Dirty Erotica Sex Stories

by Jenny Ramshard

  “Great. Well that settles it. We’ll definitely be coming to hang out with you more often. Sure, finals are next week, but don’t think that this is the end. We’ll definitely be coming for more than just tutoring,” George said.

  I immediately blushed. I realized that they were serious about this, that they wouldn’t leave me alone.

  “Thanks. I’m excited for that,” I told them.

  We kissed, and that was that. I started to see the two of them almost constantly. After practice, they would stop on by, and we would either go out on little dates, or we would have some wild sex. Man, sex was probably the best thing for me. I felt less on edge for everything. And I felt more normal. People actually wanted to talk to me, to be with me, to help me out, and in truth, I did like that a lot. I felt like I was finally making friends, and it was because of those two. They seemed to be happy, and I was quite happy too.

  After a bit, everything began to get even better. They did come forward and tell the team about me, and despite a bit of ridicule, they said that they really liked me. A few girls were insanely jealous, mostly because they never thought that these two would be into a weird girl like me, but it just goes to show you that not everything is the way that it seems. Rather, it’s actually a new worth of life, a new sort of means that I am definitely happy about. I feel like a new person, a totally different person, and with this, I learned as well that I shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, and sometimes, the best people out there aren’t always the ones that seem like they are, but they are the ones that don’t show their true colors until you’re alone with them.

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  TEMPTATION TALES

  Story 41

  I had dreams of becoming the next Christiane Amanpour. I was going to work my way up through the ranks of CNN to later become an International Correspondent, but the first initial steps of my career plans never materialized. By the time I was a journalism student in my senior year at College of Charleston, I had a steady boyfriend, Greg, who felt an entry level position for CNN in Atlanta, although it’s only a four and half hour drive away, would put too much strain on our relationship since he had been accepted to the Medical University of South Carolina in Charleston.

  I never even applied for a position at CNN. I wonder occasionally what it would have been like to work for such a large media organization especially on the days where I am given an assignment by my editor that is nothing I ever thought I’d write about in my journalism career. Because Greg needed me to be in Charleston during what he said would be a difficult and chaotic time in his burgeoning medical career, I had limited opportunities for journalism jobs. I basically took whatever I could get.

  Conde Nast started a new magazine, “Sugar and Salt”, marketed toward Millennial foodies headquartered in Charleston. We actually are in the same office building on Broad Street with “Garden and Gun”, which is marketed as an upscale Southern hospitality mag. “Garden and Gun” is a reminder that my career could be going much worse. I could be writing articles geared towards conservative wealthy Southerners who glamorize the antebellum period in history and not just for the historical landmarks.

  “Sugar and Salt” isn’t that bad to work for honestly. Granted, it isn’t as glamorous as covering international conflicts in foreign countries, but I do get to travel to visit different restaurants around the country. The comparison has been made that we are attempting to be the BuzzFeed for foodies, which I’m not necessarily too bothered by. BuzzFeed isn’t highbrow journalism, but it is extremely popular. To tell you the truth, I wonder if my generation is even that interested in highbrow journalism seeing how most Millennials get their news through Facebook and Twitter.

  I admit I was reluctant to take the position for “Sugar and Salt”, a food magazine, for the obvious reason that I am a big boned girl. Big boned is what my mother always says I am. It’s a nice way of saying I’m overweight. A fat girl working for a food magazine? I shuddered at the assumptions others would make as to why I would be interested in such a job. I’ve never confirmed whether people actually make these kinds of assumptions, but it’s something that bothered me at first. Soon, I realized that it didn’t really matter. I had a journalism job of some kind right out of college and that was something I should celebrate.

  Greg was pretty supportive during my job hunting. When I landed the job at “Sugar and Salt”, he encouraged me to take it saying that any job would do because when he was a doctor, I wouldn’t work anyway. I’d stay home to take care of the kids. We aren’t even engaged yet, but Greg was already thinking about our children. What a sweet guy, right? Greg is probably the best thing that will ever happen to me. I’m not sold on the idea of being a stay-at-home-mom yet, but I’m sure when the time comes, Greg and I will make the right decision.

  I’ve just gotten back to Charleston from an assignment that took me out to San Francisco to a Filipino restaurant, FOB Kitchen. FOB Kitchen’s chef, Janice Dulce, and her wife were more than hospitable and kind. They sent me off back home with a great interview and full to the brim with lumpia, longanisa, and pork adobo. The savory and succulent flavors of the main courses popped and melted in my mouth while the desserts, bibingka and ube, bloomed sweet and delicious on my tongue.

  An editor of “Bon Appetit” is quoted as saying that Filipino food is the new Thai food, but Charleston hasn’t gotten the memo yet and probably never will. Charleston has dozens of great restaurants but regrettably they tend to stem from the same cuisine, Southern. Nearly every restaurant has its own take on shrimp and grits, which is wonderful if you’re a tourist and experiencing authentic Southern fare for the first time, but it gets old fast when you are an actual Charleston resident. “Sugar and Salt” allows me to bounce around and get a taste of different cuisines. It’s a pretty awesome job in that respect.

  Exposure to different foods inspires me to incorporate these flavors into my home cooking. It’s another perk from working for “Sugar and Salt.” My own cooking has become adventurous and fun. The problem is: Greg is a shrimp and grits kind of guy. He likes trying eighteen different kinds of shrimp and grits from eighteen different restaurants. He wants the good old Southern food that he grew up with. That’s just how he is. He doesn’t like change or to try new things. In consequence, I make him his Southern favorites for dinner while I make something unique and special for myself. I try to get him to take a bite, but he says he thinks it’s un-American to eat foreigner food.

  His resistance to change spills over to every facet of his life. He has been wearing the same classic New Balance 574 shoes in grey since he was a teenager. Whenever a pair gets worn out, he just gets another. In the same way, unfortunately, he has been using the good old missionary style sex position since the first day we slept together. That’s what he likes. That’s what he is used to.

  When I get home from the airport, Greg is still in class. I stop by H and L, the Asian Market in North Charleston for some ingredients to make sinigang, a Filipino dish the Dulce’s introduced to me. Janice gave me a recipe. I’m excited to try it.

  I make the sinigang. It is savory and tangy because of the delicious tamarind flavored soup. I, of course, also make pan fried chicken, cornbread, and collard greens. I also make Greg peach cobbler as a reprieve for being gone during one of his exams this week. He hates when I’m away when he has a test to study for. It throws him off his rhythm.

  “Lindsey!” I hear his voice booming in from the front door.

  “In the kitchen!” I call out.

  He bursts into the kitchen and goes straight to the food. “You cooked!”

  “Of course,” I say coming up behind him and wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders. “How was the food I prepared for you the last few days?”

  He pats my hand tenderly and says, “It was good but would have been even better if you were here and it was fresh.”

  I squeeze his hand. “I know, but the magazine sent me out to San Francisco. It was only
two days, babe.”

  He peels my arms off of his neck. I watch as he lifts the pot lid off the sinigang. He inhales deeply before saying, “What foreigner food is it this time?”

  “Filipino,” I answer.

  His face screws up in distaste. “Gross,” he says.

  “You’d probably like it if you tried it,” I say.

  He puts the lid back on the pot. “Nah. If it ain’t broke…”

  “Don’t fix it,” I finish.

  After dinner, since it’s a Wednesday, we have sex. Greg likes to schedule everything in his life. It’s the only way he can handle medical school. So Wednesday is our day. After I shower and brush my teeth, I climb into bed naked. I lie in bed and read the book, “Julie and Julia,” waiting for Greg. I’ve already seen the movie, but that was before I became a food journalist. I’ve been gravitating to book about foods or making food lately.

  The book I read before this one was, Barbara Kingsolver’s, “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life.” I love her fiction work so I thought I’d give her nonfiction stuff a try. It’s been kind of cool exploring all the creative ways people write about food. In both “Julie and Julia” and “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle”, the writers document their experiences with accomplishing a food driven goal. In “Julie and Julia”, the writer, Julie Powell, attempts to cook every single one of the 524 recipes in Julia Child’s “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” in one year. In “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle”, Kingsolver attempts to feed her family for a full year with only locally grown food.

  Both of these books are inspiring. Writing about food wasn’t my first career choice but it has been a fun experience so far. Look at Anthony Bourdain. He has a show on CNN that centers around food.

  Greg climbs into bed next to me. He nuzzles up to me immediately kissing my neck softly. “Wouldn’t it be cool if I had my own show like Anthony Bourdain? Traveling to other countries to cover food?” I ask him.

  Greg stops kissing me. “That’s not really a job for you, babe.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, I mean Anthony Bourdain is a guy. How many people would want to watch a show like that hosted by a woman? And you know, you’re not really TV material.”

  I don’t say anything, thinking over what he has said. After a few moments, I answer, “You’re right.”

  He goes back to kissing my neck. His hand squeezes me breast. “I’m just trying to be realistic so you don’t get your hopes up.”

  He kisses me on the mouth jutting his tongue in and out. He climbs on top of me until his chest is pressed up on mine. I can feel his dick hard and stiff against my inner thigh. I try to get into the mood, but I keep thinking about what he means about getting my hopes up and not being TV material.

  Greg isn’t into a variety of foreplay aside from sticking a finger inside me, but I admit after years together he has perfected it. He sticks his index finger inside my pussy and plows into it with a hooking motion. His finger tickles right where it needs to. I feel a heat smoldering deep inside my pussy. After a few more jabs with his finger, he slides his cock inside.

  Greg isn’t much of an expressive lover, but he fortunately has an enormous cock. The length and girth of it alone is satisfying for me. When he pumps in and out of me, it hits right onto my G spot. He kisses my neck and grips my shoulders with tight fists. He isn’t a verbal person during lovemaking. Any time in the past that I’ve whispered in his ear or moaned out, he places his palm flat against my mouth. He is so devoted to silence during sex that he won’t even utter a gentle “Shhhh.” After a few minutes, a tingle runs through me from my spot out into the rest of my body. I shudder quietly trying to hold in my release. I am careful to hold in my gasp.

  With a few more tight thrusts, Greg pulls out and comes into a washcloth he has handily next to him. "You get so wet. It's so weird," he comments. His face is grimaced in distaste as he wipes up his cum and my juice on his pelvis and thighs. He gives me a light kiss on the cheek.

  In a few minutes, he is asleep. I lie awake for awhile thinking over what he meant about not being TV material. I'm not the thinnest woman but neither is Oprah. Why does that even matter? Despite not being rail thin, I'm confident I'm an attractive girl. Sometimes I feel like Greg throws my weight in my face as if it's a handicap. Maybe I’m being paranoid. I don’t know.

  At work the next day, I’m at my desk finishing up my story on FOB Kitchen. My editor, Charles, coffee in hand, says to me, “I’ve got a new assignment for you.”

  I stop typing and look up from my Mac. “Where to this time? New York City? Austin?”

  “Nope.” He taps a finger on desk and says, “You’re staying right here this time. You’re going to interview that new spot on King.”

  “Which one?” I say.

  “The one with the celeb chef, Winston Thomas.” He opens his eyes wide waiting for a response from me.

  “Winston Thomas? The chef with the TV show where he berates contestants and is pretty much known as a complete asshole?”

  Charles jumps up and down pointing a finger at me. “Yep! That’s the one!”

  My face sours. Not only am I not getting to go on location somewhere, I have to deal what that asshat Winston Thomas. He became a celebrity chef super early in his career. We are about the same age. His first glimmer of stardom began on Gordon Ramsey’s “Master Chef Junior.” Since then, he’s become a media darling.

  I heard that he opened a restaurant in Charleston after shuttering his famous restaurant in Brooklyn. There are theories to why it closed: his food doesn’t live up to the hype, the high prices aren’t worth it, or Brooklyn hipsters just didn’t think he was the new cool thing anymore. I suspect Charles will want me to uncover the real reasons he relocated down here.

  “You don’t look excited,” Charles says in surprise.

  I brighten my face as best as I can. “No! No! I’m very excited. This is great. Thanks!”

  Charles walks away from my desk appeased. I wonder to myself how much of an asshole Winston Thomas really is. Maybe it’s all talk.

  “Get out!” Winston Thomas roars at me as I stand in his kitchen. He turns his back to me glaring at his staff.

  “I’m here from Sugar and Salt, the magazine?”

  “I don’t give a fuck who you are or why you are here. We are in the middle of dinner service. Why the fuck would you think this was a good time to come here?” he says with his back still turned.

  “Your general manager told me to come at this time.”

  He spins around with fire in his eyes. Despite looking like a demon right now, I have to admit that Winston is a good looking guy. I hadn’t really been following him since his days on “Master Chef Junior” when he was chubby faced kid. In the last decade, he has really outgrown his baby fat. “Come back after the dinner rush. In the meantime, I don’t want to see your fucking face.”

  I back up slowly out of the kitchen. I walk by the General Manager, a buttoned up man with apologetic eyes. He grimaces a smile at me and is about to say something, but I interrupt him. “It’s okay. I’ll be back.”

  I retreat to a bar on the corner and order a mojito. What an asshole! I sip my mojito and go over my notes for the interview. I try to look for the positives of the situation. Maybe after dinner service, he will be more relaxed and less asshole-ish. Maybe with a couple of drinks in him, he will be open to answer questions about his move down here.

  I wait a few hours before I venture back to Winston’s restaurant, Taste. In that time, I’d had a few more mojitos. I am feeling well lubricated to handle the jackass again. I walk back into the restaurant; the hostess immediately recognizes me for earlier.

  “Miss Wilson, Chef wants to apologize for earlier. Please follow me.” I follow her to a table. “What would you like to drink?”

  I’m feeling tipsy from the mojitos so I say, “Just ice water please.”

  Within minutes, a waiter appears and places a plate in front of me. “From the Chef. This is crisp
pork belly steamed buns,” the waiter says beneath his shaggy bangs. The pork belly buns are crispy on the outside and succulent inside. It’s delicious.

  For the next hour, the waiter brings out various dishes to me: grilled asparagus with bacon miso dressing, Thai coconut creamed spinach, and roasted grouper with sake braised white beans. I’m swimming in savory and rich flavors that I almost forget the entire reason I am here. When the waiter brings out grilled octopus with hearts of palm I ask, “Will the chef be coming out soon?”

  The waiter smiles, “Yes. He will be joining you shortly.”

  I sample a few more dishes before Winston comes out. The restaurant is closing, and there is only a young couple paying their bill left. Winston has a seat in front of me. He has his chef jacket off. His white t-shirt is tight against his body showing off his muscular arms and chest.