Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica


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Wet Nurse

It was his idea. He came up to me, stared me down as if a beggar looking at royal buffet through a protective glass and said: “Honey, the debate of wet-nursing becoming increasingly open both here and overseas gave me an idea. I do hope that you are open to my suggestion. I know that in the past you’ve declined the idea but, we can not continue as we have until now. For your sake, for my peace of mind, I plead that you accept.”

He had spoken to everyone; to family members, to friends, to strangers. He nurtured the approach for months before presenting it to me hoping to deliver a convincing speech. I would have thought that the failure for support would have changed his mind but, a stubborn man he stands tall. He still thought the idea was life changing and assure we needed to undertake it.

I asked about his parents response… what his Reverend brother had to say. He chuckled, then broke into a nervous laughter. His family was short of dishonoring him, shunning him if he dare carry it out such evil. Unholy they said. The devil speaking through him, boiling in his veins trying to get out to affect innocent souls. Serves him right. The innocent fool he’s always been. His mother slapped him square in the face. Ha! Worse than he got when he and I met.

I was a call girl. He the happy recipient of a date his classmates had hired. I stopped my profession shortly after meeting him. Found an everyday job and set my life in a more appealing track to his evangelical upbringing. The basic flaw, his know-it-all older sister knew me intimately well. Let’s just say that I am not well liked by his family. Yet, he and I are bound to one another by this thing called love. His family can’t come between us. Even if we all stand on different sides of the fence of this issue of wet nursing.

See, libido flows out of me by the mere sight of a hot body. I have physical experience to lose and still have left over to give out to humanity. I’ve tried to entice him just about everyday since the prom night. Not a kiss that night, not even a little stroking for the virgin boy. And so on has been our lives for quite a while. He catches me late at night pleasing myself; watching the tingling type of movies that would make any other man smack into my cheese like a glass of wine looking for coupling. I sit in the bed soaked in desire, many times short of begging to be pleased. Most for nothing! He lets me down smoothly by stroking my hair, kissing me softly, telling me that soon enough upon our marriage it will happen.

So, my initial reaction when this “wet-nurse” idea first surfaced was to hush it despite the fact that it excited me. On the surface I played it cool, “hush, honey,” I said. “Non-sense!” It was brought up a few more times over the past year. All in passing, of course. I, for his very sake, never accepting it. I just didn’t want to introduce us, him, to a place where he might not have been comfortable.

But, that night something changed. He looked like he wanted me to take part in it just as much as I wanted to do it. He, well, seemed excited by the idea of someone else being balls deep in my mouth. “No more than sucking will you do!” he exclaimed. That was all the soothing he was going to allow. And His approval was required to select a wet nurse. And just one person. No more than one. Just that one until we are joined in matrimony. Then he’d take over the job. I was told I could perform oral however I desired. And, that he was to watch to maintain proper order.

For a few weeks we planned the event. We crafted quite the delightful plan. We agreed on a type of fellow, a place, a time, we thought of it all. We even engaged in innocent fun where I got to stroke him, he got to trace my lips, one time even getting to taste the sweet in me. The planning was exciting. I got to see him engorged, his veins wound around his girth begging for me.

The idea of something other than digits in my mouth was a pleasure. I welcomed being in the position. I didn’t sleep for weeks in anticipation. I wasn’t worried about myself, but was about him. How would he take seeing me at work? How would he react to another man thrusting his hips into my face? Oh, I didn’t care. I wanted the satisfaction I once had and for so long now have missed.

The first day we went out to choose someone one nothing went right. We bickered and argued all day long. He ended up sleeping at his mother’s. I went out with the girls, and drank myself to sleep. The next time it was smooth. We never spoke as to why we argued but, I think he was jealous that his “possession” was going to be possessed. I simply wanted some and I think he knew it.

We picked up a few guys at different places. I flirted with them, and made dates to meet them. A total of four guys we picked that looked healthy enough to give a dose of wet until my marriage. We had a six month screening period where I would meet the fellows, break the news and hope they’d approve. Two never went beyond the first date. They were simply blokes good for nothing but a fine lay. Not what he wanted so, I kindly skipped over them.

After the six months, two candidates were left. They had both met my fiancé and became rather friendly. Even meeting up to watch ball games on Sunday nights. Never did I catch them speak to one another about the arraignment. They were simply guys being guys. The first candidate, I liked him most. He seemed like a closet freak, while the other, he seemed less experienced and was the nicest of both. He took me out on purely friendly dates, while the first insisted on a view of the package he was never going to have. I gave a peek more than once; innocent fun it was all to me. I at least needed a look into the treasure chest with desire of taking it all.

The day we selected the winner it was so much fun. We all gathered at our house late at at time when all the neighbors were asleep. We sat on the couch talked and watch stimulating television. After raising the testosterone and estrogen in the room, it happened. My fiancé hailed, “WET NURSE” and we had them undress to inspect the packages. I was mightily disappointed by the one I liked the most. It would have been best to get a look at him early on not waste six months of thoughts of him in my mouth. The second fellow got both our votes despite him too, being less than I wanted to have. But beggars can’t be choosers, so I’m told… I went close to them, grabbed both in my hand, stroke them a little, asked, “what do you think, honey.” He nodded, I stroke some more then asked them to put their clothes back on and leave; that they would get a call in the morning.

We just couldn’t go through with it that night.

In the morning it was he who called the second fellow who’d we chosen to be our wet nurse. Told him that he would get a call each and every time I wanted some. All he had to do is come over, unzip, release in/on me and resume his day.

I still think of that period in our life. The time when I was nursed for the survival of our relationship. We wouldn’t have made it. I know we wouldn’t have. I am in too much of a need of adult play all of the time to have withstood two more years of solitude. We still see him in town, waving at one another from a distance. He turned out to be more than anticipated. At the end, he acted like my man wasn’t even watching. He’d grab my head and let me have it. Telling me how well I did, how well my mouth felt, how sweet a juice I received to drink… didn’t I agree…


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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.