Masha lay on the bed in her Moscow apartment. She had just filmed another webcam video and was now reading her subscribers' comments. She always got extremely excited during filming, knowing how much her viewers were turned on by her practically naked dancing, and the requests and comments about what to do with her and in what positions made her pussy very wet. Masha quickly removed her soaking wet panties and reached for her 18-centimeter dildo. Spreading her beautiful legs wide, she began to furiously fuck herself. Masha often fantasized about being fucked by different men in various positions, and how she delightedly sucked cocks. But since Masha was a rather modest woman in real life, often starred in commercials for various brands, and was careful about her image, all these desires remained in her imagination. Everything changed suddenly. The next day, Masha woke up early, her body still aching from the previous day's masturbation. She stretched, feeling a slight dampne... continue reading

The car pulled up to a building somewhere in the neighborhood. I sat at a distance from him in the backseat. He seemed to pretend I wasn't there. I cautiously peered out through the raindrops to see what this place was like. It was already past midnight, but I felt calm. The master had explained back in the café that the girl had to ask him for a session herself, explained the rules, and the girl, without a second thought, did so. And now she was here. The screeching of brakes, the sound of drips on the roof of the car, and the sound of the door opening. The man walked around the back of the car, opened the door, took off his coat, and covered me with it to keep me dry. I got out of the car without meeting his gaze, and we hurried inside. It was a reception area of sorts, but it was so dim, so intimate. The girl behind the counter smiled at the man, and she clearly recognized him. I shrugged off his coat and hung it over my arm; it was barely wet. And I stepped aside. I looked... continue reading

His loft smelled of old books, leather, and the faintest hint of his cologne—something woody, tart. The candles on the nightstands cast dancing shadows on the walls, creating bizarre giants of light and darkness. I stood in the middle of the room, feeling small and fragile, almost translucent. My short black hair seemed even darker against my pale skin, and the tiny swallow tattoo on my wrist felt like my only talisman of protection. He was thirty-eight. Tall, with a graying beard and eyes that had seen too much. His hands—strong, with the sinewy fingers of a photographer and thin silver scars on his knuckles—now ignited a fire within me that sent shivers down my spine. He approached me silently, like a predator. "Ready?" His voice was low, almost chest-like, and it sent a shiver down my spine. I merely nodded, unable to speak. My throat was dry. We'd met several times, discussed boundaries, safe words. But the theory proved worthless compared to the practical items lyin... continue reading