Work Drinks

This is the sequel of a sort to Girlfriends

***

I’d noticed her before, all bossiness and tits.

Not her friend, though. She was new. A dark-haired piece in a too-small dress. It clung to her body, to everywhere. Stomach rolls, and fat acres of thigh.

They might as well have been on a date, ignoring the rest of us, crammed in the smallest bar of the pub because the Christmas do hadn’t been booked until October. I turned back to the knot of management behind me and when I next allowed my gaze to flutter over to those women, they were still talking, avoiding the rest of us. They could have been on a date. Lesbian canoodling on the company dollar.

I snorted into my pint and, catching Jay’s eye, went to join in with the departmental singalong of We Are the Champions. And every so often, I’d turn back and look at them, at their heads bent together, still ignoring the rest of us. I must have known.

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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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Girlfriends

“There are approximately a hundred coffee shops on this street, next time you could be more specific?”

She rolled her eyes and indicated the latte on the table before me.

 “I got you the usual didn’t I? I apologised that I didn’t realise there was a branch of Caffe Nero at either end. I bought you a brownie.”

The cake had a thick layer of white chocolate coating the top.  

 “Forgiven, then.” I gave in and sat down next to her. Our booth was the furthest from the front door, partially hidden behind the awkward angle of a wall to nowhere between the counter and the kitchen.

 She sipped her tea and broke the corner off my brownie.

 “I should bloody well hope so.” The chocolate disappeared between her lips, but one or two crumbs fell and landed on her breasts. She was wearing a velvety top which was very low cut, even for her.

 “Meeting someone?” I asked idly. She looked at me a bit funny.

 “Yes. You.”

 “Oh.” I said. I think I blushed, even though I didn’t know why. I shifted my gaze from her cleavage to the plate in front of me with difficulty.

 Sometimes in the course of a text conversation – often late at night – our interactions get flirty. Friendly compliments seem to be become slightly tinged with something else. I’ve been asked to critique tasteful nudes before she sent them to her partners. She would listen as I described in a little too much focus how wet a one night stand had made me, or the rush of blood through my body when my boss stood over me, ogling my tits and demeaning me in full view of my colleagues. How I wanted to jump him right then and there. I stopped abruptly and apologised for oversharing but she wanted me to go on, falteringly admitting how turned on she was.

 Something changed. Neither of us knew why but neither wanted to stop it.

 We talked about work for a bit, just a general catch up really.

“I got fitted for a new bra. For the first time in my life, I’m wearing matching top and bottoms!” She was gleeful, like a child. I’d noticed the corner lick of lace when I was staring at her breasts, earlier.

“Let’s see!” I said, half joking half desperate all of a sudden and she grinned, made a great show of looking about her to make sure the coast was clear and then suddenly the warm velvet ripples of her bodice had melted away and her breasts were all I could see, creamy-white and caressed by pale blue and black lace. The material was flimsy, her nipples extremely visible even in the unreliable cafe light. She slowly made herself presentable again. Sipped her coffee. I couldn’t really think straight. Of course I couldn’t.

“Now you.” She said, neutrally. A passing waitress slowed her steps, wondering if we were trying to flag her down but she went merrily on her way when she saw neither one of us needed her.

“I don’t match.”

She didn’t say anything; instead she reached over matter of factly as the waitress vanished behind us, and brazenly snaked her hand inside the collar of my blouse, finding my shapeless, mumsy bra with my nipples pressed tightly against the ancient fabric.

Her face was very close, I could feel her breath on my neck, her shoulder and thigh pressed very firmly against my own. She took my hand, lying uselessly in my lap, and drew it towards her, between her legs, under her skirt and up, between her thighs where the sister in black lace was damp and fragrant.

Her lips left a glossy red heart on my neck.

“I don’t care.” She whispered.

I welcome Winter

My body in winter is so much more than the sum of its summer parts.

In winter, the exposure of my body is not a necessity. It is a desire. An aching, disturbing need.

All summer long we remove layers like so many sheaves of paper from an untidy stack, relishing each moment of cool reprieve before the endless swirling heat of even the most British summers returns. I loathe it. The constant film of sweat on skin, seeping into my hair and clothes and making me wretched.

Winter is the shivering pleasure I cannot wait for.

On misty workday mornings, I glance down at myself approvingly. My coat is thick and a scarf is wound about my neck, but here, between the coiling wool and the shiny brass buttons, is a thick wedge of my own chubby décolletage, a display of sensual flesh for any casual observer to enjoy, and for me to take sinful pride in.

I wear my flimsiest bra, anticipating the moment the chill northern winds permeate the many many layers of clothes I am wrapped in, and my nipples stand to attention, desperate for visibility.

I enjoy the feel of them, their painful stiffness when the temperature drops. The way their colour shifts from milky coffee to a deeper, almost reddish brown as the skin contracts and the texture shifts from soft and meek to stern and unforgiving

I lie on my winter bed, refusing to relinquish my summer sheets – revelling in my goose flesh skin, the persistent teasing lick of the icy breeze on my inner thighs and cunt.

If the summer is my tiring, consuming job of work, the winter is my lover, for whom I wait in eager, panting anticipation, and give myself to them when December arrives.

More Kink of the Week below!

Four acts in Oral fluids

I

It might have been our second date (my place, light bondage, showing off, Chinese food). I was straddling his waist.
He might have said “If I asked you to, would you spit in my mouth?”
I shook my head no. That was too Uber-Domme for me. Too far beyond the kink persona I was still moulding for myself.
He accepted this and we went back to inflicting pain on his nipples.

II

He makes me spit on his cock. Every time I make a direct hit, the moan that escapes him makes me melt.

III

He makes me spit on his cock.
He makes me spit on his outstretched palm.
I look up into his face in adoration as he wipes the mess from my forehead down to my mouth.
I say thank you.

IV

It might have been near the end (the best sex, the sweetest confessions, the unbreakable love)
I was straddling his waist.
He looks so vulnerable, so sweet with his sorrowful green eyes and breath caught as he watches me.
“Open your mouth.” I say gently.

Switch

So, the two protagonists from Meet Me There were not contained to that tale alone. I think this is from earlier on in their story. Enjoy.

***

Looking back, it all started to go a bit weird when we decided to buy a strap-on.

I met her in Tesco’s. Of course, where else? Where do people usually meet perfect whirlwinds of women who paw at you incessantly and make you glow? Lidl?

I was fingering a stalk of broccoli. Deciding; was I feeling virtuous enough to eat green things, or was I going to get chips on the way home? She was hiding behind a stack of Easter eggs, pretending to be a bunny. As you do. She did look slightly ashamed when she noticed me staring at her. She was wearing shorts, even though it had been snowing all day.

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In Summer

Is it exhibitionism in your own back garden? In your own space, technically away from the prying eyes of the neighbours but if they happened to hear the scuffle, a moan that escapes a fraction louder than intended, or glance from their bedroom window as his hand moves lower….. What then?

Less than a week is nothing. It’s no time at all to be apart. It’s especially nothing when you don’t stop your steady trickle of conversation and lewd photography. The usual morning sweethearts and goodnight my loves had carried on as normal, even though he was in another country, and on a minimal time difference. Still, I ran into his arms when I got off the bus and stood on my tiptoes gripping him tightly in the middle of the pavement, not wanting to let him go. Turns out a week might be too long, regardless.

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Meet Me There

For girls who enjoy dominant AF girls

She cornered me after half an hour threading through the sticky, endless darkness. Her fingers laced through mine and dragging me to somewhere even darker, thicker with the scent of new leather, sugar and sex.

“I told you I’d come and you know why I came.” She whispered urgently, taking my hands and placing them on the hem of her tiny mini dress. “No knickers. No obstacles. No rules. No boys.”

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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.

Muse

Let me tell you about my muse, unintentional fueller of my fantasies.
I do not think of him and feel my mind begin to wander to delicious places.
I do not hear his name and immediately find myself transformed, come pooling beneath me, my knickers sodden as I picture his assaults on my body.
I prostrate myself at the altar of his knowledge, of his words which cut so quickly to the sordid beauty in everything.
And he arouses my skill like no other.
Despite never having laid a finger on me.
And I cannot explain it, only know for certain that his words inspire my own and I am forever grateful that I am gifted his time, his light.

***

Let me tell you about my muse, her sweetness and her darkness.
I think of her in a hundred ways and every one fits comfortably, completely together.
I see her body and give thanks for it, remembering the one occasion I allowed my dormant dominant side to flourish and turned her arse a healthy pink.
I marvel at the chaste beauty of her body, at the endless, nurturing power of her love, of her freeness and ease with her world.
She makes my words burn with untold feelings;
In the year since first I touched her.
And I cannot explain it, only know for certain that her existence inspires my own, and I am forever grateful that I am gifted her time, her light.

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Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked