You already knew I loved being filmed and photographed; watching back on clips of myself being violated or made love to makes me wet, almost instantaneously. I love the weekends when, if I’m good, you set me up at the computer and make me watch them without touching myself – sometimes you even tie my wrists behind my back so I can’t, whilst you edit the best bits and then email them to your colleagues as a reminder of just how good I am. Just enough of my face to see the come dribbling down over my lips. Unrecognisable at office functions in my grown up dresses and cocktails and mild political views.
There was one evening. I replay it a lot when I’m alone. There were only minutes, a brief meeting in wintry darkness, midnight in a cab rank. Me leaving a team building works night out, you leave a gig.
We agreed to meet before we travelled home. You stood with your hands in my pockets, pinning me in place, drawing my thick winter coat around us as we kissed and I worked my knickers down as surreptitiously as possible and as soon as my cunt was bare one of your hands was reaching out, teasing me.
I like to watch you work. I suppose I’m not supposed to linger near you, cocking my head and watching the muscles flex and regroup across your arms and shoulders.
In summer your shirt drenches with sweat and I can almost see the hair on your chest and under your arms through the coarse material.
Some days it rains and I catch you with your head skywards, cursing the grey clouds, the Lord, but mostly the frugal landowner and his refusal to hire another man to share your heavy load. I heft the basket of firewood higher on my hip, noting the brief, startling throb between my thighs before I pick my way through the mud back to the house.
It rains for five days almost solidly. There are brief respites of sun before the land is sodden again. And you work on, in a heavy oilskin.
Perhaps it’s because my own accent is so colourless that I focus a lot on those of other people. The way vowels flatten or harden. How my name sounds different from different mouths.
I’m reading ballet stories, where everyone either speaks in RP or painstakingly recreated Northumbrian dialect. At night I dream of being courted by well-spoken boys in shirts and waistcoats.
I’m learning French and German at school. German to me is the sexiest language with its harsh, gutteral sounds. All power and precision. But it’s French which develops the deftness of my tongue.
I partly pick my place at university based on the two languid scouse boys in my interview group. Neither one ends up taking the course.
My first boyfriend is from Birmingham. He’s an acting student. When I tell him about the scouse lads who got away, he affects the Liverpool twang and my heart skips.
My posh fling. My poorly thought out, much regretted posh fling. The lisping, heartbreaking Dom with the arrogance only a man raised with too much money can possess. I allowed him much more of myself than I should have because of that voice.
My darling, from the sweet point between Manchester and Liverpool, has a voice which makes me ache with love.
Nursing my broken heart, I am suddenly surrounded by echoes of him in unexpected and unwanted visitors, hailing from his small corner of the world, tempting and tormenting in equal measure.
“Let’s go for a walk,” he had said.
“It’s cold.” I protested.
He looked at me evenly.
He laced me into my boots. bare legs, a summer dress that was too small. No bra. No knickers. My breasts threatened to escape. I didn’t protest further. “Go and put on your parka.” he ordered.
I was stood by the front door when he came back, dressed warmly.
“Don’t you look adorable? Let’s go.” He held out his hand and lead me out into the street, and into the car. There were grey clouds gathering in the sky.
“It’s going to rain.” I said, looking out of the window.
“That doesn’t matter.”
We drove for over an hour. Halfway through, as the roads became narrower, the scenery greener, he put his hand on my thigh and pushed the material of my skirt up to my waist, lingering briefly at my cunt.
“You’re wet.” he said approvingly.
Some minutes later, he slowed the car and parked up.
“Here we are. Time for some fresh air.”
I tightened the loops so the bar held my mouth open. Cute with just an air of gormlessness.
“Mouth open at all times.” she’d said, and I wasn’t going to let her down. She appreciated the photo of me, naked with the device secured.
Play did not come easily. My mouth filled with saliva and my cunt gasped and slicked with come but something – the toy between my thigh or the lack of another person there to guide me or the knot of frustration twisting in my chest. I came in spite of myself, subdued and tired.
I relayed this to her, my tongue restrained and my mouth a pool of spit.
“Let it run down your chin and cheek” she instructed.
Being debased turned me on more than touching myself had. Watching saliva cascade from my lips, a bubbling, endless mess created by my obedience.
Anything for her.
She shows me off to her husband. His approval, of my silent, shallow messiness. My even devotion to his wife’s instruction, makes me blush. When she tells me how far his approval reaches – the thickening in his groin, I blush harder still and wish there weren’t the miles between us.
I want to see two people, two living embodiments of molten lust, fuck with the intensity with which they live the rest of their lives.
I want to watch the man agog as a feminine whirlwind makes eyes at him, winding her flames around him until the only choice is succumb. He wilfully succumbs.
She strips him naked and remains clothed in her dress the colour of lightning and her high black boots and her long hair a curtain shielding her as she pushes him to the floor and stands over him, affording the stricken man a lingering view of her cunt, swollen and dripping with arousal at her own power.
She wants him, and him alone but as she sits on his face and he obediently licks and sucks and worships her it is the scenario as much as his ministrations that turns her on. She rides his wet and desperate face until she comes, a pure shriek of pleasure before she arches backwards, elegantly impaling herself on his obscenely thickened and hysterically straining cock.
She knows he won’t last long, how could he, the taste of her lingering on his tongue and the delicious tension of her cunt as she grabs him, bucking and using him, her face gleeful as his face reddens and his moans grow louder and louder and she reaches out tenderly to stroke his cheek as with one triumphant meeting of their bodies, his orgasm pours forth and she grins, knowing that this is not the end. Not even the end of the beginning.
Merely the prelude.
If you were here, Sir, and you were wearing your suit, I would kneel. I would ask you if I could have your cock. If you thought I was good, you would present your engorged cock through your flies. I would work the spit up on my tongue and lick the head first.
You’d push on the back of my head so I took more of you in my mouth. You want me to choke on you, prove that I need your cock more than air.
I’d take more, working my tongue as much as I could, one of my hands on the shaft but the other travelling between my thighs without permission because I’m so wet just at the feeling of you in my mouth, at hearing your voice
You know I’m doing it and you let me feel how wet I am before you grab my hair and make me choke more as punishment, calling me a filthy, wet slut.
I was dressed when you came in, as punishment you remove your cock from my hungry mouth and you strip me, taking off my dress, my underwear, everything until I’m naked. Before you can even continue face fucking me, you bend me over the sofa and I know what’s coming and the sting of your belt makes me yelp
I deserve it
“This, this is unacceptable. You know it’s unacceptable, don’t you? You know the rules.” He yanked the dildo out of me and waved it briefly in front of his lips. Crimson faced, I nodded but wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“I come home from the pub, from a nice afternoon with some friends from work, and find you on your hands and knees fucking yourself without my permission. Riding that big, fleshy dildo and grabbing your tits and moaning like a common slut with the windows open so anyone could hear you.
“I’m sorry, Sir.” I murmured, but he wasn’t listening to me.
“You’d been playing for hours, hadn’t you? Teasing yourself. Look at your cunt. Look at how red and full your lips are. Look at your clit, how red and sore it looks. Look.” He moved forward quickly and pushed down on the back of my neck, forcing me to examine my own arousal, smelling it.
“I left you here, and you said you were going to have a nap. You’re wearing my favourite dress, the blue one with the ruffles, but look at you, with the sleeves pulled down so you can display your breasts.”
His fingers were entwined in my braids and he pulled my head upwards so I had to look into his eyes.
In 2016, I participated in Emmeline’s Team Amazeballs Erotica Exchange – we gave one another a prompt, and she asked me to write something based off Rosetti’s Lady Lilith, which I knew nothing of, instead imagining her as a petulant debutante with a string of music teachers in her wake.
I hope you enjoy this not so little historical tale.
Dahlia adored her music lessons. That precious hour of the day where she was indulged with lyricism and beauty. And the presence of a tall, broad, older gentleman whom she knew her father had chosen precisely because he was almost as old as her grandfather and could not be described by even the kindest soul as handsome.
To Dahlia he was the most exciting part of her lessons. He was the reason she was allowed in the music room, un-chaperoned, for one whole hour. She exploited every single minute.
On music days she woke early but didn’t rise from her bed until almost midday. She would lie in a blissful reverie, and explore the wonders of her own body as if the territory were new to her. Her own large breasts, which came to stiff, perfect peaks. Her own flaring hips and rounded tummy with its sweet fair hair. Fair hair which curved in a path between her legs, becoming coarser and darker until it curled outwards in a shield over her cunt which seemed preternaturally wet and wanting.
So I see this girl on the tram. I want her. I don’t know why, but I do. She invades my dreams, and I think she knows it, with her tight, low cut dresses and habit of running her hands over her body, pretending to brush off public transport dirt but really drawing attention to her thighs and stomach.
My cock almost gets hard as soon as I see her these days, it’s got that bad. Picturing her in every scenario my dirty mind can come up with but my favourite is so simple and so possible it makes me shake and come almost immediately.
It’s a normal working day. She’s there with her summery dress and work bag pressed tight against her tits and making eyes at me and smiling, full of joy at the warm June sunshine making us perspire. She edges closer as the carriage gets fuller and fuller, until she’s leaning over me and with one jolt her hand is on my thigh and she’s apologising with one fingertip achingly close to my rock-hard cock. That’s it. Her eyes meet mine and we both know.
I’d make her get off at the next stop, have her suck me under the platform exit. No one would see us. On her knees with her face tilted towards me, all innocence and purity, wide eyes and desperate for it. Have her pretend she didn’t know what to do with it. I bet she’d deep throat like a bitch and I’d hold her head up by the forehead so she had to look at me as she sucked and swallowed. And a creamy facial to top it off.
Photos for after. She’s already on her knees so push her skirt up and yank her knickers to her ankles. Have her lie back so I can get a nice straight upskirt of her pussy, dripping wet and the sight just making me hard all over again.
The thought makes me hard all over again, sat here, watching her. Same as every morning.