BB's Dirty Thoughts (Halloween edition)

"Only you can make me feel like this. I can feel you moving with me, and it's almost unbearably intense. Fuck, that's my spot..."

You have no idea how you've gotten this lucky. Only that after an age of flirtation, banter and courtship, the Mistress of the club Herself finally took you by the hand and dragged you to a dark back room, threw you against the wall, and demanded she had her way with you. You barely had time to nod before she had your pants down.

It's been a month of these visits, and her expertise and imagination is Boundless, treating you to rides you never thought you could have, to lusty decadence that you had no idea were even in you. She brings the monster out of you, dominant, submissive, or just loving, and with every new experience comes a better understanding of yourself, of the world, of sexuality.

Her skin is soft- impossibly soft. Cool. Silken and gorgeous, a map of sins that could only have ever been crafted by Renaissance masters. She holds your breath and destiny in the palm of her hand and you couldn't be more thrilled about it; when someone like Her takes a lover, old definitions of love and lust die, replaced with a score of debaucheries and daily romantic tragedies that make satisfying yourself on her an All Fucking Consuming Obsession. But she doesn't mind... she complains only when you spend too long away, not pleasuring her.

And so she gets a tender, velveteen revenge...

Your hands on her massive breasts, you bite your lip, and struggle not to come. Because you know the moment you do.... the grotesquely inhuman maw poised just over your neck will clamp down, sinking deliriously pleasurable fangs into your flesh and suck you dry. You can feel them there, the barest ghost of pricking, beyond a slathering tongue stimulating your nerves and driving you there all the faster.

She's restrained you before, but she doesn't need to now- it's a sweet bondage all it's own, edging you out, keeping you on that precipice and promising doom should you let your release cascade.

She thrusts against you firmly, madly, clamping down, soon to cream herself against you. The fangs promise and threaten just a little more firmly, not piercing, only heightening, the looming danger breathing hot down you neck as she rides you into fucking oblivion, until there's nothing left but red, red, red.

How long can you resist... ?