Always a week behind, this was from last week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt – Observe – but it was a fucker to write. I once had…
This is a follow up to Cheesecake, as requested by Quinn, as well as an entry into Exhibit A‘s Scrabble Challenge You can play it…
Part I Here
puppy’s tender nipples were so stiff they ached under the gaze of these twelve strangers. For the first time since she had received her confirmation letter, her heart dropped to her stomach and she wondered what was about to occur. It was only knowing Mister was nearby that steeled her as The Chair approached.
He curled his finger under her collar and yanked her forward, chin jutting upward and her eyes widening.
“Stand up straight, puppy.” He admonished, punctuated by a slap across her cheek.
To his peers, he said the following.
“My fellow lovers of the vile, vivid and virulent, welcome. Your dedication to the club’s aims of sensual, consensual desecration is appreciated and celebrated. It is midday; time for fresh meat.”
He placed his hand on puppy’s back and pushed her forward.
“Joining us today we have puppy, a stupid slut with no morals whatsoever. Touch your cunt, puppy.”
She reached between her thighs without a second thought and fingered her sodden slit, already blushing. As she masturbated, The Chair spoke again.
“This fat little lump appears innocent and plain at first glance, but as you can see she has no issue debasing herself for strangers on a single instruction.”
It was a sharp, painful truth – she had bent her knees, for better access to her slippery cunt but also to better show off that cunt to her audience. Her fingers disappeared inside and she fucked herself the way Mister had asked her to a hundred times. And yet this was nothing compared to what was to come. Nothing at all.
Claudia was an engima, unknowable. Everything about her was abstract – Mister described her body in great, unending detail, but brown eyes, black hair and a smile lighting the way for years didn’t paint a clear picture in Puppy’s mind.
Until one day, when everything changed. She answered her door at 8pm that night, and he was on her doorstep.
“Run upstairs and slip into that nightie I bought you. The one a size too small that shows your tits and belly. And put make up on. Red lipstick and lots of eyeliner and mascara. You have ten minutes. No bra, no knickers.” and he stood on the doorstep, watching her scamper to the bedroom.
She looked beautiful on her return – a different beautiful to her face when she opened the door. A different beautiful to the way her lips distorted with his cock in her mouth. A different beautiful to her sleepy morning selfies.
She stood before him proudly, hands clasped behind her back. The darker skin of her nipples highlighted behind the white chiffon-y material. Her belly protruded and he couldn’t help reaching out to stroke her. She smiled wider. Mister smiled wider, too.
He smiled as he spat in his palm, reached out and smeared her hastily made-up face into a red and black halloween mask.
“Coat on; come with me.”
Love sticks and stays.
Each year someone would nudge her, point out a handsome face in the street, or theatre.
“You’re only twenty five. He wouldn’t want you to mourn forever.”
Even his mother’s grief seemed to wane before hers, smiling when Frank was brought to memory and able to talk about her son with warmth and mirth. Lily smiled weakly and sipped her tea, aware of the minutes until she was alone and could weep.
“It’s…. Lily, it’s been three years.” Mrs Bates eyed the wedding band on Lily’s hand. “Frank would want you happy. Not weeping for him still.”
How could she tell her mother in law how she’d grown so unhappily used to the space on the bed beside her remaining cold and still, that she could not bring herself to think of another man’s warmth enveloping it.
“There is time.” She said at length, and Mrs Bates nodded.
The year dragged on. Snow began to threaten. Lily reached for her darned woollen stockings each morning, the fine nylons tucked away for warmer days. Still her poor heart didn’t heal, stagnating in her chest like sour meat. It was heavy to carry around and wearied her.
With no children to care for, she went through her days in a kind of repetitive haze. Wake. Work. Bathe. Bed. She barely ate. She was a ghost, keeping to a tight beat of streets and buildings. Venturing outside of comfort – to the park when she and Frank had met, or the pub they had visited often, was out of the question.
December began and the darkness was pricked with sharp white lights. Each shop window she passed was full of painful wonder, but she steeled herself to look. At the toys she would never buy for the child she didn’t have. At the pearl-handled razor she would never wrap in delicate paper, eager to see Frank open it on Christmas morning. Tears began to seep out from under her frost-tinged lashes.
“Sadness in winter burns brighter and more sorely than the summer, don’t it?”
Came a voice at her ear.
Lily turned her head; beside her was a woman a little taller than herself; older, perhaps sadder. Her hair was hidden behind a brightly coloured turban.
From the Story in 12 prompt ‘Courtship’
I didn’t know her well. I thought she was very beautiful – from photos, from snapshots of her social media – and witty and clever, but like a popstar or a princess she always seemed unknowable.
He, on the other hand, the most open of open books. I felt like I was on first name terms with his genitals well before we slept together. He talked a good game. He looked incredible. He was kind and sharp and so hyper-intelligent that alone made me a little wet. The first time he made me come he was explaining how I’d misspelt and misused a word in a previous missive.
The first time we fucked was….. sixteen minutes into our first date.
The final Smutathon story! This for Gorgeous Missy who asked for a D/s Threesome which I hope I have delivered.
Look at him. King of the castle. The cat that got the cream. Lying here in this reasonably priced hotel room with his wife and her lover. These beautiful women. One of whom he owns and worships, one he adores as she serves his beloved.
He had girl strip as soon as she entered – she was not permitted to glance at the bed where beloved sat astride him – and instructed her to stand at the open window with her hands behind her head, exposed to the patrons in the bar opposite. He asked her to raise her hand each time she was spotted, and describe the response of the voyeur.
“He is making lewd gestures.”
“He grabbed his crotch and then pretended to grab my hair as if I was sucking him.”
“Good. He knows that’s all you’re good for, girl.”
“Now a woman is looking.”
“Just looking. Her eyes are wide. She’s stroking the rim of her champagne glass.”
This was for the excellent Afro Film Viewer for his kind Smutathon donation and the only story I managed to contain within my own wordcount.…
This piece is shared with the permission of Honey for whom it was written with much love, for her kind donation. Sometimes when we go…
She wears the best lingerie. Famous for it. You might think that kind of thing doesn’t matter, but people notice. Silky, lacy, pretty prettiness fills her bedroom drawers and cascades out onto the bedroom floor.
Tonight, in the depths of winter though, no knickers at all – only a flimsy black bralet which really doesn’t fit; she can manoeuvre the cups so only the edge of her areola shows but as soon as she moves, the fabric shifts and she’s exposed. As soon as she’s vigorously sucking cock, she’s exposed.