Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica


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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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Prison Break

Woman Behind BarsHave you ever been held in captive solitude… for a prolonged period of time? Not days, not weeks, not months, but years? It can opaque the brightest of faiths. For too long a time I hoped for my return to general population. I prayed, I begged, I even meditated with the sole objective of changing my fate. I prayed to the Good Lord, begged to anyone who’d listen, even sought the power of the inner self. But, as time dictates, I am to go nowhere; I am to stay in place. Stay in this 4 feet wide by 6 feet long solitary cell. It’s dark more times than not. It’s difficult to tell the passing of days; whether it is daytime or nighttime outside, I never fully know. Not that it matters. I sleep when sleepy, eat when not depressed…

Prison TrackOne hour a day, at differing times each day, I’m taken outside for a round-about the track. I see no one, just my shadow casted on the floor by either sunlight or a spotlight. That was my life until depression saw it fit to send me a companion. I call him “Candy”. He’s a short little alien-looking something who consoles me when sad, and advises me when I’m unable to keep primordial drives from surfacing. He’s been with me since the day I stopped crossing out “counting-sticks-of-five” on the walls. Twelve hundred and eleven of those sticks before I wrote his name (Candy) on the wall. That’s when he came. Since then things have been very different. Depressing, lonely, but still different.

Candy, with his ugly-toothed-smile and big bright eyes, was sitting on the bed rocking his legs. “No, don’t do it. You can get through this without it”, sang he. I have finally lost it, was my initial reaction; but, having no choice, I welcomed the company. That day we spoke until it was time for my round-about walk. He made me happy. I was finally in the company of someone who didn’t judge me, nor cared where I was, and why. Before I walked out the cell he said, “I’ll be right here when you return. Stay strong and No, don’t do it. You can get through this without it.”

I didn’t really care to ask what he meant. I know what he referenced. For sometime now I have planned an escape. With nothing to lose and a world of peace to gain, why shouldn’t I? He wasn’t go to convince me otherwise.

The walk went as all in the past. Alone and thinking of what should be done.

Candy’s voice was audible throughout the walls of solitary. It bounced around from corner to corner right into my ears. “I know what you will do, I know what you will do. And I tell you, that is something you should not do.” I smiled, at least someone wanted to talk to me, even if trying to dissuade me. He was at the very same spot as when I had left. Still swinging his stubby little legs on the air. He was a rather ugly little thing yet, charming.

I informed him that I had for once decided what to do. That I needed to break-out one way or another. “I know. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still be here for you”, said he. I laid down to bed, tired from doing nothing. He sat on the corner, closed his eyes and also went to sleep. Hours later when I awakened Candy wasn’t around. It made think it was all but a made up story from delusion, but when I readied myself to carry out the plan. He came out of the corner; only his big bright eyes were visible. He startled me straight.

“I’m sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. But do know that I, well, I don’t agree with this you are trying to do”, said Candy.

“Never-mind my business, you said you’d still be here”, said I.

I’ll do as you please, I just don’t agree”, he said.

The cell had double doors. The door to the inside was a normal steel-bars cell door. It was about 4 feet wide, and contained steel bars running from the top to the bottom at about 5 or 6 inches apart. Two bars, one at the top and another at the bottom ran from side to side. At the very bottom there was an opening where food trays were placed through. The door in front of the steel-bar-door was about 2 feet away from the inner door. It was a solid steel door with an eye-opening some 4 feet high from the floor. The opening was about 8 inches wide and 4 inches tall. The door prevented much light from coming in to the cell, as granted guards viewing accessibility to me.

I removed my clothing, turned my back to the barred-door, grabbed a bar with each hand, pulled my legs apart from one another then hinged at the hips to ensure my glory was promptly visible upon opening the “visibility” gate. I heard it squeak open, Candy disappears. For the first time in a very long time a woman’s voice greets me. My heart sank. The plot won’t be as successful with a female guard. I was about to go back into my bed when she asked me not to move. For what was left of my hopes, I obliged.

The female guard walked towards me, ran her hand right down me and said: “But baby, you aren’t even wet.” She left the food on the floor and walked away. Had I any hopes left, it would have been a vastly disappointing. It was the same story the next time the door opened. I spread my legs, grabbed two solid bars running down the length of the door, and leaned forward. It was her again. She walked over, said the very same thing as last time, but this time she ran her fingers down my bottom as well as vulva, and said: “We are getting closer, honey.” She placed my meal on the floor and left.

Candy sat silently next to me. Looking down, sometimes humming, at all times swinging his little stubby legs. He knew I didn’t walk to talk. So we sat there waiting for me to initiate dialog. It must have been a week’s time before I decided to speak, a week before I saw another male guard. When I did, I was ecstatic. Candy smiled and said it was time to carry out that “break-out” I so longed for.

When I heard footsteps that appeared to be coming in my direction, I took position as I had those two previous times. By golly, when the door opened it was that female guard again. This time she didn’t use her fingers, instead she knelt in front of the door, put her face in and licked me through the cell bars. “Mami, you are a wet girl… waiting for me I hope.” She tried to do as good a job as she could using her fingers, her tongue; the closeness of the bars prevented her from shifting her face around for a proper performance, but her fingers in me while her tongue massaged my anus more than made up for the lack of maneuverability. It was more than I had anticipated. As uneventful as it was, it was the most alive I had felt in years. It made me ignore she was a woman. All I cared for was for her return so that she could properly satisfy me.

The immediately ensuing time I did the very same thing. Again, she massage my guilty pleasure with her tongue, fingers and nose, then she asked me to turn around and get on my knees. I was confused by the request. Does she want to talk to me? I asked myself. As I get on my knees and put my hands on the bars she grabs them and pulls me towards her where my face is stuck between the bars. She crossed my hands hugging the bars and handcuffed them each to adjacent bars where I couldn’t move. I was stuck kneeling face first into the bars.

She calls for who is obviously not a guard; whomever he was, he was a large man and not in stature. She slides her hand through the bars, grabs a chunk of my hair and forces my face forward hard against the bars as if wanting to drive it through it. “I like your plentiful naughty secret against my mouth. But I like to watch a mouth handle a man. Open your mouth nice and wide that I want to see you gag on him”, said the female guard.

I opened my mouth and this girthy, large headed, vascular-ly healthy and throbbing thing shoved in making me gag instantaneously. Not only had I never been gagged, but I hadn’t practice in more years than I cared to remember. There was no compassion from these two. She held my face in place, while his hips thrust forward banging onto whatever part of my face stuck outside the bars, as well as banged against the steel bars. The noise of metal upon metal form the door thrashing about screamed throughout solitary.

It was a struggle to breath, but listening to the woman closely talking to my ear invigorated me. “Bad girl in solitary. Is he being bad to you? Do you like the feeling of a mouth filled with a large man? Are you getting wet? Do you like being controlled? Do you like being abused in that pretty little throat of yours? I’m going to watch you inhale and exhale globs of him! I like watching the eyes tear from your inability to handle a mouthful.” On and on she went talking to me.

He pulled out of my mouth just to slap my lips with him. The feeling of it against my lips brought memories of being young and innocent struggling to satisfy my first partner. This was the most alive I had felt in various years. Whether I enjoyed it or not, I didn’t yet know. But I did know that if being captive in solitude had a breath of freedom, this was it. I was finally beginning to feel free, to feel like the walls around me no longer controlled me, but helped me see life.

Between the two, and my scooting over on my knees, the door was opened. The female guard slid on her back between my legs and commenced to tongue all about me. She was dirty about it. She slapped my naughty girl, bit it, fingered it and gently massaged pleasure out of it. I secreted like any grown woman without satisfaction in years would have. “Yeah, let me watch you flow guilty slut.”, she said. It weakened me enough to instantly forget I had a man shoved down my throat. I tried to look down with the corner of my eyes but I couldn’t. The man held my face against the bars banging away. I had not noticed that he had climax until I tried to breathe and swallowed a mouthful. “Keep swallowing. I don’t give a free man that you are choking”, he said in the most of raspy and manly voice I had heard in my life. He shoved his pelvis hard into me, there was no where I could go. The pain on my wrists from the handcuffs was now visible. They were raw-red, not bleeding yet, but soon enough I imagined. A small price to pay for freedom, I thought to myself.

I both consumed his residue, as did I exhale some of it out of my nostrils. “You should see this, honey”, he said to the woman. “This is the lewd type of gagging you like to watch me do.” But she wasn’t going anywhere. She was going at me as if she were the one who hadn’t received a good eating in years. She squeezed my butt cheeks hard and plenty, even held my entirety between her teeth… oh, i imagined the good feel of having a mouthful of woman between the lips.

I came, not once but a few times… and the blockage of my air pipes enhanced every second of it. It was as if I was between life and death seeing “the light” for the very first time in my life. I came on her mouth like the man I still held in my mouth did. When he finally pulled out, globs of him were still caught around his penis, stretching back to my mouth. I gasped for air as if jumping out of the ocean after almost drowning. I inhaled deeply… he looked at me and asked I clean him before he goes. I sucked him nice and well, taking long enough to feel the nuances of his manhood in my mouth that the aggressive thrusts failed to show.

Before they left she gave me quite a hard spanking… as she said, “to remember that there is a new bitch in town”. My days were no longer solitary after that. Candy would heal my delightful wounds before the next encounter came about. I loved the reminder of raw skin. It became my life. Candy would talk to me, tell me that I was a good girl for doing bad things. That he would remain, not go anywhere if just to watch.

The encounters were daily after that. Sometimes she alone, other times a few men took turns making the time in solitary special, but to me, this was my prison break. I was not only alive, but free to feel the taming of a libido that had long ago escaped.


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My Boss’ Wife

Yes, I wanted to have her just as much as I wanted to revenge the treatment I had received from my boss throughout my tenure at PMC. I had grown increasingly tired of his antics, his arrogance… of his incompetence. I was shocked to learn that she was his woman. I couldn’t fathom that this man had other qualities aside from the disposable ones I’d endured from him.

They were the mismatching couple. He wasn’t exactly eye candy, while she was chiseled out of seduction. Her walk exuded a sexual confidence that lured the stares of all the geeks in the IT department. It left them dreaming of orgasms between formulas and algorithms. I can only imagine the thoughts of geeks prematurely defeated upon a sight of her undergarment sliding down her bottom.

Evil BossEach time I saw her I couldn’t think but of hurting her painfully enough to prevent that alluring strut from disrupting weeks worth of work days. It wasn’t just the idea of having her with out a care for her well being, but that knowing I was somehow releasing my frustrations from years of ill interactions with my boss gratified me. His wife was going to be responsible for his behavior hard enough that when they copulated, she’d think back to how I handled her. That was my goal.

My advantage over the guys fantasizing about her was that queries regarding development of new software had to go through me. She, well, she was a project manager brought on solely to entice the male clientèle to stick around if just to gawk. If anything was to be engineered, it had to touch my hands. My chance came not a full year after she was employed.

One of our major clients would only speak with me, yet my boss wanted all communication to go through her… and rightly so. It was her job, and my “in”, to carry out my plans for her. To engage her more with the client, my boss scheduled an “Entertainment” meeting between all stakeholders. It was she, the client, his two assistants and I. The entertainment was in form of a fun diner, a local sports event, finalized by a drink at the Water Lounge. The Water Lounge was the latest craze in the city specifically meant for entertaining corporate clients. It had it all from drinks, to beds, to meeting rooms. It was locally known as the “finalizer”: not one contract that entered the venue left unsigned.

I purposely arrived late to diner. I had already informed the client that I would be doing so, as I wanted them to feel her out. I was delighted to learn that diner was a success. I greeted the client, greeted my boss’ wife, then sat down for dessert and a neat Presidential Rye. I didn’t converse much, I mostly smiled, nodding my head in agreement. I covered the bill, and off we set out to watch the sporting event. The sporting event was of my choice. I had not revealed to anyone what it was. We boarded the limo, and I instructed the driver to drop us off at the newly created arena down at the southern tip of the city.

Ballroom Competition FloorWhen we arrived, a big billboard atop the front entrance to the area welcomed competitors as well as spectators the Dance Sports’ 32nd Dance Competition. Everyone was taken aback, they didn’t expect the sporting event to be, well, a dance contest. I brought them down to our booth that was coincidentally placed in perfect viewing distance from the center of the dance floor. There was a buzz in the arena. Not the type created by loud cheers and drunken fanatics rather, one created by music coupled to entranced fans anticipating the duel between some of the best interpreters of dance of this century. I had a second drink, another Rye, Dad’s Hat. I situated my guests then informed them that I would return in a few minutes. They were so excited by the presence of dancers on the floor that they didn’t notice I was gone much longer than I had alluded.

When my name was presented to crowd, I could hear the ruckus coming from our booth. Everyone in the booth was screaming my name; Samantha, my boss’ wife, included. I didn’t win, though I expected to, I always do. My partner and I came in at sixth place, a solid showing for a nine-to-five fellow. I tried to shower and change quickly as not to leave my guests waiting longer than they had to. At the dressing room I needed to calm my nerves. This happens to me at every competition, the butterflies are more interrupting after the fact than they are before or during. Out of my bag I pulled out a Tirado Corn Whiskey, took a gulp to feel at home and headed back to the booth.

An enthusiastic and warm welcome received me back at the booth. Samantha jumped on me squeezing, kissing even shoving me. The client was walking around simulating a bad Paso Doble, and the other two people, both women, jumped up and down screaming my name. After some flattering chatter it was out to the Water Lounge. For the duration of the limo ride we joked around, even I had to expose my abdominal muscles for the ladies to touch. I had somehow become sexier than ever before. Samantha was audacious enough to tell me that if I weren’t a colleague she’d love for me to go Latin-macho on her and control her like I controlled my partner during the contest.

I noticed she didn’t say married, so I accepted her words as an indication that I would be welcomed to fulfill my lust to “disable” that sultry strut of hers. It didn’t even take reaching the Water Lounge for the client to accept Samantha as the point of contact. She was charming, attractive (much more than I) and tonight a bit tipsy and exposing herself high up the legs to everyone. We dispersed quickly once at the venue. The client and his assistants went straight for the bar then the dance floor. Samantha remained behind with me still speaking of the competition.

Hair BunThe opportune chance to bring peace to years of abuse at work couldn’t be passed; I reciprocated her aggressive flirtations with quite the direct intent. I slid my right hand to the back of her head grabbing the slicked hair-bun, and pulled down on it exposing the length of her neck to me. I drew close as if to kiss her neck, but instead I drew close to her ear and told her I was going to hurt her. “You are not man enough to try” was her sarcastically-toned response. While still holding her hair-bun, I maneuvered my left hand to her backside and with a violent snap, I tore the string-panty from her body. “These aren’t a must where you are a going”, said I. I released her and asked her to follow me. She ran her index finger down my spine in a waved motion, then ran it back up in a straight line. “Calling for help?”, she mocked.

We walked downstairs to meet the client one last time. He was pretty intoxicated, so were his assistants. Through the loud music and despite his inebriated state I was able to inform him that Samantha and I had to leave, that the limo would remain behind for their convenience. He hugged me, offered me another drink that I politely declined. He then hugged and kissed Samantha on both cheeks as customary of him. “Until next time my. Have a drink on me.” were his last words to us that evening.

“Aren’t we leaving?”, Samantha asked.

“It’s simple enough an instruction, that of following”, responded I.

Night Sky Line“That’s out of character for somebody my husband puppets daily”, was her response. I didn’t say anything. We walked upstairs to the meeting room scheduled for us. I walked to the windows and opened the blinds giving view to the city skyline. She followed me to the window, rested her right shoulder upon it, looked down to the lower buildings and proceeded to expose her breasts by pulling the top of the dress to the sides. I looked down her neck to her shoulder and her arms. It was no wonder my boss had married this woman; she’s no effort to admire.

“As I said, that’s out of character for someone who my husband puppets on a daily basis.” I took the extension to the sentence this time around as an invitation to hurt her. Whether I misunderstood her intentions wasn’t a care of mine. It really wasn’t a care how she felt about my aggression, all that matter was imprinting my whim upon this women so that she may go home still throbbing, still dripping of me… to lay besides that foolish man she calls husband with residues of my actions still inside of her.

“It’s a wonderful night, the sky is clear, apartment lights sing to the night. There is no better night to learn how much you can handle as a woman”, I exclaimed. She didn’t say anything for a minute, only continued to look down to the buildings, smiled, sighed and began to rub her breasts. She turned fully towards the window; the sight of her figure against the city skyline made her the most desirable architectural wonder present in the city. I removed my bow-tie, unbuttoned my shirt, then pressed my body against hers… pressing her against the window. She pushed back, telling me “You haven’t the permission, miss.”

I was being deterred by the sight of her beauty sparkling against the city scenery. What was I to do? I completely removed my shirt, and pressed her hard against the glass window. She tried to speak but, I covered her mouth with my hand. “It’s my turn to taunt”, I said to her. I instructed her to reach back and pull me out of my pants. She struggled somewhat removing my belt, but finally managed to expose me. I lifted her dress. “You direct me, put where you want it.” She lead me to her vagina, already moistened. “Wet me with you, let him feel your secretion. Do not put him in.” She guided me throughout the area leaving me nice and moist.

“That’s enough. Put him where you don’t want me to pierce.” She’s a bright lady. She moved me up to the center of her bottom. I adjusted her butt cheeks creating a receiving space for the head to thrust into. She was now looking back at me from the corner of her eyes. The feeling of her dress upon my anatomy was as seducing as feeling the orifice of her buttocks firmly against me. I freed her mouth and simultaneously shoved in with a quick motion. Her mouth opened big, she tried to jump off but I didn’t allow it. I held her hair bun tightly while thrusting in again and again. The collision of my pelvis against the bottom resonated with a “Please, don’t hurt me” that gradually grew intensely pleasurable. Initially her voice alluded to fear and pain, but with each aggressive thrust into her butt the statement changed demeanor. It seemed to have become a mantra for her. “Please, don’t hurt; please don’t hurt me”, repeatedly escaped her lips. She was now enjoying the sensation of a welcomed pain.

“Don’t tell me not to hurt you!”, I finally said. I then proceeded to lift her dress, wrapped it tightly around her waist, and struck her on the right butt cheek. She labored to change her mantra… finally repeating: “Hurt me, please hurt me, please… hurt me.” I would have felt badly, had I been a caring partner at the moment but, I wasn’t. The sound of her voice intoxicated me, and the feeling of her skin clashing against my hand made me want to leave hand-prints on her butt for her man to see that she’d been had.

I withdrew, quickly taking a knee and sinking my teeth on her butt. “Spread them”, I said. I licked, bit and smacked her bottom with the conviction of a fulfilled man. She jumped each time my hand landed on her bottom. She tasted bitter sweet. While I was enjoying collecting payment for her husband’s actions, I didn’t like that he wasn’t there to witness what she had endured.

“Torso on the table, legs wide apart.”

I removed her dress and watched her walk over to the meeting table at the center of the room. She quietly rested her torso on it, and pulled the legs apart. “I’m ready”, said she. I walked over, ran my mouth up and down her bottom, including the thighs, then pierced her; swapping entrances every few strokes. I had run out of ideas as to what to do to build immunity to my boss in future interactions. All that was left was for me to climax.

I withdrew from her bottom, and situated myself at the orifice of her vulva. I spilled out, some inside of her, some not. “Squeeze”, I instructed her. “Squeeze”. I wanted to see me drip out from her vulva down to the floor. Once satisfied, I stood her from the table and placed her on her knees. “Gag yourself, let me watch me get lost in your mouth.” She tried time and again, as if trying to entice a second reaction from me. But, I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of… well, willingly satisfy me.

“Gag, and hold deep. Look up at me. That’s enough. On the table face up.” were my last commands. I made her climax more than I had intended. I left her there to collect herself. I walked away with her aroma entrenched in my mouth.

The next morning a handwritten note atop my keyboard read: “Is a drop of blood normal? I didn’t realize I would enjoy the pleasure of pain. How long will the pain last? There are slight bite marks on both my cheeks. Can I see you in my office?”


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L’Inspecteur de Ballet

Whether professional or novice, each dancer for the Coppélia Romantic Ballet Company must pass a series of examinations. Not a single dancer can perform without my approval. I’m known as L’Inspecteur de Ballet; not because I am French, but so due to my affinity for the work of one Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec — a Realism and Postimpressionism French painter from the late 19th century. I own multiple of his canvases, mostly, of course, ballerinas. Be it by love for his work, or love of the ballerinas, I don’t know. What I do know is that I stare at the paintings just as meticulously as I inspect my dancers.

The day of the performance I suit-up to near perfection. I look as professional in my suit as do my dancers in their leotards, leggings and tutus; not a thing in disarray. I slick back my hair to do nothing more with it but place a hat atop it. After staring at myself in the mirror to complacency, I head towards the dressing room to begin examination of dancers. I normally don’t finish in time, so the lead and last of the dancers is inspected behind the curtains, up-in-stage prior to the performance.

The one time when I press the pace to a hurry is when running up the stairs to prevent the lead ballerina from going onto stage without my final inspection. From time to time I have delayed the start of a performance until thoroughly satisfied that my dancers look their best, even if they fail to perform as expected. In the past a few dancers have performed without my approval, and they’ve been momentarily relieved from their duties, consequently charged with penance. Upon its completion they have returned to stage, but a second infraction means expulsion from the company. I’ve yet to lose a dancer.

Already examined dancers wait for the completion of the final inspection lined up from the top of the staircase that leads to the stage, down to the bottom. Only I and the lead dancer are allowed behind the curtains and on stage during the inspection; I can not be disturbed unless I so call upon. Something might be out of sorts which could determine the success of the event. I can not have that!

Toulouse-Lautrec (1864-1901), Dancer (1895-96).Once on stage, I circularly wave my hand about in the air notifying the lighting crew that the spotlight is to be directed at us. I pace about the ballerina outside the circumference of the spotlight as not to obscure the line of sight with my shadow. I walk as slow as I do with intent. I observe all of her. From her hair down to the shoes, then up again. I do so for various minutes. Sometimes I tug at the tutu, other times run my fingers on her hair to properly align misplaced hair strands. Most often I ask for a second tutu; the lighting of some venues do not properly reflect the pattern of the tutu. If it all looks to be pristine, I draw closer for the final say. With my right hand I grab the side of her face and move it from side to side, up and down. I talk to her, ask what, or where she thinks she should be inspected. “As you wish”, I’ve come to expect from this particular ballerina.

During the “more personal” part of the inspection anything and all is reviewed. Her hands go up in the air so that I can inspect the length of her triceps as the long head leaves the elbow and hides below the rear deltoid. I also Inspect the forearm muscles as they supinate and pronate the hand. I run my hands down her flanks to the waistline where I press with my thumbs against her obliques. I like to watch her pelvis rotate forward. I repeat the process two, three times to gauge the sway of the tutu against slight motion.

At this point I take a knee in front of her, reach down to one of her ankles with both hands, slightly apply pressure and trace upwards to the crotch area with my eyes closed. I want to feel the contour of her muscular leg against my hands. Once at the crotch, the leg is shaken looking for little to no excess “after-motion”. The muscular shaking should stop quickly after I stop shaking the thigh. I do the same for the second leg. This time I am a bit faster in ascent but then, at the thigh, I slow down pressing firmly against the inner thigh. There I massage for a good amount of time while working upwards to where the top of my hand touches her crotch.

After a momentary massage of her crotch, I sweep towards her glutes with both hands, grasp them on the palm of my hands and lift. It is a test of their balance as I pull unexpectedly forward… she’s never fallen for it, not even the very first time. The feeling of each butt cheek engulfed on my palms under the tutu and over the leotard is exhilarating. I grasp firmly, then ask for the butt cheeks to clench. The hardness must be there, not in me, though it is, but in her glutes so that it perks out as it should in any and all good dancers.

Dancer Painting by Toulouse-LautrecVerifying the conditioning of the glutes over the leotard can be deceiving. That’s why I slide my hands between the leotard and the leggings to again feel the strength of her bottom. I don’t pull them out! Instead I choose to travel towards the crotch with my hands still between the leotard and the leggings. This is where the final minutes of the inspection are spent. I adjust, trace, tug until the perfect shape is achieved. I like for her to be plump, supple and tight where the the vision is reminiscent of a smiling cat.

I like to run my digitus medius down the center of her crotch to create a seducing indentation. I do so until I feel that she’s warm and moist. With this particular ballerina, I like to pull the leotard to the side of the crotch to see if the leggings show signs of moisture; and that they do! She is very quick to react to the examination. During this very procedure I notice that the leggings aren’t tight enough, they are bulging. I grab the extra fabric and tear it causing a rip down from the crotch to the inner left knee. I look behind me and ask for another pair of leggings; quickly too.

In the meantime I have her remove the leggings. I spread her legs to the sides and continue to run my digitus tertius smearing the wet in her throughout the area. By now she’s got both her hands on my shoulders and her eyes closed. I lean lower, bring the digit to my mouth and taste it. As radiant as she is on the dance floor, she’s even more so… desirably intoxicating to my mouth. I lean even lower to bring my tongue within touching distance of her. My tongue contours to her anticipating the moisture that strikes with lust.

The scent discloses that I should further expand my whereabouts. I slide my hand to wet my index finger, then head back to soak the perineum. Little by little I wait for this “thing” she does when asking of me to intrude the calm of her body. She flexes her legs and stands on the tip of her toes. I adore the sight of her muscular legs… how the thighs define and her calves enunciate. I allow my index to penetrate while my tongue massages her intentions. I don’t have to move my hand. She controls the depth in which she swallows my finger. The continuous up and down stance she undertakes weakens me. Were it not for the late time, I would lower my slacks to allow her to engulf me. To allow her to completely saturate me. To feel how strong she can hold, squeeze me while inside of her.

Having the leggings delivered to me, I take a last look at her. I turn her around, slightly bend her at the waist to admire the supple of her nature. A last kiss to the saturated area, followed by a grabbing bite and I release her. It is time for the leggings and commence of the performance. I am now ensured that it will all work well.

I watch her perform, really not seeing anything but thinking of the look of her femininity up close. I can still smell her aroma, can still taste it on my finger. Oh how I can’t wait for tomorrow’s act.


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Sunset Room

These many years of physical attraction between us in the office and it is now that I conceive the courage to act on my feelings. I sat across from her, staring intently at the movement of her lips as she articulated what was going to become of my last day in the company. She spent the most time on my compensation package as if I cared about the two weeks of wages for each working year; at my hourly pay I’d have enough for lunch for the next two days.

I welcomed every ticking second of the period she spent talking. It afforded the time to carry out my plan. I sought to go medieval on her. I wanted to appease the bubbling desires demanded by my id. I no longer felt unconscious energy operating on my urges, it was a blatant conscious feeling by now. Each enunciation formed through her lips bubbled more “id-pulses” in me. Taunting me that If I waited much longer she’d be forever gone from my life.

She stopped the monologue to ask if I had any questions. That if I didn’t, she’d ask for my immediate supervisor to come into the office. I shook my head rejecting the offer. She picked up the telephone, dialed my supervisor’s extension, and my heart sunk. I was more coherent about my thoughts than I was about her question. I meant to prolong her monologue but instead shortened our last interaction to where it might be impossible to sooth my boiling id.

She must have seen my physical reaction because she canceled the call and small talked for another while. She appeared concerned about me. Gave me a few articles and websites about depression, and the like, along with a hot-line number if I ever felt like talking to someone. We spoke of my time with the company, of those things I enjoyed as well as disliked. When we touched upon the topic of people I would miss, about those I would contact, the hairs in my spine stood up shooting waves of shivers through my body.

Business Woman Walking AwayThe blinds were closed; I gather for the purpose of hiding the tears of the “Sun-Setted” from the public at large. It took a minute of silence before she stood up from the desk to open the blinds; talking about how sunlight can help deter sadness. As she pulled down on the chain that controls the blind height, I jumped out of my chair pressed my body against her back, and attempted to lift her skirt. She stepped away from me, turned around and slapped me. I pushed again towards her to only encounter multiple slaps with both hands right across my face. I didn’t care that she was slapping me, I moved forward, closed in on her, threw my right hand in front of her raised left arm about to slap me, and pulled her towards me. We caught one another right on the mouth. I tried to kiss her, she looked to the side… a few times until finally giving up the fight.

Both of her hands grabbed my face, she looked at me, took a deep breath and asked, “why now? Why here in the office after all these years?” I didn’t answer. Instead I leaned her against the exposed glass of the recently opened window, and lifted her skirt to reveal the unobstructed view of a progressive woman stating that underneath the business attire and, behind the prudent demeanor lived a world of cravings. She wore nothing that prevented me from seeing her feminine affection. She wasn’t pileous to any extent. It was evident that she needn’t to worry about “manicures”. Instead, the natural shaped of the cumulative nearly-same-length-hair-strands traveled down and diagonally from very low in her abdomen until meeting at the cusp. The pattern reminded me of an upside down Christmas tree with my star waiting to be grasped at the very top. Even Santa Claus had never been this kind towards me.

It was a surprised to realize that she disguised her natural aroma with fabricated fragrance. I had always imagined her scent made specifically to attract me. I found myself crafting escapades of lips in harmony hoping she would promptly yield her true persona. I traced her lips with my tongue, biting her lower lip, inhaling her breath, palming her face from her left cheek to the back of her neck, my left arm pressing about her inner thighs slightly touching the back of my hand against her delight. I enticed her neck, earlobes, even biting her chin… dipped down to run my lips through her clavicles.

During the interactions of our tongues, she managed to tell me that she feared being at work, being caught by her boss… that her nerves would prevent her from enjoying me as much as she should. That she was struggling to impede appropriate conscious behavior. I was already in the Sunset room, so I cared little for either of our inhibitions. I dropped to a knee, pushed her legs aside, reached between the legs with both my hands grabbing each one of her cheeks with each one of my hands and pressed her forward onto my mouth.

She cursed the all too popularized four letter word, bowed down and with both hands grasped a full set of hair. Not only did she grasp, but she pulled me away detaching my tongue from its rightful place just to look at me, to look at herself readily reacting beyond her expectations. She pulled me into her again, holding my hair in a painful grasp while maneuvering her pelvis to the exact locations she wanted appeased. She came down close to my ear, instructing what was expected. She disclosed the speed, direction, strength and locations which she wanted to be pleasured.

My hands were instructed for one to trace the buttocks down the center and press against the orifice there found, the other was asked to trace a path from the back down to the front and pierce inside. The tongue and lips were to wrestle appetite out of her with each clitoral stroke. Whenever the finesse of my tongue faltered she’d shove my face harder against her crotch. A few times cutting breathing passages quite successfully.

I ignored the rule to have both my hands participating independently in nearby areas and pulled my rand hand up towards her to feel her mouth engulf my index finger. She whispered moans that could have triggered premature ejaculation, but I held strong, thought that I had to use my working hand to devour both the front and the back. My thumb enjoyed her warmth, the moisture that had saturated her crotch and my indexed pressed firmly in the rear.

Her thighs got a hold of my face, both my neck and jaw found the restriction disagreeably intoxicating. I didn’t care that for a period of about 30 seconds my jaw bone was forced skewed as it was never intended to be, nor that air couldn’t find a free pathway to my lungs, just as I didn’t care about the contorted state my neck was held. She pulled my hair sending cries of scalped cowboys through the Sunset room. Have you ever heard a woman talk through her climax? I never had until I heard her expressing the precise moment she climax. How she wanted me to continue on the very spot, taking the very same uninterrupted action. My mouth was pressed tightly against her, then she slightly released… Her scent rushed through my nostrils down my throat and into my lungs. I’d been taken to the garden of dreams where each petal of every flower smelled like divine intervention.

She had willingly chosen to hide the lure of her lust behind fabricated fragrances… leaving it to the lucky few, today me, to discover.