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She looks up at me and smiles, her lips sticky and shiny from my juices. “Now, you’re ready for me.” She hovers up over me, pushing my legs back, then plunges her cock inside my wet basin. I gulp in air, then yelp. “You want me to cum in your pussy, baby?” She’s asking this as if she has a real dick that can unload a real nut inside of me. She feels so good inside of me, her finger in my asshole, her cock stroking my pussy—in slow, deliberate thrusts. I wriggle beneath her. She is everything I imagined. Everything I fantasized and dreamed about.
She fucks me, slowly; long, slow thrusts deep into me. Her mouth is on mine, again, her tongue inching its way back inside. I taste my pussy, sucking her lips, then her tongue, feverishly. She pulls out of me, runs the shaft of her cock up against my clit before sliding it back into my warm, juicy cunt. I moan again as she thrusts her way in. She reaches underneath me, cups my ass. My body tenses and I arch my back as she stretches and fills me up. She is gentle at first, moving slowly in and out of me, as if she’s being careful not to hurt me, then thrusts harder and faster. She fucks me deep and oh, so good. I squeal with pleasure as she impales me with her strap-on, rock against her, meeting her hungry thrusts, wetting her hard cock with my juices.
“This pussy’s mine now, baby,” she says. I’m not sure if it is a comment or a question, but I respond, moaning, “Yessssss. It’s all yours. Oh, yessssss . . . fuck me . . . ooooh, ooooh . . . fuck meeeee . . .”
“Welcome to The Stud Palace,” she whispers in between kisses, plunging in and out of me, hitting my spot with each thrust. I cum over and over and over.
I close my eyes and hold my breath as my body squirms. My toes curl. My whole body is on fire as another wave of pleasure washes over me. Blood races to my head. The room begins to spin as colors of the rainbow dance behind my lids. I replay Sheena’s words in my head. “And when you leave up out of here, nothing about you will ever be the same. Nothing about you will ever be the same . . .”
And she’s right. With each deep stroke being delivered to my pussy, I know without a doubt that I’ll be back every chance I get. I bite down on my bottom lip, then arch my back and let out a piercing moan. “Ohhhhh, yessssssssss . . . mmmmm . . . I’m cuming!”
***
Three weeks later, with my new laminated membership card tucked in my clutch, I slip out of my apartment—scantily dressed in an ultra-short black dress with a cutout back and plunging V-neckline and a pair of black four-inch Jason Wu lace-up sandals—and creep my way back to The Stud Palace—the place where seduction and lust opened up a whole new world of being for me. The place where being fucked slow and deep by a stud unleashed a burning desire within me, unlocke
d inhibitions I’d kept repressed for far too long.
This time . . . alone.
Perched up on a leather stool in the section of the club called the CockTail Lounge. A decadent oasis, hidden behind thick mahogany doors, which is located on the top floor down a long dimly lit corridor. Upon entrance through the double doors, you ascend a flight of winding stairs onto the roof with its retractable glass ceiling, heated floors, and breathtaking view of New York City.
Gas-lit Tiki torches and flickering candles of enormous sizes and varying heights add to the seductive ambiance and décor. There’s a gorgeous wraparound bar—where I’m sitting—in the middle of the stunning space with private leather booths along the glass walls and plush purple leather sofas and overstuffed leather chairs situated throughout the area. Huge go-go cages sit atop massive speakers, displaying the most succulent pieces of pelvis-thrusting eye-candy clad in wife beaters, colorful boxer briefs, and Timberland boots.
The CockTail Lounge is where discreet, horny women teetering on whoredom and tossing their inhibitions to the wind, releasing their inner freaks, like myself, can fulfill their carnal desires by selecting the stud of their choice off of ornate purple and red menus, along with any combination of drinks of their liking. There’s a picture beside each studs’ name, along with their stats: age, height, weight, nationality, and turn-ons. Delicious boi treats such as: Cocoa Bombshell, The Smack Down, Caribbean Breeze, Chocolate Pleasure, Cream de Cocoa, Dred Delight, The Red Dragon, Chocolate Thunder, The Incredible Hunk, King Kong, Stud Daddy, Whip Appeal, G-Spot, The Pussy Pleaser, and a list of others are all available for one’s decadent pleasures.
Tonight, I am feeling slutty and bold, sipping on my second Pussy Pleaser—a mixture of Absolut vodka, blue Curacao, and grenadine with splashes of pineapple and cranberry juices.
I slowly slide the tip of my tongue over my glossed lips. I twist in my seat, discreetly grinding my pussy into the center of the leather stool as one stud after another swaggers out and into the middle of the room, flexing and profiling. Then saunter off. I have my sights on the Pussy Pleaser.
In her photo, she’s the color of licorice. Dark. And, hopefully, just as sweet. Her stats state she’s five-eleven, 157 pounds, brown eyes. Dreads. Her turn-ons: tight wet pussy. And squirters.
“Glad to see you came back, ma,” a husky voice says in my ear; soft lips gently brush against my lobe, startling me. “You look good enough to eat.”
My pulse quickens.
My whole body shudders, heated realization dances up and down the center of my spine, finding its way along the inner part of my smooth thighs, twirling along the seam of my pussy. There is no name, just the silken voice and the delicious memory.
I swivel slightly on the stool, bringing into view the one who changed my whole life three weeks ago. Tonight she’s wearing a white T-shirt, baggy faded jeans and crisp white Nikes. She has a black Brooklyn Nets fitted pulled down over her dark brown eyes. Her bone-straight hair is pulled tightly into a ponytail.
Her heated gaze slides over my body like melted butter. My eyes lower to the bulge in her jeans. Instantly, her thick dick jutting out from its harness flashes through my mind, replaying the way she slowly fucked me in long even strokes, plunging deep on the in-stroke, then slowly pulling out until the head of her dick kissed the mouth of my pussy before plunging back in, hitting the bottom of my Honeywell.
The way she fucked me was . . . sweet torture.
She’s handsomely beautiful—if that makes sense. Hell, nothing makes sense to me anymore.
A month ago I would still be home somewhere fighting my truth, hiding behind pretense, still surreptitiously masturbating to mental snapshots of naked women—the swell of their breasts, the dark, succulent ridges of their nipples, the smooth curve of their hips, the scented heat of their pussies and asses—stained into my memory as I finger-fucked one orgasm after the other out of myself.
But now secret fantasies have become a reality. The Stud Palace—in all of its opulence and decadent pleasures—is addictive.
From the moment I stepped through these doors with my girl Sheena three weeks ago, I was hooked. Its debauchery has rented space in my head ever since. It has kept me craving more of its delicious, dirty deeds.
And I am here, again. Hungry for another round of seductive pleasure, craving the soft touch of a masculine woman, yearning to taste her steamed juices as they seep out of her womanhood and coat the base of her harness.
I press my thighs together, squeezing back want and desire. “Isn’t this a nice surprise,” I say, eyeing her over the rim of my glass. God, I’d love to feel her lips on my body again; the wet, warmth of her mouth capturing my cunt and clit. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were stalking me.” Amusement laces my tone as I arch my brows.
“Hey. I could ask you the same thing.”
“I’m too classy to stalk,” I say teasingly. “But you, on the other hand . . .”
