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Veronica Wilde’s “Serving Mr. Baldwin”
He sighed heavily, walked toward me and pulled the sweater right over my head. I gasped as he unhooked my bra and pulled it down, backing me against the desk.
“You are to do as I say,” he said, fondling my breasts. “I made it very clear how I wanted you to dress, and now you’ve already disobeyed me on the second day. If you always have this much trouble following orders, this isn’t going to work out.”
“I’m sorry. I won’t have any more trouble.”
He lightly tugged on each nipple, making me bite my lip. I tried not to show how badly I wanted him to keep going. He smelled fantastic, and being topless as a tall, older man in a suit loomed over me was activating every submissive fantasy I had.
“Look at me.”
I looked up into those heavy-lidded dark eyes.
“I need someone I can depend on,” he said, pinching my nipples. “Not a little office slut who wiggles around trying to entice me. Understood?” I nodded and he sighed. “Very well, then. Bend over.”
My face went hot. Oh god. Was this really going where I wanted it to? I turned around and bent over the desk, my breasts brushing the cool mahogany. He matter-of-factly pulled up my skirt and tugged my panties down my thighs. I was now naked for all intents and purposes in a corporate office while a stern businessman loomed behind me, and the thought of what might happen next was soaking my cunt.
“Noise” by Evan Mora
You ask me what I need, the rich tenor of your voice as smoky as the scotch that even now, I know, lingers on your tongue. That you know what I need matters not. It’s a part of the ritualthe naming of my desires. It has been from the beginning.
“I need ” I say, eyes fixed somewhere below your open collar, on the skin that I know will feel smooth and hot beneath my mouth. You grasp my chin in your hand, exerting enough pressure to force my gaze upward until I am caught by the impossible arctic blue of your eyes, eyes that appear at once cold and remote and yet burn like the hottest of flames. You arch an aristocratic brow at my silence and the words spill out, the words that never change, words of hunger and longing and desperate, desperate need.
In the silence that follows you weigh my words while your hand slides lower, spanning my neck. Little by little you tighten your hold, and while your gaze never leaves mine I know you miss nothingnot the flutter of my pulse against the pad of your thumb or the convulsive swallow I can’t control as the pressure and my need for air mount. I don’t close my eyes, even when stars threaten and your mouth covers mine with brutal intensity, stealing my reflexive gasp. I want you to see the surrender in my eyes. I want you to know that I am yours.
This is from “Postcards from Paris” by Giselle Renarde. It’s sort of between the two .
“I’ve never seen this much hair on a woman,” Yannik said, in that dark voice that made Emily shiver.
Hunter helped him tie her wrists to her legs, spread-eagled on the couch. Her thighs trembled. She thought she couldn’t hold the pose, at first. And then, as other things distracted her, the ache subsided.
“It’s dark,” Hunter said. “I’m surprised. I thought it would be closer to your hair color, but it’s almost black, isn’t it?”
“Almost,” Emily said, wincing. They always did thisignored her pain, pretended she was perfectly at ease in whatever position they picked. Didn’t matter that her muscles were twitching, stretching, crying out in pain. That’s what they wanted.
“Look how wet she is,” Yannik said, patting her pussy.
“How can you tell?” Hunter asked. “I can’t see a thing beyond that fucking hair.”
All Emily could think was, Don’t act so disgusted by my body. You made me do this! But she bit her lip. She didn’t speak.
“There’s so much of it.” Yannik traced his fingers through her bush, making it stick up like a Mohawk so she looked ridiculous.
They played with her pussy like it was a toy. She wanted to feel embarrassed about all that goddamn hair, but she also loved the attention. Two men, four eyes, ten fingers focused on her hairy little cunt. But the boys’ humiliation plot was sagging just a touch, because she liked it.
“You’re right,” Hunter said, shoving one finger up her snatch. “Wow, she is wet.”
Of course I’m wet! You put on my black stay-up stockings, you split me open, tie my wrists to my legs and start teasing me? How could I not be wet?
Table of Contents
Noise Evan Mora
Out of Sight Rachel Kramer Bussel
Cubed Alison Tyler
Serving Mr. Baldwin Veronica Wilde
Press My Buttons Nina Fairweather
Breathe Sommer Marsden
What’s Not to Like? D. L. King
Hell-Bent for Leather Victoria Behn
Passing the Final Donna George Storey
Bridle Party Teresa Noelle Roberts
The Red Envelope Erzabet Bishop
Green’s Lisette Ashton
Breaking Fiona Cecilia Duvalle
Muse Lisabet Sarai
Postcards from Paris Giselle Renarde
Flight Cela Winter
Savoring Little One Graydancer
Day Job Deborah Castellano
Stand Here Nym Nix
Dirty Pictures Thomas S. Roche
My Master’s Mark Lydia Hill