Scribbles of passion

Eyes closed, she sunk in the old claw tub—a relic from the past brought back to life. An odd addition to such a classy hotel, but that bath was why she chose that room. The softness of a piano played through the room’s sound system, pungent aroma, and roses filled the water with a relaxing journey into Eden’s garden. Soft footfalls from the other room, his presence is taking up space in the small room. From behind, a soft silk scarf tied around her eyes, she would never see him, but he was damn sure going to make sure she felt him.

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She lost

She broke her own heart, trying to hold back the tears that would flood her world. A constant scathing of her soul, the once bright star had finally dimmed her lights and succumbed to her self inflicted pain. No tears at her grave side. She is not buried in a hole. On her last flight around the moon, forever Tinkerbell will live with Peter in a world of the sick, the lost, and the hopeless.

A.J. Luna

Twelve days of smutmass – 4

No Santa visit this year? Oh, that won’t do. I know every naughty girl needs her time on the old fat man’s lap? Can you imagine a year without a Santa Claus? There is no way I am going without the slide down the sticky candy cane this year. My mouth is watering just thinking about how good that first slurp of Christmas tastes.

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Twelve days of Smutmas – 2

Ribbons and bows, she was bound in the finest silks that money could buy. Her hands entwined, her legs tightly wrapped, her only freedom was the hollows of her mind. The knots tightened with every attempt to escape. Taunting the kitten with a string of pearls, she crawled across the floor as the baubles were a lure to his lap. A pat to his groin, her head found the solace in the purrs he caused. Santa might carry treats for children, but her desires were for a man who came than just on Christmas Eve.

A.J. Luna

12 days of smutmas – 1

On the first day of smutmas, my true love gave me screams that filled my soul with pleasure. His hand caressed my cheek before he thrust fingers down my throat, choking me with his demands. He ravaged my throat with the tips of his fingers. The tears rolled down my cheeks in a stream of torment. He whispered in my ear that his Kitten needed to learn that holidays were for his pleasure, not hers. A gift was coming, but not by the Jolly fat man. Not even Santa could touch his property.

A.J. Luna