They meet again: breast love, and more.
For their first encounter, see here
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Dylan dropped off his aunt at the village fête, this time held at a field belonging to a wealthy newcomer who obviously wanted to get into the locals' good book. After a quick look at the countrified pursuits being practised in a slightly muddy field gently sloping towards the lake, he was about to go back to his car having decided it wasn't - quite - his scene.
Then he saw her, at the bottle stall, just as he was stepping out of the main fête area. She wore sunglasses and was dressed differently, but there was no mistaking the straight, silky hair; the wide grin of her very red lips and - of course - the heavy, large breasts completely filling the top section of her dress. The dress was low cut and sleeveless and in all honesty not the most flattering of garments, but what it really did was to show off the boobs which figured proudly in their magnificent bulk, with acres of smooth, golden skin exposed in the cleavage and with the outline of the nipples just about, barely but quite-actually-there visible.
Dylan remembered them very well - he couldn't have possibly not remembered, he wanked daily recalling their earlier encounter - but seeing them in real life again had a powerful effect and gave him a semi-hard-on instantaneously.
He stopped in his tracks and walked towards the bottle stall. She must have recognised him too because her smile turned into a wide grin and she licked her lips, quickly but unmistakeably. Dylan's semi was rapidly turning into a full-on boner and only a protection of his jacket, tied round his waist, which he surreptitiously turned to conceal his groin, prevented him from publicly disgracing himself.
“Hi,” he mumbled on approaching the bottle stall. She smiled even wider.
“Do you see something that takes your fancy? It's a pound per ticket or
seven for a fiver. Every number ending in five or zero wins.”
Dylan felt his throat getting dry and his cock getting harder, painfully straining in his jeans. He was sure she knew what was happening to him but he could not do anything in such a public place.
“I'll have seven then. Nice to see you again, do you live locally?” he asked, his voice slightly shaking. She handed him the basket with tickets. As she did that, she leaned down from the stall and he could see even further down her cleavage. There were tiny droplets of sweat between her breasts and her nipples were now much more noticeable.
As she leaned over he Dylan could see not just their outline, but a glimpse of the dark areaolas and a side view of the fat, round nipples themselves. His hands were shaking as he picked out the tickets and he stifled a groan. She smiled and adjusted her dress, and as she did it he was absolutely sure she brushed her right breast and nipple with the palm of her hand.
“I live here,” She pointed to the house beyond the field. As she moved her arm, her tits moved in an undulating motion, raising higher in her dress. Dylan longed to cup them in his hands, squeeze and tweak the nipples, suck and lick and cum on them. His cock was throbbing and he felt he needed a wank soon or he would cream his pants then and there.
And yet, he stayed there, his hands shaking and his mouth dry, unable to tear himself away from this woman who could have been his mother but whose incredible tits he'd covered in his copious spunk as she arched in orgasm that didn't even need him touching her pussy.
Dylan opened his tickets. Two of them were winning ones and he appeared to be now a proud owner of a bottle of cream sherry and a - slightly more appealing - a set of miniature single malts. “Let me put them in the bag for you,” she said and efficiently bagged the bottles. “It's time for my break now, I can see Fiona is coming over so I might go and cool myself down by the lake. I have some of the waterside too, there is even a boathouse by the jetty,” she pointed again to a building that was beyond the area of the fête.
Dylan felt there was some point to all this, and when she passed him the bag, he was sure that her hand touched his for longer that it was strictly necessary. “You better put these in the car first,” she said, and now he knew that he didn't imagine an undercurrent to their small talk.
“Can't wait,” he said and she looked at him quickly above her sunglasses.
“Neither can I,” she laughed, a low, raspy sound that made him stifle an involuntary moan.
Dylan walked to his car, parked quite a distance from the entrance to the fête. His cock was still partially engorged, in memory of his previous astonishing encounter with this woman whose name he didn't know but whose breasts he had explored thoroughly, and now also in anticipation.
He put the bag in the car, adjusted his trousers and gave his dick a sneaky squeeze and slowly walked back, avoiding the main fête area and aiming for the boathouse. There was no people here, and the door was ajar. He entered the shady semi-darkness of the shed and stood on the threshold for a while to let his eyes adjust.
“Bolt the door, please,” he heard her speak and after doing as asked, he saw her, leaning against the wall to the back of the room. The straps of her dress were pulled down, the whole top of it rolled around her waist and her magnificent tits were there, in a there-quarter cup sheer bra that made it easy not just to see the shape of the breast but also all details of the nipples.
Dylan groaned as he felt his cock get immediately harder again. Her tits were at least and E, possibly F cup, and considering that she wasn't a skinny chit, and E/F was something to behold. Not only were they large, soft and smooth, but she also had amazing nipples which, when aroused, not only got darker and longer, but also thickened massively, to become akin to oversized raspberries, begging to be sucked, licked and bitten.
In an instant, he was by her side, stroking those huge globes, breathing rapidly into the crook of her neck, licking her earlobes and rubbing his engorged cock against her leg. His hands were on her tits, squeezing and kneading, stroking the nipples, tweaking them, pushing up with the palm of his hand against the hardening nubs. His balls felt high and tight, his cock as hard as he ever remembered, and he was aware of nothing but the smell of her skin, the soft moans of her arousal, the taste and texture of her skin.
“Easy, easy, slow down, baby,” she laughed, but didn't push him away and instead directed his mouth directly to her breasts. He sucked a nipple through the lace, biting it very gently and she groaned as it engorged even more, now a grape-sized and hot. Soon they were both liberated, hanging out of the bra in their full glory, and Dylan was drunk with desire. He leaned forward, and started to lick her nipples, alternating between the left and the right one, his hand working the other breast, tweaking, pulling the nipple, squeezing, and rubbing.
He licked upwards, with the flat of his tongue, so her thick, long nipple was making a soft groove in his tongue and his saliva was covering her breast. Then he licked round her nipples, in soft, wide circles, little flicks of the stiff tongue darting to the buds, but concentrating on the teasing around the fat berries of her erect nipples. Then he took her nipple into his mouth, between his lips, softly and wetly at first, not quite sucking yet, to then close the lips firmer and start sucking while at the same time stimulating the nipple with his tongue. Her areolas were raised and puffed up and she was panting, stroking his head, her fingers clenching on his hair as louder and louder moans escaped from her mouth.
She slid down to her knees and pulled Dylan's trousers down. His cock was rock hard, bouncing against his belly, leaking copious amounts of pre-cum and throbbing. He could easily cum now, but he wanted to prolong the deliciousness of the scene. She cupped her tits in her hands and pulled him down, to rub the head of his cock on her breasts.
As the swollen, purple hood stimulated her nipples, now raw with arousal, she let out an animal-like groan. Dylan was panting now, his whole energy concentrating on slowing the rising tide of spunk in his balls. She wanked him with her nipples and soft flesh of the huge tits, while every so often giving the head of his cock a lick with her trembling tongue. He couldn't contain himself anymore, moaning loudly. The stream of spunk was unstoppable now, boiling up in his balls and making his cock even harder and hotter. She must have felt it when licking him, as she pushed his cock hard against her nipples and groaned.
“Ooooh, fuck, oooooh, cum on my tits, noooow, oooh, now now now....”, she moaned and Dylan let go, glorious streams of hot, thick semen splattering on her erect nipples, engorged areolas, the whole swollen up, incredible tits. The pleasure was so intense that he cried out, and it seemed to take ages, a shot after a shot from a throbbing, fat cock that appeared to lose only some of its firmness as he climaxed.
She pushed his head down onto her breasts and in a delirious instant he was licking of his own salty cum of her skin, sucking her nipples clean as she panted and writhed under his mouth and hands. He was dimly aware of his leg being between her tights, her hot pussy rubbing herself on him, copious amount of cunt juices making his skin slippery.
His cock was getting hard again, amazingly quickly, it never happened so fast even though as a 24 year old he recovered fast, but now he was in a fully erect state minutes after an intense orgasm, on some wave of desire that just carried both of them over a crest, down and back up another even higher point of arousal.
She pushed him onto the ground, pulling his jeans and pants off completely, his cock hard and again so hot he felt he had to rub it to relieve some of the need. Her tits, sticky with his cum and saliva, raw-red from his hands and mouth, were hanging above his mouth and he licked them frantically before she moved lower, tit-fucking him for a short while before pulling her dress off and mounting him quickly and smoothly. His cock glided into her cunt.
She was incredibly wet and hot, and yet also very tight, tighter than many women his age or younger he fucked before. He felt her cunt muscles working, tightening and relaxing, pumping his turgid cock, her hips rocking back and fro, up and down, in little circles and then bigger circles. She was riding him mercilessly, passionately, furiously, with a complete abandon. He saw her huge melon-shaped breasts above him, magnificent, glorious, the most beautiful and the most sexually satisfying pair he ever had a privilege to worship. He kneaded them and rubbed the nipples as she fucked him, and as he did that, she rocked faster, moaning and panting.
Dylan could feel his cock and balls filling with hot spunk again, and she must have felt this too, and responded to the thickening of his prick, the increase in his size filling her up as she threw her head back and screamed loudly, clenching her tight, hot cunt muscles on his fat cock. She was climaxing now, her breasts coming up in a deep blush, her cunt contracting, her juices flowing even more copiously, her hands frantic as she rubbed her nipples and clenched on his cock buried deep in her throbbing cunt.
As her orgasm subsided, she leaned down to give him a quick kiss and he started licking her tits again. She shivered and this shiver and a movement of her hips sent him over the edge, his cock emptying the content of his tight balls into her as he sucked her still engorged nipple.
She collapsed onto him, panting and breathing heavily, as they slowly came to. “Well”, she said eventually, rolling off with a groan onto the dusty, wooden floor. “Well, well, well.”.
He had no energy to say anything.
“My name is Helen, by the way. Why won't you come for dinner? About eight, tomorrow?”
Showing posts with label fetish. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fetish. Show all posts
Thursday, 17 May 2018
Tuesday, 1 May 2018
Dylan's Lunch
This is an old story, so old that it goes back to before I started to write almost exclusively fem-dom themed smut. It's interesting to see that although it's not explicitly female-dominance focused, it very easily could be, with merely few tweaks. Do you agree, readers dear?
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"Oh, baby, I need to cum now, ooh, I'm so close," he groaned. Shannon sucked harder, and then took his cock out of her mouth and licked from his balls upwards along the bottom of his shaft. She used her teeth to gently bite the underside, and Dylan leaned forward to rub the swollen, hot glans on her tits. She licked his balls as he pushed his cock, leaking copious pre-cum, onto her nipples and rubbed hard. He felt the tide of orgasm raising and, unable to hold on any longer, shot his full load onto her flushed breasts. His cum splattered the globes of her breasts, dripped over the nipples and she rubbed it in, her tongue frantically flicking from his balls to his shaft and to her own sticky
fingers.
Dylan moved sideways and reached down to her hot, dripping pussy. Her clit was hard and engorged and as he stroked it, she started bucking her hips, pressing against his hand. He kept the rhythm of one hand on her pussy and used the other to stroke and squeeze her breast as she worked herself to a shuddering orgasm.
**
Dylan was a boob man through and through, and he not only loved to caress breasts, but also, of all possible places, preferred to cum on his partners' tits: the bigger, the better; within reason, as he wasn't into freakishly huge or artificially enhanced ones. Shannon had been particularly receptive to his attentions and he missed her a lot after she had gone back to her native Canada having finished her stint at his uni. He enjoyed wanking remembering their fucking sessions and despite a few enjoyable one-night stands he wasn't seeing anybody else on a regular basis.
That year's summer was hot and sultry and Dylan sometimes regretted taking on the seasonal job at his uncle's decorating company, but he needed the money and the pay was reasonable and hours long.
That day he was finishing early though, and he was standing in a queue at a popular small sandwich shop on the High Street, enjoying the air blown by the fan standing on the counter, trying to decide on a sandwich he was going to have that day, sweat running down his back under his paint-splattered white overalls which he wore just over his pants that day.
He noticed the woman standing in front of him, separated by two other people, when she turned round to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. She was much older than him: in her late thirties, perhaps even older. The woman wasn't particular striking, although her well-cut hair was attractively silky, straight , pale blonde. She was quite tall and long legged and the way she was dressed detracted attention from her broad hips and drew it to what was definitely her best asset. She was wearing cropped jeans and leather sandals, and a long, loose, short-sleeved white linen shirt, unbuttoned low enough to afford a good glimpse not only of her cleavage but also the lace edge of her bra. A long strand of wooden beads round her neck nestled between her breasts, seeming to suggestively point lower down. Dylan couldn't help but notice: her tits were huge, he couldn't make a precise judgement, what with the clothing and stuff, but he thought they were at least an E cup, maybe even bigger. On a chunky woman like her, this would mean a serious handful. He glanced at the exposed part of her breasts: soft, glowing, pale golden skin, looking supple and unblemished.
The edge of chocolate-coloured lace of her bra was just visible, and despite the bra and a shirt, Dylan could detect a faint outline of the nipples under the fabric, round and fat, like cherries. Dylan felt a stirring in his pants and images of licking such nipples and handling those glorious melons filled his mind with longing, his cock now noticeably harder. He was glad his loose overalls covered any signs of arousal so far.
He looked away from the enticing cleavage, but not before the woman noticed him glancing and, instead of the expected scorn, gave him a wide smile and what he was sure was a wink. Dylan looked at his feet in blushing embarrassment, and didn't raise his eyes until the woman made her purchase and left the shop.
He was served soon after her and quickly walked out of the shop. He turned off the High Street into a narrow side lane between the buildings leading towards the car park and the playing fields by the
river. He thought about the woman's smile and allowed himself to fantasise about her again, imagining unbuttoning her shirt and rubbing his hard cock along the edge of her bra, her nipples growing bigger and harder under the touch of his hot flesh.
He almost didn't notice her standing to the side, fumbling in her bag for something.
"Excuse me," she called and he stopped in his tracks, turning to see her a meter away from him, a cigarette in her hand. "You don't happen to have a light?" she asked.
Dylan reached into his pocket and desperately searched for a box of matches that he knew had been there just this morning. He was more nervous than he had been in anybody's presence for a long time, vaguely embarrassed by his fantasies and acutely aware of his cock getting noticeably harder: not yet a semi, but enough to make him conscious of his arousal and the fact that he was just seconds ago imagining himself having sex with this complete stranger, a woman at least fifteen years his senior and clearly completely unaware of what was going through his mind.
He found the matches, lit one with slightly trembling hands and offer her the light. As she leaned over with her cigarette, sheltering the flame with her hands, he couldn't help having another look at her tits. He could smell her perfume, spicy and sultry, and he thought her nipples had more definition now, clearly visible through the fabric, as if begging to be touched.
Dylan stepped back and turned to walk away, when she said, "Thanks. By the way.... do you like what you see?"
He stopped in his tracks, unsure what to say, blushing again, his heartbeat getting faster, and despite the embarrassment, his cock starting to strain at his pants. The woman shot a quick glance at his crotch and smiled again. "Well, you seem to, " she said and moved closer to him, almost touching him now. "Do you fancy seeing some more?" she asked, a whisper but clear and definite.
Dylan wasn't sure whether to believe what he was hearing. She could be taking the piss, or she could be trying to provoke him into doing something that could be interpreted as harassment. There were all kinds of nutters about. But her smile seemed genuine and he decided to risk it. "I would love to," he said and looked at her tits again. Her breathing seemed faster now, he could see her breasts raising with each breath and he was sure the nipples were now bigger, harder and more upright.
"C'mon then. I am parked just round the corner," she beckoned and he followed her without a word. "Are you a painter then?" she asked.
"Well, not really. I am at the uni in Edinburgh, this is just a summer job. But I am free for the rest of the day, really," Dylan assured her as she clicked her keys and opened the doors to a black Audi estate with dimmed windows.
"Jump in. Don't worry, I won't kidnap you," she laughed, as if sensing his hesitation. She drove confidently and clearly knew where she was going in more ways than one as they left the town and were soon driving on one of the roads leading towards the hills in the south of the town. Dylan didn't really know what to say, so he said nothing apart from complimenting her on the car.
"Are you into big boobs in a big way?" she asked eventually.
"Umm...yes. I love big boobs. Yours are great! All that a guy could dream of!" Dylan blurted out enthusiastically She laughed a low, husky laugh.
"They are my favourite body part too. I can sometimes come just from breast play alone," she said matter of factly.
Dylan responded with non-committal "mmm"but his imagination was filled again with fantasies of her bare tits, his rock hard cock exploding in his hand, his cum dripping off her thick nipples. He was now really aroused, his cock semi-erect, his balls tight and hot, and he was dying to touch himself. He looked at the woman, and she responded to his look by licking her top lip with a long, slow stroke of her tongue, over a skew-whiff smile. She took the left hand off the wheel and rubbed her left breast, then proceeded to undo two more buttons of her shirt and pull the left side of it off.
Dylan could now see her left breast in its full, albeit still wrapped glory. Her bra was sheer lace and he could clearly see her areola, now raised, and the distinctive, round, large, cherry shaped nipple. She rubbed her tit again and then rolled her nipple in her fingers for a few seconds. "Mmmm. Mmmm...I think I need to stop doing that before I cause an accident... but I am dying to have them sucked. I love cum on my tits. Do you think you could...?"
Dylan's swelling cock was still painfully constrained in his pants but making a visible bulge in his overalls. He still couldn't quite believe the reality of what was happening, but he was now too horny to think too much about it. The woman turned into a wooded dirt track and parked several hundred yards into it, in a wider part of the road near a clearing. She switched the engine off and turned towards Dylan.
"Oh, get this thing off, would you?" she said impatiently, pointing to his overalls and Dylan unzipped it quickly, exposing his tanned upper body and black boxers containing now a truly raging hard-on. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours!" she said and Dylan pulled the elastic of his boxers down, allowing his cock to spring up. It was hot, red and dying to be touched, a swollen head glistening with drips of pre-cum.
"Lovely!" the woman exclaimed. She slid her shirt of her shoulders and without further teasing pulled her bra down to let her tits hang out in their full, glorious, bare magnificence. Dylan gasped. They were truly awesome, heavy as expected of breasts that size, but not particularly saggy, with a soft, full roundness that he so loved in large natural tits. The nipples were now looking like fairly large pebbles, and as she rolled them, pulled and rubbed, they seemed to grow even more engorged. A faint flush covered the inner sides of her boobs and she was breathing hard and moaning softly as she played with them.
Dylan was stroking his cock, trying to limit the speed and force to avoid orgasming too fast. She licked her lips and leaned towards him over the gear stick, holding her tits up with both her hands.
"Taste?" she enquired. Dylan groaned in response and complied immediately. He licked her nipple with a slow, upwards stroke of the flat of his tongue, then run his tongue in circles round the erect bud, trying to keep it soft but firm. The nipple itself was now in his mouth and he could feel its gorgeous texture, so tempting that he closed his lips and sucked gently. She was now panting and moaning almost continuously as Dylan ate her breasts, his lips caressing the areola, his tongue dancing on the hardness of her fat nipples, his hand supporting, stroking and squeezing the pale golden flesh of the whole breast; his other hand rubbed her other nipple, first with the flat of his palm, then fingers, rolling, tweaking, pulling gently, the harder, almost crushing it in between his fingers; his mouth dripping saliva all over her other tit; then he swapped and rubbed the slippery one while licking the other.
His hands were both full and his mouth was busy, his eyes closed as he concentrated on pleasuring those wonderful breasts. His cock was close to bursting despite lack of any direct stimulation, and when she reached down between his legs he couldn't help but let out an almost pain-filled moan.
"I want it on my tits. Rub your hot, hard young cock on my tits. Look how fucking wet you are, dripping without even being touched. Fucking little breast slut, aren't you?" she panted. Her taunts felt playful and hot more than anything else. Dylan felt dizzy, overwhelmed by a tide of lust. Following her command wasn't easy or straightforward as they were separated by the gear stick but when she moved her seat back as far as it would go and Dylan did the same, she could lean further down and let her hanging, flushed, slippery breasts brush his cock.
He shivered and kept his throbbing dick steady as she held her tits together and rubbed them hard across his glans. She was moaning every time the purple-red head of his cock rubbed against her now rock-hard, erect nipples and as he helped to direct his cock, she started to run her nipple along the bottom side of his shaft, then going back to rubbing his cock head across both of her tits.
By now Dylan had one of his feet on the steering column, the other on the drive shaft, his back painfully wedged in the door, his hands caressing his balls and base of his cock as she attended to the head with her hand and tits.
Dylan used all his resources to stop himself from coming just yet. He was incredibly turned on, more than he has ever been, with each stroke and twist exquisitely pleasurable and yet almost painfully heightening his desire to orgasm.
She seemed to be now overtaken by her own arousal, eyes half closed, panting and moaning, hair dampened with sweat running down her face and smearing her makeup.
"Come on my tits! Spill your fucking cream on my tits for me! Oooh, yes, yes, oooh," she moaned and he responded by stroking his cock shaft faster and pressing towards her as she frantically rubbed her nipples on his cockhead.
It didn't take much for Dylan to feel the hot cum rising in his balls; he cried out, a deep growl emerging just as long, thick streams of spunk shot out of his cock onto her breasts. She was holding them tight, squeezed forwards, exposed, engorged and swollen; she moaned even louder when she felt his cum splatter, and started to immediately rub it into the skin of her tits.
"Oh, oooh, I love it, mmm, this is so fucking good, so much cum, mmmm, fuck, I am so horny, I am so fucking horny, I want to come now, oooh, oooh," she moaned, spreading the thick, sticky spunk all over her chest. Dylan felt as he would never stop ejaculating, the cum was copious beyond anything normal for him, and seeing her rub it in with such a desire seemed to make him squeeze every last drop out.
Her eyes were closed and her head thrown back, she was working her nipples furiously with both hands, licking her lips at the same time. Dylan, still in the semi aroused early afterglow of his orgasm, couldn't decide whether he should reach between her legs or just let her get on with it as she made no indication that she wished him to do anything.
Then, led by a sudden impulse of a new desire, he leaned down towards her exposed breasts and started to lick his own cum from them, first around her hand, the from between her fingers. She moaned louder and removed her hand to let him suck the nipple while she concentrated all her attention on her other breast. Dylan licked and sucked with renewed passion, and the bitter-sweet-salty taste of his own jizz had a curiously arousing effect on him: it was less than ten minutes after he shot his load, but he could feel something stirring in his cock again.
He used his mouth in a slightly rougher way than he had before, and she seemed to respond to this, pushing her tits into his mouth and pulling the skin to make the nipples even larger and tauter. He stopped licking altogether and was now sucking, with his tongue adding additional pressure around the tip. Her breathing even faster and heavier now, her body went tense and hotter than before. Dylan sucked harder, while squeezing the other one hard between his fingers. She went rigid, then started to shake and screamed "Ohhh, now, now, now, now, fucking hell, oooh, fuck, fuck, yes, yes...yeeessss!"
It took her a few good minutes to come round and when she did she was smiling widely from under her sweat-dampened hair, relaxed in her seat, slowly stroking her beautiful breasts, now less swollen, but heavily flushed with the post-orgasmic glow.
Dylan also adjusted his position, his overalls long off and his boxers too, stretched out naked along the passenger seat, his cock semi-erect, his left hand squeezing his balls lightly, his right one massaging the shaft. He could still feel the taste of her sweat and his own cum in his mouth, he could feel her hard nipples and hear her scream as she came.
He glanced at her again, and although neither he nor herself had ever touched her pussy throughout the whole episode and her left hand was still on her breasts, the right one was sliding into her unzipped jeans.
"Mmm...so wet....I do like to fuck, too, " she said, smiling at him again.
---
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"Oh, baby, I need to cum now, ooh, I'm so close," he groaned. Shannon sucked harder, and then took his cock out of her mouth and licked from his balls upwards along the bottom of his shaft. She used her teeth to gently bite the underside, and Dylan leaned forward to rub the swollen, hot glans on her tits. She licked his balls as he pushed his cock, leaking copious pre-cum, onto her nipples and rubbed hard. He felt the tide of orgasm raising and, unable to hold on any longer, shot his full load onto her flushed breasts. His cum splattered the globes of her breasts, dripped over the nipples and she rubbed it in, her tongue frantically flicking from his balls to his shaft and to her own sticky
fingers.
Dylan moved sideways and reached down to her hot, dripping pussy. Her clit was hard and engorged and as he stroked it, she started bucking her hips, pressing against his hand. He kept the rhythm of one hand on her pussy and used the other to stroke and squeeze her breast as she worked herself to a shuddering orgasm.
**
Dylan was a boob man through and through, and he not only loved to caress breasts, but also, of all possible places, preferred to cum on his partners' tits: the bigger, the better; within reason, as he wasn't into freakishly huge or artificially enhanced ones. Shannon had been particularly receptive to his attentions and he missed her a lot after she had gone back to her native Canada having finished her stint at his uni. He enjoyed wanking remembering their fucking sessions and despite a few enjoyable one-night stands he wasn't seeing anybody else on a regular basis.
That year's summer was hot and sultry and Dylan sometimes regretted taking on the seasonal job at his uncle's decorating company, but he needed the money and the pay was reasonable and hours long.
That day he was finishing early though, and he was standing in a queue at a popular small sandwich shop on the High Street, enjoying the air blown by the fan standing on the counter, trying to decide on a sandwich he was going to have that day, sweat running down his back under his paint-splattered white overalls which he wore just over his pants that day.
He noticed the woman standing in front of him, separated by two other people, when she turned round to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. She was much older than him: in her late thirties, perhaps even older. The woman wasn't particular striking, although her well-cut hair was attractively silky, straight , pale blonde. She was quite tall and long legged and the way she was dressed detracted attention from her broad hips and drew it to what was definitely her best asset. She was wearing cropped jeans and leather sandals, and a long, loose, short-sleeved white linen shirt, unbuttoned low enough to afford a good glimpse not only of her cleavage but also the lace edge of her bra. A long strand of wooden beads round her neck nestled between her breasts, seeming to suggestively point lower down. Dylan couldn't help but notice: her tits were huge, he couldn't make a precise judgement, what with the clothing and stuff, but he thought they were at least an E cup, maybe even bigger. On a chunky woman like her, this would mean a serious handful. He glanced at the exposed part of her breasts: soft, glowing, pale golden skin, looking supple and unblemished.
The edge of chocolate-coloured lace of her bra was just visible, and despite the bra and a shirt, Dylan could detect a faint outline of the nipples under the fabric, round and fat, like cherries. Dylan felt a stirring in his pants and images of licking such nipples and handling those glorious melons filled his mind with longing, his cock now noticeably harder. He was glad his loose overalls covered any signs of arousal so far.
He looked away from the enticing cleavage, but not before the woman noticed him glancing and, instead of the expected scorn, gave him a wide smile and what he was sure was a wink. Dylan looked at his feet in blushing embarrassment, and didn't raise his eyes until the woman made her purchase and left the shop.
He was served soon after her and quickly walked out of the shop. He turned off the High Street into a narrow side lane between the buildings leading towards the car park and the playing fields by the
river. He thought about the woman's smile and allowed himself to fantasise about her again, imagining unbuttoning her shirt and rubbing his hard cock along the edge of her bra, her nipples growing bigger and harder under the touch of his hot flesh.
He almost didn't notice her standing to the side, fumbling in her bag for something.
"Excuse me," she called and he stopped in his tracks, turning to see her a meter away from him, a cigarette in her hand. "You don't happen to have a light?" she asked.
Dylan reached into his pocket and desperately searched for a box of matches that he knew had been there just this morning. He was more nervous than he had been in anybody's presence for a long time, vaguely embarrassed by his fantasies and acutely aware of his cock getting noticeably harder: not yet a semi, but enough to make him conscious of his arousal and the fact that he was just seconds ago imagining himself having sex with this complete stranger, a woman at least fifteen years his senior and clearly completely unaware of what was going through his mind.
He found the matches, lit one with slightly trembling hands and offer her the light. As she leaned over with her cigarette, sheltering the flame with her hands, he couldn't help having another look at her tits. He could smell her perfume, spicy and sultry, and he thought her nipples had more definition now, clearly visible through the fabric, as if begging to be touched.
Dylan stepped back and turned to walk away, when she said, "Thanks. By the way.... do you like what you see?"
He stopped in his tracks, unsure what to say, blushing again, his heartbeat getting faster, and despite the embarrassment, his cock starting to strain at his pants. The woman shot a quick glance at his crotch and smiled again. "Well, you seem to, " she said and moved closer to him, almost touching him now. "Do you fancy seeing some more?" she asked, a whisper but clear and definite.
Dylan wasn't sure whether to believe what he was hearing. She could be taking the piss, or she could be trying to provoke him into doing something that could be interpreted as harassment. There were all kinds of nutters about. But her smile seemed genuine and he decided to risk it. "I would love to," he said and looked at her tits again. Her breathing seemed faster now, he could see her breasts raising with each breath and he was sure the nipples were now bigger, harder and more upright.
"C'mon then. I am parked just round the corner," she beckoned and he followed her without a word. "Are you a painter then?" she asked.
"Well, not really. I am at the uni in Edinburgh, this is just a summer job. But I am free for the rest of the day, really," Dylan assured her as she clicked her keys and opened the doors to a black Audi estate with dimmed windows.
"Jump in. Don't worry, I won't kidnap you," she laughed, as if sensing his hesitation. She drove confidently and clearly knew where she was going in more ways than one as they left the town and were soon driving on one of the roads leading towards the hills in the south of the town. Dylan didn't really know what to say, so he said nothing apart from complimenting her on the car.
"Are you into big boobs in a big way?" she asked eventually.
"Umm...yes. I love big boobs. Yours are great! All that a guy could dream of!" Dylan blurted out enthusiastically She laughed a low, husky laugh.
"They are my favourite body part too. I can sometimes come just from breast play alone," she said matter of factly.
Dylan responded with non-committal "mmm"but his imagination was filled again with fantasies of her bare tits, his rock hard cock exploding in his hand, his cum dripping off her thick nipples. He was now really aroused, his cock semi-erect, his balls tight and hot, and he was dying to touch himself. He looked at the woman, and she responded to his look by licking her top lip with a long, slow stroke of her tongue, over a skew-whiff smile. She took the left hand off the wheel and rubbed her left breast, then proceeded to undo two more buttons of her shirt and pull the left side of it off.
Dylan could now see her left breast in its full, albeit still wrapped glory. Her bra was sheer lace and he could clearly see her areola, now raised, and the distinctive, round, large, cherry shaped nipple. She rubbed her tit again and then rolled her nipple in her fingers for a few seconds. "Mmmm. Mmmm...I think I need to stop doing that before I cause an accident... but I am dying to have them sucked. I love cum on my tits. Do you think you could...?"
Dylan's swelling cock was still painfully constrained in his pants but making a visible bulge in his overalls. He still couldn't quite believe the reality of what was happening, but he was now too horny to think too much about it. The woman turned into a wooded dirt track and parked several hundred yards into it, in a wider part of the road near a clearing. She switched the engine off and turned towards Dylan.
"Oh, get this thing off, would you?" she said impatiently, pointing to his overalls and Dylan unzipped it quickly, exposing his tanned upper body and black boxers containing now a truly raging hard-on. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours!" she said and Dylan pulled the elastic of his boxers down, allowing his cock to spring up. It was hot, red and dying to be touched, a swollen head glistening with drips of pre-cum.
"Lovely!" the woman exclaimed. She slid her shirt of her shoulders and without further teasing pulled her bra down to let her tits hang out in their full, glorious, bare magnificence. Dylan gasped. They were truly awesome, heavy as expected of breasts that size, but not particularly saggy, with a soft, full roundness that he so loved in large natural tits. The nipples were now looking like fairly large pebbles, and as she rolled them, pulled and rubbed, they seemed to grow even more engorged. A faint flush covered the inner sides of her boobs and she was breathing hard and moaning softly as she played with them.
Dylan was stroking his cock, trying to limit the speed and force to avoid orgasming too fast. She licked her lips and leaned towards him over the gear stick, holding her tits up with both her hands.
"Taste?" she enquired. Dylan groaned in response and complied immediately. He licked her nipple with a slow, upwards stroke of the flat of his tongue, then run his tongue in circles round the erect bud, trying to keep it soft but firm. The nipple itself was now in his mouth and he could feel its gorgeous texture, so tempting that he closed his lips and sucked gently. She was now panting and moaning almost continuously as Dylan ate her breasts, his lips caressing the areola, his tongue dancing on the hardness of her fat nipples, his hand supporting, stroking and squeezing the pale golden flesh of the whole breast; his other hand rubbed her other nipple, first with the flat of his palm, then fingers, rolling, tweaking, pulling gently, the harder, almost crushing it in between his fingers; his mouth dripping saliva all over her other tit; then he swapped and rubbed the slippery one while licking the other.
His hands were both full and his mouth was busy, his eyes closed as he concentrated on pleasuring those wonderful breasts. His cock was close to bursting despite lack of any direct stimulation, and when she reached down between his legs he couldn't help but let out an almost pain-filled moan.
"I want it on my tits. Rub your hot, hard young cock on my tits. Look how fucking wet you are, dripping without even being touched. Fucking little breast slut, aren't you?" she panted. Her taunts felt playful and hot more than anything else. Dylan felt dizzy, overwhelmed by a tide of lust. Following her command wasn't easy or straightforward as they were separated by the gear stick but when she moved her seat back as far as it would go and Dylan did the same, she could lean further down and let her hanging, flushed, slippery breasts brush his cock.
He shivered and kept his throbbing dick steady as she held her tits together and rubbed them hard across his glans. She was moaning every time the purple-red head of his cock rubbed against her now rock-hard, erect nipples and as he helped to direct his cock, she started to run her nipple along the bottom side of his shaft, then going back to rubbing his cock head across both of her tits.
By now Dylan had one of his feet on the steering column, the other on the drive shaft, his back painfully wedged in the door, his hands caressing his balls and base of his cock as she attended to the head with her hand and tits.
Dylan used all his resources to stop himself from coming just yet. He was incredibly turned on, more than he has ever been, with each stroke and twist exquisitely pleasurable and yet almost painfully heightening his desire to orgasm.
She seemed to be now overtaken by her own arousal, eyes half closed, panting and moaning, hair dampened with sweat running down her face and smearing her makeup.
"Come on my tits! Spill your fucking cream on my tits for me! Oooh, yes, yes, oooh," she moaned and he responded by stroking his cock shaft faster and pressing towards her as she frantically rubbed her nipples on his cockhead.
It didn't take much for Dylan to feel the hot cum rising in his balls; he cried out, a deep growl emerging just as long, thick streams of spunk shot out of his cock onto her breasts. She was holding them tight, squeezed forwards, exposed, engorged and swollen; she moaned even louder when she felt his cum splatter, and started to immediately rub it into the skin of her tits.
"Oh, oooh, I love it, mmm, this is so fucking good, so much cum, mmmm, fuck, I am so horny, I am so fucking horny, I want to come now, oooh, oooh," she moaned, spreading the thick, sticky spunk all over her chest. Dylan felt as he would never stop ejaculating, the cum was copious beyond anything normal for him, and seeing her rub it in with such a desire seemed to make him squeeze every last drop out.
Her eyes were closed and her head thrown back, she was working her nipples furiously with both hands, licking her lips at the same time. Dylan, still in the semi aroused early afterglow of his orgasm, couldn't decide whether he should reach between her legs or just let her get on with it as she made no indication that she wished him to do anything.
Then, led by a sudden impulse of a new desire, he leaned down towards her exposed breasts and started to lick his own cum from them, first around her hand, the from between her fingers. She moaned louder and removed her hand to let him suck the nipple while she concentrated all her attention on her other breast. Dylan licked and sucked with renewed passion, and the bitter-sweet-salty taste of his own jizz had a curiously arousing effect on him: it was less than ten minutes after he shot his load, but he could feel something stirring in his cock again.
He used his mouth in a slightly rougher way than he had before, and she seemed to respond to this, pushing her tits into his mouth and pulling the skin to make the nipples even larger and tauter. He stopped licking altogether and was now sucking, with his tongue adding additional pressure around the tip. Her breathing even faster and heavier now, her body went tense and hotter than before. Dylan sucked harder, while squeezing the other one hard between his fingers. She went rigid, then started to shake and screamed "Ohhh, now, now, now, now, fucking hell, oooh, fuck, fuck, yes, yes...yeeessss!"
It took her a few good minutes to come round and when she did she was smiling widely from under her sweat-dampened hair, relaxed in her seat, slowly stroking her beautiful breasts, now less swollen, but heavily flushed with the post-orgasmic glow.
Dylan also adjusted his position, his overalls long off and his boxers too, stretched out naked along the passenger seat, his cock semi-erect, his left hand squeezing his balls lightly, his right one massaging the shaft. He could still feel the taste of her sweat and his own cum in his mouth, he could feel her hard nipples and hear her scream as she came.
He glanced at her again, and although neither he nor herself had ever touched her pussy throughout the whole episode and her left hand was still on her breasts, the right one was sliding into her unzipped jeans.
"Mmm...so wet....I do like to fuck, too, " she said, smiling at him again.
---
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. 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 guest that I had seen around for a few days 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.
I take a gingerly few steps across the drive, he follows me in, through the hall and into the living room where I collapse on a messy sofa covered with a mess of books, clothes and unspecific household items. I eye him carefully, standing in the door, my boots still in his hand, looking a little unsure but smiling a little too, looking hopeful but not as if he was going to push anything, and the memory - the feeling itself - of our little encounter on the bench by the carpark comes back to me, the bubble is still there.
I'm tired though, weary and stiff, my body feels numb despite the still present damp warmth between my legs and the echo of his mouth on my foot, so I stretch my legs out on the rug, ankles crossed, and wave my hand towards him.
''Just dump them here. Bathroom is off the hall, there should be a bowl and other stuff there.''
His smile grows bigger and he turns back and disappears in the hall, to emerge in few minutes carrying a square plastic washing bowl that I normally use for my more delicate underwear filled with hot water, and what looks like at least three of my best towels over his forearm. The pockets of his jacket seem to be stuffed with other bathing supplies and it all looks a bit silly and a bit touching and I am now sure I do want tonight to continue, and I'll worry about what to do next afterwards.
He puts one of the towels on the rug in front of me, the bowl on top, then drops to his knees and reaches to my feet, rolling the bottoms of my trousers up, his fingers straying lower but not remaining there, before I put them in the bowl. The water is hot, but not burning, the splash of bath oil fills the air with jasmine, rose and lavender, and when he starts washing my feet I stop thinking of pedicures or of miner's wives in coaltown cottages, because although his touch is firm and practical, it's also undoubtedly, unmistakeably erotic, his fingers, slippery with soap and water, rubbing my skin, carefully, thoroughly, toes first, one by one, than between them, taking his time, moving to the soles, mostly still with his fingers but occasionally reaching for a flannel. He moves to my ankle next, more of a massage than a scrubbing, pressing the tired muscles and rubbing the swollen parts.
It's all happening in silence, apart from my occasional sigh and a ''yes, that's great'' of confirmation and encouragement, and I can hear my own breathing, and I can hear his, maybe a little deeper and faster than it would be normally but not in any way obvious. When he's through with the washing, he moves the bowl/towel ensemble to the side and places my feet on another towel, this time it's the big, thick, pale grey bath sheet which makes a luxurious nest. I expect him to start drying them with as much care as he put into the washing but instead he sits on his heels and picks my right foot, still covered with the film of water, up in both hands, leans down, gives me the same look he did at the bench and when I nod with a smile, brings it to his mouth, licking, kissing and then licking again, the damp of his saliva mixing with the damp of the water.
This is turning me on again, and I sigh and moan a little to show him how I'm enjoying it and to let him know he should go on, which he clearly takes seriously because the next moment he's on his back on the floor, my right foot still in his hands but now directly above his face, the left one still on the towel on the floor next to his shoulder.
He focuses on the sole next, his lips moving slowly, almost methodically, starting with the little toe and along the outer edge, firmer on the tougher skin of the heel, I can feel his teeth, biting but not painfully, than the inner edge, towards the arch, his tongue probing, testing, lingering, tasting, especially between patches of skin with different texture, tracing and mapping my sole and however ridiculous it might sound it feels like he's making love to my foot.
I sigh and adjust my position, unzip my trousers again, start slowly touching myself, wet and hot and starting to throb, arch my back a little which makes my foot push down on his face and he lets it happen, his mouth open and his breathing now close to panting. I move the right one up against him, make it creep up his side and to his cock, full, hard, straining against the fabric of his trousers.
''Turn sideways. No… take your pants off first, then turn on your side, the other way round… do the other one now…'' I stammer. He stops, with a little delay that feels like coming up for air more than reluctance, gets up and starts removing his trousers, pants, socks. Our eyes meet and I can't help but laugh a little, to him rather than at him, in wonder at this thing we are doing here, the bubble of sex that surrounds us and in which all that matters is the mutual need. He smiles back, his eyes growing wider when he sees me pulling my jeans and panties off, my legs open wide and wanton, my fingers emphasising rather than concealing the slick spread of my cunt, the swollen bud of my erect clit emerging between the labia a perfect counterpart to his rigid cock.
''Oh fuck….'' he groans, back on his knees, closer to me, leaning lower.
''Do the other one, I said,'' I don't know how or why I decided to do it, why I am not doing the obvious, the natural thing here and pulling him in, making him use that clearly accomplished mouth of his between my legs, but I know that's what I want just now so there is no reason not to suggest it, even if the suggestion comes out somewhat harsh and demanding.
He moans again but does what I told him to do, attending to my other foot as I focus on the pleasure pooling between my legs, as I get closer to the plateau on which I can stay for a while before reaching the edge of my orgasm, not caring now about the sounds I make or the movements or the view he might have from down there, until I have had enough of that, until I want more and different, and pull away from him, get up and make for the door.
''Come on,'' this comes clipped and harsh again, not because I want to humiliate him but because all I can think about now is my own need and this man whose desire lit that flame has now - at least for this moment - become nothing but a tool of its fulfillment.
He follows me to the bedroom, a couple of steps behind me, and waits expectantly when I stretch myself on the bed, on my front, my feet hanging off the edge of the bed, my legs slightly apart but not enough to let him see anything much.
I make myself comfortable and, with my head on my crossed arms, give him a glance across the dim room and call ‘’C’mere. Get to work. My soles, now.’’
In less than an instant he’s on his knees down there, his mouth and hands eager and beautiful, touching, stroking, licking, stopping, perhaps to look at my soles, the pressing and sucking again, almost all of the muscular tension of the whole day gone now, replaced by the spreading glow of arousal, my skin supple and warm, my cunt dripping with desire that is less directed at than facilitated by what he’s doing for me.
I raise my hips a little, my pelvis feels full, flushed and hot, I want to be touched. My feet spread wider, I am sure he can see up between my legs now, and even if he can’t, he’ll be able to smell me. I want his mouth elsewhere now.
‘’Come up and kiss down my spine, slut,’’ I say, the ‘’slut’’ unexpected yet bizarrely fitting.
He obeys wordlessly, I don’t look at him but can feel his body next to mine, his erection brushing my thigh when he leans down, his lips slow and precise on the back of my neck, moving down, my hips lifting up to meet him, his hands on my buttocks, his moan in response to my ‘’Yess, there…’’ when his tongue slides down to my ass and brushes my anus before getting the first taste of my wetness.
He’s stretched between my legs now and I’m rubbing myself on his face, all vestiges of decorum gone, panting and moaning, first on all fours, then shifting up, so I’m nearly sitting on him, my thigh cramping a bit but I ride it through, my hands in his hair, pulling, the focus of my desire moving from the exquisite sensations flowing over my skin to what I am doing with him and to him, the sounds he makes appear pained and this is turning me on in the most unexpected ways and I want more of it, fucking more, and more, shifting again and pushing him into a place that would fit what I want and need now.
I’m leaning against the headboard, my knees up, he’s flat on his back on the bed still, looking dazed, sticky faced and a little bit breathless.
''On your front and fucking lick,'' I hiss, my toes brushing his lips as he follows my command, the thrill of doing it like a jolt through my whole body, suddenly aware that I could actually kick him, make his lip split on his own teeth, make his bleed here for me, and maybe he would lash back out at me, but maybe he wouldn't and that possibility makes me dizzy with desire of a kind I have not experienced before, the same one that prompts me to push hard against his face and mouth, make him gag and groan in discomfort.
I'm rubbing myself furiously now, my clit like a hard and slippery nub under my fingers, so sensitive that I can't even touch it directly. I grab blindly to the side of the bed, grasp a diIdo I use occasionally and slide it deep into my throbbing cunt, the pleasure of this act a huge gasp and a swearing moan. He's still licking and kissing my feet but I can see him glance up to all the action between my legs now and then.
''Stop... just watch me. Don't... touch... yourself... without... asking....'' I stutter, high up there on the plateau of my pleasure, his frustration and obedience rising the heat.
He does as he's told, though his breathing is fast and loud and when I moan he responds with small, quickly stifled moans of his own. I get close, closer, almost there, my pleasure the whole of my world, the man I brought to me bed a panting shadow on the very periphery of it, his waiting, his patience, his at this moment utter focus on what I am experiencing an afterthought, a sweetly hot one but no more than that.
I come alone, in a huge, convulsive shiver spreading from my toes to the top of my head, and spilling at my core, a scream and a laugh few seconds later.
I stretch and relax, my right foot sliding to his crotch, now I remember him again, grateful and happy, with no urgency.
''Please...'' he whispers, and I answer with a not-quite-dismissive ''OK, go on then. On my feet," his hand a blur, his panting moan turning into a deep groan, the sticky warmth of his release splattering and dripping off my instep.
''Clean it up now."
I'm not really thinking he will, but it seems worth trying, the newly found role talking through me more than me talking from the role, his breath warm on my toes as he leans down to obey.
I come alone, in a huge, convulsive shiver spreading from my toes to the top of my head, and spilling at my core, a scream and a laugh few seconds later.
I stretch and relax, my right foot sliding to his crotch, now I remember him again, grateful and happy, with no urgency.
''Please...'' he whispers, and I answer with a not-quite-dismissive ''OK, go on then. On my feet," his hand a blur, his panting moan turning into a deep groan, the sticky warmth of his release splattering and dripping off my instep.
''Clean it up now."
I'm not really thinking he will, but it seems worth trying, the newly found role talking through me more than me talking from the role, his breath warm on my toes as he leans down to obey.
Wednesday, 31 May 2017
Before it ends
My eyes are fixed on the exposed side of your neck. I touch you there, running my fingers down to your shoulder. Nails dragging from behind your ear down along the line of the tendon, catching on the clavicle. Again. And again. Not deeply, just teasing. You squirm. I wish they were longer or sharper. Deliberate again. I want to mark you. You are moaning, eyes closed, chest visibly lifting and lowering, long deep breaths. My desire coalesces in my mind. I want to leave a row of short, parallel cuts on your shoulder. Not very deep, short ones, maybe two inches long each. I want it so much it makes me catch my breath and stop what I'm doing and think of a tool suitable for making a thin, neat, permanent ladder of little scars. One of them maybe a little less neat.
I tell you what’s going through my head, and you gasp, your breath hot and rapid on the damp skin of my wrist, ‘’ Yes. Please do that, M. I want to wear your marks. Permanent ones. I want the cuts. I hope they spill a little too much blood…’’ you’re talking in low voice, almost whispering, but it’s steady, as if you were out of the daze or in a different kind of daze maybe, slow and fluid and focused, and this steady fluidity make me feel floaty. You are fucking me up so much, still, after all this time. I love it.
You open your eyes and look up at me,’’Serrated blade, M?’’
‘’Maybe not as jagged as a cheap steak knife, something finely serrated. What you might slice a tomato with,‘’ you offer
‘’A small, fine metalworking blade,’’ I suggest, partially in jest, partially in earnest, my fingers resting lightly on your shoulder, my tongue running along my upper lip, my cunt throbbing.
This conversation, matter of fact and yet somehow surreal at the same time makes me giggle, seems as it should break the spell but actually doesn’t, makes me realise how comfortable we are here, doing this perverted thing that we do.
I think of your leaving and my leaving, of both of us going back to our respective realities, soon - too soon, and perhaps for good this time, because we never know when it’s going to be for good so it’s better to think this way, it’s better to think that this is all the time we have and that every time must be made as precious as the first time and must be treated as the last time, because it might end up being so.
I think of the time we have left before the fantasy ends and reality reasserts itself, and all that we will have done here will seem like a story told on a perverted erotica blog. And then I think of how much the lines between the fantasy and the real are blurred just now, so much that maybe we don’t quite know which is which and that if you really leave in two days’ time with a neat row of cuts on your shoulder - one of them perhaps less neat than the others, perhaps left to heal without using butterfly strips to keep the edges together - if you take this mark back to your reality, maybe it will remain blurred forever, the curtain never pulled completely closed, a reminder always there, not just in the neural circuits of your mind but obvious, blatant, palpable in the most literal sense of that overused word, to be felt every time you put your fingers there.
This possibility is making my head spin and my breath speed up in a way that goes far beyond sexual, not that the sexual isn’t there, but it’s morphing into something else, something bigger if just a little lower key, a desire to own you -- or at least that part of you that you have given me -- not just fully but with some illusion of permanence, as symbolic and un-real as these things are.
I’m driven by the same impulse which makes people carve their initials in school desks and in living trees, the same desire that I indulged when I took the sharp little blade of a slightly rust-stained knife to the wind-bent pine tree overlooking the narrows the mainland and the island, with the view of that hill on which the last photo I’d sent you was taken before your arrival here, the same need that drove my request to carve a declaration of your submission in that board that’s now not just sanded and oiled but wet with your sweat, wax and probably quite a few drips of precum and saliva too.
It’s going dark outside but it’s a bright dusk, with pale blue-grey sky and a full moon high and silver above the hills on the other side of the water and, unheard of at this time of the year, it’s snowing. Slow, large flakes sailing slowly down, sliding along invisible air slopes, twirling in vortexes of light from the house’s large plate window.
I leave you there for a minute and return to the workshop, picking up possible tools for what I have in mind. My hands are shaking, just a little bit.
‘’Stand by the window, J. Spread-eagled. Legs wide, palms flat on the glass. Well supported, leaning a little,’’ I launch into instructions as soon as I walk back into the room and although you seem a little thrown by all that, you obey.
‘’Closer. Not as close as to touch glass with your cock,’’ I adjust you, using my words and soon after, my hands, small pushes and pulls to indicate the direction, ‘’Here. Yes. That’s great. Perfect,’’ I run my hands down your sides, then up your outstretched arms, checking the new tensing and flexing of the muscles, the changed way your skin stretches.
‘If anybody came round just now they’d be for a surprise,’’ I snort, my fingers playing with your erection, turning it larger and more rigid. I step away and look. Your body pale, despite the tan, in the low light of the room against the dark that has fallen outside. I switch off the light and now it's just a silhouette, and what seemed to be dark has turned into a purple grey, gently opalescent with the moonlight.
I want to leave you like this, forever, spread-eagled across the window, in the eternal violet charcoal of dusk. I want to keep you like this, forever, in the eternal glass case in the library of my mind. And although some part of you, some version of you is there, just like this, in some version of some reality, it is only a sliver, a lab slice of a symbolic specimen that defies what must be and what is.
I shake my head, almost violently, my hair spilling in a tangle rather than a stylish swish, step back. My palms on your shoulders, fingers moving to meet on your throat, thumbs pressing down, my mouth near your ear ‘’Quiet now. Quiet and still.” You whispermoan a ‘’Yes, M’’ and I start touching you. Methodically. Systematically. As if I was doing everything possible to memorise it all, as if there were obvious and crucial differences between the skin along your shoulder-blade and that covering the tendons of your neck and that over the soft flesh below the ribcage.
The touch varies. I press and stroke. I pinch and scratch. I move my face so close to you that my breath condenses on your skin, blow on you gently or fast, and brush you with my lips. I bite and lick. I leave trails of what remains of my lipstick and saliva and breath, pink grazes and teeth indentations and hickeys.
The cuts come fast and sure, as if out of nowhere, shallow, closer to symbolic nicks than slits designed to leave obvious scars, but there is a spreading net of blood trickles blooming on your back and there is a humming in my head. I take my eyes off you for what’s intended as a split second but ends up much longer.
It’s still snowing. Huge flakes whirling down slow and thick to settle on the grass, to cushion everything, to muffle time and slow down sounds.
I pull the belt out of the loops of my skirt, double it up in my hand, position myself and take aim. The crack of leather on your butt makes me shiver, as much as your stifled moan, a violent twitch and the way you move your hips in an instinctive flight response to then return to position, your back maybe arched a little more, your knuckles maybe a little whiter on the narrow window frame.
‘’Count.’’
You do, your voice sometimes steady and sure, sometimes breaking, sometimes hardly there, the welts merging together into a greater field of red, hot and tender to my hand when I touch it after the belt is dropped.
‘’Well done, boy,’’ my left hand on your just-belted butt, my right one on your dripping cock, your long moan making my nipples harden against the lace of my bra.
It’s still snowing.
A little later, I lay you down out there, the cold of snow a welcome soothing for your tormented skin, at first, the pink dissolving into dirty green mush under the combined weight of our bodies, I fuck you slow and urgent, deliberate and messy, until we both cry out and come to.
We return inside to tend to the cuts and bruises, to sleep - together this time, the toes of my left foot touching your calf, the fingertips of my left hand nearly-brushing your right one - to wake up to late morning of a pale blue skye, a small, white sun and a huge daytime moon above us, the last night’s snow all gone, to the tidying up of the workshops, to the locking up of the house, to the long drive to the airport.
***
We are standing in the departures, upstairs, just before the security, facing each other, a couple of steps off the main stream of passengers walking past with their plastic bags for liquids and gels, their belts and boots in their hands.
There is a silence around us, a bubble, similar to the one that we stood in, shivering, the first time we met, that day when I slapped him in the middle of the arrivals hall and he dropped to his knees and kissed my feet in fishnet stockings and ridiculously uncomfortable shoes.
I am wearing old jeans and tattered Converse hi-tops today and neither of us is shivering. But I still reach out to touch his face, my palm on his cheek, my fingers near his ear, my thumb brushing his lips, spreading them apart, briefly running along the damp inside, then withdrawing.
''Fuck. I guess this is it,'' he looks briefly at the ground as he says this, then back at me, our eyes locked gain.
''Fuck. I guess it is,'' I am somewhere between a giggle and tears.
We embrace, quickly, then he turns away, makes his way to the end of the security queue.
''Be good for me, J,'' I call to his back.
He glances at me over his shoulder with a somewhat sad-looking ghost of a smile.
''I will. Endlessly, M.''
I tell you what’s going through my head, and you gasp, your breath hot and rapid on the damp skin of my wrist, ‘’ Yes. Please do that, M. I want to wear your marks. Permanent ones. I want the cuts. I hope they spill a little too much blood…’’ you’re talking in low voice, almost whispering, but it’s steady, as if you were out of the daze or in a different kind of daze maybe, slow and fluid and focused, and this steady fluidity make me feel floaty. You are fucking me up so much, still, after all this time. I love it.
You open your eyes and look up at me,’’Serrated blade, M?’’
‘’Maybe not as jagged as a cheap steak knife, something finely serrated. What you might slice a tomato with,‘’ you offer
‘’A small, fine metalworking blade,’’ I suggest, partially in jest, partially in earnest, my fingers resting lightly on your shoulder, my tongue running along my upper lip, my cunt throbbing.
This conversation, matter of fact and yet somehow surreal at the same time makes me giggle, seems as it should break the spell but actually doesn’t, makes me realise how comfortable we are here, doing this perverted thing that we do.
I think of your leaving and my leaving, of both of us going back to our respective realities, soon - too soon, and perhaps for good this time, because we never know when it’s going to be for good so it’s better to think this way, it’s better to think that this is all the time we have and that every time must be made as precious as the first time and must be treated as the last time, because it might end up being so.
I think of the time we have left before the fantasy ends and reality reasserts itself, and all that we will have done here will seem like a story told on a perverted erotica blog. And then I think of how much the lines between the fantasy and the real are blurred just now, so much that maybe we don’t quite know which is which and that if you really leave in two days’ time with a neat row of cuts on your shoulder - one of them perhaps less neat than the others, perhaps left to heal without using butterfly strips to keep the edges together - if you take this mark back to your reality, maybe it will remain blurred forever, the curtain never pulled completely closed, a reminder always there, not just in the neural circuits of your mind but obvious, blatant, palpable in the most literal sense of that overused word, to be felt every time you put your fingers there.
This possibility is making my head spin and my breath speed up in a way that goes far beyond sexual, not that the sexual isn’t there, but it’s morphing into something else, something bigger if just a little lower key, a desire to own you -- or at least that part of you that you have given me -- not just fully but with some illusion of permanence, as symbolic and un-real as these things are.
I’m driven by the same impulse which makes people carve their initials in school desks and in living trees, the same desire that I indulged when I took the sharp little blade of a slightly rust-stained knife to the wind-bent pine tree overlooking the narrows the mainland and the island, with the view of that hill on which the last photo I’d sent you was taken before your arrival here, the same need that drove my request to carve a declaration of your submission in that board that’s now not just sanded and oiled but wet with your sweat, wax and probably quite a few drips of precum and saliva too.
It’s going dark outside but it’s a bright dusk, with pale blue-grey sky and a full moon high and silver above the hills on the other side of the water and, unheard of at this time of the year, it’s snowing. Slow, large flakes sailing slowly down, sliding along invisible air slopes, twirling in vortexes of light from the house’s large plate window.
I leave you there for a minute and return to the workshop, picking up possible tools for what I have in mind. My hands are shaking, just a little bit.
‘’Stand by the window, J. Spread-eagled. Legs wide, palms flat on the glass. Well supported, leaning a little,’’ I launch into instructions as soon as I walk back into the room and although you seem a little thrown by all that, you obey.
‘’Closer. Not as close as to touch glass with your cock,’’ I adjust you, using my words and soon after, my hands, small pushes and pulls to indicate the direction, ‘’Here. Yes. That’s great. Perfect,’’ I run my hands down your sides, then up your outstretched arms, checking the new tensing and flexing of the muscles, the changed way your skin stretches.
‘If anybody came round just now they’d be for a surprise,’’ I snort, my fingers playing with your erection, turning it larger and more rigid. I step away and look. Your body pale, despite the tan, in the low light of the room against the dark that has fallen outside. I switch off the light and now it's just a silhouette, and what seemed to be dark has turned into a purple grey, gently opalescent with the moonlight.
I want to leave you like this, forever, spread-eagled across the window, in the eternal violet charcoal of dusk. I want to keep you like this, forever, in the eternal glass case in the library of my mind. And although some part of you, some version of you is there, just like this, in some version of some reality, it is only a sliver, a lab slice of a symbolic specimen that defies what must be and what is.
I shake my head, almost violently, my hair spilling in a tangle rather than a stylish swish, step back. My palms on your shoulders, fingers moving to meet on your throat, thumbs pressing down, my mouth near your ear ‘’Quiet now. Quiet and still.” You whispermoan a ‘’Yes, M’’ and I start touching you. Methodically. Systematically. As if I was doing everything possible to memorise it all, as if there were obvious and crucial differences between the skin along your shoulder-blade and that covering the tendons of your neck and that over the soft flesh below the ribcage.
The touch varies. I press and stroke. I pinch and scratch. I move my face so close to you that my breath condenses on your skin, blow on you gently or fast, and brush you with my lips. I bite and lick. I leave trails of what remains of my lipstick and saliva and breath, pink grazes and teeth indentations and hickeys.
The cuts come fast and sure, as if out of nowhere, shallow, closer to symbolic nicks than slits designed to leave obvious scars, but there is a spreading net of blood trickles blooming on your back and there is a humming in my head. I take my eyes off you for what’s intended as a split second but ends up much longer.
It’s still snowing. Huge flakes whirling down slow and thick to settle on the grass, to cushion everything, to muffle time and slow down sounds.
I pull the belt out of the loops of my skirt, double it up in my hand, position myself and take aim. The crack of leather on your butt makes me shiver, as much as your stifled moan, a violent twitch and the way you move your hips in an instinctive flight response to then return to position, your back maybe arched a little more, your knuckles maybe a little whiter on the narrow window frame.
‘’Count.’’
You do, your voice sometimes steady and sure, sometimes breaking, sometimes hardly there, the welts merging together into a greater field of red, hot and tender to my hand when I touch it after the belt is dropped.
‘’Well done, boy,’’ my left hand on your just-belted butt, my right one on your dripping cock, your long moan making my nipples harden against the lace of my bra.
It’s still snowing.
A little later, I lay you down out there, the cold of snow a welcome soothing for your tormented skin, at first, the pink dissolving into dirty green mush under the combined weight of our bodies, I fuck you slow and urgent, deliberate and messy, until we both cry out and come to.
We return inside to tend to the cuts and bruises, to sleep - together this time, the toes of my left foot touching your calf, the fingertips of my left hand nearly-brushing your right one - to wake up to late morning of a pale blue skye, a small, white sun and a huge daytime moon above us, the last night’s snow all gone, to the tidying up of the workshops, to the locking up of the house, to the long drive to the airport.
***
We are standing in the departures, upstairs, just before the security, facing each other, a couple of steps off the main stream of passengers walking past with their plastic bags for liquids and gels, their belts and boots in their hands.
There is a silence around us, a bubble, similar to the one that we stood in, shivering, the first time we met, that day when I slapped him in the middle of the arrivals hall and he dropped to his knees and kissed my feet in fishnet stockings and ridiculously uncomfortable shoes.
I am wearing old jeans and tattered Converse hi-tops today and neither of us is shivering. But I still reach out to touch his face, my palm on his cheek, my fingers near his ear, my thumb brushing his lips, spreading them apart, briefly running along the damp inside, then withdrawing.
''Fuck. I guess this is it,'' he looks briefly at the ground as he says this, then back at me, our eyes locked gain.
''Fuck. I guess it is,'' I am somewhere between a giggle and tears.
We embrace, quickly, then he turns away, makes his way to the end of the security queue.
''Be good for me, J,'' I call to his back.
He glances at me over his shoulder with a somewhat sad-looking ghost of a smile.
''I will. Endlessly, M.''
Wednesday, 8 March 2017
Fetish: perfectly fixed
**Perfectly Fixed**
If you are into any form of kink (itself a not exactly well-defined term), you likely will have used the term ''fetish''.
Dictionary definitions tell of *sexual desire in which gratification is linked to an abnormal degree to a particular object, item of clothing, part of the body, etc.* and it gives following synonyms: *fixation, sexual fixation, obsession, compulsion, mania; weakness, fancy, taste, fascination, craze, fad; idée fixe.* Here on FetLife, we can obviously add *a kink* to that list.
Wikipedia defines **sexual fetishism** as sexual fixation on a nonliving object or nongenital body part but even here we come across difficulties, because what exactly IS a sexual body part (apart from the genitals)? One can argue, for example, that the intense sexual interest in female breasts typical for current western culture is extremely fetishistic and by historical and ethnographic standards it certainly could be seen as such.
While medical definitions of fetishism and paraphilias emphasise distress caused by such pattern of arousal (either primary, or more often through shame or stigmatisation associated with it), in colloquial speech, *fetish* is used simply for intense sexual interest in anything that isn't ''standard'' sex, or even some very standard sexual acts and objects if enjoyed and/or fixated on with a non-standard intensity.
I'm not terribly fond of the term fetish or fetishism, because it seems unnecessary to me: we might as well talk about turn-ons (generally) or kinks (if we want to emphasise less-than-normative character of our turn-ons). And yet, occasionally I wonder if the notion of a fetish as a particularly strong and intense arousal associated with a specific object or act isn't worth preserving.
I was reminded of this a few days ago when watching a movie. Not porn, not erotica and not even a movie with a particularly noticeable romance or attraction plot but a fantastic adventure story with a ''12'' rating.
The scene I am talking about was cartoon-type fun and less than 30 seconds long, its only part that could be described as graphic maybe a second or two long. And yet I caught myself breathing just a little deeper as I saw the tied hands, the coil of the whip, as I heard its crack, and I caught myself stifling a gasp in that one moment when the shirt on the hero's back was split open, the edges of the split darkened momentarily, his head lolled and his eyes glazed over in a badly-acted expression of agony.
I had had the same reaction before, but what I realised this time - following a browse through a few YouTube flogging/whipping playlists - was how specific it was, how narrow the space between ''not enough'' and ''too much'' was, how precisely I could pinpoint the ''fetishistic trigger'' to the very specific moment a whip breaks previously-untouched skin in a specific area of back and shoulders, how a welt was not quite enough but flaying off flesh in stripes was too much, which ratio of back to face felt right (roughly 2:1 for shorter scenes), what distance I am looking from, and ideally, what pattern the marks create (this is moving from existing movies to the one I would play in my head) and so on, and so on.
And there is something similar going on in many fetishistic desires, isn't there? The *just-so* factor, where Greek feet are so much hotter than Egyptian ones (or the other way round) for a foot fetishist, where it has to be pale pink Keds, shoulder-blade long, wavy but not curly red hair, a particular angle of a bowed head. It's more set than most turn-ons, more immutable. I am reminded of one the dictionary synonyms for ''fetish'': fixation. Yes, that would be it.
**On Acts and Feelings**
Quite a few discussions I have recently seen on Fet concerned the subject of fetishistic satisfactions. Of people (OK, men, and specifically, male bottoms, or male submissive bottoms even) looking for a particular *ACT*. And how women (specifically, female tops, and even more so, female dominant tops) have very little to zilch interest in play that is solely about a specific act. I **really** don't want to get here into the topic of male entitlement, selfishness or a complete lack of understanding what female tops might be looking for some male bottoms demonstrate, as this subject has been covered many times.
What I find really interesting is that there seems to be a big difference in how (most) female tops and (many) male bottoms ''process'' those fetishes, kinks, acts.
Men -- at least the men that are the most visible, and set the tone of the whole discourse -- seem to look for acts. Women seem to be looking for a certain feeling. And I don't mean the old chestnut of women necessarily wanting more attachment, relationshippy fuzzies, non-sexual and non-kinky stuff in exchange for play. I mean feelings-in-the-moment, for which the acts just make a convenient path to.
I once had a long list of fetishes, but then I realized that it's pretty pointless. Yes, I do like some ''activities'', and I definitely don't like others. But making such a list is mostly just an invitation for people (OK, men) to try and connect on the basis of these ''activities''.
I am not going to arrange a ''face slapping date'' or ''telling you you are mine'' date; a ''touching someone's face in that specific way date'' or a ''blindfold date''. I still have a few specific ''activities'' on my list, but even those are not really things-I-have-to-do. They are much more along the line of fairly (but not perfectly) reliable ways to get the feeling I am after.
I don't know why it is like that.
I suspect that the nature of male arousal and the whole sexual response makes it easier for men to associate very specific things with arousal, and then fixate/condition this association into a strong habit by repetition while having sex and masturbating.
This is likely reinforced by porn and a laundry-list of activities offered by sex workers providing personal services.
I suspect that men are, in fact, also seeking a specific feeling, but that feeling is very, very reliably associated with a specific act, and thus seeking an act is easier.
I wondered for a while if it really is a male/female thing or more of a top/bottom thing, and I didn't come to any conclusions.
I suspect it is a combination of both: bottoms are more likely to look for acts as they are about sensation, and so are men. The latter is very obvious in perfectly vanilla settings where guys seem to become obsessed with things like anal or deep throating for example, to the point of becoming aggressively pushy or deciding to cheat in a monogamous relationships simply to get a particular "thing" done.
And thus, many male bottoms will sit close to a fetishist-act-central, while many female tops would seek specific feelings that do not necessarily reliably tie to any specific act.
More on backs here
And more on flogging here
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