Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica


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The Pleasure of Outrage

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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The Brownstone at Park Place

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop!”

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

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

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

“Shall we begin?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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No Chance Encounter

Lovers at a distanceSometimes “tele-ship” other times “virtual-ship”, that’s how the long distance lovers came to know it. Not once had they met in person. Their relationship was built upon emails and texts… through time learning unverifiable truths about one another. Initially it was nothing more than meaningless chatter, but eventually, conversations became solely about meeting for the first time. Each text message, each email was more of the same fantasies and unrealistic union.

The virtual contents didn’t depict the usual giggles and laughter that arise when catching up face-to-face. No! The messages were detailed sexual fantasies; from teen-like shy engagements to sadistic alternative means. Thanks to distance and modern technology, the fear accompanied with interpersonal relationships hid not a thing. Candid emails, and text messages more so, stenched of sex; sexting as it has come to be known to popular culture was their favorite pass-time. It almost appeared that the two had forged the most of beloved physical relationships.

Unexpected in content, one day she received the following text message: “Luqa Airport. 22:15 hour. July 12th. I expect you to be there, unaccompanied, dress accordingly, ready and willing. I don’t feel much like a shy man. Goodbye until then.”

She frantically attempted to contact him. Text messages, emails, even pondered if she should call, breaking the agreement to only hear one another’s voice upon physically meeting. She nearly called, but her desire to abide by the rules kept her from doing so. She understood that it was up to her to accept or not, the arrangement. Just three days from receiving the text they were to meet. Just three days…

He had purposely discontinued contact in hopes to affect her delight enough to welcome his aspirations. He believed that three days of avoidance would devastate her nerves, just as it would her imagination enough to stow away any and all inhibitions. All of her contact attempts came and went unanswered, he didn’t even entertain browsing them.

Carrying out the plan wasn’t much of a joy for him, either. He had no recourse to confirm that either it, or her would turn out as expected. He was going to blindly fly to a foreign country without any guarantees, not that he would have had it any other way. The nerves kept hunger, work, even sleep hidden behind thoughts of her. She was the one subject not escaping his concentration. A devout man hasn’t prayed as much as he did asking for divine intervention. If he wasn’t magical enough to alter the results in his favor, perhaps the creator of it all was.

They were one and the same, he and she, of course.

She spent the days leading up to his arrival bouncing around travel agencies looking for a flight of her own. The flight had to arrive before his, not just arrive with a few minutes to scurry over to him, but with enough time for her to freshen up, find a suitable place to greet, and let it all happen. After All, where in the world was Luqa Airport!

Vintage Floral DressBetween travel agencies, in and out boutiques she came, aimlessly looking for an outfit to reveal her acceptance upon sight. From dresses to sweat suits to jeans, shorts, jumpers, she changed until finally settling in a vintage floral dress, flat-heel-lace-up mid-shin-high boots, and a six inch brim southern United States sun hat. If that didn’t divulge her thoughts, then he wasn’t to have her.

She was to arrive at Luqa Airport at 20:00 the very same date as he. The duration of her flight was a fraction of his. There was ample time after her arrival to ease the nerves and seek out an appropriate encounter location.

The date of the flight came with much anticipation. He went about calming down by jogging for too long a distance that a taxicab had to be hailed to bring him back to his flat. She, on the other hand, baked chocolate muffins — too many of them — just for herself.

She wore the outfit specifically purchased for the occasion. But he, he wore a hat, shorts, dress socks and shoes with a t-shirt. A small bag not two by two feet was brought as a carry on.

The anxiousness made him forget a small dosage of sleeping aid. It was meant to knock him out for at least three quarters of the flight. But now the torture from the slow passage of time in a long flight had to be endured. He decided to use the time to prepare for any and all results by thinking about every feasible and unfeasible scenario. Were it not for the captains voice notifying about the commence of the final descent, he wouldn’t have been prepared at all.

He quickly rose from the seat and rushed towards the bathroom where the A380 plane presents the comfort of showers. He bathed for about 20 minutes, dried, and got dressed; pressed, charcoal in colour, hip-bone-low-slacks; fitted charcoal shirt — two top buttons undone — and a body-tight-dark-gray-vest; at the back, a white waistband accentuated the vest. The hat, well, it would have been suiting even without the dress socks and t-shirt.

Not soon after he finished grooming, the announcement asking of everyone to be seated for ladning approach came in. He headed back to his seat fearing that been standing could increase the chance of any mishap, possibly sending him straight out of the plane into a local hospital. He buckled tightly into the seat, then picked at his nails until the familiar sound of screeching wheels on pavement reached his ears. He was the very last person to disembark; not purposely meaning to be cool, but that the fear of failure refused management until every last person had left the plane. He had to somehow look enticing, convincing, and in control. A cracking voice and sweaty palms don’t exactly strike confidence… He thought back at the many explicit emails and, between the physical reaction, and thoughts of her scent upon the male anatomy, he found the vigor to carry on as a man with a purpose does.

Meanwhile, she had already located, perhaps not exactly the most private or proper, accommodations. She stood at the entrance of the room looking down at the floor, tapping her right foot uncontrollably. There she waited for him until suddenly realizing that he would have to search the entire airport to find her– not a half bad idea considering the reward. Angels on a ceilingShe toyed with the thought of making him wait to claim the price; however, she was as anxious as he. Out went the text message: “Angels in the sky are to witness turmoil down below.”

Meanwhile, midway down the electric escalator his stoic demeanor faltered. The realization came that her whereabouts were not precisely known. How was the encounter going to take place with out that tidbit of neglected information? All of that thinking during the flight yet, he never once thought about a meeting location. She is clever and playful! He hesitated thinking that she would force a search of the entire airport. But, as their relationship had it, the mobile device alerts of her incoming message cluing him in of her location.

He smiled immediately. “Angles in the sky can only be found by the entrance to paradise, now… where is my Garden of Eden,” thought he.

At the bottom of the electric escalator, just east of the baggage claim carousels, two wall paintings hung from each side of a very wide entrance; one of a red and luscious apple, the other of a hand reaching toward it. A long corridor displayed photos and paintings of gardens from all different parts of the world, each with a writing elaborating on the art work. At the opposite end it opened-up to an angel-covered-dome-ceiling room.

Oh… but just at the end of the corridor, a few steps inside the large domed-room, stood a feminine figure wearing a flowered-vintage dress with laced up boots and a wide-brim sun-hat. He walked steadily towards her, saying not a word, hesitating not for a moment. When he got close enough to come into her field of vision with her head looking down at the floor, she looked up. She didn’t get a chance to greet him, not a chance to smile. His right hand shot forward grasping her by the nape of the neck, thrusting them into locking lips. With the left hand he raised her by the thighs and walked towards the wall at the back end of the room crashing against it.

The collision against the wall while kissing caused them to bump teeth, cutting his lower lip; still, they battled one another’s desire to devour first, fast and furiously. The kissing lasted for quite some time. He kissed her, she kissed him. He journeyed her neck and earlobes, she scratched his shoulders over the vest, and pressed her pelvis hard against him. She attempted to push him away trying to create space between them. The desire was to grasp his vest and tear it open, exposing his chest to her nails awaiting to imprint on him.

It was to no avail, he pressed harder against her, striking her back against the wall as if they were completely naked and he was invading her body. They burned for one another as if being fueled, making it impossible to resist their wants. All of that, and they had yet to lock eyes.

He grounded her feet firmly against the floor, shoved her by the shoulders flat against the wall, then turned her around to face against the wall. He fisted both sides of her undergarment that covered her harvest– one of those “time-matching” pieces to complete her vintage outfit: a pink in colour and ruffled pair of undies — then tugged and tugged but impatience prevented him from tearing it as he’d hoped. So he pulled it down over the boots, removed it completely and tossed it aside.

Grabbing her by the waist, away from the wall her waist came arching her lower back into a fine view of her ass. He lifted the dress with his left hand and while holding it in place the right hand spanked her mightily. The sound generated by the hit against her butt cheek rang through the terminal as if a flight delay announcement. Unequivocally, those remaining in the terminal heard her pleasure. The strike was so violent that it was felt down to her vagina. The saturation was immediate and evident. She didn’t whimper, no, she didn’t; rather, she took a deep breath and licked her lips. He bit her butt cheeks for the mere joy of having them against his mouth, then spanked her once and again.

She swayed her butt begging for more, begging to receive more than hand slaps. Out of his pocket comes a leather strap “ye” long. Instead of using it for what it was invented, he slid it through the middle of her crotch trapping wet residue, up her butt, up to his nostrils and placed it in her mouth to clench between the teeth.

He pulled back, slid his ego out through the zipper, then traced the outer and inner labia soaking the head nice and sweetly… now and then sliding right down the middle of her vagina almost penetrating it. The thought was to slip it between her legs, not go inside, but have him become covered by the secreting lust to a glistening sigh. As he did…

She moved back and forth ensuring that she had adjusted herself enough to feel his entire shaft slide through the middle of her open persona. The outer labia held onto him as if cupped hands receiving the wafer of God while the inner labia stroked him warmly. They had steadily increased thrust speed until a simultaneous release of one another. Swiftly she was turned to face him. Barely having time to get a good look at what stuck out of his zipper, she was lifted and mounted on him. She slid with no effort at all; slid all the way down, too. Had it not been for the slacks covering him at the very base, her saturation would have spilled farther than the pants. She bounced like a well gripped bull-rider.

During one of the moments when he leveraged his torso backwards to bounce her with ease, she took the clear path to rip apart the buttons from both his shirt and vest in a modest display of savagery. She grabbed the leather strap clenched between her teeth, put a hand against his face and swung it playfully but, with the full intention of hurting him. It landed just where their teeth collided moments ago cutting his lip. She kissed him while he bled from the small wound. The kissing continued even after she placed the leather apparatus back in her teeth. The awkward kisses accompanied by blood drops lead to the sinking of nails into his chest. Ten freshly manicured nails left marks down from his upper chest to mid abdomen. The most severe of them were the index, heart, and ring finger marks; that made her eyes glow. He was overtaken by the sick pleasure received from watching her nails slowly drive down his chest.

The taste of his blood, her saliva, her scent aroma-zing the domed-room cordially lured his instinct to control.

He reached up and over behind her neck grasping hair under the wide-brim hat. He pulled down a fist-full of hair until her mouth found it difficult to grasp the leather strap… as she was about to release it from her clench, he shook his head “no”. She held onto it preventing it from going anywhere. He moved his hand lower on her butt, and using the wall to maneuver, he forced himself inside her anus. She slapped his chest, his face repeatedly but, never released the strap from her teeth. He bounced her up with blows from his thighs, then pulled her fully down against his whim with tugs of her hair.

After becoming painfully acquainted with the penetrations, her hands came down to her butt spreading the cheeks apart, slapping herself red as teasing him about the need for more. He tried to concentrate on it all, the sight of nail marks against his chest, the bloody lip, the sound created by each of her very own slaps, yet the feeling of being squeezed tightly inside of her opaqued even the knowledge that it was she who rested between his arms.

She had reached the moment between pain and pleasure that enables a body to receive more than capable. She wanted to scream but knew that doing so would cause the strap to fall onto the ground. That she didn’t want, neither did he as the purpose was to keep from informing the airport of their rendezvous, and not hearing her voice until their next encounter.

She didn’t noticed he’d climax. He rejected the idea of verbalizing it simply because he had waited this long and stopping now wasn’t option. He was sipping out of her and the sight of sperm traveling down his shaft while he went in and out of her butt was incomparable to any. The man, versed as he was, swung her upwards to his chest where he manage to land the back of her knees onto each of his shoulders. He brought her torso down to where her engorged vulva looked straight into his eyes, and it took no more than a few tongue suggestions to spill her into her very own climax. He sucked gently and slowly, more so to savor her long enough to perpetually remember why they met.

Still, he was aroused! Unwilling to stop, he put her on her knees, took the strap from her clench, asked to open her mouth, then traced her lips with his penis… righteously watching his penis slide into her mouth ever so slowly as she looked up at him, watching as she playfully bit down on it… watching as his residue marked the areas he’d been. She was good, bad, mean, heartwarming, and savvy enough to unbuckle his pants, let them fall on the floor, grab his glutes, and gently force him down her throat. She cared not whether she vomited from the gag reaction, nor if the cameras captured that she was willing to do more than take it in the butt.

She shoved him in a few times… leading the oral assault by maneuvering his glutes. Her nails sank into them enticing a quick thrust forward of his hips. Her face luckily stopped the forward momentum when he slipped completely inside her mouth. He removed her hat to grasp chunks of her hair, her head. There she stayed hoping to make him climax, but it didn’t yield the expected result because he pushed her away, and removed her dress. He laid down face up on the floor; vest and shirt open, slacks down at his ankles. She sat on him, leaned forward grinding against him while clawing his chest as if a feline. Hands separating in goodbyeHer hair falling over her face, beating about in pleasure. She came atop of him just as she’d texted: with the Angels in the sky witnessing the turmoil down below.

At the end, a long kiss… she kept his vest and hat; he kept her hat and ruffled undies. They never did hear each other’s voice that night; upon finishing their no chance encounter, he paid for her and his return flight to their respective homes. They still contact one another through mail and texts, still living fantasies as if never having met. Still hoping to meet again.


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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?”