I haven’t seen you for nearly twenty years. While we’ve kept up on social media, and I’ve watched you age and become only more beautiful, that’s all our friendship has been since we hung out by the river on a picnic blanket. I remember being so nervous to ask you on a date. It wasn’t just because of your smile and those blue eyes. It was your warmth. It was how easy you were to be around. I knew I could share myself with you.

I just didn’t know you would be interested. But then you said, “sure,” and told me when to pick you up. I parked beside your car and rang the doorbell. Though your parents knew me, you still brought me in and introduced me before we left. That moment was surreal and still lives in my memory all these years later.

Your dad has passed since. We all miss him but I know you were devastated. You moved away. Out of the country and began teaching to students there, which is now your passion. Your mom remarried several times, and I still see her in town sometimes. She always hugs me and talks with me, and I wonder if she still holds out hope that we might get together one day. She’s a sweet woman. I saw her second husband passed too. And now, her third might have cancer. How come the sweetest often endure the biggest heartbreak?

I feel responsible for how our date went. It wasn’t bad necessarily. But I was a very stupid guy. Twenty three probably. I was still coming out of my shell. I was two years out of a four year relationship. I talked about that too much. I was nervous and couldn’t think what else you might find interesting. Stupid. I should have just relaxed and talked with you. Listened to you.

We watched the boats sail by and I sensed a growing distance. You were no longer interested. Or maybe you were, but hoped I’d be different. That I’d be more bold and tell you something real. And I sensed that disappointment.

On the way back, I asked if you wanted to hang out with some of our friends who were meeting up. You said no. And I believed it was over.

Years passed and that awkward date softened in our minds. Our occasional messages still have that warmth. The fondness of those shared years of friendship before I asked you out—it’s there still.

Our families have fallen apart. Friends have come and gone. Life has changed so much. But I see that smile is still there and it sparks something in my chest just like it did back then.

You’re ten feet in front of me at a concert on the lawn by that very river. Leaning back on one palm. A Surfside in one hand. Cell phone in the other. A cover band is playing “I'm the Man Who Loves You” by Wilco—this song has always reminded me of you.

I’m a person who believes sometimes the stars align. That one in a million thing happens. Right time and right place. I’m here, you’re here. The song echoes around us and it gives me goosebumps.

Suddenly, I remember your scent—lilac—though I can’t smell you from this far. But the memory is so clear.

The younger me would have waited until we bumped into each other.

But that’s not me now. I decide to get up and say hi. Hope you ask me to sit next to you. I weave between chairs and blankets, making my way to you. My heart flutters. But I’m still going to do this. I’m still going to say hi.

And then I see him. A man I don’t know, but recognize from one of your pictures the year before. I thought he was out of the picture.

He sits beside you with a basket of fries and you run your hand up and down his back. My lips tighten and I do my best to smile.

If you’re happy, that’s a good thing. And that’s how I know I still care for you. I walk back and sit. Nod along to the chorus and remember the way it felt to hug you when we were younger.

Warning - Explicit Content, 18+

Mike is the craziest friend I have. He does random shit. Stuff that normal people don’t do or say. Maybe they think it—he does it. He asked me if he could touch my boobs, while Aaron was standing five feet away. Good thing he’s not a jealous boyfriend. He just rolled his eyes.

I told Mike no, by the way.

But he asked again, last week. He said it was almost my birthday—the big two-one. We would go out and drink, and he’d let me ask him to touch my boobs.

I laughed in his face.

And gave it some more thought than I should have. I didn’t tell Aaron about being asked again, or that I’d considered it for a moment.

Something sparked at the idea of letting another set of hands touch me. My belly fluttered as I sat with it.

And then the birthday night came, and I opened my gifts—Mike gave me a dildo. A really girthy dildo. Rachel and Jackie covered their mouths to hide their shock. Aaron’s eyes narrowed. Mike beamed.

“That thing is huge,” Rachel said.

“That thing is mine,” Mike said.

Everyone looked at him.

“You mean, you’re as big as that?” Jackie side-eyed him, a smirk growing.

“No, I mean, I made a mold of my dick and then cast that.”

My jaw dropped. I closed the box and set it aside.

“That’s fucked up,” Rachel said.

“Dude,” Aaron said. “Why would you give my girlfriend a dildo of your cock?”

“Variety is the spice of life, my friend,” Mike said, grinning and slapping Aaron on the back.

Obviously, I couldn’t stop thinking about Mike’s gift. It had been more than presumptuous. But it was not just that he didn’t respect Aaron.

It was also that he’d wanted me to know.

Know what I was missing. I’d turned down letting him touch me. So he’d wanted me to have an alternative.

I wasn’t stupid though. I knew Mike didn’t want to be my boyfriend. He simply wanted me as his latest conquest. That was Mike’s thing. He got off on having something that belonged to another, even if it was just a touch, just a confession, just a dildo—box opening later that night when I was alone in my bed.

I looked into the box for a long moment. Not sure what I was looking for, or if I was just arguing with myself and not catching it.

If he wasn’t lying, if this wasn’t something he bought online, cast from one of those thick, pussy-wrecking, male pornstars, I suddenly understood the source of his lifelong cockiness—his cock.

I reached in and ran my fingers along a prominent vein. I wrapped my hand around it. The dildo felt very lifelike, except cold. No heat to it. No body to it.

I needed more than a big dick. That’s what I always told myself when other girls talked about encountering one in their adventures. Aaron was pleasantly average, maybe just a bit above. And he was a good boyfriend. Kind and loving and always there for me, even when I was difficult.

And yet, as I lifted the weight of Mike’s shaft from the box, which took considerable effort, something snapped. I called it curiosity. I wasn’t choosing a man because of his big cock. I wasn’t choosing Mike.

This was just a sex toy.

That’s what I kept repeating as I reached into my bedside table and grabbed the cherry lube Aaron and I sometimes used. I covered the flesh-colored dildo until it glistened everywhere.

“It’s just a sex toy,” I said, resting the tip of it at my folds.

It was cold against my pussy. I couldn’t take him like that. The stretch I knew was coming needed to have warmth. I hefted it from between my legs and brought it to my parted lips. Took him in and let my tongue stroke the underside of his cock, closing my eyes and imagining the weight of him above me. Balls on my chin. Fingers in my hair. Knees pinning me on either side. Telling me to open up and take his dick. Telling me I was a slut for his dick. I nodded, mouth full of his cock, even though I was alone.

The taste of artificial cherry lube wasn’t terrible, not when I had this moment of fantasy. I didn’t like being called a slut by a man. I didn’t like men who said that word, except the context here was new to me. It was between us.

“I think I’m warmed up,” he said, spinning around while his dick was still inside.

I rotated it so he could lie face down on me. His balls draped on either side of my nose. His chin against my clit as he licked my folds, my fingers standing in for him.

I moaned around his cock, breathing harder as I felt my clit thicken, my pussy grow wet. His tongue brushed me in long strokes.

“Fuck,” I said, muffled by the size of him.

_I need you in me, now._

He rolled off of me and knelt between my thighs. This time, his tip was hot on my dripping labia. With both hands on his hips, I eased him into me, gasping at the stretch of his tip.

“Slow,” I said. “Let me get used to you.”

I rocked my hips, letting his firm tip tease me inside, right where it took my breath away. I looked down at him between my legs, stretching my lips thin, to their limits, filling all of the space between my thighs.

“God, you’re so fucking huge.”

“Bigger than Aaron?”

I nodded fast, breathing faster.

“So much bigger,” I said.

I wanted more of him. More of that stretch and deeper. As much as I could take.

But where his tip touched, was so so good. I kept him still while I moved against it. It’s girth stroking just right.

My thighs started shaking.

“Oh god,” I said.

“Fuck,” he said, “you’re squeezing me so tight.”

“Yes,” I said, biting my bottom lip. “I’m close.”

“Let go. Let go on my cock. I know you want to.”

“Fuck,” I cried out, chest heaving, forehead damp. “Fuck. Yes.”

I squeezed my thighs against Mike and ground on his tip. Desperate for release. And when it came, I soaked him, soaked me, soaked my bed.

“Goddamn,” he said.

“I didn’t know I could do that.”

I caught my breath. He rested on his elbows, kissing my neck softly while the aftershocks rolled through me. My hand rested on his ass.

“Let me go again?” I said. “In a minute? I want to feel all of you.”

“You can come on my cock as much as you like.”

A sound like a purr rolled up from my belly and out of my throat. I smiled and pulled him deeper. This time, taking him all in one slow movement. It was much easier when I was flooded.

“Fuck me hard,” I said. “That’s what I want tonight.”

He kissed me while his wavy hair brushed my cheeks. We moaned against each other’s tongues as he impaled me on his cock. Each thrust filling me deep. Each time he pulled back leaving me empty and longing to be stuffed by him. I wanted his come to fill my womb, fill my belly, fill me everywhere.

The expectation of his warmth spreading within me alone was enough to push me to the edge. Coupled with his fat cock filling me everywhere, my clit was throbbing.

“Please,” I begged, “come in me. I need it.”

His thrusts slowed but became harder and more deliberate. Each one rattled me from toes to the ends of my hair. My head tossed side-to-side as the wave broke me again. I covered him as I squirt. It dripped off his abs and back onto me as he stopped, held himself, and pulsing deep inside me.

I blinked through the throbbing within, mouth wide, eyes wider. I wrapped my legs around his back and dug my heels in to his ass and pulled him deeper.

After, I fell asleep with Mike still inside of me.

Warning - Explicit Content, 18+
He sits naked in the chair by our window. His hands are tied behind his back. It’s open, letting the cool and comfortable breeze in. The curtain sways in the dark as the air kisses our skin.

I light the candle on the side table next to him. His body glows softly from the sole light source in the room. Flickering flame shines in his eyes.

I drop my robe to the floor and the scent of my coconut body lotion fills the space between us. He breathes deep and his broad chest rises. This caged man needs to be released.

I oblige and kneel between his legs in my black lace teddy. He has only had a hint of my body in all the weeks we have played this little game. No access to my boobs. No eyes on my bare pussy.

I unlock him and his cock expands within seconds.

I grip the base of his shaft and he groans, leaking a drop that falls to my wrist.

“You need to come, don’t you?” I say.

“Please. It hurts so bad.”

I know. It’s been weeks of my teasing without any real relief for him.

I keep the base in my grip and with my other hand, smack the side of his shaft. His back arches off of the chair. I smack it again and he whimpers. Then I lean in and open my lips and run them wet along the redness I just caused. Kissing him to make it better.

I near his tip but stop just short. His eyes plead. I pull back and grab the candle. It’s made for this moment. I push his shaft down so it’s horizontal and tip the candle, drizzling the scented liquid wax lubricant along the length of him.

The guttural groan that escapes him as the hot lube coats him is what makes my body respond. My panties soak through as he squirms.

I want to climb onto his lap and ride him, but that’s not what we do. He doesn’t get access to my body.

That is for another.

No, for this one—my husband—we have agreed upon another arrangement.

I look into my love’s eyes as I rub the lube into the taut skin of his throbbing shaft. The veins are pulsing in time with his heartbeat. I make him slick with the liquid, so that his cock glistens in the light of the candle.

With every inch shining, I keep my fist around the base of him and slowly hook a finger around his shaft, teasing at his frenulum. The opening of his tip dilates and leaks another clear bead. I catch it in my palm and lick it from my skin.

“Very sweet this time,” I say.

“Please,” he begs.

“In time.”

Patience is what he needs. One day I’ll let him come again.

His balls tighten against his body into a small knot, squeezing those painfully full orbs as his body shivers for relief. I take my hand from his frenulum and slap those full balls. They shake beneath the impact.

He whimpers again. Anytime he truly wants, he can say the word and we stop this game. I will give him my pussy again. One word—Snickerdoodle.

He doesn’t say it.

“Please, fuck me. I need you.”

“I know you need me. But do I need you? I probably wouldn’t even feel you, you know? Not with the way my lover stretched me last night, and this morning. All day, I’ve been left gaping.”

He groans and his body is vibrating well beneath his skin.

“And leaking,” I say.

“Fuuuuuck.”

“You can’t come. Not yet.”

I let go of his body and his abs contract, his dick bobbing up and down.

“No,” I say, loudly.

I squeeze the base of him between my thumb and fingers and keep that come in him.

“Please. Just a little.”

“No. Not yet.”

I pinch him tighter as his shaft pulses against the pads of my fingers. Nothing leaks from him. Only when he starts going soft do I let go of his cock. A small pool of white come, no more than a few drops, forms on the chair between his legs. Not even a fraction of what he needs to release.

I put the stainless steel of the chastity cage around him and click it shut.

A tear rolls down his cheek.

“It hurts so bad.”

I stand and hug him to my chest, patting his head.

“I know, dear. I know. But you’re doing so good.”

He nods and I hold him tight.

“Are you really still leaking?” he says.

I step back and cover my pussy with one hand, to hide it from him, and pull my lingerie aside. A long trail of my lover’s come rolls down the inside of my thigh.

“I need to come that much,” he says.

I let go of the teddy and it snaps into place over my still-swollen labia.

“One day,” I say.

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Warning - Explicit Content, 18+

I live in oval-shaped development—one street, a half mile around. Six laps and my music is all I need. I always go out after the school buses have come and gone, when the adults, and my parents are on their way to work so there’s never distracted drivers to worry about, or even any traffic. It’s perfect for my morning runs.

Because it’s such a small neighborhood, it is easy to notice when something is different or new. That’s how I noticed a new family had moved about a month ago. Two kids who go to school, their dad who always waits at the bus stop with them, and a wife I’ve never seen. For a few weeks, I assumed she works during the day. But even in the middle of the night there’s just one car—a blue Mustang.

Sometimes when I’m running by, he’s out there washing it or cutting their grass. For a dad, he’s not bad looking, like the others—baldies with dad bods. Nothing against dad bods. They belong to some nice guys and I have a thing for nice guys who provide for their families.

I know what that makes me, which is why I don’t tell anyone, especially my friends. The last thing they need to know is the way I fantasize about some of their dads.

Cole, the hot single dad with a Mustang, goes beyond fantasy. Sometimes I run a few extra laps just for another few glances. Sometimes I stand behind the curtain in my bedroom and watch as he hoses himself off after yard work. And sometimes, I touch myself to Cole.

Again, I know what that makes me. I’m twenty two and a nurse, but I can’t stop fantasizing about a man my father’s age. I’m the kind of girl that wives would call a homewrecker, except I haven’t wrecked any homes.

And Cole happens to be single. I’m sure of it now.

It’s Thursday. He always cuts the lawn on Thursdays, so I pick my favorite sports bra and lace up my sneakers. Outside, the September air is still oppressively humid. Within a lap, my forehead is already dripping. The only sounds are a distant lawnmower starting up and pigeons babbling under our solar panels.

When I lap Cole’s house again, he’s a few rows deep already. He stops at the end of the row and lifts his shirt off—because it’s ungodly hot and he’s soaked—but I’m not complaining.

His chest flexes as he balls it up and tosses it to his front porch. I’m watching this all from the corner of my eyes, which means I don’t see a fallen branch on the street. It gets tangled between my feet and my momentum is so great that my upper body keeps moving forward. I land on my hands, thankfully, but scrape them on some rocks.

Stupid. I shouldn’t have stared. Now I’m face down on the street. I shake my ankles out and notice my right one hurts bad, especially if I point my toes.

“Hey, you okay?” he says.

I look up and Cole is there, sweat dripping off his bare chest. His wavy blonde hair is soaked.

“Not really,” I say. “I think I twisted my ankle.”

“Let’s get you out of the street first. I’ll help you to my porch, if that’s okay.”

“Please,” I say.

My ankle hurts, for sure. But even with the pain, the way he lifts me with ease and wraps an arm around me, feels so good. It’s almost worth what is likely a sprain. Hopefully just a sprain.

And he asked me. He checked to see if taking me to the porch was okay.

Swoon.

I limp along beside him, reaching my own arm around his back, hand gripping his waist—for support, obviously. My fingers graze that deep V of muscle disappearing beneath his shorts. I hope he doesn’t see I’m biting my bottom lip to hide my excitement.

He helps me onto a chair by his hummingbird feeder and tells me he will be right back with ice. While he’s inside, I notice a painted rock in the flower bed. Someone loves their daddy. I smile at the thought I shouldn’t say—that I want to love their daddy.

Cole returns with a bag of ice and a dish towel that smells like fresh laundry. He slides the side table over and props my leg up and holds the ice on my ankle.

“Does that feel good?” he says.

I’m sure my eyes are glazed as my brain turns that question over.

“It helps.”

Which is true. But his touch seems to be doing more at making me forget the pain.

“You hit the ground hard. Did you bump your head?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’d better check.”

He balances the ice on my ankle and then stands up. He tilts his head as he checks me, his ice-chilled fingers threading through my hair give me goosebumps and not just because his touch is cold. It’s more than that.

I think he knows it too because I look up at him with my best doe eyes.

“Do I look good?” I say.

His cheeks turn red. My arms have been at my side, on the arm rests but I bring my elbows in which push my boobs outward.

“You look… fine. I mean, no concussion or anything. Pupils look good.”

“You sound like a doctor.”

“I am. ER at Hamilton General.”

“I did my practicum there,” I say.

His eyes narrow, brow furrows.

“Nurse.” And I raise my hand.

“Ah.”

There’s so much I want to ask. Mostly about the mom of his kids. Where is the Mrs., though I’d feel bad if the answer was, “Dead.”

I also want to ask to go inside but that’s too direct for me. I’m not the kind of girl to ask that.

“You live here, right?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Thought I’ve seen you around. You run a lot.”

“Nearly every day.”

He nods. “And you look my way any chance you can get.”

Fuck.

My heart skips a beat. The world is suddenly silent as everything shifts. How had he noticed? I thought I was being discreet.

I have no good response. Nothing to say to salvage this moment. My stomach is twisting in knots and my eyes aren’t much better off.

“It’s okay. I’m not calling you out—not really. At my age, I’m just tired of beating around bushes. You notice me. I notice you. What do you want to do about it?”

“Are you hitting on me?” I say.

“Oh. Shit. Did I misread this?”

“No. Not at all. You’re right. I just didn’t expect you to be interested… in me.”

“Interested is a mild way of putting it.” He doesn’t look away. “I’ve been trying not to look for weeks. It’s like you’re always running by when I’m outside.”

“That was intentional,” I say. My face is burning.

He’s quiet for a few seconds. His eyes move over my face, then down to the ice on my ankle, then back up.

“You know how old I am, right?”

“I have an idea.”

“And you still kept running laps just to see me?”

“Yes.”

He lets out a short breath, almost a laugh, but without any humor. “Damn.” He runs a hand through his damp hair. “My kids are at school. Their mother isn’t in the picture. I don’t do this. I’m so much older than you. I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Avery.”

“Avery.” He repeats it like he’s deciding its meaning. “I’m Cole.”

“I know. We get your mail sometimes. If you haven’t learned by now, our mail carrier must be blind.”

That gets a real smile out of him.

“If we go inside,” he says, voice lower, “I can’t pretend this is about your ankle anymore.”

My pulse is loud in my ears. “I know.”

“And you’re sure.”

It’s not really a question, but I answer it anyway.

“I’m sure.”

He studies me for another moment. Then he nods once, more to himself than to me.

“Okay.” He stands and offers his hand. “Come.”

I plan on it.

I take his hand. His palm is warm and slightly rough. He helps me up and keeps an arm around me as we move toward the door. Neither of us says anything else until we’re inside and the door closes behind us.

The house is quiet and lived-in. He guides me to the couch and eases me down. When he starts to straighten, I don’t let go of his arm. I keep looking at him. The hesitation is still there in his face—clear, aware of exactly what this is.

I tug, just once.

He comes down with me.

His sweaty bare chest soaks through my sports bra, his skin hot on my bare stomach. I tilt my head toward him and our lips meet. He tastes like salt and orange Gatorade. I part my lips, opening for his tongue. My fingers dig through his hair. His grip my shoulders as I feel him harden against my thigh. My eyes close and I savor this.

My dad would flip. My friends would shun me.

It’s exactly what I wanted.

And what he wanted. That’s the best part. I still can’t believe he noticed me. I’m half his age.

And my hands are slipping beneath his shorts.

My grip tightens around him and he thickens against my palm.

“Fuck,” I say, opening my eyes and finding him looking back. “I want to see it. Can I see it?”

He nods. He leans up and I look between our bodies to where my hands and his cock strain inside his shorts. I fumble with them and when I pull him free, my eyes go wide. He felt big in my hands, but I didn’t realize he was this big. Big enough that I can’t close my fist around him. Long enough that both hands stacked on one another still aren’t enough to handle him.

I stroke him once and his opening leaks a drop. It runs onto my thumb and I bring it to my lips as I look back at his face. I suck it clean, then lick the inside of my palm against the flat of my tongue. I touch his cock and coat him with my saliva. He throbs in my grip.

“I’m on the pill,” I whisper, pushing my shorts and panties to the side.

He pushes into me. Stretches me. My back arching, then seizing. His calming voice echoes through me, “Breathe through it.”

I listen because something is telling me he knows how to help me handle him. Like he’s seen a woman beneath him struggle with his girth. So I breathe, slow and letting my chest rise and fall, my tight nipples brushing against his chest.

I lick my palm again and cover all of him that’s not yet inside me.

Then, nod quickly, taking his hips in my hands and easing him into me as I breathe deep once more.

He slides all the way home and our bodies lock together.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he says.

“Does it hurt?” I say.

“Not at all. You feel so good I won’t last if I don’t pace myself.”

“So don’t pace yourself. You can let go.”

“Fuck,” he gasps, “you can’t say things like that.”

“Yes, I can,” I say, rocking my hips against his skin. “Because I want it.”

His leg shakes against mine.

“I want your come.”

His lips meet mine. I bit his bottom lip and pull.

“Fill my pussy.”

“Goddamn, I’m close-“

I smack his ass and then take his cheeks in both hands and pull him deep into me. I hold him there while he pulses in me. Warmth fills deep in my belly and I keep him there, deep until his final stream floods me.

He’s breathing hard. Sweat falls from his face to my lips. I taste him with my tongue.

“What about you?” he says.

Such a nice guy thing to say. I smile.

“I knew you’d be a good daddy,” I say.

I push him out of me, come leaking onto my thigh. I turn over on my hands and knees and pull him back inside.

“Now fuck me until you come again.”

“You are trouble.”

“I know,” I say.

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Warning - Explicit Content, 18+

I meet a decent amount of women at the climbing gym where I’ve worked for the last four years. I’m a certified instructor and offer private lessons but also participate in open gym hours. A surprising number of women are getting into indoor rock climbing. There are even bachelorette parties where groups of women are too loud, and too obvious about staring at the way my harness fits between my legs. It’s all part of the job. I can’t help what’s there, just like they can’t help what’s not there. I won’t lie and say I don’t also look—my eyes on the smoothness between their straps—but it’s very brief. I’m just making sure the harness is worn properly, of course.

I’ve never been completely sure why some of the women I meet here ask me out. Some have told me that they like my strength, that I can hold them up when they slip, or let them down slowly once they reach the top. I don’t tell them that it’s pulleys and physics that do most of the work. I mean, anyone who climbs as much as I do has to be strong, so they’re not completely wrong. Others have said that the harness looked good on me. Before I started here, I didn’t think women went for men based on such things.

I was wrong.

Lindsay had been training with me for just four weeks and could handle most of the intermediate walls. When I tell her I am impressed by how quickly she is improving her form, her cheeks turn red. She smiles sheepishly, looking down. Not at me though—at her feet. Call it intuition but, I can tell by her body that she has something she wants to say.

I wait though. It’s not my place to ask. I’m here to help them become better climbers.

She’s still quiet so I decide to break the silence by nodding to the next wall and opening my mouth, “Do you want-“

“I was wondering if-“

We had spoken at the same time, both startled by the other person, and both stopping at the same instant.

“Go ahead,” she says.

“No, you first. What were you going to ask?”

Her hands are together in front of her harness. She fidgets with the tail of an adjustment strap. Between the grunts of a nearby climber, I hear her finger flicking the polyester hem of the strap.

“Can I ask you something weird?”

“I love weird. Shoot.”

“You can say no, and we can pretend I never said anything.”

I laugh. “I can’t wait for this.”

“Would you ever date someone you teach?”

My eyes drop to her fingers toying with her harness because I’m pretty sure I have seen a ring on her finger.

Yup, I was right. Two rings. Engagement and wedding. Both bright and elegant, like her fingers, like the rest of her. She’s a beautiful woman—fit, blonde, a smile I enjoy seeing. But she’s married. And she’s looking at me like she’s afraid, or waiting to be scolded.

“Uh…” is all I can say.

“Forget it,” she says, “I shouldn’t have asked you that.”

“No. It’s okay, I’m just…surprised? You’re married.”

“I am. I know, that’s why I said it’s weird.”

She glances past me toward the wall, then back. “My husband and I… we’ve been talking about this for a while. About me being with someone else. He’s okay with it. More than okay, actually.” Her fingers keep working the strap. “I’ve just been waiting for it to feel right, for the right person. I didn’t want it to be some stranger from an app who only wants one thing and doesn’t care how I feel afterward.” She finally looks up at me. “I need the first time to be with someone I already feel safe with.”

There’s a small pause. I chew my bottom lip as I think through what she’s saying. It’s flattering, for sure, that she feels safe with me. It means I’m doing my job well. But this…

“And that’s you,” she says. “I see how you are with women here, and with me. You are good to me. Patient. Observant. Strong. Very attractive. All the things I could hope for in a man who isn’t my husband.”

“So, you’re not leaving him. It’s just sex?”

“It doesn’t have to be just sex,” she says, smiling while she somehow blushes harder, “…but yeah, mostly.”

“And you’re saying he won’t kill me?”

“He won’t kill you,” she says, laughter around the words. “I could introduce you two.”

“No. That’s okay. I trust you. I don’t need to meet him. But…could we go on a date-date first?”

“What do you have in mind?”

---

I sent Lindsay a screenshot of the tickets. It wouldn’t get her into the Linc. I just wanted her to know where to meet, and maybe put her at ease that I’d been serious. When I found out she was a huge fan of the Foos, I bought two reseller tickets for the sold-out show. I’d been toying of going anyway, but all my friends turned me down.

When we meet at the east entrance, there’s a homeless man drumming on some five gallon buckets and we can’t hear each other. I take her by the hand and nod to the gate. We pass through security, her first, then me.

I let my eyes travel down the back of her. She is hot. She has a nice ass. But I knew that. I’ve had plenty of time to admire her dangling above me on climbing walls.

She turns halfway through the metal detector and catches me looking. She smirks.

I’m definitely interested in her. It’s the married woman thing that complicates things.

“See anything you like?”

“I wasn’t staring, was I?”

“You were basically undressing me with your eyes.”

“I wasn’t the only one. The security guard winked at me.”

“Maybe he likes you,” she says.

Goddamn, I love how quick she is. Just a few minutes with her and she’s already keeping me on my toes.

She holds her hand out and I take it. The warm metal of her ring is nestled between my fingers. Not my ring, not my girl.

And yet, she is here with me.

Kick drum and bass echo through the concourse. The opener has already started their set.

“Should we get something to eat?” I say.

“Yes. Please. I’m starving.”

“Looks like chicken fingers or hot dogs in this area. I think there’s pizza further down.”

“A hot dog sounds good.”

We find a space to stand that’s out of the way. There’s a ledge to hold our drinks while we unwrap our hot dogs. The spot overlooks the band’s tour buses and eighteen wheelers and foot traffic is quiet. It’s actually kind of perfect because I’m hoping to get a read on her and if she’s still wanting to do this.

She waits until she has my attention, then takes a deliberate bite of the hot dog. She chews once, raises an eyebrow, and says around it, “What?”

“I think you know.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” she says, with an overtly innocent smile.

I scoff and take a sip of my beer. “Probably all in my head.”

“Definitely,” she says, and takes another knowing bite.

---

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The seats aren’t bad for a last minute purchase. We are midway up in the club level and right beside the landing of the stairway where a glass partition divides us from the sheer edge.

“We should take a selfie,” she says, pulling me into the landing. The stage is a hundred feet below us.

“Why?”

I’m not objecting, just surprised she wants a picture of us to exist.

“For a memory,” she says. “Can you take the pic? You have longer arms.

She hands me her phone. I hold it out and put my other arm around her back. She leans against me. Her tank top already teases me with a great view of her cleavage but now I feel its soft warmth through my T-shirt. She wraps an arm around my waist and we both smile as I take the shot.

I hand her the phone and she scrutinizes it as we find our seats. Two dudes in the row behind ours are watching her boobs as we walk across their field of vision. I stare them down until they look somewhere else. _She’s mine, fellas. _

But she’s not mine—she’s sharing a moment with me.

We take our seats as QOTSA come out onto the stage. The sun is still up. Guitar blares. I know this song. I love this song. Lindsay bobs her head in time with the rhythm guitar. As the drums come in, the stadium erupts.

Between songs, she leans in and I tilt my head toward her. Her breath is hot on my ear and my neck. I can smell the hint of her Surfside, but behind that, something intoxicating—rosewater maybe. Whatever it is, it invades my body and cranks up the heat. My dick is starting to thicken.

This isn’t the gym. This is our date. For the first time with Lindsay, I don’t fight my thoughts. She dances while sitting and all I can think about is her hips, her ass wiggling on the seat and how I’d give anything to be that piece of plastic.

I let myself experience her as she is—bubbly and fun and sexy as hell. The longer I’m with her, the more I’m sure I want her.

Even if she has a husband.

---

The Foos take the stage and we jump to our feet. She bounces against me while she leaps, one finger pointed to the sky while she belts out the lyrics. I like this side of her. She’s not the cautious climber, she’s the free spirit who is enjoying herself.

That’s not really me. I watch her. I feel her heat radiating to my skin. But I don’t jump up and down. I sing along, but not loud enough for anyone to hear.

She notices I’m holding back and turns to me and jabs a finger in my chest, singing “Who are you? Yeah, who are you?”

I burst out laughing. She weaves her fingers between mine and raises our hands to the sky and we jump together. Her wavy hair flows everywhere—in my eyes, on my forearm, against my shoulder.

That rosewater scent mixes with the sweat forming on her brow and I am stifling the urge to fuck her. There’s no privacy with seventy thousand people standing beside us.

Another song ends and she takes my hands and stands in front of me and wraps my arms around her. My cock is nestled between her ass. She squirms within my grasp. Her body fits so well. Goddamn—I really want to fuck her.

The next three hours are the most pleasurable torture I can think of. We share the music and the sweat and she drinks my beer.

As Everlong plays, she lifts her head and looks up at me. Her eyes stay on mine. We kiss for the first time as fireworks explode above us. Everything lights up as the final chord sounds. People cheer and I could almost believe that this moment is for us. It’s too perfect and we planned none of it.

“Are you good now?” she says.

I am good. Very good. Even though she’s married, I want a second date. Don’t know when or where, but I’ll find a nice place for us to spend an evening.

“I think I’m ready, as long as you still want to.”

We’re talking about our next date. Except, we aren’t. She silently mouths, “Fuck, yeah,” and grabs my hand. She weaves us through the crowd and to the stairs. Her hand tightens around mine the lower we get, and by the time we are out on the street level, her grip is a vise.

“Where did you park?” she says.

“K, right over there. You?”

“Uber.”

“Ah,” I say, looking around for a street an uber could reach. The closest two are blocked off with barricades and flashing police cars. “I can walk you over to Broad.”

“Give me a ride?”

I nod.

“To your place.”

Okay, we are actually doing this. Now.

In my Jeep, waiting for a chance to leave the parking lot, we make out. Her breath is loud on my skin. She feels hungry, like she hasn’t had what she’s needed to survive for a long, long time. Her hands mess up my hair, slide up my shirt. I stay above her shirt, but move my hand up the curve her waist. When I squeeze her soft breast, she moans into my mouth.

My cock strains against my pants. The metal teeth of my zipper dig into my skin. I want to pull her onto my lap but I don’t. Not here, not like this.

I pull back. She looks confused.

“We keep that up and I’m going to come in my pants,” I say.

I shift into drive and force my way in between two cars. We need to get to my place immediately.

“Should I take the edge off?” she says, one finger tracing the hem on my thigh.

“I mean, that would help,” I say. I wasn’t going to ask but it really would.

“I can do that for you,” she says with her lips against my neck and fingers tugging my zipper down.

She slips her hand beneath my boxers. Her palm is warm against my cock. She wraps her hand around me and squeezes.

“I want to see it,” she says, giving me one slow stroke. “I get the sense that it’s gorgeous.”

“It’s not bad,” I say. Stupid thing to say, but I had nothing better to offer.

We move another few feet and then traffic stops again. She tries pulling my cock out but my shorts are in the way. She fumbles with my belt and unbuttons my shorts and then has the room to free it. I watch her face because I want to know what her reaction will be. I have no idea the last time she saw a new one but based on how she was kissing me, she’s needed a good dick for a while now.

Her eyes go wide.

I hope what she sees is good dick.

“Fuck,” she says, the “k” sound echoes in my Jeep. “That’s a good cock.”

She squeezes my shaft with that grip of hers and strokes me deep and hard. It’s not about savoring. Not yet. She has one goal—taking the pressure off. It’s about me lasting when we get back to my place.

“Don’t hold back,” she says.

Lindsay unbuckles her seatbelt and leans over, putting my tip in her mouth. She pumps me faster as her cheeks cave in from her sucking my head. My thighs tighten and she moans around my shaft.

Beckoning me.

She cups my balls with her other hand and my cock pulses. I feel her tongue lap up precum around my opening. My stomach clenches.

“Mmm.” Her lips break free with a pop. “More. I want more.”

Then she kisses my shaft again, tongue running up my side. Her lips slide around my crown, teasing me softly. I know I’m close. So close. My legs are shaking. My cock is pulsing. My fingers dig into the steering wheel. Streetlights flicker outside. She strokes slow and determined, drinking down each stream she pulls from me.

She pulls back with another pop and wipes her lips with the back of her hand.

“Did that feel good?” she says.

“Yeah.” My voice is rough. “More than good.”

Traffic finally opens and I drive onward.

“Your place,” she says again and without take her eyes off of me. “I want the rest of it.”

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My roommate walked in and slammed the door, yelling for me like she was out for blood. I didn’t know what I had done. I had just posted my FridayFit video and was trying to think of a good caption.

“You need to stop,” Heather said.

“Stop what?” I said.

She sighed, clearly exasperated.

“Tonight was the second guy I went on date with who asked about you.”

I winced. People were starting to recognize me everywhere though. Not just on campus. Two million followers comes with some tradeoffs. I just didn’t expect one of those tradeoffs to come between Heather and me.

“What? How did-“

“Everyone knows I’m roommates with Sara Squats—Miss Innocent, Prances-Around-in-Bikinis-and-Skintight-Clothes.”

“It’s a fitness page.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” she said, “but your last workout video? The caption, ‘About to get on my knees for You.’ You know exactly what you’re doing,” slamming the door to her bedroom.

Our bedroom.

The female dorms on-campus were attached to one of the student lounges and general hang out areas. Our building was a good place for male and female to meet, under supervision of course. Then as the evenings wore on, we could just walk to the back hall, where someone was stationed around the clock to make sure guys stayed out. Kept us from walking campus at night, in the dark. Not that anything ever happened on campus.

Kepler Bible College has its own zip code and is surrounded by mountains and a lake. There was no crime. There were no drugs. Everyone who went there was training for ministry or looking for a husband.

Not me though. I went because my parents would only pay for my tuition if I went to Kepler. It’s where they met. They never said it but I knew they were hoping, praying, that I’d finally find my man there.

None of the guys from church ever quite did it for me. Sure, they were nice. Some were handsome. But none made my heart leap. They were…fine.

Kepler definitely had more guys and some were even potentials.

But I’d started a fitness blog from my dorm and it had taken off. In two months, I went from seven followers to two million.

Heather, along with others, along with my mom, dropped hints that I should wear more clothes. At first, I laughed it off. I wore workout clothes. Sometimes swimsuits, if I was posting a pool picture or something, but that was always for progress photos.

With Heather locked in our bedroom, I had nowhere to go but out to the lobby. The coffee shop was still open, for thirty more minutes. I could get a decaf cappuccino, or a sleepy tea, and let Heather cool off.

It wasn’t my fault her date asked about me. That was on him. Didn’t she see that? She was better off knowing what she now knew about the guy.

If anything, I’d done her a favor.

Something was definitely up as I walked out of the dorm hall. Acoustic guitar echoed along the cavernous lobby. A man’s voice was singing a song I didn’t recognize. Something about a sweater and lying on the floor naked.

I couldn’t believe I’d heard someone singing about being naked in our co-ed lounge. Couldn’t believe someone let someone sing such words on our campus.

I kept walking, wanting to see who could be so brazen as to attempt this.

The voice grew louder as I reached the coffee shop and sure enough he was in there. Friday open mic night—I’d forgotten it was Friday. I usually walk right by, unless someone is singing one of my favorite songs. I’m partial to old hymns reinterpreted for guitar.

He was definitely not singing a hymn.

There were a few students watching, some sang along, which surprised me. How did anyone at Kepler know the words to this sort of song?

As I waited for my tea, I turned and watched him. I’d never seen him on campus. That didn’t mean much though, with a thousand or so students. His eyes flashed to mine as he repeated a line, and I knew then—I may not have recognized him, but he definitely knew who I was.

He didn’t look away, not until he strummed the final chord, and a few more seconds of that knowing eye contact.

Of the ten people watching, half of them clapped, the rest of us knew we shouldn’t, knowing we couldn’t. He thanked us anyway.

I wanted to leave and go sit on one of the sofas scattered around the lounge, but I didn’t. Instead, I sat in the back. A barista ground beans as the singer introduced what he said was his final song. The room filled with the heavenly coffee scent while the air filled with his deep voice.

He had a good voice. I could admit that. But he was using it in a way that didn’t honor everything we were about, everything we were supposed to be about.

He had the long fingers that I’ve been told makes for a good guitarist. They flitted along the frets as he played the chords to another song I did not know. When he played a certain chord—his fingers splayed wide—made his forearm bulged. That was when I felt something.

Something like admiration, or even attraction. And I wasn’t a stranger to my base urges. I knew it was only the flesh.

Then I noticed the tattoo on the inside of his wrist. It was a cross, but still, he had inked his body. The body is a temple and he had desecrated it.

Still, I took a sip of my tea, watching him over the rim of my mug.

---

After the song, he unslung his guitar and put it away. He came right to my table and asked if he could sit. Quickly, I looked around. I needed to know who was still out and if I knew any of them.

The problem, I realized, is that everyone knew me. They knew my channels. Heather wasn’t wrong about that, the entire student body knew.

And they all misunderstood me.

“It’s a free country,” I said.

“Is it?” he replied, eyebrow raising.

“Oh, don’t tell me, you’re one of those.”

“Those?”

“Social Justice Warrior. Anti-America.”

“I only asked a question,” he said, sitting down with a sigh. “Why is everyone so quick to label people?”

I winced at that. Maybe not outwardly, but I definitely felt the sting of his words. I knew exactly what it felt like to be labeled as something I was not. My comment section was full of it. Heather and the side-eyes I would get in chapel. The things they didn’t say to me, but I knew they said to someone.

Whore. Corrupting our men. Selling her body for money, or worse, for likes.

I was doing nothing of the sort—I was sharing my fitness journey. Plenty of people wanted to follow it. That’s all. End of story.

And yeah, there were financial rewards. Maybe enough to pay my tuition for my junior and senior years. But Kepler was growing on me, so whatever I didn’t spend on clothes, I hid in a savings account.

That secret account part may be the only thing I did that almost felt wrong.

Almost.

I wasn’t lying to anyone. My parents said they’d pay my tuition. They didn’t need to know I now had my own money.

“You have a point. I was quick to judge you.”

“I’m used to it. Happens all the time.”

I scoffed. “I know what you mean.”

“Well, yeah, you’re Sara Squats.”

I frowned before I couldn’t stop myself. Even he knew who I was. I had no clue if he was a student or not.

“And you are?”

“Dylan Strums,” he said.

“Funny. Yeah, Squats is not my last name.”

“I know. A lot of people talk about you.”

“Are you one of them?” I said.

His lips tightened and he shook his head. He slid his guitar case under his chair. Black hair fell over his eyes. When he sat up, he had to brush it aside with his string-calloused fingers.

“I don’t talk about any woman the way so many here talk about you. The girls included.”

“They bother me more than the guys,” said.

He nodded.

“You know how many girls tell me they caught their boyfriends DM-ing me?”

“I can imagine. What do you say to that?

“I tell them I didn’t read their boyfriend’s message.”

“And do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Read the messages.”

“Usually.”

He smiled.

Behind us, the barista was wiping down tables. One-by-one, people left the coffee shop. I’d never stayed until closing. Suddenly, I was worried the barista would be mad at us for still being there. Dylan didn’t seem to notice.

“How does it feel to corrupt the men of Kepler, and presumably, the rest of country?”

My mouth fell open.

“I am not corrup…you’re making fun of me,” I said, flatly.

“Not at all. I’m making fun of _them_.” With one hand, he twirled a finger—gesturing to the room, the campus, maybe even the world beyond.

“And what about you? What do they say about Dylan Strums?”

He was quiet a second before his mouth opened. “Depends who you ask,” he said, and reached for his water bottle instead of answering.

“What do girls on campus say about you?”

“That I’m corrupting the women of Kepler,” he said, a smile slowly spreading across his face. His was contagious and I couldn’t help my own.

“One song at a time,” we both laughed. “You know… I never heard any of those songs.”

“Not surprised. Despite your reputation, I know you’re a very sheltered girl.”

“I am not,” I said, playfully smacking his shoulder.

“Prove it. Take a walk with me.”

“At midnight?” I said.

“Worried people will talk?”

I rolled my eyes. People always talked.

Something about Dylan felt different than other guys.

---

“So,” I said, breaking the silence after a few minutes of our feet crunching gravel, “do you usually ask girls to risk their reputation and take a walk in the middle of the night?”

“Only the famous ones.”

“Well played.”

The October air was cool on my skin. I followed his lead as we walked onto the soccer fields. For the first time, I realized how much taller he was. His guitar case was slung over one shoulder. He kept his hands in his pockets.

“So, you plan on serenading me under the stars?” I said.

“Would that work?”

“Work for what, Mr. Strums?”

“A kiss.”

“I don’t kiss boys.”

“I’m not a boy.”

“You’re a man?”

“Would you kiss a man?” he said.

I was glad it was dark and the field lights were off. My cheeks burned, and I knew if he saw them, he’d see right through my facade.

And that was the last thing I wanted.

We were amidst the fields when the first sprinkler rose ahead of us. Dylan turned to our left, but then more sprinklers started up just ahead of us.

His arm darted across me, too quickly for me to react. I walked right into it—my boobs pressed against his skin. I hadn’t chosen the contact. I didn’t choose to feel warm all over because of it.

I didn’t want to want him to touch me on purpose—but I did want that.

I stopped, while his arm was still outstretched, and turned to look at him. Moonlight shone in the corners of his eyes.

“About that kiss,” he said.

“About that.”

And then the rest of the sprinklers turned on.

We frantically looked around, hoping to find a quick path out of the water that was soaking us, but there wasn’t any. Dylan took my hand and led us on a zig zag path between streams as best as he could. We were laughing. We were drenched—I could feel my T-shirt clinging to my skin.

By the time we reached a sprinkler-free area, I was shivering. He almost offered me the collared shirt he was wearing over a T-shirt, but then seemed to remember it was just as wet as me.

“I should go back to my room,” I said.

This late, the dorm would be locked. I reached into my pocket to text Heather. I’d have to wake her up to get me inside. There was just one problem.

My phone was dead. Water dripped from the charging port.

“I have a hair dryer back at my place,” Dylan said.

“I can’t go in the guys dorms.”

“I’m not on campus. I have an apartment just outside. Above the laundromat. We can throw our clothes in a dryer. I am sure I have some quarters lying around.”

“And what,” I said, with my hands on my hips, “would you expect me to wear while my clothes are drying?”

“I have an old T-shirt or two.”

I laughed.

“You did this on purpose,” I said.

“Yeah, I definitely played open mic, knowing Sara Squats, girl of my dreams, catch my final two of my songs, charm her into a stroll through the soccer fields, knowing the sprinklers would come on at the precise moment we would be trapped by them.”

“Diabolical.”

“El Diablo. So, come back to my place?”

“Fine,” I said, folding my arms across my chest, “But promise me you won’t tell anyone.”

“I promise.”

---

I made sure his door was fully closed—no risk of it popping open—before I took off my wet clothes. Dylan was just outside, after all.

His bedroom was small and simple. He had Christmas lights strung above the window. There was built-in bookshelf on one wall. Half of it held his clothes, folded and stacked. The other half held a few dozen books.

He told me to wear whatever I wanted, whatever fit. I grabbed a plain white T-shirt and some gym shorts. His shirt was long enough to be a dress for me. The shorts I couldn’t tie tight enough to stay up so I put them back. Then, I scanned his books. While I recognized a few from my previous classes, but he had a lot that wasn’t required reading. Some of it was even taboo on campus.

There was a knock at the door that startled me.

“All good, Sara?”

“Almost done.”

I knew he was probably just as cold as I had been, and certainly just as soaked. And then there was me, just snooping through his little library while he froze outside his own bedroom.

I opened the door to find him standing in the doorway, towering over me. His clothes still clung to him, and I made sure to avert my eyes, as soon as I realized I had noticed some of his…features.

“Sorry,” I said. “I got distracted.”

“By being so close to my bed. Been known to happen.”

“Not quite.” He wasn’t completely wrong though. I liked being in his room. It smelled nice—like fresh air and cedar, like him. “Your books.”

“Oh yeah. Don’t tell anyone about what you saw there. They’d burn me at the stake,” he said, stepping into the room.

Water was dripping off of him to the floor. His arms were covered in goosebumps.

“You should change before you catch a cold,” I said.

He nodded.

As he lifted off his shirt, I noticed the lean muscle just above his pants. For a tall, skinny musician, he had some definition. Maybe not what the guys at the gym had, but enough to catch my attention.

He tossed the shirt and it fell heavily to the floor, sending drops of water spraying my ankles.

A sculpted body is a work of art. There’s no harm in admiring beauty.

As he unbuckled his belt and dragged his zipper down, I was simply admiring his beauty.

“Shouldn’t you look away?” he said.

“Probably.” I didn’t.

I didn’t want to look away. That, I knew, was lust. My body, and its urges—I never said I didn’t have them. I did, and when I did, I hit the gym until I collapsed.

One day, I’d get married, and then I could indulge with a man who deserved me.

But there was something about Dylan. It went beyond his face, those beautiful blue eyes, and his long fingers. We spoke the same language, even if he read some books that he shouldn’t. We noticed the same things in others. We fought the same battles.

His pants fell to the hardwood with a squelch. He stood in his boxer briefs that hid nothing. His eyes didn’t leave mine. He wasn’t asking me to look away.

So I didn’t.

My heart hammered in my chest as I watched his rise and fall with each breath. My cheeks burned when he hooked his thumbs into his boxers, and when he pried them down, I waited for his revelation.

Guilt knotted my stomach as I lingered on the heavy length of him. I’d never seen one in person before. Since starting Sara Squats, I’d received hundreds of pictures of them. I deleted most of them, but had saved a few. Ones that seemed impressive.

Dylan was impressive.

I could ask forgiveness later, on my knees while Heather slept.

“Seems a bit unfair,” he said.

“What’s unfair?”

“You came to two of my shows tonight.” He put his hands on his hips and shifted his weight. His shaft swayed with the movement, heavy and unselfconscious. “And I’ve never been to one of yours.”

I blinked. “One of mine?”

“It’s Friday. Let me see your FridayFit.”His eyes dropped briefly to the hem of his T-shirt on me, then back up. “Feels uneven otherwise.”

“Mr. Strums, are you implying that you want to see me naked too?”

“I’m implying that it would simply be what’s fair. But I’m used to living in an unfair world so-“

“No,” I said, “you’re right.”

I stood there for a second, feeling the weight of what I’d just agreed to. I’d never let a guy see my naked body. But I felt comfortable around Dylan. No one had ever made me feel safe like he did.

And in his quiet apartment, I crossed my arms, grabbed the bottom of the shirt, and drew it up over my head. I had to do it quickly because dragging it out would have been harder.

The cool air hit my skin all at once. I stood there, arms still half-raised, and forced myself not to cover up.

Dylan didn’t speak. He just looked.

Not the way guys looked at my videos—hungry, distant, safe behind a screen. This was closer. Quieter. I could hear him breathe as his eyes flitted across me, from collarbone to my thighs and back again.

My first instinct was to fold my arms over my chest. I didn’t.

I stood still and let him see me the same way I had seen him.

Then, he smiled.

“Does this feel wrong?” he said.

My nipples tightened, whether from the cool air of his bedroom or the excitement of being naked with him, I didn’t know. Moments before, I would have said yes. I was less sure now.

I shook my head. “No.”

“I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“Do you ever touch yourself?”

He hadn’t answered my question. He’d only asked another—a totally inappropriate question.

I felt my face heat. Part of me wanted to lie.

“Yes,” I said.

He nodded once, like he’d expected that.

“Would you show me?”

“If you show me,” I said.

He scoffed. “Fair enough.”

For a second neither of us moved. Then his hand wrapped around himself. I watched the way his fingers closed over the weight of it before I could make myself do the same.

I slid my hand down and touched myself with one finger, lightly, just along the outside at first. The familiar sensation was completely different with him watching.

He stroked himself slowly. It thickened in his hand, rising until it pointed toward me.

I couldn’t stop watching him touch himself. Nothing I’d looked at alone had ever felt like this. My fingers were wetter than I’d ever been. I was dripping down my thighs.

He wasn’t much better off. I clocked a clear bead leaking from his tip and then a trickle followed, rolling over his long fingers. His balls churned, rising closer to his body as they continued shifting.

“Does that feel good when that happens?”

He looked down at his glistening fingers, then back at me. “It feels good. Not like coming. But good.”

I kept my eyes on him. “I want to see you come.”

His mouth curved slightly. “The feeling is mutual.”

He stroked himself slowly. I matched him without meaning to.

The room felt small, quiet. Every sound we made was louder—the wet flutter of my fingers, the long pump of his hand, the uneven way he started to breathe.

This was more fun than what I did alone. The difference was his gaze. It made everything sharper. I felt myself getting close faster than I was used to.

“You’re shaking,” he said.

I hadn’t noticed. My thighs were trembling. I didn’t answer. I just kept going, watching the way his stomach tightened, the way his hand twisted at the head of his cock on every stroke.

The first wave surprised me. It rolled through my belly, squeezing. I tried to stay quiet and failed. My eyes tensed—like everything else—and wanted to close. I forced them open so I could keep watching him. It’s what was doing it for me. He was still moving his hand, jaw tightening, lips parting.

That was what pushed me over.

The pleasure hit, making the room disappear for a few seconds and I soaked my fingers. I heard myself breathing like I’d been running.

When the strongest part passed, I was still touching myself through the smaller aftershocks, softer, still dazed.

Dylan followed soon after. I watched the way his body seized, the thick pulses shooting over his fist and landing loudly on the hardwood floor between my feet. He kept his eyes on me the whole time.

I didn’t mean to lick my lips when the final strand hung from his tip to the floor, but I did. Curiousity piqued, wondering what it tasted like. I didn’t know where that urge—like hunger—came from.

I still don’t.

I had wanted it. I had asked for it. And I had come while he watched.

And there Dylan and I stood, naked and catching our breath, just a few blocks from Kepler Bible College, and suddenly, I didn’t want to go back.

Rev 2

Read more

I did, however, write a third story that is only going to be in this Kindle book. If you like what I do and want to show some support, while reading three hot stories, click the link below!

Thanks :-)

Kinky in Kauai - Three Erotic Stories

Warning - Explicit Content, 18+

It was Sara’s idea to do something fun this weekend. She knew you needed a distraction. Almost a year since the accident. Early on there were many nights of your tears and our hugs. Losing parents so young, and then losing the house. We had room and so when Sara asked me if it’d be okay, I told her absolutely.

I see you healing. I see you take steps. You smile more these days. You’re working a second job to save for your own place. You even went on a few dates, one where you didn’t come back until morning.

I think of that morning often because I was there when you walked in, at the window drinking my coffee. Sara was still asleep. You had trouble meeting my eyes until I said something lame but it made you laugh. I don’t remember what it was, just that I hoped you had fun. I do remember your cheeks though. They turned bright red, and you smiled.

I bought the tickets, cheapest seats possible for the game. We don’t get to our seats until the third inning because Sara and you needed to buy matching jerseys—with the catcher’s name across the back—before we sit.

“We are getting on that screen tonight,” Sara says, as we walk up the steps to the last row.

“Fuck, yeah,” you say.

I roll my eyes. But looking at the two of you in your form-fitting baseball jerseys, I don’t see how the camera couldn’t find you two. Both beautiful, both vibrant with the smiles that come from choosing to ignore life for a few hours and have some fun.

“Guess I should sit on the outside so you two can get up and dance for the camera guys?”

“Obviously,” Sara says.

You, then Sara, then me.

Sara cannot sit still. During a pitching change, she stands and looks around. She meets my eye, then yours.

“Oh, no,” you say. “You are going to do something.”

“I am,” Sara says.

She climbs over my knees and then walks to the attendant for our area. He’s a tall man, and he’s at least ten years older than me. I can’t hear them, especially over the crowd as she misses our home run. She doesn’t even notice. She just runs her hand through her dark hair, throwing some of it back as she looks up at the man. She’s saying something and his look tells me that he’s puzzled by her.

He also is taken by her. I see his smile form. Can’t blame him. She’s just so charming.

And forward.

Not that it means anything. She does this a lot. Flirting with men so I can see. Sometimes we use that in bed later, when it’s just us. That can be very, very hot.

Their conversation goes on and on, through two outs and then the other team’s at bats, before you shift over to her seat.

“Getting lonely over there?” I say.

“Kinda.”

Quietly, I wonder what you’re thinking. You don’t offer much. We watch the game together as I hear Sara laugh over the crowd.

Your legs shine under the ballpark lights. I try not to notice how your faded jean shorts slide up to your ass as you lift those legs up and prop your feet up on the empty seat back in front of us.

I also avoid directly looking at the thick can of Surfside perched between your thighs. It doesn’t matter that I’m not looking now. My dick is already swelling. I do glance from the corner of my eye because, while I shouldn’t think of you like this, I want to know what is beneath those shorts. What those lips look like, and if they’re just as pink and soft as your mouth. What they look like being stretched.

Condensation runs down the side of the aluminum, the beads meeting your warm skin, and I swear I feel a bead of my own leak from my tip. I feel my underwear dampen from it.

I know I have to stop this.

Even if Sara doesn’t hide her turn-ons from flirting to touching other men’s arms and toying with them, I cannot think of her friend this way.

“Are you okay?” you say.

“Yeah, any night at a baseball game is a good night.”

A warm breeze blows across us and I breathe you in. Vanilla and coconut.

This is not helping.

“I’m really glad we did this,” you say.

“Really glad we did what, Heather?” Sara says, climbing into your old seat from the row behind us. “Stole my seat, and my man. I see how it is.”

You laugh, and I know my eyes narrow. I’m watching you now, without realizing it just yet. That laugh feels different. Like it is hiding something, or compensating, or…

“What were you and Mr. Beef-Arms talking about?” I say.

“Oh, you know,” she says, batting her eyelashes, “I asked him to explain baseball to me.”

“What? Like the rules?”

“Sure. And how to play. What the positions are called. All of it.”

“No,” you say. “You pulled out dumb-girl?”

“You know it.”

I shake my head. I don’t get this game. I don’t even try to anymore. Is she testing how a man treats her? Wanting to feel a man’s presence as he guides her? To mess with him? I don’t even know if she knows why she does it.

“When he told me about the pitcher’s mound, I asked him where it was. I didn’t see it so I asked him if it looked like my mound,” Sara says.

You turn toward her and smack her shoulder. “You did not!”

“I did.”

“She did,” I say.

Once she sets her mind to the task at hand, she truly commits. I just shake my head.

The crowd roars for a double play that was almost a triple play. You two are talking but I can’t hear.

I don’t know if I want to.

---

It’s not that Sara’s games bother me. It’s that I don’t know if she understands herself all that well. I talk to her about it sometimes, but she gets quiet.

I love Sara. You know that. You love her too. She’s a good person, a good friend, and a good lover.

But I’m the one who notices the clouds rolling in. I’m the one who knows it’s six blocks back home and that unless the team falls apart, a seven run lead should get us through the top of the ninth.

It’s my idea to go now.

“We could get an Uber,” I say. “We could get caught in it.”

“Don’t waste your money,” Sara says. “It’s a short walk.”

So we agree to walk.

Before we get to Broad, I see it roll down the sidewalk. The sheet of rain rolls toward us and then, we are in the downpour of the summer.

Sara laughs and then starts running. We can barely see but we catch up to her under a tree. The three of us are soaked and catching our breath from the sprint to this cover.

We make our way from shelter to shelter—trees, awnings, some guy’s tarp over his motorcycle in front of a row home.

I slide my key into the lock and we burst into our living room. Our chests are heaving. Our drenched clothes stick to our bodies, hiding nothing. And we look at one another without saying anything. Nothing feels like it has to be said.

A long year. Kind friends. Wet bodies. A bit of alcohol. Sara’s old motto, the one she stopped saying around you after the accident—let’s have fun before we die.

Sara reaches for your hand. Brings you both to me. She moves your hand to my chest and leaves it there, unbuttoning my jersey while I savor your breathing against my neck.

Your hand is over my heart and I know you can feel how strong the thumping is and how it’s only getting faster as she peels my shirt off. Then your hand is on my skin and there’s no doubt you feel it.

Sara strips off her shirt. You follow. The sight of you two in your bras, raindrops dripping from your hair to your cleavage is enough to bring on my second erection of the night. My balls were aching from the first, but now they feel like someone fastened a boat anchor to them and tossed it to the floorboards.

She unclasps her bra and drops it. I see the way you stare at her. It’s like you’re asking her for permission. Permission for what exactly? For me to see you?

You must get what you needed because then your bra falls to the floor too.

I know Sara’s breasts. Well acquainted. Good friends of mine. They are just a bit bigger than my hand so when I squeeze them, her pillowy flesh spills between my fingers.

Your skin is darker by a shade, and I wonder if it’s the Italian part of you.

We huddle closer, standing in a triangle. Skin-to-skin. Sara’s right breast against the left side of my chest, her left against your right, your left against my right.

It’s one of the sexiest moments of my life. It’s also one of the most tender. Like a hug, but deeper.

We hold one another like that for a moment. No one of us seems to want to be the first to stop, not until I notice the puddle of water on the wood. We’re still growing that puddle—water dripping from our shorts.

“We should put our stuff in the dryer,” I say.

“You just want these two helpless girls in your apartment to strip naked,” Sara says.

“Can you blame me?”

“Fuck no,” she says.

You laugh, then snort, then cover your mouth. Sara finds your embarrassment hilarious as always. She loves that sort of thing. She cracks up every time I sneeze. Says I’m so dramatic as she laughs. I can’t help my whole body seizes up.

The girls follow me to the utility room where we bend and slip out of our shorts. I’m in my black boxer briefs, leaving little to the imagination, and leaving no doubt that I have a hard-on. Sara taps you on the shoulder and nods to my crotch. I try to cover it with my hands. Sara clicks her tongue at this.

That’s when I notice she’s already taken her panties off. The only thing she’s wearing is that thin black landing strip she keeps pristine. You see it then too and I catch how your eyes show disbelief.

“Guess we’re going there,” you say.

“I’m already there,” Sara says.

She moves her hands to my waistband and dips them beneath the elastic. Her warm fingers wrap around my stiff shaft. She pulls it up and frees me from the wet fabric. She strokes me while she looks at you. Your eyes are on me, which I decide I like. I like how you watch what she’s doing.

“Your turn,” Sara says to you, while pumping me.

There’s a spark that joins the ache in my balls as you hook your thumbs into your thong and drop it, revealing your bare pussy. I know that spark. It’s what happens when precum spills from me, which is what Sara collects in her free palm.

“Making my man leak. You might as well taste him.” Sara laps up a tongue full and then offers some to you. “Go on,” she says.

I fight my body. My eyes want to close and let me savor the sensation of your warm tongue dragging across my skin, collecting the clear liquid. But I want to see that.

You close your eyes as you lick it up. I hear a muffled noise from your throat.

“Tastes sweet, right?” Sara says.

You look up and lock on to my eyes. “Mmhmm.”

“It’s like his fluids corrupt innocent girls to the point where they just want more of him. Isn’t that right, Heather?”

“Mmhmm.”

I don’t know what you two are doing, what game you’re playing, but my cock bobs in response.

You both notice.

You both go to your knees—Sara first, you follow.

When your lips meet on either side of my tip, I have to squeeze my pelvic muscles so hard I might have given myself a hernia, but I don’t want to lose control so soon. But you both look so fucking hot.

Sara’s tongue flicks out and traces my hole which only makes me leak more. And you see it. Your tongue lashes out and catches the precum.

I see Sara slide her hand to your knee. You don’t do anything. Then she slides it up your leg just a few inches and that’s when you slide your knees apart. She keeps moving her hand up your thigh, fingers on the soft skin then, and then tracing the line left by the elastic of your thong.

Your breathing changes. You’re waiting. Sara’s fingers drift across your folds and I see the wetness you leave on her skin. You spread your legs a little further, opening yourself to her. She finds your clit and delicately teases you.

I’ve forgotten about my cock.

I kneel beside the two of you and watch your face as she dips a finger into you—the soft pad below her fingers giving you pressure where your hips tell her you want it.

I smell you on her skin and I only hope I can get a taste. The sweetness in the air makes my balls clench.

“Can I-“ you say.

“Let’s agree that no one needs to ask anything right now,” Sara says.

“It’s just that I’ve always wanted to suck another woman’s breast.”

“Then do it.”

Sara sits up on her knees, back straighter, chest out, offering herself to you. Your lips move on her, brush her nipple, and then you open your mouth and kiss my girlfriend’s breast.

Your breath is loud against her pale skin, and faster as her fingers flit across your clit—the sound of her skin on your slick folds is louder.

“I’m close,” you say, breaking away just to say that before taking her nipple back into your mouth.

You moan against her.

“That’s right. Come for me,” Sara says.

I don’t need to stroke myself to stay hard. This is so hot. I might come just because of what Sara said.

Your lip starts to quiver, your brow lifts, wrinkling your forehead. A noise shakes through your core, a deep groan as Sara’s fingers move differently now, teasing out your folds.

Your thighs tremble.

The wood floor rattles.

“Fuck,” you say, “I…fuck.”

You soak the floor with a clear jet, gasping for air. Your breasts are heaving while they hang between the two of you.

“Goddamn,” I say.

“I need a moment,” you say, leaning your head against Sara’s shoulder.

I’d need a moment after that, too.

My ankles are on the floor, feet pointed down, and I lean back on my heels just taking in this moment. But that’s not what I want. I can do something here. Sara said we didn’t need to ask.

Even as you rest against her, I move behind you, roll onto my back and lift your hips.

“What are you-“

But you don’t finish your question.

My head is under you.

“Oh,” you say.

My lips are on your thighs. I lick everywhere you squirt. I clean it all from your folds, leaving your pussy freshly kissed. I lap up all of your sweetness, exactly like I’d wanted.

When I’m done, you sit up and lift your hips, careful to not smother me—though, I could think of worse ways of dying.

You look down at me and run your fingers through my hair. “Thank you,” you say, to both of us. “I needed that.”

Sara gets up and takes your hand.

I follow the two of you as you walk to the bedroom, admiring your fine asses as they roll with each step.

You insist that Sara lie on our bed.

I sit by her head and hold it in my lap. I pet her hair while you kiss her thighs. When your lips meet hers, she whimpers.

I watch the waves in her belly. Her pleasure building. She bites her palm. She pinches her own nipple. Her thighs clamp on your cheeks, holding you there as the sucking sounds grow louder, more desperate.

Sara turns her head and takes my cock in her mouth, just to have something to anchor to. She doesn’t stroke or suck me. She’s simply filled by me as her orgasm hits her.

Her hot exhalation spreads against the taut skin of my shaft.

Her teeth dig in and it does hurt a little but totally worth watching her come undone.

Both of you lie beside each other. Your pussies swollen. Your foreheads damp.

“What about you?” Sara says, to me.

“Yeah,” you say. “You’ve been so sweet to us.”

“I’m okay,” I say, lying just a little. I’d love to come. “Just being here was amazing.”

“Don’t do that,” Sara says. She whispers in your ear and you nod quickly. Then she looks at me. “Get up here.”

Sara grabs my wrist and pulls me up, above you both. I am on the pile of pillows, knees digging in and trying to find purchase there. I still haven’t found it when she tilts her head to me and takes me into her mouth. Upside down. I’ve never felt that before.

Fucking incredible.

She gobbles hungrily, sloppily, sucking me down toward her throat. Your bodies are splayed before me, hands brushing your stomachs, then lower as you touch yourselves.

Sara pushes my hips back and then shifts me to you.

You take me into your mouth just the same. Sara looks up at me.

“How are you holding back when you have two sexy ass bitches sucking you like this? I mean, look at us.”

I am looking. Goddamn, I’m looking at it all. The curves of your bodies, the softness, the wetness, the sweetness still on my tongue.

“Fuck,” I say. “I’m going-“

You mouth something around my cock. I catch your eyes.

“She said she wants it,” Sara says.

I hope you do. I hope you’re ready for it. Because it’s been building since I noticed your thighs. All night, my balls have been filling with want. Then to have you both come undone in front of my eyes…

You slip two of your fingers inside yourself. Moan against my cock, the noise reverberating through my body. I put my hands on your shoulders and bracing myself, fuck your face slow and deep.

Your fingers move faster. Faster. Your toes curl. Sweat drips from my forehead onto your chest.

I feel my balls clench again. I know you’ve just tasted more of my precum, though this time, it’s the steady clear stream that always shoots out just before my thick, white come.

Your cheeks dimple as I feel you suck it from me. Your throat bobs as you swallow it, then stifle another moan.

Sara leans over and slips one of my balls in her mouth, rolling her tongue over it and shoving me over the edge of my cliff.

The orgasm hits me like a ton of bricks. I’m wrecked. I’m spasming. I’m pulsing in your tight, little mouth, pumping stream after heavy stream, and you drink it all down.

You leave me drained.

You smile up at me. Sara pulls me down between you two and within minutes we fall asleep, one by one.

Naked and warm.

Warning - Explicit Content, 18+

I’ve been running my fashion and style social media accounts for the last year. Making short videos featuring ways to build clothing style is all I do. But it is so much more rewarding than my day job—I’m a talent recruiter.

Blake knows I’d love nothing more than to put in my resignation and focus on growing my business. Ad and sponsored post revenue almost covers the clothes I feature, but that’s it. Not nearly enough to cover things like contracts and accounting software, let alone a salary.

And we need that salary.

We’re a DINK couple—double income, no kids. But life is expensive. Groceries through the roof. We bought our house at the wrong time, just after the pandemic. And our escrowed property taxes basically double our mortgage payment.

I have to bring in income so I can’t quit. Not yet.

But just knowing that I’m building something each day is enough to keep me trying. Slow and steady progress is still progress.

It’s the third week in May when I have my slowest net subscriber growth in months. Just two. When I see that, I cry. Blake holds me until I stop.

“What am I doing wrong?” I say.

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Why aren’t people watching then?”

“I don’t think it’s anything you did at all. It’s probably just a fluke. Or they did something to the algorithm.”

But I’m already distracted, half paying attention. I have my phone out and I’m scrolling through my competition’s feeds. Each of them have so many more followers. Not just double or triple my subscriber base. Ten times or more.

And over the last few months these women have started doing something new. Something I can’t do. I show the video to Blake of Courtney00lover in her underwear. She bends over to slip into a dress. I swipe up and another video starts the same way, except now she’s struggling into tight jeans.

“See? It’s not right. Do you think they’re getting more subscribers because they’re in their underwear.”

“Maybe. But it’s probably all men.”

“You’d think that, but no,” I say. “I’ve been watching her comments and she’s getting more of them from both men and women.”

“But you don’t want to do what she’s doing, right?”

“No,” I say, quickly and quite sure.

“Then don’t. Your page is good as it is. I love your content, babe.”

He kisses my forehead and I close my eyes, breathing in the smell of my husband. He is my favorite scent. I’m already calming down.

“I don’t know. Maybe I could do it,” I say. “Maybe part of me wants to do it, to get more viewers.”

“I’ll support you either way.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. There’s something he’s not saying.

“But what would you think if I did that?”

Blake shifts against the sofa, digs his shoulder blades in, and then exhales. His hot breath cascades down my arm. The amount of time that passes is just seconds but the silence concerns me.

“Honestly? The idea of it is kinda hot.”

“What? What do you mean it’s ‘hot?’”

His cheeks redden and he looks down at his folded hands.

“I don’t know. You work hard for your body. Men seeing it and wanting you, but me knowing that you’re mine—that’s hot to me.”

“Really?”

He nods.

“You’d be okay if I was making videos in my underwear for the world to see?”

“It’s only for a second, right? Basically a tease that these guys try to pause, right before you slip into a dress.”

“Well, yeah. That’s true,” I say, thinking. “And really, what’s the difference between underwear and a bikini?”

“Exactly. You would still be doing fashion content—just grabbing their attention first.”

“You want me to do this, don’t you? You can tell me the truth.”

“Yes,” he says.

---

Before my first try-on-haul video, Blake agrees to take me to a new store at the mall. I’d walked it a hundred times and would squeeze Blake’s hand each time, whispering something about how we should go in. All they sell is Italian lingerie, and it is absolutely gorgeous, so sexy.

I didn’t need lingerie-lingerie. Just some elegant panties and bras that matched. These days, I am down to three bras, all white, and I only feel good in one of them really. I almost never buy panties because Blake stuffs five pair in my stocking each Christmas, no doubt from some five for twenty five deal each year. Nothing I have matches and a lot of it is showing some age.

Luckily, this store has exactly what I want. Colored lace and satin in every color a girl could want. I use my credit card and spend more than I should.

Blake doesn’t object. He simply asks that I wear the red pair tonight.

“Why?” I laugh. “Because the bra is sheer?”

“Bingo.”

“I can just show you my nipple. We’re married, you know.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” his voice loud and attracting too much attention from the clerk.

“Shush,” I say, still laughing, but more-so embarrassed now. “If you shut up, I’ll let you see more than a nipple tonight.”

---

For my first video, Blake isn’t here. I told him it was too much pressure. I don’t want an audience, or at least, a live audience. I’m wearing the black lace panties and matching bra. It covers everything but is sexy too.

While I think I look good, I feel like I’m hyper-ventilating, like those guys who breathe loud and fast as they prepare to submerge in an ice bath, except I’m in my underwear and standing in front of a ring light and phone setup.

I know it’s inevitable that people I know—family and colleagues—find this, will see me in my panties. That is terrifying. But not growing my audience, not growing my business? I’ll trade a little dignity for a lot of subscribers.

So I close my eyes and take one final breath. I hold it for a few seconds and then exhale all the fear out.

“Here I come, world. Hope you're ready to see this.”

I tap record.

---

It’s been two hours since I uploaded the video. Two hours of refreshing my stats and seeing the number steadily grow. But now, it’s just exploded. The algorithm must have caught my content.

Normally, my videos get most of their likes within the first week. I average ten thousand likes and a few hundred comments.

This video is different. Within two hours, I’m at twenty thousand likes—double what a week would have gotten me before.

I watch it back on the app, the way anyone else would see it now—not the replay before I posted it, but the real thing, live, comments already stacking up underneath it.

What I see, I like. That probably sounds messed up. But I’m actually proud of how good I look. Blake was right, I’ve worked hard for my body. Nothing wrong with letting people see and appreciate my efforts—The arch of my back, strong and lean, as I reach for the dress. The lace panties frame my hips, hug my mound, show that I’m a woman and I have my secrets just behind this sheer fabric.

My wedding ring catches the ring light just right and sparkles. That will drive home that everyone better behave.

I scroll down before I can second-guess that thought.

Courtney00lover would kill for dat ass 🔥🔥

okay but the STYLING is actually good too?? like she’s not just hot she can dress

husband is a lucky man

more of this pleeeeeease i am BEGGING

I read that last one twice. My thumb hovers just over the reply button and then, I swipe away. I don’t need to say anything. Strangers, hundreds of them already, are looking at me like this. They want to see more of me like this.

I should feel exposed. Instead I feel a thrill. I want to do more videos.

---

Blake is still at league night so I call him and tell him about the numbers. I am unable to hide how excited I am.

“It’s totally working,” I say.

“Wow, babe. That’s awesome.”

“And it just went live. Imagine what tomorrow will bring.”

---

Three weeks later, I’m kind of a pro at this. For the most part, I don’t read the comments. If I do, it’s only the top comments.

And as for the DMs… at first I read every single one. Now I skim, delete, block, repeat. The dick pics stopped surprising me around the fourth video. I’ve also gotten good at sensing them before I see them. Swipe, block, next, the way you’d wave away a fly. Somewhere in my head I’ve filed it under cost of doing business, same as the annoying troll accounts commenting telling me my hips are too wide or my styling has gotten worse since I “started doing this.”

Men who don’t send photos, who don’t make demands, who don’t use their words to try to make me feel small, these are rare.

So rare in fact that when I see this message from man with the username WrightWroteRight?—I read it twice.

“I want it on record that I opened this video strictly for the outfit breakdown and I am a serious follower of your styling content.”

Then:

“Unfortunately, the first few seconds of the video have disrupted my research.”

I actually laugh out loud, alone and on the sofa. I consider a reply, type something, delete, and repeat that until I close the app, sending nothing.

Blake walks in a few moments later and before he sits down, he notices something’s off. He’s doing that thing where one eye squints and the other narrows. I look away.

“What is it?”

“What’s what?” I say.

“Something happened.”

Funny how marriage can put two people so in tune with each other that we both know something is up. I hand him my phone, the message is already up. I watch his face as he reads it, then again. He goes back and watches my video.

“‘Disrupted my research…’ okay, that’s actually pretty good,” Blake says.

“I thought so, too.”

“Sounds like you got an admirer,” he says.

“I have thousands of those now. Tens of thousands. You know how many dick pics I’ve gotten?”

“Wait, people actually send you those?”

“Men,” I say, pausing for effect. “Men send me those. Lots of them.”

“Shit.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t leave you for a nice dick.”

“There are nice ones?”

“Probably. I stopped looking.”

“Oh…good,” he says. “So, WrightWroteRight?”

“Yeah?”

“You going to write him back?”

“You want me to write him back.”

Blake winces, then rubs his hand on the back of his head.

“You wouldn’t have brought him up again if you didn’t.”

“You’re right,” he says. “I wouldn’t have.”

“Should I?”

“What do you want to do?”

Blake and I have a few rules and the first one is simple. We are honest, even when it’s hard to be. That’s in my mind as I open my mouth to respond.

“Flirt.”

“Then do it,” he says.

---

Two weeks into the flirting, Sam, aka WrightWroteRight? sends a photo. Not of his face. Just his torso with lean muscle and V’s down into the edge of black boxer briefs. No caption.

I stare at it for a long minute. Then I screenshot it and send it to Blake.

Blake texts back almost immediately: “Show him something.”

I open my camera roll, find a mirror shot from that morning—black lace again, but straps hanging off my shoulders. More of my breasts than anyone else has seen. I crop it so only my body from the collarbones down is visible. I hit send.

Sam’s reply comes in under a minute.

“You’re trying to kill me.”

I type back: “Is it working?”

---

Three months of flirting that started small—careful, a little coy, both of us testing how far the other would let it go—and became something else. Something that lives in conversations I reread on my lunch break at the office, conversations Blake reads too, half-hard and propped up next to me in bed like we’re watching a show together.

Sam knows I’m married. He knows Blake knows about him, about us.

The biggest reason it took me weeks to even bring up meeting in person was fear. Fear of Sam thinking I’m a certain kind of woman. Maybe it was all the messages from men, and some women, criticizing me for how I started showing my body online.

But the more Sam and I talked, the more I knew I wanted to meet him. Sam said he’d love to take the hour-long flight into Philly for the day for a chance at a date with me. My chest flutters just hearing him talk like this, about me.

Things with Blake are good.

This is just something extra.

Something we both want.

Something all three of us want.

In the end the rules were simple, the same honesty rule as always, just pointed somewhere new: I tell him everything. No lying by omission. If I feel unsafe, I leave. If it stops feeling good, I leave.

---

So here I am. A restaurant I picked because it’s small, intimate. There are only six tables and it’s dark enough that I won’t see anyone we know, probably.

I wait outside, reading the month’s financial statement. Things have really changed for my business. If this keeps up, I could see myself quitting my nine-to-five by the end of the year.

My phone buzzes. I swipe out of the app and check my text. Not Sam—Blake.

“good luck. text me when you can. not because I’m worried. because I want to hear about it.”

I almost laugh. Because “I want to hear about it,” when it comes to a date your wife is having with another man is totally a Blake thing to say.

I type back a single heart, and slip the phone into my purse.

When he walks up, head slightly tilted, smile spreading across his face. He’s not what the photos suggested. He’s taller. His shoulders are broad and he’s got this nice…long…torso.

“You’re early,” he says, hand sliding into mine. His handshake is perfect, firm but not painful. “I was trying to be early to impress you.”

“Been here ten minutes.”

“See, now I just look average.”

I look at him from head to toe. “Hardly average.”

He clutches his heart, stumbling back a step, and I laugh—actually laugh. He’s just as quick on his feet as he is in texts.

---

The candle between us is totally working for me—warm light catching the line of his jaw every time he leans in to hear me. His blue eyes stay locked on mine, and I keep losing my train of thought each time I see his pupils change size.

“So, do you have other fashion mamas that you stalk?”

“I told you,” he says, taking a sip of wine, “I was doing research.”

“Sure,” I say, laughing. Air quotes, “Research.”

“You want the honest answer?”

“I’d love it,” I say.

“You popped up. I saw you in your underwear, and couldn’t stop watching, even once you were dressed.”

“That,” I say, my panties soaking as I try to finish the sentence, “is so sweet. Like, truly. I almost didn’t do it.”

“Do what?”

“The whole underwear thing. I didn’t used to.”

“I know. I went back and watched every video.”

“Every video?”

“All of ‘em.”

“Because you’re obsessed with me,” I say.

“Obsessed.”

I like this. I like the banter. I like his eyes on me. I like the way those long arms look.

And suddenly I decide.

“Pay the bill. Take me to your hotel room.”

---

The door barely closes behind him before I push him against the wall. I have to step on my tiptoes to reach his lips but it’s worth every bit of effort for that kiss. I breathe him in through my nose, his scent intoxicatingly different than what I’m used to. He smells like the fields in the Yosemite Valley.

His hands slide down my back, finding their home on my hips. He pulls them tight against him, letting, no, ensuring that I feel every bit of his thickening cock. My wetness leaks through my lace panties and I feel it roll down my thigh.

But I can’t stop kissing him. His hands cup my butt. His grip is firm and when he squeezes my ass, I whimper.

I ache, hopping into his arms, my skirt giving as my legs wrap around him. In one quick move, he spins and pins me to the wall. Our lips don’t break apart, even when I gasp as I feel his bulge press against my soaked panties.

I can’t take it.

No, that’s wrong.

I want to take _it_.

I look down between us as my hands fumble sloppily—my growing hunger making this simple task seem to take forever—with his belt. But I get it. Then flick his button open and yank his zipper down. I hook my fingers beneath his pants and slide everything down.

When his cock springs free, weighty and responsive, it bounces and smacks

heavily against my bare thigh.

“Goddamn,” I say. “I didn’t know they came that thick.”

“Think you can handle it?” he says, smirking.

“I want to try.”

I steer it toward my panties, brushing the wide tip there. Prying at the edge of the elastic. Tracing the shape of my labia with him. I feel a pulse surge through him and then his tip spurts a clear stream onto my lace. It dissolves instantly, mixing with my wetness.

“See what you do to me?” he says. “Making me leak already.”

I slide my panties to the side and let his tip kiss my slick lips.

“Feel what you do to me?” I say.

“Fuck, that is-“

I have him by his hips and I pull my body to his, taking some of his tip into me. He goes silent, unable to finish his thought.

“Like that,” I say, tongue out to tease him.

“My god.”

“You mean, ‘my goddess.’” And I angle my hip to take a little more.

I feel the stretch now as his hard-as-steel shaft slips between my folds. It’s a lot. Like, a real lot. I bite my lip, shifting my hips a little this way, a little that.

I can’t take my eyes off his cock and how much of him I’ve already taken. But I don’t plan to stop until I take as much as my body will fit.

“To the bed,” I say.

He nods and I arch my back against the wall and push off with my hands. With ease, he takes long strides to the bed. He’s about to drop me onto my back when I shake my head.

“I want to be on top.”

I push off of him and the noise of suction from his cock leaving my pussy is so loud that I know he heard that. He only grins, smug, proud even.

I roll my eyes and push him onto his back. I straddle his waist and with one hand, impale myself on his girth.

“Fuck,” I say, breath leaving me as I take him in again.

This is a challenge. He’s a challenge. For sure the biggest I’ve ever had.

But this is the year of me just going for it. So I brace myself with palms on his chest, skin-to-skin, and shimmy further down his cock.

He lets out a guttural groan as he watches his shaft part me, stretching my lips thin and taut. My body molds to his and just the sight, the thought of it is enough to lead me to the very edge.

I haven’t even taken it all yet, haven’t even pumped him a few times, and my body already threatens orgasm.

His hands slide up my legs, my waist, and settle on my shoulders.

“Breathe in,” he says. I do what he says. “Relax, and breathe out slowly.”

I nod and as I exhale, close my eyes, letting the pressure I’ve been feeling just fucking go.

And then, he pulls my shoulders down. In one quick move, my clit meets his skin. I’ve done it. I have all of him in me.

“Nice trick,” I say.

“Looked like you needed some guidance.”

I smack his chest playfully, I swear. Then I settle my hands on him again and slowly learn what works for our bodies—a half rock, half lift. That lets the length of him with all those glorious veins, drag along the right spot within me. I grind my throbbing clit into his warm flesh. That’s what is working. That’s what makes me bite my lip and utter “fuck” more than five times.

The tension in my belly starts shifting lower, then tightening until I can barely stand the pressure. My arms shake. My breath short, desperate.

A primal sound reverberates through me.

He knows I’m close and bless the man; he takes my hips and just gives me a little extra help. Those firm hands help roll me along him, help press my clit to him a little more, just as everything within me snaps. My nails dig pink trenches down his chest. My thighs tremble. He pulses within me as he calls my name through gritted teeth. His back arches up from the bed, his hips lift me up just as I feel his stream flood my womb.

“Yes,” I cry.

I squeeze my pelvic muscles tight and let the throbbing of his cock echo through me, melting with my own waves of pleasure.

He collapses weakly on the bed, spent.

I smile. But I’m not done. I squeeze again, this time lifting my hips and milking him. Let go and take him again. And milk him once more.

I wanted to be sure I got every last drop.

---

While Sam is grabbing us waters from the lobby, I take a quick selfie from bed, ruined and leaning. I let the camera see it all and then, I send it to Blake.

“My beautiful wife.”

“His gaping prize,” I reply.

Ella’s Smut Stroll Directory - Find more great writing!

You call my name.

The skin of my legs sticks to the leather chair as I rise. I leave the waiting area and walk to the door you’re holding.

As I approach, our eyes meet, and then yours shift to my crotch, but only for an instant. Then they’re back, and you smile, t…

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Warning - Explicit Content, 18+

By ten on Monday, I had met everyone on the Onyx Studios office team. They were all so friendly, and despite what they created, or maybe even as testament to what they created, they were warm. Kind.

The highlight was John, from HR. He took my coffee order and came back with extra cream and sugar. I loved John for that.

Ric…

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Hello, and welcome to my Substack. I’ve been writing erotica for years on Literotica but earlier this year (2026), I decided to try creating my own Substack and am really enjoying the interaction with other erotica writers and readers.

Most of the stuff I write has elements of taboo but not always. I like the following elements/dynamics: Hotwife, cuckold…

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I pressed the button outside the doors of Onyx Studios. A single flat tone sounded for a few seconds, then a click and a deep voice crackled on. I smoothed my skirt down the sides of my hips and I answered that I was there about a job. The door buzzed and I grabbed the knob and walked in.

The lobby wasn’t what I expected. I was disoriented by the crisp grey wall, on one of which the Onyx logo hung starkly behind a single black walnut desk, one oversized monitor with an ergonomic keyboard. On another wall, plaques showing their awards, above a framed picture of two hands clasped in one another. One white, one black.

Nothing looked cheap. It all looked intentional, well thought out.

No neon signs. No scantily clad women. Nothing that made me think of Las Vegas or prostitutes.

“Ms. Foster?”

I turned. A man stood in the hallway that opened off the lobby, casually adjusting a silver watch with one hand. He was tall, with shoulders twice as wide as me, wearing a charcoal suit that fit him very well, like it had been crafted for his body. Expensive. I’d never seen a man’s biceps through his suit. Didn’t know that could be a thing.

A thing that sent a thrill through me. I pushed it down as he walked toward me. Reminded myself that carnal lust never satisfied. Not that I’d know from experience.

He offered a hand. He didn’t look like someone in the porn business. He looked like someone’s father. Someone’s very handsome, very successful father.

“Richard Armstrong,” he said, as I slid my small hand inside his, holding back a shiver at the warmth of his palm. “Cal Stevens called. Said you might reach out. I didn’t expect it would be so soon.”

I stifled a groan. I seemed desperate. Not good. But I was desperate. I’d used my last six dollars to get here. My car was illegally parked because I couldn’t afford any of the lots. I only had my hand to play.

“I need a job.”

“Cal told me. They shuttered his baby. That place was his dream. He paid his dues for years, commuting to New York to film, waiting until someone saw the promise of Jersey.” He sighed. “A shame they gave up so soon. That’s why I never worked for them.”

“ATC?”

“American Television Corp… National Broadcasting… Any of ‘em. You work for corporate and they own you. I wasn’t going to be owned.”

“This…” I said, eyes bouncing from the logo on the wall to the photo of two hands clasped, wondering what lay down the hall, “is yours?”

“Free and clear.”

“Wow.”

“I offered Cal a job. Turned me down. Said his wife would never let him work here.”

“He did?”

“Even offered him an executive director role.”

My cheeks burned. I knew I was blushing and I knew there was nothing I could do to hide the shame I felt. Mr. Stevens, what my pastor would call a pagan, had turned Richard down and here I was, a woman of faith, trying not to beg for a job.

“I told him I always had openings, especially in talent. So, when he told me about you, I was a bit confused.”

“Why?”

“He started out saying that once I saw you, I’d try to talk you into an acting role.”

“Oh,” I said, suddenly feeling a bit dizzy. Mr. Stevens had said that.

“Now, I see what he meant. You’re stunning.”

I looked down at the floor, spiraling further in my shame. Part of me liked that this attractive man thought I looked stunning. Another part of me knew I shouldn’t like it.

“But he told me you’re Christian. Evangelical?”

“Yes.”

“So, why—” he stepped closer, standing less than a foot from me. I could feel his heat through his suit. I looked down again and when I did, my eye caught the outline of his manhood, trailing his thigh down the left leg of his pants. “—would a good girl like you come to my door?”

I’d told him why. I really needed a job. But that wasn’t answering his question. What he meant, and what I heard was, why take money from a porn company? I could make money selling my body for sex, supposedly the world’s oldest profession, though I disagree—farming is pretty old too—but I wasn’t about to become a prostitute.

“He said you were successful. Best in the business.”

“He’s right.”

“And he said I could do very well here with my gifts…”

For the first time, Richard’s eyes left mine. I noticed them trace the hint of my cleavage. A moment of weakness? Assessment?

“He’s not wrong. But that’s a big leap. Of course, if you were interested…innocent girl gone bad is exactly what we capture here.”

“I’m not interested in that.” I lifted my chin as I tried to sound like I wasn’t curious, or flattered. “I was hoping for something more… administrative. Like what I did for Cal…I mean, Mr. Stevens. I could be your assistant. I’m good at that.”

“He told me that as well. It’s funny, my assistant,” he said. He paused. “Moved to another department. She’s out on location. Answering my own phone, emails, all of it has been…hell.”

A knowing smile reached his eyes. The dark irises reflected a square of white light. He’d thought hell was answering phones.

“I can do those things for you,” I said.

“I know you can. Let’s skip a formal interview. One week. You do the job. I’ll pay you two grand. You work out, and you can stomach telling daddy where you work, then I’ll put you on payroll.”

“Two…grand?” I said, feeling lightheaded.

He nodded.

Two grand for an admin role… How much did he make? How much did his talent make? I squeezed my fists, digging my nails into my palms.

I didn’t know what my parents would say, or what my friends would think. For two thousand dollars a week, I’d figure that stuff out.

“I’ll do it.”

“I know you will,” he said, smiling. “Allow me to show you around?”

I nodded and followed at his side as we walked the halls. It was late in the day. He explained most of his staff worked on set, with only a small core in the office for support. They’d already gone home for the day. Schedules were flexible as long as they stayed on track for production, which he explained, hadn’t ever been a problem.

“Of course, I am the last one to leave most days. My admin works the hours I work, so you and I will spend a lot of time together over the next week. Often alone. Now, I think I know where you’re coming from. Will that be a problem?”

“No, of course not. It’s work.”

“Good.”

He showed me the front desk and jotted down the log in credentials. I typed them in as he leaned over me. His scent was a clean musk mixed with something that smelled like the cedar river near my home in Shamong.

“Good, so you can get in. Ever uploaded anything to a website before?”

“Does MySpace count?”

“You’re too young to know what MySpace is.”

One corner of his lips lifted in a smirk.

“Yes,” I said, laughing. “I am. I’m sure if someone shows me, I can do it. I’ll take good notes.”

“One final test before I tell you to come in on Monday. We upload a new video every Wednesday. So this week’s was already uploaded. But if we finished editing and have final sign-off from the director, and me, you can upload next week’s on Monday. You ever see one of our videos?”

His hand covered mine on the mouse, guiding the pointer to this week’s video, and clicking the play button. From the corner of my eye, I noticed he was watching me. I shifted in the soft leather seat. I took the job to answer phones, not watch porn. He had to know I hadn’t watched any of Onyx’s videos.

“Stay here. Watch this. Understand what we do, our mission. I can’t have anyone not on board unless they get it. I’ll be back in-“ he said, checking the progress bar, “twenty six minutes.”

I bit my tongue. I wanted to tell him I didn’t need to see it. Didn’t want to. That I never watched porn.

The closest I ever came was when I read a news story I shouldn’t have and then quickly googled to see unblurred images of the actor who played Legolas in my favorite movies. He was completely naked. I only looked for a few seconds, felt very warm all over, like I was getting sick, feeling damp, especially in my pants. I closed my tabs and deleted my history.

“Okay,” I said.

I could do this. I’d manage. I’d stare through the screen. As long as I didn’t enjoy it, didn’t let my eyes gaze upon these bodies, then it wouldn’t be wrong.

The screen started black and then the title faded in, in a thin white font, My Best Friend’s Brother Kissed Me. When scene opened, it was a wide shot of a single reed bending sideways on an isolated, windswept beach. It looked like Cape Cod in the winter. The sound of fingers playing a quiet piano piece when a young woman, my age, knocked on a door. She looked around as she waited, shivering in her coat, breathing a white cloud that stood out against the black door. It opened and a man stepped forward and smiled.

What followed didn’t feel like porn. There was no skin showing beyond their faces and hands, hands that she warmed by the fire as they talked. He seemed to know her well, and the conversation flowed easily even as she squirmed. I could see that she felt something for him. The way her eyes tracked him told me more than she was saying.

She texted her friend, his sister. She was delayed. Stuck at work but leaving now. The house was remote and the rest of the family was still on the way. It would be an hour.

“But you can stay,” he said. “I’m just hanging out.”

I caught it before I realized myself catching it. The camera barely caught it too—the way the woman’s eyes dropped to his crotch as he mentioned the word hanging. But the camera didn’t zoom in on his crotch.

The most carnal moment in the first five minutes was a glance that lasted less than a second. I bet most viewers wouldn’t even notice.

That struck me. It kept me watching for what other clues would come. I wanted to know how these two felt about each other. This didn’t feel wrong. This didn’t seem dirty, or evil.

It felt…nice.

And even when they kissed, even when the clothes came off, I was watching something I couldn’t call anything but beautiful. Everything stayed wide, focused on the setting and the moment as much as the bodies and what they were doing. There were no closeups of body parts and that surprised me.

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And still, despite the cinematic framing, I saw the way he grew hard in her hands, the way her sex began to glisten, only then noticing that she did look a little like me, just as my own sex started soaking through my panties.

It didn’t feel wrong. Not then.

When his large shaft pressed deep into her much smaller sex, and they worked through that together, I smiled. It was sweet, tender.

I had to cross my legs though, in attempts to keep my body in check. I didn’t want Richard to return and find me beet red and obviously interested. I didn’t want him thinking that if it was all like this, I might want to watch more of his content.

But I was interested. And I told him as much when he returned.

“I like that it feels real.”

His face flashed disbelief.

“Do you know what real feels like?”

He was watching my face. His attention was on me. My heart skipped a beat. He knew the answer.

“That’s a rather personal question.”

“Rhetorical. I like you, Sophie. Let’s give it a shot.”

“Really?”

“Really. I wouldn’t play with you.”

Before I knew what I was doing, I stood and hugged him, wrapping my arms around his neck, squeezing him, realizing too late how my soft breasts felt against his firm chest. But I didn’t react. I hugged him and then smiled as I pulled back.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Armstrong.”

“Richard, please.”

“Thank you, Richard.”

“See you Monday, nine o’ clock,” he said.

I walked back to my car, expecting to find a slip of paper tucked under the windshield wiper. But thankfully, the PPA missed me.

What a blessing! This must be my lucky day.

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I had always been a good girl. I prayed. I played guitar and sang praise songs at the coffee shop open mic nights. I did all the right things. I was only twenty-three, but I’d had a stable job after college. That is, until the paper plant in my county shut down and relocated to Tennessee. I was only an admin, but the money was enough to cover the basics and my student loans. I really regretted that BA in English now. I had applied to forty three teaching jobs since graduating last spring and learned that each position had over a thousand applicants.

The text that my bank account overdrew came the morning I pulled up to my latest interview for yet another admin role at a movie studio in New Jersey. First of its kind in decades.

During the interview, the hiring manager suggested I keep looking, which was odd.

“You don’t want to work here.”

“I really do. I need a job. I’ll work hard.”

“I’ve no doubt about that, Ms…” he said, turning over the stapled resume, “Foster. I think maybe you’re overqualified.”

“That’s okay, really.”

He sighed and spun a quarter of the way around in his swivel chair. For a moment, he simply looked out the window beside him. I watched him closely, trying to decipher his body language, but got nowhere.

“I’ll hire you.”

“Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Stevens.” I leaned forward and shook his hand.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “My advice? Keep looking.”

But I wasn’t listening—I had the job! He told me the fine details would be handled by HR. He walked me to the front door and then I drove away in my sputtering VW. I celebrated by buying dinner out, a single taco for ninety nine cents, which I had scrounged from under the driver’s seat, and a free cup of water. The soft taco was warm and salty and tasted better because I had done it. I had found another job.

That job lasted two weeks.

When I approached Mr. Stevens, his lips looked like a stretched rubber band. He knew what was coming. His lips puckered into a small, nearly invisible circle.

“With respect, why did you hire me knowing the studio was shutting down?”

“I signed an NDA. I also was told I needed to hire someone for the role. I had no idea how soon we would get shut down.”

“It’s not right. I needed this job.”

“I know. Trust me, I know. I’m out of a job too. But I did try to help you. I told you to keep looking. Hopefully you have been.”

“No, I thought that would be unfair to you.”

“Ms. Foster…,” he said, clicking his tongue. “You are settling. You could do much bigger things than admin work.”

“Tell that to the people hiring. They haven’t gotten the memo.”

“Still. You’ll find something more in line with your…gifts.”

“Like what?”

He reached into his desk, the oak drawer thudded to its stopping point. Rooting around inside, he withdrew what he was looking for. The business card was smooth and elegant. A rectangle of dulled black with a few words printed in a thin white font.

“Onyx Studios?” I read aloud. “This is in Philly?”

“Yeah. Now, I am urging you, research the company first. See what they’re about, what they do, and if you’d be onboard. But I went to school with the president there. They are very successful at what they do. They’re considered one of the top studios. You could do very well there.”

Any networking connection was huge for me. I just needed an in. Somewhere. Anywhere. I leapt to my feet.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “Grab your paycheck from the front desk. And good luck, Ms. Foster.”

“Sophie.”

“Good luck, Sophie.”

I didn’t go home. I needed to bring my account out of the negative. I went right to the bank to cash my check. While I waited, I fidgeted with the business card, debating if I call or go to their office. The toll was six dollars. Parking could be another issue depending where in the city they were.

I scanned the QR code and their site loaded. It was a clean, minimalistic website that looked like one of those beautiful coffee table books with artful photography and short a text field. The photos themselves—screenshots, wide and cinematic, beautiful scenery, well-dressed men and women, in various states of undress. My jaw dropped. As I scrolled further, I knew I should stop reading. I should delete my history. That I should purge my brain of what I had seen. Put my phone down.

But something about the words kept my eyes on the screen. Authentic Connection. Real Chemistry. Real Orgasms. Stories, Not Scenes. Images of naked men and women touching each other. A link was at the bottom of the page. Join Our Team.

“It’s porn?” I said, out loud.

“Can I help you, miss?” a crackly voice over the intercom. I had pulled up to the vacuum tube without thinking. Startled, I threw my phone against the passenger door so hard that I worried I had broken it.

“Sorry!” A cold sweat broke on my neck. “I was saying, ’It’s important. This check.’”

“I’m sure it is,” the teller said. I prayed she bought it. It wasn’t untrue, what I said. It was important.

I loaded the tube and pushed the button. Air rushed from inside my car toward the console as the tube was sucked and then gone. I took a deep breath. Why would Mr. Stevens refer me to a porn studio? Hadn’t he seen the framed poem, Footprints, on my desk? What had he said? Something about this studio being a good fit for my “gifts.”

“What gifts?” I said, into the rearview mirror.

But I knew the answer to that question, even as I sat there pretending I didn’t. The tube outside my window sat empty, waiting on the teller.

As I waited, I looked in the mirror. I’d grown up in purity culture. For as long as I could remember, I’d dressed to keep boys from being tempted—that’s what our pastor always preached. I had to protect the men. The funny thing about that was, I still got attention. One of my best guy friends, Mike, asked me on three separate occasions if he could touch my boobs. The first time I had laughed him off. He was always a bit of a clown. A good guy. But I was confused when he asked again.

“I’m Christian, you know?” I said. “And I have a boyfriend. Even he doesn’t get to touch my boobs.”

“A shame. I always wanted to touch really big boobs.”

“They’re just boobs. Designed for milk.”

“Now I’m thinking about your milky white boobs.”

When I thought of my body from a guy’s perspective since that night after playing the coffee shop, I forever thought of those two things—I’m pale, aka milky white, and I have big boobs. That’s what guys must notice. The rest of me? Don’t know. I try not to think about it, the boobs, or any of it really. But it dawned on me. What Stevens had said, what the studio was. I hadn’t realized it until that moment—that Onyx not only provided higher quality adult content, but it was focused on the contrast between strong black men and pale white women. I was pale as pale could be.

The hiss of the tube returning shook me out of the memory. I turned and grabbed the canister, rotating the top. I’d always loved this part. Even as a kid, I’d ask my mom if I could open it. I tilted the canister on its side to pour out my money. A paper slip flitted to my palm.

I shook the canister again. Empty.

I reached out of the window and mashed the intercom button.

“Yes?”

“I think there’s been a mistake. I asked for forty dollars back.”

“You did. Your balance is less than forty dollars. Check the slip.”

I flipped the paper over. $12.36.

“You had overdraft fees.”

“How am I supposed to survive on this?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Foster.”

I sighed, blowing a few strands of hair from my eyes. I had a lead. Mr. Stevens thought I had a future there. I couldn’t do porn. Never. But maybe I could be an admin? Maybe I could even talk them into doing something else with their obvious talents?

“Can I have six dollars at least? I need it for tolls.”

---

I drove to the studio that afternoon. My gut was right, parking was expensive. The sign outside the lot said thirty dollars for the first two hours. I didn’t have thirty dollars. I had zero dollars after taking the bridge over so I parked in an alley on Cherry Street and hoped the Parking Authority had already passed by, because I knew their reputation. Using the rear view mirror, I reapplied eyeliner and pale pink lipstick. I remembered the site and the way those people dressed. The women in elegant dresses. The men in suits with a button or two undone. I needed to seem looser yet more confident. I tilted the mirror down and looked at my outfit—a knee length brown skirt and tan silk blouse, with a white cardigan. I slipped the cardigan off. Closer to right. I unbuttoned the top button of my sleeveless blouse.

It wasn’t that I was compromising my beliefs. I was covered. And I remembered plenty of lessons about the need to be shrewd as snakes. With the types of people I could meet in there, I needed to not look so uptight.

The sidewalk was dirty. I navigated around trash and puddles of various colored liquids, seriously wondering if I could actually work in this city with its deteriorating buildings and decaying morals.

Nothing could have prepared me for walking into Onyx Studios…

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Warning - Explicit Content, 18+

Contains: reluctance (at first), themes of cuckolding, exhibitionism and voyeurism.

It’s one of my kinkier tales.

Tucker and I had just finished the out portion of the Kalalau Trail, landing us on one of the most remote beaches in the world. The only way to reach it was an eleven mile trail or a zodiac boat. Still, I didn’…

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Warning - Explicit Content, 18+

Jane,

You asked, so here goes.

I keep both men in my life, my husband and my bull, in chastity. They’re only free when I say so. Most women in this lifestyle, if they flirt with orgasm denial and cuckolding, enjoy keeping their husband’s cock in a cage. The husband likes it too. When he’s not in control of his orgasm anymor…

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Warning- Explicit Content, 18+

The candle between us had burned down to a stub, wax pooling onto the white tablecloth. I figured one of two things: the waiter saw his share of diners taking their time, or the waiter would tsk about it later. I swirled the last of my wine and looked at Mark over the rim of the glass—really looked at him, the way I used t…

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Warning- Explicit Content, 18+

For years I’d wondered whether I led a sheltered life. Most of the time, I was happy. It was only when we travelled that I saw other families, and other women my age. Between my sophomore and junior year of college, my parents took my sisters and I to Hawaii. Nine days on the south shore of Kauai. They allowed us to bring f…

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