The woven bamboo walls did little to muffle the rhythmic slap of waves against the shore—or the choked gasp that escaped her lips when his tongue found that spot just behind her clit. Marcus had been warned about the cabanas' acoustics during orientation, how the sea breeze carried sounds between them like some erotic game of telephone. He'd nodded politely then, filing the information away between projected quarterly earnings and his wife's upcoming charity gala. Now, pressed between the writhing girl's thighs with the taste of salt and her arousal thick on his tongue, those corporate pleasan… Weiterlesen

I have to admit- when I started this little adventure I never dreamed in a million year that I would have the amount of people friending/messaging/reading any of what I put out there. I feel it is only fair that I reveal a little bit more about myself, as so strengthen our connection- and to create an open space for other inquiries and opportunities that might arise as we connect. I lied - I am not 19 years of age, I am slightly older. Never fear- the photos posted are still of me- I just went with the introductory age to be as discrete as possible. It is for anonymity. I am not THAT much old… Weiterlesen

The hinges screamed when she shoved the barn door wider, letting the late afternoon sun spill across the hay-strewn floor like spilled honey. That's when she saw him—forearms corded with effort as he heaved a bale onto the stack, his sweat-slicked back turned to her, the muscles shifting beneath sun-darkened skin like topography. He didn't turn around, just called over his shoulder, voice rough with exertion: "You're early." Her fingers tightened around the strap of her purse—some flimsy excuse about forgetting her charger in the guest room already dissolving on her tongue. But the words caug… Weiterlesen

The brass nameplate on the gate swung slightly in the breeze—*Dr. Edwin Voss, MD*—as Dr. Carter pressed the buzzer for the third time. No answer. He rolled his shoulders, already sweating through his dress shirt in the midday sun, and peered through the wrought-iron bars. Movement caught his eye—not by the main house, but down by the turquoise shimmer of the pool. A figure stretched languidly on a lounger, one leg dangling off the side, toes skimming the water's surface. The pink silicone shape in her hand was unmistakable. Mira Voss didn’t look up as the gate creaked open; she just trailed t… Weiterlesen

The hotel keycard burned against her thigh through the silk of her dress pocket, though she'd checked it three times already in the cab. Somewhere between the lobby's chandeliers and the elevator's mirrored walls, she'd stopped being Emily from accounting and become whatever version of herself Mr. Kensington had paid for tonight. The thought sent a slow ripple through her stomach—not fear exactly, but the charged anticipation of stepping onto a stage where the script was already written in the weight of his stare during board meetings, in the way his knuckles had lingered when passing her that… Weiterlesen

The mini bar rattled beneath her thighs, glass bottles clinking like wind chimes in a storm as she gripped its edge. His tongue moved with the precision of someone who'd done this before—often, expertly, like a man who knew exactly how much pressure to apply just as her breath hitched. The ice machine down the hall hummed in time with her pulse. "You taste like salt," he murmured against her inner thigh, his wedding band catching the lamplight when he reached up to unbutton his shirt. She hadn’t noticed it before—too distracted by the way his silvering chest hair grazed her knees—but now it g… Weiterlesen

The garden hose coiled around her ankle like a snake as she kicked off her flip-flops, the sudden rebellion against the suburban afternoon silence louder than she’d intended. Her parents’ sedan had barely turned the corner when the first button of her sundress popped open—not from haste, but from the deliberate, almost scientific curiosity of someone who’d spent too many nights staring at her ceiling, wondering why her body refused to cooperate with the manuals she’d stolen glances at in the library’s health section. Through the slats of the fence, she could see Mr. Holloway’s silhouette paus… Weiterlesen

"I think you missed the point of Hegel's dialectic," Professor Calloway murmured, his breath warm against her inner thigh as the late afternoon sun slanted across his office shelves. Emma's fingers tightened on the couch's leather back, her ballet flats squeaking slightly against the hardwood as she struggled to hold her position—one leg hitched up, knee bent over the sofa's crest like some Renaissance painting gone feral. His thumb hooked the lace of her panties sideways with a precision that felt both clinical and obscene, the damp fabric clinging briefly before yielding. The first slow pas… Weiterlesen

The key turned with a satisfying click—the kind of sound that carried the weight of a dozen unspoken promises. The villa smelled of salt and jasmine, the ocean breeze whispering through half-open shutters. He stepped inside, his polished oxfords silent on the terrazzo, and there she was: draped across the linen sofa like a forgotten scarf, her phone glowing in her hands, legs bare save for the delicate chain around her ankle. She didn’t look up. Not yet. "You’re late," she said, popping a grape into her mouth. The way she said it—like she’d been counting the minutes, like she didn’t care at a… Weiterlesen

"Jesus Christ, keep your voice down," Daniel hissed against her inner thigh, though his fingers dug harder into the soft flesh of her hips, betraying how much he loved the way she arched off the massage table. The scent of lavender oil and her arousal clung to the air, thick enough to taste. He'd spent three agonizing Sundays watching her lounge by the pool in that white bikini, imagining exactly this—how her thighs would tremble when he finally got his mouth on her. Sophie's laugh dissolved into a gasp as his tongue dragged slow and deliberate over her clit. "You—" Her hips jerked when he su… Weiterlesen

The flute slid from her fingers, landing soundlessly in the shallow end where bubbles still fizzed against the submerged glass. His mouth was already between her thighs—professionalism abandoned with the signed contracts—and she arched back against the chaise lounge, fingers twisting in the damp fabric beneath her. From the open French doors behind them, the scent of Cuban cigars drifted out in slow ribbons. Her father’s laughter, low and knowing, carried across the terrace before dissolving into another business call. The realtor wondered if the old man had planned this when he’d insisted on… Weiterlesen

Well the truth is my friends, what I really want for christmas this year is a pleasure dom who wants to spoil me on the regular with toys and other things we can enjoy together. I sort of doubt that will happen, but a girl can dream! Remote toys are really the best- so much fun. Having said that, the only ones that I have ever tried are the Lovense ones- but I know there are others out there. How much fun would it be to chat and know that you are making me wet with each vibration that you control from the comfort of wherever you read my stories? Alone, in privacy, or perhaps in the office wh… Weiterlesen

"You're staring," she said, not looking up from her phone. The coffee table groaned slightly under her weight as she shifted, the short hem of her dress riding higher—just enough. From his armchair, the father-in-law coughed into his fist. He'd been pretending to read the newspaper for ten minutes now, ever since she'd kicked off her heels and stretched out like the place was hers. The print had blurred the moment she'd uncrossed her thighs. She sighed dramatically, tossing her phone aside. "Guess I'll have to entertain myself," she murmured, fingers trailing up her own bare knee. The fabric… Weiterlesen

The suite door clicked shut with the practiced silence of a man who'd spent decades avoiding attention in his own house. Jessica didn't turn around—the scent of his cologne, something woody and expensive that always clung to the office corridors, told her everything. She spread her knees wider on the satin duvet, the December chill raising gooseflesh along her thighs as she watched his reflection approach in the gilded mirror above the dresser. His fingers traced the pearl necklace he'd given her at the company's anniversary gala last month, the same pearls now resting against her collarbones… Weiterlesen

The water rippled with each slow pivot of her hips, steam curling around her bare shoulders as she turned to face him—not a girl anymore, not after midnight. His champagne flute hovered halfway to his lips, the bubbles long dead. She’d practiced this in the mirror when the house was empty: how to arch her back just so, how to let the Jacuzzi jets hit the places that would make her gasp convincingly. He set the glass down on the wet tile with a clink. “You’re shivering.” A lie. The July air clung to them like a second skin. But she nodded anyway, biting her lower lip as she stepped closer, the… Weiterlesen

The fax machine hummed in the corner, spitting out another meaningless report as the muffled laughter from the Christmas party seeped through the frosted glass. Her fingernails dug into the mahogany desk—not to steady herself, but to keep from sliding backward as his other hand tugged at the hem of her dress like he was unwrapping the last present. "You're quieter than I expected," he murmured against her neck, his breath smelling of scotch and peppermint from the candy canes circulating outside. The irony wasn't lost on her: she'd worn the red satin dress specifically to blend in with the ho… Weiterlesen

The champagne flute leaves a wet ring on the nightstand, the condensation pooling like the sweat between her thighs. She doesn’t bother wiping it up. The silk teddy clings to her skin, sheer enough that her nipples show through when she arches her back against the headboard—a practiced pose. The ice in the bucket has mostly melted. He’s late. Again. Downstairs, the elevator dings. Her pulse jumps, but it’s just voices—a couple arguing about dinner reservations. She lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding and reaches for the remote, flicking through channels without seeing them. T… Weiterlesen

"You're staring again," she murmured, crossing her legs deliberately—the silk of her stocking hissing against itself—as the limo hit a pothole. Her heel dangled from one toe, swaying with the rhythm of the road, and Marcus caught himself inhaling sharply when her skirt rode up another inch. The partition was up, the driver hadn't spoken since Heathrow, and the scent of her—bergamot and something saltier beneath it—clung to the air between them. She didn't look at him when she said, "You know I can't focus when you do that," but her fingers tightened around her champagne flute, knuckles whiten… Weiterlesen

Jesus Christ, Claire," Mark muttered under his breath as the kitchen's sharp scent of vanilla and cinnamon hit him halfway down the hallway. She stood at the counter, flour dusting her bare thighs where the hem of that stupidly short sundress had ridden up—no nylons, just smooth skin and the faint pink imprint of her underwear elastic disappearing beneath the fabric. His coffee mug hovered forgotten in his hand. She didn't turn around, just kept kneading dough with those quick, sure motions that made her shoulders flex. "Shelley took the kids ice skating," she said, like that explained anythi… Weiterlesen

The third time her thigh brushed against his under the mahogany dining table, Jacob knew this wouldn't end with dessert. Silverware clinked against china as Evelyn's father droned on about municipal bonds, oblivious to how his daughter's pinky finger now traced slow circles on Jacob's wrist beneath the tablecloth. Evelyn excused herself first—something about fetching more wine from upstairs—her cashmere sweater stretching taut across her back as she ascended the staircase. Jacob waited precisely ninety-seven seconds (he counted) before muttering about needing the restroom, following the scent… Weiterlesen