I've had my suspicions about Isaac for a few months, but always from a relatively safe distance. His sheer intensity up close makes my veins pulse harder. All of a sudden, instead of being just a colleague or a friend, he represents power. Danger. Unpredictability. It ought to scare me, well, it does, but in a good way. He's still dressed. I'm not, my bra and panties askew from masturbating in them while Jessica photograp...

I fold my arms, giving Isaac, who sits across from me at the café table, an eyeful of cleavage from the navy blouse’s gape. I’m unsure if his flitting from eyes to tits to eyes is predatory or opportunistic so I release and twirl my cake fork instead. “No way, José.” “I bet you’d be a natural.” “A natural disaster, yes.” He observes in that maddeningly aloof way of his—partway between amusement and pity—and I'm torn betwe...

Some choices lead down avenues one simply does not expect. Andrew is a prime example. He sits across the restaurant table in that not-quite beard, dark Polyester suit, and skew-whiff burgundy tie, smiling—actually smiling—at my discomfort. It is the sort of maddening smile that I would ordinarily challenge, had my focus been anywhere other than gripping the table edge and trying not to cum. He observes. Tilts his head. “S...

Skylar’s outburst is predictable when I present the inch-wide studded leather collar and secure it around her neck. I scoop her bronze tresses out from underneath to brush the lapel of her open leather coat, and cinch the collar to choking point, watching her reactions the whole time. The chain attached to the metal ring at her throat dangles through her cleavage, the delicate flesh either side half concealed by the patte...

I've always been drawn to night, even before mom died. The city casts its familiar glow upward, purple skyline providing a jagged, neon backdrop. My canvas. The pair of paint aerosols are full by my sides. Shake shake. Lifting them 6 inches from the suburban wall, I pause. Breathe in. Press the nozzles. Sweep my arms in opposing arcs. Commit. In-fill. The familiar buzz begins in my stomach, spreading up beneath the dark c...

I don't intend to gasp, but the ice he holds against the underside of my nipple bites. Delivers a new sting; part relief, part pain. Freezing water rolls beneath my bared breasts, clings then drips to the hotel carpet between us. Champagne and the cube’s meandering path glimmer on their upper surface, goosebumps kissing the aircon. I inhale. Swear the drifting scent is burning skin. Chew my lip. Groan. Steel. Eye him. His...

There are two types of house party: those that simply occur, and those that are talked about for years after. Memorable ones. Legendary ones. I like to think I've thrown two such parties. The first was during sixth form when my parents went on holiday. I printed flyers and made CD mixes months in advance, all on the sly. Probably would have gotten away with it had the neighbours not grassed me up because their Alsatian di...

It’s fitting. Homura’s name translates as blaze, and she reflects that with each searing splash of pink candle wax dripped onto her big breasts. Gasped syllables that don't even exist in my language bounce off the hotel walls as she arches, fists bunching the sheets. It takes her a while to drift those slender hips back down to the bed, not helped by me accidentally spilling more wax in a crude cross over her prominent ni...

The library is quiet. Warm. Sitting at the table, I lean over my open book as naturally as possible, given I'm slithering my pyjama legs down beneath. My pulse thumps. Another text buzzes. Show me. Biting my lip, I pause. Surely the dare's gone far enough? I flick my gaze to him, two tables away. Stubbled. Handsome. Unpredictable. Bzzz. Don't make me wait. Glancing around at scattered visitors, I part my thighs, cheeks fl...

Mounting heat. Burning. There’s nothing else as Mistress Tara’s latex-gloved fingertips wank my erection. I twist, gasp, bonds straining the bedframe. Her European lilt offers escape, embodying her ad: Pain Slut. Couples a specialism. “Enough?” My bleary gaze lands on Becca, tethered open alongside. More chili juices smear my throbbing cock, the rush ripping through me. “Ffucckk! Antidote!” Mistress smiles. Snaps off the...

Of all the things I expect, the photograph of Summer fluttering from the book I grabbed off the dusty bedroom shelf isn't one of them. With my copy of Eliot Siegel’s Photographing Models still in hand, I bend to pick up the picture I took, and smile at the playful, naked pose she’d struck in her student block corridor. I flip the print over, and there's a handwritten note in her neat, oversize handwriting: June 2018. So y...

The padded bench is cool against my knees, heels digging into my bottom. The occasional draught down here only serves to remind my dripping pussy that it's exposed beneath the ridiculous maid pinafore he dressed me in. It's quiet. Suspiciously so. But he does this from time to time. Makes me wait. Lets me reflect. Anticipate. My jaw aches and my bare breasts are peppered with saliva that drools from around the slender car...

Lucene releases my skull, and I fall forward, face-first into the muddy grass of the graveyard. I stay prone, waiting for another blow to land, but nothing happens so I tentatively crawl up to all fours. Through my aching ribs, I manage to half-mumble, “I don’t know who I’m supposed to be any more.” I lift my gaze but can't look at her. Shame swirls. “What’s wrong with me?” She circles to crouch in front of me and sighs....

Despite the unfamiliarity swirling my head and body, at least home still feels right. The black, stagnant water of the bayou reflecting the silvery moonlight offers comfort amid its rotting wood and decay. I crouch on a fallen cypress, replaying what happened in the alleyway. He looked at me like I was more than teeth. Like I mattered. And he was warm. He was… Don’t. My fingernails splinter the bark. Warmth isn’t a vampir...

I snarl, lift my head and sniff, blood dripping from my fangs to spatter on the cheek of my meal. Thick crimson oozes from the twin puncture wounds on his neck and he groans. “Shut up.” He groans again. “I said,” I grip his hair and bang his head on the office desk with each syllable. “Shut. Up.” He gets the message. My nose twitches. Something in the air. Something new. Different. Exciting. Fresh meat, not like the pathe...