She knows how much pain she’s causing, and may temper her stroking with short, sharp spanks, often over already paddled skin; I squeal in pain; the spikes of the vampire gloves on raw skin is desperately painful.
It wasn’t the first time I’d seen Nicole have sex, and it wouldn’t be the last: the perils of being best friends with a cam model. As she frigged herself towards orgasm, she stopped to tell me to set up the camera and join in.
It’s the fun exhibitionism.
It’s the fleer as the partner surprises with a brief flash of a lewd display.
It’s the all-day foreplay.
It’s the being prepared to try new things.
But what were we doing? She was gently rubbing her fingers across my trousers and no-one had said a word. No-one had objected or noticed. I closed my eyes and savoured her exquisite touch, pressing harder and firmer on my cock, as she rubbed it through my cotton garments.
My wife can take me to the brink of orgasm and leave me on edge. I will be desperate, anxious, squirming for a release as her hands slide over my lubricated cock. She knows the pleasure it’s causing, and revels in the power in her fingertips. She will stop and kiss, before bringing me to the cliff-face again and again.
I wore a thong, a tight black thong, as I ran around the pitch. I tried not to feel self-conscious, but had hundreds of people watching as my cock bobbed obscenely in the minimalist underwear. Our right winger wore a white tutu and pink boots, while our goalkeeper was wearing something see-through.
Edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel and with a foreword by Alison Tyler, the book contains nineteen hot short stories of the Mile High Club. Other contributors to the book include Kristina Wright, Sommer Marsden, Elizabeth Coldwell and over a dozen other talented authors who seduce the reader with salacious words woven into fantastic tales.
Back in the nineties, it was the newsgroups: I spent a lot of time reading them with the tales posted. I found incredible authors such as Rachel Ross, who could write about topics that were well past my red lines and make them sexy and enticing. I found Victorian books, especially Victorian erotica to be loaded with fantastic prose that relentlessly coaxed vivid scenes in my mind.
She looked divine. The dominant pose of her body, staring away from me and shunning my presence as I looked into her cold lair. The gloved hands, ready to probe my body with malign intentions. The touch of her buttocks, her fingers already prising the buttcheeks apart to receive my kisses on her bud: suddenly that was all I was good for. That’s all I wanted to.
Indeed, at no point in my life have I ever had sex to produce children; they’ve been by-products of a soup of uncontrolled lust and irresponsible carelessness. But, from Gaia’s perspective, the overriding reason to give me dangly bits below the waist, and an appropriate slot in the female gender, was to create babies: to reproduce, and continue my line of genes.
A chastity cage was the first condition of their reconciliation. The cold steel snapping shut over his cock drove home the reality of his predicament. He begged, but she remained resolute: her patience stretched taut by his vociferous pleading, whimpering as she slid the stout padlock closed on his genital liberty.
Take Maria at University, for example. She was a biter. No penetration was complete without the crazy minx sinking her teeth into the flesh of the man as he pounded his cock into her. His screams would increase as she neared her orgasm. The flailing cries of the aroused man, in pain and pleasure, totally rocked her boat. We had a very short-lived relationship: I had bite marks all over my arms.
This is all edible: 400g of coloured white chocolate that I’ve spent my evening pouring into a Smarties tube, and then sculpting into a cock and balls with some short and curlies behind the cock.
For those that are not familiar with the term, queening is when a lady sits on the face of her partner for forced cunnilingus or analingus. Obviously it can be part of our BDSM games: the submissive husband eagerly satisfying his dominant wife!
She had to get it right, especially if she would be teaching his children, and he was going to help her. Ten spanks for every mistake in her story; they agreed. The naked au-pair cheekily smiled as he read out her tale.
Nature has enjoyed a damn good giggle at the male species of homo sapiens, opting to hide our special spot a few inches up our arse. Perhaps, the gods were subtly pointing out to mankind that a bit of masculine bisexuality is the way to go!
She cackled. “Your little princess has found an advert for a 25-man gangbang. They need a woman and the fee will make this month’s payment. She’ll be naked, wet, wearing heels. Just like this.
I’ve asked her to try and find my limits, by hunting for my safeword.
Which was quite a bit of a problem.
After all, how can a sadist punish a masochist?
She cried with every stinging blow landing on her soft buttocks, as his right hand explored the crevice underneath, slowing probing her opening under the pretence of holding her still. Her pussy moistened as she felt humbled; accepting his rough touch probing her with begrudging horniness.
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I love being naked. I like the feel of warm sun on my bare skin, or the cooling breeze wafting over my body. I adore the liberating feeling of nakedness, unshackled from my clothes and free from restriction. I love seeing my wife in all her glory, at home and doing normal things, naked. It’s refreshing and lovely.
“Four hundred and twenty volts. The crisp sound of crackling flesh, the sizzling smell of roasted cock, and the agonising screaming of an electrically castrated man. These are some of my favourite things,” she said softly and picked up the control box from the floor.
I was repulsed. I was disgusted. In some places, I felt physically sick; a deep revulsion that came not from the throat but from the pit of my stomach.
My hands slid around her waist as I held her in her smooth second skin. She slid from my grasp and giggled as she looked at me; she had a dark wet spot over her mouth where we’d kissed and I guessed I had the same.
The Greeks recognised four different types of love: Agape, Eros, Philia and Storge. Storge, or affection, is the love felt between parents for their family and offspring, but the other three all exist between my wife and I in our relationship.
Her smell of her fear permeates the cell; her face is riddled with terror. She’s new, she’ll learn. I’m going to fuck her up but not kill her. The whip indicates my dominance, a hard smack across her thighs reinforces it. She screeches; the sound of her pain is nothing but blissful music to my ears.
I wanted more as she groped; Anne was relaxed as her friend softly fumbled with my engorging cock; barely audible groans came from my left as I closed my eyes, savouring every movement of her supple fingers on me.
I love unusual items and stumbled across the male “C” String (the female version is here). My curiosity got the better of me, so I parted with £3. It’s pretty much what expected it to be, and as I sat down to watch Arsenal vs Wigan, I shunned my naturist ideals and wore it.
After all, parabens are known to mimic oestrogen and both glycerine and sodium benzoate can irritate the skin. Other lubricants have been found to include ingredients that assist with HIV transmission: not great things to be putting “down there.”
She wanted to go further, and I obliged: I kidnapped her walking home from work, bundling her unceremoniously into a van and ripping her clothes into shreds as I tore them from her body. Eight masked men had their way with her in the warehouse as we assaulted her, striking her bare skin with our terrifying arsenal of whips, canes, floggers and crops.