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Category: Erotic Romance

The Magician’s Assistant (Part 1)

His moustache caused consternation, but it was integral to the act. She was entrusted to wax his moustaches before each performance; stand close to him with her own downy upper lip trembling with unspent lust as her nimble fingers twisted and twisted.

Miriam was selected from the periphery of Max Hardinger’s Wonder Girls – a little stouter, a little more wide-eyed than her pretty peers who kicked and twirled, she nonetheless caught Rhydian Hart’s attention almost immediately. It would be ten years more before she caught his heart.

Though they lived in close quarters; and only a painted screen separated their naked bodies in the cramped dressing rooms they shared; lustfulness seemed far from Rhydian’s desires.

Still, she quickly learnt the necessities of her role as his assistant – to fool the eyes of the audience, and make his act more wondrous, and he would clasp her hands after they had exited the stage, his eyes alight with excitement, but nothing more.

Her sole intimacy remained stroking the dark hair of his upper lip, warming the wax between her fingers until it was malleable. The scent of clove and sandalwood would linger on her skin until she bathed; but before the oils had truly vanished, she would trace her fingertips around her lips, circling over and over. With the light waning and her touch just so, she could imagine Rhydian was kissing her. Sometimes she circled the fingers lower, just above her right breast, and could almost feel the weight of his mouth there.

This she desired more than anything.

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A Festive Frolic Part II

In 2016 I started writing a Christmas cuckold story (Read part I here) Part II has been a while in the making, but finally, it has appeared, and on time too.

O Come! All Ye (Un)Faithful…

The blue room was delightfully warm after the chilly hallway. Cynthia’s nightgown was laid across the bedspread, engulfing Edgar’s pyjamas, and Matthew noted how it was not dissimilar to the clinging, slippery gown she wore now.

“How silly I was, complaining of the cold. Now I find I am frightfully hot. Perhaps if I took a little air….” She stepped to the window, her backside shuddering back and forth, and Matthew watched her breath cloud the pane before her mouth, blooming and breaking with exhalation.

After a minute or two she sighed.

“No, I am still quite overheated. Matthew, would you be a dear and unbutton my gown? Perhaps if a little more of my skin felt the cool chill of the Christmas air, I may be able to think more clearly.”

Here it was, his cue. His permission to lay his hands on the most beautiful woman he had ever cast his eye over.
Matthew fumbled uselessly with the buttons for a few moments, making no progress, and Cynthia flinched each time his knuckles brushed the smooth skin of her back.

“Matthew.” She said in a low voice, tinged with impatience. He swallowed.

“Yes?”
“Nothing is amiss here. Take my hand.”
He laid his fingers over hers on the sill, and breathed deeply, nostrils flaring at the apricot scent of her.

They stood in silence for a short while, the steady clock and their breathing only punctuated by the pop of coals in the fire. He moved closer to her and kissed her bare shoulder, catching the reflection of her smile in the frosted windowpane.

“Still burning, I see.” he muttered. Cynthia ducked her head in agreement, expecting him to make her raise her arms so he could take the dress from her, but instead he placed his hands on her hips, a trifle firmer than she’d anticipated, and began to gather the dress upwards. He hid his surprise that she was naked beneath it well, choosing to luxuriate in her curves and beauty; but he held her more tightly, so she was acutely aware of the stiff urgency of his cock.

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Mrs Robinson’s Day Out (Smutathon 2018)

THREE! 1960s al fresco sex with a lovely photo from the gorgeous eye.

Mary Spencer (nee Robinson) got married in the summer of 1939. By 1940 she had a baby in her belly and by 1941 she was a widow, her husband Harry bought it in Tobruk, and she packed up the house and baby Elizabeth and moved back to her family home in Brighton.

They remained there almost happily – mostly happily – for more than twenty years. Elizabeth grew up as Betty, then Lizzy, until finally settling on Beth whereupon she found herself under the eye of Mr Jones Junior from the butchers and from then she soon found herself, courting, engaged, married, and pregnant with one, two and finally in 1965 a third and final child (the boy).

In 1966 the Jones’ moved to London where Mr Jones Junior was set to open his own independent butchers.

In 1967, Mary Spencer (nee Robinson) was invited by Beth-was-Lizzy-formerly-Betty Jones-nee-Spencer to spend the summer with her only daughter and their family.
Mary knew she was being used as cheap labour to mind the babies whilst her daughter ran errands, but didn’t much mind. The children were sweet-natured, not especially rowdy. The baby slept most afternoons and drank his milk with gusto.

At night she slept in the spare bedroom of the shoebox flat – Mr Jones Junior always saying that ‘as soon as the business is flying then it’s a 3 bed semi in Clapham for us, young lady.’

After a few weeks cooped up in the flat with short jaunts to the park, Beth-was-Lizzy-formerly-Betty told her mother to take some time out for herself.
“Go to the park, mum. Go and stretch your legs and get some sun and have an ice cream and enjoy yourself.” She handed her mother a ten shilling note and shooed her out of the door.

Mary hadn’t had sex since September 1939. Not quite the exact day that Hitler invaded Poland but close enough for her to cringe at the thought. She wasn’t that type. She wasn’t that generation. She didn’t use the word vagina. She didn’t consider her own breasts apart from when she was assessing whether her dresses needed taking up or in or out.

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Ettie and Rose’s Dirty Weekend (Smutathon 2018)

Second story time! Another queer romance, but a much happier one set in the late 1940s, and with a gorgeous accompanying image kindly provided by the wonderful Eye and Missy

On Thursday the 4th of August 1949, the 12pm Blackpool train from Manchester was crammed with children and mardy-looking grandmothers crammed into every corner of every carriage.

“Let’s just stand in the hallway.” Ettie suggested after a third door had opened to reveal several mewling infants and bemused female relatives trying and failing to keep order.

“It’s an hour journey or more, I don’t think my legs could take it. Let’s walk on further there must be a space for us.”
“You could sit on the case. Or on me.” Ettie suggested helpfully as they walked on.

Eventually they came to a larger carriage with just as many unruly children, but also two empty seats separated by a pair of soldiers – Canadian possibly – having a very heated debate. Their eyes lit up when they spied Ettie – buxom and twenty, with delicately waved hair and an innocent expression. Their focus was largely on the straining material of her blouse where her breasts were threatening to escape.

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What the Valet Did (Smutathon 2018)

My first Smutathon story is live! A mournful tale of unrequited love across the classes in 1920s Britain.
With thanks to KP for the kind use of this image.

I want him. I want him the way I want air to breathe and a bed to sleep in. I want him in every moment he’s here and every moment he’s away. I live to serve him.

I went into service at fourteen. A groom. Always loved horses. Drew horses with chalks and bits of coal on the pavement outside our house every Saturday.

Fourteen, they say there’s a stable lad needed up at the big house. Hard work. Important work. Off I go.

The first time I saw him, it was summer. Hotter than a flat iron.

“The young Master wants his filly, Sandra.”
Head stable-hand says.

“Stupid name for a horse.” I say, and get clipped round the ear, before he shrugs and says “named it after his sister. Hates her. Now shut your trap and fetch the filly.”

He was beautiful then. He’s handsome now but back then, no more than twenty two or three, he was beautiful. Prettier than a girl. Prettier than his sister or the horse. The horse was prettier than the sister unfortunately.

Once I heard Lady Amelia refer to him as incandescent in his youth, though she said it behind a glass of champagne with harshness in her eyes. Never liked her. Never thought he should have married her. All wrong.

He was fair, like a cornfield ripe for harvest. But dark eyes – there were whispers his mother came of Spanish stock and people nodded their heads and said that explained everything but it didn’t explain anything.

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Serving Girl

I hate him. Hate hate hate him. Sitting there being paid sixteen times my wage to actively destroy the world, do his job badly, or well depending on which side you take. He disgusts me with his dishonesty, his foolishness, his abhorrent social and feeding habits.

And yet in my anger I become a sliver of sensual quicksilver, dressing each morning for the role of mistress; my crisp white blouse threatening to give way and expose the treacherous flesh beneath, and the accompanying black shirt is only just long enough to conceal the delectable curves of my arse. Bare legs that stretch on and up to meet silky french knickers.

This is all for him and all for me; I bend over to serve his teas and coffees, inviting his ogling; thinking he might just reach out one day and grab a handful in animal lust.

I am careless, I am beautiful. I stand in the corner of the room awaiting instruction, my phone clasped in one hand with the other exposing my cunt. I am taking photos of my pretty cunt to show to people who desire me and he may be watching he may not. His cock may be shifting and pressing against the front of his slacks as he catches the slick pinkness of my inner labia.

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Fancy

“He’s got a trademark.”
Fancy was washing my hair at the time. Her short nails sent shocks through my nervous system every time she lathered; it felt good.

“A what?”
“A trademark. He’s got a way, with a weapon.”

“Oh.”
“And you’ll be experiencing it tonight, my love.”
“Yes Miss.”

Fancy dunked my head under the cold bathwater without warning.

“Get dressed.”

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Rain

I like to watch you work. I suppose I’m not supposed to linger near you, cocking my head and watching the muscles flex and regroup across your arms and shoulders.

In summer your shirt drenches with sweat and I can almost see the hair on your chest and under your arms through the coarse material.

Some days it rains and I catch you with your head skywards, cursing the grey clouds, the Lord, but mostly the frugal landowner and his refusal to hire another man to share your heavy load. I heft the basket of firewood higher on my hip, noting the brief, startling throb between my thighs before I pick my way through the mud back to the house.

It rains for five days almost solidly. There are brief respites of sun before the land is sodden again. And you work on, in a heavy oilskin.

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