A Different Kind Of Dungeon Master - Sex Stories

A Different Kind Of Dungeon Master

... up.

“Seven,” I read aloud. “But that’ll do it.”

Rachel burst instantly out of her rigid pose and grabbed me around the shoulders, dragging the length of my body close to hers. She locked one leg around my back and planted the other for leverage, bucking powerfully under me in search of friction where she needed it.

“Is that all you do with your turn?” I asked, laughing. “Fight off the spell andhug Bastidio, prince of—”

“I try to flip myself top of him!” Rachel exclaimed.

“Good luck with that,” I said. “Roll for strength.”

Rachel threw her die.

Seventeen. Not bad, but I was directly opposing her as a fucking demon prince, here.

I’d left my own d20 in the living room, so I picked up hers and rolled it again for myself, and laughed louder.

“Prince Bastidio gets a nat one!” I confessed, returning her die to her hand.

Rachel hurled her momentum sideways into a barrel roll, and I had no fair option but to let her.

She sat up on top of me, with my cock still inside her, braced her hands on my chest, and began grinding against me with almost startling strength for her compact, soft-looking frame.

I supposed Prince Bastidio must have been equally surprised.

Clearly enjoying the use of her arms, Rachel grabbed her shirt and pulled it off, bra and all, right over her head without stopping to unfasten it.

She ran her hands over her breasts, over those still rock-hard nipples, and then grabbed one of my hands and ran that over one of them ...

... too.

They were so much softer, so much more alive, without the fabric to hold them.

“Would you say,” she asked, “for a roll like that, I get to cum before he does?”

“That depends,” I said, playing it cool but very aware of the involuntary time limit on my own capacities, ticking away with every move she made. “How close are you?”

“Come on, it was a nat one!” said Rachel. “Can’t I do pretty much whatever I want with him at that point? Please?”

“Oh, I’llallow it,” I said. “But only if it’s real.”

Rachel’s arguments melted. She smiled shyly and picked up the pace, rocking her hips even more frantically.

“Don’t you lie to me now,” I warned her, reaching up to pinch one of her nipples and tug her down toward me by it. “The story goes how the story goes. You don’t fake a die roll, and you don’t fake this. If you can’t—”

“I can, I think, I’m not lying, I promise, I… oh, god!”

All at once, Rachel cried out, and dug her fingers hard into my chest, tangling them in the laces of my shirt and snagging a few hairs. The rhythm of her hips stopped for a moment, and then was replaced by a slower, more deliberate wiggle, like trying to coax out the last of some precious substance in a nearly empty container.

I watched with an admittedly critical eye, as Rachel moaned, gasped, and trembled on top of me. I knew how good an actress she could be when she got into her characters, and I knew that my judgment might be clouded by how badly and how long I’d wanted to make her ...