Her husband

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

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Three (Smutathon 2018)

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.”

“More specific.”
“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.”
“And?”
“Just looking. Her eyes are wide. She’s stroking the rim of her champagne glass.”

Continue reading

The View (Smutathon 2018)

This was for the excellent Afro Film Viewer for his kind Smutathon donation and the only story I managed to contain within my own wordcount.

I’ve seen them before. They never seem to close their curtains. Their front room faces directly onto mine – only the width of the narrow, foot traffic only street between us. I’ve seen them eat dinner, row. Sit in the eerie blue glow of the TV as one of them slowly nodded off.

Older couple. 50’s maybe. Her older than him. Dyed blonde Helen Mirren hair. He’s rough, dark. Probably stubble.

I shouldn’t watch. Because it’s rude, because their lives aren’t that interesting. But my eyes will always drift over to them and that’s how I find myself now, eyes drifting from the film on my TV to the view across the street.

They’re kissing. She’s in control, at least to start. She straddles his waist, swallowing him alive. Kissing his mouth, neck, across his chest. That’s when he grabs her. Pulls her close. Whispers in her ear.

She sinks to her knees and I creep closer to my own open window. Aware they might see but unable to tear my eyes away.

I watch her reach between his thighs and wrap her fingers around his cock. It’s big enough for me to be able to see it from here. Watch him grab the back of her head and push her down onto it, his head thrown back.

I feel my own cock star to twitch. I watch her head bob up and down.

I reach inside my jeans and imagine her touching me how she’s touching him.

He holds her down and down and down until she pulls back, chest heaving. Beautiful.

She swallows him again, faster, faster and I stroke my cock, faster, faster.

Over the warm summer breeze I hear him growl “Swallow it all you filthy bitch.” and as she swallows his load, I feel my own rise and spill out over my hand.

As the mellow high of climax washes over me I’m sure I hear her voice.

“Do you think he enjoyed that?”

 

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.

Continue reading

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.

Continue reading

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?”

Continue reading

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.

Continue reading

Lessons Learnt

Note: Everyone in this scenario is an adult well over the age of 18, only experimenting with educational power dynamics.

Six months and whilst our romance still burns, I accept and expect to be pushed. To be punished. To be treated sternly on occasion. And Sir, you oblige.

Sunday School is my favourite. This is where I excel. This is my absolute favourite. Before I button my crisp white blouse – before my Sir I never ironed at all, and blush to think of myself as a slattern – I brush out my hair, parted and plaited, enough to grip. To instruct.

I’m wearing my school uniform, naturally. Actually, it’s your school uniform, your tie in house colours burgundy and gold. And a crest. My school never had a crest.

I have to be ready for 9am lessons. You have a room. I don’t ask how you got it. Two desks and one wall lined with books. At Sunday School, Sir is absent. There is only Sir. It is Sir who calls “Enter.” when I knock and walk primly through the door, clutching books to my chest.

“Good morning, Sir.”

“Miss K. You are late. Over the desk.” You don’t even look up, you only stand and watch me spread myself over it as instructed. This time it’s not the belt but your hand. My knickers are pulled down to mid thigh before I even realise it.
“Repeat after me. ‘Lateness will not be tolerated’,”
“Lateness-” the first smack makes me gasp.

“Will not. Be tolerated.”

I repeated after you. Each time the sting is more pronounced, the ache in my cunt deeper. On the sixth stroke your hand lingers, bringing its own heat. I will not cry.

“Did you do your homework, or am I going to have to invoke further penalties?”

Continue reading

Rain

I like to watch you work. I suppose I’m not supposed to linger near you, cocking my head and watching the muscles flex and regroup across your arms and shoulders.

In summer your shirt drenches with sweat and I can almost see the hair on your chest and under your arms through the coarse material.

Some days it rains and I catch you with your head skywards, cursing the grey clouds, the Lord, but mostly the frugal landowner and his refusal to hire another man to share your heavy load. I heft the basket of firewood higher on my hip, noting the brief, startling throb between my thighs before I pick my way through the mud back to the house.

It rains for five days almost solidly. There are brief respites of sun before the land is sodden again. And you work on, in a heavy oilskin.

Continue reading

Lisbon, 2018

I want to see two people, two living embodiments of molten lust, fuck with the intensity with which they live the rest of their lives.

I want to watch the man agog as a feminine whirlwind makes eyes at him, winding her flames around him until the only choice is succumb. He wilfully succumbs.

She strips him naked and remains clothed in her dress the colour of lightning and her high black boots and her long hair a curtain shielding her as she pushes him to the floor and stands over him, affording the stricken man a lingering view of her cunt, swollen and dripping with arousal at her own power.

She wants him, and him alone but as she sits on his face and he obediently licks and sucks and worships her it is the scenario as much as his ministrations that turns her on. She rides his wet and desperate face until she comes, a pure shriek of pleasure before she arches backwards, elegantly impaling herself on his obscenely thickened and hysterically straining cock.

She knows he won’t last long, how could he, the taste of her lingering on his tongue and the delicious tension of her cunt as she grabs him, bucking and using him, her face gleeful as his face reddens and his moans grow louder and louder and she reaches out tenderly to stroke his cheek as with one triumphant meeting of their bodies, his orgasm pours forth and she grins, knowing that this is not the end. Not even the end of the beginning.

Merely the prelude.