Over the weekend, Friday evening, after a few drinks and dinner, we decided to go for a little walk around the neighborhood drinking our large glasses of red wine. Coming back around to our place we noticed a young woman sitting outside an apartment having just moved in. She was Mid-twenties, , cute face and a nice shape under a very baggy t-shirt.

He loves under boob.

My eyes were tightly shut, my breasts swung, my hand gripped his giant, hot erection, and my mouth enveloped his lollipop cock.

I thought how I wanted to fuck his ass with the larger dildo, the thick black monster cock. I was too deep in the moment and too lazy to actually do the switch, but that thought brought me to the edge. I put my right hand underneath my harness and started rubbing, while I used my left hand to push him onto my cock. “Take my cock, you little slut. You are such an insatiable little whore. Always hungry for cock, aren’t you?” “Yes, Miss, I’m your slut,” he would grunt.

He shifted himself behind me and I knew his mouth was going to press against my ear and I even knew he would suck in a small breath as well. What I didn’t expect was what he was going to say to me.

He pulled her dress off her shoulders, tossing it to the floor behind her. He threaded her bra down her arms. He swept her white, folded underwear to the floor and pushed her shoulder down, bending her over the ottoman. Her breasts pressed against the soft upholstery. He rubbed that big warm hand down her bare back, over her butt, down to the back of her knees. He repeated that, stroking her like a cat. She was squirming now, almost frantic with the need for more direct contact. His fingers in the crease of her bent knee were making her pant.

Remember yesterday when we were talking about having a lady read hot erotica to you? Guess who upped the ante? Woodrocket did! They got one of our favorite pornstars, Aiden Starr, to read from “Five Stages of Grief” with her boobs out. Her voice is arousing without the visuals, but damn, the visuals are exquisite.

“What do you want me to wear tonight?” I asked D as we were getting ready to go to a holiday party for work. “How about one of your wrap dresses? I want to know that I’m going to fuck you in it when we get home.” Stockings? Tights? “Definitely stockings.”

Do you ever find it hard to read erotica because you read it in your head with your own voice? (Yes, that problem is kind of like that one “Seinfeld” episode with George and the books on tape.) Perhaps you’d feel differently about erotica if you heard a lady read it to you, and if the text in question was one of our excellent pieces of literary smut from Fleshbot Fiction.

His erection sprung free and I growled a little as I grabbed it with both hands, the head neatly available for my mouth. I tucked it in between my lips and savored its clean taste and warm, smooth head. He moaned and pressed towards me.

My thighs were slick with wetness and the bed was a warm puddle of my orgasms. I pushed him on his back and whispered, “I want to fuck you.” His cock was full, thick and hard, as I climbed on top of him and sunk his cock inside me he let out a deep and slow, “Fuuuuck”.

She rubbed her cheek against his jeans, against his cock through his jeans. He flexed his hips against her face. Then she bent over his feet again, this time removing his socks. The skin on his ankles, where the hair on his legs faded away, was soft and pale. His leg hair was reddish. His feet were warm and groomed. His ankle looked pale against her darker fingers, like he got all his sunshine while wearing shoes.

It was almost 9.30am when my live-in slave knocked on my door. He was right on time. “Mhm,” I mumbled instead of a ‘yes, come in.’ He knows that mumble well. As every morning, he was coming in to wake me up and bring me my coffee (Americano, black), my breakfast smoothie (all sorts of fruit + spirulina, the alleged algal superfood), my vitamins, and a fresh glass of water. He’s always completely naked around the house except for his thick black leather collar locked around his neck. He’s a pretty boy, 7 years my junior, tall, skinny, half-Asian, with an incredibly soft, hairless skin. I love looking at him move about the room.

“Sarah,” he said, “You won’t believe how wet this little girl is! You’ve got to feel this!” Sarah’s fingers joined his for a moment, then came to my mouth, rubbing my wetness on my lips.

1. With your tongue, only.

It was 65 and muggy and the light grey eyes I’d come to expect each morning would soon be on me. I tried to rest nonchalantly against the wall near the bus stop, but felt anything but inconspicuous with a washed-off coffee stain on my shirt and larger-than-fucking-life tits jutting

His appearance at the door took me by surprise – I wasn’t expecting him until much later in the day, but I was happy to see him. We started chatting, yet all I could think about was that hot story and how I wanted a cock inside me. Leaning against the dishwasher, he kept me close, and I kept rubbing his cock through his jeans.

In the middle of the night last night I couldn’t sleep, so I gently stroked D awake and he attended to my needs mostly with his hands. I realized that I missed being fingered by him. He’s so good at it. That’s what I wanted tonight more than anything because I know that it almost always leads to me squirting.

This Saturday, slave-boy and I went to our first play party in a long time. Yesterday I wrote about the setup and the beginning of the party here. In this post, I let slave-boy tell you about the actual scene that Mistress G, he, and I did that night – apparently for the viewing pleasure of the entire party.

I said on my profile that I was interested in men, women, and couples, and I got dozens of messages on the first day, all men except for a few couples who wanted to share me (tempting!). I chatted with some of them and although photos of men with hard cocks isn’t normally my thing, after seeing one after another you do get a little dizzy! You were also right that there are a surprising number of secretly mouthwatering me in this town.

“Do you know any hangover cures?” she groaned.

“The only one that ever works for me,” I said frankly, “is sex.”