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Category: I wrote this

Gone to Earth

“Let’s go for a walk,” he had said.

“It’s cold.” I protested.

He looked at me evenly.

“And?”

He laced me into my boots. bare legs, a summer dress that was too small. No bra. No knickers. My breasts threatened to escape. I didn’t protest further. “Go and put on your parka.” he ordered.

I was stood by the front door when he came back, dressed warmly.

“Don’t you look adorable? Let’s go.” He held out his hand and lead me out into the street, and into the car. There were grey clouds gathering in the sky.

“It’s going to rain.” I said, looking out of the window.

“That doesn’t matter.”

We drove for over an hour. Halfway through, as the roads became narrower, the scenery greener, he put his hand on my thigh and pushed the material of my skirt up to my waist, lingering briefly at my cunt.

“You’re wet.” he said approvingly.

Some minutes later, he slowed the car and parked up.

“Here we are. Time for some fresh air.”

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If

If you were here, Sir, and you were wearing your suit, I would kneel. I would ask you if I could have your cock. If you thought I was good, you would present your engorged cock through your flies. I would work the spit up on my tongue and lick the head first.

You’d push on the back of my head so I took more of you in my mouth. You want me to choke on you, prove that I need your cock more than air.

I’d take more, working my tongue as much as I could, one of my hands on the shaft but the other travelling between my thighs without permission because I’m so wet just at the feeling of you in my mouth, at hearing your voice

You know I’m doing it and you let me feel how wet I am before you grab my hair and make me choke more as punishment, calling me a filthy, wet slut.

I was dressed when you came in, as punishment you remove your cock from my hungry mouth and you strip me, taking off my dress, my underwear, everything until I’m naked. Before you can even continue face fucking me, you bend me over the sofa and I know what’s coming and the sting of your belt makes me yelp

Ten strokes

Bruises

I deserve it

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Dahlia learns her lesson

In 2016, I participated in Emmeline’s Team Amazeballs Erotica Exchange – we gave one another a prompt, and she asked me to write something based off Rosetti’s Lady Lilith, which I knew nothing of, instead imagining her as a petulant debutante with a string of music teachers in her wake.
I hope you enjoy this not so little historical tale.

Dahlia adored her music lessons. That precious hour of the day where she was indulged with lyricism and beauty. And the presence of a tall, broad, older gentleman whom she knew her father had chosen precisely because he was almost as old as her grandfather and could not be described by even the kindest soul as handsome.

To Dahlia he was the most exciting part of her lessons. He was the reason she was allowed in the music room, un-chaperoned, for one whole hour. She exploited every single minute.

On music days she woke early but didn’t rise from her bed until almost midday. She would lie in a blissful reverie, and explore the wonders of her own body as if the territory were new to her. Her own large breasts, which came to stiff, perfect peaks. Her own flaring hips and rounded tummy with its sweet fair hair. Fair hair which curved in a path between her legs, becoming coarser and darker until it curled outwards in a shield over her cunt which seemed preternaturally wet and wanting.

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Keeping Up Appearances

Note: Whilst Gwendolyn refers to Whittaker as her uncle, they are not blood relatives. This is all part of the game to them. Both are well above legal age.

***

“Come.”

The room was stifling hot, a fire that had lain dormant all day, was now purring contentedly in the grate and the heat made the smoke curling from Whittaker’s cigar hang thickly in the air. He was facing the window, his back to her, watching the late evening lovers take the air.

“Did you have a pleasant evening?” He didn’t turn around.

Gwendolyn took off her jacket and shoes. “Quite.”
“Did he try anything?”

She laughed and made her way through his tightly-packed office to the window, whose ledge was just wide enough for her to perch on.

“He was a gentleman – he was the gentleman he was paid to be.” Here she reached forward and took the cigar from his hand. She took a long drag and when he took it off her, blew languid smoke rings into the air, kicking her feet into his thigh. He caught one and held it as he smoked, her toes contained in his fist.

“You’re drunk.” he said after a while.

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Fuck You [Redacted]

That there are, at this very moment, molecules of me in your atmosphere, makes me laugh.

If you reach into your handbag, sitting innocently on the passenger seat, you are within millimetres of me, of my cunt. Of the time I sat, dripping wet and writhing with anxious arousal, with my bare backside nestled neatly next to him as he drove us home. This I know, but you do not.

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Scenes of an Adult Nature

I wrote this a couple of years ago, but after reading Isabelle’s post on sex and violence, I thought I’d stick it up on my blog too. It was originally a facebook note, and written before I started blogging in earnest.
Rant.
In the last week, whilst I have been trying to increase/streamline/provide evidence of my web presence as a writer, I started worrying. Yes, the book we do not speak of has made erotica – and specifically BDSM flavoured erotica – more culturally acceptable as a genre, up to a point. We read these books in public and no one bats an eyelid, even though most of them know someone is getting something eye-smartingly painful done to them within those pages at any given time. And yet, when I link my extracts of works in progress, I feel resistance within myself. For this is dirty work, in anyone’s language. This is wet and sticky and I am very proud of my words, but there is still that kernel of doubt that I am going too far.
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