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
The final Smutathon story! This for Gorgeous Missy who asked for a D/s Threesome which I hope I have delivered.
Look at him. King of the castle. The cat that got the cream. Lying here in this reasonably priced hotel room with his wife and her lover. These beautiful women. One of whom he owns and worships, one he adores as she serves his beloved.
He had girl strip as soon as she entered – she was not permitted to glance at the bed where beloved sat astride him – and instructed her to stand at the open window with her hands behind her head, exposed to the patrons in the bar opposite. He asked her to raise her hand each time she was spotted, and describe the response of the voyeur.
“He is making lewd gestures.”
“He grabbed his crotch and then pretended to grab my hair as if I was sucking him.”
“Good. He knows that’s all you’re good for, girl.”
“Now a woman is looking.”
“Just looking. Her eyes are wide. She’s stroking the rim of her champagne glass.”
Beautiful Bee’s story. Shared with permission. Written with love.
“Close your eyes and count to ten. Slowly. Then knock on the door. Can you remember that?”
She nodded and he petted her head, lovingly.
“So desperate to please, aren’t you?” and she nuzzled his hand.
“So desperate to prove herself. “
He reached down and twisted her prominent nipple between his thick, unforgiving fingers and she moaned.
“Pathetic.” He laughed as he shut the door behind him.
Naked in the centre of the landing, she brought her hands to her face and began to count out loud.
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.
Second story time! Another queer romance, but a much happier one set in the late 1940s, and with a gorgeous accompanying image kindly provided by the wonderful Eye and Missy
On Thursday the 4th of August 1949, the 12pm Blackpool train from Manchester was crammed with children and mardy-looking grandmothers crammed into every corner of every carriage.
“Let’s just stand in the hallway.” Ettie suggested after a third door had opened to reveal several mewling infants and bemused female relatives trying and failing to keep order.
“It’s an hour journey or more, I don’t think my legs could take it. Let’s walk on further there must be a space for us.”
“You could sit on the case. Or on me.” Ettie suggested helpfully as they walked on.
Eventually they came to a larger carriage with just as many unruly children, but also two empty seats separated by a pair of soldiers – Canadian possibly – having a very heated debate. Their eyes lit up when they spied Ettie – buxom and twenty, with delicately waved hair and an innocent expression. Their focus was largely on the straining material of her blouse where her breasts were threatening to escape.
My first Smutathon story is live! A mournful tale of unrequited love across the classes in 1920s Britain.
With thanks to KP for the kind use of this image.
I want him. I want him the way I want air to breathe and a bed to sleep in. I want him in every moment he’s here and every moment he’s away. I live to serve him.
I went into service at fourteen. A groom. Always loved horses. Drew horses with chalks and bits of coal on the pavement outside our house every Saturday.
Fourteen, they say there’s a stable lad needed up at the big house. Hard work. Important work. Off I go.
The first time I saw him, it was summer. Hotter than a flat iron.
“The young Master wants his filly, Sandra.”
Head stable-hand says.
“Stupid name for a horse.” I say, and get clipped round the ear, before he shrugs and says “named it after his sister. Hates her. Now shut your trap and fetch the filly.”
He was beautiful then. He’s handsome now but back then, no more than twenty two or three, he was beautiful. Prettier than a girl. Prettier than his sister or the horse. The horse was prettier than the sister unfortunately.
Once I heard Lady Amelia refer to him as incandescent in his youth, though she said it behind a glass of champagne with harshness in her eyes. Never liked her. Never thought he should have married her. All wrong.
He was fair, like a cornfield ripe for harvest. But dark eyes – there were whispers his mother came of Spanish stock and people nodded their heads and said that explained everything but it didn’t explain anything.
For Anon, with gratitude and blushes
Turn me on, get me hard, earn your cock shot.
I’d go doe eyed. Hold it and examine it and swallow down the fear that it’s too big and will choke me. And the thought of it choking me would make me damp. Always ask for permission to use my mouth beforehand. And swallow down the fear that you’ll refuse me.
You have permission.
The first determined lick is from the base to the tip, working up spit and using my hand and mouth together as it swells. From the way you exhale I know that this first contact with a mouth – my mouth – feels as good as it always does.
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.