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There’s a lot that’s really hot about this photograph. The coat tossed on the floor, the exhibitionism of it, the way Stoya’s gasping.

But I legitimately can’t focus on any of that because look at how pale Stoya is, she’s practically reflecting light. And so all I can think is, “dude, get her away from the window, she’s gonna get a sunburn!”

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One time, Saltine and I were lying together in my bed and Pup did this. I came harder than I usually would from someone just fingering me, listening to them moan beside me, reaching over to touch them when they got close.

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“Don’t you ever tell me you’re calling my bluff, sweetheart.”

Turns out he wasn’t bluffing.

I’d elaborate but I’m kind of dying of blushies.

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Blush city.

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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.

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“Why are you so cruel?”

It’s something that she asks from time to time, though the circumstances often vary. Sometimes, it’s in a vaguely smug sort of way. Sometimes it’s a whine. Or through tears. Or under a moan. 

His answer, however, is always the same.

“Because you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

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Sometimes, I fantasize about being teased in this position. I’ll be laying on my stomach, usually reading something or waking up from a nap, and the thought will just briefly cross my mind of someone easing my pants down or my skirt up. 

The panties stay on, of course. There’s an understanding that when this sort of thing happens I won’t be allowed to cum, that isn’t the purpose of it. It’s just a little reminder, if nothing else, of my availability, my vulnerability. It shows what sort of grinding, moaning mess can be reduced to in a few minutes of encountering fingers through fabric. And as soon as I’m there, they’re gone.

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Because, honestly, the promise of getting fingered by Marky Mark is the only thing that’s going to get me on one of those things.

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Jack and Jitters, Part 3

The Southern Gentleman reached down, found my clit, and started to rub it. He tugged again on the stockings, pulling my body taut. He was standing up almost completely straight, staring down at me with almost the hint of a smile in his eyes, but otherwise about as casually as one would look flipping a pancake.

“You know, you’re sopping wet,” he said. He ran his fingers down my slit before wiping them on my face. He slapped his hand back down to my cunt and kept going, rubbing my clit hard. Occasionally, I fought. He would just smack my cunt and keep going, staring down at me with a look that was somewhere between severe and completely nonchalant. 

He briefly let go of the stockings around my wrists to pull the nightgown over my breasts. He grabbed my wrists once more, pulled them up, and leaned his face down into my chest. The combined attention he was giving my breasts and clit was bringing me close already.

“No,” I tried to close my legs once more.

He smacked my cunt roughly. I cried out. “What did you say?”

“No." 

He smacked it again. "What was that?" I huffed and ground myself against his hand. He smacked it once more. "What did you say?” By now, he was standing up completely straight. I was close. My body was trembling. 

“Whatever you want,” I moaned out.

“Whatever you want…?" 

"Whatever you want, Sir,” I managed to gasp out. 

He chuckled, “good answer.” He looked me over and leaned down a bit closer to me, “you’re going to cum, aren’t you?” I nodded. “Do you think you deserve it?” He asks me this question a lot, just about every time I’m about to experience an orgasm. It’s hard. It’s like self-grading. You don’t want to over-inflate yourself and miss out because of your lack of modesty. You don’t want to undersell yourself and miss out.

“I don’t know,” I moaned.

He pulled harder on the stockings that held my wrists and chuckled, “I think you should. Go on. You don’t even have to ask." 

I came hard. I would have probably crumpled to the floor if he wasn’t holding me up. It was the sort that involved my entire body, the kind that left me absolutely spent afterwards. I get incredibly tender after I’ve cum and he knows it, so I was a little shocked to feel him still rubbing my clit with the same intensity.

"I’m done,” I gasped out, “come on, I’m done. It…I’m tender. I’m done.”

With this, he smirked and leaned down a bit closer to me. He was grinning wide, almost as if he were about to tell a joke. His accent came out. “Well, I didn’t say I was, baby.”

sexisnottheenemy: Nick & Meredith by Kevin Loreaux