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STORY 29 - SUBMITTING TO MY BELOVED STRANGER (I)

작가: Dirty Diana
last update 게시일: 2026-03-28 00:53:02

The rooftop bar is thirty floors up and I'm three drinks into forgetting the week I've had when he appears beside me like he materialized from the skyline.

I don't see him approach. Don't hear him. One second the stool beside me is empty and the next there's a man sitting on it who takes up more space than his body should. Not because he's huge, but because his presence has a gravity that bends the air around him.

Dark suit. No tie. The collar of his black shirt open enough to show the hollow o
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    His voice is low, with a resonance I feel in my teeth and the base of my spine, like a bass note played through a speaker pressed against my body."What do you want?"Marissa makes a sound behind the armchair that communicates her desire to leave the planet. Priya's phone has gone dead in her hand – the screen black and unresponsive, with the recording apparently lost. Jade is still asleep."What are you?" I ask, because my voice works even though the rest of me has short-circuited."What you asked for.""We asked for spirits.""You got one." He smiles, and the candlelight catches his teeth, and I see that his canines are definitely longer than normal, and the smile is the most dangerous thing I have ever seen on a face, and my pussy responds to the danger with a clench that I feel in my stomach. "I go by Azar. And you're the one who actually meant it.""Meant what?""The invitation. Your friends were playing, but you, you were asking."I was. I realize it as he says it – when Marissa

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    The Ouija board is a joke.Honestly, everything about tonight is a joke.Marissa's birthday, her insistence on a séance theme because she's going through a witchy phase that started when she bought a crystal on Etsy and spiraled from there, the candles she bought in bulk from a home goods store that smell like synthetic vanilla and are currently dripping wax onto my coffee table because Marissa said the ritual requires a real flame, her choosing to use my apartment because it was the only one without a smoke detector sensitive enough to care.It's all a fucking joke.There are four of us. Marissa, who is running the board with the intensity of a woman who genuinely believes the dead have nothing better to do on a Saturday night than spell out messages for drunk twenty-six-year-olds. Priya, who is filming for her Instagram story because content is content even when the content is nonsense. Jade, who fell asleep on my couch forty minutes ago and is contributing nothing except occasional

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    "Do it – fuck – I want to feel it –"He pushes deep, and his body goes rigid, and I feel his cock pulse inside me, thick and hot, and the sensation of being filled by someone real whose hands I've imagined replacing mine for months, triggers another orgasm that I don't see coming. My pussy grips him through every pulse, and my left hand is on my hip so hard I'm going to bruise, and I'm making sounds into his shoulder that no camera has ever captured because no camera has ever been present for this.He stays inside me afterward, softening slowly, his weight on me, his breathing gradually evening out against my collarbone. His cum leaks around his cock and onto the sheets where I perform three times a week, and the evidence of him on my work surface makes me laugh quietly into his hair."What?" he murmurs."I'm going to have to change the sheets before Thursday's stream.""I'll help.""You'll be here Thursday?"He lifts his head and looks at me, and his dark eyes are soft and wrecked an

  • DIRTY DREAMS   STORY 64 – FUCKING MY FAVOURITE CAM FAN (IV)

    Two fingers push into me and curl, and my spine leaves the mattress. He's inside me, his fingers. Nobody's fingers have been inside me since before the camming started because I've been performing solo for half a year, so the feeling of being penetrated by someone else's hand while his mouth works my clit sends my body into a register I haven't accessed on camera. He curls his fingers against the front wall inside me, and his tongue holds pressure on my clit, and the combination builds an orgasm that has nothing performative about it."I'm going to cum," I say, differently than I say it on stream, because his mouth is going to make me cum and the truth of it is too direct for theatrics."Your hand," he says against me. "Is it on your hip?"I look down. My left hand is clamped so hard on my own hip that my knuckles have gone white."Yes.""Then it's real. Let it happen."I cum on his tongue in my room with no audience except the man whose mouth is sealed over my clit while his fingers

  • DIRTY DREAMS   STORY 64 – FUCKING MY FAVOURITE CAM FAN (III)

    His hands go to my waist. Both of them, spanning the fabric of my shirt, warm through the cotton. The contact is so simple and so different from the way I touch myself on camera that my breath hitches audibly. His thumbs trace the curve of my waist, and his fingers settle on my lower back. He pulls me closer, slowly, his chest meeting mine, his chin above my head. He holds me there, just holds me, his heartbeat against mine, and something behind my ribs that I didn't know was clenched lets go.He kisses me, and his mouth is warm and unhurried, tasting of coffee. His hands tighten on my waist when I lean into him, and the kiss has no angle to maintain, no lens to cheat toward, no thought of how my chin looks from below. His mouth and mine, and the slow-building heat of being kissed by someone who has been waiting six months and isn't going to rush for four more minutes.My hands go to his chest, and I can feel his heart through his shirt, hammering. The nervousness of it makes him more

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    I arrive at the agreed time to find him already there, sitting at a corner table with a book in front of him. However, he isn't really reading; he's watching the door intently. I recognize him before I reach the table because his demeanor matches his messages – calm yet slightly tense, which shows in how he holds his coffee cup with both hands.He's handsome, and that surprises me because I hadn't built an image of him; I'd deliberately refused to. The absence of expectation makes the reality hit harder. He's maybe thirty-four, with a face that's strong rather than pretty, dark eyes set deep under brows that are slightly furrowed from thought or anxiety, his hair dark and cut short, and his jaw carrying a day's worth of stubble. His hands around the coffee cup are large and long-fingered, and my body registers them before my brain does – a clench between my legs at the sight of his hands because I have spent six months imagining those hands replacing mine on camera."Hi," I say, and m

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