Gone to Earth

“Let’s go for a walk,” he had said.

“It’s cold.” I protested.

He looked at me evenly.

“And?”

He laced me into my boots. bare legs, a summer dress that was too small. No bra. No knickers. My breasts threatened to escape. I didn’t protest further. “Go and put on your parka.” he ordered.

I was stood by the front door when he came back, dressed warmly.

“Don’t you look adorable? Let’s go.” He held out his hand and lead me out into the street, and into the car. There were grey clouds gathering in the sky.

“It’s going to rain.” I said, looking out of the window.

“That doesn’t matter.”

We drove for over an hour. Halfway through, as the roads became narrower, the scenery greener, he put his hand on my thigh and pushed the material of my skirt up to my waist, lingering briefly at my cunt.

“You’re wet.” he said approvingly.

Some minutes later, he slowed the car and parked up.

“Here we are. Time for some fresh air.”

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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.

If

If you were here, Sir, and you were wearing your suit, I would kneel. I would ask you if I could have your cock. If you thought I was good, you would present your engorged cock through your flies. I would work the spit up on my tongue and lick the head first.

You’d push on the back of my head so I took more of you in my mouth. You want me to choke on you, prove that I need your cock more than air.

I’d take more, working my tongue as much as I could, one of my hands on the shaft but the other travelling between my thighs without permission because I’m so wet just at the feeling of you in my mouth, at hearing your voice

You know I’m doing it and you let me feel how wet I am before you grab my hair and make me choke more as punishment, calling me a filthy, wet slut.

I was dressed when you came in, as punishment you remove your cock from my hungry mouth and you strip me, taking off my dress, my underwear, everything until I’m naked. Before you can even continue face fucking me, you bend me over the sofa and I know what’s coming and the sting of your belt makes me yelp

Ten strokes

Bruises

I deserve it

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Caught.

 

“This, this is unacceptable. You know it’s unacceptable, don’t you? You know the rules.” He yanked the dildo out of me and waved it briefly in front of his lips. Crimson faced, I nodded but wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“I come home from the pub, from a nice afternoon with some friends from work, and find you on your hands and knees fucking yourself without my permission. Riding that big, fleshy dildo and grabbing your tits and moaning like a common slut with the windows open so anyone could hear you.

“I’m sorry, Sir.” I murmured, but he wasn’t listening to me.

“You’d been playing for hours, hadn’t you? Teasing yourself. Look at your cunt. Look at how red and full your lips are. Look at your clit, how red and sore it looks. Look.” He moved forward quickly and pushed down on the back of my neck, forcing me to examine my own arousal, smelling it.

“I left you here, and you said you were going to have a nap. You’re wearing my favourite dress, the blue one with the ruffles, but look at you, with the sleeves pulled down so you can display your breasts.”

His fingers were entwined in my braids and he pulled my head upwards so I had to look into his eyes.

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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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Rush Hour Crush

So I see this girl on the tram. I want her. I don’t know why, but I do. She invades my dreams, and I think she knows it, with her tight, low cut dresses and habit of running her hands over her body, pretending to brush off public transport dirt but really drawing attention to her thighs and stomach.

My cock almost gets hard as soon as I see her these days, it’s got that bad. Picturing her in every scenario my dirty mind can come up with but my favourite is so simple and so possible it makes me shake and come almost immediately.

It’s a normal working day. She’s there with her summery dress and work bag pressed tight against her tits and making eyes at me and smiling, full of joy at the warm June sunshine making us perspire. She edges closer as the carriage gets fuller and fuller, until she’s leaning over me and with one jolt her hand is on my thigh and she’s apologising with one fingertip achingly close to my rock-hard cock. That’s it. Her eyes meet mine and we both know.

I’d make her get off at the next stop, have her suck me under the platform exit. No one would see us. On her knees with her face tilted towards me, all innocence and purity, wide eyes and desperate for it. Have her pretend she didn’t know what to do with it. I bet she’d deep throat like a bitch and I’d hold her head up by the forehead so she had to look at me as she sucked and swallowed. And a creamy facial to top it off.

Photos for after. She’s already on her knees so push her skirt up and yank her knickers to her ankles. Have her lie back so I can get a nice straight upskirt of her pussy, dripping wet and the sight just making me hard all over again.

The thought makes me hard all over again, sat here, watching her. Same as every morning.

Hold me, Thrill Me, Kiss me

The cuffs were her birthday gift, so in a twisted way it was appropriate that the first time they used them was during another person’s birthday party. His father’s.

The first instruction came as she bared the nape of her neck so he could fasten her necklace.

“At 11pm you’ll go to the bathroom, remove your knickers, and give them to me. If I’m busy, you will wait with them in your hands until I take them.”
She nodded, committing this to memory as she turned to face him and straighten his tie.
“And then, when all the guests have gone and we are all alone, we’re going to take off that pretty dress, and cuff you to the bed, and I’m going to eat that wet, desperate cunt of yours.”
She blushed crimson, the first of many pretty blushes that night.
“Yes Sir.” She said in a small voice.
“That’s my girl.” He took her arm and then made their way downstairs.

Of course, he tormented her that evening. Putting his arm around her he would palm that exact spot on her back which made her melt; trace his finger along the creases of her palm and she would try to hold it together in front of his aunts and uncles. Simple, unobtrusive gestures which no one could possibly think were turning her insides to jelly. His mother served kir royale, and he whispered “Who’s my wet little slut?” into his girl’s ear when passing the glasses round.

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Keeping Up Appearances

Note: Whilst Gwendolyn refers to Whittaker as her uncle, they are not blood relatives. This is all part of the game to them. Both are well above legal age.

***

“Come.”

The room was stifling hot, a fire that had lain dormant all day, was now purring contentedly in the grate and the heat made the smoke curling from Whittaker’s cigar hang thickly in the air. He was facing the window, his back to her, watching the late evening lovers take the air.

“Did you have a pleasant evening?” He didn’t turn around.

Gwendolyn took off her jacket and shoes. “Quite.”
“Did he try anything?”

She laughed and made her way through his tightly-packed office to the window, whose ledge was just wide enough for her to perch on.

“He was a gentleman – he was the gentleman he was paid to be.” Here she reached forward and took the cigar from his hand. She took a long drag and when he took it off her, blew languid smoke rings into the air, kicking her feet into his thigh. He caught one and held it as he smoked, her toes contained in his fist.

“You’re drunk.” he said after a while.

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The Watcher

First Anita adjusted the drapes, casually, naked from a long, hot shower. Out of the corner of her eye the lights from the apartment opposite flickered on as she heard the bedroom door open and shut behind her.

He was there again. But as she came closer to the window to catch a glimpse, the light was extinguished, and her heart fell a little. No audience tonight. She sighed and turned to her husband, standing in the doorway, removing his sweater.

“Ready?” He asked quietly. She nodded, when the doorbell rang.

“I suppose I’ll answer it, you’re hardly dressed appropriately.”

They shared a small smile before Alan turned and headed downstairs to see who it was.

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Three Square Meals

We’re having dinner with his parents and I’m on my best behaviour, of course I am, bringing wine and flowers and holding his hand like a power supply and admiring baby photos of the man I love. All is well, dinner is planned late, later, later still because timing is not his mother’s strong suit but I am doing well and he is gently stroking my palm with his thumb, which is the reminder I am doing fine.

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