Erotic Stories: Clara's Breeding Booth
- 6 days ago
- 10 min read
This Erotic story is written with XXX Story AI Writer
The late summer air was thick with the scent of cotton candy and fried dough as Clara adjusted the sign above her booth for the third time. "Fertility Blessings – Traditional Methods Welcome" it read in elegant script, the letters slightly smudged from her nervous fingers. Beneath it, a plush velvet curtain concealed the interior, promising privacy—and something far more primal.
She had spent weeks preparing. The fairgrounds were alive with laughter and music, but inside her booth, the atmosphere was different—charged, intentional. The soft glow of lanterns cast warm light over the thick quilts she’d laid out, the scent of lavender and cedar lingering in the air. This wasn’t just about pleasure. It was about purpose.
Clara had buried too many dreams in the past year—another miscarriage, another relationship that crumbled under the weight of her grief. But tonight, she refused to be a victim. Tonight, she would take what she needed.
The first knock came just as the sun dipped below the horizon. A deep, hesitant rap against the wood.
“Come in,” she called, her voice steadier than she felt.
The curtain parted, and a broad-shouldered man ducked inside, his calloused hands clutching a worn Stetson. His dark eyes flicked over her—lingering on the swell of her hips, the way her sundress clung to her thighs. “Heard… heard this was the place for men lookin’ to do some good,” he rumbled, his voice rough like gravel.
Clara smiled, slow and knowing. “Depends on what you consider good,” she murmured, stepping closer. The heat between them was instant, electric. She reached out, trailing her fingers along his forearm, feeling the tense coil of muscle beneath his rolled-up sleeves. “Are you here to give… or to take?”
His breath hitched. “Both, if you’ll let me.”
She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she pressed her palm against his chest, guiding him backward until his thighs hit the edge of the quilted pallet. The moment his weight settled, she straddled his lap, her dress riding up to expose the lace trim of her panties. His hands found her waist, rough and eager, pulling her flush against the hard ridge of his cock already straining against his jeans.
“You’re sure about this?” he growled, though his fingers were already working the buttons of her dress, peeling the fabric aside to reveal her bare breasts.
Clara arched into his touch, a whimper escaping her lips as his thumb circled her nipple. “I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she breathed. “I want your seed. I want it deep.”
That was all the permission he needed.
With a growl, he flipped her onto her back, his mouth crashing down on hers as his hands tore at the last barriers between them. His jeans were shoved down just enough to free his thick, flushed cock, the tip already glistening. Clara spread her thighs wider, her fingers digging into the quilts as she guided him to her entrance.
“Fuck me like you mean it,” she demanded, her voice raw. “Like you’re planting something inside me that’ll last.”
He didn’t hold back.
The first thrust was brutal, stretching her in a way that burned before it bloomed into pleasure. Clara cried out, her nails raking down his back as he set a punishing rhythm, each snap of his hips driving him deeper. The booth creaked around them, the scent of sex and sweat thick in the air. She could feel him everywhere—his breath hot against her neck, his fingers bruising her hips, his cock swelling inside her with every thrust.
“You’re gonna take it all, aren’t you?” he grunted, his voice guttural. “Gonna let me fill this pretty cunt up until it’s dripping with me.”
“Yes—yes—” Clara sobbed, her body coiling tight. She could feel it building, the pressure mounting like a storm. “Breed me. Please.”
His rhythm stuttered, his cock twitching violently as he buried himself to the hilt. With a groan that sounded torn from his soul, he came, his release flooding her in thick, hot pulses. Clara wrapped her legs around him, locking him in place as her own orgasm crashed over her, her inner walls milking him for every last drop.
For a long moment, neither moved. His forehead rested against hers, their breaths ragged and synchronized. Then, slowly, he pulled back just enough to press a kiss to her swollen lips.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He only nodded, his expression something like awe, before he tucked himself away and slipped out into the night.
Clara lay there, her body thrumming, her thighs slick with their combined release. She pressed a hand to her lower belly, imagining she could already feel the weight of what might grow there.
One down.
And the fair had only just begun.
The dim glow of the carnival lights painted Clara’s booth in hues of crimson and gold, casting long shadows that danced across the velvet drapes behind her. The air was thick with the scent of cotton candy and fried dough, but beneath it all lingered something far more intoxicating—the musk of arousal, the sharp tang of anticipation. Clara lounged back in her high-backed chair, one leg crossed over the other, the slit of her emerald-green dress riding dangerously high up her thigh. Her fingers traced lazy circles along the armrest, her crimson nails glinting like fresh blood under the flickering bulbs.
She had known this would happen. The moment she’d set up her booth—"Madame Clara: Fortunes Told, Desires Unlocked"—the men had come like moths to a flame. But they weren’t here for their futures. Oh no, they were here for the whisper of her voice, the way her lips curled when she leaned in close, the promise that dangled between every word she spoke. The line outside stretched longer with each passing minute, a serpent of restless, hungry men, their eyes locked on the sway of her hips as she shifted in her seat, the fabric of her dress clinging to the curve of her breasts.
The current client, a broad-shouldered man with calloused hands and a five o’clock shadow, swallowed hard as Clara’s fingers brushed over his palm. “You’re hiding something,” she murmured, her voice a smoky purr. “Something dark. Something hungry.” Her thumb pressed into the fleshy pad beneath his thumb, slow and deliberate, and his breath hitched. She could feel the heat radiating off him, the way his thighs tensed beneath the table. “Tell me,” she breathed, leaning in so close her lips nearly grazed his ear, “do you want to know what I see in your future?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yes.”
Clara’s laugh was a low, velvety thing, wrapping around him like a spell. “I see you on your knees.” Her free hand slid up his arm, her nails scraping lightly over the fabric of his shirt. “I see that big, rough mouth of yours put to better use.” She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her own dark and smoldering. “But first…” Her fingers trailed down, down, until they rested just above the growing bulge in his jeans. “You’ll have to prove you can take direction.”
The man’s nostrils flared, his hands clenching into fists on the table. The air between them crackled, charged with the kind of electricity that made skin prickle and breaths come short. Clara could smell how badly he wanted her—the salt of his sweat, the musk of his arousal, the way his pupils dilated until there was barely any blue left in his irises. She loved this part. The moment right before they broke. The second they realized she wasn’t just some carnival act, but the one holding all the cards.
Outside, the line shifted impatiently. A few men craned their necks, trying to catch a glimpse through the part in the curtains, their murmurs growing louder, more insistent. Clara ignored them. Let them wait. Let them ache. The longer they stood out there, the harder they’d be when they finally stepped inside. And oh, how she planned to take advantage of that.
Her fingers finally pressed down, just enough to make the man groan, his hips jerking upward instinctively. “Patience,” she chided, though her own pulse was racing, her skin flushed with the thrill of control. “Good things come to those who wait.”
But Clara wasn’t sure how much longer she could wait.
The heavy oak door slammed against the wall with a violent crack, the hinges groaning under the force. Clara barely had time to gasp before Marcus—broad-shouldered, his dark eyes burning with possessive fury—stormed into the dimly lit parlor, his boots thudding against the Persian rug. The scent of leather and whiskey clung to him, mingling with the musk of arousal already thick in the air from her tangled limbs with Daniel, whose lips were still swollen from kissing her throat.
“What the fuck,” Marcus growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. His gaze locked onto where Daniel’s fingers were still tracing lazy circles over Clara’s bare collarbone, her chemise slipped down to expose the upper curves of her breasts. The cool air teased her nipples into tight peaks, but the heat in Marcus’ stare made her skin flush even hotter. “You said she was mine first.”
Daniel didn’t flinch. Instead, he smirked, his thumb brushing over Clara’s pulse point before dragging lower, hooking into the lace edge of her chemise. “Never said exclusive, mate.” His other hand slid possessively around her waist, pulling her back against him, making it clear he wasn’t yielding an inch. “Besides…” His breath was hot against her ear. “She’s more than enough for both of us, isn’t she, love?”
Clara’s breath hitched, her thighs pressing together beneath the layers of her skirt. The idea should’ve shocked her—two men, both alpha and demanding, both hers—but the wet ache between her legs betrayed her. She’d been teasing Daniel for nearly an hour, letting him worship her with his mouth while her fingers tangled in his golden hair, his stubble burning her inner thighs. Now, with Marcus’ hunger darkening the room like a storm front, the air itself felt charged, electric.
Marcus didn’t wait for an answer. In two strides, he was in front of her, his calloused hands gripping her chin, tilting her face up. “Tell me no, Clara,” he demanded, his thumb brushing over her lower lip. “Tell me to leave, and I will.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. The truth was, she didn’t want him to leave. The thought of being sandwiched between them—Daniel’s clever tongue and Marcus’ rough dominance—made her core clench violently. She could already imagine it: Marcus’ thick fingers stretching her while Daniel lapped at her clit, their combined attention pushing her past every limit she’d ever known.
A slow, wicked smile curved her mouth. “Why would I do that?” she murmured, reaching up to unbutton the top of Marcus’ shirt. The fabric fell open, revealing the hard planes of his chest, dusted with dark hair that arrowed down beneath his belt. “Seems a waste to send away a man who looks at me like that.”
Marcus groaned, low and guttural, his hands dropping to her waist. “Christ, you’re gonna be the death of me.” His mouth crashed onto hers, his kiss bruising, demanding. Unlike Daniel’s slow, teasing strokes, Marcus took what he wanted—his tongue plunging between her lips, his teeth nipping at her lower lip before soothing the sting with a rough lick. Behind her, Daniel chuckled darkly, his hands sliding up to cup her breasts, pinching her nipples through the thin fabric of her chemise.
“Fuck, you’re dripping,” Daniel murmured, his lips trailing down her neck. “I can smell how wet you are, love. Bet you’d love Marcus’ cock in that pretty cunt while I fuck your mouth, wouldn’t you?”
Clara whimpered, her hips jerking involuntarily. The image was too much—too filthy, too perfect. Marcus’ hand slid down, palming her through her skirt, his fingers pressing hard against her soaked slit. “Jesus, you’re drenched,” he growled. “Tell me you want it. Tell me you want both of us.”
The air between them was thick with the scent of sweat and arousal, their bodies glistening under the dim glow of the fireplace. Clara’s back arched as she straddled Marcus, her fingers digging into the rough fabric of the couch beneath them. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her in slow, deliberate rolls that made her breath hitch every time his cock dragged against that perfect, sensitive spot inside her. The firelight flickered across her skin, casting shadows over the curve of her breasts, the way they bounced with each movement, the dark peaks of her nipples tight with pleasure.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” Marcus groaned, his voice rough, his thighs flexing beneath her as he thrust upward, meeting her every descent with a sharp snap of his hips. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, punctuated by Clara’s breathy moans and the occasional crackle of the fire. She could feel him everywhere—inside her, against her, his breath hot on her collarbone where his lips pressed between desperate kisses.
Clara leaned back, bracing her hands on his knees, changing the angle just enough to make her vision blur. “Oh—god—right there, don’t stop—” Her words dissolved into a broken cry as his cock hit that deep, throbbing spot again, sending a jolt of pleasure radiating outward from her core. She could feel the orgasm building, coiling tighter with every grind, every thrust, her inner walls fluttering around him. Marcus’s fingers tightened on her hips, his own breath coming in ragged gasps as he watched her ride him, her body flushed and trembling.
“Come for me,” he demanded, his voice a low growl. “I want to feel you squeeze me when you do.” One of his hands slid between them, his thumb finding her clit, already swollen and slick. The moment he pressed down, circling in tight, relentless motions, Clara’s entire body locked up. Her back bowed, her nails raked over his thighs, and a broken, keening sound tore from her throat as the orgasm crashed over her. Her pussy clenched around him in wave after wave of pulsing pleasure, milking his cock as he groaned, his own release barreling toward him.
“Fuck—Clara—” Marcus’s hips stuttered, his grip bruising as he buried himself deep and came with a guttural groan, his cock twitching inside her as he spilled hot and thick. She could feel every pulse of him, her own aftershocks prolonging the pleasure, her body still trembling as she collapsed forward against his chest. His arms wrapped around her, holding her close as their breathing slowly steadied, the only sound in the room the crackling fire and the occasional shuddering sigh from one of them.
Clara nuzzled against his neck, her lips brushing his skin. “We should’ve done this months ago,” she murmured, her voice still husky with satisfaction.
Marcus chuckled, his chest vibrating beneath her. “Yeah, well…” His hands slid up her back, slow and possessive. “We’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for.”
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