Kitten

Kitten sat on the big, soft armchair in the sun room, her feet tucked neatly underneath her. Sir stood with his back to the windows, in shadow. He held her new collar in his hand. Pink. Diamond trim. She held up her hair so He could fix it around her neck. His fingers stroked the edge of her hairline as He did so. She nuzzled his hand as he stepped to the doorway.

Princess! Come downstairs, I have a present for you!”

She was wearing a nightgown. Soft, pink and floaty. Her bare breasts visible beneath. She entered the room and went immediately to His side, holding His hand tightly.

Look, I got you a pet. You always wanted a kitty to play with – and now you do!”

She looked up at Kitten, perched in her seat, staring at her hopefully.

A kitty, just for me!?”
“Well, Sir might want to play with her too, sometimes. But she is your kitty for the most part. You have to love her and care for her and train her. Can you be a big girl for me and do that?”

Yes, Sir. I’m so excited to have a kitty of my own to play with.”

She sank to her knees and patted them softly. “Come here, kitty-kitty.”

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eLust 102

Welcome to Elust 102

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #103 Start with the rules, come back February 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Baby, baby…

O Come All Ye Faithful

Christmas Eve

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Not “only” CP

Whispered Obscenities

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Happily Barren

 

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

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Enough 


5am

The alarm goes off in an hour. Time to play, then doze in a warm, sticky afterglow. There’s a toy under the pillow. Usually more like two or three really. Without exposing herself to the bedside light, she selects whatever she can grasp quickly and slips her knickers to one side with the toy firmly in place, anticipating five minutes of play, a quick, medium-strength orgasm and then almost an hour of blissful ache before work. Classic.

5.05am

Something’s wrong here. Her body shifts and shakes, She can feel herself, thick and damp between her thighs; anxious, desperate sweat behind her knees. Every so often the toy passes over just the right spot and she jerks and feels the climax build and then…. nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Not enough. Not even with the filthy, graphic fantasies playing in her mind. She moves it more urgently, her hips turning back and forth. She just wants to come. It’s such a simple request. The least she deserves.

5.10am

Actual desperation begins to set in. Hands chafe at her thighs, pinching, gripping, grabbing at the flesh around her cunt. Not enough. The movies are filthier now, and she moans her lines along with them, flinging off her sodden underwear. She needs to be filled, and with the toy an awkward shape, fucking herself with two fingers of her left hand isn’t easy even though she’s so fucking wet, so ready for anything that her fingers pass easily inside, and she moves them in unison with the sucking, vibrating, grasping little toy in place too but it’s not enough, it’s not.

5.15am

Something glass and cool to the touch violates her with ease, and this must be it at last. All pretence gone, she loses herself to him, hears his voice as clear as the morning sun, urging her on as he lies above her, his weight pinning her to the bed until he’s satisfied she’s done as she’s told. She feels herself filled, flooded with his come as he grabs those fistfuls of her flesh and counts her down with only two minutes to finish herself off.
“Two minutes is plenty for a dirty girl like you.”
And the toy shifts a little or the thoughts of him and the dildo mimicking the deep perfection of his thrusts and she hears him telling her over and over to come for him and she will, she will, she……

5.20am

It is not enough. Without him it can never be enough.

Girlfriends

“There are approximately a hundred coffee shops on this street, next time you could be more specific?”

She rolled her eyes and indicated the latte on the table before me.

 “I got you the usual didn’t I? I apologised that I didn’t realise there was a branch of Caffe Nero at either end. I bought you a brownie.”

The cake had a thick layer of white chocolate coating the top.  

 “Forgiven, then.” I gave in and sat down next to her. Our booth was the furthest from the front door, partially hidden behind the awkward angle of a wall to nowhere between the counter and the kitchen.

 She sipped her tea and broke the corner off my brownie.

 “I should bloody well hope so.” The chocolate disappeared between her lips, but one or two crumbs fell and landed on her breasts. She was wearing a velvety top which was very low cut, even for her.

 “Meeting someone?” I asked idly. She looked at me a bit funny.

 “Yes. You.”

 “Oh.” I said. I think I blushed, even though I didn’t know why. I shifted my gaze from her cleavage to the plate in front of me with difficulty.

 Sometimes in the course of a text conversation – often late at night – our interactions get flirty. Friendly compliments seem to be become slightly tinged with something else. I’ve been asked to critique tasteful nudes before she sent them to her partners. She would listen as I described in a little too much focus how wet a one night stand had made me, or the rush of blood through my body when my boss stood over me, ogling my tits and demeaning me in full view of my colleagues. How I wanted to jump him right then and there. I stopped abruptly and apologised for oversharing but she wanted me to go on, falteringly admitting how turned on she was.

 Something changed. Neither of us knew why but neither wanted to stop it.

 We talked about work for a bit, just a general catch up really.

“I got fitted for a new bra. For the first time in my life, I’m wearing matching top and bottoms!” She was gleeful, like a child. I’d noticed the corner lick of lace when I was staring at her breasts, earlier.

“Let’s see!” I said, half joking half desperate all of a sudden and she grinned, made a great show of looking about her to make sure the coast was clear and then suddenly the warm velvet ripples of her bodice had melted away and her breasts were all I could see, creamy-white and caressed by pale blue and black lace. The material was flimsy, her nipples extremely visible even in the unreliable cafe light. She slowly made herself presentable again. Sipped her coffee. I couldn’t really think straight. Of course I couldn’t.

“Now you.” She said, neutrally. A passing waitress slowed her steps, wondering if we were trying to flag her down but she went merrily on her way when she saw neither one of us needed her.

“I don’t match.”

She didn’t say anything; instead she reached over matter of factly as the waitress vanished behind us, and brazenly snaked her hand inside the collar of my blouse, finding my shapeless, mumsy bra with my nipples pressed tightly against the ancient fabric.

Her face was very close, I could feel her breath on my neck, her shoulder and thigh pressed very firmly against my own. She took my hand, lying uselessly in my lap, and drew it towards her, between her legs, under her skirt and up, between her thighs where the sister in black lace was damp and fragrant.

Her lips left a glossy red heart on my neck.

“I don’t care.” She whispered.

New Year Giveaway 

Giveaway time! January is a cold month indeed, and if, like me, you are chunky of leg, finding cute over the knee socks and stockings is a bloody ‘mare.

So I am giving you the chance to win two me-approved items of hosiery:

One pair of xl black stockings (50 denier)
You’ll need a suspender belt but these are great. Lovely and opaque and go over the thigh like a dream.
One pair of American Apparel thigh high socks
Trust me when I say these are utterly adorable and so warm!
Unfortunately they cannot protect you from the dreaded chub rub, or roll-down, but for lounging around feeling like an adorable cosy sex kitten they are A+.

Now of course I cannot guarantee that one size will fit EVERYONE. But I am a British size 22 carrying most of my weight in my legs, so I am confident they will fit most.

The Rules!

1. Open to all genders!

2. Must be following me

3. Must retweet pinned post. (Quote tweets are lovely and appreciated but the original post needs to be retweeted so I can keep count!)

4. UK only

5. Ends January 31st, winner will be drawn from a hat (I’m old school) unless there are a million entries (unlikely) and posted ASAP.

6. That’s all!

Blah Blah, end of year post, Blah

It feels disingenuous to write an end of year post highlighting the authors and creators I have enjoyed this year – as when those people have become friends, confidantes and so much more over the past 12 months, it looks cliquey and insular.

But the majority of these friendships were borne through our writing – mutual interests and taste similarities. Looking at one whose work emulates everything you wish to be, or writes about engagements that had never crossed your mind, or even actively repulsed you until you took the time to read about the subject and suddenly your horizons were widened and the world looked like a much different, slightly more magical place.

So I am unashamedly a fan of the work of so many people I think I am allowed to call my friends – some of whom I am certainly afraid to ask for confirmation in case they look at me askance – which has largely facilitated our friendships/’friendships’.

Anyway, here is my year roundup, faves, whatevers:

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She cooks. This morning – Christmas Eve Eve –  I woke up to find her side of the bed empty and generic Christmas spice scent wafting through the door.

I padded naked to the kitchen and found her at the hob, stirring her pot of festive cheer, also naked but for an oversized apron, her pinchable bum and smooth terracotta skin of her back. George Michael was nursing his broken heart through song on the radio.

“I’m making mincemeat.” she said without turning around.

“And why is that?” I carefully put my hand on the small of her back. 

She set the spoon down and tested her hip against the counter top. 

“I woke up with a craving. I needed mince pies.”

“The Co Op opens at ten.” 

“I’ve been up since six. I needed to feel useful. Create. Get my hands dirty. Pastry’s chilling in the fridge. So rich and buttery.” 

Finally she turned her chin to face me, her short black hair pushed back with a length of shiny red Christmas ribbon. Her smile was as deep and breathtaking as the ocean at sunset. 

“Aren’t you cold?” she asked, running her nail over the duct of my nipple. 

“Not yet.” 

“You can help me by rolling out the pastry then.”

I wanted to kiss her but instead I opened the fridge and navigated the pots of cream and packets of salmon and cured meats. She’d cleared a space on the work surface next to her, and ceased her stirring once more to watch me apply the rolling pin. I knew she was admiring the flexion of my arm muscles.

“Don’t lean over too far, you’ll get your tits covered in flour.”

“They’re clean!” I retorted, slicing circles and placing them in the baking tray. “And don’t be stingy with the filling. Tis the season after all.”

Mindful of the potentially dangerous temperature of the mincemeat, I stepped carefully out of her way as she filled the cases, covered them with little pastry hats and slid the tray into the oven.

“20 minutes, says Delia.” she commented, setting the timer and gazing slowly, deliberately at me as she undid her apron. “Lie down.”

“Where?” 

“Here. Now. Twenty minutes. Nineteen minutes. Lie down.”

She knew the floor tiles were icy. She knew how uncomfortable it would make me.

I lay down on the floor, sprinkled with plain flour and cinnamon. 

I welcome Winter

My body in winter is so much more than the sum of its summer parts.

In winter, the exposure of my body is not a necessity. It is a desire. An aching, disturbing need.

All summer long we remove layers like so many sheaves of paper from an untidy stack, relishing each moment of cool reprieve before the endless swirling heat of even the most British summers returns. I loathe it. The constant film of sweat on skin, seeping into my hair and clothes and making me wretched.

Winter is the shivering pleasure I cannot wait for.

On misty workday mornings, I glance down at myself approvingly. My coat is thick and a scarf is wound about my neck, but here, between the coiling wool and the shiny brass buttons, is a thick wedge of my own chubby décolletage, a display of sensual flesh for any casual observer to enjoy, and for me to take sinful pride in.

I wear my flimsiest bra, anticipating the moment the chill northern winds permeate the many many layers of clothes I am wrapped in, and my nipples stand to attention, desperate for visibility.

I enjoy the feel of them, their painful stiffness when the temperature drops. The way their colour shifts from milky coffee to a deeper, almost reddish brown as the skin contracts and the texture shifts from soft and meek to stern and unforgiving

I lie on my winter bed, refusing to relinquish my summer sheets – revelling in my goose flesh skin, the persistent teasing lick of the icy breeze on my inner thighs and cunt.

If the summer is my tiring, consuming job of work, the winter is my lover, for whom I wait in eager, panting anticipation, and give myself to them when December arrives.

More Kink of the Week below!