Jupiter Grant
Bio
Writer, Poet, Narrator, Audiobook Producer, Freelancer.
As you may have guessed, Jupiter Grant is my nom de plume. I’m a purveyor of fiction, poetry, pop culture, and whatever else takes my fancy on any given day.
Stories (60/0)
The Painter
I wasn’t always a fan of semen. In fact, I would go so far as to say that in my younger years, I actually had an aversion to spunk. It was all gluggy and gluey, with a whiff of chlorine and ammonia that made me think of Windex window-cleaner mixed with a dash of fruit juice. Though I loved giving head, I could never bring myself to swallow the resulting discharge, and when my boyfriends would cum, I would let the semen dribble out of my open mouth onto their lower belly and groin. I would perform this little spit-out ritual in the sexiest way I knew how; looking up with a cheeky twinkle in my eyes, maybe a saucy smile, as I let their man milk ooze from between my lips. However, in reality, I was trying not to gag, and couldn’t get that gunk out of my mouth fast enough.
By Jupiter Grantabout a year ago in Filthy
Femdom Fantasy: The Hostile Takeover
Rage. It makes me see red. I don’t know where it’s coming from, what underground source of anger that’s been simmering away inside me for god knows how long has suddenly boiled over, erupting like Krakatoa, making my whole body vibrate.
By Jupiter Grantabout a year ago in Filthy
Caught Out on the Couch
The afternoon was dragging like a zombie’s decaying leg, and I was bored out of my mind. My husband, Mark, had been working continuously throughout all the interminable lockdowns, lugging cargo onto delivery vans for an international courier company; meanwhile I was stuck at home by myself, furloughed, and increasingly lost for something — anything — to pass the time. There was only so much Netflix I could watch in a day before my eyes would get bleary and I’d wind up fast asleep on the couch. It didn’t feel like a very productive way to spend the day, and I didn’t want Mark to come home and find me unconscious and snoring on the sofa. Again.
By Jupiter Grantabout a year ago in Filthy
A Portrait of Sad
Mille fois. What is that? What does it mean? It was all over my dreams last night. Even after one scenario had passed and I had moved into my next banal dream-narrative, it was still cropping up, swimming heavy and languid in my unconscious. “Mille fois”.
By Jupiter Grant2 years ago in Fiction
The Tights That Bind
As soon as we’d checked in and taken the lift up to our room on the top floor, he had poured us both a glass of the prosecco that was waiting for our arrival. We’d barely finished that first glass when he’d wound his free arm around my waist and pulled me close to him. I had felt his growing hardness against my hip, and saw the fire in his eyes. Within minutes we had each other naked and he had made soft, sweet love to me. It was beautiful and slow, a tender reconnecting after a few weeks without any real sexual contact, and it made me feel warm and adored.
By Jupiter Grant2 years ago in Filthy
Deep Impact
“Oh my darling, how I’ve dreamt of this moment,” he murmured in her ear as he tied the strip of cloth over her mouth, and pressed her hands firmly on the bedframe. With a soft kiss on the top of her head, he ran his fingers up the inside of her legs, pulled her little silk skirt up around her waist, and slid one of the pillows under her hips. Her bottom was instantly raised and pert, the round cheeks just begging for his ministrations and sweet chastisements.
By Jupiter Grant2 years ago in Filthy
