Wednesday, April 21, 2021

Making their fantasies real …. #Femdom #Pegging #Pansy @PebblesLacasse

Carter's Mistress cover


Leah’s been happily married for 13 years and they have a great sex life, but her curiosity for something more has her seeking a submissive man.

Carter loves his wife of 22 years, but she refuses to entertain his submissive nature. He secretly joins an online chatroom designed for novice doms and subs.

After chatting for several months, Leah and Carter meet at a hotel to live out their BDSM fantasies.

Will the afternoon live up to their expectations or end in disappointment?

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My fist freezes in the air, an inch from the door to room four-twenty. Breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. Shoulders back. Head high. I’m in control.

Strangely enough, my fear is draining away. It’s as if I’ve flipped a switch and suddenly become someone else, a more powerful woman with a calmness that doesn’t match my tough attitude.

I knock.

The door quickly pops open and reveals a face I’ve never seen but a body that I have. The photos didn’t lie. From what I can see, he’s fit and handsome.

Carter’s sexy mouth slowly forms into a smile. He seems relieved that the woman standing before him is the woman from the photos, but with an unfamiliar face he seems to approve of.

I return his smile and his shoulders ease. Was he worried I wouldn’t approve of his looks? He’s a good-looking man.

His perfectly styled black hair is thick and lush, great for pulling. It’s not all that bright here at the door, so I can’t be positive, but I think his eyes are brown. His smile increases the slight wrinkles worn into the skin on the outer edges of his eyes. His complexion is slightly darker than mine, like a man who works outdoors under a blistering sun.

You must be Carter,” I say as I offer my hand. There’s a smoothness in my words that has me wondering who spoke. I expected my voice to fail me.

He whispers, “Yes. Leah?”

That’s me,” I reply with a shrug. “May I come in?”

He blinks quickly as if I’ve just woken him from his deep thoughts. I stride past him on the three-inch high boots with several buckles on the sides that send off a tiny ting with each step. He closes the door and flips the safety latch to ensure nobody can walk in, like a maid, for instance.

He clears his throat as he walks up behind me. “Would you like a drink? I’ve had two.” He runs his hand through his hair and it rests exactly the same as before he had. “I’m nervous.”

He pulls his fluffy hotel robe closed when he realizes the top fell open when he lifted his arm and my focus dropped to his bare chest.

Yes, please.”

This is a new hotel, and the room is not what most hotel rooms look like. The comforter, folded and resting on the sofa chair, has a grey, red, and purple swirled design that matches well with the grey walls. The artwork prints hanging are a perfect accent to go with the red and purples splashed about the room. It looks clean and crisp in here, not old and stained with other people’s skin cells and bodily fluids. It even smells cleaner than any hotel I’ve ever been in. I like it here.

He pinches his bottom lip between his teeth while his eyes seem seduced by my legs. He holds a glass with bended elbow, but it’s empty. He’s distracted by my thighs and knees that aren’t covered by my short dress.

You’re nervous?” My voice startles him from his thoughts, and the quickness of his eyes to meet mine answers my question.

I am,” he confesses, and walks past me to the minibar to fetch me a tiny bottle of whiskey. “Do you want ice?”

I shake my head. He looks away to prepare my drink, and I have to press my hand to my tummy to calm the nervous butterflies. He’s very handsome but worn, like a hardworking man who hasn’t had an easy life. I like his voice; it’s rough and scratchy.

He crosses the room and hands me a glass of amber liquid. I take a big sip and set it on the dresser.

Would you like to use the washroom before we get started or do you want to talk about, um…” his voice drifts off.

That depends,” I reply.

He scratches his naked calf with the toes on his bare foot. “On what?”

On whether you need time. I’m ready to start whenever you are.” 

My voice still seems foreign to me. Who is this woman possessing my body? I like her!

He nods with a heavy sigh and a relieved expression. “Good, because if I have to wait any longer, I’ll talk myself out of this, and I don’t want that.”

I tip my head and nod as I smooth my hand down the tummy part of my dress, not to fix the dress, but to calm the flutters. A smile reaches my eyes and I clear my throat. Now he knows I’m nervous, too.


Tuesday, April 20, 2021

Is passion enough? #MulticulturalRomance #Korea #Giveaway @dei_araujo

The Chaebol's Wife cover


With the life of her unborn child in danger, Camille Jacobs had no choice but to flee Seoul, South Korea, and the man who made her heart soar.

Four years later, after the launch of her start-up skincare line, Camille is a successful, single mother who has taken the skincare industry by storm. In need of a new sourcing company to meet her clientele's demand, Camille strikes a deal with the devil—her estranged husband, Seung-ju Park, who still leaves her weak in the knees. But is passion enough to make Camille rethink marriage and a life with Seung-ju, or will old problems succeed in destroying her?

Seung-ju was amazed by the passion that roared to life at the sight of his wife. Camille stokes a desire in him that demands to be satiated. As the CEO of IPCorp Industries, a deal to source her skincare line would open the door for him to finally slake his obsession of her and put her out of his mind for good. Yet Seung-ju realizes that just one taste of Camille isn’t enough; he would need an eternity to love her and drink his fill. But a secret threatens to destroy his feelings for her, hurtling them to the point of no return.


Camille rolled her eyes, ignoring his comment and the ribbon of desire that curled in her stomach.

The look was adorable, and Seung-ju wanted nothing more than to bend down and kiss her mouth into a smile. She looked stunning this evening. The alpha in him wanted to throw a floor-length coat over her and cover her up from everyone’s view. Upon closer inspection, he discovered that what he once thought was a simple updo, contained gold-cultured pearls woven into the tightly coiled coif. The updo displayed the graceful slope of her neck. His fingers itched to trail its contour.

Why were you stalking me earlier?” she asked, cutting a piece of the steak and bringing it to her mouth.

I was blown away by your beauty,” he said, his voice lowering.

You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?”

I don’t need alcohol to help me see what’s right in front of my face.”

And what’s that?”

You. My beautiful wife. In that dress.”

Seung-ju.” She slapped his arm and reached for her glass of wine, but not before he caught the sight of a deep blush tinging her cheeks. “Whatever,” she said after a moment. “You practically marked me with that intense glare.”

I can think of other, more satisfying ways of marking you.”

Shhh,” she said with a smile. “You’re lucky I don’t have one on me after last night.”

Be careful of what you say,” he warned. “I just might finish the deed tonight.”

About the Author

Dei Araujo is a multicultural romance author who enjoys reading and writing stories of love where color has no boundaries. When she’s not writing, she can be found binge-watching Korean and Chinese dramas and anime. She received a bachelor’s degree in Journalism/News Editorial from the University of Southern Mississippi and later a MFA in Popular Fiction Writing from Seton Hill University in Greensburg, PA. Dei is a retired Air Force officer and comes from a proud military family. An adjunct professor at Barry University, she’s living out her real-life love story in beautiful Miami, Florida with her soulmate and their boys.

You can find her on these social platforms:



Instagram: deiaraujo73

Pinterest: @mystibleu73

Twitter: @dei_araujo

The Chaebol's Wife – free on Kindle Unlimited


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Monday, April 19, 2021

Review Tuesday: Burning Bridges by Anne Krist -- #SecondChanceRomance #SecretBaby #ReviewTuesday

Burning Bridges cover

Burning Bridges by Anne Krist

Nomad Authors Publishing, 2020

At the tender age of seventeen, Sara meets the love of her life. Paul is a few years older, a Navy man about to be sent to Vietnam. Though he knows hanging out with the lovely teen is dangerous, the emotional connection between them is so powerful that he just can’t resist. On the eve of his departure they surrender to their mutual passion, then part, both promising to write faithfully.

After a few letters, though, Sara hears nothing from the man upon whom she bestowed her innocence. Has he forgotten her so soon? Then she discovers she’s pregnant from their one glorious night together and her life disintegrates. Instead of going away to college, she moves to another town to stay with her aunt, pretends to have been married to a soldier who died in Southeast Asia, and soon gives birth to a daughter. Her parents want her to give up the girl for adoption, but the usually obedient Sara rebels. Paula, as she names the baby, is her only remaining link to the man she still loves despite his silence and apparent indifference.

Paul is truly smitten by Sara, despite her youth. Determined to marry her when he returns from the war, he eagerly awaits her promised missives, but after one or two notes, he hears no further word from her. Eventually he comes to believe she deceived him about her feelings – that he was just a fling for a frivolous teenager. He barely escapes death in Vietnam. When he returns to the U.S. he looks up the woman who still owns his heart, only to discover she’s been faithless, marrying another serviceman and bearing his child as soon as Paul’s out of the picture.

This is the prelude to Anne Krist’s emotionally intense second chance romance Burning Bridges. The actual novel takes place years later. Sara is in her fifties, her daughter Paula in her thirties, when a freak incident uncovers the truth: Sara’s parents had intercepted her letters to Paul and vice versa, allowing the young lovers to believe they’d been duped and dumped. Sara’s father even lied about Paul’s death.

Ms. Krist does an amazing job portraying Sara’s complicated and ambiguous feelings in response to this revelation. Her entire life has been derailed, her heart’s desire snatched from her grasp, all because of her parents’ deception. I was so angry on her behalf I would not have shied away from fictional murder! As she struggles to come to terms with this horrific betrayal, she decides to visit Paul’s parents on their Iowa farm and let them know they have a daughter. To her shock, she finds that Paul is still alive, living and working with his brother on the family homestead, deeply embittered and fiercely lonely.

He’s nearly as astonished as Sara when she shows up. But it will take a great deal of time and effort to heal the wounds they’ve unintentionally inflicted on one another. Burning Bridges chronicles their mistrust, their misunderstandings and their anger as they struggle to accept and move on. The incandescent connection from decades earlier is still there, still real – but perhaps that just isn’t enough.

I deeply enjoyed this novel for its complexity, subtlety and intensity. However it strained my credibility to some extent. Would a brief, youthful affair really brand these two people so deeply? Would their love really survive forty years of their separate lives? I guess if you’re reading romance, you have to believe that a soul mate connection is unbreakable and forever. Otherwise the genre just doesn’t work.

I was also rather irritated by Paul’s self-centeredness and jealousy. He’s incredibly quick to think the worst of Sara in every situation, repeatedly branding her a slut and a liar, even when she has proven she’s sincere. Obviously he was hurt before and still bears the scars, but common decency should suggest he give her the benefit of the doubt.

I realize that my reactions to Paul, like my fury with Sara’s mother, indicates that Ms. Krist managed to make these characters very real to me. That in itself is a measure of this book’s quality.

Sunday, April 18, 2021

Dragons at the very heart of it -- #Fantasy #Giveaway #Dragons @ConnLoraine

Realm of Dragons cover


The Realm of Dragons is in peril from hidden plots and conspirators, which threaten not only the crown, but the dragons that are at the very heart of it.

Teagan Loinsigh, long ago banished from her magical home of dragons now lives on Earth. Her dreams and memories of the great creatures are put down to fantasies and an overactive imagination, until one day she comes across a creature so unlike any other in the land she lives in. A baby dragon.

Muniath Magaoidh, a Dragon Warden fallen so low by a failed mission, must be brought back from his despair to retrieve what is lost.

Scetis Mordha, alone in the world since he was a child. Finds himself in the middle of intrigue and conspiracy against The Realm of Dragons.

Tying them all together is a dragon. Not just a dragon but The King of Dragons.

Can these four save The Realm of Dragons?


I don’t understand, what do you want to do?” she asked, collapsing to the hot rock.

Stand before the fiery pit. Face your fear and grow into who you were meant to be.” His voice boomed not only in her mind but echoed off the circular cavern.

I’ll die,” she whimpered.

No, you will not. Now stand,” he commanded.

Slowly she got to her feet. Sweat dripped from her body in rivulets, stinging her eyes as she wiped her face on her sleeve to clear it. As she did, Gremlin moved and the full heat from the lava hit her. She stumbled back, but he supported her with his neck, holding her up. The fiery liquid turned her skin first red, then it started to blister. Teagan screamed at the pain and with fumbling fingers began to tear at the remaining clothes she had on. Now standing nude, her body shook as the outer skin burned away. It melted from her body, slipping, and exposing raw flesh underneath. A scream she so desperately wanted to release caught in her throat.

Into the lake.” Gremlin commanded.

Each step she took was laboured. She tried to stop herself but found her body would not respond. Her mind screamed at the thought of the agony and death that she was sure awaited if she obeyed the Dragon King. But she went. Standing on the precipice, in a gap of the wall, the scream at last escaped her lips as she stepped down into the rock from the centre of the world.

About the Author

L.C. Conn grew up on the outskirts of Upper Hutt, New Zealand. Her backyard encompassed the surrounding farmland, river, hills and mountains which she wandered with her brothers and fed her imagination. After discovering a love for writing in English class at the age of eight, she continued to write in secret. It was not until much later in life that L.C. turned what she thought was a hobby and something fun to do, into her first completed novel. Now married, L.C. moved from New Zealand to Perth, Western Australia, and became a stay at home mum. While caring for her family and after battling breast cancer, a story was born from the kernel of a dream. The first book of The One True Child Series was begun, and just kept blooming into seven completed stories, which have garnered great reviews. She continues her career with more stories waiting in the wings to be released.

EMAIL: raindropc197 [at] gmail [dot- com



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WEB PAGE: https//


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Saturday, April 17, 2021

Sizzling Sunday: A Victorian Interlude – #VictorianErotica #AmWriting #SizzlingSunday

Sizzling Sunday Banner

I’ve been slaving away at The Journeyman’s Trial, the next volume in my Victorian steam punk series. In general, I don’t like to share material from my works in progress. However, it occurred to me that you might enjoy an equally antique interlude from my novel Miranda’s Masks.

This book is contemporary romance, but has a Victorian sub-plot. The heroine, who lives in historic Beacon Hill in Boston and is writing a dissertation on nineteenth century erotica, discovers an old leather bound notebook in a local junk shop. At first it appears to be blank, but when subjected to heat, the previously invisible contents become readable, revealing the secret diary of a Victorian lady. As Beatrice recounts her erotic adventures, Miranda engages in her own surprisingly parallel exporations.

Anyway, this is from the first diary entry. Beatrice’s encounters become more outrageous and taboo as the novel develops. 


I chose my costume with care, a rich but somber dress of midnight blue poult de soie, with a cashmere mantle to match. I wished to appear proper, remote, and infinitely desirable. My hair shone like spun gold in contrast with the dark fabric, and my eyes had depths like the ocean. I donned my hat and veiled my face, then followed Pauline out the back door and into the alley where the hansom carriage she had summoned awaited me.

The address he provided proved to be a small townhouse facing the Common, with fine leaded glass windows. A sour-faced domestic answered the bell, took my wrap, and led me to the drawing room, which was furnished with indifferent taste.

My fair-haired Charles leapt up as I entered, his face glowing.

You’ve come, Madame! I hardly dared hope.”

I could scarcely refuse such an enigmatic invitation,” I said, holding out my gloved hand. He bent to touch it to his lips, then stopped himself. “If you will permit me,” he said with a shy smile. Then without waiting for my reply, he stripped the glove off my fingers and planted a delicate kiss on my bare palm.

This first exquisite touch sent shivers through my body and left me slightly faint. Already I was melting in the rising flames of my own desire. A sigh escaped me. In any case my companion already knew how he had aroused me. His youthful eyes sparkled as he perceived my flushed cheeks and the rise and fall of my breath.

My apologies for the appointments here,” he said after a long moment, punctuated by the beat of my heart. “I am renting these lodgings while I have business in Boston. Can I offer you some tea, Madame? Or perhaps a glass of wine?”

A sip of sherry would be delightful,” I answered, struggling to control my voice. “I find that my throat is a bit dry.”

It will be my privilege,” he said. He went over to the sideboard and returned after a moment with two crystal goblets brimming with golden liquid.

To chance meetings,” he said, raising his glass to his lips.

To pleasure,” I countered boldly, looking deep into his eyes. They were the same clear blue of today’s sky, and equally full of promise. Between my thighs I felt the heat of the coming summer.

We sipped for a moment in silence.

What should I call you, Madame?” he asked archly. “‘Madame’ seems a bit formal under the current circumstances.”

Angela,” I told him. I often use that name on my midnight sorties. The irony somehow pleases me.

Lady Angela, you are truly a vision from heaven. I would be honored if you would allow me to undress you, so that I might better appreciate your divine form.”

Once again, he acted without my overt permission. He set aside our glasses, and his languid, tapered fingers were already undoing the buttons that fastened my waist. We understood each other; we did not require speech.

I stood meek and compliant, watching his face as he removed my garments. He worked slowly and meticulously, with a skill that suggested experience. As each article was removed, he would pause and gaze at me in delight.

The measured pace aroused me further, as it was intended to do. Charles managed to completely undress me, while touching me hardly at all. My neck, my shoulders, my breasts all ached for his caress. With admirable self-control, he confined his contact with my flesh to the absolute minimum required for his task.

His own excitement was evident in the tented bulge in his trousers. I longed to reach out and test its lovely hardness. However, I refrained, realizing that this would be out of character, a deviation from the roles in which we had cast ourselves.

Finally, I stood before him, naked save for my embroidered silk stockings and kid boots. The golden curls between my thighs were already damp with my own fluids. I was ready to sink to my knees before him, to beg him for his touch.

Thankfully, he was finished with making me wait. He swept me into his arms and carried me to a brocaded chaise near the hearth. I gloried in his strength. He smelled of soap and pipe tobacco. I rubbed my cheek against his fine woolen coat as he settled me on the shiny upholstery, my arms cradling my head. “Angela,” he sighed, kneeling beside me. “Let me feast upon your marvelous flesh.”

He leaned over and brushed his lips ever so lightly against the sensitive skin just below my earlobe. Then I felt his tongue, sliding down my neck, circling the hollow at the base of my throat, tracing its way down the hollow between my breasts, nibbling, nuzzling, tasting me. Each touch was careful, deliberate, almost reverent. There was nothing holy, however, about the way my hips churned in response. When he sucked my nipple gently into his mouth, I spread my thighs wide. When he nipped it with his sharp white teeth, I could not help the lewd way I arched my back, silently crying for him to invade my most private recesses.

Charles turned his attention to my lower extremities, bestowing tiny kisses on the silky skin between my thighs. I moaned and circled my hips, inviting, pleading. However, my gentleman continued to tease. He unlaced my boots, then drew my stockings down until my feet were as bare as the rest of me.

I felt a shock as his warm mouth closed on my toes. The sensation was strangely thrilling. He probed between my digits with his agile tongue, sucked and licked until I thought I would go mad with pleasure. All the while, my cunny grew wetter and more swollen, until I could feel myself gaping, open and dripping.

Oh, please, Charles!” I gasped, “I cannot bear any more. Please, put your rod inside me. Take me, Charlie, please!”

My fair gentleman paused to smile at me. “Madame Angela, I would dearly love to satisfy your request, but I dare not. If I were to get you with child, it would be a disaster for both of us.”

Oh, please!” My hand flew to my groin, spread my red, glistening folds for him to see. “See how you have roused me, set me on fire. You must quench this fire, or I will lose my senses with longing.”

Alas, my Angela…”

Let me see it, at least; do not be cruel!” I cried, and lunging forward I tore open his trouser buttons. His erect member sprang free, engorged and purple with lust. Before he could object, I sank to my knees and circled his manhood with my lips, sucking and tonguing him in an abandoned frenzy.

No, Angela, wait, please, I will spend too soon…” I ignored his entreaties, which grew more feeble as I increased the vigor of my ministrations. I was punishing him for his teasing, and rewarding him for his technique. The rod in my mouth grew more rigid by the instant. I sensed a spiraling tension, like a snake gathering itself to strike. Then he groaned and my mouth was flooded with his bitter fluid. As always, the taste brought me to full, delicious appreciation of my own depravity. How I enjoyed the dark, sharp flavor of a stranger’s spend upon my tongue. The thought, by itself, brought me to the very edge of climax.

Charles was panting, his blond curls plastered on his sweating forehead. “Oh, Angela, you are a wicked one! That was glorious, my dear.” He raised his shapely eyebrows. “But what can I do for you, now? I fear that even if you were to convince me, my tool will be of little use for some time.”

Somehow I sensed that he was playing with me once again. “Give me your mouth, then, Charlie,” I said boldly, sitting back on the chaise and spreading myself wide. “Kiss me, here.”

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Thursday, April 15, 2021

Born to Rhyme – #Poetry #NationalPoetryMonth #WordMusic @POETSorg

Poetry notebook

Image by Lolame from Pixabay

Here we are, halfway through April, and I haven’t even mentioned National Poetry Month. This year marks the twenty fifth anniversary of this annual event. You can find out more about NPM activities here: 

And you’ll find an older post about some of my favorite poems here:

I’ve written poetry for most of my life. As far as I can recall, I wrote my first poem when I was seven years old. We’d gone out with family friends on their boat, north of Boston, on a cloudy summer day. The sultry, slow mood made a deep impression on me (apparently!)

I still recall the first stanza:

The sky is as gray as an eagle’s wing.
The sea has a leaden tint.
Drowsy waves gently slap the side of our craft.
And then on the breeze comes the sound of a bell
Telling a story and ringing the knell
For the ships and the sailors ever gone.

A bit pretentious, but make allowances for my age!

Who taught me to write poems? No one, as far as I remember, but my parents read poetry to me and my brother from a very early age. In addition, my dad wrote songs for us, in doggerel verse that undoubtedly sensitized me to the sound and the rhythm of words.

I was a poet (if I can dignify myself with that term) long before I started publishing erotica and erotic romance. Through all the angst of my teens and twenties, poetry was my preferred mode of self-expression. Both joy and grief found their way into my verse. Many of my works probably qualify as love poems, or at least lust poems, since I was very much consumed by both hormones and romantic fantasies. You can find a variety of my verse on the free reading page of my website:

Aside from contributions to my high school newspaper, though, none of my poems were published, until 2002, when I had a non-erotic poem accepted to Slow Trains Literary Journal. I was astonished to find that the journal, and even the poem, are still available online.

When I started publishing erotica and erotic romance, my poetic output dwindled. Then Ashley Lister, a fellow author, started a series of poetry exercises on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association blog, introducing various poetic forms and challenging readers to try them out. This was a totally different experience for me. In the past, emotion had triggered the urge to write poems. Now the form came first, and the emotion had to be summoned. Nevertheless I was surprised by how much I liked many of these poems, despite their formality. After many years, I renewed my love of the music in words.

I’ll finish off with one from that period, an English Sestet.


By Lisabet Sarai  

You mention taking me across your knee;
My mind supplies the heat of skin on skin.
Of whips and wax you speak, so casually;
You sketch perverted outlines I fill in,
Elaborate, embroider and refine
Are these ideas of yours, or are they mine?

Happy Poetry Month! Why not read, or write, a poem to celebrate?

Wednesday, April 14, 2021

Three times the sin... #reverseharem #naughtygoldie #eroticfairytale @PebblesLacasse

Goldie Book 3 Cover

Goldilocks and the three Bear brothers—Bash, Mack, and Patch—are back in this latest sequel with three times the sin … and triple the drama!

Bash and Goldie’s move to their new home has them considering their future as a couple. They savour their time together and Patch and Mack occasionally join them for wild nights filled with intense passion.

Bash knows Patch loves Goldie with a ferocity he both admires and fears. Trusting that they’ll be able to share her body as well as her heart without competition, they invite Patch to move in.

Goldie longs for her father’s lost respect as the townsfolk continue wagging their tongues, but when Goldie’s sultry co-worker is introduced into the mix, will everything change? And with Mack’s girlfriend refusing to play nice, will Goldie be forced to let him go when he needs her the most? 

What was meant as harmless fun to draw their blissful family closer together could quickly bring about its end. Tensions rise, jealousies flare, and the threat of heartbreak hovers.

Free on KU



Excerpt (X-Rated)

Warning: contains rough sex and spanking

He caresses my ass one cheek at a time. He squeezes my left buttock until I whimper and then cracks me hard with his open palm.

Fuck! That hurts!

Your punishment is ten spanks for giving me an attitude about where to hang the picture.” He caresses the sensitive, welting skin. “Don’t make a sound and I’ll reward you. What’s your safe word?”

With a shaky voice, I reply, “Red.”

He cracks me again and again until he’s satisfied ten are enough. My ass is hot and tears have dripped onto the counter, but I was strong and didn’t scream.

Patch stands me up when he sees my flushed, tear-soaked face. He doesn’t like to see me cry so he wipes away my tears with compassion. Satisfied that no more fall, he grips my hair and pushes me onto the counter. I grip the opposite edge.

He stands behind me and kicks my feet apart until he can stand between them. My pelvic bones hold my weight painfully on the counter’s edge, but I don’t care to complain because I kind of like it. His fingers glide between my ass cheeks, over my asshole, and between my drenched pussy lips before delving deep into me. I wiggle, jutting my ass toward him as a plea for more. He pulls his fingers out but slips them further down between my lips until he reaches my clitoris.

I moan as his fingers tenderly rub tiny circles over my stiff button. His hand raises and he whacks my ass once more, jolting my thoughts away from my clit and back to the pain of my red-hot ass.

I said to be quiet, didn’t I?” He whispers as his fingers find my clit to continue their delicious assault. “I don’t want you to make a sound until I tell you to cum. Do you understand?”

Knowing better, I say nothing; he told me not to make a sound. From past experience, to verbalize my understanding is cause for more swats. I simply nod the best I can despite my hair held in his vice-like grip. It isn’t painful as much as immobilizing.

Patch pushes his fat thumb into my pussy. I tighten when he circles my clit. I try to remain calm and not cum but I’m so close, and he knows it. He won’t stop until he’s satisfied I obeyed his order and refused myself an orgasm.

He moves his hand and quickly fills me full of his thick, hard cock. My walls stretch and then clench as soon as he’s buried deep. My breath escapes me. He holds still until I breathe.

Don’t let go of the counter, and don’t lift your head.”

He frees my hair and a matted wad quickly drapes over my face. I try to blow it away from my eyes but it doesn’t move.

I’m going to fuck you hard and fast; how you like. Not a sound. Don’t cum until I permit it.”

His pelvis rests against my ass as his hands slide along my skin and settle on my waist. He pulls back and makes good on his promise. He pounds into me. My fingertips barely hold the counter and my hip bones grate on the counter’s edge.

Oh, fuck! I want to cum! It’s right there. If I just let go, I’ll cum so hard. Somehow, I manage to withhold the moans. At some point, I think I blackout but I can’t be sure.

Oh, my God! Please let me cum!

He grabs my forearms and hisses, “Let go.” When I do, he pulls them behind my back and holds my wrists tightly in one hand while his other presses on my lower back to pin me to the counter. He rams; hard, fast, incredibly fast.

Tell me you’re my slut!” he demands.

I’m your slut!” I scream.

My slut! My dirty little fucking slut.” He slams a few more times and my pussy tightens around his cock. “Cum, whore! Fucking cum!”

A slow, steadily increasing scream builds as I let myself fall into the muscle clenching, mind-blowing euphoria of my climax. I hear him spit words at me but I have no idea what he’s saying, and I don’t care. My thoughts have sunk into blackness while my body floats high above the counter. I never want this to stop.

Patch wails, slams into me three more times, and then stiffens. His cock swells inside me and stretches my spasming pussy as it chokes him, desperate to keep the pulsing shaft wedged deep into me.

I’m exhausted, yet my mind is ripe with energy.

Patch’s withered cock slips from me and we both groan. He releases my wrists, then grasps my hips to ensure my feet are firmly on the floor. He wraps his heavy arms over my shoulders and holds my back against his burly chest while I catch my breath.

Between breaths, he asks, “What am I going to do when you’re not mine anymore; when you decide you only want Bash?”

What do you mean? I’ll always want you.” I turn to look at his flushed face.

There will come a day when you won’t. When you and Bash decide to start a family, continuing what we have won’t be feasible, and you know it.” He sighs, then kisses my head. His eyes scan my body. “If you were mine—”

I snap at him. “You should keep in mind that I will never be yours. Bash allows us to love each other, and I’ll allow you my body whenever you want, but he comes before you or Mack.” I step back and look into his stoic face. “Please, don’t suggest I be only yours.”

No, that’s not what I was…” He groans frustratedly. “You’re making a thing out of nothing. I was just saying that if you were mine—”

I raise my hand and shake my head to beg him not to continue. He holds up his hand to stop me from saying what he knows I’m about to.

He raises his voice. “Just hang on a minute, woman! Since you went there … you know I love you. We all agreed it’s okay that we love each other.” He leans his back against the counter and calms his voice. “You will want something different in the future. I wasn’t suggesting I was going to take you away from Bash. I was just—”

I cut him off. “You couldn’t if you tried.” I yank my pants up and wiggle my hips until the material slips into place. 

Calmly, despite his flared nostrils, he asks, “Where is this coming from?”

I stop fussing with my pants to meet his eyes. “You said if you were mine…”

Holy fuck, woman!” He groans and slaps his forehead. “Can’t a man say something to you without you blowing it into something it’s not? I wasn’t suggesting I wanted you for myself. I was about to say that I’d never let you wear clothes if you were mine.”

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