Friday, October 12, 2012

Woodshed

Alice and I met at a book launch where she arrived alone and I with a friend who had heard that such events were great for picking up sex-mad literary vixens. This took place in the roomy upstairs of a Soho pub, and I made directly for the bar while my companion secured a table with some acquaintance of his. Queuing for the beer, I got elbowed by a woman with designer specs and aggressively coloured magenta hair. The elbowing incident turned into a pleasant, unmemorable chat. She helped me carry the third pint through the scrum.

She wandered off to socialise, but a while later we found ourselves (not entirely by accident on my part) in the same corner of the pub, chatting some more.

It took us a few weeks to get around to getting naked. The first time was intense, urgent, and remarkably quiet. Alice  rented a room in a house with three other people. Not wanting the others to know about her predilection for spanking, bondage and calculated roughness, there was a certain unease with the inevitable noises of kinky sex. She was thrilled to get the opportunity to housesit out in Hertfordshire. The place was a modest two-up-two-down at the end of a leafy cul-de-sac, normal as could be, except for one feature: 

"There's a woodshed in the back!!!" She texted me urgently, possibly including more than three exclamation points in violation of her own dearly held principles of punctuation.

I trekked out there one evening to experience the thrill of this borrowed wonderland.

The woodshed was a sturdy thing, remarkably roomy. The flimsy door could be shut with two of us inside, so long as Alice got in first and bent over the much-diminished stack of firewood. It was late April - this would not have worked in October.

It was chilly that evening. The grass was wet, so Alice put on an incongruous pair of wellies with a white and pink flower pattern. She switched the light on over the woodshed door when she stepped in, then bent over the stack, looking at me with an intensely serious expression.

This was something she'd really thought about. Wanted. It was not the moment to make fun of the wellies.

The shed was nice and dry, smelling faintly of earth and wood musk.

I stepped inside, pulled the rickety door to behind me and stroked her bottom, enjoying the moment before I pulled up her black wool dress. She was wearing thick, opaque stockings, no knickers.

With no preliminaries I slapped her ass a few times. She arched her back, closed her eyes... I hit her harder, spanking her so that I felt the sting of every stroke on my palm.

Her skin reddened slowly. I paused to stroke her aching buttocks.

"Why are you spanking me?" she asked.

"Why do you think?"

"Because it gives you pleasure?"

I hit her, a sharp, decisive smack on the bottom. "Exactly. I spank you because it pleases me."

She held her breath, and let out a little squeaky moan as she'd been holding in the excitement and the sensation.

At the next pause, my hand hovering over her buttocks, a throaty whisper: "Am I...?"

She cleared her throat.

"Am I a good girl?"

In response, I slid my hand in between her thighs, slowly working my way up to her cunt.

"Am I a good girl...?" she insisted.

I pushed my thumb inside her, feeling the warm puddle forming in the palm of my hand.

"Please?" she whispered.

"Yes." I withdrew my hand. "And when I'm done spanking you, I'll take you inside..."

Saturday, July 28, 2012

Cliterati, plugged

Cliterati, the pioneering purveyors of erotica, are up for the Cosmo blog awards. Rarely do I plug stuff on this blog, but now's the time to do so. The site is founded and run by fabulous writers and editors who have put my stuff in books.

Vote here for the Cliteratists so they can get the Cosmo seal of approval.

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

More is More (2)

Pouting lips are evocative for me. I can't resist imagining whether they somehow match, reflect or imitate the owner's labia in their plumpness, shape or tendency to protrude when aroused. Sometimes the labia minora can be reticent and slim in repose, but with a bit of stimulation they grow plump and pouty like an erection, pushing out invitingly. 


When Cheryl showed up to our appointment, she arrived late beyond fashionably late; more like late in the stood-up range. Fortunately, I had the impression that she might be coming by car, and this particular bit of East London has just about enough parking spots for a small village in Cornwall. Slightly flustered, pink from rushing in the heat of a warm spring day (a few of which we had before the monsoon of 2012 began in earnest), she stalked into the hotel lobby in impressively high heels, tight jeans and a flowing, loose top that both emphasised and obscured her figure, depending on how the fabric swirled around her. 


We strolled down the street in search of somewhere to have a cool drink, and as she relaxed a faintly serious expression fell across Cheryl's face. Her mouth settled into a pout - the slight uplift of her upper lip resting on the soft plumpness of the lower, which she would gently bite with her front teeth when listening, looking at me as if assessing... 


Later, days later, I think, this expression and the slight downward curve of her mouth lingered in my mind. Thinking about our evening, wondering if she had any bruises that had lasted for a day or two, the image of her lips, the slight pout, mingled with the recollection of her plump labia, softly pinched between two strands of rope passed on either side in between her legs and up the cleft of the buttocks. The knot resting on top of the clit supplied additional stimulation while the rope was woven around the torso, squeezing tighter by increments.


She bit her lip softly when I drew the soft cotton rope over her shoulders and brought it together in a knot on top of her sternum. I was wondering whether to remove her knickers, by now drenched with her juices, but decided against it. Cheryl seemed far too certain that I would be easily tempted.


Her labia minora pushed out like an erection, the peach and pink silk of her knickers not really disguising this when I arranged the strands of rope to hug them close.

I took my time. Eventually, she knelt on the bed, bent forward and I tied her hands behind her back, attaching them to the rope bodice - out of the way, but almost close enough for her to try pushing them down to protect her buttocks when I started spanking her with the flat of my palm - softly at first, then gradually building intensity and force from gentle taps to resounding smacks.


She wiggled, groaned and got fully acquainted with the sensation. After a while I would undo the knots and invite her to remove her knickers. 


That's when the plump fullness of her pussy would be on full display. 


I untied Cheryl just enough to rearrange her limbs. Lying on her back with legs spread and ankles attached to wrists attached to the knot between her breasts, she closed her eyes and mouthed a quiet "yes" every time I added another lubricated finger inside her.


Cheryl, you may recall, wanted fingers. Lots of them. She enjoys the bulge and stretch of fingers pushing against the tight confines of her cunt. 


Lifting herself up towards me, she seemed only to want more, even though she already had two thumbs and an impressive collection of slimmer, longer fingers crowding inside her.


After a while I loosened the ropes and just tied her hands behind her back so she could lift herself up towards me while I fucked her with curving fingers pressing against her G-spot with a force to match the urgency of her movements.


At this point, I was following, enjoying the hungry determination of her need for one more orgasm...


Finally, some noise. Until then I had mistakenly thought that Cheryl was a quiet girl.


Not so much.


After I unwrapped the last of the rope we relaxed, the sweat cooling on our skin in the warm room. At some point her hands found my cock... 


I sat on the edge of the bed, legs spread. Cheryl knelt in front of me naked but for the black stockings, her small, strong hands glistening. At this point I ached to come. She had rope marks on her wrists, chest. A dab of lube smeared on top of her thigh caught the light when she shifted, and I leaned back to take in the full view of her.


At that moment, just about to tip over the edge I found myself struggling to hold back, to hang on to this almost-there sensation just a little bit longer. Cheryl cocked her hips, the pout of her labia on shameless display in front of me. I resisted the slick urging of her hands... but not for very long.

Saturday, July 07, 2012

More is more (1)

Cheryl was interested in fingers... Grasping her shoulders, guiding her into place, bending her over. She wanted to wait for them. Feel the tingle and rush of blood downwards while the fingertips traced a line along her spine from neck to tailbone. She wanted to be told to wait. And she certainly wanted to have to beg.

Of course, I was more than happy to help out.

First, I took her out for a drink and a chat, lounging around long enough for her to start wondering if anything was going to happen. Once she'd given me that look - the one that says something like "look, I'm a grown woman, I'm going home for a nice, satisfying wank if you don't pull your thumb out..." 

This was in the hotel bar. We didn't have far to go.

I steered her towards the lifts, hand lightly placed on the waistband of her jeans, fingers hinting at my intention to move further down the swell of her buttocks at the earliest opportunity.

Secondly (I'm breaking my helpfulness down into a convenient list here, remember), after some promisingly hot kissing I sat down in a chair facing the foot of the large bed in my roomy hotel suite, and told her to stand there for a bit.

Cheryl faced me, hands on hips, standing tall in her five-inch heels, first pouting, then arching an eyebrow.

"Turn around." I instructed, quietly.

She did. "Stop. That's good. Show me your arse."

Cheryl leaned forward to give me a good view of her behind.

"Bend over all the way, your hands on the bed... Good. Now spread your legs a little."

I stood up, came in close and put my hand on the back of her thigh, running it up over the tight denim, just sliding in between her thighs long enough to remind her what she was missing out on, two fingers briefly pressing on the seam in the crotch. 

Then I sat back down. Cheryl let out a huff of frustration. 


"Are you in a rush?" I asked, as innocently as I could. She looked at me over her shoulder, smiling with a hint of sarcasm and shook her head no. 


"Just checking. You seem impatient." 


"Mmm hmm..." She wiggled her bottom for emphasis. 


"Take your jeans off, then. Let's see what you have on under there." 


Like a racer at a starting block, Cheryl stood up, unbuttoned and unzipped with enthusiastic efficiency. 


"Hey, slow down. I'm enjoying the view here... You could do with a bit of stripping practice." 


"I just want to get these off," she said, already wiggling the jeans down her hips. "I brought something I want to show you, actually." 


"Oh? Then please go ahead. Just do it slowly. And turn around when you bend over... I want a good look." 


She did very well with these instructions, despite seeming to lack the sensibilities and timing of a stripper. When the jeans were discarded, she peeled her top off with a bit more haste, and then reached for her purse, grinning at me with a glint in her eye. 


Sitting down in the chair next to mine, Cheryl made a great show of unfurling a pair of black thigh-highs and pulling them on, stretching her legs out langorously, smoothing the nylon against her skin, adjusting the hold-up elastic around the top, then standing up to check herself in the mirror, adjusting for straightness before turning to me as if unveiling a present. 


"Excellent." I wasn't sure how well I was doing at feigning disinterest in her long legs, curves, her pink little nipples visible through the white lace of the bra, or the state of her wet cunt. It wasn't difficult to tell from the spot, soaking through the pink silk of her knickers. 


Cheryl noticed me looking. Cocking her hips, inches away from my face she undid the knot in her hair, letting the dark brown curls tumble around her face in a practiced move, designed to cause maximum devastation. 


My face must have told her that she was now in charge. Unbidden, she turned around and assumed the same position as before, bent over at the foot of the bed. I took note that she was smiling expectantly at me over her shoulder, knowing that she was bound to get some attention soon. 


Which she did. 


The first slap on her arse was just for warmup, a playful swipe, but it came as a surprise. 


Then, steadying her with the heel of my hand at the base of her spine, I quickly delivered a series of increasingly forceful strokes on each buttock in a "tap-tap-SLAP" rhythm, gradually dialling up the intensity from stinging to intolerable. 


She wiggled away from the final strokes, the skin of her buttocks colouring from pale to pink to red. There were a couple of handprints where I'd delivered the sharpest finales. 


"Ow." She said it as if she was thinking about it, deciding whether she had liked this treatment. 


I reached out for a cold glass bottle of sparkling water, fresh from the bar downstairs, and pressed it against the throbbing red skin. 


Cheryl's "Aaaahhh!" sounded more decisive than the "Ow." 


Just to check, I slid a couple of fingers beneath her knickers.


"You always get this wet when you're spanked?"


"I don't know. I haven't been before."


"Stand up straight," I told her. "Let's see how wet you can get..."


I pulled a pair of clamps out of my pocket, and clipped them on her nipples. Grasping the back of her neck with the other hand, I bent her over again so that she could feel the pull of them dangling, pulling her nipples straight out.


I spanked her some more, containing her wriggling bottom with both hands, stroking her pink and red skin in between a flurry of strikes.


Then I slid a couple of fingers inside her.


Almost surprised, she arched her back and pushed back against me, hungry for the stimulation. With my other hand I reached around and dangled the clamps around with my fingertips. 


"Mmmmm." Cheryl was enjoying this. "Those clamps don't really hurt very much..."


I released both in quick succession while she was talking.


The sharp jolt interrupted her mid-sentence. "Ow!" This time, it sounded decisive. 


And this was the sound of discovering a sensation she would definitely want to revisit. A warm flood surrounded my fingers almost immediately when I released the clamps and the sharp sting hit her.


While Cheryl was making up her mind whether she liked this or not, her cunt had already made the decision for her.


I added a finger. When she came, it was suprisingly quiet... almost restrained.


Even better, she still had her knickers on, just about. The evening was starting out nicely.

Friday, May 18, 2012

Alcove

Veronica shared a council flat on the upper level of a building long-since sold to the mortgage-owning middle classes. One period feature of cold-war era design remained - an echoing concrete stairwell at the centre, connecting the long shared balcony along the front leading to the front entrances of the flats.

At the top of this middle staircase there was a little-trafficked final stretch leading up to a locked steel door. These steps to nowhere had a film of dust and grime on them, with a faint set of scuffed footprints vanishing into a shallow alcove, out of sight of the landing below.

I sometimes looked up there when I visited, wondering what was around the corner, but didn't get around to taking a look. The attraction was never strong enough to take my mind off the woman living on the other side of the wall. Why bother with a detour so close to the destination?

Walking up the stairs one evening I pointed it out, told her about my idle erotic speculation. "I want to push you in there and finger fuck you until you come. That's what I think about - the sound you make when you bite down on an orgasm, trying to be quiet and failing."

Veronica wasn't even interested. "Mon, I live here."

That was it.

Until she moved out. Out of her flat, out of London, out of the time zone. She had two days left until departure. "I want to feel your handprint on my arse when I sit down on the airplane," she emailed me.

We set aside an afternoon.

The doorbell was busted, so I texted her from downstairs to push the buzzer, let me in.

No reply. I waited a few minutes - after all she was expecting me. Anticipating, even. But nothing happened. I sent another text. "Patience," she replied.

I loitered. Neighbours came and went, giving me the eye like I was looking to sneak in past them. I peered in through the thick panels of smudged glass in the front door, trying to see if the lift was coming.

After a while, Veronica emerged from the lift, wearing a knee-length black raincoat over black nylons and high heels. She opened the door for me, smirking mischievously.

"You going somewhere?" I asked, stepping inside.

"Not at all. I plan to spend the rest of the day indoors," she said. Neither of us leaned in for a kiss. It didn't seem to fit the game, or whatever it was we were playing.

I pushed the button on the lift, out of habit.

"Not this way, sir. Follow me."

Veronica enjoyed a good tease. She set out to walk up the stairs ahead of me, my face level with the slit down the back of her coat, which swished around with the sway of her hips, opening and closing with every step, offering brief flashes of the tops of her seamed stockings, the bulge of soft pale skin above the tops, and a fine view of the perfectly straight seams up the back of her calves and thighs, terminating in the clip of a suspender.

The coattails opened and closed, back and forth, demurely refusing to expose her fully.

"What took you so long?" I asked, enjoying the view.

"What do you think?" she giggled. "Have you ever tried putting on seamed stocking in a hurry?"

"I have trouble with neckties when I'm in a rush. Does that count?"

We walked all the way up, Veronica setting the pace, looking back at me every time she rounded the top of one flight of stairs and started up another.

Mid-way up, she stopped suddenly, turned around and lifted the front of her coat, parting the flaps to give me a look at her black knickers, trimmed with red, and the matching suspenders.

Just a glimpse. Then she kept going, smiling back at me as if to encourage me to keep following her.

When we got to her floor she turned briskly to open the door onto the connecting balcony, her fingers touching the door handle when I put my hand out to stop her. "No. Keep going."

Veronica looked at me, puzzled. "Where?"

I pointed up the grimy, unused steps leading to the alcove.

A flash of nervous hesitation on her face almost put an end to the plan, but then she smiled and obeyed.

The steps felt almost greasy underfoot, the soft film of dust clinging to our shoes on the way up the remaining few stairs.

It was broad daylight. We would hear anyone coming, but there would be no reasonable excuse for our behaviour if we got caught. They'd know right away.

Veronica turned around as if to say something. Interrupting, I pushed her backwards so she stumbled half a step and fell up against the steel door. The recess turned out to be deeper than I thought at first, nearly swallowing us both into its shadow with the sun filtering through the brown-streaked windows of the stairwell.

"Is this what you wanted... sir?" Veronica undid one button at the top of her coat to show me her cleavage, framed by the frilly red fringe of her black bra.

"I warn you," she bit my ear as if for punctuation. "I've been waiting all morning, wanting to touch myself."

"And...?" I fingered the bottom buttons of her coat. "Did you succeed?"

"Mostly," she giggled.

I reached inside and pinched the lips of her pussy through the fabric of her knickers, already saturated with her juices. Pulling it aside, I slid one finger inside her.

"Just to make one thing clear," my finger was all the way inside her. "I plan to use you extensively this afternoon."

She giggled.

"You may think you're a teasing little minx..."

Veronica moaned, smiling. "Mmhmm..."

"...but I know what you are. You're my very own private slut toy, and if you're good, and you suck cock and spread your legs and bend over like you're told I will allow you to come. When you ask. Nicely."

I added another finger inside her.

"Is that clear?"

"Yes," she breathed. With my fingers so deep inside, she began to rotate her hips, rubbing her clit against my thumb. Her thrusts grew insistent, her rhythm faster.

I withdrew, leaving only the tips of my fingers touching her plump, wet labia.

"What are you doing?"

"Fuuuck..." Veronica bit my earlobe in frustration. "Please...."

I slid my fingers inside, by one knuckle or so.

"Please what?"

"Please, may I come...?"

"Yes." I held my hand still for a moment. "But only if you do so very quietly." I pushed all the way in, fingers curving out to massage her from the inside while my thumb circled her clit.

Veronica did her very best. And failed. Riding my fingers to the first orgasm of the afternoon she bit her lip, struggling to keep the deep down groan inside her. Just as it escaped, echoing between the bare concrete walls down seven flights of stairs, she buried her face in my shoulder and let it out in a muffled, unmistakeable noise.

Then a still moment, listening for footsteps.

Veronica raised her head, smiling. I pulled her coat back into place, fastening the buttons we'd just loosened. First the top, then the bottom.

"So. You were leading me somewhere?"

"Yes."

"Well. Keep going. We don't have all day."


Friday, April 27, 2012

Troublemaking at the library

Excuse me, miss - could you hand me that book over there?

No, the one further down... all the way down - yes, bend over like that. Bottom shelf, please.

No, not that one... further to the left.

What? No, I'm not feeling your bum, just steadying you. It's hard to keep your balance bent over like that wearing heels and all.

Why, the inside of your thigh is very smooth. Do you mind terribly if I put my hand a bit further up your skirt, miss?

Steady... yes, just hold on to that shelf. Doesn't this feel nice? It seems like I've found a rather wet spot up here. Let me just pull these knickers aside...

Really, I think you have a bit of a problem here. Let me see if it helps if I just slide my thumb inside... like this. And now I can just cup your pussy with my fingers, and keep my thumb in there nice and snug.

Miss, you've got to keep quiet... this is a library after all.

Come now. Straighten up. Look - see how wet my fingers are? Now what are we going to do about this?

Friday, March 30, 2012

Put on a show (3)


"Look at your reflection in the window. This is what he sees."

Arse raised high, I had arranged her so that the voyeur's view would be in profile. Dolores was bent over in a tight curl, her wrists bound with soft white rope to the sturdy legs of the footstool on one side. Her ankles were cuffed together and attached to the third leg. This was not an entirely safe setup - the three legs of the stool lent an ambiguous stability to the arrangement.

With a long lingering look, I could see her thinking about it. What if someone was looking. What he would see.

I wondered if she would tip over if I hit her bottom too hard. With my hand pressing down on her lower back, I delivered a few exploratory swipes to her bottom.

Dolores wiggled, but she could feel just as well as I did how potentially precarious this pose was.

I hit her again, a series of rapid strikes, each harder than the last. A sequence of five - from delicate to brutal. First one buttock, then the other, alternating between them predictably, letting Dolores get a sense of the rhythm of the spanking.

And then a pause. Her red skin peeked out from under the black satiny fabric of her knickers. I slid two fingers down between her legs in an uncommitted, exploratory way - giving her just a little teasing fondle without the promise of any substantial stimulation.

Dolores groaned when I withdrew my hand, her bottom rising in pursuit of my fingertips.

"Would you like some more of that?"

"Yes. Please. That felt good..."

I brought the flat of my palm down on one buttock, sharp. "Well, that sucks."

After a couple of rounds of spanking and fingering, I unzipped my trousers and stuck my cock unceremoniously into Dolores' mouth. Her bottom had turned from bright pink to red flecked with purple. My hand on the back of her head to keep her stable - tied as she was to the footstool - I fucked her mouth with deep long strokes.

Eyes closed, enjoying her fantasy being played out, Dolores sucked enthusiastically on my cock.

"Good girl," I whispered.