Beach Day [MF][1st person fiction][public sex]

When I was a housewife, nobody ever railed me so hard. I waited for you. I knew you were coming. I knew the best fuck of my life hadn’t happened yet. And here you are. You look like Billy Crudup in Almost Famous and that makes me drip for you. Literally. I looked at your dick pic while brushing my teeth, and I felt my cum crawling down my thigh. It happened so fast, but I sent you a picture. And you were already on your way to see me. I’m so glad I’m single now, and I met you. You’re so beautiful, and I’m comfortable around you because I’m my most comfortable when I cum three times in a row. And I always do with you. On your cock, in your mouth, while you’re watching me squirm on a towel in case I squirt harder than I thought I would. But we’re taking the towels with us this time, to the beach, and I don’t know if I can make it because I’m so fucking horny for you. I can feel my pussy getting wet in my $8 cherry bikini. We should’ve fucked before leaving. We have a tent, though. But I’m so horny, I would fuck you in the Venice Beach public toilets which is so fucking disgusting, and that makes me wetter. Spit in my mouth while I sit on the metal toilet seat. Take you in my mouth. You wanna see me pull my cheap bikini to the side, pissing, while I choke on you. We didn’t even know we were into that, never done that before, but in the Venice Beach public toilets, the dirtier the better. I’m just fantasizing as you find a parking spot. It’s a Monday, so it’s not busy and doesn’t take long, thank god. Because I don’t actually, IRL, wanna fuck in the Venice Beach public toilets, and we need to set up the tent immediately. I’m going to fuck you so hard.
I don’t think this tent is allowed on the beach. Someone could come up and tell us to take it down. As you go down. Someone could see our silhouettes, sun-induced porn playing on the side of our tent like an outdoor screening of the best of Pornhub. I don’t care, though. I want you inside me. I brought my little bullet vibrator in my beach bag. A little bit of watermelon tanning oil got on it, and I suck it off, watching your cock move in your cut-off cords. We hate to be those people, but we have to play music on a bluetooth speaker. Your cock makes me so loud, and I think the tourists would rather hear Pet Sounds and some of Smiley Smile (not the vegetables song or the song about going bald). I want you to watch me get myself off in my bikini bottoms. Want you to watch me squirt in them. You think nobody’s ever had a better day at the beach than the one we’re about to have. You kiss me hard and deep as the sound of my vibrator is masked by “Wouldn’t It Be Nice.” Fuck, your tongue in my mouth could make me cum by itself. You stroke your cock as you watch me. “This is so fucking hot,” you whisper as you push a sandy hair out of my face. I know it is. I know how hot I must look in my string bikini, squirming in our shady tent on Venice Beach. My mouth opened, panting, My body sweaty and oiled as my back arches and my thighs shake. I think I’m squirting. You’re watching the crotch of my bikini fill up with cum, dripping out the sides. You can’t wait to lick it off me. You pull my bottoms to the side, and lick. Your tongue is hot and warm, and it feels so good lapping me up. It feels like fucking sunshine. Like summer. I pull you up to me, I want to taste my fresh cum from your lips before you keep going. You spit me in my mouth, and it’s so much better than my fantasy about the public toilets. I taste so good coming out of your perfect mouth.

I Seduced My Friend of 8 Years [MF][non-fiction]

I remember the day I met Daniel. Don’t remember quite when it was. Something like ten years ago, now. I wore my vintage Styx t-shirt. Handed him my self-printed headshot, my coffee stained resume in the rundown casting studio on Fountain. I read the lines he wrote, deadpan. They were funny. And he and his friends cast me in their pilot. It was the first and only pilot I’ve ever done. We shot it on my birthday. I had just broken up with my girlfriend to pursue a guy I had met on another set. I thought Daniel was cute, though. But I thought he was interested in another actress, not me. The other girl in the pilot. The prettier, more interesting one. The one in a band.
The guy I liked didn’t really want anything to do with me. So I hooked up with Daniel’s friend, Andy, who had also worked on the pilot. I hope you’re keeping up with this. He was also cute. Tall. But I had wished it had been Daniel. Andy and I went on a first date, to see a movie at The Grove, and ran into Daniel with his ex-girlfriend. And then I slept with Andy. Again and again and again. But that didn’t work out because the guy I liked eventually came around after getting arrested in New Mexico. Although, that didn’t work out either. But that’s another story. Maybe even a better one. We’ll see.
But Daniel and I remained friends. Once, I ran into him with a friend on the 4th of July in Venice. We drunkenly ran into the Pacific ocean. My first time. It wasn’t as cold as I thought it would be, but maybe I was distracted. It was only me and Daniel in our little part of the ocean, I think. I thought we would hook up that night, but we didn’t. I went home with salt water hair. And again, one night, a friend and I went to his house to watch the movie, Suburbia. I thought maybe something would happen then, but nothing. We matched on a dating app and flirted for hours, but I thought we were joking around. We carried on being friends and nothing more. He came to my wedding. We sometimes hung out. It was a sporadic thing. But friends. We went to see the new Suspiria. Afterwards, I walked with him to his house. We talked a bit, and I had mentioned that my marriage was open. We got a little flirty, and when I left, my panties were so fucking wet. I didn’t understand why after all this time, all these opportunities, he still hadn’t made a move. It had been 8 years at that point. I had dressed like Anna Karina in my wool skirt, red cashmere sweater and tartan coat. I was a fucking dream for a nerdy movie fan like him. What the fuck?
I kept having dreams about Daniel. All the time. I’ve only ever really had recurring sex dreams about three men: Daniel, Vanilla Ice, and my fourth grade teacher. Don’t judge me. But it is what it is. And it ate away at me. I would masturbate to pictures of Daniel from his Facebook. His Instagram. Google images. There was one I really liked where he had shorter hair and there was a rainbow prism on his face. That picture made me cum so much. I would say his name out loud while I masturbated if my husband wasn’t home. But after a number of years, it wasn’t enough to satiate me anymore. I wanted to know what Daniel would feel like inside of me. I wanted to know what his cock looked like. How he kissed. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I had down the math, I only had like what? 10 more years of being mildly hot. At best? Like hot enough that your male friend wants to fuck you; even though, you’re married, and he came to your wedding, kind of hot. We had already known each other for 8 years with nothing happening, I couldn’t keep wasting time like this.
I texted him a picture of me in lingerie and pretended it was an accident. He said he was going to keep it anyway. Nooooooo, I half-heartedly protested. But what are you doing? Do you want to get together and watch a movie soon? Yeah, okay.
I sat on his old leather couch next to him. We ate pizza. We watched two Daniel Day-Lewis movies back to back, getting closer and closer on the couch. The thong underneath my denim mini skirt was soaked. My heart was racing. He better fucking put his fucking tongue down my throat. I couldn’t wait for him anymore. I interrupted Phantom Thread, “Can I tell you a secret?” I could. “I sent you that underwear pic of me on purpose.” He had figured. But why? “I was flirting with you.” And then he slowly moved in. We were going to kiss. He paused inches away from my lips. Are we going to do this? I nodded yes, kissing him hard. Fuck, it was so hot. I was kissing Daniel. Holy fuck. I could feel his tongue on my tongue. He made me so fucking wet.
I straddled him on the couch, continuing to kiss him. He took off my white shirt, my sheer bra, I was half naked in front of him. On him. Still kissing him. I wanted to fuck him so badly. He slid down on the couch, placing his mouth underneath my pussy. Pulling my panties to the side, he tasted me. I could see clearly out the window behind his couch, and I wondered if his neighbors could see the topless woman getting eaten out by their neighbor. He ate my pussy like he had wanted to taste me for years. The same way I wanted to taste his cock and was going to. I got off him, told him I wanted his cock in my mouth. I leaned over his lap and put his cock in my mouth the way I had wanted to for almost a decade. I couldn’t wait for him to find out that my only true talent in life is giving blow jobs.
I wanted to fuck him, but Daniel said no. He had a girlfriend. Oh right. Daniel had a girlfriend. In the eight or whatever years I had known Daniel, he had never had a girlfriend to my knowledge. The only thing close to a girlfriend I had seen was when I had bumped into him with his ex-girlfriend, but she was an ex even at the time. I’m ashamed to admit that I didn’t take Daniel having a girlfriend seriously. I honestly kept forgetting she even existed. I’m such a bitch. Problematic. But, I’m not in the boat where we blame the other party for someone’s indiscretions. But, I’ll accept being called a bitch. I still wanted to fuck Daniel either way. We had waited so long. I wanted to know what he’d feel like inside of me. In lieu of fucking me, he put his fingers so deep into my pussy that it took my breath away. I’ve never been into being finger fucked. Definitely some light fingering while being eaten out, but being finger fucked does nothing for me. Unless, of course, I can’t have sex with you. Then holy shit, yes, keep doing it. Harder. Deeper.
My Lyft driver got lost on the way taking me home, and I didn’t even notice because I kept replaying the night over and over again in my head. I had finally made-out with Daniel. He had had his fingers inside me. I had his cock down my throat. My appetite for him was nowhere near satiated though. Not until he’d fuck me. I knew after eight years of missed opportunities, the first time we’d have sex would be so fucking intense and dramatic. And I wanted that. I hadn’t had that in years. And I knew in my current marriage, I would never have passion again. It couldn’t be cultivated with us, no matter how much we loved each other as people. I would do anything to feel what it was like with Daniel, though.
I couldn’t wait to see him again. And luckily, I had left my water bottle behind in his house. Luckily, he didn’t live far away from where I worked in Hollywood. Not that I got a lot of work done while I thought about him fucking me anywhere and everywhere at all hours of the day. I went to get it wearing a plaid schoolgirl skirt and sheer white t-shirt with no bra underneath. He asked if I wanted to see what he was working on, so I sat across from him as he showed me some things he had edited. Finally, we talked about it. So the other night had been crazy. Yeah. Sexy. I wish we could do it again. He had to go to meet up with his girlfriend soon. Fuck, girlfriend. Right. He started to walk me out, but we kept pausing along the way. Drawing it out for as long as possible. I turned to him in the kitchen. I really wanted to make-out with him again. He grabbed me and pulled me in. Okay, maybe just for a little bit. It was so fucking hot. His hands up my skirt, in my hair. Pushed up against the kitchen counter. My hand down his pants. His tongue in my mouth. I could feel how hard he was through his pants. His front door was wide open. Anyone could see, walk in.
He pulled himself off me; he really had to go. I turned around and began to walk out the door. He came behind me and started kissing my neck, wrapped his arm around me and down the front of my panties. We stood right in front of the open door. He touched my pussy and kissed my neck as I stood in the doorframe, looking out over his porch, his front yard. He kept kissing me outside. I finally made it to my car, turned it on. “Are You Lonesome Tonight” played on the AM oldies station I listen to. I was getting ready to leave, when he came up to my car door. I opened it, and he bent down to kiss me again, feel my pussy one last time. Fuck.
Like I would eventually do with Sean, my former therapist, I couldn’t stop thinking about Daniel. About what it would be like to fuck him. Have him inside me. That was the first time I had really had a romantic or sexual obsession beyond Vincent and former boss years ago. Before, I could hold it together. There had been bad crushes, like a recent coworker, but this was something different that I hadn’t experienced in a long time. But something about the timing of Daniel. How my marriage was imploding while my ex-husband and I remained eerily passive aggressive about it. How I was working my first 9-5 in years, a schedule out of my control, which my OCD did not enjoy. A complete anxiety meltdown was brewing inside of me, and I had no idea that in a few months, I would basically have a nervous breakdown. I think I used Daniel has a distraction. Seducing my male friend was a project that would keep my mind off the fact that everything around me was out of my control. I needed Daniel. Without him, I would fall apart. I needed his cock inside me.
We went to see The Last Black Man in San Francisco. I already had tickets because I felt it was going to be “the best movie of the decade.” He had really wanted to see it, too. I don’t know what I was thinking. I knew all I could think about was wanting to fuck him. I don’t know why I would invite him to a movie I actually wanted to watch, where we would be in a crowded theatre, sitting smack in the middle, nowhere to hide. Nowhere to make-out. For two hours. Just sitting in silence. Wondering if I should touch him somehow. Or if he would touch me somehow. Or what if we knew somebody else there and they saw us? Those two hours were two of the most excruciating hours I’ve ever experienced. This was a movie I had waited months to see, but it dragged on to new heights of boredom because I wanted to walk back to Daniel’s with him to make-out and fuck because I thought it certainly wasn’t going to happen in this theatre. I still, to this day, have not rewatched that movie because it was so unbearable that night. The only other time I had been more miserable in a theatre was when my ex-boyfriend took me to see Lawrence of Arabia, and I had zero interest outside of Omar Sharif. It lasted almost 4 hours, and I knew I would be quizzed on it afterwards by my pretentious ex. I hate Lawrence of Arabia. But thank god, this movie wasn’t as long, and it eventually ended.
Daniel and I exited the theatre, and instead of heading towards the exit, he grabbed my hand and pulled me in the opposite direction. “Let’s go this way,” he said, guiding me to a dead-ended hallway of the Arclight Hollywood cinema. Nobody was around. Between entrances to other theaters, Daniel pulled me in and started making out with me. He had been waiting to touch me, too. Our hands were all over each other until someone exited one of the theaters, saw us, and started laughing to themselves. Daniel pulled me into one of the theaters, I’m not sure what movie was playing, but we made out by the exit doors until we heard more people coming. We looked for another movie to sneak into and found a pretty empty screening of Echo in the Canyon. We went straight to the top row, the other maybe 5, 10 people tops in the theatre were sitting in the middle. Nobody could see us making out with each other. Nobody could see Daniel get down on the theatre floor, hiding between rows, as he took off my panties, his head between my thighs and made me cum in his mouth. “Expecting to Fly” by Buffalo Springfield played on the screen as I tried to quietly cum with his tongue on me.
I wanted to fuck him so badly, but we couldn’t go back to his place. His roommate was in town, and they were friends with his girlfriend. Oh, yeah. Girlfriend. I kept forgetting. Back in his seat, I leaned over his lap and took his cock out. It was his turn to try to cum silently, the sound of iconic 60’s Laurel Canyon music tuning out his groans and the noises my mouth made as I took him into it. I swallowed his cum, and I loved it. That’s the first and only time I’ve ever given a blow job in a movie theatre. First time I had ever been eaten out in a movie theatre. Fuck, it was so hot. I’d think about it for days. Weeks. How my cum must’ve been on the movie theatre seat. I wanted to fuck him so fucking bad. I can’t say it enough, really.
I rented a cabin in Laurel Canyon, to write in. The inspiration I would later use for Sean at the Chateau Marmont. Only, I really did plan on writing in Laurel Canyon. The cabin was perfect. An A-frame wonder high in the hills with three decks to write on. You could really hear the echo in the canyon. It was the dream place for me to work on the screenplay I was writing that took place in the early 70s. Wearing my Gunne Sax and wide-brimmed hat, drinking matcha on the deck, sweating in the sun as I typed. But that would be the following day. I had other plans for my first night. I wanted Daniel to come over. We’d smoke some pot, eat some pizza, “watch a movie.” I made a playlist to write to, but it was so fucking good, I knew I wanted to hear it while Daniel fucked me in the loft of the tiny hippy cabin. I wanted to cum again to “Expecting to Fly.” Much like I later did for Sean, I made sure everything was immaculate. I wore my Sandalwood perfume, my Spell tasseled sleeved dress. Shaved, waxed, stoned. And then he arrived.
We stepped into the cabin. He quickly looked around, and then pulled me into him, kissing me deeply, passionately. We continued to fool around in the big bed under the exposed cabin beams. I played the playlist. Daniel asked if we were going to do this. Was this finally going to happen after 8ish years of friendship? Yes. It was. My heart was racing so fast, the room was spinning. I was going to feel him inside of me. I had thought about this moment for years. And it was perfect. Because I could tell he was also nervous and excited. That he also felt the intensity of the situation. He could also feel the insane, adrenaline rush as he put his cock inside me. I’ve only ever had experiences like it with one other person, and those were recently. I didn’t have it with my ex-husband, didn’t have it with Vincent, didn’t have it with Sean, or the ex-boyfriend who made me watch Lawrence of Arabia. It was like a drug. It was a drug. We were riding the same fucking high, peaking at the same time when we felt each other for the first time. “Holy shit, we’re fucking,” he said in almost disbelief. That’s how surreal it felt. We had done it. It was happening. It had taken so long. And we fucked so long. Fuck, it was Lawrence of Arabia. But much, much better. Nothing can top the high of fucking a longtime friend you have chemistry with after years of fantasizing about it. I’ve done coke, heroin, MDMA, enough pills to take down The Rock, but I assure you, none of them feel as good as fucking your attractive male friend of 8 years. I swear to fucking god. It can only be beat by the feeling of being in love, and even that may be a stretch. The cabin in Laurel Canyon was a fucking dream. We were actually a 60’s erotic art film.
But it wouldn’t stop there. We had one more to go. I had never been to a drive-in theatre. Covid hadn’t hit yet, so there was no revival of drive-in movies, and the screenings were scarce. There were a few drive-ins left in the LA area, and they were always dead. And I wanted to fuck Daniel in one. The only thing that could possibly top our first fuck. So a few weeks later, we did that. But only after I sent him my cum-stained panties in the mail as a surprise.
I paid almost $1,000 to have my car windows tinted super dark. That’s how much of a piece of shit I am. But I reasoned with myself that skin cancer runs in my family, so it wasn’t just about being able to fuck in my car without anybody seeing. It’s for health. But mostly fucking. I wore black cowboy boots, a pink For Love & Lemons dress with a black heart print, and an oversized denim jacket. My eyeshadow was hot pink. I think it was my best outfit I’ve ever worn. Kind of an Alabama Worley thing going on. And as we stood in line for concessions, I swear to god, Daniel looked at me like he was in love with me for a minute. He looked at my face, smiling, his eyes locking with mine. What? He said he liked my eyeshadow. Yeah, right, you just fell in love with me for about 80 seconds. I saw you.
We didn’t even attempt to watch the movie. We immediately started making out and fucking so hard in my car that the windows fogged up, the car shook. The few people at the drive-in had to know people were fucking in my car. It was too obvious. But we kept going. I made him cum three times. Once while I was on top of him, straddling him in the backseat. Riding him as the sound from Ready or Not played through the drive-in radio station. The second time while he was on top of me, laying across the backseat, my legs over his shoulders, my head pounding against the armrest on the door as he called me “a fucking whore” per my request. Then the third time in my mouth as I gave him a blow job that tasted a little like popcorn.
And then he got sad. He looked upset. Silently feeling guilty for cheating on his girlfriend. Oh, right. The girlfriend. Seeing him sad and feeling guilty made it click for me. And I’m not sure what happened, but I suddenly felt out of my body. My first moment of derealization aka disassociation that feels like you’re a spectator of your own body instead of actually in your body. A feeling I got stuck in for months. I think I finally felt guilty for my part in this affair. Not having realized up until that point that his relationship was real. Feeling unloved and unwanted because Daniel didn’t love me. My own husband wouldn’t have even cared about me like Daniel cared about his girlfriend in that moment. I think I suddenly realized how alone I was, and I couldn’t escape it all by fixating on fucking Daniel. The anxiety, panic, depression, and OCD were seeping in fast. I tried to keep calm. I reasoned that I was just tired. It was late. We fucked so much. I was fine. And we left the drive-in.
A couple weeks later, I started having the panic attacks and suicidal thoughts that led me to seeking out a therapist. Sean. The one who preyed on me. I haven’t seen Daniel since the drive-in. I had told Sean about this story, told him it was part of what triggered the problems I was having. And Sean fucked me anyway.

We Almost Died [MF][public]

Why can’t I stop thinking about fucking you outside during the summer? I want to feel like I’m melting underneath you in the heat. Holy hell. And I’m listening to “Wicked Games” on repeat, imagining myself drenched in your sweat poolside. No, I wanna fall in love with you. With your cock inside me, my hands struggling to grasp onto your wet arms. My watermelon tanning oil makes your body slide against mine with ease. Makes you lick my collarbone like I’m a fucking Jolly Rancher while you fuck the shit out of me. It’s Joshua Tree. It’s 105 degrees. You’re minutes away from dying of heat exhaustion, but my pussy is worth it. Dying inside me would be a heavenly way to die. But I’ll keep you alive. I’ll give you life. Eat my pussy, baby. It’s just us in the middle of the desert. And once you fuck me the way that I want, we can cool off in the pool. But first, I want you to make me cum in your mouth.
My pussy tastes like salted honey as you lick the sweat off my pussy lips and stick your tongue deep inside me. The only thing I can hear is the sound of your tongue on my clit, and it makes me even wetter. You can’t get enough of my pussy because it’s literally keeping you alive. It’s cooling you off. My cum keeping you hydrated, keeping you from passing out. But it feels like LSD. The heat is a lot. You can hear the music my pussy plays as you stick a finger inside me. It sounds like the instrumental chorus of “Un homme et une femme,” and it makes your cock throb. It’s a masterpiece. You’re tripping so hard. You’re so hard. Keep licking me, fucking hell. I’m dying in the sun. I can’t close my mouth, finding it hard to breathe, I’m so close to cumming. My vision is blurry, but I can feel everything. Your finger slipping inside me as you lick. “I’m going to cum,” I try to say, but I can barely speak. The dry desert air has made me mute. But you know what I’m trying to say because you can feel it. You can feel my clit growing in your mouth, can feel me squirming against the plastic furniture. Can feel me gripping your long blonde hair even harder. Fuck, I’m going to cum. Let me cum on your cock. I want to cum on your cock.
As I start shaking in your mouth on the pool lounge chair, you slide your cock inside me. Are organs playing? I think I hear coyotes. I don’t even fucking know. This is the shit those hippies write about. This is that Gram Parsons shit. Fucking hell, no cock has ever been more perfect than yours right now. The chair breaks beneath us, and slamming onto the ground, the hot concrete burns my back, and I’m cumming again. Twice in a row. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Is this real? You’re cumming, too. So deep inside me. You can tell I’m slipping away, hanging on to every drop of cum you’re giving me. You pull out and finish cumming in my mouth. And I’m living for it. Fucking hell. This heat is really something.
While we swim in the pool, your cum slips out of me, floating into the water. This is the best day of my fucking life, and we almost died. This place is magic, and I already want you again. And again. And again.

Rail Me in a Field [MF]

I want you in a field of flowers. I want to feel the dry grass against my back as you rail me underneath the summer sun. In the distance is the faint sound of “Stay” by Maurice Williams and the Zodiacs from somebody’s picnic. Or maybe it’s just playing in my head when I feel your cock inside me because I’ve seen Dirty Dancing too many times. I liked Baby when I was growing up because she had curly hair like me, and Johnny liked her. You like me, and I feel like Baby right now.
We were just in the lake, and you told me not to wear my bikini. Stay in my thin silk clothes. I swam in my ivory slip in the cold water. I could feel you getting hard in the water when you could see my nipples through the wet fabric. You watched me get out of the lake and pull myself onto the rope swing nearby. My legs wrapping around the rope, you imagined my pussy rubbing against the wet ply. Your cock throbs when you watch me jump off the rope into the water. You pull me into you, treading. We’re nearly drowning as you stick your tongue down my throat, rub my nipple through my soaked, see-through top. You want to be soaked by me, not the lake water, and that’s how we ended up in the field. My weight of my body pressing on dandelions. So you could dry, naked in the grass while fucking me. And I could soak you again.
I lick the drops of lake water off your warm chest. But I wish it were your cum. Or mine. Soon. Your cock tastes like summer camp in my mouth. Your hand in my wet curls as I deep throat you. I love hearing you moan. I love knowing you’re desperately watching me take you into my mouth, whole. I spit on your cock. My saliva is slightly pink from the strawberry licorice I had earlier. I run my hand over my spit, looking you in the eye, as I make your cock pulse in my hand. You want to fuck me so badly as I run my hand up and down your shaft, sucking on your tip with my wet mouth. I feel like an angel. You look like you wanna cry. “I want to lick you at least once,” you whisper, pulling me towards you, so that I’m straddling your perfect face. You want every last drop of me, and you won’t stop eating my pussy until you do. You never get tired of licking my swollen clit. Never get tired of my cum dripping down your chin like fucking peach juice. You would eat my pussy as a last meal on death row, you love it so much. And you love when my thighs shake around you as I cum in your mouth, squirting and soaking you. And I want you to share. I move my pussy off your mouth, bringing my face down to you, licking me off your throat, your lips. Spit in my summer strawberry mouth. I want to share everything with you.
You flip me over into the grass, my back bleeding from a twig, and I don’t care. I would die for you. You’re so beautiful above me, the sun behind you. You look like a golden god. And your cock feels so fucking good. I pull blades of grass from the ground in fists as you put your cock inside my tight, dripping pussy. I fucking love nature. Love it as the moving clouds block the sun while you’re deep inside me. You’re always so deep inside me. Your cock always hits the perfect spot. My mouth goes dry because it won’t stay closed when your cock is inside me. I’m gasping for air as I feel a raindrop hit my mouth. Spit in my mouth, again, with the rain, please. The dirt is turning into mud underneath our sweat, my cum, the rain. I leave a dirty handprint on you as I cling to your shoulder, nails sinking into your tanned skin. Fuck, you’re hitting that spot. I want you to cum on my ass, on my bleeding back. The dandelions pressed onto my wet skin. The soil on my ass cheeks. Cum everywhere. You press my stomach into the ground with the weight of you, my legs together between your legs. You’re on my back, fucking railing me. Fucking hell. I want to scream, but the picnic nearby… How are they still here in the rain? They’re playing “Didn’t I” by the Delfonics now. You’re fucking blowing my mind. Need this playlist. Is it only raining on us? Am I imagining this? Cum on my ass. Cum everywhere. I want to feel your load all over me in the rain. And you do. It goes everywhere as it starts to pour. Fuck you’re perfect.
And we get to hear the rest of the song as we lay in the grass, muddy and ridden hard, kissing and drowning in the rain. If it’s really there. I feel like it is.

Still Want You To Punish Me, Daddy. [MF][bdsm][cnc]

I know I’m under your skin. Your jokes have gotten bad, and you seem sad. But maybe I’m as crazy as they say. I like being crazy for you. It’s funny because we met on Hinge, but we’re both unhinged. Haha. That’s funny. Laugh, daddy. Please. I like texting you from other people’s phones. I love lightly stalking you through social media burner accounts. I love talking to you when you’re not there like I’ve known you for years. But we’ve only fucked twice. Like I said the other day. I don’t even know you at all. And maybe I prefer it that way.
I texted you from a friend’s number on Friday. I was across the street from you at a bar, eating fries and having a mocktail. My friend understands. She called you my crazy match. But told me my writing was better than yours. That’s a good friend. She’s not wrong. As I walked by the venue, you were playing in, I could hear you from the street as I walked from my car to the bar. You couldn’t see me in my tight black ribbed dress, my Versace boots, my denim western jacket. Couldn’t see how hot I made myself look for you just in case. I couldn’t see you either. But I wanted you inside me. If you had seen me, you would’ve wanted that, too. You didn’t respond to the text I sent through my friend’s phone. The one saying I think you’re a chode, but I still wanted you to come outside and fuck me in my car. I had just gotten waxed. So I went home.
I went home and another man came over to cum inside me. One who thinks I’m just as crazy as you think I am. Only thing is, he actually is the crazy one. Or maybe we both are. It’s anybody’s guess at this point. But he has the eyes of a maniac, and he talked my head off afterwards about why he thinks I’m crazy. The irony. I told him I wouldn’t write about him, but I don’t give a shit because he’ll never fuck me again. Don’t want him to. He didn’t fuck me as good as you would’ve fucked me. He held my hands behind my back as he fucked me from behind so hard, my bed banged against my wall, making marks on the white paint. He came too quickly. You wouldn’t have. But I told him I liked that. And sometimes I do. Honestly. I like making men so excited with my wet. ass. pussy. that they can’t help themselves but to cum faster than they’d like to. But you would’ve ruined me first. You wouldn’t be able to resist it. He barely licked my pussy, but I imagined it was you. You haven’t tasted me yet. I gagged on his cock, but I imagined it was you. I haven’t tasted you yet. Your cock is bigger, and I would’ve choked on it harder. I know it. I want it. I would’ve gotten wetter. He put his hands on my neck, but I wanted yours. I already have a thing about being choked. I don’t like it unless it’s the right person. It scares me, and I only want certain people to scare me. He’ll do, but I want you to choke me harder, daddy.
I haven’t spoken to you in days. Not since the text from my friend’s phone. If you’re counting it. I berated you for being as asshole before that. For making fun of me for your fans. You deleted everything. But I want you to punish me for berating you. Still want you to punish me, daddy. I’m still playing, why aren’t you? Play with me, daddy. Please.
You should’ve come over after he left. Should’ve taken me into my shower and cleaned me off, so I would be ready to be ruined by you. Taking your fingers and putting them inside my pussy in the shower, cleaning me from the inside out. Telling me how bad, bad, bad I am for fucking another man when I should’ve been fucking you. You were busy, and I was bothering you. Like usual. I should’ve waited patiently like a good girl instead of a dirty little whore. You pull my long, wet hair back hard, drowning me under the shower head for a moment. You let me have some air before you stick your tongue down my throat as you finger my asshole. You know I’m an anal virgin, and you want to remind me you still own my ass as I wince in pain. The other man didn’t take that. It’ll be yours when I’m ready. When you’re ready. When you want me, daddy. Because I’m trying so hard to be your good girl.
You dry me off, sternly, making eye contact with me. You’re not happy. I really messed up this time. You’re too rough when you dry me off, and you’re going to leave a bruise or a burn. In front of the tub, you tell me to lean over the side. I kneel onto the bath mat, my tits against the side of the tub. I hear you get out the back scrubber from the bathroom cabinet. I let out a scream. I wasn’t ready. But I know I deserve it. You punish my ass with the back of the back scrubber. Shampoo bottles fall off the side of the tub, you’re hitting me so hard. The wood is giving me splinters, and you don’t care because the red marks on my ass make your cock so fucking hard. You’re fucking crazy. It’s sick that this shit gets you off. And I like it. I’m sick for you. And I want to swallow your fucking cum like it’s the medicine that I need, so I donkey kick you. Right in the shin, and you’re down on the ground, shouting at me. Your face is red and that makes my pussy so fucking wet. I like making daddy angry. You grab my hair and shove my face down onto your cock. Just the way God intended. Just the way I wanted. I choke and gag and repent on your cock, my wet hair curling in the grip of your hand.
I don’t even register that you’re moving me before my back hits the bathroom tile hard. That’s going to leave a mark. Another mark that turns you the fuck on. My head bangs against the bathroom cabinet as you fuck me hard. You feel so good, but my head fucking hurts, and it makes me mad. I kick at you, and you pull me up off the floor, grab my neck. Bend me over the bathroom counter. Your balls pound against my clit as you fucking rail me. I feel your cock in my heart. It makes it skip a beat. Fuck, you’re so deep. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I don’t even need to touch my clit. I don’t need anything else, but you, before I’m squirting all over your cock. All over you. You throw me back down onto the bathroom floor and cum all over my face, my wet hair, my naked body. You cleaned me off to make me dirty. Make me yours. “That’s a fucking good girl then,” you say throwing a towel at me and leaving my apartment. I’m not sorry I made you mad. But here please take the watch the other man left behind as a parting gift. You won.

I Fucked My Therapist Pt. 4 (4/5)[MF][taboo]

I sent him a text the night he broke up with me professionally. I sent him a picture of me in Hello Kitty underwear, and he said “I think I’m going to like being friends with you.” God, I wanna cry thinking about it. The release. I wanted to see him as soon as possible. But with the pandemic going on, I knew the possibilities of seeing my still married former psychiatrist were going to be limited. So I got a room at the Chateau Marmont. “To write in.” But he could come over and have dinner with me, if he’d like. And he did.
I got a one bedroom suite with a living room and dining room. I felt like the ghost of Marilyn Monroe. I was impeccably groomed. Waxed, shaved, hair washed, make-up done, starved to death. I wore what he had mentioned in his story, the outfit I wore when I told him about my crush on him. The crush that wasn’t really supposed to be a crush. Just transference, remember? That’s what the videos had said. Something he was supposed to fix. But the outfit. Cream and burgundy plaid skirt, black ribbed Reformation top, black thigh high socks, hair in a 60’s half-up ponytail ala Brigitte Bardot. Underneath I wore black panties and a black lace bra that I knew he would see. I wanted him to see.
He showed up at my hotel door with takeaway dinner. To-go cocktails I wouldn’t drink because I don’t drink. I’m fun that way. It was the first time I had seen him in civilian clothes. Jeans, t-shirt. He looked even taller out of scrubs. I wanted him to push me against the wall of the hotel and stick his fucking tongue down my throat. I didn’t want dinner. I couldn’t have eaten if I tried. I only wanted his cock in my mouth.
We sat at the dining room table, awkwardly, picking at our dinners. I don’t think either of us were really all that hungry. I was too nervous, too fucking horny. He told me nothing was going to happen between us that night. He wanted to be good. He was still married. I doubted that. Why would he come to my hotel room if he wanted to be “good”? Couldn’t eat. Did a magic trick for him. It’s weird, but sometimes endearing. He was a bit of a nerd, and he liked it, watching me struggle to shuffle the deck of cards with my sweaty, anxious hands. We ignored our dinner, sat on the couch and looked for something to “watch.” He showed me pics on his phone of his dog, his friends, what his life was like outside of the office. We got closer and closer. His hand on my thigh, my hand on his thigh. Holding hands. I wanted him to kiss me, but again he said he wanted to be good. No he didn’t. He just wanted to make me suffer. Wasn’t that what he had done up until now? We got even closer. I smelled his neck as he held me close to him. I straddled his lap, and he picked me up and sat me back in my spot. No, he was going to be good. But still, his hands were on me, still he breathed in the smell of my hair. He was teasing me, and I would’ve done anything for him. In that moment, I would have done anything. I was his.
I asked if we could lay down on the couch, we could. Closer. I told him I was going to take off my clothes. I wanted him. And I did. I undressed for him until I was in those black panties and black lace bra. I laid back down next to him, and he couldn’t stop himself then. He put his hand on my stomach, sliding it down and into my panties, feeling my wet pussy for the first time. I could hear him groan with delight. He had me where he wanted me. I was literally in the palm of his hand. I turned to him and said he may as well kiss me now because his hand was down my panties. And he kissed me. Laying down on the couch in a room at the Chateau Marmont. He kissed me. It was happening. I wasn’t crazy. He had wanted me. It was more than a fantasy. It was happening. This was happening.
I asked if he wanted to move to the bedroom. He did. I was dizzy and stumbled my way there, balancing myself with the walls. I hadn’t really eaten much that day, and I was lightheaded from this fantastical reality. Fuck, I wanted him. We kneeled on the bed facing each other, kissing, as he took off his clothes. I pawed at his belt, and looked up at him for permission, he said I could take it off. His pants came off, and he was naked in front of me. His cock was beautiful and thick. I knew it would be. He puffed up his chest, like he was trying to appear buff for me. He was already buff. I thought it was bro-y, but fuck it. I was going to fuck my therapist. Finally. After all these months of fucking agony. My panties came off. We touched and kissed each other until he pulled me to the side of the bed. He was going to taste me. He looked at my pussy, and at me, and said, “beautiful.” He thought my pussy was beautiful. I had imagined him saying those words over and over again in my obsessive thoughts. My pussy was beautiful to him. And he licked me. He tasted me. Put his finger inside of me while he did it. I moaned and squirmed on the bed. I wanted to cum in his mouth so fucking badly, but all the Prozac I was on, that he prescribed me, wasn’t having it. I couldn’t cum, and I laughed it off and said it was his fault. He had done this to me. Put me on Prozac. His name were on the bottles I had packed.
He got on the bed, and I swallowed his cock, gazing up at him with my big, winged eyeliner eyes. His cock in my mouth felt surreal. It was everything I had dreamt of. Hearing him moan, tasting his precum on my tongue. I looked up at him, and he asked me, “so do you want this thing in you now?” I’m not even kidding. Those were the words he chose. I think I secretly knew then that all of this would fall apart. But I said yes, and I laid on my back as he penetrated me for the first time. It took my breath away. A few days ago, this man had been my therapist, and now his cock was inside me while his name was still on my prescription bottles. I already suffered from derealization and dissociation, and I floated out of my body once his cock was inside of me. I don’t remember much else. I do remember thinking it wasn’t as good as I had imagined. It wasn’t at all like I had imagined. But I was devoted to him, and I couldn’t care fucking less. I had finally made it. This was the hill I would die on. He didn’t cum. He said it takes a lot for him to cum. But I think he was nervous. A little freaked out. He had cheated on his wife with his younger, obsessive barely former patient. I would hope he was a little freaked out. But maybe I’m giving him too much credit. We cuddled. We talked, and then he was gone. I didn’t sleep much that night.
The next day, I didn’t do anything but write about it in my journal and lay by the Chateau Marmont pool listening to Leonard Cohen, hoping he’d text me. My life as I had known it was over. That day was the first day of the next phase in my life. A phase where Sean and I met again in the botanical gardens, we held hands, we kissed, and we wondered what we would do next. We talked about our future together. We met again at a beach hotel, at the alleged suggestion of his wife. For him to take a break, but he said that she probably knew I would be there. And we laid on the beach on a bed sheet, he rubbed sunscreen onto my legs. We ate Mexican food, and we made love and laid in bed talking for hours. Yeah, we made love. It was better than the first time. More intense. And I came in his mouth. And he came inside me. Then my husband left me, for reasons that had nothing to do with Sean, but our relationship together was the catalyst. It would’ve happened without him, but Sean pushed it right over the edge. Sean asked for a divorce, and his wife left for her hometown. And it was just us for awhile. After all those months of obsessing. After all those things he had said. After telling me there was a 99% chance it would never happen. After telling me maybe in another life. I was finally his. He told me he knew he was in trouble when he met me. Knew it then, but he tried to fight it. He liked my persistence and the playlist. It was the playlist that made him realize that this was different.
He suspiciously closed down his private practice. He said I didn’t have anything to do with it; he had been planning on it for months. Uh huh. He didn’t make as much money with a private practice as he would elsewhere. His friend, a lawyer, told him he didn’t have anything to worry about with me. He would be safe. When did he ask him? Right before he gave me his story and decided we should be friends. He knew what he was doing. My friend, the one who recommended Sean to me stopped, talking to me. I would learn months later that before Sean stopped treating most of his patients, she had confronted him about our relationship together, and Sean had accused her of harboring romantic feelings for him, too, and reacted as if she were merely jealous. I didn’t understand why she or anybody else would have a problem with Sean and I being together. To me, I had the power in the relationship because I had the ability to end his entire career. But no, that power belonged to him, too.

I Fucked My Therapist Pt. 2 (2/5) [MF][taboo]

This one will be sloppy because it’s hard to talk about it. It’ll be sloppy because I was sloppy. I’ll need breaks. I’ll have to save some things for the book. But let’s try to tell it in pieces. I’m sorry I can’t tell it all at once. I’ve tried to suppress everything. Not to be all “oh my god, I’m so depressed, I’m thinking about killing myself, please tell me how much I’m loved.” Please don’t do that. I hate when people do that because I’m a fucking bitch, and I’d rather you tell me you want to fuck me than you feel any sort of pity for me. But I bought a rope. It’s in my office closet. It’s pink and glittery, and I thought, at least everyone will say, “oh that’s so Kris.” I got this apartment in Beverly Hills thinking that I would be dead by the end of the year, and I could afford it until then but not after. Can’t afford to live after. That’s grim. But I’ve gotten better. I’ll probably live and have to move to Koreatown or the valley. Or fucking Hollywood. Ugh. But now you understand. It’s a nightmare, and I have to keep telling myself that I was sick. I was sick. Not my fault for being sloppy. Not my fault at all. It’s his fault.
And like I said, I told him, my psychiatrist, Sean, that I had a crush on him. I let him read one of my sexual fantasies. The one I told you about. And I’ll admit that when I let him read the first fantasy, I was hoping I’d catch a glimmer of some sort of reaction. I wasn’t that innocent. I hoped to see his cock getting hard beneath his scrubs. Maybe make his neck red again like it did when I told him about the crush. But he was good. Or so it seemed. He did tell me that nothing could happen. He was happily married. I was married. Oh yeah, I was married. That’s something worth mentioning. But not something I’m willing to talk about. That bit isn’t really my story to tell, but all you need to know is that it was over as soon as it began. We had an open relationship at this point. But Sean did not. I asked him if I was the first patient to have a crush on him, and he said no, but nobody as explicitly. And I felt proud. He had never dealt with anybody like me before. And I knew he didn’t stand a chance.
But after I shared my first fantasy with him, he reiterated that nothing could happen. And then. Then, he gave me a little treat — he said, “maybe in a different life.” Maybe in a different life. It seemed small, but it was enough. I agonized over these words for days on end. I scheduled an emergency phone appointment, pleaded with him to help me make my feelings stop. I asked him to tell me something different than “it could never happen.” I needed to hear him say very clearly, in very concise language that he wasn’t attracted to me, didn’t want to fuck me. But he refused. He said he couldn’t give me any answers because they would feed into my obsession. Ugh it killed me. I wanted something to shut the pain down, but the only thing Sean was willing to offer up was a plan where I’d write for 15 minutes a day and then the rest of the day, I was allowed to obsess over whatever I wanted. I just had to write for 15 minutes a day. I have no idea what writing I was working on at the time, none of it mattered. Didn’t know why this was the plan, can’t remember that either. I was lost in those fucking eyebrows. Those arms. That neck. Even when I was writing, he was there in the back of my mind. His arms. That red throat. I wanted to sit in his lap and feel his cock get hard against the little white panties covering my ass.
I’d stay up all night, changing my underwear multiple times because the wetness made me uncomfortable. He was my only dream. During the day, things were getting worse. Covid-19 had shut down everything, and we were forced to stay inside. The only thing I could do outside of the home, was go to therapy. He was my salvation. Couldn’t see my friends, couldn’t go on dates with my husband, could only see him. Sean. And I didn’t have to wear a mask when I did it, either.
My sessions went from every two weeks to every week because I couldn’t bear to be apart from him. I had to be in his presence. I needed to see his face, to analyze every moment, to search and search his body language to see if there was any sign that he wanted me back. But he was good at staying neutral. At first. Psychiatrists learn how to do that. The neutrality made my obsessions worse. I realized I didn’t know much about him, and I thought maybe if I knew more about him, maybe it would shut down the crush. I asked him what his favorite band was, what he wore outside of the office, what he liked doing, and again he remained neutral. He wouldn’t give me answers. Wouldn’t feed into my obsession. It’s funny how every time he said he wouldn’t feed into my obsession, he would actually feed into my obsession. I remember he had mentioned surfing in sessions before I told him about my crush, and that was all I knew. He surfed. And he wore these horrendous 90’s sneakers and an OP windbreaker over his scrubs. And I loved him. He was keeping me alive. How could I commit suicide before I had heard him say my name with his cock in my mouth? I wanted to hear him say, “cum for me Kris.” I wanted to cum all over his cock. I knew he’d have a beautiful cock.
As I lay daydreaming on my couch one afternoon, thinking about his mouth on me, I got a text from his assistant. His assistant told me Sean had wanted her to send me this video. She sent over a 15 minute video of the band The Sea and Cake doing a live performance. She told me Sean said to tell me it wasn’t his favorite band, but they were up there, and it was the right amount of time I should be writing. She hoped I would know what this meant because she had no clue. I knew what it meant. He was feeding me. He was giving me an answer. He was going back on what he had initially said. And he was taking over the 15 minutes I was supposed to not concentrate on him. How. How. How was I meant to listen to 15 minutes of music he liked while writing and not think of him? Looking for meaning in every single lyric. I couldn’t stop the fantasies, and I wrote them down. I wouldn’t try to fight them anymore. He wanted me, I knew it now.
He walked back on his original plan to not answer any of my questions. I’m not sure why. One day, it became, “Okay, I’ll answer any question you want.” And I asked him if he found me attractive. He said he thought I was very pretty. I asked if he ever had sexual fantasies about me. He said he’s thought about what it might be like to have sex with me. Oh god, I recoiled just writing that. It hurts that it turns me on. My therapist sitting across from me, looking me in the eye, saying, “I’ve thought about what it might be like to have sex with you.” He’d thought about my pussy, what it would be like to be inside me. He made it seem like this wasn’t weird. People have these thoughts. He was right. But I know for certain he wasn’t supposed to tell me that. But he had. And it got worse. I got worse.
———-
Het let me use his waiting room as a quiet space to write. Honest to God. With my husband working at home because of Covid, it was even harder to concentrate. But mostly, I wanted an excuse to be near Sean. I knew he would let me. I knew he wanted to be near me, too. I sat on the couch in his waiting room for an hour or two, writing and writing about nothing. Rambling. Waiting for him to come out and say hi. He would, but briefly. Hi. How’s writing going? Okay, gotta get back to paperwork. Except there was one time when he had a gift for me. A surfing book. I had mentioned I was thinking about getting back into surfing, hoping to fish out more personal details about him, knowing he surfed. He handed me an 80’s guide to LA surfspots. He had seen it on his shelf and thought I may like to have it. He made notes in the margins for me. Fuck that just broke my brain. I need a minute.
Things got bad. I asked him again to please be clear with me about what was happening. It seemed like he was saying one thing, but meaning another. Talking in code. Again, I only needed to hear him say it would never happen, he wasn’t interested. Set me free. But instead, he told me there was a 99.9% chance nothing would ever happen. So you’re saying there’s a chance. That was a low point for me. Quoting Dumb & Dumber. There was something there. I’d left my journal behind on purpose, came back to retrieve it, and as he handed it to me, I knew that was it. I was his. He was supposed to be helping me, but I had become his. I told him to please transfer me to another psychiatrist because I felt like I was drowning, but he believed it would be beneficial to me if I stayed.
I asked if I could email him. Maybe knowing I could speak to him outside of the office would help ease the direness I felt to make every moment count. He allowed it because of course he did. He knew what was happening. And he was allowing it to happen. Why wouldn’t he transfer me like I asked? I wish I had had the willpower to do it myself. But I was his. His, his, his. I wanted to live inside of him.

TRUE STORY – My Psychiatrist Groomed Me (pt. 1) [MF][taboo][erotic thriller]

**I wasn’t sure where to post this story, if you know of any other writing subreddits it may be better suited for please let me know.**
He dragged me to my grave. My psychiatrist. Former. Sean. I’ve been working on the story, but it’s a long one. It’s gutting, but sexy at times. I get asked about it often, but I’m still trying to get through a day without thinking about it first. So many journals I kept to go through, so many things I don’t necessarily want to remember because I get upset when they still make me wet. But god, it really was sexy at times. As you’d imagine a story about a woman fucking her psychiatrist may be. Sexy and problematic and traumatizing. Anytime I become sexually obsessed with someone now, I think, “Sean was supposed to help me, he was supposed to fix this, but he just made it worse.” He did. He really, really did. And that’s what I told the investigators when they asked if I had anything else to add after I identified his cock. I. Had. To. Identify. His cock. But god, I loved fucking him. I wanted it so badly. He should never have crossed the line, though. My entire life has changed because of him. What a fucking asshole. But fuck me.
The autumn before last, I started seeing him at a friend’s referral. I had started having panic attacks in the middle of the night. I’d wake up feeling like I was already dead, hovering outside of my body. I started hearing a voice in my head telling me that I had to die. I had to commit suicide in order to make everything stop. I was in pain. I was terrified. I felt drained and dizzy. And I’d cry for hours scared of my own impending death because I assumed the voice was right. It was an obsession, it turns out. It was an obsessive thought triggered by disassociation triggered by a panic attack triggered by stress and probably too much weed before bed triggered by a sexual obsession with a male friend triggered by OCD that had gone untreated for a lifetime. Up until that point, I had only been diagnosed with OCD, but never did anything about it. I mean nothing other than totally give into it: checking locks constantly, flirtations with eating disorders, the norm. I didn’t care for therapists because I have a thing about being asked too many questions sometimes. I’m also, shockingly, incredibly secretive and private about aspects of my personal life. I do; however, like to be suggestive and drop hints for fun. But the questions. The fucking invasive questions like I’m constantly sitting for a job interview. And they always focus on the wrong things. Like Sean did. But he really chose the wrong thing, didn’t he?
I swear one day, I’ll tell the whole story. Soon. Soonish. He’s still under investigation by the medical board anyway. If they’re reading — hi, good luck. I think he’s in Oregon now somewhere. He’ll never get in trouble because he had a back-up plan. I didn’t, by the way.
I knew I was in trouble when I saw him, though. He was tall, awkward. Eyebrows like Eugene Levy. But in a sexy way. I’m ashamed to say, I once balanced a full french fry atop one of those eyebrows. Wow, having sexual obsessions really is like being fucking possessed. But at first, I thought he was gay. I’m not sure why. He had good arms. 9/10 when a man has good arms, they’re gay. Or maybe that’s just in West Hollywood. But it’s what I’m used to. But I thought he was gay, and I was relieved. I had had sexual obsessions with people in positions of power before (i.e. my relationship with Vincent Gallo), and I figured if he was gay, then I was safe. I usually didn’t obsess about anybody I didn’t think I could actually seduce.
But my friend informed me he wasn’t gay, and I remember thinking, “fuck.” Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. That day I started obsessing. I wanted to stop it before it god bad. I wanted to stop it before I started thinking about all the ways I wanted to fuck him, all the fucking time, until I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Like I am now with the Good Boy. I spent hours researching online “what do you do when you have a crush on your therapist????” And everything I read, every YouTube video I watched, insisted that I tell him because it was called “transference,” and it was a common thing. People get crushes on their therapists all the time. You’re in a safe space, somebody is listening to you, you put all your feelings about other people onto this person. It’ll help to tell your therapist because it helps them treat you. I thought it was a good sign. I didn’t realize this was a little different. But I thought it would help explain to Sean how I got these obsessions. He could see first hand how bad my OCD could get.
And I told him. I wrote him a letter, and I told him. I said this happens sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes. All of a sudden. But when it happens, it kills me. And I know this is what started my panic attacks to begin with. I had a crush on my friend, and I wanted him so badly. All I could do was think about him. Sean’s neck turned red, he seemed flustered. He tried to cover it with his hand. I knew there’d be some embarrassment, but I said I trusted that he wouldn’t take advantage of the situation. Didn’t want him to transfer me to another therapist because I wasn’t sure if somebody else would take advantage or not. But he was an OCD specialist, and I trusted that he’d know how to handle this. He had already helped my panic attacks stop. I thought he could teach me how to make the sexual obsessions stop, so this would never happen again. I asked if he wanted to read the sexual fantasies I had written about him, so he could see what he was dealing with. And eventually, pretty quickly, he said yes. And I recently learned that he shouldn’t have. He really shouldn’t have. I handed him my journal:
Sometimes my fantasies are just acting out the lyrics to “Lemonade” by Nicole Dollanganger with you.
Other times…most of the time…I fantasize about seducing you slowly, building up sexual tension over months until you finally pull me back into the office as I’m about to leave. You close the blinds.
I wonder what you’d feel like inside of me. What your tongue would feel like down my throat. What it would be like to go down on you while you sit in your office chair; the type of noises you’d make as I take you in my mouth. I fantasize about how your cock would feel inside of me as I fuck you on the couch, the sexual tension built up so much that penetration feels unreal it’s so intense. You sit back on the couch as I straddle your lap and ride you.
I fantasize about you pushing me up against the wall of your office and pulling back the crotch of my panties to the side, so you can taste me. You stick a finger inside me as you lick, and I cum in your mouth. You take off my panties and wrap your hands tightly around my wrists as you hold my hands above my head against the wall; and even though you feel like you’re in control, you’re not allowed to cum until I give you permission. And when I finally do, you cum so hard and fill me up until your cum is dripping down my leg.
He told me I was a good writer. And then he tortured me for months before he left his wife for me, then broke my heart, gave me a signed VC Andrews novel, ghosted me, and then left the fucking state.

I want to f*ck your beautiful face. [MF][public place][F 1st person]

Everything makes me horny, but summertime is the worst. And now you’re here, too. I’m overheating, worked up over you. I want to listen to “Diet Mountain Dew” by Lana Del Rey while I lick your cum off my lips, run my finger through your cum on my cheek and put it in my mouth to suck like a fucking melting freezer pop. I don’t write romance. It’s not my strong suit. But I want to sit on your fucking beautiful face. I want to make love to your beautiful fucking face.

Good Girl [MF}[female sub][1st person] – new here!!

I still want him. I’ve only fucked him twice, but I would devour him whole if I could. He hasn’t responded to my texts; he knows I previously deleted his number. The silence and the assumption that he now thinks I’m crazy keeps me wired like I’m on a cocaine binger. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. I am a song from the Drive soundtrack. This is made worse by the fact that he’s written a book of erotica, and I’ve read a few bits. It may be even better than mine; although, I think most of it is supposed to be humorous, but what I read made me wet anyway. He writes similarly to me, but slightly more manic which I didn’t think was possible. He’s also emotionally detached; I can tell by the way he writes. Which makes my pussy wetter because I know I can’t have him. I hate that I’m like this. And I don’t want him to know because he’d play the game too well. I think I’m safe because he won’t read this anyway. But I don’t want to be safe.
I woke up, worked out, showered, put on pubic hair oil. I’m in-between waxes, and the hair is sprouting back much to my dismay. But it’s soft and sparse, and I kinda think it looks cute. I did my makeup, but I still look half asleep, and I almost look my age which upsets me. I need him to fix my insecurity. I need his cock to fix me. I put on my plaid schoolgirl skirt and white Are You Am I crop top that makes my tits look perky and my nipples look cute. I slide off my underwear and squirm around in front of my mirror, taking pictures of my bare ass peeking from underneath the tartan. I text them to him. I don’t think he’ll text me back. I’d be surprised if I ever saw him again and that sends me deeper into my sexual obsessions about this man. I have a UTI I think I got from fucking him and not pissing afterwards a few days ago, and I’m in pain. But the pain weirdly makes me hornier. Makes me want his cock as a distraction. You can still have a protected fuck with a UTI, I checked. It just may make things worse, but when has that ever deterred me from doing anything? I’d let him do anything to me. Does he realize how lucky he is? How few people have that power? I’m sure he does and doesn’t want it and because of that I’d choke on his cock until I died if I could.
I want him to text me that he’s here. He’s outside my apartment. I tell him to come up, and I nervously wait for him at the door, wearing my schoolgirl skirt without panties, my knee-high combat boots, ready to repent. He takes me in and his pupils go wide like he’s found his prey. He reaches a hand out and pulls me into him roughly by the nape of my neck. I bite his bottom lip in response. I pull back, smirking cheekily. I know I’ll be punished. I start to walk quickly down the hallway, but he’s on my heels, he’s going to get me. He grabs me by the wrist, pulls me back and slings me against the wall of my hallway, my head almost hitting the framed Rosemary’s Baby poster. He spins me around, so my ass is against his crotch. Grabbing my hair, he pushes my head against the wall, my cheek pushing so hard against it, that my teeth ache. “Will you be a good girl, now?,” he growls at me. No, I try to hiss, but it’s hard to say anything with my face pressed so hard against the wall.
He lifts my skirt to find my bare ass. “You need to be punished. You text me too much. You’re clingy and annoying. Obsessive. You need to be trained.” He spanks my ass so hard, I think my soul has just left my body. “Will you be a good girl, now?,” he repeats. I try to shake my head no under the weight of his hand, and he spanks me again. Harder. I’ve just seen Heaven. I can feel his mouth on the nape of my neck, in-between my shoulder blades, following my spine as he lifts my crop top above my head. He finally lets my head go, and I can turn around, tits out, to see him finally. I can put my tongue down his throat finally. I pant into his mouth, I want him so badly. I moan like he’s already got his fingers inside my pussy, but he doesn’t. He grabs my jaw and forces my mouth open. My heart races as he spits into my mouth. It’s cold, and it tastes like breath mints, and I could cry I’m so happy to taste it.
“Pray,” he says as I swallow his spit. I know what he means. I kneel in front of him as he takes his beautiful, big cock out. I spit on his cock and lick from his balls up his shaft slowly before taking him into my mouth. Suddenly, without warning, he grabs the back of my head and face fucks me. Tears come to my eyes because I wasn’t ready. His cock his all the way down my throat, and I’m choking on it, and I love it. I love it. I love it. He’s asking me questions as I suck, but I can’t hear him, I can’t understand his accent as I gag. He slaps me lightly across the face because my eyelids are shut. “Look at me while you pray.” I pray so hard. I pray the best. Because I’m his good girl.
When he shoots his load down my throat, I am fed life. And I’m exhausted. He lifts my shaking, spent body up and carries me to the rug on my office floor. He doesn’t want me to be too comfortable. He towers above me, looking down at me like God. I need him in me like God. I reach out for his cock; my body still trembling, but he slaps my face, a bit harder this time. I try to slap him back, but he grabs my wrist and holds it down. “Why won’t you be a good girl?,” he asks as I pretend to struggle, but really there’s no where else I’d rather be than pinned underneath him in pain. “What do you want?,” he asks me.
I want you, I want you, I want you. I beg for his cock. I swear I’ll be his good girl if he just fucks me already. I want it inside me. I want to feel that initial penetration when he tries to get his fat cock into my tight pussy. The sudden wave of pain that hurts so good. Please, please, please. I want your cock so badly. I want to feel you inside me. I want you to cum so deep inside me. I want you to fill me. I’m obsessed with you. I’ll love you forever. I will worship your cum. I will pray to you everyday. You finally push your cock inside me, and I gasp. Angels crying. You fuck be the best, daddy. You fuck me so good. You are my God.
My thighs shake, wrapped around your back, as you fuck me deep and hard. Your hands wrap around my thin, pale neck, and I think I’m going to die. I’ve even here before, but somehow this is fine. This is better. Because your cock is inside me. I want this. I’d die for you, but I know I’m safe. “Touch yourself,” he whispers into my ear before taking it into his wet mouth.
I spit in my hand and reach for my clit, rubbing myself as he grinds against me. “Are you a good girl?,” he asks me again, his hand getting tighter around my neck. I nod. Yes. Yes. Yes. I’m your good girl. I try to scream it as I cum all over his cock, but I have no more breath. He grasps releases just in time for me to gasp for air as I squirt. Holy water.
His hands grab the meat of my outer thighs as he pushes himself further into me, cumming, and releasing me. He makes me such a good girl. I’m such a good girl for him.