Saturdays are for chores. Saturdays are for fun. Saturdays are for chores. I cannot be bothered. To strip the bed and wash the dishes and buy the groceries for next week but He says I must. Says I am to take care of myself as he would if he were here. Beautify your surroundings. Prepare for the week ahead. Look after that which looks after you.
But the work is tiring, works my already spent muscles until I am filmed with sweat and peevish.
It is His will. It is Necessary. Take care of that which looks after you.
I pause to check my phone. No message. No clue where He is. The mattress is heavy, the buttons at the edge of the duvet cover fiddly. When the job is done I lie in the centre, feet dangling from the foot of the bed, eyes closed. My head buzzes with fatigue and I do not notice the turning of the latch, His heavy, uneven tread as He walks towards me. It is the unclenching of the teeth on His zip I hear first. His hand on the hem of my t shirt and His warmth on my belly as He lifts the tee away from my body so He can see His possession.
I know He’s touching Himself, stroking His cock as He explores my terrain. Sometimes the smooth flesh brushes my cheek or lips; but He does not want my mouth. Does not want my interaction at all. I am a single image, a page briefly lingered on. Seen, admired, discarded until later.
He is breathing quicker now; more thickly. Raw moans, but considered, restrained. His palm on my breast feels heavier as He reaches climax, leaning over my body and directing the spurts over my breasts and mouth.
He cups my face in his hand, wiping his thumb over my lips, between them and I suck gratefully at His taste before he moves away.
He returns with the soft, warm flannel and He cleans me, softly murmuring “Take care of that which takes care of you.”
The dining chair was part of a collection that had been in the hands of the Douglass family for two centuries and some decades. It cost more than one of the scullery maids would make in all her years of service. This thought did not trouble Camilla. She stood at the farthest corner of the room and nodded complacently. Though the crowds would surely be pulsating and vast, she felt confident her audience would be able to see its gilded form from every possible viewpoint, and not miss one second of the sport.
Hector closed his eyes. He could hear the distant sounds of the approaching crowds, but his bindings prevented him from turning to face them as they entered. Though why should he wish to do so? To see the pity and lust in their eyes? He kept his gaze fixed to the floor. He swallowed. He sweated.
He had felt Camilla’s lips around his cock and then her nails in his thigh. But this was more than two hours previously. She had brought him to the room – the large drawing room, he realised with trepidation, gently lead him to the chair, the only item in the vast space, and stood gazing into his eyes as she undressed him. He moved only to allow her to remove his shoes, his britches, his fine jacket. Then she wrapped the heavy ropes around him, laughing as she did so, calling him her captive in a low, teasing voice.
Now he heard the heels of her boots on the marble floor, heard her unlocking the doors, and her haughty tones.
“Welcome, weary travellers. I hope you are in good spirits for this evening’s sport. Make room, spread yourselves out. I promise you will see something worthy whatever your vantage point.”
Voices became hushed when their eyes alighted upon him, but soon rose again to a murmur. Hector caught snatches of their conversation.
“… For breeding, I take it. Look at the size.”
“… This evening, I wonder…. I wonder at his thoughts on the matter.”
“Cowed and quite unlike himself. We never saw him so quiet in his manor.”
Hector almost smiled.
Soon the room grew thick with the heat of curious bodies. He knew what was approaching.
Each morning is a ritual, a step by step of tasks in an order devised by him for both their satiation. She awakes each morning, giddy with anticipation, and leans over to envelop her love in a kiss, an embrace, her bare arms sliding over his bare chest – pyjamas are only worn in the bleakest depths of winter.
He growls like a wolf at the scent of her perfume, of the two of them. Of the night before and fucking her until her limbs were weak.
Sleepily he takes her hand and draws it downwards, to his cock, already stiff and ready for her. She brings him off with her hand gratefully, easily, and wears his come with honour.
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.