Fiction – O Come All Ye Faithful

Written for Exhibit A’s Christmas Erotica prompts . This wasn’t actually one of his prompts but the idea came to me and I ran with it. He has been kind enough to allow it in regardless. 

Elizabeth adjusted the collar of her uniform, she wasn’t certain that she would ever get used to its chafing around her neck, just under her chin where the skin seemed most tender.  The hard edge left a slightly sore red line around it for a couple of hours after taking it off – she supposed it really had been designed for a neck more used to the ravages of a regular shave and paused to chuckle with the satisfaction that particular victory gave her still.

She surveyed herself in the mirror and noted that her dark grey eyes were wide and shadowy and the pupils still dilated. She had nearly been late which would never have done, but Jenny had succeeded in distracting her again by stretching her long body against hers as she paused in the doorway to say goodbye.  Their kisses had shared the deep intimacy born of facing down many judgemental faces in their time together. The sweetness was still there too, she could taste Jenny’s trust, her commitment, her love, as their lips met.

Lust, never far from the surface inspite of their fifteen years together, came steaming quickly through them both like an unexpected train through a station and left them both slightly breathless. Elizabeth had stumbled slightly against the door frame as she sought to extricate herself “Sweetheart”, she mumbled into Jenny’s neck that smelled so good, “I have to go …”  Jenny had grinned, “I know, later, we will meet later.” and she waved Elizabeth off the dark laurel-lined driveway in her beaten up BMW.   

She had been distracted during the short drive and was still breathing heavily and thinking of Jenny’s gorgeous perfectly matched breasts with their tiny but oh so sensitive pink nipples as she let herself into her office.  She shook herself briefly to clear her head and headed out to meet the people waiting for her as they were each week, noting down the issues they wanted her to be mindful of today;  Mrs Clarke’s lumbago, Nigel’s stomach pains and Jeremy’s sense of unease about his marriage were all jotted down in the notebook she kept close to her at all times.

She inhaled the myriad scents that surrounded her, flowers, furniture wax and polished brass shining in the thin winter sun and noted with satisfaction that it was warm out here.  “Good”  she thought “I have time, there is time.”

Heading back to the small room that was for her use alone, she grabbed the leatherbound book that was always open on the desk, looking for the well thumbed pages halfway through and lifted the edge of her long black skirt as she found her usual perch on the corner of desk that had been more used to signing certificates than the use she regularly put it to.

Her fingers found their way to her already sensitive nub. Her hand encased her mound as she inserted a finger – “Oh wet again” she thought, and refused to apologise, but instead began to read aloud as she fucked herself bringing images to her mind of Jenny with her long legs and slender feet in high heels spread before her as she watched her touch herself.

“How beautiful art thy feet with shoes, O prince’s daughter!  The joints of thy thighs are like jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning workman”

“Thy navel is like a round goblet which wanteth not liquor, thy belly is like an heap of wheat set about with lillies.”

The formal language, at odds with the sensual imagery and the erotic images in her mind created a heady mix of arousal and apparent disapproval generated a heady kick start to her already turned on state. She was queen of her body here, placed in service to a higher calling perhaps but still available to her an interlude of pleasure.

Speeding up slightly she focused on imagining the sensations generated as she travelled down Jenny’s smooth belly with her tongue in her mind, her silky skin tasting of the sea and sun  as she moaned beneath her.  Small muted gasps escaped Elizabeth as she worked away with her fingers and she shrugged off the sounds of people chattering excitedly, music beginning in the background outside the office door.

Not long, now, she thought, feeling the heat building behind her pubic bone, ripples of pleasure radiating out from her clitoris and engaging with the muscles inside her vagina as they pulsed in response to the song of celebration of the beauty and sensuality of the female body on the page, her thoughts, her Jenny, her body.

Her fingers were working harder, urging her towards the edge of the cliff where she would jump and swoop into pleasure. One final push, one more thought, she needed one more thought and she would be there.  

She reached for the book again.

“I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine.”

Yes cried Elizabeth as she thought of Jenny laid out before her, inviting her into taste, suck, pleasure and satiate.

“Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins.”

Jenny, hands cradling generous breasts, a thumb and finger on each nipple and a look of delight as she saw the effect of that vision on Elizabeth sprang to mind. They mirrored each other in their pleasure and acceptance of themselves and each other.  A true meeting of minds, bodies and souls.

Her orgasm crashed into her as she steadied herself against the desk, cunt clenching and unclenching as it did around Jenny’s fingers, letting thr spasms contine as she withdrew her own and licking them clean as she heard the organ strike up the  opening chords reminding her of where she was.

Elizabeth let down her skirt, winked at herself in the mirror, adjusted her collar and opened the door to greet the Dean and the Choristers. She caught Jenny’s eye with a beaming smile, she was seated at the front of the Nave, and joined the congregation and choir in the first line of the Processional hymn …

“O Come All Ye Faithful”…

 

 

#SinfulSunday – lamplight


It is prompt week in the SinfulSunday world this week. Once a month @Mollysdailykiss provides a prompt for those who want to use it to generate their image. 

Generally I miss it due to lack of planning but as seen here that is where my focus is at this point.

So here’s my #SinfulSunday take on Artificial Light.

Breakfast in bed anyone? ūüíč

Click on the lips below to see who else is being Sinful today

Sinful Sunday

On Planning

I love it when Master plans.  

I should amend that, really, I love it when I understand that He has planned; that His plan has included me. Actually that is wrong too. When the realisation dawns that He has not only included me but that my needs, my wants,
my desires are at the centre of a plan that He has concocted to fulfil what He wants.  There is a synergy there that isn’t often experienced but is at the heart of the power exchange we share..  

In order for this to work, I have to have communicated my desires, my wants, my needs to Him and since this is very difficult for me at times this means that He has not only had to construct a plan for the endgame but also to had to construct one that
will extract from me those things I find hardest to articulate. He has had to be more cunning, faster, more alert and observant than me and to put what He finds out to good use, which is ultimately anchored to Him fulfilling His need to plan for us and to
use and dominate me.

The freedom inherrent in this dichotomy has been written about many times.  The usual tropes are trotted out – we find freedom in submission, that submissives are strong not weak, that our happiness is bound up in pleasing our Dominant, that without our
Masters we are lost and I suppose that these are all true but for me they simply do not go deep enough into the sense of ownership and of being owned.  For some this is also spoken about using the metaphor of slavery to describe the ultimate handing over of
control.  It certainly addresses the sense of compulsion to please and to obey; that is that a slave has no choice in the matter and for many this resonates on both sides of the slash, the Dominant enjoying the control and the submissive the handing over of
it. The reason why I would call someone Master (and I do) is that it acknowledges both a position of power over me and also a sense of responsibility towards me and my wellbeing, otherwise it is simply exploitation by another name.

This responsibility for my wellbeing does not, however, absolve me of mine to myself.  In fact it is a requirement of me that I live my life well, that I place myself and my needs at the heart of my life and this my dear reader, is a harder task than any
I have had before in my life.  I am a chronic co-dependent which is why articulating my needs is so difficult.  It is much easier to find out what you want and to get my sense of satisfaction from giving that to you than from actually acknowledging what I
want.  That seems so bold, so … entitled … and yet … and yet … this is what is required of me to give Him satisfaction.  This, for me, is like the idea of Bodhissatva – that the enlightened ones are so enlightened they put off the moment of full enlightenment
and ascension from this plane of suffering inorder to continue to work for the enlightenment of all sentient beings, which in itself is a supreme moment of enlightenment.  Like a series of mirrors seeming to stream on into infinity or the endless cycles yin
and yang symbols, one feeds the other, feeds the other.

So why have I called this On Planning? 

Mostly because I have to plan, everyone has to plan their lives, but certainly I have a great need to as I enter the next part of my life.  I have two marriages behind me and four children from them, elderly parents,
no pension and am just about to engage in the sale of my greatest asset – my house and to share the profit from that with my ex.  I need to place myself at the centre of my life in no uncertain circumstances and with that comes also the need to place this
part of me, my sexuality, my physical and emotional needs right there in the middle too.  I also need to know that He knows this too and that inspite of how it might feel at times that there is a plan, because I can trust Him to have one that will make sure
I am right there too.

Mine

Mine

This was posted on Fetlife as a Journal Entry 

It attracted a lot of attention at the time and garnered the following attention:

| 280 Comments · 2,058 Love It |

It made K&P over 3 years ago and was the reason I felt confident enough to consider myself a writer.  A fledgling one, one in need of polish and experience, but a writer none-the-less.

At this distance my words seem so simple and genuine.  Perhaps there is nothing to add to them except that I am His, every pore, he is my Muse, my Master, my Mentor, my Friend, my Lover.  He is the one I speak to first in the morning and last at night.

He has my back, I know He will catch me if I fall. He encourages me to fly even if that means He has to control Himself in that process. He knows I must grow, I must learn, I must connect, I must be eye.

But in all that I am always eye – in fact nous sommes eye. Together.

You are mine

When someone says these words to a submissive they go in very deeply. It is not something to be said lightly. It is not something that can be taken back very easily. It is not a small thing.

I think

If I belong to you I deserve to be thought about, not just on a whim or because of your mood but in a calm, ordered, planned and rational way. I will notice that you have noticed both the small things and the big things in my life. I will notice that you have paid attention to apparently throw-away lines from me, that you have considered my responses to questions and situations even from others. That you think about me when we are apart.

I care.

It matters to me that I matter to you. That you will care enough for me to want good things for me in all aspects of my life and to provide help and advice when I need it. That aftercare is a privilege and not a chore for you. That you will stroke my hair as well as pull it and will never give me the silent treatment.

I use.

My need to be used goes very deep within me which renders me vulnerable. I am in your hands both metaphorically and physically. This is a most essential part of me, given to you freely in order that I meet myself. Our mutual satisfaction of this need is a place with no barriers, no roles, no language. Just you and me.

I protect.

You are all around me. Wrapped like a blanket is your protection of me. It makes me strong when I feel weak. Reminds me of myself when I feel overwhelmed. Connects me to my breath by withholding and releasing it.

I teach.

A suggestion. A request. A guiding hand under an elbow. A reminder. A joke at a tense time. A virtual choke chain. A positive outlook. A willing student.

I am proud.

You celebrate my successes. They are no loss to you and I love to make you proud. It delights me and this process facilitates my growth.  Making you proud is my cornerstone, my touchpoint, my compass, my desire.  I am yours, every pore, just that.

Thank you Master, your eye x

Elust 88

Elust 88

miss-scarlett-header

Photo courtesy of Miss Scarlet Writes

Welcome to Elust 88‚Äď

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 #89 Start with the rules, come back December 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Heart stabbing

Redemption: The Sex Goddess Project

Exhibitionish

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

An Open Letter To That Cunnilingus Post

I Found Myself Over His Knee

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Writing Sex Scenes With Less Cissexism, Pt 1

~My choices this month were ~

What lie do you need to hear so we can Fuck?  РI loved the ironic double negative in the title and the content.  A searingly honest piece of writing.

How Old Is Too Old For Wild Lovemaking? РI think the answer to this is never! I hope it is anyway.

MISTRESS IN A DRESS ‚Äď or out of it¬†– male submission is fascinating to me. ¬†It has a different flavour to the female variety that is so often written about and @BibulousOne never disappoints with his incisive and entertaining glimpses of it.

~ My contribution this month to this digest was ~

Struggling

Erotic Fiction

Overlook
The Haunting of Iris Day
MERMAID??? Wicked Wednesday #229
Fear, Scents and Sounds
Lady Amore
love is love
Spray
Her Struggle
The New Principal

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Evolving Landscapes
Trust in Me
15 BEST Things About Giving Blowjobs!
With a rebel yell

Erotic Non-Fiction

The Brush
Tasked with asking for what I need
Brass In Pocket
An Unstated Predicament
California Cuisine
Krystal’s First Pegging

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

That Adult Bookstore Just Outside Town
Creature of the night
MISTRESS IN A DRESS ‚Äď or out of it
Come Here. I want to Taste You
Terror of the cane! How to make caning sexy

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

11 Signs You Might Be a Side Guy

 

Writing About Writing

Writing Sex Scenes With Less Cissexism, Pt 1

As always this is a marvellous selection of writing – take a moment, grab a coffee and enjoy !

 

See you next month.

ELust Site Badge

#SinfulSunday – mundane

I am wearing my pyjamas post exercise and before my shower and decide to take a picture to chart my progress.

The one mirror that affords a good view and light is in the bathroom of the property I am a guardian for. A building that was a training centre for disabled adults until it closed in July. There is a plaque downstairs showing that the funding for it came from the EU, so go figure, as our currently equally insane cousins across the water say. 

But back to today, I tell you this to let you know why I have left in the disabled toilet and handrails in the background. A kind of  helpful mundane reality that shaped the image this week. 

Is it still sinful?  That’s for you to say ūüíč

Click on the lips below to see who else is being sinful today.
Sinful Sunday

Home revisited #1

The title says it all, I am revisiting my home pieces which can be found somewhere on this site, good luck to you if you go looking, I can’t find them at all. ¬†That is such a perfect metaphor. ¬†I know they are here, somewhere. ¬†They were heartfelt and important at the time of writing but what is much more important to me now is the now. ¬†This now. ¬†Me. At the table, writing as I Iisten to the transmission of Kate Bush’s Ninth Wave. ¬†I am bathing in the sounds. ¬†I am squinting at the screen. ¬†I am wondering if my hair, newly washed today, will carry the scent of the roast chicken I cooked this evening in the combi-oven I bought for ¬£20 to enable us to cook. ¬†I am living in a small market town in Gloucestershire. A different one to that which I have lived in for the last 18 years. Not even that far away but lifetimes between. Pause there to think. Yes, lifetimes between. ¬†Nineteen miles and a whole lifetime between there and here.

I think back to my day. I notice that I inhabited my day. I, eye, inhabited this day as if it was my own because in truth it was that but the knowing of that truth is somehow too overwhelming to be in my consciousness as I move through it. I recognise that I have just never done this before. ¬†Strange that. ¬†Fifty Eight years. ¬†Two husbands. Four children down and days , weeks, months, years spent not inhabiting the days that filled them. Always someone else’s agenda because I was trained to get my validation, my sense of worthiness, externally. ¬†Now if you haven’t experienced this you won’t know or understand how that could happen but it is akin to that sense of your happiness as a person being linked to the happiness of your most miserable child if you are a parent. ¬†If you are not and here I stumble, I really stumble because other people, parents, husbands, children have been in my life all my life. ¬†The only person who wasn’t was me. I stop there. Fucking hell. ¬†Really? ¬†I check back quickly running through big decisions and nod my head. ¬†Fucking hell. ¬†Yes.

Fucking hell.

Yes.

And it seems that Kate understands that. ¬†If she doesn’t as a person her music does, I know it, I can feel it, my body and psyche know it and respond, resonate with it. Because certain chords, certain combinations of notes tell me that I am not alone. ¬†That this experience is not just mine. That it is archetypal (and I will write more another day about that particular push and pull dynamic with mothers and their daughters, but not today, no not today, because on this day I am the victor); and therefore not personal. ¬†I am just what that particular energy travels¬†through at this point in time on this planet.

I am as opaque as the mist. ¬†I have no inherent self here and that is a liberation. ¬†I can go with whatever particular whim and fancy comes to me because it is all of equal value. There is no judgement. No one to check in with to see if it is OK, God that is strange, and ¬†I know that statement will seem so strange to those who haven’t experienced that particular dynamic, but no, no one to tell me that I am OK, that my choices are OK, that I won’t suffer punishment or worse be ostracised or left alone.

It takes some getting used to, but increasingly becomes easier because I have experienced the loss of all that I feared losing and survived. ¬†It has all gone. Home, Business, Marriage, Family Life and Good Name and Sense of Self Worth. ¬†Capitalised because that shit is fucking huge and yet like Kate Bush’s woman adrift I have marshalled my resources and fucking survived.

But now. Now is the time not to survive but to thrive.

#SinfulSunday – fishnets

wp-image-1052735166jpg.jpg

I enjoyed a little foray into the glamour world yesterday and tried on a pair of fishnet tights I had bought over a year ago and had left languishing in my drawer. I am not sure why they languished so long except that I thought they were a bit of a cliché and I would look ridiculous in them.

It may surprise some of you to know that I suffer from a lack of body confidence at times since I post pictures of myself naked (or almost) here but I do. I fear being ridiculed and shamed for expressing my sexuality and fishnets are overtly about that, particularly those with a gap at the crotch to allow them to be worn with no knickers.

The top two pictures also show my stomach with its less than perfect surface and the pouch that remains after four children in spite of my ¬†best efforts. I wanted to post them as I liked the vulnerability, the ‘realness’ the lack of pretence.

In a strange way it gives me more confidence when I post these kinds of pictures because I don’t have that nagging voice in the back of my head saying ‘but when they meet me they’ll be disappointed because they will be overwhelmed by the less than glamorous parts of me that I have cropped out of my pictures’.

The bottom one is cropped and much more ‘glamorous’ ¬†I have presented only my best features, my legs, in an attractive pose to accentuate their length. It pleases me aesthetically but also leaves that gap for the voice to get in again.

A conundrum. One I think is part of my journey here, and I value the opportunity to explore in such a safe space.  Thanks to you, faithful reader for travelling with me through parts of it.

Which one(s) do you prefer? ¬†I’d love to know ūüíč

Click on the lips below to see who else is being sinful today

Sinful Sunday

Struggling

I don’t struggle as you tie me. No matter how tight the bonds, how much they crease and pull at my skin. ¬†No matter what awkward, uncomfortable position I have been contorted into. ¬†No matter how much I want to pull away, to swing away from your belt or the crop. ¬†I don’t struggle. ¬†The ropes are an extension of the control I have extended to you since that moment I pressed two in the lift and glided up to submit to you in-spite of never having met you for longer than 4.5 minutes before in my life

You do not tie me down, you do not restrain me to the corners of a bed so I am exposed regardless of my desire to cover myself.  Instead you place my hands above my head and if I forget for one moment to hold them there you return them to their place as many times as it takes for me to restrain myself for you.  The effort required to hold myself there is what you want to see reflected in my eyes. To know that I will do that for you. So that your cock grows hard with the sight of the sweat beading on my forehead and my eyes watering with tears and the effects of the emotions running through me as I concentrate on you, what you desire, what you want from me and yet live into and offer up the pain, my struggle to manage it and my reactions to it.

And if you choose, as you have, to enter my unprepared ass, simply because the time is right for you and your desire to fuck me there over the arm of that sofa bed in a hotel room where later you would sleep on my shoulder emptied of care for those precious moments, is running wild in your veins and you must have me there and then, I will struggle. ¬†As your cock enters me and scalds my inner muscle on the way through and you hold my ankles tight as I try to pull you out, you utter one word ‘eye’ and I stop. I hold my legs apart and let you see the pain you are causing me, let you hear my cries and feel my sobs and I do it for you because you grow harder in those moments of my agony and I glory in my ability to give you that.

Struggling is not part of our dynamic apart from its connection to suffering and you love to see me suffer for you, for our us.  You know that I suffer when we are apart, you know that I struggle with the distance, with the uncertainty, with the lack of time we can carve out together and you love to see me translate that into yet another part of my submission.

I struggle, you see it and know it and I see and know that and I give it to you and ask not to be relieved of it by certainty or platitudes or an early release. ¬†I want the struggle, I am addicted to the way that it allows me to test my strength knowing that¬†it is never against you and always against myself. ¬†Against a small world bounded by fear and desire for comfort and safety. ¬†Against believing others’ ideas of morality and right and wrong. Against a smaller version of me, one in which eye did not exist in all her wonder, never got her wings or learnt to fly and return to perch on your arm.

The writing of this and about this also brings its own sweet struggle with longing.  That delicious sense of tristesse that I seek to sublimate into how I live to the full for myself for you.  I love to struggle.  I love to submit it.  I love you.