Author: Lauren_R_Kimball

The Senior [m/F, teacher/student, high school, size fetish, rough, exhibitionism, oral] I’m the literary author who is (losing) her bet to win $100 by writing erotica. A few people asked for something like this, so here you go.

The Senior [m/F, teacher/student, high school, size fetish, rough, exhibitionism, oral] I’m the literary author who is (losing) her bet to win $100 by writing erotica. A few people asked for something like this, so here you go.

My first post, with my first story.

The Senior

The bathroom on the far side of the gym was dark. Little-used. Pipes drooled on cracked tile and the irregular porcelain mouth of an ancient sink boiled with brown water. I looked at my reflection in a jagged splinter of mirror, resolving a general impression of rain-flattened red hair and big green eyes.

I made a face at myself. Pulled a brush out of my purse.

“Get on your knees.”

I stopped. Turned. I was usually alone in the back of the school, especially during homeroom. It wasn’t unusual for teachers to drift here in search of a cigarette and a moment alone, but I normally had the beginning of the day to myself.

None of the other teachers could get away in the morning.

I loved teaching art.

“Give me your hand.” Read more »

So I’m a literary author, and my best friend bet me $100 that I couldn’t write a “kindle sex story” that anyone would buy. So I wrote a 15,000 word BDSM Billionaire Novella with 10K words of fucking in it (his requirements). The first 4k words and a purchase link are in my post. How did I do?

Glare: Coming to Submit

“Stand,” he said, “right there. By the window.”

He gestured, a finger pointing at a blank square of window. I hesitated, making a face.

He pealed his jacket off and hung it over his chair. A cup came up to his mouth as he sat.

He looked at me with the Well? expression of an irritated father.

I ran a comb of fingers through my hair and waited for the softness of an apology. Or a please. I was an intern, not a servant, and I didn’t appreciate his tone.

I wiped the inside of my cheek with my tongue and made a disgusted sound.

“You can walk there,” he said, carefully pointing at the window, “or you can walk out,” he said, indicating the tan rectangle of the office door.

He sat there in calm detachment. The sharp angles of his rough face flowed around sips of coffee, but didn’t soften.

“Fine,” I said. Turned.

“Fine Sir,” he shot back.

I whirled and gave him a look. He stared, blank and waiting.

“Whatever,” I whispered. I walked to the window and stood, glaring. He turned back to his computer. Read more »