Reunion

This is a follow up to Cheesecake, as requested by Quinn, as well as an entry into Exhibit A‘s Scrabble Challenge

You can play it off. You can pretend your hand just…. slipped. That’s what I could have done, claimed the passing of my knuckles against his crotch as an accident. I just grazed him, only for a second.

This was years later. Older. Greyer. Maybe fifty or sixty. At an anniversary party. We’d been in and out of conversation all night. Easy. Open. Just like normal.

But in that moment I remembered the history in the heat of his body, the density of it. And I craved it.

I looked up at him, swallowed, and made to step away, towards the bar, but he caught my wrist instead, turning the palm inwards.

“Why not get a proper feel of it?” He sniggered into my ear as my hand cupped him. “Since you like touching it so much.”
He placed his own fingers over mine and helped me to work the zipper down, and as I ventured inside the split in his trousers, he took my other hand and laid it smoothly against his neck. We might have been dancing, only he reached under my skirt, found the hole in my tights and worried at it with his thumb.

“And I’ll get a proper feel of you.”

The music was softer than moss but couples swayed around us, and we mimicked their easy rhythm filthily.

The hole grew larger. His fingers grew warmer. Grew clammy. And he grew fatter, firmer at my touch, both of us shuddering with the other’s movements. He moved his hand from between my thighs to the open neck of my blouse, feeling my breasts like a sixteen year old boy would, unknowing of their history – the children they’d sustained and the indignities of middle age they’d endured.

“Still beautiful. Still succulent. Still off limits.” he whispered into my hair and gasped as my grip tightened just enough for him to feel the sharp hit of pain before I withdrew, righted my breasts, and headed back on my original path to the bar.

“Yep, still.” I called over my shoulder, but the words were swallowed up by the first cries of For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow, and a surge of well-wishers towards him.

The Toblerone Incident

I wanted the Toblerone. The boy was just collateral damage. A means to an end with an erection pushing into my hip, the heavy bar of chocolate held just out of my reach. He kissed me pushed against the thin, echoey walls of my cheap flat and no one has turned me on quite so acutely since.

I wanted the Toblerone. The boy was just collateral damage. Pressed against me on the narrow bed with his hands unsure and time dripping through the skylight above us, I took his wrists and forced his hands roughly against my breasts in the too-small push up bra. He kneaded my flesh and his cock hardened in the small of my back.

I wanted the Toblerone. The boy was just collateral damage. Chocolate fingerprints on my duvet – dry flecks of cocoa across my neck. He bites. His belt. It bites. He shoves his hand inside my knickers; I’m full and flushed and grinding into him but not ready yet, not ready, no.

I wanted the Toblerone. The boy was just collateral damage. The boy was hard and ready for me and my hands were licked clean and thumbs wiping the drips and smudges from his clothes – the denim rough and sweet against my tongue. The salt of him was seductive with dry anger.

I wanted the Toblerone. The boy was just collateral damage. In the palm of my hand until he grew too large, too urgent and I whispered words of encouragement and worked my vulpine tongue around him until his eyes widened. Limp against the pillows, he finally loosened his grip.

I wanted the Toblerone. The boy was just collateral damage. The boy was gone. The Toblerone, still in the fridge.

Masturbation Monday

The Red Shelf

The first in a series of short scenes from an imagined cuckquean relationship

She has sat on her hands until they are numb, willing herself to leave him be. He has not asked her to. He hasn’t asked her for anything, Today is Wednesday; he’s seeing Claudia. Claudia is being taken to dinner and Puppy is sitting at home in her room. She is not allowed to know where they are going. Last week they went to the theatre; it was only four days later he told Puppy what they had seen, how he had enjoyed it.

He had told her how she had brought him off during the second act – how he spat in her palm as the crowd laughed and she worked it around his cock with glee. When he came, he wiped the resultant mess over her face and walked her brazenly out into the street with white splashes of semen adorning her otherwise unremarkable face.

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Sea Story

An extract from a much longer, more complicated piece I have very mixed feelings about.

2010
We sat side by side on our bench, watching the lights kick over the fun fair, finishing our ices. She attacked vanilla ice cream the same way she approached cock sucking. B’s technique – whether for effect or out of habit – was to lick hers daintily, using her tongue rather than her mouth, slurping away at the swirl of cherry syrup. She knew I was staring, looked up and toyed with the chocolate protruding from her dessert.

“Do you want my flake?”

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When Worlds Collide

“Do you want to split a cheese plate?”
She cocked her eyebrow, wiping the remnants of bernaise sauce from her lips.
“Do you have a black hole in place of a stomach? I’m stuffed.”
“More wine then.” He topped up her glass and she shook her head.
“I already agreed to your terms, to your working methods, to everything. I’m in love with everything you do. You really don’t have to get me smashed to seal the deal.”

His eyes darted from the crumpled napkin on the table, to her fingers, idly fiddling with the top button on her dress. The flesh beneath her knuckles rose and yielded with every twist, until the button came loose and she stretched, exposing more of her succulent breasts and their peachy lace encasement.

When people talk about long games, they probably picture this tableau, the result of six months hard graft, on both sides. Six months of flirting that went from professional to questionable and back again. Ever since he’d caught wind of her looking for new representation, he’d wanted her for his portfolio, and would stop at nothing. And well, she was compliant. Eager. But reserved.

That he had been lost in a crush on her since the second month was almost secondary. And Colette encouraged it. Colette watched him take FaceTime calls with her and shivered at the tonal shift in his voice whenever Marianne spoke. The two women had never met, though they had spoken on the brief occasions Tom’s wife had picked up the work phone. Colette’s fluent familiarity with English slang under the rich veil of her German accent was unnerving and arousing.

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Lily

Love sticks and stays.

Each year someone would nudge her, point out a handsome face in the street, or theatre.

“You’re only twenty five. He wouldn’t want you to mourn forever.”

Even his mother’s grief seemed to wane before hers, smiling when Frank was brought to memory and able to talk about her son with warmth and mirth. Lily smiled weakly and sipped her tea, aware of the minutes until she was alone and could weep.

“It’s…. Lily, it’s been three years.” Mrs Bates eyed the wedding band on Lily’s hand. “Frank would want you happy. Not weeping for him still.”

How could she tell her mother in law how she’d grown so unhappily used to the space on the bed beside her remaining cold and still, that she could not bring herself to think of another man’s warmth enveloping it.

“There is time.” She said at length, and Mrs Bates nodded.

The year dragged on. Snow began to threaten. Lily reached for her darned woollen stockings each morning, the fine nylons tucked away for warmer days. Still her poor heart didn’t heal, stagnating in her chest like sour meat. It was heavy to carry around and wearied her.

With no children to care for, she went through her days in a kind of repetitive haze. Wake. Work. Bathe. Bed. She barely ate. She was a ghost, keeping to a tight beat of streets and buildings. Venturing outside of comfort – to the park when she and Frank had met, or the pub they had visited often, was out of the question.

December began and the darkness was pricked with sharp white lights. Each shop window she passed was full of painful wonder, but she steeled herself to look. At the toys she would never buy for the child she didn’t have. At the pearl-handled razor she would never wrap in delicate paper, eager to see Frank open it on Christmas morning. Tears began to seep out from under her frost-tinged lashes.

“Sadness in winter burns brighter and more sorely than the summer, don’t it?”
Came a voice at her ear.

Lily turned her head; beside her was a woman a little taller than herself; older, perhaps sadder. Her hair was hidden behind a brightly coloured turban.

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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 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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Ettie and Rose’s Dirty Weekend (Smutathon 2018)

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.

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