Bringing Home The Bacon

On Sunday morning, I am wrapped around you like a blanket, drawing a smiley face in your chest hair.
“I’m hungry.” I say. It’s 10am, at 9.30am I was spread-eagled on the sheet, your face nestled between my thighs with my fingers knotted in your hair.
“Hmmmm. I’m hungry too.”
“Bacon sandwich?”
“I ate the last of the bacon yesterday.” At 9.45am I was riding you, the mains-powered wand grinding my clit and you were using me in my favourite way as I came for a second time and you flooded my cunt.
“Hmmmm.” I frowned. “So, you’ll go and get the bacon?”
He laughed and held me tighter. “Yes, kitten – I will go and buy some bacon.”
“Good.” but as he tried to pull away and sit upright I threw my legs over his.
“But you stay here where it’s warm.”
“Ok…..” He lay back down. I bit into the flesh of his bicep.
“But where’s the bacon?”
“In the shop.”
“Ok you go and get the bacon. But also stay here.”
“Kitten……”
“Where’s the bacon?”
There was a pause.
“In the shop.”
“Ok. You go and get the bacon but also stay here where it’s warm and I can cuddle you. Ok?”
“Ok, I’ll stay here but also get out of bed and go to the shop where the bacon is and you can stay here and keep the bed warm for me and then I will come back and cook the bacon and get back into bed for the cuddles to continue. Ok?”
“But….You stay here?”
“How much do you want a bacon sandwich?”

In his defence, it was a very good bacon sandwich.

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Kitten

Kitten sat on the big, soft armchair in the sun room, her feet tucked neatly underneath her. Sir stood with his back to the windows, in shadow. He held her new collar in his hand. Pink. Diamond trim. She held up her hair so He could fix it around her neck. His fingers stroked the edge of her hairline as He did so. She nuzzled his hand as he stepped to the doorway.

Princess! Come downstairs, I have a present for you!”

She was wearing a nightgown. Soft, pink and floaty. Her bare breasts visible beneath. She entered the room and went immediately to His side, holding His hand tightly.

Look, I got you a pet. You always wanted a kitty to play with – and now you do!”

She looked up at Kitten, perched in her seat, staring at her hopefully.

A kitty, just for me!?”
“Well, Sir might want to play with her too, sometimes. But she is your kitty for the most part. You have to love her and care for her and train her. Can you be a big girl for me and do that?”

Yes, Sir. I’m so excited to have a kitty of my own to play with.”

She sank to her knees and patted them softly. “Come here, kitty-kitty.”

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Taking Liberties (I)

Erotic romance was how I started. This is definitely a slow burn. An actual story for once, but it is a departure from what I have posted to my blog so far so may take some adjusting.

Many years after the fact, I learnt he had finely orchestrated our first meeting. Sat beside one another at a dull talk on moral responsibility, he put his hand on my thigh. I slapped it away. He was thoughtful, and when the room grew rowdy once more he placed the hand higher upon my thigh. This time, when I made to swat the hand away again, he caught my fingers in his and held them fast, delicately stroking the palm.

Afterwards the speaker announced that they would be serving us tea and fruitcake in the ante room. I broke free of his grasp, and had been speaking with Lydia’s sister, when he approached me at the samovar and said,

“I do hope you didn’t think me forward.”

Always that impertinent grin about his mouth. His blonde-toned hair oiled but waved towards his brow. Eleven months and two inches between us.
“I do think you forward.”

“Oh dear, that wasn’t my intention.”
He stroked his hand along the length of my index finger, I looked about us and tempered my voice.

“You manhandled me.”

“A misunderstanding.”

“Your hand was placed upon my thigh where it had no place being. How could I possibly misunderstand that?”
His large, child-like blue eyes registered my scandalous words with some amusement.

“I was gripped, gripped by Professor Bradley’s rousing speech, of course. Had your thigh been that of the good professor himself, or even my dear, departed mother, my reaction would have been much the same.”
His speech was firm and measured. He looked me in the eye carefully. It could almost have been true.

“I can see you don’t believe me. Perhaps I could take you to dinner and explain in a more detailed fashion?”

“If I refuse, would you persist in harassing me?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” He shrugged, turning to the samovar himself for his own refreshment.

He was infuriating.

I went to dinner.

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Picture Perfect

On dedication.

Whenever she was ID’d, there was a small smile as she removed her passport from the bag. As they studied the image and made sure it matched up with the highly made up face before them, she wondered if they paused as they did so.

Did they catch the glassiness of her eyes? The dampness of her parted lips?

Had the clerk finalising her renewal noted in the corner of her chosen profile shot, that patch of exposed skin below her waist, and suspected?

Of course not. No one else knew the secret behind it. How he had told her what he would do to her before the photo was taken. How he cuffed her wrists and stripped her from the waist down, passed his hands between her quaking thighs to make fun of her arousal before making her hold the wand in place against her swollen, desperate cunt.

When he pushed her to her knees and fucked her mouth, he told her she’d always remember this afternoon, every single time she travelled abroad, every time she started a new job. The pulsing of her cunt, the come dripping down her thighs, the strength of her submission to him.

Ten delicious years of silent testament.

A letter to Myself

Four weeks ago my world imploded as my M decided he could not continue to be with me, after some familial intrusion into our personal lives that some of you will be aware of.
Ten days later, nursing my poor, shredded heart, I wrote this letter to myself.
I have since reread it twice, and though it still makes me weep, it also calms me enough to press on.

Some minor things have been changed, names omitted (the copy I have in my file uses my real name), but other than that, it’s as it was then.

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Blurs

I don’t remember why I wrote this exactly. I know I wrote it for someone who wasn’t much impressed with it, but I like it well enough.

Consensual, caring BDSM. All characters over 18. No one is a blood relative. NSFW. 18+ only. Copyright me.

“I’m scared.” I say, looking at the bed nervously.

“I’m not.” He replies, half-smiling.

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Watching

Cuckqueaning is my new jam, apparently.

I knew what I was there for. They didn’t tell me but they planned it between them. And one night, invited me over after work. We watched TV, ate pizza and he felt me up during an extended edition of Newsnight, after noticing how obvious the imprint of my nipples was through my T-shirt. He was sat between us, groping my tits as she slid her hand inside his flies and watched us, stroking him firmly.

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