Roxie's Dirty Diary [mf, bdsm, bisexual, submission] | 2016

Before everyone downvotes this to pieces, I should caution that I'm an amateur writer who's trying to turn all of her experiences into a series of erotic books. Like it or not, this did happen to me, but since I was working from memory, I decided to clean it up a little.

August Eleventh, Late Evening

I will admit before I begin this entry that I may or may not have imbibed some exceptionally fine red wine. It may or may not have had a fancy Italian-sounding name that I cannot pronounce, but Ash can with his sexy, sexy voice. He’s multi-lingual.

But anyhow, so yeah, I’m home playing with my cat, Bootsie.

Yep, home on a Friday, going over some files for Daniels & Goldstein briefing on Monday, and I get a text.

Yes, I know, I know – “but who would ever text you on a Friday night, Roxanne?”

First of all, many people would, like my mom or my sister. Secondly, and truthfully, who do you think?

Anyhow, I’m home, being boring, and dining on my fave – microwave popcorn and cold pizza – when I get a text from Ash.

And from the sounds of it, he’s fairly tipsy. I wouldn’t say drunk, because that’s a very foul word. He was playful, and silly, but still in command. I can’t explain it, but you’ll have to trust me.

Anyhow, we banter for a little while before he asks me if I wanted to hang out, which makes me very nervous.

I’m nervous because I like him, and can’t seem to say no to his tanned-and-toned bod and ever-so-charming smile. I’m nervous because I don’t want to be some random hook-up.

The more I think about this, the more depressed I get. I mean, we’ve hung out a few times during the week. He’s taken me to lunch too, which is nice. I’ll tell you about that later on.

Anyhow, I suppose I don’t deal well with being discarded – probably why I don’t talk to anyone. Ever. Well, mostly ever, if I can help it. Either way, he wants to meet up. Says he’s got a problem and only I can help.

Hmm… He’s a bad boy, and a flirt, but he’s never been this sexual before.

I text back a guarded, but coy reply, but my charm (or lack thereof) is ignored.

He apparently left a “late night luncheon” with some “law-biz guys” and swiped some dessert “just for me.”

I actually laugh out loud. Oh Ash, handsome and a provider?

So, don’t judge me, but thirty minutes later, and he’s knocking at the door. He’s a little tipsy, smells faintly of beer, and is decked out in messy business casual. A herringbone jacket with dark jeans and his hair is all mussed up, and his stubble is about a day too long. Oh, also, he and his sweet smile came bearing the gifts of stolen chocolates, fruits, and little cakes.

So, basically, what’s hanging around my door is what I tend to think about in the shower when I’ve got time to spare. Um, yep, this is going to be one of those entries...

He stalks around my place. It might be his confidence, but he’s so predatory. I secretly love it. I think he likes how I react.

I return with drinks to find him sitting on the couch, playing a silly game with Bootsie. The traitor!

We make some small-talk and I try to guess where he was. Through his cologne, I can smell faint tobacco, like real expensive pipe tobacco, but won’t say anything.

Then things begin to escalate.

We’re both sitting down on my red Ikea couch, and I can sense the chit-chat starting to dwindle. He’s swept me along so well that it’s only at this point that I realize I’m in my around-the-house clothes, old (probably stained) hospital pants and a stretchy sweater from high school. Classy.

Ash doesn’t seem to care, weirdly.

Right when the conversation’s about to lull, he perks up and opens up the little box of desserts that he’d brought.

My mouth begins to water. They look amazing. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m ungodly hungry, but they look more like food from a perfect dream, or something.

He takes some French thing that I cannot pronounce – he tries to get me to say it three times, and I keep butchering it and blushing – and tells me that I’ll love it.

I stammer out a reason that I couldn’t possibly eat it, mostly because they’re probably loaded with calories, sugar, or fat, but he ignores most of them.

“Maybe. But I see the desire in your eye,” he says, or something like that.

Then, those steely grey eyes lock with mine, he smiles a warm, comforting smile, and proceeds to feed me.

I know it sounds weird, but it wasn’t. Really.

His touch is so strong and patient, and he softly narrates what he’s putting into my mouth, detailing where the chocolate came from, how the coconut was harvested, the fat content of the creme, and so on. Everything’s warm and hazy, like a dream. I’ve eaten about four or so of the treats before I realize that he’s resting his hand on my thigh.

I inhale sharply.

I think he notices and gives me a devilishly playful look, as he brings a chocolate covered strawberry to my lips.

I attempt to bite it, but he holds back, causing me to blush. He smirks, and proceeds to trace the tip of the strawberry along my lips. It feels heavenly.

Feeling my cheeks flush rosy red, and without looking away I give him a little show. I know, that was very, very uncharacteristic of me. I lick the tip of the strawberry, tasting the silky, imported chocolate on my tongue. Leaning forward, I purse my lips around the bottom and wetly suck it into my mouth, before taking a delicate bite, causing the juices to moisten my lips, and spill along my chin.

His eyes glaze and flutter ever so briefly. His hand squeezes my thigh ever so gently.

We’re silent for a moment.

“My,” he speaks in a low, wolfish, growl “such a hungry little thing.”

My nerves are screaming and my face feels like it’s on fire. “Maybe. The strawberry felt so good in my mouth,” I pause, “…’cause it was so sweet and sticky.”

His eyes flare with menace and he smiles.

I want to bury my face in the pillows. This isn’t me. I mean, it isn’t, right?

His hand rubs along my thigh softly, and the other brushes along my jaw with a feather-light touch, directing me to look back at him. He’s beautiful. He’s so strong and rugged. And gentle and tender too. He’s about to speak, but before he can, I’m filling his mouth with my tongue.

We explode.

His arms wrap around me, as I climb on top of him for our embrace. We’re kissing each other like horny high-schoolers after our very first sip of wine.

I can’t stop. I don’t want to. I want this. I need this.

His hands roam my back. I find myself grinding down hard on his lap. I feel a rock-hard surprise for me.

Ash’s strong hands cradle my ass, as I lean back and begin to tug my top over my head. His lips never leave mine as we tumble about the couch. I lean back on my thighs, and he unbuttons his shirt, and then yanks his undershirt off.

Wow. Just wow.

He’s got muscle, that’s for sure, but he’s also solid. A real man. He makes me feel so feminine. I want to reach down and touch him, but I can’t find the courage. My head is swimming with heated thoughts.

He gently takes my hand in his, and I demurely bite my lip. He likes that.

Ash guides our hands along his chest. I can feel the caged power that is his body. His skin is soft, but his muscles are so hard. I think I gasp, but I’m not sure.

I want him. I want to devour him. I want him inside me, filling me. But, I can’t ask. I’m trapped by wracking shyness.

Suddenly, my knight in shining armour decides to rescue me.

“Do you like what you see, pretty girl?” he’s tender and kind, it’s arousing, like seeing a super-hot single dad playing with his kids in the park.

I nod once, still biting my lip. Normally, I would’ve made fun of girls who do this, but he seems to love it.

“Do you want to see what’s under my clothes?” he asks with a playful grin. I slowly nod, forcing myself to breathe. It’s hard, since I’m so charged.

Our fingers are still intertwined. His hands are calm. Mine are probably clammy and shaking. I’m grinding on his lap. I’m hoping he’ll get the idea. I’m silently begging for him to initiate.

“Pretty girl,” he begins, pausing for suspense, “…can we see what’s under your clothes?”

I whimper a yes, my face buried in his strong shoulder. I’m riding him so hard, and hearing those words sets off the fireworks in my mind.

I would’ve liked the first time that we played to be more romantic, probably more Hollywood-ish. I don’t know, I would’ve liked to have been all dolled up, with make-up and lingerie. Although, as a former tomboy, I’d probably have to go to eHow to figure out how to do all of that stuff.

But I don’t. I don’t need any of that. He’s hard and ready, and wants to play with me exactly as I am, right here, right now. Something about how accepting and how ready he is turns me on incredibly. What happens next is a bit of a blur.

I’m still on top of him, but my hospital pants are bunched up over the handlebars of my exercise bike. I don’t know which one of us threw them over there.

I’m grinding like crazy, my face buried in his neck. It’s warm, and comforting, and smells like a man: faint traces of cologne, Ivory soap, and sweat. It drives me wild.

I don’t know when, but his pants are off. He’s wearing snug boxer briefs that showcase his strong thighs oh so very nicely. He’s rock hard, and the fabric around the end of his bulge is darkening. Then, they’re off.

I love cock, don’t get me wrong, but I love the feel of it. It’s warmth, and hardness. Feeling it against me, and knowing it wants to be in me. So good.

I’m riding him hard. When I realize that the only thing keeping his shaft from burying itself deep in my flesh is the thin, soaked fabric of my panties, I bite my lip hard. I want to scream out, but that’s not me.

“Lean back for me?” he asks with reassuring patience.

I do as he commands.

With a kind look, he asks if he can take a closer look at my panties. I don’t know why he asks, because he knows he can do anything he wants. But I love it. I love fulfilling his desires. I love how he asks.

I start to get up, but he tugs me back. Instead, he slides the wet fabric of my underwear to the side, revealing my aching little slit.

I’m nervous because I haven’t prepared, or shaved, or trimmed, or. But none of that matters, as it just fades against the chorus that my blood is screaming. I don’t care. I just want him. Any way I can get him. Now.

With one hand grasping my ass, the other begins to tease at the slippery flesh between my legs. The way I’m sitting on him causes my dark hair to part, revealing the pink slit underneath.

His thumb effortlessly sinks past my lips and I shudder with delight. He’s so strong, and there’s no mistaking his rough touch, especially after so many months of my own slim fingers.

A few moments later, his fingers are buried in my pussy, skilfully working my wet flesh into a frenzy.

He’s ungodly strong, and he could easily have gotten me off with brute force if he wanted to. Maybe later, but not now. But the thought is intoxicating…

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