BD Swain makes me swoon–whether with erotica or photography–swoon! I am so happy to have BD as my guest…so you can swoon too from the sheer gorgeousness of the decadent quartet of stories that follow…without further ado…BD…

I am thrilled to have the opportunity to appear as a guest blogger for Leonora. I enjoy her blog, and we have followed each other on social media for awhile. Since we’ve had some nice exchanges about my photographs recently, I decided to share four of my photos paired with four new stories for you here.

Four Very Short Stories by BD Swain

One

Greasy fingers. Dirty boots. A tank top and jeans with just the right bulge packed tight. Ready for action. Spread your knees wide and pat your thigh for her to come sit. “Come here, baby,” you say. Pull down her panties enough to see. Pet her knees. Pull her dress down and suck on her tits. Slide two fingers inside her. Keep it slow like you don’t care. You’ve got all day. “Baby, what time is it?” Don’t listen to her answer. Keep asking her questions. Keep her talking. Not caring what she says. You want to hear it in her voice. The distraction. “Tell me a story. Tell me about your day.” She tries to remember. Tries to keep it up. Keep your teeth closed tight on her nipple. Don’t let go. Everything slows. Go slower. Your fingers are barely moving. So slow. In and out. She’s so wet. Growl at her. Show her how much you’re holding back. Keep it locked down. Tight. Feel it between your legs. Are you there? Are you still there? Pull her to face you, her thighs straddling your hips. Shove your thick bulge against her pussy. Grab her hips and grind her against you. “What gets you so wet, baby?” ask her. Watch your jeans get slick. Make her answer you. “What makes you wet like this? Tell me.” Let her whisper it against your cheek. Take her secrets. Keep them inside you. Let her feel you shake. Grab your belt buckle. Sticky fingers on your fly. Let the zipper snag your skin. Bleed. Grip your cock and shake it a little as you steady yourself. Get ready. Bend over and spit into your hand. Once. Again. Let the spit pool into your palm and wet your dick for her. “Right here,” tell her and lift her onto you. Hold yourself hard. Steady. Lean back. Watch her move. Bury your face in her tits and don’t let her see how much you feel this. How much you need it. Don’t tell her when you come. Don’t break.



Two

Soft, clean sheets. A swept floor. Bare feet on the hardwood. I think about you all the time. I move through the house when you’re not here and listen. I’ll run a bath piping hot. So hot it stings my skin. I picture you in the water. Your body, not mine. Your curves. Your belly. Your thighs. I can feel you under my fingers. I rub my chest and feel your hands on me. I move my tongue against the roof of my mouth and feel your kiss. This is sweet. Tonight, I am sweet. So hot, I sweat in the bath. I won’t wait for you to come home. I need this right now. My fingers inside of me instead of you. I lightly suck the tip of my thumb. Imagine you in my mouth. I scratch my thighs. I’m talking to you. Out loud. Telling you things you’ve wanted to hear. I don’t wait for you. I never wait. I get ready. I pretend. I clean the house. I make the bed. I take a bath. I jerk off. When you come home, I’ll tell you all about it. I’ll bend you over the kitchen sink and grab your cunt while I talk. That’s what I think about when I come. I think about you bent over with my fingers in the wet cotton of your panties. I think about looking down at the backs of your thighs. I think about what comes next. And that’s when I come. With the expectation of what will happen. Every time.



Three

​I’m her sweet boy. She teases me, fingering the fuzz on my thighs. This is for her. This is what she’s given me. My own boy. Mine. For keeps. I know he’s there when she wraps an arm around me and plays with the shaved hairs on the back of my neck. When she drags her finger across my upper lip and tells me to sit down while she trims my mustache. “So handsome,” she sighs, and everything falls into place. I slip into a trance. Her boy. Hers. And mine. This is when she teases me. She toys with me. Her fingers trace my ear. Her lips on my neck. She slips a finger behind each button of my shirt, feeling around before undoing each one. She takes her time with me. Wants me to lean back, put my hands behind my head. My back is ramrod stiff. I’m frozen at full attention, waiting for an order. Tell me what to do. Tell me who I am. She drags her stiff, open fingers up and down the ribs of my tank top. She scratches me with her nails. “I like this look,” she says, smiling approvingly at my white briefs and edging a finger inside the pocket. She pulls at my pubic hair with a grip of her fist. She kisses my inner thighs until I squirm. When she’s finally at the point of tugging down my briefs, when her lips finally touch my swollen cock, I explode in her mouth too fast. I come with a jerk and cover my face. Ashamed I couldn’t hold out longer this time. Ashamed I can never hold back with her. She laughs at me. She tells me how she knows what to do to me. She calls me her sweet boy. Always a boy. Mine.

Four

​I started writing because I wasn’t fucking. I started writing because everything I wanted was stuck deep down inside me. I had stopped feeling it years before but I knew it was there. Buried deep. I started writing and I couldn’t stop. I knew I was going to break everything. I used to say, “I had no choice,” but that isn’t true. Breaking everything and starting over was my choice. No regrets. I used to say, “I wish I’d left earlier,” but that’s not right. I am here in this place because of every chance I did or didn’t take along the way. Why look back and try to retrace my steps? Look at this girl in my arms right now. See how much I love her. I write love stories now. Each one more surprising than the last. I don’t look too far ahead. I hold her hand when we walk around the lake. I get up in the morning and make coffee for us to drink in bed. I fall asleep with her in my arms. We fight. We fuck. I remember each detail and daydream about the next time we’ll fuck. Everything is changed. Life overturned. Righted. No one more surprised than me. I would never have met this girl. Not in a million years. I would have lost this chance. I would not have lived. This is one story. There are more.

…

I love dirty pictures. I take them all the time. Sometimes I write about them. Sometimes I just look at them. Each one is a story to me. Each one tells me something. I made a deck of cards so I could hold them in my hands. Feel them. The cards are a love story. A pack of love stories. If you’d like them, you can get your own deck at http://bdswain.squarespace.com. I hope you’re inspired to take your own dirty pictures.

BD kindly gave me a deck of cards, and I can tell you they are gorgeous! And I know you swooned reading this post, I know you want more…like BD ended the last story, This is one story. There are more at www.bdswain.com .

all photos courtesy of BD Swain