Today and Yesterday and Today and Tomorrow

Two pink pigtails and one wet cunt. Last week she was a gift, with a wide, white bow tied around her neck and her bare breasts pegged at the nipple. Curled at the foot of His bed the night she was returned to Him, she thought of the party she had attended.

A group of men – a stag; a team-building exercise; she never knew – encircled one. Each a little drunk, a little full of bravado. Pawing at her naked and dimpled body. The smallest, the least imposing, smirked at her as he smacked her across the breasts, so hard it winded her. Two hands grabbed her wrists as he spat on his fingers and insinuated them between the lips of her cunt. More impact followed – A gentle giant would hold her face in his huge, terrifying palm before slapping her. The heat warmed her body and her puckered skin smoothed, at least for a moment.

“On your knees.” An order, a disembodied voice. She knelt.

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A hop, skip and a jump

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

Wet little hole.

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Plait

Confession: I’ve never not loved school uniform. I am thirty six years old and I’ve been watching middle aged women flash their thigh highs and Head Girl badges since I should have been revising for my A levels (All B’s, thank you for your concern).

There’s just something about the perception of innocence hiding confidence and experience. I feel more myself in a pleated skirt and a sweet expression, I’m not going to explain it further.

So I seek out ‘School Discos’. That mainstay of the British university experience. I drag my husband to gay bars and grotty pubs that still smell of fag smoke and spilt beer and I grind my cunt against his thigh as BoyzIIMen play for the zillionth time and get wetter knowing every postgrad and Fresher in that room is gawking at us, desperate for their own mature schoolgirl slut.

We snog in that tongue-heavy, close fashion we did when we were just learning to control our arousal. He pulls the buttons of my blouse apart and feels me through the cheap white lace of the bra I know will be useless by the morning. Once someone walked past and drunkenly dared him to slip me a cheeky finger and he didn’t even break his concentration, just ran his hand up my thigh and bypassed the leg of my knickers, diving in with three and I came seconds later, looking that twatted third year in the eye as I bit into my mister’s white shirted shoulder.

The bouncers came over and asked us to leave. Sometimes that happens, too.

Doesn’t matter. We can still play at home.

After half a decade of relationship, he’s learned to read the signs.

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Twelve Hundred Days

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

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

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

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

I tried a different tack.

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

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

“Kiss me.” He said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her husband

From the Story in 12 prompt ‘Courtship’

I didn’t know her well. I thought she was very beautiful – from photos, from snapshots of her social media – and witty and clever, but like a popstar or a princess she always seemed unknowable.

He, on the other hand, the most open of open books. I felt like I was on first name terms with his genitals well before we slept together. He talked a good game. He looked incredible. He was kind and sharp and so hyper-intelligent that alone made me a little wet. The first time he made me come he was explaining how I’d misspelt and misused a word in a previous missive.

The first time we fucked was….. sixteen minutes into our first date. Continue reading

Come one, come all (Smutathon 2018)

This was written for the wonderful Ruth who generously donated to our Smutathon 2018 campaign and asked for a story about exhibitionism.

She wears the best lingerie. Famous for it. You might think that kind of thing doesn’t matter, but people notice. Silky, lacy, pretty prettiness fills her bedroom drawers and cascades out onto the bedroom floor.

Tonight, in the depths of winter though, no knickers at all – only a flimsy black bralet which really doesn’t fit; she can manoeuvre the cups so only the edge of her areola shows but as soon as she moves, the fabric shifts and she’s exposed. As soon as she’s vigorously sucking cock, she’s exposed.

Perfect.

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Dancing with myself (Smutathon2018)

Four! Power woman solo masturbation with a sensational image from the wonderful Cara

Monique felt like she’d been working hard since the day she was born. If she wasn’t at school, she was holding down a paper round, or a Saturday job in Top Shop, and then hours and days and lifetimes of temping filling in the gaps like Polyfilla.

At 38 – she could sit back in her top floor office, senior partner in the law firm of Lawson, Moore and Crossland – and with ten minutes to herself, decided to give in to temptation.

“Karen – no calls. Not even David. Not Judge Prentiss. Not my mother. NO ONE.” Kate nodded and watched her boss turn on her immaculate black stiletto heels and shut the office door behind her with a bang.

Monique’s office had the best view of the city – at 3pm that November day the light was already fading and an orangey glow settled over the view as she sat at her desk and let her eyes focus beyond the horizon for a moment or two.

It had been a bitch of a day. Meetings from 8am.

It had been a bitch of a week, even.

Maybe even a month. Just too much, even for her.

She kicked off her heels and reached under her desk for her purse.

In her purse was a zipped pocket.

In that pocket was a key.

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A Girl On A Bench

A girl on a bench.

A girl on a bench in a park

A girl on a bench in a park, in the sun.

Wearing a yellow sundress, just a fraction too small. Her belly presses against the unforgiving cotton fabric in large, beautiful ripples. Her breasts are unseemly but the weather so hot and the park so vast, she takes the risk to bare her flesh.

A girl on a bench in a park, in the sun wearing a yellow sundress which strains with the fullness of her breasts.

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Fancy

“He’s got a trademark.”
Fancy was washing my hair at the time. Her short nails sent shocks through my nervous system every time she lathered; it felt good.

“A what?”
“A trademark. He’s got a way, with a weapon.”

“Oh.”
“And you’ll be experiencing it tonight, my love.”
“Yes Miss.”

Fancy dunked my head under the cold bathwater without warning.

“Get dressed.”

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First Kiss

“I’ll help you tidy up.”

He smiles shyly at me as we collect fistfuls of beer bottles, paper plates and shredded crisp packets. Soon the front room is habitable, almost. I stretch upwards, suddenly tired. It’s 3am, no wonder.

“Can I sleep on your sofa?”
We both look down at the suite. Cameron is unfurled along most of it – he was my ride here, the reason I ended up at this party held by my #1 crush, who is at my side watching my brother snore contentedly. He didn’t wake up once as we crashed about him.

“Well, you could…..” Tris agrees.

“I’ll think of something. Time for the washing up.”
He doesn’t stop me, just takes the glasses off me to dry, and pops them back in the cupboard, in silence.

We head to his room silently too – I swear I’m only going to get my bag, check my phone. Maybe call a cab and kick Cam until he’s awake enough to come home.

I’m suddenly too hot and though I should be thinking about leaving, I pull off my cardigan and reach down into my bag for a hairband to keep my hair out of my flushed, sweaty face.

“Why don’t you just crash here?” his voice behind me, he’s taken his shirt off, too. His chest is wide, defined by the hair that’s as dark as his head. I feel like I’m drowning as I look at him.

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