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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My First Phone Sex

I hate talking on the phone. The ubiquity of twitter and WhatsApp has made communicating without speaking so much easier and means often you don’t phone people, ever.
On the other hand I can do a killer sexy voice that can turn the listener to jelly in sixty seconds flat so I really ought to try harder not be petrified by the lump of metal and plastic in my hand.
My first time, like all first times, was not good. Regarde:

He’s hundreds of miles away, visiting family in London. It’s his middle brothers’ engagement party. We haven’t been seeing each other long so I’m not bothered he didn’t extend the invite. He hasn’t yet informed me bluntly that I will never meet his family. That comes later.

For now we’re messaging on and off between his bouts of drinking. At about half eleven he tells me he’ll be walking home soon, and to stay awake. I’m tired, electrified, ready for sleep but he tells me he’s going to call after midnight and to be ready, have toys nearby.
Half an hour of agony.

He’s walking through London at night – over Wimbledon Common. I only know Wimbledon Common through the Wombles. When I ask friends if this is a posh area their eyes widen and they nod at me like I’m stupid. That’s not unreasonable.

He once told me he’d turned up at a girl’s house wearing a Womble costume. This was when he was trying to prove to me he’d fucked other fat girls, had pursued them, and found them desirable.

He calls from the middle of the park. He’s sat on a bench in the darkness and tells me exactly what he’s doing, masturbating. That’s what he wants me to do, to dip my fingers into my cunt and follow his orders.

This is a shock to the system – I try to do what he says but though my knickers are slick with arousal, my hands are shaking and my body won’t cooperate. His words are harsh and demanding. I can’t stop shaking, I’m so scared that he’s there alone. What if a police officer walks past? He could be charged with indecent exposure. Would I be called to testify? How would I explain my role in his crime?

I can’t come. My fingers are clumsy and I’m so wet my clit feels lost.

I hang up.

I try to calm down. Leave it. Leave it. He’s drunk and he’s alone. Let him concentrate on one thing at a time. I stare up at the ceiling as my phone rings.

I could ignore it.

He’d be angry though.

We’re not strictly in a D/s relationship, not even in a relationship at all if you ask him, but this is the summer I actively begin to learn about my submission and who I am. The summer he leads me on. Not yet though. Right now I’m this permanently aroused doll. I am his. This summer I am his.

You hung up.” His voice is low and breathy, I can hear the determination bordering on desperation because he wants to come and I’m getting in the way.

I’m sorry.”
“You’re not going to hang up again.”
“No.”
“Good. Now let’s start again.”

 

Educate.

Initially recorded as spoken word, listen to the original here

 

I want you to tell me things. I want you to challenge me.

Beat me at Scrabble – cross triple words, double letters, a hundred points scored in a single go and know it makes me shivery to see you do so.

I like it when you make me feel small, when you protect me.

When you educate me.

Explain things that I don’t understand – the mysteries of football, and how to make stuffing from scratch and that a griddle pan is not the best choice for frying an egg.

Smile ruefully when I get things wrong, on purpose. When I demand a bacon sandwich but won’t release you from my caress, but still demand breakfast sweetly in your ear as my arm holds fast around your waist.

Instruct me in my own independence. Send me on errands, with shopping lists and the money in my pocket. Trust me as you want me to trust myself when I fear I can’t. Etch tiny kisses at the bottom of the note for me to catch when I check I’m doing ok.

Teach me things about you – How you take your tea (milky, no sugar), how to grill bacon so it doesn’t curl at the edges, and how you like to be touched.

Let me take mental notes on how you touched yourself before you knew me – please let me watch you. I will never be as good as you but I can try, I can try to be good and do my best for you. Hold my fingers around you so I can hear the catch in your breath, the release of your moan and replicate them without your guidance.

Guide me in my own pleasure. Handle me gently and roughly and gently again. Shape me and test me. Soothe me to the brink of pleasure and finish me.

Teach me my beauty.

My worth.

Hold up the glass and make me stare at myself as you do; I want to see what you see. To understand what you know.

Your knowledge is my nourishment.

 

On Dick Pics

It’s not for everybody, I know. Some people just don’t need or want to see your bits and pieces other than when you’re getting down to business, and some people don’t want their junk committed to the memory of their Samsung Galaxy.
Some girls like to be sent photos of your cock – and they will always let you know if this is the case.

This isn’t a cry to start taking arty shots if either person in a sex-based situation isn’t entirely up for it. You do you.

There is a belief amongst some people that if a woman expresses a positive interest in sex (even if that sex explicitly does not involve a penis), there are men who are sure that what these women really want is cock; they remember that they have a cock, and they pass on badly-taken photographs of that cock, patting themselves on the back because they have ‘cracked what women want’.

These men are incredulous when we are disgusted, when we ask them what the fuck they’re playing at.

Conversely you can be the quietest, modestest, bible-studying femme on Twitter and still some arsehole will show you his junk because…. Oh I dunno, they think their penis is the one true cock to turn you into the rampant erotomachine you were born to be?

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Fancy

“He’s got a trademark.”
Fancy was washing my hair at the time. Her short nails sent shocks through my nervous system every time she lathered; it felt good.

“A what?”
“A trademark. He’s got a way, with a weapon.”

“Oh.”
“And you’ll be experiencing it tonight, my love.”
“Yes Miss.”

Fancy dunked my head under the cold bathwater without warning.

“Get dressed.”

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Knives are New

“Time for games” he said. Tuesday. Early work finish day. New underwear day.

I had got home before him, so was lying face up on the bed, staring at the ceiling when he arrived, the skein of rope lying across my stomach. Naked.

I heard the door unlocked, opened, shut.

“Just going for a piss.” He called out. He wasn’t, he was just making me wait. Teasing.

“Resting bitch face isn’t actually a thing.” He said when he finally walked through the doorway, most unimpressed with my pouting. “If the wind changes, you’ll stay like that.”

He held the paper bag above his head.

“Freshly laundered, Madame.”

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