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.
“Be mean to me.” She begged one evening, during a pillow fight. Ember was towering over her, the floral pillowcase above her head blocking out the big bedroom light. He already had her pinned down to the bed by her wrists so Ember could aim the downy marshmallow directly at her soft, downy stomach.
“We are being mean to you, silly.”
“There are approximately a hundred coffee shops on this street, next time you could be more specific?”
She rolled her eyes and indicated the latte on the table before me.
“I got you the usual didn’t I? I apologised that I didn’t realise there was a branch of Caffe Nero at either end. I bought you a brownie.”
The cake had a thick layer of white chocolate coating the top.
“Forgiven, then.” I gave in and sat down next to her. Our booth was the furthest from the front door, partially hidden behind the awkward angle of a wall to nowhere between the counter and the kitchen.
She sipped her tea and broke the corner off my brownie.
“I should bloody well hope so.” The chocolate disappeared between her lips, but one or two crumbs fell and landed on her breasts. She was wearing a velvety top which was very low cut, even for her.
“Meeting someone?” I asked idly. She looked at me a bit funny.
“Oh.” I said. I think I blushed, even though I didn’t know why. I shifted my gaze from her cleavage to the plate in front of me with difficulty.
Sometimes in the course of a text conversation – often late at night – our interactions get flirty. Friendly compliments seem to be become slightly tinged with something else. I’ve been asked to critique tasteful nudes before she sent them to her partners. She would listen as I described in a little too much focus how wet a one night stand had made me, or the rush of blood through my body when my boss stood over me, ogling my tits and demeaning me in full view of my colleagues. How I wanted to jump him right then and there. I stopped abruptly and apologised for oversharing but she wanted me to go on, falteringly admitting how turned on she was.
Something changed. Neither of us knew why but neither wanted to stop it.
We talked about work for a bit, just a general catch up really.
“I got fitted for a new bra. For the first time in my life, I’m wearing matching top and bottoms!” She was gleeful, like a child. I’d noticed the corner lick of lace when I was staring at her breasts, earlier.
“Let’s see!” I said, half joking half desperate all of a sudden and she grinned, made a great show of looking about her to make sure the coast was clear and then suddenly the warm velvet ripples of her bodice had melted away and her breasts were all I could see, creamy-white and caressed by pale blue and black lace. The material was flimsy, her nipples extremely visible even in the unreliable cafe light. She slowly made herself presentable again. Sipped her coffee. I couldn’t really think straight. Of course I couldn’t.
“Now you.” She said, neutrally. A passing waitress slowed her steps, wondering if we were trying to flag her down but she went merrily on her way when she saw neither one of us needed her.
“I don’t match.”
She didn’t say anything; instead she reached over matter of factly as the waitress vanished behind us, and brazenly snaked her hand inside the collar of my blouse, finding my shapeless, mumsy bra with my nipples pressed tightly against the ancient fabric.
Her face was very close, I could feel her breath on my neck, her shoulder and thigh pressed very firmly against my own. She took my hand, lying uselessly in my lap, and drew it towards her, between her legs, under her skirt and up, between her thighs where the sister in black lace was damp and fragrant.
Her lips left a glossy red heart on my neck.
“I don’t care.” She whispered.
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.
Cuckqueaning is my new jam, apparently.
I knew what I was there for. They didn’t tell me but they planned it between them. And one night, invited me over after work. We watched TV, ate pizza and he felt me up during an extended edition of Newsnight, after noticing how obvious the imprint of my nipples was through my T-shirt. He was sat between us, groping my tits as she slid her hand inside his flies and watched us, stroking him firmly.
Inspiration comes from funny places.
They make me wear a dress, no underwear. A strappy, summery thing, floral, flippy, far too short and far too tight. My breasts barely contained. When I stand before them for examination, he roughly bares them, threatening the straps which are thin and unstable.
Content warning: degradation. NSFW. Please avoid if you are squeamish about such things!
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 big.