April's Fool

Kimiyo "I'm sure you've all been curious about what this lockdown means for your jobs. Believe me, this is not what we wanted. But, as you know, Governor Cuomo has shut down all restaurants and bars until further notice." The room is somber as my manager Justin addresses the group of socially distanced employees. I hold my breath, not sure what I'm expecting, but after the last couple of days I know that it's going to be bad. "We are obviously hoping to get back up and running as soon as possible, but we imagine it will not be at full capacity. Therefore, we want to offer you a choice. We can lay you off so that you can be eligible for unemployment benefits, or you can stay on and wait it out with us. We may even be open in a few weeks for to-go orders..." He keeps talking about the details, and I feel my chest tightening. What am I going to do? I waver on my feet and decide to sit in a barstool before I pass out, then try to refocus on what Justin

Don Queen graduated from high school in June of 1965. He turned eighteen on August 10, and enlisted in the Marines the next day. His recruit officer told him to get his affairs together and be ready to go to Boot Camp in October. He needed to get his driver's licenses, social security card, and a copy of his high school diploma. The recruiter told him to make a list of people he would like to write letters too. He choose his mom and his home girl, Dee Armstrong. She lived next door. He had known her since he was thirteen. Now, she is 22 years, dark-skinned with an Afro and Indigo eyes. She is petite, full-figured, and is blessed with a heart-shaped super sized ass. Don is a secret admirer. Don walked home from East lake Park, one sunny afternoon, and he saw Dee sitting in a lounge chair on the patio in front of their apartment. Now might a good time to ask her if he could write to her, he thought. "Hi Don." "I haven't seen you in a while, what's up?"

Sherry slowly laid her new lover, Kelly, onto the new mattress. She'd been fantasizing about all the ways she could fuck her to pieces for the last week, and now Sherry could make good on those promises. After a quick kiss to ease both of their tensions, she straddled her and began to- * "Began to..." They what? What do they do, Queen? My fingers froze on the keyboard. What hadn't I done yet? "Mating press? No, not for a one shot. Maybe some bondage? No, I suck at writing bandage..." I sighed, taking another sip of my rapidly warming coffee. In my head, I'd written the hottest trans girl fuckfest the world had never seen, but while trying to put it in Word, it fizzled up like my nerves when a tall woman looked down at me. Maybe a tall woman with nice strong arms to hold me against the wall while she pounded my cute little asshole- "No, no, no. No time for that, Queenie. You're supposed to be writing to get other people off, not just you."

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know or own Brie Larson or Elizabeth Olsen or any other celebrities. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. * Brie Larson was on edge. During the last premiere of Avengers: Endgame, Elizabeth Olsen had ass fucked her in a public bathroom, and they had been dangerously close to getting caught a few times, which made her extremely worried about a repeat performance. It was something she had worried about ever since the last premiere, even typing out a long essay of why they shouldn't do it again only to delete it and rewrite it over and over again, without actually sending anything to her tormentor. Then they actually got through the whole entire premiere without having anything happen. Which should have been a relief, but it only made her more nervous. And yet, she made all the way to her hotel room without incident, which began making her wonder if she was in the clear. That wouldn't be impossible, would it? No,

"If it is the dirty element that gives pleasure to the act of lust, then the dirtier it is, the more pleasurable it is bound to be." -Donatien Alphonse François, Marquis de Sade "You follow the Scream from beyond, leaving traces of sin behind. Do not be afraid, for the Absolute knows neither good not evil. In the shadow of the Lustful God, we will free ourselves from concepts for eternity." -The Book of Lasih ~o0o~ No. Nononononono this was not happening. I could not have a tattoo above my private parts. I could not have lost my virginity to a woman, and before marriage. My mom was going to kill me. My dad was going to kill me. My preacher was going to make me say so many prayers for forgiveness, and then kill me. My cross was going to leave blisters on my fingers to complement the blisters my knees would develop from kneeling to pray. I didn't even know where I put my Bible to even read prayers from, for God's sake! Oh, God, I really was going to go to H

Back in the day I was virtually Anna's slave 24/7. She enjoyed taking me out to be humiliated and to be used in public. This is one such occurrence. Friday PM. Beginning of another submissive weekend for me, to be used by my Mistress and to be used also whoever she had chosen. Sam, my ex had been asked to book the upstairs room at The Globe pub in the town centre for a bukkake party starting at nine. Tickets had been sold and a good turn-out was expected. Mistress donned her leather basque, a short leather skirt, stockings and thigh-high boots. I was instructed that only stockings and high heels were to be worn although I was allowed to wear my topcoat over. Mistress drove her slut to the town centre and led me on my leash to the pub which we had visited a few times recently. The word had soon got round and when we arrived at the pub around thirty guys were already there. Mistress was bought drinks, but she refused to let anyone buy her whore one, just water. Whilst we stood at t

It's such a beautiful day but I'm far too nervous to appreciate it. No, my mind is on other things. I drop my phone back into my pocket and pull out my keys. My stomach drops for a second but then I spot it, tucked under my dorm room key and the car key — my old house key. Opening the door to my childhood home still feels exactly the same and I draw in a deep breath. Someone is cooking vegetables but just underneath that is the welcoming scent of safety and love. I take off my shoes and shut the door a little more forcefully than strictly necessary. "Brian?" Mom calls out my dad's name from the kitchen. The kitchen is the central hub of the downstairs, connected right to the entrance hallway. As I enter, the aroma of chicken adds to the mix. My mouth waters but I'm not hungry. Not for food, anyway. There she is, beautiful as ever. April, my mom. Thirty-eight — no, thirty-nine as of today, and, by my estimate at least, in the prime of her life. She has a warm,