Reunion

This is a follow up to Cheesecake, as requested by Quinn, as well as an entry into Exhibit A‘s Scrabble Challenge

You can play it off. You can pretend your hand just…. slipped. That’s what I could have done, claimed the passing of my knuckles against his crotch as an accident. I just grazed him, only for a second.

This was years later. Older. Greyer. Maybe fifty or sixty. At an anniversary party. We’d been in and out of conversation all night. Easy. Open. Just like normal.

But in that moment I remembered the history in the heat of his body, the density of it. And I craved it.

I looked up at him, swallowed, and made to step away, towards the bar, but he caught my wrist instead, turning the palm inwards.

“Why not get a proper feel of it?” He sniggered into my ear as my hand cupped him. “Since you like touching it so much.”
He placed his own fingers over mine and helped me to work the zipper down, and as I ventured inside the split in his trousers, he took my other hand and laid it smoothly against his neck. We might have been dancing, only he reached under my skirt, found the hole in my tights and worried at it with his thumb.

“And I’ll get a proper feel of you.”

The music was softer than moss but couples swayed around us, and we mimicked their easy rhythm filthily.

The hole grew larger. His fingers grew warmer. Grew clammy. And he grew fatter, firmer at my touch, both of us shuddering with the other’s movements. He moved his hand from between my thighs to the open neck of my blouse, feeling my breasts like a sixteen year old boy would, unknowing of their history – the children they’d sustained and the indignities of middle age they’d endured.

“Still beautiful. Still succulent. Still off limits.” he whispered into my hair and gasped as my grip tightened just enough for him to feel the sharp hit of pain before I withdrew, righted my breasts, and headed back on my original path to the bar.

“Yep, still.” I called over my shoulder, but the words were swallowed up by the first cries of For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow, and a surge of well-wishers towards him.

The Sinners (Version II)

He was tipping ash onto one of Mrs Jones’ ugly pink china saucers, and I was gazing at him, lovingly.

Improper though it may be, we lay next to one another on my bed. Mrs Jones was out. Mrs Jones wouldn’t have approved, even though we were engaged, with a June wedding date set. And smoking, the smoking was the cherry on top of the cake of depravity. She would never get over the shock.

I didn’t want to think of Mrs Jones. Instead I concentrated on the coral imprint of my lipstick, clinging to the white paper shell between his lips; thinking of ten minutes before when he’d gently put it to my mouth so I could take a drag. It was almost another form of kissing; an increased intimacy, here on this single bed no wider than a pillowcase. With only the ugly saucer between us.

“Isn’t it funny how shocking it would be if people knew we were lying here like this? Engaged to be married, and we can’t be left alone in a bedroom for fear we’ll behave inappropriately. And it’s worse for you. You have the eyes of the entire parish on you.”
He laughed and stubbed the end of his fag out, setting the saucer on the bedside cabinet behind him.

“What brought this on? You know I wasn’t a china doll when I proposed.”

“No, of course not.”
“Are you worried I’ll do something I shouldn’t? Please don’t, I want us to wait. I would wait until judgement day for you.”

He was making it worse. I was making it worse, the words all wrong and I felt as if I was judging him for the other girls he had been with before me, before he had taken orders. He hadn’t asked me about other boys; he hadn’t needed to, that information had been volunteered within days of our first tryst; as if I wanted to prove to him I was good and pure and deserving of him. Because in truth, I didn’t believe I was.

Continue reading

The Sinners

He was tipping ash onto one of Mrs Jones’ ugly pink china saucers, and I was gazing at him lovingly.

Improper though it may be, we lay next to one another on my bed. Mrs Jones was out. Mrs Jones wouldn’t have approved, even though we were engaged, with a June wedding date set. And smoking, the smoking was the cherry on top of the cake of depravity.

The words came out before I could filter them.

“Isn’t it funny how shocking it would be if people knew we were lying here like this? Engaged to be married, and we can’t be left alone in a bedroom for fear we’ll behave inappropriately. And it’s worse for you. You have the eyes of the entire parish on you.”
He laughed and stubbed the end of his fag out.

“What brought this on? You know I wasn’t a china doll when I proposed.”

“No, of course not.”
“Are you worried I’ll do something I shouldn’t? Please don’t, I want us to wait. I would wait until judgement day for you.”

He was making it worse. I was making it worse, the words all wrong and I felt as if I was judging him for the other girls he had been with before me, before he had taken orders. He hadn’t asked me about other boys; he hadn’t needed to, that information had been volunteered within days of our first tryst; as if I wanted to prove to him I was good and pure and deserving of him. Because in truth, I didn’t believe I was.

“I… I touch myself.” The words came out in a rush and I looked down at my hands. My hands which I used to type letters, wash pots, cook dinners and pleasure myself to vivid dreams of my fiancé.

Continue reading

Parallel

He loved her, and he loved me. Concurrently, not consecutively. The tie that binds, hands held fast. He stood between us and loved us equally.

He loved her and he loved me. She was dark-eyed and sweet like sherbet. She bit. I was pasty and languid; like milky coffee. Comfort.

He loved her and he loved me. She loved the tongue and the tale, I more the tongs and the tail.

Different, equal, valid loves.

And I loved her and she loved me.

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

A girl (and a boy) on a bench

We reached a bench.

He sat, and tapped his knee.

But you know you shouldn’t doubt me. And now I’m going to spank you.

Not here, I said

Yes, here. He smiled. And yes, someone could see us. But they probably won’t. It’s late. Panties down.

He wasn’t letting up. And the park was wooded. It was 8pm and the sun was a murky amber. I pulled down my tights. I pulled down my knickers.

He was cute. Wearing jeans, converse. A Ramones t shirt he was too young to pull off. He was devilish and innocent-looking.

Over my knee, little one.

He’s four years younger than me, the prick.

I need a wee.

Cute story. I’ll count to three and if you aren’t over my knee you’re going to stand there until you piss yourself.

Red cheeks, climbing over the bench, chipped green paint under my knees. His bony thighs. There’s dog shit on the ground below us. Dried. White. Nostalgic. I save the high calcium of bone-rich diets causing the chalky appearance fact for after he’s beaten me, and brace my hands against the narrow strip of metal under the seat.

He pinches ounces out from each buttock, down along the thigh. He takes his time, relishing the snap and pull of my flesh.

Just get it over and done with, I hiss but he only pinches harder, where the skin will take less, feel more, and harder still, until I weep. Only then does he raise his palm to punish.

Birds scatter. Leaves swirl. Thunder crashes in the yellow summer sky. Salt stinging pain. Red cheeks. Red cheeks. Sodden. Weeping still.

He soothes, Good girl. His fingers on the back of my neck, light and protective.

Good girl, almost done.

Red cheeks.

Red cheeks.

Good girl.

Eroticon Meet & Greet 2019

NAME (and Twitter if you have one)

Hannah Lockhardt but please call me by my human name as it makes me much less nervous. Every time someone calls me Hannah I get this weird, pulling, guilty feeling in my chest like I’m taking credit for something someone else has done.

Tell us 3 things you are most looking forward to at Eroticon 2019

I think it’s just going to be inevitable that I spend the run-up to eroticon dreading it. I’ll be fine once I get there, but right now I am most looking forward to travelling home on Sunday night. Which has nothing to do with anyone but me. I’m very excited to introduce my friend Charlie to the wonderful sex blogger community, and to share a room with Joy.

We are creating a play list of songs for the Friday Night Meet and Greet. Nominate one song that you would like us to add to the play list and tell us why you picked that song.

Paul Heaton & Jackie Abbott – I Gotta Praise

It really sums up how I feel about submission (something the friendships I’ve made related to eroticon are definitely linked with) plus it’s catchy as hell.

What is your favourite item or book you’ve purchased so far this year?

This year I’ve bought a lot of erotic art, and whilst this is an ongoing endeavour, this print by spunk rock is probably at the top.

You can have an unlimited supply of one thing for the rest of your life, what is it? Sushi? Scotch Tape?

Naughty Alice by Vivienne Westwood – it’s been discontinued and I’m down to my last bottle. It’s the scent of my cute and squishy persona.

What is your favourite quote from a movie?

Mrs. Lintott : Actually I wouldn’t have said he was sad. I would have said he was cunt-struck.

Hector : Dorothy!

Mrs. Lintott : I’d have thought you’d have liked that. It’s a compound adjective. You like compound adjectives.

What is your word suggestion to next years Eroticon anthology?

History

Complete the sentence:

I feel…

tired. So tired.

Read everyone else’s much better meet & greets here!