Today and Yesterday and Today and Tomorrow

Two pink pigtails and one wet cunt. Last week she was a gift, with a wide, white bow tied around her neck and her bare breasts pegged at the nipple. Curled at the foot of His bed the night she was returned to Him, she thought of the party she had attended.

A group of men – a stag; a team-building exercise; she never knew – encircled one. Each a little drunk, a little full of bravado. Pawing at her naked and dimpled body. The smallest, the least imposing, smirked at her as he smacked her across the breasts, so hard it winded her. Two hands grabbed her wrists as he spat on his fingers and insinuated them between the lips of her cunt. More impact followed – A gentle giant would hold her face in his huge, terrifying palm before slapping her. The heat warmed her body and her puckered skin smoothed, at least for a moment.

“On your knees.” An order, a disembodied voice. She knelt.

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A hop, skip and a jump

How I became that girl, I do not know. That girl with bare legs and no knickers, sidling up to him in the foyer of his hotel and murmuring “Is that a telescope in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?”
He has me over the bed in seconds, all wandering fingers and thumbs in my cunt, pulling and stretching me this way and that.

Wet little hole.

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Same Time Next Year

The week before drags, as always. The day before runs away too quickly, like a kiss or a perfect song.

By midday on the day itself he texts me the details of the hotel.

A different one each year. I don’t get any say in the matter but he never chooses anything too far away. Sometimes he arranges a cab, too.

I always get there first, pick up the room key – “Miss Mason.” as always, and carry my small case up to the suite with the best view, something else he stipulates.

He arrives at 7pm and I’m naked on the bed, drying off after a bath or shower. Radio 4 playing softly in the background. I hear him drop his bag on the floor, and raise my hips, pushing my face into the duvet.

First there is the icy slick of lube around my cunt – his fingers venture inside, and I shiver. His thumb strokes my clit and I moan.

Knelt on the bed behind me, he traces the head of his cock over my swollen outer lips. Over and over, pulling his foreskin back and forth. He’s hard already, jerked himself to fullness in the cab he took to join me here. His hand is at the base of my back as he eases inside, the last act of gentleness as he buries himself in me to the hilt, slowly pulls out and then he slams into me and it begins.

My job is to hold myself there as he uses my slick, sticky hole and not make a sound other than muffled moans. Certainly no words.

Every year, his cock feels different. Thicker, stronger. He fucks me with precision and power and always for almost exactly five minutes. He doesn’t undress, fucking me through his flies. He doesn’t even unbutton them. His trousered thighs rub against my bare skin. My hair catches in the sharp teeth of the zip, but this is all part of it.

Every year is the same, really. He empties his thick creamy load into me with the same, self-satisfied moan as usual. Admires the white imprint of his hand on my back as he withdraws. Snaps a couple of photos of the creampie dribbling down my inner thighs and leaves the money and the apology note on the bedside table.

£500.

Two sides, handwritten. He’s sorry. He’s always sorry.

I reach between my legs and coat my fingers in his come, savouring the feel and taste of him.

One day he’ll forgive himself.

One day he’ll stay the night.

The Chair

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.

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Prove

Eventually, he’s going to fuck me. Knelt at the foot of the bed with his fingers loosely holding his cock. Now it’s the same colour as the knuckles around it, but soon the flesh will be solid and deep and the knuckles white, bright against the veins and power of his erection.

Not yet though.

Now he is delicate and supple, pliant in his hands, rolling over the part of himself he knows best. His belly rises and falls a fraction quicker than usual as the fingers slip back and forth and the tender flesh rises too, thickens with the motion of his hand and the sight of my naked body, shower-damp and displayed before him. He passes his thumb over the head and it’s sticky. My desire to lick it off I quell, for now.

He moans. Sweet, earthy sounds I could listen to forever. His chest flushes pink too. Tense biceps flex and soften as he strokes himself.

Now the muscle supports itself without his cradling. There is a way to go before it is fully hard; ready for what he has in store for me. The pattern of veins is beautiful; a map of his pleasure and growth. Again he swipes the fluid from the head and lubricates his shaft. I note the whitening of his knuckles – see, so stark against his carmine cock. Urgent and necessary. The hand moves quicker now, the grip tighter as the meat within pushes back against his grasp. It is almost a fight. A battle between his body and his body and we know how it will end.

He rubs the thickening shaft – now barely contained within his palm – and the other hand sinks lower to seal the pact, stroking his heavy, cum-filled balls, and even the thought of this makes my mouth water.

“Fuck me.” I think. “FUCK ME.”

We agreed silence only. Eye-fucking one another for the past ten minutes. Eye-fucked me to a plump, fragrant high and him to a swollen, twitching crescendo. Both ready. Both stirred to perfection.

For a moment he removes his hand and I see him in every inch of his glory – pulsating and tumid. Delicious. Delectable. Proved to perfection.

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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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 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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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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