Wednesday, 26 October 2016


This won't be a scene. There won't be an elaborate arrangement. Or even a less elaborate one. I won't lie out tools and toys. I won't have anything prepared. There will be no anticipation and there will be no plan.

This is how it will be.


I open the door and say "Hi" because that's what one does, isn't it? You look at me, smile, or maybe even not smile if you're in one of your more sullen moods, but we catch each other's eye and perhaps you see something in my face that even I'm not aware of. Yet.

I dump my coat and bag on the floor by the door, make a step towards you just as you make one towards me.

This is when I might kiss you briefly somewhere in the region of your mouth's left corner, or hold you close and let the tired tension of the day slide off my body.  But this time, I make another step, around you, place my right hand on your right shoulder, press a little. You stop mid-move.

"Upstairs. Now. "

I can hear a deep breath you take in, and feel just a briefest of shivers pass across your back. My thumb runs along the vertebrae of your neck, my hands moves lower between your shoulders. A light push and you're on your way. I kick the shoes off, flex my feet free, follow you.

The bedroom is dimly lit by what reminds of the day's light coming in dusky pink ribbons through the blinds of the small west facing window.

"Strip. And on the bed."

"Lean against the wall."

"Yes, like this. Good."

I'm standing about three feet away from the end of the mattress, my thumbs hooked in the pockets of my skirt, my fingers drumming a gentle intro on my hips. Looking at you. Not thinking, not planning, or not consciously anyway, but just slowly taking the moment in, inserting myself in it, allowing myself to acknowledge how much I want this. 

How much I want you. 

You're naked, silent and nearly still, your legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, your hands flat on the covers, your upper body leaning against the wall, supported by the pillows. Waiting.

Maybe I was wrong about the anticipation part.

I hitch my skirt up - it's too tight to allow for much movement when worn normally - pull the hairbands off, run my hands through my hair briefly, then lunge down. It's not a particularly graceful move and possibly made less effective by my loud giggle, but effectiveness isn't really my main concern now. Couple of seconds later I am not laughing any more.

I am straddling your thighs, my left hand in your hair, pulling your head back and sideways, my right one stroking your cheek, the line of your jaw, fingers curving as they move down to the side of your neck, and lower, scratching down the middle of your chest. They are neither long nor sharp and only leave white pressure marks, turning pale pink when I apply myself more.  I'm impatient, somehow unsatisfied, and do it again. And again, harder and faster, pushing you down the pillows, pulling your head back and up by what I can grab of your hair. Your breathing is shallower, quicker. You grimace in pain, then groan, but your body arches towards rather than away from me. 

I scratch the side of your face lightly, then harder but still short of brutal, move a little higher so I'm pretty much sitting over your cock, manoeuvre you sideways so I'm able to push you flat down on your back, my hair spilling over your chest and arm when I lean down and lick your collar bone, slowly, all the way from the sternum to the shoulder. Then back, and again, but this time stop at the shoulder and take a fold of skin in my mouth, suck it in, close my teeth on it, sharp and sudden. You yelp at that and my palm finds its way to your mouth, clamps it flat.

"Quiet, boy. Lick."

I move up a bit, now slower but more focused, my left hand never leaving your mouth, the right one on your chest now. 

Your tongue moves slowly on my palm, between the fingers, alternately soft and pointedly stiff, the air hissing as it flows through your nose, each breath felt intimately in the slight rise and fall of my other hand, in the changes in pressure of your lips and tongue on the first one. I can feel your cock bulging under me, rubbing against the silk of my pants when I shift my ass a bit lower. 

I'm letting the carnal part of my desire rise up, crawl over my skin, manifest itself. The brief slow interlude passes, I remove my hands from your neck and mouth, lean down lower again, shift my ass down, move my legs so I'm not straddling your hips any more but rather just one thigh, my left knee pushed between your legs, and then I'm not sure how I'm positioned at any given time because it keeps changing.

It's quick, abrupt, grabby. My hands all over you. Touching. Stroking. Scratching. Pinching. Pulling. Slapping. Stroking. Tweaking. Scratching. Touching. My mouth too, tongue and teeth, teeth and tongue, lips and teeth. And the rest of my body, shifting, adjusting, pinning you down, moving you around for better access. 

I'm so turned on I'm not sure what I'm thinking or if I'm thinking much now at all. I can taste your moans, I can feel the way your skin turns pink then red. I twist your nipples,  you cry out and it makes my cunt clench. I grab your cock and rub it, rough and fast, then slap. Again. Again. The next one lands on your balls and it's hard. Harder then it should have been perhaps because you don't just yell but scream. It's getting almost-random, almost-chaotic, almost-uncontrolled. 

Today it's much less about the state of your mind, usually so important for me, the act of yielding central, the rest merely its confirmation and expression. Today it's much more basic, the immediate and still astonishing intimacy of violence, the immediate violence of intimacy, the every possible way I want to touch you. Some gentle, some brutal, most in between until I can't tell which is which, until the distinction between pleasurable and painful is blurred, then lost, and maybe it never even existed. 

There is a part of me glad that my nails are short and blunt, glad that there are no implements handy, glad that I know - I still know - that you could push me off, stop me if you wanted, and this knowledge allows me to do more. 

''Turn over, ass up'' I pant, shove your head down on your folded arms, place my left hand between your shoulder blades, smack your butt, fast, hard, flat, until my palm starts to smart. I don't care about that, though, I like it better that way, my own pain a small reflection of yours, adding to it, building up just like the pink hand prints build up to a flush of inflamed skin, just like the sounds you make rise to a higher pitch when I rake my nails over the red of the fleshy parts and the untouched area of your shoulders, then settling down, just like the sounds you make slide back into lower, breathier moans when I kiss and lick your back, stretch my body next to yours, hooking my leg over your thighs, run my fingers through your hair, my lips nearly touching your ear.

I'm panting, moaning, swearing, switching from blasphemy to profanity and back again, ohh gods and ohh fucks bleeding together into one, the murmur of voice merely a background hum to the assault on your body, given, touched, tasted, marked, torn apart, consumed, taken. 

The arousal is all over me; electric, hot, sweaty need. I wriggle out of my pants, touch my cunt for the first time, hot and flushed, my clit so hard it's almost painful. My wet fingers make their way into your mouth. 

''That's how doing this makes me, boy. You know it, don't you?"

You lick, I push them deeper, you keep sucking, your eyes rolling back, your body arching into mine.

''Turn back over.''

Your cock is hard when I touch it and gets harder, precum appearing in small droplets at the tip when I lick around it. I straddle you again, take it in, push my ass down onto you as I lean down, one hand on your forehead, the other taking a swing, not a wide one but a flick of the wrist, a slap. You reel, as much as the hand on your forehead allows, a groan escaping your mouth. 

"Cry for me."

I slap you again, not because you did anything wrong but because I fucking love doing it and because you let me do it, my cunt clenching on your cock at the moment of impact, my breath turning into a gasp when I see your eyes glazing.

I move my right hand not-quite onto your throat, its heel between your sternoclavicular joints, fingers and thumb spread on both sides of your neck, the left one still holding your head in place. 

Your eyes are fluttering, but remain open. I fix your gaze, exhale rapidly through my nose in what's nearly a snort, my lips curve in a smile, nearly a skew-whiff grimace showing some of the teeth on the upper right side. 


Tuesday, 25 October 2016

Dressing Up, Walking Free

This is an old one. It was written as a farwell story of sorts, and neither the themes or fetishes there retain much interest for me now. But I felt somewhat nostalgic for this text now, and it fits this week's WickedWedensday prompt of slutfest. Then I realised it's much too long to feature as a WW entry, but as it's thus inspired, I am acknowledging it - and so here goes, almost as written all the years ago, but with a few hindsights thrown in. 

Amsterdam, 2010

I'm sitting at a dressing table in front of the mirror. Running my hands through my hair, no longer a silvery shoulder-length halo, but a short, jaggedy crop. Only the colour is the same, the blonde that even hairdressers question with ‘’is this real?”, now mercifully hiding any grey. The black-framed glasses are gone and the contacts already in, the pale blue of my eyes more obvious and more limpid.

I tilt my chin up, swear when the jawline refuses to even try to return to the firm contour of twenty years before. No matter, though, not tonight. I lean over the dressing table and pick from the make-up, painting my face in that methodical manner women have when their mind is on something else. Foundation, then pale, transparent powder. A tiny touch of bronzer along the cheekbone and the jawline. Dark eye-liner, making them just a little more catlike.

Then, the lips, a defiant fire-engine red. Slut Red.

I give myself another look. It will do.

I'm wearing square-heeled ankle boots; not-quite-skinny black moleskin trousers; a black, tatty leather jacket that has seen better years over a white linen shirt, several buttons undone, showing a glimpse of sheer black lace and burgundy satin. I smile at the contrast, turn around and go to check on the others.

He doesn't move when I enter, though I can sense him tense when he realizes who I am, when he sees my face for the first time. I would have been worried about his reaction, but don't care about the impression I make any more. It is not about me, after all.

Maybe it never was. I am not writing my story, but his, I am nothing but a medium through which he is exploring his desires, one who just happens to derive a strange satisfaction from pulling his walls down, from showing him how to be what he really wants to be, ignoring everything I learned about what I want to be. I think of the deleted chapters, ones I will eventually re-purpose in my own tale, then shrug.

He's sitting in a hairdresser's chair, wearing a dressing gown, the little Ana bouncing around him, almost through transforming his face. I sit in a chair to the side, watching Ana work, checking - though there is no need really - that she follows my instructions. The make up is stronger this time, closer to a stage version, and the artist is taking her time with the finishing touches.

By the time the honey brown mane of the wig goes on, the effect is staggering: the guy I'd left this morning sleeping, naked, with cum encrusted lips, is gone, replaced by a woman, sitting in that hairdresser's chair now.

This is what he wants. This is what he wants me to make him into.

The eyes are made up in opalescent, shimmering golds and browns, the face smooth and golden with foundation and powder, the cheekbones accentuated with bronzer and blusher, the eyebrows plucked and brushed into elegant arches, the lips puffed up, soft-looking, glossy, the mouth slightly ajar, pouting even.

I smile happily, nod to Ana who also appears satisfied with her work.

"Splendid. Really, you excelled yourself," I say.

She shrugs and moves towards the wall cupboard, opening it wide to show rows of hangers, pulling the items of clothing decisively out, chucking them onto the bed.

"I'll leave you to that," she says, nods and walks out of the room.

"OK. Dressing up time, m'dear," I say.

He gets up from the chair, slowly, a dazed look on his face, his eyes scanning the room in search of a mirror, but I have purposefully covered the only one.

"Later," I say and walk towards him, pull the tie of his dressing gown and let it drop   open; pushing it off his shoulders so he's standing there completely naked.

His body is hairless, waxed and lotioned; and the way he stands, slightly turned aside, makes his cock and balls disappear in the shadow of his sleek thigh. I can't resist running my hands along his arms, then gently turning him round and doing the same on his back, from the shoulder blades skimmed by the tumbling hair, along the spine and down to the curves of his smooth ass.

He stands there motionlessly, like a mannequin or a wax model, letting me turn him round, paw and prod, allowing my hands to roam on his skin, strangely cool, as if I was touching a statue, only a slight, occasional shiver an indication that there is a living human being inside the body.

I love that. I want him to stay like that, I want to pull the wig off his head, lie him on the floor and slap his face until rivulets of tears smear the makeup all over. I want to straddle him and have him beg me to hurt him, not with my words and taunts but with my nails and fingers, and I think that if I did that he'd probably let me do that, but I don't have the courage to destroy this story, to divert from the script by more than I've already done. I shrug again.

I've made my girl, now I must dress her.

I make the few steps to the bed, picking up pieces of clothing. Bikini-cut silk panties first; he moves at last, perches on the edge of the bed and pulls them on, almost all the way up.

"Lie back, sweetie," I instruct and as he does, I lean down and gently push his balls inside the body, then tuck his cock, which starts to harden a little under my hands, but remains pliable, between his legs, pulling the panties up to finish the task. They sit tight on his ass and keep everything in place.

As he sits up, I pass him a pair of hold ups, topped with a wide band of black lace but otherwise nude, sheer, with a black seam. The silicone sticks well to his smooth skin and they stay up with no problems.

The dress took a while to select, but I'm happy with my choice, a simple straight-cut thing of heavy, flamboyantly patterned silk with a Chinese collar and a long side slit that goes almost up to the thigh, exposing the edge of the stocking top. The shoes are medium heeled, wide-strappy suede, not stilettos, but go well with the dress.

He walks around the room experimentally, teetering a just little but mostly surprisingly steady, the heels and the confines of the dress adding a sway to the movement, the silk rustling slightly with each step.

He seems somehow more alive now, more real than even a few minutes before, as if the makeup and clothes - just meaningless trinkets really, less than skin deep all - conferred some primal transformational power.

What I see in front of me goes beyond fetishism of a man in knickers and stockings. Like a shaman that paints the body and puts on an animal mask somehow becomes the animal, so donning the clich├ęd female adornments seems to create a path for some forlorn, abandoned part of his person to emerge.

He turns around, almost a pirouette, a hand on the hip, looks at me sideways, smiles, pouts a little. The effect is undeniably feminine, sexy, sultry.

Pretty. Fucking pretty. I spit this word out at him. No. I don’t. I imagine doing it, do it in my head, then smile.

"Perfect. Now this and we are good to go," I say, getting the last item out if the wardrobe, a satin lined swing coat; a silky, almost black mink.

He gasps when I shake it and hold in my hands for him, then walks slowly towards me, turns round and slides his arms into it, wraps it around his body, crosses his arms hugging himself into the luxurious softness.  I walk towards the large standing mirror, until now covered up, pull the sheet off.

"Say hi to Nell," I say, taking my place in his tale again.

He steps closer, his face suddenly serious, tense, keeping his eyes slightly averted, but when eventually he looks it seems he can't stop gazing, his sight totally fixed on his own reflection, then turns away from the mirror, a look of awe on his - her - face.

"An aging dyke and a classy escort, at a pinch anyway, what a fabulous pair we make," I laugh and extend my hand, get hold of hers, soft and manicured, the long, red acrylic nails only done this morning, pull her behind me.

She follows me out of the room, out of the house, into the darkness that's fallen quite a while ago over the late November streets.


We walk along the pavement hand in hand, the house is between the red light district and the prettiest canal-side parts of the Grachtengordel, there is little traffic, but many people wandering around, some drunk and stoned; some punters, but mostly tourists gaping at the working girls in their windows.

We get a few of drinks in the bar round the corner; drop a couple of E's, then walk out again, stare some too. Just as we stand looking at the ads for a skin show of one kind or another, a group of four guys staggers past; English accents, hoots, loud voices indicating advanced stage drunkenness. It's most obviously a reminder of a stag party, all around thirty, the drunkest of them clearly the future groom, in a Game Over t-shirt and with an L-plate hanging skewedly on his chest.

"You girls looking for some fun?" he staggers into us, steadies himself on my shoulder, his forehead landing on the plate glass of the window behind which a Thai-looking girl advertises her wares. She smiles to him encouragingly, but doesn't get up from her stool, recognising perhaps that she won't get much business of this customer tonight.

"Leave her mate, it's a fucken dyke," another of the guys butts in, tries to pull his friend away. The other two stand a few feet apart, one trying to light a cigarette, swaying slightly in a wide stance, the other a little further, a sharper glint in his eyes, looking almost sober.

"No, no, look at her fuckin' tits, can't be a dyke with tits like that..." slurs the guy with the unshakeable logic of a pisshead, his hand sliding down my jacket towards my breast.

I get hold of his wrist, move it away from my body, step closer to him, still holding it, twisting a bit; my face almost level with his though he's a bit taller.

I can sense Nell's presence behind me, she's facing slightly away, I can feel a tension  there, almost palpable conflict as if she's been trying to decide whether to just let me deal with this or step in, flip back to the man's mode of functioning. She stays where she is, though, her face almost hidden in the collar of the coat, the hair spilling like dark gold on the dark silkiness of the fur.

"We might be looking for some fun, boys. That depends on whether you behave… and what you can handle..." I say slowly, huskily, licking my lips in an exaggerated manner, trying to stop myself from laughing, trying to gauge if the situation is in danger of turning from farce to ugly.

The future groom straightens up a little, so I let go of his hand; he's now standing in front of me rocking on his heels, his mate just behind him. I wink to him, and then look at the other two. The most sober one is not looking at me or his mates, but at Nell, scanning what's visible of her figure, the line of the hip, the stockinged leg, the shoes. He spends a split second longer on the shoes, the moves his eyes to my face, a slight smile on his lips. I arch my eyebrows questioningly and he shrugs, then smiles wider, nodding. I wonder if he knows.

"C'mon then, where are you staying?" I say, and find out they have rented a flat in a block down near the canal, and that it's actually their second night celebrating the end of their mate's carefree years.

They introduce themselves, the hapless groom is called Jason, or Jase for short; the best friend is Luke, the black one is Ben and the tall, most sober one is David.

We walk with them, it doesn't take long despite the staggering, there is some small talk on the way but not much else as if everybody was waiting for later. We find out the guys are from North London, Jase and Luke work together at some insurance company, Ben is a software designer and David a dancer. I look again at him when I hear it, notice how straight his back is, see the graceful strength of his steps, the coiled energy of the muscles transparent even after two days' worth of a stag weekend.

We soon walk through the lobby of a modernist block and are in the lift to their pad. It's a bit of a squash with six people inside the smallish cabin and I end up between Ben and Luke, one of them pawing my ass, the other trying to stick his hand into my shirt. Jason is trying to kiss Nell on the neck, reaching to unbutton the mink coat, though he's not getting very far, perhaps luckily. David is behind her, I glance down among the bodies and see his hands are on her hips, feeling and stroking the curves through the silk of the dress, then reaching up under the coat, getting closer, moving his hand to her neck, playing with her hair, sliding his fingers through it.

It's only the fourth floor and we spill out of the lift soon enough, Jason struggling to find the key, Luke eventually locating it and opening the door. There is a large, open plan living area with a balcony and two bedrooms accessed from it, beer bottles, ashtrays, dirty glasses and torn condom packets all around.

I end up on the large, leather sofa, the lovely Ben on one side of me, paying special attention to my tits again, Luke on the other.

I let them do what they are doing, they are young and fun after all, and my body is reacting, my nipples hardening as Ben's fingers caress them through the fabric of the shirt and the bra, my skin starting to tingle all over, my pussy dampening slightly; I am just about aware that Luke's hands are undoing my belt, pulling my zip open, I can feel fingers moving in, pressing my trimmed mound, one of them sliding between my labia towards my hardening clit.

But all throughout my eyes are on the others and I am not quite sure if I am getting more turned on by the basic pleasures afforded by those eager, young hands and mouths working directly on my skin or by what's unfolding before my eyes, my own creation coming to life.

Jase has slid on the rug to the side of the sofa, he's almost laying on the floor, his head lolling sideways, but his fingers busy with his belt and zip.

"C'mon, suck my cock, this is the last time I can get my cock sucked by a sexy bitch like you..." he slurs, his jeans now open, a semi-erect dick visible above his boxers.

David is behind Nell, his hand on her shoulder, the mink coat still on.

"Oh she's suck your cock all right, mate, I'm sure 't'll be a blowjob to remember," he laughs, a husky, almost menacing laugh, at the same time he's pulling her down, onto her knees on the floor, then pushes her head closer to Jason's groin. "Won't it?" he asks directly, but there is no answer, her hands already in Jason's boxers, her head down towards the cock which soon disappears in her mouth.

The guys on both sides of me notice what's happening, they are casting glances down but keep their hands busy on my body, my leather jacket is now off my shoulders and my shirt completely unbuttoned, my trousers half way down my ass and Luke's fingering me, the palm of his hand pressing my clit as he slides two fingers inside my sopping cunt, his other hand touching and squeezing the bulge in his jeans.

"I knew you couldn't be a dyke with such tits," says Ben, diving down to lick my nipples which are responding generously, I am not sure if to the view on the floor or to his touch. Nell's sucking Jason's cock in earnest now, I can hardly see from behind the curtain of the honey brown hair, but the groans coming from the groom-to-be seem to indicate that things are going well.

David's completely stripped below the waist now, and is kneeling behind Nell, his cock - long and with a rounded, bulbous head - bobbing in the air. He pulls the dress up, exposing the stocking tops, the silk panties, his hands stroking and kneading.

"Oh fuck, I'm cumming, fuck take it slut..." moans Jason, Nell's head jerking up and down as he shoots his load into her mouth. Soon after he rolls on his side and seemingly passes out right there in the middle of the living room floor.

Nell straightens up, the dazed look again there in her eyes. I can tell she's slipping into the fuzzy space of confusion, she's there and yet not quite there at all; I can only wonder about how it must feel, all the fences, walls and barriers crumbling down, all the parts of self free, dancing together in the mind, floating, tumbling in the golden shimmer of euphoric dissociation.

On the outside, she still looks presentable, the lip gloss slightly smeared but most of the make up still in place. David reaches from behind, takes the coat off her shoulders, lies it down on the floor, at what looks like carefully judged safe distance from Jason. The dress falls back down, he doesn't seem to mind as directs her hand to his turgid cock.

"Like that, don't you?" he asks. She nods, with almost a breathless moan, starts stroking him, the hand moving slowly up and down, the nails grazing the underside.

"Soon," he promises and pushes her, still on her knees, towards the sofa on which Ben's now kneeling above me, his brown cock rock hard, leaking precum, rubbing on my exposed nipples, the cups of my bra pulled partially down. Luke's stopped fingering me and is undoing his jeans, his cock struggling to get free, and when Nell reaches to help him, he raises his hips and lets her extract his dick.

David is standing up, looking at the debauchery from above, the smile still there, in fact he's almost laughing and when my eyes meet his I can't help almost laughing either, but a wave of arousal that shots through my body as Ben's hand replaces Luke's between my legs helps to dampen that.

I want to stretch on the sofa, get him to fuck me for a while so I shove Luke towards the end of the couch. Nell's now kneeling between Luke's legs, his fingers in her hair, his hands on her head, directing, pulling her in, his hips bucking, his cock shoved into the greedy mouth with increasingly powerful thrusts, I can hear the slurping, squishy noises and an occasional moan as he face-fucks her. I know he'll be finishing soon so I pull Ben towards me, my head pushed against Luke's hip, I can see Nell's mouth wrapped in a tight O around Luke's cock, and hear the sucking noises, her eyes are closed, her fingers on his balls.

Ben's hands are glued to my breasts, one of my legs wrapped around his hips, the other on the floor to steady myself and prevent from falling off. He feels great inside, or maybe my pussy just needs filling with something warm and alive at that moment, but I can't help moaning as he rams his cock deep into me, the rivulets of desire coming together into bigger streams, the waves of delight raising higher inside me, his hungry mouth on my nipples connecting them to the core of lust in my cunt, I let this tide carry me higher, my skin crawling with fireworks of pleasure.

As Ben fucks me on the sofa, Luke's exploding into Nell's mouth, not just in her mouth but onto her lips and chin, the shiny lines of jism dripping down her face as she opens her eyes, looks at my face distorted by my own sensations, her eyes glazed, her being seemingly sinking even deeper into that dark pool of carnal confusion.

By now Luke raises, gathering his trousers up, glances at all of us still at it, walks to the kitchen, I can hear him slam the fridge door, root around possibly looking for a drink.

I push Ben off and out - it's not an easy thing to do, considering that it means a stop to the cascading bursts of micro-orgasms created in my pussy by his swelling cock, but I want her to taste me on his meat, and when it slides out, covered in a slick layer of my juices, I make him half-sit up; wriggle out from under him and grab Nell's head, pulling it down towards Ben's throbbing cock.

She licks up, more slowly now, as if she wanted to savour the mixture of my arousal and his precum, then I lean down and join her, we are sharing this gorgeous brown cock between us, its owner hardly able to contain himself, I can feel him twitch and rock his hips even though neither of us is even sucking him, just two tongues dancing around the throbbing meat. I can taste the other guys as our tongues meet when we kiss over the swollen top of Ben's cock, he salty, sticky, astringent mixture of semen, saliva and my own juices, my cunt tensing  as I take his cock deep inside my mouth, then pull it out and let her suck him.

David is there now, behind Nell, "Climb up, bitch" I snap, and she obediently moves onto the sofa, hardly stopping her caressing of Ben's cock; his eyes are now closed, one of his hands on Nell's head, pulling the hair and the left ear, the other trying to direct my head down, but I move it away, so he just strokes my shoulders under my shirt.

David's pulled Nell's dress up again, and in an instant the panties come down too, almost ripped off her ass, his crotch now pressed firmly to her curves, his hands again stroking and kneading. He's naked now, the perfect, sleek, toned, muscular body completely in command, even his erect cock seems like a purposefully used tool, not something that just takes his being over in moments of lust.

He wets his fingers with spit, spreads her ass cheeks wider, works his fingers between them, then places his cock there, pushes in slowly. She flinches, moans in pain, but he's relentless if measured, and soon he's in, staying immobile for a few seconds, then starting to move, to fuck her with long, slow, almost languid thrusts, then speeding up, rocking his hips sideways, rotating them, hammering that tight hole, holding her hips and pulling her even deeper into him at each thrust.

Ben's come now and gets up from the couch, joining Luke in the kitchen, not finding any booze and I am vaguely aware of them both announcing that they are going to pop out to get some more, though I can't say I am paying much attention; and it's only us three left there. I stroke Nell's cheek as David fucks her, she finds my fingers with her mouth and sucks on them.

"Mmmm... what a fucking sexy slut you have got yourself here, such a tight cunt, ooooh, yess," David groans and I can see from the way his hips move and his ass tenses that he's about to come, ramming his cock into her, when he does it's with a deep growl. He slips out soon after that and pulls the dress down to cover Nell's ass, gets up, walks to the chair where his clothes were dumped, even the few steps he makes showing the effortless grace of his body. He moves like a big cat, the long muscles flexing under his skin, almost completely hairless apart from a trimmed bush around his pubis and a narrowing trail leading up to his waist.

Nell's still on her front on the sofa, more curled up, motionless like a discarded rag doll, her head near my knees but not quite on them, the dress barely covering her ass, the slow dribble of cum leaking out visible on the stocking top.

I reach out, cup her chin up, make her look at me, the make-up now more streaky, the hair mussed up, eyes barely open, a dizzy half smile still there on the cum encrusted lips.

I am suddenly overwhelmed with a mixture of desire and pity, pride and lust, and something akin to ghostly love, a melancholy memory of a story that has never happened and never would have happen because neither of the people involved existed but for the mind of the other, not even in their own. I know the questions I wanted to ask would remain unanswered, but I don't care about them, not now and maybe not ever any more.

I pull her up towards me into a kiss, the cocktail of cum that's filled her mouth still detectable, swirling between us. I can feel her hand moving between my legs and I find myself responding with a powerful jolt of desire and although I didn't plan this to go like that at all, I am writing this story after all, so I look at David who's smoking, still naked in a large leather chair.

"OK to use one of your bedrooms?" He nods, waves his hand towards one of the doors, I jump up, grab the mink coat off the floor and we disappear behind the door.

I throw the coat onto the one of the single beds, and fall onto it myself, my legs wide open, but my shirt still on, my bra still half-down, my pussy dripping wet, hot, throbbing and I pull her onto me, not knowing any more what and who I am and who she is.

And then we fuck and suck and lick each other and it feels at times like we are two women with hot wet cunts all soft curves and breathy moans, then two men with rampant cocks, urgent and dirty.

For a moment I don't know when her body ends and mine starts; and I am fucking her with a hard cock brimming with spunk, desperate for release, and then she's fucking me with a strangely fleshy strap-on, and when somebody cries out I am not sure who it is, and when I pull her face down and into my pussy to lick out the jizz it feels like she's sucking my cock; when I finally come, taken up by the crashing waves of pleasure, I explode down her tongue and onto her lips, my mind reeling.


We are at Schiphol now. He goes to stand at the end of his long and slow-moving check-in queue, and I stand there with him, my boarding pass printed already, all my stuff in the cabin bag. He's not been saying much, and neither have I. After so many words - I counted them once, enough for a fucking novel - saying more seems spurious now. My flight is called, and I need to go through security soon.

"That's about it, isn't it? We are done, Toy," I say. He looks directly at me, suddenly, straight into my eyes. Nods.

"You don't need to worry about - you know - evidence. There isn't really anything... and the other people, they either don't give a fuck or are professional, or both. Maybe when you become rich and famous... but then it won't matter, eh?"

"In the meantime, go and fuck something pretty for me. Or get fucked yourself. Get fucked at last. You are free, Toy. Mr Hanson. Nell. It was fun writing your story. You write your own now and I will write mine."

He nods again. I reach out, put my fingers briefly on his lips, he smiles and I smile too, my smile turning into a small laugh.

I shrug, then give his backside a light slap and quickly turn away, my eyes firmly fixed on the signs for the security checkpoints.

They are calling my flight again.

--- end 

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Tuesday, 18 October 2016

Moan deep

It's evening after the day before, the day we spent lazing about, walking on the local paths,  talking, doing all the normal things normal people normally do, only little glances, little touches that passed between us a reminder of what'd been happening, what was going to happen again, soon, because that's what we are here for, because this is the time we have, all the time we have and the only time we will ever have.

And now you are collared again, standing up, and I am standing behind you, running the fingers of my left hand along the marks I've made on your back, now healing; my right one reaching round to my cock, half filled and warm in my grip.

I still don't know what it is, this thing that makes my breathing pick up instantly when I touch the dark pink tracks glowing under my fingertips. I still don't know what it is that makes me gasp with the desire to curve my fingers and scrape the nails along the lines of pain, move my face closer and touch them with my lips, swelling to meet the inflamed welts, taste your skin on my tongue and graze it with my teeth, close them tighter and tighter until the caress morphs, imperceptibly, into a bite.

But it doesn't matter. I don't need a name for it. It's better without definitions and categorisations. It's better just skin deep. Moan deep.

And you do moan, the sound of it making me shiver, a sound that invokes pain, and pleasure, and longing, yet doesn't originate from the space between the three but layers them in one twisted tangle, thick and growly, travelling straight down my back, to that place at the base of my spine glowing with red coals, and all I want is more of it, all over my skin and deep inside my cunt.

I want to own it. That sound, and everything it stands for. I want to learn you, learn you well enough so I can take it out its hiding place any time I want it.

I want to own you, not just your pain but your need and longing and your pleasure, so I can own that sound and own, truly, that feeling on my lips, and that tension in my fingers, and those red glowing coals at the root of my body that burn brighter and hotter every time you moan when I touch you.

You have let me do so many things to you now that we are almost there. Every time I felt you were ready, I was right. And I wonder, again, if you are ready, for this one.


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Tuesday, 11 October 2016


Note: this is obviously fantasy/fiction (and a fragment of an old novella-size story), not a play manual. I do hope we all know that nobody should attempt to use a whip on another human being without mastering the skill first. This piece is a direct follow-on from a little scene which left us here:

You sit down on the sand by my feet, look up, follow the line of my sight, look at me again, a mixture of disbelief and realisation in your eyes.


I smile.

There are two just above the sand, about three feet apart, next two roughly at the waist level, closer together, two more at six feet high and four feet apart.

“Later, though. Make a fire, boy.”


We are standing by the wall with the eyelets. The light is falling onto the higher parts of it, specks of fool's gold bursting out of the almost-anthracite blackness of the rock. The toys on the sand, in the rock's shade.

“There, J. Take your shoes and socks off and get in position. Hands up first.”

You obey without a word, standing close to the stones, your arms spread. I know my way around these cuffs and carbines now, how to fasten them just tight enough to make sure your hands won't pull out, but with enough space for my finger to just about slip between your wrist and the leather, your pulse heavy on my skin as I check that the blood flow won't be restricted. The short lengths of rope between the cuffs and the eyelets get fastened next, then the same process is repeated on your ankles while the belt goes just below your waist, more to support than to restrain. My black silk scarf around your eyes, to start with.


“Yes, M. Please.”

My fingers are on the back of your neck, just above the collar, rubbing down to the hollows of the clavicles, feeling that thumping pulse again. I take the knife out of its sheath, gently placing the blunt side of the blade just under your hairline. Normally you'd know what it is, but the coldness of the steel and your covered eyes magnify the sensation and you groan, your shoulders jerking, your head shifting sideways as if you were trying to get away.

I put my left hand on your shoulder.

“Stay still, J. I don't want to hurt you. Not yet.”

I cut the clothes open, at first carefully, then faster as my hands gain confidence, switching between the knife and scissors. I can feel your body flinching and tensing when the blades, their edges blunt as they are, momentarily touch your skin. The shirt is hanging in rags off your upper body and all it takes me is a strong tug to strip it off completely.

The jeans are harder, especially in the tighter places and I get impatient hacking around the back seam, the tools suddenly less than adequate, the temptation to just slash through it from the outside tightening my throat, folding me in half there on the sand, the sickfucksickfucksickfucksickfuck mantra deafeningly loud in my skull just behind my eyeballs. I blink and my hands are gloved in blood, a mute thick scream forced down my lungs; I blink again and my fingers are doing their thing, carefully pulling the fabric away from your skin before I cut, and it doesn't take that long after all, the remains of the jeans fall onto the sand over your feet, the boxers just need a small nick before I rip them off and the misaligned St Andrew's cross of your naked body appears on the dark background of the rock.

I wait, allowing your breathing to slow down to semi-normal, your tense muscles to relax as much as they can in the spread-out position your are in.

I get up and walk closer, take the blindfold off and, pick up the riding crop, slowly run the end along your spine, down the crack of your ass, lower down and forward to my cock.

“Now. Tell me how you want it, J. Tell me what a greedy painslut you are.”

The flapper of the crop rubbing against your balls, ticklish on your inner thighs, resting on the left upper curve of the buttocks.

“Please. M. Please. I want it bad. I want your best pain, M.”

I move the crop up, slide it softly along your temple and jaw, to your lips. You kiss the leather just before I pull it away; a swing, the first light strike on your ass. You twitch against the restraints and I hit you again, the swish of the crop in the air and the sudden dry slap when it lands, a split second before the groan. I aim for the prescribed areas, the fleshier ones where the muscles that underlay the skin make the pain more bearable and safer.

Your ass is getting covered with a pattern of pink splodges, the sharp sting of the flapper must be getting to you now because you're are starting to whimper, your body tensing against the cuffs and the belt before each swat lands. I unleash a series of brisk ones, then stop.

I let the crop dangle from my wrist and get closer, my hands resting on your hips just under the belt that holds you across your waist. You are moaning, I don't quite know if it's pleasure or pain, or that quite irresistible mixture of both that I'm addicted to. Your skin feels hot under my fingers, the welts swelling tender and lovely, a flinch when I stroke them and a yelp when I suddenly smack your ass with an open palm, a yelp that makes me want to moan too, a moan that turns to a hissed 'Fuck' as I slap you again, and then once more.

I am reluctant – no, more than that, I am actually scared - to do what comes next, but I also know that I want to do it perhaps more than anything I've done so far, that this is what I might have came here for. It hits me dizzy for a second or two when I step away and kneel by the rucksack to get what I need from the side pocket, my hands and shoulders shaking, in fear and in anticipation.

It's a medium-length whip of plaited leather with a wider, pointy, flat, arrow-head shaped end, and when I grip it, the handle fits perfectly.

I remember that feeling from when I bought it, the almost irresistible urge to use it there and then in the black-and-purple decorated, almost ridiculously Gothy looking fetish gear shop, the experimental swing or two against my own thigh, then quite a few more at home at more suitable practice targets. And the weird energy, now instantly back, creeping in little tingly bursts of a flame along a fuse wire, from my fingers to my spine at the chest level, up to my head and down to my cunt, as I raise my arm, as I swing it against your barely touched upper back.

It strikes with a different sound, much less of a swish, and less of a slap, quieter; partially because I'm slow and very much learning how to use it, these first swings more of a test of my aim, of the way the leather curves and falls as it lands between your shoulder blades, the point making its first mark, much different from the crop ones, sharper even at this practice stage. You flinch again, a deep 'ooohhh' and a hissy, muffled sigh, as if you understood something that I am myself not yet quite clear about, something that's happening in me, to me, just now.

And yes, we are getting there, even if I don't know where the fuck "there" is and how many veils there are to flay off and if I even really want them to rip, and if it matters at all what's behind them.

And then I know that it doesn't, I know that what matters is herenow, and there is nothing else but that thing that was your body, but is not yours anymore, given to me, given to me as truly as it's possible; and my hand, steady, my breathing slower and deeper, my back straight, my head clear, in perfect focus, my body and mind one, all in that hand.

And so I hit you again, harder this time, the whip snaking against the shivering, shimmering curve of your back. I can see the marks appearing, and I can see myself, standing there on the damp sand in my walking boots, jeans and t-shirt, strands of my hair being pulled out of the band I tied it with, getting tangled by the breeze into its usual mess; my legs apart and my arm raising and falling, gaining a rhythm, letting myself breathe between the strikes.

I see you struggle against the restraints, hear the pleas and yelps, delirious laughs and then moans, see the marks appearing on your skin, welts like strokes of a paintbrush dipped in pain, I see you shake and shiver when I hit you, a mixture of avoidance and asking for more despite the pleas to the contrary. All this makes my skin crawl with electric currents of power and desire, takes me to that exhilarating, scary, heady place high up there.

The time slows even more, slows right down to the ground, each blink a minute, each strike smooth and flowing, the whip slithering between the suddenly visible molecules of air. I'm counting, not aloud, to the soundtrack playing in my head.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.

“More, more... MORE...”

I can hear it, low and faint, from behind the music playing in my head, and I oh god I'll give you more, more than you bargained for.

A foam topped crest of arousal breaks in my lungs, pulls my face up to the sky, makes my teeth clench on my lower lip; spills out in the spaces between my fingers, makes me grip the handle harder, a flash of a shadow of a doubt just under the surface, heavy and dizzying enhancing it as much as making my throat tight.

Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty one. Twenty two. Twenty three. Twenty four.

And we are back in what feels like real time again, and the music is over, and you are screaming, the voice rising to a feminine pitch, “No no no Stop Stop please no more I can’t take any more noooo...” but the safeword isn't there, and so I don't stop, even tough the doubts are rising in my mind.

What if consent is not necessary? What if it's just a rationalisation of the ethical mind and all this would feel just as good without it? Am I simply playing a game we agreed on, or is every 'nooo' and 'stop, please' becoming real now? What if this rationalisation isn't enough to stop me when I must stop even if I don't want to?

I want you to safeword now, not even for your sake but my own, so I can check it, so I can test myself, so I can be sure that I will stop. To make sure I don't fall from that ridge I'm on.

Twenty five. Twenty six. Twenty seven. Twenty eight. Twenty nine. Thirty. Slower, with longer gaps.

Less than five minutes must have passed in real time, and your back is bloodied where the end of the whip has bitten; red, damp droplets gathering together. My left hand is clenched into a fist, the plaster damp with sweat although I can't feel any pain, I'm too high up to feel anything but the way the whip flows through the thick air, the way it strikes you.

You are whimpering, little sounds and gasps, quieter and lower, rising higher into screaming 'no's' only when I hit you; but still not safewording, still taking it.

I keep going. I keep thinking ''safeword, you obstinate bastard, I want you to scream that fucking safeword now'' and at times it feels like it becomes another struggle between us, as if I was trying to whip the ultimate surrender out of you.

And then the power itself disappears. There is no struggle anymore. Not in my mind, and not between us. We are somewhere else, in that place where all the power is illusion, that place where it disappears, where the difference between the one that's holding and the one being held, the whip and the skin, the palm and the face stop meaning anything at all.

All there is is your body, given to me, because you wanted to give it, and because I wanted to take it; given and taken willingly; responding to each lash, the pain flowing between us in bluewhitesilver flashes every time I  touch your back with the point of leather.

And then I stop, not for any other reason but because I want to stop, because it's the time to stop, because I do.

The whip falls on the sand and I move close to you, hanging somehow limply from the cuffs, supported by the belt, blood seeping into the welts on your back, your head lolling, your eyes opening slowly when you feel me near.

I move my face next to your skin, you shiver under my breath; my mouth touches the marks, my tongue teases a low, long moan that doesn't even sound human, out of somewhere deep in your throat. My hand slides between your legs to find my cock, hard and hot; grips it, strokes slowly, in synch with my tongue sliding along your battered skin.

“Wherever else you go, you're never leaving here, J.”

I grip harder, move my hand faster, twisting at the base and the top, my fingers occasionally trailing to your balls on the downstroke.

Your repeated, mumbling, semi-articulate “Yes, M, yes, yes, yes… yours, M, yours, yours...” come out through another growl.

A moan as metallic as the taste of your pain on my lips; as thick and sticky as the precum oozing onto my fingers, rubbing dry as I stroke; as choked as your stifled, higher pitched whimper when you get to the edge; as low as my own “Yes, J, now” just before your back arches, your hips buck and come shoots out of my twitching cock; as long as the gasping intake of air and the long exhale when my hand stops.

My semen-covered fingers slither up along your side and to your back, brush across to pick up a yelping smear of sweat and blood; slide wet and sticky between your lips for just one taste, I move down to lean against the rockside, my head almost touching your side, the fingers of my left hand wrapped around the belt that runs across your body; the right hand down my cunt, rubbing the cum and blood and sweat and saliva on myself, rubbing you onto myself, the filthy slut, the beautiful boy, that you are that I am that we are, and I'm panting, moaning, screaming, flying off that ridge, coming into herenow, then coming to, down on my knees on dampening sand.

I unclip the lower restraints and rub your ankles until you are able to support your weight on your feet, cut the midsection belt with a Stanley knife. You lean against the rock when I uncuff your hands, slumping slowly to your knees, then turning towards me. I hold you under your arms, slowing that movement as much as I can, drop down to the ground again, this time with you.

My hands, suddenly terrified of even brushing the lash marks, are looking for a patch of skin that hasn't been violated, end up on your neck and in your hair, not pulling or grabbing but just there, holding you as your head slides down my front, your shoulders shaking, and I am shaking too.

I'm not sure if it's convulsive sobbing or delirious laughter, or both, or something else yet again, spilling out of you to fill my lap, past my clothes, past my skin and flesh and bones, down my spine, onto the ground and into the rocks I'm leaning against, and underground all the way to where the sea grinds the shingle relentlessly down to fine white sand.

-- end

Read the whole story and find out what happened before: