Masturbation Monday: On a great big clipper ship, going from this land into that

Chetana lay facedown on her bed while Philip washed her. He’d sponged all of her body but now he seemed to be concentrating soapily on her ass and upper thighs. Chetana expected he wasn’t going to shift his attention, or his hands. The cabin rocked gently under them. She knew the ship had left the Laccadive Sea, and was sailing into the Arabian Sea.  

His fingers, surprisingly strong, pushed into the muscles of her ass. She felt him find and work on the remaining knots of tension, a process that both hurt her and satisfied. She was aware of  another feeling, something luxurious that she hadn’t felt in about two years.

It was that she was relaxed, and her mind was in the sensual world, free of things to do or think about.

At last he smacked the inside of her left thigh, then her right, and repeated until she understood and moved her feet apart, open for him. But he continued to knead the muscles of her ass, and only slowly worked his way down to the backs of her thighs.

At last she sighed, and said, “ah fuck, that’s good. Where’d you learn all that?”

But Philip only smacked her bottom, her skin and muscles gloriously relaxed, when a couple of hours ago she had been so tense it hurt. His smack didn’t hurt. She hoped he’d do it again. Most of her male lovers were too deferential for that sort of thing. He said, “You don’t have to talk, my love.”

His finger slid down the sensitive skin of her perineum, from just below her anus to stop, frustratingly, just above her cunt. He was teasing her. Then he smacked her bottom again and she said, involuntarily, “ooh!” That felt so welcome, so right.

“But you do have to get your ass up.” The hand pressed onto her bottom lifted,  and she expected it to land again. But it didn’t arrive. She wriggled a little, and parted her thighs further, then lifted her bottom, in the most abjectly invitational pose she could manage. He said, “Perfect.”

She could hear in his voice that he was smiling at her. Then his hand did land, a slightly harder smack. It seemed to awaken her skin. She felt goosebumps forming, suddenly.

Then the fingers between her buttocks dropped a little and touched her cunt for the first time. Chetana opened her mouth, half from the joy of it and half to suck in a lungful of air. He stroked her lips, still only touching the outer sides. He said “Good girl.”

It was the first time he’d ever said it to her, though she’d known it had been on the tip of his tongue for the last two days. She’d heard him stopping himself. Now he was more relaxed, too.

He stroked her, still slowly and lightly, and at last – at last! – touched her inner wetness with his forefinger. Then he pushed further into her. Chetana said – her voice sounded so high! – “You better fuck me soon. I think I’m going to come any moment.”

She wasn’t surprised when he smacked her again. And then again.

After the third smack, he said, “I don’t care when you come. Or how often. Up to you.”

He put a second finger into her, and reached deep. Chetana groaned.

Sinful Sunday: Soulful stripes

There comes a time when punishment is over. Time moves fast during a caning, and then, when the last stroke is delivered, it slows down. Nearly to a stop. There is pain, and there is peace.

She’d been warned about consequences of not doing university work before, and she knows that the punishment was an act of love, and she deserved it. No matter how much it hurt. 

But she knows, too, that he still has the cane in his hand, as a badge of office, almost. Justice is one of the strongest ties between master and willing slave. And, justice or not, she knows he’s hard for her. 

In a moment he’s going to hold her. And kiss her, and tell her she’s good, and he’ll help her get the overdue assignment finished. But for now, the assignment isn’t what matters. His need for her, and hers for him; that matters. In a few seconds, no more, they’ll be fucking. 

Sinful Sunday: A moment’s peace

There’s a moment of peace after her Master puts the cane down, and tells her that it’s over and she’s been a good, brave girl. 

Her mind is at peace. She was caned for her Master’s pleasure, and hers. There was nothing for her to forgive herself for, nothing for him to forgive. He’d just woken up needing her submission, urgently, and he’d cuffed her to their bed, and reached for the cane.

His strokes hurt as they fell on her, of course. But how quickly those individual flashes of pain turn to warmth, to a kind of sensual glow, and then to sexual longing. She watched him as he raised the cane. His cock lifted with that movement: caning her turned him on. 

He takes photos for her to admire later, and then puts on a condom. And he leaves her cuffed, wrists and ankles spread for him, while he poises his body above hers, ready to take her. And then that moment of peace is over. 

Click on the lips to see other Sinful Sunday entries!

Novel excerpt: Out of the closet 3

Bad advice, as always from these things. I’m here to tell you: you don’t need to have sex in a closet.

This is an extract from a novel that was then unpublished. Now it’s publishing, and I have to remove free content from my site. 

 

In this episode from the novel, the pros and cons on having sex in the broom closet, during an art exhibition, are thoroughly explored.

Novel excerpt: Out of the closet 1

The novel this is from was unpublished when I put this post up.

Now it’s about to be published, so free segments from it have to be taken down.

This excerpt explores the perils of sex in a broom closet, especially in an art gallery during the opening of a new exhibition. It’s hot, and also comic.

Voice of the thunder

Bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronn-tuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk

That’s what the thunder said. You know that.

It had been the hottest, most oppressive day you can imagine. The sky absolutely still, the temperature far too high and the humidity close to 100 per cent. You felt you could reach for a handful of air and squeeze it like a sponge. I was at my desk in just my underpants, trying to write, with sweat running down my body. 

Then, finally the clouds arrived, speeding like the Seventh Cavalry, like a huge black blanket being towed by a speeding car. The rain came. It was a tropical downpour, with water drops as big as golf balls.

I heard a whoop from the other office; Therese, my houseguest. A few seconds she ran into my office, wearing a summer shirt, a bra and knickers. She grabbed my shoulder, leaned down and kissed me. “Let’s get the fuck out into this!”

“I’m Thor!” Lady Therese, goddeth of the thunder

So we ran out into my front yard, and her shirt was instantly soaked, clinging transparent to her skin. We squealed and yowled, running circles round each other and dancing at each other, furiously, stamping on the grass so the rain jumped, all energy and no grace. It was pagan enough.

Then the lightning struck; the thunder spoke only two seconds later.

The lightning bolt was only a couple of kilometres away. In lightning terms that’s right on top of you. The next bolt hit a tree on the property next door. The thunder was so fast, and close and loud that we both ducked, involuntarily.

Therese grabbed my arms and rolled down onto her back, pulling me down with her. On top of her. I pulled her shirt away from her body, and pushed her bra up, round her neck. She lifted her hips, so I shoved her knickers down to her knees, and put my foot into the gusset, pushing them the rest of the way down and off.

I said, “Um, I didn’t pack any condoms. Must have left them in my other underpants. I’ll- ”

She grabbed my shoulder again. “I’m still bleeding. You don’t mind a bit of blood, do you?”

“Fuck no.” That was the answer she expected. Years ago, when I started university, she’d been the first girl to cover my cock in her menstrual blood, so she knew I had no objection. (Though when I’d seen myself in the bathroom mirror post-fuck, that first time, with my cock covered in girl-gore, looking like it’d been in a car crash, I’d found that a bit of a shock. But I got used to it, and I’d never told her that.)

That skin feeling

“So you’re not going to get me pregnant. Fuck me. You can come in me.”

There were urgencies involved, so I said nothing and slipped my cock into warm, viscous cunt. We held each other and fucked, rolling each other over and over in the rain, with the lightning crashing around us, and the air we were in flashing into brilliance, and the thunder roaring.

Her cunt and my cock, sharing body territory, were wet and slippery, and because we’d started hard and fast, and continued faster, it was only a few minutes before I shouted something wordless, and made that space even wetter and more slippery. 

She shouted for me not to stop, so I stayed, still pumping furiously, hoping she’d come while I still hard. And she screamed, water pummelling her opened mouth, and she drew her knees up, since she was on her back at that stage. She wrapped her legs round me. We lay in the grass, gasping, while the rain poured onto us, not so much in drops but as if someone was tipping out baths and 40 gallon drums of warm water onto us. 

Thunderstorm fetish? Maybe.

Klick on the kiss for more Kink of the Week posts!

Taking my Leda: the Swan’s tale

Leda lay face down over a pillow, ass upraised,

Fresh and pinkly paddled, human, dangerously beautiful.

(Danger? I could get lost in there.) My talons scratch

Down the backs of her thighs, slapping brutally,

Then tightening to possess her athlete’s relaxed

Softness. I pull her thigh closer, to open her,

Hard cock yearning at the soft, sweet, sea-shelled clasp

Of her cunt. I knead my human girl.

 

leda from behindShe makes that short, low moan that drives me to hold

And hurt her, and I must put my knees between hers,

A feathered god mounting his mortal. My bone-like need

Thrusts forward. She engulfs me in her universe.

I gasp amazed and wordless love, awed by unity,

Then I take my girl and she takes my divinity.

Frisky business among the Venetian searchlights: Food for Thought Friday

f4tf_button2The Food for Thought Friday people have asked: 

Where is the riskiest/most adventurous place that you have had sex?

Did you get caught?

 

My answer:

Richard Wagner died in his rooms at a palazzo on the Grand Canal in Venice. The locals, naturally, turned this great historical building, rich in artistic associations, into a casino. 

Wagner's old digs. At night

Wagner’s old digs at night. See the dark area on the second floor, towards the left? We were there

A few years ago I went to the Casino de Venezia with Niamh, a girl I’d met in Dublin. Gambling bores me, and she said she didn’t care about casinos one way or the other. But I wanted to have a look at Wagner’s old rooms, and she came along because we were sharing a bed so we might as well share this too. Also, I’d promised and demonstrated that if she didn’t do as she was told I’d smack her arse. So there was that. She was fond of the hairbrush, in particular.

I guess I should admit that I’d answered her ad on Fetlife, once I realised I was going to be in Ireland for a while, so even before we’d met we’d both established that Niamh was a girl who liked doing as she was told. And getting a smacked arse. Anyway, there we both were. Niamh still wore that afternoon’s wonderful summer dress, the top of which was held up mainly by her breasts. I wasn’t so glamorous, since I was in jeans, but at least I had on decent shoes and a jacket. 

Once we were in the top floor I asked a few casino staff where the Wagner rooms were. They didn’t know. They’d never heard of Wagner. If I wanted an explanation of anything you could do with dice and some cards – in public, at least – then they’d be happy to help, but this Wagner fellow … They’d shrug and hold their hands open and empty.

I got annoyed with this, so when I found a closed door I opened it, and when I found a closed curtain I drew it. When I found the back stairs we went down them to the mezzanine floor where Wagner had lived. And died. It turned out that someone had made a Wagner Museum out of Wagner’s old rooms. It was closed of course. Well, it was closed in the sense that it was dark and there was no-one there. But I turned the door handle, and it opened.  

I wondered about security alarms, and decided that I could probably bullshit my way out of trouble if an alarm went off, and I held the door open for her. Then I followed, and after a minute it was clear that if there was an alarm someone had forgotten to switch it on. Italy’s cool like that. 

I moved through the exhibits, feeling a certain mix of excitement and disappointment. Excitement because we’re here, where Wagner lived! And this is his stuff! And disappointment because I’d hoped for some sense of communion and connection. But there wasn’t. There’s his piano, but he’s dead. He’s not here. 

Wagner's Rhinemaidens. They may kill you but it's worth it. Drawing: Arthur Packham (detail)

Wagner’s Rhinemaidens. They may kill you but it’s worth it. Drawing: Arthur Rackham (detail)

But there was a certain kind of homage to the great man when Niamh came back from her exploration. I kissed her, and then pushed her dress down to her waist, so her breasts were bare.

Like a Rhinemaiden’s. Like a Flower Maiden. Then I put light pressure on her shoulders and she sank to her knees, unzipped me and took out my cock. She licked, then kissed my glans, then opened her mouth a little wider. Oddly, it was me who said, “Ahhh.”

So I was standing there, my cock deep in the mouth of a bare-breasted Irish girl, when I heard something. A security guard had walked onto the mezzanine floor. He’d seen us. I put my hands on Niamh’s shoulders and squeezed, to let her feel how pleased I was with her, though my cock was already conveying that information, and to obscure her peripheral vision.

Then I looked at the security guard and shrugged the apologetic Italian shrug. Niamh was still sucking me, oblivious. He considered for a second or two: is a couple having oral sex in the museum likely to steal things? Or are they innocents pursuing innocent and harmless pleasures? He didn’t smile, but he lit a cigarette (yes, I know; it’s an old building) and wandered back to the stairs. 

overthewallLater I pulled out of Niamh’s mouth and took her by the hand. I opened the window out onto the Grand Canal. There was a ledge with a stone barrier. There were also lights lighting up the front of the casino, but they left pools of darkness at the sides of each projector. So that’s where I bent her over, smacked her pretty little ass, and took a condom from my wallet and put it on my cock. And put my cock in her. 

You’d think that was the riskier situation, but it wasn’t. Our view was fantastic, lights and gondolas and vaporetti, and the throng of people, and so was the softness of her cunt and my hardness sliding slowly together, and the gritty stone under her breasts, uncomfortable in the good way, and our urgency slowly building.

It’s a good place to fuck. Venice is a city for lovers, because without us there wouldn’t be the money to pay to preserve all those drowned streets and buildings. So there aren’t many people in Venice, I don’t think, who don’t like the sight of bare breasts joggling while their owner gets pumped from behind.

But they missed out. Even when Niamh and I came, fairly close together, and not completely succeeding in suppressing orgasm noises (we sounded like donkeys coughing), not a soul noticed us.