When I’m out walking on my own. I’m often aware of everything around me before I directly look at whatever it is as I often get nervous about being out on my own. I have a keen eye for things that are happening around me. Even more so on my morning walks, I sensed the big white van out of the corner of my eye before properly seeing it. He parked up on the pavement next to me. I was feeling rather nervous at this point being on my own.
The last dream I had before waking up was a sweet one. The kind where prince charming saves the day and everyone lived happily ever after. My eyes opened effortlessly, being woken up by Hubby's movements in bed as he settled into reading on his phone. The sheets felt delicious, I wore panties and a t-shirt to bed last night. My shirt had shimmied up to my neck exposing my breasts with my nipples hard and firm in excitement. I never said anything as I slithered closer to Hubby tracing my fingers down his sides and looping my legs around his to push my pelvis deep into his hips. Soft moans escaped my mouth.
I told you before that I'd tell you about how many of us came to be what we are. This is Tansy's story. I first met her when she walked into Murray's, one of the lowest brothels in Abilene, as bold as you please and asked for a job. I don't think she knew what she was asking for but it didn't take her long to figure it out. Did she really want to be a whore?
There I was, my back pressed against the brick wall, the ivy entangling in my hair, my eyes fixed on yours. Your hands quickly grab my wrists and force them above my head, you hold them there firmly with one hand as the other roughly moves up my thigh. I stare at you with a lust and wanting knowing all too well this is forbidden. What will people think? What will our partners say? How could we give in to such carnal desires?
When you grow up in the Midwest with a conservative family, there isn't a lot of room to explore desires. Inklings of what could be itch at the back of your brain, but you're never able to scratch. Your dark desires are talked about as sin. They become shameful and you lock them away.
I had good reason to be excited. We met up on Saturday, having not seen each other since lockdown. I'd enjoyed getting to know you as a coworker and was looking forward to getting to know you as a friend. Somehow, over ice cream, we landed on the topic of kink.
Recently I’ve been snacking on the intersection of dirty talk and sexual performance and just how bombastically cumbersome it can be when it comes to performing at such an intricate level of theatrics, and how we’re all sort of expected to put on a one woman show of unfounded lustful caterwauling whenever we get to fucking. Surely you’ve all noticed how particularly kitschy it all can be, right? At the end of the fucking day, aren’t we all exhausted from life’s different capacities for theatrics? We are all constantly having to perform for the sake of shielding our fragility from friends, family, co-workers, or that big cocked up dude at the tobacco store! Shouldn’t we enjoy sex as it stands as an act of erotic exertion, and call it at that, instead of engaging in some hippodrome fuckfest of maximum uncomfortability?
When the Covid-19 stay-home orders went out I shivered with panic. Would they close the Jungle? Would I be forced to go cold-turkey and stay home to play with myself? Yikes!
The island in the center of Black Bayou known to the locals as Rubidoux Island stood silent as dark waves of murky water lapped at its shores. The island's only living inhabitant, Henriette Rubidoux sat in her room with the oil lamp by her bed turned down low.
The party is in full swing. Well, as full swing as this kind of swinger's house party is likely to get, you think to yourself. You take another swig of your vodka and coke, and survey the room with your eyes, noticing everything, missing nothing. It is lively enough. Just the usual imbalance - as usual - of men and women. Many more single men than anyone else, prowling around, or hanging back shyly at the edges of the large main room. You clock the host, a well-dressed, attractive man who offers you a smile and a raise of his glass, to which you offer one in return.