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.
So, the two protagonists from Meet Me There were not contained to that tale alone. I think this is from earlier on in their story. Enjoy.
Looking back, it all started to go a bit weird when we decided to buy a strap-on.
I met her in Tesco’s. Of course, where else? Where do people usually meet perfect whirlwinds of women who paw at you incessantly and make you glow? Lidl?
I was fingering a stalk of broccoli. Deciding; was I feeling virtuous enough to eat green things, or was I going to get chips on the way home? She was hiding behind a stack of Easter eggs, pretending to be a bunny. As you do. She did look slightly ashamed when she noticed me staring at her. She was wearing shorts, even though it had been snowing all day.
Is it exhibitionism in your own back garden? In your own space, technically away from the prying eyes of the neighbours but if they happened to hear the scuffle, a moan that escapes a fraction louder than intended, or glance from their bedroom window as his hand moves lower….. What then?
Less than a week is nothing. It’s no time at all to be apart. It’s especially nothing when you don’t stop your steady trickle of conversation and lewd photography. The usual morning sweethearts and goodnight my loves had carried on as normal, even though he was in another country, and on a minimal time difference. Still, I ran into his arms when I got off the bus and stood on my tiptoes gripping him tightly in the middle of the pavement, not wanting to let him go. Turns out a week might be too long, regardless.
For girls who enjoy dominant AF girls
She cornered me after half an hour threading through the sticky, endless darkness. Her fingers laced through mine and dragging me to somewhere even darker, thicker with the scent of new leather, sugar and sex.
“I told you I’d come and you know why I came.” She whispered urgently, taking my hands and placing them on the hem of her tiny mini dress. “No knickers. No obstacles. No rules. No boys.”
I don’t remember why I wrote this exactly. I know I wrote it for someone who wasn’t much impressed with it, but I like it well enough.
Consensual, caring BDSM. All characters over 18. No one is a blood relative. NSFW. 18+ only. Copyright me.
“I’m scared.” I say, looking at the bed nervously.
“I’m not.” He replies, half-smiling.
Last night it was late, and most of twitter was asleep. Some were awake, though. And made me think of something that has occured to me before. That other submissive women know how to manipulate me better than anyone. With thanks to Molly
Inspiration comes from funny places.
They make me wear a dress, no underwear. A strappy, summery thing, floral, flippy, far too short and far too tight. My breasts barely contained. When I stand before them for examination, he roughly bares them, threatening the straps which are thin and unstable.
The rather lovely and wonderful Exhibit A is running a competition based on selected lyrics by one of his favourite bands. So here is my attempt, from the prompt “Libraries Gave Us Power”.
I do love a historical romance, a sliver of D/s, a hint of exhibitionism, voluptuous female flesh and this rather nicely covers all of these things, and a little more besides (shut up, the 70s was nearly 50 years ago and therefore totally historical….)
With thanks to Hannah and Ros for reading, proofing and con/crit x
The smell of books was one of many that made Julia feel sick. Not the fish and chip newness of paperbacks, she didn’t mind that at all, but the musty, mildewy scent of decaying fabric and horse glue.
These books filled her with gloom, and libraries filled her with dismay. She only visited them because Gloria found them so endlessly fascinating.
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
Content warning: degradation. NSFW. Please avoid if you are squeamish about such things!
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 big.