Always a week behind, this was from last week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt – Observe – but it was a fucker to write. I once had…
Category: wicked Wednesday
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…
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.
He loved her, and he loved me. Concurrently, not consecutively. The tie that binds, hands held fast. He stood between us and loved us equally.…
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.”
The dining chair was part of a collection that had been in the hands of the Douglass family for two centuries and some decades. It cost more than one of the scullery maids would make in all her years of service. This thought did not trouble Camilla. She stood at the farthest corner of the room and nodded complacently. Though the crowds would surely be pulsating and vast, she felt confident her audience would be able to see its gilded form from every possible viewpoint, and not miss one second of the sport.
Hector closed his eyes. He could hear the distant sounds of the approaching crowds, but his bindings prevented him from turning to face them as they entered. Though why should he wish to do so? To see the pity and lust in their eyes? He kept his gaze fixed to the floor. He swallowed. He sweated.
He had felt Camilla’s lips around his cock and then her nails in his thigh. But this was more than two hours previously. She had brought him to the room – the large drawing room, he realised with trepidation, gently lead him to the chair, the only item in the vast space, and stood gazing into his eyes as she undressed him. He moved only to allow her to remove his shoes, his britches, his fine jacket. Then she wrapped the heavy ropes around him, laughing as she did so, calling him her captive in a low, teasing voice.
Now he heard the heels of her boots on the marble floor, heard her unlocking the doors, and her haughty tones.
“Welcome, weary travellers. I hope you are in good spirits for this evening’s sport. Make room, spread yourselves out. I promise you will see something worthy whatever your vantage point.”
Voices became hushed when their eyes alighted upon him, but soon rose again to a murmur. Hector caught snatches of their conversation.
“… For breeding, I take it. Look at the size.”
“… This evening, I wonder…. I wonder at his thoughts on the matter.”
“Cowed and quite unlike himself. We never saw him so quiet in his manor.”
Hector almost smiled.
Soon the room grew thick with the heat of curious bodies. He knew what was approaching.
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…
Initially recorded as spoken word, listen to the original here I want you to tell me things. I want you to challenge me. Beat…
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 skirt 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.