Plait

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.

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Keeping Up Appearances

Note: Whilst Gwendolyn refers to Whittaker as her uncle, they are not blood relatives. This is all part of the game to them. Both are well above legal age.

***

“Come.”

The room was stifling hot, a fire that had lain dormant all day, was now purring contentedly in the grate and the heat made the smoke curling from Whittaker’s cigar hang thickly in the air. He was facing the window, his back to her, watching the late evening lovers take the air.

“Did you have a pleasant evening?” He didn’t turn around.

Gwendolyn took off her jacket and shoes. “Quite.”
“Did he try anything?”

She laughed and made her way through his tightly-packed office to the window, whose ledge was just wide enough for her to perch on.

“He was a gentleman – he was the gentleman he was paid to be.” Here she reached forward and took the cigar from his hand. She took a long drag and when he took it off her, blew languid smoke rings into the air, kicking her feet into his thigh. He caught one and held it as he smoked, her toes contained in his fist.

“You’re drunk.” he said after a while.

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Blurs

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.

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