The Toblerone Incident

I wanted the Toblerone. The boy was just collateral damage. A means to an end with an erection pushing into my hip, the heavy bar of chocolate held just out of my reach. He kissed me pushed against the thin, echoey walls of my cheap flat and no one has turned me on quite so acutely since.

I wanted the Toblerone. The boy was just collateral damage. Pressed against me on the narrow bed with his hands unsure and time dripping through the skylight above us, I took his wrists and forced his hands roughly against my breasts in the too-small push up bra. He kneaded my flesh and his cock hardened in the small of my back.

I wanted the Toblerone. The boy was just collateral damage. Chocolate fingerprints on my duvet – dry flecks of cocoa across my neck. He bites. His belt. It bites. He shoves his hand inside my knickers; I’m full and flushed and grinding into him but not ready yet, not ready, no.

I wanted the Toblerone. The boy was just collateral damage. The boy was hard and ready for me and my hands were licked clean and thumbs wiping the drips and smudges from his clothes – the denim rough and sweet against my tongue. The salt of him was seductive with dry anger.

I wanted the Toblerone. The boy was just collateral damage. In the palm of my hand until he grew too large, too urgent and I whispered words of encouragement and worked my vulpine tongue around him until his eyes widened. Limp against the pillows, he finally loosened his grip.

I wanted the Toblerone. The boy was just collateral damage. The boy was gone. The Toblerone, still in the fridge.

Masturbation Monday

“I’m sorry I’m late; I didn’t want to come”

Part One Here Part Two Here

Sometimes she wanted him to go down on her because he wanted to, not because she wanted to come. Not because the thought of his handsome face, his stubble burning her inner thighs made her melt and shudder, though it did. Of course it did.

She wanted him to go down on her and eat her cunt and not care if she came or not. Actively avoid the things he knew would make her climax. Though her clit ached and her cunt grasped, his face nuzzled possessively between her thighs was powerful enough. She wanted him to press the flat of his tongue against her vulva and lick her with fury, not delicacy. With taunting, grim determination to taste every inch of her; her enjoyment irrelevant.

Swipes would be made at her pulsing, reddening nerve endings but only enough to make her twitch, and this was an excuse to hold her tighter, place the full weight of his body against her parted thighs and raise his head long enough to hiss “Keep still you little bitch.” before descending to torture her once more.

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Not for you

Read Part One Here

And so that Wednesday night she sat with her scissors and a book in her lap, reading through the middle chapters of a slight paperback from Grandad’s stash. A sub-Bond spy novella where the hero ended each chapter balls deep in a beautiful woman. All fucking, all cock in cunt action; the occasional bitten nipple or slapped arse but nothing more intriguing.
Still, as she read the passages, and cut around the dirty words, she thought of her Mister, who was somewhere, nibbling Claudia’s tender skin. She pulled up her t shirt and snapped a photo of her tits, not artistic but laced with urgency, and sent it to him, knowing he wouldn’t reply. A reply would break the spell.

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The Red Shelf

The first in a series of short scenes from an imagined cuckquean relationship

She has sat on her hands until they are numb, willing herself to leave him be. He has not asked her to. He hasn’t asked her for anything, Today is Wednesday; he’s seeing Claudia. Claudia is being taken to dinner and Puppy is sitting at home in her room. She is not allowed to know where they are going. Last week they went to the theatre; it was only four days later he told Puppy what they had seen, how he had enjoyed it.

He had told her how she had brought him off during the second act – how he spat in her palm as the crowd laughed and she worked it around his cock with glee. When he came, he wiped the resultant mess over her face and walked her brazenly out into the street with white splashes of semen adorning her otherwise unremarkable face.

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Sea Story

An extract from a much longer, more complicated piece I have very mixed feelings about.

2010
We sat side by side on our bench, watching the lights kick over the fun fair, finishing our ices. She attacked vanilla ice cream the same way she approached cock sucking. B’s technique – whether for effect or out of habit – was to lick hers daintily, using her tongue rather than her mouth, slurping away at the swirl of cherry syrup. She knew I was staring, looked up and toyed with the chocolate protruding from her dessert.

“Do you want my flake?”

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Her Mouth

She has the wettest mouth. You wouldn’t think it to look at her. You wouldn’t consider her face as she eats a sandwich or chews the end of her pen. Her mouth looks like any other mouth.

He hadn’t considered it, lying on her bed, kissing her nervous lips. Her mouth was pretty ordinary. Pretty, and ordinary. Lips chewed anxiously by the teeth above. The mouth did not assert itself with fleshy fullness.

“I give great head.” is easy to disprove, after all. And maybe she faltered, wondering if a skill can be forgotten with only a few months’ passing.

“No, I have the wettest mouth.” she thought that afternoon, coming up for air from between his thighs.

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Seven Minutes in Heaven

Before the door is closed she’s tearing at his belt, before zeroing in on the zipper and yanking it down, but even in her eagerness she is tender as she reveals his cock, filling with blood and power in her palm.

Hustled into the closet his brain is elsewhere but her lips are warm and inviting and her throat is supple and she’s so fucking pretty, so fucking slutty, with his dick in her mouth and slobber oozing out of the tiny gaps in her self-formed vacuum around his member. Having taken the lead to get him alone, she kneels as a dumb puppet before him, desperate for all he inflicts on her. Those big blue eyes filled with tears of pain and lust. Her chest flushed and heaving.

She splutters and moans for more. He fucks the hole – His hole – holding her face in his hands as his cock thickens and twitches against her tongue.

When he comes he holds her close and she inhales the scent of him as his seed pours down her throat; the taste and sumptuous musk of his body makes her dampen, eager for their next stolen moments.

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