Her husband

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

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Three (Smutathon 2018)

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.”

“More specific.”
“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.”
“And?”
“Just looking. Her eyes are wide. She’s stroking the rim of her champagne glass.”

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The View (Smutathon 2018)

This was for the excellent Afro Film Viewer for his kind Smutathon donation and the only story I managed to contain within my own wordcount.

I’ve seen them before. They never seem to close their curtains. Their front room faces directly onto mine – only the width of the narrow, foot traffic only street between us. I’ve seen them eat dinner, row. Sit in the eerie blue glow of the TV as one of them slowly nodded off.

Older couple. 50’s maybe. Her older than him. Dyed blonde Helen Mirren hair. He’s rough, dark. Probably stubble.

I shouldn’t watch. Because it’s rude, because their lives aren’t that interesting. But my eyes will always drift over to them and that’s how I find myself now, eyes drifting from the film on my TV to the view across the street.

They’re kissing. She’s in control, at least to start. She straddles his waist, swallowing him alive. Kissing his mouth, neck, across his chest. That’s when he grabs her. Pulls her close. Whispers in her ear.

She sinks to her knees and I creep closer to my own open window. Aware they might see but unable to tear my eyes away.

I watch her reach between his thighs and wrap her fingers around his cock. It’s big enough for me to be able to see it from here. Watch him grab the back of her head and push her down onto it, his head thrown back.

I feel my own cock star to twitch. I watch her head bob up and down.

I reach inside my jeans and imagine her touching me how she’s touching him.

He holds her down and down and down until she pulls back, chest heaving. Beautiful.

She swallows him again, faster, faster and I stroke my cock, faster, faster.

Over the warm summer breeze I hear him growl “Swallow it all you filthy bitch.” and as she swallows his load, I feel my own rise and spill out over my hand.

As the mellow high of climax washes over me I’m sure I hear her voice.

“Do you think he enjoyed that?”

 

Ten. (Smutathon 2018)

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.

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The Gift (Smutathon 2018)

This piece is shared with the permission of Honey for whom it was written with much love, for her kind donation.

Sometimes when we go out, he sees me, catches me looking at other women. Once he sat smirking as I shyly flirted with the attendant in a first class train carriage, giggling in awe at her glossy black hair and curvy bum.

As I tied myself in knots and listened to her talk to me about the lipstick she was wearing, his hand was in my lap, crawling under the lace of my knickers, feeling how wet her prettiness had made me and rubbing my clit as hard as he could without making the table shake. When I came I buried my head in his shoulder and he apologised to her slightly bemused face.

“She’s been up since five, I think she’s having a sugar crash.”

She nodded sympathetically and fetched a tiny can of coke and a tumbler and when she turned away he poured out my drink and dipped his come-smeared fingers in it, feeding me the sugary mixture as we sped onwards.

He watches me watch beautiful women like her. Women with immaculate make up in men’s suits. Pretty, voluptuous nymphs in girlish knee highs and 50’s bubblegum dresses. Tall, elegant queens who walk through the world like they own it because they do. Different kinds of beauty but all equal. He watches them too. He knows what my heart yearns for. My heart full of him, but wants something he cannot provide, that I am too scared to pursue.

His office Christmas party. Formal dress. He picks out his favourite – a long velvet gown that brings out the red lights in my hair. Heels, but I still only come up to his shoulder. Champagne cocktails with raspberries, canapés, and his assistant, radiant in a silky whip of nothingness, glancing in my direction. She and I have spoken many times – conspired and commiserated over my love’s stubbornness. I have never seen her so regal, with a cleavage that heaves and wobbles in all the right ways.

When my shoes threaten to floor me, I perch on a low sofa and she sits beside me, calm and soothing.

“She wants you, you know. Has had a crush on you since the day she saw you.” His breath hot upon my ear.

“She does?”
“She does. Why wouldn’t she? See her watching you. She aches.”

This Goddess returns with the glasses, our fingers touch as she passes one to me and sits so close to me our thighs are pressed tightly together.

“You look edible.” She says, her eyes on my glossy lips, my breasts.

“I…..” I swallow. “You are stunning.”

Her smile is warm and deep and I fall gladly, drowning in her as she kisses me. Kisses me in this exposed place that feels secluded, with her hand on my waist as if it had always belonged there. She only breaks away to take my hand and lead me swiftly through the great hall and into the corridor which is dark and deserted.

A statue of the founder’s mother in the centre, watches us as she seats me in the centre of the wide, imposing staircase and kneels before me, kissing along my inner thigh as my body shivers with goose pimples and icy fear of being found. But she will not be deterred, licking my damp knickers and peeling the fabric away from my cunt, pushing her agile fingers inside me as her tongue assaults my clit, interspersing her manipulations with adoration.

“Oh you taste so good. So savoury. So delicious. I knew you’d be delicious.”

She is ravenous for me.
I gently hold her head and bring her lips to mine again. Her kisses more valuable than her touch but she is still within me as we kiss, as she strokes my cheek before the hand glides lower and slips inside my gown to roll my nipple between her fingers. It is this which makes me come for her. Moan in delightful anguish with my face in her shoulder, and in the darkness, his eyes watching us, with his heart full.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Come one, come all (Smutathon 2018)

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.

Perfect.

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The Smut Relay Part 6 – Sisters.

Continued from Smut Relay Part 5 – A Curved Blade by Molly Moore

Eleanor’s Grandfather was a butcher – a small, stocky Greek man with the biggest smile and the shortest fuse. From him she had learnt and taken to heart the necessity of keeping a blade sharp; and she loved to watch him sharpen his tools on the leather strop that hung against the whitewashed wall of the shop. When her father took over the business and insisted on upgrading to an electric sharpener, Eleanor had asked if she could keep the leather as a memento of the happy memories watching her Grandfather.

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Cheesecake

I tease. I poke. I prod. We bicker. We bicker. We bicker. Friends for a while. Never made it to lovers, brief or otherwise. More adopted sibling than fuck buddy. But hugs that last a fraction too long. Bend at the waist to flash my knickers. Smack my arse as we pass on the stairs.

No blood shared. No awkward Christmases.

Early Saturday morning, wearing a T shirt, long socks, nothing else. Bend at the waist to flash my thighs. Head buried in the fridge, reaching for the last piece of chocolate cheesecake. His slice. His slice we all swore we would leave so he could enjoy it today. In my hands, melting slightly with the guilty heat. Heavenly sour sweetness on my tongue, crammed into my slutty mouth as I hear his footsteps on the staircase, in the hall, on the tiled kitchen floor.

“What are you doing?”

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Dancing with myself (Smutathon2018)

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.

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Mrs Robinson’s Day Out (Smutathon 2018)

THREE! 1960s al fresco sex with a lovely photo from the gorgeous eye.

Mary Spencer (nee Robinson) got married in the summer of 1939. By 1940 she had a baby in her belly and by 1941 she was a widow, her husband Harry bought it in Tobruk, and she packed up the house and baby Elizabeth and moved back to her family home in Brighton.

They remained there almost happily – mostly happily – for more than twenty years. Elizabeth grew up as Betty, then Lizzy, until finally settling on Beth whereupon she found herself under the eye of Mr Jones Junior from the butchers and from then she soon found herself, courting, engaged, married, and pregnant with one, two and finally in 1965 a third and final child (the boy).

In 1966 the Jones’ moved to London where Mr Jones Junior was set to open his own independent butchers.

In 1967, Mary Spencer (nee Robinson) was invited by Beth-was-Lizzy-formerly-Betty Jones-nee-Spencer to spend the summer with her only daughter and their family.
Mary knew she was being used as cheap labour to mind the babies whilst her daughter ran errands, but didn’t much mind. The children were sweet-natured, not especially rowdy. The baby slept most afternoons and drank his milk with gusto.

At night she slept in the spare bedroom of the shoebox flat – Mr Jones Junior always saying that ‘as soon as the business is flying then it’s a 3 bed semi in Clapham for us, young lady.’

After a few weeks cooped up in the flat with short jaunts to the park, Beth-was-Lizzy-formerly-Betty told her mother to take some time out for herself.
“Go to the park, mum. Go and stretch your legs and get some sun and have an ice cream and enjoy yourself.” She handed her mother a ten shilling note and shooed her out of the door.

Mary hadn’t had sex since September 1939. Not quite the exact day that Hitler invaded Poland but close enough for her to cringe at the thought. She wasn’t that type. She wasn’t that generation. She didn’t use the word vagina. She didn’t consider her own breasts apart from when she was assessing whether her dresses needed taking up or in or out.

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