Indian sex stories ― indian sex stories with pics ―Sex stories

Indian sex stories ― indian sex stories with pics ―Sex stories

When asked what she wanted for Christmas, my lover told 

me she wanted an experience. She didn’t need any things, 

she emphasized. It’s true. She is a minimalist. She has that 

perfect butch bathroom equipped with a bar of soap, a tooth￾brush, natural toothpaste and unscented lotion. She is still using 

the same bottle of shampoo she was using when we first started 

dating almost one year ago. 

Even though my own bathroom is full of products and 

scented delights, I never want to change anything about her. 

She’s the yin to my yang. 

It only took a couple of clicks online to find an experience 

I was quite sure she would treasure: a stay at a bed & break￾fast called the Chocolate Suite run by a couple of passionate 

chocolatiers who make organic chocolate from scratch. In addi￾tion to their chocolate shop storefront, they created the ultimate 

lesbian fantasy—a private resort where the décor is chocolate

brown and the shelves are lined with chocolate-themed movies 

and books. Guests also get a complimentary box of chocolates. 

I was sold. I booked it and then I proudly announced—in the 

first week of December—that my Christmas shopping was offi￾cially done. 

That was not entirely true because I still needed to buy 

beeswax candles, new lingerie, massage oil and wrist restraints. 

All month, she was tortured and wanted to know what treat 

I was preparing for her. I told her she was in control and if 

she really wanted to know, all she had to do was ask and I’d 

tell her. The traditionalist in her couldn’t stand the thought of 

finding out before Christmas morning so, like a good bottom, 

she waited patiently. 

Meanwhile, I plotted. I planned. I turned myself on thinking 

about everything I was going to surprise her with. Semi-frus￾trated, I masturbated. No amount of solo climaxing equaled the 

pleasure that I craved. Throughout December, we maintained 

our scheduled dates. We had the same stellar sex we always 

have. But secretly, I longed to take us in a new direction. 

Before I go on, I need to back up. To fully appreciate the 

events that took place at the Chocolate Suite, it is important 

to understand a few things about my lover. The first thing is 

that she is a pornographer. She documents lesbian sex and, as 

a natural spin-off of filming lesbian sex as a business, she also 

starred in a number of lesbian porn movies, some of her own 

design and some directed by others. In other words, she knows 

lesbian sex. She has seen a lot and had a lot. She has a massive 

circle of fans. She’s one of those people who make regular 

appearances on lists of hot lesbians. 

When that was all I knew about her, I wasn’t that interested 

in dating her. I didn’t want to be with a “hot lesbian” if she had 

the ego of one, so I spent a long time ignoring her advances. In 

fact, for half a year, I only saw her to work out. We’d walk or 

go to the gym and whenever she suggested something beyond 

that, I said no. 

I had yet to learn the other things about her, the things that 

make her who she is—the woman I love. She grew up in a small 

prairie town. Her mother is a minister. She went to Bible camp 

throughout her youth and she’s still deeply spiritual. In addition 

to being a lesbian sex symbol, she is also painfully shy. She is 

more of a voyeur than an exhibitionist. 

One day, while we were out for a walk, a couple of months 

before we started dating, she confessed something to me. She 

told me she is vanilla. I paused. I looked at her. I shook my head. 

She had just come back from a play party she helped to organize 

in a different city. 

“People don’t believe me,” she pleaded.

“Of course they don’t,” I said. 

After that, we processed the stuff she had witnessed at the 

party, things she said she didn’t understand. Poor dear.

 “My business is lesbian sex. I’m in those circles. People just 

assume I’m kinky and that I’ve tried everything, but I’m not and 

I haven’t.”

I didn’t know why she was divulging this to me, but I found it 

fascinating and encouraged her to tell me more. As her workout 

partner, I found out about her previous relationships and her 

favorite and least favorite sexual memories. We talked in ways 

that only workout partners can—panting and sweating up and 

down hills and pathways without any sexual stimulation. At the 

time, I was celibate and single and consciously so. I had ended 

several overlapping poly relationships that called for a pause. I 

was in a time of self-reflection. I was more than happy to listen 

to other people’s sex stories, especially hers. 

She became a curious oddity to me, like Bettie Page. 

Even though Bettie Page became the poster girl of early kink 

portraiture, she maintained a certain naïve quality, like she 

never really knew why others found her sexually attractive. In 

her later years, she gave it all up and went back to the church 

to live a quiet, humble life of worship and fellowship. Though I 

and her many fans miss her, I respect her ability to walk away 

and recreate herself. 

Time passed, and eventually I said yes when she asked me on 

an official date. By then, I already felt like I knew her, respected 

her, understood her in ways that I hadn’t before. That was just 

before Christmas 2010. 

This is Christmas 2011. A year of dating turned out to be 

a year of bliss, and now that I understood all of these various 

aspects of my lover, I had also come to understand how delight￾fully shy she really was. 

Once she had identified herself as vanilla to me, it took her a 

long time to convince me she could be otherwise. It wasn’t that 

I didn’t believe her—I spotted the inner bottom in her a mile 

away—I just loved teasing her. I loved torturing her. I loved 

the way she’d blush and become tongue-tied whenever I asked 

about her fantasies. Pushed to talk about what she wanted, 

she’d admit that she wanted to be taken, that she fantasized 

about being dominated and that she really wanted me to have 

my way with her. This was all music to my ears, and I did have 

my way. A lot. 

So when she asked for an experience and when I then came 

up with the idea of going to a cozy chocolatey retreat on an 

island, I also had something else in mind. 

Only two days after I told her what the present was, we were 

off. We each carried a backpack. Hers had her clothes and a 

waterproof jacket so we could hike, even in the rain. Mine was 

mostly filled with sex toys. We got on the ferry and forgot all 

about our lives back home. Everything blurred as we crossed the 

channel in the typical misty rainy West Coast weather. 

From the ferry terminal, we hiked along a winding path up 

the side of a mountain to the village where we met one of the 

chocolatiers. He showed us to our room, gave us the key and told 

us he’d bring us Americano coffees and biscotti in the morning.

“Perfect,” I said, locking the door as soon as he left. 

“It’s gorgeous,” my lover said, looking around. She started 

exploring the pamphlets left out on the dresser about the area, 

but I was more interested in exploring her. 

“Let’s check out the shower,” I said.

“Mmm,” she moaned. “Sounds fantastic.”

We opened the door to the bathroom and immediately she 

commented on the craftsmanship of the shower tiles, how nicely 

they’d been laid. I appreciate a knowledgeable butch and her eye 

for detail. I unbuttoned the top button of her shirt and she did 

the rest. Our clothes were on the floor almost immediately and 

she adjusted the knobs in the shower to get the temperature just 

right. 

Underneath the steamy steady flow of water, we held each 

other and exhaled. 

“I don’t know how my breasts got so dirty,” I said. “You’d 

better lather them up. You wouldn’t want to be stuck out here 

in the woods with a filthy girl, would you?”

“Maybe I would,” she said, taking the orange-scented soap 

in her hands and lathering. Once she had a nice mass of bubbles, 

she took my breasts in her hands and smeared the frothy soap 

all over them. My nipples responded to her touch and I could 

feel my clit doing the same. After some delicious kissing in the 

wetness of the shower, I needed to get her on the bed. 

We toweled off in the bathroom and she got dressed in her 

new pajamas, my stocking present to her. They fit perfectly and 

she looked adorable. Sometimes all I want is to cozy up to her 

and cuddle with her. I love the way our bodies feel next to each 

other and I love the way she looks in pajamas, but it wasn’t 

what I wanted at that moment. I let her try out the bed while 

I stayed in the bathroom and changed into my new lingerie, a 

lacy lavender camisole that barely touched my thighs. 

“Wow,” she said when I came out, “you look beautiful.” 

“Really?” I smiled, ever so delighted.

“Yes,” she said. “You’re so pretty. You’re so sexy. I’m so 

lucky.”

“I’m the lucky one.” I went into my backpack and pulled out 

a locked black box containing all of the goodies I’d brought. 

I carried it over to the side table and set it down. Her eyes 

widened. I clicked the box open and pulled out the restraints. 

“Oooh,” she gasped.

Then I pulled out the candles. 

“Oh, my,” she said.

Finally, I pulled out a bottle of massage oil. 

“Take your shirt off,” I said, “I want to rub you.”

She took it off. I climbed on top of her, straddling her the way 

I do when I want to orgasm. She still had her pajama bottoms 

on. I gave her hips a squeeze with my inner thighs and then I 

rubbed my breasts in her face because I couldn’t help myself. I 

can never help myself. 

I held the bottle of oil up, and from several feet above her, I 

let a couple of drops fall. Then a couple more. I started to rub 

her chest with the oil and then leaned down and whispered in 

her ear. 

“I have something special planned for you.”

“I can’t wait,” she said.

“You’ll have to,” I replied. “It’s for tomorrow.”

“Oh?” 

She gave me her best sad puppy eyes, so I told her that tonight 

was just a prelude. As I rubbed her shoulders and chest with oil, 

I told her what tomorrow would bring.

“I want to restrain you,” I said, taking hold of her wrists 

with my hands. I leaned down on them. “I want to take away 

your ability to move.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she moaned.

“And then I want to slather you with oil,” I continued as I 

went back to massaging her chest. I concentrated on her breasts, 

squeezing her nipples between my forefinger and thumb. “Then 

I want to take this candle…”

I reached into the box and pulled out the dark red beeswax 

candle. “And I want to drop melted wax on you.”

She didn’t say anything, but only because she was nervous. 

Her smile told me everything I needed to know.

“You see, this weekend, we’re corrupting you. You may have 

been an innocent pornographer up until this point, but you’re 

about to be hardcore.”

“Oooh,” she moaned. “I want you to pop my kink cherry.”

“Oh, I know you do.”

“I want you to do anything you want with me.”

“Oh really,” I said.

“Yes.”

“You dirty slut,” I said.

“Oh yeah.” She nodded.

“You’re not vanilla at all, are you?”

She shook her head. 

“Yeah,” I said, “I didn’t think so.”

I took off her pajama bottoms and pulled out the oil again. 

This time I held it up over her pussy and, like before, squeezed 

out a couple of drops. 

“This is what it’ll be like when I drop wax onto you,” I 

explained, “only it’ll be hot.

This is hot.”

“It sure is,” I agreed. I massaged her pussy from her belly 

downward and from her inner thighs inward. Finally, I arrived 

at the wetness. I ran my fingers over her and gasped in delight. 

“You are so kinky, my love. Just look at how wet you are 

thinking all your dirty, dirty thoughts about tomorrow.”

“I know. I am.”

“You’re a pervert.”

“I am! I am a pervert.”

“And I’m so glad,” I whispered. Then I reached behind her for 

a pillow and propped her hips on it. “I want to lick your pussy 

for a while before I let you strap on your cock and fuck me.”

She nodded eagerly and moaned beneath my tongue. She let 

her hips relax into the moment, let me slide my tongue up and 

down her delectable opening. When we both became too eager, 

too aroused to stand it any longer, she reached for the vibrator. 

She buzzed herself into a blissful cloud of ecstasy. My own 

pussy, meanwhile, throbbed and ached in desperation. 

She went to the bathroom and came back adorned by her 

sexy cock. When she lay back down, I straddled her again. I 

rode her cock up and down as she squeezed my nipples and 

watched me wriggle in delight. She grabbed onto my breasts and 

took my nipples in her mouth one at a time, alternating back 

and forth in precisely the way she knows that I love. I moaned 

and writhed and then bucked on top of her as a massive orgasm 

built within me and exploded all over her. Deflated, I sighed and 

exhaled and rested on her chest, her cock still inside me. My 

muscles pulsated around her and she held me tight as I experi￾enced the overwhelming relief I needed. 

When I finally flipped over on my back, she slipped out of 

her leather strap-on and sat up. 

“Oh,” she said, almost ladylike, “what’s over here?” 

She reached for the box of organic chocolates. 

“Oh, yeah,” I moaned. “Let’s open it.”

“It’ll be like an after-sex cigarette, only way better,” she 

joked. She has never been a smoker.

The box contained twelve filled truffle chocolates in various 

shapes and with various outer dips. We each selected one. She 

put hers in her mouth and began moaning again, this time even 

louder than when she climaxed. 

“Oh my god,” she said, “it’s sea salt and caramel and dark 

chocolate ganache.”

I took a bite of mine and immediately related to her sounds. 

I could feel them coming out of me as well. 

“Oh my god,” I exclaimed, “this one is kind of spicy and 

cinnamony with a creamy center.” 

The chocolate coated my tongue with a rich velvety layer 

of perfection. We discovered heaven. Over the course of the 

evening, we became so acquainted with heaven that all twelve 

divine morsels disappeared. We even invented a new term: 

mouth-gasm.

The following day, we woke up to Americanos and biscotti 

at our door. We kissed each other, sipped our espresso bever￾ages and relived the memories of the night before. We made 

arrangements for another box of chocolates and then, like good 

lesbians, we went for a hike in the surrounding woods. For two 

hours, we clambered up and down the forest terrain, making 

our way around a beautiful lake. We talked about resolutions, 

feelings and everything that came to mind. 

Part of what I treasure so much about my lover is that we 

can have the most amazing mind-blowing sex and we can also 

revert to our days of being walking buddies. We can talk about 

anything. Or nothing. Sometimes it’s nice to just walk together 

in silence. 

But once we neared our room, I confessed to her that I’d 

been thinking of nothing but this adventure ever since the first 

week of December and I couldn’t wait to get her back to bed so 

I could play with her. 

Back in our room, I showered first. Then I sent her in. While 

she was in the shower, I went into my backpack and pulled out a 

sheet I’d brought from home. The main hazard of wax play (that 

is, if proper safety procedures are followed) is ruined sheets. I 

also affixed the wrist restraints to the bed. I put the candles 

on the table, got a lighter out and clicked open the bottle of 

massage oil. 

I folded up my lover’s pajamas and put them on her side table. 

She came out of the bathroom with a chocolate-brown towel 

wrapped around her. She saw the arranged bed and immediately 

her shyness came out. Instinctively, she went for her pajamas.

“Not so fast,” I said. “You won’t be needing them.”

She gulped. “Somehow I thought you might say that.”

“I have something else for you to do instead.”

“What’s that?”

“Come here.”

She came over. I sat her down on the bed. 

 “Your task is to sit here,” I said, patting the middle of the 

bed where I’d propped up some pillows. “I want you to come 

here and find a position you’ll be comfortable in.”

She complied, but I could tell she was nervous, so I kissed 

her, long and slow, and as our tongues found each other, I could 

feel her tension disappear.

“I’m not going to do anything you won’t like,” I said. But 

then I thought about it for a moment and added, “At least, if I 

do, it’ll be an accident and I’ll stop immediately if you say you 

don’t like it.”

“I trust you,” she said.

Good,” I said, “I never want to do anything to jeopardize 

that. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Now come here and give me your wrists.”

“Okay.” She smiled. 

“You’re so willing to do whatever I say,” I observed. “No 

resistance whatsoever. You must be more of a pervert than I 

thought, my little bottom.”

She giggled. “I am.”

In seconds, her wrists were behind her head, interlocked with 

each other and attached to the frame of the solid wood bed.

“How’s that?” I asked.

“It feels great.”

“Try to get loose.”

She wriggled and struggled.

“It’s no fun if you’re not truly rendered helpless.”

“I can’t move,” she said.

“Oh good.”

I straddled her, like I’d done the day before. This time, our 

pussies touched and I was well aware that she could feel just 

how wet I was. 

I held the oil above her and teased her a little with it before 

I squirted some out. It splashed down on her naked, helpless 

chest and began to dribble down her. I squeezed the bottle some 

more and watched carefully as the drops fell. Then I slathered 

the oil all over her, taking special care to squeeze her nipples 

each time I passed over them. 

I excused myself, went to the bathroom and came back with 

scissors. 

“What do you think these are for?” I asked. “Nervous?”

She shook her head. “Maybe a little.”

Then I held up the hand-dipped

 beeswax candles and snipped 

the wick between them. I put the scissors down along with one 

of the candles. She looked relieved. 

I caressed her with the candle, passing it over her chest like it 

was a wand that would create a new kind of magic for her. 

Then I lit the candle and held it upright for a while to let her 

get used to the idea. 

“Does this make you nervous?” I asked.

“I used to be a firefighter, remember?” she replied. “I used to 

have to run into burning buildings.”

“Yes, but you weren’t tied up and helpless, were you?”

“No.”

“And you weren’t being straddled by a kinky pervert who 

enjoys inflicting pain.”

“Unfortunately, I was not.”

I nodded. Then I whispered, “Good answer.”

Holding the candle with my right hand, I put my left palm 

over her chest. “I think you’re ready.”

I moved my left hand. 

Ever so slowly, I tilted the candle. It dripped. Smack. A drop 

of hot wax hit her chest and she gasped. It hardened immedi￾ately. So did her nipples. I moved my hand a little and another 

drop of wax fell on her. She flinched. 

“It hurts more than I thought it would,” she said.

“Too much?”

“No. I like it.”

“I thought you might.”

We found a beautiful rhythm. My dripping, her wincing and 

flinching and squirming and resisting her natural desire to resist. 

Moment by moment, we were intensely present, hyperaware of 

any and all changes. 

I let the wax drip over her, inching closer and closer to her 

left nipple and finally right on it. She held her breath. When I 

thought she’d had enough, I let her have one more drop and then 

I stopped. I blew out the candle and put it down.

 “That was really intense,” she said. 

“That was just half the fun. It’s also fun when it comes 

off.”

I got a plastic card out and began to scrape the wax off, drop 

by drop. She moaned. 

“That feels good,” she said. 

I nodded.

I held her and told her I was proud of her, that she was a 

great bottom and that I loved her. 

“And now I’m going to lick your pussy and I want you to 

“Oh my god. Oh my god,” I heard her say.

Moments later, having released her from her restraints, I 

held her in my arms. 

“You’re a bona fide kinky pervert,” I said. “You can hold 

your head up high at any play party from now on, my sweet 

sexy bottom.”

She smiled. I cradled her in my arms. 

“And now for a mouth-gasm,” I said, reaching for the box 

of chocolates. She chose one of the filled chocolates and took 

a bite. Then she moaned and I watched the tip of her tongue 

slowly disappear into the creamy center of the truffle. 

“Oh my god. Oh my god!” she cried out. 

A look of peaceful ecstasy came over her as she savored every 

sweet moment of the chocolate. I stroked her skin while her 

body returned to its characteristically calm equilibrium. I held 

her close, absorbing the bliss of our connection. 

Then I had my way with her again. And again.