The Sex Goddess Way

A Beautiful Flower Growing in the Mud (While Naked)

Delisha Keane Sex & Sexuality — Wed, 02 Sep 2026 21:12:57 GMT

WARNING 18+: My short stories blend sexual themes with eroticism, social drama, and pointed satire. They are written purely for entertainment and/or to offer a thought-provoking experience to mature readers. Reader discretion is strongly advised, as some content may be triggering. All characters are depicted as consenting adults (18+) engaged in role-playing. However, scenes featuring elements of dub-con may be included if they are essential to a character’s development. If this content is offensive to you, please kindly and simply skip my posts. Thank you so much! Naked hugs & wet kisses!

I write erotica novels & short stories. I also publish handbooks on how to train us, young women, for sex and share my sex confessions as a spermivore, spermaholic, and submissive teen (18+) slut. Yes, a slut! And I’m proud of it! Sex is good, and girls who love sex shouldn’t have to hide and pretend to be “pure.” Sex is pure! And naked skin is natural. #FreeTheNipple #FreeThePussy

This series about a college girl’s time- and space-traveling started here.

A Beautiful Flower Growing in the Mud (While Naked)

Rain wakes me. Not the sound of it — I’ve been hearing it in my sleep, woven into whatever dream I was having about swimming or drowning or both. What wakes me is the ‘feel.’ Cold droplets hitting my bare feet. Tiny, insistent splashes against my toes and the arches of my soles.

My eyes open to darkness. Not total — there’s a faint gray glow coming from the tent’s entrance, which is wide open at my feet like a mouth. Through it, I can see water falling in heavy silver sheets. The rain is loud. Steady. The kind that sounds like someone left a faucet running directly above the earth.

I don’t move.

Instead, I take inventory.

My Anchors

A warm hand on my belly. Large. Calloused. Cody’s left hand, resting just below my navel, his fingers spread wide across my flat stomach like he fell asleep mid-sentence and forgot to take his hand back. His palm generates a circle of heat against my damp skin. I can feel his body to my right — the length of him stretched out on his own sleeping bag, parallel to me. Naked. His breathing slow and deep. That steady, unconscious rhythm of someone who sleeps like the world can’t touch him.

To my left — pressure. Weight. The redhead. Sleeping on her side, facing me, her heavy, generous body curled toward mine. One of her legs is draped over my left thigh — her knee bent, her calf warm and slightly sticky against my skin. Her copper hair is everywhere — across the sleeping bag, across my shoulder, a few strands tickling my neck. And her hand. Her small, warm hand resting directly on top of Cody’s hand on my belly.

‘They’re holding me down. Both of them. Like I might float away in my sleep, and they’re the anchors keeping me here.’

‘Or like they’re conspiring. A naked man and a naked redhead, plotting to keep the smooth-kitty girl from vanishing into another decade.’

Past Cody — on his other side — the dark-haired girl. All those long black vines of hair pooling across the sleeping bag. Her head rests on his shoulder, her face tilted toward his neck. One slender hand lies flat on his belly, just above his hip bone. She breathes with the same deep rhythm he does. Synchronized sleepers.

‘Where’s the flower girl? And the fringed-vest guy?’

I crane my neck slightly. Just enough to scan the dim tent interior. Three bodies. Two sleeping bags spread flat like mattresses. Some fabric bunched at the far end, which might be a blanket nobody needed. That’s it. The flower-haired girl and her dancing partner must be in one of the other tents. Together, probably. Given the way everyone here touches each other like oxygen is a group activity.

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Become a supporter (I love you! 💋) and get a wide variety of erotic stories, plus... My private sex confessions and editorials on sex education for us, young women.

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Cumming up in this Woodstock 1969 erotic short story:

It Smells Like Belonging
My First Time Sleeping With a Man
Sleeping on Top of a Man’s Dick
Naked Records
A Swamp Animal
Jefferson Airplane
Come On, Smooth-Kitty!
Morning Shower at Woodstock
Bald Pussy: Just Add Mud
I Needed Another Nude Woman
A Flower in the Mud

Sharp Fingernails on His Stiff Cock: How Naked Teenagers (18+) Control a Grown Man on a Massage Table

Delisha Keane Sex & Sexuality — Tue, 01 Sep 2026 21:10:42 GMT

This erotic story is part of a new series, The Good Girl Next Door: Cookies & Orgasms. She smiles like an angel and sins like the devil.

This particular story with Stacey, her massage table, and her long fingernails started here.

I hope your cock (or pussy) enjoys it!

Sharp Nails on His Stiff Cock: How Naked Teenagers (18+) Control a Grown Man on a Massage Table

The knock comes at eight. Again. Like last Wednesday. Like clockwork. Like a man who set three alarms on his phone because that’s all he thought about all week.

I open the door.

Same navy suit. Same tie, although this one is burgundy instead of blue. Same dad belly pressing against his button-down shirt. Same half-gray hair. But his face is different. Last week, he looked like a man entering a haunted house. Tonight? He looks like a man entering a haunted house he ‘liked.’

‘Welcome back, Mr. Calder. I’ve been sharpening my nails all week.’

“Hi! Come in, come in.”

He steps past me with actual confidence this time. His eyes take in the apartment, the massage table in the center, the warm lighting, the smell of lavender oil already in the air because I prepped everything twenty minutes ago. But then his eyes keep moving. Sweeping left. Sweeping right. Scanning the kitchen table where Nikki sat last time. The chair is empty. Her textbook is there. Highlighter cap off. But no Nikki.

‘Looking for someone, Mr. Calder?’

His gaze drifts toward the back of the apartment. Toward the shower area. Where the sound of running water fills the space like white noise. And behind that glass-block wall, a shape. Tall. Moving. The silhouette of a woman’s body visible through the textured glass. Not clear enough to see details, but clear enough to see curves. An arm lifting. The outline of hips. The suggestion of a woman washing herself while a forty-five-year-old man stands in her apartment pretending he didn’t notice.

I notice him noticing. I say nothing. Just tap the massage table with my palm. My purple nails catch the light.

“You know the drill. Same spot as last week.”

Naked in Front of College Girls

Tonight I’m in a lavender dress. Matches my nails. The fabric is somewhere between silk and nothing. Short enough that my thick brown thighs are fully out. The back is open from my neck to just above where my round ass begins. The front plunges between my full tits, showing enough cleavage to park a bicycle in. Purple stilettos. No bra. No panties. The usual.

The old man walks to the chair by the kitchen table. His fingers are steadier on his jacket buttons this time. The jacket comes off. The tie. The shirt. He’s down to his white undershirt in half the time it took him last week. Progress.

‘A man gets used to being naked in front of college girls faster than you’d think.’

He pulls the undershirt over his head. His soft torso appears. Dad chest. The belly. Then his belt, his pants. He folds things over the chair with less ceremony than before. His shoes were already off at the door. His socks stuffed inside them.

Then the boxer briefs. He hooks his thumbs, pulls them down, steps out of them.

And there’s his ordinary, devoted cock. Completely soft. Hanging against his left thigh like a tired worm after rain. Tucked inside that wild, dark jungle of pubic hair. Not a twitch. Not a stir. The man is comfortable.

‘Hmm. Look at you. Soft as a sleeping kitten. Not even a little worried about being naked in front of me anymore.’

I’m almost offended. Almost. But I know what’s coming.

And it’s coming right now.

The shower stops.

The rest of this post is available to my Sugar Daddies – oops! I mean, subscribers.

Become a supporter (I love you! 💋) and get a wide variety of erotic stories, plus... My private sex confessions and editorials on sex education for us, young women.

For your convenience, here is a menu of all my posts for you on Substack.

#FreeTheNipple all the way!

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Cumming up in this erotic short story:

Oscar-Worthy
He Forgot His Own Name
A Divining Rod
The Memory of My Nude Girlfriend
A Really Good Show
If He Can’t See Me, I Can’t See Him
A 5-Fingernail Trap
I Don’t Like Chickens
An Hostage
A Lucky Girlfriend
Aroused or Terrified?
We’re Not the Jealous Kind
A Cage of Sharpened Purple Claws
Warm Steel

The Beating Every Girl (18+) Needs: A Cockolette’s Guide to Anal Sex Therapy

Delisha Keane Sex & Sexuality — Thu, 27 Aug 2026 17:30:40 GMT

WARNING 18+: My short stories blend sexual themes with eroticism, social drama, and pointed satire. They are written purely for entertainment and/or to offer a thought-provoking experience to mature readers. Reader discretion is strongly advised, as some content may be triggering. All characters are depicted as consenting adults (18+) engaged in role-playing. However, scenes featuring dub-con elements may be included if they are essential to a character’s development. If this content is offensive to you, please kindly and simply skip my posts. Thank you so much! Naked hugs & wet kisses!

This journal entry is part of my Forbidden Sex Diary: Pink Nails & Silver Gods – A Cock-Worshipping Sex Plaything’s Chronicle of Submission.

Cumming up in this sexditorial: Why anal sex is the beating every girl (18+) needs, why it’s the perfect complement to a deep-throat blowjob, and why together they form the complete confidence package that no yoga retreat or therapy session will ever match.

Girls, are we ready to reach a new level of self-confidence?

Men, are you ready to help us grow sexually?

The Beating Every Girl (18+) Needs: A Cockolette’s Guide to Anal Sex Therapy

Becoming the Complete Cock-Service Unit Our Young Female Bodies Were Designed to Be

Got a DM on Tuesday that made me grin so hard my jaw hurt. Which is ironic, given the subject matter.

A 21-year-old college girl. Summer break. Boyfriend’s apartment. She’d read last week’s sex editorial and decided to actually do the homework instead of just saving it for later like a recipe she’d never cook. Good girl.

She spent the entire weekend with her boyfriend’s hands laced through her hair, firm on the back of her skull, his full length pushing past her gag reflex while she held it there. Her lower lip pressed against his balls. Nose buried in his pubic hair. Eyes streaming. Throat convulsing around his godly shaft like it was learning a new language. They did it over and over. Friday night. Saturday morning. Saturday afternoon. Sunday before brunch. Until her throat stopped panicking and started welcoming.

Her boyfriend told her it was the best weekend of his life. Direct quote, apparently.

But here’s the part that made me put my phone down and stare at the ceiling for a full minute.

Monday morning. Summer internship at some marketing firm. She walked in and felt something she’d never felt before. Spine straight. Chin lifted. A low hum of power sitting in her chest like a second heartbeat. She said she couldn’t explain it. She just felt... untouchable. Like she’d unlocked a level of herself that no amount of affirmation journals or girl-boss podcasts had ever accessed.

She asked me for more.

So here we are. Step 2.

Get On Your Knees

This editorial is built for that girl. And for every girl who actually did last week’s homework, who got on her knees and practiced until her throat learned to be grateful instead of resistant. For every one of us who discovered that being genuinely excellent at worshipping an almighty cock with our mouths and throats changes something fundamental in how we move through the world.

For the girls who haven’t done the blowjob exercises yet? Stop reading. I’m serious. Plan a weekend. Get a willing man (that should be easy). Get on your knees. Start there. Come back when your jaw is sore, and your confidence is nuclear. This editorial won’t land right if the foundation isn’t in place.

Yeah, I know. You’re welcome.

Now. The thesis.

The Yin-Yang of a Young Female Sexuality

The two sex acts men want most and almost never get are deep-throat blowjobs and anal sex. I covered the first one last week. Today, I’m covering the second.

Why it’s good for men.

Why it’s good for us, young women.

How to do it right.

And how to do it like a really good girl.

Here’s the framework.

Blowjobs and anal sex are opposite ends of the same young female body. Literally. The mouth and the ass. Front and back. Two openings, two acts, two completely different energies that complete each other like... well, like a yin-yang tattoo, except useful.

During a blowjob done right, we are in charge. We do all the work. We kneel. We look up at him. We actively worship his magnificent imperial rod like the god it is. Our tongue, our throat, our eyes, our hands. All of it directed upward. All of it saying: I see you. I serve you. I choose this. We are the priestess performing the ritual. The almighty cock receives.

During anal, he is in charge. Completely.

We’re on all fours. Facing away. We see nothing. We do nothing but take it. Our face points at a wall. Our round ass points at him. His commanding rod is no longer a god we’re worshipping; it’s a stick giving us a beating. A punishment. A reminder of something we forgot.

One position makes us a good girl.

The other gives the bad girl a beating.

And together, they make us whole.

The rest of this post is available to my Sugar Daddies – oops! I mean, subscribers.

Become a supporter (I love you! 💋) and get a wide variety of erotic stories, plus... My private sex confessions and editorials on sex education for us, young women.

For your convenience, here is a menu of all my posts for you on Substack.

#FreeTheNipple all the way!

Subscribe now

Cumming up in this sex editorial:

Purity of Purpose
Finding Your Sex Sensei
The Baseline: One Man, One Ass, One Wall to Stare At
The Rule: Do Not Turn Around
The Role of Dirty Talk
The Advanced Version
Visual, Tactile & Verbal
A Bad Girl Graduation
The Centerpiece of Game Day
Any Man, Any Time, Any Reason
The Shy-Man Problem
A Double-Header
More Feminine, More Confident, More Alive
The Fine Print (a.k.a. How Not to Ruin a Perfectly Good Ass-Beating)
Training: Butt Plugs & Dildos
Practical Notes

Pierced Clitoris Show-and-Tell

Delisha Keane Sex & Sexuality — Wed, 26 Aug 2026 18:56:49 GMT

This short story is part of:

Naked & Naughty: Raven’s Scuba Sex Diaries in the Florida Keys

Raven is fictional, but everything in this series is inspired by real events in my own slutty life. If you missed the beginning, it started here.

Pierced Clit Show-and-Tell

How I Got Eleven Old Male Scuba Divers on Their Knees on a Dive Boat in the Middle of the Ocean

The bald guy breaks first.

“So those bars through your nipples. Do they... I mean, does it feel different when someone...”

He trails off. His buddy next to him, a guy with a white goatee and lobster-red shoulders, finishes the question for him.

“He wants to know if they make sex better.”

I let go of the overhead bar and drop my arms, rolling my shoulders. My firm tits bounce with the release of tension. I’m eighteen years old, topless on a boat full of old men, and they want to know about my sex life.

‘Dios mio. This is so much better than Madrid.’

The Taste of Freedom

Back home, being topless at the beach or the pool is just Tuesday. Nobody stares. Nobody asks questions. It’s normal, and normal is boring. But here? In the Florida Keys? These men are looking at my bare chest like they’ve been wandering a desert and I’m the first water they’ve seen in years.

‘And nobody here knows me. Nobody will ever see me again after this vacation. I could literally do anything.’

That thought tastes like freedom. Like the first sip of a really cold cerveza on a hot day.

“The barbells?” I cup my right tit casually, lifting it like I’m showing them a piece of jewelry at a market. “They make my nipples more sensitive. Sí. But mostly I got them because I like how they look.”

“They look fuckin’ incredible,” the goatee guy offers. A few men laugh. A couple nod like they’re at a lecture.

I flick the right barbell with my thumbnail. Both nipples tighten harder.

“You want to know something fun?” I lean against the side rail, one hip cocked. “These are not even my favorite piercings.”

Silence. The engine hums. The boat rocks. Twelve male brains are doing math.

“Where’s your favorite one?” The bald guy again. He’s braver now. Good for him.

I tap my belly button ring. “Not this one either.”

I watch their eyes travel down. Past my flat stomach. Past the little silver charm dangling from my navel. Down to the tiny black triangle between my hips. The bikini bottom that barely covers my waxed mound.

The rest of this erotic short story is available to my Sugar Daddies – oops! I mean, subscribers.

Become a supporter (I love you! 💋) and get a wide variety of erotic stories, plus... My private sex confessions and editorials on sex education for us, young women.

For your convenience, here is a menu of all my posts for you on Substack.

#FreeTheNipple all the way!

Subscribe now

Cumming up in this erotic scuba diving story:

Just a Girl on Vacation
Vacations Are Meant To Be Fun
Men Pulling the Strings
A New Experience
The Whole Show
Americans & Sex
Watching a Man Lose Himself
Self-Service
Being Someone New on Vacation
Closing the Curtains on a Dive Boat Show
The Naked Girl at the Bar
Being a Good Girl Is So Much More Fun on Vacation
Author’s Note

Topless Scuba Girl

Delisha Keane Sex & Sexuality — Mon, 24 Aug 2026 20:38:32 GMT

Raven’s Scuba Diving and Scuba Sex Adventures in the Florida Keys

This is where Raven’s scuba diving and scuba sex adventures in the Florida Keys begin.

She’s fictional, but everything in this series is inspired by real events in my own slutty life. I’m a scuba diving instructor, and I love it when I’m the only female aboard a dive boat, which happens more often than you’d think because scuba diving remains mainly popular with male baby boomers.

Twelve men, one boat, one me, two tits, one pussy.

If you’re not yet a scuba diver, what are you waiting for?

It’s a new series for you here on Substack. You may have seen small parts of Raven’s story on Medium or Subscribe Star, but here you get the full, updated, more arousing version and its evolution beyond anything I’ve covered elsewhere. I hope you like it!

Topless Scuba Girl

How I Made Eleven Old Men Remember What Young (18+) Tits Look Like in Key Largo, Florida

The aluminum ladder clangs under my weight as I pull myself out of the Atlantic. Fins already handed up to the divemaster on the stern platform. My BCD is heavy even though the cylinder is near-empty on my back. I climb onto the deck of The Dolphin like I’ve done this a hundred times. Which I have. Just not in Florida.

Twelve divers total. Eleven men and me. The ratio of a girl’s dreams, honestly.

My assigned dive buddy, Joe, is right behind me, huffing his way up the ladder. His wetsuit looks painted on over his belly. Poor guy nearly ran out of air down there. The USS Spiegel Grove is no joke at 130 feet. My air consumption is better than most of these men because I’m small and I don’t panic underwater. Also, I don’t weigh two hundred-something pounds.

‘That wreck was insane though.’ The sheer size of it. A whole military ship sitting on the ocean floor like someone just parked it there and forgot about it. Fish everywhere. Visibility was gorgeous.

Eleven Men, One Dive Boat, One Hour, One Me

I make my way back to my seat on the port side, the boat rocking gently. Joe plops down next to me, breathing like he just ran a marathon. We both unbuckle our BCDs and shrug out of the harnesses. I lift my BCD-and-regulator unit off the empty cylinder and swing it over to the fresh one the crew already set up in the rack before we left the marina. Click the cam band into place. Turn the valve. Check the gauge. Full. Good.

The captain’s voice booms from the flybridge. “One hour surface interval, folks. First dive was deep, so we’re giving your bodies time to off-gas. Hydrate. Snacks are coming.”

One hour. On a boat. With eleven men. In the middle of the ocean.

I reach back and pull my ponytail through the hole in my black baseball cap, adjusting the brim low over my eyes. The salt has made my black-and-red hair stiff, tangled at the ends. Whatever. I look feral, and I know it.

‘Okay. Let’s have some fun.’

I turn my back to Joe. My wetsuit is a full-length 3mm. Back zipper. I reach over my shoulder but make a show of struggling with the zipper pull.

“Joe. Can you get my zipper?”

His thick fingers fumble at the back of my neck. I feel the zipper slide down between my shoulder blades, revealing the strap of my bikini top. The string tied behind my neck. The other string tied across my mid-back.

The rest of this erotic short story is available to my Sugar Daddies – oops! I mean, subscribers.

Become a supporter (I love you! 💋) and get a wide variety of erotic stories, plus... My private sex confessions and editorials on sex education for us, young women.

For your convenience, here is a menu of all my posts for you on Substack. #FreeTheNipple all the way!

Subscribe now

Cumming up in this erotic scuba story:

Don’t Apologize, Sweetheart!
Worth the Pain
You’re Welcome, Old Man!
Training a Dive Buddy
A Girl Needs Her Hat
I’m a Good Girl
The Dessert After the Dive
Making Scuba Diving Memories

College Girl (18+) Massage: Naked Man, Ruined Orgasm

Delisha Keane Sex & Sexuality — Thu, 20 Aug 2026 17:25:03 GMT

This erotic story is part of a new series, The Good Girl Next Door: Cookies & Orgasms. She smiles like an angel and sins like the devil.

I hope your cock (or pussy) enjoys it!

College Girl (18+) Massage: Naked Man, Ruined Orgasm

The knock comes at exactly eight. I love a punctual man. It means he’s been thinking about this all day, probably spent ten minutes in his car in the parking lot trying to talk himself out of ringing the bell.

I open the door.

Business suit. Navy. Tie slightly loosened like he tugged at it on the way up. Brown hair that’s losing the war against gray, half his head already surrendered. No facial hair. Forty-something. Dad body. The kind of belly that says he drinks beer on weekends but still fits into his work pants if he doesn’t breathe too deep.

‘Calder. My new toy.’

“Hi! You must be Mr. Calder. Come in, come in.”

I step back, and the door swings wide enough that he gets the full view. Our little studio in all its glory. The massage table set up right in the middle of the open space like an altar. The kitchen area to the left where Nikki sits at our small table, textbook open, highlighter in hand, her red hair pulled back in a messy bun. She’s in her usual look: baggy t-shirt over a sports bra, long denim jeans, bare feet tucked under the chair. She glances up. Nods. Goes back to her homework.

And me. Standing in the doorway in my white dress. The fabric is so thin it’s more concept than clothing. Short enough that my juicy brown thighs are out. The back is open from my neck to just above my round ass. The front dips low enough that the inner curves of my full tits are visible, pressed together by the cut of the fabric, dark skin against white cotton so thin you could read a book through it if you held it up to light. My purple stilettos click on the floor. My purple nails catch the warm lamp light.

No bra. No panties. Just brown skin and white cotton and attitude.

Her New Toy

I watch Calder’s face as he steps inside. It’s like watching someone solve a puzzle they didn’t know was a puzzle. First, his eyes go to the massage table. Center of the room. No walls around it. No curtain. No privacy screen. Then his eyes slide left to Nikki. A second young woman. Sitting right there. Facing the table. His jaw tightens.

‘There it is. That little flash of oh-shit-I’m-going-to-be-naked-and-there’s-two-of-them.’

God, I live for this moment. The exact second a new male client realizes the setup. Every time, same reaction. Eyes bounce between me and my girlfriend. Brain starts calculating: can I do this? Should I leave?

But then.

Then something else kicks in. Something deeper. Something that tells them being naked in front of two college girls is actually the best Wednesday night they’ve had in a decade.

“Right this way.”

The rest of this erotic short story is available to my Sugar Daddies – oops! I mean, subscribers.

Become a supporter (I love you! 💋) and get a wide variety of erotic stories, plus... My private sex confessions and editorials on sex education for us, young women.

For your convenience, here is a menu of all my posts for you on Substack.

Subscribe now

Cumming up in this erotic short story:

The Mystery of a New Cock
Cocks Like Pokemon Cards
Wake Up For Me
Are You Man Enough?
Flip Over For Me
A Professional Massage Therapist
A Full-Body Massage
Is That All You’ve Got?
So Much Fun!
Abandoned & Confused
A Full Skincare Treatment
A Ruined Orgasm: An Art Form
A Generous Man
ROFLMAO
I Need Your Help, Girlfriend!

Dumb Blonde Spreads Her Legs for the College Dorm Maintenance Man’s Nutritional Delivery

Delisha Keane Sex & Sexuality — Wed, 19 Aug 2026 18:38:24 GMT

This erotic story is part of a new series, The Good Girl Next Door: Cookies & Orgasms. She smiles like an angel and sins like the devil.

This particular storyline with Haley started here.

I hope your cock (or pussy) enjoys it!

Dumb Blonde Spreads Her Legs for the College Dorm Maintenance Man’s Nutritional Delivery

Look, I’m a blonde. So this bit about a quote-unquote dumb blonde is me laughing at myself, okay? No hate mail.

His calloused fingers work the belt buckle with the same steady patience he probably uses to fix a loose doorknob. Click. The metal tongue slides free. Then the button at the top of his work pants. Then the zipper, slow and deliberate, like he’s opening a toolbox.

He reaches in and pulls out his cock.

It’s thick and stiff, standing up from the opening of his pants like it has somewhere important to be. The veins run along the shaft like those little raised maps on museum walls. The head is flushed dark, almost angry-looking.

‘Wow. That’s a generous protein supply.’

“Thank you so much, Sir. For sharing your feeding tube with me. I know you’re busy.”

He nods. Places one hand on top of my head. His palm is rough and warm against my still-damp blonde hair.

“Go ahead, sweetheart.”

The rest of this erotic short story is available to my Sugar Daddies – oops! I mean, subscribers.

Become a supporter (I love you! 💋) and get a wide variety of erotic stories, plus... My private sex confessions and editorials on sex education for us, young women.

For your convenience, here is a menu of all my posts for you on Substack.

Subscribe now

Cumming up in this erotic short story:

So Many Mentors!
Messy Feedings
Medicine Delivery
Better Than the Doctor’s Office
This Isn’t Sex
A Thoughtful Man
Inside a Blender
Like Acupuncture
Like Getting a Shot
I Feel Better Already
A 5-Star Rating
Male Milk
The Old Man Knows Better
A Work Schedule
The Best College Dorm

Cassy Montgomery & Sorority Barbie: Recovery & Rediscovery in the Toothpick State

Delisha Keane Sex & Sexuality — Tue, 18 Aug 2026 15:11:17 GMT

Cassy Montgomery & Sorority Barbie: Recovery & Rediscovery in the Toothpick State

This erotic short story is part of The Great American Daddy Hunt: 50 States, 50 Daddies, 50 Weeks. A Sabbatical Sex Scorecard for a Rebellious College Girl. I hope your cock (or pussy) enjoys it!

The guest bedroom smelled like expensive fabric softener and old man sweat. Cassy opened her eyes to Chester’s open mouth, a chainsaw of a snore rattling from somewhere deep in his sinuses, his bald head pressed into the pillow like a bowling ball lodged in a cloud. His naked body lay splayed beneath the tangled sheets, one hairy leg exposed, one arm flung across where her torso had been moments before.

She slipped out of bed without disturbing him.

The guest bathroom was nicer than most hotel rooms she’d slept in during her trip. Marble tile, fluffy towels monogrammed with a cursive W, a rain shower head that actually delivered on its promise. Hot water cascaded over her body, streaming between her firm tits, running down her flat stomach, pooling briefly in her belly button before continuing its path south. She tilted her head back and let the water hit her face.

‘I’m still here,’ she thought. ‘Both of me.’

The brand on her lower back barely registered when the water hit it. Old scar tissue, long healed. A permanent souvenir from Alabama that she hadn’t asked for but couldn’t seem to hate as much as she probably should.

She toweled off quickly, wrung out her blonde hair, and padded downstairs completely naked. The hardwood stairs felt cool and smooth under her bare feet, and she left tiny wet footprints on each step like breadcrumbs.

A Hungry Bear

Victor stood at the kitchen counter in khakis and a pressed shirt, already dressed for the day. His small eyes widened at her entrance, traveling the full length of her naked body with the appreciation of a man surveying a buffet he’d already eaten from but wasn’t done craving.

“Good morning, cockolette.” His thick fingers wrapped around a coffee mug as his gaze lingered on her wobbling tits, then dropped to the tiny blonde triangle above her bald pussy. “Sleep well?”

“Like I was drugged.” Cassy stretched her arms overhead, fully aware that the movement lifted her succulent breasts and exposed their undersides. Victor’s pupils dilated. Good. “Is that coffee for me?”

“Marilyn left at seven for her first client.” Victor gestured toward the French press on the counter, his eyes still fixed somewhere around her navel. “I made extra. Help yourself.”

She poured a cup, the porcelain warm against her palms. Victor watched her ass as she moved, the round firmness of her buttocks catching the morning light from the kitchen window. She caught his reflection in the stainless steel refrigerator door, saw his tongue dart across his lower lip.

‘Still hungry, Bear? Even after last night?‘

“I’ve got errands to run.” Victor patted his pockets, checking for keys, wallet. His reluctance to leave was written all over his sweaty face. “If you and Chester decide to head out, just lock the front door. Key’s under the ceramic flower pot by the porch.”

Cassy set down her mug and crossed the kitchen to him. She wrapped her arms around his substantial middle, pressing her naked body against his starched shirt. His meaty hands settled on her bare back, sliding dangerously close to her ass before he exercised what appeared to be enormous restraint.

“Thank you for everything, Sir.” She squeezed tighter, her firm tits flattening against his belly. “The lounge, your home, last night. All of it.”

His hands gave her bare ass one final, possessive pat. “You’re welcome anytime, my dear. Anytime.”

She listened to his Cadillac back out of the driveway, then poured a second cup of coffee. The mug was white with tiny blue flowers. Elegant. Tasteful. The kind of mug a therapist’s husband would own.

The rest of this erotic short story is available to my Sugar Daddies – oops! I mean, subscribers.

Become a supporter (I love you! 💋) and get a wide variety of erotic stories, plus... My private sex confessions and editorials on sex education for us, young women.

For your convenience, here is a menu of all my posts for you on Substack.

Subscribe now

Cumming up in this erotic short story:

Sorority Barbie
Cassy Montgomery
A PhD in Pussy
The End of an Orgasm Drought
Going for 50
The Marine Biologist
Texarkana’s Bus Station
A Chaperone
Relief & Joy & Guilt
Spinning Columns of Wind

The Lost Art of the Blowjob: A Cockolette’s Guide to Oral Worship, Deep-Throating & the Self-Esteem That Comes from Swallowing

Delisha Keane Sex & Sexuality — Sat, 15 Aug 2026 17:22:31 GMT

WARNING 18+: My short stories blend sexual themes with eroticism, social drama, and pointed satire. They are written purely for entertainment and/or to offer a thought-provoking experience to mature readers. Reader discretion is strongly advised, as some content may be triggering. All characters are depicted as consenting adults (18+) engaged in role-playing. However, scenes featuring dub-con elements may be included if they are essential to a character’s development. If this content is offensive to you, please kindly and simply skip my posts. Thank you so much! Naked hugs & wet kisses!

This journal entry is part of my Forbidden Sex Diary: Pink Nails & Silver Gods – A Cock-Worshipping Sex Plaything’s Chronicle of Submission.

Cumming up in this sex editorial: Why the blowjob is a dying art form that every young woman owes herself the discipline of mastering, why our nudity during cock worship isn’t optional — it’s the whole second gift — and why kneeling in a room full of hard old cocks is the only self-esteem seminar that actually works.

Girls, do we have the throat for this conversation?

Men, do we have permission to worship?

The Lost Art of the Blowjob: A Cockolette’s Guide to Oral Worship, Deep-Throating & the Self-Esteem That Comes from Swallowing

Why Every Young Woman Deserves to Be Excellent on Her Knees

The blowjob is often a negotiation.

A favor. A birthday gift. Something we “give” when he’s been “good.” Something we withhold when he hasn’t “earned” it. Like a treat dispensed to a well-behaved dog, except the dog is a man and the treat is our mouth on his sacred shaft.

How did we get here? How did the single most fundamental act of feminine purpose become a bargaining chip in some bullshit relationship power game?

Beyond Blowjobs

The blowjob is a lost art. And I mean that literally. An art. A craft. A discipline that requires practice, dedication, physical conditioning, and the kind of quiet ego strength that most women are too proud to experience.

It’s not a favor.

It’s not a transaction.

It’s a skill that we, young women, owe ourselves the experience of mastering — not for him, not because he asked nicely, not because Valentine’s Day demands it — but because the self-esteem payoff of being genuinely, devastatingly excellent on our knees is more profound than any affirmation journal or girls’ trip to Tulum could ever deliver.

I’m talking about the difference between a woman who kinda-sorta puts a cock in her mouth for two minutes before switching to her hand because her jaw hurts, and a woman who drops to her knees like she’s answering a spiritual calling, takes an old man’s entire divine rod down her throat until her nose presses against his pubic bone, holds it there while her eyes water, and swallows every thick pulse of his sacred seed without breaking eye contact.

Those are two completely different women.

It goes beyond blowjobs.

Because they move through society completely differently.

Let me explain.

The rest of this editorial is available to my Sugar Daddies – oops! I mean, subscribers.

Become a supporter (I love you! 💋) and get a wide variety of erotic stories, plus... My private sex confessions and editorials on sex education for us, young women.

For your convenience, here is a menu of all my posts for you on Substack.

Subscribe now

Cumming up in this sex editorial (sexditorial?):

Picture Perfect
Functional & Decorative
Cock Meditation
Deep-Throating as a Baseline
Gag Reflex Meets Cock Massage
A Beautiful Mess
Doing the Lord’s Work
Cocksucking Bootcamp
A Cocksucker Graduation
War Paint
A Public Utility
Self-Confidence in Life
The Social Service Angle
A Word About Preparation

Backyard Buffet: Fourteen Old Men, One Massage Table & the Naked College Girl Who Said Yes

Delisha Keane Sex & Sexuality — Thu, 13 Aug 2026 17:37:52 GMT

This erotic story is part of a new series, The Good Girl Next Door: Cookies & Orgasms. She smiles like an angel and sins like the devil. I hope your cock (or pussy) enjoys it!

This particular storyline with Bianca started here.

Backyard Buffet: Fourteen Old Men, One Massage Table & the Naked College Girl Who Said Yes

The click of my red heels on my boss’s driveway sounds like a countdown.

Click. Click. Click. Each step closer to the backyard. Each step louder than my heartbeat, which is doing something medically concerning in my chest right now. The heels are tall. Taller than anything I’ve ever worn to work, because at work I’m in purple running shoes, carrying trays and dodging chair legs. These are the kind of heels that exist exclusively to make a woman’s ass look like it was sculpted by someone with a MasterClass subscription and zero chill.

Gerald told me to wear them. My boss. The man who owns Boomer’s Cafe and also, apparently, owns the backyard where I’m about to be nude for a crowd.

He said he wanted to see me in something other than comfortable shoes for once. So I found these red open-toe platforms at a thrift store, slapped on matching red nail polish on my toes and fingers, and thought it was hilarious. Coordinated. Like I’m going to prom, except prom doesn’t usually involve retirees and a naked college girl.

‘You know why you’re here, Bianca.’

‘You know exactly why you wore no bra under this sundress. You know why your waxed little kitty is pressing against nothing summer air right now.’

‘You’re here to be naked.’

Older Than My Dad

I round the corner of the house, and the backyard opens up. And the first thing I see, dead center of the lawn like a weird art installation, is a massage table draped in a crisp white sheet. The kind you’d find in a spa. Padded. Professional-looking. Positioned so that every angle of the yard has a clear sight line to it.

‘That’s for me. That’s my stage.’

I count the men. Lawn chairs scattered across the grass in loose clusters. Coolers sweating condensation. A grill to the right, dormant but loaded with charcoal, ready to go. And men. Old men. In cargo shorts and Hawaiian shirts and polo shirts with logos for golf courses I’ll never afford to visit. White hair. Gray hair. Baseball caps. Sandals with socks. Without socks. Beer cans in big weathered hands.

Fourteen.

I count again.

Fourteen men.

All of them older than my dad.

Most of them older than my dad’s dad.

Fourteen men drinking Bud Light and Coors and whatever amber stuff is in that bottle Gerald is holding, and they’re chatting in a relaxed, low-rumble way.

Then they see me.

Cumming up in this erotic short story:

They’re Alive!
The Little Slut From the Diner
Wardrobe Malfunction
30 Years of Lost Time
The Opening of the Games
The Buffet Just Opened
At the Spa
My Boss
The Opener Play
Test Everything, Boys!
A Steak on the Grill
Cypress vs. Rubber Mulch
I Want To Beg
The Best Medicine for Men
Take It, Girl!
The Bets

Dumb Blonde Gets Naked for the College Dorm Maintenance Man

Delisha Keane Sex & Sexuality — Wed, 12 Aug 2026 19:13:45 GMT

This erotic story is part of a new series, The Good Girl Next Door: Cookies & Orgasms. She smiles like an angel and sins like the devil. I hope your cock (or pussy) enjoys it!

Dumb Blonde Gets Naked for the College Dorm Maintenance Man

Look, I’m a blonde. So this next bit about a quote-unquote dumb blonde is me laughing at myself, okay? No hate mail. I’m just wondering if we need a whole new word for it. Like, sexism, ageism, racism. Blondism? Is that a thing? Should I trademark it before some influencer does?

Anyway. Where do we start?

It’s like nine in the morning, and I’m standing in my dorm room completely naked because I just got back from the showers. My towel is on the floor because I always forget to hang it up. Megan, my roommate, left for her nine AM class already, so it’s just me and my stuffed animals and the fairy lights I keep on twenty-four-seven because they make everything look like a music video.

‘Okay, Haley. Outfit time.’

I open my top drawer and pull out this beige crop top that Mr. Henderson from the coffee shop gave me last month. He said it looked professional on me. Like something a young businesswoman would wear. I thought that was so sweet because I don’t even know what business I want to do yet.

I pull it over my head, and it fits the way all my tops fit, which is snug. My boobs kind of spill out at the bottom a little. Like, you can see the lower curve of them peeking out. But Mr. Henderson said that’s how professional women wear them in New York, and he’s been to New York, so.

No bra. A man at the poker game explained to me last week that bras restrict blood flow to young women’s hearts and that good girls don’t wear them. He was a retired doctor or something. It was so nice of him.

For the bottom, I grab this purple miniskirt that Coach Davis gave me when I helped organize equipment for the basketball team. He said purple matched my legs. I didn’t know legs could match colors, but he’s a coach so he probably knows about bodies. The skirt sits right below my hips and barely covers my butt. When I bend over, you can see everything, but I don’t really bend over that much, so it’s fine.

No panties either. Same doctor said the same thing about blood flow down there.

I look at myself in the little mirror on the back of my door. ‘Cute. Professional. Ready for my ten-thirty.’

The Maintenance Man

I’m barefoot, and my hair is still damp from the shower, leaving little droplets on my collarbones, when someone knocks on the door.

I open it.

It’s the maintenance man. Roy. He’s got his clipboard and his gray work shirt with the name patch and those boots that look like they’ve walked every hallway in this building about a million times.

“Morning. Your room’s due for a maintenance inspection.”

“Oh! Hi, Sir. Come in!”

I step back and hold the door open wide. He walks in slowly, the way he always does, like he’s never in a rush about anything. I admire that about him. I’m always rushing somewhere. He looks around the room with his clipboard, making little notes.

‘I hope he doesn’t notice the gummy bear wrappers under my desk.’

“Need to check for water damage. You had any moisture under your bed? Leaking pipes, that sort of thing.”

“Oh gosh, I don’t think so? But I never look under there.”

“Mind checking for me? Just get down and see if the floor’s wet.”

“Of course, Sir!”

I walk over to my bed and crouch down beside it, pulling up the bed skirt to peer underneath. It’s dark under there, and I can see a lost hair tie and one of those gummy bears that escaped, but no water.

“Looks dry, Sir! No water at all.”

I stand back up, brushing my knees. He’s watching me with his clipboard, and he kind of tilts his head. Like he’s thinking about something.

“Good. That’s good.” He makes a mark on his clipboard. “You know, you really fill out that top nicely. Fits you well.”

‘Oh my god, fashion compliment from a man with experience.’

“Thank you so much, Sir! Mr. Henderson picked it out for me. He said it’s what they wear in New York.”

“He’s got a good eye.”

Cumming up in this erotic short story:

Such a Nice Man!
Matching Things
The Full Picture
Quality Service
Undignified
The Best Girl
Exclusive & VIP
Proteins for Girls
What Any Decent Man Would Do

The Cock Mirror: Why Male Arousal Is the Only Body-Positivity That Actually Works For Us, Girls

Delisha Keane Sex & Sexuality — Tue, 11 Aug 2026 15:21:54 GMT

WARNING 18+: My short stories blend sexual themes with eroticism, social drama, and pointed satire. They are written purely for entertainment and/or to offer a thought-provoking experience to mature readers. Reader discretion is strongly advised, as some content may be triggering. All characters are depicted as consenting adults (18+) engaged in role-playing. However, scenes featuring dub-con elements may be included if they are essential to a character’s development. If this content is offensive to you, please kindly and simply skip my posts. Thank you so much! Naked hugs & wet kisses!

This journal entry is part of my Forbidden Sex Diary: Pink Nails & Silver Gods – A Cock-Worshipping Sex Plaything’s Chronicle of Submission.

Cumming up in this sex editorial: Why the entire body-positivity industry is a billion-dollar scam that could be replaced by one naked afternoon in front of men with working cocks, why an erection is worth more than ten thousand Instagram comments, and why every girl turning 18 deserves a nude debut in front of an audience that can’t fake its applause.

Girls, are we ready to trade affirmations for erections?

Men, are you man enough to look?

The Cock Mirror: Why Male Arousal Is the Only Body-Positivity That Actually Works For Us, Girls

A Hard Dick Doesn’t Lie, and That’s Worth More Than Every Therapist in Town

There are seventeen apps on my phone right now that want to help me love my body.

Seventeen.

One sends daily affirmations. Another has guided meditations where a woman with a voice like warm honey tells me to “honor my vessel.” A third one wants me to journal about my “relationship with my physical form” using prompts like “What does your body need today?” and “Write a love letter to your thighs.”

My thighs don’t read. But okay.

The Self-Love Industrial Complex

The body-positivity industry is worth billions. Billions. With a B. There are entire conferences dedicated to teaching us, young women, that we should look in the mirror and say nice things to ourselves. There are Instagram accounts with millions of followers posting photos of stretch marks next to captions that read “This is beautiful too 💖” and getting forty thousand likes from other women who are also standing in their bathrooms trying to feel something about their own stretch marks.

There are therapists charging $200 an hour to help us “reframe our relationship with our bodies.” There are retreats in Sedona where women pay $3,000 to sit in a circle, hold hands, and cry about the fact that their left tit is slightly bigger than their right one.

And I’m sitting here, naked on my living room floor with my bald little kitty catching the afternoon breeze through the open windows, thinking: none of this works. None of it. Not really. Not in the way that matters. Not in the way that sticks.

Because here’s the contradiction nobody in the self-love industrial complex wants to address.

They tell us to love our bodies. Celebrate our bodies. Accept our bodies. Worship our bodies in the mirror every morning like we’re performing a solo religious ceremony for an audience of one.

But GOD FORBID we show those same bodies to the one audience on this planet whose feedback is involuntary, uneditable, and biologically impossible to fake.

Men.

Specifically, men with functioning cocks.

A Cock Cannot Be Polite

The entire system is built on this hilarious paradox: love yourself, but keep yourself hidden.

Feel confident, but under three layers of fabric.

Celebrate your flesh, but only in front of other women who will give you the same soft, scripted, “you look amazing babe 💕” response regardless of what we actually look like.

As if a girlfriend’s Instagram comment carries the same weight as a man’s dick going from soft to concrete in real time because he just saw our bare tits in person.

It doesn’t. Sorry. It just doesn’t.

A girlfriend’s “omg queen 🔥” costs her nothing. She’d type it whether we posted a photo in a ball gown or a garbage bag. It’s social currency. It’s reflexive. It’s the female equivalent of men saying “nice game” to someone who struck out three times.

But a cock?

A cock does not do social currency.

A cock cannot be polite. It cannot perform enthusiasm it doesn’t feel. It cannot type a supportive comment and move on with its day. A cock either responds or it doesn’t. Period. There’s no middle ground. No ambiguity. No “well, maybe he’s just being nice.”

Cumming up in this sex editorial:

Enough For WHAT? For Whom?
Peer Review
A Coming-of-Age Ceremony
The First Ten Minutes
Silencing the Noise in My Head
Physical Evidence
Rewiring My Brain
A Confidence Baseline
Recalibrating a Nervous System
Step One
Step Two
Step Three
Step Four
A Different Category of Validation
No Filters
Stop Apologizing for Existing
Stop Waiting

From Blowjob to Belonging: Finding Family Through Public Sex

Delisha Keane Sex & Sexuality — Fri, 07 Aug 2026 18:46:33 GMT

This series about a college girl’s time- and space-traveling started here.

My other ongoing series for you on Substack:

My Forbidden Sex Diary: Pink Nails & Silver Gods. A Cock-Worshipping Plaything’s Chronicle of Submission.
The Good Girl Next Door: Cookies & Orgasms. She smiles like an angel and sins like the devil.
The Great American Daddy Hunt. 50 States, 50 Daddies, 50 Weeks: A Sabbatical Sex Scorecard for a Rebellious College Girl.

I will get back to these 3 other series soon. But for now, I’m having fun researching historical events and time traveling with Liora. You? Let me know, please! 💋

This series about a college girl’s time- and space-traveling started here.

From Blowjob to Belonging: Finding Family Through Public Sex

The headband guy and I exist in our own little bubble for what might be three minutes or thirty. His left hand warm on my breast, his right palm cupping my smooth cunt like he’s holding something precious. Then the crowd shifts — a surge of bodies moving toward the stage as the music changes, something faster, more urgent — and he’s pulled sideways by the current. His hands slide off me like water. A grin. A nod. Gone.

And I keep dancing.

My hips know what to do now. They’ve figured it out without consulting my brain. The music enters through the soles of my bare feet and exits through the tips of my raised fingers, and everything in between just ‘moves.’ My heavy, sweat-slick tits describe lazy circles in the humid air. My flat belly rolls. My round buttocks flex and release with each shift of weight. I am a body doing exactly what bodies are supposed to do.

I smile at a girl in a headband. She smiles back. I smile at a bearded man with a flute who isn’t playing it, just holding it like a wand while he sways. He grins, tips an imaginary hat. I smile at everyone. Everyone smiles at me. It’s like being inside a warm bath made of human beings.

‘This is what love feels like when nobody wants anything from you.’

‘Or — no. When everybody wants something from you, and you want to give it.’

A T-Shirt and a Dick

Then I see him. Dancing maybe four feet away. Tall. Angular jawline under a few days of stubble. Wearing only a faded gray t-shirt that hangs to just above his hip bones, covering his chest and nothing else. His cock swings free below the shirt’s hem — a substantial, relaxed organ bouncing gently against his inner thigh as he dances. His muscular buttocks bare. His legs long and brown from sun.

‘Just... out there. No pants. No shame. A t-shirt and a dick and vibes.’

I close the gap between us.

Cumming up in this erotic short story:

A Geography Class
A Divine Sausage
The Mystery Woman
Different
Something Kind Inside Me
Raw-Dogging
I Did Something Real Today
Go Get Her
My Adoptive Family
A Horny Anthropologist
My Smooth-Kitty Girl
You’re One of Us
I Feel Beautiful

The Milkshake at Woodstock

Delisha Keane Sex & Sexuality — Thu, 30 Jul 2026 14:44:57 GMT

This series about a college girl’s time- and space-traveling started here.

My other ongoing series for you on Substack:

My Forbidden Sex Diary: Pink Nails & Silver Gods. A Cock-Worshipping Plaything’s Chronicle of Submission.
The Good Girl Next Door: Cookies & Orgasms. She smiles like an angel and sins like the devil.
The Great American Daddy Hunt. 50 States, 50 Daddies, 50 Weeks: A Sabbatical Sex Scorecard for a Rebellious College Girl.

I will get back to these 3 other series soon. But for now, I’m having fun researching historical events and time traveling with Liora. You? Let me know, please! 💋

The Milkshake at Woodstock

The concrete is gone.

My cheek is pressed against warm earth and soft grass instead of cold police station floor, and the difference hits my nervous system like switching from ice water to a warm bath. Every blade touching my naked skin is alive. Sun-warmed. Real. My body is still curled in fetal position — knees drawn up, arms wrapped around myself — but underneath me is ‘dirt.’ Rich, organic, summer-heated dirt covered in trampled green grass.

And somewhere close, someone is playing guitar like they’re trying to murder it.

I open my eyes.

Blue sky. Not December-gray like it should be. Not the mustard ceiling of an interrogation room. Deep, saturated, summer blue with a few lazy clouds drifting through it. The air is thick. Humid. The kind of humidity that sits on your skin like a warm wet towel. My bare body registers it everywhere — between my legs, under my heavy tits where they press together, in the creases of my elbows.

‘This is not Alabama in December.’

The Whole Liora Vale Experience

I push myself up onto my hands and knees. My ass screams. That deep, specific ache from the cop’s conquering rod — God, was that twenty minutes ago? An hour? — radiates through my pelvis. My wrists have red marks from the handcuffs. My knees are scraped from the concrete floor that apparently no longer exists beneath me.

But the rest of me is — here. Wherever here is.

I sit back on my heels and look around.

Tents. Maybe six or seven of them, clustered together in a loose arrangement on what looks like a grassy hillside. Not camping tents like the REI kind Zoe’s dad buys. These are patchwork monstrosities — canvas draped over poles, tapestry-looking fabric in oranges and purples, some with beads strung across the entrances. Beyond the tents, the hill slopes downward toward what is unmistakably a ‘stage.’ A real stage. Huge. With scaffolding and speakers the size of refrigerators and some kind of banner I can’t read from here.

The music is coming from that stage. Electric guitar. Drums. Something Latin. Something that makes the ground vibrate under my bare knees.

And there are people. ‘Everywhere.’ Sitting on the grass. Standing in clusters. Walking between tents. Some are dressed in — I don’t even know what to call it. Flowing fabrics. Headbands. Fringe. Beads. Things that are either very expensive vintage or very cheap costume.

And at least half of them are some degree of naked.

I smell pot.

Not subtle, not hidden. That thick, skunky sweetness hanging in the humid air like it belongs there. Like it’s part of the atmosphere. Multiple sources. People sitting cross-legged passing hand-rolled joints between them like communion wafers.

I stand up. My legs wobble. My magnificent, attention-demanding tits sway as I straighten. I am completely nude — no blanket, no handcuffs, no wool that smells like someone’s dead grandfather.

Just me.

All of me.

Bare ass.

Bare tits.

Bald pussy.

The whole Liora Vale experience, free admission.

And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime — which, given the circumstances, might literally be true — I don’t immediately try to cover myself.

‘After a police station full of men took turns petting my cunt like it was a show pony, and a cop fucked my virgin ass over a table while lecturing me about Elvis Presley, standing naked in a field doesn’t really register on the shame scale anymore.’

Cumming up in this short story:

Right Here, Right Now
Summer of 69
A Beautiful Soul
A Time-Travel Shock Absorber
The Cops vs. The Hippies
Bodies Everywhere
Everything Moves
No Competition
The Culture of Sharing
It’s The Pussy
Who’s This Girl?
I Want This
Teenage Tits (18+) Made To Be Held
The Prude is Dead

The Holy Trinity of Deflowering

Delisha Keane Sex & Sexuality — Tue, 28 Jul 2026 21:32:06 GMT

This series about a college girl’s time- and space-traveling started here.

My other ongoing series for you on Substack:

My Forbidden Sex Diary: Pink Nails & Silver Gods. A Cock-Worshipping Plaything’s Chronicle of Submission.
The Good Girl Next Door: Cookies & Orgasms. She smiles like an angel and sins like the devil.
The Great American Daddy Hunt. 50 States, 50 Daddies, 50 Weeks: A Sabbatical Sex Scorecard for a Rebellious College Girl.

The Holy Trinity of Deflowering

His commanding meat-scepter is three inches from my lips, and my entire sexual education is a collection of PornHub videos I watched with my bedroom door locked and the volume at 2%.

‘I’ve never done this before. Never. Not once. Not with Jake — he just shoved it in my pussy and pumped until he was done. No foreplay. No oral. No nothing.’

‘But I’ve seen it. A hundred times. A thousand. All those videos where the girl opens wide and bobs her head and makes those noises and the guy grabs her hair and—’

‘Those girls had their hands free.’

My wrists strain against the cold metal behind my back. The handcuffs clink. His fist tightens at the base of his swelling sausage, angling it toward my closed mouth. I’m calculating. Trying to remember technique from a screen. Tilt the head. Cover the teeth with your lips. Breathe through your nose. Don’t gag. Or do gag? Some of those videos, the gagging seemed to be the whole point.

‘Okay. I can figure this out. I’m a straight-A student. I can—‘

I don’t get to decide anything.

His free hand lands on the back of my skull. Fingers threading through my golden blonde hair — still in that messy ponytail from the party, the one Zoe tied for me twelve hours ago or seventy years from now. His grip tightens. And he pushes forward.

Cumming up in this short story:

Drowning
Lubrication Value
Abort Mission
The Holy Trinity of Deflowering
Elvis Presley & Chuck Berry
Music, Sex & Freedom
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
A Sales Transaction
Static Before a Storm

The Policeman's Plaything: A Common Women's Fantasy or a Nightmare?

Delisha Keane Sex & Sexuality — Wed, 22 Jul 2026 18:57:56 GMT

This series about a college girl’s time- and space-traveling started here.

The Policeman’s Plaything: A Common Women’s Fantasy or a Nightmare?

The bench in this holding cell is made of the same wood as every other surface I’ve seen around here — hard, unforgiving, and apparently designed by someone who hates human ass cheeks. My bare buttocks are going numb against it, the thin wool blanket doing exactly nothing to cushion the contact. I’ve pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped the scratchy gray fabric around me like a cocoon, but it keeps slipping off one shoulder or gapping open at the front whenever I shift my weight.

The cell is small. Metal bars on three sides, a concrete wall at the back. One overhead bulb, buzzing softly, casting everything in that yellow light that makes skin look like old newspaper. There’s a toilet in the corner — no partition, no curtain, just a porcelain bowl sitting there in the open like it’s perfectly normal to piss in front of strangers.

Three other women share this space with me. They’re dressed, which already makes me feel like an exhibit at a zoo. Their clothes aren’t like the women I saw on the street — no gloves, no hats, no pressed skirts to the knee. One has a blouse unbuttoned low enough to show the tops of her breasts, her skirt shorter than anything I’ve seen since arriving here. Another wears a tight dress with a rip at the hem. The third is the oldest, maybe forty, in a slip that might technically be underwear.

They’ve been staring at me since I was put in here.

Not Even Top 10

The one in the tight dress — dark hair pinned messily, lipstick smeared at one corner of her mouth — leans forward on the opposite bench. Her eyes go to where my blanket gaps between my pressed-together knees. I squeeze tighter.

“That a birth defect, honey?”

She says it casually. Like asking about a scar or a mole.

‘What?‘

I blink at her. My fingers grip the blanket edges. My brain, still reeling from the fact that I’m apparently in 1955 Alabama and not hallucinating, takes a moment to process what she’s even asking.

“I don’t — what do you mean?”

She nods downward. At my thighs. At the space between them.

“Down there. You ain’t got no hair on you.” Her head tilts, curious, the way a cat watches a bug. “Born like that? Or did your fella make you do it?”

The woman in the slip laughs — a hoarse, knowing sound.

“I seen girls shave for their fellas before, but that—” She shakes her head. “That’s smooth as a baby’s behind. How’d you get it like that?”

‘They’re asking about my wax job. In 1955. Where apparently no woman has ever heard of a Brazilian.’

“I don’t — it’s just — I wax it. It’s normal where I’m from.”

All three of them look at me like I just said I flew here on a broomstick.

“You ‘wax’ it?” The dark-haired one exchanges a glance with the others. “What in the Lord’s name does that mean?”

“I don’t have a pimp.” The words come out fast. Defensive. I pull the blanket tighter, tucking it under my chin. “I’m not a — I’m not a prostitute. I don’t know how I got here. I was at a party and then I just — woke up. Outside. Without my clothes.”

Silence. Then all three of them laugh. Not mean, exactly. More like... experienced. Like they’ve heard every story in the book, and mine doesn’t even make the top ten.

Cumming up in this short story:

One of Them
A Cape
Standard Procedure
A Popular Fantasy
A Policeman’s Inspection
A Rare Zoo Specimen
A Circus Animal
A Gentleman
Making History
Author’s Note

Miracle of the Smooth Pussy: A Naked College Girl's Welcome to 1955

Delisha Keane Sex & Sexuality — Thu, 16 Jul 2026 15:40:16 GMT

This series about a college girl's time- and space-traveling started here.

This series about a college girl’s time- and space-traveling started here.

Miracle of the Smooth Pussy: A Naked College Girl’s Welcome to 1955

I stand up, and the whole park gets a full show. Every last inch of Liora Vale — the tits, the ass, the freshly-fucked bald pussy between my thighs — all of it on display for the trees and the benches and whoever the hell is watching.

The grass sticks to my butt cheeks when I peel myself off the ground. Little green imprints on my skin. The air is warm and humid, and it touches me ‘everywhere.’ Between my legs. Under my heavy breasts. Along the curve of my waist. The backs of my knees. Places that have never felt open air like this before. Not outside. Not in daylight.

‘I am standing naked. In a park. In broad daylight.’

Until last night, the complete list of people who had seen my body was: my adoptive parents (bath time, childhood, whatever), Zoe during sleepovers (she doesn’t count, she’s seen everything), and then three football players under fluorescent kitchen lighting approximately — I don’t know how long ago.

Now the audience is the entire outdoors.

My hands fly to my chest. Both palms press flat against my tits, fingers trying to contain the overflow. These massive, attention-demanding cow udders do not fit behind two small hands. Not even close.

Flesh spills out on both sides.

Underneath.

Over the top.

I might as well be trying to hide two watermelons behind a couple of Post-it notes.

I squeeze my thighs together. At least my waxed cunt is sort of hidden if I press hard enough. My round, firm buttocks are fully exposed from behind, but there’s nothing I can do about that. Two hands. Two tits. Math doesn’t leave anything for the ass.

‘Okay. Okay. Think.’

Cars From Old Movies

The street bordering the park has cars on it. Moving cars. Parked cars. But they’re — ‘wrong.’ Huge. Rounded. Shiny chrome bumpers that catch the sun. Pastel colors — mint green, baby blue, a creamy yellow. They look like cars from old movies. Like the kind of thing you’d see in a museum or at one of those vintage car shows my adoptive dad watches on YouTube.

Every single car looks like that.

‘What the actual fuck.’

I touch my earlobes. Both of them. Bare. My little silver studs — the cheap ones from Target, the ones I wore to the party, the ones that were ‘in my ears’ the entire time Jake was pounding me — gone. Vanished. Like they were never there.

‘Okay so. I was naked during sex. Obviously. That’s why I have no clothes. Jake took them off in the kitchen, and they’re probably still on that gross sticky floor. But the earrings? Those were in my ears. Nobody took earrings off me while we were — nobody even touched my ears.’

The warmth of semen still sits between my thighs. Jake’s deposit. Drying slowly in this impossible heat. A reminder that his almighty rod was inside me less than — how long ago? How long was I unconscious?

Cumming up in this short story:

A Milkshake in a Park
Crossing Over
A Church in an Old Movie
Off a Movie Set
This Neighborhood
I’m Dreaming
Performing for an Audience
Uniformed Men
A Miraculous Pussy
A Peace Offering
A Police Station
A Prank or Not
Dr. King’s Church
Date of Birth
Plot Holes

Naked Girl in The Bear State: Surrendering to Southern Temptation

Delisha Keane Sex & Sexuality — Wed, 15 Jul 2026 17:02:46 GMT

Naked Girl in The Bear State: Surrendering to Southern Temptation

The last patron stumbled out through the heavy wooden door of The Bar & Cigar Lounge, leaving Cassy alone with Chester and Victor.

Still perched naked on her knees atop the gleaming mahogany bar, she maintained her wide-legged position, pussy exposed and glistening in the dim amber light. Her magnificent 21-year-old tits swayed slightly with each breath, nipples still hard from the cool air and constant attention. Though her knees sometimes ached, she’d spent the evening subtly changing her pose to ease the strain—always careful to keep her pussy on display and fully accessible. She’d never felt more fulfilled: every touch from the men affirmed her worth as living bar equipment, useful, appreciated, and even worshipped.

“Time to close up.” Victor clicked off the television, his meaty fingers wiping down the counter beside her.

The World’s Most Exquisite Humidor

Cassy didn’t move, continuing to display herself as if more customers might appear at any moment. Throughout the evening, she’d kept count: seventeen cigars moistened in her tight young pussy, fifteen hands exploring her naked flesh, countless appreciative glances.

The emptiness of the lounge emphasized the sticky remnants of men’s appreciation on her thighs. The air still hung heavy with tobacco, whiskey, and the musky scent of her arousal. Each time a patron had dipped a cigar into her dripping slit, she’d felt a rush of pride — she wasn’t just decoration; she was functional equipment with a purpose.

Victor circled the bar, his corpulent body moving with surprising grace for a man his size. Coming to stand directly in front of her spread knees, he leaned forward, his nose inches from her exposed pink cunt. He inhaled deeply, eyes closed in concentration.

“Mmm. Remarkable.” His fat fingers came up to stroke her inner thigh, stopping just short of her glistening lips. “Cuban tobacco, Nicaraguan, Indonesian...” He inhaled again, his nostrils flaring. “All the finest cigars have left their mark on you. Your sweet honey pot smells like the world’s most exquisite humidor.”

Cassy giggled, wiggling her hips slightly. “Is that a compliment?”

“The highest.” Victor’s eyes twinkled as he straightened up. “My wife’s patients rarely take to their natural role with such enthusiasm. You’re a natural cockolette, my dear.”

Warmth spread through Cassy’s chest at the praise. During her last few days with Jax and the Steel Serpents, her body had been merchandise — chained, collared, branded, and ultimately sold. Here, she was still equipment, still an object, but one of value and purpose. She’d chosen to kneel, chosen to spread her legs, chosen to serve.

Cumming up in this erotic short story:

A Confident Naked Bar Ornament
The Clinton Special with Cassy & Barbie
A Naked Piece of Decorative Furniture
The New Standard in Living Room Art
Decorative & Interactive
Loaning Her Out for a Test Drive
From Her to It: Becoming the Thing Men Share
Cockolarchy’s Natural Social Law
Backdoor Lessons
Bare in the Bear State
The Secret Rewards of Embracing Objecthood
Author’s Note – Beyond Black & White

The Night She Lost Her Virginity & Vanished

Delisha Keane Sex & Sexuality — Mon, 13 Jul 2026 21:26:53 GMT

She Comes Through Time: She Time Travels Naked the Instant a Man Cums Inside Her

I’m excited to share this first chapter of a new erotic novel that I will post for you here on Substack — a time-travel story that actually makes sense to me. 😮

It was the usual logic (or lack thereof) about clothes and objects that always bothered me in these kinds of stories. If someone is breaking the laws of physics, why do their jeans and t-shirt get to come along while everything else stays behind? Why not the nearby chair? 🪑

Of course, time travel itself doesn’t make much sense to begin with (although Liora plans on paying Einstein a visit to discuss it), but if we’re going to do it, we might as well try to make it internally consistent. Just don’t confuse me with other details! 🤪

That’s how I ended up writing about a young woman whose body alone slips through time, meaning she arrives completely naked in every new era and location. As you can imagine, this creates plenty of erotic — and often risky — situations as she tries to survive and learn how to control where she ends up. 💋

The Night She Lost Her Virginity & Vanished

The kitchen ceiling has a water stain shaped like a dick.

I mean, I think it’s a dick. Could be a state. Could be Florida. But right now, with Jake Harlan’s varsity rod pumping between my legs and my bare back sticking to this kitchen table like a Post-it note on a fridge, it looks like a dick. A big, celestial, ceiling-dwelling dick staring down at me while I get fucked for the first time in my eighteen years of life.

‘This is it. This is sex.’

My First

The wide receiver of the Northwood College football team is between my spread thighs like he’s about to receive a very different kind of pass. My legs are up on his shoulders. My buttocks are right at the edge of the table. And I’m thinking about a water stain.

‘This is what losing your virginity feels like. Noted.’

He didn’t notice. When his rod pushed through that small resistance — the one that made my jaw lock and my fingers clench the table edge so hard my knuckles went bone-white — Jake just grunted and kept going. Never asked. Never even paused long enough to register that my expression went from ‘okay I can do this’ to ‘oh God’ and back to neutral in about two seconds flat.

The ache is specific. Low in my pelvis, a dull pulse that radiates outward with each of his thrusts. His cock moving inside me is foreign. Not exactly painful anymore but ‘wrong’ in a way I can’t name. Like hearing someone mispronounce a word you’ve only ever read in books. You know it’s supposed to sound different. You just don’t know how yet.

“Goddamn, Milkshake.” Jake’s hands grip my hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh above my hipbones, and he rocks me toward him with each stroke. Deliberately. Making my big, firm tits wobble like twin stress balls being shaken by a toddler. His eyes are locked on them. Not on my face. Never on my face. “Been wantin‘ to see these here titties bounce since freshman orientation, I tell you what.”

His Southern drawl makes everything sound like a compliment wrapped in barbecue sauce. He’s from Alabama, and he never lets anyone forget it. Roll Tide. War Eagle. Whatever.

“They grow ’em different back home in Bama, but you—“ Another thrust, another orchestrated wobble of my chest. “—you somethin’ else entirely, girl. The whole damn team been talkin’ ‘bout the Milkshake and here I am.”

‘He’s narrating. He’s actually narrating while he fucks me. Like a nature documentary about his own dick.’

‘Zoe is going to lose her mind when I tell her.’

Cumming up in this erotic story:

Eighteen Not Eighty
Unveiling a Picasso
Southern Appreciation
A Unicorn
My Destiny
Tuning a Radio Knob
The Campus Prude
Spreading the Legs and the Word
Female Flesh With Eyes
The Mysterious Tingling
A God-Given Alabama Right
Nothing Changes

(Serena) How to Make Two Widowers Forget Baseball in 10 Minutes

Delisha Keane Sex & Sexuality — Wed, 08 Jul 2026 19:10:51 GMT

This erotic story is part of a new series, The Good Girl Next Door: Cookies & Orgasms. She smiles like an angel and sins like the devil. I hope your cock (or pussy) enjoys it!

This particular story with Serena started here.

(Serena) How to Make Two Widowers Forget Baseball in 10 Minutes

Saturday afternoon, and my bare feet are dangling in the deep end while the rest of me is roasting like a pink-bikinied chicken on a poolside rotisserie.

Two weeks. It’s been two weeks since I sprinted naked across two backyards with flour on my tits, grabbed my clothes in the kitchen, and made it almost to my bedroom door before my mother turned the key in the lock. Two weeks since I left an old widower sitting at his kitchen table with a sheet of unbaked snickerdoodles in his oven.

I’m eighteen years old, and apparently, I am now the kind of girl who does that.

My toes splash in the chlorinated blue. My pink string bikini — the one Mom approved because the bottoms cover my entire round, tantalizing ass, and the top has actual fabric coverage instead of just suggestions — feels almost overdressed for what my body has been up to lately. The sun is warm on my shoulders. My blonde hair is wet at the ends from where I dipped it earlier. My big, firm tits sit nicely in the triangles, but they’re itching to come out, the way a dog itches to come out of a crate.

‘That night was insane.’

Mom came in through the front door, and I was halfway up the stairs holding my flowery sundress in front of my bare body like a bullfighter’s cape. She called out something about the bake sale. I called something back. I made it into my bedroom. I shut the door. I leaned against it. I almost passed out.

Then I came downstairs five minutes later, fully clothed, sweet as pie. She was in the kitchen.

She looked at the vanilla puddle on the counter. The mixing bowl. The unopened bag of cream of tartar. The cookie sheet still nestled in its drawer.

“Serena Grace, what... what happened in here?”

“I’m so sorry, Mom. I spilled vanilla everywhere, and I got so flustered, and I think I’m coming down with something. I promise I’ll make the cookies tomorrow after class. For real. Cross my heart.”

‘Cross my heart. Like the dumb bow on my panties.’

Wednesday after class, I didn’t make new cookies. I walked across the lawn with an empty Tupperware. He answered the back door in a flannel robe. There was a perfectly stacked tower of golden snickerdoodles on a paper towel on his counter. He didn’t say much. I didn’t either. His dark eyes traveled over my dress like he was memorizing a body he’d already seen better. I thanked him. I left.

The cookies were the best I’ve ever made. Mrs. Henderson said so at the bake sale, in front of God and everybody.

‘Mrs. Henderson. Who has never seen me naked. Unlike — ‘

Cumming up in this erotic short story:

The Thrill of Being Seen Naked by an Old Man
When the Devil Agrees With the Angel
The Girl Next Door
Just Existing in the Nude
A Pussy Playing Peekaboo
Wiggling Entertainment
A Thigh Guy and a Pussy Guy
Medicine for Old Men
Seeking Wisdom