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
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.
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.
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.
“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 trademark. He’s got a way, with a weapon.”
“And you’ll be experiencing it tonight, my love.”
Fancy dunked my head under the cold bathwater without warning.
“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.
Note: Everyone in this scenario is an adult well over the age of 18, only experimenting with educational power dynamics.
Six months and whilst our romance still burns, I accept and expect to be pushed. To be punished. To be treated sternly on occasion. And Sir, you oblige.
Sunday School is my favourite. This is where I excel. This is my absolute favourite. Before I button my crisp white blouse – before my Sir I never ironed at all, and blush to think of myself as a slattern – I brush out my hair, parted and plaited, enough to grip. To instruct.
I’m wearing my school uniform, naturally. Actually, it’s your school uniform, your tie in house colours burgundy and gold. And a crest. My school never had a crest.
I have to be ready for 9am lessons. You have a room. I don’t ask how you got it. Two desks and one wall lined with books. At Sunday School, Sir is absent. There is only Sir. It is Sir who calls “Enter.” when I knock and walk primly through the door, clutching books to my chest.
“Good morning, Sir.”
“Miss K. You are late. Over the desk.” You don’t even look up, you only stand and watch me spread myself over it as instructed. This time it’s not the belt but your hand. My knickers are pulled down to mid thigh before I even realise it.
“Repeat after me. ‘Lateness will not be tolerated’,”
“Lateness-” the first smack makes me gasp.
“Will not. Be tolerated.”
I repeated after you. Each time the sting is more pronounced, the ache in my cunt deeper. On the sixth stroke your hand lingers, bringing its own heat. I will not cry.
“Did you do your homework, or am I going to have to invoke further penalties?”
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.
I had a dream last night. This is a version of it.
I’m lying on my stomach in the shallow end of the pool. It’s barely a pool really, it’s a complex – a simulated beach with a funfair thrown on top, I am hidden far away but still the screams of children hurtling along the chutes and slides above my head filters through. It is hardly peaceful here.
Still, I am alone. I am serene. I half-know what is going to happen as I lie in the gentle waves, pert bum sticking out of the water, breasts thrusts out of my two piece swimming costume. As I am thinking about this, They arrive. Two men, the handsome, gregarious, laddy type. Thick around the neck and upper body, they approach me, talking amongst themselves but looking over again and again.
“Look at those tits.” one says, talking at me, not to me. He has dark hair. There are noises of agreement.
It’s been so long since I sucked a dick I think I might have forgotten how to do it.
I’ll reach out my hand towards the imaginary cock and recreate the warmth and specific softness of a burgeoning erection, heavy and magical in my palm.
To begin, I trace my thumb from the base up to the head, glistening in the harsh bedroom light. Then I’ll follow that same journey with the flat of my tongue and this will trigger his long exhalation of breath.