Speaker 1: Hello, my love lies, This is Roxy Callahan and I
have an amazing and special treat for you today, a
new podcast from the delightfully named Good Girls with Dirty
Minds studio Imprint.
Speaker 2: What is this podcast about, Well, the podcast is called
Your Daily Fuck, so I think we all know what
tat's about. Written by three young women, Your Daily Fuck
is a daily dose of pure, primal and unfiltered erotica.
This is a podcast where they skip the fluff and
get straight to the heat. Each bite sized episode is
a single, sizzling scene of raw passion designed to be
your perfect immediate escape. And I'm so excited to present
this special preview just for you now. If you're interested
in subscribing, and honestly, who wouldn't be, the link is
in the description. Oh and if it is an already,
This podcast is intended for adult listeners.
Speaker 3: It's Monday, September first, and time for Your Daily Fock.
The sound of a power sauce screaming through wood has
been a soundtrack to my life for three weeks. It
starts at eight in the morning, it doesn't stop. My
new next door neighbor is a reclusive, noisy menace I've
never seen him, only heard him, a phantom of hammering, sanding,
and sawing that has had every picture on my walls
and every nerve in my body. Today, I've had enough.
I march across my lawn and bang my fist on
his workshop door, a well rehearsed speech above zoning ordinances
and common courtesy on the tip of my tongue.
Speaker 2: The sawing cuts off.
Speaker 3: A moment later, the heavy door slides open, and my
entire argument evaporates. He's a mountain of a man framed
in the doorway. He's shirtless, his chest and arms corded
with muscle, all covered in a fine sheen of sweat
and a light dusting of sawdust. His face is a
mask of annoyed concentration, his eyes dark and stormy, his
jaw set under a layer of rough stubble. What do
you want? He grunts, his voice, a low, gravelly rumble.
My prepared complaints about noise pollutions dissolve into a single
primal of thought. I needed to feel those calloused hands
all over my body. This was no longer a complaint.
This is a conquest. A slow smile spreads across my face.
I came over here to complain about the noise. I
let my gaze drift from his eyes, down his sweat
slip chest, to the low slungingians hanging on his hips,
and meet his gaze again. It's good honest work and
good honest noise. I ponder my next move and see
the faint outline of his cock and his jeans. It's
the kind of bulge that says, I'm not trying to
show off my dick, but it's big enough that I'll
need to look me screaming fuck me harder is a
good honest noise too. But you don't hear me saying that,
do you. His stormy expression doesn't change, but a flicker
of something new surprise, then intrigue ignites in his eyes.
He looks me up and down, a silent, thorough appraisal.
But God, do I want to be screaming that? His
bulge is a little more pronounced? And I smile wickedly
at him. Or did perhaps I say too much? He
stares into my eyes, So you don't like my noise?
I haven't heard your noise. I lick my lips. I
think I'd probably like it at Dad. He laughs, He's
something else, you know that before I can reply, he yets,
I get it. You need some good honest work in
your life, and without it just going to complain. I'm
not sure exactly what he means. Is that a subtle proposition?
He's maddeningly hard to read. I decide to just plow ahead.
This is either going to end up with me getting
fucked or learning how to do woodworking.
Speaker 2: Show me.
Speaker 3: He moves aside and waves me in. I walk into
his workshop and the heavy door rumbles shut behind us,
plunging the workshop into a dim, dusty light. The air
smells a fresh cut pine wood stain in his sweat.
Before I can speak, he shoves me back against a
massive solid wood work bench, the rough edge digging into
my lower back. He cages me in his hands, planting
on the bench on either side of me. You want
honest work, he growls, his face inches from mine. I'll
give some good, honest, hard work. His mouth crashes down
onto mine. It's not a kiss. It's a collision, rough,
demanding and utterly consuming. I meet his energy with my own.
My hand's cut up to grip his muscular shoulders, my
nails digging in. This is what I wanted, this raw,
unspoken passion. He breaks the kiss only to rip my
t shirt up and over my head, tossing it onto
a pile of wood shavings. His calloused, sawdust covered hands
are on my breast, his thumbs scraping over my nipples
through my lace bra The rough texture is an exquisite
torture that makes me cry out. He hakes my skirt
up to my waist and with one hand pulls my
panties aside. For a second, I think he's going to
be gentle and go down on me, or perhaps find
a soft tarp or something. But then he grabs my
hips and spins me around with a shove. He bends
me over his workbench. I don't even hear him unders
up his pants before I feel him entering me with
a single powerful thrust that lifts me onto my toes.
A gasp is torn from my throat. He's thick, hard
and hot, filling me completely. He immediately begins to fuck me,
his hips slamming against my ass with a brutal, steady
rhythm that's far better than any hammer. He is all
force and function, a machine of pure animal need. My
hands scrabble for purchase on the cluttered workbench. My fingers
knock over a jar of screws, and they scatter across
the floor with a series of sharp clinks, heading to
the symphony of our fucking. He pounds into me, his
powerful body, driving me back against the wood, each thrust
deeper and harder than the last. I'm being taken completely
and utterly by this grumpy siment man, and it is
the hottest thing I've ever experienced. The friction in the
force are building a frantic, desperate fire inside me. I'm close,
so close. I throw my head back and scream as
my orgasm rips through me, a violent shuddering away of
a pure bliss. My climax triggers his with a final
guttural roar that vibrates through my entire body. He comes
deep inside me, his release a hot, welcome flood. He
stays inside me for a moment, his forehead pressed against
my back, my ragged breaths mingling in the dusty air.
Then he pulls out, leaving me a trembling and a
weak need mess. He steps back, zips up his fly,
and looks at me, a mess of sweat and sawdust
leaning against his workbench, A slow, almost imperceptible smirk plays
on his lips. I smile, good, honest work. Huh At that,
he smiles, turns, picks up his sander, and flicks it on.
The roar fills the workshop once more. I walk back
to my blessedly quiet apartment, my body both jazzed and sore.
He fucked me like he'd hammer in a stubborn nail,
with no preparation other than knowing that if he pounded
good and hard, he'd get the job done.
Speaker 2: God did he get the job done.
Speaker 3: I decide, I don't mind the noise, although after a
few more visits, the other neighbors might