Dirty Minded Poems Novels & Stories

The filthy words sent a fresh gush of wetness flooding around his fingers. Zinnia's cheeks burned with shame. “Cedric, we—” “Shut the fuck up with the innocent act,” he snarled, but his voice was thick with arousal. “You know what happens to bad girls, huh?” He pumped his fingers faster, curling them against that spongy spot that made her see stars. Zinnia shook her head helplessly. “They get punished, Zinnia. And you'll get punished,” he said. A soft, broken sound vibrated through Zinnia’s chest as Cedric's thick fingers stretched her cum-slick walls, the lewd squelching sounds echoing in the basement.

His stern voice, low and menacing, whispered into my ear like a death sentence: “Open your eyes and look at the garbage and sewage beneath this shiny city. If you were born into a poor family, you’d have a gambling father and a p.rostitute mother. They’d sell you to a nightclub after your first period, then take the money and leave you to die. You’d spend your life in a dark, filthy nightclub, where the manager would f.uck you in the name of discipline before you even got your first guest. They’d inject you with drugs, and you’d be dependent on them. If you died, they’d dump your body in an alley filled with filth, waiting for the garbage man to clean you up.”

’ But it doesn’t stop there anymore. Beneath my words, in another writing— his handwriting and the poem continues. ‘Oh, I burn for the forbidden, For the touch that condemns, For the desire that damns.’ ‘My hunger knows nothing but that it wants, and no guilt nor shame attached to it.’ ‘I am ruined by wanting. Ruined by the ache of almost.’ ‘Let me taste sin on your tongue. ‘Let me memorize the terrain of your surrender.’

“My personal mile-high slut.” The dirty words combined with the choking and deep penetration pushed her toward another peak. Lila pushed back against him, meeting every thrust as best she could in the cramped quarters. The mirror captured every filthy detail, his powerful body slamming into her from behind, her face contorted in pleasure, the risk of discovery hanging over them like a blade. Damien fucked her harder, the wet slap of skin on skin barely concealed by the engine noise. He spanked her ass sharply, the sound echoing dangerously. “Come again. I want to feel this pussy milk my cock.”

I’m a disgusting, filthy whore. For years, I’ve hidden the darkest fantasies that consume me every single night. Gangbangs. Being used by multiple men at once. Rough, degrading, cum-soaked, no-limits sex where I’m nothing but a set of warm holes for them to destroy. I dream about being passed around, choked, slapped, filled in every hole until cum is leaking from my pussy, ass, and mouth. I touch myself thinking about it constantly — three, four, five cocks at the same time, stretching me, using me, breeding me like a cheap slut.

“Take your priest’s cock in your dirtiest hole.” “Yes, father...” I moaned. “Clean up my dirtiest hole with your pure and holy cock... cleanse me deep, dear father.” My filthy words seemed to spark something inside him. He increased his pace, pounding into me fastly. I pushed back against him, moaning like a whore. He fucked me harder, the sound of his hips slapping against my ass echoing in the small room. I came again, my ass clenching around him as pleasure ripped through me.

But, I pray you, do not be too hasty to condemn, too quick to turn away, too eager to avert your sensibilities from what I am about to say. Let me begin, then, with my mother, for is that not how all of us begin? Well, I know, before that, before my birth, there must have been some dark deed, some act of love or passion, rape or seduction, or perhaps a ritual coupling. I never knew who my father was. Oh, there were men who came to my mother's bed, not the rude peasants from the village, not the crude swordsmen from the castle, but huge men, terrifying in dark hooded robes, terrifying even more when they shed those robes to reveal gaunt, pale bodies. They were tall, almost skeletally thin, wi

Spent a little quality time with a shower head. It was a lie, but I wish it hadn't been. These are like cubical showers with little privacy so even the thought of using myself to get off felt wrong. But maybe that felt right... LimberJack: well good morning to you! my tongue would love to get aquatinted with your pussy. Is it bare? LonelyGirl: Depends on if I'm w someone or not ;) LimberJack: ok so pretend from now until this test is over you are with me. how would that pretty pussy look?

“Read the titles as you ride,” he ordered. “Poetry of… oh fuck… Love,” I gasped. “Mystery… Thrillers.” “Make it dirty. What would you do in those stories?” “Fuck the poet,” I panted. “Solve the mystery with my ass.” He groaned, took the books from me, and tossed them aside before wrapping his arms around me and thrusting up hard. “Cum now. On the shelf.” I stroked myself fast, shooting ropes of cum onto the books, white streaks marking their covers as my body convulsed and my hole milked him.

Come — mine and theirs — was everywhere: on my stomach, my chest, my thighs, the sheets, my fingers, my lips. I looked at myself in the mirror one more time. Ruined. Used. Still twitching. I reached down, pushed two fingers back inside myself just to feel the emptiness and the slickness, and whispered to the empty room: “Tomorrow night I’m going back. And I’m going to ask them to make it worse.” My cock gave one last weak twitch against my stomach. I didn’t clean up. I just left everything exactly as it was — the mess, the open hole, the smell of sex and come — and closed my eyes with three fingers still buried inside myself, holding their loads in for as long as I could.