Vanilla

Submitted by an anonymous guest writer:

My mistress came for me, moaning, screaming, clutching at the sheets with hands like claws, lost in pleasure while I bulled her and worked a vibe deep in her ass.

How many men could write that? How many would like to be able to write that?

But I can. The image of it is burned on my brain. My beautiful mistress. My whore. My darling, coming as if her soul is being turned inside out. Dear God, she is so beautiful, so amazing, so wonderful. Long and pale and slim and elegant and soft and sharp and clever and eager and hungry. Such a gifted little slut. So damned good at coming. Once she starts she can’t stop. She lets me draw orgasms out of her one after another, a stuttering cascade of pleasure like the pearls I stuff into her sweet cunt and drag out again on a long, coiling string of joy. She loses herself completely. She falls down into a trance of joy. She’s not in control. She can barely respond to what’s happening to her. It is wonderful to behold.

We had three amazing hours on a big snowflake marshmallow of a bed with a view out across the harbour.

“I want vanilla” .

That’s what she said.

Kinky.

We rolled on the bed, naked and sweaty and ate mango and pineapple and fat strawberries that stained the sheets blood red and we lay close and drank elder-flower champagne and munched on Turkish Delight.

At the end of it all she said: “I brought my collar. I wish you’d spank me.’’

mmmm,

Vanilla.