I’ve got my love to keep me warm

She cooks. Always cooking. Itchy fingers, she says.

This morning – Christmas Eve Eve – I woke up to find her side of the bed empty and generic Christmas spice scent wafting through the door.

I padded naked – foolish, foolish child! – to the kitchen and found her at the hob, stirring her pot of festive cheer, also naked but for an oversized apron, her pinchable bum and smooth terracotta skin of her back peeking deliciously at me from behind the creaking folds of oilcoth. George Michael was nursing his broken heart through song on the radio.

“I’m making mincemeat.” she said without turning around.

“And why is that?” I carefully put my hand on the small of her back, easing my fingers up through the cords.

She set the spoon down and rested her hip against the counter top.

“I woke up with a craving. I needed mince pies.”

“The Co Op opens at ten.” My hand curved round onto her stomach. Her tender, beautiful stomach. The faintest sigh escaped her lips as I moved closer, the convex of my body fitting neatly into the concave of hers.

“I’ve been up since six. I needed to feel useful. Create. Get my hands dirty. Pastry’s chilling in the fridge. So rich and buttery.”

Continue reading

Advertisements

Today and Yesterday and Today and Tomorrow

Two pink pigtails and one wet cunt. Last week she was a gift, with a wide, white bow tied around her neck and her bare breasts pegged at the nipple. Curled at the foot of His bed the night she was returned to Him, she thought of the party she had attended.

A group of men – a stag; a team-building exercise; she never knew – encircled one. Each a little drunk, a little full of bravado. Pawing at her naked and dimpled body. The smallest, the least imposing, smirked at her as he smacked her across the breasts, so hard it winded her. Two hands grabbed her wrists as he spat on his fingers and insinuated them between the lips of her cunt. More impact followed – A gentle giant would hold her face in his huge, terrifying palm before slapping her. The heat warmed her body and her puckered skin smoothed, at least for a moment.

“On your knees.” An order, a disembodied voice. She knelt.

Continue reading

Plait

Confession: I’ve never not loved school uniform. I am thirty six years old and I’ve been watching middle aged women flash their thigh highs and Head Girl badges since I should have been revising for my A levels (All B’s, thank you for your concern).

There’s just something about the perception of innocence hiding confidence and experience. I feel more myself in a pleated skirt and a sweet expression, I’m not going to explain it further.

So I seek out ‘School Discos’. That mainstay of the British university experience. I drag my husband to gay bars and grotty pubs that still smell of fag smoke and spilt beer and I grind my cunt against his thigh as BoyzIIMen play for the zillionth time and get wetter knowing every postgrad and Fresher in that room is gawking at us, desperate for their own mature schoolgirl slut.

We snog in that tongue-heavy, close fashion we did when we were just learning to control our arousal. He pulls the buttons of my blouse apart and feels me through the cheap white lace of the bra I know will be useless by the morning. Once someone walked past and drunkenly dared him to slip me a cheeky finger and he didn’t even break his concentration, just ran his hand up my thigh and bypassed the leg of my knickers, diving in with three and I came seconds later, looking that twatted third year in the eye as I bit into my mister’s white shirted shoulder.

The bouncers came over and asked us to leave. Sometimes that happens, too.

Doesn’t matter. We can still play at home.

After half a decade of relationship, he’s learned to read the signs.

Continue reading

Lily

Love sticks and stays.

Each year someone would nudge her, point out a handsome face in the street, or theatre.

“You’re only twenty five. He wouldn’t want you to mourn forever.”

Even his mother’s grief seemed to wane before hers, smiling when Frank was brought to memory and able to talk about her son with warmth and mirth. Lily smiled weakly and sipped her tea, aware of the minutes until she was alone and could weep.

“It’s…. Lily, it’s been three years.” Mrs Bates eyed the wedding band on Lily’s hand. “Frank would want you happy. Not weeping for him still.”

How could she tell her mother in law how she’d grown so unhappily used to the space on the bed beside her remaining cold and still, that she could not bring herself to think of another man’s warmth enveloping it.

“There is time.” She said at length, and Mrs Bates nodded.

The year dragged on. Snow began to threaten. Lily reached for her darned woollen stockings each morning, the fine nylons tucked away for warmer days. Still her poor heart didn’t heal, stagnating in her chest like sour meat. It was heavy to carry around and wearied her.

With no children to care for, she went through her days in a kind of repetitive haze. Wake. Work. Bathe. Bed. She barely ate. She was a ghost, keeping to a tight beat of streets and buildings. Venturing outside of comfort – to the park when she and Frank had met, or the pub they had visited often, was out of the question.

December began and the darkness was pricked with sharp white lights. Each shop window she passed was full of painful wonder, but she steeled herself to look. At the toys she would never buy for the child she didn’t have. At the pearl-handled razor she would never wrap in delicate paper, eager to see Frank open it on Christmas morning. Tears began to seep out from under her frost-tinged lashes.

“Sadness in winter burns brighter and more sorely than the summer, don’t it?”
Came a voice at her ear.

Lily turned her head; beside her was a woman a little taller than herself; older, perhaps sadder. Her hair was hidden behind a brightly coloured turban.

Continue reading

Same Time Next Year

The week before drags, as always. The day before runs away too quickly, like a kiss or a perfect song.

By midday on the day itself he texts me the details of the hotel.

A different one each year. I don’t get any say in the matter but he never chooses anything too far away. Sometimes he arranges a cab, too.

I always get there first, pick up the room key – “Miss Mason.” as always, and carry my small case up to the suite with the best view, something else he stipulates.

He arrives at 7pm and I’m naked on the bed, drying off after a bath or shower. Radio 4 playing softly in the background. I hear him drop his bag on the floor, and raise my hips, pushing my face into the duvet.

First there is the icy slick of lube around my cunt – his fingers venture inside, and I shiver. His thumb strokes my clit and I moan.

Knelt on the bed behind me, he traces the head of his cock over my swollen outer lips. Over and over, pulling his foreskin back and forth. He’s hard already, jerked himself to fullness in the cab he took to join me here. His hand is at the base of my back as he eases inside, the last act of gentleness as he buries himself in me to the hilt, slowly pulls out and then he slams into me and it begins.

My job is to hold myself there as he uses my slick, sticky hole and not make a sound other than muffled moans. Certainly no words.

Every year, his cock feels different. Thicker, stronger. He fucks me with precision and power and always for almost exactly five minutes. He doesn’t undress, fucking me through his flies. He doesn’t even unbutton them. His trousered thighs rub against my bare skin. My hair catches in the sharp teeth of the zip, but this is all part of it.

Every year is the same, really. He empties his thick creamy load into me with the same, self-satisfied moan as usual. Admires the white imprint of his hand on my back as he withdraws. Snaps a couple of photos of the creampie dribbling down my inner thighs and leaves the money and the apology note on the bedside table.

£500.

Two sides, handwritten. He’s sorry. He’s always sorry.

I reach between my legs and coat my fingers in his come, savouring the feel and taste of him.

One day he’ll forgive himself.

One day he’ll stay the night.

What’s the time, Mister Wolf?

A queer drag king burlesque D/s love story.

The act was called What’s the time Mister Wolf?

I sat backstage and watched her transform. First she plaited her unruly curls and pinned them to her scalp in a neat little fauxhawk. Then she took off her aged converse and ripped jeans, but left the fishnet tights beneath. This was when I laced her into the corset – gold glitter to which she’d gluegunned tufts of brown fur. Watching her already defined waist grow smaller and smaller and her breasts rise higher and higher in her reflecton.

She sat on the edge of the makeshift dressing table and pulled on a pair of low-heeled brogues, then beckoned to me.

“Drop ’em.” She drawled, and I fished under my dress for the waistband of my knickers, pulling them off for her. She inhaled their scent before spreading her legs obscenely so I could watch her stuff her own boxers with them. The bulge made my legs shake a little, though she soon covered this with a pair of chocolate brown corduroys.

Through the loops of the trousers, she passed the strong leather belt of her tail – a fine, silky, bushy beast of a tail, in reds and browns to match her suit, her eyes, her hair. She watched herself in the glass and gave her hips a little wiggle. The weighted tail shook and curled around her calves and she smiled with satisfaction.

Her nipples she crowned with paw print pasties before shrugging on a sharp pinstripe shirt. With the collar buttons undone, she mascara’d her lashes, then took the black kohl eyeliner from her make up bag and drew on a pencil moustache. She made her black brows blacker, wilder. With surgical precision she drew on whiskers across her dimpled cheeks, and a black snub nose.

“Jacket.” She said, admiring herself in the full length glass in the corner of the room. I placed it around her shoulders, and as she left the room, she flipped the trilby from he hat stand onto her head.
“Thanks, Kid.”

Continue reading

Saturday

Saturdays are for chores. Saturdays are for fun. Saturdays are for chores. I cannot be bothered. To strip the bed and wash the dishes and buy the groceries for next week but He says I must. Says I am to take care of myself as he would if he were here. Beautify your surroundings. Prepare for the week ahead. Look after that which looks after you.

But the work is tiring, works my already spent muscles until I am filmed with sweat and peevish.

It is His will. It is Necessary. Take care of that which looks after you.

I pause to check my phone. No message. No clue where He is. The mattress is heavy, the buttons at the edge of the duvet cover fiddly. When the job is done I lie in the centre, feet dangling from the foot of the bed, eyes closed. My head buzzes with fatigue and I do not notice the turning of the latch, His heavy, uneven tread as He walks towards me. It is the unclenching of the teeth on His zip I hear first. His hand on the hem of my t shirt and His warmth on my belly as He lifts the tee away from my body so He can see His possession.

I know He’s touching Himself, stroking His cock as He explores my terrain. Sometimes the smooth flesh brushes my cheek or lips; but He does not want my mouth. Does not want my interaction at all. I am a single image, a page briefly lingered on. Seen, admired, discarded until later.

He is breathing quicker now; more thickly. Raw moans, but considered, restrained. His palm on my breast feels heavier as He reaches climax, leaning over my body and directing the spurts over my breasts and mouth.

He cups my face in his hand, wiping his thumb over my lips, between them and I suck gratefully at His taste before he moves away.

He returns with the soft, warm flannel and He cleans me, softly murmuring “Take care of that which takes care of you.”

The Chair

The dining chair was part of a collection that had been in the hands of the Douglass family for two centuries and some decades. It cost more than one of the scullery maids would make in all her years of service. This thought did not trouble Camilla. She stood at the farthest corner of the room and nodded complacently. Though the crowds would surely be pulsating and vast, she felt confident her audience would be able to see its gilded form from every possible viewpoint, and not miss one second of the sport.

Hector closed his eyes. He could hear the distant sounds of the approaching crowds, but his bindings prevented him from turning to face them as they entered. Though why should he wish to do so? To see the pity and lust in their eyes? He kept his gaze fixed to the floor. He swallowed. He sweated.
He had felt Camilla’s lips around his cock and then her nails in his thigh. But this was more than two hours previously. She had brought him to the room – the large drawing room, he realised with trepidation, gently lead him to the chair, the only item in the vast space, and stood gazing into his eyes as she undressed him. He moved only to allow her to remove his shoes, his britches, his fine jacket. Then she wrapped the heavy ropes around him, laughing as she did so, calling him her captive in a low, teasing voice.
Now he heard the heels of her boots on the marble floor, heard her unlocking the doors, and her haughty tones.
“Welcome, weary travellers. I hope you are in good spirits for this evening’s sport. Make room, spread yourselves out. I promise you will see something worthy whatever your vantage point.”
Voices became hushed when their eyes alighted upon him, but soon rose again to a murmur. Hector caught snatches of their conversation.
“… For breeding, I take it. Look at the size.”
“… This evening, I wonder…. I wonder at his thoughts on the matter.”
“Cowed and quite unlike himself. We never saw him so quiet in his manor.”
Hector almost smiled.
Soon the room grew thick with the heat of curious bodies. He knew what was approaching.

Continue reading

Housewife’s Choice

Housewife’s choice

Each morning is a ritual, a step by step of tasks in an order devised by him for both their satiation. She awakes each morning, giddy with anticipation, and leans over to envelop her love in a kiss, an embrace, her bare arms sliding over his bare chest – pyjamas are only worn in the bleakest depths of winter.

He growls like a wolf at the scent of her perfume, of the two of them. Of the night before and fucking her until her limbs were weak.

Sleepily he takes her hand and draws it downwards, to his cock, already stiff and ready for her. She brings him off with her hand gratefully, easily, and wears his come with honour.

Continue reading