Filthy Daddy's Taboo Erotic Sex Stories

by Amira Bradford

  Laura moistened quickly and the heady aroma of her musk filled my grateful nostrils. I buried my face deeper as her squeals of passion rose. For fifteen minutes or so my tongue relentlessly molested her clit, bringing her to the brink of orgasm at least a dozen times. But each time she reached the precipice of pleasure, I backed off until the last time when she was sweating and swearing profusely.

  "Dammit, Bill," she complained breathlessly, "I was fucking close that time. Why are you teasing me so bad?"

  Now Laura doesn't curse a lot, so her use of the "F word" meant that I was getting to her and I decided it was time to spring my surprise. While resuming my tonguing of her swollen, scarlet clit, I reached under the pillow and, careful not to divulge its presence until just the right moment, pulled out a purple, rabbit vibrator. Laura was too aroused to suspect anything and so I was able to retrieve the vibrator without being discovered. Even as I continued to caress her swollen nipples with one hand and lick her close to another climax, my other hand gradually moved the toy into position. When I felt the soft, jelly head under my chin I raised my head and gazed upon the luxuriant wetness my tongue had caused. Laura's cunt lips were incredibly swollen and almost perfectly matched the purple in the vibrator. Her clit was clearly visible at the top of her pussy and I could have sworn it was throbbing as I watched.

  "Oh, you bastard," she hissed, "You fucking bastard, make me come!"

  "How," I asked softly, playfully, hopefully.

  "I don't care," she moaned, arching her back, trying to reacquire my tongue. "Just let me come!"

  Just the words I was looking for. With license to proceed, I pressed the toy between her well-oiled pussy lips and slid the head into her cunt. Frantically, I searched for the two buttons that would activate the vibrating ears and the rotating shaft. Before she realized what had transpired, the toy to came to life.

  "Omigod," she screamed, as the sensations increased in response to my adjusting the tempo. "What the hell is that?"

  But she made to effort to dislodge the object. In fact, she actually spread her legs wider to facilitate the toys unhurried progress.

  I made sure the shaft was just deep enough to insure that the ears lightly tickled her clit. I didn't want her coming too quickly, before she had a chance to experience all the joy the toy could deliver. The rotating shaft with its plastic beads massaged her pussy lips until Laura was screaming with pleasure.

  "Oh you bastard, you magnificent bastard," she cried, as her body tensed for the first in what would become a series of climaxes. As the spasms tore through she voiced her pleasure by intoning "omigod, omigod, omigod" faster and faster until the words ran together and culminated in a long, loud cry of passion.

  "Ooooooooooooooooh," she cried, as she trembled and quivered her way to completion. "That was wonnnnnnnnnderful!"

  I turned both motors off and the buzzing and humming died away. Bit by bit I tugged at the base of the toy until it fell from her soaking pussy.

  "Wonderful, huh?" I said smugly. "Maybe next time you make a bet you'll remember what this felt like and I won't have such a hard time getting what I really want."

  "Fat chance," she sighed dreamily, still reeling from the force of her orgasms. "There won't be a next time. Now get up here and fuck me properly. I need a good hard, flesh and blood cock, not some piece of plastic."

  I never need a second invitation and soon my juices were mingling with hers, deep inside her pussy.

  Over the next few weeks I noticed a change in Laura. She appeared to be edgier and often seemed on the verge of saying asking for something before she went quiet and reflective. It was at dinner one night that I made the mistake of attributing a quote made in the news earlier in the day to the wrong politician.

  "Did you hear that our bonehead state rep Smith wants to raise the property tax again?"

  "You're wrong!" she challenged eagerly. "It wasn't Smith who said it."

  "What?"

  "You're wrong," she repeated. "Smith didn't say that today, it was Carlson. I was watching the news when he said it."

  Normally Laura has about as much interest in politics as I have in hair-dressing but it seemed to me that she had been waiting for me to make a mistake for quite a while. Although I knew she was right, I decided to play a little game with her.

  "No," I argued, "I think it was Smith."

  "Feel sure enough to make a little wager," she smiled.

  "Sure. Same terms as always?"

  "Yep," she said confidently and went to the computer. She returned waving a sheet of paper triumphantly. "It was Carlson! You owe me."

  I pretended to be crushed by the defeat.

  "Well, my dear, what is it that you want from me," I said meekly.

  "You'll see when we get to bed tonight," she answered coyly. "But I hope you have fresh batteries."

  The End.

  Pleasure Tax

  "I see that you are about to engage in sexual intercourse."

  It had been a wonderful evening up to that moment. Liz and I had gone to the same dimly lit restaurant in which I'd proposed to her fifteen years earlier. Over appetizers she stroked my hand and gave me dewy, come-hither looks. During the main course and two bottles of wine, she rubbed her leg against mine, as though we could make cricket music. Dessert had her toe at my groin.

  Once home, we disrobed on the way to the bedroom, grappling with each other and leaving a trail of clothing and inhibition behind. Liz dropped onto the bed and spread her long legs for me.

  "I want you," she whispered huskily.

  I leapt onto her and was poised to make her toes curl when that voice came.

  Liz cried in alarm. I might have made a fearful, unmanly noise too.

  Home invasion was the first thing that came to my mind. Horrible timing was the second. I turned to look for the owner of the voice, ready to defend my beloved and atone for the surprised squeak that I'd uttered a moment before.

  A man sat in a chair in a darkened corner of the bedroom. I hadn't noticed him on entering, but in fairness I'd been more interested in following Liz's bare rump to take much stock of my surroundings. Despite the fact that the chair was the repository for dirty clothes -- Liz was forever reminding me that we had a hamper for that sort of thing -- the man had folded each article of clothing and stacked neat piles of it around him.

  "Who the fuck are you, and what are you doing in my bedroom?"

  "Our bedroom," my wife corrected me. She was sensitive about these things. Nonetheless, I was surprised by her reaction. I would have expected unmitigated hysteria from Liz at the presence of an unexpected stranger in our bedroom, but remarkably, it was not the case.

  "Our bedroom," I corrected.

  The man crossed his legs and ran his index finger and thumb along the crease of his trousers. If he was concerned at being discovered, he didn't show it. He was nattily if conservatively dressed in a suit and tie. He cocked his head, peered at me through thick lenses, and flashed a grin that seemed to contain too many teeth. Too many teeth notwithstanding, the man appeared completely non-threatening. He was, in fact, the very essence of meekness.

  I rose from the bed and balled my hands into fists. I hoped that I looked menacing despite my pale, middle-aged nudity.

  "Dwight Dunker, auditor." He flipped out his wallet and waved an identification card around. "I'm with the Revenue Agency."

  His words stopped me dead in my tracks. He'd spoken words that strike more fear in a man than any others, with the possible exceptions of syphilis or alimony. Revenue Agency.

  I let my hand fall to my side. Then I sat on the bed and I let it fall to the bedspread, upon which it scrabbled for a moment before pulling an edge over to hide my erection.

  Liz, having drunk a volume of wine over dinner, was nowhere near as modest or discomfited as I by the inexplicable presence of a stranger in our bedroom. Perhaps the wine had lent her courage and brazenness. Perhaps she had faith in my ability to ward off whatever threat this little man posed. Perhaps
she liked being ogled by a new pair of eyes. Whatever the reason, she perched herself on an elbow, her full breasts attractively obeying the laws of gravity as she reclined on the bed like an odalisque. While she gazed suspiciously at the auditor, her hand insinuated itself under the cover that hid my boner. The cover began a fluttering movement, as though a small animal were attempting to escape.

  "What are you doing here?" I asked.

  "It's a pre-emptive audit." He must have interpreted my wide-eyed look as confusion, though it was really the result of Liz's fingernails running a tingling path up the underside of my penis. He continued, "You didn't receive the letter?"

  "No," I said.

  "We sent a letter," said the auditor. "Two, in fact."

  "There may have been a letter. Or two," Liz admitted.

  "What's this about?"

  The auditor adjusted his glasses and leaned back in his chair. "Had you read the letter -- and I must tell you that you really should pay more attention to government communications -- you would know that the government has launched a new taxation initiative. Having exhausted all other revenue-generating avenues, we've been forced to introduce what the media has erroneously called a pleasure tax. You may have heard of it. Whatever you choose to call it, I'm here to establish a baseline for you -- the both of you, that is -- so that the tax is fair and equitable. You should carry on as though I'm not here and perform as you normally would. As I said, I want to establish a baseline upon which we will levy a modest tax that's based on both the frequency and quality of your coupling. If you refrain from certain customary activities in the hopes of decreasing your tax burden -- though I strongly advise against it -- we would be forced to levy a penalty should it be discovered that you do, indeed, perform such activities."

  "But you can't just break into people's homes!"

  "Had you read the letter, you would have known that it contained a return communication that would have indicated to us that you wished to exempt yourself from pre-emptive audit. As of last week, we received no such instructions from you. As a result, your non-response indicated your accession to our request to evaluate the relative value of the services you provide to each other."

  "That's ridiculous!"

  "I get that a lot, but you should understand that the services you render to each other do have an inherent value. Do you deny it?"

  It was a loaded question and I chose to invoke my right to remain silent.

  "Consider, for example, the sex trade worker who is deprived of custom by your actions. Admittedly, sex trade workers don't pay into the system in terms of source deductions or sales tax, but that is precisely the problem. The government is obliged to provide a modest standard of living for all of its citizens, regardless of whether they have contributed monetarily. As well, numerous peer-reviewed studies have shown that those who engage in regular intercourse live longer than those who do not. Consequently, society incurs a huge expense to support those who, as a result of their healthy intimate relations, are at risk of outliving their savings and thereby become a burden on society."

  Liz tugged at me. "Come on," she implored me.

  Her hand felt good on the part of me that she was tugging and I momentarily closed my eyes.

  "If you should procreate," the auditor added, "you could claim a deduction, of course. You know, for creating another little taxpayer."

  I opened my eyes again and glared at the auditor. "I don't want to have children," I said.

  "I do," said Liz.

  I didn't want to start that argument again. "We haven't decided."

  "There's time, but not too much." The auditor winked at me.

  "I'm not that old," said Liz.

  A thought came to me; a potential loophole, as it were. "We could stop having sex entirely. How about that?" I said testily.

  Liz's hand squeezed me painfully. I wanted to reassure her that it had been an empty threat only.

  The auditor shook his head sadly. "I wouldn't advise it. That would qualify as tax evasion, I'm afraid. The penalties for deliberately denying oneself intimate relations to avoid taxation are stiff. Speaking of which, you're not."

  I looked down and saw that the cover had slipped and noticed also that what he said was true. I was old enough to know that the adolescent-grade erection that I'd been sporting a few minutes ago was something rare and wonderful and to be cherished. The auditor's presence had produced an alarming wilt, despite Liz's attentions.

  "Oh crap."

  Liz crawled around me to investigate and uttered a cry of alarm. Soon her lips wrapped themselves around me in an attempt at resurrection.

  "I do understand that an audit is unnerving, but please relax. It'll go a lot more easily for all of us if you're open and honest. I'm sure that you don't want to give me a reason to come back. So please, pretend that I'm not here."

  "You could leave the room," I suggested weakly as Liz descended on me.

  The auditor laughed. "And take your word for it? No offense, but really, I can't."

  Liz lifted her head. "Oh, for Christ sake, stop talking already!"

  The auditor removed a notebook from his briefcase and made a show of finding a blank page. He checked his watch and made note of the time. Annoyingly, he clicked his pen a few times. Liz, I have to say, was masterful and I was soon primed again. A quiet Hallelujah chorus bubbled up in my brain.

  Liz's head bobbed up and down on my saliva-slick length and the auditor nodded encouragingly. I fell back on the bed, my hand quickly finding the slick folds between Liz's legs and then moving up to coax her clitoris from its protective nest. Soon the auditor was forgotten, my attention divided between Liz's oral ministrations and my own efforts.

  Liz moaned with abandon as I strummed her. Wine did that to her. She took me in more deeply, her own arousal overriding the reflex that ordinarily inhibited the complete insertion of my manhood into her throat. Her lips closed around my base and her tongue undulated against me. We remained thus engaged for several minutes, each of us giving and receiving pleasure in equal measure. Through the blissful haze produced by the warmth of her mouth on my cock, I noted the tell-tale signs of her own imminent climax and redoubled my efforts, concentrating on the glistening pearl of her clitoris. At length, her legs snapped together on my hand. Muffled squeaks accompanied the rhythmic pulsing of her hips as she came.

  "Oh yeah!" she exclaimed.

  Oh no, I thought.

  "Did she?" asked the auditor with interest, confirming my fear.

  "She doesn't fake it." I said sadly.

  "Uh-huh," Liz affirmed dreamily before another wave robbed her of intelligible speech.

  The auditor gave me an attaboy look and scribbled something in his notebook.

  Liz was one of those women for whom orgasm was an old and reliable friend, one that visited regularly and stayed a while. I found myself wishing that Liz were less effusively vocal in welcoming this friend and more restrained and calculating in greeting. Given the company we had, it might have been better had she stopped this particular friend on the threshold. After all, the auditor had mentioned the quality of our canoodling and I grew concerned that Liz's yelps might propel us into a wholly unwelcome tax bracket.

  Liz crawled to the centre of the bed and positioned herself on her hands and knees. She arched her back, angling her pelvis to better display herself to me. The glistening folds of her pussy beckoned. Her hand insinuated itself between her legs and her fingers spread apart her lips, revealing the moist warmth that was mine to have.

  I glanced from Liz to the auditor and back to Liz again.

  "I'd go for it," said the auditor. "You know you want to."

  I did. God, I wanted nothing more. I perched my rigid member at her entrance. What was this going to cost us? I wondered. I placed my hands on her narrow waist and held Liz firmly in position. She tried to press against me and whimpered as I withdrew.

  "Fuck me," she pleaded.

  Fiscal self-preservation battled with an overwhelming de
sire to plunge into her. I could hear the auditor shifting in his chair.

  Liz pressed more firmly against me and waggled her hips. Before I knew it, I'd entered her another inch or so. She tightened her muscles around me, the most intimate of embraces. She felt exquisite.

  My indecisiveness must have infuriated her, for she reached between my legs, grasped my balls, and pulled. Self-preservation compelled me to follow the trajectory of my testicles and I was soon buried within her.

  There was little point in stopping now, so I grasped her more firmly and plunged into her violently, again and again, angry that she had interrupted my deliberations.

  Liz whooped giddily under the pummelling and soon buried her face in a pillow, muffling her cries.

  After several minutes, she lifted her head. "I want you to finish in my ass," breathed Liz.

  It was a suggestion that she made only when drunk and I usually eagerly complied. I hesitated this time, suddenly worried about the tax implications.

  I looked over to the auditor. He shrugged expansively and made a note.

  "Do meee," Liz wailed. "Please!" Her hands grasped her ass, spreading her cheeks to reveal the tight button of her anus.

  This was no time to be fiscally conservative, I realized. There was a good chance that we were screwed already.

  I leaned over and fumbled with the drawer of my bedside table. The auditor, attuned to my need, helpfully reached in and handed me a bottle of lubricant.

  "Thanks," I muttered.

  "Don't mention it."

  I applied a generous dollop of lube to Liz and then spread some on myself. I noted absently that I'd no doubt already paid harmonized sales tax on the stuff, with after-tax income no less, and angrily pushed the thought from my mind.