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 my hand could 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 brazen, 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.

Intricate Ties

Her wrists get tied together, as do her ankles. My rope is old now, which sets off complicated feelings. Eight years since I got the tan hemp and it still has the same smell, though now it is worlds softer.

I don’t remember when it started feeling so comfortable in my hands, but I like it. I know the right knots. Maybe not the perfect knots, but ones I can tie fast and pretty and strong.

Some people need tight intricate ties or they will squirm out, but not her. She is the kind of girl who wouldn’t dream of escape. She is the kind of girl that sits and stays when told.

She gets shoved down on the bed with three pillows under her belly. This pushes her ass up high and puts her face down into the mattress.

It is a position I’ve put a lot of other people in, but every time and every person feels so new and electric.

All that pretty skin exposed. Red lines across her back where I scratched her while we made out. Her hips turning a little with want.

I pull her up by her hair for a moment. Her cheeks are bright red, her lipstick smudged across her face, her eyes open but unfocused. The drugs of need and sub space. That trance rope puts some people in.

She is sweet and beautiful. Very ready. There is something wonderful about turning someone so smart dumb with lust. She is panting like an animal.

I put one hand on the back of her neck, holding her in place, and put my other hand between her legs.

I want her to realize how wet she is. I want her to think about how fucked up she is for getting so turned on by this.

Another complicated thing is how I don’t get hard until I hit her for the first time.

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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The Princess and the Unnecessarily Elaborate Hotdog

She walked into the diner just as I was finishing my dinner. She dragged her feet and popped her gum and wore a frown perfectly.

The place was 50s chic, the counters lined with chrome and the booths with well stuffed red pleather cushions. A Lower East Side remake of a Brooklyn version of a Happy Days or David Lynch ideal of a greasy spoon.

She wore a huge puffy pink parka, pink pajama pants, rain boots, and big movie star sunglasses. She looked both miserable and determined. She was my age, but with a decidedly more youthful fashion sense, to put it mildly.

She stomped up to the counter, pushing past a family of tourists who were looking over the menu, unsure of their order. She didn’t need a menu, she knew exactly what she wanted.

“Sweet potato fries and a peanut butter cup milkshake, to go,” she dead panned to the man behind the counter. He pushed back his little paper hat and nodded.

I swooned at her order and her bratty delivery.

I tried not to stare at her as she waited for her order, but as she unzipped the ridiculously large coat I glimpsed something skin tight, low cut and pink, underneath. I looked away, but she caught my eye and glared.

I went back to my Kindle. The digital revolution making it easier to hide the fact that I mostly read smut. She eyed me and my food and swiveled her head to look at my book, which I agilely moved out of her view.

There seemed to be a bit of an internal debate going on behind her sunglasses. Deciding if I was a creep or not. Frankly I didn’t know the answer to that one myself. Looking me up and down once more I guess she thought I was at least tolerable. She moved my way to make room for the tourists.

“What did you order?” she interrogated.

I looked down at the little nub of what was left of my dinner.

“It was hotdog wrapped in cheese, wrapped in bacon, with avocado and spicy mayonnaise on top.”

She bit her lip and groaned.

“I want that,” she said, seemingly to herself.

I laughed and smiled, but she cut her eyes at me.

“No, I mean I want one now. You should get me one.”

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The Replacement

David didn’t remember turning his alarm clock off, but as he yawned and stretched that Saturday morning he decided it was probably a good idea he hadn’t set it. After the week he had, he needed a little extra rest. Plus, it was the weekend – weren’t you supposed to sleep in?

He turned in his instinctual morning movement to check his phone and found a crisp sheet of white paper folded over it.

He opened the note and saw the neat script of his girlfriend Emily.


I hope this doesn’t come as a shock – and it shouldn’t if you have any awareness at all about our relationship over the last few months – but, I’m leaving you.

I just can’t do this anymore. I love you, but we both have grown and grown apart. Everything has gone sour and I don’t see that changing. You will always be in my heart in some way, but I am getting out before I start hating you.

I took the liberty of getting you a replacement. I know you don’t like to sleep alone and, frankly, I worry about you. You have an important job and I don’t want you to fuck it up because you are depressed about our divorce.

The replacement’s name is Claire.

I’m staying with my parents in Decatur for a while. Don’t call.

– Emily

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The Shaving Lesson

To meet the husband of you lover is a strange thing. To realize he was flirting with you was quite another. Henry, poked at his eggs and smiled nervously as Adam and Kay whispered to each other, both pairs of their pretty eyes sparkling at him as they conspired.

Henry squirmed under their eyes and attention. The whole thing wasn’t going the way he had planned at all. He had expected brunch to be something formal, like meeting your girlfriend’s parents, but he should have known any man who would have the balls to marry Kay would have to be an interesting character himself.

When they asked him back to their apartment, Henry choked on his cold brew. Still, it was put so innocently, he had to say yes.

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Putting Things Together

She promised not to smoke if I just came over. When I got there, she stank of mouthwash and she didn’t know what to do with her hands.

You could always tell the state of Amanda’s life by the state of her lips. As she moved in to kiss my cheek, I saw that that those absurdly plump lips were bitten, chapped, and raw.

“I broke up with him,” she said, walking to the window as I sat on the broken futon.

Him being Jimmy, who was an asshole. But he was tall and crooked and supposedly some fascinatingly morbid musician. I shrugged and asked if she was okay. She didn’t answer.

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