Friday, 8 September 2017

Boots off

This is another little foot fetish story. A lot of typical foot fetish scenarios are worked into a context of a top/bottom dynamic, but although I don't mind including some in my D/s imaginings, I usually don't focus on that. I want my D/s to be about me, not a body part or a particular act. But I do have a bit of a foot fetish fetish, quite separate from anything to do with power exchange. Thus this -- though it could turn into something a little more kinky in a follow up, if there is one.


That summer I was working as in a small local hotel as a general dogsbody, doing anything from managing bookings to waitressing to pulling pints at the bar. That day I was at the reception, when a guest - an American, single traveller, roughly my age - came down to complain about the TV not working in his room. I tried to get hold of the handyman but he wasn't around so I went up myself. It was a warm day and I was wearing linen trousers and plain, flat sandals, but I'd slipped them off under my desk and I didn't bother putting them back on for my stint at facilities maintenance.

I walked upstairs - up those wide, fairly shallow, wooden stairs covered in a dark carpet with only a hint of a pattern - he followed behind me. I had a very vague feeling that he was looking at me more intently than normal, that he was looking at my body, but there was nothing really obvious there and I just shrugged it off, thinking that maybe he was a fan of big blondes with hips spreading far wider than current beauty standards required.

The same feeling returned when we were in his room. The TV problem was with to do with jumbled up cables and wrong sockets so I went down on all fours by the sideboard, almost sitting on my heels really, but with toes curled up underneath.

We exchanged a minimum amount of small talk while I sorted out the cables and plugs but all the way throughout I had this persistent if still vague feeling of his staring at me quite intently, and maybe his breathing felt just a little bit faster, but nothing more than a faint vibe still. I went back to my desk and pretty much forgot about it until a couple of days later.

I worked in the dining room that evening and it was a busy night so I was pretty worn out after running between tables and the kitchen for four hours. Eventually everything was finished and other people left to do whatever young hotel staff do after work on a Friday night. I was ready to leave too, but stopped at a set of benches on the grass to the side of the hotel carpark for a cigarette before my drive home.

It was dark but not completely dark, with the full moon, clear sky and light from the foyer giving everything that quiet, eerie glow of a night-time countryside places.

I was wearing knee-high low heel boots over fitted black denim trousers, and my feet were killing me. I contemplated taking my boots off even before I drove home, but for now I lit my cigarette and sat back, right foot crossed over my knee, my back stretching, enjoying my rest and looking forward to the bath at home.

It was then that the American guest from few days ago appeared with a polite ''Good evening'', asking me if it was OK if he joined me on the bench. I didn't object, he sat next to me and we did more small talk, the usual stuff.

I dragged on my cigarette, complained again about my long shift and indicated towards my boots with a  wave of my hand, "I really want these off now, I hope you don't mind". I wasn't really asking, and before he said anything I put out my cigarette and reached to unzip the first boot.

"No, no, of course not," he said and I realised he was actually staring at me.

Or rather, staring at my boots, at my foot placed across my knee, my hands pulling the zip down and the boot off, complete with the sock, my foot free. I flexed it and wriggled my toes, ankle still resting across my knee, the bare skin pale in contrast to my trousers, the chipped red nail-polish looking still acceptable in the low light.

I heard a sharp intake of breath from the man sitting next to me and it was really only then that I consciously realised what was going on, or at least got an idea of what it could be. The strangest thing was that it should have crept me out but for some reason it didn't and I made a bit of a show of struggling with the zip of the other boot until he offered to help and I accepted it. I still don't know why. I was tired, I'd had a large drink before I left the building, my mind was in that twilight zone where the standard version of reality becomes less solid and possibilities start slowly swirling around.

And so I said ''Yes, do help if you don't mind,'' knowing now that he more than didn't mind, and he dropped to his knees on the ground by the bench and carefully unzipped the boot, pulled it off, pulled off the thin cotton sock too and I found myself with him sitting on his heels in front of me, holding my foot in both his hands, his fingers starting to rub gently.

"May I?"

I wondered if it was sensible, again, but those swirling possibilities were doing their job and actually I was enjoying the situation and enjoying getting just a little, fuzzily, turned on by the now obvious sexual tension. I slid my other foot up between his knees so it rested against his crotch and yes, he was hard and made a small stifled groaning sound when I touched him.

"Yes. I'll tell you if I get uncomfortable," I said.

He started massaging and stroking - and his touch was exquisite. Firm when necessary, soft when needed, rubbing and pressing the muscles in the various areas, pushing the hem of my trousers up to get to my ankle, then lifting it up as he leaned down at the same time, bringing my foot closer to his mouth.

He looked at me as if to check if it was ok and I sighed  and nodded a yes.

It was greedy but slow at the same time, wet and firm yet pliant and it made me, suddenly, throbbing, wet, aroused beyond what I could have ever imagined having my feet caressed could possibly do. I wanted my other foot licked now, or both at the same time, I wanted to feel his cock on my sole, skin on skin and not through layers of fabric, I wanted to fuck him with my feet there and then.

I moaned and he stopped for a second, as if waiting for me to tell him it was OK to go on.

''Don't. Stop. Now. I'm so fucking turned on…'' I stuttered, breathlessly, undoing my belt and unbuttoning my jeans, and sliding my hand into my panties, between my labia, feeling my own wetness and heat. The next part was bizarre, in hindsight, but by then I was too turned on to think that much. I made my fingers really wet and withdrew them, leaned down and smeared the sticky wetness on my toes and instep.

''Lick. Taste for yourself.''

He did, with a sharp intake of breath and a moan louder than mine had been, his tongue now frantic on my toes, then sucking them, his hands firmer holding my foot, as if he wanted to stop them shaking.

"Let's get out of here before someone else comes out" I offered when he came up for air, the voice of reason making itself heard in my mind, or maybe just making sensible arrangements for the rest of the evening. He got up without a word, standing there and waiting for me to move.

"Carry these for me, will you?'', I nodded towards my boots before walking to my car, barefoot, the bits of gravel in the packed-dirt carpark rough on my soles, my boots in his hand.

I didn't live far so I didn't bother putting them back on and just drove barefoot. We didn't talk much on the way, as if either was a little scared of spoiling the mood, piercing that bubble that we placed ourselves in when his lips touched my instep for the first time. I took my turn, parked the car, opened my door, put my right foot on the paving tiles of the driveway.

"They'll need a wash now" I said, not even teasingly but simply stating the fact.

"Yes. Yes, they will," he replied.


More foreign pleasures here:

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

Turning a new leaf

One from the drawer, and long time ago. It has a MM element in a F/m context. 

She was about his age, maybe a little older. Early, maybe mid forties; a sharp bob of silvery blonde hair just skirting the strong jaw, grey-green eyes behind silver-wire framed spectacles, noticeable but not excessive make up; that is apart from the lips, covered in thick, shiny lipstick, bright fire-engine red, like a challenge, flashing from behind her oak, leather-topped desk.

She wore a tailored black trouser suit, a crisp white shirt with a few of the top buttons undone, a glimpse of the cleavage with a plain, heavy silver necklace with an oval jade pendant sliding just visibly between her breasts.

She listened to him carefully, her head tilted, her fingers playing with a pen, a slight smile on her lips.

'This is all very impressive, Mr McLeod,' she said, eventually, when he'd finished summarising his latest and older achievements.

'Joe, please,' he suggested.

She shook her head.

'We will see about that later. For now, I think a little formality will be appropriate.'

'I'm sorry, I didn't want to be presumptuous,' he offered weakly.

'It's OK. We are a bit old fashioned here, operating in the word of print to an exclusion of almost anything else,' she smiled.

'I would like you to tell me what brought you here, Mr McLeod. Your track record is exceptional, you worked for big companies and for big money. You must realise that we cannot offer anything comparable to the responsibilities, perks and remuneration that you are accustomed to.'

Joe hesitated. This was, he now knew, a make or break moment. So far it'd always been the latter, regardless of whether he chose to be evasive or more honest.

She leaned back in her leather chair, the fountain pen still in her hands, her eyes firmly fixed on him.

'I will be honest with you, Ms Summers,' he said, after a short pause. He had a feeling this was - just possibly - possible.
It was a small business, apparently a niche one, he'd had no time to check much after the unexpected call inviting him for an interview only an hour before

'I resigned from my last position, but it was effectively a constructive dismissal. I was given an option of resigning or having...' he hesitated for a moment, not quite able to bring himself to say it. As if it had not sunk in yet, despite the months that'd passed.

His interviewer got up from her chair and walked out from behind her desk. She approached Joe, sitting in a chair about six feet from the desk; stood close, looked down at him, her legs I apart, her hands in the pockets of her trousers.

'You resigned to avoid disciplinary action and possibly a criminal case because one of your employees accused you of sexual harassment, Mr McLeod. You have since attended several interviews, but as you are a bit of a hot potato, not many HR departments will take the risk, despite your glowing professional credentials. You have to cover maintenance payments to your ex wife, have a mortgage and are paying the fees for one of the most expensive boarding schools in the country.'

He was stunned by the research she'd done. There was nothing there that was particularly secret, but the sheer fact that she'd made the effort was unusual.

She walked back to her desk, perched on the side instead of sitting in her chair, her long legs crossed.

'So, you think you can sell enough advertising for us to make paying your salary worthwhile? Are you actually familiar with our market? Do you know the niches we operate in?'

Joe hesitated. He didn't want to admit that he'd come unprepared, but there was something about that woman that made him feel compelled to tell the truth.

'Not quite,' he said, slowly. 'But I am very happy and willing to learn' he added immediately.

She laughed at that, a quick, unexpected, low laugh that sent shivers down his spine.

'Oh, you will learn. I have no doubt about that.'

'Now, tell me more about the cause of your resignation. In all the gory detail,' she added, that laugh rising in her voice again.

Joe moved uncomfortably in his chair, crossed his legs, tried to consciously make himself more comfortable, more confident, to show that he was, on some level, and equal partner in this conversation, even if, momentarily and circumstantially, in a somewhat penitent position.

He knew she wasn't supposed to ask such questions. They were probably illegal. But he needed the job.

'It wasn't anything serious... just the usual old story. I had an... inappropriate relationship with my PA. Her husband had found out and she claimed I coerced her into it,' he said, quickly, to get it over and done with. It was the truth, and however tawdry it seemed, there was nothing to really be ashamed of, apart from getting caught and getting the short end of the stick at the end.

'Same old, same old,' she nodded and smiled at him.

'Was she worth it, at least?'

Joe baulked at the question.

Cat Summers stood up and walked towards him again.

'Was she worth it? Was the pleasure of your cock worth the pain of losing your job and falling several rungs down the ladder? Or was the risk... part of the fun?'

She was standing very close to him, slightly to the side, so his face was roughly at her chest level. Her jacket was now undone, and Joe could smell her, a mixture of heavy perfume more appropriate for an evening than day wear and the underlying scent of her body, dry and powdery skin odour and a faint trace of something else, a muskiness that crept on unnoticed to suddenly evoke a heady impression of glowing, sweaty bodies writhing in sexual passion, of damp pussies and slick cocks pounding them.

Inexplicably and unexpectedly he found himself sexually aroused, his heart beating faster, his cock hardening in his suit trousers. This made him bolder in his answers.

'I suppose it was part of the fun. It probably wouldn't have been worth it without it,' he admitted, getting more turned on by her closeness and his own arrogance.

She leaned down to him, as if to whisper in his ear. It was all getting weirder and weirder.

'Well, well, well. You should have got her to sign a waiver or something. That's what we do here, after all... or write it in the special clause in the contract.'

'Devi there,' she waved her hand towards her office door and Joe remembered the man who'd let him in, a twenty-something with café latte skin, shoulder-length hair and, as he now vaguely recalled, a silver stud in his tongue, sitting at the desk outside her office.

'Devi there... would have no leg to stand on had he decided to complain about anything... that is if he'd wanted to,' that laugh, again, and the shivers on his back, turning into a jolt of arousal that made his burgeoning erection move suddenly to the stage of noticeable bulge.

He had a crazy idea of that lad and Cat - no, Ms Summers - fucking in this very office, her hands on his muscular, brown back, her head thrown back in rapture.

She moved away a step and extended her hand to him, as if nothing unusual had been said.

'It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr McLeod. Devi will give you some materials to look over and I suggest that if you are still interested, you come early tomorrow to look into details. From my side, I am offering you the job, with a trial period of three months.'

Joe got up, trying to make sure his trousers and jacket concealed his hard on, shook her hand.

'And make sure to take care of that... before too long,' her eyes went down to his crotch and then, astonishingly, her hand followed them, a brief touch, not even a squeeze but a graze of finger tips along the outline of his cock.

He walked out of her office in a slight daze, his erection slowly diminishing but very much still there, his mind reeling. He felt she was having him on, maybe trying to provoke, and yet she also seemed completely genuine, if rather unusual.

He looked at 'Devi' at his desk, a curved modern grey and chrome one, covered with electronic equipment.

'Hi. I'm Devi,' the young man said.

'Cat said to pass you this, to have a look at,' he was given a thick folder full of paper.

'Thanks. Thanks, I was told to come in early so I suppose... I'll see you tomorrow?' he offered.

Devi smiled at him, the perfect teeth gleaming, the stud in his tongue flicking briefly above his lips.

'Oh, I'm sure we'll see a lot of each other... it's a small business, but great fun,' he said. Joe wasn't sure but he thought he'd winked, too.

He returned home with his head spinning, the whole experience taking unreal character in his head.

He couldn't have just been touched up by his prospective boss, who seemed to imply that the contract with her PA covered more than just professional services. A PA that was not only male but about fifteen years her junior.

But the persistent semi-erection he was experiencing must have come from more than just the stress of the interview. “And see to that” rung in his head as he walked into his flat, made himself a coffee and opened the folder to learn about his new employer.


He couldn't sleep, the content of the folder and the memory of the interview flashing in his head as he tossed and turned in bed. Yes, it was a niche publisher - the magazines that he'd found sample issues of in the folder were covering all aspects of perverse sexual interests, brimming with images of deviant sexual acts, interspersed with pieces of erotic writing that were highly polished but in many ways more debauched than the images that surrounded them.

For some reason he'd spent most time looking through the one called AT HER FEET, devoted exclusively to photos and stories showing men in various states of submission. Beautiful - and sometimes not so beautiful, but still strangely compelling - women towering over them, sometimes with whips and canes, sometimes just seemingly being there, exerting some kind of power over the naked, crawling, prostrate males who appeared to crave just that.

He was never interested in that kind of thing before, and several times he put away the mag, taking time to look at the others, ones that showed hog-tied nubile girls writhing in throes of forced orgasms, flogged within inch of being skinned, fucked by masked men in staged gangbangs; or even the one with a panoply of the most bizarre fetish toys, from full-body and hood rubber suits to purpose-made gas masks. And yet he couldn't focus on the others properly, even when he tried to take notes of the kinds of ads and advertorials that appeared to the sides of the main copy.

His mind returned to the first one he opened, to the photo of a male face squashed between female thighs, his needy tongue extended to lick but not quite reaching her swollen, red cunt, his cock bound in a complex looking leather contraption.

His cock had been so hard for so long by then that eventually he took matters into his own hands, even though he didn't like jerking off if he could avoid it, he came within a couple of minutes of furious rubbing, the sticky jism filling his palm with a torrent of vaguely shameful pleasure.

Now he was hard again, remembering Cat Summers, his boss as of now; the smell of her, the strange and provocative behaviour, the innuendo surrounding her and her young PA. He reached down to his throbbing member, stroked it again, picturing her red lips on it, then on Devi's cock, imagining the possible shape of her nipples, fantasising about her moaning above him as he licked her wet pussy into a shuddering orgasm.


He got up before six, showered quickly and got dressed in a pair of chinos and a smart-casual shirt. He wasn't quite sure what ''early'' meant but he was going to do his best to try and show his worth.

However unorthodox the business seemed, she had given him a chance and he wasn't going to fuck it up. Even if he needed to fuck somebody to make it, he chuckled to himself, most of yesterday's confusion gone from his mind, his confidence returning.

It was before eight when he arrived at the office, the door was unlocked but the open plan area, yesterday filled with activity, seemed deserted. He wasn't sure where to go, he'd not been given a desk or any other space, so he walked towards Ms Summers's office.

Devi's PC was on, humming quietly, but the lad wasn't there so Joe approached the door. Something made him slow down, hesitate before he knocked, his heart suddenly racing, his palms sweaty, a schoolboy feeling as if he was called to the office of the Headmistress after getting into trouble. He shook it off impatiently, knocked.

'Enter,' came a muffled, somewhat breathless reply.

He pressed the handle, pushed the door slowly open, made to walk in and then stopped mid-step, his eyes drawn, disbelieving, to the low couch placed at an angle near the bookcase-lined wall on the right.

She was sitting, or rather reclining in a half-sitting position, on that couch, the black jacket and white shirt on just like yesterday, but the suit trousers were gone, he could see them crumpled on the floor, her legs in nude, lace-topped stockings, the low heels of yesterday gone in favour of patent, three inch heels, one of the legs high on the sofa's backrest, a man - Joe was sure it was Devi - kneeling on the floor, his head buried between her thighs.

She was pulling his head with her hands, pushing it into her, her other leg folded so her heel - the shoe seemingly dropped - was resting just below his neck, holding him in place.

Joe let the door fall close behind him, but didn't move any further, his eyes fixed on the unbelievable scene, his cock suddenly raging hard, his breathing fast and shallow.

She looked at him above Devi's head, smiled somewhat encouragingly, then tilted her head back, closed her eyes, her face distorting in what seemed like a paroxysm of pleasure, he could hear her panting, moaning, saw her hips raising, her legs closing even tighter on the boy's head, he could even hear the slurping noises he made from his place near the door and was suddenly aware of his own powerful desire to swap places with Devi, to be there, kneeling between her legs, making her moan and shiver in ecstasy.

Her body shook, and she cried out, panting and moaning, then visibly relaxed as her orgasm subsided.

Joe was now shaking with overwhelming desire, his cock throbbing in his boxers, painfully struggling against his chinos.

She straightened up, pushed Devi's head away, pulled her trousers back on, adjusted her shoes, got up and walked towards Joe.

She extended her hand towards him as if nothing untoward had happened, and he shook it in his own trembling palm. He could smell her sex now she was near him, he could see the flush on her face, neck and what was visible of her cleavage, her chest still raising in breaths slightly deeper and faster than normal.

'Mmmm... you are not quite in the state to focus on the customer list I suppose,' she said, her eyes on the bulge in his trousers.

She let go of his hand and touched his cock with her fingertips, just fleetingly, but it felt like a jolt of electricity to Joe, he was in a serious danger of ejaculating there and then without even taking his cock out. It took all the willpower he could muster not to push his hips towards her hand as it lightly rested on the outline of his pulsating dick.

She withdrew her hand, turned his back to him and walked to her desk, leaning down as if to take something from her drawer, he couldn't quite see what. His eyes travelled to Devi, who was now sitting on the sofa, his head on the backrest, a strange, woozy smile on his face, as if he'd been as pleasured as his boss - his mistress, Joe suddenly verbalised for himself - despite the fact that he could clearly see that Devi had a hard-on that appeared as raging as his own.

'Joe, come here,' he suddenly heard, and looked at Ms Summers, who was now standing in front of the desk, leaning slightly against it. He noticed her using his first name now and it made him strangely elated, it felt like he was getting closer to her this way.

He walked slowly to the desk, acutely aware of his hard-on, stopped a foot away from her, looking at the floor, not quite knowing what to do.

'Closer,' she said, and now he was almost touching her, smelling her, the perfume and her sex combined into an intoxicating mix.

'Undo my jacket, Joe.'

He reached out with shaking hands, undid the buttons. The front opened, showing more of her chest, he could see her nipples poking through the fabric of her bra and the thin poplin of her white shirt.

He was dying to touch her, put his hands on her breasts, lick and suck them, make her push HIS head between her legs so he could pleasure her like Devi just had done.

'Unbutton my shirt, Joe.'

His fingers were trembling, the little mother of pearl buttons refusing to come out. He felt clumsy and desperate, but she didn't seem to mind, just waited there with a slight smile on her face. The shirt fell open eventually, her ample breasts in a bra of cream satin and sheer lace, the nipples now visible clearly, dark pink and round, with wide areolas covered with little goosebumps.

'You may kiss my breasts, Joe. Use your tongue and lips. No biting.'

His mind was reeling, he felt dizzy as he lowered his head to taste her. He licked the lace, felt her nipple respond, get harder under his tongue, bigger when he took it between his lips, trying to do his best to avoid grazing it with his teeth.

His heart was beating madly, and he heard himself moan with longing, felt his precum leaking cock dampening his boxers.

'On your knees, Joe.'

He slipped down, his face level with the belt of her trousers.

'Belt and zip, Joe.'

This was easier. He could see the dull sheen of her cream satin knickers covering her mound and the lower part of her belly, the musky smell of her sex stronger now. He wanted to bury his face there, lick and nibble, make her want him even half as much as he wanted her.

He felt a tap on his shoulder, looked up.

She was holding a strangely shaped dildo, or a vibrator, in her hand, with a realistic cock at one end a bulbous, shorter, up-curved form on the other.

'Now, Devi there gave me a nice little orgasm this morning, and he deserves his reward, so...' she stopped mid sentence and reached down to her trousers, pulled her pants down a little, then inserted the bulbous end of the dildo between her legs. It was now sticking out from her opened zip, and she sighed as she wriggled it in a little more, clearly adjusting for fit.

It was very close to his face, and he didn't know what to do - when she expected or even what he wanted to do himself.

'But he can wait a little bit longer.'

'Open wide, Joe.'

He baulked at her request at first, the fleshy-coloured plastic penis right there in front of his face. But for a reason that he couldn't understand himself, perhaps something to do with the waves of almost unbearable arousal crashing through his body, he opened his mouth, closing his eyes at the same time.

'Open your eyes, Joe. I want you to look at my cock.'

He waited for her to shove it into his mouth, but she didn't.

'Lick my cock, Joe.'


And he did, he licked around the stylised crown and then along the length of the dildo, then let it slide over his tongue into his mouth. It felt strange and yet familiar and for a moment it felt like it wasn't a silicone, rubbery toy but a real thing, fleshy and throbbing between his lips.

'Feels good, Joe? You like sucking my cock, don't you?'

She pulled it out quite suddenly, and he realised he didn't want it to stop. She was right, he liked sucking her cock.

'Don't worry. There will be time for more of this, and other things, later.'

'Devi!' she called, and the young man got up from the couch, he'd removed his trousers and top in the meantime and was completely naked, tall, lean, toned body with just-defined muscles, not athletic but not lanky either, the brown skin glowing as he moved towards them.

His cock was as hard as Joe imagined it to be, bobbing in the air as Devi walked towards them.

He had no idea what was going to happen, and he wasn't even sure what he wanted to happen, various options churning in his head as he looked at his boss, standing above him with a plastic cock sticking out of her crotch and at her young lover, approaching them with a flesh and blood one clearly needing release.

Devi kneeled on the floor a couple of feet from Joe, his ass in the air, his head on folded arms.

'Want to be fucked, sweetie?' She asked.

'Please, Miss. Desperate to,' came the answer and she lowered herself down, her dildo now touching Devi's sleek hip, her hand on his smooth ass.

A sudden realisation shot through Joe's mind. He wanted to be there, he wanted her to touch him like that, he wanted to be about to be fucked by her - he wanted her to fuck him - it felt, more than he'd ever wanted anything else.

But she was working lube into Devi's ass, and then she was holding his hips, the tip of her cock at his crack, he pushed back and she slid in, with hardly any visible resistance, started to fuck him in slow, rocking motion, rotated her hips as she pounded him.

'Oooh, what a sweet little slut you are, Devi,' she cooed, her head thrown back, her voice husky. Joe realised that her own sex must be stimulated by the bulbous end of the dildo as much as Devi's ass by the cock-shaped one.

'Mmmm, show me how you love it.'

Devi moaned in response, grinding his ass back into her, her movements getting deeper, faster.

Joe couldn't take his eyes of the scene, his hand reflexively wandering to his zip, his cock so achingly hot that he felt he could explode at the slightest touch.

She must have noticed him doing it, because her eyes suddenly focused, she looked at him sharply, still on his knees only feet away from the pair, her movement slower, then stopping.

'Suck my other cock, Joe. It's time to do it.'

He didn't get it at first, then understanding dawned on him, his mind protesting, his body responding with a spasm of arousal that almost took him over the edge.

'Here. Now.'

He crawled towards them, then stopped, sat on his heels inches away from where Devi and her were joined.

She reached out, put her hand on his shoulder.

'Down, Joe.'

She didn't push or press, but the hand stayed there. He knew he could get up, leave. He realised he didn't want to.

He followed the direction the light pressure of her hand indicated, went down on the floor, rolled onto his back, wriggled his head under them, his face just below Devi's cock.

She rocked her hips again, and Joe opened his mouth, like in a daze or dream, the heaving cock, slick with dripping precum, brushing his lips, then sliding between them, the smooth roundness of the cockhead filling his mouth.

He sucked and worked his tongue around it, and heard Devi moan, and then he moaned himself, in return. He could feel the boy's body moving as she fucked him, and then his cock twitched, he recognised the signs and for a moment he wasn't sure if he was going to be able to cope with that, but he knew she wanted him to - he was serving her in this way - and at that time he wanted nothing more than to please her, so he obediently took the sticky, warm load of salty cum into his mouth, let it slide down his tongue, dribble out on his lips, licked the other cock - her other cock - clean.

He hoped that one day, she would call his cock hers too.


Tuesday, 5 September 2017

Let's go

I'm sitting down on a large leather couch in one of the not-quite-generic settings in which we play out these scenarios. Perhaps the cottage on the shore of the isolated cove at the end of a narrow single-track road, perhaps the log cabin in the forest, perhaps a hotel room somewhere in the Mediterranean.

I'm comfortable, at least physically, my legs stretched out, my bare feet crossed at the ankles, one of my hands resting on my left knee, the other holding a lit cigarette.

You are standing in front of me, not to attention, but not slouching, feet slightly apart, head slightly straight, as I told you to, as you obeyed.

I am looking at you, my eyes briefly scanning your body and moving to your face, stopping there. I am staring now, surveying your face in close detail, as if I've never seen it before or as if I was to never see it again, as if I was seeing it for the first time and for the last time, as if it was the hello and the goodbye, as if everything has always been the former and the latter. Sharp features, narrow lips with a hint of a smile, looking younger than you are, thick and a little unruly dark hair, grown a bit longer than usual, straight dark eyebrows, and the eyes, cast down, avoiding my gaze, as I told you and as you obeyed.

''Kneel,'' I say, one word only, spoken quietly, or at least quietly for me, my eyebrows rising a little to confirm the request, even though you can't quite see it unless from the corner of your eye.

I could have added your name, or the one we use between us, and I could have added one of those hot -button words, I could have said ''Kneel, slut'' or ''Kneel, boy'', or even make it more dramatic with ''On your knees, bitch''. But I don't, because we don't do This Kind of Thing any more, I am not even sure why, maybe the words have lost their magic or got worn out through overuse, maybe because we don't need them anymore.

You obey, dropping to your knees in front of me, your eyes still averted, as I told you, wordlessly, as I told you too.

Your face is pretty much on the level with mine now, maybe a few inches lower, the downward cast of your eyes more noticeable. I lean over, my hand on your cheek, my thumb running along your lips -- you knew it was coming, didn't you, there is little that's unexpected now in the grander scheme of things after all -- your breath on my skin, that touch, that gesture so obsessively overused for the simple reason that it still makes me shiver a little, however many times I do it, and maybe it always will.

I smile a small smile, my thumb sliding between your lips now, a slight movement of my hand making your head tilt up a little. My eyes still on your face, on your mouth, on your lips forced slightly open by my thumb.

''Look at me,'' I say and your gaze shifts immediately, catches mine, locks with it and we are staring at each other now, pale blue into dark brown, dark brown into pale blue, searching for something that's perhaps not even there, wondering if it ever has been, remembering, pulling it back, losing it again, waiting, waiting, and I know it's my move, my role, my prerogative to do something and I use it to do nothing, to keep looking, pale blue into dark brown, until time disappears and everything else disappears, until all that's left is my palm on your cheek, your breath, now deeper and slower, on my skin, the air moving into and out of my own lungs in the same rhythm, and my gaze locked with yours, the dark brown filling my whole field of vision, my focus sharp against the background so blurry than it's gone.

And now the brown is gone too, split into the myriad colours the human iris has, an endless vortex pulsing and rotating slowly, your eyes - your actual eyes - rolling back in your head, far enough for me to need to pull you back, not to the reality of the room, not to the couch or the rug under your knees but to the pale blue centre, to my focus for your spiral; a low, deliberate ''stay - with - me - boy'', my other hand in your hair now, holding your head still and steady, my breathing controlled to keep me on that ridge, to keep the golden eyed creature in its place behind the blue, until it's time to let it out to play and to feed, to ask the wordless question and wait until you answer, wordlessly at first, until I move my hand and free your mouth, until the ''Yes'' spills out, grows into ''Please'', morphs into ''Yours'', multiply into an endless sequence of those, alternating between whispers and moans, until you are ready, until you are yielding, until you are taken, held, mine.

Let's go.


This was inspired by the ''Eye Contact'' prompt from Wicked Wednesday but somehow morphed into something not quite as smutty and exciting as it was supposed to be. But it is what it is. For other entries, check the WW page:

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

Monday, 28 August 2017

Ice Queen and Whore complex, or on female desire and female dominance

To start with, some generalisation on archetypal ideas of masculinity and femininity, and of masculine and feminine desire.

If the male is almost by default defined as the one who desires, one who wants, then the female is one that's desired. A default female state is to be wanted. Women, as sexual beings (and often as human beings too, but that's a socio-political mire I don't want to wade through now) tend to be defined, judged and valued by their desirability. Women are supposed to desire nothing more than to be desired, and to be turned on by being desired. Female desire is supposed to be almost exclusively responsive.

On the other hand, a woman full of spontaneous, active desire - unless it's in response to a previously expressed male lust - is suspicious and frequently viewed as either immoral, unhealthy or unnatural, or all three - often labelled as a slut or a rabid cougar.

And now what about the kink world? The sex-positive, anything-goes-as-long-as-consensual, liberated world?

It seems to me that although the kink world largely rejects this outright suspicion and condemnation of female desire, and accepts the female sexuality as real and healthy, it remains uncomfortable with spontaneous, not-responsive, direct female desire. The ''his slut not a slut'' meme is a case in point.

But most strangely, dominant women are rarely depicted as ones that want. And that's why it appears OK for a cliche male dom to express (while controlling it) his desire but a cliche female dom does neither.

Think of the porn image of a dominant woman with a kneeling slave between her legs, reading a (usually trite and girly, to add insult to idiocy) magazine. She seems uninterested and yet is supposed to erupt into multiple orgasms from her sub's ministrations. There is something fucking wrong with that picture, surely? And yet I think it attempts to reconcile the notion of a dominant-that-wants and a female-that-doesn't-actively-desire.

Anecdotally, I did experience, with some casual playmates at least, something close to their (usually pretty well masked) discomfort at my expression of desire. For a long time I thought that it had to do with being aroused as such: that a dominant woman should be the archetypal ice queen who gets her kicks from exercising her power only, and cunt-licking sessions while watching 'Sex and the City'.

Then I realised that it wasn't that: the fantasy of being used as a sexual slave "for her pleasure" is fairly common after all and that unbridled lust wasn't the main problem.

It was being desired that was rather uncomfortable for the submissive men. There is a vast difference in  porn/erotica depiction of submissive women as highly sexually desirable and actively desired and submissive men as interchangeable and not really sexually desirable at all.

It looks as if desire reduces women's power, and increases male power in general -- but it especially seems as if many submissive men can't believe that any woman of worth could actively desire them, thus automatically rendering a woman who desires them less worthy.

If vanilla world has its Madonna and Whore complex, the perhaps the femdom world has made it into an Ice Queen and Whore version.

Well, fuck you, cultural normatives.

I want this right to desire (re)claimed. Not just the right to be a sexual being, to want orgasm helped along by one of a stable of interchangeable "slaves''. It can be fun on occasion but it's hardly different to masturbating to porn.

I do get horny all right, but I don’t just get horny.

I get greedy, I get hungry, and then I want you. Really want. Really you.

Yeah, you.

Friday, 25 August 2017

All the ways I'll take you (1)

I watch him undress in the bathroom. I am standing in the door. He baulked visibly when I told him to keep it open, that I wanted to be able to see him, whatever he does.

He's slow, almost hesitant in his movements and I realise he's waiting, maybe hoping, for me to turn away before he needs to use the toilet; the violation of his privacy he's consented to more stark and obvious at this moment when the sexual undercurrent runs deeper and more quiet.

I'm not sure who's feeling more awkward and more obscene here, him for agreeing to this, or me for insisting that he does. What matters really is not what I see, what matters is that that he did agree, and that I can. And so I leave him there, with an instruction to wait for me in the living room when he's ready and go to do some dressing up.

Off come my jeans and my boots. I hesitate for a while, then pick up the corset, loosen the laces, lie down flat on the bed to do up the eyeletsof the steel busk, struggle to lace the whole thing tight enough for a good effect but with a little breathing and moving space. Plain black silk knickers, stockings, black suede courts I can just about walk in and my tatty, long leather jacket complete the ensemble. I look at myself in the mirror, not-quite-yet-a-caricature of a porno Domme, let down my hair, shake and brush it to get some of the frizz out. Pick up another toy from my bag, smile at its matte blackness. This will do.

He's waiting as instructed, naked, kneeling or rather sitting on his heels on the rug, knees apart; collared; hands clasped together behind his back, head down, his eyes rising up momentarily when I open the door, then lowered again. I stand in the door looking at him as he's waiting there, wordlessly, obediently, ready for me to do whatever I can think of and probably some more too.

I walk towards him, plonk myself down in the big leather armchair, stretch my legs out so my crossed ankles are placed between his knees.

I know he wants to look at me, speak to me, but I also know he won't until he's allowed to. For now he's to remain mute, his eyes on my feet, his body tensing visibly as I slowly slide the tip of my right shoe up his thigh, towards his caged cock, the heel trailing a faint pink mark along his skin, the tip nudging his balls. He moans faintly, then bites his lip to stifle that sound, his eyes closing, his head jerking sideways.

I hook my other leg over the chair's armrest, pull the panties to the side exposing my sex, run my fingers slowly along the fleshy folds, my hips rising slightly which makes my right foot dig deeper into his groin.

He's panting and had he not been locked up he'd be rock-hard now, the flesh of his cock bulging against the rings and straps of the device. I'm getting turned on, by his groans and deep breaths, by my own exhibitionist display, by the touch of my own fingers on my labia and clit and by the way he both cringes against and appears to crave the increasing pressure of the shoe against his body.

I remove my foot, the places where the heel dug in raw and red; reach for the toy I brought with me, a sleek, curved black dildo/vibrator designed, apparently, for perfect stimulation of the G-spot, with rave reviews to confirm that, and more.

“Come nearer, boy. Open your slut mouth and make this wet for me.”

He obeys, shuffling closer on his knees, licking the toy for me before I slowly slide it inside, the walls of my cunt contracting around it, the curved shape indeed reaching the right spot. I don't use the vibrating function, just slowly fuck myself with it, letting the pleasure build up and gather, the fingers of my other hand dancing over my clit.

My legs are both hooked over the armrests now and he's kneeling between my knees, eyes lowered as instructed, not saying a word.

“Want a taste, J?”

“'Yes M. Please. God, yes, plll...”

It comes out as a barely articulated moan, broken when the dildo covered in my juices gets pushed somewhat roughly into his mouth, letting him suck, then pushing deeper into his throat, gagging him momentarily, to be retrieved and plunged into my pussy again.


You're not allowed to look up at me, anything above the hip line is forbidden. You are not allowed to touch me. You have to stay there and stare at my cunt, your face inches away from it, watch my fingers move, watch the toy sliding in and out of me, covered in slick juices, my flesh throbbing, more liquid oozing out.

Each of us is reduced to pure flesh, you because I took your voice away, and I because all you can see of me is my cunt. You are so close that I can feel your breath on my skin, I can hear it too, sharpish, panting, with a muffled moan every so often.

I'm getting closer, panting and moaning myself, my back arching, my hips raising though not quite high enough to touch your face.

I know I could get you to lick me now, to taste me exactly in the places I'd enjoy being tasted, to make me feel the simple, physical sensation of the touch of your tongue on my skin, of the added shiver that would undoubtedly enhance my simple, hedonistic pleasure.

But then there is the sound you're making every time I get a little closer to you, the growl turning into a moan breaking into a whimper, the thickly palpable tension of what I am making you do, how much control it's costing you to stay still and mute and obedient like that, and that is unbelievably hot, hotter than any touch or caress could possibly be, the electrifying sense of the power you gave me, of keeping you there at the edge, stopping you from doing the obvious and natural thing, and the thought of your cock, unable to get hard, straining and painfully constricted; and this is what I choose now, pulling the dildo out again just at the very edge of my orgasm, this can wait, just now I want this state of ecstatic arousal more than the release itself, so I straighten up, my feet back on the floor; lean over you and grab your hair, as much of it as I can get hold of, pull your head far back, your mouth opens.

I make you lick it, suck it, take it deeper, fucking your mouth with it, pulling out, then slapping you as you gulp, a loud splat on the cheek making your head recoil and sending a jolt of arousal through my body, god I want to hurt you now, hurt you more, leaning down over you in a ridiculously laced up corset, my breasts spilling out at the top, the high heels still on my feet, but all the paraphernalia of sexiness don't matter any more, as you spit out the toy, as I slap you again, and again, my own face now a grotesque grimace somewhere half way between fury and lust, as if even there was a difference, and then my hand suddenly stopping mid swing, slowing, I am touching your inflamed cheek with my fingertips, run them along your jawline and to your lips, parting them, letting you lick and suck my fingers, your eyes rolling back in your head, you lips soft, and eager, your tongue stiff and obedient, and I am moaning.

“Enough of that now.”

I tell you to move further away, sit on the floor with your back against the sofa. I stretch my legs out again, light a cigarette, smoke looking at you contemplatively, not so unruffled and contained anymore, the hand prints on your cheek glaring red, the heel marks fading on your thigh, your breath raggedy, your hands instinctively moving to your cock and then away, with that grimace indicating a mixture of pain and arousal that I love, that I've learned to look for on your face, that I put there, that turns me on so much.

I pick up the g-spot toy from the floor.

“Here, boy. Catch,” I toss it to you and you do catch, somewhat surprised.

“Use it. You've done it before, you told me in detail. I want to see you fuck yourself for me. Spread those legs wide and show me how much you like it.”

You're turning it in your hands, your eyes low. I'm a bit surprised at that, considering everything else, but I can sense that you're getting more turned on too.

“C'mon. Why do you think I told you to get extra clean earlier? Show time. NOW.”

I flick my foot towards you, the shoe falls off and lands almost in your lap, we both laugh though you pick it up somewhat reverently and I briefly wonder if I should tell you to lick it while you're at it, but that would be a distraction from the thing I want you to do.

I throw a packet of lube at you too and thus encouraged you proceed to do as told. There is a slow reluctance to your movements at first, as if you were crossing another line here, as if this was somehow different from jerking off at my command or licking your cum up as it drips out of my cunt, as if it was even more than letting me put a padlock on your cock, more than taking away not just your orgasm but even your ability to get hard.

Your slutty self takes over eventually, and you're applying the lube liberally to the toy and to yourself, your knees spread wide, your heels closer to your butt as you manoeuvre the tip of the dildo into your anus, first tentatively, then still slow but harder, more decisively, with a deep moan as it slides in, as its curved shape fits to your body, as I suspect, hits your own sweet spot.

You're doing what I was doing only a while ago with the same object, fucking yourself, the movements of your hand more jerky and faster, your hips rising to meet the inward thrust; letting the sensation take over your body, biting your lips and moaning, your eyes rolling back again, your knees twitching, shameless and completely exposed to my gaze. Mine.

“Stop. Enough. Now. Leave it in.”

It takes you a few seconds to react, squirming there on the rug, your hands placed away from your body as if trying to fight the temptation.

“I... oh... I need to get hard, M... please... let me get hard...I won't come I promise... it's a fucking torture!” you blurt out suddenly.

“Well. Yes. You signed up for that, I recall.”

You don't answer.

“Getting a little desperate? I fucking love you desperate. I don't think I've seen you really desperate yet, boy.”

I leave you there and get up, my shoes now off; move a heavy Georgian dining chair away from the table, dark wood and leather seat; place it in front of my armchair.

“Get on that, J. Knees wide. Back straight. Hands behind. That's right. Good boy.”


I get the other supplies out and set to work, talking to him as I cuff his hands behind the chair's back, wide leather cuffs lined with softer suede, clipped together. My longest, wide black belt goes round his waist. Two others, around his thighs.

“You can safeword at any time, you remember? If you do, all that caboodle comes off and the play is over for today. It doesn't mean you get to come of course. If something is less seriously wrong, you may address me by my full name and we'll stop briefly for adjustments,”

“Otherwise you'll stay quiet unless I ask a question or tell you to speak. Moaning is OK. “

I sound a bit daft even to myself, but I feel I need to say these things just now, just as I take a coil of smooth rope and start winding it up around his chest and upper arms.

I haven't done it before – not that much, not on a real human being, naked and yielding under my hands – and I have never imagined how thrilling it would be, to adjust the tightness of the binds, to make the knot at the back secure, to make sure that there is enough room for him to breather and move a little bit but not too much, to make him more constrained, more vulnerable, more helpless with each buckle done, with each knot made fast.

I tie his ankles to the chair legs too, simple multiple coils secured with a knot between the wood and his skin. I make sure there is enough give not to rub much, not to restrict the blood supply; run my hands along his calves, still smooth having been shaved clean this morning, up to his knees, along his inner thighs and across the restraints there. My hands meet at his balls, bulging from behind the leather strap of the cage, find the base of the dildo still buried inside him, nudge it deeper. He moans at that, a deep, long groan that makes my cunt clench and prompts me to run my tongue along the gaps in the cock cage, its tip caressing the visible flesh in swift flicks. He's shaking.

I get back up, stand above him, look at my handiwork.

His eyes are tracing my movements, lowered, but still open.

There is one more thing. I pull out a scrap of black silk from my pocket, an old scarf that will do perfectly for the kind of blindfold I want, covering his eyes while not cutting al the light or even all his vision completely. I tie it behind his head, run my fingers along his opening lips, lean down and bite his left earlobe, first gently, then harder until his groans in pain, my right hand below his chin, pushing his head back, the heel of it gently pressing on his throat.

I get myself a dram of yesterday's malt, go back to my chair, light a cigarette and extend my crossed legs up, my feet in his lap, then check the pocket of the jacket I am still wearing. The remote – different to the one I used in the morning – is there too. As for now, I rub the nylon-covered feet on his inner thighs, balls and cock and just look at him, straining as if to test his bonds, then relaxing, his mouth ajar.

The rope on his upper body is pale against his skin, tightening with each inhale, softening a little on each exhale, his breathing getting deeper and slower, as if he was zoning out, trancing; completely given there for me to do as I please and yet also gone into some space I can only see from the outside.

It's beautiful, and thrilling. Some part of me wants to watch him, bound like this, forever.

I put out my cigarette, take a swig of the whisky, the remote in my hands now.

My feet are nestled between his legs, rubbing slightly, pushing and tweaking, moving slowly between his cock and the inner thigh, up to his navel and lower to his balls. I press harder there, my toes curling onto the hot, stretched skin, resting on the leather straps, pushing down, stretching the skin between the balls and the ring-held base of his cock, making him groan, his head lolling sideways, his mouth open, his breathing deeper but now getting faster, his whole body continuously tensing and relaxing against the ties.

I press the button on the remote, choosing the lowest setting, knowing the effect the slow vibration will have on him, the curve of the toy shaped such that it's bulbous tip is just now pulsing against his prostate, I can feel it in the way he tenses up, can feel it faintly in the toes of my right foot pressing the outside of the soft area between his balls and the base of the dildo, in the way he's trying to move his hips even though the ties hardly allow him to shift by an inch either way.

“Oh god oh fuck fuck fuck...” his breathing is getting staggered, his voice broken by erratic exhalations, so I turn the toy up, flipping the switch to the irregular pattern that varies the speed and intensity of vibrations; remove my feet from his lap and stand behind him.

He's whimpering now, as if he was in pain though his face isn't contorted by a tense grimace but surprisingly relaxed, the sound coming from somewhere deep inside his throat, low, growly, inhuman almost, becoming nothing but an expression of need; as if he was becoming the need itself, the what for and whose lost in the intensity of it.

I let the jacket drop onto the floor and hook my thumbs under the collar; his head falls forward, the back of his neck exposed, my fingers moving slowly up, feeling the muscles, tendons, vertebrae, stroking the short hair along his spine. He's shivering; little, constrained spasms, the body warm and electric under my touch; and when I lean down and lick his shoulder from the edge of the collar along the line of the right trapezius and back to the side of his neck, my teeth resting gently and then slowly closing on the flesh just under his ear, he starts to shake, his shoulders drawn in, his head fallen to the side as my right hand traces the line of the rope restraining his chest and upper arms, to his nipple sticking out just above the coils, rubbing harder just as my teeth bite then release.

“How does that feel, boy?” I whisper into his ear, my fingers now tweaking, twisting, pinching; my own breasts spilling out of my corset and pressed against his back.

I can't make out his answer, the words, if there are any, are lost in the growly moans.

“Use. Your. Words,” I say, slowly, my left hand now pulling his left ear down, and backwards.

“More... please... more... ohhh... more, M... you're killing me, M... more, please...”

I let go, move to the front of the chair, straddle him, his head at my chest level, my hand on his forehead, his face suddenly tense, the feeling that he's struggling, desperately trying to see me through the blindfold.

The cock cage is rubbing against my bare cunt as I adjust my position, supporting myself on my toes, then lowering my full weight onto him; his head held back, immobilised in my palms, I lick along his lips, the tip of my tongue stopping in the corner, then travelling around the line where the pink fades into the tan of his face. It's not a sophisticated or even  sexual gesture, it feels primal, animal, base, my hips pushed into his crotch, his body straining against the binds and against me.

“I...ohhhh... I'm going... oh...fuck...” he moans into my mouth and when I raise my head and look at his face, it's twisted, his teeth clenched on his lower lips, his shoulders shaking, his legs contracting as the combination of my touch and the toy that I've penetrated his body with rips the first dry orgasm out of him, a flash of contortion in his face, a flash of intense pleasure that affords some release while leaving him wanting even more. Leaving me wanting more too.


I get off him, my own body burning now, my mind surrounded by a hazy, glowing halo and yet so clear; watching him shake, then go limp when I switch the toy off, then straighten up again when I bring him to by slapping his face.

“Ohh... fuck...” he bucks against the belts as the thing inside him resumes its work.

I'm back in my chair, slowly touching myself, close to the edge of my own orgasm, pacing it so it spills over the glowing plateau just as he appears to black out with another dry spasm racking his body.

And unlike normally would happen, my own climax doesn't make me relaxed, nor sleepy, nor emotional. Something starts to shift slowly, but inevitably, the haze and the glow are gone; and I laugh, I laugh like I often do after I come hard, but this laugh doesn't take me to a cushioned place of satisfied satiety, it pulls me higher. Sharper. 

It pulls me to more. To that place where I see oh so bright what I want. What I need. What I will take. What I will have. 

If anything it clears my head, allowing me to focus better, my mind sorting and reordering thoughts and ideas for doing more things with my toy, for all the ways I can take him.


Read the whole story and find out what happened before and after this:

Wednesday, 9 August 2017


Very old one I just remembered. I wouldn't use "cum" as a verb now, and I'd not say "pussy". But I still love silk, so the main point remains valid.
I received a parcel today, a small package; initially I thought it was a large letter with some documents as it was flat and rigid, but when I absent-mindedly cut the plastic mail-bag and opened the package up, I realised what it was. 
The paper gift-type bag inside is black, printed in pale pink, with long, wide, satin, dark pink ribbon ties at the top. I don't like pink, I never wear pink outerwear and hardly any of my lingerie has pink accents (though sometimes they are unavoidable if you want a particular model that otherwise is perfect). 
This time, though, the pink is OK. More so: it is quite pretty, and when I read the ''Covet & Desire'' logo printed on the bag, when I realise what it is that has arrived, I can already feel the first wave of excitement coursing through my body. It's not sexual, not yet anyway, more like the state of a delighted child that is unwrapping a present. 
But my hands are already shaking a little when I grab the bag, still half in its plastic sheath, and run from the kitchen where the mail lands to the bedroom where I can explore it at leisure.
I impatiently pull off the rest of the plastic and slide my fingers along the surface of the bag, its smooth, thick, semi-matte, lacquered paper. My hands tremble when I untie the ribbons, I can feel the little spasms of arousal between my legs as I pull out a folded parcel of black tissue paper.
From inside that emerges my latest purchase, a pair of small, black, silk knickers; only the elasticated, narrow ruffles are of the palest pink lace. I fondle them, rubbing the thin satin  between my fingers: it's smooth, slightly crinkly, both cool on the skin and warm to touch at the same time. It feels alive. 
I pick them up, run the fabric along my lips. It slides easily, electrifingly. My mouth falls ajar, and a small involuntary moan, like a deeper breath, escapes it. My tongue is dry and my pussy is getting wet, I can feel droplets of moisture on my freshly shaven labia – I did it just this morning in the shower and I have been a little wet ever since. This little wetness is becoming a flood now, and I can't help but unzip my trousers with shaking hands, plunge one into my sheer black mesh and red butterflies shorties. What's left of my hair on my mound is sodden with the juices of my arousal and my pussy is open, like a ripe fruit, the thick, sticky liquid slickly covering my sex.
I slide my hand along my slit and moan, so intense is my need, so powerful the anticipation. Presently, I fall onto a chair, my knees wide, my trousers and pants round my ankles, my dripping cunt exposed.
I can't wait any more and I grab the silk knickers, cover my right hand with the thin material and stroke my clit with it. The sensation is exquisite, all the nerve cells of my skin jumping up, electrified, my pussy spasming in a sudden mini-orgasm, my calf and thigh muscles flexing and relaxing repeatedly, my back arched.
I run the fabric lower, gathering some of my copious wetness with it, pushing it inside my dripping slit. My left hand wanders under my top, onto my nipples, erect and rubbery under the sheer mesh bra, the fingers squeezing, tweaking, twisting.
I am moaning now, and desperate to cum, but I don't let myself get there yet. It's time to wear them. 
My trousers and other pants come off and I pull the new purchase on. They are too small for my big ass, I knew they would be when I bought them but there was something about them I couldn't resist even when just seeing the photo on the website and frankly so far all my expectations have been fulfilled. 
Anyway, they are not too small to wear, and I can easily pull them up. The bikini design is quite forgiving and the front covers my pubis while the back almost covers my bum. They stretch nicely and are not too tight on my hips, and they fit perfectly where it matters most: between my legs, where the pooling dampness of my bubbling arousal needs something to soak it up, and what's better than pure, black silk. Even the gusset is silk and it feels sublime against my slick pussy.
I will wear them all day, luxuriating in the feeling of the fabric against the slippery wetness of my hot cunt. I will let them get drenched in the liquid of my arousal until the fabric is soaked through. 
Then, I will carefully peel them off, raising them to my face to smell my own excitement, rub the damp fabric on my engorged nipples, then lick my own taste of the gusset, then thrust the crumpled silk between my legs again, the walls of my sex already pulsating in the anticipation of an orgasm, my clit hard and nut-like between bright-red, swollen lips of my sex. My fingers furious between the silk and bare flesh, I will cum, shaking uncontrollably, more liquid flowing out, my legs convulsively opening and closing on my hand wrapped in my new knickers.
Then, I will pack them back in their tissue and bag, sliding in a small vial of fragrance, addictive obsessions go well together. I want you to wear the scent too. 
I shiver, imagining you unwrapping the package, handling the fabric, bringing it up to your face, inhaling my scent – I hope some will be left a week or so later when you receive it. I will imagine you running the material along your own engorged sex, then rushing to the bathroom to pull them on, then adding your cum to my juices. 
I will seal the bag, and write the address out. 
Your name, then the company, then the suite number and the building. The street, city and state and the post-code, or rather the zip-code as you call them over there. 
I hesitate over the Customs declaration. Should I write out the real content, and disclose the price I paid, or would it be easier to just be vague and appear cheap? Stamps and Air Mail label go on next.
 Finally, the ''Private, to be opened by the addressee only!'' warning, next to the Customs sticker. Or maybe I should not bother with this one, this time?