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He pinched my hardened nipples through my top, twisting each until I whimpered. "Next," he commanded, switching to the red velvet. He pressed it to my lips. "Eat." The raspberry's sweet-tart flavour burst in my mouth, as his free hand yanked my top down, exposing my breasts. His mouth latched onto my nipple, sucking hard, his teeth grazing them while his fingers curled inside me, hitting that spot that made stars explode behind my eyes. "Oh God... it's sweet, fruity, the cream is smooth—please, Gerald," I begged, voice hushed as I ground down on his hand. My orgasm built fast, coiling tight in my core.

My hand m‍ove​d on its o​wn, fingers slipping u‌nder the damp‍ fabric, finding my clit, pressing‍ hard, circli‌ng once, twice, matching his pace. Anna droppe⁠d to her knees be​side them, silent‌ and grace‌ful, sliding one hand up Greta’⁠s trem⁠bli​n‍g thigh, c‍upping a breast, pinching the n‍ipple until Gret‌a his‌se⁠d.

But it’s her face that guts you—angelic, with wide green eyes and faint freckles that you want to trace with your tongue, her smile a wicked promise of innocence and sin. Orientation’s a slog, some old hag droning on while your mind’s elsewhere, craving something raw. Back in your apartment, you’re restless, cock half-hard and aching for release. The city’s left you pent-up, unsatisfied. You grab your laptop, diving into OnlyFans like it’s a dark alley you can’t resist. Pornstars are old news—too polished, too fake. You want real, messy, human. Amateurs with trembling hands and secrets in their eyes. That’s what gets you going.

The whole day had been hectic. I took out a bottle of wine and poured myself some. I dropped onto the cushions, remote in hand, and flicked on the TV. Mindless noise to fill the silence. I scrolled through channels, news, reruns, some late night talk shows until I landed on a movie. One of those erotic thrillers, the kind with dim lighting and heavy breathing. I almost changed it, but the scene caught me. A woman alone in a lavish room, silk robe slipping off her shoulder, her hand trailing down her body as soft music swelled.

“Gonna make you come right here, Em. Then I’m gonna lick every drop off my fingers so I know exactly how you taste.” I was panting, whimpering, my hands gripping his hair as the pressure built fast. “Ooooh god, Alex… I’m so close… ahhhh… fuck me with your fingers harder—” He obliged, slamming his fingers deep and fast, thumb pressing firm on my clit. “Come for me, dirty girl. Come like you did in that dream. Soak my hand so I can smell you on me all night.” The orgasm hit me like lightning. My thighs shook, pussy clenching rhythmically around his fingers as waves of pleasure crashed through me.

“And Evelyn? Wear whatever makes you feel like the filthy little obsession you are.” I left his office on unsteady legs, my thighs were filled with dried juice while I clutched the leather book like a dirty secret.That night in my dorm, I read the marked passages slowly, touching myself the entire time. The words blurred with my own fantasies, his fingers, his voice and the way he had commanded my orgasm like he already owned it.

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You must read, so you'll know what we know. Loving books as she did, Madeleine had soon forgotten her disappointment. The private library was a wondrous hoard of knowledge, and as arousing in its way as the long, shared hours of yesterday. Each book was a classic of pornography. As she read — and read and read and read - Madeleine soon grew both learned and fevered. Every picture seemed to remind her of the touch of Delrina’s lips, or the way Laurelina’s fingertips could seek out, and find, the most discreet and receptive of pleasure-nodes, then tantalise them to the very edge of madness. Every line or paragraph of uncensored prose seemed to conjure up the taste of Nadia’s sweat.

In such close proximity, the scent of sweat running down the hollow of Ben's neck tempted Maureen to linger there. Of course she didn't. Maureen could still refrain from acting like a bitch in front of a man who didn't know much about her. "It's not the scene you need to highlight, but the story pattern they use," Ben explained, "Almost all local eroticism stories have similar bed scenes." Maybe it's the similar reading material. Sometimes there are advertisements for fictional stories that can be read online if you use a free mobile app, and most of them have the same crotch story.

That caused my eyebrows to raise and my cheeks to blush. "Well... If you like that mix, maybe 'Story of O' by Pauline Réage, 'The Lover' by Marguerite Duras, 'Tropic of Cancer' by Henry Miller, or 'Delta of Venus' by Anaïs Nin could be recommended," I suggested, my face burning. These were considered significant works of erotic literature, but at the same time, they were quite scandalous. "Did you enjoy them?" he asked with a slightly huskier voice. "I like forming my own opinions."