The Sinners

He was tipping ash onto one of Mrs Jones’ ugly pink china saucers, and I was gazing at him lovingly.

Improper though it may be, we lay next to one another on my bed. Mrs Jones was out. Mrs Jones wouldn’t have approved, even though we were engaged, with a June wedding date set. And smoking, the smoking was the cherry on top of the cake of depravity.

The words came out before I could filter them.

“Isn’t it funny how shocking it would be if people knew we were lying here like this? Engaged to be married, and we can’t be left alone in a bedroom for fear we’ll behave inappropriately. And it’s worse for you. You have the eyes of the entire parish on you.”
He laughed and stubbed the end of his fag out.

“What brought this on? You know I wasn’t a china doll when I proposed.”

“No, of course not.”
“Are you worried I’ll do something I shouldn’t? Please don’t, I want us to wait. I would wait until judgement day for you.”

He was making it worse. I was making it worse, the words all wrong and I felt as if I was judging him for the other girls he had been with before me, before he had taken orders. He hadn’t asked me about other boys; he hadn’t needed to, that information had been volunteered within days of our first tryst; as if I wanted to prove to him I was good and pure and deserving of him. Because in truth, I didn’t believe I was.

“I… I touch myself.” The words came out in a rush and I looked down at my hands. My hands which I used to type letters, wash pots, cook dinners and pleasure myself to vivid dreams of my fiancé.

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The Magician’s Assistant (Part 1)

His moustache caused consternation, but it was integral to the act. She was entrusted to wax his moustaches before each performance; stand close to him with her own downy upper lip trembling with unspent lust as her nimble fingers twisted and twisted.

Miriam was selected from the periphery of Max Hardinger’s Wonder Girls – a little stouter, a little more wide-eyed than her pretty peers who kicked and twirled, she nonetheless caught Rhydian Hart’s attention almost immediately. It would be ten years more before she caught his heart.

Though they lived in close quarters; and only a painted screen separated their naked bodies in the cramped dressing rooms they shared; lustfulness seemed far from Rhydian’s desires.

Still, she quickly learnt the necessities of her role as his assistant – to fool the eyes of the audience, and make his act more wondrous, and he would clasp her hands after they had exited the stage, his eyes alight with excitement, but nothing more.

Her sole intimacy remained stroking the dark hair of his upper lip, warming the wax between her fingers until it was malleable. The scent of clove and sandalwood would linger on her skin until she bathed; but before the oils had truly vanished, she would trace her fingertips around her lips, circling over and over. With the light waning and her touch just so, she could imagine Rhydian was kissing her. Sometimes she circled the fingers lower, just above her right breast, and could almost feel the weight of his mouth there.

This she desired more than anything.

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The Library Club Part II

Part I Here

puppy’s tender nipples were so stiff they ached under the gaze of these twelve strangers. For the first time since she had received her confirmation letter, her heart dropped to her stomach and she wondered what was about to occur. It was only knowing Mister was nearby that steeled her as The Chair approached.

He curled his finger under her collar and yanked her forward, chin jutting upward and her eyes widening.
“Stand up straight, puppy.” He admonished, punctuated by a slap across her cheek.

To his peers, he said the following.

“My fellow lovers of the vile, vivid and virulent, welcome. Your dedication to the club’s aims of sensual, consensual desecration is appreciated and celebrated. It is midday; time for fresh meat.”

He placed his hand on puppy’s back and pushed her forward.

“Joining us today we have puppy, a stupid slut with no morals whatsoever. Touch your cunt, puppy.”

She reached between her thighs without a second thought and fingered her sodden slit, already blushing. As she masturbated, The Chair spoke again.

“This fat little lump appears innocent and plain at first glance, but as you can see she has no issue debasing herself for strangers on a single instruction.”

It was a sharp, painful truth – she had bent her knees, for better access to her slippery cunt but also to better show off that cunt to her audience. Her fingers disappeared inside and she fucked herself the way Mister had asked her to a hundred times. And yet this was nothing compared to what was to come. Nothing at all.

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The Library Club Part I

Left to her own devices, puppy sometimes got herself in hot water. She went looking for trouble and Mister had to rescue her. Or at least keep close by, ensuring her safety.

The Library Club met each month on a Sunday afternoon. For an hour. Only an hour. They were an elected committee – six masculine, six feminine, and they invited pliant, pretty, precocious submissives to their lair to indulge their wicked and salacious desires.

Submissives would have to prove their worth before they were permitted to attend; prove they knew their own minds, loved themselves and understood their own needs before a Committee member would engage with them. They would be interviewed over the course of days, or weeks. Observed in their daily interactions. And if all was well, their invitation would follow.

puppy had discovered them all on her own, without the help of Mister or Claudia’s sarcastic guidance. In her online community of Dominance and submission, there was a man who told stories online. He drew crowds of stricken admirers, and puppy was among them.

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Sea Story

An extract from a much longer, more complicated piece I have very mixed feelings about.

2010
We sat side by side on our bench, watching the lights kick over the fun fair, finishing our ices. She attacked vanilla ice cream the same way she approached cock sucking. B’s technique – whether for effect or out of habit – was to lick hers daintily, using her tongue rather than her mouth, slurping away at the swirl of cherry syrup. She knew I was staring, looked up and toyed with the chocolate protruding from her dessert.

“Do you want my flake?”

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A Festive Frolic Part II

In 2016 I started writing a Christmas cuckold story (Read part I here) Part II has been a while in the making, but finally, it has appeared, and on time too.

O Come! All Ye (Un)Faithful…

The blue room was delightfully warm after the chilly hallway. Cynthia’s nightgown was laid across the bedspread, engulfing Edgar’s pyjamas, and Matthew noted how it was not dissimilar to the clinging, slippery gown she wore now.

“How silly I was, complaining of the cold. Now I find I am frightfully hot. Perhaps if I took a little air….” She stepped to the window, her backside shuddering back and forth, and Matthew watched her breath cloud the pane before her mouth, blooming and breaking with exhalation.

After a minute or two she sighed.

“No, I am still quite overheated. Matthew, would you be a dear and unbutton my gown? Perhaps if a little more of my skin felt the cool chill of the Christmas air, I may be able to think more clearly.”

Here it was, his cue. His permission to lay his hands on the most beautiful woman he had ever cast his eye over.
Matthew fumbled uselessly with the buttons for a few moments, making no progress, and Cynthia flinched each time his knuckles brushed the smooth skin of her back.

“Matthew.” She said in a low voice, tinged with impatience. He swallowed.

“Yes?”
“Nothing is amiss here. Take my hand.”
He laid his fingers over hers on the sill, and breathed deeply, nostrils flaring at the apricot scent of her.

They stood in silence for a short while, the steady clock and their breathing only punctuated by the pop of coals in the fire. He moved closer to her and kissed her bare shoulder, catching the reflection of her smile in the frosted windowpane.

“Still burning, I see.” he muttered. Cynthia ducked her head in agreement, expecting him to make her raise her arms so he could take the dress from her, but instead he placed his hands on her hips, a trifle firmer than she’d anticipated, and began to gather the dress upwards. He hid his surprise that she was naked beneath it well, choosing to luxuriate in her curves and beauty; but he held her more tightly, so she was acutely aware of the stiff urgency of his cock.

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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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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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Same Time Next Year

The week before drags, as always. The day before runs away too quickly, like a kiss or a perfect song.

By midday on the day itself he texts me the details of the hotel.

A different one each year. I don’t get any say in the matter but he never chooses anything too far away. Sometimes he arranges a cab, too.

I always get there first, pick up the room key – “Miss Mason.” as always, and carry my small case up to the suite with the best view, something else he stipulates.

He arrives at 7pm and I’m naked on the bed, drying off after a bath or shower. Radio 4 playing softly in the background. I hear him drop his bag on the floor, and raise my hips, pushing my face into the duvet.

First there is the icy slick of lube around my cunt – his fingers venture inside, and I shiver. His thumb strokes my clit and I moan.

Knelt on the bed behind me, he traces the head of his cock over my swollen outer lips. Over and over, pulling his foreskin back and forth. He’s hard already, jerked himself to fullness in the cab he took to join me here. His hand is at the base of my back as he eases inside, the last act of gentleness as he buries himself in me to the hilt, slowly pulls out and then he slams into me and it begins.

My job is to hold myself there as he uses my slick, sticky hole and not make a sound other than muffled moans. Certainly no words.

Every year, his cock feels different. Thicker, stronger. He fucks me with precision and power and always for almost exactly five minutes. He doesn’t undress, fucking me through his flies. He doesn’t even unbutton them. His trousered thighs rub against my bare skin. My hair catches in the sharp teeth of the zip, but this is all part of it.

Every year is the same, really. He empties his thick creamy load into me with the same, self-satisfied moan as usual. Admires the white imprint of his hand on my back as he withdraws. Snaps a couple of photos of the creampie dribbling down my inner thighs and leaves the money and the apology note on the bedside table.

£500.

Two sides, handwritten. He’s sorry. He’s always sorry.

I reach between my legs and coat my fingers in his come, savouring the feel and taste of him.

One day he’ll forgive himself.

One day he’ll stay the night.

What’s the time, Mister Wolf?

A queer drag king burlesque D/s love story.

The act was called What’s the time Mister Wolf?

I sat backstage and watched her transform. First she plaited her unruly curls and pinned them to her scalp in a neat little fauxhawk. Then she took off her aged converse and ripped jeans, but left the fishnet tights beneath. This was when I laced her into the corset – gold glitter to which she’d gluegunned tufts of brown fur. Watching her already defined waist grow smaller and smaller and her breasts rise higher and higher in her reflecton.

She sat on the edge of the makeshift dressing table and pulled on a pair of low-heeled brogues, then beckoned to me.

“Drop ’em.” She drawled, and I fished under my dress for the waistband of my knickers, pulling them off for her. She inhaled their scent before spreading her legs obscenely so I could watch her stuff her own boxers with them. The bulge made my legs shake a little, though she soon covered this with a pair of chocolate brown corduroys.

Through the loops of the trousers, she passed the strong leather belt of her tail – a fine, silky, bushy beast of a tail, in reds and browns to match her suit, her eyes, her hair. She watched herself in the glass and gave her hips a little wiggle. The weighted tail shook and curled around her calves and she smiled with satisfaction.

Her nipples she crowned with paw print pasties before shrugging on a sharp pinstripe shirt. With the collar buttons undone, she mascara’d her lashes, then took the black kohl eyeliner from her make up bag and drew on a pencil moustache. She made her black brows blacker, wilder. With surgical precision she drew on whiskers across her dimpled cheeks, and a black snub nose.

“Jacket.” She said, admiring herself in the full length glass in the corner of the room. I placed it around her shoulders, and as she left the room, she flipped the trilby from he hat stand onto her head.
“Thanks, Kid.”

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