Hot Breakup Sex

I don’t want him back. Honestly, that’s a lie. I want him back. To make things right, to make everything work, but the way he left, he ain’t coming back. He left on his own volition.


I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes, floating in the moment. Up and until then I had never doubted I was one hundred percent straight. Guess I wasn’t, all Nancy’s craft.


My beloved playboy boyfriend left me for a barely legal, obsessed, pathologically thin anorexic version of a Hanna Montana wannabe. All my efforts to get to him had been futile until Nancy knelled the gongs that denounced the lecherous wretch and told me to move on.

Before I went on the prowl for another boyfriend (it’s not easy to get one on short notice), I needed hot breakup sex to get over my boyfriend and everything. With no premeditated aforethought, Nancy, a celebrated lesbian, happened to touch me and then one thing led to another until I received my first ever sapphic kiss, undressed each other at record time and then began massaging each other’s pussy with our tongues.


Nancy made me feel like this fantasy girl I always envisioned, touching me in ways no man had ever, taking me past cloud nine.


My body convulsed as wavelets of pleasure coursed through me, Nancy’s sweet mouth sucking the lips of my pussy and guzzling my squirt. I squirmed when she took the whole of my clit in her hot mouth and cavorted it with her tongue like lollipop. The mound throbbed at an alarmingly risky rate, but Nancy knew what to do.


As I enjoyed my hot breakup sex with a legally recognized lesbian, I wanted Nancy’s mouth to forever suck my cunt, drink my squirt and frolic my clit and labia.

Double Ass

When I started hawking my pussy in the streets for anyone, and any thing, that paid, I was ready to go to any extreme to earn that extra shilling.

Well, as is the rule, the client pays for my services – blowjob, strip teasing/dancing, sex and all – and they get their money's worth (no change or balance), but if they want more or anything unconventional, I charge extra. Those are the terms and conditions. Such desserts come with a bonus from the boss. He watches everything we do from his upstairs voyeur room equipped with screens fed live by discreetly concealed cameras from all rooms.

One of the lucrative bonuses is double ass, two cocks in your ass.

So, after going for about two hours with two guys (MMF), all imaginable sex positions and styles tried, one of the guys went for my ass.

Piece of cake; it was not the first time I was doing anal, and I offered for the mere fact of the bonus. What? I don't like those eyebrows I see rising on me. That's what keeps me the envy of the average girl (luxury), buys me shoes, and pays for my bills, salon and all.

At first I did not know what they wanted, but when one of them inserted his cock in my ass and laid back, me on top, spreading my legs as far as they could go, it did not occur to me they wanted a double ass.
The other guy positioned himself on top of me and I thought he was going for the pussy, as in cock in ass, another in pussy, I sandwiched between them. Instead, he went for the ass.

Slowly by slowly, I felt my ass being torn asunder, the walls crumbling down and…. A tremor ran through me. What I felt words alone can't describe, but that's the last thing I can remember before darkness besieged me.

When I came to, I was at the hospital (guess the boss still wanted me to mint him more money!).



Copyright © Rati, 2013. All Rights Reserved.

Private Party

(Diary of a Rookie Hooker)

Friday 16;

The sleek car (Land Cruiser/Prado), I bet had seen it on KTN TV's Motor World (there were only ten of those in the country, designed by David Beckham's chick and cost a whooping twelve million shillings, what did they call it? Land Cruiser Evoque?) slowed down and pulled up at the kerb.

Just as I'd been tutored, and rehearsed, I walked up to the car, leaned forward sure that I was exposing the required cleavage. The man in the backseat (the kind of guys the state keeps classified for national security reasons) feasted on what I was offering and nodded in approval.

The door opened (electrically) and I slid in making sure that the garb that advertised I was peddling my pussy shrank and exposed the black lacy lingerie that was beginning to drench in perspiration and vaginal fluids.

My butt felt as though it was being massaged electrically (thanks to David Beckham's girlfriend's designer genius of the seats); and I bet my heart was palpitating as the pussy was flattering in anticipation.

I felt man's hand caress my thighs, and at that moment my mind wandered in the foreseeable future.

Girls on K Street are not just prostitutes out to eke a living. There are also opportunists, mostly campus girls out to make that extra shilling (besides their Rich Dad's, Poor Dad's measly pocket money) to buy them Gucci and Armani stuff just like everybody else.

I knew that the ball, no pun intended, was on my court. If I played well, and this stinking rich honcho liked me enough, I might end up starting my own law firm and kiss the streets goodbye. Who wouldn't?

I had joined the 'Campus Divas for the Rich Men' club and was on three months' probation before I was connected to the real rich guys (K Street was the Red Sea where one's initiative parted the waters either to cross over to financial immortality or forever hawk your cunt for scraps) and become a decent escort for diplomats and dignitaries (ticket to going around the world in 80 days).

I felt his hands touch my inner thigh, hesitate a bit before touching my burgeoning vulva. A floodgate opened somewhere inside me and arousal liquids were like Thomson Falls where my eighteen years' virginity had been taken by the campus Casanova while on a research excursion.

I gave the man the eyes that I had perfected the look on mirror suggesting 'I'm all yours boy'. He parted my legs and knickers to create way to my dripping wet vagina, parted my already opening labia and toyed with my mound. I felt ripples go through my body partly because I couldn't take any more without screaming my head off and partly because a demigod worshiped by the public was showing another side of him very few people knew, and were to know.

I reached inside his trousers and got hold of his rock hard penis. God, he was so big that for a moment I thought he would tear me asunder permanently. His shaft was so hot that my hands felt like they were being scorched. I couldn't wait to lay my eyes on it.


"Suck me," he told me.

I unbuckled his belt, ripped open the zipper and extracted his twitching cock from his (not counterfeit) Calvin Klein briefs. I got hold of it at the bottom, moved my hand up and down, then bend over it and put it in my mouth. I made slurping sounds as I moved it from side to side in my mouth, occasionally spitting on it, lubricating, moving my hand up and down then putting it back in my mouth.

A moment later, I felt his body tense. He grabbed my now loose hair and tried to swallow tiny gasps and moans that escaped his mouth. I tasted his pre-cum and I was about to stop, to allow him to cool down a bit, when he said, "Don't Stop."

Really, that's what you want horny guy?

I flicked, rollicked, sucked and nibbled his throbbing giant dick that was slowly growing bigger and bigger as my pussy willed him to hammer it like all hell had broken loose.

Without warning, he thrust inside my mouth, almost to the back of my throat, but choke reflex was overcome by my intent to pleasure him, make him give me his business card and then lolly would be like confetti.

As though it were lollipop, I sucked and sucked, and before he could thrust again, I frolicked the glans with my tongue. Just then, his hold on my hair tightened and he spewed a hot, creamy liquid into my mouth.
I guzzled the copious juice faster than his state-issued Passat and Merc guzzled petrol (include the Evoque there), his heart beating faster.

There was a vibration somewhere and he reached inside his jacket pocket and produced a sleek iPhone.

"I'm on my way," he said and hung up.

Just where were we going? I wondered.

An instance later, my question was answered when the car pulled up outside a large Hollywood mansion I saw on Fabulous Lives of Filthy Rich Billionaires. My razor sharp mind deducted that we were at one of the city's secret sex dens for the damn rich only.

"The party is about to begin," he told me as he zipped up his trousers. "Let's party to the grave, shall we?"

The car doors opened and, after I'd made a quick tidy up, we stepped out. To my consternation, the car park was a bazaar of luxury cars – Mercs, Cadillacs, Passats, Range Rovers, a Lamborghini and I bet I spotted a Ferrari.

The surprise of the week awaited me when we entered the house, what I deduced to be the parlour. It was full of masked people, all nude, in different sex positions and styles; mating noises a cacophony of cooing and howling at different stages of crazy sex – a lady moaning softly, another saying "Fuck me! Fuck!", one commanding to be fucked faster and harder and another screaming her head off "I'm Coming."


It was nothing like I had ever seen before.

I was jolted from my trance by my client's voice telling me to undress.

At desperately record time I was naked, his big, rock hard dick forcing its way into my trembling pussy. He took me from behind, began to pound and clobber my cunt so hard that I felt myself tear inside, as in hymen being torn apart. Talk of secondary virginity being broken.

I felt him thrust harder, and faster, and an earthquake originating from me.

Guess the party had started.


 
Copyright © Rati, 2013. All Rights Reserved.