The House Next Door (Wicked Wednesday)

Almost every flat I’ve ever lived in has had thin walls and noisy neighbours. I once shared a adjoining wall with a couple who would have loud arguments each night at 11pm, soon to be followed by even louder (make up?) sex.
Once I heard the male of the couple shout ‘perineum’ mid argument. The rest of the sentence is long gone but this one word remains lodged in my psyche and no amount of mind bleach can remove it.
This story is about much nicer neighbours.

Eavesdropper

The house next door had been a mystery since the day she’d moved in. In a long street where the large semi-detached homes had been long since sliced into smaller and smaller flats for the young professional masses, the dirty white building had one letterbox, and a solitary intercom button.

Of course it could just have been a family home; but there never seemed to be anyone around, adult, child or otherwise. In fact for the entirety of her first two weeks, the building remained in resolute darkness and she began to assume it was just an empty building, derelict, neither bought nor sold.

The next Saturday night, she was settling into bed with pages of bookmarked articles to read and half a bottle of house-warming Prosecco to keep her company, when she heard it. The familiar, satisfying thud of a bedhead smacking against a wall.

She blushed, then laughed.

“Good for them.” she thought, tipping an imaginary cap to whoever was getting down and dirty in the room next to hers and pouring another slug of wine into her glass.

The noise continued, quickening. She caught the sound of a woman laughing, moaning, and a man doing likewise. And another, deeper male voice that was gruff. She felt a slight twitch in her cunt as it dawned on her there was more than a pair of lovers in the room beyond the brickwork.

Embarrassed again she tried to settle into HuffPo’s weekly end of the world digest but she couldn’t ignore the thump-moan-thud-squeal filling her ears.

If she lost concentration for more than a second of two she began imagining the scene playing out. A delicate, chubby girl, wickedly beautiful like a debauched fairy being shuttled between two men, with others watching as she was used for pleasure and filled full of come. She could see the mess trickling down between the woman’s thighs and out of her mouth as she rolled over and the next man buried his face between her thighs to clean her.

Ultimately unable to clear her mind of this scene, our prim, confused and not a little aroused heroine had no option but to decamp to the living room and spend the night on the sofa, wrestling with the bedclothes.

Silence resumed for the rest of the weekend.

At first she didn’t notice that the next time it happened was exactly a month later. The third Saturday of the month.

Arriving home after a late night she fell in a wobbly fashion across the bed and heard giggling. Women’s giggling. Three or more? She shuffled closer to the wall and pressed her ear against the plasterwork, the noise suddenly far louder than she’d expected as she was confronted by waves of delectable moans and giggles and muffled words that might have been “fuck” repeated over and over.

This time she had no defence against the fantasy, succumbing to the vision as she deciphered the high pitched squeals as a bound girl receiving punishments, lashes against her cunt and breasts and brought to orgasm over and over and over again. She pictured the same woman she had done the night before. A voluptuous pixie with a wicked smile.

One of the voices grew suddenly muffled and this she knew meant there was now someone sat atop the captive’s face, making that beautiful face useful.

She couldn’t help herself and heaved her beer-fuelled body upright, reaching under her pillow for her vibe and bracing herself against the wall as she pressed it to her pubic mound and listened intently. She ground her cunt harder and harder, mimicking the tempo of the voices beyond the wall, fantasising about how she’d use the pretty girl’s tongue on her clit, instructing her exactly how to make her come, and as they grew louder and more urgent so did she, until she came, falling onto the pillows and muttering fuck over and over.

“Hello?” came a not-so-muffled voice from somewhere near her forehead. Soft and inviting.

She had been louder than she thought.

As she tried to control her breathing, the voice came again, like a spell; like music.

“Sounds like you were having a nice time. We’re having a nice time too. Maybe we could have a nice time together some time soon?”

She slept on the sofa again.

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Nightmare (Wicked Wednesday)

Note: DD/lg kink – if Daddies and their littles are not your bag, you can skip this one. Both characters are significantly over 18, and are not related to one another.

Emily awoke sweating, trembling and paralysed with the fear of a dream she couldn’t quite remember. She turned her face into the pillow and rubbed her forehead against the rough texture of his sheets. The coarse fabric on her skin was soothing, but still she gulped for air, which wasn’t easy with a mouthful of pillowcase.

Emily began to whimper, her eyes streaming, her nose running and her body crushed at the very edge of the bed.

He was asleep. She didn’t want to bother him with the bad dream that had turned her into a crumpled child, so instead she whimpered some more. Whimpering wasn’t helping so she opened her mouth and began to suck her thumb, digging her teeth into the pad and paddling her feet into the duvet until they were trapped between the layers.

In the dream she was swimming. The water turned to a thick, bitter syrup and choked her, then she felt a hand on the back of her neck, holding her down. Her feet began to sink into the muddy bottom of the pool and that was when she began to struggle and woke up grateful for the warm, clear air of the bedroom.

She couldn’t put it off any longer. She’d tried to cope like a big girl and it hadn’t worked. Emily rolled over to where he was flat on his back, snoring gently, the fur on his chest rising and falling. She rested her head where the thickest pelt grew and spoke downwards into his belly button.

“Daddy?”

He sleepily placed his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him.

“You had a bad dream.”
“I had a bad dream.” She sniffed in agreement. “I’m getting snot in your chest hair.”
“Doesn’t matter. What was your dream, kitten?”

“Choking….. drowning….. there was mud…… I couldn’t…….” she trailed off, sinking into happiness, curling her tongue around the hair. She placed her hand around the base of his cock, the comforter, the source of serenity, and snuggled closer to him.

“There, there. Shush…… You’re ok now my love.”
He kissed the top of her head and she ran her thumb down the shaft gently, repetitive, even strokes. The skin was smooth and warm under her fingers and made her happy. Happy and sleepy. She smiled into his chest.

“I love you, Daddy. Night night.”

Yawning, she wrapped her body around his like a warm winter coat, and was soon asleep, the bad dream all but forgotten; her brow soothed.

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Hands, knees and bumps-a-daisy (Wicked Wednesday)

Those of us who grew up in the country will know at least one person who learnt to drive doing circuits of their uncle’s field at a frighteningly young age, probably without a seatbelt.

We were visiting his parents, and within that visit, spending an afternoon in the barn conversion of some parental friends. Everyone else had gone on ahead, whilst I, being terrible at decision making at the best of times, had spent ten minutes picking out shoes, ended up making us late. And lateness breeds unfortunate consequences.

We drove along personably enough for ten minutes, out of the suburbs with their neat-ish gardens and rows of newer terraces with useless chimneys and Chelsea tractors in the driveways. Once the houses began to peter out and were replaced by sprawling fields and dotted homesteads, his manner changed. He pulled into a layby a couple of minutes later, and without turning to look at me, ordered me into the back of the car.

“And take this. You’ll need something to keep your mouth busy.” he handed me the hdeously-coloured suction cup dildo we mostly kept because it made us giggle. No one was even smirking, now.

I didn’t argue, and went to sit in the back. I could see him looking at me in the rear view mirror as I leant over and closed the passenger door.

“No, on your knees. Hands and knees. All fours. Like a dog.”

I nodded again and assumed the position. He started the car and pulled away, continuing on the journey as I concentrated on keeping myself upright, the silicone cock hitting the top of my mouth with every bend of the road.

“Knickers down.” He called out, turning left down a narrow dirt road with high fields of wheat on either side. I pressed my face into the seat for balance as I reached under my skirt and pulled the underwear to my knees.

The dildo bulged obscenely against my cheek as he slowed down.

“Now, there’s another five minutes of slow driving down this lane until we get to the house. You’re going to take that cock and stick it against the car door – that’s right.” He registered approval in the tilted central mirror as I took the spit drenched tool out of my mouth and passed it between my legs, both of us watching as I used all my viable strength to smack it against the plastic surface and hoped it would hold.

“You don’t need me to tell you what to do next, do you?”

I shook my head, and slowly impaled myself on the dildo, my eyes never leaving the reflection of his. He said there was five minutes until our arrival, but who knew how honest he was being? It could be two minutes, leaving me pinned to the car via my dripping cunt as a small crowd of well-wishers crowded round to meet the prodigal son’s girlfriend. The unlikely outcome that they would press their faces against the glass and call for the windows to be opened so they could paw at me, taunt me, and some of them could show their appreciation for my display with a shower of approval, to be licked off by still others….. that kept me going as the shadows of the farmer’s wheat  dwindled away and the later afternoon sun cast its shadows over my body as we approached the house. My only intention was to make the most of the punishment he had chosen, and the minutes to enjoy it he had so generously given.

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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