More from Aspen

• Ass Eating Until He Couldn’t Speak

  September 6, 2026

  a page from my night

  written after he left the taste of me on his mouth

  Ass eating was the first thing I promised him, and the last thing he was allowed to think about. He was older, silver at the temples, the kind of man who thought money and a hotel key meant he could skip the kneeling. I let him look. I did not let him rush.

  He kept staring at the curve of me like it was a prize he had already won. I turned, braced my palms on the dresser, and told him if he wanted anything else tonight he would start with ass worship. Not a kiss on the cheek. Not a polite squeeze. Full, messy, grateful ass worship until I said he could stop.

  He dropped so fast I almost laughed. His hands shook on my hips. I reached back, spread myself, and fed him the order again: slower. Wetter. Ass eating like he meant it. I wanted to feel his tongue flatten, then point, then lose all technique because he was too hungry to be clever.

  “Stay there,” I whispered. “If you stop worshipping, I stop everything.”

  Ass worship changed him. The cocky little comments died. All that was left was breath and the wet sound of a man who had waited too many years to be this close. I rolled my hips against his mouth and made him follow. When he tried to sneak a finger toward my clit I caught his wrist. Tonight the altar was my ass. He could earn the rest.

  I talked while he worked. I told him how pretty he looked on his knees, how I would remember this the next time I took a phone sex call and some lonely man asked me what I tasted like. I described the exact pressure I wanted, the way ass eating should feel when it is done for me and not for his ego. He moaned into me like that sentence alone was enough.

  Only when my thighs started to tremble did I let him stand. I bent him over the same dresser he had planned to bend me over and took him the way I wanted—slow at first, then greedy, my hand in his hair so he could still smell me on his face. He came first. I made him stay inside me until I finished, still talking about ass worship like it was a prayer he had finally learned.

  Later, after he left, I sat on the edge of the bed with my phone and thought about the men who never get the hotel room. Phone sex is how I keep the night going. I can walk someone through ass eating in a parked car, make them describe the pillow they would bury their face in, make them say ass worship out loud until their voice cracks. Some of them only ever get my voice. That does not make it smaller. It makes it sharper.

  If you are the kind of man who drools before he asks, I already know how this ends. You kneel. You use your mouth. You wait until I decide you have earned more. And if you cannot be in the room, you call, and I will put the same story in your ear until you cannot think about anything except ass eating and the sound of me deciding you are allowed to come.

  — Aspen

  Find me here:
  https://thesincenter.com/aspen/

• Side Chick: How I Got a Cheating Husband

  August 26, 2026

  Side Chick

  The secret his wife will never taste

  Side chick is the title I wear without shame. He texts me from the office bathroom, from the driveway before he goes inside to his wife, from the guest room when she is already asleep. I never ask him to leave her. I just open the door when he shows up smelling like guilt and expensive cologne, already hard. Last night he barely got his belt undone before I pushed him against the wall and dropped to my knees. I wanted him to feel how wet I already was for a cheating husband who could not stay away.

  I took him deep, slow at first, then harder, looking up so he could watch. He kept whispering that he shouldn’t be here, that he had to get home soon. I just hummed around his cock and kept going until his knees buckled. When I finally stood and bent over the arm of the couch, he slammed into me like a man starving. The sex with him is always like that — urgent, a little rough, and completely selfish on both sides. I came first, clenching around him while he gripped my hips hard enough to leave marks. He followed a minute later, buried to the hilt, groaning into the back of my neck.

  • • •

  We didn’t talk about his wife. We never do. I simply cleaned him with my mouth afterward, slow and thorough, until he was soft and shaking. That is the real job of a side chick — not to replace anyone, just to give a cheating husband the filthy, uncomplicated release he cannot get at home. He left with his shirt still half-buttoned and the taste of me still on his tongue. I know he will be back within the week.

  Some nights the timing is impossible and we settle for phone sex instead. I make him stay on the line while I describe exactly how I would ride him if he were here, how wet I get knowing he is locked in a bathroom or sitting in his car outside the house he shares with someone else. Phone sex with me is never soft. It is the same dirty, greedy energy — only now his wife is just a closed door away while he strokes himself to the sound of my voice.

  If you are a cheating husband who needs a side chick who knows exactly how to keep you coming back, you already know where to find me. Come hungry. Leave marked.

  — Aspen

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