Thigh Pics Novels & Stories

It was so humiliating, and it made me so wet I felt it dripping down my thighs. I looked up at him, my mouth watering. He was beautiful and his length was terrifying. It was pulsing right in front of my face. I reached out with shaking hands and gripped his hard, muscular thighs. I leaned in and swirled my tongue all around the head, licking up that salty drop of heat. “Mmmphh” A small moan escaped my throat.

I could not give her a pet that had a risk of dying soon. I scrolled and the next picture made all the blood in my body rush to a certain organ. It was a picture of her mid-air, but that was not what had caught my attention. It was the view of her thighs that had gotten my attention. Her dress had ridden up and her soft creamy thighs had been on display. Fuck!

My legs are numb from the waist down, pins and needles crawling up my thighs whenever I try to shift. My hole—Jesus Christ, my hole—throbs with every heartbeat, swollen and raw and gaping open like it's forgotten how to close. I risk a glance down at myself. Mistake. Dried blood crusts the inside of my thighs. More of it smeared across my ass crack, dark and flaking. My hole is visible even in the dim light filtering through the curtains; red, puffy, obscene. He wrecked me. And I fucking loved it.

I looked on in rapt attention as she skimmed through the photos and offered small details of the outfits. Her last two photos shocked me the most. The first one had her kneeling on my bed, wearing a black lace thong and my black leather jacket. She had the leather jacket unzipped, but was holding it slightly closed to let her tits peak out. She was clearly not wearing a bra. She posed in various other positions on my bed dressed like this, including laying on her back and teasing her pussy through her thong with a finger as her eyes were closed in the throws of ecstasy, on her hands and knees with her ass pointed at the camera, and a close up of her face with her mouth open invitingly.

His thighs? Shit. His god damn thighs. They’re not legs. They’re weapons. They bulge out from the knee, muscle on muscle, each group defined in a way that seems physically impossible. They connect to a firm, perfect, biteable ass that I shouldn’t be staring at. But I am. He could kill someone with those thighs. He’s definitely killed someone with those thighs. The movement repeats. Up, down, thud. Up, down, thud. The bar hitting the floor reverberates through the room. His muscles pop from the strain, skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat that make his intricate tattoos look like art in motion.

What a treat. Ezra tugs his underwear down next, revealing those strong thighs, tense and rock-solid like he’s either been for a workout or recently delivered a powerful fucking. Tattoos sit perfectly on his skin. One at his hip that emphasises the flat rigidity of his stomach, and one on his pec that somehow draws attention to his small, dark nipples. I’m undone already, and when I catch a glimpse of the meat of his cock before he wraps himself in a towel, I find myself crossing my legs involuntarily. Jiggling my right thigh so the seam of my jeans sends zinging thrills through my clit.

She giggled and pulled him in for a hug not without casting me a dirty look and flicks her gaze to him. The bitch wore a black thong and small boob clothing to cover her nipples because she was bug busted with a huge ass and tiny legs with her full lips and high cheek bones filled with heavy make up. There was no way in hell she wasn't botched and didn't have a plastic surgeon attending to her body every visit.

she caught her bottom lip between her teeth and dragged it out as she grinned. It was an A4 color photo of Rhett sprawled out on the bed, his eyes hot and his smile sultry as he cupped his c-ck. The next few pages held smaller photos of him, bound in leather cuffs, gagged, tied to the cross, and one of him taken at the point of orgasm by the expression on his face, his head thrown back, and his eyes closed.

Tonight is for us. The door opened again shortly after, revealing a blonde girl clad only in a pink thong and matching heels. Upon entering, she bent over, wiggling her waist as she removed the thong. Then, she sat on the bed and arched her back, parting her legs for our viewing.

If just glancing at my husband’s lower half made me breathless, I wonder what would happen when I press his thighs, those points highlighted in the illustrations. I chewed on my lower lip and started massaging his outer thigh. I would intermittently glance between the illustration and Alpha Silas’ thigh. The points highlighted in the illustration were of his inner thigh, which made me nervous. What if my hand touched his manhood? Moreover, was I left with any other option?