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Reposted as Text because the Content Source Was Taken Down (boohiss)

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After I woke up from my nap, he wanted to go at it again. I was a little sore from how hard he had fucked me from behind and how many times he had made me cum, but I was still soaking wet. 

He climbed off of the bed and pulled me by my legs over to the edge. Shoving my knees up into my chest, he entered me again and grabbed hold of one of my feet. 

I had painted my toenails the other day and when he saw them, he was pretty taken with it. Say what you will about whether or not he has a foot fetish, but he pulled the foot up to his mouth and commented on how much he loved the color on my little toes.

Licking over the sole of my foot, he grinned down at me as he thrusted hard into my sore cunt. Turning his head, he bit down on the side of my foot before rolling his tongue over it.

I literally cannot get over how hot the look in his eyes was when he did that. 

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Full Service, Part Two

I should begin by saying I hate reading the things I write. Even if I think it’s well-done, I try to avoid hearing my words read aloud, either in my voice or someone else’s. It makes me feel too transparent. I can’t really explain it.

Except, I’ve never had anything dirty I’ve written about someone else read aloud. I’ve had dirty little notes I’ve written to people read back to me, and sometimes I’ve even been forced to read them aloud myself. But, it was always in my voice and about me and what I wanted.

All that said, I really, really enjoyed Bright’s reading of my story. Not only because it was removed from me and about a fictional couple, but because Bright did it damn well. It was sexy and adorable and sweet.

So, Craftsmate decided to see for himself how much I enjoyed it. He ordered me to pull it up on my phone and he plugged in a pair of headphones. After I put them in my ears, he hit play and watched with a smirk as I listened to the story.

Somewhere in the middle, I can’t tell when, I closed my eyes. And, somehow, Craftsmate wound up holding my face in his hand while pushing the thumb of his other in my mouth. And, yes, I wound up sucking it.

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I like when I’m in so deep that I am utterly convinced that being able to suck on your thumb is something of a gift. It hinges on the idea that having some piece of you, however small, either earned or given in good grace, is simply enough to satisfy. It’s a kind of worship where that person, for a small amount of time, suddenly becomes just about everything.