Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica

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For These Times

I’m inherently aggressive. I excuse it as living for these times.

There is no better indication of my exuberant masculinity than my dark ages appearance: pepper beard, un-manicured chest hair, a rough foreign accent and protruding veins running down from my shoulders to my hands. Even from the distance it’s apparent that a no frills attitude, one that takes without remorse whether impacting someone or not, resides inside. I spit on faculties or any variation thereof.

Where should there have been a reason to think otherwise… it would be more of the same indulgences when she agreed to bring me back to her flat.

During the drive I told her all about my plans; that she had no choice like it or not.

She remained silent as if doubtful yet, made no indication to want anything else. Upon sliding the front-door key into the hole and, opening the door to a minimum; I pressed firmly against her. With my right hand pulling her pelvic bone tightly against my crotch.

“Feel that?”

There wasn’t a response; so I slid my hand down her jeans, reaching over with my left and tugging broken the binding button preventing my freedom to touch her.

“Off. take’em off!”

Anticipating that she’d delay as if her opinion was warranted, I drove her towards the opposite side of her flat where tapered glass floor-to-ceiling-height windows, covered the entirety of the wall. The tapered glass shook from our collision against it.

A faint sigh erupted from her slightly opened mouth.

“Take them off,” I commanded.

Standing with her jeans down to her ankles, facing out, fully exposed to the outside world; I took grasp of her mid-back in length hair, and quickly maneuvered her to a mouthful of me.

But, those weren’t my intentions. I wanted to give her what I imagined such a proper lady had never had. So, I shoved her face first against the cool glass once again.

Another sigh.

Face against the glass, pulling her pelvis away just enough to arch her back and raise her perky behind; I freed one of her legs from the jeans, then ran one of my digits through her, abruptly splitting just where I wanted.

The proximity to her persona revealed that she was enjoying it. Her scent reached deep inside me, inducing a relentless throbbing.

“Hands behind your back. Grab your elbows. Keep your face against the wall, and take a small step back. Spread just so.”

So there she stood.

Face against the cool tapered glass.

Pelvis away from the glass.

Legs slightly spread bringing into sight the entirety of her glutes, alluringly sculpting out from her lower back, down, finally meeting at her thighs; overtly exposing the saturation that notified me she’d done this before.

I drove a deliberate spank to her left buttocks, enticing further moisture to seep foretelling her desires.

This is the point in my life where I realized I had lost the dark of the ages, the medieval behavior that had stopped excusing how I lived in these times.

I ran my nose from her inner thigh, tracking upwards to her buttocks farther searching her lower back; again returning towards the separation between her thighs. At times with my eyes fully closed, concentrating solely on the smell; others with open mouth as if an explorer in virgin lands.

After a deep breath my tongue slide out to touch her. The shiver caused by her warm moisture touching my tongue nearly froze my actions. I thought of nothing, saw nothing, felt and smelled her.

Her hair stood stoically as she quietly moaned as if knowing she had won.

A gentle bite, a tender spank, half giggling, half moaning, she better adjusted her person to my touch. I concentrated on the sensation of her moisture transferring to my tongue, the resistance of her figure reacting to the pressure against it, her quiet lust announcing the experience.

Sitting here today writing about it reminds me of her scent once against my mouth, against my nose, on my hands.

Perhaps I gain some solace. A consolation in believing that by jotting it down, that part of her vividly residing in my mind, will remain behind pressed firmly between the white of the paper and the black of my pen.

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Xmas Elves

We had been invited to a gathering to be held at a bourgeois meeting hall located off the shore of the Hudson river. The island had been the homestead of a local aristocrat until the fire of 1917 destroyed the main living quarters. Unable to undergo restoration, the island was taken over by the State of New York and access limited until a fire in 1970 made it hazardous to visit the island. Unknown to many is the island posh meeting hall that survived both fires. It is presently used for special occasions through an invitation-only group headed by one of the descendants of the original owners. The Hall has operated in obscurity since 1917 and its management handed down from descendant to descendant. Proceeds are generated from each event are used to maintain the hall.

Our friends were extremely excited. They had known about The Hall for a few years but had never been invited, and less so, allowed to bring guests to any of the events hosted by Mateo (the current manager of The Hall and Founding Father of the Meet-Up group). The pre-party was held at a local bar where guests mingled for about two hours before being picked-up by car-service at 8PM. Conversation was consumed by The Hall as opposed to the what happened at The Hall. The fascinating story of the island was presented through large screens but the meeting hall was never presented. What seemed like seconds after our arrival, the first set of guests were selected to be driving up to the docking station where small boats awaited to taxi participants to the much anticipated location.

The forty minute scenic drive north to the boats saw us giggling like children, wondering what this hall was all about and what awaited us. Down a long dirt-paved, one line path, the car service went. Every few hundred feet, a parking attendant pointed us towards the right direction. Once at the docking station, a total of 15 small boats, each sitting no more than 6 occupants, waited for passengers.

Mateo, welcomed us first. He had taken a liking to our friends and wished to ride with to the island. On the ride we spoke about one another, the usual small chat of work, family, hobbies and the such. It was about a 5 minute ride to the island. Two individuals waited for boats to arrive, quickly tying them to a long floating and portable deck that hand been assembled just for the event.

There wasn’t, and isn’t electricity at the island. Whatever path was visible by moonlight was made clearer by a torch carried by Mateo. It truly felt like the turn of 19th century. Mateo spoke with a heavy accent that I couldn’t place, nor worried much about finding out. Soon a queue of laughter built behind us. The rest of the guests had arrived along with their pre-party inebriation.

It was difficult to discern much in the facade of The Hall. At best it appeared to be a relic of a building, a pre WWI smallish construction perhaps 25 feet high. The main doors covered ceiling to floor, giving it an almost barn-like feeling. Torches located on the walls, coupled to old candle-light chandeliers light the inside romantically bright.

At the door, our friends purchased raffle tickets. Not being official members, we were not allowed to directly purchase tickets as the there was a point tally tied to each member that came with some form of price upon reaching different dollar amounts. No cameras, cell phones and anything besides mental pictures were allowed in the trip as not to reveal more than the mind allowed to capture.

We mingled much of the night, mostly flirting and in slight disbelief of the attire chosen by some of the guests; especially the women who dressed much provocative. Towards the middle of the night, our friend had to depart the party, a bit too drunk to make a proper judgment, he chose to leave before being asked to leave. He handed us his ticket and told us that while we couldn’t buy the tickets, as companions of invited guest, we could very well collect the winnings.

At precisely 1 AM, Mateo signals for all the torches but two at a small platform, where he stood, to be turned off. Everyone, perhaps some 60 people, gathered around him awaiting the results of the raffle. Not two winning numbers had been announced when my ticket was called.

The raffle worked as followed. There was a bucket holding the price, the winning participant would randomly select from the bucket. Once the price was broadcasted, guests submitted their names into another bucket. At the end of the night, the winners would select from the pool of names (the bucket) tied to the won price. At the following gathering, the price would be collected.

My lady and I had won, fallacious or cunnilingus; either as recipients or grantors. My lady shied away and granted me to choose what I wanted to do. Enjoying giving greatly more than receiving, I chose to give it. Just before the night ended, winners gathered by the platform to chose names. I put my hand in to select the first name, then again for the second name.

The two women had already left, so it was a mystery who would be my xmas elves. Mateo arrange for us to attend the next event. Not being members, we could not attend without an invitation. Mateo gave us a card with his assistants contact info and instructed us to give her the winning number, that she would in turn gives us further information to collect the prices.

The next morning my lady calls the number. A woman answers, giving us instructions to collect the price. The next gathering was to be held close to our hometown, in a “Castle”. We were to attend, meet the participants, arrange what was or wasn’t allowed then proceed with xmas. That entire week my lady and I “strategized”. Whether to proceed, or simply ignore it. If we were to decline, we would be placed in a “blacklist” and not allowed re-entry into any of the events, ever again. Not sure that this was something we wanted to get into, we decided not to attend halfway through the week. But, come Saturday night, we had changed our minds. We did want to at least try it.

We got to the castle very early, at least an hour and a half before anyone else arrived. We sat by the bar nervous. A few drinks, courtesy of winning the raffle, suppressed the nerves enough to grown rather excited. Mateo was the first to arrive after us. He gave us ideas as to limits that might make it more comfortable for us. We agreed on only allowing the partners to be present during the entire act. There would be no intercourse; I, along with everyone else in the room not receiving the “gift”, would remain clothed. A time limit of 30 minutes was set after which the women would dress and return to bar to share their thoughts with my lady and I. Mateo would act as an “arbiter” in case a conflict arouse.

The two ladies whose name I had chosen from the bucket arrived. We had in fact met at The Hall. A slender yet curvy black women in her mid 20s, accompanied by her husband of two years. And, an older brunette in her early 50s. Meeting her was somewhat stressful for me as I had seen her at my local gym quite enough times to know we lived in the same town. She also recalled me from the gym.

Soon enough we had all made acquaintances. The young black woman had no reservations about what was about to happen and showed me that she was panty-less awaiting my tongue AND fingers. The older woman was a bite more reserved. She wore a simple long red dress falling beautifully on her chest. Her perky butt was a rather welcome experience against the red dress.

In the very order in which the winning numbers were announced, were the participants called to action. The older woman’s long time partner decided to skip the action and stayed at the bar flirting with a young lady. The husband of the black young woman didn’t want to miss this “hell no”. He accompanied my lady and us three to the room, of course, attempting what he could muster with my lady…

It took little time for both women to undress. They kissed while undressing one another. They quickly tasted each other then looked at me and asked what I was waiting for. I looked at my lady, passionately kissed her, grabbed her crotch and walked towards the price. I asked them to get ass up and face down. Have you ever seen the comparative skin tones of a black woman next to a white woman? With the shades of black, brown, pink, beige, red staring back at you already moist? Well, that stared back at me. A perfectly black round ass besides the full maturity of woman who hadn’t lost a day of working out in her life.

I didn’t know who to taste first, who to finger first. I looked back at my lady and she pointed me in the direction of the older woman. I placed my nose around her clit and drove it upwards, splitting her in half with my tongue trailing it until I got to her ass. A deep sigh and moan filled the room loud enough to cause the young girl to wiggle her butt, when I quickly spanked her. She giggled and said “If I’m going to be last, at least finger me until she cums”.

Back and forth between both girls I went. Licking pussy and ass again and again overtaken by the variation of their tastes. It was as if I were trying to determine which brand of Rye Whiskey I couldn’t live without. I spanked, I fingered, I moaned, I wanted to have intercourse yet couldn’t. The young woman’s husband nearly ejaculated on his pants when he saw me spank his lady’s vulva. “Oh yeah, she a bad girl! Let her have it”.

Seven minutes remained and I had yet to make them cum. Mostly because the contentious pauses for me to look at them, to ask them to touch each other again; to taste one another again. My lady asked me to finish before I lost my chance and they, their time. I asked the young woman to sit on the face of the older woman while I fingered, kiss, licked, sucked all of the older woman’s openings until she smeared my face with her presents. From my lack of creativeness, the same fate awaited the young girl. Her though, I roughed up a bit. She had grown to like the deliberate pussy spanks, the hard buttock squeezes and light bites of her labia. A stream gushed out of her that I can still nearly smell today with each deep breath.

A knock on the door declared time was up. The women dressed themselves quickly but not after having my lady dry them clean with towels. We all walked out in a rather good mood. The older woman kissed my lips dry and the young girl handed us her phone number. We stayed at the party until a total of 6 prices had been completed. My lady and I spoke to my two xmas elves the remainder of the night, sharing likes and dislikes, thoughts and ideas.

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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.”


“…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.