap of luxury kept me engaged at work. I was abreast old and current market trends always looking to be a step ahead of everyone. The difficulty of staying viable at my job made the rest of my material life simple. What I didn’t account for was that the same place that sustained my livelihood was deteriorating at the core. The greed at the helm was playing gambling games with fake money, just as they were with other people’s finances. In turn, the world came tumbling down taking with it my security.

Savings disappeared in less than a year trying to maintain my status. I watched in much desperation as my possessions were taken away to be auctioned off at a fraction of the cost. All I had was a fridge half filled with old groceries, and a bank-book taling to zero. The desire of corporate America to hire someone at my salary, position and age simply wasn’t there. “You are as good as hired, we’ll call you upon confirming your salary”, was the normal response from HR recruiters who never did contact me.

One night I suddenly awakened covered in sweat. I dreamed that I was being pulled out of my flat by the police. The landlord and lawyers laughed, holding up my bank-book pointing at the zero in the total column, mocked me. “How far have the wanna-be’s fallen”, they repeated constantly. In the dream, I was driven to the Park & Ride off of exit 57 in the Expressway, and told I had no place to live. Confronted with the reality that I will lose the roof over my head, I had to act as severe as was reality. That’s the part that awakened me.

Young Pretty Woman in Driver's SeatIn the morning I took a cab to the Park & Ride. I sat at the waiting station for about 3 hours wondering what I was to do to prevent any further financial difficulties from taking place. I dressed as if going to work on a casual-friday; brought an empty briefcase just to mesh-in with the everyday worker. After three hours I gave up hope. I could not find the meaning of the dream, nor an answer to preventing the last of my world from crumbling. I stood up, looked left, looked right and when about to walk in the direction of the taxi stand, a young woman pulls up next to me. “How much”, she said. “How much what?”, I answered. “Listen, I’m clean. Young, pretty, have money to pay you. Why in the righteous world would you assume I’m an official trying to pick you up?”, she replied.

I still hadn’t the faintest idea about what she was talking. I looked puzzled and walked away, still she pressured on.

“Listen, listen, get in the car. I’ll drive you to wherever you want. Just get in”, said she.

At this point I had little to lose. My life wasn’t worth much, so losing it would likely be the better option. So, I hung my head low, looked in her direction, and reluctantly agreed. I boarded the vehicle, and told her to park. That I wasn’t about to let anyone drive me anywhere. She laughed, telling me that I could stop the games. She pulled out five one-hundred-dollar bills from her purse.

“I’m not looking for just anyone. I want a regular, someone I can come to here at Park & Ride and know he’ll be here, and even if with another, will stop and come to me.”

“Hm, I’m listening”, said I.

“I come here twice, thrice a week, some days more than once a day. I pay cash. My husband is a two-timing scum, and this is how I will return the favor”, said the young girl.

“You are too young to be married, and if you are asking me for sexual intercourse, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that”, I said.

“Why are you here, then. I’ve watched you for the past three hours and you’ve sat there waiting for someone. You don’t look like the rest of them. You don’t run down, tired, broke, homeless, nor bisexual”, bluntly said she.

“Rubbish, you don’t know anything about me. What you should do is go home to your parents, give back their money and repent”, was my response to her.

She continued laughing, tossed the money on my lap, jumped on the back-seat and said, “Look around, it’s no secret why people who don’t have to commute come here.”

Park & RideI looked around and it all instantly clicked. The cars that stopped in front of me all that time were trying to figure out who I was and what I was doing there. I wasn’t dress the same as the others, so they must have been scared off, and not requested anything from. Now I know why people of all sexes and types went into cars yet, the vehicles never moved. The Park & Ride had become a sex shop.

“Do you request, or do I do?”, I asked her.

“Today, you do. Whatever the $500 will get me”, said she.

I didn’t jump on the back-seat, instead I opened the door, walked to the back door and went inside. She looked nervous, very nervous. Now, not only did I lose most of my material possessions, but so did all the women who frolicked with me because of my financial abilities. I hadn’t been with anyone in the past six months. Because of depression, however, I wasn’t really that much interested in the pleasures of the flesh. I really felt like a “no one” without the cash to flaunt.

Now, this young girl laid in front of me. Long hair, slim, well groomed. She couldn’t possibly be in her late 20s yet. What was she doing married? Now looking to repay her husband for his transgressions! Well, his present was mine to have. Of all things I miss the most, well, is the tender touch of a woman’s secret against my mouth. Hair, cleanly shaved, groomed, even medieval has never been a concern. Just the touch, the taste, the view, the aroma entrenched upon my lips once done. That’s what I enjoy, and miss most.

To have my lips and tongue entangled in struggle for pleasure where I might not be the recipient of a climax, but I feel as if I were the winner. I approached her closely, pulled down her shorts midway to her thighs and took a prolonged look at her underwear that was visibly moist. The middle part rode up on her… I grabbed it and pulled it out for her. She smiled. I proceeded to pull it to the side to take a close look. She was very well groomed, shaved in most of the area except a line about two fingers wide that went from the mouth of her vulva up about two inches or so. The hair strands were visible manicured close enough to the skin, but not too close. Just perfect for her, really.

I leaned forward and kissed her just at the mouth of vulva. She was soft, very soft, supple, flawless skin, colourful, and most rewarding, the moisture touched my lower lip enticing a goosebumps-reaction from my body. My tongue escaped me quickly and slid right between her inner labia. The desire was solely to taste her, to experience this young woman. I traced my tongue around to gauge both my comfort after such long departure from the secrets of the body, and her willingness to let me lead.

The shorts came off of her, as did her underpants. The skin on her legs was as enticing as was that on her crotch; a piece of white paper had more blemishes than did her skin. From her navel down to her toes I stared at her in awe of this Godly-sight of perfection. She looked down at me with shy yes, but the grasp of her teeth on her bottom lip indicated she was well aware of the effect of a tongue soothing away her husbands iniquities. However she came about this “eye for an eye” decision, I was delighted that it was me who she selected. There was truly no payment required for my “services”, it would have been payment enough to swallow my own saliva mixed with her saturation.

It was quick thought, knowing what I was to do. The lengthy absence of female touch during the last months of my life indicated that I was to consume her; being that it was also a financial transaction, I had to ensure her side of the agreement was as fruitful as mine. I pull her feet up on the back-seat, situate my head between them, slide my hands under her buttocks and position her to my liking: her bottom raised some few inches from the ground. There aren’t any obstacles interrupting my mouth from easily contouring through her.

The plush of her lips against my lips causes sighs, deep breaths from both of us. She is more than a mouthful, plenty a woman. The moisture on her indicates that she was no stranger to the game; that she is well aware of what she likes, and what it means. Readily engorged, she honestly looks as if having just had naughty moments before finding me. I swear that my lips feel the palpitation of blood rushing through her body from the touch of her lips. I delve straight to her left inner thigh. She smells freshly bathed, as if she just out of the shower, where the scent of coconut-cream soap refuses to leave behind the touch of her skin… stays behind to rejoice in the secretion that is about to obscure it.

I position my hands so that the thumbs are able to trace from her butt forward to her vulva. I press deeply, running them along back and fro as if massaging her, all while my lips trace the soft of her skin from inner thigh, around her outer lips and up to the other inner thigh.

Before I have a chance to fulfill my whim for her skin, she grabs a chunk of my hair, lifts my face up and says, “That’s where that warm tongue belongs”, then proceeds to shove my face against the vagina as if looking to shove me inside of her. Had it been a fight for my life, I would have fought back, instead, I attempt to lick her best I can. The most I can do is move about exactly inside of her; thankfully, I’ve been blessed with a creative tongue, and quite the unusual ability to sustain a few minutes without breathing.

When she finally releases my head, her hand comes running to my face and slaps a sweetly good smack on my lips. She cleans my mouth as well. Then, releases me to proceed to my liking. She’s unaware that I enjoy forceful play. The smacking, the biting, the scratching, even suffocation. Not that this will lead there, but her slap of my lips only urges my longing. I go directly where she had asked me and clench between my teeth soft enough where I can pull up on her outer lip without painfully hurting her. I pull up, then release and follow the receding lip right down to gorge her as if a piece of large watermelon.

That’s just how it feels, the moisture about her vulva has saturated my nose, mouth, chin and is dripping down to her perineum. I use one of my thumbs to circle about the wet area, just to help it along to her anus. I circle it, trace it about, circle it again, still tracing the anatomy of her vagina yet to tame her clitoris. The movement of her pelvis down against my thumb assures me that tracing isn’t just what she likes. I move right to her most sensitive of areas, suck it onto my lips and massage it with my tongue. She pushes down on my thumb causing it to pierce inside.

I’m thumb is inside of her, my lips and tongue tangle in a fight for pleasure against her clitoris, and with the same hand piercing her anus, the index finds comfort in the warmth of her vagina. I don’t move my hand, I leave it still… the movement is coming from her. She traces figure eights with her pelvis while grasping my head by the hair. She’s gone into recital of pleasurable lewdness. Nouns escape her tongue as if unleashed from eternal captivity. She continues to pull my face up by the hair, and shoves it down onto her crotch.

She’s now moving her pelvis incoherently-rapid in short motions. Her hand shakes against my head, and she calls out “eff u cee kay” in both verb and noun form, repeatedly. I don’t change a thing, I continue to the exact same motions as I had believing that if I change, it’ll stop whatever she’s feeling. So I continue the use of my tongue around her clitoris up and down quickly and controlled. My fingers still inside of her holding in place to withstand the motion of her pelvis against them.

She’s breathing heavily, and pulls my head up, squeezes her legs against my face, looks at me, and tells me to get the money and leave the car. I pushed her off of me, turn her around and spreed her butt-cheeks to the side and tongue, bite her butt, slap it, and massage again with my tongue over and over. It calms her immediately. I have my mouth tongue pressed against her anus so strong that had it been any stronger, it would have easily pierced through. She moves her hips again, this time side to side, her belly lifted off from the seat as if begging for more.

I put my hand on the low of her back, press down on it and slam her against the seat. “Now I’m leaving. Come back tomorrow, double the payment. You’ll hurt for days after I’m done.”

I walk out the back door, reach in to the front door to grab the payment as well as belongings when she peeks out the window and asks, “At what time?”

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