Tag Archives: power

My Latest Thrill: Vanillamom

30 Mar

I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to get round to giving Nilla a blow-job-in-a-post but here it is. She’s been prolific recently, with not one, not five, but eight – that’s EIGHT – story posts in the last week. Amazing. YYTMGK783W9C

It seems that the wee spanking she received is the cause. In which case, I say, go Nilla’s Boss!

What, you want the url? Okay, here it is:

http://vanillamom.wordpress.com/


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Shameless self-promotion

29 Mar

I have a new collection of short stories called Payback, which is now available in various places.

Let me know if you like it.

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: Just an Average Fuck

24 Feb

Let me get this straight first: as fucks go, he was reasonable. Passable. Okay. His enthusiasm carried him through, but he had no technique, his body was not as good as I’d expected it to be and he was naive.

So why would I go back for more? Of course, it was no use saying that to him. How do you tell a guy that he sucks in bed? Especially when he doesn’t suck. Or lick. Or flick. The answer is, you don’t tell him he sucks, you just move on, and let him leave the whiney messages on your voicemail, or the Facebook messages or whatever. Who gives a shit, right?

The actual event itself was fun. It was my birthday, the twenty-third or something like that. We were in a bar, and Dominic walked in with his buddy, a guy I actually know, what’s his name, Freddie or something. So Freddie comes in with Dominic and they’re like hiding in a corner, Dominic being all shy about talking to girls. Yeah, I know, like I need that in my life.

So I don’t pay them so much attention, but it’s a bar and it’s my birthday and the girls are all telling me I gotta get off my tits. Candace has told the bartender already and he’s lining up a funnel. So they get me a stool and sit me against the bar, with my head back and lying on a tiny rag of a towel on the bar top. And the bartender takes the funnel and sticks it between my lips, and then he starts getting every whipped up, so they’re all whooping it up in a half-circle around me. So then Candace holds my head so as I can’t move it and the bartender does a countdown and gets all my buddies to chant it–and then he starts pouring three bottles into the goddamn funnel, and he fills it and I’ve just got shit liquor filling up my inside. Then I start coughing and the funnel comes out and I drip tequila and rum and some sweet smelling crap all down my front. They call it an instant cocktail. Instant fuck-you-up-juice is what it is.

More smut through here

Erotic News: If it bleeds

22 Feb

I don’t want to explain stories before they’re read; after all, what’s the point of reading it if you already know what’s going to happen. On the other hand, it’s only fair to warn you that I almost offended myself while I was writing it. I really don’t know where this came from at all. Apologies if you find the subject matter distasteful–please consider this to be a warning.

*****

Juliette had always enjoyed her job. Who wouldn’t? Who hasn’t turned on the news and thought “I could do that. All she’s doing is reading aloud”? It was a chance to wear nice outfits every day, to be recognised by millions of people, to get tables in the best restaurants, and even to receive extraordinary presents from her fans–the best one being an impressive plaster cast from a man apparently known as Peter Penis. Twenty-centi-Peter, as it became known, took pride of place in Juliette’s toilet, hung perpendicular to the door. Her mother used it as peg for her handbag.

But it was one thing to enjoy the fame, the fashion, and the deranged, and another thing entirely to enjoy the daily task of delivering news of the latest awful things to happen in the world that day.

There were plenty of things Juliette’s colleagues relished about the job. Nick, the doyen of the desk, lived from the fumes of self-importance that came from being the network’s biggest–and oldest–star. Her ‘best friend’ Natalie–that is, they shared the same agent–was obsessed with getting the big political interviews, and with them the opportunity to flirt with some of the world’s most powerful men. And George, the new golden boy of the airwaves, was happy to accept the advances of ambitious assistant producers (of both sexes) and the queue of fans at the car park entrance. Natalie claimed that the women operated a ticketing system, rather like waiting at the deli counter, “except you get better salami at my deli”, she said.

But those were perks of the job. The grizzly content of each bulletin–who could enjoy that?

Juliette noticed the first time when reporting on a plane crash in some country she had barely heard of in South America. There was footage of a young man, a survivor, being helped away from the crash site. His shirt was in tatters and one of his trouser legs was torn off, leaving a gash in his leg. Juliette couldn’t take her eyes off his muscled torso and sculpted thigh, and the long red wound in his leg. She could barely read the autocue for the urge to find him and fuck him. Her first words on leaving the desk were to order a researcher to find the full footage of the incident. She took the tape home and watched it over and over. She fell asleep confused, and sore, and still horny.

The next occasion came some weeks later, taking her completely by surprise, in the middle of a bulletin. George was introducing an item when the gallery went mad.

“Holy fuck, that’s amazing. George keep going.” Sally, one of the on-duty editors, was almost shouting. “Joolz, you’re going to take something breaking in New Jersey. It’s a siege, exclusive to us, you’ll do a two-way with Fraser.”

A familiar surge of excitement hit Juliette in the stomach, and she readied herself, mentally rehearsing her ‘serious and concerned’ face, as opposed to the ‘snarky yet professional’ face she usually used for most of George’s attempts at banter. She blew hard and let the blood snake into her fingertips, but it was like Nick said–the buzz wasn’t as big as it used to be. Maybe she was getting older. Shit. Don’t frown, don’t frown, don’t frown, don’t…

“Thanks George. And now we have some breaking news for you from Newark, New Jersey, where a fugitive is holed up in his attic and has been exchanging fire with police. More than one hundred shots have been fired so far by the man, and our own Fraser Jameson is at the scene. This is his report, with footage exclusive to this station.”

The red light blinked off and she picked up the make-up mirror she kept under her desk. Static line check first. No crows feet, no vertical frown lines, no diagonal frown lines, no laugh lines and fuck George for saying she never laughed. Dynamic line check. Frown lines are shallow, crows feet lines just behind the eyebrow — Annie needs to sculpt higher tomorrow — nothing near the mouth.

Juliette snapped her mirror shut. Nothing for her to worry about yet. In fact her face seemed younger. Had she put on weight? Goddamn it, the mirror…

“Juliette?” Sally in her ear.

“Fraser Jameson reporting there. And we go live now to Fraser in Newark. Tell us, what’s the latest there Fraser?”

“Thanks Juliette. Police continue to surround the house where–”

She tuned out of the commentary and focused on the live pictures. The cameraman was holding a tight close up of a window in a trashy, wooden slat board home. There was nothing to be seen inside but darkness, and he slowly pulled backwards to show the whole house, first some broken windows, then peeling paint on the balcony struts, and finally a pile of mattresses at the front. The shot pulled back further, and panned round to show the group of police officers, some armed, some hidden behind cars.

“–more than five hours and senior officers believe that the stand-off is likely to continue for some time. Juliette?”

The autocue provided the answer. “Is there any indication why this man is taking such drastic steps Fraser?”

“Well, there is speculation Juliette that–” Fraser spent nearly two minutes concealing his own lack of insight into who the man was, what he was doing and exactly why there were dozens of sharpshooters outside this rather ugly house. The buzz was beginning to fade.

Sally was in her ear again. “You’re doing great Joolz, this is diamond stuff. If it bleeds, it leads, yeah?” Why couldn’t she just shut up?

“We’re seeing some fascinating pictures here, Fraser, showing exactly what the police can see–” The camera panned back round to the waiting officers “–and it seems that this is likely to… holy shit!”

The closest officer was hurled backwards, blood spraying from his head, his arms splayed to the side. He traced an arc across the screen and landed in a tangle. He was perfectly still.

Around him was mayhem; the pop-pop-popping of gunfire, shouting, and the tumbling of the cameraman to the ground.

It took a couple of seconds for the impact to hit Juliette–and what an impact it was: a physical thrill, a rush of pleasure that swept out from her stomach, down into her pussy and through her legs. She tingled inside. Her throat tightened. Her nipples hardened. All she could think of was the sight of that officer dying in front of her, dying for her, sacrificing himself on her altar. The autocue was a blur. She could feel herself on the verge, out of control.

“Juliette! Juliette! Fucking holy mother of fuck, she’s smiling, get the fucking camera off her, George!” Sally the editor was in total meltdown.

George stepped in and saved the bulletin. Juliette was led away from the desk by the floor manager and left alone in her dressing room. Her hand slipped under her skirt, the image of the dead officer etched into her retinas. She found her clit under her pantyhose and began rubbing hard. It wasn’t enough. She pulled to get them down but they were stuck tight underneath her skirt band. She tried the other way, going through the top, but there wasn’t enough space. Both hands now, one pulling at the pantyhose fabric, the other concentrating on her clitoris. Then her nail snagged on the material, tearing it, and she scrabbled underneath, pulling her panties aside and finally laying her fingers in the place she needed to be. And the blood flowed in her eyes and it was the man again, falling, and falling, and the other man, unseen, pulling the trigger and making the choice, and he was hers, her instrument, and it was her choice now, and the blood sprayed and jetted like come.

No one heard her stifled moans. No one came to the room to check her. She was safe. Juliette righted herself, trying to swallow her pleasure and self-loathing. There was a crease on her skirt. She concentrated on that. Two deep breaths. Back to the floor.

Two days later, she finally accepted George’s advances and allowed him to take her to his home and pull off her dress and slobber down her neck while his cock poked out of his trousers, prodding her leg. She had kept footage of the incident, apologising for her unprofessionalism and demanding the services of a counsellor to help her through the trauma of seeing, no, commentating, on a murder. Everyone was very sympathetic. Juliette even managed to persuade another researcher to go through the archives to find footage of similar incidents. The results were being burnt onto a DVD, but while George jabbed away at her, she imagined the possible scenarios. A fireman trapped in a burning building… a woman in a cage, sinking underwater…

“Is that good for you baby?” George grunted, as he finally found the right way in.

“Oh yes, George, yes baby, oh come on, you’re killing me here.” And she draped her arms round his neck and wondered what might happen if she squeezed his throat. His face was so sweet, straining as he pumped and pumped and…

“Oh fuuck.” His breathing deepened and he shuddered and– “what the fuck are you…?” he choked, her hands at his throat. “Oh fuck, chyeerrsss.” He came as she throttled him, his face going purple as she felt herself getting closer and closer and…

George grabbed an arm and flung it down, pinning it to the bed.

“Fuck, you are one sick baby,” he rasped. “And a fucking horny one too.” And, to her surprise, he licked his fingers and put them down to her cunt and rubbed until she clung to him and shook, imagining blood.

The station executives rostered Juliette away from live bulletins for the next weeks, supposedly out of deference to her trauma. She began to wonder if her strange appetite was an aberration. Sex with George had become dull–he had insisted on tying her up, just in case–and when he stopped calling and found it difficult to meet her gaze, she was relieved rather than angry or hurt.

The DVD, when it arrived, put paid to any doubts she had that she had discovered a new thrill. It was soon on heavy rotation on her laptop at home, giving her a frame by frame view of some of the worst sights in TV news–protesters being shot at in crowds, images of bloody bodies, injuries. Death. Lots of death.

The third time came at Sally’s suggestion. “We need to do a one-year-on tribute to the victims of the southern train crash,” she said. “Your part is reading out a list of the names and who they were.” Sally was such a prim bitch. And fat–at least a size ten. She had looked at Juliette in a curious way ever since the cop-shooting.

Sally set up the shoot in a small studio at the back end of the building. Juliette wore black, her favourite colour again, and went through the list of names silently. She could feel herself slickening.

The camera and light went on, and Sally pointed at her.

“Daniel van der Saar. Twenty-nine. A PhD Biochemistry student at Syracuse University.

“Mehry Inett. A thirty-four year old mother of…”

Juliette could feel her pussy getting wetter and wetter as she read the names of each victim, one by one. At the seventeenth, she had to stop to lick her lips, her mouth drying up in unspent desire for each man and woman.

“Are you okay Joolz?”

Sally had laid her hand on Juliette’s shoulder. It broke her reverie.

“Yeah, I’m fine Sally, thank you. Just a bit…”

“Emotional?”

“Truly.” She patted Sally’s hand. “Are you British, Sally?”

“Irish. From Kerry.”

“Almost the same thing, right?”

Sally glanced at the autocue. “We’d better be finishing this off, hadn’t we?”

“Sure thing, I’m ready to go.”

Sally went back to the camera, and looked through the viewfinder, then looked up at Juliette again.

“Joolz.” It was an irritating nickname, but Juliette smiled. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“You can ask.”

“Do you ever, you know, find yourself doing things… thinking things… that maybe you shouldn’t be?”

“What do you mean?”

Sally grimaced. “Like, you know. Maybe laughing when someone has fallen over.”

“Sure thing. Don’t we all?”

“And maybe, getting a bit hot and bothered sometimes when it’s… it’s not quite…” Sally tailed off. Juliette said nothing. “Only, I, well.” She sighed. “I’m taking a big risk here, but I get turned on by violence. By two men trying to knock lumps out of each other. And I think, maybe you do too.”

Juliette froze.

“You do too, and you like it when it happens. Just think.” Sally’s voice became huskier. “Two big brutes, punching and gouging at each other. And it’s about you.”

Juliette nodded.

“You know that when they finish, the winner will have you.” Sally stared Juliette directly in the eyes. The newsreader felt herself blush, and the tingle from reading the names of the train crash victims returned.

“And the loser–” Juliette’s voice cracked. “The loser is lying there, the blood spilling onto the ground.” Sally nodded in encouragement. “And you know it’s all because of you. You have the power of life and death.” Instinctively she reached for the hem of her skirt, then pulled back. “And you want him to die.”

“Does death turn you on?”

“Oh yes.” Juliette bit her lip, playing to her audience of one. “Just sitting here, reading this list of names, makes me hot.” Sally nodded. “I just want to start playing with myself and…” Juliette shivered. “I want someone to fuck me while I read these names.” She could feel herself getting hot again, and wet, and her empty cunt throbbed. Even George’s wrinkled salami would do.

Sally nodded again, more slowly this time. She turned back to the camera and popped the tape out.

“Consider yourself fucked,” she said, and walked out of the room.

Story: Early Pearly Girly’s Shame

17 Feb

He was my ex-boyfriend–it would take longer than he lasted in bed for me to list the reasons why. That one, his prematurity, his hastiness, that was enough. We tried lots of things, from extreme drunkenness to super-thick condoms to the desperate occasion when I tried to seduce him wearing a Sharon Osborne facemask. He couldn’t get it up for giggling until I took it off, and he came over my tits.

Our third night together, I tried to make us the four times a night couple. Sounds good, doesn’t it? The first time went as expected; the second time he at least managed three thrusts; the third time he was too soft to squeeze it into me and yet still came on my leg as he tried to stiffen it up. The fourth time, he begged me to stop.

It wasn’t as though he was a bad lover in other ways. I have never been licked, sucked and rimmed as well by any man. His massages were exquisite, although several were interrupted by an unexpected happy finish. He was compensating, and it was adequate compensation for a time. There was just something about him, his twinkly eyes perhaps, that made my knees give way.

Yet the lack of hot, hard cock doomed our love affair to its own premature conclusion. We argued about something, politics I expect, and I brought up his dysfunctioning penis in a stupid attempt to win. I knew from his face there was no way back from that, and I ended it the next day, before he had the chance. The guilt from his bewildered, crushed expression was assuaged by a handsome, priapic Canadian colleague who was in town until Christmas when he had to return to his very self-satisfied wife. After a week of hotel-room debauchery, I wore a similar expression.

It was inevitable, given our overlapping circles of friends, that I would see him at New Year’s Eve. There was a house party, offers of drugs and cheap champagne, loud music and a glamour-tinged promise of escape from the usual morass of overpriced club nights with under-dressed slappers and belagered and becidered chavs.

He was nerveless when we spoke, exchanging pointless news as if I was his best friend’s date. His coolness made me hot, reminding me what a decent man he was, and how unfair I had been to him. Two other guys were after me that night, both of them potentials–one was Timorese, the other rumoured to possess a Prince Albert piercing–but my curiosity was smothered by an aching lust for my ex’s cock.

I think I would have withstood the urge had I not gone up to the ‘disco room’ at 11.45pm, ready to swig and snog my way into the New Year. He was standing behind the DJ turntables, one ear pressed to a headphone muff, concentrating intently, and using one delicate finger to adjust the records.

If I could have ripped off his trousers and straddled him there and then, I would have done. As it was, I had to watch as my knickers got damper and damper, watching that finger, those eyes, the furrowed eyebrows and the way he chewed his mouth without realising it.

He was kicked off by the real DJ five minutes before midnight and he seemed slightly stunned, if pleased with himself, to watch everyone in the room dancing. I pulled my dress down in an attempt to deepen the V of my cleavage, and circled round to stand slightly behind him. He was looking at the DJ, and then turned round and noticed me.

“Oh, hi.” He looked pleased to see me for a moment, and then his face fell.

Guilt cascaded over me like sour champagne. I stood on tiptoes to yell into his ear.

“I’m really sorry.”

“What?”

“I’m really sorry.” He looked puzzled. “I was such a bitch to you. I’m really sorry.”

He considered my apology for a moment, and then shrugged.

“Yes. You were.” He smiled though.

We stood listening to the music. He opened his mouth, hesitated and then closed it again.

“I’d like to make it up to you,” I yelled.

“How?”

“Come with me.”

I picked up his hand and led him onto the dancefloor, but he let my hand slip as the music fell away.

The DJ shouted to the room. “Right guys, countdown coming up.”

We chanted in the New Year and suddenly the room was full of happy people, kissing each other. The Timorese hunk gave me a squeeze, followed closely by Prince Albert, who pressed his cock against my tummy through his jeans, and confirmed the rumour. I accepted the kisses and extracted myself to see if I could see my ex.

He was wandering out of the room. With any luck, it was jealousy. I chased after him. “Hey!”

He stopped and waited for me at the top of the stairs. “I still want to apologise properly.”

“Look, Mehry, if you feel you have to make some sort of speech, just save it.”

I ignored him and grabbed his hand and led him along the hallway and into a bedroom. It was the designated cloakroom and the full-length mirror had been used for last-minute wardrobe checks and make-up touch-ups, but it was quite empty now. It had a bathroom en suite, and I led him in there.

“It’s okay Mehry, honestly,” he said. “I accept your apology.”

I touched a finger to his lips and sank to my knees, keeping my eyes on his. I had to look down to fumble with his zip and pulled it down on the third attempt. I reached inside with my hand. I knew from experience that it would be over within a few seconds and I didn’t want to get come in the wrong places. My tight blue satin dress would not provide much camouflage for semen, especially as there was an ultraviolet light on the dancefloor.

My gaze locked onto his face. There was no trace of surprise, if there had ever been. Instead, he had a transported look about him, a kind of otherness that was unfamiliar. His cock was not quite hard, but I took it into my mouth, and waited for the explosion.

It didn’t come, not straight away, and I began and suck and lick, holding onto it. I heard him begin to breathe more heavily, and I moaned in response, and anticipation. Still there was nothing, other than obvious pleasure being taken. It occurred to me that perhaps he had some new trick to delay, and I seized my opportunity. I stood up and leaned against the sink, lifting up the hem of my dress and pulling my knickers to my knees.

“Fuck me.”

He seemed to hesitate, and then grabbed his dick and guided it up into my soaking wet cunt. I gasped. It had been such a long time. I had never felt him inside me before, and it was as if we had never split up. My unfulfilled desire was slaked, and a flood of emotion ran through me. It was like an orgasm, except the tingliness was different. I didn’t have to wait long for the real thing. His thrusts were harder and harder, and his balls banged against my clitoris, and I clung onto the sink as my knees seemed to give way. He gripped me round the waist to hold me up and fucked me harder and harder and I could only hope that the music would drown out my wails of ecstasy.

Eventually, he let go of me and I slumped to the floor, first onto my knees, and then supporting myself on one hand and finally lying down on the tiled floor as I tried to recover. He stood above me, legs astride, needing no support. He looked at me, expressionless, as he tidied away his cock and zipped up his trousers.

“That was wonderful,” I said, still rushing with pleasure, feeling my toes as a wave of warmth hit them. “You were sublime.”

He turned around, then turned back again and began to wash his hands. I still couldn’t move properly. “Why could we never do that before?” I could see a future again, one where he finally moved into my flat, and I could make him pancakes for breakfast and we would fuck til lunchtime.

He patted his face down with his wet hands and then dried them on the towel above me. A few drops of water splattered onto my face.

“Shall we go back out?” I was in no mood to move, but I struggled up until I was kneeling on the floor in front of him.

“I might just go.”

His reply confused me. “Where are we going?” I asked.

Finally he looked at me, directly. Coldly.

“Who said anything about ‘we’?”

I was crushed, humiliated. It had been the best sex we had ever had. Couldn’t he see that? Didn’t he value anything about our friendship, the closeness we had together?

“You want to know why that happened? I’ll tell you why.” He paused and looked upward. “It’s because I feel nothing. Nothing for you, anyway. Before, when I was in love with you–” he looked down into my eyes and then away again, embarrassed “–I couldn’t contain my excitement at the thought of being with you. I was absolutely in love with you, Mehry. You must have known that.” I shook my head, lying. “You broke my heart and then you smashed it up.”

He dried his hands on the towel again, and took a step towards the door. I stayed on my knees, unable to move, the ecstasy curdling inside me.

“You know what it was like, just now.” He shook his head, and met my gaze again. “I’d dreamed of making love to you again. It consumed my fantasies. I’ve lain awake at night, wanking about you, about how you might apologise, and beg me to take you back.”

“Do I need to beg?” I shuffled forward. “I’ll beg, I’m not too proud, I know I’ve been–”

“And then now, when we were… when we were fucking.” He spat the word. “It was nothing like… it was easy to hold on. I wasn’t even trying to. It was like…” He looked away for a moment, and then stared deep into my eyes.

“It was like fucking a whore.”

He turned around, opened the door, and was gone, and I was left, slumped on the floor, weeping.