Saturday, November 12, 2016

Watching

Oh. She has posted something. She hasn't posted anything for ages and ages. I am not sure if she knows how talented she is, because she is one of the best writers I have ever come across.

Wow, her writing has improved. Perhaps all this time away has allowed it to mature and grow. I see that she is still writing dark twisted tales. Delicious darkness. She has so much shade inside her I love it, I always have. It is what drew me to her in the first place; the talent and the depth inside her. She never saw it, women like that never do, they see all their faults and have had people around them who drag them down.

I have seen it thousands of times. That's why women flock to me. I pay them attention, throw around a few compliments, show them that they are beautiful then they are eating out of the palm of my hands. Simple really. I love the envious looks I get from other men as these women fawn over me. These men see that I have a beautiful woman with eyes for no one else and I can see them puzzled as to why they are with me. This feeling feeds me, it makes me feel strong and powerful when really I am non descript looking: 5'6", slim build, bald, snaggled toothed, usually wearing a grey suit having come straight from the office and a fag in my hand. Average, that is how I have been described, I look average. With these women, with her I am not average, anything but.

I have always loved women, having my first sexual encounter at the tender age of 12, fingering a girl in her bedroom, smelling her scent on my digits. That is still something that I adore doing. I remember doing that to her, my writer, watching her writhe under me, seeing her so willingly submit to my dominant desires. She has soft flesh, smooth skin that reacts to well to my touch. The way she arches her back, yearning for me. A tight hold and tug on her hair and she is mine, utterly mine. Of course, I look after her, watching what she posts, looking out for scumbags that will hit on her. Special people like her need to be protected, she is such a free spirit and so trusting that people will take advantage of her.

Things got a bit weird between us towards the end of our relationship. She described me as toxic, a bit harsh as I was only looking out for her. I will admit that I am a jealous guy, despite my bravado I was worried that someone would steal her away from me. I kept testing her, seeing if she would be where she said she would, showing up unexpectedly, deliberately standing her up; all proof that she was still true to me. After a few months of this I found out that she had been on a dating website. I didn't have the app of course but I read the emails. Perhaps she should have put a stronger password on it. She went mental when she found out and threatened to never speak to me again but I have to look out for her and we had a tumultuous relationship where she we split up and got back together over and over again. She said that I drove her to do it and that I drove her away, I didn't mean to, I just wanted to know that she loved me. Except that time she meant it. That was three years ago, all history.

I was relegated to the benches, to use sporting parlance, all I could do was watch. I saw her date a few guys, all of course were completely inappropriate, watch her go quiet online as she does when her heart is hurting. Why do women like that go for weak men? How can they not see their value? I wanted to speak to her, occasionally I would drive past her house and see the light on in her living room. I even got as far as to get out of the car and go to her front door but something stopped me. I want her to choose me, I ache for her to choose me. I have spent three years watching out for her, guarding over her. I don't really mind if we can only be friends, at least then we can see each other again. I can touch her again. Smell her perfume again.

Now I see her back online writing again and my heart skips a beat. She truly is magnificent.

I know that she said for me never to contact her again but I am sure that one message won't hurt. One DM on twitter.

Me: You are writing again..hope it's ok to have read and grinned.
Her: You will have to remind me who you are. I have been away for so long.

Of course, I chuckle to myself, I changed my twitter handle. She doesn't recognise me.

Me: I know you have..it's the one who promised never to contact you again but sod it cos you got deep dark writing going on again and that's brilliant.

My heart is racing. I hope she realises it's me. I hope she wants me. Just to be talking to her is thrilling and sexy.

Her: Tony?
Me: Yes..me..hello you.

Yes! She does recognise me.

She is keeping me waiting, perhaps me messaging has taken her by surprise. She always had the kindest of hearts, it was both her greatest asset and her greatest failing. Perhaps we can go for coffee and talk about old times. Perhaps I can hold her again. A kiss possibly; would that be too much to ask?

Her: Fuck off. Fuck right off. Never contact me again or I will call the police!

Jesus! Well that didn't go as expected. All I wanted to do was talk to her, tell her how fabulous she is and that she is writing again. Wow that hurt, that was like a punch in the chest. Now I feel angry, cross at her, all I ever did was look after her, look out for her. Is that the gratitude I get from her? Fucking bitch.



Friday, November 4, 2016

His and Hers

It's there, in front of my face. Dead birds don't fly. It's a grower not a shower. Cruel words and phrases emerge in my brain. I wait there hoping that the resentment subsides. Apparently feelings of resentment are the fastest and most absolute way to destroy a relationship. I hate him and I hate his flaccid, failing fucking cock. I loathe his cock. If I could bite it off I would, the rage in me is so strong at this moment.
He never used to be impotent. We used to have hours and hours of fun fucking, sucking, wanking his beautiful appendage. It never was the biggest but it, to my mind, was the best and most beautiful penis I have ever had the pleasure of. A wondrous staff and always an orgasmic ride.
But...
There is always a but.
We wanted children. Cue LOTS of fucking, lots of giggling, a lot of grown up sexy time. We breathed each other, an inhalation of pheromones, lust, and love. Creating new life; a new connection between us.
But...
I didn't get pregnant. Oh fuck, this is all my fault. That's all that went round and round in my head. Doubt at first, swiftly followed by self loathing; self hate. I was a useless woman, a shell, my shit body wouldn't do what it was meant to do. This useless fucking flesh sack. For the first time since I was a teen I wanted to cut my flesh off.
Then I found out it was you not me. Your sperm count was so low it would be a bloody miracle to conceive. That was the start of me hating you; thinking that you were the lowest of the low. That was when you started to have erectile problems. 'Your erection, our relationship' the self help pamphlet said. It was the worst, you were the worst. You went from being a useless fucking man to a pathetic, shrivelled wimp. Stupid, useless man.
Out of this hateful reverie I look up and see your sad eyes look down at me. My heart sinks. How can I even think such poisonous thoughts? You are kind and generous and the most beautiful soul that I have ever been touched by. I am filled instantly with regret, full of sorrow.
'I love you,' you whisper hoarsely. You are filled with emotions that make me love you more.
'I love you too.'
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- We agreed to the oral sex. I am so nervous because I am not sure if I can get it up. I used to love getting head, you are so good at it, you are amazing at it. Were amazing at it...before. Before this all happened. We were amazing together. I miss 'us' as we were, I mourn 'us'. My heart aches.
I recall how we were before we found out that I have no sperm. I am a useless man, a shell of a man. I try not to fall into self loathing but the cancer of it grows through my soul shredding my sense of self worth. I am in tattered rags, so fragile that even a look from you will make me crumble. Please don't look at me like that, please.
I try and hide my depression from you. I guess you suspect that I am not ok because you are a smart woman. I have always loved smart women, they are the best. I am not sure though because I know that you are in your own personal hell. I want to pull you out of it but I can't and that makes me feel like I am a useless bastard of a husband.
Emotions jumble within me as I try and push the suicidal thoughts away, banishing them, but they have become my near constant companion these last few months. I don't know when they started, as they insidiously crept into my mind. I know how I would like to do it, to end it all. I am no longer afraid of death, some days I long for it but I am not yet at that point. I hope never to reach it. I still have some hope no matter how faded. You are my life, you are my light and I have let you down. I love you, with my whole heart, with everything I have in me. I just hope that you still love me back.
Choking back the tears I open my mouth to say something but nothing comes out. Just like my cock. I roll my eyes at my own self disgust.
'I love you,' creeps out of my mouth.
You look up with your beautiful amber eyes and tell me you love me too.
Let the blow job begin.





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Saturday, October 29, 2016

Illicit

I am here licking her with my whole heart. I have already come. That is the way that we are, I come and then she does, or she does and that I do. It was my turn to come first if you like, not that we take turns it just happens organically. She tells me that she has not come this way since her husband died in the war, the second world war. She hasn't been with any other men since then. Hers is a heartbreaking story. She married young, as they all did then, had a couple of children in quick succession; they were happy. He was called back to war as he had been for throughout all of  their courtship but this time he never came back. She, Edith, never met anyone else she liked, she was heartbroken. Stoically, she carried on raising her children and in turn her grand children on her own. She is a beautiful woman whom I am attracted to very much. I want to give her pleasure because she pleasures me greatly.

Today has been a relaxed session. Laying her back on her bed, easing her arthritic joints, relaxing her hips so she can open her legs. Some people would be turned off by this; this old woman in front of me with her old woman smell: a combination of rose water, strip washes, and incontinence pads. What they don't realise is that after a bit of time and attention to her vagina her natural sexual aroma comes through. Untangling her pubic hair I press my tongue down and lick and lap whilst she starts her mewling. Her breathing speeds up and comes in rough instamatic rasps. Slowly I place my fingers inside her, feeling her velvet cunt warmly welcome this intrusion. Moving them back and forwards as I feast on her is an absolute pleasure and brings out the beast in me. The beast makes me want to do it faster. Harder. More vigorously. Needier. Full of lust. With a frenetic dominance I eat her and watch as she climaxes, her orgasm spilling over the age divide of us, moving electrically through her body razing the arthritis and brittle bones away from her momentarily. With an abandon which she has not seen in years she comes at the end of my lesbian fingers and it strips back her age making her young and beautiful once more.

I can't hold her after the act. I need to get on, so I dress into my uniform, licking my fingers and inhaling her citrus scent from them. I can only do this on the weekends I am working. I work 12 days on and 2 days off. I make her the last call of my lunchtime run so that we can have this time together. My husband thinks that they just work me hard on my weekends on, he doesn't know about Edith, no one does. I suppose as a home carer there is some form of code of conduct: we aren't allowed to take money or gifts from our clients. I suspect that having sex with them would not be allowed but I shake this thought out of my head.

I make sure that she is well and comfortable after our love making, she is asleep as she usually is. She sleeps well afterwards and wakes up refreshed. I will come back and see her as part of my evening rounds.


As I drive off an uncomfortable thought comes into my head. It is possible that her family might perceive this as abuse, after all she is in my care. I shake my head and dispel this alien concept, she loves me and I love her. She is consenting, she is an adult, occasionally confused but not dementing yet. It is love....I am sure of it. With my own internal world back in balance I move onto the next old person.


As always this is part of Wicked Wednesday click the link to find out who else has joined in.

Wednesday, June 15, 2016

e[lust] #83

Okkaaaaayyyy so I started writing after nearly a 3 year hiatus and my filthy little story was picked by the wonderful people at e[lust]. Who knew?!?!?! I feel very flattered and honoured. Please do me the credit of checking out the other stories and adding comments as we all like feedback. Thank you.
Rachel xx


Photo courtesy of Holden and Camille

Welcome to Elust #83 -

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you're looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it'll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #84 Start with the rules, come back July 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!  

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

London Crows and London Kisses I am Her. She is Me. You Say You Want to Cook for Me  

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Unusual Liaison Community. Respect. Friendship. Fucking.

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Dirty Little Secrets *You really should consider adding your popular posts here too* All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!  

Poetry

You Know O

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

My Bed Secular Submission My therapy from “hard limit” to “want” We Measure the Nostalgia The Cure and The Cause

Events

Smut in the 6ix - Porn Conference & Gala

Erotic Fiction

Typing Errors La Belle Dame Sex and chocolate The Imprisoned of HIM-HER-THEM The Gift audience Becca’s Story Rope and Fixtures As salty as his cum... Dominating the Doctor

Erotic Non-Fiction

Teen Sex in Woolly Tights with 60s Beat Music Dear Sadist: Your Cruelty Is Your Love A male dom, the straight girl and the bi girl Owned, Leashed, & Beaten Jan 2015 Owned & Collared by Mistress Claire Rinse The Days Filth Away Power On Keeping tally

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Formative Kink Epic Fail: "Buck Rogers"

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

If it was easy anyone could do it What's a service submissive? Prescient Words

Writing About Writing

What if aspirational meant something else?  


Sunday, May 29, 2016

Unusual Liaison

I am looking up at him with my big brown eyes. I know what I am doing is illegal and yet it does not stop me; it thrills me.

I look up to see if he is looking down. He has looked down on me before but today the situation has changed and I am taking control. His eyes range from being screwed up in concentration, occasionally he casts them about to see if he can catch anyone's eye in quiet desperation. Of course no one looks, this is the London Underground in rush hour. Everyone is too focussed on their own internal worlds, hurrying from A to B. Even if he did make eye contact with anyone, we are British and it would be too impolite to ask for help.

He smells of alcohol, stale fags, with an unwashed manly stench. It repulses me and excites me as I suck his average sized cock. Everything about him is average and slightly dishevelled, as though he has come on difficult times which I am certain he has. Scruffy jeans, crappy trainers, second hand coat. Perhaps it came from a charity shop and that is why it smells as it does. No, I think he has just not washed in a few days. That thought makes me scowl but I am enjoying sucking him off too much.

This man has flashed me at least a dozen times this week, and to be honest I was getting pissed off with it. Most people are at armpit height so they have the wondrous joys of body odour to contend with. I am in a wheelchair so I am automatically at crotch height. I think this has excited this dirty flasher which is why I have received so much attention. I know he has done it to others, I have seen him. I am not sure what his motives are. Does he want to get laid? Is it a thrill of being caught? Is this his only sexual contact? Does he actually just hate women? All of these questions swirl in my mind as I slurp and suck.

Flashing is illegal, but then again so is sexual acts in such a public place. Indeed I have not asked for his consent before I started giving him a blow job and we are packed in here like sheep so he cannot escape. I am violating him, just like he kept violating me. That knowledge makes me feel powerful. It makes me feel as though I am getting a little bit of justice even though I know this is not right.

Looking down at me, his chin doubles slightly with little silver flashes of grey in his stubble. He is panting and nodding to tell me that he is going to cum. His chest heaving and eyes screwed he spurts averagely into my mouth. Everything about him is non descript, even his orgasms.

Spitting out his dick I look up at him with a sarcastic, 'don't fuck with me' smile. "Same time next week?"

He nods, still panting and breathless at this unusual liaison.


I reach for my wheels to make them go, out of badness and just because I can, I make sure that I run over his fucking toes.


Please scoot on over to @RebelsNotes to see who else is playing this Wicked Wednesday

Wednesday, May 25, 2016

How to remove anger

After spending the weekend at Eroticon I thought that it would be a good idea to try and write again. I feel old and clunky and out of practice. I have also lost my confidence so I will be back here sporadically. However, in the mean time here is one from my archives that I have dusted off for you. I hope you like it. Rachel xx

I am angry, so bloody angry. The molten lava spits in my chest, bubbling it's fury away there in it's new found home.
I want to tear the world a new arsehole. I want to smash everything. I have felt like this before, quite frequently really when the world is unjust or I am put upon until breaking point, or like today, where my body is bruised from giving too much. In the past I: have smashed every piece of crockery and glass wear I had, but felt no better. I have eaten my emotions only to feel fat and unfabulous with a side order of self loathing. I have tried kickboxing, running, and yoga (sometimes all in the same session); it stops the energy for the anger but does not calm me inside.
I sit at the top of my stairs unable to move, my rage confines me. I have a couple of hours as my son is at scouts. I swallow down the anger knowing that it will dissipate in the vast space of my heart. Perhaps I will feel more like the good mum I want to be by the time he comes home. I sometimes hate being an adult, I yearn for someone to take these problems away from me.
The rasp of the key in my door makes me sit up. Has my son come home early? Is he alright? Worry bleeds into me, my anger is temporarily shelved.
You stand there, all midnight and brooding. I look at you with hope in my eyes. Selfishly I want you to take my thoughts away from me, I want you to stop this anger in me, stop my internal civil war. I want you to help me. I want you to put me first. Ashamed of these feelings I make to stand up so I can take your coat and offer you a drink. Who do I think I am to put myself first? I admonish myself.
You raise a finger, just your index one, and indicate that I am not to move. You walk towards me, your training ensures that you are balletic in your movement, stealth like, threatening and sexy. Compassionately you touch my face, running your hand across my face and kissing my cheek. You smell fresh and clean and healthy. I never thought that smelling like that would be a turn on but simple smells do. I like well groomed men but not excessively so. The gentle strokes go through my hair. I close my eyes and look sad because I could not bear to be this close and my needs ignored, being invisible is my nightmare.
Fingers curling around my red locks gripping them so tightly that a few part company from my scalp. My closed eyes and sad face now screws up into one of pain.
"Open your eyes." Your voice has a timbre that is not to be messed with. You shake my head like a marionette until I comply. My eyes have watered with the pain but are brighter and more engaged than they were before. I look at you and you look proud, your melted chocolate eyes are kind and playful. A shadow of a smile passes over your lips before you kiss me.
That kiss is gentle and tender and leaves me wanting more but you pull away. My lips gravitate towards yours as they have needs too but your grip does not allow it. I try and move my head again but all you do is grip harder and force my head back. Your other hand is placed gently around my throat, squeezing tightly.
"Anything you want, you have to beg for. I have control. I have you. What I want and my needs come first."
A muted noise of agreement and acceptance comes from me.
Abruptly you stand up and drag me across the hallway, into the bedroom. I am not allowed to be upright enough to walk but my hair is being held too high to crawl. It is an undignified scuffling, shuffling, half crawling gait that I do to keep up with you.
Flinging me on the bed I land sprawled out, my feminine charm evaporated. I land face down and arse in the air. Your hand slaps down hard on my back, pressing me down so I cannot get up. I know what is coming next, the shy girl in me screams 'no' but the noise is trapped by my stronger self. You see my struggle. You know my shame face. You know it and you ignore it, or at least revel in the internal turmoil I experience as you lift up my skirt and peel down my pants. Naturally they do not come down all the way, they roll and crumple halfway down my wiggling legs and frame my bottom.
You put your face near my arse and inhale. My sweet musty citrussy scent is there, hanging tangibly in the air just above my skin. A suggestion of my depraved lust. My cunt lips sealed still, not allowing any moisture out. One of your fingers trips it's way along my shaved skin and parting my velveteen curtains to expose my pink degeneracy. I move more but you pin me viciously and feel me pant as I process this exposure of my sexual soul. I have been taught to hide this need in me, conditioned to. Good girls don't want sex, good girls don't show their need, good girls don't get a wide on. I think these things as you delicately finger me, my oily lubrication denying my social conditioning. With some surprise my first orgasm builds and pops out. It is unexpected and small but enough to break some of the tensing within me.
You allow me to rest on the bed for a few moments as you stand back and look at my dishevelled self. I am beautiful in my shambolic state. You adore this bit. The start of my unpeeling. Eroding the walls and polished veneer that I show the outside world to expose and explore my inner self, the vulnerable, sensual, sexual being that I am.
Flogging is a hard limit for me, as is whipping but you know that a good girl spanking is right on the upper most cusp of what I can tolerate. I want it but the line between a good girl spanking and punishment is infinitely fine within me. It is what you want. Pulling my over your knee I stiffen in fear. This is not playful fear where I am going to get some funishement, real fear, primal fear. I struggle in earnest, no play fighting, I need to get away and be safe. Again you grab my hair and whisper your craving for this in my ear. I am doing this for you, not for me. It stills me enough.
The first smack is hard enough to make my whole body shift forwards. I grit my teeth and bear it. I don't like this but want it too, I want to give to you. I feel the raw warmth in my exposed arse. I know what is coming and hope that I can be enough for you, I hope that I will not let you down.
The second blow is harder and makes me cry out. I can feel the sweat start to bead on my forehead and under my arms. I feel definitely less than sexy but I know that submission is not always about being sexy but rather it is about relinquishing control, taking control; not sexy but always deviantly beautiful.
Your rub my skin and dispel the heat and pain. Then you hit it again, not as hard as the other times but this time you do not stop. Smack. Smack. Smack. A metronome of pain and pleasure. I attempt to raise up my torso in a break from the hitting but find myself curiously drunk. No strength to haul myself up. Confused I shake my head to try and get rid of the cobwebs but nothing happens so I allow myself to flop over you again. I wonder what I look like. I wonder if my arse looks beautiful to you. To me it is imperfect but I know that it's alabaster round form contrasts nicely with your black hand; we both adore this contrast. Although now I suspect that it is pink, blushing from all the attention it is receiving.
You fish something from your pocket, not that I really notice in my blissed out haze. I only notice when I feel a cold metallic object on my butt cheek. Only when you are clear that you have my attention do you roll it around my skin to allow me to work out what you have. The coldness on my soft flesh is relieving until I realise that it is a sharp blade. Freezing rabbit like, I keep so still that you will not cut me but my treacherous cunt floods and the slick arousal shows itself on my thighs breaking through my lipped gate.
Scraping it across my legs you allow the blade down to my pants. Practical to the last I know that this knife will not be for decoration, it will be sharp and serviceable. This is aptly demonstrated but two small flicks of your wrist and my pants are history. My good girl is finally silenced as I am all wanton in your arms and will do anything you wish for. You run the blade back up my legs and I feel a liquid roll down, it might be sweat, it might be blood. The thought both thrills and horrifies me. The point of the blade stops, resting on my puffy pussy lips.

The night is about to get a whole lot darker and is now full of deviant and licentious pleasures.


I wanted to say thank you to @RebelsNotes and everyone at Eroticon for encouraging me to get back into the writing saddle again. Who else is writing this Wicked Wednesday ?

Saturday, June 7, 2014

On Hold

My life is on hold. I have pressed pause. I didn't do this intentionally, it just kind of happened. I am in instamatic picture, freeze frame, whilst all around me are mobile; in motion, moving forward in the ever transient 'now'.

Love keeps me immobile. It chains me to stagnation. Insidious tendrils curved and caressed my feet, massaged their gentle way up my legs, and wrapped themselves around my body. The warm hug of love infusing my very soul encasing my eyes and making me blind to the fact that I am now stationary.

The subtle shift in condition from flowing and empowering love to being on hold was so delicate that I failed to notice. I berate myself. I call myself a fool and an idiot, loathing my trusting nature.

I disgust me.

Being on hold allows me the luxury of reflection. To work out how I came into this position. It is the same pattern of relationship played out again and again. The cracked record of my romantic life. Same men, Same relationship. Same trusting self. Same mistakes.

I truly despise me.

Love had freed me up and allowed me to be beautiful again. It allowed my natural song to be sung; sexual and wild. Free flowing and expressive, expansive, inclusive. It de-robed me from a tarnished existence and made me shine again. People noticed. They saw me sparkle, become effervescent.

I became curious once more, keen to explore and understand my body. how it worked, how I came. That had always been a problem, my orgasms. From hurried, selfish lovers who used my body and kindness as some form of masturbatory tool. To me being too generous, placing their needs before my own. I found myself in a situation where I could not come, unable to work out why but the ache and the longing of release being ever present and very real inside me.

It was this that pushed me forward; this that drew me to him. He was the key to unlock the mysteries of my body and mind. that old jaded euphemism, hackneyed, common and worn out but so apt here in my situation. A key and a lock.

And yet here I am locked down again with the same desires. It was my lust that made me realise I was chained yet again. It is not a desire or an ache within my loins that stirs in my now. Rather an energetic force that propels me to movement and makes my shackles chafe. I look at people and try and keep my lustful wolfish smile from my lips. Disguise is my friend. That glint of desperate need in my eyes is not so easy to cover and the more astute amongst my friends see it, a few comment on it.

My desire to fulfil my sexual needs is tangible and heavy, both hot and cold. A weight and the price I pay for loving a married man.

I want to break this bondage, to walk away and set us both free. The old adage of you can't help who you fall in love with is hollow and to subscribe to it means that I am a powerless victim. In my mind I recall the powerful, prowling lioness that I can be and claw at this victim stance. Yet when he calls my name I go to him, compelled because of love.

There is no imminent resolution. No quick fix or snappy answers. Time I know is my true rescuer. Time will help me unlock these chains. Time will empower me to allow them to fall from my body. On the other hand, if I blame time for my emancipation, do I also accuse time for binding me again next time, or do I blame love? I know the person I will blame the most will be me and my humiliating inability to learn from my mistakes.


In the mean time I remain on hold.