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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Serving Girl

I hate him. Hate hate hate him. Sitting there being paid sixteen times my wage to actively destroy the world, do his job badly, or well depending on which side you take. He disgusts me with his dishonesty, his foolishness, his abhorrent social and feeding habits.

And yet in my anger I become a sliver of sensual quicksilver, dressing each morning for the role of mistress; my crisp white blouse threatening to give way and expose the treacherous flesh beneath, and the accompanying black shirt is only just long enough to conceal the delectable curves of my arse. Bare legs that stretch on and up to meet silky french knickers.

This is all for him and all for me; I bend over to serve his teas and coffees, inviting his ogling; thinking he might just reach out one day and grab a handful in animal lust.

I am careless, I am beautiful. I stand in the corner of the room awaiting instruction, my phone clasped in one hand with the other exposing my cunt. I am taking photos of my pretty cunt to show to people who desire me and he may be watching he may not. His cock may be shifting and pressing against the front of his slacks as he catches the slick pinkness of my inner labia.

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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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Hold your tongue

I tightened the loops so the bar held my mouth open. Cute with just an air of gormlessness.

“Mouth open at all times.” she’d said, and I wasn’t going to let her down. She appreciated the photo of me, naked with the device secured.

Play did not come easily. My mouth filled with saliva and my cunt gasped and slicked with come but something – the toy between my thigh or the lack of another person there to guide me or the knot of frustration twisting in my chest. I came in spite of myself, subdued and tired.

I relayed this to her, my tongue restrained and my mouth a pool of spit.

“Let it run down your chin and cheek” she instructed.

Being debased turned me on more than touching myself had. Watching saliva cascade from my lips, a bubbling, endless mess created by my obedience.

Anything for her.

She shows me off to her husband. His approval, of my silent, shallow messiness. My even devotion to his wife’s instruction, makes me blush. When she tells me how far his approval reaches – the thickening in his groin, I blush harder still and wish there weren’t the miles between us.

Work Drinks

This is the sequel of a sort to Girlfriends

***

I’d noticed her before, all bossiness and tits.

Not her friend, though. She was new. A dark-haired piece in a too-small dress. It clung to her body, to everywhere. Stomach rolls, and fat acres of thigh.

They might as well have been on a date, ignoring the rest of us, crammed in the smallest bar of the pub because the Christmas do hadn’t been booked until October. I turned back to the knot of management behind me and when I next allowed my gaze to flutter over to those women, they were still talking, avoiding the rest of us. They could have been on a date. Lesbian canoodling on the company dollar.

I snorted into my pint and, catching Jay’s eye, went to join in with the departmental singalong of We Are the Champions. And every so often, I’d turn back and look at them, at their heads bent together, still ignoring the rest of us. I must have known.

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Enough 


5am

The alarm goes off in an hour. Time to play, then doze in a warm, sticky afterglow. There’s a toy under the pillow. Usually more like two or three really. Without exposing herself to the bedside light, she selects whatever she can grasp quickly and slips her knickers to one side with the toy firmly in place, anticipating five minutes of play, a quick, medium-strength orgasm and then almost an hour of blissful ache before work. Classic.

5.05am

Something’s wrong here. Her body shifts and shakes, She can feel herself, thick and damp between her thighs; anxious, desperate sweat behind her knees. Every so often the toy passes over just the right spot and she jerks and feels the climax build and then…. nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Not enough. Not even with the filthy, graphic fantasies playing in her mind. She moves it more urgently, her hips turning back and forth. She just wants to come. It’s such a simple request. The least she deserves.

5.10am

Actual desperation begins to set in. Hands chafe at her thighs, pinching, gripping, grabbing at the flesh around her cunt. Not enough. The movies are filthier now, and she moans her lines along with them, flinging off her sodden underwear. She needs to be filled, and with the toy an awkward shape, fucking herself with two fingers of her left hand isn’t easy even though she’s so fucking wet, so ready for anything that her fingers pass easily inside, and she moves them in unison with the sucking, vibrating, grasping little toy in place too but it’s not enough, it’s not.

5.15am

Something glass and cool to the touch violates her with ease, and this must be it at last. All pretence gone, she loses herself to him, hears his voice as clear as the morning sun, urging her on as he lies above her, his weight pinning her to the bed until he’s satisfied she’s done as she’s told. She feels herself filled, flooded with his come as he grabs those fistfuls of her flesh and counts her down with only two minutes to finish herself off.
“Two minutes is plenty for a dirty girl like you.”
And the toy shifts a little or the thoughts of him and the dildo mimicking the deep perfection of his thrusts and she hears him telling her over and over to come for him and she will, she will, she……

5.20am

It is not enough. Without him it can never be enough.