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

Advertisements

A hop, skip and a jump

How I became that girl, I do not know. That girl with bare legs and no knickers, sidling up to him in the foyer of his hotel and murmuring “Is that a telescope in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?”
He has me over the bed in seconds, all wandering fingers and thumbs in my cunt, pulling and stretching me this way and that.

Wet little hole.

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

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

Twelve Hundred Days

“I’m old enough to be your mum.”
He narrowed his eyes.

“I don’t know where to start with how wrong that sentence is.”

“You know what I mean.” I mumbled. “It’s just ridiculous.”
“I am not the ridiculous one here, Joy. I am not the one who understands neither basic maths nor human reproduction.”

He was still holding me – his hands on my waist as we stood in the corner of the house party. Why was I even at a house party? It was already past eleven and my feet hurt.

I tried a different tack.

“We belong to different decades.”
“Because I don’t remember the golden years of The Big Breakfast and you no longer get carded buying rosé in Asda?”

His right hand inched up my waist and brushed the spot where the slightest touch made me whimper.

“Kiss me.” He said.

His thumb stroked the bare skin of my back, making me shiver into the sticky, youthful heat of the party. Artists I couldn’t name moaned words I couldn’t hear through the smoke.

“You’re too young.” I whispered but the last word got swallowed up in his moist pink lips and his body overpowering my anxiety. I wrapped my arms around his neck, unwilling to let him go now I had him, regardless of what I’d said or how stupid he thought I was. He backed me up against the noticeboard in the narrow hallway; the crunch of ancient notes and fire drill instructions against my back made us both start. He broke away and reflexively I ran my arm over my damp, swollen mouth.

“Old enough to be my what?” He grinned, taking my hand and leading me upstairs.

On the bed he touched me more. He cupped my breasts through the slippery fabric of my dress, drawing my hand down to his crotch where the taut denim of his skinny jeans strained over his cock, pulsing evenly against his thigh.

“Twelve hundred days.” He whispered as his hands moved lower, and lifted the hem of my skirt.

“What’s a thousand days, between friends?” His voice was in the crook of my neck, his thumb and forefinger peeled my damp knickers away matter of factly. I was fumbling with the buttons on his flies before I knew what I was doing. He wasn’t wearing underwear – the flesh was warm and smooth and sprang up for me as we pushed our clothes away. Our movements were fluid; my fingers in his hair as he slipped the condom from his wallet and watched me roll it down his erection. His hips firm and rhythmic as he bore down on me with his fingers pressing white prints into the weight of my thigh. I was laughing. Laughing as he brushed a tendril of hair from my chest and kissed the fat beneath. Laughing as he growled and fucked me harder. He laughed too, giggling with our foreheads touching. Sniggering as we sped up, and I held his face in my hands – his gorgeous, five years younger face – and listened to the noise bursting from the floors below. The songs I couldn’t name, by the artists I didn’t recognise.

Prove

Eventually, he’s going to fuck me. Knelt at the foot of the bed with his fingers loosely holding his cock. Now it’s the same colour as the knuckles around it, but soon the flesh will be solid and deep and the knuckles white, bright against the veins and power of his erection.

Not yet though.

Now he is delicate and supple, pliant in his hands, rolling over the part of himself he knows best. His belly rises and falls a fraction quicker than usual as the fingers slip back and forth and the tender flesh rises too, thickens with the motion of his hand and the sight of my naked body, shower-damp and displayed before him. He passes his thumb over the head and it’s sticky. My desire to lick it off I quell, for now.

He moans. Sweet, earthy sounds I could listen to forever. His chest flushes pink too. Tense biceps flex and soften as he strokes himself.

Now the muscle supports itself without his cradling. There is a way to go before it is fully hard; ready for what he has in store for me. The pattern of veins is beautiful; a map of his pleasure and growth. Again he swipes the fluid from the head and lubricates his shaft. I note the whitening of his knuckles – see, so stark against his carmine cock. Urgent and necessary. The hand moves quicker now, the grip tighter as the meat within pushes back against his grasp. It is almost a fight. A battle between his body and his body and we know how it will end.

He rubs the thickening shaft – now barely contained within his palm – and the other hand sinks lower to seal the pact, stroking his heavy, cum-filled balls, and even the thought of this makes my mouth water.

“Fuck me.” I think. “FUCK ME.”

We agreed silence only. Eye-fucking one another for the past ten minutes. Eye-fucked me to a plump, fragrant high and him to a swollen, twitching crescendo. Both ready. Both stirred to perfection.

For a moment he removes his hand and I see him in every inch of his glory – pulsating and tumid. Delicious. Delectable. Proved to perfection.