Slippery T Novels & Stories

The slurp sound of my fingers gliding against my soaked pussy lips. I bit my lips hard. Lord help me. I tried to resist my own hands but it betrayed me. Two fingers. I stuck them out. And put them at my entrance. I moaned At my own wetness. My slick was already dripping down my pussy, trailing down to my ass. And when I put my fingers, it started dripping down from it. I moaned. Pushed those filthy fingers inside it. Oh fuck. I pushed further. Slurpy. I pushed it deeper.

I slip him out, planting little kisses all over his tip, then slide my lips over him again. But this time, I don't stop, slowly taking more and more of him, a little at a time. I slide down a bit, getting his big shaft wet, then back up, then down a little further. I only have half of him, and my mouth feels very full, lips almost stretched open. I use my tongue to paint his shaft with my spit, wanting him sloppy wet and slippery.

Every attention was on me, staring at my lips, my face, waiting for the first word to fall out. “First off, can I just say anyone who has faced those slippers one on one, you are eligible to sign up for after combat therapy. Because those creatures were surely manufactured from some of the surest depths of hell. I can't be told otherwise. Their breath smells like the pit of everything wrong with this world and till this very moment, I don't even know what they really look like.” I said to them.

That's good. You have been untouched for so long. Another tendril traced up my thigh, leaving trails of slick warmth that made my hips jerk. The slick was hot and slippery, coating my skin, making every inch it touched hypersensitive. I can feel the ache in you, will you let me ease it?

Her plump lips sucked my clit again, two fingers sliding into me without warning—thick, perfect, curling against my G-spot while her tongue flicked mercilessly. The wet slurping sounds that followed grew louder than the p**n still playing. “I’m—oh god—I’m gonna come—”

My body shivers at the effect and pin my lips to keep down a moan. He trails his finger into my dress then slides his finger into the strip of pant, moving with his from my waist to the slant line reaching my pussy then he withdraws his finger and grabs on a tiny bit of the strip, pulls it and lets it sting me slightly when he lefts go. I tried hard not to whimper from the stinging pain.

A crash sounded just as I was thinking of a way to destroy that ring. The plate of sticky glazed ribs shattered on the floor, and the ring slipped loose, rolling straight toward my feet. I quickly kicked it into a hidden corner. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to!" Oddly enough, Annie suddenly dropped to her knees the moment the plate broke. She had fallen right by my feet. I jumped back in shock, retreating several steps. "I really didn't mean to, Sienna. I'll pay for it, I swear I will! Please, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." She trembled as if she were terrified of me.

I can hear my slurred words, and I already know he did. "Yeah, there's some liquid codeine in there. Feels fucking great, yeah?" He says it with a smile, and although I feel fucking amazing, I am unable to even function alone. "Even though it feels good, I'm unable to function at all." I slur my speech once more.

"I'm breaking you." His fingers found the edge of her lace panties, hooking into the fabric and tugging them aside with a sharp, decisive movement. When his fingers made contact with her slick, swollen heat, Sloane let out a choked sound, half-sob and half-moan, her head falling back against his chest. He was relentless, his fingers diving deep inside her, stretching her, mimicking the aggressive rhythm of their first encounter.

this sleeping sickness. Dr Kapur’s superior, Sir John Jenkinson, standing over the sleeping bodies of Central Hospital porter Norman Eley and his wife, Corrine—the quietest anyone had ever known the woman—speculated that the sickness in question had traits in common with Kleine-Levin Syndrome: ‘More commonly known as Rip van Winkle disease, or even Sleeping Beauty Syndrome...’ But, again, this was a neurological disorder and not prone to being passed on in such a devastating way. By the time it had been noted that the disease was airborne, after many of the hospital staff who hadn’t come into contact physically with patients began suffering from the same symptoms, the writing was on the wall