The House Next Door (Wicked Wednesday)

Almost every flat I’ve ever lived in has had thin walls and noisy neighbours. I once shared a adjoining wall with a couple who would have loud arguments each night at 11pm, soon to be followed by even louder (make up?) sex.
Once I heard the male of the couple shout ‘perineum’ mid argument. The rest of the sentence is long gone but this one word remains lodged in my psyche and no amount of mind bleach can remove it.
This story is about much nicer neighbours.

Eavesdropper

The house next door had been a mystery since the day she’d moved in. In a long street where the large semi-detached homes had been long since sliced into smaller and smaller flats for the young professional masses, the dirty white building had one letterbox, and a solitary intercom button.

Of course it could just have been a family home; but there never seemed to be anyone around, adult, child or otherwise. In fact for the entirety of her first two weeks, the building remained in resolute darkness and she began to assume it was just an empty building, derelict, neither bought nor sold.

The next Saturday night, she was settling into bed with pages of bookmarked articles to read and half a bottle of house-warming Prosecco to keep her company, when she heard it. The familiar, satisfying thud of a bedhead smacking against a wall.

She blushed, then laughed.

“Good for them.” she thought, tipping an imaginary cap to whoever was getting down and dirty in the room next to hers and pouring another slug of wine into her glass.

The noise continued, quickening. She caught the sound of a woman laughing, moaning, and a man doing likewise. And another, deeper male voice that was gruff. She felt a slight twitch in her cunt as it dawned on her there was more than a pair of lovers in the room beyond the brickwork.

Embarrassed again she tried to settle into HuffPo’s weekly end of the world digest but she couldn’t ignore the thump-moan-thud-squeal filling her ears.

If she lost concentration for more than a second of two she began imagining the scene playing out. A delicate, chubby girl, wickedly beautiful like a debauched fairy being shuttled between two men, with others watching as she was used for pleasure and filled full of come. She could see the mess trickling down between the woman’s thighs and out of her mouth as she rolled over and the next man buried his face between her thighs to clean her.

Ultimately unable to clear her mind of this scene, our prim, confused and not a little aroused heroine had no option but to decamp to the living room and spend the night on the sofa, wrestling with the bedclothes.

Silence resumed for the rest of the weekend.

At first she didn’t notice that the next time it happened was exactly a month later. The third Saturday of the month.

Arriving home after a late night she fell in a wobbly fashion across the bed and heard giggling. Women’s giggling. Three or more? She shuffled closer to the wall and pressed her ear against the plasterwork, the noise suddenly far louder than she’d expected as she was confronted by waves of delectable moans and giggles and muffled words that might have been “fuck” repeated over and over.

This time she had no defence against the fantasy, succumbing to the vision as she deciphered the high pitched squeals as a bound girl receiving punishments, lashes against her cunt and breasts and brought to orgasm over and over and over again. She pictured the same woman she had done the night before. A voluptuous pixie with a wicked smile.

One of the voices grew suddenly muffled and this she knew meant there was now someone sat atop the captive’s face, making that beautiful face useful.

She couldn’t help herself and heaved her beer-fuelled body upright, reaching under her pillow for her vibe and bracing herself against the wall as she pressed it to her pubic mound and listened intently. She ground her cunt harder and harder, mimicking the tempo of the voices beyond the wall, fantasising about how she’d use the pretty girl’s tongue on her clit, instructing her exactly how to make her come, and as they grew louder and more urgent so did she, until she came, falling onto the pillows and muttering fuck over and over.

“Hello?” came a not-so-muffled voice from somewhere near her forehead. Soft and inviting.

She had been louder than she thought.

As she tried to control her breathing, the voice came again, like a spell; like music.

“Sounds like you were having a nice time. We’re having a nice time too. Maybe we could have a nice time together some time soon?”

She slept on the sofa again.

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

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Glastonbury 

So last year I was writing this revenge fantasy about a dickhead who did me wrong. It includes this passage alluding to an occasion whilst watching festival footage on TV. 

The audio is housed on my alternative/old blog but if you’d like to visit it:

Here it is.
Enjoy. 

Nightmare (Wicked Wednesday)

Note: DD/lg kink – if Daddies and their littles are not your bag, you can skip this one. Both characters are significantly over 18, and are not related to one another.

Emily awoke sweating, trembling and paralysed with the fear of a dream she couldn’t quite remember. She turned her face into the pillow and rubbed her forehead against the rough texture of his sheets. The coarse fabric on her skin was soothing, but still she gulped for air, which wasn’t easy with a mouthful of pillowcase.

Emily began to whimper, her eyes streaming, her nose running and her body crushed at the very edge of the bed.

He was asleep. She didn’t want to bother him with the bad dream that had turned her into a crumpled child, so instead she whimpered some more. Whimpering wasn’t helping so she opened her mouth and began to suck her thumb, digging her teeth into the pad and paddling her feet into the duvet until they were trapped between the layers.

In the dream she was swimming. The water turned to a thick, bitter syrup and choked her, then she felt a hand on the back of her neck, holding her down. Her feet began to sink into the muddy bottom of the pool and that was when she began to struggle and woke up grateful for the warm, clear air of the bedroom.

She couldn’t put it off any longer. She’d tried to cope like a big girl and it hadn’t worked. Emily rolled over to where he was flat on his back, snoring gently, the fur on his chest rising and falling. She rested her head where the thickest pelt grew and spoke downwards into his belly button.

“Daddy?”

He sleepily placed his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him.

“You had a bad dream.”
“I had a bad dream.” She sniffed in agreement. “I’m getting snot in your chest hair.”
“Doesn’t matter. What was your dream, kitten?”

“Choking….. drowning….. there was mud…… I couldn’t…….” she trailed off, sinking into happiness, curling her tongue around the hair. She placed her hand around the base of his cock, the comforter, the source of serenity, and snuggled closer to him.

“There, there. Shush…… You’re ok now my love.”
He kissed the top of her head and she ran her thumb down the shaft gently, repetitive, even strokes. The skin was smooth and warm under her fingers and made her happy. Happy and sleepy. She smiled into his chest.

“I love you, Daddy. Night night.”

Yawning, she wrapped her body around his like a warm winter coat, and was soon asleep, the bad dream all but forgotten; her brow soothed.

More Wicked Wednesdays this way!

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

Hands, knees and bumps-a-daisy (Wicked Wednesday)

Those of us who grew up in the country will know at least one person who learnt to drive doing circuits of their uncle’s field at a frighteningly young age, probably without a seatbelt.

We were visiting his parents, and within that visit, spending an afternoon in the barn conversion of some parental friends. Everyone else had gone on ahead, whilst I, being terrible at decision making at the best of times, had spent ten minutes picking out shoes, ended up making us late. And lateness breeds unfortunate consequences.

We drove along personably enough for ten minutes, out of the suburbs with their neat-ish gardens and rows of newer terraces with useless chimneys and Chelsea tractors in the driveways. Once the houses began to peter out and were replaced by sprawling fields and dotted homesteads, his manner changed. He pulled into a layby a couple of minutes later, and without turning to look at me, ordered me into the back of the car.

“And take this. You’ll need something to keep your mouth busy.” he handed me the hdeously-coloured suction cup dildo we mostly kept because it made us giggle. No one was even smirking, now.

I didn’t argue, and went to sit in the back. I could see him looking at me in the rear view mirror as I leant over and closed the passenger door.

“No, on your knees. Hands and knees. All fours. Like a dog.”

I nodded again and assumed the position. He started the car and pulled away, continuing on the journey as I concentrated on keeping myself upright, the silicone cock hitting the top of my mouth with every bend of the road.

“Knickers down.” He called out, turning left down a narrow dirt road with high fields of wheat on either side. I pressed my face into the seat for balance as I reached under my skirt and pulled the underwear to my knees.

The dildo bulged obscenely against my cheek as he slowed down.

“Now, there’s another five minutes of slow driving down this lane until we get to the house. You’re going to take that cock and stick it against the car door – that’s right.” He registered approval in the tilted central mirror as I took the spit drenched tool out of my mouth and passed it between my legs, both of us watching as I used all my viable strength to smack it against the plastic surface and hoped it would hold.

“You don’t need me to tell you what to do next, do you?”

I shook my head, and slowly impaled myself on the dildo, my eyes never leaving the reflection of his. He said there was five minutes until our arrival, but who knew how honest he was being? It could be two minutes, leaving me pinned to the car via my dripping cunt as a small crowd of well-wishers crowded round to meet the prodigal son’s girlfriend. The unlikely outcome that they would press their faces against the glass and call for the windows to be opened so they could paw at me, taunt me, and some of them could show their appreciation for my display with a shower of approval, to be licked off by still others….. that kept me going as the shadows of the farmer’s wheat  dwindled away and the later afternoon sun cast its shadows over my body as we approached the house. My only intention was to make the most of the punishment he had chosen, and the minutes to enjoy it he had so generously given.

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

Wicked Wednesday – Wedding Belle Blues

Content warning: degradation. NSFW. Please avoid if you are squeamish about such things!

Prompt: Wedding

This is dedicated to my dear Hannah. With love x

“He’ll never love you.” She said weakly to her reflection, a vision with puffy red eyes and crumbs of mascara peppered around them like funereal glitter. Her flushed chest matched the crimson hue of her eyelids. The bridesmaids dress, which had once held her like a lover and accentuated the curve of the arse that the groom had fucked the night before his engagement party, now hung a little less naughtily, gaping where her hunched shoulders diminished the volume of her breasts, threatening to be exposed by the dress, that was now sizes too small.
She reached underneath her skirts and pulled off the plain black briefs, sodden. She pressed them to her face, her own arousal seeping onto her pink cheeks. Peering at the mirror over the bundle of wet material, she continued.
“You’re stupid and gross and ugly.”
Goose pimples of excitement rose on her arms as she said the words. She shifted on the hard wooden surface of the chair, seven layers of tulle netting grating her skin. She pictured the raw, red rash on her thighs, maybe even drawing little spots of blood here and there. She shifted so that her outer lips spread against the seat.
Six months before the wedding, she’d sat in this position on the groom’s face. His tongue was jabbing into her cunt and he left handprints on her arse that took over a week to shift. The fading bluish bruise of his fingertips nipped at her skin when the bride rang to ask her to be a bridesmaid.

Slowly she worked the cum-drenched underwear into her mouth, staring at herself in the glass.
“Pig.” She thought, and moaned as her clit rubbed against the polished surface of the chair.
“No, stupid girl, not yet. Not yet.” Her inner voice admonished.
She controlled herself to absolute stillness, and when she had tuned out the sounds of the wedding party two floors below, she brought a hand to her cheek, drew it back and then smacked herself in the face. She gasped and felt giddy, her heart racing. Her face was even pinker and puffier than before. Her own taste filled her mouth and her nipples stiffened.
She pulled the knickers out of her mouth and put the wadded fabric between her thighs, grinding against it.
“Stupid pig.” She muttered disdainfully, then looked at herself again. Right in the eye.
“Stupid. Pig.” She said, loudly, clearly, enunciating each word as she began to hump the ball of panties. She reached into the front of the dress and exposed her breasts to the chill air of the bridal suite.
“Stupid ugly fucking slut.” She ground her cunt harder against the wad. Harder and harder, feeling her climax build.
The groom had liked her on all fours, all holes accessible as he took his fancy. That morning as she helped the bride get ready for the most important day of her life, he had texted her with her instructions, and slipped the duplicate key card into her cleavage as surreptitiously as he could at the wedding breakfast. It had dug into her skin and made her smile all through vegetable soup, chicken supreme and strawberry shortcake.
Her cunt began to clench as if grabbing for an imaginary cock, her clit rubbed raw. She looked up and smacked herself in the face again and her orgasm crept closer and closer. She grabbed at her breasts and pinched her nipples until the flesh turned white and on a final, triumphant cry of “You gross, disgusting, stupid, ugly pig.” She came and wet her knickers for the second time. She had to grab the back of the chair tightly as her first instinct was to collapse forwards. She tried to catch her breath as she heard the faint beep of the door being unlocked, and the handle being turned.
The bride and groom stood in the doorway.
“Well, well, well – what have we here?” Said the bride with amusement.
“I’ll see you two later.” The groom offered, the same note of smugness in his own voice. They were perfect for each other. Made for each other.
The bride lifted her skirts, seven layers of tulle.
“On your knees, stupid pig. It’s my turn now.”
The bridesmaid felt her stomach lurch with lust as she fell to the carpet and raised her reddened face to her mistress’s cunt.

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

A First Meeting

Last year I ran a Giveaway, for which the winner of the Kink Craft cuff set and personalised erotica was Mistress Heather
Her request was specific ‘a first meeting between her and myself, and, after a very long gap, it is finally finished and has her approval for you guys to read it, too.

As I stepped off the carriage onto the platform, my heel caught in the pattern that peppered the tile intermittently, guiding blind commuters to the spaces where the doors would slide open. I skidded forward on my heels – higher, pointier than I was used to – and in the crush of bodies, fell awkwardly onto my knees.  Humiliation as fuel for the early morning workers of London, the crowd stopped for what felt like a full minute, silence followed by stifled laughter. Or not so stifled. Then they moved on.
As the crowd eventually thinned and I looked about me, I found myself looking up into her face. “Good morning.” She said evenly, without emotion. She didn’t hold out a hand to help me up, just watched as I scrambled to my feet and brushed the platform dirt off my skirt.
“Good morning, Mistress.” I replied.
“Clumsy.” She observed, turning on her heels – higher, pointier than any I had ever seen, and she moved on them as though she was barefoot. “Follow.”
She walked quickly, cutting through the thrust of human traffic imperiously with me scuttling behind her like a naughty child.
Outside the station, she hailed a cab.
“The Dorchester.” She instructed the driver, and made herself comfortable. I clutched my bag to my chest and began to worry if I was dressed appropriately for the swankiest hotel in the country.
“Your skirt is very short. Your blouse very low cut.” She said, directing her words out of the window, rather than to me. “And you cannot walk on those heels at all, can you?”
“No, but I was directed to.”
“You were. You can follow a simple instruction. Alert the press.”
I glanced down at her own skirt, clinging to her thighs, tapering at the knee, just above her shiny black boots.
“I’m taking you for afternoon tea, and we’ll see if you can act like a lady once I’m finished with you. If not, I’m sure I’ll find a use for you.”
She turned her head briefly to look down at my legs, then returned her gaze to the grey pavements of the city, only saying.
“I do hope that’s not a ladder beginning in your stockings.”
We carried on the rest of the journey in silence.

The hotel was just as palatial as I had feared. A doorman in a long grey coat and a cap nodded to us deferentially as we entered the building. An elderly be-suited gentleman at a podium looked up when we approached the drawing room.
“Ladies.”
“Heather.” She said, simply. And he nodded.
“Of course, we’re expecting you. Clotilde- “He motioned to a young girl in shades of black and white. “Will show you to your table. And I hope you don’t mind, but you’ll find a chilled bottle of the Dom Perignon 2002 waiting for you. A gift from Mr Petit.”
The faintest smile crossed her lips.
“Thank you.”
He bowed his head and Clotilde lead us through the plush, flower-filled room to a central table, surrounded by chattering women wolfing down their afternoon teas. An almost baying audience for whatever she would inflict on me. My heart began to thud. True to his word, ‘Mr Petit’ had left a large bottle of vintage champagne waiting for us, and a card.
When we were both seated, she reached for the note and read it, smiling again.
“One of the lesser managers here. He’s into CBT and tiny cock humiliation. I only idly mentioned I was coming here and- “She motioned to the bottle, evidence of her power and skill of manipulation.
Clotilde returned to take the orders for drinks, everything else having been taken care of.
“ Lapsang Souchong and a glass of milk, Semi-skimmed, tepid, for the girl. Thank you.”
Clotilde nodded and left to attend to our requirements.
After examining the cutlery for scuffs and soap spots, Heather rested her hands on the table and looked at me.
“What are your words?
“Yes, Mistress. No, Mistress. I don’t know because I’m stupid, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress.”
“Good girl. Once again, simple instruction didn’t fox you. Now, your clothes.”
For the first time since our meeting an hour ago, she let her gaze wander over my outfit as I tried to sit up straight with my knees pressed together.
“Undo the top button on your blouse.”
She instructed, as Clotilde returned with an ornate china teapot and a child’s beaker of milk. The waitress politely turned her eyes away from my exposed flesh, informing Heather that the first course of finger sandwiches and savoury pastries would be out shortly.
“Now another button. I want to see if you can follow other simple instructions.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
When the flash of lace on my bra was visible, she held up her hand. It had been a very specific instruction; white lace, new, a size too small so my flesh spilled obscenely out of it.
“Perfect. I’m even a little impressed you have followed this instruction to the letter.”
“Thank you, Mistress.”
She nodded, and sipped her tea.
“Drink your milk.”
I took a sip. Though I had made a quiet face of disgust – away from her view, of course – when she had told Clotilde to bring me my milk at room temperature, the unusual warmth began to soothe me a little.
When I put the glass down, she raised her hand.
“Stand up.”
I stood with my hands crossed in front of me.
“Come here.”
I walked calmly over to her and stood at her side.
Without so much as a glance about her, she reached under my skirt, up my thigh until her rouge noir nails grazed the chubby flesh of my pubic mound.
“Disgraceful.” I could hear the smile in her voice, feel her pleasure as she carefully extended her index finger and dug the nail sharply into the fat, twisting it, gauging my reaction. I inhaled sharply and coughed. My eyes threatened to water, but I swallowed and kept my gaze on the painted archway before me, wondering what our genteel audience were possibly thinking.
“You were positively panting to act like a little slut today, weren’t you? I bet when I told you to take your knickers off on the train down you had to be stopped from debasing yourself in that stinking toilet cubicle.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“And why is that?”
“I don’t know because I’m stupid, Mistress.”
“Yes you are.”
A second finger passed between my outer lips, but I knew this was only to see what her touch had done to me. Any pleasure of mine was inconsequential, only hers in torturing and playing with me held any importance. The only importance.
“You are very wet, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“You like it when I hurt you, don’t you?”
She jabbed her finger harder when I took a second too long to answer.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Fetch me your knickers.”
When I leant over my bag to retrieve them, she called out. “Bend at the waist, not at the knee.” Knowing that the split in my skirt would reveal the lower curve of my backside to every pair of eyes behind me.
I returned to her side and held them out. She fingered them briefly for a moment or two, examining the damp white lace.
“Now, then. Shall we stuff your stupid mouth, or your slutty wet cunt? Of course, a cunt like yours should be plugged to stop you letting it do your thinking for you; but if I stuff your mouth then you can’t embarrass me by saying something foolish. And I do so hate to be embarrassed by unthinking, selfish submissives. Come here and open your mouth.”
I obeyed, and knelt beside her. With the hand she had used to torture me, she smoothed the hair over my forehead, and began to push the fabric between my lips, filling the space up until my eyes bulged. The tiniest sliver of white was visible. She nodded.
“Sit down, I can see the waiter with our sandwiches.”
I sat and watched as a young man in his twenties appeared with a tiered cake stand and set it on the table.
“Cream cheese and cucumber, ham and tomato and plain cheese sandwiches. Creamed mushroom pastries, and beef wellington amuse bouche. Would Madam like me to pour her champagne?”
“Please. And a small glass for the girl, she can’t handle her alcohol at all.”
The waiter nodded and poured out a half measure into my glass before bowing and leaving, though not without a glance at my chest which he thought was surreptitious, but very much was not.
Heather wiped her mouth and selected two sandwiches for herself, before picking up a third and placing it on my plate. Plain cheese. I looked down at it, my mouth awash with the rough texture of lace and the faint taste of my own arousal. I knew she was watching me. Waiting to see what I would do.
I folded my hands in my lap and looked across at her.
“Oh dear. Your mouth is full and you can’t enjoy your sandwich.”
She punctuated this with a bite of her own, a large one, which she chewed slowly, purposefully. Swallowing, she took a second bite and the rest of the morsel disappeared down her throat.
“What a pity. What a shame. Your mouth is all full up. And you can only sit dumbly and watch me eat my delicious lunch.”
And that is exactly what she did. She ate sandwiches, and delicate pastry tarts, all the while looking at me, laughing when my salivating mouth betrayed me and a stream of drool coursed from the corner of my mouth, down my neck.
When the waiter came to take the savouries away, he noted my single, now slightly dried and curling sandwich on the plate before me.”
“Such a fussy eater.” Heather said simply, shaking her head in embarrassment at my refusal of their delicious food.
“Perhaps she’ll perk up when the sweet arrives. Chubby little girls often do.”
The waiter, trained as they all were to cater to the fancies and cruelties of the moneyed, nodded politely, and removed the demolished plates of savouries. Before he had quite left, she instructed “Undo another of your buttons.”
This time she took out her phone and snapped a photo of me, all bulging cheeks and breasts, gazing blankly into the camera.
“I would like another with you looking more pained, more desperate. Try again.”
She held her phone up again, and I allowed my resolve to fall away, my tears to flow and my eyes to plead. Satisfied, she tucked the phone away.
“I think you may have suffered enough, or at least I’ve grown bored of your muffled voice, when all I should hear is your plaintive “Yes, Mistress. No, Mistress.”
She leant over and placed my champagne glass before me. The old-fashioned kind, wide brimmed and shallow, rather than a tall, skinny flute.
“Open your mouth.”
She whipped her phone out again for a third photo.
“Now spit.”
The wad of sodden fabric fell into the glass with a surprisingly delicate splash, coinciding with the second tower of treats being set upon the table.
I blushed, but Mistress was having none of my embarrassment.
“Now, you didn’t touch your sandwiches so have you really earned your pudding? I’m not sure you have. And these cakes look so delicious. Look at those huge, fluffy scones with their dish of clotted cream. I know how much you enjoy cream and jam. The sensuality of the texture.”
The waiter departed again as she motioned to the sweet little pots on the middle tier.
“Why don’t you engage with the texture a little more? Why don’t you press your fingers into them?”
I faltered.
“It wasn’t a request, was it?”
“No, Mistress.”
“So why didn’t you do it immediately?”
“I don’t know because I’m stupid, Mistress.”
“You are.”
I slid my fingers into the seasonal jam – raspberry and rose – and clotted cream dishes and drew them out slowly, both thickly coated, one pink and glistening, one creamy white, like a slightly aged snowdrift.
“That’s right, you want to make sure your digits are entirely covered. And now you’re going to do some finger-painting. A simple word, because of your stupidity. Slut. All in caps. Now.”
I carefully spelled out the word across my exposed chest, the colours mixing a little as I finished the T and looked up into her face for approval. She was holding up her phone again.
“Now lick your fingers clean. Oh dear, now you’ve made even more mess on your stupid, pudgy face.” She tutted and put the phone away again. I watched her reach for a scone, spread it liberally with cream, then jam and place it, open-faced, on my plate.
“Eat your scone.”
She watched me take a mouthful, then returned her attention to her phone. I knew what she was doing; it was part of the agreement. There were select people those images would be sent to. Other Domintrices to show off her possession; other subs to make them feel guilty about their reluctance to debase themselves for her, my own phone, and that of my partner, sitting at the match, eagerly awaiting the picture documentation of the afternoon.
The scone was heavenly, and quickly finished. Heather, meanwhile, topped up her own glass of champagne, then poured a measure more over my knickers, displayed in mine. She took a decadent chocolate torte from the plate and, cutting it in two, leant over to feed me my own half. The filling was dense and velvety, and seemed to be even more decadent coupled with the sensation of Heather’s hand trailing down my neck, caressing the skin just above the creamy mess on my décolletage.
“Wasn’t that nice?”
“Yes, Mistress.” I replied, thinking of the damp markings I was leaving on my heavily upholstered chair, and smiling briefly.
“Good. Which macaron would you like?”
“The pink one, please?”
“Yes, you may take that one.”
Light as a feather, it almost crumbled in my hand, and melted away on my tongue like candyfloss.
It was now later enough in the day, that the afternoon tea crowd had dispersed quite a lot.
“I think there is still a little time left before I have to take you back to the station. And we can’t have you going out in public with your cunt on display, open for anyone to touch it, particularly you. Take your panties and come here.”
She knew that I knew what was coming left, and stood with my legs further apart then was natural. She took them from my hand, not bothering to wring them out, and once again her hand trailed up my thigh, a trickle of expensive champagne travelling down my calf as she began to push the sodden fabric inside me. Inch by inch, cold and wet, I inhaled sharply as she began to fill me.
“Now, hold up your skirt so we can send a nice photo to your beloved so he knows what to expect, and that you won’t get into any trouble on your way home.”
It must have been the flash that finally alerted someone to what we had been doing; the elderly gentleman from the podium walked quickly over to us as my skirt fell back to my knees and Heather swiftly removed her hand.
“Ladies….” He began, but she held up that self-same hand, shining in the artificial light with vintage champagne and girl-cum.
“Thank you, we were just leaving. But what a repast you provided for us. How delicious and satisfying, wasn’t it?”
I looked from her face, to his furrowed brow.
“Yes, Mistress.”
Agog, he made to speak again, but we had already gathered our things and were heading for the exit.
“I trust the car is waiting for us?” She called back over her shoulder, not waiting for a reply.
Of course it was.

The journey back to Euston was silent again, but as I sat with my hand resting on the spare seat between us, she very gently reached over and stroked my fingers.
She stepped out of the cab to straighten me out – button up my shirt, brush stray hairs from my face – and kissed me lightly on the cheek.
“We must do this again.” She said, smiling at me – specifically at me – for the first time that day.
“Yes, Mistress.”
I nodded, turning into the crowds. Of course, when I looked back, she had already gone.

Quickie (I)

From my sick bed, I bring you something short, about making the most of an awkward situation.

We had to give up, to press pause for a moment or two. Maybe even a day or two for a full recovery. The pain was bearable but the wince that clouded my face, and that he could differentiate between squeals of pleasure and squeals of pain, meant he only stroked my face as he bore down on me, his cock rubbing at the wet, welcoming flesh that separated my clit from my cunt.
“It’s ok. We have all the time. It’s ok.” He murmured, kissing my forehead, biting my ears; my arms wrapped tightly about his neck, so full of grateful adoration.
Still the head of his bare cock rubbed. I reached down, the sensation of his solid member lying in my palm forever exciting and inviting.
I jerked my hand back and forth gently and watched him close his eyes and swallow. I angled the head upwards, up the inviting path to my clitoris. My hips jerked. I rubbed harder, and began to use him to touch myself, looking into his eyes as I began to buck, only this once placing my pleasure before his own, as so often we gave ourselves over to each other as a matter of course and relished making the other writhe and moan that we did our own thrashings.
Well, almost.
I had never thought that using his cock in this way would be such an efficient way to masturbate, but of course it would be – the stimulus was only a part of the whole – of being held like I was so precious to him; of the granite-like erection in my grip; and my own comfort in his presence. Nothing had ever felt so right as this.
Before I really knew what was happening, I felt my cunt clench, my body go limp and the smile of satisfaction wash over my face.
He tightened the grip of his arms around me as my hand renewed its pattern of strokes around his cock.
“Here’s to next time.”

Barbados Blue

My entry into SexBlogOfSorts  #Polished Prompt Competition! Kind of came out fully formed in just shy of an hour, was kindly beta’d/proofed by Exhibit A amongst others, and is presented here for your amusement on this blustery day whilst I’m more or less quarantined from my actual job.

The prompt I was given was Barbados Blue, a kind of iridescent pearlised shade which looks just like the point where the sun glints off a perfectly aqua sea.

My story relies on that stable of literature: shoddy English weather. I wanted to write something that would warm the reader up on a less than cosy Winter morning.

Barbados Blue

When I woke up that morning, she was standing at the bedroom window, naked, looking out onto the street. It was dark – I checked my phone and was surprised to see that it was after 9am.
I sat up groggily and rubbed my eyes; hearing me stir she didn’t turn around but said softly,
“It’s raining. Drizzling. Been drizzling for an hour. The sky is grey. Colour of washed out socks.”
She lifted her left foot and rubbed the toes against the heel of the right.
“Get back into bed. You’ll get pneumonia.”
“If I’ve not pneumonia in the five years I’ve lived in this flat – in the fifteen years I’ve lived in this country – a bit of rain won’t kill me.”
Jeannie pressed her forehead against the pane, her bum jutting out even more than usual. I hated that her backside had been the first thing I’d noticed about her. That every cliché of sway and curvy lusciousness had enticed me to dance with her. I’d watched her own the narrow strip of dance floor in the only gay bar in the village. She was a whirlwind in a slouchy-yet-sophisticated t shirt and leggings that looked like they’d been sprayed on. It had taken three Tia Maria’s and coke to embolden me to ask if I could join her. Inseparable ever since she’d cocked her head, made lengthy eye contact with my tits and nodded, that wicked grin playing about her lips. Within a year that grin was basically foreplay.
“We haven’t seen blue sky in over a week.” She went on. “Makes me miss home, that’s all.”
“It’s January.”
“I know it’s January. It’s not my January though. It’s your shitty, damp, dark, cold, miserable…. Sorry.” She turned guiltily, her chestnut eyes sheened in contrition.
I pulled back the duvet.
“Come back to bed, and tell me what I’m missing from your January. Make me jealous. Make me squirm.”
Her smile was faint, but she padded over to me and slid under the quilt. I wrapped my arms around her, she smelt of winter chill and sadness. I squeezed the flesh of her upper arm, the muscles fed by her five mornings a week gym habit, and kissed her shoulder.
“The season is dry. While you’re dreading your early mornings in the darkness, we have sunshine and white sand beaches and tall, leggy beauties with perfect breasts and skin the colour of the autumn leaves.”
“What, just wandering around in their bikinis whilst they do filing? Even the lollipop ladies?”
“There are no lollipop ladies on Barbados-!” I bit her and she began to giggle, my arm sliding down over her stomach and tickling the inward curve of her waist.
“Stop that!”
“Stop what?” I moved the hand round and grasped a handful of her arse instead.
“You told me to make you jealous!”
“I know! But no one has breasts more perfect than mine, do they?”
I ceased my groping so I could peel off my t shirt. As soon as I was as naked as she, I watched her dive for my nipples, catching one between her teeth. I yelped.
“Perfect. Definitely perfect.” she muttered, her fingers pinching the other nipple as my hand found its way between her thighs, playing with the patch of damp curls. “But just a little more perfect under a perfectly blue Barbadian sky.”
“Oh no doubt.” I agreed, the tip of my index finger entering her gently, until she ground down on it so the length went straight in.
“Although,” she added, bucking against my finger, moving her face so she could murmur into my neck. “I’ll say one thing for the English January, that Barbados doesn’t have. Couldn’t ever have.”
“Horny, pasty English girls?” I said thoughtfully, slipping out from under her. “No, lie down.” I snapped, when she tried to follow me.
“Well, yes, but I wasn’t thinking about that. Although we did meet in the January, didn’t we?”
“We did. January 2009.”
“So I also have to credit the English January, the desperation it fires in me, with meeting my beautiful wife.”
“Indeed you do.” I agreed, hunkering down between her legs and pushing her thighs apart, gasping a little – as I always did, even after all this time – at just how startlingly beautiful her cunt was. I licked from the taut entrance to the apex where her clit was waiting for my attention. She groaned and gripped at the pillows around her.
“Yes-yes-yes. There. Just there. Fuck.” She whined, her fingers gripping slightly wildly at my hair, then my shoulders, then the fingers which were holding onto her hips. I looked up from my position, over her podgy little tummy, watching my beautiful Missus’ face.
“So you were saying…?” I prompted, returning to the task, this time fucking her with two of my fingers as I spread her further.
“I…. Um….. I….”
It’s cruel to expect someone to be able to maintain a conversation whilst they’re being forcefully brought to orgasm, isn’t it? I moved a little slower, and she calmed.
“Yes? What were you going to say?”
“Stop it…” she moaned.
I removed the fingers and looked up at her again.
“Oh. Ok.”
Her eyes widened.
“That’s not what I meant!”
“I know that’s not what you meant. But what’s sex without a little teasing?” I clambered up her body and planted a kiss on her lips. She grabbed my neck and pawed at my breasts as I did so, but only so she had purchase to shove me back down between her legs. She wiped her mouth.
“Finish the job.” She growled.
“With pleasure.” and within seconds she was writhing again, as I sucked, licked and fingered her, moaning into her delicious flesh as I felt my own cunt get wetter and wetter at her pleasure, and all I could do was grind against the duvet bunched beneath me.
“There. Oh fuck just there, so close!” She moaned louder and gripped my head, holding in me in position, moving my head back and forth until she hit the point of no return and made all those noises that make me spend a split second worrying about what the neighbours think of us.
She lay back down on the pillows, exhausted, and I kept my head down for a few moments, more, until she ceased her twitching. Then I scooted back up the bed and pulled the covers over both of us; she kissed me, licking her own taste from my lips.
Eventually she sighed and said.
“That’s the one thing Barbados can never have. Never in a month of Sundays.”
“What?”
She laid her head on my chest and cupped my breast, still partially freckled with goose bumps.
“The absolute delight of hot sex on a freezing cold day.”

Post Work

Reports of my having an oral fixation are grossly exaggerated…

 

Though your sight is limited, there are some things one knows, instinctively. This is what you think as she leans over you, smilingly passes you your glass of wine, and begins to unbutton your flies. You can see that her dress is already unbuttoned, so her breasts are displayed – you know the bolt of pleasure that flashed through her as she played and posed to find the optimum way to expose herself. And of course your eyes are drawn back again and again to the firm, dimpled, caramel sweetness of her nipples. Knowing that one finger briefly brushing them will make her ache and moan.

But you know her pleasure lies with your pleasure, with her position as your toy, to serve you. Your hand stays firm around the stem of the glass. She licks the tip of your cock before sinking her lips around the shaft, her head bobbing up and down smoothly for a minute or two as you sink back in your chair, sipping your wine and relax into her skill. She starts to take more of you deeper into her throat, and though she gags within seconds, she pushes through, until she snorts and kneads the carpet with her knuckles, desperate not to give in as her hands play with the sensitive sac beneath.

With her head bent to worship you, your gaze travels down her body to her arse, sticking proudly up in the air. She has no knickers on but you can’t see. You know she’s exposed though. That her inner thighs are damp. You look forward to seeing for yourself, later. To ravish her inch by inch until she’s trembling and content. Not yet, though.

You place your free hand on the top of her head, a crown of pinkish brown adorning her messily perfect hair. When she pulls away, your gentle but firm pressure keeps her there, breathing unevenly against your erection. She looks up into your eyes and wipes the snot away from her nose. The visual equivalent of gritting her teeth. You let her lean back a little and watch complacently as she spits saliva, precum and Prosecco over the shaft and her fingers curl around it, milking faster than you would have done, so desperate is she to be showered in your cum. She is sat back on her knees now, moaning softly as though she doesn’t realise it; the very act of pleasuring you stirring something deep within her. Oh God the thought of the sweetness gathering in her cunt makes your hips jerk against her mouth and she smiles, pulling harder, desperate, desperate.

No, not yet. You let the pressure on her scalp increase and she looks up expectantly as you push her away, a delicious string of fluid chaining your cock to her ruby red lips. You nod to her own glass on the table.

“A mouthful.” You instruct, and she drains the glass, her cheeks obscenely full of liquid but she knows you well enough not to swallow it. You know you need to work quickly, anyway. For the sake of the bubbles.

“Head back.” She leans away only enough to bare her exquisite throat until her eyes are fixed on the ceiling, her mouth agape and the only sound faint, sweet gargling from her throat as she forgets to breathe through her nose. You lovingly slide your erection back into her mouth, the sight of the wine flowing out when it’s displaced, and coursing down over her throat and chest making you even harder. She gags again, the bubbles going up her nose as they whirr not unpleasantly around your cock. You feel her tongue; she cannot resist. Her lips purse around you and still she doesn’t swallow. The liquid warms slowly, and you know you can’t last much longer. You yank your cock out of her mouth.

“Head up.” She complies.
“Let it drip out of your mouth. Slowly. Then you get your reward.”
So gleeful she looks as she tips her head to face me and I watch the skinny streams of alcohol run from her slightly parted lips. She opens them wider as the first creamy drops of my own begin to mix into her dishevelment, and in the harsh light of the sitting room lamp, she glows.

Nuts About You

This is  my second usage of Exhibit A’s story prompts. In fact, I started writing this story first, but for some reason I couldn’t get it to go in the direction I wanted it to, and then the bukkake poem fell out of me instead. (Sentences you don’t expect to say in your life, ever).

Ironically, I am at a point in my life where, after over a decade of exposure, I hate seasonal Christmas markets. The infest towns, they make getting anywhere in central Manchester a fucking nightmare and they’re full of overpriced tat that gets more overpriced each year. But I do have a soft place in my heart, and my mouth, for those cones of fresh, caramelised nuts they sell.
Hot nuts = The way to my heart.
Also, sorry about the punny title.

Nuts About You

True story: German accents get me wet. They have done for half my life. As soon as I stepped into that classroom in Year 9 and was handed a folder with a tiny pencil-drawn Reichstag on it, and felt the word roll pleasurably off my tongue. “Deutsch.”. Hooked. So there you have my explanation for what follows.

He worked in the seasonal markets. He sold hot nuts. (I’m not making this up, I swear.)
From that first time I saw him three years ago, and each following year I’d felt my face flush pink whenever I spotted that he was back again.
Every Friday during December I toddled down into the city centre, to the furthest reaches of the stalls, where he sat over his brazier, waiting for me. It felt like he was waiting, anyway.
“You again! More sugared almonds? You’ll turn into an Almond!” He said when he saw me the third week, recognising my red duffel/red beret combination.
“I have a sweet tooth.” I said. Handing over the cash in exchange for another box, I stuck out my tongue.
“I see.” He said knowingly, turning to make change.
He began to recognise me after that, and when we were on first name terms, even made passable attempts at my name, calling out,
“Aoife!” if he saw me approach and wasn’t with a customer. That made my heart jump more.
His name was Andreas. Or that was what was on the name tag he wore, at any rate. His accent was lush. To replicate it in print would probably ruin it. Cute face. Rugged facial hair. That midpoint between blonde and brunette. Brown eyes. Chunky. Like a bear.
“Like Bruno.” I said, one Friday in the second year. The winter was getting milder every day. My coat was undone and my hat and scarf shoved deep into my work bag.
“Bruno?”
“The bear? In Berlin? Bruno…. I’m imagining he has a name, aren’t I?” I was simultaneously trying to fish my purse out of the black hole of my bag, shoving my arm in and out wildly. It made my chest shudder. I caught him looking.
“You are. He’s just a bear. Four pounds please.”
Daylight robbery but who cares? I’d have handed over my wallet for them. For him
Nothing ever happened, though. The odd wink or flirty remark. How did I get him out from behind that counter?

My New Year’s resolution this year was to try a little harder.

“Andreas!”
He smiled broadly and reached over the rows of bags to take my hand.
“Aoife! I was hoping you’d be back.”
“Always. Where else would I get my nuts?”
By now he was used to British innuendo and laughed.
“I am sure you wouldn’t go wanting.”
“I wish.” I said quietly, adding “How’s business?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Slow. No one wishes to brave the rain. English rain. More rain than anywhere else in Europe.”
“Embrace it. This is nothing to us. Besides, it’s barely spitting now. Practically bone dry.” I said, fingering the boxes. He tapped my hand like a naughty child and gently moved them out of the way “Haven’t you heard of singing in the rain?”
“But it’s Christmas. How can you sing Christmas carols in a rain storm? Stille Nacht suits the quiet peacefulness of a crisp, virgin snowscape. Not so the damp English streets.”
“Jesus was born in the desert, you know.” Piped up the person behind me in the queue.
I winked at Andreas, who rolled his eyes as I stepped aside to let the punter buy his single, sad loop of lebkuchen hearts. This done, Andreas took a paper cone from his shelf and tipped a few of the nuts into it. He handed it to me.
“Each year you buy the plain sugared almonds we buy from the manufacturer. They are so much nicer, so much more pleasurable when they’re warm in the mouth. Try them.”
I couldn’t help it, I blushed, reddening but still self aware enough to make a show of closing my eyes before sticking my tongue out and placing the fattest, sugariest almond in the centre, savouring the sweetness washing over my tongue.
“Good, huh?”
I made the noise I usually make when I have someone’s face between my thighs; the guttural moan that rises from my chest and escapes between my gritted teeth.
When I opened my eyes he was still looking. I wished I could see the half of him that was hidden behind the brazier.
“Very good.” I said in a small voice.
“Do you have to rush away again tonight?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Good, wait there.”
A small line had developed, and as he began to serve them, I realised that somewhere nearby a choir was singing. Silent Night.
I started to sing along, in English, and he looked over. Once he’d served the last customer in the line, he shook his head.
“Sounds much better in German.”
“Alles besser auf Deutsch.” I said without thinking. His glance was approving.
“Not bad. Not great, but not bad.”
“I apologise for my clumsy English tongue. I try my best to work it around your complex vowel sounds. Please serenade me in German.”
He frowned.
“Not out here.”
He took the closed sign out from behind the till and hung it on the side of the kiosk. Then he turned the single glaring light bulb off, leaving only the soft glow of the fairy lights clustered in the eaves.
He lifted the hinged counter top.
“Come here.”
Though my knees immediately turned to mush I managed to make it inside. As the last hut at the end of the row, the sign was likely to stop anyone venturing past us.
“Sit.” He gestured to the corner of the tiny room.
“Are you going to sing for me now?” I said nervously. He was standing over me, I felt slightly afraid.
A slow smile spread across his handsome face. He reached behind and unfastened his apron as he began to sing, very sweetly but very quietly.
“Stille nacht…. Heilige nacht…. Alles schläft; einsam wacht.”
He folded the apron and laid it on the counter. Then he began to unbutton his shirt.
“Nur das traute heilige paar.”
He left the shirt on, and went to unzipped his flies. I could see his cock straining against the taut fabric of his jeans, but he seemed to reconsider and instead, got down on his knees.
“Holder knab im lockigten haar,”
He gently let his hands slide up my thighs and under my skirt. He pulled down my tights and knickers, to my ankles. He lifted his head to kiss me, very very gently on the lips.
“Now, translate.” He murmured, before ducking his head beneath my skirt.
“Silent night… Holy night…”
I felt those same kisses on my inner thigh, his hands kneading the flesh.
“All is calm…. All is bright…”
He spread the outer lips of my cunt apart, the other hand still stroking me.
“Round yon virgin mother and child…”
I gasped when he entered me with two of his fingers and let his tongue travel over my clit. His stubble burned my thighs. It was very difficult to consider singing, let alone singing in tune. I kept forgetting the words.
“Holy infant so tender and mild….. Oh, Oh God. Oh…..”
My thighs tensed, I’d been startled that he was making me come so easily, that I wasn’t bothered that we could be found out at any moment. I gasped and tried to keep my moans clenched and quiet as he kept his lips pursed around me, his fingers shuddering in and out. He was going for a second attempt. Fuck. I’d completely forgotten the words now. I stroked his head.
“I can’t remember the rest!” I whimpered.
He kept his head bowed for a little while longer – interspersing his elegant Teutonic tongue with pinches and soft little bites to the fat. The second orgasm was a smaller wave, a flood of warmth. Satisfied, he sat up and pulled my skirt back down so I was relatively modest. I was still blinking in quiet, sated disbelief that this had happened.
All I could do was rest my head against his chest as though it was meant to be there.
He held me closely and took up the final refrain.
“Schlafe in himmlischer ruh….. Schlafe in himmlischer ruh….”

As if on cue, it started to rain again.