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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Lisbon, 2018

I want to see two people, two living embodiments of molten lust, fuck with the intensity with which they live the rest of their lives.

I want to watch the man agog as a feminine whirlwind makes eyes at him, winding her flames around him until the only choice is succumb. He wilfully succumbs.

She strips him naked and remains clothed in her dress the colour of lightning and her high black boots and her long hair a curtain shielding her as she pushes him to the floor and stands over him, affording the stricken man a lingering view of her cunt, swollen and dripping with arousal at her own power.

She wants him, and him alone but as she sits on his face and he obediently licks and sucks and worships her it is the scenario as much as his ministrations that turns her on. She rides his wet and desperate face until she comes, a pure shriek of pleasure before she arches backwards, elegantly impaling herself on his obscenely thickened and hysterically straining cock.

She knows he won’t last long, how could he, the taste of her lingering on his tongue and the delicious tension of her cunt as she grabs him, bucking and using him, her face gleeful as his face reddens and his moans grow louder and louder and she reaches out tenderly to stroke his cheek as with one triumphant meeting of their bodies, his orgasm pours forth and she grins, knowing that this is not the end. Not even the end of the beginning.

Merely the prelude.

Dahlia learns her lesson

In 2016, I participated in Emmeline’s Team Amazeballs Erotica Exchange – we gave one another a prompt, and she asked me to write something based off Rosetti’s Lady Lilith, which I knew nothing of, instead imagining her as a petulant debutante with a string of music teachers in her wake.
I hope you enjoy this not so little historical tale.

Dahlia adored her music lessons. That precious hour of the day where she was indulged with lyricism and beauty. And the presence of a tall, broad, older gentleman whom she knew her father had chosen precisely because he was almost as old as her grandfather and could not be described by even the kindest soul as handsome.

To Dahlia he was the most exciting part of her lessons. He was the reason she was allowed in the music room, un-chaperoned, for one whole hour. She exploited every single minute.

On music days she woke early but didn’t rise from her bed until almost midday. She would lie in a blissful reverie, and explore the wonders of her own body as if the territory were new to her. Her own large breasts, which came to stiff, perfect peaks. Her own flaring hips and rounded tummy with its sweet fair hair. Fair hair which curved in a path between her legs, becoming coarser and darker until it curled outwards in a shield over her cunt which seemed preternaturally wet and wanting.

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She

She may be the beauty or the beast
May be the famine or the feast
May turn each day into a heaven or a hell.
-Elvis Costello, She

Sometimes you write the thing. For Amy (and her Catsuit)

I can’t think straight.

I can think in curves though.

In the undulation of hips and the swell of breasts. In the soft security of her belly.

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