Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
My eyes darted on my screen like they were engaged in a game of tug-of-war. Yes, no, yes, no, yes, no, I couldn’t reach a decision on whether or not I had the stomach to go through with it. I told myself I did. I zeroed in on the little blue file labeled, “Shoe Box.” A superficially non-threatening icon with enough dirt to destroy two reputations, and then some. I bit the insides of my cheek, a nervous reaction I hadn’t been able to shake off since I was a child, and fought the urge to open it up. I right clicked my mouse once, just enough to hover the arrow over the Delete tab. All I had to do was click the option once, then empty out the recycle bin. I told myself I’d do it tonight. Then again, I said I’d do it yesterday. And the day before that. One click, and it’d be in the reject pile. One click, and I’d lose all remnants of anything harbored and be able to start anew. I was aware it was an easy process, I was simply making it hard for myself. I had no willpower. “Get a grip,” I scolded myself, running my free hand over my face. I took a deep breath and turned back to the icon, determined.
I double clicked it and opened the files up.
The level of excitement that shook my body hadn’t changed from the very first addition to the collection. The thrill never died, it only got more intense with time, it seemed. My shoe box never failed to give me the craze I needed. My eyes scanned the flesh-colored files, small enough to tease you into temptation without actually viewing the contents in depth. I’d opened my shoe box up over a million times, but my hold on it never changed. I was grasping onto my shoe box like a supermarket-lost child clings onto his reunited mother. I wouldn’t let it go; old memories, lost memories, new memories, ought-to-be forgotten memories. I knew it wasn’t healthy. I knew it was deteriorating my mind from the inside out, causing a rot, but I couldn’t help it.
There were 236 photos, 58 videos, 7 word documents, and a .pdf (made in jest.) I’d organized my shoe box down to a tee; the photos came first, sorted by months, then broken down into dates throughout the span of a year and a half. The videos were next, organized by intensity of the films. The word documents and pdf last, as I rarely visited them, mostly because I had them memorized without the need for a visual representation. I clicked the very first of January of 2016’s contents, and was immediately met with my slut’s eyes staring up at me in earnest. Wide, wet, and sparkling she was glancing up at the camera, her facial muscles proving that she was attempting a smile, had her mouth not been full.
An immediate reaction grew inside me. Blood canlı bahis şirketleri rushed to my groin. My cock did a rise, slow and steady. I used my left hand to click through the pictures one by one. The next proved that she’d found her smile: She was grinning, my fingers tugging at the hook of her collar. Pure happiness, being restrained by her Daddy. At this point, my cock matched its appearance in the photo; straight, hard as a diamond, and ready for her. I looked at the picture with all the might I had, hoping my imagination was enough to suffice once more.
I clicked through, one by one, my left hand glued to the keyboard, while my right tried it’s hardest to mimic the motions of my girl. I clicked and clicked, hoping to build up a higher intensity, and I succeeded. My slut was whispering through the photos. She looked at me for approval, she ignored me, she spread her ass open, she was lying on her back during her come-down, she took a hold of my cock’s head – I paused at that memory – she stuck her tongue out for the camera. She and I both looked at the camera together- a photograph I readily skipped over- before letting me become her professional pussy snapper. She was my professional slut, after all, it was the least I could do.
My heart skipped a beat at the revisited realization of the word ‘was,’ but I quickly replaced the sudden flood of emotions with another wave of arousal. She may not be my slut right now, but she has always belonged to my cock.
I felt the cum build in my balls as I gripped myself harder, eyes focused on the pictures before me, my mind bringing them to life. I squeezed my cock lightly, imitating the grip of my woman, and I slid my fingers over and around my head, my shaft, stopping every few minutes to add more lubrication, imagining it was her mouth, her head bobbing up and down, still clicking right, right, right, lust building with every new stimulant that appeared on the screen.
The next picture caught my attention, as I paused to admire it with my cock in hands. It was my girl in full form. She was looking down at the lens, a slutty, evil smile widening her cheeks, dimples accentuated, tits taut, stomach slim, hips emphasized in the natural light of the background. She looked so innocent, so natural, yet so overtaken with our sins that my cock and heart both tugged, ached, fighting one another for the win. I wanted to climb into the screen, into the photo, kiss her on her lips and lick her sweet areolas, bend her over, open her pussy and coat her with everything inside me. My mouth watered at the idea, her taste, her smell, I closed my eyes to give myself a better image, only to canlı kaçak iddaa open them and be met with her once more.
Cum shot up my shaft as I looked into my slut’s eyes. I knew I’d have to let her go eventually, but not tonight. One more time, she would feel the warmth of my cock, the power of my desire, she’d be filled with all of me, writhing as I moved in her swiftly, shifting her body to my rhythm.
“Guh,” I grunted, my lip curling in an animalistic trance. She had just climbed onto me and I was settling into her, soft, warm embrace. She laughed at my reaction, squeezed her pussy tight, her grin extending into a taunt, and I ate every second of it up. Her small, teasing giggle, her curves resting over me, her pussy contracting onto me as she released little squirts of pleasure all over my stomach, letting me know that I did this to her, me, alone, without the correspondence of anyone else.
“Fuck,” I said aloud, unable to hold it in much longer. I needed to nut, but I wanted it to be the last and final time – this time, for real. I skillfully swiped the document with the cursor and reached the videos, quickly opening up my favorite one.
“Wait, are you recording?” My woman asked, looking at the camera through a mirror. She was fixing her hair up in a high ponytail, wearing only a bikini thong.
“I am now,” I interjected, zooming in on her ass, “Why don’t you say hi, beautiful?” I readjusted the lens back to her face. My baby was a natural. She gave the camera a coy wink, and slowly made her way over to the bed, guiding my movements with her eyes. She lay on the mattress belly down, arching her ass and extending her fingertips beyond her. I suggested, “Why don’t you tell the audience your name?” She sat up and said, with the most natural assertion, “My name is Aroma.”
“How old are you, Aroma?”
“I’m 24,” she said, “But I fuck like a 15 year old boy.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” I said, fingering the strings of her thong, “And what will you be showing us today, Aroma?”
“I’m going to show you how quickly I can make my Daddy cum.”
I had to release the grip on my dick or else risk cumming to early. I watched her move on the screen, entrancing me as if she had come alive.
“Do you consider yourself a slut, Aroma?” I said as she ran her lips over my shorts. She licked the outline of my cock, placing several cloth-covered kisses. She paused, looking up at me with sincerity that could only be found in my baby’s eyes.
“Your slut, Daddy.” I filmed as she slowly pulled my shorts down and allowed my cock to freely throb into the air.
“And what are you going to be doing to canlı kaçak bahis your Daddy today?”
“What I do best,” she said in a childish tone, giggling, which caused me to giggle, too. “Suck his cock and have him coat my face.”
“Do you like getting your face coated?” I asked, lying on my back and adjusting the camera so that my slut was the only focus.
“Only if it’s my Daddy’s cum-present.”
“I have a nice present for you today,” I relaxed into the bed, and my slut went to work. Licking me, sucking the tip of my dick in light caresses, gripping my skin with determination. Every so often, my slut would slip me inside her, ride my cock for a few minutes until she got what she wanted, what she needed. At one point, I slapped her ass and asked, “You’re a selfish little whore, aren’t you? Riding your Daddy’s cock in the middle of a blowjob?”
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she said, wincing in pleasure, “I can’t help it. You just feel so, so good.”
“So do you, Baby,” I growled as she panted her way into climax and climbed off of me. She lay back down on the bed and started cleaning her pussy off of my skin.
“Sorry for getting you dirty, Daddy,” she said, lightly touching my cock with her forefinger, “I didn’t mean to.”
“Bad slut,” I said, slapping her face, “I suppose it’s not entirely your fault, knowing you can’t help it. Now make it up to Daddy so that Daddy can give you your present.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. Her determination brought me to the edge quickly. My slut knew how to move on me. Feeling that I was close to popping, she expanded her throat for the finale. Surely, with the final few strokes, my slut swallowed me up, allowing some of my cum to splatter onto her lips, mess up her hair. Proudly, she pat my cock onto her cheeks, flashing the camera that award-winning grin.
Watching the end of the video, I came, equally, imagining everything about my slut once more. Her soft pussy walls. Her soft tits and soft ass. Her soft lips. Her hands. Her hair. Her eyes. Her smile. Her laugh. Her voice. Her everything.
Releasing the grip on my cock, I wiped my hands clean of all evidence. A calmness had ensued over me. I mentally prepared myself. That was the last time, I said. This time, I meant it. There wasn’t going to be another stolen moment with my slut. All that was left now was my memories. My girl treated me well. She had forever imprinted my heart, my mind, my soul, and of course, my cock. I looked up at the ceiling for the answers. I faced the file once more.
I exited all revisited memories and right clicked the little folder icon. I bit the inside of my cheek. I was going to do it. I would delete her and I and everything in between. I hovered over the Delete button. I was going to do it right now. Right now. I ran my hands across my face. All I had to do was click the option once, then empty out the recycle bin…
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32