If you were here, Sir, and you were wearing your suit, I would kneel. I would ask you if I could have your cock. If you thought I was good, you would present your engorged cock through your flies. I would work the spit up on my tongue and lick the head first.
You’d push on the back of my head so I took more of you in my mouth. You want me to choke on you, prove that I need your cock more than air.
I’d take more, working my tongue as much as I could, one of my hands on the shaft but the other travelling between my thighs without permission because I’m so wet just at the feeling of you in my mouth, at hearing your voice
You know I’m doing it and you let me feel how wet I am before you grab my hair and make me choke more as punishment, calling me a filthy, wet slut.
I was dressed when you came in, as punishment you remove your cock from my hungry mouth and you strip me, taking off my dress, my underwear, everything until I’m naked. Before you can even continue face fucking me, you bend me over the sofa and I know what’s coming and the sting of your belt makes me yelp
I deserve it
“This, this is unacceptable. You know it’s unacceptable, don’t you? You know the rules.” He yanked the dildo out of me and waved it briefly in front of his lips. Crimson faced, I nodded but wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“I come home from the pub, from a nice afternoon with some friends from work, and find you on your hands and knees fucking yourself without my permission. Riding that big, fleshy dildo and grabbing your tits and moaning like a common slut with the windows open so anyone could hear you.
“I’m sorry, Sir.” I murmured, but he wasn’t listening to me.
“You’d been playing for hours, hadn’t you? Teasing yourself. Look at your cunt. Look at how red and full your lips are. Look at your clit, how red and sore it looks. Look.” He moved forward quickly and pushed down on the back of my neck, forcing me to examine my own arousal, smelling it.
“I left you here, and you said you were going to have a nap. You’re wearing my favourite dress, the blue one with the ruffles, but look at you, with the sleeves pulled down so you can display your breasts.”
His fingers were entwined in my braids and he pulled my head upwards so I had to look into his eyes.
In 2016, I participated in Emmeline’s Team Amazeballs Erotica Exchange – we gave one another a prompt, and she asked me to write something based off Rosetti’s Lady Lilith, which I knew nothing of, instead imagining her as a petulant debutante with a string of music teachers in her wake.
I hope you enjoy this not so little historical tale.
Dahlia adored her music lessons. That precious hour of the day where she was indulged with lyricism and beauty. And the presence of a tall, broad, older gentleman whom she knew her father had chosen precisely because he was almost as old as her grandfather and could not be described by even the kindest soul as handsome.
To Dahlia he was the most exciting part of her lessons. He was the reason she was allowed in the music room, un-chaperoned, for one whole hour. She exploited every single minute.
On music days she woke early but didn’t rise from her bed until almost midday. She would lie in a blissful reverie, and explore the wonders of her own body as if the territory were new to her. Her own large breasts, which came to stiff, perfect peaks. Her own flaring hips and rounded tummy with its sweet fair hair. Fair hair which curved in a path between her legs, becoming coarser and darker until it curled outwards in a shield over her cunt which seemed preternaturally wet and wanting.
So I see this girl on the tram. I want her. I don’t know why, but I do. She invades my dreams, and I think she knows it, with her tight, low cut dresses and habit of running her hands over her body, pretending to brush off public transport dirt but really drawing attention to her thighs and stomach.
My cock almost gets hard as soon as I see her these days, it’s got that bad. Picturing her in every scenario my dirty mind can come up with but my favourite is so simple and so possible it makes me shake and come almost immediately.
It’s a normal working day. She’s there with her summery dress and work bag pressed tight against her tits and making eyes at me and smiling, full of joy at the warm June sunshine making us perspire. She edges closer as the carriage gets fuller and fuller, until she’s leaning over me and with one jolt her hand is on my thigh and she’s apologising with one fingertip achingly close to my rock-hard cock. That’s it. Her eyes meet mine and we both know.
I’d make her get off at the next stop, have her suck me under the platform exit. No one would see us. On her knees with her face tilted towards me, all innocence and purity, wide eyes and desperate for it. Have her pretend she didn’t know what to do with it. I bet she’d deep throat like a bitch and I’d hold her head up by the forehead so she had to look at me as she sucked and swallowed. And a creamy facial to top it off.
Photos for after. She’s already on her knees so push her skirt up and yank her knickers to her ankles. Have her lie back so I can get a nice straight upskirt of her pussy, dripping wet and the sight just making me hard all over again.
The thought makes me hard all over again, sat here, watching her. Same as every morning.
Note: Whilst Gwendolyn refers to Whittaker as her uncle, they are not blood relatives. This is all part of the game to them. Both are well above legal age.
The room was stifling hot, a fire that had lain dormant all day, was now purring contentedly in the grate and the heat made the smoke curling from Whittaker’s cigar hang thickly in the air. He was facing the window, his back to her, watching the late evening lovers take the air.
“Did you have a pleasant evening?” He didn’t turn around.
Gwendolyn took off her jacket and shoes. “Quite.”
“Did he try anything?”
She laughed and made her way through his tightly-packed office to the window, whose ledge was just wide enough for her to perch on.
“He was a gentleman – he was the gentleman he was paid to be.” Here she reached forward and took the cigar from his hand. She took a long drag and when he took it off her, blew languid smoke rings into the air, kicking her feet into his thigh. He caught one and held it as he smoked, her toes contained in his fist.
“You’re drunk.” he said after a while.
In honour of today being derby day in Liverpool
I take it upon myself to be match day servant.
During the warm ups and pre-analysis I start lunch, and bring drinks. Sometimes I glance up at the screen.
“Are you winning?”
“No.” He frowns
At half time I rest my head in his lap and he absent mindedly strokes my hair but still distracted.
“I hope you win.” I say into his stomach
“Go and check on the pizza.” he replies, gently pushing me.
From the kitchen all I hear is the dull hum of the crowd, punctuated by his subdued yet anguished cries, and swearing.
When I come back in, all is quiet. My customary brief look at score gives an explanation; 2-0 down.
I look at him. He’s still frowning. He knows it’s only a game. Only it isn’t, it’s something binding him to his brothers, his father, no matter how far away they are from one another.
I look back at the screen, then back at my love, bereft.
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.
She may be the beauty or the beast
May be the famine or the feast
May turn each day into a heaven or a hell.
-Elvis Costello, She
Sometimes you write the thing. For Amy (and her Catsuit)
I can’t think straight.
I can think in curves though.
In the undulation of hips and the swell of breasts. In the soft security of her belly.
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.