All fingers and thumbs (Kink of The Week)

The concept of ‘fingering’ had never much appealed to me. The idea of being impaled on someone’s digits like a finger puppet made my blood run cold, and if a porn scene ever headed in that direction, the sight of the person whose fingers were doing the playing pistoning their arm back and forth like they were chopping firewood made me feel queasy.

I get it now though. I understand. The first time I allowed him to gently extend one of his digits inside my cunt – as he ate me out like a man who’d been starved for a month – I writhed on the bed, alarmed that it felt so good. We’d compared the size of our hands – his dextrous guitarist’s fingers versus my chubby toddler digits, complete with dimples where my knuckles ought to be – and laughed. We joked about how small hands make everything look bigger, but I didn’t think about how longer, more nimble fingers could reach the places that need to be reached, and even conjure the unicorn with the right kind of external and internal pressure. I began to find myself whining “Finger me” with startling regularity. And he always obliged. I had always thought the act was something that men did because they thought women liked it, not because it actually felt good to receive it. I was wrong. I was very wrong.

I’m still getting there. Sometimes, because of my inexperience and his relatively large size, penetrative sex isn’t an option for us, but his fingers…. As he ducks his head to worship at the altar, or directs me in using a toy with his fingers reaching the parts my own, babyish ones can’t….. I might not ever be able to go back to masturbating without his hand between my thighs, my fingers hooked through his. Being fingered feels too good. It might be my favourite thing.

As soon as I saw this fortnight’s topic, I knew the only way I could end a post on fingering would be with this image from the always hilarious FRED FLETCH on Twitter. Sure, it’s not exactly sexy and is pretty jarring coming after the above, but this is my blog and I’ll do what I like so ner.

More? Check out everyone else on Kink of the Week below

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Wicked Wednesday – Wedding Belle Blues

Content warning: degradation. NSFW. Please avoid if you are squeamish about such things!

Prompt: Wedding

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 small.
She reached underneath her skirts and pulled off the plain black briefs, sodden. She pressed them to her face, her own arousal seeping onto her pink cheeks. Peering at the mirror over the bundle of wet material, she continued.
“You’re stupid and gross and ugly.”
Goose pimples of excitement rose on her arms as she said the words. She shifted on the hard wooden surface of the chair, seven layers of tulle netting grating her skin. She pictured the raw, red rash on her thighs, maybe even drawing little spots of blood here and there. She shifted so that her outer lips spread against the seat.
Six months before the wedding, she’d sat in this position on the groom’s face. His tongue was jabbing into her cunt and he left handprints on her arse that took over a week to shift. The fading bluish bruise of his fingertips nipped at her skin when the bride rang to ask her to be a bridesmaid.

Slowly she worked the cum-drenched underwear into her mouth, staring at herself in the glass.
“Pig.” She thought, and moaned as her clit rubbed against the polished surface of the chair.
“No, stupid girl, not yet. Not yet.” Her inner voice admonished.
She controlled herself to absolute stillness, and when she had tuned out the sounds of the wedding party two floors below, she brought a hand to her cheek, drew it back and then smacked herself in the face. She gasped and felt giddy, her heart racing. Her face was even pinker and puffier than before. Her own taste filled her mouth and her nipples stiffened.
She pulled the knickers out of her mouth and put the wadded fabric between her thighs, grinding against it.
“Stupid pig.” She muttered disdainfully, then looked at herself again. Right in the eye.
“Stupid. Pig.” She said, loudly, clearly, enunciating each word as she began to hump the ball of panties. She reached into the front of the dress and exposed her breasts to the chill air of the bridal suite.
“Stupid ugly fucking slut.” She ground her cunt harder against the wad. Harder and harder, feeling her climax build.
The groom had liked her on all fours, all holes accessible as he took his fancy. That morning as she helped the bride get ready for the most important day of her life, he had texted her with her instructions, and slipped the duplicate key card into her cleavage as surreptitiously as he could at the wedding breakfast. It had dug into her skin and made her smile all through vegetable soup, chicken supreme and strawberry shortcake.
Her cunt began to clench as if grabbing for an imaginary cock, her clit rubbed raw. She looked up and smacked herself in the face again and her orgasm crept closer and closer. She grabbed at her breasts and pinched her nipples until the flesh turned white and on a final, triumphant cry of “You gross, disgusting, stupid, ugly pig.” She came and wet her knickers for the second time. She had to grab the back of the chair tightly as her first instinct was to collapse forwards. She tried to catch her breath as she heard the faint beep of the door being unlocked, and the handle being turned.
The bride and groom stood in the doorway.
“Well, well, well – what have we here?” Said the bride with amusement.
“I’ll see you two later.” The groom offered, the same note of smugness in his own voice. They were perfect for each other. Made for each other.
The bride lifted her skirts, seven layers of tulle.
“On your knees, stupid pig. It’s my turn now.”
The bridesmaid felt her stomach lurch with lust as she fell to the carpet and raised her reddened face to her mistress’s cunt.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Commuters

This is a long one, so settle down and maybe put your phone on silent.
Alternatively, read Her, take a breather, and Save him for another night.

BDSM erotica. VERY NSFW. Consensual adults, over 18. If you don’t do hardcore, do not read any further. Enjoy

Her

I saw a man on my way to work today.

Sat further up the carriage as I stood, pressed against the divider getting sweaty and misanthropic. He was sitting with a colleague. The conversation looked stilted. He yawned as the colleague made complex motions with his hands and glared expectantly at him. He made whatever response was required, then looked up. Straight at me, I think. Looked away, and back again, and away. He swallowed.

Was he looking at me? He was sort of handsome, or maybe the suit and businessman’s haircut made him appear more so. Dark. Two days’ stubble. I wondered how that stubble would feel grazing my lips. When we stopped for a flow of old bodies to be replaced with new, I pulled the iPod out of it’s spot inside my bra and adjusted the volume. Electro pounding in my ears. Showing off, of course. Drawing attention.

He looked again, I think he noticed. I twitched as he appeared to lean forward, towards me, his fingers resting on the seat in front. Long and artistic, probably plays guitar in his spare time. I wonder how they’d feel inside me.

Objectively, they look as though they know their way around a cunt. And if I was sat next to him, and had to raise my skirts and allow my hips to widen as far as the narrow seats would allow, I’d do it, just so he could lean over, pretend to show me something out of the window and jam those fingers into me, his other hand over my mouth so no one noticed. He would cause me agony; one finger slipped in to the first knuckle, barely noticeable. I’d want more, of course. Lick and bite at him until he pinched me, raising the skin red and almost bleeding. Two fingers, harder, faster. My cunt so wet he’d move like the oiled motor of a car, our bodies shuddering along the tracks, threading through the city.

And all the while hissing honey-drenched venom in my ears. “Fucking whore”,  “Fat little bitch”, “Slut”. Words that shouldn’t turn me on, shouldn’t make me wetter, but do. He’d take his hand from my mouth and reach round to pull at my flesh through my clothing, forcing his hand inside my blouse and fondling my breasts like a rampant teenager. After I’d come he’d wipe the mess over my skirt for all the world to see. Make me walk the final steps to work with my blouse undone and my lipstick smeared around my mouth.

God, I love office boys. Just the sight of a suit and tie makes me fucking horny.

What I wouldn’t give to have him grab me by the wrist. “You’re coming with me.” March me to his offices, past the receptionist who pretends not to notice. Lead me up dark stairs, elevators to penthouse offices with floor to ceiling windows. I hear the door shut and locked behind me,  then he’s there, with his hands on me again. Maybe strip me down to my underwear and press me against the glass, where anyone could catch a glimpse of me, exposed.

Then he’d sit me down roughly on one of those big, leather-bound chairs, push my legs apart. “Knickers off”. And off they come.

There are other men in the room. I see them, now. One in particular. Older than my captor; overweight, unattractive. The others are reflections of one another – the same suits in greys and blacks; neat, expensive haircuts, lascivious grins or rabbit-in-headlights faces; one hand shoved deep into their trouser pockets. One of them takes off his tie and blindfolds me, then binds my ankles to the chair legs. He runs his finger up my leg, my thigh.

“Do you want to play?”

I feel… a tongue. Harsh, panting breath against my cunt. Perfume, sickly sweet and fading into sweat. Manicured nails pinch the swollen flesh of my cunt. A girl.
“Chubby chasing now, are we?”

“You don’t have to be here. We can do this without you.”
“Tetchy.”
“Just stick your head between her legs before we get bored and send you back to reception.”

For one so objectionable, she does as she’s told and she knows exactly what she’s doing, pushing on my thigh so much I’m almost lying down. Attacking me, spitting and sucking and getting to the very edge of biting.

I’ve never been with a girl before. I’m noisy, lifting off the chair til there are hands on my shoulders keeping me down. The hands travel lower to remove the last of my underwear. Up again, caressing my neck, the outline of my jaw. Tilting my head back and forceful kisses. The stubble damp and burning raw against me. Yelping against his mouth as she sinks her fingers into my waist and hits the bull’s eye with her tongue –  my body straining and caught between the two of them. I hear whooping of approval from the corners.

The noise subsides, and it sounds like she’s crying. Then laughing.

I only hate myself a fraction for letting the sound turn me on even more. And when my legs feel weak, she goes back for seconds; her tongue curling around my clit, jabbing deep into my cunt, licking everywhere. She can’t have hated it that much. She lets me cover her face again, but they take her away before the blindfold’s removed and I can see it for myself.

Then they’d…

First, the younger one. Must be a junior, gets lead over and presented to me, blushing and gripping himself, nervously. I smile, and coax – and swallow when he comes. He shakes my hand, like it’s a job interview; the others treat him indulgently, keeping their laughs spluttered behind their palms.

I’m untied and laid down before the glass. The older one is there, trouser-less but still in his shirt. He grabs me under my knees and pulls me to him until I’m tilted against him, wrapping my ankles behind his back. All he wants is to rub the sticky purple head of his cock against my pussy until he comes. That’s all. He doesn’t even try to fuck me, just concentrates on rubbing against me until I’m painted white. I’m getting closer.

Two want me to suck them both at the same time, then climax artistically over my tits. And now I need to be fucked, urgently.

Just Him and his colleague left now. It feels like there should be more; like our audience has dwindled to the few who can be bothered.

Instinctively I’m already on my knees for them, watching the world go by below us; traffic thickening now it’s late in the day. Should I be at work? What time is it? Space and time are irrelevant, but it’s raining.

The colleague lies beside me; shirt undone, a smile on his face, He draws patterns in the cum on my stomach; then wipes it across and finger paints ‘slut’ in caps.

“You look pretty.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“All the ones who’ve been showered in jizz. But I bet you still want more.”
I demur.

“That pussy of yours could take a pounding, couldn’t it? You’re desperate for a big, fat cock. And what about your rosebud, little girl?”

Do I? Do I? Suddenly, He’s there, the one whose lingering look started it all. Out of nowhere, like a magician, stroking my back.

“He can have your arse, so long as I get the prize. Do you like that?”

I do. I do.

“Please.”

A grin, duplicated around the room. Partner reaches to me and coats his fingers in glory for his invasion. Ringleader lies back and beckons me to him – so close to romance when he kisses me as the head nudges inside me. It hurts and heals as it slips inside, both hands on the small of my back until we’re joined. He tilts upward, presenting me like a bitch in heat and Partner giggles more. Placed at the entrance he takes a breath, and pushes. This is the moment – that point on which the future hinges. Partner inches in slowly as Ringleader dips his head at an awkward angle to catch my nipple with his teeth.

They squabble as they find their rhythm, arguing over my head like divorced parents on access day.

“It’s better for her if we take it in turns.”
“How do you know? She might prefer it simultaneously.”

I just want it. Ringleader looks into my eyes.

“What do you want?”
“Hard, please.”

“Your wish is our command.”

My mouth, my cunt, my arse all raw and reddened. And cum dripping over my body by the end of the evening. Partner, possibly overcome by the virgin territory so neatly plundered, arrives early and fills me. It feels so strange. I close my eyes. Ringleader holds me to him, but can’t resist sliding his hand round my backside and sticking a finger into the cum-filled space.

Door shuts anew. Us alone.

With an arm around me, he rolls over so I’m underneath.
“You’ve been working hard, it’s probably time for me to take the strain.”

Brutally tender. He seems surprised when the specific pressure and motion of that impressive cock makes me tense and squirm and yelp again.

“I’m close, where do you want it?

“Anywhere.”
Let him pick, I don’t care. I just want it.

Triumphantly, over my tits again, his face animated with lust.

As we near my stop, I feel my knees buckle just a little, under that image, and jab the release button a fraction too hard and too early. I look at him once more, a smile just playing about my lips and our eyes meet in that split second before the door closes.

I masturbate twice in the toilets at work before lunchtime.

 

Him

I saw a girl today. On the way to work. She got on two stops after us, stood pressed against the divider for ten minutes as the passengers changed around here. She was normal, so normal in her office wear. I’ve probably seen her before and completely ignored her. I might see her tomorrow and do the same, but today…

I admit, it was one fluid action that caught my attention. Her gaze was fixed on the window, the finger smudges and graffiti etched into the Plexiglas, the concrete and weeds beyond.

She frowned and absent-mindedly reached into the neck of her top, pulling out her iPod and selecting a different track before tucking it back. Inside her bra?

Beyond the plain black neckline was a flash of red that flared and disappeared. I stared. She was drawing attention so clearly. She must have known. I watched her fingers caress the side of her neck before returning to her side. Now her neckline appears far too low for the office. She’s not even pretty. Well, maybe a bit. Her hair’s tied back and she looks heavy, all on her hips and arse. And those tits.

I bet they’d look great bathed in cum. I can picture it. I’d make her get off at the next stop, have her suck me under the platform exit. No one would see us. On her knees with her face tilted towards me, all innocence and purity, wide eyes and desperate for it. Have her pretend she didn’t know what to do with it. I bet she’d deep throat like a bitch. And a creamy facial to top it off. Photo’s for after. She’s already on her knees so push her skirt up and yank her knickers to her ankles.  Have her lie back so I can get a nice straight upskirt of her pussy, dripping wet and the sight just making me hard all over again.

I think about sticking my cock inside her, if I see her again. Maybe the carriage is still full, travellers becoming disorientated by the smell of sex. She’s listening to music, of course. The tech still positioned snugly against her tits.

Pushing up against her as we turn a corner, I mutter my sorries in her ear. She mouths “It’s fine.” And turns back as her eyes register who I am and flare open before disappearing. I put my hand on her waist and smile as it sinks and settles. The other hand lets go of the handrail and heads to the hem of her skirt; working it up til I can see the red lace of her knickers out of the corner of my eye. No one notices as I ease her tights and pants down until enough of her is exposed for me to work on extricating my cock then working it between her legs, up the gap in her knickers where the elastic’s tight against my balls until I’m pressed so close to her; one emergency stop and she’s mine.

Momentarily I’m distracted when she places her hand over mine and leads it up, under her jacket to cop a feel of those amazing breasts, bigger than my hand can cope with. Even with a raging hard-on, I have my wits about me enough to find the iPod and pause whatever it is she’s listening to.

I lean in closer.

“Is it too forward to ask you if you do anal?”
I’m an idiot. She laughs.

“Might be dangerous. But I bet I can make you come without you having to do a fucking thing.”

True to her word, she bends a fraction at the waist. So many people, yet even as the drones witter around us, her moan as the length slides against her, almost makes me cum on the spot and she manages to flex her body against mine and more specifically my cock against the slippery material of her knickers until – oops! They’re even wetter. She squeezes her legs together so that when I manage to remove myself, not entirely happily, I’m cleaned and easily returned. Hearing the zip closing she carefully moves my hand back down again. I roll her knickers back up, her skirt back down. She gets off at her stop. Doesn’t look back, but I know she’s grinning.

I wonder what she sounds like when she comes, tilt my head and watch her carefully, trying to conjure. She mouths to whatever she’s listening to, her lips are pink and shiny.

Noisy. A screamer. Girlish moans and a filthy mouth. I’d put money on it.

I could drag her into the office, grab her by the wrist and take her up to the eighteenth floor, that meeting room with the floor to ceiling windows that no one ever uses.

As we wait for the lift I’d fire off an email to the gobby receptionist who ignored us on the way in. She’s been after me since she started working here. Tell her she’s on if she comes to eighteen in half an hour and doesn’t mind a little foreplay, of my choosing. Fire off a few more as we speed upwards.

Strip her? Would she look better clothed, or tied and gagged with her own underwear? Naked, she’d look fantastic. Strip her in front of those panoramic windows. Straight down to her knickers, showing off those tits and what I can only imagine are large, sensitive nipples the same colour as pencil erasers.

“Everyone can see you.”

“Should I take my knickers off?”
Filthy girl. She sits with her legs spread as wide as she can once they’re removed. The door sucks and hisses as the selected few receive their invites and hightail it up here. She doesn’t hear; lost in her own reflection, spreading her already swollen pussy lips apart so that she can see her stiff little clit and the cream dripping from her. Pressing her feet to the pane, tilting her hips so anyone who wants to can see her.

She sees us reflected too, Doesn’t turn around.

“Who do I get to play with first?”
They know the rules – whatever she agrees to, but no one gets to fuck the bitch’s tight little cunt except me. They all accept. The receptionist, just arriving, gets her orders.
“Pretend it’s 2am on Saturday morning. You’re E’d off your tits and want to get off with another girl. You need a face-full of pussy, and here she is, naked and willing. Now eat her.”
Slight disgust, but she agrees. The disgust makes it even better, in all honesty.

She leaves a trail of jacket, tiny pencil dress and heels on her way to her playmate. Kisses her the way fake lesbians do in porn – all tongue. I can hear the collective sound of four zippers being eased down.

As they ease into their respective roles, I can’t help but compare their bodies. The receptionist is a stereotype made flesh – tiny, tanned just enough shades away from orange to still be fuckable. Huge, surgically enhanced tits that make her look like she’s going to fall over. The captive is paler, pinker – fleshy and thick at the waist – natural tits more or less the same size but softer. Both of them shaved or waxed for easy delectation.

And soon, the receptionist has her face buried between the girl’s thighs – scream, yelp, dirty words – and enjoying it more than she wants us to think. When she comes up for air, her face is soaked and mischievous before she dives in for seconds. The captive returns the favour as soon as she is able and in between bouts of intense licking their fingers are stickily shoved inside one another; or all over the breasts they have express permission to play with.

Marco, being the youngest, can’t control himself and relieves himself over the writhing bodies with intense satisfaction, leaving them stickier than ever. The receptionist is sat side-on to the window,   captive’s body held against her, suckling like a baby. They both look flushed and drowsy.

“I’ve got something better to suck on. Why don’t you get on your knees, hmm? In front of the whole city, so everyone can see you.” She obeys, sticking out her tongue and taking him like a pro, as receptionist is dismissed.

Being that much older, Mike soon goes the way of the young buck and misses her mouth, shooting his load over her cheek, untidily.

Patrick and Thom take their sides, Thom being ever the gentleman, leans over to her and whispers.

“Do you like anal?”

“Of course.” As though this is something she’s asked regularly, bored of it now.

It looks like it hurts her to begin with, but it’s not like Thom’s massively well-endowed. Soon I watch his cock pistoning in and out of her arse and she’s squealing with exhilaration and pleasure in between as Patrick feeds his cock into her mouth, Fucking horny.

Instead of the messy finishes preferred by the others; they take the opportunity to pump her full of cum when they finish. And finally, it’s my turn.

“I’ve been waiting for this.”

She says nothing, leads me by the hand to the big, executive chair at the far end of the room.

“I’ve been waiting for this.” She kneels over me, kissing almost nervously, no nerves til now. Slowly pushes herself down. The eyes widen again “It’s so big.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Maybe a little bit.”
Down with a bump, and settled she begins to rock her hips, gently at first. Eyes closed in concentration and fatigue; she’s had a busy day.

“Won’t they miss you?”
Who cares? We could stay up here forever, no one would know.

“Doesn’t matter.”

She cuddles close to me, shifting faster, intuitive. Those noises again; sweet, horny little noises. I buck upwards to meet her and her eyes fly open in surprise.

“Can’t have you doing all the work.”

I can feel my cock being manipulated by her muscles; the cum on her and in her rubbing into my shirt. The thought nearly makes me explode. I’m close. Inside her, one last thrust and I’m there. Every bad word my mother never wanted me to say howled at the top of my lungs as she takes her cue beautifully and leans back so I get the full spectacular view of her one last time.

Back in my seat I squirm as my cock thickens. Now I have to concentrate on not having a hard-on when we reach my stop.

She’s still there, ignoring everything around her. We grind to a halt and she hits the door release, but not before looking my direction, just once, straight at me, she looks down, the faintest smile. I smile back, half-hoping she’ll notice.

And now she’s gone, my cock still throbbing, and waiting.

Barbados Blue

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.

Barbados Blue

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.”
“It’s January.”
“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 that!”
“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.
“Oh. Ok.”
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.”
“What?”
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.”

Post Work

Reports of my having an oral fixation are grossly exaggerated…

 

Though your sight is limited, there are some things one knows, instinctively. This is what you think as she leans over you, smilingly passes you your glass of wine, and begins to unbutton your flies. You can see that her dress is already unbuttoned, so her breasts are displayed – you know the bolt of pleasure that flashed through her as she played and posed to find the optimum way to expose herself. And of course your eyes are drawn back again and again to the firm, dimpled, caramel sweetness of her nipples. Knowing that one finger briefly brushing them will make her ache and moan.

But you know her pleasure lies with your pleasure, with her position as your toy, to serve you. Your hand stays firm around the stem of the glass. She licks the tip of your cock before sinking her lips around the shaft, her head bobbing up and down smoothly for a minute or two as you sink back in your chair, sipping your wine and relax into her skill. She starts to take more of you deeper into her throat, and though she gags within seconds, she pushes through, until she snorts and kneads the carpet with her knuckles, desperate not to give in as her hands play with the sensitive sac beneath.

With her head bent to worship you, your gaze travels down her body to her arse, sticking proudly up in the air. She has no knickers on but you can’t see. You know she’s exposed though. That her inner thighs are damp. You look forward to seeing for yourself, later. To ravish her inch by inch until she’s trembling and content. Not yet, though.

You place your free hand on the top of her head, a crown of pinkish brown adorning her messily perfect hair. When she pulls away, your gentle but firm pressure keeps her there, breathing unevenly against your erection. She looks up into your eyes and wipes the snot away from her nose. The visual equivalent of gritting her teeth. You let her lean back a little and watch complacently as she spits saliva, precum and Prosecco over the shaft and her fingers curl around it, milking faster than you would have done, so desperate is she to be showered in your cum. She is sat back on her knees now, moaning softly as though she doesn’t realise it; the very act of pleasuring you stirring something deep within her. Oh God the thought of the sweetness gathering in her cunt makes your hips jerk against her mouth and she smiles, pulling harder, desperate, desperate.

No, not yet. You let the pressure on her scalp increase and she looks up expectantly as you push her away, a delicious string of fluid chaining your cock to her ruby red lips. You nod to her own glass on the table.

“A mouthful.” You instruct, and she drains the glass, her cheeks obscenely full of liquid but she knows you well enough not to swallow it. You know you need to work quickly, anyway. For the sake of the bubbles.

“Head back.” She leans away only enough to bare her exquisite throat until her eyes are fixed on the ceiling, her mouth agape and the only sound faint, sweet gargling from her throat as she forgets to breathe through her nose. You lovingly slide your erection back into her mouth, the sight of the wine flowing out when it’s displaced, and coursing down over her throat and chest making you even harder. She gags again, the bubbles going up her nose as they whirr not unpleasantly around your cock. You feel her tongue; she cannot resist. Her lips purse around you and still she doesn’t swallow. The liquid warms slowly, and you know you can’t last much longer. You yank your cock out of her mouth.

“Head up.” She complies.
“Let it drip out of your mouth. Slowly. Then you get your reward.”
So gleeful she looks as she tips her head to face me and I watch the skinny streams of alcohol run from her slightly parted lips. She opens them wider as the first creamy drops of my own begin to mix into her dishevelment, and in the harsh light of the sitting room lamp, she glows.

Nuts About You

This is  my second usage of Exhibit A’s story prompts. In fact, I started writing this story first, but for some reason I couldn’t get it to go in the direction I wanted it to, and then the bukkake poem fell out of me instead. (Sentences you don’t expect to say in your life, ever).

Ironically, I am at a point in my life where, after over a decade of exposure, I hate seasonal Christmas markets. The infest towns, they make getting anywhere in central Manchester a fucking nightmare and they’re full of overpriced tat that gets more overpriced each year. But I do have a soft place in my heart, and my mouth, for those cones of fresh, caramelised nuts they sell.
Hot nuts = The way to my heart.
Also, sorry about the punny title.

Nuts About You

True story: German accents get me wet. They have done for half my life. As soon as I stepped into that classroom in Year 9 and was handed a folder with a tiny pencil-drawn Reichstag on it, and felt the word roll pleasurably off my tongue. “Deutsch.”. Hooked. So there you have my explanation for what follows.

He worked in the seasonal markets. He sold hot nuts. (I’m not making this up, I swear.)
From that first time I saw him three years ago, and each following year I’d felt my face flush pink whenever I spotted that he was back again.
Every Friday during December I toddled down into the city centre, to the furthest reaches of the stalls, where he sat over his brazier, waiting for me. It felt like he was waiting, anyway.
“You again! More sugared almonds? You’ll turn into an Almond!” He said when he saw me the third week, recognising my red duffel/red beret combination.
“I have a sweet tooth.” I said. Handing over the cash in exchange for another box, I stuck out my tongue.
“I see.” He said knowingly, turning to make change.
He began to recognise me after that, and when we were on first name terms, even made passable attempts at my name, calling out,
“Aoife!” if he saw me approach and wasn’t with a customer. That made my heart jump more.
His name was Andreas. Or that was what was on the name tag he wore, at any rate. His accent was lush. To replicate it in print would probably ruin it. Cute face. Rugged facial hair. That midpoint between blonde and brunette. Brown eyes. Chunky. Like a bear.
“Like Bruno.” I said, one Friday in the second year. The winter was getting milder every day. My coat was undone and my hat and scarf shoved deep into my work bag.
“Bruno?”
“The bear? In Berlin? Bruno…. I’m imagining he has a name, aren’t I?” I was simultaneously trying to fish my purse out of the black hole of my bag, shoving my arm in and out wildly. It made my chest shudder. I caught him looking.
“You are. He’s just a bear. Four pounds please.”
Daylight robbery but who cares? I’d have handed over my wallet for them. For him
Nothing ever happened, though. The odd wink or flirty remark. How did I get him out from behind that counter?

My New Year’s resolution this year was to try a little harder.

“Andreas!”
He smiled broadly and reached over the rows of bags to take my hand.
“Aoife! I was hoping you’d be back.”
“Always. Where else would I get my nuts?”
By now he was used to British innuendo and laughed.
“I am sure you wouldn’t go wanting.”
“I wish.” I said quietly, adding “How’s business?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Slow. No one wishes to brave the rain. English rain. More rain than anywhere else in Europe.”
“Embrace it. This is nothing to us. Besides, it’s barely spitting now. Practically bone dry.” I said, fingering the boxes. He tapped my hand like a naughty child and gently moved them out of the way “Haven’t you heard of singing in the rain?”
“But it’s Christmas. How can you sing Christmas carols in a rain storm? Stille Nacht suits the quiet peacefulness of a crisp, virgin snowscape. Not so the damp English streets.”
“Jesus was born in the desert, you know.” Piped up the person behind me in the queue.
I winked at Andreas, who rolled his eyes as I stepped aside to let the punter buy his single, sad loop of lebkuchen hearts. This done, Andreas took a paper cone from his shelf and tipped a few of the nuts into it. He handed it to me.
“Each year you buy the plain sugared almonds we buy from the manufacturer. They are so much nicer, so much more pleasurable when they’re warm in the mouth. Try them.”
I couldn’t help it, I blushed, reddening but still self aware enough to make a show of closing my eyes before sticking my tongue out and placing the fattest, sugariest almond in the centre, savouring the sweetness washing over my tongue.
“Good, huh?”
I made the noise I usually make when I have someone’s face between my thighs; the guttural moan that rises from my chest and escapes between my gritted teeth.
When I opened my eyes he was still looking. I wished I could see the half of him that was hidden behind the brazier.
“Very good.” I said in a small voice.
“Do you have to rush away again tonight?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Good, wait there.”
A small line had developed, and as he began to serve them, I realised that somewhere nearby a choir was singing. Silent Night.
I started to sing along, in English, and he looked over. Once he’d served the last customer in the line, he shook his head.
“Sounds much better in German.”
“Alles besser auf Deutsch.” I said without thinking. His glance was approving.
“Not bad. Not great, but not bad.”
“I apologise for my clumsy English tongue. I try my best to work it around your complex vowel sounds. Please serenade me in German.”
He frowned.
“Not out here.”
He took the closed sign out from behind the till and hung it on the side of the kiosk. Then he turned the single glaring light bulb off, leaving only the soft glow of the fairy lights clustered in the eaves.
He lifted the hinged counter top.
“Come here.”
Though my knees immediately turned to mush I managed to make it inside. As the last hut at the end of the row, the sign was likely to stop anyone venturing past us.
“Sit.” He gestured to the corner of the tiny room.
“Are you going to sing for me now?” I said nervously. He was standing over me, I felt slightly afraid.
A slow smile spread across his handsome face. He reached behind and unfastened his apron as he began to sing, very sweetly but very quietly.
“Stille nacht…. Heilige nacht…. Alles schläft; einsam wacht.”
He folded the apron and laid it on the counter. Then he began to unbutton his shirt.
“Nur das traute heilige paar.”
He left the shirt on, and went to unzipped his flies. I could see his cock straining against the taut fabric of his jeans, but he seemed to reconsider and instead, got down on his knees.
“Holder knab im lockigten haar,”
He gently let his hands slide up my thighs and under my skirt. He pulled down my tights and knickers, to my ankles. He lifted his head to kiss me, very very gently on the lips.
“Now, translate.” He murmured, before ducking his head beneath my skirt.
“Silent night… Holy night…”
I felt those same kisses on my inner thigh, his hands kneading the flesh.
“All is calm…. All is bright…”
He spread the outer lips of my cunt apart, the other hand still stroking me.
“Round yon virgin mother and child…”
I gasped when he entered me with two of his fingers and let his tongue travel over my clit. His stubble burned my thighs. It was very difficult to consider singing, let alone singing in tune. I kept forgetting the words.
“Holy infant so tender and mild….. Oh, Oh God. Oh…..”
My thighs tensed, I’d been startled that he was making me come so easily, that I wasn’t bothered that we could be found out at any moment. I gasped and tried to keep my moans clenched and quiet as he kept his lips pursed around me, his fingers shuddering in and out. He was going for a second attempt. Fuck. I’d completely forgotten the words now. I stroked his head.
“I can’t remember the rest!” I whimpered.
He kept his head bowed for a little while longer – interspersing his elegant Teutonic tongue with pinches and soft little bites to the fat. The second orgasm was a smaller wave, a flood of warmth. Satisfied, he sat up and pulled my skirt back down so I was relatively modest. I was still blinking in quiet, sated disbelief that this had happened.
All I could do was rest my head against his chest as though it was meant to be there.
He held me closely and took up the final refrain.
“Schlafe in himmlischer ruh….. Schlafe in himmlischer ruh….”

As if on cue, it started to rain again.