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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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

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.

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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.

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.

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Three (Smutathon 2018)

The final Smutathon story! This for Gorgeous Missy who asked for a D/s Threesome which I hope I have delivered.

Look at him. King of the castle. The cat that got the cream. Lying here in this reasonably priced hotel room with his wife and her lover. These beautiful women. One of whom he owns and worships, one he adores as she serves his beloved.

He had girl strip as soon as she entered – she was not permitted to glance at the bed where beloved sat astride him – and instructed her to stand at the open window with her hands behind her head, exposed to the patrons in the bar opposite. He asked her to raise her hand each time she was spotted, and describe the response of the voyeur.

“He is making lewd gestures.”

“More specific.”
“He grabbed his crotch and then pretended to grab my hair as if I was sucking him.”

“Good. He knows that’s all you’re good for, girl.”
“Now a woman is looking.”
“And?”
“Just looking. Her eyes are wide. She’s stroking the rim of her champagne glass.”

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Ten. (Smutathon 2018)

Beautiful Bee’s story. Shared with permission. Written with love.

“Close your eyes and count to ten. Slowly. Then knock on the door. Can you remember that?”

She nodded and he petted her head, lovingly.
“So desperate to please, aren’t you?” and she nuzzled his hand.

“So desperate to prove herself. “

He reached down and twisted her prominent nipple between his thick, unforgiving fingers and she moaned.

“Pathetic.” He laughed as he shut the door behind him.

Naked in the centre of the landing, she brought her hands to her face and began to count out loud.

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Come one, come all (Smutathon 2018)

This was written for the wonderful Ruth who generously donated to our Smutathon 2018 campaign and asked for a story about exhibitionism.

She wears the best lingerie. Famous for it. You might think that kind of thing doesn’t matter, but people notice. Silky, lacy, pretty prettiness fills her bedroom drawers and cascades out onto the bedroom floor.

Tonight, in the depths of winter though, no knickers at all – only a flimsy black bralet which really doesn’t fit; she can manoeuvre the cups so only the edge of her areola shows but as soon as she moves, the fabric shifts and she’s exposed. As soon as she’s vigorously sucking cock, she’s exposed.

Perfect.

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Cheesecake

I tease. I poke. I prod. We bicker. We bicker. We bicker. Friends for a while. Never made it to lovers, brief or otherwise. More adopted sibling than fuck buddy. But hugs that last a fraction too long. Bend at the waist to flash my knickers. Smack my arse as we pass on the stairs.

No blood shared. No awkward Christmases.

Early Saturday morning, wearing a T shirt, long socks, nothing else. Bend at the waist to flash my thighs. Head buried in the fridge, reaching for the last piece of chocolate cheesecake. His slice. His slice we all swore we would leave so he could enjoy it today. In my hands, melting slightly with the guilty heat. Heavenly sour sweetness on my tongue, crammed into my slutty mouth as I hear his footsteps on the staircase, in the hall, on the tiled kitchen floor.

“What are you doing?”

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