Ettie and Rose’s Dirty Weekend (Smutathon 2018)

Second story time! Another queer romance, but a much happier one set in the late 1940s, and with a gorgeous accompanying image kindly provided by the wonderful Eye and Missy

On Thursday the 4th of August 1949, the 12pm Blackpool train from Manchester was crammed with children and mardy-looking grandmothers crammed into every corner of every carriage.

“Let’s just stand in the hallway.” Ettie suggested after a third door had opened to reveal several mewling infants and bemused female relatives trying and failing to keep order.

“It’s an hour journey or more, I don’t think my legs could take it. Let’s walk on further there must be a space for us.”
“You could sit on the case. Or on me.” Ettie suggested helpfully as they walked on.

Eventually they came to a larger carriage with just as many unruly children, but also two empty seats separated by a pair of soldiers – Canadian possibly – having a very heated debate. Their eyes lit up when they spied Ettie – buxom and twenty, with delicately waved hair and an innocent expression. Their focus was largely on the straining material of her blouse where her breasts were threatening to escape.

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What the Valet Did (Smutathon 2018)

My first Smutathon story is live! A mournful tale of unrequited love across the classes in 1920s Britain.
With thanks to KP for the kind use of this image.

I want him. I want him the way I want air to breathe and a bed to sleep in. I want him in every moment he’s here and every moment he’s away. I live to serve him.

I went into service at fourteen. A groom. Always loved horses. Drew horses with chalks and bits of coal on the pavement outside our house every Saturday.

Fourteen, they say there’s a stable lad needed up at the big house. Hard work. Important work. Off I go.

The first time I saw him, it was summer. Hotter than a flat iron.

“The young Master wants his filly, Sandra.”
Head stable-hand says.

“Stupid name for a horse.” I say, and get clipped round the ear, before he shrugs and says “named it after his sister. Hates her. Now shut your trap and fetch the filly.”

He was beautiful then. He’s handsome now but back then, no more than twenty two or three, he was beautiful. Prettier than a girl. Prettier than his sister or the horse. The horse was prettier than the sister unfortunately.

Once I heard Lady Amelia refer to him as incandescent in his youth, though she said it behind a glass of champagne with harshness in her eyes. Never liked her. Never thought he should have married her. All wrong.

He was fair, like a cornfield ripe for harvest. But dark eyes – there were whispers his mother came of Spanish stock and people nodded their heads and said that explained everything but it didn’t explain anything.

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What were you expecting?

She appeared innocent. I looked at her and thought of quiet corners with scuffed sci fi novellas, big jumpers, hot chocolate; pictured her hiding from the sun, studious and careful. I looked at her and thought the world would swallow her up.

I didn’t know – didn’t expect – that she had already chewed up and spat out the world long before I clapped eyes on her.

***

“That tea is too hot, you’ll burn yourself.”
Her voice sounded strange, cut through with an almost imperceptible sliver of harshness. I brought the cup closer to my lips.

“I said. Put. It. DOWN.”

She was wearing a pale orange sun dress, lying back into the rich leather sofa, Cleopatra-like. Regally stirring brown sugar into her own drink.

This was our third coffee shop hookup of the Summer. Usually we just sipped our drinks slowly, split a slice of something covered in chocolate and then found a quiet corner to make out in for an hour or so. Low-key. I’m older, but she’s more experienced. Both sub-leaning. We shared our secrets – the ones that made our blood run cold with anticipatory glee – and committed them to memory. I tied her wrists with Alice-blue ribbon and beat her with a crop one evening, but that was an anomaly. The exception to the rule. She leads, I follow.

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Smutathon Plans!

It feels like a very long time ago that I first said “I’m going to write pieces of erotic fiction in different decades as my Smutathon task” I might even have said ‘a story for every decade’ even though this would definitely be a big ask.

I love historical erotic fiction, it’s one of my favourite things to write – mostly the big knickers, men in waistcoats and the idea of intense sexuality hidden beneath a thin veneer of ‘respectability’ and primness.

Now, with only two weeks to go (in fact, two weeks today we will be recovering with pastries, coffee and lounging around in our pyjamas because the tough bit will be OVER), and spending every weekend saying “Yep, this weekend I am going to plot out my stories” before resoundly failing to do so, I have finally pulled my finger out and committed my stories and their titles to my laptop.

Five word files are now contained in a Smutathon folder on my desktop. Five stories, set at twenty year intervals, featuring an array of queer and heterosexual characters. My hope is that each will be at least 1k long – 5000 words in 12 hours seems doable, even for me.

So, drumroll please! Here are my five stories, their titles and a little note about genre.

1920s –  What the Butler Saw
Queer male masturbation, with a voyeurism/exhibitionism slant

1940s Ettie and Rose’s Dirty Weekend
Queer female romance, full of sweetness and discovery

1960s Flowers with de Sade
Het D/s in the Summer of Love

1980s Dancing With Myself Whilst Working as a Waitress in a Cocktail Bar
Het female masturbation for the working woman who wants to have it all

1999/2000 Taz and Noel want to make a millennium baby
Polya romance at the turn of the century

I hope at least one of these tickles your fancy. I am going to try my fucking hardest, I know that much!

See you all in August, and please DONATE!!

Earned

For Anon, with gratitude and blushes

 

Turn me on, get me hard, earn your cock shot.

I’d go doe eyed. Hold it and examine it and swallow down the fear that it’s too big and will choke me. And the thought of it choking me would make me damp. Always ask for permission to use my mouth beforehand. And swallow down the fear that you’ll refuse me.

You have permission.

The first determined lick is from the base to the tip, working up spit and using my hand and mouth together as it swells. From the way you exhale I know that this first contact with a mouth – my mouth – feels as good as it always does.

Keep going.

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My First Phone Sex

I hate talking on the phone. The ubiquity of twitter and WhatsApp has made communicating without speaking so much easier and means often you don’t phone people, ever.
On the other hand I can do a killer sexy voice that can turn the listener to jelly in sixty seconds flat so I really ought to try harder not be petrified by the lump of metal and plastic in my hand.
My first time, like all first times, was not good. Regarde:

He’s hundreds of miles away, visiting family in London. It’s his middle brothers’ engagement party. We haven’t been seeing each other long so I’m not bothered he didn’t extend the invite. He hasn’t yet informed me bluntly that I will never meet his family. That comes later.

For now we’re messaging on and off between his bouts of drinking. At about half eleven he tells me he’ll be walking home soon, and to stay awake. I’m tired, electrified, ready for sleep but he tells me he’s going to call after midnight and to be ready, have toys nearby.
Half an hour of agony.

He’s walking through London at night – over Wimbledon Common. I only know Wimbledon Common through the Wombles. When I ask friends if this is a posh area their eyes widen and they nod at me like I’m stupid. That’s not unreasonable.

He once told me he’d turned up at a girl’s house wearing a Womble costume. This was when he was trying to prove to me he’d fucked other fat girls, had pursued them, and found them desirable.

He calls from the middle of the park. He’s sat on a bench in the darkness and tells me exactly what he’s doing, masturbating. That’s what he wants me to do, to dip my fingers into my cunt and follow his orders.

This is a shock to the system – I try to do what he says but though my knickers are slick with arousal, my hands are shaking and my body won’t cooperate. His words are harsh and demanding. I can’t stop shaking, I’m so scared that he’s there alone. What if a police officer walks past? He could be charged with indecent exposure. Would I be called to testify? How would I explain my role in his crime?

I can’t come. My fingers are clumsy and I’m so wet my clit feels lost.

I hang up.

I try to calm down. Leave it. Leave it. He’s drunk and he’s alone. Let him concentrate on one thing at a time. I stare up at the ceiling as my phone rings.

I could ignore it.

He’d be angry though.

We’re not strictly in a D/s relationship, not even in a relationship at all if you ask him, but this is the summer I actively begin to learn about my submission and who I am. The summer he leads me on. Not yet though. Right now I’m this permanently aroused doll. I am his. This summer I am his.

You hung up.” His voice is low and breathy, I can hear the determination bordering on desperation because he wants to come and I’m getting in the way.

I’m sorry.”
“You’re not going to hang up again.”
“No.”
“Good. Now let’s start again.”

 

A Girl On A Bench

A girl on a bench.

A girl on a bench in a park

A girl on a bench in a park, in the sun.

Wearing a yellow sundress, just a fraction too small. Her belly presses against the unforgiving cotton fabric in large, beautiful ripples. Her breasts are unseemly but the weather so hot and the park so vast, she takes the risk to bare her flesh.

A girl on a bench in a park, in the sun wearing a yellow sundress which strains with the fullness of her breasts.

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True love

A stain on your sleeve that doesn’t shift.
You think it gone,
Dissolved, until the light catches it; bleached and fixed forever.

A bruise that fades from the skin in time
But aches if you brush against it.

A silver thread stretching across your path, which makes you stumble when you think the road is clear.

True love sticks, shrinks to a tiny pool of nausea in your stomach, lurching thickly inside you.
True love is a bite, a scratch. An itch that leaves you bleeding and raw.

One recurring nightmare. A refrain at the back of your head.

An eternal migraine.

Educate.

Initially recorded as spoken word, listen to the original here

 

I want you to tell me things. I want you to challenge me.

Beat me at Scrabble – cross triple words, double letters, a hundred points scored in a single go and know it makes me shivery to see you do so.

I like it when you make me feel small, when you protect me.

When you educate me.

Explain things that I don’t understand – the mysteries of football, and how to make stuffing from scratch and that a griddle pan is not the best choice for frying an egg.

Smile ruefully when I get things wrong, on purpose. When I demand a bacon sandwich but won’t release you from my caress, but still demand breakfast sweetly in your ear as my arm holds fast around your waist.

Instruct me in my own independence. Send me on errands, with shopping lists and the money in my pocket. Trust me as you want me to trust myself when I fear I can’t. Etch tiny kisses at the bottom of the note for me to catch when I check I’m doing ok.

Teach me things about you – How you take your tea (milky, no sugar), how to grill bacon so it doesn’t curl at the edges, and how you like to be touched.

Let me take mental notes on how you touched yourself before you knew me – please let me watch you. I will never be as good as you but I can try, I can try to be good and do my best for you. Hold my fingers around you so I can hear the catch in your breath, the release of your moan and replicate them without your guidance.

Guide me in my own pleasure. Handle me gently and roughly and gently again. Shape me and test me. Soothe me to the brink of pleasure and finish me.

Teach me my beauty.

My worth.

Hold up the glass and make me stare at myself as you do; I want to see what you see. To understand what you know.

Your knowledge is my nourishment.

 

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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