Post Work

Reports of my having an oral fixation are grossly exaggerated…


Though your sight is limited, there are some things one knows, instinctively. This is what you think as she leans over you, smilingly passes you your glass of wine, and begins to unbutton your flies. You can see that her dress is already unbuttoned, so her breasts are displayed – you know the bolt of pleasure that flashed through her as she played and posed to find the optimum way to expose herself. And of course your eyes are drawn back again and again to the firm, dimpled, caramel sweetness of her nipples. Knowing that one finger briefly brushing them will make her ache and moan.

But you know her pleasure lies with your pleasure, with her position as your toy, to serve you. Your hand stays firm around the stem of the glass. She licks the tip of your cock before sinking her lips around the shaft, her head bobbing up and down smoothly for a minute or two as you sink back in your chair, sipping your wine and relax into her skill. She starts to take more of you deeper into her throat, and though she gags within seconds, she pushes through, until she snorts and kneads the carpet with her knuckles, desperate not to give in as her hands play with the sensitive sac beneath.

With her head bent to worship you, your gaze travels down her body to her arse, sticking proudly up in the air. She has no knickers on but you can’t see. You know she’s exposed though. That her inner thighs are damp. You look forward to seeing for yourself, later. To ravish her inch by inch until she’s trembling and content. Not yet, though.

You place your free hand on the top of her head, a crown of pinkish brown adorning her messily perfect hair. When she pulls away, your gentle but firm pressure keeps her there, breathing unevenly against your erection. She looks up into your eyes and wipes the snot away from her nose. The visual equivalent of gritting her teeth. You let her lean back a little and watch complacently as she spits saliva, precum and Prosecco over the shaft and her fingers curl around it, milking faster than you would have done, so desperate is she to be showered in your cum. She is sat back on her knees now, moaning softly as though she doesn’t realise it; the very act of pleasuring you stirring something deep within her. Oh God the thought of the sweetness gathering in her cunt makes your hips jerk against her mouth and she smiles, pulling harder, desperate, desperate.

No, not yet. You let the pressure on her scalp increase and she looks up expectantly as you push her away, a delicious string of fluid chaining your cock to her ruby red lips. You nod to her own glass on the table.

“A mouthful.” You instruct, and she drains the glass, her cheeks obscenely full of liquid but she knows you well enough not to swallow it. You know you need to work quickly, anyway. For the sake of the bubbles.

“Head back.” She leans away only enough to bare her exquisite throat until her eyes are fixed on the ceiling, her mouth agape and the only sound faint, sweet gargling from her throat as she forgets to breathe through her nose. You lovingly slide your erection back into her mouth, the sight of the wine flowing out when it’s displaced, and coursing down over her throat and chest making you even harder. She gags again, the bubbles going up her nose as they whirr not unpleasantly around your cock. You feel her tongue; she cannot resist. Her lips purse around you and still she doesn’t swallow. The liquid warms slowly, and you know you can’t last much longer. You yank your cock out of her mouth.

“Head up.” She complies.
“Let it drip out of your mouth. Slowly. Then you get your reward.”
So gleeful she looks as she tips her head to face me and I watch the skinny streams of alcohol run from her slightly parted lips. She opens them wider as the first creamy drops of my own begin to mix into her dishevelment, and in the harsh light of the sitting room lamp, she glows.

Nuts About You

This is  my second usage of Exhibit A’s story prompts. In fact, I started writing this story first, but for some reason I couldn’t get it to go in the direction I wanted it to, and then the bukkake poem fell out of me instead. (Sentences you don’t expect to say in your life, ever).

Ironically, I am at a point in my life where, after over a decade of exposure, I hate seasonal Christmas markets. The infest towns, they make getting anywhere in central Manchester a fucking nightmare and they’re full of overpriced tat that gets more overpriced each year. But I do have a soft place in my heart, and my mouth, for those cones of fresh, caramelised nuts they sell.
Hot nuts = The way to my heart.
Also, sorry about the punny title.

Nuts About You

True story: German accents get me wet. They have done for half my life. As soon as I stepped into that classroom in Year 9 and was handed a folder with a tiny pencil-drawn Reichstag on it, and felt the word roll pleasurably off my tongue. “Deutsch.”. Hooked. So there you have my explanation for what follows.

He worked in the seasonal markets. He sold hot nuts. (I’m not making this up, I swear.)
From that first time I saw him three years ago, and each following year I’d felt my face flush pink whenever I spotted that he was back again.
Every Friday during December I toddled down into the city centre, to the furthest reaches of the stalls, where he sat over his brazier, waiting for me. It felt like he was waiting, anyway.
“You again! More sugared almonds? You’ll turn into an Almond!” He said when he saw me the third week, recognising my red duffel/red beret combination.
“I have a sweet tooth.” I said. Handing over the cash in exchange for another box, I stuck out my tongue.
“I see.” He said knowingly, turning to make change.
He began to recognise me after that, and when we were on first name terms, even made passable attempts at my name, calling out,
“Aoife!” if he saw me approach and wasn’t with a customer. That made my heart jump more.
His name was Andreas. Or that was what was on the name tag he wore, at any rate. His accent was lush. To replicate it in print would probably ruin it. Cute face. Rugged facial hair. That midpoint between blonde and brunette. Brown eyes. Chunky. Like a bear.
“Like Bruno.” I said, one Friday in the second year. The winter was getting milder every day. My coat was undone and my hat and scarf shoved deep into my work bag.
“The bear? In Berlin? Bruno…. I’m imagining he has a name, aren’t I?” I was simultaneously trying to fish my purse out of the black hole of my bag, shoving my arm in and out wildly. It made my chest shudder. I caught him looking.
“You are. He’s just a bear. Four pounds please.”
Daylight robbery but who cares? I’d have handed over my wallet for them. For him
Nothing ever happened, though. The odd wink or flirty remark. How did I get him out from behind that counter?

My New Year’s resolution this year was to try a little harder.

He smiled broadly and reached over the rows of bags to take my hand.
“Aoife! I was hoping you’d be back.”
“Always. Where else would I get my nuts?”
By now he was used to British innuendo and laughed.
“I am sure you wouldn’t go wanting.”
“I wish.” I said quietly, adding “How’s business?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Slow. No one wishes to brave the rain. English rain. More rain than anywhere else in Europe.”
“Embrace it. This is nothing to us. Besides, it’s barely spitting now. Practically bone dry.” I said, fingering the boxes. He tapped my hand like a naughty child and gently moved them out of the way “Haven’t you heard of singing in the rain?”
“But it’s Christmas. How can you sing Christmas carols in a rain storm? Stille Nacht suits the quiet peacefulness of a crisp, virgin snowscape. Not so the damp English streets.”
“Jesus was born in the desert, you know.” Piped up the person behind me in the queue.
I winked at Andreas, who rolled his eyes as I stepped aside to let the punter buy his single, sad loop of lebkuchen hearts. This done, Andreas took a paper cone from his shelf and tipped a few of the nuts into it. He handed it to me.
“Each year you buy the plain sugared almonds we buy from the manufacturer. They are so much nicer, so much more pleasurable when they’re warm in the mouth. Try them.”
I couldn’t help it, I blushed, reddening but still self aware enough to make a show of closing my eyes before sticking my tongue out and placing the fattest, sugariest almond in the centre, savouring the sweetness washing over my tongue.
“Good, huh?”
I made the noise I usually make when I have someone’s face between my thighs; the guttural moan that rises from my chest and escapes between my gritted teeth.
When I opened my eyes he was still looking. I wished I could see the half of him that was hidden behind the brazier.
“Very good.” I said in a small voice.
“Do you have to rush away again tonight?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Good, wait there.”
A small line had developed, and as he began to serve them, I realised that somewhere nearby a choir was singing. Silent Night.
I started to sing along, in English, and he looked over. Once he’d served the last customer in the line, he shook his head.
“Sounds much better in German.”
“Alles besser auf Deutsch.” I said without thinking. His glance was approving.
“Not bad. Not great, but not bad.”
“I apologise for my clumsy English tongue. I try my best to work it around your complex vowel sounds. Please serenade me in German.”
He frowned.
“Not out here.”
He took the closed sign out from behind the till and hung it on the side of the kiosk. Then he turned the single glaring light bulb off, leaving only the soft glow of the fairy lights clustered in the eaves.
He lifted the hinged counter top.
“Come here.”
Though my knees immediately turned to mush I managed to make it inside. As the last hut at the end of the row, the sign was likely to stop anyone venturing past us.
“Sit.” He gestured to the corner of the tiny room.
“Are you going to sing for me now?” I said nervously. He was standing over me, I felt slightly afraid.
A slow smile spread across his handsome face. He reached behind and unfastened his apron as he began to sing, very sweetly but very quietly.
“Stille nacht…. Heilige nacht…. Alles schläft; einsam wacht.”
He folded the apron and laid it on the counter. Then he began to unbutton his shirt.
“Nur das traute heilige paar.”
He left the shirt on, and went to unzipped his flies. I could see his cock straining against the taut fabric of his jeans, but he seemed to reconsider and instead, got down on his knees.
“Holder knab im lockigten haar,”
He gently let his hands slide up my thighs and under my skirt. He pulled down my tights and knickers, to my ankles. He lifted his head to kiss me, very very gently on the lips.
“Now, translate.” He murmured, before ducking his head beneath my skirt.
“Silent night… Holy night…”
I felt those same kisses on my inner thigh, his hands kneading the flesh.
“All is calm…. All is bright…”
He spread the outer lips of my cunt apart, the other hand still stroking me.
“Round yon virgin mother and child…”
I gasped when he entered me with two of his fingers and let his tongue travel over my clit. His stubble burned my thighs. It was very difficult to consider singing, let alone singing in tune. I kept forgetting the words.
“Holy infant so tender and mild….. Oh, Oh God. Oh…..”
My thighs tensed, I’d been startled that he was making me come so easily, that I wasn’t bothered that we could be found out at any moment. I gasped and tried to keep my moans clenched and quiet as he kept his lips pursed around me, his fingers shuddering in and out. He was going for a second attempt. Fuck. I’d completely forgotten the words now. I stroked his head.
“I can’t remember the rest!” I whimpered.
He kept his head bowed for a little while longer – interspersing his elegant Teutonic tongue with pinches and soft little bites to the fat. The second orgasm was a smaller wave, a flood of warmth. Satisfied, he sat up and pulled my skirt back down so I was relatively modest. I was still blinking in quiet, sated disbelief that this had happened.
All I could do was rest my head against his chest as though it was meant to be there.
He held me closely and took up the final refrain.
“Schlafe in himmlischer ruh….. Schlafe in himmlischer ruh….”

As if on cue, it started to rain again.

White Christmas

Exhibit A re-opened his Christmas prompts this week, and after spending a morning wailing and writing about hot nuts, this poured out of me earlier this evening. Presented with no comment.

White Christmas

I asked every week, and I was denied.
I put on my sweetest voice, my sluttiest undies.
“Frost me like a cupcake.” I plaintively cried.
My whines were left unanswered.

“Frost me like a cupcake!” I moaned, on my knees
A writhing mass on the pristine bedsheets.
“Your cum, your load, your anything, please.
Make me your art.” I begged, to no avail.

“JUST CUM ON ME PLEASE.” I shouted, aggrieved.
One night in the winter, my patience all gone.
“One cumshot, the money shot, right over these,”
And pulled off my t shirt, my breasts bared, my cheeks flushed.

He studied me fondly, that wintry night.
He set down his drink and went to the door.
And then left the room, disappearing from sight.
And all I could hear was a murmur of voices.

One by one, he lead them inside.
His boss, and his brother, the postman and more.
All smiling, all willing, all bursting with pride.
The circle surrounded me; then unfastened their flies.

“Your wish, my sweet angel, is about to come true.
As you see, it took quite a long while to arrange.
These men are all hungry, and their meal shall be you.
Why, this is what you wanted, isn’t it? My love?”

“You begged to be frosted with all of my might,
but alas I am only one man, with one cock.
And your only real wish was a Christmas that’s white.
And I, with love, have provided that for you.”

So he took pride of place, with his cock in my mouth,
And my eyes filled with tears, of love and delight.
Then of course when the eve of debauchery was done
And my body was drenched with a film of white cum.
(And we’d waved fare-thee-well to the very last one)
We called from our doorstep, all cuddled up tight,
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

A Festive Frolic (Part I)

Every year I say I’ll write a Christmas story, and every year I fail to do so. Not this year, though!

Anyone who read my story Judith and Eleanor, may recall Eleanor’s young brother Matthew. This story sheds a little light on his innermost desires, and the year all his Christmases came at once.
Themes of adultery, cuckoldry, and avoiding midnight mass.

This is part one of two, the second part should go up just before Christmas itself. Enjoy, and seasons greetings to you all!

NSFW erotica, All characters 18+ and all sex consensual. Resemblence to persons already living or dead is entirely in your head.

Part I:  It Came Upon a Midnight Clear

Matthew knew he was an irritant. But he also knew that it had no bearing on his successes with the opposite sex, so he didn’t pay it much heed. He knew his sister was the golden child, who could do no wrong, even when she had descended into sapphism. Evidently parental love was strong enough to overcome the family shame. And perhaps being forever in her shadow was fortuitous – meaning he could do as he pleased with very little attention coming his way as a result.

Still, the girls who he found himself in bed with, or occasionally up against a wall or conveniently located tree – and they were girls, even in their twenties and thirties, flighty, annoying, more annoying than he could ever claim to be – were hardly the kind he truly desired. Caroline in particular, whose angular chest seemed to invade his personal environment every time he ventured home, was a pleasant enough fuck, but little about her personality or appearance aroused him otherwise.

No, only one woman had captured his heart, and made him throb with lust each time he encountered her, or even thought of her.

Each Christmas the family entertained the wider Addison clan, and amongst their number were cousin Edgar and his beautiful wife Cynthia and Matthew ingratiated himself to her and tried in vain to catch her attention and every year she resolutely ignored him in a dress more closely cut, more deep at the neck and tighter around her hips with every passing winter.

She yawned in his presence. She called him a child to his face and still his cock stiffened and he brought his hand to it over and over, imagining the feel of her, the sight of his come dripping over her chest. One year they roomed in the chamber next to his and all night through the wall he heard her moans of pleasure as Edgar fucked her. The next morning she smiled sweetly at everyone, with languid eyes, and Matthew felt sure he could see the pale residue of Edgar’s love on her elegant throat.

This year, his 26th, he stood in the nursery, watching the cars creep up the driveway as each guest arrived. First came his sister and Judith – still in the first flushes of love – and bearing large, ungainly parcels, which he did not feel inclined to help them with.

A gaggle of aunts and uncles arrived more or less in a clump, and then Matthew spied Edgar’s Jag gliding up to the front gates. He knew it was ridiculous that this made his cock twitch but he knew she was inside, and proximity to her made him giddy.

When she exited the car he was not disappointed. As Edgar took her hand, Matthew noted the new weight in her hips and chest, barely disguised by her heavy winter coat. In spite of the cold weather, his cock throbbed quietly.

Supper was a gay affair – they toasted and drank cocktails and played the many terrible party games their parents would insist on every year in spite of the youngest ‘child’ being a robust 24 and six foor seven. Matthew noticed Cynthia’s lingering glances but thought better than to encourage her. He drank, and flirted with Judith and angered his sister and watched a spill of champagne spread over Cynthia’s left breast, showing the puckered flesh of her nipple beneath it and he stared.

She seemed to be looking at him peculiarly, though. When the record player was brought out and some reluctant, aristocratic dancing broke out, Matthew watched Cynthia and Edgar talk quietly with their heads close together, before Edgar took Mrs Addison’s arm and began to steer her around the room. Cynthia licked her lips and advanced on Matthew.

“Care for a dance, cousin?” She asked innocently.

“Certainly.” He took her around the waist and they began to dance, rather awkwardly because he still held his glass in his hand.

“I’m sure you can hold me tighter than that, Matthew. Or else I’m likely to fly off.”

He swallowed the rest of his brandy and, emboldened by the fire in his belly, pulled her more tightly to him, the swell of her breasts firm and exciting against his chest.

“You’re suddenly very familiar. Is Father Christmas bringing you some charm tomorrow morning?”

Cynthia smiled and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Oh no, I am already far too charming. I have charm for days, weeks, months, years… It’s only that you can be rather tiresome, you know. You know I am married, you know I am ten years your senior, and yet you persist in approaching me as if I were a flighty girl of nineteen. Five and thirty, Matthew.”
“Harmless flirting.” He replied, his hand sliding lower down her back to where her curves flared. If anyone raised their eyebrows he would only reply that the silk of her dress made his hands slip.

“Quite. And I have resisted your flirting for all these years. And Edgar has watched you. He has seen everything.”
“Has he? And what has cousin Edgar seen?”
“Enough. He has noted your dogged determination.”
She pressed her hips closer to him, could feel his cock acutely present in his trousers. She leant very closed and whispered.
“Tomorrow morning there will be no gift for you under the tree. As Judith opens a beautiful silver necklace, and your parents gush over Venetian glassware, there will be no parcel covered in ribbons addressed to Matthew. I am your gift. Tonight I will lie in your bed; display myself to you in all my glory, and you will fuck me. And fucking me will be your gift. The gift you have waited five Christmases for.”

Matthew covered his surprise admirably.

“And Edgar has agreed to this?”
Cynthia gestured to her husband. Matthew looked, and Edgar was watching them over Mrs Addison’s shoulder, nodding in approval. He caught Matthew’s questioning eyes. He laughed, and then nodded.

“That proves nothing. He could think we are discussing the weather.”

Cynthia rolled her eyes, and, still with her body as close to his as the shepherd to his lambs, manoeuvred them over to where the other couple stood. The record petered out and Mrs Addison kissed Edgar’s cheek before toddling off to see if supper was prepared. Edgar put a protective arm around Cynthia.

“Edgar, darling. Mayn’t Matthew fuck me tonight?” She purred, coiling herself around Edgar’s stout body.

“Of course, darling. That’s the particular Christmas gift we agreed to give him, isn’t it? To see you naked before him and know he can take you, for one entire night? And wake up on Christmas morning with your arms around him?”
“Before I slip quietly away back to your side to wake you up with your Christmas gift.” She giggled.

“You may have noticed, dear cousin, how well Cynthia is looking. How fleshy and rounded she is.”
Edgar moved his arm to her belly and continued. “I’m sure I don’t need to explain why this would be of particular interest to you.”
Matthew felt his cock jerk once more.

“Is this some kind of shoddy trick? Am I to be ridiculed as soon as my trousers are down?”
Cynthia shook her head.

“No, dear heart. Nothing of the sort. I know how you have desired me, and I have rebuffed your advances because it is unseemly for a married woman to be seen in flagrante with her husband’s cousin. Edgar – dear, sweet, loving Edgar – has never actually forbade me from taking you in hand and fulfilling your base desires, but I simply didn’t want to.”
Matthew sagged a little at this, but she pressed on, as Edgar, with a quick look to make sure they were hidden from immediate view, moved his hand from her waist to stroke her nipple through the damp material. She sighed and shivered into his shoulder.

“But these past few months, this winter in particular, as my belly has swelled and the fires have burned brighter, I have grown somewhat… needful. Insatiable. I have run poor Edgar quite ragged. Even a man has his limitations. But when one cannot truly satisfy oneself, one must look outside one’s own home. And so to you, dear Matthew. My body – my cunt.” She emphasises the word, her lips shiny, crimson, pressed together as if making love to it. His cock twitched again. “The gift you have always desired. And to me, Satiation. Desire fulfilled. So. Shall we?”

The room seemed quiet all at once – the guests had filtered away to eat morsels, and prepare for Midnight mass.

Midnight Mass.

“They’ll miss us at church.”

Matthew knew he sounded as though he was making excuses, finding flaws in the plan, however small, but he wanted so much for this to be true that he had to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, or being set up for a terrifying fall and being turned out from his family.
Edgar put a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Matthew. When was the last time you attended Midnight Mass? Possibly when you were still in short trousers and chasing girls with frogs. No one will note your absence and be sent to fetch you. I shall go, leaving Cynthia to bed with fatigue. The house shall be quite deserted. Deserted enough for your purposes, at least.”

The clock struck the hour. 11.00pm.

“I really must go with them.” He enveloped Cynthia in his arms and she kissed him, his hand still cradling her breast and her fingers stroking his jawline.

“Tomorrow morning, my love.” She called, as he left to gather his coat and winter boots to walk the mile to the parish church. The last few guests set down their glasses and exited, and now they were alone.

“Come, will you take me to my room? I feel suddenly overcome and unable to return to bed without some assistance.” Matthew saw the lust in her eyes, and at last knew it to be true.

He took her arm, and lead her upstairs.



(Boring background shit)
This Summer, I went to Sexhibition (along with a very patient/loving/kinky friend of mine), and as soon as I bought the tickets, I knew I was going to visit the good people at Kink Craft.
Three months later, sitting at their stand making my own mini flogger, I was not disappointed. I was so not disappointed I immediately bought up the matching handcuffs & nipple clamps (I love a matching set, who doesn’t?).

It was only at home that evening that I experienced buyer’s remorse. Namely that, cuffs are not actually my bag at all. Even if they are beautiful handcrafted ones.
BUT! My overindulgence can be your gain! I’ve decided to give them away, along with a handwritten story, to a lucky follower! (I know, contain your excitement).

So, rules are:

  • UK residents only (Sorry… But I am poor. Caveat: If you’re coming to Eroticon next year, your entry can be presented to you in March)
  • Follow me on Twitter
  • Like the pinned post on Twitter (So I can keep track of things #memorylikeasieve) AND:
  • Interact with my work  (Retweets, blog comments etc. NOTE RETWEETING THE PINNED TWEET DOESN’T COUNT X)
  • You must do both to qualify (Hey, there has to be a little something in it for me, too…)
  • Once I reach 500 followers, the winner shall be drawn!
  • Story will be on a subject of your choosing if you wish (As long as it’s consenting adults and no scat/bestiality/incest etc. )Good Luck! And let me know if this makes fuck all sense to anyone.

The Aftermath of Matty Groves (Team Amazeballs Erotica Exchange with Emmeline Peaches)

I am very excited about this post, the second to my exciting new blog, because it’s the first time I have taken part in the #TeamAmazeballs exchange!

First of all, what is #TeamAmazeballs? Well…

#TeamAmazeballs is a community-driven project where bloggers and like-minded individuals trade content to showcase on each other’s platforms. This can involve anything from a toy swap to an article trade, an interview, to a photography showcase. It doesn’t matter! What matters is that two people take the chance to boost each other’s content by providing a new platform and take the time to truly connect as a result.”

I was very flattered and excited when Emmeline immediately suggested an erotica swap after I asked if I could join the endeavour. She gave me a beautiful photo to use as my stimulus, and I, knowing very little about art, asked if I could provide her with a song to use as hers. She agreed, and mentioned she didn’t know a great deal about folk music – and as someone raised on folk festivals and Maddy Prior, this suited me very well indeed.


The song I eventually selected (it took me a while) was Matty Groves:


With themes of adultery and murder, it seemed a pretty good choice! (well it did to me…)

The story Emmeline has written, is gorgeous, appealing to my love of a historical romance, and of encounters between two people who aready hold a deep and beautiful love for one another. I hope you enjoy it.

The Aftermath of Matty Groves

Pennwell stumbled through his old oak doorway, a harrowed shadow of his former self. His face was grim and sombre—his usually handsome features dimmed by his expression.

Waiting for him by the hearth was a faithful figure. Eyes as deep as emeralds, and hair blazing like the fires on the coal, the woman approached the broken Pennwell. Her thick linen dress was almost black, save for remnants of dust and dirt left over from a long day’s toil.

“How was the funeral?” the woman asked sweetly, placing a sympathetic hand on his chest. His heartbeat was weak. Weaker than she had ever known it to be.

“Dreadful, Gwyn. Lord Darnell is in a state of complete disarray. He began shrieking with rage during the burial, cursing his wife for her licentious nature and for the mere existence of Matty Groves”.

Gwyn nodded lovingly. “I know Lord Darnell has kept you well in his employ and you have always stayed true and faithful to him, but this is not your burden to bear. You did what you thought was right, telling him of Lady Darnell’s infidelity. You could not have known the outcome”.

Gwyn’s words tried to reach out desperately to her husband, but she could feel him slipping away. His chest was laying underneath her fingertips but his mind…his mind was a ship amid a torrid storm; swept further and further away by the crashing waves of guilt and uncertainty.

“There was just so much…blood. Right through the heart…and the screaming…hers…then his…It is more than a person should have to witness” Pennwell spoke frantically, his eyes racing as it all flashed before his eyes once more. Droplets began to form in them, big and unconcealable. With this Gwyn could see even more fear creep in to her husband’s mind.

“Hush now my love” she comforted. “You are Lord Darnell’s sole heir now. What worry have you or I now that our lives and the lives of our children have been made better? Should not we take some joy out of this misfortune?”

Pennwell shook his head with certainty. “What good are riches if they come at the death of another? What good is a castle if it is not run by a man who is noble and true?”

Pennwell moved away from his doting wife and hid his shame in his palms, sobbing.

Gwyn looked on lamentably for a moment. Had her husband gone forever? Had the waves beaten at his sails for too long and with too much ferocity? Or was there hope within the undercurrent?

For a moment, Gwyn did not have an answer, but then one came to her mind.

Sudden, carnal, and somewhat perverse (perhaps one of her favourite combinations), it occurred to Gwyn: If her husband’s mind was adrift and her words provided no solace, then maybe her body would instead.

Approaching his shrunken and sobbing form, Gwyn parted Pennwell’s hands and met his teary eyes with a deep and desiring gaze. It was the kind of forceful stare that should only be commanded by those of royal blood, and yet Gwyn used it often when conquests of the body were on her mind.

All too familiar with the expression, Pennwell stood transfixed—his own hazel eyes meeting those of his wife’s. With her husband enthralled, Gwyn took a few delicate steps back, keeping her eyes locked upon him and she began to slide her dress off.

Her hypnotic gaze was one of defiance. A refusal of society’s conventions. A refusal to conceal her burning sexual desire. And a refusal to allow grief to consume her husband when she wished to do so herself.

As Gwyn’s black dress dropped, her freckled body stood in stark contrast to its dark hues. The russet hair of her vulva blazed with a burning intensity that was only matched by her hungry expression. Once more, she moved forward to try and dissuade her husband from sorrow.

As Gwyn stepped out from her dress she kicked it to one side, stripping away her wifely persona and embracing the ferocity of her Gaelic roots. Pennwell, still frozen in the place, did nothing in protest as she pushed him against the wall and engulfed his cold lips with the warmth of her own.

The act was almost symbolic, as Gwyn suddenly felt her husband’s desire rekindle, his hand sliding up the curvature of her waistline and moving to cup her pert breasts.

“Fetch some intestine” Gwyn whispered in Pennwell’s ear, and he gladly obliged—stripping off his own clothing and sheathing his impressive, swollen phallus. Wrapped in the skin of another Gwyn found her husband would often become more like an animal himself. Sorrow forgotten (at least for the moment) this continued to be the case.

Pennwell took Gwyn up in his hands and forced her against the wall before lowering her down on to his firm and flexing shaft. As he did so Gwyn wriggled and writhed cheekily, making her satisfaction known. This was partly for show but Gwyn had also grown achingly fond of the way this caused Pennwell’s penis to squirm and twitch inside of her, caressing her inner sponge and making her clitoris ache heavily.

Wrapping her arms around her sworn lover Gwyn began grinding her hips in to Pennwell’s body, seeking to press her clit against his wild and bushy pubic region.

“Can you imagine?” Gwyn panted in to his ear “The consequences if ever I chose to stray?”

“You would not” Pennwell responded “You have not it in your kindness”

“Yes, that is true”, Gwyn said without hesitation, “But let us fantasize for a moment; If I were to do so, would you plunge your blade in to my heart?”

“Nay, not your heart”, Pennwell uttered in between claiming Gwyn’s neck with passionate kisses. “Not your heart and unsheathing no blade. If I were to find you in such a scenario, my beloved, I would care not for revenge, nor the man in our bed; I would move over to you and take you with such ferocity that you would have no doubt in your heart of my love for you, nor further need to stray”.

“Prove it” Gwyn uttered.

By the glint in his eye, Gwyn could tell her words had been taken in good faith, but it was Pennwell’s increased firmness that revealed the true extent of his approval.

Sweeping her around in a powerful motion, Gwyn found herself thrown daringly on to their bed, soon followed by Pennwell, who arched himself above her.

With permitted confidence Pennwell grabbed at Gwyn’s now tussled red locks and yanked her firmly down to the rough blanket’s surface. Moving his weight on to her Pennwell wasted no time in returning to Gwyn’s lips, in more ways than one. His hand was firm and persistent as it slid its way down to her vulva and fondled her labia, exploring her natural form with brutal sentimentality.

Consumed by the commanding posture of her husband, Gwyn stretched out her neck and invited him to demonstrate his dedication. As he firmly obliged, Gwyn felt two fingers edge their way in to her vaginal opening as Pennwell’s palm began to apply a pressure on to her vulva. Her husband’s hands embraced her with all the mastery of a prestigious baker, kneading soft dough until it was plump and ready.

Just when Gwyn felt she would reach her natural edge she felt Pennwell reposition himself, grasping his sheathed cock and guiding his way back in to her. The tenderness of his entry was swiftly replaced with unyielding, confident thrusts, arching Pennwell’s coronal ridge deep in to Gwyn’s body and beckoning her body to succumb to him. Each thrust was a demand but also a dedication. Pennwell owned her in that moment, but he also treasured her.

Glancing up at her husband as he strained to his final pace, Gwyn saw no sense of sorrow—no hint of defeat. Instead she saw her husband triumphant, unafraid and unaffected by the world outside of their Eden. Gwyn’s body clenched and released in celebration of their ability to bring each other to such a jubilant frenzy as her voice broke into a song of profound pleasure.

As Gwyn released the last of her inhibitions she felt the sheath inside of her fill with her husband’s humours. Panting and covered in beads of sweat, Pennwell collapsed by Gwyn’s side and removed his spent coverings.

Gwyn stroked the remnants of sensation out of her throbbing vulva as she felt her husband’s arm arch around her and pull her in for a loving embrace, kissing her forehead in unspoken appreciation.

“T’will all be okay my love. I promise you that” Gwyn spoke softly, though she knew she could not be certain of her words.

“Aye, that is true”, Pennwell spoke with more conviction, “As long as we have each other the actions of young Matty Groves will exist only in the bard’s ballads”.

Somehow these words rang true with Gwyn and, although she could not be sure of how her husband’s role would be remembered (if indeed it were at all), she hoped that their lives would exist as the one true solace in an otherwise tragic tale.

The awkward first post, post

Don’t mind me as I get to grips with yet another blog. Enjoy some kitteny, delicious filth:

Denial (Extract)

“I missed you so much it made my head spin.”

He said.

“Well I missed you so much it made my knees weak.” I replied.
He lead me towards the bedroom.

“Well I missed you so much it ruined my appetite.”

He sat me down on the bed and rubbed the towel over my skin to soak up the residue.

“I missed you so much…. is that my present?” my mind wandered as I noticed a blue paper bag in the doorway.

“You only missed me because you knew you’d get a present! Tut tut.” He took the towel away so I was naked, and began to dry my hair.

“So, is it my present or not?” I pressed, as he went in search of the hair-dryer.

“You know what your present is.” He plugged it in and stepped in front of me “Do you want to do this yourself?”
“Yes please.”
He handed it over and watched me run it over my hair, lying back to reach for my hairbrush, still hidden in it’s usual place under the pillow. I felt around, my eyes still on him, til I could grab the handle. He nodded.

“Very clever. We’ll have to blindfold you and see what else you’re capable of when deprived of your senses.”
He was ready with the hairbands when I was satisfied with my hair, and pulled it into two neat little plaits. He held hold of them when he was done and tugged them gently.

“Let’s get you into your pjs.”
“But it’s early. It’s not even dark outside. And it’s Friday, bedtime rules don’t apply!” I whined, but he was already at the chest of drawers, picking out a cami and some shorts. I put them on grumpily. As grumpy as I’d been two weeks earlier when he’d been packing to leave. He noticed. With one of my legs in my shorts he pushed me back onto the bed, and leant over me, rubbing and pushing the free fabric into and against my cunt. It hurt.

“Good girls don’t pout. Good girls don’t whine. Good girls know that Sir knows best.” he growled.

“Good girls come when Sir says.” I whispered. He was alternating his touch, rough then gentle, and I was getting closer again. “I waited for you. I would wait forever for you. My pleasure means nothing without you.”

He kissed me, the fortnight’s stubble around his mouth grazed me, spurred me on. I ground my cunt against his hand, then his thigh when he brought his hands up to my body.

“Such a needy little kitten. Such a needful, sopping wet cunt she has for her keeper. How I missed that cunt. How I missed you. All of you.”

“Let me suck your cock.” I moaned into his hair.

“Oh kitten, you know exactly what to say. But you’ve been so good. So very, very, very good,” he moaned too, each word punctuated with hot, wet, burning kisses that branded me. “I’m going to fuck you, Good Girl.” He promised.