Share our Shit Saturday!

Well, I am no longer shadowbanned! So to celebrate, I’m going to do what I was planning on anyway, a #SoSS post highlighting my favourite pieces from the past week (or a little older than that, in the case of at least one.) I hope you find something new, or someone new from this little selection!

The Geography of a Lover – By Molly

I’m not going to lie, as my own heart is still a little bruised, this beautiful piece made me weepy, so closely do Molly’s words match up with how I still feel for my lost love. You can feel in the very bones how much she adores her husband and it is gorgeous to behold.

River – by Confess_Hannah

This will make you tremble. Though I was tucked up warmly in bed as I read it, I could feel the icy water on my skin, so skilled a work this is. Bold and scary and sensual.
TW: D/s, Immersion

Warm Down – by Exhibit A

Just the best. Exhibit A is the writer I want to be (well, at this exact moment he is), it all seems so effortless, and he will tend to hit my triggers pretty easily – oral sex, female submission, lingering, teasing waits. Delicious.

Tegan and Sara and My First Sort of Love – By Girly Juice

This is a sweet and aching story of discovering love, and yourself.

Sniffy – by Molly (Again!)

What can I say, Molly sent me this link in the course of a conversation and it’s great and you should read it. For knicker-sniffers everywhere.

Crying After Sex – Two Stories – By GOTN

Everyone shared this story over the course of the past seven days, and with good reason. It’s heartbreakingly beautiful and will possibly speak to you the way it spoke to me, as someone who has so often broken down after sexual experiences. Reading this will remind you you’re not alone.

And that’s your lot for this week! I am going to try and do this every week if I can. Now go and read these wonderful authors!

 

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Used

Inspiration comes from funny places.

They make me wear a dress, no underwear. A strappy, summery thing, floral, flippy, far too short and far too tight. My breasts barely contained. When I stand before them for examination, he roughly bares them, threatening the straps which are thin and unstable.

I serve drinks, set plates of tiny cakes and biscuits on the coffee table, then I am to sit in the corner until summoned, if summoned at all. They chat, and drink. After half an hour I am told to turn so I am facing them but to keep my eyes closed. I hear someone approach – the footsteps are light, bare feet on carpet. She giggles and I feel the icy chill of something dripping down from my shoulder and over my nipple, followed by the warmth of her tongue and her teeth painfully around it.

“Stupid.” She says in a light, loving way. When it comes, the slap only hurts for seconds before the warm glow makes me shiver excitedly.

They’re talking about travel, about vineyards and airports and jetlag. I like to listen, learning about their busy lives, so much more enriching and important than mine. I think I catch the unbuttoning of his flies, but that can only be wishful thinking. I think I am making a puddle on my chair and squirm a little into the wooden surface.

“Come here.” He calls, much later. Minutes. Hours. Seconds. I kneel at his feet, aware of his cock in my peripheral vision but also that I mustn’t look at it until I am told I may. They are all looking at me.

He strokes my hair and smiles at me, indulgent because I am stupid and pathetic and desperate. He traces the outline of my face, the tip of my nose, my cheek. His slap is gentler, and he holds the flesh under his palm, using it to shove me down onto his erection, knowing I will splutter, fighting for air against the slab of meat pushing deeper into my throat and making my inner thighs damper and damper.

I breathe defiantly through my nose, urging my body to capitulate to him as he grabs a fistful of my hair and carries on describing the vintage of champagne they served at his wedding.

When I eventually pull back, with red, tear-filled eyes and drooling mouth and trying so hard not to express my utter happiness, it is not him who whips out their phone to snap photographs of my smeared makeup and glassy eyes.

“I think we should inspect her again.” She glances briefly in my direction. “Stand up.”
She’s shorter than I am but I know she could floor me if she wanted to. She circles me, lifting up my skirt and reaching under it and when it’s clear how wet I am, withdraws her hand and makes me lick it clean.

“You’re disgusting. We haven’t even finished with you yet. Look at me.”

Her eyes are brown and beautiful. She slaps me again, harder, making my cheek flush crimson. I watch her walk back to the sofa and curl up next to him. He has watched the display with delight, stroking himself. He kisses her and my wet cunt aches as he points at the spot between his feet.

Back on my knees where I belong, before I can take him in my mouth again, he instructs me to spit into his palm. I know what’s coming. I’m tremendously excited as saliva and precum pools in his hand. Forever smiling he wipes the mess over my flushed features, using his thumb to lever my mouth open again and violate it. I am just a worthless hole to be fucked. A series of holes to be used.

She contorts herself on the sofa, a mass of agile limbs and gentle curves until she’s lying on her front, her face so close to mine I can smell his aftershave on her neck. She rests her chin on her hands and watches his cock piston in and out of my mouth, her smile broadening when I choke.

She strokes my hair, before taking up a handful and pulling it sharply, jerking me back and forth, spluttering as his cock pushes relentlessly deeper into my throat and I swallow it down, finding it hard to remember to breathe through my nose. If I looked up I would see his hand snaking down over her curvaceous backside, squeezing her flesh in admiration.

With a final yank she lets me go, and I collapse back on my heels, my vision blurry, only focussing again as the first splashes of cum hit my cheek and neck, and finally my bared breasts. She is cleaning him as he reclines with the look of utter smugness across his glorious face.

“Corner.” he says to the ceiling.

I think I might fall over, once sat I grip the underside of the chair with both hands to keep myself upright, my heart racing and my mouth sore. My cunt feels as if I have been pounded relentlessly for the past ten minutes. The blank white walls of the sitting room are soothing. I close my eyes.

I can hear them making out, the wet hungry swell of kissing and groping. The high pitched mews she makes are another thing that makes me shuffle on my seat.

“More wine.” She calls, giggling.

I shuffle weakly to the fridge – when I return, she is calmly sat – naked – and I suffer two awkward minutes with the stopper until it is taken from me. He pours their glasses himself and once again I am instructed to kneel.

“Careful, you have to make sure it doesn’t stain the sofa.” she says sweetly, spreading her thighs and positioning the bottle over her abdomen. We three watch as an icy rivulet of wine begins to travel down over her stomach, towards the point of no return and I willingly bury my face between her legs where all is soft and sweet and delectable. I want to make her come.

Above my head she giggles again and again and again and again and he’s biting her neck and growling into her ear. He’s growing harder again and I’m trying to make her come and she’s so very wet, I’m grabbing her thighs, sucking her clit, she’s yelping and writhing and grabbing my head the way he did before. I don’t notice him moving, standing behind me, wiping his cock up and down my chubby, wet cunt and slipping the length inside me until his stomach hits the wide expanse of my arse.

“You don’t deserve to be filled with cum. You don’t deserve to be fucked by this cock.” his thrusts are almost painful as she squeals before me. He digs his fingers into my waist, pinning me in place.

“She’s a stupid fat little cum dump.”

I hear her moan as I bite her inner thighs and concentrate my tongue at the apex of her clit, feeling her tense. She begins to buck her hips against my face, grinding her cunt against my mouth and I can barely breathe but just knowing I’ve brought her this far is all the reward I need as her body tenses and she moans so loudly I fear the neighbours will turn up and spoil things.

She pushes me away from her just as he pulls out of my cunt, splattering his load over my arse and thighs.

There is nothing but the sound of heavy breathing. I feel serene, a perfect vessel of nothingness. I might have been placed there, on my hands and knees for all eternity and not have minded.

She is kneeling in front of me, her hands gently cupping my face.

“You are perfect.” she whispers, kissing my forehead. “But you need a wash.”
“I concur.” He agrees, heading for the bathroom. “A bubble bath for this little fucktoy, I think. A nice hot bath and then a Chinese takeaway.”

“And maybe half an hour with something that buzzes. I think you’ve earnt it.”
I rest my head in her lap and sink into further contentment.

Geography

I took the photo myself. My body looks very white in his darkened, twilight room lit only by the camera on my phone. I don’t concentrate on his handsome head nestled between my thighs, the drinking of life. I am forgetting the pleasures afforded by his tongue, today at least.

Instead, I stare at my body, source of so much anger and sadness when I was a child. When I knew fatness was never beautiful. When I tried to make myself silent and small and hide from everything to make the world lovelier without me in it.

Something has changed. Slowly, I have found the loveliness in myself. At thirty I can look at my corporeal form and revel in it.

I admire the lush, rolling hillsides of my stomach; buttermilk-white and welcoming.

The valley between my thighs is verdant, nourishing. It is a treacherous terrain where only heroes dare to descend.

My breasts, capped with pert terracotta pinnacles could be twinned with Everest, or Snowdonia, so vast and thrilling the ascent would be.

For I am terrain that is compelling and daunting. I am a map of infinite paths. I am bleak and I am breathtaking.

More stories by brilliant writers below!

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

This. 

Short drabble from my journey into work. 

“You were born to suck my cock.”

She looked up with china doll eyes and nodded hungrily, conscious of the obscene bulge of him filling her cheek.

“and don’t you ever forget it.” he went on, weaving his fingers around her hair and jerking her forwards, moaning with satisfaction as further inches disappeared down her eager throat.

“You are MINE.” He said finally, and she tensed around him, gasping for air as she felt the base of his cock stretching her lips.

All she could do was look up at him with tear-stained cheeks as he used her, enjoying the wash of subserviant serenity over her face, faking her innocence well.

He adored her for many reasons, so many they clouded his brain and he couldn’t think straight. But when he pulled put just in time to aim his load over her pretty, chubby face and watched her mouth form his favourite phrase, his heart swelled with pride.

Watching his cum drip down her neck, he made her repeat it. And she did so with quiet glee. 

“I am desperate for your cum. Always.”

He stooped over to kiss the top of her head. 

“That’s my girl. Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

Alone

I’m not sure if this is allowed, but this is a second entry to Exhibit A’s Song Lyric Prompt.
I may change the title (I’m terrible at titles), but this came from a combination of  Inhale the Anxiety and What’s the Point in Always Looking Back?
A little solo something. Now I need to get out of bed.

She needed not to think. To fall out of herself for a day, an hour, a minute. She sellotaped her poor, battered heart back into her ribcage and lay down on the bed.

The sheets were new, with no trace of the past. Turning her head as she reached under the pillow, she breathed in the new and unfamiliar scent filtering through her hair. New perfume for a new day, a new chapter of a new life. It was herby and wild, she smelt like the girls you see on the first days of festivals – fresh and untainted. Her skin flashed with goosebumps and her nipples stiffened against her pyjama top.

She had taken to seeing the positives in things, now the third week was nearly over. She was healing.

She was also horny and this had startled her, to begin with.

She found it curious she was so ravenous for pleasure, having thought she’d drained the passion from her veins in the rivers of shed tears since he’d left, but instead found she buzzed like a hummingbird and wouldn’t, couldn’t, daren’t be silenced.

It scared her a little that it wasn’t human touch she craved, – she wasn’t ready for her fingers to intertwine with any that weren’t his. Not yet. She didn’t want to live the fantasy, she wanted to watch, to greedily devour the perversions of others. She gobbled down porn clips and erotic stories as meals, snacks and afternoon teas.

With one hand on the suction toy she had been sharing a bed with for the past couple of nights, the other sought out this afternoon’s feast for her delectation. She sometimes felt as though she had no real control over what her fingers chose. Blurry amateur blow jobs, jerk off instructions even though she didn’t have a cock; lesbian gang bangs, voluptuous dominatrices pegging bound and panting slaves.

Today it was solo scenes – close ups of beautiful cunts, plump ones, compact ones, recently fucked ones with the dribble of cum still inside them. Her own cunt throbbed and prickled as the scene played out and she pushed the waistband of her shorts down, only to the top of her thighs so she could shove the toy inside and rev it up to three; the first painful jolts of joy making her thighs tense.

She used the elastic to hold it in place and fished out a smaller dildo; the third lover in this ménage à trois, slathering it in lube, with a slight pang in her chest as her palm slid up and down the shaft. She missed him. She missed him terribly, but soon enough her arousal overtook her, and she wriggled her pyjamas down a little further. The tip slipped inside her easily and combined with the relentless sucking at her clit made her growl. Growling was new, and grew deeper and throatier as the length pushed further and further inside.

She tried her hardest not to remember him fucking her; grabbing her hips and using her cunt over and over, slamming into her until she almost couldn’t stand it, watching her frantically rub her clit until she came over his cock and, triumphant, he pinned her down and flooded her with his come. She willed her mind away from the first time they came simultaneously, both orgasms fighting for dominance, half-dressed with ten minutes before the taxi showed up to take him home.

She pushed the power levels further. 4….5…..6…… Her hips began to buck against the toy’s powerful manipulations.

“I’m going to make such a mess.” She thought, gleefully. “I’m going to ruin these sheets. I’m going to look so beautiful and wanton and satisfied. I’m just like this woman spreading her cum-filled cunt for the camera.” She imagined kissing the pretty, peachy vulva on the screen, and it was that which sent her over the edge.

Her voice carried loudly over the sound of the woman on screen whose noise was more delicate, almost wholesome. Our heroine’s orgasm tore from her body, her cunt pulsating, her clit tender and shivering as she felt satisfaction dripping down over her inner thighs.

She threw the toy aside and her body grew still. The clip ended soon after, and the room was eerily silent. She stared up at the ceiling as the tears began to form and roll down her cheeks.

“Time. All you can give yourself is time.” she whispered into herself.

She wrapped her arms around her body, and allowed herself to weep.

Libraries Gave Her Power

The rather lovely and wonderful Exhibit A is running a competition based on selected lyrics by one of his favourite bands. So here is my attempt, from the prompt “Libraries Gave Us Power”.
I do love a historical romance, a sliver of D/s, a hint of exhibitionism, voluptuous female flesh and this rather nicely covers all of these things, and a little more besides (shut up, the 70s was nearly 50 years ago and therefore totally historical….)

With thanks to Hannah and Ros for reading, proofing and con/crit x

***

The smell of books was one of many that made Julia feel sick. Not the fish and chip newness of paperbacks, she didn’t mind that at all, but the musty, mildewy scent of decaying fabric and horse glue.

These books filled her with gloom, and libraries filled her with dismay. She only visited them because Gloria found them so endlessly fascinating.

Continue reading

The House Next Door (Wicked Wednesday)

Almost every flat I’ve ever lived in has had thin walls and noisy neighbours. I once shared a adjoining wall with a couple who would have loud arguments each night at 11pm, soon to be followed by even louder (make up?) sex.
Once I heard the male of the couple shout ‘perineum’ mid argument. The rest of the sentence is long gone but this one word remains lodged in my psyche and no amount of mind bleach can remove it.
This story is about much nicer neighbours.

Eavesdropper

The house next door had been a mystery since the day she’d moved in. In a long street where the large semi-detached homes had been long since sliced into smaller and smaller flats for the young professional masses, the dirty white building had one letterbox, and a solitary intercom button.

Of course it could just have been a family home; but there never seemed to be anyone around, adult, child or otherwise. In fact for the entirety of her first two weeks, the building remained in resolute darkness and she began to assume it was just an empty building, derelict, neither bought nor sold.

The next Saturday night, she was settling into bed with pages of bookmarked articles to read and half a bottle of house-warming Prosecco to keep her company, when she heard it. The familiar, satisfying thud of a bedhead smacking against a wall.

She blushed, then laughed.

“Good for them.” she thought, tipping an imaginary cap to whoever was getting down and dirty in the room next to hers and pouring another slug of wine into her glass.

The noise continued, quickening. She caught the sound of a woman laughing, moaning, and a man doing likewise. And another, deeper male voice that was gruff. She felt a slight twitch in her cunt as it dawned on her there was more than a pair of lovers in the room beyond the brickwork.

Embarrassed again she tried to settle into HuffPo’s weekly end of the world digest but she couldn’t ignore the thump-moan-thud-squeal filling her ears.

If she lost concentration for more than a second of two she began imagining the scene playing out. A delicate, chubby girl, wickedly beautiful like a debauched fairy being shuttled between two men, with others watching as she was used for pleasure and filled full of come. She could see the mess trickling down between the woman’s thighs and out of her mouth as she rolled over and the next man buried his face between her thighs to clean her.

Ultimately unable to clear her mind of this scene, our prim, confused and not a little aroused heroine had no option but to decamp to the living room and spend the night on the sofa, wrestling with the bedclothes.

Silence resumed for the rest of the weekend.

At first she didn’t notice that the next time it happened was exactly a month later. The third Saturday of the month.

Arriving home after a late night she fell in a wobbly fashion across the bed and heard giggling. Women’s giggling. Three or more? She shuffled closer to the wall and pressed her ear against the plasterwork, the noise suddenly far louder than she’d expected as she was confronted by waves of delectable moans and giggles and muffled words that might have been “fuck” repeated over and over.

This time she had no defence against the fantasy, succumbing to the vision as she deciphered the high pitched squeals as a bound girl receiving punishments, lashes against her cunt and breasts and brought to orgasm over and over and over again. She pictured the same woman she had done the night before. A voluptuous pixie with a wicked smile.

One of the voices grew suddenly muffled and this she knew meant there was now someone sat atop the captive’s face, making that beautiful face useful.

She couldn’t help herself and heaved her beer-fuelled body upright, reaching under her pillow for her vibe and bracing herself against the wall as she pressed it to her pubic mound and listened intently. She ground her cunt harder and harder, mimicking the tempo of the voices beyond the wall, fantasising about how she’d use the pretty girl’s tongue on her clit, instructing her exactly how to make her come, and as they grew louder and more urgent so did she, until she came, falling onto the pillows and muttering fuck over and over.

“Hello?” came a not-so-muffled voice from somewhere near her forehead. Soft and inviting.

She had been louder than she thought.

As she tried to control her breathing, the voice came again, like a spell; like music.

“Sounds like you were having a nice time. We’re having a nice time too. Maybe we could have a nice time together some time soon?”

She slept on the sofa again.

 Check out the other scintillating Wicked Wednesday entries below!

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Lady in Red (Sinful Sunday) 

Title chosen under duress because it was number one the day I was born. Yuck. 

Another entry in the accidental series of photos referencing our habit of matching, this one sees M tenderly redoing my toenails to match his own (red for LFC) 

I can’t stop looking at this image and smiling. My M looking after me.

[photo deleted on

See who else is being sinful this Sunday by clicking below 

Sinful Sunday

A Man Walks into a Bar (WIP)

When Exhibit A gave me false hope he had been mistaken for a stripper in a pub and taken this to its logical conclusion, my mind began to wander. It’s still wandering now, but here’s a taster:

A Man Walks into a Bar

Unassuming and polite, with a businessman’s briefcase and a sly smile, when he enters the pub he’s selected a random for a swift half, he’s confronted by a vortex of pink feather bowers and glittery cock-shaped deely-boppers, scented with flowers and sweetness and assertive female sexuality. The British Hen Party.

One woman notices his smarter-than-average appearance – three piece suit, tie pin, pocket square – and alerts the others. Contrary to their appearance, this confab is hushed and respectful of the other patrons, and he watches them out of the corner of his eye as he buys his drink and finds an empty table away from the hubub but not so far from theirs that he can’t surreptitiously eye the ranks and catch the odd snippet of something salacious.

For example, an older woman with dark eyes, framed behind thick rimmed glasses wrapped in a gold dress fighting a losing battle with her voluptuousness immediately grabs his attention and refuses to let go. Her voice is deep and rippled with honey, and even with her head very close to the companion closest to her, he hears snatches of a tale his cock is desperate to know the outcome of.

“He grabbed my thigh and his hand went higher [slurp of wine, leans in closer] fingers behind my knee [slurp of wine, reaches for top up, becomes unintelligible for a minute or so, until] came in my knickers and made me wear them home.”

He wonders if she’d care to replay this narrative with a slightly different outcome – as the thought of burying his face between her matronly thighs begins to fester and hook itself around his synapses.

In his reverie he undoes his jacket – boy is it hot in here all of a sudden – and doesn’t notice when a redhead with poise notices the flash of movement, until she raises her voice.

“Hey, it’s the stripper!” and they collapse into half-drunken giggles as he smiles and shakes his head, accepting his change.

“Take it off! Take it off!” she continues, appropriating Taylor Swift’s anthem with urgency, a couple of voices joining hers and agitating the other patrons, who raise their voices in combat, calling for silence. Others take the traditional British way out and take their leave, with poisonous looks at the pink army before they do.

It’s been a long day for him; conferences and endless, bitterly boring meetings only broken up by a lunch with limp, sweaty sandwiches and tea that was an affront to the least patriotic Englishman.

He sips his beer and shudders, looking forward to comfort food, pasta and three different continental cheeses, when he eventually gets home some time after nine. Checking his watch, he notes he has an hour to kill – more like 90 minutes if he forgoes the traditional wander around Smiths subtly checking out the last vestiges of the top shelf mags, then nipping to M&S for some wine to complement dinner. But there’s wine at home, there’s always wine at home.

The hens are still debating. It’s summer, so under their warriors garb, they’re universally stripped to the barest of glamorous essentials. He notes the bounty of bare legs, from pasty white to deep burnt umber and everything between, though cleavages are mostly hidden under fluorescent duck down. As he considers for the eightieth time whether he truly is a tit man or a leg man, one of the women breaks ranks and, with a nod to her companions, makes her way over to him.