Weekly, snackable erotic shorts to satisfy your mind's eye
His name is Trey.
He’s all I ever knew, and at the time, it seemed enough.
Didn't mind him being average height. His smooth tawny brown skin taunted me. I could read the undertones of his peach hues accenting that daisy white smile. All of it decadent. Had a hint of a dimple on the left with a not quite chiseled face but possibly could’ve had he stayed in the Divine creation chamber a lil’ while longer.
Muscle tone defined but not overbearing with contrasts of jagua colored stains embedded in his skin. I was instantly smitten with him.
Our communication was always staggered but when we did, we’d talk for hours. In-person meetups were far, few, and in between but when we linked it was delicious. He’d let me carry out my fantasies. Bind him and lick in clandestine places never touched. Control his climax. Stop and start repeatedly as I massage his throne. Hover my lips over the tip and make him squirm while I tended to the softness underneath. Graze my tongue between his thighs. Guide spurs along the sides. Release sensitivities unknown to the most masculine of men.
Toes pointed and flexed from the resistance which was futile.
Made him dine on my sacral bits blindfolded.
Forced his tongue to feel its way through my inner folds. Could he make me scream and lose control? I’d rock and swirl my hips upon his face, my grip still on his dick. Maintained the massage, then released right at the bulge.
I loved to hear him moan.
High notes reverberated against his tan walls.
At the point he began to suck on my clit, I’d slide down and ride him like a horse. Make him cum harder than the last. Command his Earth to sprout seeds while I watered his garden with my nectar.
We’d heave in exhaustion, then transition into a deep sleep.
Nights he summoned me were always during the witching hour. We’d stay together till dawn, he’d make breakfast, and let me wash him the way I wanted. Ensure I cleansed the sex off his ass. More than a classic heaux bath.
Our encounters were never the same.
Never met a man so masculine who longed to be controlled. Desired a counterpart to make him yield. Demand his obedience. He understood my need to dominate and chose me as his pleasure authority. I enjoyed unearthing his carnal energy. Tap that animalistic frequency and make him yearn to ravish me feverishly. Like a caged mammal, he’d rip his binds, toss me to the floor and ragdoll me. All the angst, aggression, and fury poured into my pussy.
Shove his tongue in my mouth. Thrust me hard until I tapped out. Flip me over, pinch my nipples, then hit with me a slow choke stroke.
He always went deep.
Waves crashed into mine and brought me to shore. Dug me out till he activated my core and made me gush from my lower lips. The control I held so dear, he’d make me take and give it away.
Then he got married.
Left me melancholy.
He was my favorite.
Tried to make our twosome a threesome, and kindly declined. I had no desire to share, but somehow he believed his request was fair. So I let him go. Accepted our time together was what it was and sought another to no avail.
So I hid.
Found other ways to express my energy but they never fulfilled me the way he did.
A year passed and I spotted him walking towards my favorite cafe. For months, I’d ask him to meet me but daytime shenanigans were never his thing. I thought it odd to see him on my side of town, but I dismissed it and hoped he hadn’t seen me.
I was wrong.
Felt that overt masculine energy hover over me. I glanced up and there he was with that classic, daisy white smile. Hadn’t changed a bit.
He cleared his throat to garner my attention and honeyed, “I’m divorced.”