Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica


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Pool Side

I daydream for a substantial period of time everyday. And, everyday does include nights. See, it’s become increasingly difficult to sleep as I’ve aged. Being that I’m not very good at just about anything, daydreaming has become a hobby of mine. A world to which I can escape the insignificances of life: work, incapable friends, broken vehicle on the side of the street, sleepless nights.

That day I might as well have been dreaming because that sort of behavior doesn’t happen very much, at least to me it doesn’t, I might even guess it is the sort of event that isn’t well received by the puritan police. We all know them, the notable republican congressman condemning illegal immigrants while hiring one for over a decade; the married pseudo-christian bound to a bed while being flogged by his mistress just to repent during Sunday mass. The sort of folk who hide their human behavior while attacking another’s.

Any who, I was sitting pool side, feet dunk inside the water to stay cool in the heat of the summer, accompanied by a good amount of strangers, of course. Enough of them to maintain the many ‘proper’ facades we are expected to wear at different social gatherings, you know, the self-policing type of deal! So, I sat there with my usual daydreaming face: staring into space. I mustn’t been deeply in dreams because this particular young gal caught my eye. She was a young woman whom I had dated for a very brief period of time. It was very short amount of time. I had just gotten out of a long term relationship and thought the best way out of the downer was to hookup with a hot little thing. It proved too much, too soon for me as I skipped consummation day and never contacted her again.

Seeing her in cotton-wet-tight bikini sent waves of regret that caused quite the stir in the pool. I did my best to keep calm, to ignore that she was probably as physically gifted as a female or male can be. — Proportionate, symmetrical I believe are the fitting adjectives the fitness aficionados like to use — For every well placed drop dripping down her chest onto her navel was a perfectly tanned and crafted body part. I was an idiot but, so goes life.

She had noticed me long before I her… I came to learn after she approached me and were consequently physically removed from the premises. She advanced towards me from inside the pool, walking and swimming the length of its Olympic size. We had already began conversing by the time she pulled my legs apart, situating herself between my legs; her underarms resting on each of my quads. The memories of our conversation, well, her monologue, are vague. I paid more attention at her barely covered top, and did I the same to the shape of her mouth enunciating whatever it was that she was speaking.

One unheard, perhaps even purposely ignore, word after another had her hand through the left leg of my brief-style swim trunks. No, her hand wasn’t the reason for my invigoration rather, the shape of her nipples piercing through the sheer-cotton bikini top. I like to believe she reacted to me and went ahead to prove that my regrets would be a thing of the past.

The strokes were slow and steady at first, running her fingers up and down as her wrist moved likewise. It made it feel as if a continuous stroke, giving me absolutely no time to catch the daydreams quickly slipping away into reality. I was fixated on her hands, the feeling of soft skin up and down the shaft all the way to the head, back down to the sack, which she’d grasp with her thumb. A few times she squeezed the shaft so hard that it made me want to grab her by the hair and force her mouth on me from the desire to cum inside it.

Whatever little time we spent reacquainting with one another was just the exact amount of time required to rush through courting and romancing right into fornication. She pulled down my briefs by the front, securing them neatly under my scrota. She jerked me as if a chef preventing his dish from being ruined by high flames: hard, fast and relentlessly. It was enchanting to hear her speaking out loud about tasting her ass, the spread of her pussy wet and waiting for it to be tossed. I salivated from the thought of her moist self against my lips rubbing lust throughout my mouth. Had I been myself at that point I would have taken the time to imagine how shapely and colorful she must be. The world would have heard the revelry created by male against female under euphoric confluence, that’s the sort of dream I would have had.

Her breast came lose by the directed grinds of her chest against my legs. Just when I thought I was about to come down into the pool and feel more than her hand, her mouth engulfed me whole in one deliberate shove of her face into my crotch. I exploded like balloon over high flames, she came up with cum dripping down her chin and a cum bubble still expanding on her opened mouth. She was going to dive in for seconds when jealous bystanders rushed to pull us apart. She was pulled out of the pool with an obvious display of debauchery: cum against her breast and mouth, smiling at me as if she’d won some sort of price.

As for me, I was also covered in synergy of semen and saliva. I was still erect, still throbbing, totally unconcerned that I was being wrestled and shoved out of the grounds. My mind was fixated on my remains against her body… she, licking them from her lips and my cock still seeking further gratification.


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Wet Nurse

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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The Pleasure of Outrage

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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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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Whispering Galley

All I knew about the city was that it was loud, overcrowded, and distant to those who chose not to frolic amongst the skyscrapers. I was on my first year of law school attending a prominent college in the upper west section of the overcrowded island of Manhattan. I hated every second of it. It was a daily reminder of the world passing me by. Each night the laughter of residents returning to the dorms spoke of times I wasn’t to have. I chose to study, to push immediate gratification aside because I believed that hard work now flourished in the future. So when winter break reached campus, I chose to leave behind the reminding agony that was being in New York City. I grabbed my few belongings, said “hasta luego” to the empty dorm room, and rushed out in desperation to Grand Central Terminal.

It was impossible to feel more desire about leaving Manhattan than I felt during that taxicab ride to the terminal. Paradise simply awaited me at the other side of that metro ride. I did not even wait for the cab to come to a full stop; I opened the door, jumped out and ran to the ticket window to purchase a train ticket back home. The next departing train wasn’t for another hour: enough time to cry, to leave behind my sadness before boarding the metro.

Opposite the ticket window was a ramp that lead to a small foyer. The perfect place to go release my frustrations, I thought to myself. I put my head down, reached the foyer, looked around, didn’t see anyone; I leaned against one of the four corners damming my life, eventually began to cry. Call me ignorant, if you will, but when I heard a voice coming in my direction from the corner itself, I thought that I had died and met God. He had a soothing voice, understanding, seemed to know my desperate plea for schooling to end and the good times begin. I looked around, yet there wasn’t anyone in sight… except for that fellow at that other corner diagonally from me. He seemed to be in the same mood as I. I ignored him, and leaned towards the corner again to verify if the voice was still speaking.

The voice asked that I not become startled but, that I should know that he’s been standing at the diagonal corner for as long as I have been weeping, listening to my sorrows. That the sound of my voice carried by some form of architectural marvel caught his attention while walking by. I came to weep at Grand Central Terminal’s “Whispering Gallery”. This square foyer actually carries voices from and to diagonal corners. I turned around to see him waving at me. I returned to the corner embarrassed, still talking out loud to myself; which my voice again carried up the corner, to the ceiling, diagonally across it to the other corner, down to his ears where he again heard me.

He introduced himself, expressing that he was willing to carry out a conversation with me through the corner, but would prefer if it could happen face to face. I gathered myself, agreed, then greeted him at the center of the foyer. I had already been laughing in nervousness. I apologized even for things that weren’t my fault; such as his horrid shoes. He laughed… just laughed looking at me as if I were a lost Middle America girl in too big a pond. He was on his way to a dance audition right there in Grand Central.

Within minutes of meeting him, he had convinced me to attend the audition with him for moral support. We walked upstairs where a big “echoey” room opened up. The music was already playing. A female dancer in the center of the dance floor moved in manners that would make the math infinity symbol proud; I gawked. We watched her dance for the duration of the song, about 4 minutes. When the song ended, the girl called out his name: Andre. He looked at me, asked to wish him luck, took his overcoat off, and by God, I wasn’t dead. This was the first time I had been alive while in Manhattan. He was the typical Latino that we in the Midwest hear about yet, never meet. He was nothing short of a man. The music resumed, and they commenced this terrifyingly harmonious seduction of one another. I had never witnessed anyone make love, let alone with clothes on while dancing.

Visions of John Travolta in the movie “Saturday Night Fever”, when he became angered over the theft of first prize from the couple which he deemed most deserving despite he, himself having won the competition, floated all around me. I felt like John Travolta did. Mad that although I was leaving with the price, I knew that I could never do what she just did to him. The music ended, he kissed the girl on both cheeks, bowed, and approached me. I stupidly jumped on him, climbed off, pushed him, and pushed him again… I cannot believe you dance like that, I said. “My shoes don’t seem that horrid any longer, do they?” was his reply.

I came to learn that he was a non-practicing lawyer. He rejected an awaiting position before the offer was even made, that he graduated top of his class from the very same school I attended. It wasn’t what he wanted to do, what he wanted to be. Instead he became a software architect… and self-taught Latin Dancer. The audition he just had was his foot into a Latin dance traveling company. I shouldn’t mention it, because it’s obvious but, he became a member of that dance company.

My life was never the same from then on. I never did make it home that winter, either. I spent it with Andre. Amongst the many things he taught me during that first winter together, dancing was the absolute best. During that cold December to January school intermission I stayed in bed every day waiting for him to come dance with me after work; and, did we dance. He didn’t give up his day job despite being part of the traveling dance company. He was able to work remotely when on the road; never missing a beat. However, I did miss him the chunks of time he was gone. Not only did I miss his body pressing against mine, but missed him as my study partner. The man remembered college courses as if he were attending classes. He made the next few years of Law School possible to bear.

I graduated near the top of my class. I missed the top by a few grades because I chose to repeatedly give my body to him that last semester instead of studying during midterms. He was in town for a brief period before departing yet again. I don’t regret it! I felt blessed… naturally. The perfect man I had stumbled upon during a depressive episode of my life; there was nothing I wouldn’t have relinquished for him. I, as you know, went on to work at a relatively successful firm, married him and have enjoyed each day as if the very first day we met.

I’m sorry it has taken this long for you two to meet, but you being gone overseas for so long has its drawbacks; as not knowing where you have been for a decade. You should have known my story years ago. Let’s have one more cocktail while you tell me your story, then we can go to my house to wait for his arrival so that you can meet and see what he’s done every Monday night since he and I met. I’ll tell you what he does, then you can tell me your story that you seem eager to reveal.

Every Monday after work, after dance night, he arrives with a bouquet of roses, and a garbage bag filled with fresh rose petals. God knows where he finds them. The bouquet he hands me after we are finished being intimate, along with an apology for his transgression of staying out later than he should have. The rose petals he tosses around me on the bed, on me while I’m asleep. I am awakened by the feeling of running lips through my bare backside. I’m already moist before fully comprehending what’s happening. He devours me without mercy or care. He turns the lights on, opens the blinds covering the ceiling-to-floor windows for the world outside to see inside, then returns to bed and intoxicates my body with his lust. He becomes what he isn’t at any other time. I am tossed about like a doll, pierced through every orifice given to me. When done, I’m covered in him as if he hadn’t climaxed in years and it all came out at once. I’m dripping out of my mouth, my face is a mess, my chest displaying it as if a custom crafted necklace. I throb from both the front and the back. Sometimes it takes up to a week for me to stop feeling the discomfort not felt during the entire event. And… the smell of our copulation coupled to smashed rose petals… is a thing of fairytale.

Don’t be embarrassed tonight. I am loud, very! Especially during Mondays when he misbehaves. You will hear me. I will climax multiple times, and most of the time he’s being rather lewd in vocabulary. It enhances it all… so I believe, for me at least. If you happen to hear me asking for help, don’t. Sometimes the thrust hurts so good that I find “help” to be a suitable exclamation.
I’m sorry, I know you want to tell me something. I’ll cease about Andre.

Well, Jess. You and Andre have found something… I wish I had. But, after tonight, I think I have found someone that might make moving back stateside, here to New York City, worthwhile.

I met up with you late because on the way here the cab stopped in front of this little place called Flamingo’s. There was enough time to wait before we were to meet, so I decided to go inside for a quick drink. It’s been opened not 3 weeks. It’s got live music, people dancing, affordable cover-charge and drinks. I met this gentleman that can lure Satan out of decadence and into the grace of God. I don’t give myself to anyone I don’t know. No I don’t. You know that. Even as a kid in undergrad I didn’t commit such a crime. But tonight, I tell you, I’m freshly arrived from a night of debauchery. My undergarment is thoroughly saturated. And, wait until I reveal why and how. You’ll be wet as well.

I went in, this man saw me, approached me; I liked him instantly, the type of connection that is found once in a lifetime greeted me hello. The world around us was pushed aside by the tunnel vision that connected us. We spoke for no longer than an hour before I found myself on the second floor of the venue listening to foreign music and being seduced by that man; out in plain sight! I didn’t care if we were caught. All I cared was to feel that connection while intertwining myself onto him. Whatever I knew about lust, intercourse, plain old adults at play got erased tonight.
Listen carefully because I think I’ve come up with a life altering fact. The difference between love making and sex is connection. Regardless of what is done during the act, be it rough or not, bound or unbound, it is about a connection that makes impossibilities possible, makes it all shared.

Don’t interfere, Jess. Let me finish. It’s still fresh on my mind and I want to relive it by telling you the story. Live it with me! He grabbed my hand and brought it to his crotch to feel him aroused. He was thoroughly engorged. Filled all the way to the very top. Part of it stood outside erect, touching all the way to his belly button displaying a glistening head. He didn’t have to pull me down to meet him because upon sight I dropped to my knees, unbuckled his loosely tied belt, unbuttoned his pants and attempted to swallow all and everything I could.

I would have won an Oscar for that performance; two even. One for best female actress, and the other for best supporting actress. I led, controlled him, and took my turn being controlled and directed. I wasted little time trying to engulf him with my mouth. I couldn’t take it all in, but the part I could, caused me to gag. I have never felt girth that far deep in my mouth. I enjoyed it. It felt natural and I wish I could have been able to consume it all. But I wasn’t, so I tried to be as brutal, loving, playful, hurtful as I could. I wanted to give him any and all reasons that he had ever desired to burst in my mouth.

I crafted my lips onto the head making him believe that my mouth was forged just for him. My tongue massaging the shaft… that were I Swede it would have been considered their trademark massage. I traveled his crotch as if an explorer in the new world searching for riches. I gave and gave with the sole intention of forcing bliss out of him and directly into my mouth so that if I left never meeting him again, I would leave with parts of him inside of me.

As it worked out, he forced his pelvis away from my facial thrusts, grabbed me, the devil knows how he pulled one of my legs out of the slacks, tossed me atop one of the tables face down — Look, I’m not lying, only one button, the top one that was already unbuttoned survived his pulling apart of the blouse. When I landed chest first on the table with head looking towards the left, his hands reached to the top of the blouse in the front, with a swift pull to the sides my breast came face to face with the table. Shirt completely opened, breasts exposed. I get tickles thinking about it.

He could have easily penetrated my desire apart without little effort… he could have. But, instead of thrusting his pelvis separating my anatomical muscles aside, he pulled my undergarment together from the outside-in right down the middle of my buttocks. I welcomed an assault of his tongue, lips, and teeth on each cheek making other more sensual body parts jealous of the attack not being experienced by them. I would have climaxed had he remained exercising his will upon my butt cheeks longer. The stimulation ran through me fast, hard and for long enough to feel it in my G-Spot. Then, then… he pushed the panties to one side to place his tongue directly on my delight crafting each letter of the alphabet, in both lower and upper case, teaching me the grammar from which I spelled out “TAKE ME, ABUSE ME, I THROB”.

I enunciated the phonetic sound of each letter of that alphabet clear and loud enough to create the language of sheer longing. I told him I secreted only to feel him inside of me. “Don’t be timid, don’t be timid”, I said in a low voice with my face still looking to the left side, cheek flat on the table. Timid was the last thing he was; he turned me around and situated me with my back flat against the table. Grabbed both my legs, put one each on each of his shoulders and climbed upon me. My pelvis was raised away from the table. My undies were still on, his member pressed against my underwear moving about… teasing me.

He reached over with his left hand, slid my undergarment to the side, and with a single precise forward shove of his pelvis, pushed aside all my longing to have him inside of me. My expectations of being unable to fit all of him were true. Yet, the repeated piercings into my body forced me to give way to all of him. I felt his pelvis meet my crotch, feeling his sack smack against my rear. It soaking more and more each time it collided against me. I was a wet mess; still I’m, a little. Because of the volume level of the music, the collision of his body against my saturated being wasn’t heard across the venue as it should have; as I wish it did. I wanted everyone in the hall to know that man had weakened every muscle throughout my body.

He looked me straight in the eyes, returning that tunnel vision upon us once again. The room went silent, I forgot we were on the second level of a music hall laying flat on a table with my legs spread apart, and a man shoving his whim like no one ever has. He didn’t give me time to respond, not that I would have declined anything, regardless of what it could have been, from him but… his voice was orgasmic. I came, Jess, I came.

He told me that he would pull out. That he wanted me to hold my undies to the side, to keep it in place while he finished dispersing through me all. I held it in place as he asked, and I washed him stroke. His strong hand moving up and down with surgical precision until he spilled out and onto me. He used his member to smear it around. He smacked me with it, which raised a chuckle out of me. He lowered my legs, climbed forward on me, and had me lick him clean. He tasted like a fantasy come true; tasted like a meal I hadn’t been served in a lifetime. He kissed me, softly, very softly while still touching the result of me and him over my undergarment.

He stood up, smelled his hand, and left me his card to contact him next time I’m in town — I think I shall stay in town!

He left before I did. I remained on top of the table for a few minutes collecting thoughts about the event. My chest was still exposed, as was my lower body. I sat up, looked down at my saturated-with-his-residue panties, touched them, pushed them to the side, touched myself, and brought the finger into my mouth. I wanted to savor him and I together as one.
I got dressed… slowly. If no one had walked up there during our interactions, no one was going to come now. I walked downstairs; the bouncer looked at me when I got down to the bottom step, and said: “Honey, you’ve lost all the buttons of your blouse.” I acknowledged him, thought to myself “Well worth it”, then said goodbye.
So, Jess, that’s why I was late.

Shut up! Stacey! What? Stop, stop! You didn’t!

We are late, Andre is about to reach the house. Finish the story in route.

Yes, Stacey. We also have an expensive car along with a few other commodities. All resulting from that initial encounter at “Whispering Gallery”. I’ll bring you there in the morning.

Get in; let me see the card he gave you.

Jess, I left it! I left on the table at the venue! We have to return to Flamingo’s to get the card. It’s on 21st street and 11th avenue.

I know just where it is. It’s not two avenues from here. We’ll get there quickly. I drive slow and reckless so brace for a joyride.

It wasn’t there, Jess. It wasn’t there… The bouncer was still at the bottom of the staircase where I last saw him. The card wasn’t where I left it. No one has gone up there. I must have dropped it on the way here. I’m depressed.
We’ll have a few drinks at my house. You can tell me the story again. I enjoyed it.
Stacey, wake up. We’ve arrived.

Lovely home, Jess. Money has granted you much to be happy about.

Sit, I’ll prepare you a cocktail. Rye or wine?

Jess, apparently you still are naive; my panties are covered in a man’s residue, and you are asking me to choose between wine and rye? Wine is for pretty girls who want to feel sophisticated. Open the rye, I want to feel my throat burn.

I’ll pour three glasses. The extra glass is for Andre who should be walking in any second. You need to wash up. Go walk around the house you’ll stumble upon one of the eight bathrooms in it. I’ll wait for you at the dining table. I want to hear more about this fellow, what he looked like, what did you guys speak about. Everything I want to know.
Your home is fantastic, dark too. What’s with all the boxes?

I don’t know. They are Andre’s. I don’t really ask. Anyway, tell me more about the Flamingo’s man.
He’s tall, but not too tall. Maybe because I’m short he seems tall. Sort of modern male business attire; no tie, dark pants coupled to a vibrant button down shirt. The type of shirt that when the cuffs are pulled back they are a different print than the rest of the shirt. He was slim, not skinny, but slim. Oh, and a great ass. I grabbed his ass when he was in my mouth, and the hardness and plumpness gave me goose bumps. You know that back home males have very little back there. The ones I’ve been with… at least. His was also very thick!

Jess. Really! Now, please. As if every male in Manhattan walks in full bloom for the benefit of horny women. You can keep the details to his other physical appearance to yourself.

He had a full set of hair: jet black, shiny and slicked back. It was sort of long. When he was leaning over me it fell down over his face. I enjoyed watching it bounce around. It gave me a running description of how hard he was thrusting into me. By-the-way, just when I was washing in the bathroom, there were globs of it still all over. I tasted it again. A bit darker complexion than you and I. Still a white male, but not snow white type of a man. Lush eyebrows with a beard, not a thickset beard, nor scruff. Somewhere in the middle. The hairs from his moustache irritated my skin down there, around my inner thighs. I can’t see my buttocks, but I suspect it did there, too. My skin is so sensitive. Did I tell you he bit my left cheek? He did!

Andre’s here, Stacey. I think I heard the garage door close. I’m asleep by this time any other day. He’ll be surprised to see me, to see us. Finish your drink; we’ll go greet him by the front door. I’m going to turn all of the lights off. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Sh, sh, he’s going to open the door and turn the lights on. Wait until he sees us.

That night Jess’ life fractured. Upon Andre’s entrance to the house wearing sort of modern male business attire; no tie, dark pants coupled to a vibrant button down shirt. The type of shirt that when the cuffs are pulled back they are a different print than the rest of the shirt, hair glistening and slicked back, holding a bouquet of roses and a bag filled with rose petals, she realized that Andre was the man who saturated Stacey’s inhibitions. Jess drank the rye she had poured for Andre, and proceeded to toss it in his direction. It shattered against the wall, part of it flying towards Andre, cutting him across his right eyebrow.

Andre had never expected that during his Monday night rendezvous he would run into another Middle American girl who as life had it, was to be found in his house hours later. There was little chance for explanations. Stacey’s reaction fully revealed that the man who can lure Satan out of decadence was standing before them; a married man, husband to her childhood friend.

Of that night much isn’t said, remembered, other than the image of the once flawless bouquet of roses, now withered lying on the floor, accompanied by a bag of dried rose petals that the wind had scattered about.


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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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Expectant Desires

Pregnant Woman in UndiesI wish some sort of definite answer explaining the enjoyment I feel from looking, from touching, from copulating with an expectant mother existed. But, there isn’t one. I’m left to speculate, to search from reason A to reason Z; each probable answer sounding better than the next. So it is to reason, at least for me, that a most favorable location to indulge in my, well, shall I call it fetish, is the Destination Maternity.

The neighbor’s wife is close to her seventh month of pregnancy. Her “glow” has been apparent from before it was properly revealed that she was expecting. There is just that, I don’t really know what to call it, about a pregnant woman that causes her to light up as non-expectant women can’t. Personally, it has to be caused by the her aura notifying the world that a miracle is about to happen. She, my neighbor, and I have become good friends. I even revealed my feelings about pregnant women to her. She’s received them quite well, even takes me along whenever she knows there will be other women for me to gawk. She’s like one of the boys, expect pregnant.

Today, luckily, she is in search of swim outfits for pool season. She’s asked me to tag along to Destination Maternity to help her choose a swim outfit. I honestly believe she purposely wears revealing clothing for “kicks” about my reaction. I can’t control my body, I’m not that versed as of yet. I become easily aroused when I see the shape of the growing breasts against a maternity dress; more so watching the belly protrude as if crafting a niche for the breasts to rest upon.

From the rear, oh what can I say, those long maternity dresses slide in-between the glutes alluding to the final destination for my anatomy. There is a beauty to the body that in my limited years of experience in both life and partners, I have solely found through a woman’s pregnancy. All about the body becomes accentuated. It’s as if speaking a romance languages with all its idiosyncrasies that turns speech, well, romantic. The rolling of the “R’s”, the tilde master-izing the “n”, the accents on the vowels. Oh, watch a joy to watch the capitulation from the body of a woman carrying a developing offspring.

Leave no doubt, my attraction is not limited to the effects on the female body, but that of my imagination chasing stories of what that woman endured from a male to now find herself in such a state. It doesn’t fail ever, for me to conceive imagery of how the act must have happened. Whether it was fast and furious, or slow and steady; even the location and how much she moaned and screamed. It could have hurt her a little, a lot… yet, the result is the same: conception.

My neighbor’s wife has let me in secrets regarding pregnancy previously unknown to me. Some ill received, but a few others, such as her uncontrollable libido have made my desire for them much stronger. Needless to say, I’m heading to Destination Maternity already aroused and expecting to appease this desire of mine to see, touch, be with.. ahh, mothers-to-be.

On the car ride I can’t take my eyes away from my neighbor. I look at her legs, knees, face, hair, the seat-belt as it neatly contours between her breasts. She flirts the entire ride to the store, asking if I like the length of her dress today. “It is revealing”, I think to myself, then proceed to tell her. She says the freedom of the dress when her body is always in discomfort helps her get through the day. But, that she wears it short because she knows that I’m easily influenced by an expectant mother. I lightly laugh, and agree. She pulls the dress up more, then stops to say, “Don’t you wish you could see all the way. You won’t, dear. You won’t.”

We carry on with heavy flirting, enough that my penis has readied itself with preseminal fluid. I can feel it wet the tip. I squeeze my buttocks hard simply to feel the pressure of the penis slightly pressing against my pants. I wait for her to exit the car, then quickly slip my hand down my pants to squeeze with force, and adjust my penis that’s been caught uncomfortably against the pants.

I slow my walk to allow for her to walk just a few shades ahead of me, i want to watch her body sway with each step she takes. I lie not when I say that I desire this woman. I want to be forceful with her, I want to ejaculate inside of her, I want to spank her bottom, I want to watch her insert my penis deep in her mouth and savor it like a delightful lollipop. Despite not having told her so, I think she knows that I want to me more than just her admirer. Even if just for the remaining months of her pregnancy. She interrupts my thoughts by asking me to hurry along.

Pregnant Woman in UndiesInside the store we are greeted by two of her old college friends. They too are expecting. I automatically fall in love with the three. My mind scurries for assumptions of how these two could have copulated to be in such a state. One of them can’t be no more than 5 months. She looks to be the naughtiest of the three. I wonder how the father of the child had his way with her. I can guarantee that she is into S&M, was bound, gagged and repeatedly pierced while being spanked, maybe even digitally simulated concurrently.

I smile with them, but not at the same things, rather at the stories wandering aimlessly in my mind controlling little else other than my lust. Though my mind is thinking of the smaller of the two, I lust for the friend who looks ready for labor. Her wobble brings about visions of her crouching on all fours while I penetrate her from behind. I’m having a lustful time until they nudge me to come over near the dressing rooms for a “male” point of view. All three go inside, each one taking turns showing me revealing outfits. At this point I’m wishing that I were home so that I could wrap my hand around my penis, squeeze it, then beat it relentlessly thinking of these three women.

I’m still blurry as to how I got into the dressing room, but here I am looking down on the friend who is exactly 40 weeks along as I came to find. She’s got me in her mouth slobbering all over me to a glistening beauty. I shine from both the engorgement I’m filled with, and the saliva she’s sucking clean from me. The head sparkles as if headlights flashing on the dark of the night. This continues while I both look down at her making me weak, as I think about what it will be like to ejaculate inside of her.

I think of all the times that she’s had intercourse during her pregnancy, wondered how many different men she’s pleased during her rampant periods of libido soothing. I see her in flashes of intricate and not so intricate positions, her belly in the way of comfort, but still she is willing to handle semen inside of her with little worry of what will happen next. Soon enough I realize that I’ve ejaculated inside her mouth, she continues to suck allowing some to drip onto her nude breast, onto her belly. I tell her that I wanted to finish inside of her, that I wanted that, all of it; to feel the pressure of changes in anatomy during pregnancy to seduce my penis. She stood up, placed her hands against the door of the dressing room, spread her legs, and waited for me. I grabbed myself with one hand, ran my other hand down her butt, placed the tip of the head on her vulva, and shoved in.

It was the first time I had been with a woman that far along into pregnancy. I was filled with ecstasy as I was filled with fear. I was afraid that I would collide into the unborn baby, in turn preventing me from fully thrusting inside of her. I pushed it half way in, alternating between fast and slow thrusts. She asked me to push in hard, not to take it easy. I was so troubled, I was getting what I wanted and at the same time had sights of injuring a baby. I didn’t know how to react or what to say, except that she asked for more and harder.

I couldn’t give her what she wanted, I couldn’t push hard, but… but, I got to feel her. The tight wrapping and soaking I was receiving. I climaxed a second time while slowly moving my pelvis and grabbing her belly on the sides. I still thought of taking more from her while realizing I was unable to fully please her from some inexplicable fear, even belief that I would hurt the unborn child.

When she turned around to look at me, her breasts were still stained with my semen. I used my finger to clean it off her, then she sucked my fingers clean. We got dressed and walked out together. My neighbor and her other friend greeted us, asked me if it was as good as I expected. I smiled and nodded in agreement. I told them that now all I wanted was put them in a row, lean them over and feel each one of them wrapped around me warming my pregnant pleasures. I was still engorged, the lust hadn’t subsided… it only increased.