The Bodice Ripper

An Unusual Superhero.

Long flowing blond hair. A bare chiseled chest. Wash-board abs. And lithe, seductive, ever-moving hips. The Bodice Ripper is a virile visitor from the Deep South with powers, abilities, and techniques far beyond those of the average male escort. He can arouse the desires of stingy prudes, and pop cherries with his bare hands. And who, disguised as a southern hick, a crude-mouthed farmer, fights a never-ending battle for indulgence, debauchery and the American way.

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Birthday Sex: Gas Station Style

In a way, it’s my best friend’s fault for forgetting my birthday that I’m giving head to a stranger behind the counter of a gas station right now.

Preview from Birthday Sex: Gas Station Style

Copyright © Taylah Morgan 2017

I unloaded my single-people food on the register and watched the cashier start to ring up my purchases. My eyes were drawn to his dirty hands. Maybe he was cleaning something, I’m not sure, but dirt laid under his nails and dark grime smudged in between skewed hair on the outside of his hands. This guy needed a pair of cleaning gloves, Dexter would never let his hands get dirty. Shit, thinking of Dexter reminded me of the titillating scene I left playing on my television and warmth rose in my cheeks.

Don’t think about sex. Don’t think about dark, passionate, serial killer sex.

Shit. Stop thinking about sex.

Sex with Dexter.

“Rough night?” the cashier asked as he started to check me out.

Rough sex. Up against a wall. Dirty hands wrapped around my throat…Dirty hands? Dexter wears gloves… I looked back at the cashier’s dirty hands.

“What’s wrong?” His question pulled me out of my thoughts. Embarrassed, I took my focus away from the gloveless limbs I fantasized about and took in the rest of him.

Tall with short dark hair, he had a five o’clock shadow. Most people – including myself – would think he appeared plain or average, but the slow burning warmth in his eyes and the laugh lines around his mouth hooked me. His large broad nose guided me to the curve of his slightly chapped lips. His ears, too large for his head, had dark little curly hairs brushing out from a dark curly-haired black ear hole. The dark dense baby hairs reminded me of my boss’s similar-looking ears. On more than one occasion I’ve imagined running my tongue along the outer shell of those ears as moaned Russian cuss words while pounded the hell out of me.


Fuckity-fuck-fuck! I’ve got fucking on the mind tonight. How long was it since I’ve last been fucked? A fuckade. I’m a fuckaholic in need of a fucking fuckathon.


“Are you okay?” He stopped ringing up my purchases.

“Ye-yeah. It’s just been a fuckless night,” shit. “I mean a rough night.” I tried to reign it in, no need to let him know I wore my we vagina on my sleeve.

If he caught my slip up, he didn’t act like it. “What happened?” He must have been one of those conversational gas station attendants, I figured telling him about my night might help get my mind off sex and fucking.

“The short version? Today is my birthday and my best friend left me alone for a guy with a tiny penis and a large truck. Her words, not mine. Apparently he fucks like he’s bigger than he is and has an oral technique belonging to the Greek Gods. Again, her words, not mine. I strongly believe bigger is better. Well, I guess, small size is better than no size, which is what I’m getting tonight.” I patted my crotch, what a waste of a wax. “No birthday peen for me.”

He chuckled at my word vomit. “I kind of want to hear the long version now.”

I shook my head at my own nervous chatter. “Sorry about that.”

The cashier didn’t say anything, he just bent down behind the counter, I assumed, to get a bag for all of my candy. Instead, he brought out a mini bottle of tequila. “Happy birthday,” he said.

Surprised, shocked, and a little touched, I picked up the mini bottle of tequila. The micro of amount alcohol in a cheap plastic bottle being the best gift I received today and it was given to me by a stranger just trying to comfort me. I opened the microscopic bottle and held it up to him in salute. “Slainte,” I hailed and chugged the tiny bottle down in just a few gulps. “What was it they said about tequila? That it makes your clothes come off?” I asked.

He laughed at me and I realized he had completely abandoned my purchases and just stood there behind the counter, watching me, with a smirk on his face. That smirk, I thought, was like a small breadcrumb leading the way to the buffet in his pants. His body leaned halfway over the counter with his arms open wide, his molten chocolate eyes watched me.

Time to drop a crumb of my own.

I held out my arm with the now-empty bottle of tequila and dropped it on the floor. “Oops,” I smiled. Instead of moving to pick up the pocket-sized bottle, I looked straight at him, bit my lip, and gave him my practiced porn star face. “I dropped your present.”

He grinned at me. A large, lascivious grin that made his overly large ears move up and again, my attention was drawn to his dark ear hair. I wanted to put his ear between.

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