🪼
ojovivo
Mike Driver
sheepfilms
dirt enthusiast

JBB: An Artblog!

#extradirty

No title available

if i look back, i am lost
Cosmic Funnies
$LAYYYTER
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
No title available
Keni

blake kathryn

Andulka
Today's Document

ellievsbear

Product Placement
Stranger Things

seen from Thailand

seen from Sweden

seen from United States
seen from Türkiye

seen from T1

seen from United States
seen from Lebanon

seen from Austria
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from Argentina
seen from Argentina

seen from T1
seen from United States

seen from T1
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from France
@never-been-spanked
You too cute to be sexually fustrated
And yet, here we are.
(I blame tumblr)
100% me.
Scene on a Train
A reader asks:
“Would you mind posting this scene on the train as an extract on it’s own? Its a lovely scene but gets a bit lost in the rest of the chapter.”
It is a great scene, so as a special treat, here it is in isolation. If others want to read the full story that leads up to it, they can find it in Coming of Age part 3.
… we felt like partners in crime, on the run, scurrying deeper into the backroads of Europe.
Do you remember all the naughty things we got up to? I know excited you get, thinking back to all the naughty things we’ve done.
How you loved to tease me. I recall your favourite tactic was trying to get me hard in situations where I could nothing about it. You’d flash your panties, perhaps whispering into my ear how wet you were, or even leave me naughty notes to discover in my backpack. You’ll recall how I retaliated, by promising to put you over my knee when we were next alone. I began to keep a tally, minor teases like sticking your tongue out would earn one spank, whilst major teases like going to the loo, fingering yourself and rubbing your pussy juices across my lips on your return would earn five. Yet my ingenious scheme only seemed to encourage your misbehaviour, alas.
Trains proved a regular venue for mischief, which was fitting, given how we met. I’m sure you remember one escapade in particular.
It started innocently enough, as so many erotic adventures do. My hand resting on your thigh, as I idly looked out the window at the passing yellow blur of vast fields of sunflowers. I rubbed your leg in slow circles, as you laid back in your seat and sighed. Soon, you whispered into my ear: “Higher”
My hand complied, and a pattern developed: I’d rub, you’d whisper in my ear, and my hand would stray a bit further underneath your dress. Soon, I’d reached the top of your leg, stroking along the crease of your thigh, feeling the fabric of your panties against my fingertips.
“Higher…” you pleaded.
Our carriage was almost empty, a virtue of our limited budget, the cheapest tickets were never on busy trains. I looked around casually, there was no one in the seats nearby to see us. So I let a fingertip stray into your underwear, gently combing the fine hair on your mound.
“Lower… please…” you whispered.
My finger drifted downwards, like a drop of water being channelled by a furrow, until I reached the velvety soft bump of your little hood. I stroked you there, and you writhed silently in your seat. Soon your slit was soaking wet.
“Stand up” I told you a few minutes later.
You rose, your excitement and the motion of the train making your legs wobbly. The seat in front of you was slightly higher than your waist, helpfully shielding you from any prying eyes. I reached under your dress with both my hands, hooking my fingers into the elastic of your panties, pulling them right down in one swift movement.
You had to throw your hands over your mouth to stifle your gasp.
I made you step out of your panties, and picked them off the floor. The crotch was dark with your wetness, sticky to the touch. Then I stood too, so I could whisper into your ear.
“You are a naughty girl. You know what happens to naughty girls.”
I lifted the back hem of your dress, and quietly smacked one of your bare cheeks by way of illustration.
“Now go to the toilet.” I instructed.
“Take off your dress and your bra, hang them up, and wait facing the corner with your hands on your head. Keep the door unlocked.”
You looked round at me, your expression one of indignant shock, but I could see that was an act, and you were struggling to keep the lust from your face. And then you turned and walked towards the toilet at the end of the carriage, hips sashaying provocatively all the way down the aisle. When you closed the door of the cubicle, I looked at the light above it to see if you’d followed my instructions, it did not illuminate.
What was it like, waiting naked in that toilet cubicle? Knowing at any moment the door would swing open, not knowing who it might be. Not knowing who would see you, standing with your nose in the corner like a naughty little girl, ready to be spanked.
I let you wait for five minutes, rummaging in my bag but watching the carriage for any hint of movement, ready to leap from my seat and get in front of anyone who came down the aisle with a lavatory visit on their mind. Then I strode down the aisle and pulled the door open. You flinched, but didn’t turn around.
I opened the door to an extraordinary and beautiful sight. You stood obediently in the corner, your hands on your head, your dress and bra hanging up as I’d instructed. I stepped inside, locking the door behind me.
I saw in the mirror you had your eyes closed. I wonder if you knew it was me - or whether you were just hoping it was? Did the thought of being discovered naked by a stranger excite you? I slipped my hand between your thighs, folding my fingers and cupping your cunt. You were so wet, I’d never seen you so aroused. I left my hand against your slit for you to slide on, whilst I planted kisses on the nape of your neck.
You got close, didn’t you? Until I withdrew my hand and smacked your arse.
Inside, space was tight, far too cramped for me to sit on the toilet seat and put you over my knee. So you remained standing in the corner, your head on your hands, resting against the wall as I spanked your bare bottom pink. I did wonder if the sound of the smacks would be audible, or masked by the clunking and clattering of the train. Or if someone was now standing outside, waiting, and bursting for a pee.
After I’d spanked you, I pushed the door ajar slightly, peering outside to see if anyone was waiting. But the corridor was empty. So I locked the door again, and cupped your buttocks with my hands, finding each firm globe hot to the touch. I pulled your cheeks apart, examining the pink wrinkle of your bottom hole, and the dark patch of skin that surrounded it. Beneath, your lips were swollen and conspicuously wet.
With my palms on your bottom, I kept your cheeks held apart, whilst my thumbs massaged either side of your slit. You were very excited indeed, I could slide my thumb all the way into your vagina without resistance.
You weren’t the only one excited, my own erection was now painfully imprisoned in my trousers. So I undid my jeans and tugged them down, and sat on the toilet seat. You looked at my cock hungrily. I dipped my fingers into my front pocket and produced the condom I’d stowed whilst you’d been waiting for me.
“Yes!” you nodded enthusiastically.
I tore open the packet eagerly, rolling the sheath down my shaft without delay. Then you straddled me, lowering yourself onto my cock until you were fully impaled and sitting on my lap. I reached around to grasp your bottom, feeling the heat from your spanked cheeks radiating back into my palms. We rocked in time with the motion of the train, the subtle sway of track curves providing the most wonderful sensations.
As we fucked, we mischievously agreed that the first one to come would open the door when we were ready to leave, and so be the first to step out and encounter whoever might be patiently waiting.
That challenge seemed to motivate you, and you began to grind yourself on top of me with renewed vigour, trying to make me come. I had the advantage though, able to reach behind you and tickle your bottom hole, circling it, teasing you by explaining just what I was about to do. You begged me not to, bucking up and down frantically, clenching my cock with your tight little cunt. I knew I couldn’t hold out much longer, so I slipped my index finger into your bottom hole, so hot and smooth and tight. The muscles of your entrance gripped my finger like a vice, but you couldn’t help but push down deeper on it.
Moments later, we came together, muffling our delight against each other’s shoulders.
When did eventually emerge, dressed, cleansed and smiling, we stepped out hand in hand. What the world thought of us, we no longer cared…
teasing a sub through their underwear - with your fingers or even better your tongue - is such a wonderful thing because it’s better than not getting touched at all but at the same time they keep whining anyway because now suddenly it’s not enough
Mee 😍
family is here & i can’t find panties!
fuck it
no panties
y’all remind me not to bend over
flashed DM
he was talking to his mom
lmao
he caught me in the kitchen while everyone was in the living room
his finger went straight into my cunt
no warm-up
this is your fault, he said
all is calm
all is bright
oh holy fucking shit
my collar is on top of the animal crackers on the counter by the rice & sugar
RED ALERT RED ALERT!!!
my Actual Dad kept trying to talk to me
collar went into the drawer w/ the rubberbands & batteries
Daddy cornered me in the office
i said no no not here please anyone could walk by
he acted like he didn’t hear me
two fingers inside of me in a second
his mouth on mine
he bit me
tongue choking me
i came so quickly
he left me gasping, pulling my skirt down
we opened presents
& i made sure to stay away from him
but when we took pictures
i had to stand in front of him
he gripped my shoulder
then my bare ass
he squeezed so hard i would have squeaked
but i couldn’t
& my mouth got thick with spit
& i couldn’t help thinking about his cock ramming my throat later
i shouldn’t have teased
he was going to hurt me
family went home
we’re alone now
my cunt is aching
my spit is thick
& he’s locking the doors
he’s going to give me my present now
Sexy Things Doms Say:
‘Did I say you could stop?’
‘I wasn’t asking.’
‘Now, kitten.’
*mocks begging*
'You look so pretty on your knees.’
*commanding* 'Cum for me. Now.’
'Wanna say that again?’
'See? That’s a good little slut.’
'I want to hear you beg for it.’
'You’ll take it all and you’ll like it, princess.’
'That’s a good babygirl.’
'Didn’t you learn? I guess I just have to punish you harder.’
'Stay still for Daddy.’
*shoves fingers down throat* 'I told you to be quiet.’
'You feel so good, little one.’
'I love when you squirm for me.’
#DenialDecember Day 1
The scene: a couple of weeks ago. A frustrated girl. A sadist, enjoying her suffering.
“Honestly! We have Juno, Locktober, NOvember - what’s next, Denial December?”
He smiled. “Yes.”
So here we are. Last night I was so desperate. He’s put me on anal only - this time I can touch my clit, but I can’t fuck my pussy. It’s my own fault. I told him I was a virgin again. “I haven’t had sex in six months, and I was baptised, so technically I am born again. Therefore… I am a virgin again.”
“I love that,” he said, “I guess that means no fucking your pussy. We wouldn’t want to break your born again hymen.”
I wanted to argue - I did argue, but not hard enough to change his mind. I don’t actually fuck my pussy that often, I prefer simple clitoral edges, but being told I’m not allowed anymore obviously made me very desperate. It’s like when someone tells you you can’t have a biscuit, and you didn’t even want a biscuit, but now that you’ve been told you can’t have it, you do want it.
I just compared my vagina to a biscuit. I’m clearly losing my mind already.
I was desperate. I’d had a ruin the night before, with permission, and it had amplified the horniness. I don’t want to cum, I told him. I don’t know what I want. I’m just so desperate. My clit was starting to hurt from edging so much. “Please put me on no touch,” I begged, “I can’t stop and it hurts.”
He’s a sadist. I should learn to remember this. “Don’t stop. I like it hurting.”
I touched and almost cried. It felt so good to edge, but it was really starting to hurt too. I cried and begged, and then he said something that made my world collapse.
“Get the menthol.”
I wanted to argue. This is something we mostly do for punishment, and I wanted to say that I had been a good girl and that I didn’t want to hurt myself like that.
But part of me was craving the pain. I wanted him to be cruel to me. I was scared, but I wanted him to hurt me.
So I said ‘Yes Sir’, and found some menthol.
He told me to rub it on my clit and keep rubbing while counting to 100. At 100, I could either cum or stop, but if I came I wasn’t allowed to stop rubbing just as hard for another count of 50.
The burning became unbearable at 50, but I cried and kept rubbing. At 70 I started to feel myself getting wet despite the excruciating pain. At 80 I was getting close to the edge. By the time I got to 90 I was fighting to hold off my orgasm. I wanted to cum but I needed the pain to stop. At 100 I pulled away.
I meant to just stop. I meant to just pull away and leave myself well-edged and hurting. But as soon as I stopped, I came, and ruined an orgasm.
I should have kept rubbing. I didn’t mean to ruin. I had wanted the pain to stop, but the ruin had increased it, made it worse, and the burning was unbelievable.
I cried as he comforted me.
“Well done. Good girl. I’m very pleased.”
And that made it all worth it. That’s all I wanted to hear.
My poor clit still hurts today. But I’ve edged three times today so far, and it’s only early afternoon.
I’ve been born again. It’s amazing.
Happy Denial December.
That’s the way to do it.
Oh night, divine.
Beautifully told, @in-heart-and-soul
Now I fancy a biscuit.
A dom telling their sub to strip for them, sitting with their legs crossed and lifting their eyebrow when their sub hesitates to lift their shirt up.
“I told you to strip for me”.
Soft, Sweet
A story with a twist.
It started with a mint. That is to say, for him, it started with a mint. Perhaps for her it started earlier. Perhaps she saw him from across the room and was intrigued, moved closer, sat nearby, hoping to for him to notice her, to say something. Perhaps. But from his point of view, it all started with a mint. He tipped one into his hand and popped it into his mouth and this gave her an opportunity to ask him if she could have one. Of course she could. That sparked the conversation.
“Are you here for the rope workshop?” he asked. She hadn’t known there was a workshop. She had come here to this shady area of town, behind an anonymous metal door and down into a basement retrofitted like a Japanese dojo for the performances that evening. A night of shibari, of rope spiralling around flesh, of bodies strung from bamboo, limbs arched and twisted into pretty, painful sculptures.
She had spent the week at a conference, she told him, interspersing long work days teaching and networking in crisp, sensible suits with the occasional escape to an art gallery or browsing the local boutiques. Now her work was done, she had rid herself of business clothes and chosen instead a comfortable woollen dress that clung to her body. She needed to relax.
As they watched the performances, he stole sidelong glances at her. She was quite beautiful. But there were many beautiful people here. Some pierced, some ornately tattooed, jet black hair, straw blonde, smooth skin, piercings.
Yet her? Something about the way she held herself, the poise and elegance of her spirit, reverberated from her body out into the air. She almost quivered, like a deer startled and stilled. Later, he would come to understand why.
But right now, he wanted to lay one hand upon the nape of her neck and feel that tension, to squeeze it and make her melt.
Between performances, they spoke of their work and their travels. She was easy to talk with, warm and sweet. Their conversation hushed every time the lights dimmed and another performance began. The last, most traditional, most potent, accompanied by a perfect selection of music, beats throbbing as the rigger suspended his model in neatly presented ties. As he drew the cords and eased her between positions, her eyes fluttered closed and she breathed little gasps and moans, right on the edge of whimpering or perhaps weeping, until he drew her into a final, brave posture, supported only by her legs, thighs drawn widely apart, which drew from her a low, animal moan which became lost in the audience’s applause as the lights snapped off.
They sat for a moment in the darkness.
“Perhaps,” she said, with those lips, “you’d like to get a drink?”
They found themselves in the early hours at a sumptuous cocktail bar, ebony tables, rich red velvet seats and brass lighting fixtures set dim and warm. The place was devoid of custom this late, just one idle barman who barely noticed them enter but was happy enough to serve them and leave them alone. He brought them martini espressos. They joked it would get them merry but keep them alert.
But they were already alert. They had been since witnessing the expression on the model’s face during the final performance. Alert and aroused.
Their conversation became intimate. They discussed the mechanisms of subspace and how she had wandered the streets, the day after a scene, seeing the colours differently, finding strange affinity in abstract art which seemed to echo her mental state. They spoke of impact play, of open hands and canes, of hypnosis and orgasm control, of science and kink and sensory deprivation.
Her opennesses opened him. Demure yet assured, she was, and fiercely intelligent. He felt no taboos. They could speak of anything, consider erotic ideas like gallery visitors appreciating a sculpture. Or explorers pondering a map.
She told him she’d been experimenting with denial, edging herself for days, weeks, but avoiding release. Initially it had been difficult but as time went on she began to crave the constant arousal. It filled her mind throughout the day with visions of release, her dreams at night with tantalising narratives of further teasing. Then she found being in this eternal plateau sharpened her senses. Every brush of clothing upon her skin, every cross of her legs and, especially, the touch of another body, no matter how innocent, moistened her, slicked her thighs with arousal, filled her with a yearning to be filled. Something had begun to change in her demeanour, too. She found herself increasingly compliant, increasingly eager to please, ever more submissive.
He considered her pale, elegant throat and how perfectly it might fit into his hand.
He eyed her long, lithe arms and how they might best be bound, tight against her slim body, leaving the rest of her skin free for him to caress and punish.
He thought of teasing her, allowing his fingers to dance ever closer to her most sensitive, swelling nipples, ever closer but ever avoiding the absolute centre of sensation. It would be a terrible, calculated torture.
The apologetic bartender found a moment to approach. The bar was closing. They had to move on, somewhere.
She was looking at him, her eyelids half closed, cheeks flushed.
She had a suggestion.
Back at her hotel, with her eyes bound by a blindfold, the wash of the sea filling her ears and drowning out all exterior noise, he got his wish and with one hand lightly around her neck, with the other he squeezed and pressed the tension from the muscles in her shoulders, causing her to moan.
They had outlined a menu of sorts. In additional to the sensory deprivation the ocean sounds provided, the audio contained a set of binaural beats that would lead her deep into a state of mental relaxation. Every touch would be magnified and this, combined with her weeks of denial and edging, would make things almost unbearably intense.
One thing above all, she had asked, was that she wanted to avoid release. She had pledged to save herself for at least another week. He promised to help keep her pledge.
He followed the flow of the faint ocean noises leaking from the earbuds he’d given her, his movements mimicking the wash of the surf as he rolled her and pressed her, squeezing the tension from her muscles, running nails across her skin, clasping her throat to make her stiffen and whimper, rolling her like water against itself.
As some point the audio faded into silence and he relieved her of the earbuds, leaving only the brush of their own bodies against each other.
“Look at that,” he murmured, as he stroked his long fingers down her neck and she gasped and her hips bucked. “I’m barely touching you and your body is trying to fuck something. Is that you doing that? Can you control it or does it just happen?” He pinched her flesh and her body jerked, thrusting her groin forward, seeking a touch yet absent. “Amazing. All that edging gives your body a mind of its own, directly connected to sensation.”
He began to play with this new instrument, to press and squeeze her, eliciting moans and gasps, as he growled and whispered into her ears about her reactions.
After a while, he took rope and bound her arms, allowing working end to traverse her body, binding and fixing her in place, even as she writhed against the cord.
Along the way, he paused to knead her flesh, press sensitive, previously unconsidered points around her body, sending pulses of pleasure through her, making her thrust and grind her leaking lips against the bed.
“Remember, don’t get too close,” he would murmur into her ear, “stay on the edge.”
He finished his ropework by laying a wicked knot between her legs, just below her clit, where it teased and stroked her labia but fell a hair’s width short of her sensitive centre. No matter how she writhed or strained against the bonds, it would press near but not quite directly upon that place she yearned it would.
He would circle her nipples, spiralling closer to but ever avoiding the swollen centres, which in its excruciating way only made them harder. This dance between fingers at her nipples and knot by her clit felt like an ever nearing, ever elusive peak building within her until somehow her body became confused and his kneading of her muscles felt like fingers on her clit or warm lips fastening around her nipples and she began to whisper “fuck, fuck, fuck” as she tipped precariously towards the long fall into orgasm.
“Be careful,” he whispered. “Be good.”
His fingers relaxed upon her skin, no longer kneading and pressing, merely cradling her. Sparks of electric pleasure glistened about her body, with the blindfold still on she almost thought she could see them. She felt herself tipping… tipping…
The first slap on her buttock didn’t hurt at all, it merely startled her, shook her attention away from her edge.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered.
The second slap, a little firmer and more intentionally placed, elicited a little gasp followed by a faint groan. The next few made her moan and writhe as the colour flowed into her pale cheeks. And then it was rhythmic and hard and measured.
The begging heat within her groin became overshadowed by the burning in her buttocks. Far from taking her back from the edge, the entire edge dissolved into something else, a blend of pain and pleasure and heat radiating from her cheeks up her back and spine, down her legs, into her brain. It became everything. It became overwhelming. She found she was gasping deep breaths, almost sobs, and somehow she had become untied and somehow her blindfold was gone and she was simply staring up at his smile and then she curled herself around him and clasped at him.
He held her, squeezed her, rocked her gently, as she trembled and gasped and subsided.
At some point, they slipped under the bedcovers and into exhausted slumber.
In the early hours, half way between sleep and wakefulness, as if in a soft, sweet dream, he found her lips touching his and couldn’t help but respond. Their kisses and probing tongues were as gentle as clouds brushing past each other in the sky.
She moaned and arched and flexed her back, ground herself into his thigh. Her breathing quickened, her hips began to jerk. He laid one hand on the small of her back, slowing her movement.
“Careful,” he said. “We don’t want you to break any pledges.”
She breathed something between a sigh and a whimper, her whole body shivering with yearning.
“Although …”
Her breath caught.
“…you’ve been such a good girl all night,” he murmured. Beneath his hand, resting between her breasts and her throat, he felt a deep warm flush. “Maybe we can make an exception. Maybe you deserve a reward. It would be such a satisfying conclusion to all this intensity.” As if accidentally, he shifted his body in the bed, causing his thigh to rub across her aching, sopping lips. “Would you like that?”
She was so still, panting with desire, torn between the urge to give in and a duty to remain true to her promise. As if she were edging the very thought of giving in. Edging closer to the idea of breaking her chastity, then pulling away from that thought. Closer, and then-
He grasped the back of her neck, firmly, pulled her head towards his, her ear right beside his mouth, and demanded: “Do you want to come?”
Her eyelids half closed at the thought. She’d been withholding herself from release for so long. It had been an intense, frustrating night. He imagined she’d lain awake, feverish with arousal, ears straining for any faint movement that suggested he was awake, would touch her again.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, pressing the small of her back towards his thigh, squeezing her sensitive lips against the muscle there, tensing it to tease her. “You’ve earned it. You deserve it.”
Too much. Too tempting. She nodded her head.
“Is that a yes? Say it,” he said.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Ask for it,” he said. “Properly.”
“Please,” she whispered. “Please let me come.”
He held still for a moment longer, a curious, unreadable expression on his face. Then he released her neck and…
–> CHOOSE YOUR CONCLUSION <–
But you may only choose one. You’ll have to wait three days to choose another conclusion. And then you should read the whole story again. Be good…
Hypnotic Mindfuck Conclusion
Ruined Orgasm Conclusion
It all started with a mint.
Hitachi Slut
There are few things I’m more thankful for than Lucy’s insatiability. She came to the city poor and hungry. Got a job. Got a tiny apartment. Threw herself into our little circle of friends.
I got her hooked on coming over to use my Hitachi early on. She didn’t have one and she was too broke to get one, thank god.
I used mine on her after having her over for a spanking and she lost her mind. She came and came until she couldn’t talk. After that, she would text me every few days asking to come over and use it.
“Pls I need your hitachi! I’ll be fast,” she would beg.
I would let her and sit at my desk writing as she laid in my bed with her legs open putting on such a pretty display.
A week later she texted again, begging. I ignored the text for a while, letting her stew.
“Maybe. I’m a little busy today and feeling greedy. If you come over to use it I think you should let me fuck you,” I wrote back, a little nervous because I hadn’t done that with her yet.
“Perfect!” She replied.
A week later my demands grew.
“Fine, but I have friends over so they get to watch.”
She sent an emoji of a monkey covering its mouth.
“How many friends?”
“Me, my girlfriend, and this other couple. They all want to see. Can I show them your picture?”
A long pause.
“Okay. Show them any pictures you want. I really need to use it. They can watch if they want.”
With permission granted I showed my friends the dirty things Lucy had sent me when trying to get me to let her use my toy.
“Okay, they are game. You better put on a show.”
And boy did she. She squirmed, naked on the floor in front of the couch as we sat and watched her blush and hide her face as she whined and moaned and raised her hips up in the air as she came.
It was addictive. I started having nightmares she would get her own toy and stop coming over. I thought about buying up ever Hitachi in the city.
I knew it wouldn’t last, so all that summer I had her come over twice a week and use my toy and let me use her like a toy and see what kinds of disgusting things I could get her to do.
Practice
“We need to practice, pumpkin. You want to be a good girl for daddy, don’t you?”
She whimpered around his cock, pushed uncomfortably far into the back of her throat. Another rough thrust into her mouth like he couldn’t help himself, and daddy finally pulled out so she could catch her breath and speak. He stroked her cheek tenderly, fingers caressing the overwhelmed tears that had rolled down her cheek while he’d fucked her face. “I know you’re nervous,” he gentled. “You’ve never had anything that big up your bottom before, have you? But you’re going to be such a good little girl for daddy. You’re going to take it for me, aren’t you, pumpkin, even if it hurts a little?”
Pitiful mewls escaped her lips as she nodded into the hand cupping her face. She wanted to be a good girl and she wanted it to be overwhelming and hurt. Her swollen cunt was slick with the affirmation she couldn’t voice out loud.
“That’s it, that’s my good girl,” daddy cooed as he pushed her bottom up against the fat, neon pink cock sticking out obscenely from the wall. She moaned and fussed as the bulbous head stretched her delicate rosebud too wide to feel comfortable. It was so thick, and it was too much, and her cunt was so swollen. Scattered hazy thoughts flitted across her mind, she wanted it, she didn’t, she had to get off, she wanted more. But even as she curled her bottom away from the invading monster, daddy’s hands were there, on her hips, pushing her relentlessly back. Filling her with his own need, if not yet his own cock.
“Shhh, open up, pumpkin. I know it hurts. But you like that, don’t you? Your cunt is dripping.” And it was, because his fingers had found her out. She closed her eyes tight in shame. Good girls shouldn’t like to take it so roughly up their bottoms. Good girls wouldn’t get so hot it felt like their blood might boil.
Finally, it was there. Seated deep in her tight, shameful hole. Stretching her tender bottom, and already it was starting to feel a little better. But she cried softly at the shame anyway, because she could feel her cunt drooling down her thighs, and she desperately didn’t want to like this.
“Such a good girl, pumpkin. Such a dirty, little girl for your daddy. Now we can practice,” he spoke firmly as he guided his cock back to her trembling lips and pushed inside. “Someday, pumpkin, there will be someone else back there fucking your naughty little bottom hole while daddy fucks your face. It’s a little overwhelming, isn’t it?” She wasn’t meant to respond, of course, since she couldn’t. Not with his cock fucking into her throat so fast and deep, and not with his hands pulling her bottom along the bright fat cock and pushing it roughly back down. “That’s why we need to practice, pumpkin. Remember, you made me promise that we would. Daddy intends to keep all of his promises.”
There’s nothing better than a shy sub slowly being corrupted. Starting off with blushy faces and small gasps that transform into gasping moans and loud begs. “When did my little slut get so dirty hmm?”
It’s too late to kinkshame Lestat probably
i’m kinkshaming him anyway
Anne Rice is going to sue everyone on this post
Anne Rice is too busy pretending that Lestat isn’t queer as fuck.
Her [part 2]
I ravaged my own lip as my body writhed on the sheets, my hands curled into fists around the material as if I could also hold onto my fast oncoming orgasm. I had never been so close so quickly. My back arched from the mattress as her tongue slipped from my folds to flick over my clit.
“You have a fucking delicious cunt,” she hummed, before parting my inner lips and pushing her tongue deeper. The pleasure was so excruciatingly intense, wave upon wave flooding my senses and stealing any self-control that remained. Her sudden merciless swirling on my clit, over and over, claimed me. I couldn’t hold back any longer. Finally conceding, I howled as the orgasm exploded up my spine. Goosebumps prickled my skin and I sank back into the mattress, little aftershocks forcing low moans from deep in my throat.
I breathed out and eventually opened my eyes. Onto her: lust in her gaze, amusement on her lips. She was trying to hold it in and failing.
A chuckle, “Babe, already?”
All the heat flooded to my cheeks. I’d never had to hold back before; usually it was the rush to cum before the attention returned to the penis. I was that teenage boy with an older woman. Losing within single digit minutes. My groan. Her delighted laugh.
“Well, we’ll just have to practise, won’t we?” A devilish baring of teeth, sparkling eyes on mine, as she pushed my thighs open again.
[to be continued]