I wanted the Toblerone. The boy was just collateral damage. A means to an end with an erection pushing into my hip, the heavy bar of chocolate held just out of my reach. He kissed me pushed against the thin, echoey walls of my cheap flat and no one has turned me on quite so acutely since.
I wanted the Toblerone. The boy was just collateral damage. Pressed against me on the narrow bed with his hands unsure and time dripping through the skylight above us, I took his wrists and forced his hands roughly against my breasts in the too-small push up bra. He kneaded my flesh and his cock hardened in the small of my back.
I wanted the Toblerone. The boy was just collateral damage. Chocolate fingerprints on my duvet – dry flecks of cocoa across my neck. He bites. His belt. It bites. He shoves his hand inside my knickers; I’m full and flushed and grinding into him but not ready yet, not ready, no.
I wanted the Toblerone. The boy was just collateral damage. The boy was hard and ready for me and my hands were licked clean and thumbs wiping the drips and smudges from his clothes – the denim rough and sweet against my tongue. The salt of him was seductive with dry anger.
I wanted the Toblerone. The boy was just collateral damage. In the palm of my hand until he grew too large, too urgent and I whispered words of encouragement and worked my vulpine tongue around him until his eyes widened. Limp against the pillows, he finally loosened his grip.
I wanted the Toblerone. The boy was just collateral damage. The boy was gone. The Toblerone, still in the fridge.
Part One Here Part Two Here
Sometimes she wanted him to go down on her because he wanted to, not because she wanted to come. Not because the thought of his handsome face, his stubble burning her inner thighs made her melt and shudder, though it did. Of course it did.
She wanted him to go down on her and eat her cunt and not care if she came or not. Actively avoid the things he knew would make her climax. Though her clit ached and her cunt grasped, his face nuzzled possessively between her thighs was powerful enough. She wanted him to press the flat of his tongue against her vulva and lick her with fury, not delicacy. With taunting, grim determination to taste every inch of her; her enjoyment irrelevant.
Swipes would be made at her pulsing, reddening nerve endings but only enough to make her twitch, and this was an excuse to hold her tighter, place the full weight of his body against her parted thighs and raise his head long enough to hiss “Keep still you little bitch.” before descending to torture her once more.
She has the wettest mouth. You wouldn’t think it to look at her. You wouldn’t consider her face as she eats a sandwich or chews the end of her pen. Her mouth looks like any other mouth.
He hadn’t considered it, lying on her bed, kissing her nervous lips. Her mouth was pretty ordinary. Pretty, and ordinary. Lips chewed anxiously by the teeth above. The mouth did not assert itself with fleshy fullness.
“I give great head.” is easy to disprove, after all. And maybe she faltered, wondering if a skill can be forgotten with only a few months’ passing.
“No, I have the wettest mouth.” she thought that afternoon, coming up for air from between his thighs.
Before the door is closed she’s tearing at his belt, before zeroing in on the zipper and yanking it down, but even in her eagerness she is tender as she reveals his cock, filling with blood and power in her palm.
Hustled into the closet his brain is elsewhere but her lips are warm and inviting and her throat is supple and she’s so fucking pretty, so fucking slutty, with his dick in her mouth and slobber oozing out of the tiny gaps in her self-formed vacuum around his member. Having taken the lead to get him alone, she kneels as a dumb puppet before him, desperate for all he inflicts on her. Those big blue eyes filled with tears of pain and lust. Her chest flushed and heaving.
She splutters and moans for more. He fucks the hole – His hole – holding her face in his hands as his cock thickens and twitches against her tongue.
When he comes he holds her close and she inhales the scent of him as his seed pours down her throat; the taste and sumptuous musk of his body makes her dampen, eager for their next stolen moments.
I hated him.
Sucked his cock.
Slapped him in playful fury and laughed at the wide red mark on his preternaturally reddened face. Kissed him with angry passion backed up against the flimsy chipboard walls of my flat and wanted to bruise him. Every week, I fucked him with bile in my stomach and poison on my lips.
“You can make plaster casts of cocks. A vibrator made of your best feature. Something to remember you by.”
She cooks. Always cooking. Itchy fingers, she says.
This morning – Christmas Eve Eve – I woke up to find her side of the bed empty and generic Christmas spice scent wafting through the door.
I padded naked – foolish, foolish child! – to the kitchen and found her at the hob, stirring her pot of festive cheer, also naked but for an oversized apron, her pinchable bum and smooth terracotta skin of her back peeking deliciously at me from behind the creaking folds of oilcoth. George Michael was nursing his broken heart through song on the radio.
“I’m making mincemeat.” she said without turning around.
“And why is that?” I carefully put my hand on the small of her back, easing my fingers up through the cords.
She set the spoon down and rested her hip against the counter top.
“I woke up with a craving. I needed mince pies.”
“The Co Op opens at ten.” My hand curved round onto her stomach. Her tender, beautiful stomach. The faintest sigh escaped her lips as I moved closer, the convex of my body fitting neatly into the concave of hers.
“I’ve been up since six. I needed to feel useful. Create. Get my hands dirty. Pastry’s chilling in the fridge. So rich and buttery.”
Two pink pigtails and one wet cunt. Last week she was a gift, with a wide, white bow tied around her neck and her bare breasts pegged at the nipple. Curled at the foot of His bed the night she was returned to Him, she thought of the party she had attended.
A group of men – a stag; a team-building exercise; she never knew – encircled one. Each a little drunk, a little full of bravado. Pawing at her naked and dimpled body. The smallest, the least imposing, smirked at her as he smacked her across the breasts, so hard it winded her. Two hands grabbed her wrists as he spat on his fingers and insinuated them between the lips of her cunt. More impact followed – A gentle giant would hold her face in his huge, terrifying palm before slapping her. The heat warmed her body and her puckered skin smoothed, at least for a moment.
“On your knees.” An order, a disembodied voice. She knelt.
Confession: I’ve never not loved school uniform. I am thirty six years old and I’ve been watching middle aged women flash their thigh highs and Head Girl badges since I should have been revising for my A levels (All B’s, thank you for your concern).
There’s just something about the perception of innocence hiding confidence and experience. I feel more myself in a pleated skirt and a sweet expression, I’m not going to explain it further.
So I seek out ‘School Discos’. That mainstay of the British university experience. I drag my husband to gay bars and grotty pubs that still smell of fag smoke and spilt beer and I grind my cunt against his thigh as BoyzIIMen play for the zillionth time and get wetter knowing every postgrad and Fresher in that room is gawking at us, desperate for their own mature schoolgirl slut.
We snog in that tongue-heavy, close fashion we did when we were just learning to control our arousal. He pulls the buttons of my blouse apart and feels me through the cheap white lace of the bra I know will be useless by the morning. Once someone walked past and drunkenly dared him to slip me a cheeky finger and he didn’t even break his concentration, just ran his hand up my thigh and bypassed the leg of my knickers, diving in with three and I came seconds later, looking that twatted third year in the eye as I bit into my mister’s white shirted shoulder.
The bouncers came over and asked us to leave. Sometimes that happens, too.
Doesn’t matter. We can still play at home.
After half a decade of relationship, he’s learned to read the signs.
From the Story in 12 prompt ‘Courtship’
I didn’t know her well. I thought she was very beautiful – from photos, from snapshots of her social media – and witty and clever, but like a popstar or a princess she always seemed unknowable.
He, on the other hand, the most open of open books. I felt like I was on first name terms with his genitals well before we slept together. He talked a good game. He looked incredible. He was kind and sharp and so hyper-intelligent that alone made me a little wet. The first time he made me come he was explaining how I’d misspelt and misused a word in a previous missive.
The first time we fucked was….. sixteen minutes into our first date. Continue reading
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.”
“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.”
“Just looking. Her eyes are wide. She’s stroking the rim of her champagne glass.”