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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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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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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Cheesecake

I tease. I poke. I prod. We bicker. We bicker. We bicker. Friends for a while. Never made it to lovers, brief or otherwise. More adopted sibling than fuck buddy. But hugs that last a fraction too long. Bend at the waist to flash my knickers. Smack my arse as we pass on the stairs.

No blood shared. No awkward Christmases.

Early Saturday morning, wearing a T shirt, long socks, nothing else. Bend at the waist to flash my thighs. Head buried in the fridge, reaching for the last piece of chocolate cheesecake. His slice. His slice we all swore we would leave so he could enjoy it today. In my hands, melting slightly with the guilty heat. Heavenly sour sweetness on my tongue, crammed into my slutty mouth as I hear his footsteps on the staircase, in the hall, on the tiled kitchen floor.

“What are you doing?”

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What were you expecting?

She appeared innocent. I looked at her and thought of quiet corners with scuffed sci fi novellas, big jumpers, hot chocolate; pictured her hiding from the sun, studious and careful. I looked at her and thought the world would swallow her up.

I didn’t know – didn’t expect – that she had already chewed up and spat out the world long before I clapped eyes on her.

***

“That tea is too hot, you’ll burn yourself.”
Her voice sounded strange, cut through with an almost imperceptible sliver of harshness. I brought the cup closer to my lips.

“I said. Put. It. DOWN.”

She was wearing a pale orange sun dress, lying back into the rich leather sofa, Cleopatra-like. Regally stirring brown sugar into her own drink.

This was our third coffee shop hookup of the Summer. Usually we just sipped our drinks slowly, split a slice of something covered in chocolate and then found a quiet corner to make out in for an hour or so. Low-key. I’m older, but she’s more experienced. Both sub-leaning. We shared our secrets – the ones that made our blood run cold with anticipatory glee – and committed them to memory. I tied her wrists with Alice-blue ribbon and beat her with a crop one evening, but that was an anomaly. The exception to the rule. She leads, I follow.

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Earned

For Anon, with gratitude and blushes

 

Turn me on, get me hard, earn your cock shot.

I’d go doe eyed. Hold it and examine it and swallow down the fear that it’s too big and will choke me. And the thought of it choking me would make me damp. Always ask for permission to use my mouth beforehand. And swallow down the fear that you’ll refuse me.

You have permission.

The first determined lick is from the base to the tip, working up spit and using my hand and mouth together as it swells. From the way you exhale I know that this first contact with a mouth – my mouth – feels as good as it always does.

Keep going.

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A Girl On A Bench

A girl on a bench.

A girl on a bench in a park

A girl on a bench in a park, in the sun.

Wearing a yellow sundress, just a fraction too small. Her belly presses against the unforgiving cotton fabric in large, beautiful ripples. Her breasts are unseemly but the weather so hot and the park so vast, she takes the risk to bare her flesh.

A girl on a bench in a park, in the sun wearing a yellow sundress which strains with the fullness of her breasts.

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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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Photo Finish

He’d never taken a dick pic before, or so he said.

Me, I scoffed.

“Unlikely. Not even to check for lumps and bumps, assess a decent shave job?”
He seemed offended that I asked. The only millennial who had not got to grips with phallic photography. Incredible.

I changed tack.

“May I see it, please?”
“Why?” He replied, cagily.

“I like dicks. I like you.. Stands to reason I might like whatever you’re packing in those boxers. You don’t have to say yes, obviously. But the idea of your cock turns me on.”
And I left it at that for a few days whilst he percolated his answer.

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Night Bus

You already knew I loved being filmed and photographed; watching back on clips of myself being violated or made love to makes me wet, almost instantaneously. I love the weekends when, if I’m good, you set me up at the computer and make me watch them without touching myself – sometimes you even tie my wrists behind my back so I can’t, whilst you edit the best bits and then email them to your colleagues as a reminder of just how good I am. Just enough of my face to see the come dribbling down over my lips. Unrecognisable at office functions in my grown up dresses and cocktails and mild political views.

There was one evening. I replay it a lot when I’m alone. There were only minutes, a brief meeting in wintry darkness, midnight in a cab rank. Me leaving a team building works night out, you leave a gig.

We agreed to meet before we travelled home. You stood with your hands in my pockets, pinning me in place, drawing my thick winter coat around us as we kissed and I worked my knickers down as surreptitiously as possible and as soon as my cunt was bare one of your hands was reaching out, teasing me.

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