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STORY 16 - THE BREEDING HOSPITAL (V)

Author: Dirty Diana
last update Petsa ng paglalathala: 2026-03-02 00:26:03

I cum.

Hard. Gushing around his fingers, my juices mixing with six loads of cum, my pussy clenching desperately. He doesn't stop – keeps licking, keeps fingering, keeps pushing me through the peak until another orgasm crashes over the first.

"Please – " I'm sobbing now. "Too much – need you inside me – "

He finally rises. Undresses with unhurried movements, revealing a body that's weathered but fit – and a cock that's thick and hard and ready.

"There," he murmurs as he slides inside me. "That's
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  • DIRTY DREAMS   STORY 63 – MY FUCKING THERAPIST (IV)

    He lowers himself over me and the leather creaks under our weight, then his body finally covers mine and the warmth of his skin against every inch of me is grounding and electrifying at once, and I want to sit with that contradiction except his cock is pressing against my entrance and my brain has left the building."Tell me," he says, positioned at my opening but not pushing in, with his forehead against mine and ours breath mixing together. "Use your words.""I want you to fuck me. I want the cock that's been hiding behind that notepad inside me. I want you to talk to me while you do it because your voice is the reason I'm here and–"He pushes in.The stretch of him fills me all at once because he enters me without hesitation and he arrives at the depth of me in one continuous motion that leaves no room for ambiguity. My back arches off the leather and my mouth opens around a moan as his hands brace on either side of my head.His eyes are on mine and he holds still, buried, letting

  • DIRTY DREAMS   STORY 63 – MY FUCKING THERAPIST (III)

    He says it in the same tone he used when he said tell me about your childhood. It is the same measured calm, except his pupils are blown wide and his breath is coming faster and his hands are gripping my waist hard enough that I can feel each individual finger through my skin.I unbutton them and he pulls them down my legs along with my underwear in one motion and throws them on the floor beside the couch. Then he kneels on the carpet between my legs and pushes my thighs apart, and I'm lying on the leather couch where I have processed my entire emotional life, spread open for the man who processed it with me.He doesn't go in immediately. He looks. Studies me the way he studies everything, with attention and patience, his hands on my inner thighs holding me open, and the professional quality of his gaze makes the exposure ten times more intense because I'm being examined by a man whose profession is examination."I want you to describe what you're feeling," he says, looking up at me f

  • DIRTY DREAMS   STORY 63 – MY FUCKING THERAPIST (II)

    My heartbeat relocates into my throat. I stare at him. He stares back, and whatever was holding his expression in its professional architecture has let go, and the man looking at me now is not my therapist. He's a forty-one-year-old man who has been sitting four feet from a woman who describes her sex dreams to him weekly and his restraint has finally met the limit of what his ethics can hold.I get up from the couch, walk to the door, and turn the lock. The click of it fills the room, and when I turn around he's standing, and he's taller than I estimated from his sitting height, and his shirt is fitted enough that I can see his chest and his stomach and the way his body tapers into his belt, as the distance between us turns to five feet and closing."I need you to understand something," he says. He hasn't moved toward me. He's giving me the choice, the agency that his training has built every session around. "If this happens, I'm referring you to a colleague tomorrow. I can't be your

  • DIRTY DREAMS   STORY 63 – MY FUCKING THERAPIST (I)

    Dr. Vaughn’s office smells like sandalwood with the hint of leather and the calm that two hundred dollars an hour buys. I’ve been coming here every Tuesday at four for six months, lying on a couch that costs more than my first car, telling a man I am not sleeping with more intimate things than I have ever told any man I was sleeping with, and today I am going to tell him about the dream I had last night where he bent me over the arm of this exact couch and fucked me until I forgot my ex-husband’s name.I haven’t decided that yet. I’m still in the waiting room, sitting in the grey chair by the window, pretending to look at my phone while my pulse does something it has no business doing in a medical building. His door is closed. His four o’clock before me – a man in a nice suit who always leaves looking slightly less compressed than when he arrived – is still in there. I have three minutes.I have three minutes to decide whether I tell Dr. Vaughn the truth today or continue the performa

  • DIRTY DREAMS   STORY 62 - FUCKED OVER THE COAST LINE (IV)

    “Maybe.” I tip my chin toward the row of dark glass doors along the hotel’s face. “Or maybe the audience is out there. Somebody behind their curtain with a drink and a view of a woman riding a stranger in a chair.”I sink all the way down, and the fullness of it goes through me instantly. I roll my hips instead of bouncing, grinding him deep and keeping him there while I move in slow circles.“If they’re watching,” he says, hands finding my hips, “give them something.”So I do. Slow first, theatrical, my spine arching and my hands going up into my own hair, my breasts lifted toward the stars. Every roll of my hips is calibrated to read from a distance. I’m putting on a show for him and for whoever’s out there and mostly for the version of myself that spent four months moving through rooms without being noticed and is finished with that arrangement permanently.Then I speed up. The chair rocks under us, its legs scraping stone, and his cock drives deep on every downstroke while I grind

  • DIRTY DREAMS   STORY 62 - FUCKED OVER THE COAST LINE (III)

    Two fingers push into me and curl and find the place that makes my knees stop cooperating, while his thumb keeps working from outside and his mouth fastens on the back of my neck hard enough to bruise. I’m being fingered over a railing in Positano with a restaurant full of strangers underneath me and the risk of it is pouring fuel on everything.“I’m going to cm,” I get out, hanging onto the railing, the sea glittering below me. “I’m going to cm over the entire –”“Then be loud about it. Let the coast hear.”I cm gripping a stranger’s railing on the twelfth floor with my body clenching around his fingers and my voice going out over the water. Below me a couple at one of the terrace tables lifts their heads, searching, scanning up along the face of the hotel, and I cm while they look and I never find out whether they see me, and the not-knowing turns out to be better than certainty in either direction.He pulls his hand back. Behind me I hear the rest of him going – the whisper of line

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