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.
Is it exhibitionism in your own back garden? In your own space, technically away from the prying eyes of the neighbours but if they happened to hear the scuffle, a moan that escapes a fraction louder than intended, or glance from their bedroom window as his hand moves lower….. What then?
Less than a week is nothing. It’s no time at all to be apart. It’s especially nothing when you don’t stop your steady trickle of conversation and lewd photography. The usual morning sweethearts and goodnight my loves had carried on as normal, even though he was in another country, and on a minimal time difference. Still, I ran into his arms when I got off the bus and stood on my tiptoes gripping him tightly in the middle of the pavement, not wanting to let him go. Turns out a week might be too long, regardless.
For girls who enjoy dominant AF girls
She cornered me after half an hour threading through the sticky, endless darkness. Her fingers laced through mine and dragging me to somewhere even darker, thicker with the scent of new leather, sugar and sex.
“I told you I’d come and you know why I came.” She whispered urgently, taking my hands and placing them on the hem of her tiny mini dress. “No knickers. No obstacles. No rules. No boys.”
Whenever she was ID’d, there was a small smile as she removed her passport from the bag. As they studied the image and made sure it matched up with the highly made up face before them, she wondered if they paused as they did so.
Did they catch the glassiness of her eyes? The dampness of her parted lips?
Had the clerk finalising her renewal noted in the corner of her chosen profile shot, that patch of exposed skin below her waist, and suspected?
Of course not. No one else knew the secret behind it. How he had told her what he would do to her before the photo was taken. How he cuffed her wrists and stripped her from the waist down, passed his hands between her quaking thighs to make fun of her arousal before making her hold the wand in place against her swollen, desperate cunt.
When he pushed her to her knees and fucked her mouth, he told her she’d always remember this afternoon, every single time she travelled abroad, every time she started a new job. The pulsing of her cunt, the come dripping down her thighs, the strength of her submission to him.
Ten delicious years of silent testament.
Let me tell you about my muse, unintentional fueller of my fantasies.
I do not think of him and feel my mind begin to wander to delicious places.
I do not hear his name and immediately find myself transformed, come pooling beneath me, my knickers sodden as I picture his assaults on my body.
I prostrate myself at the altar of his knowledge, of his words which cut so quickly to the sordid beauty in everything.
And he arouses my skill like no other.
Despite never having laid a finger on me.
And I cannot explain it, only know for certain that his words inspire my own and I am forever grateful that I am gifted his time, his light.
Let me tell you about my muse, her sweetness and her darkness.
I think of her in a hundred ways and every one fits comfortably, completely together.
I see her body and give thanks for it, remembering the one occasion I allowed my dormant dominant side to flourish and turned her arse a healthy pink.
I marvel at the chaste beauty of her body, at the endless, nurturing power of her love, of her freeness and ease with her world.
She makes my words burn with untold feelings;
In the year since first I touched her.
And I cannot explain it, only know for certain that her existence inspires my own, and I am forever grateful that I am gifted her time, her light.
More Wicked Wednesday stories below!
I don’t remember why I wrote this exactly. I know I wrote it for someone who wasn’t much impressed with it, but I like it well enough.
Consensual, caring BDSM. All characters over 18. No one is a blood relative. NSFW. 18+ only. Copyright me.
“I’m scared.” I say, looking at the bed nervously.
“I’m not.” He replies, half-smiling.
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.
Last night it was late, and most of twitter was asleep. Some were awake, though. And made me think of something that has occured to me before. That other submissive women know how to manipulate me better than anyone. With thanks to Molly
I’m not sure if this is allowed, but this is a second entry to Exhibit A’s Song Lyric Prompt.
I may change the title (I’m terrible at titles), but this came from a combination of Inhale the Anxiety and What’s the Point in Always Looking Back?
A little solo something. Now I need to get out of bed.
She needed not to think. To fall out of herself for a day, an hour, a minute. She sellotaped her poor, battered heart back into her ribcage and lay down on the bed.
The rather lovely and wonderful Exhibit A is running a competition based on selected lyrics by one of his favourite bands. So here is my attempt, from the prompt “Libraries Gave Us Power”.
I do love a historical romance, a sliver of D/s, a hint of exhibitionism, voluptuous female flesh and this rather nicely covers all of these things, and a little more besides (shut up, the 70s was nearly 50 years ago and therefore totally historical….)
With thanks to Hannah and Ros for reading, proofing and con/crit x
The smell of books was one of many that made Julia feel sick. Not the fish and chip newness of paperbacks, she didn’t mind that at all, but the musty, mildewy scent of decaying fabric and horse glue.
These books filled her with gloom, and libraries filled her with dismay. She only visited them because Gloria found them so endlessly fascinating.