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A Domme has perfected her technique of breaking and training men.

As I was about to cum, I heard a noise. I was not alone.

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I'm just a regular guy. I wasn't popular in high school. I thought moving to New York City would make me special. I got a degree in English Literature from NYC, but that just made me another of the thousands of unemployable college grads in lower Manhattan.

Like the rest of them, I had written a novel. I poured everything I had into it. Unfortunately, at 27 years old, everything I had was not very much. Hemingway, I was not. I wanted to build a boat and sail around the world. Unfortunately, I had no technical skills, no sailing experience and I found vast expanses of water intimidating. Life had not handed me a lot of tools to be a great novelist.

I was the only son of Vermont parents who loved one another and had since high school. It was sort of a "Leave it to Beaver" upbringing. Hardship was passing up McDonald's because we had already had it twice that week.

So, I had a bachelor's degree in English, waiting tables in a chain restaurant that would have served twenty-something up and comers, had they all not been laid off and wanted to becomes servers in chain restaurants.

But, being a hopeless romantic, I fell for the French foreign exchange student who worked as a hostess. She was most certainly hired for her accent, and not for her acuity with the English language.

"You are how many in your partie?" she would ask. She didn't know the difference between three and eight, but she asked. Since I was fluent in French (another useless talent), I would explain to her. "Ah, bon," she would reply, and get a great tip.

Somehow, I thought my acuity with the language would get a date with her. She needed me to translate, but wasn't interested in seeing me outside working hours. I had this great idea that flowers would stir her heart.

So, one day when she was working the early shift and I was not, I stumbled into this little florist shop on 30th Avenue to buy flowers to bring to the elusive Juliette.

The sign said "Closed" but it was just minutes before opening, and the door was open. I stepped inside, but the showroom was empty. I thought I heard a noise from the back, so I opened the door at the back.

I observed a very attractive 30-something woman, curled up in an office chair, wearing only a very attractive tight fitting turtle-neck sweater in green and black cable stitch, plunging two fingers in and out of her wet, glistening pussy.

My cargo shorts tented immediately.

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I looked up to see a 30-something guy in cargo shorts with a huge hard-on looking at me. He was kind of cute, sandy blonde, not skinny not fat, blue eyes. More than that, I couldn't say. Remember, I had my fingers deep in my pussy.

All I could think of to say was, "Can I help you?"

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I've never been cool or slick in any way, but I actually came up with a good line. I took a step closer and said, "I think maybe I can help you."

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I'm such a prude, but I swear to God, I actually licked my lips. How did I suddenly become a whore? I said, "Let's see."

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OMG, she didn't call the cops and accuse me of rape when I said my cool line. Her "Let's see" lead me to believe she might actually fuck me. Knowing it would land me in jail, I dropped my cargo shorts. Having current laundry issues, I was commando, so my erection popped our straight and true.

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His cock was actually pretty. I knew immediately I wanted it up my cunt. How had I become such a slut? I didn't change position, I just reached down and parted my pussy lips for him. His cock kept getting bigger. I hoped I had the pussy for it. But I needed a good fucking and he was right there.

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She didn't change position and actually parted her pussy lips for me. I was sure it was trouble, but I pushed the head of my dick against her pussy lips. She actually said, "Fuck me now, hard." And I did.

--- I actually said, "Fuck me now, hard.

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