With her multiple submissions, no-nonsense attitude, and shameless overshares, our very first Slut of the Month is.....
Lucky Prescott!
Mazel tov, Lucky. Keep the stories coming!
Showing posts with label Lucky Prescott. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lucky Prescott. Show all posts
Monday, November 2, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
New Year's Reso-what?
Submitted by Lucky Prescott
I know I need to leave. I’m breaking my own rules by staying here for even a second after I wake up. But I don’t know how to just get up and go. It’s like my body is frozen with the fear of being rude. I watch the clock on the building across the street tick away opposite a bright blue sky that looks like summer even though it’s freezing out. I longingly stare at my black g-string on the floor by the closet, sending it telepathic messages to get up and walk its way over to me. It doesn’t.
I’d been doing well with my New Year’s resolution: 354 days and nights without a one night stand. I guess I could have held out 11 more days, but I needed some good sex before heading home to get some terrible sex from the guy I’m quasi dating. Besides, Luke was a conquest. And maybe I was a conquest for him too.
After all, this was a long time coming. We made out at a bar last year, but when he asked me to go home with him, I declined. He took my number, told me that he’d had a crush on me for a while, and then put me in a cab. This time, after talking for an hour or so at the bar, when he asked, “Do you want to get out of here?” the only logical response was “Yes.” I can’t be called a slut this time if I already refused him once before. Right?
We held hands as we walked along the Christmas tree-lined sidewalks, hopping into a cab and going to his apartment. We started on the couch and he carried me to the bed. It was great. It did the job. I actually got off. I actually had fun. And there were absolutely no strings attached.
I hear him groan a morning groan as the clock’s minute hand reaches the hour mark. I give myself a pep talk, say I’ll get up at the count of ten. I reach ten. I don’t move. He wakes up. Gives me a kiss and smiles. And I thought leaving would be awkward before?
I know I need to leave. I’m breaking my own rules by staying here for even a second after I wake up. But I don’t know how to just get up and go. It’s like my body is frozen with the fear of being rude. I watch the clock on the building across the street tick away opposite a bright blue sky that looks like summer even though it’s freezing out. I longingly stare at my black g-string on the floor by the closet, sending it telepathic messages to get up and walk its way over to me. It doesn’t.
I’d been doing well with my New Year’s resolution: 354 days and nights without a one night stand. I guess I could have held out 11 more days, but I needed some good sex before heading home to get some terrible sex from the guy I’m quasi dating. Besides, Luke was a conquest. And maybe I was a conquest for him too.
After all, this was a long time coming. We made out at a bar last year, but when he asked me to go home with him, I declined. He took my number, told me that he’d had a crush on me for a while, and then put me in a cab. This time, after talking for an hour or so at the bar, when he asked, “Do you want to get out of here?” the only logical response was “Yes.” I can’t be called a slut this time if I already refused him once before. Right?
We held hands as we walked along the Christmas tree-lined sidewalks, hopping into a cab and going to his apartment. We started on the couch and he carried me to the bed. It was great. It did the job. I actually got off. I actually had fun. And there were absolutely no strings attached.
I hear him groan a morning groan as the clock’s minute hand reaches the hour mark. I give myself a pep talk, say I’ll get up at the count of ten. I reach ten. I don’t move. He wakes up. Gives me a kiss and smiles. And I thought leaving would be awkward before?
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Happy Birthday to You
Submitted by Lucky Prescott
It was only the first week of senior year, but it was already becoming the semester of Steves—I’d slept with two of them in as many weeks.
That first week was always filled with parties at huge clubs and hot bars, and for the first time in four years, I didn’t have to worry about a fake ID getting me through the door. But there were those issues of having to wait in line and paying a cover charge. That is, until I found out that Steve #3 was a promoter for the parties.
I’d known him since freshman year, but had never called him before. Now I had him on speed dial, finding out where he’d be so that my friends and I could drop his name at the door and get in right away, heading right to the VIP area. Fine, I was using him. But at least this provided him with a following of hot girls.
On the third night, he said that it was his birthday, so as a little gift, I gave him a lap dance at our private table. Later, we made our way back to our dorm (he lived a few floors above me) and parted ways with a kiss at the elevator. Or so I thought. About 15 minutes later, I heard a knock at the door and found Steve #3 in pajama pants, a t-shirt, and a baseball cap—so necessary at three in the morning.
He walked straight to my room and laid on my bed, hands clasped behind his head, and while looking me up and down said, “Now for my real birthday present.” How did this Jaba the Hut lookalike end up in my room, in my bed? Did I have any other choice but to give him what he wanted? After all, he’d been helping me out all week. And it was his birthday. What the hell?
So, we had the sex, and the thing that I remember most is how confident he was, how he didn’t care that he was being somewhat creepy by inviting himself to my room, how he was just shamelessly doing his thing. I mean, it was almost appealing. It almost overshadowed the fact that this was some of the least enjoyable sex I’d ever had. Almost.
It was only the first week of senior year, but it was already becoming the semester of Steves—I’d slept with two of them in as many weeks.
That first week was always filled with parties at huge clubs and hot bars, and for the first time in four years, I didn’t have to worry about a fake ID getting me through the door. But there were those issues of having to wait in line and paying a cover charge. That is, until I found out that Steve #3 was a promoter for the parties.
I’d known him since freshman year, but had never called him before. Now I had him on speed dial, finding out where he’d be so that my friends and I could drop his name at the door and get in right away, heading right to the VIP area. Fine, I was using him. But at least this provided him with a following of hot girls.
On the third night, he said that it was his birthday, so as a little gift, I gave him a lap dance at our private table. Later, we made our way back to our dorm (he lived a few floors above me) and parted ways with a kiss at the elevator. Or so I thought. About 15 minutes later, I heard a knock at the door and found Steve #3 in pajama pants, a t-shirt, and a baseball cap—so necessary at three in the morning.
He walked straight to my room and laid on my bed, hands clasped behind his head, and while looking me up and down said, “Now for my real birthday present.” How did this Jaba the Hut lookalike end up in my room, in my bed? Did I have any other choice but to give him what he wanted? After all, he’d been helping me out all week. And it was his birthday. What the hell?
So, we had the sex, and the thing that I remember most is how confident he was, how he didn’t care that he was being somewhat creepy by inviting himself to my room, how he was just shamelessly doing his thing. I mean, it was almost appealing. It almost overshadowed the fact that this was some of the least enjoyable sex I’d ever had. Almost.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Wax On / Wax Off
Submitted by Lucky Prescott
Before I found Slut Rehab, I tried to shake my slutty ways on my own. I hadn’t slept with anyone in a while, so when Al Waxman asked me on a date, I figured I’d keep up the abstinence streak.
Our first drinks date went well. He was cute with a good, muscular build. As he gave me a kiss at the entrance to my building, I was happy and excited to go out with him again.
Now, he lives on Staten Island, and since I’ve only ridden the SI Ferry for tourist reasons, I don’t know what getting to the Upper East Side entails, but he’s an hour late for our next date. We head downtown with no specific dinner destination in mind, simply going to an area that he claims “has a lot of restaurants.” Negative. We walk around until my stiletto-ed feet get tired and we go into the next place we see. The highlight of dinner comes when he apologizes for his skin being so blotchy and red—his sister helped him wax his arms, back, and chest earlier in the day and she didn’t do a good job. VOMIT!!!
When dinner ends, my date says that it’s too late for him to go home. I feel bad, so I say, “You can stay at my place, but just so you know, you’re not getting any.” He says that’s fine, and we hop into a cab to head back uptown. When we get there, I immediately jump on top of my bed, jeans and slinky shirt still on, and face the wall, hoping to instantly fall asleep. He lays next to me and wraps his arm around me, kissing my shoulder. Then he starts to hump my leg. I remind him about what I told him before. The humping continues.
I don’t know what about the situation says that I want to hook up with him, and I tell him this, trying to wiggle my way closer and closer to the wall, hoping that I’ll fall down into the crack in between the mattress and the bed. After more humping and no reciprocating, he asks if I’m serious.
Ummm….
Finally, the humping stops and I fall asleep. We go out for breakfast the next morning, after which I assume he’ll go home since, you know, we’re already outside and all. But no, he walks back up the five flights of stairs to my apartment and watches TV all day. Once he starts talking about dinner, I tell him that I have plans and that he’d better go.
Thankfully, I never heard from him again.
Before I found Slut Rehab, I tried to shake my slutty ways on my own. I hadn’t slept with anyone in a while, so when Al Waxman asked me on a date, I figured I’d keep up the abstinence streak.
Our first drinks date went well. He was cute with a good, muscular build. As he gave me a kiss at the entrance to my building, I was happy and excited to go out with him again.
Now, he lives on Staten Island, and since I’ve only ridden the SI Ferry for tourist reasons, I don’t know what getting to the Upper East Side entails, but he’s an hour late for our next date. We head downtown with no specific dinner destination in mind, simply going to an area that he claims “has a lot of restaurants.” Negative. We walk around until my stiletto-ed feet get tired and we go into the next place we see. The highlight of dinner comes when he apologizes for his skin being so blotchy and red—his sister helped him wax his arms, back, and chest earlier in the day and she didn’t do a good job. VOMIT!!!
When dinner ends, my date says that it’s too late for him to go home. I feel bad, so I say, “You can stay at my place, but just so you know, you’re not getting any.” He says that’s fine, and we hop into a cab to head back uptown. When we get there, I immediately jump on top of my bed, jeans and slinky shirt still on, and face the wall, hoping to instantly fall asleep. He lays next to me and wraps his arm around me, kissing my shoulder. Then he starts to hump my leg. I remind him about what I told him before. The humping continues.
I don’t know what about the situation says that I want to hook up with him, and I tell him this, trying to wiggle my way closer and closer to the wall, hoping that I’ll fall down into the crack in between the mattress and the bed. After more humping and no reciprocating, he asks if I’m serious.
Ummm….
Finally, the humping stops and I fall asleep. We go out for breakfast the next morning, after which I assume he’ll go home since, you know, we’re already outside and all. But no, he walks back up the five flights of stairs to my apartment and watches TV all day. Once he starts talking about dinner, I tell him that I have plans and that he’d better go.
Thankfully, I never heard from him again.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
The Skinny on Getting a Cab
Submitted by Lucky Prescott
I’m ready to go home. My friend’s birthday party, with its crazily-priced drinks, people stumbling into me on the way-too-packed dance floor, and acrobats swinging from the ceiling, has lost its New York City charm. But I spent all of my cash at the bar and it’s too late to take the subway. I could hit up an ATM, but it would be so much easier to just make out with that kid sitting on the couch who I studied abroad with in hopes that he’ll suggest we get out of here. Fine, his waist is smaller than mine, he has terrible acne, and he’s cocky for no reason, but he has money and probably hasn’t gotten ass in a while. I saunter my way over to “say goodbye” to him, but end up sitting on his lap. Within minutes, his tongue is down my throat. We continue this through Usher’s “Yeah,” Britney’s “Toxic,” and a remix of Snoop’s “Drop It Like It’s Hot.” Then, the moment I’ve been waiting for. After saying goodbye to the birthday girl, we head outside and hail a cab, making out the whole way to my dorm. When we get there, he pays the cabbie. My mission is accomplished.
But his isn’t, so we go up to my room. Now, I never realized how skinny he really was until he unbuttoned his black dress shirt and revealed a sticking-out rib cage and barely-there pecs. I start wishing I had just left him downstairs, but know that I just have to get this over with. I close my eyes and let my mind wander as we kiss some more, eventually slipping between my pink bed sheets and having sex.
I wake up the next morning to him jangling his keys as he puts them back into his pants pocket, his wallet and cell phone going in the others. I look at the clock. It’s 9am and he’s out the door. I roll over and go back to sleep, thankful that he knows the rules of the one-night-stand and that getting home last night only cost another notch on my bedpost.
I’m ready to go home. My friend’s birthday party, with its crazily-priced drinks, people stumbling into me on the way-too-packed dance floor, and acrobats swinging from the ceiling, has lost its New York City charm. But I spent all of my cash at the bar and it’s too late to take the subway. I could hit up an ATM, but it would be so much easier to just make out with that kid sitting on the couch who I studied abroad with in hopes that he’ll suggest we get out of here. Fine, his waist is smaller than mine, he has terrible acne, and he’s cocky for no reason, but he has money and probably hasn’t gotten ass in a while. I saunter my way over to “say goodbye” to him, but end up sitting on his lap. Within minutes, his tongue is down my throat. We continue this through Usher’s “Yeah,” Britney’s “Toxic,” and a remix of Snoop’s “Drop It Like It’s Hot.” Then, the moment I’ve been waiting for. After saying goodbye to the birthday girl, we head outside and hail a cab, making out the whole way to my dorm. When we get there, he pays the cabbie. My mission is accomplished.
But his isn’t, so we go up to my room. Now, I never realized how skinny he really was until he unbuttoned his black dress shirt and revealed a sticking-out rib cage and barely-there pecs. I start wishing I had just left him downstairs, but know that I just have to get this over with. I close my eyes and let my mind wander as we kiss some more, eventually slipping between my pink bed sheets and having sex.
I wake up the next morning to him jangling his keys as he puts them back into his pants pocket, his wallet and cell phone going in the others. I look at the clock. It’s 9am and he’s out the door. I roll over and go back to sleep, thankful that he knows the rules of the one-night-stand and that getting home last night only cost another notch on my bedpost.
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