Girls’ Night In

Friday night was for going out. Saturdays were for brunch and adventures. Sunday though, Sunday was girls’ night in.

Well, theoretically. I actually didn’t go out much on Fridays or Saturdays, but my roommate did. She took pity on me though and would watch dumb tv shows and silly movies with me on Sunday.

“Becca, popcorn?” my roommate Cassie shouted from the kitchen.

“Yes, duh!” I replied.

She laughed and ran into the living room holding two jars. “Cinnamon Kettle Corn or Mexican Spice?”

“Surprise me,” I said with my usual crooked smile.

As per usual, Cassie’s outfit was shocking. Little black panties, gray thigh high socks, and no top or bra.

“A bowl of each!” she proclaimed.

I gave her a thumbs up, trying not to let her see that I was blushing.

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The Sexy Cats of Halloween

I’m not sure how or why, but one Halloween I decided to collect stray cats.

It started on the L train. Her name was Bianca, she was in college. She seemed a little self conscious about how low cut her dress was and how the tops of her thigh highs were visible when she walked because her dress was so short.

Her costume was just a black dress, black thigh high stockings held up with a pretty garter belt, cat ears, and whiskers drawn on her cheeks.

Her eyes were very wide and thickly rimmed with black eyeliner, a sharp wing at the edges of each eye. She was pretty and chubby and blushed when I complimented her dark red lipstick.

She was shy at first, but I was charming. She had left a party her friend threw early. She didn’t like the vibe. I told her I was collecting cats and we would make our own party. She thought it was a good idea.

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Getting Off

In her eyes, forever, there was a Midwest kindness. But New York City had let her down and most of the time she was sad under those thick black bangs.

It wasn’t exactly shame that shown in her face when she climbed the stairs to my apartment, but burden. Her kinks were a hassle and she wished she could come some other way, but she was stuck with her desires.

It concerned me, to a point, but there came a time when I had to trust in her ability to make up her own mind.

And after a few drinks her frown melted and the easy smile she fought against came out.

She was a good kid. Tall and strong, corn fed with a big ass. Tattooed arms and a too tight tee shirt.

Walking around my place naked when I had the curtains open made her nervous. She liked that.

What she hated, were the pigtails.

But in the end serving is what got her off. Embarrassment too. The way I made her ask for it. The way I spanked her until she was panting and begging. The way I laughed at how wet she got.

When she was getting fucked hard was the only time she stopped overthinking the world. I could see it in her eyes, a blank animal state, pure want and stupid lust.

Sometimes I felt guilty because I knew my belt was her drug of choice.

Usually I didn’t care.


In the beginning it was just a simple rule. Stay put. It made her nervous and excited. It made her happy because it was an easy rule to follow. It made her pout because it was too easy, she wanted to show him that she could do more. She could be a good girl. She could be useful in all sorts of ways.

The place she was asked to stay was his lap, which was sweet. She tried to be still as he typed on his computer. Occasionally he got up, but she was to stay in the living room, waiting for him to return.

He brought her tea and petted her hair and she tried to be patient and unobtrusive while he worked.

The reality crept up after the second hour.

“Sir, can I-”

“Shh,” he said, putting a finger over her lips.

She quieted down. There was a pressure building between her legs. Too much tea. It made her jittery and have to pee. She wasn’t sure how to ask without braking her silence.

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Show Me

My first love was a cruel hearted girl, but that’s a story for another time.

My second was a soft and sweet thing whose heart I broke accidentally, like knocking a China cup off a table.

Her name was Sophia and she was always smiling, which was alien to my angry teenage heart. She was the first person who showed me that love could be playful and silly.

She was both shy and adventurous all at once. Constantly daring me to make moves and then getting cold feet.

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Greedy Queen

In celebration of putting some of my old ebooks back on Amazon and setting up a new reading and various other new ideas, here is the last ebook I published, if your amusement. It’s a light, sexy tale of facesitting and fun.

Henry got Marisol’s text message just as his lunch meeting started.

On the little screen of his phone was a picture of her thick thighs, just barely covered by a pretty summer dress.

“Just got out of the spa. Waxed completely bare,” she wrote.

He went to reply so quickly he almost dropped his phone.

“You should come over. I’m not busy, I can leave the office in a half an hour,” he typed.

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As He Likes It

She had been eyeing his suit since 59th Street. When the train emptied at 14th she took the sudden exodus as an excuse to sit next to him.

“I’ve never seen working sleeve buttons up close. It’s such a beautiful detail,” she said, her fingers hovering over his light gray glen plaid.

The button holes on his sleeve were stitched in orange, a delicate but striking accent that implied bespoke.

“May I?” she requested, looking into his dark eyes.

He nodded, trying to suppress a grin.

She felt the fabric, examined it more closely. Her leg pressed against his as she leaned in.

“Gaberdine. So soft,” she whispered.

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Sometimes time slows until it is cool honey dripping off the end of a spoon. In those moments my mind opens and I look around with new eyes, taking everything in, relishing every detail, and recording every nuance in my memory.

Perhaps there was an element of mourning there, in the detachment, but it is only when I became the outsider, the onlooker, that I am truly content.

It happened on subway cars, in midnight diners, in libraries, and on dense city streets. It happened at bars, in clubs and most certainly at parties.

Of all the parties I had been to or been part of, there were some that made me question if my life was reality. At some point had I truly broken off? Was I sitting somewhere in a padded room dreaming it all up?

The big square loft had one wall that was just windows from the floor to the luxuriously high ceiling. The ceiling was a web of pipes and girders, many of which had been covered in christmas lights, hung with lanterns, or festooned with pretty ribbons and beads like a Mardi Gras float.

The cast of characters paraded in, all pretty, all scantily clad, most prompt. My eyes focused on the thighs exposed over long socks or stockings, luscious expanses of cleavage, the curve of an ass, the bow of red stained lips.

I engaged, certainly, being the charmer, the jokester, the helpful and dutiful friend, but watching was ideal.

A familiar friend, a lover, a toy, entered the room. She seemed to understand where I was; where my mind had gone. She sat next to me silently, but close enough that our legs touched, her hand brushing mine.

Her thighs were exposed too, my eyes fell on them and my fingers crept over them as she joined me in my voyeurism.

A couple on a cushion on the floor across from us, crawled around each other like caged tigers and my fingers crept up her thigh as they watched.

Two girls squeezed onto one chair shyly kissed under the command of their harsh mistress.

In the corner a girl stood facing the wall, her hand between her legs, face red, ass red, a man twice her age whispering into her ear. The word “slut” the only thing audible.

As we watched all of the little tableaus played out, the girl next to me made herself deliciously useful. She pushed herself forward so that his my slid right to her crotch. She pressed herself into my fingers, quiet, just a little toy I could play with while I watched the party.

Her panties were thin and moved to the side easily. My fingers slipping into her automatically. She was hot and wet and tight and receptive to my every movement.

We watched as the girl in the corner furiously worked her hand between her legs, biting her own lip, closing her eyes for a moment until her tormenter slapped her and made her open them.

“Do you like this whole room watching you fuck yourself?” he asked.

She nodded. He slapped her again.

“Say it, you dumb little cunt,” he said.

The war was visible on her lips. Her fingers kept moving. She fumbled for the right words.

“I-I, um. I like everyone watching me fuck myself with my fingers,” she said, seemingly surprised by the sound of her own voice and shocked by what she said.

Someone laughed. Someone else moaned. The couple on the cushion were fucking, the dull rhythmic slap of their bodies echoing along with the music.

The girl I was fingering suddenly sat up, then slipped off the couch and onto the floor in front of me. She pulled at my pants, though my eyes were on the girl in the corner. I wondered if she could come that way. The girl on her knees pulled my cock out and greedily sucked on it. She was brazed, messy, hungry. She pulled my pants down lower and kissed my thigh, she pressed her cheek against my hard cock, nuzzling, purring, then finally sucking again.

The girl in the corner kept closing her eyes and then getting chided for it. She was close. She looked scared and yet her hand never stopped.

Her tormentor pulled her bra down. Her breasts were beautiful, full, with large dark nipples. He slapped her breasts as she whimpered.

The girl sucking my cock stopped for a moment. She fished something out of her bag. She came back and standing in front of my, but not blocking my view, she pulled off her panties.

She was so very skilled. The way she rolled the condom into my cock so easily. The way she turned and backed up onto me, leaned forward so that she didn’t obscure my view of anything.

The heaven of watching the couple on the cushion fucking hard, the girls on the chair making out coquettishly, the girl in the corner shamed and on the edge. All of that as my toy backed up and my cock slowly slipped into her. Tight and wet and perfect. Her ass in my lap and her hands on the floor. My hands at my sides just enjoying it all.

Then concentration became a struggle. The scenes before me became flashes of images. The man on the cushion coming on his partners breasts. The girls on the chair lost in their passion, delicate fingers on each other’s nipples. The girl in the corner’s whimpers rising an octave.

“Please sir, can I come?” she begged as her breasts were slapped again and again.

I waited for his permission too, wrapped up in their tension.

“Do you deserve it?” he laughed.

She grappled with the right answer.

My toy pushed herself back against me again and again. Her rhythm became erratic, her pussy tightening around me as let out three high cries as she came.

A little flicker of anger came to me because she hadn’t asked permission like the girl in the corner did. As well I missed the girls reply to her master’s question.

I pulled my toy’s hips back and forth, since her orgasm left her too dizzy to keep up the cadence I needed.

I waited for his words. The man making the girl finger herself. I needed his permission too. I needed to hear her come. I needed to follow their game. I needed it even though my own body was falling closer and closer to the cliff or orgasm.

“Come then you little slut. Show everyone what a wanton little bitch you are-”

Before he was done with the sentence her pretty mouth was open wide as she contorted and leaned against the wall, coming on her fingers and whining and cursing.

Then all I heard was my own blood rushing in my ears. My toy’s tight pussy ready for me. She had gathered her strength and knowing I was about to come she pushed back fast and hard sitting up on my lap, pulling my hands to her breasts.

Then my eyes flashed open. All the people in the room and their hungry lips and their bare thighs and their wild abandon filling my head. And I came and I came and went into some far away space where we were all one throbbing orgiastic creature made of shame and fear and want and lust.

Anatomy of a Spanking

The struggle ended at the couch. She whined and flailed as I dragged her across the apartment by her arm, but when I sat down and pulled her onto them lap she was suddenly still and quite.

My hand naturally went to her hair. No matter how she laid, her posture could always be improved. I moved under her and guided her by the hair until she was in the ideal position. Her waist directly over my lap, her chest and arms leaning on the couch cushion next to me, and her knees resting on the other side of me. This pushed her ass high enough for me to get a good angle and made sure that as much of our bodies were touching as possible.

In that position, with my hand in her hair, I was in control of her body, but I was also hyper aware of it. I could feel every move she made, pressing against me or shifting away from me.

She looked back at me over her shoulder, her hair covering most of her face, but her eyes still visible as she narrowed them at me and pouted. Her attitude only made me smile. I pulled her head back into position by her hair, hard enough that she said “ouch!”

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The Eyes and the Hand

Of the many strange and wonderful things I’ve seen in the past few years, few were as surprising as the tableau I glimpses as the elevator doors opened to the party in the penthouse of the fancy downtown hotel. It was amazing, beautiful, decadent, breathtaking, and also pretty fucking weird.

Actually it wasn’t just one penthouse, but three, all opened up to the others to form a sort of club, with a DJ, two different bars, and various sexy and kinky accoutrements. Massage tables, a Saint Andrew’s cross, contraptions I didn’t know the names of for tying people to or fucking people against.

I’d been to somewhat similar events, but usually they were at somewhat seedy locals with a crowd that was a mixed bag. This took everything to a new level. The whole place was opulent, clean, organized, and all of the people there were beautiful. Some were waif like model beautiful, others curved and busty beautiful, others wild hair burner beautiful. There were all kinds of beautiful. Big Chippendale dancer looking beautiful. Assess chap beautiful. Beautiful. (I know I’m teetering into that place where you repeat a word until it has no meaning, but anyway.)

Some of these people were in tuxedos, others lingerie, some in leather or latex. Hell there was a woman laying on a table wearing nothing but sushi.

I tried not to gawk and hoped my suit was up to snuff. Still as strange as it all was, it was remarkable how quickly I become acclimated to the environment. Within minutes I was touring the place, champagne flute in hand, as if it were a normal Saturday evening.

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