First Sin, Filthy Sips

Six o’clock, outside the bar,

black denim tight,

denim shirt on my shoulders,

and there she is walking towards me,

my eyes locking on her the second she appears.

Black dress flowing,
lace teasing beneath the neckline,
her smile pulling me under.
“Finally,” she says,
and the word melts between us
as I crash into her hug,
breathing her in,
her perfume mixing with my skin,
her cleavage brushing my chest.
The city disappears.
It’s only us.

Inside—a dim corner table,
hidden from wandering eyes.
We sit, but not apart.
The tension is thick,
and in minutes
her lips are on mine.
Soft, hungry,
again and again,
every few breaths we’re kissing,
as if the weeks of waiting
demand payment now.

French cocktails arrive,
but my true intoxication
is her shifting on my palm.
She’s perched on my hand,
lace pressing to my skin,
warmth seeping through,
making me throb against my jeans.

I made her feel my throbbing cock,

I feel her heat, her need,
her body whispering yes.

She leaves for the restroom—
my mind racing.
When she returns,
her lips curl, her eyes daring,
and she places a remote in my hand.

“Daddy’s in control now.”

I press,
watching her breath catch,
hips tightening,
eyes glazing as the toy hums inside her.
She hands me her thong—
warm, damp, forbidden.
I hold it,
inhale softly,
press it to my lips.
The taste of her is everywhere,
and I kiss her deep,
slipping it back into her mouth
so she tastes her own desire.

Around us the bar hums—
music, glasses, laughter—
but our world is smaller, darker, hotter.
She shivers in my grip,
a quiet orgasm shuddering through her,
and I know she’s mine.

After forty-five minutes,
she leans close,

eyes locked, voice low:
“Let’s go to my apartment.”

The Needy Eyes,

A Needy Voice,

One Needy Slut.

We finish the drinks,
the night already trembling.
Hand in hand,
her lace still in my pocket,
her taste still on my tongue,
I breathe her in—
the scent of sin,
the scent of Montréal,
the scent of what comes next.

Montréal doesn’t know yet.
But the city will learn tonight
how dirty we can be,
how far we’ll go,
how two forbidden bodies
will fuck themselves into memory.

Montréal Ache

Morning Haze, Airport Rush,

 Her scent in my hand,
A duty-free sin bottled,
a promise of what I’ll smear
on her throat later.
Three and a half hours
to the city where she waits,
my cock already aching before
the plane even leaves the ground.

Five days denied,
Our bodies quaking
with unshed orgasms

The plane climbs,
and so does the ache.
You, naked in tangled sheets,
sending me your body in fragments—
soft skin flashing,
hips rolling,
a brat’s smile daring me through the glass.

You ask me to choose your thong,
as if choice makes you innocent.
then you wear it for daddy
and wet it for your daddy
your hand sliding over it,
your moans caught between work and want.
You make me hard.
You make me furious.
You make me need to own you.

I read our old filth,

the words that should have stayed buried,

while new ones arrive,

sharper, wetter, darker.

Every line a reminder

that what we’re building isn’t allowed—

and that’s what makes it unbearable.

In the airplane toilet,
I free myself, cock swollen, throbbing,
and I give her what she begged for—
a picture she’ll hide,
a picture she’ll keep,
a picture that binds her to me.
Thick, veined, dripping.
A sin in pixels.
A promise I will force into her tonight.

By noon I land.
By six, we’ll drink.
The city will glow around us,
but the fire will burn beneath the surface—
two bodies colliding in a hunger
that doesn’t belong to us,
but we’ll take it anyway.

Montréal won’t know the truth—
but we will.
The forbidden is sweeter when it’s ours,
and tonight,
the ache we’ve carried through distance,
through guilt,
through need—
will finally split open.

Montréal ache.
Our ache.

Unforgivable, 

Unstoppable, 

Inevitable.

 

Obedience Unlocked

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

The Ache You Left Behind

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Steam-Bound Goodbye

She’s barely moved since I fucked her raw on the couch.

One leg draped over the armrest, thighs still slick and red from the way I held her down.
My cum is leaking out of her slowly — a mess between her legs, gleaming in the sunset light.

She looks utterly ruined.
Which is exactly how I want to remember her.

I should leave.
But not yet.
Not while her skin still smells like sweat and surrender.

I rise, grab her hand. My voice is low:

“Shower. Now.”

She stirs, wincing deliciously as she stands. Her thighs press together like she’s trying to hold me inside her.

I lead her to the bathroom.
The air thickens with heat as I turn the water on — scalding, punishing, just the way she likes it when she’s soft and aching.

She steps in, head tilted back, letting the water run over her chest.

I follow.
And the second I close the door behind us, I cage her against the wall.

“You think I’m leaving with this pussy still dripping and untouched?”

She gasps. “I—I didn’t—”

“Shhh. Don’t speak.”

I grab her hips and spin her around.

She presses her palms to the tile as I drop to my knees.
The water streams down her back as I spread her open from behind.

She’s so fucking soaked — not just from the water.
I watch a thick drop of my own cum slide down the inside of her thigh.

“Look at this mess,” I growl. “I gave you all of me and your greedy little cunt still wants more.”

I bury my tongue between her folds without warning.
Lick her slow and deep, from the mess at her hole to the sensitive pulse of her clit.
She moans — high, sharp, buckling against the wall.

“Stay still,” I snap, gripping her ass tight.

I eat her until she’s dripping again, cunt throbbing against my face, hands slamming against the wall like she’s praying for mercy.

I stand.

“Now you’re ready.”

I grab my cock, thick and already twitching from the taste of her, and slide it between her slick folds.

I don’t ease in. I take her.

Hard. Deep. In one brutal thrust that knocks a cry out of her throat.

“That’s it. Let me hear how much you’ll miss this.”

My fingers thread into her hair and yank her head back as I fuck her.
Every stroke slams her hips into the tile, her hands barely holding her up.

The water pours over us, but the sounds of sex still echo — wet, loud, unfiltered.

Her cunt tightens around me with every thrust, like it doesn’t want to let go.
Neither do I.

“You’re gonna walk funny tomorrow,” I whisper. “Gonna smell me all fucking day.”

“Yes, Sir,” she whimpers. “Want it. Want you deep. Want you to stay—”

I growl and slam into her harder.
The slap of my hips against her ass bounces off the walls.

She starts shaking.

“Don’t you cum until I tell you,” I hiss. “I want you on edge when I leave.”

She nods, mouth open, eyes wild.

I reach around, rub her clit fast and filthy, and when she’s right at the edge—

“Now.”

She cums hard — loud, violent, pussy pulsing around my cock as I fuck her through it.

I pound her until I feel myself crest.

Then I slam in deep and cum inside her again, spilling everything into the mess she already is — filling her until it leaks down her thighs, mixing with the water on the floor.

We both go still.

Her forehead rests against the tile.
Her body trembling, used, owned.

I press against her back, kissing her neck gently now.

“That’s how I say goodbye.”

She doesn’t answer.
She just breathes.

Heavy. Slow. Satisfied.

I pull out and watch it drip from her, hot and slick.

Mine.

We wash in silence.
I dry her with a towel, soft for once. Kiss her forehead. She leans into it.

I get dressed. She stays wrapped in the towel, glowing and marked.

At the door, she finally whispers:

“That was… goodbye?”

I smirk.

“For now.”

And then I leave her there — soaked, throbbing, filled with me.

Exactly how she wanted it.

 

Beneath the Table

Him (sipping coffee, gaze steady):

You’ve been shifting in your seat for an hour.

Is your cunt still full from last night, or are you just aching for more?

Her (blushing, voice velvet):
Both.
It’s hard to focus when I’m leaking into my thighs, Sir.
You marked me deep.

Him (smiling faintly):
Good.
Every step you take is a reminder:
You’re used.
You’re owned.

Her (tracing the rim of her glass):
And every word you say drags me deeper.
I feel your voice like a hand between my legs.

Him (leaning in slightly):
If I slipped my hand under that dress right now—
Would I find you dripping?

Her (swallowing hard):
Yes.
You wouldn’t even need to touch.
Just your fingers near me would make me tremble.

Him (voice low, calm, deadly):
You want me to wreck you again, don’t you?
Right here.
Right now.
If I told you to excuse yourself and wait for me in the restroom—
Would you?

Her (breath hitching):
Yes, Sir.
Without question.

Him (smiling into his coffee):
But not yet.
No.
You’ll sit there and suffer for me.
Smile when the waiter speaks.
Pretend you’re not soaked and ruined and mine.

Her (legs crossing tighter):
You’re cruel.
And I’m aching for it.

Him (brushing fingers over her wrist):
You’re glowing.
Everyone thinks it’s love.
But we know better.
You’re in heat, little one—
And I’ll be the one to put that fire out when we get home.

Her (whispering, desperate now):
How long do I have to behave?

Him (grinning darkly):
Until I’m done enjoying your restraint.
And then I’ll bend you over the nearest surface and fuck the good girl out of you.

Her (a shaky exhale):
Yes, Sir.

Her Wordless Obedience

She doesn’t speak a word of submission.

She doesn’t need to.

From the moment we step inside the café, her entire body shifts.
Her posture softens—but it’s not weakness. It’s surrender. The kind she offers only to me.

She walks a half-step behind me. Not overt, but intentional.
It tells me she’s in her space—that gentle headspace where she’s attuned only to my voice, my presence, my permission.

When we sit, she waits—just long enough—for me to gesture before settling into her seat.

A tiny glance, upward and sideways, barely noticeable to anyone else.
But I see it.
It’s her asking: May I?
I nod. She exhales.

Her fingers trace the condensation on her glass as she listens to me speak.
It’s not idle—it’s grounding. She’s focused, but her world is narrowed. Quieted.

She doesn’t interrupt. Not once.
When she speaks, it’s measured. Thoughtful. Polished—but not performative.
Her tone is soft. Not shy—controlled.

And her eyes—God, those eyes.
They flick to my hands constantly. Watching for a gesture. A signal. A shift in my expression.

She reads me like scripture, and responds with the smallest of things:
—knees pressed a little tighter
—shoulders straighter when I look at her
—a subtle parting of her lips when I mention how she looks

Then there’s her collarbone.
Bare. Exposed beneath the dip of her dress.
She tugs it once—slowly. A silent reminder. I remember who I belong to.

Her coffee arrives.
She stirs it the way I like mine, even though it’s her cup.
Then she pushes it toward me, just a little.
An offering.
I take a sip. She smiles—satisfied, like she’s just pleased me with the smallest act of service.

There’s a moment—quiet but potent—when she shifts in her seat. Crosses her legs, uncrosses them. Her breathing changes.
I know that look.

She’s wet.
From just the tone of my voice and the memory of my hand on her throat the night before.
No one else sees it—but I know every flush in her cheeks, every tension in her thighs.

When I brush my foot against hers beneath the table, she freezes for a breath. Then relaxes into it.

In Plain Sight

It’s just brunch.

Two people, a Sunday morning, a sunlit café with crooked chairs and the scent of fresh pastries in the air.

To anyone watching, we could be any couple—laughing, leaning close, trading sips of coffee.

But I feel the charge beneath her skin like a live wire.

She wears the dress I chose for her—soft blue cotton, just a little too short when she crosses her legs. No bra.

My command. Her compliance.

I watch her from across the table as she runs a finger along the rim of her glass.

Eyes lowered. Shoulders relaxed. But her mouth curves into a knowing smile.

She’s glowing. Not because of last night—but because she’s mine. Still marked, inside and out.

“You’re quiet,” I say, reaching out to touch her hand.

She smiles up at me. “I like being watched.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Are you talking about me or everyone else in here?”

Her blush gives her away.

I lean forward. Voice low. Calm.

“They have no idea, do they? That you’re sitting there with my cum still inside you. 

That I could snap my fingers and have you follow me to the restroom without a word.”

Her pupils dilate. I feel her thighs tense beneath the table.

“You wouldn’t,” she breathes.

“I wouldn’t,” I say. “Not today. Today you just get to be pretty for me. Obedient. Soft.”

She bites her lip. Her eyes dart down.

“Color?”

She looks up, instantly. “Green, Sir.”

Good Girl.

Morning Light

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

After the Storm

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

On My Command

She waits for me exactly as thought—

Naked, on her knees, back straight, 

hands behind her, eyes lowered.

I shut the door behind me and let silence stretch.
She doesn’t dare look up. Good girl.

“You were late texting me?”

I walk slowly around her, 

the click of my boots on the floor loud in the quiet room.

Her breath hitches—she knows what that tone means.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” she whispers.
I grip her chin, lifting her face to mine.

“You will be.”

I take my time. I strip in front of her, 

but not for her—this is mine, this moment.

She looks up at me through lashes heavy with submission, 

need swirling in her eyes.

I grab a fistful of her hair and drag her forward. 

She stumbles but doesn’t resist.

She knows better.

“You want to be used?”
“Yes, Sir.”

I push her down.

My cock hits her lips, and she parts them like a prayer.
Her tongue works in practiced devotion, messy, eager.
Tears well in her eyes as I fuck her throat mercilessly—
no words now, just rhythm and dominance and control.

I use her mouth like a toy, then pull out with a growl.
“Get on the bed. Face down. Ass up.”

She obeys instantly—no hesitation, just that beautiful obedience.
Her body on display, vulnerable and waiting.
I grip her thighs and spread her wider.

My hand cracks against her ass—once, then again.
She gasps. Her skin blooms red beneath my palm.

“Count.”

“One... thank you, Sir.”
“Two... thank you, Sir.”

I don’t stop until her body is trembling, her thighs slick.
I slap her pussy once—hard. She cries out, but pushes back into me.
Perfect.

I grab her hips and slide into her in one brutal thrust.
She cries into the mattress.

She is soaked and tight, clenched around me like she was made for this.

I pound into her, hips slamming against her with each stroke.

The bed rocks. The room fills with the sounds of skin, moans, and power.
She claws at the sheets—
but she doesn’t run. She takes every inch.

“You’re mine,” I growl, gripping her throat from behind.
“Yes, Sir—yours, always.”

I thrust harder. Faster. I want her wrecked.
I want her broken open for me and no one else.

I flip her onto her back, grab her ankles, and fold her in half.
I fuck her deep, rough—her cries growing louder, her nails raking my shoulders.
“Sir—please—I’m going to—”

“Cum for me.”

She shatters beneath me.
Back arching, legs shaking, voice breaking.
I don’t stop. I fuck her through it, chasing my own release—
and when it hits me, I empty into her with a grunt, burying myself as deep as I can.

Silence follows. Only breath and heartbeat remain.

She lies beneath me, dazed and glowing.
Her body marked. Her mouth parted.

I lean down, kiss her temple, and whisper,

“Good Girl.”

Her Late-Night Invitation

My phone buzzes. Midnight.

Three words on the screen:

“I’m alone.”

A pause. Then another:

“No panties.”

Then one more—

“Door’s unlocked.”

I don’t smile.
I don’t need to.
Because this isn’t an invitation.

It’s a surrender.

She knows what she’s doing—
using words like a leash,
pulling me in from across the city
with that sweet, aching need she only shows me.

I stand.
Grab my keys.
No hesitation.

Because I know what I’ll find:
Her — on the edge of obedience and desperation.

Knees drawn up.
Lips parted.
Pussy wet and waiting like a prayer.

She thinks she’s calling me over.
But really, she’s summoning the storm.

I won’t knock.
I never do.

I’ll walk through that door,
strip the silence from her room,
and remind her who she belongs to.

I’ll bend her over whatever surface is closest.
Sink into her without a word.

Fuck her until she remembers my name in gasps, not sentences.

Because when she says come over,
what she means is—

Take me.
Own me.
Don’t stop until I’m wrecked.

And I will.
Every time.