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.”

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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?”

 

The Gift (Smutathon 2018)

This piece is shared with the permission of Honey for whom it was written with much love, for her kind donation.

Sometimes when we go out, he sees me, catches me looking at other women. Once he sat smirking as I shyly flirted with the attendant in a first class train carriage, giggling in awe at her glossy black hair and curvy bum.

As I tied myself in knots and listened to her talk to me about the lipstick she was wearing, his hand was in my lap, crawling under the lace of my knickers, feeling how wet her prettiness had made me and rubbing my clit as hard as he could without making the table shake. When I came I buried my head in his shoulder and he apologised to her slightly bemused face.

“She’s been up since five, I think she’s having a sugar crash.”

She nodded sympathetically and fetched a tiny can of coke and a tumbler and when she turned away he poured out my drink and dipped his come-smeared fingers in it, feeding me the sugary mixture as we sped onwards.

He watches me watch beautiful women like her. Women with immaculate make up in men’s suits. Pretty, voluptuous nymphs in girlish knee highs and 50’s bubblegum dresses. Tall, elegant queens who walk through the world like they own it because they do. Different kinds of beauty but all equal. He watches them too. He knows what my heart yearns for. My heart full of him, but wants something he cannot provide, that I am too scared to pursue.

His office Christmas party. Formal dress. He picks out his favourite – a long velvet gown that brings out the red lights in my hair. Heels, but I still only come up to his shoulder. Champagne cocktails with raspberries, canapés, and his assistant, radiant in a silky whip of nothingness, glancing in my direction. She and I have spoken many times – conspired and commiserated over my love’s stubbornness. I have never seen her so regal, with a cleavage that heaves and wobbles in all the right ways.

When my shoes threaten to floor me, I perch on a low sofa and she sits beside me, calm and soothing.

“She wants you, you know. Has had a crush on you since the day she saw you.” His breath hot upon my ear.

“She does?”
“She does. Why wouldn’t she? See her watching you. She aches.”

This Goddess returns with the glasses, our fingers touch as she passes one to me and sits so close to me our thighs are pressed tightly together.

“You look edible.” She says, her eyes on my glossy lips, my breasts.

“I…..” I swallow. “You are stunning.”

Her smile is warm and deep and I fall gladly, drowning in her as she kisses me. Kisses me in this exposed place that feels secluded, with her hand on my waist as if it had always belonged there. She only breaks away to take my hand and lead me swiftly through the great hall and into the corridor which is dark and deserted.

A statue of the founder’s mother in the centre, watches us as she seats me in the centre of the wide, imposing staircase and kneels before me, kissing along my inner thigh as my body shivers with goose pimples and icy fear of being found. But she will not be deterred, licking my damp knickers and peeling the fabric away from my cunt, pushing her agile fingers inside me as her tongue assaults my clit, interspersing her manipulations with adoration.

“Oh you taste so good. So savoury. So delicious. I knew you’d be delicious.”

She is ravenous for me.
I gently hold her head and bring her lips to mine again. Her kisses more valuable than her touch but she is still within me as we kiss, as she strokes my cheek before the hand glides lower and slips inside my gown to roll my nipple between her fingers. It is this which makes me come for her. Moan in delightful anguish with my face in her shoulder, and in the darkness, his eyes watching us, with his heart full.

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

Serving Girl

I hate him. Hate hate hate him. Sitting there being paid sixteen times my wage to actively destroy the world, do his job badly, or well depending on which side you take. He disgusts me with his dishonesty, his foolishness, his abhorrent social and feeding habits.

And yet in my anger I become a sliver of sensual quicksilver, dressing each morning for the role of mistress; my crisp white blouse threatening to give way and expose the treacherous flesh beneath, and the accompanying black shirt is only just long enough to conceal the delectable curves of my arse. Bare legs that stretch on and up to meet silky french knickers.

This is all for him and all for me; I bend over to serve his teas and coffees, inviting his ogling; thinking he might just reach out one day and grab a handful in animal lust.

I am careless, I am beautiful. I stand in the corner of the room awaiting instruction, my phone clasped in one hand with the other exposing my cunt. I am taking photos of my pretty cunt to show to people who desire me and he may be watching he may not. His cock may be shifting and pressing against the front of his slacks as he catches the slick pinkness of my inner labia.

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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?”

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The Watcher

First Anita adjusted the drapes, casually, naked from a long, hot shower. Out of the corner of her eye the lights from the apartment opposite flickered on as she heard the bedroom door open and shut behind her.

He was there again. But as she came closer to the window to catch a glimpse, the light was extinguished, and her heart fell a little. No audience tonight. She sighed and turned to her husband, standing in the doorway, removing his sweater.

“Ready?” He asked quietly. She nodded, when the doorbell rang.

“I suppose I’ll answer it, you’re hardly dressed appropriately.”

They shared a small smile before Alan turned and headed downstairs to see who it was.

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Work Drinks

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.

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