Erotic Stories and True Confessions


I'm Fucking A Married Man
Secret motel sex with my married lover. - By Mindi

He was about to do my favorite move. I knew it. I tensed, and he pulled my legs up straight in front of him and pounded me even harder. I moaned.

“I thought I told you not to say anything.”

I giggled. He was fake mad. He slapped me in the ass and told me I better be quiet. Then he thrust his big hairy cock into me. I clenched my pussy around his swollen dick. He groaned. I was good at pleasing him.

“God damn, Mindi,” he said. “I do love fucking you.” I tried to buck up against him at the same rhythm as he was ramming me. I could tell by the expression on his face, the way his mouth opened and his head leaned back, that I was hitting the spot. I leaned on my elbows and slammed against him even harder. He smiled. I loved pleasing him. He pulled out just at the last minute and sprayed my tits and belly with cum. I rubbed my finger in a circle around my belly button and tasted it. He crawled up my body, knees on either side of me and stuck his still-hard cock in my mouth. I could taste salty jiz.

“Suck it, Mindi,” he ordered, and I dutifully obeyed.

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As we left the Hampton Inn that night, Scott left the key on the counter and we waived to Rob. He held up his hand without taking his eyes off the game on his little TV.

I remembered how my relationship with Scott began…

Where do I start? When I got knocked up in high school? That was five years ago. Since then, I managed to finish high school. I even got accepted at Jefferson Community College. Mom said she’s watch my kid while I went to classes, but I had to find a job. There was no way I was hitting the McDonald’s like the other low lifes. I had no doubt I’d be fucking some burger flipper by the end of week one, and then I’d end up getting knocked up by another dead beat. No thank you. I had to get a job where rich guys hung out, so I headed down to the ritzy street in town and put in applications.

Some of the guys on the street, the ones who weren’t with their wives, checked me out. I couldn’t blame them. While all of the other women wore beige short sets and scarves, I was wearing frayed daisy dukes and a white halter. My giant tits struggled to break free from the white cotton. I caught one guy staring so hard. I think he has willing one of my tits to pop out.

The next day, a guy at Macy’s called me in for an interview. I tried to achieve a good mix of slutty and demure, which was a hard crossroads to manage, but I pulled it off. Imagine my surprise when a woman called me in to her office for the interview.

She stared at my cleavage, and even though I’d listened to her entire interview with the girl ahead me through the open door, she pulled the door closed after I walked in.

She asked me if I knew how to sell. I had no idea, but I said yes. If there was one thing I learned from having a baby it was that you didn’t really need to know how to do anything. Pretty much everything could be learned as you go.

She said, “With the economy in the crapper, we need someone who can sell.”

She eyed my cleavage again.

“Even if the salesperson uses unorthodox tactics.”

I didn’t know what she meant by “unorthodox tactics,” but I knew she was staring at my tits as she said it, so I figured they must be unorthodox tac-tits.

I was a natural. My job consisted of working the cosmetics counter, where rich guys came in, drooled over my tits for as long as they could stand, and then bought expensive makeup for their wives or girlfriends.

I started wondering what I was doing wasting my time struggling up the ladder. These guys were a gold mine.

Ever since high school, I’d been nursing a need to get fucked. I even went so far as to keep a toothbrush and change of clothes in my car in case I got the opportunity. My mom didn’t care as long as I texted to let her know what was up. She confessed to me that my amped up sex drive probably came from her. She used to be the same way.

I had fun, but all the guys that hung out in my kind of places were losers. Some had jobs, but they were scrape-by jobs. I could do better on welfare. Don’t get me wrong. Every Saturday night when I went out with my girls, I almost always went home with someone. Those boys told me how I was the finest fuck they’d had the pleasure to boink—better than their wives or their girlfriends or their whores. I knew I had some kind of talent and that I shouldn’t be letting it go to waste on hard-working guys who couldn’t really do anything for me.

That’s when I started dressing like a total whore at work. At first, the big wigs eyed my cleavage and short skirts disapprovingly. Until they saw my increase in sales. A steady stream of rich folk bought over-priced makeup from me. As the Christmas season rolled around, the counter got busier, and my clothes got sluttier.

As guys came in and inspected the merchandise, I leaned on the glass-top counter, letting my cleavage slide right into their field of vision, and watched them melt.

They’d ask, “What would you like?” Or as one guy said, “What would turn you on?”

I always pointed them to the Donna Karan gift set which resulted in a large bonus for me. Sure, it was the bonus that turned me on, but they didn’t need to know that.

Things got crazier the closer Christmas got. Between finals and working the counter, I didn’t have any time for fucking, and my pussy was constantly juicy.

I didn’t think I could push the boundaries of sexy clothes anymore, but one day I didn’t have any clear underwear, not even a thong, so I went commando. I was afraid someone would notice, but I think I was the only one who knew. The feeling of the air against my pussy lips got me turned on, so I flirted up a storm and made more sales than ever before.

As I talked a guy into spending $75 on bronzer, I noticed a well dressed gentleman checking out the perfumes. I finished up my sale so I could nab him.

I leaned on the glass right under his nose where he was currently looking at a French eau de toilette collection. He looked at my tits without seeming embarrassed about it. No matter what I offered, he kept asking to see more, said he hadn’t found what he was looking for yet. When I laid the free-with-purchase Burberry scarf on the counter, he acted like he was going to skim his finger over the material, but instead he rubbed that electric fingertip down the palm of my hand. I got chills.

He finally decided on the Donna Karan gift set and a few other incidentals which put his total way over $100. He paid with a gold card and I wrapped everything up in a gift bag and handed it over. He checked my tits out again when he took the bag. He slipped another hundred dollar bill in the palm of my hand.

“Merry Christmas,” he said. “I’d like to cum on your tits.”

I had to think about this for a second and make sure it was happening. When I got as turned on as I had the last few weeks, I tended to think everything was an invitation to pleasure.

“Excuse me?”

I thought he would shy away or say something different. Instead he cleared his throat so as not to be misheard. “I said I would like to cum on your tits.”

This guy—Scott was the name on his credit card—was looking at me in a way that I knew meant one thing: Sale made. He’d pay anything I asked.

I actually blushed. I mean, it took a lot to get me flustered, but this guy managed to do it. I looked around at the other customers who kept window shopping as if nothing had been said. One man was flagging me down. I couldn’t leave for a good fuck right now, but I sure wanted to see what this Scott was made of. I wrote my number on a perfume card and handed it to Scott. He sniffed it and asked me of my pussy smelled as good.

I giggled. Something about Scott made me feel like I was that high school slut again.

We met that weekend. It was the week of Christmas, and I realized I hadn’t been fucked since November. That was our first stay at the Hampton Inn.

Once in the room, Scott laid his expensive jacket over the back of a chair and told me to take my top off.

For some reason, I reached for the clasp on my skirt first, but he stopped me.

“The shirt first.”

I stopped. He sounded so in control. I could tell he was used to getting what he wanted. I pulled the shirt over my head. He walked over to me and began to kiss my small nipples which were already hard. They had been pressing against thin cotton this whole time. I got mesmerized by his tit attention. So I was surprised when his fingers curled into my panty-less pussy. He whistled at the wetness.

“Been waiting for me?” he smiled.

“My whole life,” I told him. He liked this answer.

He told me to take my skirt off and start by giving him a blow job. I was happy to obey. Instead of coming instantly like most guys, he savored my performance, telling me what he liked best. I loved getting a good response. It was like getting an A on a paper.

Boy, did he give me good grades. After I sucked him off for a while, he told me get up on the bed so he could dip his cock in my snatch. I spread my legs wide and savored the feeling of his big cock in my snatch. I knew he had a wife—I picked out her Christmas gift—but I figured that she must not be doing her part if Scott needed me. Those rich bitches pissed me off. Their husbands spent hundreds of dollars on gifts for them, and they probably hardly gave it up. As I thought this, I started to thrust into Scott and I tightened my pussy like I had read on the Internet. As I tightened the death grip around his cock, he came inside of me.

“I thought you wanted to cum on my tits,” I said innocently.

He smiled and did my favorite move right then for the first time. He lifted my legs against his chest and started pounding into me.

“Don’t say anything,” he ordered. I kept my mouth shut. I rubbed my clit and he watched me. Then I began to explore the folds of pussy with my fingers, letting them slip in and out of my cunt along with his dick. He pulled out and sprayed my tits with his junk.

“I want you to suck me again. Get on the floor.” I listened. I loved listening to Scott right from the start. Maybe it was the way we met: him the rich shopper, me the poor salesgirl. Maybe because Scott knew how to use his dick. For whatever reason, I wanted to please him. I loved pleasing him. So I spit all over the head of his cock and deep-throated it. I concentrated on giving him the best head he’s ever gotten. I sucked and jerked and gagged until his cum was shooting down my throat.

I swallowed. “Thank you,” I said. It was habit with customers. I blushed after I said it, but he smiled. He loved it.

We have been fucking for four months now.

“What does your wife think?” I asked him once as we walked from the store to his car. He smiled as if he was thinking of a good answer.

“She has no idea why I spoil her with all these cosmetics.” He hit a button on his keys to unlock the doors. I got in and spread my legs as got in and put a Clinique bag in the back seat. He started the car and my cunt flooded. He slipped his fingers into my waiting snatch. I giggled.

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