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.

+++++

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.

Busy

18 Mar

It’s true, I’ve been busy. Not posting but busy nonetheless.

Here’s the proof:

 

It’s a short story that I decided to put on Amazon for 99cents. And as the blurb says:

Daniel can never equal his girlfriend Suzie’s wit in an argument. She always gets what she wants, including hot sex, just the way she likes it.

But not this time.

 

 

There we are. Naked commercialism. Well, the girl’s naked anyway. I think he probably is too.

I must put more naked men on my covers.

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

Story of the month: let me know which stories you liked

9 Mar

It’s a poll! I love polls. I may even dance if this one gets big enough. You can pick more than one story.

A little more smut-related content through here

Story: The Maharani of Carriage O

7 Mar

After five months in India, you start to understand some of the rhythms of the railways–slow and incessant, and more enjoyable than you expect. Rather like tantric sex, or so Marc says, anyway. He likes to take the slow route. I’m more of a Ferrari girl. If you don’t get there quickly, you might never arrive.

This particular train was the overnight sleeper from Mumbai to Goa. After five months of temples, bazaars and trekking, I needed a change of pace: some relaxing beach time, a few massages, sunbathing, maybe a little bit of shopping in the market. Marc wanted to go to a full moon party, stay up all night, take something illegal, and then meditate his way down.

The trains have only one pace. Getting on one is not as easy as you’d think. First, you need to find the right platform, but the signs are in Hindi. There are always porters to tell you, but honestly, why would I lug a backpack for two miles along a main road only to hand it to some guy in a red shirt who will just try to get two hundred rupees off me for carrying it upside down over a bridge? Okay, so it’s heavy. It’s lined with chicken wire, in case someone tries to slash it and get my stuff, and I’ve got my Mac makeup and a travel hair-dryer just in case I end up at some ambassador’s party or something, eating Ferrero Rocher and champagne, and flirting with the MI6 guy. There would always be one. Hopefully a Daniel Craig lookalike.

More smut through here

Teach me a lesson

7 Mar

I’ve been away for a week, meditating, considering, plotting, characterising, relaxing, travelling, steaming, chilling and various other ings.

Didn’t I tell you I was going away? How very naughty of me. I’m sure you’ll spank me. What would you like to use?

A hand? Slap. Sting. Burn.

A ruler? Thwack. Clap. Smart.

A cane? Swish. Thock. Yelp.

A whip? Fizz. Bang. Hiss.

From Coco-de-mer

So ponder, ponder and while you do, I’ll dream up something sordid.

Erotic News: Uprising in Libya

27 Feb

This story has grown bigger than I expected so I’m posting the first part now and the second part will come later.

*****

Jemima examined her suitcase. A pair of jeans. Five tops, two of them dirty. Two pairs of sandals, two unmatched flip-flops, and her Louboutins. A shalwar kameez, without the matching scarf. That was still in Tripoli. Her make-up kit, thank God. Seven pairs of knickers and five bras. No dresses, no jackets, and no Agent Provocateur red bikini. At least she had her heels.

The ship rolled a little and her stomach lurched with it. How long til they reached Malta? Too long for her insides, but not long enough, because she knew Marcus would be there, and she knew she would have to explain to him why she had been in Libya and not in Fuerteventura with Alice.

She caught a glimpse of something underneath her jeans. One of Ijaz’s vests. She smiled, despite her seasickness. Of all the things. She picked it up and pressed it to her face, drinking in the odour of sweat and sex.

More smut through here

My Latest Thrill: The Erotic Notebook

25 Feb

Ruby Kiddell is a treat to follow on Twitter, and she also has a blog, The Erotic Notebook, from which she has been pulling out all sorts of goodies in her ‘smut from the archive’ series.

My favourite so far is Wet, a 100 word flash which captures the feeling of desire delightfully well.

It begins:

I can feel my mouth filling with saliva at the thought of you.  The mouthwatering delight of your taste.

and continues, for another salivating eighty-nine words. Well worth a look.

 

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.

*****

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