I still feel like I owe everyone (that is, Robbie) smut. Especially a graphic account of the first three or four days of the last visit, which were absolutely amazing in smut terms (and in general).

I’ve written hunks of smut, but I find it much easier to write the emo soul-searching stuff than to describe how he can control me with just a look, just two fingers on my shoulder.

There was one moment the first night I got there, after some preliminary beating, sucking, wax play, and other casual foolin’ around, when I ended up with my head on the pile of pillows at the foot of his bed.

He was lying on the bed, face next to mine, stroking my cheek. “Cunt,” he said softly, his thumb gentle against my skin. “Dirty little girl.” I stared up at him, my eyes glowing, waiting for what he would say next.

“Slut.”

“Co-conspirator.”

“Friend.”

“Lover.”

“Fucktoy.”

Is that the smut then?

By Kirill Zaitsev, found through Sexoteric.