Last night it was late, and most of twitter was asleep. Some were awake, though. And made me think of something that has occured to me before. That other submissive women know how to manipulate me better than anyone. With thanks to Molly
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.
Content warning: degradation. NSFW. Please avoid if you are squeamish about such things!
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.
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.
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.”
“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 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.
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.”
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.”