Semua Bab Touch me tender, Break me wild: A Steamy, Erotic compilation: Bab 21 - Bab 30

~Amira~ My hips buck involuntarily. The pleasure built in me like a fast wave. Each of his touches drew me deeper and deeper into a sensation I couldn't deny or escape from. My body hummed with need. I reached back like a shameless slut, my fingers finding his arm. I gripped the muscle there as if to anchor myself. His scent enveloped me.. comforted me and I turned my head, seeking his mouth. "That's it, little stranger." His voice!! Damn!! I felt my juices trickle down my laps, lower and lower. Our lips met in the dark, tentative at first, then hungry. It matched my needs. His tongue explored my mouth with the same deliberate pace as his hand. You know how breathing felt natural, kissing him felt natural too. I never felt like this with Alex. Never. He turned my body so I would face him. My other free hand tangled in his hair, pulling him closer to me. My mind raced with fragments: his stubble against my skin was rough, thrilling. The way his body pressed to mine, so soli

Juliet's point of view On some nights, I'd hear him pacing, or catch the flicker of his bedroom light on longer than usual. He must be waiting desperately for his wife to be home and she sometimes never comes back on those nights. In times like that, I hear him stroking his cock, trying to feel the presence of his wife even though the sad reality is—she's not there. Sometimes, I feel sad for him, and sometimes I feel that he doesn't deserve me to be sad for him. I was always there, giving myself to him but no, he never succumbed. It drove me wild. I started bending over more deliberately when I knew he was watching —picking up mail from the box with my ass high, my skirts hiking up to show my pussy with its lips swollen and slick from my juices. Once, I even spread my legs a bit, feeling the air on my wetness, hoping he'd crack. But instead, I saw through a window my other neighbor, Jake, stroke himself hard while looking in between my legs. I rolled my eyes annoyed, then

Celine's point of view I've known Joan since we were kids. We shared secrets, clothes and heartbreaks. Basically, she's like the sister I never once had... The sister I've always dreamt of having. She's bubbly, beautiful, always the life of the party. And then there's Mark, her husband of five years. He's so tall with that easy smile and broad chest that fills out his shirts just right. He's always been polite to me, a little flirty in that harmless way that cracks me up, but I never really thought much about it. A good trip to the beach resort in Mexico, sun soaked days and tequila-fueled nights were supposed to bring us all together. What was supposed to be a relaxing getaway turned into the hottest, most dangerous secret of my life. And this was how it all started... We arrived late afternoon, the four of us—me, Joan, Mark and my boyfriend, Charles, who bailed last minute on some work bullshit and guess what, I wasn't even surprised. Maybe that's what made me do what I di

Melissa's point of view I reached down, freeing his cock.. thick, veined, precum beading at the tip. "Lord, it was perfect. This fucking cock was glorious. I love it. With so much excitement, I start to stroke him slow, feeling him twitch in my grip. " I know you want this, babe, " I teased, rubbing the head against my slick folds. "Fuck, yes!" I loved the urgency in his voice. He thrust up, but I pulled back, standing to push my tits together around his shaft. Breast fucking was something I learned from Joan. She said back then that my breast was big enough to satisfy whomever I was fucking with. It was something I'd fantasized about doing with my boyfriend but as always, he never satisfied me. We never actually did it because he couldn't even last for a full twenty minutes in bed with me, not to talk of fucking my breast. So now, I decided to try it with Mark. I know very well that my best friend's tits weren't as big as mine and she might not have done it with him so I wa

Milka's point of view I clocked in for my nightshift at St. Mary's Hospital where I work. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like they always did, casting that sterile glow over everything. It was just past midnight, and the ward was quiet. The kind of quiet that makes one hear his own heartbeat. My name tag read "Milka Craven, RN," but tonight, like every other night lately, my mind was on room 214. Mr. Elias Grant, the widowed patient who'd been there for weeks recovering from a nasty fall. Fifty-two years old, but with a body that still looked strong under those hospital sheets—broad shoulders, salt and pepper hair that he kept neatly combed even in bed. He has always been alone since his admission into St. Mary's hospital. No family visiting, and something about his sad sad eyes pulled at me. Or maybe it was the way he watched me when I came in to check his vitals. Maybe it was the way he had told me I looked like his diseased wife. I wasn't sure why but I really wante