Dirty Minded Poems Novels & Stories

I started typing, the words pouring out of me like poison. “You really thought you could just disappear and everything would go away, you disgusting slut? I saw you at that party. I saw what a cheap whore you are. Spreading your legs for old men like Chandler Callahan. Does his cock taste better than the others? Bet you let him fuck you raw every night while his daughter sleeps down the hall. You’re pathetic. I hit send. Then another.

That's when I got dirty. I stuck my middle finger, slicken by her juice, into her puckered ass, and began working it. In. Out. In. Add a second finger. In. Out. In. Out. Add a third finger. In. Out. In. Spit on the fingers. In. Out. In. Out. The effect was immediate.

"Your cunt is sucking my fingers like a desperate slut. So tight. So fucking sloppy. I bet you've been thinking about this, haven't you? Sitting in my lectures with this fat ass and these huge tits, wondering what my hands would feel like inside you." I whimpered, nodding frantically. The dirty talk pushed me closer to the edge. My pussy made obscene noises as he fingered me harder, twisting his wrist, hitting every sensitive spot. My juices ran down his wrist. I could smell my own arousal in the air, musky and sweet. "Please," I begged. "Please don't stop."

“Get your dirty hands off me. Don’t touch me!” “Dirty?” Adams sneered at her and threw what was left of wine in her face. He stormed back to her and slapped her face twice. “Bitch, how dare you call me dirty? How clean do you think you are? You seduce me and beg me to fuck you. All the women I have slept with have bigger breasts than you. They are prettier than you. And I am more comfortable when I fuck them. Who the hell do you think you are? If you had not been of some use, I would never hook up with you. You think I’m dirty, don’t you? That's because you have never seen anything dirtier!”

Not the filthy, twisted, no-limits way that made my pussy throb just thinking about it. I stripped down to nothing but an oversized t-shirt and a pair of thin panties after my shower, my nipples already tight and sensitive against the soft fabric. I climbed onto my bed, the sheets cool against my bare skin, and opened my favorite p**n site. The glow from the screen lit up my dim room like a dirty secret. I didn’t waste time on vanilla crap tonight. My fingers flew across the keyboard: *step daddy fucks step son rough*. Thumbnails loaded, full of exactly what I needed—muscular older men with commanding bodies dominating eager younger guys, cocks buried deep, faces twisted in raw pleasure.

After the interrogation that day, fuck had a grown woman like me craving, but since there was no cock around and no vibrator, I had to use my fingers to oh yeah that's the spot. When I was done with the masturbation, just then on my phone, a notification beeped in on my Facebook. It didn't seem like me receiving my porn, instead, it was a poem from someone with no profile picture or picture on his wall. His username says Mr Romantic and his poem read, I can never look at a drop of dew in a buttercup without beholding shafts of love in the retreats of your eyes In you there is unity; your face and form is a blend of perfect line and contour

I groaned. He moved his finger in and out, curling it hard. Faster, and even faster as he continued, then he sent another finger. Using his thumb to circle my clit as his fingers curled inside my pussy. I felt pleasured, now I only wanted to get smashed nothing mattered anymore. I was rocking my waist as he finger-fucked me, he sent his finger in and out pussy curling it hard till I cummed on his finger. “Oh fuck, this maid is a loosed tap” he said sleazily. “I am about to have a taste of you myself”

An inch closer, my index finger slide into little space between her boob's. I pull her closer. She fall and trip right on me. I exhale heavily. I ignore her dirt smell and continously irritating stains She's externally dirty but internally delicious. Her honey pot ain't stained.. My palm and finger's roam her body. Her head tilts backwards. "Why the mind chance love?" I question lowly. My cold whispery words curve down her neck. Her senses instantly returns. Embarasment replace her expression. Her lips take a W look alike shape.

It’s dark in the room, only illuminated by the streetlight coming through the window. I bury my face between her breasts, and she curls her legs up. Her hands land on top of my head and she starts to push me down, guiding me to her pussy. My heart speeds up even more, and pre-cum beads at the tip of my cock. I want more than anything to pull off her panties and lash my tongue against her clit, over and over again until she’s coming hard on my face. But I shouldn’t. Not like this. Not when she’s drunk.

When I close my eyes I imagine your soft lips on mine A feeling so pure and divine I imagine our bodies intertwine Your soft body crushed against me As I give you immeasurable pleasure And raise passions and desires untold As your deep blue eyes stare into my soul I want you to be mine and only mine And I'll have you till the end of time. Damian read the poem again and nearly threw up. What kind of man writes poetry? To him, it was very unmanly. He looked down to see who had written it but the poem stopped there. He could find anything. No signature, no name, no pseudonym, nothing. He folded the abominable paper up and kept it aside away from his belongings. If writing poety was contagious,