A Man Walks into a Bar (WIP)

When Exhibit A gave me false hope he had been mistaken for a stripper in a pub and taken this to its logical conclusion, my mind began to wander. It’s still wandering now, but here’s a taster:

A Man Walks into a Bar

Unassuming and polite, with a businessman’s briefcase and a sly smile, when he enters the pub he’s selected a random for a swift half, he’s confronted by a vortex of pink feather bowers and glittery cock-shaped deely-boppers, scented with flowers and sweetness and assertive female sexuality. The British Hen Party.

One woman notices his smarter-than-average appearance – three piece suit, tie pin, pocket square – and alerts the others. Contrary to their appearance, this confab is hushed and respectful of the other patrons, and he watches them out of the corner of his eye as he buys his drink and finds an empty table away from the hubub but not so far from theirs that he can’t surreptitiously eye the ranks and catch the odd snippet of something salacious.

For example, an older woman with dark eyes, framed behind thick rimmed glasses wrapped in a gold dress fighting a losing battle with her voluptuousness immediately grabs his attention and refuses to let go. Her voice is deep and rippled with honey, and even with her head very close to the companion closest to her, he hears snatches of a tale his cock is desperate to know the outcome of.

“He grabbed my thigh and his hand went higher [slurp of wine, leans in closer] fingers behind my knee [slurp of wine, reaches for top up, becomes unintelligible for a minute or so, until] came in my knickers and made me wear them home.”

He wonders if she’d care to replay this narrative with a slightly different outcome – as the thought of burying his face between her matronly thighs begins to fester and hook itself around his synapses.

In his reverie he undoes his jacket – boy is it hot in here all of a sudden – and doesn’t notice when a redhead with poise notices the flash of movement, until she raises her voice.

“Hey, it’s the stripper!” and they collapse into half-drunken giggles as he smiles and shakes his head, accepting his change.

“Take it off! Take it off!” she continues, appropriating Taylor Swift’s anthem with urgency, a couple of voices joining hers and agitating the other patrons, who raise their voices in combat, calling for silence. Others take the traditional British way out and take their leave, with poisonous looks at the pink army before they do.

It’s been a long day for him; conferences and endless, bitterly boring meetings only broken up by a lunch with limp, sweaty sandwiches and tea that was an affront to the least patriotic Englishman.

He sips his beer and shudders, looking forward to comfort food, pasta and three different continental cheeses, when he eventually gets home some time after nine. Checking his watch, he notes he has an hour to kill – more like 90 minutes if he forgoes the traditional wander around Smiths subtly checking out the last vestiges of the top shelf mags, then nipping to M&S for some wine to complement dinner. But there’s wine at home, there’s always wine at home.

The hens are still debating. It’s summer, so under their warriors garb, they’re universally stripped to the barest of glamorous essentials. He notes the bounty of bare legs, from pasty white to deep burnt umber and everything between, though cleavages are mostly hidden under fluorescent duck down. As he considers for the eightieth time whether he truly is a tit man or a leg man, one of the women breaks ranks and, with a nod to her companions, makes her way over to him.

Glastonbury 

So last year I was writing this revenge fantasy about a dickhead who did me wrong. It includes this passage alluding to an occasion whilst watching festival footage on TV. 

The audio is housed on my alternative/old blog but if you’d like to visit it:

Here it is.
Enjoy. 

Nightmare (Wicked Wednesday)

Note: DD/lg kink – if Daddies and their littles are not your bag, you can skip this one. Both characters are significantly over 18, and are not related to one another.

Emily awoke sweating, trembling and paralysed with the fear of a dream she couldn’t quite remember. She turned her face into the pillow and rubbed her forehead against the rough texture of his sheets. The coarse fabric on her skin was soothing, but still she gulped for air, which wasn’t easy with a mouthful of pillowcase.

Emily began to whimper, her eyes streaming, her nose running and her body crushed at the very edge of the bed.

He was asleep. She didn’t want to bother him with the bad dream that had turned her into a crumpled child, so instead she whimpered some more. Whimpering wasn’t helping so she opened her mouth and began to suck her thumb, digging her teeth into the pad and paddling her feet into the duvet until they were trapped between the layers.

In the dream she was swimming. The water turned to a thick, bitter syrup and choked her, then she felt a hand on the back of her neck, holding her down. Her feet began to sink into the muddy bottom of the pool and that was when she began to struggle and woke up grateful for the warm, clear air of the bedroom.

She couldn’t put it off any longer. She’d tried to cope like a big girl and it hadn’t worked. Emily rolled over to where he was flat on his back, snoring gently, the fur on his chest rising and falling. She rested her head where the thickest pelt grew and spoke downwards into his belly button.

“Daddy?”

He sleepily placed his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him.

“You had a bad dream.”
“I had a bad dream.” She sniffed in agreement. “I’m getting snot in your chest hair.”
“Doesn’t matter. What was your dream, kitten?”

“Choking….. drowning….. there was mud…… I couldn’t…….” she trailed off, sinking into happiness, curling her tongue around the hair. She placed her hand around the base of his cock, the comforter, the source of serenity, and snuggled closer to him.

“There, there. Shush…… You’re ok now my love.”
He kissed the top of her head and she ran her thumb down the shaft gently, repetitive, even strokes. The skin was smooth and warm under her fingers and made her happy. Happy and sleepy. She smiled into his chest.

“I love you, Daddy. Night night.”

Yawning, she wrapped her body around his like a warm winter coat, and was soon asleep, the bad dream all but forgotten; her brow soothed.

More Wicked Wednesdays this way!

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

Hands, knees and bumps-a-daisy (Wicked Wednesday)

Those of us who grew up in the country will know at least one person who learnt to drive doing circuits of their uncle’s field at a frighteningly young age, probably without a seatbelt.

We were visiting his parents, and within that visit, spending an afternoon in the barn conversion of some parental friends. Everyone else had gone on ahead, whilst I, being terrible at decision making at the best of times, had spent ten minutes picking out shoes, ended up making us late. And lateness breeds unfortunate consequences.

We drove along personably enough for ten minutes, out of the suburbs with their neat-ish gardens and rows of newer terraces with useless chimneys and Chelsea tractors in the driveways. Once the houses began to peter out and were replaced by sprawling fields and dotted homesteads, his manner changed. He pulled into a layby a couple of minutes later, and without turning to look at me, ordered me into the back of the car.

“And take this. You’ll need something to keep your mouth busy.” he handed me the hdeously-coloured suction cup dildo we mostly kept because it made us giggle. No one was even smirking, now.

I didn’t argue, and went to sit in the back. I could see him looking at me in the rear view mirror as I leant over and closed the passenger door.

“No, on your knees. Hands and knees. All fours. Like a dog.”

I nodded again and assumed the position. He started the car and pulled away, continuing on the journey as I concentrated on keeping myself upright, the silicone cock hitting the top of my mouth with every bend of the road.

“Knickers down.” He called out, turning left down a narrow dirt road with high fields of wheat on either side. I pressed my face into the seat for balance as I reached under my skirt and pulled the underwear to my knees.

The dildo bulged obscenely against my cheek as he slowed down.

“Now, there’s another five minutes of slow driving down this lane until we get to the house. You’re going to take that cock and stick it against the car door – that’s right.” He registered approval in the tilted central mirror as I took the spit drenched tool out of my mouth and passed it between my legs, both of us watching as I used all my viable strength to smack it against the plastic surface and hoped it would hold.

“You don’t need me to tell you what to do next, do you?”

I shook my head, and slowly impaled myself on the dildo, my eyes never leaving the reflection of his. He said there was five minutes until our arrival, but who knew how honest he was being? It could be two minutes, leaving me pinned to the car via my dripping cunt as a small crowd of well-wishers crowded round to meet the prodigal son’s girlfriend. The unlikely outcome that they would press their faces against the glass and call for the windows to be opened so they could paw at me, taunt me, and some of them could show their appreciation for my display with a shower of approval, to be licked off by still others….. that kept me going as the shadows of the farmer’s wheat  dwindled away and the later afternoon sun cast its shadows over my body as we approached the house. My only intention was to make the most of the punishment he had chosen, and the minutes to enjoy it he had so generously given.

See who else is being wicked this Wednesday below!

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

Wicked Wednesday – Wedding Belle Blues

Content warning: degradation. NSFW. Please avoid if you are squeamish about such things!

Prompt: Wedding

This is dedicated to my dear Hannah. With love x

“He’ll never love you.” She said weakly to her reflection, a vision with puffy red eyes and crumbs of mascara peppered around them like funereal glitter. Her flushed chest matched the crimson hue of her eyelids. The bridesmaids dress, which had once held her like a lover and accentuated the curve of the arse that the groom had fucked the night before his engagement party, now hung a little less naughtily, gaping where her hunched shoulders diminished the volume of her breasts, threatening to be exposed by the dress, that was now sizes too small.
She reached underneath her skirts and pulled off the plain black briefs, sodden. She pressed them to her face, her own arousal seeping onto her pink cheeks. Peering at the mirror over the bundle of wet material, she continued.
“You’re stupid and gross and ugly.”
Goose pimples of excitement rose on her arms as she said the words. She shifted on the hard wooden surface of the chair, seven layers of tulle netting grating her skin. She pictured the raw, red rash on her thighs, maybe even drawing little spots of blood here and there. She shifted so that her outer lips spread against the seat.
Six months before the wedding, she’d sat in this position on the groom’s face. His tongue was jabbing into her cunt and he left handprints on her arse that took over a week to shift. The fading bluish bruise of his fingertips nipped at her skin when the bride rang to ask her to be a bridesmaid.

Slowly she worked the cum-drenched underwear into her mouth, staring at herself in the glass.
“Pig.” She thought, and moaned as her clit rubbed against the polished surface of the chair.
“No, stupid girl, not yet. Not yet.” Her inner voice admonished.
She controlled herself to absolute stillness, and when she had tuned out the sounds of the wedding party two floors below, she brought a hand to her cheek, drew it back and then smacked herself in the face. She gasped and felt giddy, her heart racing. Her face was even pinker and puffier than before. Her own taste filled her mouth and her nipples stiffened.
She pulled the knickers out of her mouth and put the wadded fabric between her thighs, grinding against it.
“Stupid pig.” She muttered disdainfully, then looked at herself again. Right in the eye.
“Stupid. Pig.” She said, loudly, clearly, enunciating each word as she began to hump the ball of panties. She reached into the front of the dress and exposed her breasts to the chill air of the bridal suite.
“Stupid ugly fucking slut.” She ground her cunt harder against the wad. Harder and harder, feeling her climax build.
The groom had liked her on all fours, all holes accessible as he took his fancy. That morning as she helped the bride get ready for the most important day of her life, he had texted her with her instructions, and slipped the duplicate key card into her cleavage as surreptitiously as he could at the wedding breakfast. It had dug into her skin and made her smile all through vegetable soup, chicken supreme and strawberry shortcake.
Her cunt began to clench as if grabbing for an imaginary cock, her clit rubbed raw. She looked up and smacked herself in the face again and her orgasm crept closer and closer. She grabbed at her breasts and pinched her nipples until the flesh turned white and on a final, triumphant cry of “You gross, disgusting, stupid, ugly pig.” She came and wet her knickers for the second time. She had to grab the back of the chair tightly as her first instinct was to collapse forwards. She tried to catch her breath as she heard the faint beep of the door being unlocked, and the handle being turned.
The bride and groom stood in the doorway.
“Well, well, well – what have we here?” Said the bride with amusement.
“I’ll see you two later.” The groom offered, the same note of smugness in his own voice. They were perfect for each other. Made for each other.
The bride lifted her skirts, seven layers of tulle.
“On your knees, stupid pig. It’s my turn now.”
The bridesmaid felt her stomach lurch with lust as she fell to the carpet and raised her reddened face to her mistress’s cunt.

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

A First Meeting

Last year I ran a Giveaway, for which the winner of the Kink Craft cuff set and personalised erotica was Mistress Heather
Her request was specific ‘a first meeting between her and myself, and, after a very long gap, it is finally finished and has her approval for you guys to read it, too.

As I stepped off the carriage onto the platform, my heel caught in the pattern that peppered the tile intermittently, guiding blind commuters to the spaces where the doors would slide open. I skidded forward on my heels – higher, pointier than I was used to – and in the crush of bodies, fell awkwardly onto my knees.  Humiliation as fuel for the early morning workers of London, the crowd stopped for what felt like a full minute, silence followed by stifled laughter. Or not so stifled. Then they moved on.
As the crowd eventually thinned and I looked about me, I found myself looking up into her face. “Good morning.” She said evenly, without emotion. She didn’t hold out a hand to help me up, just watched as I scrambled to my feet and brushed the platform dirt off my skirt.
“Good morning, Mistress.” I replied.
“Clumsy.” She observed, turning on her heels – higher, pointier than any I had ever seen, and she moved on them as though she was barefoot. “Follow.”
She walked quickly, cutting through the thrust of human traffic imperiously with me scuttling behind her like a naughty child.
Outside the station, she hailed a cab.
“The Dorchester.” She instructed the driver, and made herself comfortable. I clutched my bag to my chest and began to worry if I was dressed appropriately for the swankiest hotel in the country.
“Your skirt is very short. Your blouse very low cut.” She said, directing her words out of the window, rather than to me. “And you cannot walk on those heels at all, can you?”
“No, but I was directed to.”
“You were. You can follow a simple instruction. Alert the press.”
I glanced down at her own skirt, clinging to her thighs, tapering at the knee, just above her shiny black boots.
“I’m taking you for afternoon tea, and we’ll see if you can act like a lady once I’m finished with you. If not, I’m sure I’ll find a use for you.”
She turned her head briefly to look down at my legs, then returned her gaze to the grey pavements of the city, only saying.
“I do hope that’s not a ladder beginning in your stockings.”
We carried on the rest of the journey in silence.

The hotel was just as palatial as I had feared. A doorman in a long grey coat and a cap nodded to us deferentially as we entered the building. An elderly be-suited gentleman at a podium looked up when we approached the drawing room.
“Ladies.”
“Heather.” She said, simply. And he nodded.
“Of course, we’re expecting you. Clotilde- “He motioned to a young girl in shades of black and white. “Will show you to your table. And I hope you don’t mind, but you’ll find a chilled bottle of the Dom Perignon 2002 waiting for you. A gift from Mr Petit.”
The faintest smile crossed her lips.
“Thank you.”
He bowed his head and Clotilde lead us through the plush, flower-filled room to a central table, surrounded by chattering women wolfing down their afternoon teas. An almost baying audience for whatever she would inflict on me. My heart began to thud. True to his word, ‘Mr Petit’ had left a large bottle of vintage champagne waiting for us, and a card.
When we were both seated, she reached for the note and read it, smiling again.
“One of the lesser managers here. He’s into CBT and tiny cock humiliation. I only idly mentioned I was coming here and- “She motioned to the bottle, evidence of her power and skill of manipulation.
Clotilde returned to take the orders for drinks, everything else having been taken care of.
“ Lapsang Souchong and a glass of milk, Semi-skimmed, tepid, for the girl. Thank you.”
Clotilde nodded and left to attend to our requirements.
After examining the cutlery for scuffs and soap spots, Heather rested her hands on the table and looked at me.
“What are your words?
“Yes, Mistress. No, Mistress. I don’t know because I’m stupid, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress.”
“Good girl. Once again, simple instruction didn’t fox you. Now, your clothes.”
For the first time since our meeting an hour ago, she let her gaze wander over my outfit as I tried to sit up straight with my knees pressed together.
“Undo the top button on your blouse.”
She instructed, as Clotilde returned with an ornate china teapot and a child’s beaker of milk. The waitress politely turned her eyes away from my exposed flesh, informing Heather that the first course of finger sandwiches and savoury pastries would be out shortly.
“Now another button. I want to see if you can follow other simple instructions.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
When the flash of lace on my bra was visible, she held up her hand. It had been a very specific instruction; white lace, new, a size too small so my flesh spilled obscenely out of it.
“Perfect. I’m even a little impressed you have followed this instruction to the letter.”
“Thank you, Mistress.”
She nodded, and sipped her tea.
“Drink your milk.”
I took a sip. Though I had made a quiet face of disgust – away from her view, of course – when she had told Clotilde to bring me my milk at room temperature, the unusual warmth began to soothe me a little.
When I put the glass down, she raised her hand.
“Stand up.”
I stood with my hands crossed in front of me.
“Come here.”
I walked calmly over to her and stood at her side.
Without so much as a glance about her, she reached under my skirt, up my thigh until her rouge noir nails grazed the chubby flesh of my pubic mound.
“Disgraceful.” I could hear the smile in her voice, feel her pleasure as she carefully extended her index finger and dug the nail sharply into the fat, twisting it, gauging my reaction. I inhaled sharply and coughed. My eyes threatened to water, but I swallowed and kept my gaze on the painted archway before me, wondering what our genteel audience were possibly thinking.
“You were positively panting to act like a little slut today, weren’t you? I bet when I told you to take your knickers off on the train down you had to be stopped from debasing yourself in that stinking toilet cubicle.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“And why is that?”
“I don’t know because I’m stupid, Mistress.”
“Yes you are.”
A second finger passed between my outer lips, but I knew this was only to see what her touch had done to me. Any pleasure of mine was inconsequential, only hers in torturing and playing with me held any importance. The only importance.
“You are very wet, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“You like it when I hurt you, don’t you?”
She jabbed her finger harder when I took a second too long to answer.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Fetch me your knickers.”
When I leant over my bag to retrieve them, she called out. “Bend at the waist, not at the knee.” Knowing that the split in my skirt would reveal the lower curve of my backside to every pair of eyes behind me.
I returned to her side and held them out. She fingered them briefly for a moment or two, examining the damp white lace.
“Now, then. Shall we stuff your stupid mouth, or your slutty wet cunt? Of course, a cunt like yours should be plugged to stop you letting it do your thinking for you; but if I stuff your mouth then you can’t embarrass me by saying something foolish. And I do so hate to be embarrassed by unthinking, selfish submissives. Come here and open your mouth.”
I obeyed, and knelt beside her. With the hand she had used to torture me, she smoothed the hair over my forehead, and began to push the fabric between my lips, filling the space up until my eyes bulged. The tiniest sliver of white was visible. She nodded.
“Sit down, I can see the waiter with our sandwiches.”
I sat and watched as a young man in his twenties appeared with a tiered cake stand and set it on the table.
“Cream cheese and cucumber, ham and tomato and plain cheese sandwiches. Creamed mushroom pastries, and beef wellington amuse bouche. Would Madam like me to pour her champagne?”
“Please. And a small glass for the girl, she can’t handle her alcohol at all.”
The waiter nodded and poured out a half measure into my glass before bowing and leaving, though not without a glance at my chest which he thought was surreptitious, but very much was not.
Heather wiped her mouth and selected two sandwiches for herself, before picking up a third and placing it on my plate. Plain cheese. I looked down at it, my mouth awash with the rough texture of lace and the faint taste of my own arousal. I knew she was watching me. Waiting to see what I would do.
I folded my hands in my lap and looked across at her.
“Oh dear. Your mouth is full and you can’t enjoy your sandwich.”
She punctuated this with a bite of her own, a large one, which she chewed slowly, purposefully. Swallowing, she took a second bite and the rest of the morsel disappeared down her throat.
“What a pity. What a shame. Your mouth is all full up. And you can only sit dumbly and watch me eat my delicious lunch.”
And that is exactly what she did. She ate sandwiches, and delicate pastry tarts, all the while looking at me, laughing when my salivating mouth betrayed me and a stream of drool coursed from the corner of my mouth, down my neck.
When the waiter came to take the savouries away, he noted my single, now slightly dried and curling sandwich on the plate before me.”
“Such a fussy eater.” Heather said simply, shaking her head in embarrassment at my refusal of their delicious food.
“Perhaps she’ll perk up when the sweet arrives. Chubby little girls often do.”
The waiter, trained as they all were to cater to the fancies and cruelties of the moneyed, nodded politely, and removed the demolished plates of savouries. Before he had quite left, she instructed “Undo another of your buttons.”
This time she took out her phone and snapped a photo of me, all bulging cheeks and breasts, gazing blankly into the camera.
“I would like another with you looking more pained, more desperate. Try again.”
She held her phone up again, and I allowed my resolve to fall away, my tears to flow and my eyes to plead. Satisfied, she tucked the phone away.
“I think you may have suffered enough, or at least I’ve grown bored of your muffled voice, when all I should hear is your plaintive “Yes, Mistress. No, Mistress.”
She leant over and placed my champagne glass before me. The old-fashioned kind, wide brimmed and shallow, rather than a tall, skinny flute.
“Open your mouth.”
She whipped her phone out again for a third photo.
“Now spit.”
The wad of sodden fabric fell into the glass with a surprisingly delicate splash, coinciding with the second tower of treats being set upon the table.
I blushed, but Mistress was having none of my embarrassment.
“Now, you didn’t touch your sandwiches so have you really earned your pudding? I’m not sure you have. And these cakes look so delicious. Look at those huge, fluffy scones with their dish of clotted cream. I know how much you enjoy cream and jam. The sensuality of the texture.”
The waiter departed again as she motioned to the sweet little pots on the middle tier.
“Why don’t you engage with the texture a little more? Why don’t you press your fingers into them?”
I faltered.
“It wasn’t a request, was it?”
“No, Mistress.”
“So why didn’t you do it immediately?”
“I don’t know because I’m stupid, Mistress.”
“You are.”
I slid my fingers into the seasonal jam – raspberry and rose – and clotted cream dishes and drew them out slowly, both thickly coated, one pink and glistening, one creamy white, like a slightly aged snowdrift.
“That’s right, you want to make sure your digits are entirely covered. And now you’re going to do some finger-painting. A simple word, because of your stupidity. Slut. All in caps. Now.”
I carefully spelled out the word across my exposed chest, the colours mixing a little as I finished the T and looked up into her face for approval. She was holding up her phone again.
“Now lick your fingers clean. Oh dear, now you’ve made even more mess on your stupid, pudgy face.” She tutted and put the phone away again. I watched her reach for a scone, spread it liberally with cream, then jam and place it, open-faced, on my plate.
“Eat your scone.”
She watched me take a mouthful, then returned her attention to her phone. I knew what she was doing; it was part of the agreement. There were select people those images would be sent to. Other Domintrices to show off her possession; other subs to make them feel guilty about their reluctance to debase themselves for her, my own phone, and that of my partner, sitting at the match, eagerly awaiting the picture documentation of the afternoon.
The scone was heavenly, and quickly finished. Heather, meanwhile, topped up her own glass of champagne, then poured a measure more over my knickers, displayed in mine. She took a decadent chocolate torte from the plate and, cutting it in two, leant over to feed me my own half. The filling was dense and velvety, and seemed to be even more decadent coupled with the sensation of Heather’s hand trailing down my neck, caressing the skin just above the creamy mess on my décolletage.
“Wasn’t that nice?”
“Yes, Mistress.” I replied, thinking of the damp markings I was leaving on my heavily upholstered chair, and smiling briefly.
“Good. Which macaron would you like?”
“The pink one, please?”
“Yes, you may take that one.”
Light as a feather, it almost crumbled in my hand, and melted away on my tongue like candyfloss.
It was now later enough in the day, that the afternoon tea crowd had dispersed quite a lot.
“I think there is still a little time left before I have to take you back to the station. And we can’t have you going out in public with your cunt on display, open for anyone to touch it, particularly you. Take your panties and come here.”
She knew that I knew what was coming left, and stood with my legs further apart then was natural. She took them from my hand, not bothering to wring them out, and once again her hand trailed up my thigh, a trickle of expensive champagne travelling down my calf as she began to push the sodden fabric inside me. Inch by inch, cold and wet, I inhaled sharply as she began to fill me.
“Now, hold up your skirt so we can send a nice photo to your beloved so he knows what to expect, and that you won’t get into any trouble on your way home.”
It must have been the flash that finally alerted someone to what we had been doing; the elderly gentleman from the podium walked quickly over to us as my skirt fell back to my knees and Heather swiftly removed her hand.
“Ladies….” He began, but she held up that self-same hand, shining in the artificial light with vintage champagne and girl-cum.
“Thank you, we were just leaving. But what a repast you provided for us. How delicious and satisfying, wasn’t it?”
I looked from her face, to his furrowed brow.
“Yes, Mistress.”
Agog, he made to speak again, but we had already gathered our things and were heading for the exit.
“I trust the car is waiting for us?” She called back over her shoulder, not waiting for a reply.
Of course it was.

The journey back to Euston was silent again, but as I sat with my hand resting on the spare seat between us, she very gently reached over and stroked my fingers.
She stepped out of the cab to straighten me out – button up my shirt, brush stray hairs from my face – and kissed me lightly on the cheek.
“We must do this again.” She said, smiling at me – specifically at me – for the first time that day.
“Yes, Mistress.”
I nodded, turning into the crowds. Of course, when I looked back, she had already gone.

Quickie (I)

From my sick bed, I bring you something short, about making the most of an awkward situation.

We had to give up, to press pause for a moment or two. Maybe even a day or two for a full recovery. The pain was bearable but the wince that clouded my face, and that he could differentiate between squeals of pleasure and squeals of pain, meant he only stroked my face as he bore down on me, his cock rubbing at the wet, welcoming flesh that separated my clit from my cunt.
“It’s ok. We have all the time. It’s ok.” He murmured, kissing my forehead, biting my ears; my arms wrapped tightly about his neck, so full of grateful adoration.
Still the head of his bare cock rubbed. I reached down, the sensation of his solid member lying in my palm forever exciting and inviting.
I jerked my hand back and forth gently and watched him close his eyes and swallow. I angled the head upwards, up the inviting path to my clitoris. My hips jerked. I rubbed harder, and began to use him to touch myself, looking into his eyes as I began to buck, only this once placing my pleasure before his own, as so often we gave ourselves over to each other as a matter of course and relished making the other writhe and moan that we did our own thrashings.
Well, almost.
I had never thought that using his cock in this way would be such an efficient way to masturbate, but of course it would be – the stimulus was only a part of the whole – of being held like I was so precious to him; of the granite-like erection in my grip; and my own comfort in his presence. Nothing had ever felt so right as this.
Before I really knew what was happening, I felt my cunt clench, my body go limp and the smile of satisfaction wash over my face.
He tightened the grip of his arms around me as my hand renewed its pattern of strokes around his cock.
“Here’s to next time.”

Commuters

This is a long one, so settle down and maybe put your phone on silent.
Alternatively, read Her, take a breather, and Save him for another night.

BDSM erotica. VERY NSFW. Consensual adults, over 18. If you don’t do hardcore, do not read any further. Enjoy

Her

I saw a man on my way to work today.

Sat further up the carriage as I stood, pressed against the divider getting sweaty and misanthropic. He was sitting with a colleague. The conversation looked stilted. He yawned as the colleague made complex motions with his hands and glared expectantly at him. He made whatever response was required, then looked up. Straight at me, I think. Looked away, and back again, and away. He swallowed.

Was he looking at me? He was sort of handsome, or maybe the suit and businessman’s haircut made him appear more so. Dark. Two days’ stubble. I wondered how that stubble would feel grazing my lips. When we stopped for a flow of old bodies to be replaced with new, I pulled the iPod out of it’s spot inside my bra and adjusted the volume. Electro pounding in my ears. Showing off, of course. Drawing attention.

He looked again, I think he noticed. I twitched as he appeared to lean forward, towards me, his fingers resting on the seat in front. Long and artistic, probably plays guitar in his spare time. I wonder how they’d feel inside me.

Objectively, they look as though they know their way around a cunt. And if I was sat next to him, and had to raise my skirts and allow my hips to widen as far as the narrow seats would allow, I’d do it, just so he could lean over, pretend to show me something out of the window and jam those fingers into me, his other hand over my mouth so no one noticed. He would cause me agony; one finger slipped in to the first knuckle, barely noticeable. I’d want more, of course. Lick and bite at him until he pinched me, raising the skin red and almost bleeding. Two fingers, harder, faster. My cunt so wet he’d move like the oiled motor of a car, our bodies shuddering along the tracks, threading through the city.

And all the while hissing honey-drenched venom in my ears. “Fucking whore”,  “Fat little bitch”, “Slut”. Words that shouldn’t turn me on, shouldn’t make me wetter, but do. He’d take his hand from my mouth and reach round to pull at my flesh through my clothing, forcing his hand inside my blouse and fondling my breasts like a rampant teenager. After I’d come he’d wipe the mess over my skirt for all the world to see. Make me walk the final steps to work with my blouse undone and my lipstick smeared around my mouth.

God, I love office boys. Just the sight of a suit and tie makes me fucking horny.

What I wouldn’t give to have him grab me by the wrist. “You’re coming with me.” March me to his offices, past the receptionist who pretends not to notice. Lead me up dark stairs, elevators to penthouse offices with floor to ceiling windows. I hear the door shut and locked behind me,  then he’s there, with his hands on me again. Maybe strip me down to my underwear and press me against the glass, where anyone could catch a glimpse of me, exposed.

Then he’d sit me down roughly on one of those big, leather-bound chairs, push my legs apart. “Knickers off”. And off they come.

There are other men in the room. I see them, now. One in particular. Older than my captor; overweight, unattractive. The others are reflections of one another – the same suits in greys and blacks; neat, expensive haircuts, lascivious grins or rabbit-in-headlights faces; one hand shoved deep into their trouser pockets. One of them takes off his tie and blindfolds me, then binds my ankles to the chair legs. He runs his finger up my leg, my thigh.

“Do you want to play?”

I feel… a tongue. Harsh, panting breath against my cunt. Perfume, sickly sweet and fading into sweat. Manicured nails pinch the swollen flesh of my cunt. A girl.
“Chubby chasing now, are we?”

“You don’t have to be here. We can do this without you.”
“Tetchy.”
“Just stick your head between her legs before we get bored and send you back to reception.”

For one so objectionable, she does as she’s told and she knows exactly what she’s doing, pushing on my thigh so much I’m almost lying down. Attacking me, spitting and sucking and getting to the very edge of biting.

I’ve never been with a girl before. I’m noisy, lifting off the chair til there are hands on my shoulders keeping me down. The hands travel lower to remove the last of my underwear. Up again, caressing my neck, the outline of my jaw. Tilting my head back and forceful kisses. The stubble damp and burning raw against me. Yelping against his mouth as she sinks her fingers into my waist and hits the bull’s eye with her tongue –  my body straining and caught between the two of them. I hear whooping of approval from the corners.

The noise subsides, and it sounds like she’s crying. Then laughing.

I only hate myself a fraction for letting the sound turn me on even more. And when my legs feel weak, she goes back for seconds; her tongue curling around my clit, jabbing deep into my cunt, licking everywhere. She can’t have hated it that much. She lets me cover her face again, but they take her away before the blindfold’s removed and I can see it for myself.

Then they’d…

First, the younger one. Must be a junior, gets lead over and presented to me, blushing and gripping himself, nervously. I smile, and coax – and swallow when he comes. He shakes my hand, like it’s a job interview; the others treat him indulgently, keeping their laughs spluttered behind their palms.

I’m untied and laid down before the glass. The older one is there, trouser-less but still in his shirt. He grabs me under my knees and pulls me to him until I’m tilted against him, wrapping my ankles behind his back. All he wants is to rub the sticky purple head of his cock against my pussy until he comes. That’s all. He doesn’t even try to fuck me, just concentrates on rubbing against me until I’m painted white. I’m getting closer.

Two want me to suck them both at the same time, then climax artistically over my tits. And now I need to be fucked, urgently.

Just Him and his colleague left now. It feels like there should be more; like our audience has dwindled to the few who can be bothered.

Instinctively I’m already on my knees for them, watching the world go by below us; traffic thickening now it’s late in the day. Should I be at work? What time is it? Space and time are irrelevant, but it’s raining.

The colleague lies beside me; shirt undone, a smile on his face, He draws patterns in the cum on my stomach; then wipes it across and finger paints ‘slut’ in caps.

“You look pretty.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“All the ones who’ve been showered in jizz. But I bet you still want more.”
I demur.

“That pussy of yours could take a pounding, couldn’t it? You’re desperate for a big, fat cock. And what about your rosebud, little girl?”

Do I? Do I? Suddenly, He’s there, the one whose lingering look started it all. Out of nowhere, like a magician, stroking my back.

“He can have your arse, so long as I get the prize. Do you like that?”

I do. I do.

“Please.”

A grin, duplicated around the room. Partner reaches to me and coats his fingers in glory for his invasion. Ringleader lies back and beckons me to him – so close to romance when he kisses me as the head nudges inside me. It hurts and heals as it slips inside, both hands on the small of my back until we’re joined. He tilts upward, presenting me like a bitch in heat and Partner giggles more. Placed at the entrance he takes a breath, and pushes. This is the moment – that point on which the future hinges. Partner inches in slowly as Ringleader dips his head at an awkward angle to catch my nipple with his teeth.

They squabble as they find their rhythm, arguing over my head like divorced parents on access day.

“It’s better for her if we take it in turns.”
“How do you know? She might prefer it simultaneously.”

I just want it. Ringleader looks into my eyes.

“What do you want?”
“Hard, please.”

“Your wish is our command.”

My mouth, my cunt, my arse all raw and reddened. And cum dripping over my body by the end of the evening. Partner, possibly overcome by the virgin territory so neatly plundered, arrives early and fills me. It feels so strange. I close my eyes. Ringleader holds me to him, but can’t resist sliding his hand round my backside and sticking a finger into the cum-filled space.

Door shuts anew. Us alone.

With an arm around me, he rolls over so I’m underneath.
“You’ve been working hard, it’s probably time for me to take the strain.”

Brutally tender. He seems surprised when the specific pressure and motion of that impressive cock makes me tense and squirm and yelp again.

“I’m close, where do you want it?

“Anywhere.”
Let him pick, I don’t care. I just want it.

Triumphantly, over my tits again, his face animated with lust.

As we near my stop, I feel my knees buckle just a little, under that image, and jab the release button a fraction too hard and too early. I look at him once more, a smile just playing about my lips and our eyes meet in that split second before the door closes.

I masturbate twice in the toilets at work before lunchtime.

 

Him

I saw a girl today. On the way to work. She got on two stops after us, stood pressed against the divider for ten minutes as the passengers changed around here. She was normal, so normal in her office wear. I’ve probably seen her before and completely ignored her. I might see her tomorrow and do the same, but today…

I admit, it was one fluid action that caught my attention. Her gaze was fixed on the window, the finger smudges and graffiti etched into the Plexiglas, the concrete and weeds beyond.

She frowned and absent-mindedly reached into the neck of her top, pulling out her iPod and selecting a different track before tucking it back. Inside her bra?

Beyond the plain black neckline was a flash of red that flared and disappeared. I stared. She was drawing attention so clearly. She must have known. I watched her fingers caress the side of her neck before returning to her side. Now her neckline appears far too low for the office. She’s not even pretty. Well, maybe a bit. Her hair’s tied back and she looks heavy, all on her hips and arse. And those tits.

I bet they’d look great bathed in cum. I can picture it. 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 a creamy facial to top it off. Photo’s 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.

I think about sticking my cock inside her, if I see her again. Maybe the carriage is still full, travellers becoming disorientated by the smell of sex. She’s listening to music, of course. The tech still positioned snugly against her tits.

Pushing up against her as we turn a corner, I mutter my sorries in her ear. She mouths “It’s fine.” And turns back as her eyes register who I am and flare open before disappearing. I put my hand on her waist and smile as it sinks and settles. The other hand lets go of the handrail and heads to the hem of her skirt; working it up til I can see the red lace of her knickers out of the corner of my eye. No one notices as I ease her tights and pants down until enough of her is exposed for me to work on extricating my cock then working it between her legs, up the gap in her knickers where the elastic’s tight against my balls until I’m pressed so close to her; one emergency stop and she’s mine.

Momentarily I’m distracted when she places her hand over mine and leads it up, under her jacket to cop a feel of those amazing breasts, bigger than my hand can cope with. Even with a raging hard-on, I have my wits about me enough to find the iPod and pause whatever it is she’s listening to.

I lean in closer.

“Is it too forward to ask you if you do anal?”
I’m an idiot. She laughs.

“Might be dangerous. But I bet I can make you come without you having to do a fucking thing.”

True to her word, she bends a fraction at the waist. So many people, yet even as the drones witter around us, her moan as the length slides against her, almost makes me cum on the spot and she manages to flex her body against mine and more specifically my cock against the slippery material of her knickers until – oops! They’re even wetter. She squeezes her legs together so that when I manage to remove myself, not entirely happily, I’m cleaned and easily returned. Hearing the zip closing she carefully moves my hand back down again. I roll her knickers back up, her skirt back down. She gets off at her stop. Doesn’t look back, but I know she’s grinning.

I wonder what she sounds like when she comes, tilt my head and watch her carefully, trying to conjure. She mouths to whatever she’s listening to, her lips are pink and shiny.

Noisy. A screamer. Girlish moans and a filthy mouth. I’d put money on it.

I could drag her into the office, grab her by the wrist and take her up to the eighteenth floor, that meeting room with the floor to ceiling windows that no one ever uses.

As we wait for the lift I’d fire off an email to the gobby receptionist who ignored us on the way in. She’s been after me since she started working here. Tell her she’s on if she comes to eighteen in half an hour and doesn’t mind a little foreplay, of my choosing. Fire off a few more as we speed upwards.

Strip her? Would she look better clothed, or tied and gagged with her own underwear? Naked, she’d look fantastic. Strip her in front of those panoramic windows. Straight down to her knickers, showing off those tits and what I can only imagine are large, sensitive nipples the same colour as pencil erasers.

“Everyone can see you.”

“Should I take my knickers off?”
Filthy girl. She sits with her legs spread as wide as she can once they’re removed. The door sucks and hisses as the selected few receive their invites and hightail it up here. She doesn’t hear; lost in her own reflection, spreading her already swollen pussy lips apart so that she can see her stiff little clit and the cream dripping from her. Pressing her feet to the pane, tilting her hips so anyone who wants to can see her.

She sees us reflected too, Doesn’t turn around.

“Who do I get to play with first?”
They know the rules – whatever she agrees to, but no one gets to fuck the bitch’s tight little cunt except me. They all accept. The receptionist, just arriving, gets her orders.
“Pretend it’s 2am on Saturday morning. You’re E’d off your tits and want to get off with another girl. You need a face-full of pussy, and here she is, naked and willing. Now eat her.”
Slight disgust, but she agrees. The disgust makes it even better, in all honesty.

She leaves a trail of jacket, tiny pencil dress and heels on her way to her playmate. Kisses her the way fake lesbians do in porn – all tongue. I can hear the collective sound of four zippers being eased down.

As they ease into their respective roles, I can’t help but compare their bodies. The receptionist is a stereotype made flesh – tiny, tanned just enough shades away from orange to still be fuckable. Huge, surgically enhanced tits that make her look like she’s going to fall over. The captive is paler, pinker – fleshy and thick at the waist – natural tits more or less the same size but softer. Both of them shaved or waxed for easy delectation.

And soon, the receptionist has her face buried between the girl’s thighs – scream, yelp, dirty words – and enjoying it more than she wants us to think. When she comes up for air, her face is soaked and mischievous before she dives in for seconds. The captive returns the favour as soon as she is able and in between bouts of intense licking their fingers are stickily shoved inside one another; or all over the breasts they have express permission to play with.

Marco, being the youngest, can’t control himself and relieves himself over the writhing bodies with intense satisfaction, leaving them stickier than ever. The receptionist is sat side-on to the window,   captive’s body held against her, suckling like a baby. They both look flushed and drowsy.

“I’ve got something better to suck on. Why don’t you get on your knees, hmm? In front of the whole city, so everyone can see you.” She obeys, sticking out her tongue and taking him like a pro, as receptionist is dismissed.

Being that much older, Mike soon goes the way of the young buck and misses her mouth, shooting his load over her cheek, untidily.

Patrick and Thom take their sides, Thom being ever the gentleman, leans over to her and whispers.

“Do you like anal?”

“Of course.” As though this is something she’s asked regularly, bored of it now.

It looks like it hurts her to begin with, but it’s not like Thom’s massively well-endowed. Soon I watch his cock pistoning in and out of her arse and she’s squealing with exhilaration and pleasure in between as Patrick feeds his cock into her mouth, Fucking horny.

Instead of the messy finishes preferred by the others; they take the opportunity to pump her full of cum when they finish. And finally, it’s my turn.

“I’ve been waiting for this.”

She says nothing, leads me by the hand to the big, executive chair at the far end of the room.

“I’ve been waiting for this.” She kneels over me, kissing almost nervously, no nerves til now. Slowly pushes herself down. The eyes widen again “It’s so big.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Maybe a little bit.”
Down with a bump, and settled she begins to rock her hips, gently at first. Eyes closed in concentration and fatigue; she’s had a busy day.

“Won’t they miss you?”
Who cares? We could stay up here forever, no one would know.

“Doesn’t matter.”

She cuddles close to me, shifting faster, intuitive. Those noises again; sweet, horny little noises. I buck upwards to meet her and her eyes fly open in surprise.

“Can’t have you doing all the work.”

I can feel my cock being manipulated by her muscles; the cum on her and in her rubbing into my shirt. The thought nearly makes me explode. I’m close. Inside her, one last thrust and I’m there. Every bad word my mother never wanted me to say howled at the top of my lungs as she takes her cue beautifully and leans back so I get the full spectacular view of her one last time.

Back in my seat I squirm as my cock thickens. Now I have to concentrate on not having a hard-on when we reach my stop.

She’s still there, ignoring everything around her. We grind to a halt and she hits the door release, but not before looking my direction, just once, straight at me, she looks down, the faintest smile. I smile back, half-hoping she’ll notice.

And now she’s gone, my cock still throbbing, and waiting.

Barbados Blue

My entry into SexBlogOfSorts  #Polished Prompt Competition! Kind of came out fully formed in just shy of an hour, was kindly beta’d/proofed by Exhibit A amongst others, and is presented here for your amusement on this blustery day whilst I’m more or less quarantined from my actual job.

The prompt I was given was Barbados Blue, a kind of iridescent pearlised shade which looks just like the point where the sun glints off a perfectly aqua sea.

My story relies on that stable of literature: shoddy English weather. I wanted to write something that would warm the reader up on a less than cosy Winter morning.

Barbados Blue

When I woke up that morning, she was standing at the bedroom window, naked, looking out onto the street. It was dark – I checked my phone and was surprised to see that it was after 9am.
I sat up groggily and rubbed my eyes; hearing me stir she didn’t turn around but said softly,
“It’s raining. Drizzling. Been drizzling for an hour. The sky is grey. Colour of washed out socks.”
She lifted her left foot and rubbed the toes against the heel of the right.
“Get back into bed. You’ll get pneumonia.”
“If I’ve not pneumonia in the five years I’ve lived in this flat – in the fifteen years I’ve lived in this country – a bit of rain won’t kill me.”
Jeannie pressed her forehead against the pane, her bum jutting out even more than usual. I hated that her backside had been the first thing I’d noticed about her. That every cliché of sway and curvy lusciousness had enticed me to dance with her. I’d watched her own the narrow strip of dance floor in the only gay bar in the village. She was a whirlwind in a slouchy-yet-sophisticated t shirt and leggings that looked like they’d been sprayed on. It had taken three Tia Maria’s and coke to embolden me to ask if I could join her. Inseparable ever since she’d cocked her head, made lengthy eye contact with my tits and nodded, that wicked grin playing about her lips. Within a year that grin was basically foreplay.
“We haven’t seen blue sky in over a week.” She went on. “Makes me miss home, that’s all.”
“It’s January.”
“I know it’s January. It’s not my January though. It’s your shitty, damp, dark, cold, miserable…. Sorry.” She turned guiltily, her chestnut eyes sheened in contrition.
I pulled back the duvet.
“Come back to bed, and tell me what I’m missing from your January. Make me jealous. Make me squirm.”
Her smile was faint, but she padded over to me and slid under the quilt. I wrapped my arms around her, she smelt of winter chill and sadness. I squeezed the flesh of her upper arm, the muscles fed by her five mornings a week gym habit, and kissed her shoulder.
“The season is dry. While you’re dreading your early mornings in the darkness, we have sunshine and white sand beaches and tall, leggy beauties with perfect breasts and skin the colour of the autumn leaves.”
“What, just wandering around in their bikinis whilst they do filing? Even the lollipop ladies?”
“There are no lollipop ladies on Barbados-!” I bit her and she began to giggle, my arm sliding down over her stomach and tickling the inward curve of her waist.
“Stop that!”
“Stop what?” I moved the hand round and grasped a handful of her arse instead.
“You told me to make you jealous!”
“I know! But no one has breasts more perfect than mine, do they?”
I ceased my groping so I could peel off my t shirt. As soon as I was as naked as she, I watched her dive for my nipples, catching one between her teeth. I yelped.
“Perfect. Definitely perfect.” she muttered, her fingers pinching the other nipple as my hand found its way between her thighs, playing with the patch of damp curls. “But just a little more perfect under a perfectly blue Barbadian sky.”
“Oh no doubt.” I agreed, the tip of my index finger entering her gently, until she ground down on it so the length went straight in.
“Although,” she added, bucking against my finger, moving her face so she could murmur into my neck. “I’ll say one thing for the English January, that Barbados doesn’t have. Couldn’t ever have.”
“Horny, pasty English girls?” I said thoughtfully, slipping out from under her. “No, lie down.” I snapped, when she tried to follow me.
“Well, yes, but I wasn’t thinking about that. Although we did meet in the January, didn’t we?”
“We did. January 2009.”
“So I also have to credit the English January, the desperation it fires in me, with meeting my beautiful wife.”
“Indeed you do.” I agreed, hunkering down between her legs and pushing her thighs apart, gasping a little – as I always did, even after all this time – at just how startlingly beautiful her cunt was. I licked from the taut entrance to the apex where her clit was waiting for my attention. She groaned and gripped at the pillows around her.
“Yes-yes-yes. There. Just there. Fuck.” She whined, her fingers gripping slightly wildly at my hair, then my shoulders, then the fingers which were holding onto her hips. I looked up from my position, over her podgy little tummy, watching my beautiful Missus’ face.
“So you were saying…?” I prompted, returning to the task, this time fucking her with two of my fingers as I spread her further.
“I…. Um….. I….”
It’s cruel to expect someone to be able to maintain a conversation whilst they’re being forcefully brought to orgasm, isn’t it? I moved a little slower, and she calmed.
“Yes? What were you going to say?”
“Stop it…” she moaned.
I removed the fingers and looked up at her again.
“Oh. Ok.”
Her eyes widened.
“That’s not what I meant!”
“I know that’s not what you meant. But what’s sex without a little teasing?” I clambered up her body and planted a kiss on her lips. She grabbed my neck and pawed at my breasts as I did so, but only so she had purchase to shove me back down between her legs. She wiped her mouth.
“Finish the job.” She growled.
“With pleasure.” and within seconds she was writhing again, as I sucked, licked and fingered her, moaning into her delicious flesh as I felt my own cunt get wetter and wetter at her pleasure, and all I could do was grind against the duvet bunched beneath me.
“There. Oh fuck just there, so close!” She moaned louder and gripped my head, holding in me in position, moving my head back and forth until she hit the point of no return and made all those noises that make me spend a split second worrying about what the neighbours think of us.
She lay back down on the pillows, exhausted, and I kept my head down for a few moments, more, until she ceased her twitching. Then I scooted back up the bed and pulled the covers over both of us; she kissed me, licking her own taste from my lips.
Eventually she sighed and said.
“That’s the one thing Barbados can never have. Never in a month of Sundays.”
“What?”
She laid her head on my chest and cupped my breast, still partially freckled with goose bumps.
“The absolute delight of hot sex on a freezing cold day.”

Post Work

Reports of my having an oral fixation are grossly exaggerated…

 

Though your sight is limited, there are some things one knows, instinctively. This is what you think as she leans over you, smilingly passes you your glass of wine, and begins to unbutton your flies. You can see that her dress is already unbuttoned, so her breasts are displayed – you know the bolt of pleasure that flashed through her as she played and posed to find the optimum way to expose herself. And of course your eyes are drawn back again and again to the firm, dimpled, caramel sweetness of her nipples. Knowing that one finger briefly brushing them will make her ache and moan.

But you know her pleasure lies with your pleasure, with her position as your toy, to serve you. Your hand stays firm around the stem of the glass. She licks the tip of your cock before sinking her lips around the shaft, her head bobbing up and down smoothly for a minute or two as you sink back in your chair, sipping your wine and relax into her skill. She starts to take more of you deeper into her throat, and though she gags within seconds, she pushes through, until she snorts and kneads the carpet with her knuckles, desperate not to give in as her hands play with the sensitive sac beneath.

With her head bent to worship you, your gaze travels down her body to her arse, sticking proudly up in the air. She has no knickers on but you can’t see. You know she’s exposed though. That her inner thighs are damp. You look forward to seeing for yourself, later. To ravish her inch by inch until she’s trembling and content. Not yet, though.

You place your free hand on the top of her head, a crown of pinkish brown adorning her messily perfect hair. When she pulls away, your gentle but firm pressure keeps her there, breathing unevenly against your erection. She looks up into your eyes and wipes the snot away from her nose. The visual equivalent of gritting her teeth. You let her lean back a little and watch complacently as she spits saliva, precum and Prosecco over the shaft and her fingers curl around it, milking faster than you would have done, so desperate is she to be showered in your cum. She is sat back on her knees now, moaning softly as though she doesn’t realise it; the very act of pleasuring you stirring something deep within her. Oh God the thought of the sweetness gathering in her cunt makes your hips jerk against her mouth and she smiles, pulling harder, desperate, desperate.

No, not yet. You let the pressure on her scalp increase and she looks up expectantly as you push her away, a delicious string of fluid chaining your cock to her ruby red lips. You nod to her own glass on the table.

“A mouthful.” You instruct, and she drains the glass, her cheeks obscenely full of liquid but she knows you well enough not to swallow it. You know you need to work quickly, anyway. For the sake of the bubbles.

“Head back.” She leans away only enough to bare her exquisite throat until her eyes are fixed on the ceiling, her mouth agape and the only sound faint, sweet gargling from her throat as she forgets to breathe through her nose. You lovingly slide your erection back into her mouth, the sight of the wine flowing out when it’s displaced, and coursing down over her throat and chest making you even harder. She gags again, the bubbles going up her nose as they whirr not unpleasantly around your cock. You feel her tongue; she cannot resist. Her lips purse around you and still she doesn’t swallow. The liquid warms slowly, and you know you can’t last much longer. You yank your cock out of her mouth.

“Head up.” She complies.
“Let it drip out of your mouth. Slowly. Then you get your reward.”
So gleeful she looks as she tips her head to face me and I watch the skinny streams of alcohol run from her slightly parted lips. She opens them wider as the first creamy drops of my own begin to mix into her dishevelment, and in the harsh light of the sitting room lamp, she glows.