dirty talk – Page 2

Fuck Baseball, Part One

Craftsmate and I had determined that for every three times he had threatened to do something, he maybe carried the threat to completion once. This was, of course, in reference to whenever I was a brat while we were playing around.

And, naturally, we were having this conversation while I was tied up beside him on my bed, lying on my stomach and resting my head on my pillow.

Seemingly out of nowhere, he started laughing. I blinked and craned my neck to look up at him. “What’s so funny?” He shook his head, but I persisted. “Come on, tell me. Come on.”

“I’m just thinking,” he finally said, “about all the stuff I want to do to you when you say I don’t do what I threaten to.”

“Like what?” I asked.

He reached down and stroked my shoulder. I cannot remember the entire list or even begin to do it justice when I tell you it was some of the hottest stuff just sort of casually spelled out in a list.

Maybe if he’s really nice he’ll write it out and I can reproduce it here.

While by no measure mute, Switch isn’t usually a very outspoken person in public situations. By this I mean he’s usually not one to speak his mind, to get too blunt. He’s fairly polite.

So, it’s even sexier when he does stuff like shoving me up against the wall of his place once we’re alone after being out with other people, grabs me through my clothes as if he’s going to tear right through them and murmurs in my ear, “I love when I finally get my hands on you”.

Because contrasts are hot.

Meet Switch, Part Four

Switch claimed he’d never spanked a girl before. At first, he tended to go a little light. I urged him that I could handle harder. “Really?” He’d ask and then I’d hear the smile in his voice, “awesome.” Somewhere between impressed and inspired, he worked up rather quickly to hitting hard, to the point that I finally pushed one of my hands down to block his.

“You know, Ivy, I’m torn whether or not to move that hand and keep going,” he said. I didn’t reply. I was going to let him explore this.

But, instead, he moved his hand back down to my cunt. “I don’t think you want me to stop. You’re soaking wet.” I blushed as he ran his fingers over my slit, “now, why are you so wet? Only dirty fucking sluts get wet from spankings like this. Look at this.” He grabbed my hair with his free hand and jerked my head up. He brought his fingers in front of my face: they were coated, shining. He moved them back down to my cunt.

I practically cried out when, after teasing over my slit for a while, he finally started rubbing my clit. My gaze became unfocused, I was reduced to a series of “oohs” and moans. He chuckled, “you’re getting even wetter. You filthy little thing.” He kept going, saying things that made me blush, that made me feel simultaneously precious and degraded.

He brought me back into the moment when he slid a few fingers into me. His hands were big, his fingers large and long and imposing. I gasped a bit and lurched forward. Still clothed, still composed – a stark contrast to myself – Switch just pushed them deeper and laughed.

“Admit that I’m your favorite,” I told the Southern Gentleman last night, teasingly.

He smirked, “shut up and give me your cunt."

I sat back and moved my panties aside, starting to rub my clit. "Nah, I think I’m just going to take care of myself.”

“You,” he said, “and your tight little cunt and your hot little mouth are my favorite.”

“Oh, now you’re just saying that,” I pouted.

“Ivy.”

“I don’t know, the last time I wanted you I didn’t get what I wanted,” I slid a finger in slowly and dipped my head back, “so I think I may just spend some alone time with your favorite little cunt. You can watch.”

“Darling, if I fucked you every time one of us was aroused, we’d never get anything done,” he replied, “and that’s why you’re my favorite.”