Her Dangerous Whore Fantasy

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Chapter One

Peering through binoculars, I cursed the spring growth on the trees below my apartment. Most New Yorkers enjoyed the onset of the warmer seasons, but for me these burgeoning leaves were a hindrance to viewing the man at the center of my dark obsession.
I didn’t know his name, or even what his voice sounded like. All I knew was that he spent a lot of time hanging out in the small park eighty feet below my window. Most often he was alone, moving his thumb over his iPhone or reading a newspaper, but occasionally he met people. Other men, men who looked decidedly shifty, a bit like him, men whom I wouldn’t want to run into in a dark alley—or maybe I would.
He’d sometimes talk on the phone, his hands shoved deep into his jean pockets. Occasionally he frowned and gnawed at the inside of his cheek as though irritated by what was being said. Once he looked up, straight at me, as if he’d felt the binoculars burning down on him.
He didn’t come back for a whole two weeks after that day. I’d gone about my very average life as usual, running the ophthalmology outpatient department at Bellevue. Well, I say running—I’m the head receptionist and although I have no actual medical qualifications, without me it all goes haywire. Taking a day off sick is always a nightmare.
I’d almost given up hope of seeing him again when suddenly he appeared. The day was gray and dull. He wore a short army-green jacket and a battered trilby-type hat. That’s when I’d decided before the month was out I’d go and introduce myself. It was time to get the ball rolling.
And now the last day of May had arrived, which meant I couldn’t put off my self- imposed ultimatum any longer.
Locking my apartment, I took the elevator then sauntered out into the spring sunshine. I wore a tight red vest top, a short purple skirt, silver stilettos and not a scrap of underwear.
Several young men shouting to one another whizzed toward me on skateboards. I paused to let them by before stepping into the park. It was, as usual, relatively quiet. A few dog walkers and a couple of teens sauntering along. I glanced about. There he was, just where he’d been five minutes ago when I’d decided to make my move.
I took up position at the opposite end of the sunny bench he liked to sit on. My brain fuzzed with excited anticipation. Seeing him up close, for real, with no lens between us was momentous, but I had to be careful not to be caught staring. So between glances at other park-goers minding their own business, I sneaked looks at his profile.
His jaw was big boned and layered with a heavy dose of black stubble. His lips were thin, his nose a little hawk-like. Craggy black brows pulled low over what I suspected were brown eyes. As he studied a newspaper, his head hung forward but not his hair; his hair was short, very short and the hint of skull beneath was foreboding and alluring all at the same time.
He wasn’t handsome in a traditional way; in fact he was hard-looking, roguish. One might have said a little unkempt but I preferred the description rough and ready. Either way—rough, roguish, unkempt—to me he was perfect because I wasn’t a sweet girl. Beneath my bubbles of blonde hair and dimpled smile I was all about the filth. My fantasies, for as long as I could remember, were dirty and degrading, threaded with disrespect and humiliation and should never have been admitted to, let alone sought.
Ignoring the new public smoking ban, he lit a hand-rolled cigarette, flicking the match to the pavement and sucking on the thin papery end. When he exhaled, the stream of smoke drifted my way. I dragged it deep into my lungs, taking in what had circulated his body and delighting as the woodsy vapors entered me. I fluttered my eyes shut, relishing the moment, and when I opened them again he was staring straight at me. I was right, his eyes were brown—deep, chocolate brown that swirled with delicious, hot sin and a suitable amount of disdain.
“Hey,” I said, tugging at my glossed bottom lip with my teeth.
He poked his tongue out of the corner of his mouth and stroked the seam as if capturing an invisible crumb. Turned back to his newspaper.
A native New Yorker then, typically wary of anyone speaking to him without good cause. That was a bonus, a New Yorker would work for me. In fact, it would suit very well.
“You live around here?” I asked.
His gaze slid back to me, traveling up my bare legs, over the obscenely short hem of my skirt, lingering for a moment on my braless chest and my protruding nipples before resting on my face. “What’s it to you?”
Oh my God, his voice. He was not a New Yorker. His grating, sexy drawl held a hint of musicality—European but not English—Eastern Europe perhaps. I’d so not added that into my musings of him, but it was perfect, sublimely perfect.
“Just making conversation,” I managed, trying to keep cool even though heat was spreading up my back and chest.
“I don’t want conversation.”
“So what do you want?” He was a man. There was one thing men always wanted.
He huffed and drew on his cigarette. The end burned bright and crackled faintly. “Nothing you could give me.” Smoke trickled from his mouth between his words.
Glancing over his shoulder, I was relieved to see there was no one on the path. What I was going to do next was for his eyes only.
Quickly I slid my butt around on the bench and folded my legs the way I used to when I was a little girl, ankles crossed, knees sticking out to the sides. My heart pounded and I was aware of my labia peeling apart and cool air washing around my gaping entrance. The sensation thrilled me utterly, and I pushed out my modest chest, resting one arm along the back of the bench, fingers pointing toward him. For all the world acting composed and calm when inside, a turmoil of excited, filthy lust raged.
His gaze dropped to my bare pussy, exposed and no doubt shimmering with moisture. He appeared remarkably unfazed by my bold display, his expressi

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Written by Lily Harlem
Hochgeladen November 2, 2020
Notes For too many years I've hidden a sinful, erotic craving in the darkest corner of my soul. Within this deeply buried desire, shameful fantasies rule and images - seedy, degrading, filthy images - burn through the dark of night and hold my dreams hostage.

Luckily, the center of my whore obsession is keen to play my slutty game. I know nothing about him, other than his taste, touch and smell, but that's how I want it, because of one thing I'm certain - this man is dangerous.
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