Sexting With The Real Estate Agent

I was playing the role of dutiful girlfriend at one of my boyfriend’s frequent events, but I didn’t really want to be there, so I was standing just outside the door, smoking a cigarette in my long fur coat. Even though I was disinterested in the event, I always tried to look hot for them, desperate to get some attention from my boyfriend, who was far more concerned with his passion projects than showing me any passion. I wore skin-tight black jeans with high-heeled boots and a tight black shirt that I had pulled down my shoulders. My neck and chest were revealed.

Two men approached the door, looking unsure of where they were going. Since I was the only one outside, I asked them if they were there for the event. They said yes. “It’s twenty dollars each,” I said, acting like I was the door girl. The man closest to me reacted with shock (this certainly wasn’t a twenty-dollar-worthy event) and turned around to leave.

“Wait!” I screamed at him, realizing he had taken me seriously. “I’m just kidding. It’s free.” The man growled at me, studying me with suspicious eyes and admiration. I looked back at him, and our eye contact put my pussy immediately on edge. I wanted him to dominate me. He was a bear with big arms, broad shoulders, and a hairy chest I could see springing from his shirt. He was taller than my boyfriend, with a much larger presence, and in contrast to all of his insanely masculine features, he had the softest, most beautiful dark eyes and a smirk that felt somehow jolly. He was my type.

We laughed together over the trick I had pulled, and Joseph, that was his name, kept shaking his head and calling me bad. “You’re good at being bad,” he said.

Joseph and his friend eventually went into the event. I stayed put outside, pacing back and forth, smoking another cigarette, feeling like I absolutely had to fuck this person, but what a terrible coincidence that he was in the same place as my boyfriend at the same time. When I finally returned inside, despite my best efforts to avoid him, I was physically drawn to him. I spotted him at the bar and sidled up. It was as if I wasn’t in control of my body; it was already his.

I tried to make small talk, but my pussy was overriding my brain, so I announced that I was going back outside for a smoke. He asked to join me. I knew he wanted me, too.

I lit his cigarette and then mine and managed to ask him where he lived (purely strategic information). He lived nearby. I told him I lived in Bushwick too but was looking for a new place. He asked me where I was looking and for how many bedrooms, then revealed he worked in real estate. My pussy was doing backflips. “I’d love to see some places; if you have anything you think I might like?” I tempted him. “Yeah, sure, give me your number, and I’ll send some your way.”

As we exchanged numbers, my boyfriend opened the door and saw me. “I’ve been looking for you,” he told me, glancing at this man, a sexier, larger version of himself. “Oh, I just made a friend, and we’re smoking,” I dismissed him. The tension of being surrounded was turning me on even more.

“Who was that?” Joseph asked once my boyfriend had gone back inside. “My boyfriend,” I said nonchalantly. Again, he called me bad. We were magnetized. “I bet you do many bad things,” he said.

The next day at work, I decided to text him because I couldn’t stop imagining him fucking me.

“Nice meeting you last night. When are you taking me to see some apartments?” I wrote.

He replied, quickly: “Tell me again what you want?”

“You weren’t listening?”

“I was staring at your tits,” he wrote.

Electricity shot through me.

“They’re nice, right? I don’t blame you.”

“Yeah,” he texted. “I want them in my face.”

Without a beat, I replied, “I want them in your mouth.”

“Show me.” he wrote.

“Maybe after you find me a really good apartment.”

“I remember you said no mice.”

I rolled my eyes to myself, “I said that ten times, not impressed. You were looking at me like a snack.”

“Was I?”

“I have a pretty good sense when someone thinks about fucking me. And I enjoy it.”

“I was thinking about pounding you and pulling your hair.”

“I’ve been thinking about riding your cock all day,” I replied.

“I want to push you up against a wall with my hand around your throat.”

“I want you to throw me around.”

“I could do that.”

“I could tell. Could you tell I wanted you?”

“Yeah. When I looked at you, I was like, ‘This girl likes it rough.’ I saw it all immediately.”

We had been thinking the same thing. I felt nicely justified.

“I was thinking about you fucking me in an empty apartment the whole time we talked about ‘apartments.’”

He replied with several pictures from two different apartments for rent. Both were fine, but nothing spectacular.

“You’re talking too much business now, not enough pleasure,” I told him.

“What are you wearing right now?” He countered.

“I’m wearing a thin sweater. You can see my nipples through if you’re looking.”

“I want to bite them.”

“Tight jeans and black lace panties that are getting really wet talking to you.”

“I want you to sit on my fat cock. Tell me what you’re thinking.” He demanded.

“I’m thinking of meeting you somewhere and stripping slowly for you, piece by piece, letting you look but not touch. See how long I can torture you like that, just letting you put a finger in me or your tongue on my nipple. Until you throw me down and fuck me,” I relayed.

“That would make me nuts. You wouldn’t be able to fight me off.”

“I want you to make me try to fight you a little,” I told him.

“That’s one fantasy…” I continued. “The other is more like immediately stripping and jumping on you, sliding you into me, and fucking you hard until I come.”

“I will fill your fucking pussy.”

And then, a dick pic arrived. His cock was thick and uncut. I was wet looking at it. It would fill my fucking pussy.

“I want to cum all over your beautiful tits. I want to cover you in my cum.”

I sent him an old picture I had on hand, me in a bathroom mirror holding my tits. I wanted to feed him something for now.

“I’m going to wreck you.” he wrote. I tingled with desire.

The next day I masturbated for hours to the idea of fucking him. There was something so intense about my attraction to him; I was truly inspired. I was also afraid of him. He seemed powerful like he could hurt me badly. I wanted him as much as I feared the agonizing pleasure.

He texted me in the afternoon: “Show me how you masturbate.”

I made him a feature-length film, some of my finest work, a large file that had to be sent through Google Drive. I wore a lace bra and gyrated for the camera, slowly pulling my panties up into me and down, taking one bra strap off, revealing one nipple, then the other, and bouncing my tits for him.

In response, he sent me back a slow-motion video of him jerking off with my video playing in the background, his foreskin rippling over the head of his cock, mimicking my breasts bouncing in the background, and a text that read: ‘That’s my student film.’ It was a work of art.

A week later, I was on my way to work in the morning, wearing my fur again, and while passing the local gym, a man on a bike rode up beside me. I glanced over. It was him. I stopped, startled, completely unprepared for this meeting.

“I thought that was you,” he said.

All the back-and-forth sexting, pictures, videos, and now, here we were, in person, finally, dumbly.

We stood looking at each other. I looked through my sunglasses at those heart-melting eyes, him looking me up and down slowly, lingering over my breasts, examining me all the way down to my feet.

He was going to devour me. I was going to be late for work.

“I live just down the street from here,” he told me.

Without saying anything, I turned away from the subway and began to walk in the direction he pointed. He turned on his bike and rode alongside me. We did this in silence for a few blocks, me periodically glancing over at him and laughing.

I was already getting wet, but I was feeling more than horny. My heart was racing. I was scared of getting caught, of what he would do to me, and less concerned about getting in trouble at work.

We arrived at his apartment, and he carried his bike upstairs. I watched his arm muscles flexing and imagined him carrying my body the same way. He was sweaty from the gym, so he told me he was going to take a shower.

“I want you naked, waiting in bed when I get out.”

This was painful. My fantasies of our encounter had relied on either slow seduction or immediate satisfaction. He was going to torture me.

I stripped my pants and sweater off and laid them on his workbench. I hid my bra and underwear in my purse. I folded my fur over a chair. His apartment was sparse and carelessly arranged but functional. I reclined on his bed, wearing only my boots, and waited.

He came back out of the bathroom dressed. I felt exposed comparatively and reached to cover my breasts. He walked over and grabbed my wrist that covered my nipple, kneeling over me, and pinned both my arms to my sides. He immediately went for my tits with his mouth, biting and sucking my nipples hard, nibbling the neglected undersides, squeezing them together, and rubbing his mouth over my chest.

I was dripping wet and struggling to get loose, engaged in the game. I started begging him to fuck me. “Fuck me, please fuck me,” over and over I said.

He said nothing in response but continued biting down my body until he got to my clit, sucking violently. His movements were rough but skilled, and I liked it. My struggle ceased as I began to enjoy his mouth on me and wish for his cock a little less.

As I was settling into his face between my thighs, he abruptly rose up and pulled me by the backs of my legs to the edge of the bed. I tried to rise and pull off his shirt, but he kept a hand around my neck and watched me, helplessly pulling at the hem.

Kneeling on the floor, he stuck a finger in me, probably two, maybe more, and I moaned with pleasure. I wanted his cock so badly. He released his grip on my neck to begin unbuttoning his pants, and I took the opportunity to try again to remove his shirt. Then, we were both feverishly undressing him.

I ran my hands over his broad, furry chest and shoulders, relishing in his size, while he spit into his hand and started stroking his cock. I tried to kiss him but could only reach his neck. This wasn’t about kissing.

He flipped me over and entered me once. I gasped from the girth of him; he was deep in me. He grabbed my ass with one tight grip and spanked me hard. Again and again, he spanked me. He would pull out and then enter me while spanking, allowing me a brief respite and a different sensation, grabbing my ass to pull himself deeper in me. He fucked me slowly, and with each movement, I had to catch my breath; he was so big.

Abruptly, he turned me over, scooped my body up, and carried me to the wall with my legs wrapped around him and him still inside me. He fucked me against the wall like that, then put me down and turned me around again. He slammed me onto the wall, teasing my ass with the head of his cock. I was weak from it all, my ass sore, my wrists aching, my pussy ravaged.

He entered me again, and with one hand grabbing my ass and the other around my neck, he fucked me like a doll. I was weightless. He growled while he fucked me; my cries were muffled, my face on the chilled wall, my head knocking against it with each thrust.

Finally, he slid his cock out of me and commanded me to lie on the bed again. I did, and he ambled over, his massive cock in hand, stroking it soaking wet, me all over him. He angled himself above me and slowly stroked himself to orgasm, coming all over my tits, my face, in my mouth.

We never spoke again.