Free XXX Sex Stories Blog

Dr. Robert Allyn walked quickly down the hall to his 8 am class. Not because he was late, for he always arrived a few minutes early to be sure to start his class on time. He enjoyed teaching and especially liked early classes, him buzzing from three cups of coffee and half the class waking up to the jolt of his lectures. Another thought putting spring in his step was the image of the lovely young women who took his class. Faces fresh and beautiful were always there, sometimes with the added bonus of sexy fashions. Occasionally blouses with an extra button left undone or a top with a scoop neck cut a little too low woke him up during his first-of-the-day class, but more often the thin or tight fabrics revealed the shape of lacy bra.

“Women’s liberation has won, at least here on campus. Why are the bras still around? By all rights they should be in the dustbin of history,” he thought, remembering the bra burnings of the sixties. “But what we’ve lost up top, we’ve gained down below.” Today’s fashions ran to short skirts and, the most popular, tight, thin leggings that looked sprayed on. Watching young women walking in the halls or across the campus was a unique pleasure that gave each day at work its own little fantasies.

This morning’s class, however, had its own special attraction. While all classes had some women with curvy legs or soft breasts or sensual lips, it was rare to find that perfect fantasy woman who, wherever your eyes or imagination roamed, slipped past your thinking, conscious mind and moved directly into the lair of animal reflex that grabs and shakes the libido awake. Amy was one such woman. As Dr. Allyn entered the classroom and greeted the early students, he noticed she hadn’t yet arrived. Laying out his notes, he found images of her flashing through his mind. Her face was fascinating; although she came from Thailand, her features were a mix of Asian and European with eyes not quite round, and a nose just bit broader than most. He wasn’t sure if her dark brown hair was natural or tinted to fit in better with the rest of the students. Her fair skin covered a soft, lushly padded, petite body. Often she wore skirts, knee-length or shorter, that displayed curved calves and soft thighs. This perfect hourglass shape was accented by a larger than normal bustline. Two of her outfits in particular had low scooped necklines that showed cleavage worthy of the finest pin-ups. Many times since the semester began, the good doctor found himself at home, gripping his cum-smeared dick in pleasure as he ran through every fantasy he had ever had, and some he didn’t know he had, placing Amy in the role of his personal succubus.

(click to read entire story…)

I had never been an actual slave in “real life,” although I had had strong fantasies about being a slave for just about as long as I could remember. I have a very submissive nature, especially around someone who is able to bring out that side of me. This story is about a Mistress I served.

Mistress R. was my online Mistress. We had never actually met; we only corresponded through the email on a local BBS. All I knew about her was what I could read in her “bio.” She was 33 years old, 5’9″ tall and weighed 140 pounds. She was married and had red hair. Most of the other answers in her bio were normal enough, but under a question about personality types, she had selected “dominant.” Of course, with my submissive side, I had to write to her and explore just what she meant by that answer, and I was happy to learn that she liked to fantasize about being a Mistress. Based on this, we soon formed an online relationship with her as the Mistress and me as the slave. She made it very clear that since she was happily married this could never be anything more than “electronic play,” and I readily agreed. Right from the beginning she was very demanding. She remained totally in control and things seldom went the way I wished, but as I followed her orders (by myself, in front of the computer), I began to feel myself mentally coming under her control.

She began my training by telling me that as her slave, my body become her property. Just like I wouldn’t think of touching a Mistress without permission, she required me to ask for her permission and to follow certain rules she set forth before I was allowed to touch “her penis.” She ordered me to relieve her penis three times a day, but I was never allowed to even touch it if I was on any kind of furniture; I had to be kneeling or laying on the floor. This was very hard for me, since reading her letters or chatting with her or thinking about her made me very horny; it was hard to keep my hands off of her penis. I was required to send her a daily report once a day about how I had relieved her penis, how I had carried out any of her other orders, and describing my feelings to her.

Let me explain that although we never played in person, I tried to the best of my ability to obey her every command exactly as she wished, without complaint. I was not entirely successful, I think in part due to the fact that I probably needed her watching over me to insure total obedience. It was enough, though, to make me feel totally like her property. I was honest with her, so whenever I disobeyed or did not follow her orders, I told her so. Being an online computer relationship, I could have lied and she would never have known, but I think then I would have missed out on many of the feelings that came along with it. I really began to think and feel as if I were under her control.

(click to read entire story…)

I think it was the blood that kept my attention, really. Not that there was so very much of it, but it was quality blood. I mean the image. I’m not explaining this right. I mean amidst the almost three dozen rising welts on her back there were only three slashes that were bleeding. I think they were on purpose. But they were bleeding so well. Not a lot, mind you, but attractively.

You see, the blood was trickling in rivulets from these three lashes and running down her back. The scarlet tracks split and joined and resplit as they made their way to her shapely ass. Just in the small of her back they spread thinly into the fine lines and contours of her skin like a red river delta. And surrounding each gash, was a slight red spattering, where the blood mist flew from the lash had settled.

Where not rising or running red, her skin was pale. It was beyond pale, it was white, like snow or alabaster. Like the little cotton puff clouds on a fair day, her skin was. The contrast was shocking.

She hung there, her knees bent, legs unsupportive. Still conscious, but no longer holding herself up, she hung there by her arms. Almost without will. Her head was bent to her chest, and I could see that the strain on her shoulders was tremendous. Yet she hung as she had been told to before the whipping. The fact that she could relieve the pressure on her shoulders but chose not to was unfathomable. Admirable. (click to read entire story…)

Boy, it’s frustrating. This morning, the unseasonably cold temperature and a filling bladder ganged up on my short sleep cycle to wake me at 6:30. And, after I get up, I can’t get back to bed (not that I was particularly sleepy). So now I have to sit here and watch you not log in. Sigh.

I’ll pass the time somehow. Where was I? Kneeling in front of a tree in a park somewhere, I think. You standing before me, the breeze catching your hair and the airy fabric of your skirt. Concentrate on that for a moment — it could almost lift you away, couldn’t it? Perhaps if you held out those arms and breathed in, holding very still, the wind could just pick you up and steal you away with it.

I’ll have to hold you tighter, then; I certainly wouldn’t want that to happen. You’re feeling the breeze against your skin, tasting it through the stuff of your blouse and skirt, but you’re also feeling my hands on your bared hips, rubbing them gently to keep you warm. (Which works better? The friction of my palms against your skin, or the delirious feeling you get just from knowing my hands are pressed against you?) And, most of all, you feel my eyes.

I return to kissing your stomach, my lips barely moving but gliding across the silken surface of your stomach, painting it as if with camel’s-hair. It is one of the most frightening, ecstatic things I can imagine right now. It is, in fact, the only thing to surpass the delight I feel at sliding my fingertips around the waistband of your underwear, inserting them slightly underneath in order to taste the wonderfully extra-special taboo of your delta and lower hips. (click to read entire story…)

It was three o’clock in the afternoon and it had started to rain. Wet leaves stuck to the glossy red trunk of the Jaguar, beaded with droplets, and a hazy sun caught the rear window. Bobby opened the door and sat down heavily, breathing in the leather. So that was it. The end of Arla. He looked across the passenger seat to the lawn through the streaked window, the lawn that led up to the house. The canopied street curved away before him, its houses and hedges and willows and mimosa trees dripping and green. He looked down. Suddenly he felt her legs around his head again and his face pressed so deep into her pussy that it was stopped by her pubic bone. Her fragrance was overwhelming, so close, so close…

…Arla was sitting beside him as they raced along the 101. The ocean to their right appeared and disappeared through the hills. The wind swirled into the Jag. He shifted gears. She seemed pleased with how he did that. They drove up through the hills and it got cooler. It started to rain, or was it mist? “Hey, we’re driving through a cloud,” he said.

The car felt snug and strong, and he looked over and what he saw, what he saw, was Arla slipped down below window level with her skirt hoisted up and her legs wide open and her panties pulled to the side. Smiling like the sun and moon, she seemed to fill all the space in the cabin. But Bobby was cool. He kept driving, as the wind tore at her skirt in the corner of his eye. (click to read entire story…)