Junie 1844-332-2639 ext 397
I was going about my day like usual. After my run, I slipped off my shoes to air out my sweaty feet. Stretching out on the lawn the way I always do. That’s when I noticed a small blister forming, nothing major, just enough to make me pause and absentmindedly rub my foot, trying to ease the sting.
Nothing particularly exciting.
Then my phone lit up.
Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404
The red ink on the quarterly audit report glared at me like an accusation. I really fucked up the company’s accounting, which made it look like we were laundering money. Wonderful. I heard footsteps as Mr. Sterling, the firm’s CEO, walked into my cubicle. His shadow seemed to engulf my entire desk. “Amber,” he said, as his voice dropped an octave. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
I swallowed hard. My palms were sweating. “I…I thought it was a rounding error?” The look on his face assured me he was not in the mood for forgiveness. “It’s a disaster,” he sighed, as he dropped a heavy folder onto my desk. “I suppose I have no choice but to let you go. HR is finalizing the paperwork as we speak.” Let me go? My rent was due in three days! Panic surged through me. I couldn’t afford to lose this job.
Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404
I stood at the grease-stained counter, twisting my purse strap until my knuckles turned white. Across from me stood Elias Miller. He looked as though he was carved out of rusted scrap metal and bad intentions, as he tapped a thick, calloused finger against the invoice for my car service.
“That’ll be eight hundred and forty, Amber,” he said. He didn’t look up. He didn’t have to. The silence in the shop was heavy, filled only by the smell of burnt rubber and motor oil. I swallowed hard, as the sudden dryness in my throat made it difficult to breathe. “Elias, I…I don’t have it. Not today. I thought I had another week before payment was due.”
Danika * (844) 332-2639 x 466
There is something inherently sexy about spring. The sun revives us, the earth itself working to become fertile; plants and birds alike come to life. There are numerous texts throughout history that speak of fertility rituals across every culture. I would like to focus on a particular work that is fueling my current fantasies. The Histories by Herodotus speaks of Sacred Sex Temples in Mesopotamia. At the start of spring, it is said that women would go to these sacred temples and wait until a man offered her money in exchange for access to her body. He would then fuck her in the sacred temples as an offering to the goddess Inanna.
I can’t even begin to tell you how wet it makes my panties, how much I want to touch myself at the thought of offering myself to a stranger in a Sacred Sex Temple.
Milan 844-33CANDY Ext. 398
Barely legal sex is way too much fun! Especially, when you can find a very good girl who likes to do very bad things. The type of girl who always follows directions, so when you tell her to get down on her knees in front of you, she’s down before she can even give it a second thought. The type of girl that you only have to teach once, before she’s swallowing you whole with her eyes screwed shut and spit dripping down her chin.
Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407
“Hey, Mom,” my son announced as he walked into my bedroom. “I wanna know why you’re fucking the neighbor instead of Dad.” He looked at me, smirking, as if he was in full control of the situation. I sat on the bed and cleared my throat. “Honey, your father hasn’t touched me in years. Stay out of it, you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into…” He shook his head and laughed, almost manically. “No, Mom. Tell me WHY…or else, I’ll tell Dad what you did.” I gasped. “Oh no, you won’t!”
He mocked me, suggesting that the only way to keep him silent was to give him a reason not to tattle to his father. So, I did what any respectable mother would do. I seduced him. “How do you know I fucked the neighbor?” I asked, as I unbuttoned the first few inches of my blouse. He looked me straight in the eye and said “I watched.”
Roxxxy 1(844) 332-2639 Ext 414
Wedding season is upon us. So the bachelor parties have been picking up. So far, I’ve been hired to do a few over the next couple of months. Most of them hire two or three dancers. But last weekend I had a solo gig. It turned out to be the craziest bachelor party that I’ve ever done. And it made me wonder if I should ever do one alone again. When I arrived, the butler showed me to the elevator. He told me that the party awaits me in the basement. The elevator took me to the cold, dark underground floor. I stepped out into a dark hallway and heard a faint mumble. I followed the sound to a huge, heavy, wooden door at the end of the hall. When I pulled the door open, it was so loud inside. Music and belligerent men yelling and being rowdy pierced the air. I quickly realized that it was a sound proof basement. The guys were young, early twenties, pumped with adrenaline and testosterone. You know, spoiled rotten, entitled types. They’ve grown up with way too much money and think they can do whatever they want.
(844-332-2639) ext 398
March is the hottest month for hoop bunnies like me. The taller the player, the bigger the cock. That’s why I’m celebrating March Madness on my knees. I plan to dribble on as many balls as I possibly can. It’s not hard to find horny players. After a game,players go out to get fucked up and celebrate another win. Their veins are pumping full of adrenaline and testosterone. And their riding the fuck out of the winners’ highs. They deserve a quality ball draining to help them blow off steam. It’ll help them focus on the next game. I’m more than happy to show my team support.
Cory 1-844-332-2639 ext 407
I was walking home from the downtown farmer’s market, when the first drops of spring rain began to tap rhythmically on the cobblestones. I could feel the coolness seep into my shoes, making each step feel a little more risky in my high heels. As I pulled my oversized cardigan tighter, I caught a glimpse of someone else hurrying to seek shelter under the busted awning of a little café. His grin was half‑hidden by the brim of a drenched baseball cap. As I approached to take shelter myself, I thought, “Well, this could get interesting.”
He was taller than I expected, with a mop of dark curls that stuck to his forehead and mischievous eyes that seemed to laugh even before he said a word. I followed him inside and our shoulders brushed as we squeezed through the doorway. We ordered two steaming mugs of chai. “You know,” he murmured, “rain has a way of making people do reckless things.” I chuckled and replied, “Then let’s be reckless together.”
Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404
When my boss announced that the downtown bar was hosting a St. Patrick’s Day fundraiser, I knew I had to give the crowd a little “Shamrock Shake” they’d never forget. The bar was drenched in emerald streamers, neon shamrocks flickering on the walls, and a DJ who seemed to think traditional Irish drinking songs were instructional dance tracks.
I slipped into the backstage area, where a gaudy green curtain separated me from the stage. I’d packed a modest wardrobe. A glittery emerald leotard, a pair of fishnet stockings that had seen more karaoke nights than a nightclub, and a tiny top hat that said “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” on the front. I also had a bottle of mint‑scented body spray that smelled like a julep and a fresh lawn.