Wicked Wednesday – Wedding Belle Blues

Content warning: degradation. NSFW. Please avoid if you are squeamish about such things!

Prompt: Wedding

This is dedicated to my dear Hannah. With love x

“He’ll never love you.” She said weakly to her reflection, a vision with puffy red eyes and crumbs of mascara peppered around them like funereal glitter. Her flushed chest matched the crimson hue of her eyelids. The bridesmaids dress, which had once held her like a lover and accentuated the curve of the arse that the groom had fucked the night before his engagement party, now hung a little less naughtily, gaping where her hunched shoulders diminished the volume of her breasts, threatening to be exposed by the dress, that was now sizes too small.
She reached underneath her skirts and pulled off the plain black briefs, sodden. She pressed them to her face, her own arousal seeping onto her pink cheeks. Peering at the mirror over the bundle of wet material, she continued.
“You’re stupid and gross and ugly.”
Goose pimples of excitement rose on her arms as she said the words. She shifted on the hard wooden surface of the chair, seven layers of tulle netting grating her skin. She pictured the raw, red rash on her thighs, maybe even drawing little spots of blood here and there. She shifted so that her outer lips spread against the seat.
Six months before the wedding, she’d sat in this position on the groom’s face. His tongue was jabbing into her cunt and he left handprints on her arse that took over a week to shift. The fading bluish bruise of his fingertips nipped at her skin when the bride rang to ask her to be a bridesmaid.

Slowly she worked the cum-drenched underwear into her mouth, staring at herself in the glass.
“Pig.” She thought, and moaned as her clit rubbed against the polished surface of the chair.
“No, stupid girl, not yet. Not yet.” Her inner voice admonished.
She controlled herself to absolute stillness, and when she had tuned out the sounds of the wedding party two floors below, she brought a hand to her cheek, drew it back and then smacked herself in the face. She gasped and felt giddy, her heart racing. Her face was even pinker and puffier than before. Her own taste filled her mouth and her nipples stiffened.
She pulled the knickers out of her mouth and put the wadded fabric between her thighs, grinding against it.
“Stupid pig.” She muttered disdainfully, then looked at herself again. Right in the eye.
“Stupid. Pig.” She said, loudly, clearly, enunciating each word as she began to hump the ball of panties. She reached into the front of the dress and exposed her breasts to the chill air of the bridal suite.
“Stupid ugly fucking slut.” She ground her cunt harder against the wad. Harder and harder, feeling her climax build.
The groom had liked her on all fours, all holes accessible as he took his fancy. That morning as she helped the bride get ready for the most important day of her life, he had texted her with her instructions, and slipped the duplicate key card into her cleavage as surreptitiously as he could at the wedding breakfast. It had dug into her skin and made her smile all through vegetable soup, chicken supreme and strawberry shortcake.
Her cunt began to clench as if grabbing for an imaginary cock, her clit rubbed raw. She looked up and smacked herself in the face again and her orgasm crept closer and closer. She grabbed at her breasts and pinched her nipples until the flesh turned white and on a final, triumphant cry of “You gross, disgusting, stupid, ugly pig.” She came and wet her knickers for the second time. She had to grab the back of the chair tightly as her first instinct was to collapse forwards. She tried to catch her breath as she heard the faint beep of the door being unlocked, and the handle being turned.
The bride and groom stood in the doorway.
“Well, well, well – what have we here?” Said the bride with amusement.
“I’ll see you two later.” The groom offered, the same note of smugness in his own voice. They were perfect for each other. Made for each other.
The bride lifted her skirts, seven layers of tulle.
“On your knees, stupid pig. It’s my turn now.”
The bridesmaid felt her stomach lurch with lust as she fell to the carpet and raised her reddened face to her mistress’s cunt.

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

Something about not climbing trees

I almost talked myself out of it, knowing a punishment would be over relatively quickly but my honesty would be valued.

It was a simple enough task, though.

“Lipstick, eyeliner. And no underwear. ”

Gulp.

I hate not wearing underwear, knickers especially. I wear them in bed. I wear them under my pyjamas. They’re comforting, even though my mum tuts and says I should let my vag get some air, only in a much more mum-like fashion. And he wanted me out in public, without them. Without my security blanket.

I was already flustered as I left the house. He rang to say he was at the gate. I rang him back sixty seconds later to double check I had knickers at his (“Yes. Lots.”)

He watched me take out the bins, and totter towards him with bags.

“You look lovely.”

“I did as I was told.”

He nodded and opened the car door for me. I slid my bum awkwardly over the seat, trying to make sure there was sufficient skirt protecting his mother’s upholstery. 

He stroked my knee and started the engine. As we turned onto the highstreet, I took the hem of my skirt between my fingers and raised it until I could see my cute little pubic mound. He glanced over and groaned. I thought about how damp my inner thighs were getting. 

We parked up outside Marks and Spencer and I exited the car gingerly. He grinned. When I bent my knees to take a packet buns from the bottom shelf of a display, the low murmur of ‘Good girl’ in my ear was everything.

I can’t wait to do it again. 

Ahahahahaha ‘Butt’

I have a boyfriend. A lovely, kinky, dominant-in-all-the-right-ways boyfriend. He relieved me of my cumbersome virginity (More on that in subsequent posts). He eats pussy like he needs it to survive. And he likes things up his bum – tongues, fingers, implements. He’s an adventurous chap.
At first I was sceptical. He wanted to do it to me, I wasn’t comfortable with his face being that close to the bit of anatomy that makes, as we so charmingly call them “Donalds”. Or mine for that matter, but mostly his. His adoration of my arse was still something of a mystery. Well, not quite. I could absolutely understand why he liked to take his hand, paddle, or even my hairbrush to it. I was just finding it difficult to get a handle on why he wanted to bury his face in it.
He didn’t care. He wanted to do it. And I looked at him askance and carried on sucking his cock.

Some time later, we were taking a bath together (we are twee fuckers and no mistake) and the subject came up again. We were soaped up. Our bums were in the optimum state for rimming.  The run up went something like this:
‘I want to do this to you.’ he said.
‘Why?’ I said, not unreasonably.
‘Because. Because I do. I like your bum. Love it, in fact.’ he said.
‘And you like it being done to you?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’ He nodded. “It feels…. amazing.” He might have been soaping my foot at the time, stroking bath bubbles up and down the pink, crinkled sole. Examining my chubby toes. I was reluctant to move from the warm cocoon of the bath and his gentle touch. But if there was a time to do it, now was absolutely that time.
I said ‘ok then’, and stood up,  slightly wobblily in the bath. Part of me just wanted to get it over and done with, but another part was astounded I’d agreed to let a man put his mouth so close to such a gross part of my anatomy, however clean it was. I tried to quieten the voices of my anxiety and germphobia.
I wanted to do it for him.
I knew he wouldn’t push the matter and would live without it if I couldn’t go through with it. I didn’t want him to. I didn’t want to deny him anything.

It was…… anticlimactic. I didn’t feel dirty, or exposed or deviant. I didn’t feel anything at all, other than a little let down by my nerve endings, and that there was little point in his doing it to me if all I got was cramp in my thigh from being bent over whilst he went to work.
‘I’m sorry.’ I said, turning back around to face him.
‘It’s ok.’ He was smiling. He’s perfect.
‘And now you….’ I grinned shyly, apprehensive again for an entirely different reason.
We swapped over, and I, very gingerly, repeated the process on him.
Oh.
The noise from him. The noise I ache to hear, that seems to flow from his chest like fire and sets contented pleasure flowing through my veins The tension that wobbled in his knees as soon as the tip of my tongue flickered gently against his skin and proved how much he wanted it.
It surprised me how swift and powerful his response was.
It was just as Belle de Jour once wrote, that “the tiniest flicker of your tongue goes further there than anywhere else.”

Well, on some people at least.
On my person for sure.

After a moment or two more – I drew away and he sat back down and reached for the shampoo. Now we knew the lay of the land, the laying on of tongues could wait for another time.

But now I could picture myself knelt behind him with my wrists crossed against my lower back, or being permitted to stroke his cock from the same position, if I’d been particularly good.

And if he’s particularly good, I might even let him do it to me again.

(The butt in question is pictured above)

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