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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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Blurs

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

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

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

“I’m not.” He replies, half-smiling.

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Libraries Gave Her Power

The rather lovely and wonderful Exhibit A is running a competition based on selected lyrics by one of his favourite bands. So here is my attempt, from the prompt “Libraries Gave Us Power”.
I do love a historical romance, a sliver of D/s, a hint of exhibitionism, voluptuous female flesh and this rather nicely covers all of these things, and a little more besides (shut up, the 70s was nearly 50 years ago and therefore totally historical….)

With thanks to Hannah and Ros for reading, proofing and con/crit x

***

The smell of books was one of many that made Julia feel sick. Not the fish and chip newness of paperbacks, she didn’t mind that at all, but the musty, mildewy scent of decaying fabric and horse glue.

These books filled her with gloom, and libraries filled her with dismay. She only visited them because Gloria found them so endlessly fascinating.

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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.

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