I came home from the gym to an empty apartment. The roommate had taken the train down to Paris in the morning, so I knew I had the place to myself. Not having enjoyed the usual midweek ration of sex, I felt particularly horny. Masturbation at bedtime the night before wasn’t enough.

Well, that is a start.

I stripped to panties and bra, went to the bedroom for a blanket, and threw it over the dilapidated chair in the living room. One foot planted to the floor, my calf lowered over the cushion of the seat. Straddling the armrest, I pressed my chest against the back of the chair. Through the layer of cotton covering my crotch, through the thick woolen blanket, through the leaf patterned upholstery, I felt the unyielding hardness of wood. Sliding my cunt down, raising and lowering my pelvis, adding torque with my hips, I dragged my pussy against the arm.

That is one lucky chair.

“You’re not getting me anything for valentines,” she said flatly, almost monotonal, and as unceremoniously as closing a door to shut out a draft. It was followed by a— seemingly— violent exhale through her scarf, the puffy cloud of her breath fading into the icy winter air.

“Is this a question?”

She didn’t answer me, and we took some more steps in winding paths over, around, and through the pitted-puddled-pitfallen sidewalks. Her hands were in her pockets, the thin knit gloves providing little to no warmth— I’d made fun of them many times before— and her shoulders were shrugged, pushing the scarf wrapped around her face and neck as high as it could go. Her eyes stayed far away from mine, instead very preoccupied with each step of her muddied faux-Eskimo footwear.

Continue reading…

She was struggling with my boxers (and I half-ignored it), her hands reaching in from the waistband and fly at (nearly) the same time. I was preoccupied, however, with other matters, my hands spreading apart her (warm and soft) ass cheeks, thumbs pointed inward and pressing against the outermost of her (wet) pussy lips and my mouth making greedy sucking noises as I lapped down and up rapidly from clit to asshole, my tongue left to drag and split puffy pink skin.

It was punishment (really), her mouth bending down and fighting the fabric to wrap her lips around the head of my cock. She’d already ground herself against me (minutes before), legs on either side of my lap, leaning back so her breasts were out of reach, her hands on my shoulders pinning me back to the sofa back, hips rocking to some invisible melody. And it wasn’t long before the boxers became wet, my cock straining against them and pressing upward. Still she ground harder, spread her thighs wider, and flirted with the idea of fucking through my underwear.

Retaliation (now), of course, was the deliberate act of keeping my ass firmly on the couch while shoving my face into her until my tongue settled into that rhythm of slurp-slurp-twirl, the pad of my thumb pressed firmly against her asshole pulsing in time with the twirl, until she gave up, holding her upper body with hands on my hips and letting the weight of her body settle on my face and jaw, smeared with her surrender.

Continue reading…

And as I found myself there again, as I slid in two digits and crooked to find that sweet, little spot, as I fingered and fucked, as I circled and strummed the blushing nub, as I tightened and clamped and released my glistening lust, as I relished the wanton reflection of the woman pleasuring herself, moaning so loud the neighbours would most certainly hear, I wondered just how long you’d be able to resist me if you found me just this way.

Would you resist me? Would you resist?

The list of questions goes on. And really, the answer is all about self-control.

But sadly, they think I’m paid in tens and twenties. What next, will I be taking rolls of quarters? Starbucks gift cards? Appel, please.

Sometimes, I don’t even know if they’re trying anymore. They must be— I have read some wonderful things every now and then. But when you get closer to the edge, you start learning what everything is really made of.

I cooed, “Will you make me cum?” –already knowing he would.

I, too, like foregone conclusions.

Blind I can feel you move positions, never stopping with fingers or mouth, but now I can smell your cock, so close to my eager slutty lips that want nothing more than to devour every hard inch you give. My pussy squeezes and contracts at the idea. Your thighs flank my face and your cock begins to dip into my warm mouth. This is not a position I am normally into, I tend to forget and let my own orgasm slide away as I get involved in how much I love sucking your cock. But this time it was not a factor, I knew you were going to make me cum, even if the feeling did subside, you could bring it right back and in the moment I was thoroughly enjoying making your cock even harder. Feeling the strength of your thighs and your body hovering above me was such a turn on, I lost my self into working your cock and balls.

Oh right. What did I say before? Yes, foregone conclusions.