Always a week behind, this was from last week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt – Observe – but it was a fucker to write. I once had…
I said Huw was mine, that wasn’t strictly true. Not at first. Not through a degree and unfulfilling temp jobs and sharing a bathroom with…
It had been a dry summer. Unsettlingly arid, nights were a vacuum of dry mouths and drenched sheets – swallowed up in erotic charge but…
I don’t keep underwear for best, just wear whatever takes my fancy. White, lace-trimmed thongs to the gym. Red french knickers under my unflattering work…
A love like this, where your words pierce heart-shaped wounds into my flesh, is the only love. Nature created us this way; perverse, animalistic, trapped…
By some queer magic, smothered by his jacket, she became acutely visible as they almost ran back to the safety of the change room. Suddenly it became important for them to be as alone as they had spent every evening of that decade.
“Got a rabbit stuck somewhere?” called a stagehand from somewhere above their heads, to resounding titters in the rafters. Too elated to care, Miriam sped up, dragging her Master behind her until they arrived at the untidily inked notice on the door.
Rhydian Hart & Beatrice
A few paces ahead, Miriam ran her thumb over her name – the name he had given her, but which she had never truly loved. The ink was not quite dry, and the slightest pressure lifted the black marks from the page, leaving only a smudge behind. Then she felt Rhydian’s hand on her shoulder, and opened the door.
The room seemed hot as an oven – with the lamps glowing meanly, leaving the place mostly in shadow, and Miriam felt her bravado leave her as quickly as it had flooded her body. Steeling herself to face him, she found Rhydian’s face obscured by the fingers she had pressed so lewdly to her cunt.
“Am I a monster if I confess the thoughts I had of what you could taste of? Once I dreamt you permitted me between your thighs, lifted your skirts and you were sweet and damp like almond marzipan. As I knelt before you, the slightest brush of my tongue or lips made you gush, each river sweeter than the last and I drank you and drank you as a man who has wandered the desert for a month drains the oasis.”
He blushed. He was so beautiful in his modesty, laced with lasciviousness. She watched him inhale, lick the residue of her from his skin.
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.
Before the door is closed she’s tearing at his belt, before zeroing in on the zipper and yanking it down, but even in her eagerness…
“Do you want to split a cheese plate?”
She cocked her eyebrow, wiping the remnants of bernaise sauce from her lips.
“Do you have a black hole in place of a stomach? I’m stuffed.”
“More wine then.” He topped up her glass and she shook her head.
“I already agreed to your terms, to your working methods, to everything. I’m in love with everything you do. You really don’t have to get me smashed to seal the deal.”
His eyes darted from the crumpled napkin on the table, to her fingers, idly fiddling with the top button on her dress. The flesh beneath her knuckles rose and yielded with every twist, until the button came loose and she stretched, exposing more of her succulent breasts and their peachy lace encasement.
When people talk about long games, they probably picture this tableau, the result of six months hard graft, on both sides. Six months of flirting that went from professional to questionable and back again. Ever since he’d caught wind of her looking for new representation, he’d wanted her for his portfolio, and would stop at nothing. And well, she was compliant. Eager. But reserved.
That he had been lost in a crush on her since the second month was almost secondary. And Colette encouraged it. Colette watched him take FaceTime calls with her and shivered at the tonal shift in his voice whenever Marianne spoke. The two women had never met, though they had spoken on the brief occasions Tom’s wife had picked up the work phone. Colette’s fluent familiarity with English slang under the rich veil of her German accent was unnerving and arousing.
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.
“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.