Serve The Nike (erotica excerpt)
Extracted from Every Slave Has His Day, part of The Fetish Dictionary: Kinks A thru G.
No matter how many times he’d taken that stroll, Vince couldn’t shake the initial bundle of nerves that overcame him as he made his way up to adultery’s doorstep. The neighborhood was pristine enough, a cozy, culturally diverse community nestled in the center of Terrytown. Still, creeping on your wife instills the type of paranoia that will have you constantly peeping over your shoulders no matter how many miles away the wench is.
Like always, the side door was unlocked, allowing Vince to waltz right in to the charming single-family home. Suddenly recalling the layout, he stepped into the kitchen, pass the dining room, and straight to the backroom. That’s where he would find his gracious host.
“Took you long enough.”
The woman known to her clients simply as Nike was seated in front of a dresser and mirror brushing the luxurious strands of her long, jet black hair. She didn’t own a single piece of Nike apparel. The name was based on the Goddess of Victory from Greek mythology. Whether ascending the ladder in the fetish world or the game of life itself, the woman born Michelle Anna DuVall was winning across the board. Or so she told herself.
“You got lucky,” she hissed. “I was about to cancel on your ass. But then I remembered what a good slave you are. How you’re a wizard with that little pink thing in your mouth.
Nike stood up and Vince felt the air being ripped out of his lungs. His eyes followed the apple-shaped prize that had him willing to risk everything and then some. Her bum was near perfectly round and apparently famished as it munched up the light gray terry cloth shorts cozily hugging her hips. Nike had ass to die for. And in her line of work, such an asset was a lucrative chip worth building an entire business model around.
“Hmmm … let’s see. How do I want you to serve me?” Nike flopped down on the bed, laid back on her elbows, and spread her legs, teasing him to a view of the goods.
“If I may suggest Miss Nike,” Vince cleared his throat. “I would love for you to sit your gorgeous ass on my face.”
“Quiet stooge! It’s Goddess to you.”
A fat bowl of Girl Scout Cookies had Nike feeling free and frisky. She was high enough to smooch the proverbial sky. Feeling lazy, but at the same time, sexually creative. Why not experiment and combine the two?
“You know what — I got an idea. Bring your sorry self over here and kneel on the floor.”
“Sorry. And yes. Right away.”
Hard dick forming in his dress slacks, Vince scurried over and dropped to his knees. Like a puppy awaiting further instruction, he looked on with wide eyes, tongue practically hanging out of his mouth. That enthusiasm soared when she wiggled out of those shorts and flashed her birthday bottoms.
Nike spread her legs apart, allowing her feet to dangle just a few inches above the bed. She cupped her fleshy ass cheeks with both hands, using that leverage to open EVERYTHING up. “Now listen up fuck face. I want you to eat my ass. Like you love it. Like it’s a fucking chocolate HoHo — until I get off. But do not — and I repeat, do not make a mistake and touch this platinum pussy. You are not remotely worthy.”
Contel Bradford is a mystical and complex individual. You can attempt to unravel some of the mystery by visiting his author site at countkrewpublications.com.
