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…
Category: Oral Sex
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.
I’m tired and cold. Snow for days, three feet deep. And I miss her.
I. Miss. Her.
All pink freckled flush and shush and shiver. She lives for ice. Dances through frost like an angel. An angel in brown boots and a blue coat dancing through the blizzard and then she was gone.
This house is a tomb, is darkness and hollow breathing. I leave the lights untouched, for now. Thoughts of her seem less painful in the dark. And the snow gleams silver anyway; outside the perfect drifts stretch on and on, and I go blind, turn my grief to the unloving welcome of the bed. My heart is sore. My body is sore.
I close my eyes. There she is. Smiling.
Red lips. Dark eyes. Red lips.
Her mouth is open.
My cock twitches. I open my eyes. No. Not now. Not now.
I wanted the Toblerone. The boy was just collateral damage. A means to an end with an erection pushing into my hip, the heavy bar…
Sometimes she wanted him to go down on her because he wanted to, not because she wanted to come. Not because the thought of his handsome face, his stubble burning her inner thighs made her melt and shudder, though it did. Of course it did.
She wanted him to go down on her and eat her cunt and not care if she came or not. Actively avoid the things he knew would make her climax. Though her clit ached and her cunt grasped, his face nuzzled possessively between her thighs was powerful enough. She wanted him to press the flat of his tongue against her vulva and lick her with fury, not delicacy. With taunting, grim determination to taste every inch of her; her enjoyment irrelevant.
Swipes would be made at her pulsing, reddening nerve endings but only enough to make her twitch, and this was an excuse to hold her tighter, place the full weight of his body against her parted thighs and raise his head long enough to hiss “Keep still you little bitch.” before descending to torture her once more.
She has the wettest mouth. You wouldn’t think it to look at her. You wouldn’t consider her face as she eats a sandwich or chews the end of her pen. Her mouth looks like any other mouth.
He hadn’t considered it, lying on her bed, kissing her nervous lips. Her mouth was pretty ordinary. Pretty, and ordinary. Lips chewed anxiously by the teeth above. The mouth did not assert itself with fleshy fullness.
“I give great head.” is easy to disprove, after all. And maybe she faltered, wondering if a skill can be forgotten with only a few months’ passing.
“No, I have the wettest mouth.” she thought that afternoon, coming up for air from between his thighs.
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…
I hated him.
Sucked his cock.
Slapped him in playful fury and laughed at the wide red mark on his preternaturally reddened face. Kissed him with angry passion backed up against the flimsy chipboard walls of my flat and wanted to bruise him. Every week, I fucked him with bile in my stomach and poison on my lips.
“You can make plaster casts of cocks. A vibrator made of your best feature. Something to remember you by.”
She cooks. Always cooking. Itchy fingers, she says.
This morning – Christmas Eve Eve – I woke up to find her side of the bed empty and generic Christmas spice scent wafting through the door.
I padded naked – foolish, foolish child! – to the kitchen and found her at the hob, stirring her pot of festive cheer, also naked but for an oversized apron, her pinchable bum and smooth terracotta skin of her back peeking deliciously at me from behind the creaking folds of oilcoth. George Michael was nursing his broken heart through song on the radio.
“I’m making mincemeat.” she said without turning around.
“And why is that?” I carefully put my hand on the small of her back, easing my fingers up through the cords.
She set the spoon down and rested her hip against the counter top.
“I woke up with a craving. I needed mince pies.”
“The Co Op opens at ten.” My hand curved round onto her stomach. Her tender, beautiful stomach. The faintest sigh escaped her lips as I moved closer, the convex of my body fitting neatly into the concave of hers.
“I’ve been up since six. I needed to feel useful. Create. Get my hands dirty. Pastry’s chilling in the fridge. So rich and buttery.”
Two pink pigtails and one wet cunt. Last week she was a gift, with a wide, white bow tied around her neck and her bare breasts pegged at the nipple. Curled at the foot of His bed the night she was returned to Him, she thought of the party she had attended.
A group of men – a stag; a team-building exercise; she never knew – encircled one. Each a little drunk, a little full of bravado. Pawing at her naked and dimpled body. The smallest, the least imposing, smirked at her as he smacked her across the breasts, so hard it winded her. Two hands grabbed her wrists as he spat on his fingers and insinuated them between the lips of her cunt. More impact followed – A gentle giant would hold her face in his huge, terrifying palm before slapping her. The heat warmed her body and her puckered skin smoothed, at least for a moment.
“On your knees.” An order, a disembodied voice. She knelt.