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.
He’d never taken a dick pic before, or so he said.
Me, I scoffed.
“Unlikely. Not even to check for lumps and bumps, assess a decent shave job?”
He seemed offended that I asked. The only millennial who had not got to grips with phallic photography. Incredible.
I changed tack.
“May I see it, please?”
“Why?” He replied, cagily.
“I like dicks. I like you.. Stands to reason I might like whatever you’re packing in those boxers. You don’t have to say yes, obviously. But the idea of your cock turns me on.”
And I left it at that for a few days whilst he percolated his answer.
“I’ll help you tidy up.”
He smiles shyly at me as we collect fistfuls of beer bottles, paper plates and shredded crisp packets. Soon the front room is habitable, almost. I stretch upwards, suddenly tired. It’s 3am, no wonder.
“Can I sleep on your sofa?”
We both look down at the suite. Cameron is unfurled along most of it – he was my ride here, the reason I ended up at this party held by my #1 crush, who is at my side watching my brother snore contentedly. He didn’t wake up once as we crashed about him.
“Well, you could…..” Tris agrees.
“I’ll think of something. Time for the washing up.”
He doesn’t stop me, just takes the glasses off me to dry, and pops them back in the cupboard, in silence.
We head to his room silently too – I swear I’m only going to get my bag, check my phone. Maybe call a cab and kick Cam until he’s awake enough to come home.
I’m suddenly too hot and though I should be thinking about leaving, I pull off my cardigan and reach down into my bag for a hairband to keep my hair out of my flushed, sweaty face.
“Why don’t you just crash here?” his voice behind me, he’s taken his shirt off, too. His chest is wide, defined by the hair that’s as dark as his head. I feel like I’m drowning as I look at him.
Note: Everyone in this scenario is an adult well over the age of 18, only experimenting with educational power dynamics.
Six months and whilst our romance still burns, I accept and expect to be pushed. To be punished. To be treated sternly on occasion. And Sir, you oblige.
Sunday School is my favourite. This is where I excel. This is my absolute favourite. Before I button my crisp white blouse – before my Sir I never ironed at all, and blush to think of myself as a slattern – I brush out my hair, parted and plaited, enough to grip. To instruct.
I’m wearing my school uniform, naturally. Actually, it’s your school uniform, your tie in house colours burgundy and gold. And a crest. My school never had a crest.
I have to be ready for 9am lessons. You have a room. I don’t ask how you got it. Two desks and one wall lined with books. At Sunday School, Sir is absent. There is only Sir. It is Sir who calls “Enter.” when I knock and walk primly through the door, clutching books to my chest.
“Good morning, Sir.”
“Miss K. You are late. Over the desk.” You don’t even look up, you only stand and watch me spread myself over it as instructed. This time it’s not the belt but your hand. My knickers are pulled down to mid thigh before I even realise it.
“Repeat after me. ‘Lateness will not be tolerated’,”
“Lateness-” the first smack makes me gasp.
“Will not. Be tolerated.”
I repeated after you. Each time the sting is more pronounced, the ache in my cunt deeper. On the sixth stroke your hand lingers, bringing its own heat. I will not cry.
“Did you do your homework, or am I going to have to invoke further penalties?”
I like to watch you work. I suppose I’m not supposed to linger near you, cocking my head and watching the muscles flex and regroup across your arms and shoulders.
In summer your shirt drenches with sweat and I can almost see the hair on your chest and under your arms through the coarse material.
Some days it rains and I catch you with your head skywards, cursing the grey clouds, the Lord, but mostly the frugal landowner and his refusal to hire another man to share your heavy load. I heft the basket of firewood higher on my hip, noting the brief, startling throb between my thighs before I pick my way through the mud back to the house.
It rains for five days almost solidly. There are brief respites of sun before the land is sodden again. And you work on, in a heavy oilskin.
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.