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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Dahlia learns her lesson

In 2016, I participated in Emmeline’s Team Amazeballs Erotica Exchange – we gave one another a prompt, and she asked me to write something based off Rosetti’s Lady Lilith, which I knew nothing of, instead imagining her as a petulant debutante with a string of music teachers in her wake.
I hope you enjoy this not so little historical tale.

Dahlia adored her music lessons. That precious hour of the day where she was indulged with lyricism and beauty. And the presence of a tall, broad, older gentleman whom she knew her father had chosen precisely because he was almost as old as her grandfather and could not be described by even the kindest soul as handsome.

To Dahlia he was the most exciting part of her lessons. He was the reason she was allowed in the music room, un-chaperoned, for one whole hour. She exploited every single minute.

On music days she woke early but didn’t rise from her bed until almost midday. She would lie in a blissful reverie, and explore the wonders of her own body as if the territory were new to her. Her own large breasts, which came to stiff, perfect peaks. Her own flaring hips and rounded tummy with its sweet fair hair. Fair hair which curved in a path between her legs, becoming coarser and darker until it curled outwards in a shield over her cunt which seemed preternaturally wet and wanting.

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Girlfriends

“There are approximately a hundred coffee shops on this street, next time you could be more specific?”

She rolled her eyes and indicated the latte on the table before me.

 “I got you the usual didn’t I? I apologised that I didn’t realise there was a branch of Caffe Nero at either end. I bought you a brownie.”

The cake had a thick layer of white chocolate coating the top.  

 “Forgiven, then.” I gave in and sat down next to her. Our booth was the furthest from the front door, partially hidden behind the awkward angle of a wall to nowhere between the counter and the kitchen.

 She sipped her tea and broke the corner off my brownie.

 “I should bloody well hope so.” The chocolate disappeared between her lips, but one or two crumbs fell and landed on her breasts. She was wearing a velvety top which was very low cut, even for her.

 “Meeting someone?” I asked idly. She looked at me a bit funny.

 “Yes. You.”

 “Oh.” I said. I think I blushed, even though I didn’t know why. I shifted my gaze from her cleavage to the plate in front of me with difficulty.

 Sometimes in the course of a text conversation – often late at night – our interactions get flirty. Friendly compliments seem to be become slightly tinged with something else. I’ve been asked to critique tasteful nudes before she sent them to her partners. She would listen as I described in a little too much focus how wet a one night stand had made me, or the rush of blood through my body when my boss stood over me, ogling my tits and demeaning me in full view of my colleagues. How I wanted to jump him right then and there. I stopped abruptly and apologised for oversharing but she wanted me to go on, falteringly admitting how turned on she was.

 Something changed. Neither of us knew why but neither wanted to stop it.

 We talked about work for a bit, just a general catch up really.

“I got fitted for a new bra. For the first time in my life, I’m wearing matching top and bottoms!” She was gleeful, like a child. I’d noticed the corner lick of lace when I was staring at her breasts, earlier.

“Let’s see!” I said, half joking half desperate all of a sudden and she grinned, made a great show of looking about her to make sure the coast was clear and then suddenly the warm velvet ripples of her bodice had melted away and her breasts were all I could see, creamy-white and caressed by pale blue and black lace. The material was flimsy, her nipples extremely visible even in the unreliable cafe light. She slowly made herself presentable again. Sipped her coffee. I couldn’t really think straight. Of course I couldn’t.

“Now you.” She said, neutrally. A passing waitress slowed her steps, wondering if we were trying to flag her down but she went merrily on her way when she saw neither one of us needed her.

“I don’t match.”

She didn’t say anything; instead she reached over matter of factly as the waitress vanished behind us, and brazenly snaked her hand inside the collar of my blouse, finding my shapeless, mumsy bra with my nipples pressed tightly against the ancient fabric.

Her face was very close, I could feel her breath on my neck, her shoulder and thigh pressed very firmly against my own. She took my hand, lying uselessly in my lap, and drew it towards her, between her legs, under her skirt and up, between her thighs where the sister in black lace was damp and fragrant.

Her lips left a glossy red heart on my neck.

“I don’t care.” She whispered.

Switch

So, the two protagonists from Meet Me There were not contained to that tale alone. I think this is from earlier on in their story. Enjoy.

***

Looking back, it all started to go a bit weird when we decided to buy a strap-on.

I met her in Tesco’s. Of course, where else? Where do people usually meet perfect whirlwinds of women who paw at you incessantly and make you glow? Lidl?

I was fingering a stalk of broccoli. Deciding; was I feeling virtuous enough to eat green things, or was I going to get chips on the way home? She was hiding behind a stack of Easter eggs, pretending to be a bunny. As you do. She did look slightly ashamed when she noticed me staring at her. She was wearing shorts, even though it had been snowing all day.

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Meet Me There

For girls who enjoy dominant AF girls

She cornered me after half an hour threading through the sticky, endless darkness. Her fingers laced through mine and dragging me to somewhere even darker, thicker with the scent of new leather, sugar and sex.

“I told you I’d come and you know why I came.” She whispered urgently, taking my hands and placing them on the hem of her tiny mini dress. “No knickers. No obstacles. No rules. No boys.”

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Libraries Gave Her Power

The rather lovely and wonderful Exhibit A is running a competition based on selected lyrics by one of his favourite bands. So here is my attempt, from the prompt “Libraries Gave Us Power”.
I do love a historical romance, a sliver of D/s, a hint of exhibitionism, voluptuous female flesh and this rather nicely covers all of these things, and a little more besides (shut up, the 70s was nearly 50 years ago and therefore totally historical….)

With thanks to Hannah and Ros for reading, proofing and con/crit x

***

The smell of books was one of many that made Julia feel sick. Not the fish and chip newness of paperbacks, she didn’t mind that at all, but the musty, mildewy scent of decaying fabric and horse glue.

These books filled her with gloom, and libraries filled her with dismay. She only visited them because Gloria found them so endlessly fascinating.

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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 big.
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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.”