Little Perversions - Sex Stories

Little Perversions

... the heat in and I can feel my juices slowly soaking the crotch as I move through the dark bedroom to rifle through my wardrobe. I tug on a tight little black mesh tee that barely skims the top of my ribcage. Even in the shadows, the see-through fabric explicitly reveals the curves and swell of my breasts and the outline of pink areolas topped by nipples that push obscenely against the fabric. I garnish the final look with red patent leather stiletto heels. These heels have history. They’ve danced in dark underground clubs and been scuffed while I’ve been on my knees, sucking cock in the dark corners of a Penthouse afterparty for a famous musician whose name I’ve never told you. You’ve hummed along to his chart-topping tune more than once when we’ve been in the car together. One day I’ll reveal all the fine points of that night and you’ll spank my ass crimson red for not sharing the story sooner. I’ll look forward to that. Yes, these heels have carried me through first dates, chance encounters, and even that night I called you when I was naked and covered in cum, having fucked five professional athletes at least twice in one go. Yeah, that night . I texted you the photos, didn’t I? You saw all that hot cum all over my pretty red shoes and heard every filthy detail while you stroked to an orgasm. Technically that made you my sixth. I stroll to the front door, my hips swaying, those infamous red heels clicking over the black hardwood floor. You’re not here yet, but I unlock ...

... the door and leave it just slightly ajar. I remember the last time you tried to talk me into giving you a key. You were waiting in my lobby with an impatient scowl and I was forty minutes late, on purpose, but I never told you that. The rough way you finger fucked me and sucked my collarbone on the ride up to the twenty-seventh floor got me excited. You were a beast that night, and you really are at your best when there’s some tension and hostility in the mix. There’s nothing like a good ‘anger fuck’, you told me once, and you’ve proven it time and again. In my modest kitchen, I turn on the small recessed lights above the countertop. With one hip cocked to the side, I open the refrigerator to browse its contents. They are sparse, to be sure, but I’ve stocked all the necessities. I flick the end of my joint into the sink before pulling the jug of milk from the fridge. I pour myself a glass. It’s cold and wholesome and everything we’re not. I lick the remnants from my lips and leave the milk on the table. When I hear the sound of the elevator doors open down the hall, I place both hands on the kitchen table and hoist myself up onto the edge. I lean back, one leg left dangling carelessly, the other bent so that my stiletto heel is hooked under the edge. I slowly spread my thighs just as you’ve requested. When the door opens, you walk inside with your usual cagey energy and just a hint of predatory sex appeal. “There she is. My little blonde Babydoll in those slutty red shoes. ...