hotel (1)

Hotel room.

It’s evening, most of a bottle of wine drunk between us, all our clothes stripped off except for your socks – overlooked in our hungry fumbling – and the lace bralette that’s pushed up over my tits. I’m sitting on your lap, toes just brushing the carpet, barely enough to balance, and I’ve got one hand down between my legs.

‘Keep touching yourself,’ you say, not so much commanding as impulsive, like you can’t help it, like you really want to see it, and I do: let my fingertips slip in circles playing round my clit. I’m swollen and wet with my own slick and lube, too, from the toys we started with earlier; wet enough now that I’m slipping a little on your thighs. You tighten your forearm that’s braced across my hips and to hitch me a little closer against your chest. Your other hand is up playing with one of my nipples, rolling it between your fingers just hard enough that my body gives a little quiver with every tug.

“I’m gonna – oh fuck – I want you,” I say, not very coherent, grinding over your lap. I can feel your breath on the back of my neck and the weight of your cock jerking against the inside of my thigh and –

“please,’ I say, frantic, ‘fuck me, let me, please,’ and you tighten your forearm, graze your teeth over my shoulder. I try to wriggle down, to grind against you harder, take you inside, and you pinch my nipple in the web of two of your fingers, a duller, deeper pinch than fingertips would be.

‘After,’ you say, ‘wanna see you,’ and you move your hand down from my breast and pull one of my legs wider apart so you can see my fingers slipping and rubbing, see the tendons jumping in my inner thigh, see my pussy pink and glistening. Your cock isn’t twitching now, anymore, is pressed hard and straining between my legs, just beside my cunt. I can see it there, see the bright sheen of precum over its head, see –

that does it: I arch back against you, legs pulling up involuntary, scream choked short because fuck, hotel, thin walls. I sit awhile on your lap while the aftershocks settle, tracing my fingers over your cock. It judders up against my open palm.

‘Now?’ I say, breathless, and you answer with a noise low in your throat and take me to bed.

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hotel (1)

string

I’ve been doing some cross-stitch so I’ve had some yarn lying around, and when I first was trying to think of a photo idea I looked at it and thought “hmm maybe I’ll sort of… tie it around the base of each breast, really tight, to get a super cool bondage look”.
Alas, dear reader, this Did Not Work to the most profound imaginable extent (I suspect due to the size of my tits and also due to the, uh, rules of physics). So! This is what I ended up with in the end, haha.
I don’t mind it, though; there’s something sort of nicely symbolic (if a bit obvious) about physically framing parts of yourself, stringing lines around [body part X ]; it goes beyond passive acceptance (‘yeah my [X] is ok’) to ‘this is something a bit worth marking out’.
Anyway that’s my pseudo-philosophising for this week, lol — it’s just my tits with some string round them, really!
Check out the smooch at the bottom of the post for more Sinful Sunday posts! x
IMG_6652
Sinful Sunday

 

string

When she masturbates she likes to open her legs, sometimes lying down, sometimes sitting up against one end of the couch with a knee pressed up against its back; she likes to imagine she’s being watched, that someone’s sitting at the other end of the couch and watching her, that their skin’s gone flushed from it, from watching the hitch of her hips up into her fingers, the shiny slick of her pussy, the way her cunt gapes hungry and the curve of her open thighs.

She imagines them telling her things, not urgent, not even commanding, just – things: ‘keep ’em open, easy, honey, open up,’ when her legs start to shake and stiffen, and she takes a deep shuddering breath and lets them fall back apart, lets the coiling ache inside her lengthen, diffuse through her body, go deeper.

Sometimes when she gets close, when she shoves all the fingers of her free hand into her cunt and curls up over herself, muscles locking up, she bites at the skin of her knees and arms and imagines being watched, imagines that voice saying ‘baby god you’re so hot I just wanna taste you so bad’ and she comes, sometimes, like that — mostly silent, just one low cry and the wracking aftershocks as she flutters around her own fingers.

ships passing

She finds him in the kitchen, not on purpose, he’s just there when she comes down the hall at 3.14 am for a drink of water. The last of the party’s stragglers are still out in the back, smoking, maybe, laughter muted through the walls. She stands in the kitchen doorway and the furnace kicks in and it’s snowing outside, slow flakes drifting past the kitchen window. He’s standing in front of the sink, hands on the edge of the counter, leaning into his arms a little, looking out at the front yard and the snow. His hair is mussed, bedhead-fuzzy, and he’s only wearing his briefs.

She’s wearing a pair of ugly old panties that say ‘hot bananas!!’ on them and a tank top that got shuffled to pajama duty when she spilled wine on it last summer. She stands in the doorway and looks at him, tall and almost naked and broader than he’s been since she’s known him, and her toes curl against the cold linoleum.

She must have made a noise, because he turns his head and sees her.

‘Hey,’ he says, and does that thing where he almost smiles, a twitch at one corner of his mouth.

‘I’m just,’ she says, walking across the floor, glad of the darkness, ‘water, I’m just, I’m. Thirsty.’

He moves away from the sink a little, just a little, still close enough that her shoulder brushes against his arm. She picks up a glass and doesn’t move and her eyes track over the rim of the sink, up his forearm, his waistband, the heavy jerk of his dick under his briefs. There’s a line of dark fuzz just at the top of his thighs. Unshaven, then, and for no explicable reason her nipples harden. She puts the mug down, feels a little like she’s floating.

‘Hey,’ he says, and she looks up and then, so quick she hardly knows it, his mouth is on her and her ass is up on the counter and her legs are wrapped around his waist. It’s like, she’s had, it’s like a dream, she’s had this dream before, but this time his fingers in her panties are solid and warm and his breath is a little sleep-funky and he’s real, real scruff against her lips and his cock pressed up hard between them. She lets a hand drag down his chest and feels the tip of him, wet and slippery, leaking over the elastic of his shorts.

‘Quick,’ she says, before it’s over, before the smokers stumble in, before some ghost of the past, her past, his, comes between them, ’yes,’ and his tongue does something wet and vital in her mouth.

He lifts her, hesitates, moves towards the table, and she takes one second, two, to look at his face, the thirsty curves of the way his mouth hangs a little open, the judder on the underside of his jaw when he takes a breath, the way one eye crinkles a little, almost a wink. She twists in his arms, gets the ball of one foot on the chair and a knee on the table, grips its edge with both hands. He’s as hungry as she is, is palming his cock up between her thighs almost before her knees are planted. She feels his knuckles twisting, two fingers inside her, three, maybe, and then the full-length shudder of his body against the backs of her thighs. Then he’s pushing inside her and she makes a noise, guttural-sharp, and his hand clamps over her mouth, hard.

‘No,’ he says, soft, and keeps his hand there as he grinds a little into her, settles himself, and pulls out agonisingly slow. His other hand finds her waist, strokes down over one hip. He puts one foot up onto the seat of the chair and starts to fuck into her – easy, rocking thrusts that leave her trembling, trying to get her breath. She puts her head down and his hand pulls against her lips and he slips two fingers inside her mouth, lets them flutter against her tongue. She can taste herself on his fingertips.

‘Touch yourself,’ he says, still soft, more pleading than command, and she takes a deep shuddery breath and puts a hand between her legs, lets two fingers play in little circles around her clit. His breath is getting threadier, harsher, and his thrusts a little uneven. He leans down over her back and lets his mouth graze warm over her spine, and that does it – she spasms around him, knees shaking, moaning against his palm, and he makes a noise she thinks about for a long time after and stutters against her, seizes, locks his knees as he comes inside her.

She cleans up with a paper towel and then sits for a minute on his lap, his arms wrapped around her and his head bowed into the back of her neck. Outside it’s stopped snowing. She has a drink of water, still trembling, and then there’s the stirring of someone at the other end of the house. A door creaks. One long look between them and then she’s back down the hall, in her room, paper towel still balled in one fist.

She stands there in the dark for a long, long time.

 

ships passing

tangled

You’d typed out and deleted the text three times before you’d sent it, finally. You in the area? Off my feet for a few days, could use the company. He travelled a lot – you were never sure, one week to the next, whether he’d be in town, but your phone had buzzed a few minutes later. Hurt? What happened? And then, before you’d finished the reply, Back in town by tonight. Chicken or chinese?

You wished, vaguely, that it was a more sensational reason – something sexy, or at least entertaining. I was mown down by a rogue group of segways or I fell down the stairs during an over-enthusiastic threesome. But this was just a bad attack of kidney stones, one that had hit two days before just as coffee break arrived at your office job. It’d started like sudden bad cramps and got terrifyingly worse, terrifyingly fast – by the time you’d made it to the hospital the pain was so bad you’d lost the ability to focus your eyes and had vomited messily all over the front foyer, had moaned and yelled on a cot till they gave you morphine, finally. You’d been discharged an hour ago, after emergency surgery, been sent home with instructions on how to tell when the pieces had passed, and now you were camped gingerly on the sofa, medicated to the gills, still sore but almost oppressed by the sheer relief from the worst of the pain. You hadn’t known there was pain like that, and that thought too made you feel weird, like there was this whole realm of human experience you’d underestimated.

There’s a knock, but he knows it’ll be open and shoulders his way through the doorway before you’ve got both feet on the floor.

‘Don’t move,’ he hollers from the hall, ‘I’m good.’ You can hear his boots hitting the floor as he toes them off and then he’s in the living room, stooping over the couch to kiss your forehead, bag of chinese food in one hand. The other rests for a second on your hair.

‘Kidney stones, fuck!’ he says, like it’s impressively horrifying, like you’re Indiana Jones and you’ve just battled through a pit of snakes, and you want to kiss him more than you already did. He goes into the kitchen and puts the bag on the counter. You can hear him shuffling, finding the plates, opening styrofoam boxes. ‘They got you on the good stuff?’

‘Mm,’ you hum at him, kick the blanket around a little, draw your legs up to make room for him on the sofa. He comes back in with plates of food and hands you one, sinks into the couch and pulls your feet and shins back over his thighs. It’s nice, the warm heat of him and the softness of his touch, comforting in a way the pain meds don’t reach.

Not that you don’t like the pain meds.

‘How’re things?’ you say, around chow mein. ‘Thank you for coming, I know it was super last minute.’

He brushes this aside, shakes his head.

‘On my way back anyway – wasn’t a problem.’ His hand is running up your shin, his little finger tracing absently over your kneecap. ‘Been too long, anyway.’

‘Yeah.’ You grin, fumble for the remote. ‘Whattaya wanna watch?’

He doesn’t care, and you’re halfway through Penny Dreadful, so you press play on that; it’s a bit of a mess, as you try to catch him up on the convoluted storyline, but it’s nice. Companionable. His hand is still on your kneecap when the credits come up at the end of the episode, which is also nice. You let it play through till it ticks over to the next episode and then hit pause, hook a finger over two of his.

‘Hey.’

‘Hmm?’ He’s making that inquiring face that brings out his dimples, eyebrows raised, and you laugh.

‘Gonna kiss me?’

He grins, then, ducks his head till his jaw meets his collarbone, squeezes your fingers.

‘I mean – you’re walking wounded still, wasn’t sure -’

Kiss me,’ you say, tug on his arm a little, and he scoots up the couch till he’s right up beneath your thighs, leans sideways and cups your head in one hand. It’s gentle, undemanding, but you pitch right into him, get both your hands up into his hair. ‘I’m fine,’ you say, ‘just – if you’re ok with – mellow.’

He laughs against your mouth.

‘Think that’s alright,’ he says, and pulls just a little away. ‘I can do mellow.’

‘There’s condoms under the sink,’ you say, tugging at his shirt, and he starts to laugh so hard then that his shoulders are shaking before you even get his shirt over his head.

‘I’m not that impatient,’ he says, dimpling harder, and you flick your eyes up at him, laughing back.

‘I am,’ you say, and start to struggle your sweatpants down over your ass. ‘I am.

By the time he’s back you’re naked from the waist down and thank god it’s a deep couch, big enough that if you roll up against the back there’s room for him beside you. He shucks off his jeans and shorts and rolls on a condom, jerks himself a couple of times to adjust it right down over the root of his dick.

‘You’re ok?’ he says, one more time, swinging one knee up over you and planting it right in the back of the couch. It sinks behind the cushion and you roll a little towards him, against the inside of his knee. The inside of his – hnnng, his thigh, and in spite of how sore you are your hips hitch up involuntarily towards him, enough that his cock brushes against you.

‘I’m fine,’ you say, breathless, ‘just – go a little gentle.’ He makes a noise in his throat, then, and settles in over you, gets an elbow up beside your head and puts the other hand down between you to guide his cock easy into your cunt. It feels so good that you stop breathing for a second, let your legs fall further open beneath him.

‘Mmmhm,’ you say, face pressed into the skin of his neck, bodies close together, sunk deep into the couch. He shifts, puts more of his weight onto his other elbow so that you both roll a little to the side, almost face to face, and his other arm slides down your body, lingers over your hip, and he gets his fingers spread around your ass and tucks you in against him, close and safe and open-legged, your shins tangling a little with his in the afghan at the foot of the couch. For a few minutes there’s silence, just him glancing at your face to make sure he’s not hurting you and your little gasps when he shifts a little and hits a different angle, one that makes your palms curl hard against his pecs. It’s different from most of the sex you’ve had with him, gentler, softer, but good, wet and close and so deep, and the cradling side-by-side means that it’s not just the thrusting of him inside you that makes your body thrum but his pelvis and thighs and the little softness of his tummy all pulling hungry against you, a dragging caress over all the sensitive nerves of your pelvis and belly. He’s breathing into your hair, not loudly, but you can feel the warm buzz of it against your scalp.

‘OK?’ he says, after a minute, laughing almost silently on the inhale, and you wriggle a little against him, pull him back directly on top of you.

So ok,’ you say, up into his face, and he grins and puts his head down into your shoulder and thrusts into you harder, a little bit faster, enough that you know that he’s close, and you fist one hand into the top of his hair and tighten around him. ‘So so ok,’ you whisper, again, against his ear, tongue flicking light over his earlobe, and he presses so hard you can feel the shape of his nose, the heat of his breath on your breast, and seizes hard, stuttering down deep into you.

You’re expecting him to lie there a minute but he pulls out, rolls off and knots the condom almost in one movement and is bent back over your belly, one knee hanging off the couch now, thumbs grazing up the inside of your thighs.

‘Fuck,’ he says, once, when he’s nudging your legs back apart, and then his face is between them and gentle, so gentle, no fingers even, just his mouth not even so much licking as soothing and trembling-hot over your clit and you’re so close already, you can blink and still feel his cock pressing heavy inside you and you come, that long dragging wrung-muscle kind that puts stars behind your eyes for a second and that’s mostly inside, just your thighs trembling a little under his hands.

‘That was fun,’ you say, when he’s gone to throw out the condom and settled in back by your feet, pulled the afghan over both of you. He turns, gives you that smile that makes your heart hiccup a little every time.

‘It was,’ he says. ‘Settle in now, honey, we’ve got another three episodes to go. Beer OK with those meds?’

tangled

lurch

7.02. The screen of your phone lights up and it’s a text from him. Same safeword, yeah? Your heart stutters into a quicker pulse and you pick up the phone, wiping dishwater off on your skirt. Yep.

Hands back in the dishwater, cheeks flushing hot, pretending to scrub at a pot while you wait. The door from outside opens, closes, and then his stride on the stairs, long and loping. You don’t look round when he comes into the kitchen, crosses the room without breaking stride and grabs you, turns you round, presses you hard back over the sink with a hand on your neck, close up under your jaw, and the other clamped tight between your legs. Two of his fingers slip under the seam of your panties and dig up inside you, painfully hard. Possessive.

‘Hey!’ you say, struggling a little against him, hands pressed flat and straining against his chest. He makes a little huff of pleasure.

So wet,” he says, “yeah, you want it, don’t you,” and pulls you down to the floor, rolls over you, pins you with an arm across your chest and a thigh pressed between your legs. You thrash, arms flailing, try to get a leg up between you, but he grabs your knee and forces it to the side, flat to the floor. He holds it there with one of his shins while he scrabbles at his belt and pulls out his cock, long and almost fully hard, stroking it twice loosely in his fist. He kneels over you, one of your knees still under his shin, and presses your other leg open with one hand. The other hand is back on your neck, tight, thumb stroking soft over your windpipe.

You’re moaning but no sounds are making it past his fingers, and he’s pressing hard enough on your neck that you can’t move your head, can’t move anything at all. You can feel your face going red, eyes popping a little, can feel the black at the back of your eyeballs as he pushes roughly inside you, cock pressing close and heavy in your cunt. No lead up, no feeling-out strokes, just quick jackhammer fucking, his ass flexing as he pounds into you, legs sprawled behind him half-bent against the floor. It’s so fast and hard you hardly feel the individual strokes, just the relentless weight and friction of him, his hand sliding up from your throat to cover your mouth and half of your face, his body holding yours pinned helpless to the ground. The lurch of your body under the impact of his hips and the feel of him heavy and slick inside you collapses all your senses into a sort of choking shudder against his fingers.

“You like just taking it?’ he says, after a minute, voice low. “Like getting a cock forced inside you, slut? Like me pushing it in and keeping it there, gonna fuck you no matter what you do, keep you full of me till I feel like being done. You like taking it deep and hard, don’t you, not up to you, take it baby girl take it.’

When you come it surprises you, not just the suddenness but how strong it is – knock-your-head-against-the-floor strong, shaking aftershocks for minutes after. He slows inside you, lets go of your knees, resettles himself between your legs and then rolls over, taking you with him so you’re lying atop his body, his dick still pressing up hard and a little crooked inside you.

‘That was hot,’ he says, and kisses you on the nose. You sit up to straddle him, still unsteady, get your knees on the floor. He’s still got his clothes on and so do you, rumpled and breathing heavy. You take his tie and let it run out between your fingers.

‘Mm,’ you say, and start to move .

lurch

fire drill

‘Where are you?’ you say. It’s 9.15 am and you’re stuck outside in the office parking lot in the middle of a fire drill, shuffling your feet and watching the muster point wardens disinterestedly checking people off their lists.

‘Kitchen,’ he says, on the other end of the line – you called him just to say hi, and also to pass the time, and also you’re maybe in love with him. Just an unofficial little bit in love. You can hear the clatter of dishes in the background, the sloshing of liquid. ‘Coffee.’

There’s a little silence.

‘Whaddaya wearing?’ you say, singsong, almost a joke but not quite. He clears his throat, makes a kind of grunting chuckle.

‘Housecoat,’ he says, ‘and those, uh, those shorts you got me that time.’

That takes a minute to hit, but then

‘oh!’ you say, and stop. You’d tossed them in his basket for a laugh when he’d been through town a few months back and you’d done a 2 am Walmart run: a black micro-fibre thong dotted with grey stars. You take a second to picture it stretched up snug around his balls, tight over the line of his –

He’s talking.

‘…not so bad,’ you catch, ‘and as you know I’ve got one fine fuckin’ ass.’

‘Shit,’ you say, and your co-workers look at you, so it must have been pretty loud. ‘I never thought you’d actually – gosh – what are – I mean, you’re just hanging all thongalicious in the kitchen?’

‘Well,’ he says, ‘since you ask, I’m sittin’ on the edge of a table and I’m gonna jerk one off pretty quick here.’

‘Shit!’ you say, and take four steps away from the cluster of officemates, turn around. ‘Fuck, c’mon, you can’t do this to me – I’m stuck in a fire drill.’

‘Too bad you ain’t got my hose,’ he says, but before you can mock him there’s a groan over the line, so low and gut-real it makes you flush up your throat. ‘Oh honey wish you were here.’

You lick your lips.

‘What are you doing?’ you say, a little frantic, ‘they’re gonna call us in soon, quick quick.’ You can see the wardens starting to nod at each other across the parking lot. ‘What are you – are you – how hard are you? Are the shorts pulled right down?’

‘Yup.’ You can hear his breathing pick up a little and the thump of something – a chair leg? – in the background. ‘Got ‘em pulled right down under the balls, like you like ‘em.’ You flush bright red, put your hand up to your face. ‘And I’m – yeah, I’m hard as they come, honey – fuck.’

‘What?’ You’re walking back up to the building now. Everyone else is inside and the last of the monitors is standing at the door, obviously waiting for you. ‘Shit – I can’t really say any more, going back into the – I’ll listen though, keep, keep telling me.’

‘OK,’ he says, and you’d swear you can hear the thwick thwick of his fist jerking quick over his dick. ‘That’s hot, baby, you on the line but you can’t touch yourself or even make a noise – uggghh, getting close – christ – bet you’re getting wet cause you want it, don’t you, you want this dick so good and hard between your legs, baby, fuck, fuuuuck, just say yeah, say it, say it, Christ I’m gonna-’

Yeah,’ you say, halfway up the stairs, perfectly still and gripping the rail with one hand like it’s salvation, and you hear him grunt twice close together, long and torn up from the bottom of his chest, and you’re gripping your phone so hard it’s leaving dents in the pads between your knuckles.

He laughs, warm like melted honey, and it goes right through you.

‘Ok there?’ he says, and you take a light shuddery breath, make your feet start up the stairs again. You’re astonished they’re working.

‘I’ll call you later,’ you say, like a threat, ‘once I’m home,’ and he says

‘You’d better.’

fire drill