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My mother-in-law lent me her vibrator – a sexy piece of #5MinuteFiction

29 Mar

Maybe it’s because the clocks have changed. Maybe it’s because I’m not out at a glamorous soiree. Maybe it’s because I’m a shameless self-promoter (cf). Whatever the reason, I finally organised myself to take part in Leah Peterson‘s Twitter contest #5MinuteFiction. It was hosted today at the lovely web home of JM Frey and I writted some more about Christa and Miles who are rapidly turning into my favourite characters. Oh, and the challenge was to incorporate the writing prompt ‘Decade’.

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It was bad enough, Christa thought, that her mother-in-law had caught her ‘having a moment’ in the bath with a shampoo bottle. She cursed Miles for the tenth time since arriving at the hotel for inviting his mother on vacation. But this? This was something else.

More smut through here

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Twitterotica – a #FuckMeFriday story: An angel’s #wake

25 Mar

This is for this week’s piece of Twitterotica to mark #FuckMeFriday (Ruby Kiddell and Aisling Weaver’s weekly writing challenge). The prompt is #wake and is justifiable. Barely.

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After a ten days on vacation with her husband and mother-in-law, Christa snapped.

“You’re taking the children and your mother on the glass-bottomed boat tour,” she told Miles. “I’m having a massage.” Wisely, he chose not to argue.

The masseuse was fully booked, so Christa decided to take a long, hot bath. She surveyed herself in the mirror as the water ran. Her hair was like straw, albeit with some fresh sun-bleached highlights, and the tan lines around her boobs were uneven. One shoulder seemed to have caught the sun more, probably while she was in the pool being piggy-in-the-middle for the boys. She ran a hand over her midriff and tutted at the bloat. The effect was emphasised by her foliage-free lady garden, the product of a different and unexpected interpretation of the words “Bikini Line” by the Scottish girl who had waxed her before the vacation. Evidently in Scotland all the women wore candy floss bikinis that required the full Brazilian. Two weeks later, it still felt unnaturally smooth. But at least the swelling had gone down.

As the water’s heat began to penetrate Christa’s bones, her mind turned back to Miles. He had been looking very fine as he left with the children. She had caught a glimpse of him in his shorts and tight-fitting surf splash top. The sunshine caught the blond hairs on his legs and arms in a halo, like the wake of an angel.

Christa sighed and leaned back in the water, the surface tickling her ears. Her hand drifted back to the smoothness of her crotch. He hadn’t changed much in the fifteen years since college, when his tall, wiry frame had first caught her attention on the tennis court. Their first time had been in the college boat club, under the tarpaulin of a rowing boat.

It was desperately uncomfortable, but somehow they had manoeuvred into a position where Miles could reach under her. More smut through here

Twitterotica – a #FuckMeFriday story: Courtney caught out #court

18 Mar

Muse looked at me and laughed. Well, cats don’t really laugh of course, but I could tell he was laughing. I would have laughed at me too.

The risk hadn’t really occurred to me when I slipped into my favourite Coco de Mer outfit: a classic, black, plunge bra, matching knickers with built-in suspenders and fine, ten-denier stockings. It was simple really — my fifth anniversary present to Damian: his wife, gift-wrapped and waiting for him, just the way he likes me.

The apartment was clean. The living room was tidy, the dining room had places set, champagne bucket ready to be filled, and new candles firmly in place. Our meal had already been delivered by our favorite restaurant, and was sitting in the refridgerator, next to the champagne. The towel rail in the bathroom was on, heating the towels and our robes in case Damian wanted me as a soapy digestif in the jacuzzi as well as a saucy apperitif.

I have to admit, I felt pretty smug when I clicked the second cuff and lay back on the bed, my arms and legs spread wide, fastened tight to the bed’s four posters. Everything was planned. Everything was taken care of.

And then I realised I’d forgotten to put the damn cat in the pantry. Muse strolled into the bedroom and skipped up onto the bed. I tried to shoo him off, but he just looked at me, tied up as I was, and nuzzled against my head, then stalked up and down before he eventually found a nice spot next to my shoulder.

Still, I settled back to my smugness. I’d thought of almost everything.

Everything — until the phone rang. Seven rings, then the machine picked up.

“Hey baby, are you home? Pick up, why don’t you?” It was Damian. “Hey, I guess you’re in the shower or something. Well babycheeks, I’ve got a huge surprise for you. Let’s just say, I’ve got a big ticket event for you tonight. Two big tickets. Be ready at six. I’m sending a limousine to pick you up.”

And then another message, ten minutes later:

“Hey babe, what’s up? Call me back.”

And finally:

“Courtney? Court? Why aren’t you answering? What’s wrong, baby, did I do something wrong? Please call me. Also, I left my keys at home, so can you bring them?”

The noise of the intercom buzzer going, and my cellphone, and the telephone finally woke up Muse. And he strolled along the edge of the bed, chuckling, and then he jumped down, tail high, and left me.

Twitterotica – A #wankwednesday story: The importance of fuck-me shoes

9 Mar

They are the highest heels I’ve ever bought. In the mirror, I could see my feet point down, almost vertically, so it’s impossible to tell where my calf ends and my foot begins. My toes are squashed into the end. They are hideously uncomfortable.

And yet, they make me feel as if I’m floating, as though mere contact with the ground is no longer a problem I need to deal with. I am an angel, a heavenly figure in black — no fallen angel, either. There will be no falling today. My sheer dress clings to me in the right places. My make-up is better than I’ve ever managed it before. My nails are smudge-free and my hair remains unfrizzed. All that is down to the shoes.

The smut continues through here

Twitterotica – a FuckMeFriday story: Heat, or getting a spanking from Cheryl and Posh

25 Feb

Aisling Weaver has set up a new Twitterotica writing prompt, and since I like bandwagons, I’m fully signed up. So here is my entry for this week’s edition of #FuckMeFriday, which has the prompt #Heat.

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He works in PR, I work in magazines — it’s one of those relationships that works in spite of itself. There are lots of people I know who have it harder, like Jenny and Mark, who both work on the same newspaper, or Mehry, who’s fucking her boss at a travel PR firm and can’t persuade him to leave his wife.

The thing is that I sometimes have to ring up Jeremy and ask him questions about… well, I won’t tell who or what, but let’s just say he works with a lot of famous people. I work for a magazine, a woman’s magazine — please, let me be a little discreet here — and so I write about a lot of famous people. It’s how we met, after all, at a party (isn’t it always like that?) and he heard who I work for and rolled his eyes as if to say “Oh God, not them, she’s going to be a complete bitch”. I get that a lot. You just develop a thick skin, and I rather agree with him as well — I know a lot of hackettes who are complete bitches. The thing is that we’d spoken on the phone a couple of times, but he has a memory like Dear Liza’s bucket — God knows how he’s got so far in his job — and he didn’t know me. I had imagined he’d be a typical PR guy: groomed, gorgeous and gay. Well, I got two of those right. He’s tall, but not too tall, has short dark hair that you want to run your fingers through and the wickedest eyes you’ve ever seen: grey with flecks of green. The Paul Smith suits, shirts from Jermyn Street and shoes from Churches help, too. I’m pretty choosy, and I have excellent taste.

I found out pretty soon afterwards that he also has a fantastic cock.

More smut through here

Twitterotica – Five Minute Fiction: A Gong Bong

23 Feb

I’ve posted this at Leah Petersen’s blog for her #5minutefiction contest but I think I may have missed the deadline… humph. Anyway, for your amusement, I have reposted (and added one crucial, erotic line) here:

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The bong was full, the smoke curling like djinns. Ricki put her lips to the tube and sucked hard. Too hard. The cool smoke blasted into her lungs and the demons inside slipped into her body, possessing her organs, her bones, her blood.

Sure, she had smoked weed before, and got high, and giggly, but this was something else. She put the bong down, stunned, as the walls of the room tightened and squashed. John became part of the wall. He was laughing. At her.

“I think this is the perfect time to play this.”

He flicked the remote at his iPod and a trail of remotes followed it in the air from his arm. Ricki felt sick.

“Gnome…. gnome… gnome…”

What. The. Fuck.

“I’m going to be sick,” she said.

“Wait.”

And the smut goes on through here