As you instructed, My Lady, I am recounting, from my perspective, what occurred last Thursday evening. If it would give you pleasure to write it, I would be so grateful to read your perspective on that night.
I arrived at your door at 6:56 PM. Knowing that you value promptness and punish earliness (seen as uncontrolled impulse) as much as you do tardiness (an obvious demonstration of a lack of respect), I waited four minutes before ringing your doorbell.
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He sat on the stern of the beautiful fifty five foot motor yacht in a deck chair soaking up some rays. He wore nothing but a pair of ragged cut off jeans and deck shoes. A battered camo field hat was pulled low over the brown eyes. He watched as they walked down the dock. They had caught his eye when they exited the waterside restaurant and stood looking down the docks at the boats. He was surprised when they came down the steps and walked slowly down the docks.
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She was kneeling astride my chest, completely naked. One hand was behind her, holding my cock. My wrists and ankles were tied to the four corners of the bed. I was helpless, turned on and feeling thoroughly humiliated... but still incredibly turned on. The hardness of my cock was a very concise testament to that fact. It's not like she was even pumping it, or alternately squeezing and relaxing her hand. She was just holding it. Using it as a barometer -- a guide to my state of sexual arousal.
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Kara was one of the hottest girls I had ever seen. Long blond hair. Nice little tight ass. Good sized, firm tits. Full pouty lips and eyes that scream "Fuck me!" She was wearing a very short red skirt that showcased her luscious legs, and a pair of heels that accentuated her sexy stems.
Too bad she was my roommate's girlfriend.
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They say that gold is power, but "they" are mostly male, and thus idiots.
On the day she decided to stop living on goodwill and bland virtue, instead using her power for its hell-intended purpose, the witch did not begin dabbling in alchemy. After all, what do men pay gold for? Surely that's more powerful.
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She'd had too much to drink. She knew that, but how could she decline an offer from an old friend, especially one that had been friends with her and her husband when he was still living. Grace had been a widow for nearly a year, spending most of which trying to keep it together after losing a husband she had adored and at far too young an age. She was now a 32 year old widow with no kids and trying to readjust her life. This had been the first night she'd made herself accept an offer from a friend to go out to a bar.
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"Oh fuck, I'm late!"
Speaking quickly into her cell phone, 41-year old Natalie Franklin grinds her white high heel harder down on the accelerator of the BMW. On the other end of the line, a very girlish laugh is heard.
"What are you giggling at, Tracy?"
"It's just funny," she vaguely announces in a very soft voice.
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When my fiancé and I graduated from college, times were tough. There wasn't a single employer that was hiring. For a while I waited tables as we struggled to pay basic bills. After putting in hundreds of applications, I finally received an invitation for an interview from a company called QJ Productions.
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When she contacted me via here, she explained that she'd read my story and it had turned her on. My shameful story. The one about my desire to act as human toilet paper.
In the exchange of emails that followed, Sarah told me she thought she wasn't anything special, just an ordinary lady of a certain age, a divorcee who worked in the City and right this minute was single and fancy free.
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Sandra looked at herself in the mirror, smoothing down her little black dress. The nervousness she was feeling didn't seem to show at all, but she wasn't certain if she would be able to keep up the façade of coolness, or if she would be able to go through with this. She ran her eyes up and down her reflection, pleased with what she saw, even after forty years.
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