Author: itsadirtythrowawaay

I [F] sat in church on Easter Sunday next to my racist parents with a black guys [M] cum in my mouth

I was 17 at the time and I was going through a rebellious anti-religion phase. It was Easter and my family is extremely religious and extremely conservative. So it wasn’t much of a choice on whether or not I was going to church. I tried to argue and I told them I didn’t want to go, but that was a waste of time.

We went to one of those Catholic Churches where you have to sing a song and it feels more like you’re a cast member of a musical than a member of a religious gathering. There was this one boy, he was 19 and in college. He was roughly 6 foot and very in shape. We were friends and we talked after church all the time. My parents used to say if I ever dated anyone like him they would disown me. And I was in a mood.

I walked over to him before the service started and said hi. He was dressed so sharp, a baby blue button up and khaki pants. I was in a flowery white dress and a flower crown. I told him to text me during the service and he said Ok. Read more »

[FM] a story that I wrote last night at 4 AM. I belong to you.

Chapter one: The Bad

I would love to say this was a mistake. That I will do this one time, learn from this, and avoid putting myself in a situation like this in the future. But we both know that is the farthest thing from the truth. The truth is, when you call, I run. When you need something to use, I obey. And when you need to cum, my face is your box of tissues. It wasn’t always like this, when we started I felt empowered, envigorated, I felt like the strongest slut on the planet. And that word, Slut. When you called me it, I felt no shame. I felt power. I felt happy. I felt alive. I don’t know when that changed, but I know the power I once had is fading. It’s not gone, but what once made me feel intoxicated on the idea of relying on the potency of a wicked lifestyle for days at a time, now last just minutes.
But here I am, at your doorstep, wondering if I look good enough for you. Wondering if you will like what you see when you let me into your apartment. I’m scared that my real physical body won’t match your idealization of me. What you remember it being like, what you want it to be like, how you think a woman should look like; what if I am not good enough for you?. But you open the door and smile when I walk in. You do your little act you think you have to do before telling me what you want. You ask about my sister, my job, if I’ve given that “Power of You” podcast a listen yet. You try to fool me into thinking you care about me but we both know that you aren’t able to think like that. You do think that way for the most part, but there is a small part of you that just wants me to open my mouth and spread my legs and that’s why I’m here. Read more »