The Maids, The Butler, and The Housekeeper – Part II

Mr Bolton removed his jacket as he waited behind the door until he heard Alice’s shuffling footsteps fade to the end of the corridor, and then left the room, turning to the right and walking the few paces to the next door along the corridor.  He opened it without knocking and walked in.  Mrs Withers was standing by the fireplace, her face flushed, still clutching the glass which he presumed minutes before had been pressed against the wall so that she could listen.

“I take it you heard that.”

Her breathing was heavy as she nodded wordlessly.

“Was that to your satisfaction?”

Another nod.

“That needn’t have been necessary, you know, Mrs Withers.  You could’ve taken her in hand yourself long before this point.  She could’ve been better guided.  That punishment was entirely avoidable.”

“Yes, Mr Bolton.  I’m sorry.” her voice was quiet, breathy, laden with anticipation.

“Alice’s poor performance reflects badly on you and your negligence.”

“Yes, Mr Bolton.”

Without another word, Mrs Withers put the glass carefully on the mantlepiece and walked towards her single bed, leaning over it and resting on her forearms, her legs straight.  With no further conversation, Mr Bolton walked towards her and lifted her skirts up over her hips, unlacing her drawers to expose her buttocks.  He heard her draw a deep breath as he unfastened his belt and removed it from the loops on his breeches, doubling it over in his hand.  Mrs Withers’ mature hips were relatively broad, and her bottom presented a smooth round target, her skin pale in the candlelight.

He took a step to the side slightly, judging the distance between himself and Mrs Withers with a practised eye.  She held her breath as he raised his arm and brought the belt crashing down across her bottom.  She neither flinched nor made a sound beyond a slight gasp, her thighs clenching slightly and then relaxing as she exhaled.  Another stroke, and she responded the same way, with a careful breath.  Mr Bolton rolled up his shirtsleeve and loosened his collar, before applying a third stroke, this time eliciting a faint and muffled grunt from Mrs Withers.  A hint of a smile appearing on his lips, he delivered another stroke, and another, and another, with barely enough time for Mrs Withers to draw a slow breath between each one.

Her composure broken by the three rapid strokes, Mrs Withers gripped the bedsheets, pressing her face against the pillow and biting her lip so as not to cry out.  The red stripes which had initially crossed her skin had merged to one bright red patch by now, and Mr Bolton continued his efforts, extending the blush to the tops of her thighs.  He paused after that stroke, as she had begun to quiver, shifting her weight from foot to foot, her fleshy cheeks wobbling slightly.  She stopped moving and straightened her legs before he needed to instruct her, and he raised the belt once more.

By the time he was finished, his own breath was as almost as heavy as Mrs Withers’, and he let the belt fall to the floor.  She had cried out with each stroke towards the end – albeit into the pillow – and her skin was bright red, with some raised welts, from the top of her buttocks to halfway down her thighs, and he surveyed his work with some little satisfaction.  For her part, Mrs Withers kept her face in the pillow, not quite sobbing, but her chest heaved and the pillow was damp under her cheeks.

“Thank you, Mr Bolton.” she murmured, just about audible through her ragged breathing, and as she did so, while remaining bent over the bed, she moved her legs a little further apart.  Mr Bolton rubbed at his groin, feeling the tightness in his breeches, and the heat inside him which had been building since Alice had left his office.  He took a deep breath, and fancied that he could detect a hint of the scent from between Mrs Withers’ legs.  He instinctively reached out with one hand, and she tensed briefly with a slight shiver as his fingers brushed against her moist lips.  He could feel her desire, her need clearly as strong as his own, and as his fingers explored insistently, pushing inside her, he began to unfasten his own breeches with his free hand.

She turned her head slightly from the pillow, with a half-smile of anticipation as she saw the shadow of his profile dancing slightly against the wall in the the light from the candles and the small fire in the grate, his breeches now around his knees and his member standing proud and erect as he reached for it, taking a step to position himself behind her.  She felt him rub himself back and forth against her, and he sighed at the sensation of his hard shaft brushing over the coarse hair between her legs.

“Please…” she whispered hoarsely, “Oh, please..” and arched her back down a little, her hips moving back towards him, and her burning skin tingling as it met his.

Mr Bolton needed no second bidding, and taking his cock in his hand, he guided it between her lips, feeling her accept him inside her willingly.  He did not stop, and continued until he had buried the full length of his shaft in her, and she gave a sigh of contentment as he lingered a while, before placing his hands firmly on her hips and withdrawing.  He paused briefly to look down at himself, a smile of approval at the way his skin glistened with her juices, before plunging back into her again.  This time she moaned softly and he began to slide himself in and out of her, slowly.  She gasped and moaned with each thrust into her, and winced slightly each time his body brushed against her stinging bottom.  That only seemed to spur her on, however, and she pushed back against him, feeling him deep inside, stretching her.

Her whole body felt alive, tingling sensations dancing over every inch of her skin, but she tried to keep her climax at bay for as long as possible, not wanting to interrupt Mr Bolton’s rhythm.  She could feel his climax building in the way his shaft twitched and throbbed inside her.  Eventually she could bear it no longer.  She felt her body tense and shudder, clenching around Mr Bolton’s stiff cock, her incoherent moans muffled as she pressed her face into the damp pillow.  She dug her fingers into the bedsheets, gripping them tightly as wave after wave of exquisite pleasure washed over her, finally receding to leave her breathless and sagging against the bed.

Mr Bolton withdrew his aching cock from her hole and took it in his hand, wrapping his fingers around it as he placed his other hand on the small of her back, as if to hold her in position.  Stroking his hand back and forth, the glistening tip rubbing against her blushing buttocks, he felt his own climax rushing through him, a fire burning deep inside.  His legs tensed and his toes curled as if to grip the rug beneath his feet, a long low moan escaping from his lips.  Gripping his cock tightly, he held it still, and felt it pulse and twitch in his fingers, his spunk spurting freely over Mrs Withers’ reddened bottom.  Creamy white streaks landed across her skin, shining in the candlelight, and she finally let herself sink the last few inches to lie on the bed, exhausted.

“Thank you, Mr Bolton.” she sighed through a contented smile, as she turned her head and watched him pull his breeches back up, taking the belt from the floor and threading it back through the loops.

“And thank you, Mrs Withers.” he replied, straightening his collar.  He rolled his shirtsleeve back down and fastened the cuff, and turned to walk slowly to the door.

“I shall see you at breakfast.”

“You shall indeed Mr Bolton, bright and early.

And as she heard the door click shut behind him, her hand drifted lazily back between her legs, seeking a second climax.


The Maids, the Butler, and the Housekeeper

The glow from the gas mantles flickered as he entered the room and pushed the door closed behind him, making the shadows that lived in the corners shift and swing.  She pulled her arms closer to herself, as if to draw herself inwards, to make herself smaller, perhaps so that he wouldn’t see her waiting in his office.  But of course, he had seen her.  He’d known she was here, sent to wait for him.  Mrs Withers had sent her – she’d told him as much, and she’d told him why.  Mrs Withers liked to run a tight household and, firmly believing that discipline was the key to that, regularly called upon him to administer it.

She winced as he walked past her, and sat in the leather armchair in the corner of the room.  Seeming not to be paying any attention to her at all, he picked up a book from the table and opened it, reading a page or two as she stood, still trying to make herself appear as small and insignificant as possible.  Minutes passed, he turned a page, read some more, sighed, turned another page, and breathed in deeply before resting the open book in his lap.  He looked across at her then, and took her in.  She was ready for bed, as was always the way, in a simple white cotton nightdress that almost reached her knees, and her fair hair was tied up with strips of rag.  She held her arms across her chest, and her feet were pointed inwards, one slightly over the other, her knees touching.  She kept her face downcast, only turning her eyes to catch sight of him as he watched her from his chair.

“Mrs Withers sent you to me.” It was a statement, rather than a question.
“Yes, sir.” she replied, barely audible.
“My performance has been sloppy.” her voice still hardly more than a whisper.
“Yes, sir.  Sloppy.”
“Sloppy how?” he raised one eyebrow.
“I don’t know, sir.  Mrs Withers said I’d been sloppy, and I was to report to you.”
“You take too long to lay the fires in the morning.  You don’t clean your hands properly afterwards and so you leave grubby finger marks on the table cloths, the bedding, the china, and practically everything else you touch.  You spill soup when you carry it from the kitchen to the dining room, you drip tea onto the tray from the teapot after you’ve poured it and you drop vegetables when you serve them.  You are supposed to be a servant, Alice.  Someone dragged in off the streets would do a better job.”
“I never said I could serve at table when I applied, sir.” Alice was abashed, her voice barely audible.
“Speak up!”
“Sorry sir.  I said I never said I could serve at table, sir.”
“It’s a given, Alice.  Do you know what that means?  It means that when you apply for a job and claim to be an experienced servant we assume that you know how to perform certain basic tasks.  It’s not as if you’ve been given anything complicated, Alice, and yet you consistently fail to carry out simple instructions effectively and quickly.”
She said nothing.
“Did you lie when you came to work for us, Alice?”
Still she said nothing.
“How many houses have you worked for before you came here?  Speak up girl!”
“One, sir.”
“One?  One?  When you applied, you told Mrs Withers three.”
“I.. I was desperate sir.”
“Am I to assume then, that you did not leave your former employer to be closer to your sick mother?”
“No, sir.” She was looking at the floor again, her voice almost lost against the sound the fire in the hearth.
“You were sacked, weren’t you Alice?”
She simply nodded.

The problem with Alice, as far as Mr Bolton could see, was that her general incompetence did not seem to be necessarily wilful.  The girl did try, she just didn’t try quite hard enough.  She was extremely personable, and had become popular with the rest of the staff almost as soon as she arrived.  But her sloppiness couldn’t be allowed to continue, and now it was clear that she’d lied in her letter of application.  None of this could go unpunished, Mrs Withers would be expecting it.

“Despite your lies, Alice, I think you have potential.  This is not a complicated job to learn, and I feel sure that if you apply yourself properly, you can manage it.  It will be hard work, but if you are prepared to put in the effort, then I will do what I can to help you.  Do you think you can put in the effort, Alice?”
Alice nodded.
“Very well.  We will keep your lies between us.  I shall tell Mrs Withers that you are going to pull your finger out, and you, in turn, will not let me down.  I will ensure that you are not placed to serve at table this week, and tomorrow evening you will come here for an hour, and I will show you how to serve vegetables without dropping them.  The fires you will have to just get quicker at yourself.  And be more careful about washing your hands.”
“Thank you Mr Bolton.”  Tears of relief were almost stinging her eyes.
“And in one month, if Mrs Withers does not feel that there has been a significant improvement, or if she has cause to send you to me again before then, I will have no choice but to let you go.  Do we understand each other well?”
“Yes Mr Bolton.  Very well.  Thank you sir.” her voice almost cracked.

“Nonetheless,” he closed his book and put it on the table “Mrs Withers has requested that you be punished for your incompetence.  In the light of your dishonesty, I am inclined to agree with her.  I shall punish you severely, Alice, for your incompetence and dishonesty, and then we shall see what we can to make sure I don’t have to punish you again.”
Alice felt her legs weaken, and she put out a hand onto the mantelpiece to steady herself.
“Go to the cupboard, and fetch my whip.” his words cut through the air like a razor-sharp sword.
Alice fought against her desire to stay rooted to the spot, dragging her feet across the hearthrug to the other side of the room, and, her hand shaking, opened the wooden cupboard.  There were two hooks on the back of the door, and on one of them hung a divided leather strap.  She knew the strap.  It was almost exactly like one her teacher had used on her when she was much younger.  It hurt.  The edges bit into the skin and it left bruises that would ache for days, but as long as she wouldn’t be sacked, she would endure it.  As she reached for it, his voice shocked her out of the memories of her youth.
“Not that.  The whip!”
She had been so fixed on the strap, and the memories of classroom humiliation, that she hadn’t noticed what hung next to it.  Her hand reacted to his voice and she took the whip from its hook without any intervention from  her brain.  It was long, and thin, and quite stiff, and her hands shook slightly as she handed it to him.

He stepped back from her, and swished it quickly through the air, the sound making her shiver and pull her arms around herself as she tried to shrink back against the wall.
“Take off your nightdress, Alice, and place your hands on the mantelpiece.
“Sir?  Off, sir?”
“Yes of course Alice.  Take it off!”
Mr Bolton was starting to sound impatient, and she hurriedly pulled her nightdress up over her head, and draped it across a simple wooden chair.  She kept one arm folded across her breasts, and used her other hand to cover her dignity.
“Face the fire, Alice, and place your hands on the mantelpiece.  Quickly girl.”
His voice was almost snapping now, and she did as she was told with no further hesitation.
“Now take a step backwards.”
Alice let go of the mantel and stepped back.
“Keep your hands on the mantelpiece!  Step back but keep your hands on the mantelpiece!”
“Sorry Mr Bolton.”  Alice stammered, and leaned forward, her arms outstretched and resting on the shelf above the fireplace, her hands either side of a modest mantel clock which ticked quietly.
“That’s better.  Now remain in that position, and do not let go, do you understand me?”
“Yes Mr Bolton.”
The fire warmed the fronts of her legs and her stomach, almost to the point that it was uncomfortable, but Alice was about to learn that the fire on her legs would be the least uncomfortable thing about this experience.

She heard the whip swish through the air a few times more, and each time she winced.  Then silence.  All she could hear was the clock ticking in front of her, the fire crackling softly, and the soft hiss of Mr Bolton breathing through his nose.  Suddenly, with no warning at all, the whip sliced through the air and landed across her exposed bottom.  Her reaction was instant – she let go of the mantelpiece, reaching around to grab her cheeks, and dropped to her knees.
“Aaaahhh!   Ahhh!    Aaaahhhh!” her breath came in short gasps as she curled herself up on the floor.
“Get up Alice!  I did not tell you that you could move.  Do you think that would be it?  One stroke?  I have news for you Alice, this is not nearly done, not by a long way.  Now get up and get back into position, or you’ll be back here every night for a fortnight!  I shall count to ten.  One…  Two.. Three..”

Alice could tell that this was no idle threat.  By the time Mr Bolton had counted to six, she was back on her feet, trembling, and by eight her hands were firmly on the mantelpiece once more.
“That’s better.  I will not tolerate disobedience, Alice.  I have tolerated quite enough from you, and I think anyone would agree that I am being more than generous just by allowing you to keep your job, let alone agreeing to conceal your lies, and to help you to actually succeed in your job.  Now, you will take your punishment without any more fuss, won’t you Alice?”
“Yes what?”
“Yes Mr Bolton.  Sorry Mr Bolton.”
“That’s better.  I’m going to ensure that you remember this punishment for a good long while, Alice.  Hopefully, it will inspire you to a more diligent attitude to your work.”

On his last word, the whip sung through the air once more, landing with a loud snap across her bottom.  Clamping her mouth shut, Alice tried to stifle the urge to cry out
“Mmmmf!  Mmmmmmmmff!”
Again the lash fell, the sharp sound echoing slightly off the nearly bare walls, and again, and again.  On the fifth stroke, Alice’s fragile resolve cracked and she was no longer able to keep her teeth pressed together.
“Aaaah!  Ahhhowwww!  Please, no more!”
“No more Alice?  No more?  I will say when there is no more.”

The pain spread out over her bottom as his whip crashed onto her skin again and again, with pinpoint accuracy.  She could feel the burning throb over her cheeks and down the backs of her thighs, and as she shifted her weight from foot to foot, she felt the soreness of the strokes which had landed right across the cleft at the top of her thigh and the pain shot all the way through her body.  Occasionally Mr Bolton would stop as she wriggled in this fashion, and wait for her to be still, but as he did so, she could sense his impatience, and would stop quickly.

Alice had no idea how long she’d been enduring her punishment.  It felt like hours, the pain was unrelenting.  She tried to squint to see the clock, but she hadn’t taken any notice of when her punishment started, and her eyes were now so full of tears that she couldn’t see it anyway.  She sobbed and sniffed and moaned uncontrollably between strokes, and cried out loudly, howling with abandon at each impact, her whole body shaking, but terrified of letting go of the mantel piece.  Eventually, Mr Bolton stopped.

“That’s good Alice.”
She tried to sigh with relief, but her body just shook and her breath came in gasps, coughing and sobbing.
“Just six more strokes to go.  Six more, Alice, and then you can go.
She whimpered, a long low moan.
“Yes, Alice.  Six more, and you will count them aloud.”
He stepped back and swung the whip hard, catching her firmly across the centre of her burning crimson bottom.  Alice squealed and gasped, almost letting go of the mantel, fighting to gain control of her breath.

Mr Bolton nodded approval, and flicked the whip again, hard.  Again, Alice cried out with pain.  She couldn’t work out whether to be relieved that she only had four strokes left to take, or wonder how she could possibly endure them.

By the fifth stroke, Alice was nearly incomprehensible, driven temporarily mad by the burning pain that threatened to consume her.  But in the back of her mind, the part of her that still had some sense reminded her – one more stroke.  One more, and it will all be done.  Just take one more stroke.  She screwed her eyes shut, the tears rolling hot down her cheeks, and bit the inside of her lip.  The swish that the whip made as it cut its vicious path through the air seemed to last for ever.  Every fibre of her body braced itself for the impact, and just for a moment, for the first time since her punishment began, she felt as though she was quite still.  That changed when the whip landed.  Alice cried out with complete abandon, incoherent and anguished.  Her hands finally left the mantelpiece  and she dropped once more to her knees.  Reaching behind to tentatively touch her burning bottom, she rolled onto her side, sobbing uncontrollably.
“S…s..six.” she managed to whimper through her tears.

Mr Bolton calmly walked across his room to put the whip back on its hook in the cupboard, and then returned to Alice.  Crouching beside her, he tenderly placed his hands on her heaving shoulders, and helped her back up to a kneeling position.
“That’s it Alice.  It’s done now.  You were quite brave.”  All the stern command had gone from his voice now, and it sounded like the firm reassuring voice she’d become used to.  His words made her feel as though she had indeed been very brave, and her sobbing subsided a little.  He helped her to her feet, and handed Alice’s nightdress to her, even giving her a little assistance to put it back on as she trembled in front of the fire.  She almost cried out as the hem of the cotton shift brushed over her backside and the backs of her thighs, and she felt as though she’d never be able to sit comfortably again.

“Now, away to bed with you Alice.  Don’t be late to work in the morning, make sure you do your best all day, and I shall see you tomorrow evening.  I’m sure we’ll have you serving at table without spilling soup in no time.  I’ll speak to Mrs Withers, and make sure she has someone else help at lunch and dinner until such time as you can perform properly.”

“Thank you, Mr Bolton.” Alice whimpered as she limped out of the room and let the door close behind her.  The servants corridors and the narrow staircase to the room in the attic she shared with Evie seemed ten times as long as usual, and every step sent burning pain shooting over her skin as her nightdress brushed against her, but by the time she’d got to the door, she had the sobbing under control, and she paused outside to dry her cheeks and straighten her hair.

Don’t Speak…

It’s been entirely too long since I wrote some smut and shared it with you all.  One or two of you might’ve mentioned this to me.  Ok, so I’ve been slack about entertaining you for quite a while.  This is just a quick thing that popped into my head yesterday (probably when I should’ve been thinking about important, professional and above all, clean things, but you can never help when inspiration strikes), and I thought I’d quickly rattle it out and let you all have a read.  I should point out that it’s not a true story, it’s not even remotely true.  I mean, it might be true for someone out there, somewhere, but not me.  This has never happened to me.  Possibly because I tend not to catch buses.  So – enjoy.


It had been a busy afternoon, and I was later leaving work than usual, so it was already dark by the time I got on the bus.  It wasn’t particularly crowded, and after about fifteen minutes of the forty-five minute journey, I pretty much had the bus to myself, apart from a little clutch of old women near the front, on their way to bingo.  And that was when she got on.  I’d never seen her on the bus before, but then I was usually on it an hour or more earlier.  She was wearing a short dark jacket, a pencil skirt that came to just below her knees, a white blouse, and black shoes.  She had that walk.  You know the one – her hips didn’t sway exactly, they flowed.  That’s the best way I can describe it.  She flowed up the bus between the seats.  Not fast – her movement was deliberate and elegant.  As she swished past me I caught a hint of her perfume, and I couldn’t help but turn my head and watch, noticing the zip that ran up the back of her skirt and the seams on the backs of her legs – stockings, I naturally assumed.  I did at least manage to turn my head away before she looked around and busted me.

At the next stop I heard the clicking of her shoes as she walked back down the aisle.  Waiting for a glimpse of her legs and arse again as she walked off the bus, I was surprised to realise that she was only changing seats, taking up the empty place on the other side of the bus from me.  We looked at each other and smiled, and then she looked wistfully off towards the front of the bus.  Without acknowledging me further, she turned slightly, and lifted one leg onto the seat, giving me a clear view up her skirt as it rode up a little way.  My initial fantasy mental image had been correct – I could clearly see pale thighs above the deep lacy tops of her stockings, and a distinct lack of any panties, and as I looked, transfixed, she reached under her skirt with one hand and began to stroke her slit.  I was torn between looking and looking away, although it seemed clear that she wanted me to watch.  She ran her finger back and forth, slipping it between her lips, burying it inside herself before withdrawing it and stroking herself again.  Not once did she look at me as she did so, and after about five minutes she simply stopped and rearranged her skirt, before standing up and pressing the bell.  As the bus slowed, she stepped out from the seat and leaning over to me, she mouthed a “Sshh” and pressed her finger to my lips.  The scent of her cunt was all over her finger, and I could feel my cock throbbing with lust even after she’d removed it.  Just before she got to the front of the bus, she turned back, and gave me a gesture – a simple flick of her head.  I stood up and raised my eyebrows, and she nodded, so I followed her to the front of the bus and got off behind her.

As the bus pulled away I opened my mouth to tell her my name, and ask hers, but she put her finger back to my lips again and simply shook her head.  She then put her hand on my shoulder, giving me a firm grip for a couple of seconds before releasing it and backing slowly away, her finger and hand still held out in front of her, suggesting I should stand still.  This was weird, but I was too carried away to do anything else, and besides, I’d got off the bus now and I was still miles from home.  I’d have to wait here for an hour for the next bus anyway.  When she was about fifteen feet away from me, she turned and walked normally, turning her head back and giving me that flick gesture again.  I followed her at a distance, mesmerised by the movement of her hips and her arse, and the seams at the backs of her stockings.

We walked for about five minutes before she turned through the doors of a rather nice hotel, so maintaining the same distance, I followed across the foyer and onto the stairs.  I thought I’d lost her for a moment, but she had only left the stairs and walked across the landing.  I stood at the end, watching, as she took a room key out of her handbag and opened the door, giving me one last glance and another slow nod as she walked through.  Taking a deep breath of anticipation, I walked up to the door ready to knock, but she had left it open for me.  She was already on the other side of the room, looking out of the window at the lights of the city spread out beneath us.  I hung the privacy sign on the door handle and let it click shut behind me.

She had taken her jacket off and tossed it onto the bed, and I could see the shape of her properly now, the curve of her waist and hips, the way her skirt and blouse clung to her in just the right places.  The zip up the back of the skirt was already mostly undone, allowing a clear view of the tops of her stockings, and I crossed the room to stand behind her, reaching down and sliding my hand between her thighs.  She sighed, and I undid the zip the rest of the way, as she arched her arse out towards me.

Lowering myself to my knees, I crouched behind her, running my hands up and down the backs of her thighs, enjoying the change from her soft skin to the lacy tops of her stockings.  I could smell her now too, that delicious sweet scent of desire, and placing my hands on her buttocks, I pulled them apart and began to explore her with my mouth, my tongue darting over her skin, probing and teasing.  She leaned herself slightly forward, her elbows on the window sill, and pushed herself out more, allowing me to finally glide my eager tongue against her wet lips, tasting her, feeling her breathe deeply.  I took one hand away from her arse and began to push my finger into her cunt, feeling the heat of her body.  Her breathing was heavy and sounded almost like incoherent whispers as I started to work a second finger in and out, twisting them around inside her.

Keeping my fingers inside, I stood up slowly, and undid my trousers with my free hand, letting them fall to the floor and tugging my shorts down after them.  Grasping my hard cock, I began to rub the tip against her arse.  She let out a long low whispered moan at the pressure of my shaft against her bare skin, and I withdrew my fingers from her cunt, sliding my hand up her back, over her neck, and began twisting my fingers into her hair.  Suddenly gripping her hair tightly, I pressed the side of her face against the cold glass of the window.  She gasped, her eyes rolling with lust as she moved her legs a little further apart.  I guided my cock towards her tight hole, pressing the tip between her lips and feeling her start to give around me, accepting me inside.  The sensation of her sex was exquisite, clamping and pulsing around me, as I pushed myself deeper and deeper into her with each stroke.  Keeping her pressed against the window with one hand, I put my other arm around her waist, holding her steady.  Her eyes were closed, and her mouth open, and her lipstick left a pale red smear across the window as I fucked her as hard as I could.

I felt myself getting close, that unmistakeable tightening deep inside my body that spreads out with creeping tendrils of pleasure making random muscles clench and catching my breath in my throat.
“I’m coming!” I moaned, hoarsely.
“Not inside!” her voice was an urgent whisper, and I understood immediately.
Withdrawing my cock just in time, I took my arm from around her waist, and gripped my shaft tightly, squeezing it as hard as I could.  Still holding her by the hair, I rubbed the throbbing tip between the cheeks of her arse, letting the exquisite tingle become almost painful, before relaxing my grip slightly – just enough to finally allow myself over the edge.  She gasped as my thick come shot across her skin, and I looked down to watch as I painted translucent white streaks ovedr her pale skin and the tops of her stockings, smiling to see the contrast as some landed on the black fabric of her skirt.

Still she said nothing, as I stepped back, slightly unsteady and sat on the bed for a moment.  She slumped on the window sill, breathless, hardly moving save for the deep breaths, a wistful smile on her lips.  Standing up, I pulled my shorts and trousers back up, and then made to walk back over to her, but she shook her head.  I got the impression that she wanted to be alone, so without even touching her, or saying another word, I quietly left the room and closed the door behind me.

That was last week, and now I’ve deliberately worked late so I can catch the same bus.  We’re just coming up to the stop where she got on.  I can see that there’s a woman waiting, looks like she has a long raincoat on.  She could be the right height, but I won’t know until she gets on and I see her face.  She has her hand out to signal the bus.

Plum – Wank Wednesday

Before you read this, let me just apologise for it.  If you’re a sensitive soul, you might want to have some tissues handy.  Not because of the filth, but because it’s just a bit, well, teary.  If it’s any consolation, I had to blink a bit myself when I wrote it.  I’ve shoe-horned in the plum reference a bit, but I reckon it just about works.  See what you think, anyway.


It’s my submission for this week’s WankWednesday prompt, which you can read more about here


I’d joined the Resistance as an idealist. I believed in the freedom that we stood for, and our righteous cause against the Alliance who occupied our world. I think we’d all been idealists then. Freedom. Destiny. Comradeship. They were big words, powerful words, important words, and we used them freely. But that had been a long time ago. We were dirty now, ragged, hungry and scarred. Those of us who were left had all seen friends die. We’d all seen new faces come and go. Surviving the first few weeks was the worst. If you got through that, you considered yourself hardened. A veteran, almost. And after that, things got easier to deal with. You got cold. You learned to shut out the things you did, the things you had to do, and make them a part of someone else. You became that other person. Someone who wasn’t you. You learned to hope and pray that the person you were before you joined was still there, somewhere, unscathed, and when this was all over you could get rid of this new person, and go back.


After three years, I was beginning to think I’d never be able to go back. And like all the other long-timers, I’d started to see that we were no better than them, really. In some ways we were worse. They knew what they were, but the people who controlled us were pretending to be about something else. Those important words – freedom, destiny and comradeship were still used, but not by us. We’d outgrown them.


I’d done things I wasn’t proud of. We all had. Ok, there were times when we were proud. At the beginning, shooting down a drop-ship, or destroying an installation, that made us swell with pride, but then we started to think about the people who wouldn’t be going back to their families, about the people whose loved ones we were taking from them, and we had to either blank that out, or go mad with guilt. Or stop fighting, and we couldn’t do that. As a result, over the years, those of us who were still alive had become cold. Inhuman. Machines, who did what we had to do, because it had to be done by somebody. We killed. We sabotaged, and poisoned, we assassinated, we booby-trapped, we maimed, some of the time we fought secretly, other times openly. It was a war. And always we fought.


From the day I joined, I hadn’t seen my home, or my family. I didn’t know if they were still alive. I’d been fighting for three years, and never had a break. And so during a messy retreat, I realised that I was not only emotionally drained, psychologically as well as physically scarred, and just plain exhausted – I was also lonely. I was desperate for some ordinary human contact. For a conversation that wasn’t about bombs or guns or supply lines or tactics or escape routes. I craved a woman’s touch, above anything else, that tender feeling of a soft fingertip on my face.


We’d been running for half a day, back across ground that was supposed to have been ours. We’d abandoned the vehicles, acquired new ones, abandoned those, and now we were dispersing on foot, aiming to regroup in the hills. We’d gathered what supplies we could from some patchy farmland that hadn’t been completely destroyed, and planned to hide for a few days, until the Alliance pushed past us, and then carry out guerrilla attacks from behind their lines.


Luckily, I was in the middle of a small shanty town when I heard the sound of approaching jets. Alliance craft, probably advance recon, and I ducked into one of the little huts made from corrugated metal and plastic sheets. A middle-aged woman sat in the corner, mending some item of clothing, and a younger woman, presumably her daughter was brewing tea. They both jumped as I burst through their doorway, my rifle slung across my shoulder. I put my finger to my lips and made the sign that told them I was friendly, and meant no harm. I crouched where I was as the jets passed overhead and roared into the distance, and they relaxed a little.

“You have food?” the younger woman said.

I nodded, and indicated my backpack. She smiled, and handed the tea to the other woman, and then beckoned me through a doorway at the back of the small room.

“Come.” She said quietly, disappearing into the gloom beyond.

I followed and let my eyes adjust to the semi-darkness. The room was only just big enough to hold us and the tiny bed that I could see. She looked up at me, desperation in her eyes.

“You said you had food.”

“Sorry! Yes..” I unslung my rifle and leaned it against the wall, taking off my backpack and rooting in it for the bag of supplies. I gave her some packets of hard bread, and some dried meat that I had, and then found the fruit that we’d picked. A few dismal apples, and a small handful of plums.


Her eyes lit up.


She grabbed one of them, looking at me with a wide smile, and began to eat it greedily, not wasting a drop of the juice, and carefully sucking every last bit of soft flesh from the stone, which she placed on a shelf. She threw her arms around my neck and began kissing me, warm and deep, and I could taste the fruit on her mouth. The sudden contact with another human being – an actual human, not somebody I was fighting with or against – was overwhelming, and I felt hot tears on my cheeks as I held her. Unable to control myself, I began pulling at her dress, trying to lift it over her head. She was naked underneath it, and as I ran my fingers over her slender body, she pulled at my shirt, exposing my chest, and then turning her attention to my trousers.


I hadn’t even noticed that my cock was hard, but she dragged my shorts down and began stroking it, hard, fast and rough. I didn’t care. I was being touched, by someone, and it felt unbelievably good. I practically collapsed onto the small bed, breathless, sitting with my back against the wall, and she climbed astride my lap, kissing my mouth and running her hands over my body, trailing her fingers gently along each of my scars, touching my face, scratching my shoulders. I could do nothing but hold her tenderly. I just wanted to feel her skin against my hands. I ran them down her back, over the curve of her arse and down her thighs. I could feel her bones in places, these people had probably been scratching a living through the war, surviving as best they could for ages, and it was probably over a year since she’d had a decent meal, if she could still remember what a decent meal was.


She lowered herself onto my cock with a smile, and her eyes flickered shut for a moment. I moaned at the sudden pleasure, so intense it was almost painful. I tried not to think about this sudden random union of two people who didn’t even know each others’ names, and concentrated instead on the way her skin felt, the way her breathing sounded, the way my cock throbbed inside her. Holding her by her hips, I helped rhythmically lifting and lowering her, and after a minute or so, began to move our position so that she was on her back, and took over. As she wrapped her legs around my waist I thrust deep inside her and she cried out. I couldn’t tell if it was pleasure or discomfort, and I’m ashamed to say that at that moment I didn’t care. She didn’t stop me though, and I carried on. It was raw, animal sex, in stark contrast to the tenderness of touching her skin before. I pulled my twitching cock out of her, and grabbed her by the waist, turning her onto her front and lifting her to her knees. She made an appreciative noise and lowered her shoulders, pressing her face against the thin pillow and arching her arse up to meet me. I held her firmly by the hips again, and carefully guided the tip of my cock between her damp lips. She pushed back against me slightly, and I slid inside, all the way, with a single stroke. Her moan was long and low, and I felt her tighten around me.


Gripping her firmly, my fingers digging into her skin, I fucked her as hard as I could, fast and urgent, focussed on nothing but my own climax. It didn’t take long. My last few strokes were sharp and hard, and made her cry out, and I grunted loudly as I came inside her, my cock throbbing and twitching as I emptied myself. I pulled my cock out, and watched a small amount of my come dribble out of her as she lowered her hips to the lumpy mattress. I began to lie beside her, and she turned to me, her eyes welling with tears. I pulled her close to embrace her, but she pushed me away.

“You must go. Hide. In the hills!”


“Go. If they find you, they’ll kill us all.”

“Come with me.” I said, simply.

“I can’t. My mother. Now go! And thank you.”

I wasn’t sure whether she was thanking me for fucking her, or for the food, but I pulled my trousers back up and got my stuff together as quickly as I could. She was sitting on the bed crying as I left, and I turned in the doorway.

“I’ll come back for you.”

“You won’t.” She said.

“I will, I promise.”

“You shouldn’t make promises. You might be killed, and I’ll be waiting forever for you to come back. You won’t come back, you can’t promise it. Now go.”

“I swear to you, I’ll come back and make sure you’re safe.” Even though the words sounded hollow, I knew that I would. I wasn’t promising it to her, I was promising it to me.


We regrouped in the hills, and hid out in secret caves for two days while the Alliance forces passed us. And then we received the message that our leadership had been almost completely destroyed. The war was essentially over. What Resistance authority remained ordered all fighters to surrender. The Alliance had promised a complete amnesty for anybody who did, and promised we’d be treated as regular war veterans and pensioned as such. It felt unreal. I could go home. I could live again. The man I’d been before I joined could come back, if he was still there. But there was something I had to do first, a promise to myself that I had to keep.


It took me half a day to get back to the shanty town from the hills. Or what remained of it. The Alliance had flattened it as they passed, presumably looking for any Resistance fighters. Everywhere, the little tin shacks had been destroyed, piles of broken furniture and belongings, some of them smouldering. I picked my way through the ruins, between the displaced and homeless, until I found her. She was kneeling next to what remained of where she’d lived, crying silently, her face a mask of such total desolation that I could hardly bear to look at her. As I took her in my arms she beat her hands against my chest and began to wail. I let her. I stood and held her and let her grief finally spill out. When she finished, I helped her dig out her mother’s body, and we buried it with the others in the fields beyond the town. As I helped her search through the mess to rescue what belongings we could find, my hand chanced upon the plum stone, and she cried all over again.


We planted it in our garden, and years later, our children grew up looking forward to the taste of plums every autumn.


This is probably going to run to two or three parts – I got a bit carried writing the first bit…


I got the job through a girl I was seeing at the time.  She and a couple of her friends wanted to have a “glamourous” photo session (and for “glamourous” I naturally read “sexy”).  With the aid of sat-nav, I managed to arrive at the address they’d given me pretty much on time – a reasonably large house just outside a smallish village, about 30 miles out from the city.  It looked like a pretty old place, Regency in style, and I was looking forward to how the light would work inside, with the large high windows and the lofty ceilings.  It looked as if there’d be plenty of rooms to use, and I hoped there’d be old furniture, and that the decor inside would be in keeping with the house.  The girl I knew answered the door, and then gave me a hand in with all my gear.  I’d brought quite a bit with me, neatly packed into trolleys, that made transporting easier.  Once we’d unloaded, I locked the van and she brought me through to a large farmhouse-type kitchen with a real flagstone floor, and introduced me to her two friends.

She’s about the same height as me, maybe slightly taller, and her two friends were shorter.  One was blonde, and one was slightly red-headed with an American accent.  They both had fantastic curves, sexy eyes, and wicked giggles, and within ten minutes I was pretty confident that we were going to have a fun time.  We picked a room that we thought would be good to start with – quite large, with a baby grand piano, a sofa, a chaise longue, and a few antique wooden dining chairs, and I set about setting up lights and things while they went to get changed.

The room was at the back of the house, and despite the large windows, it wasn’t overly bright, which meant I’d be able to control the light more easily for some fun and moody results.  I was just taking some test shots to make sure things were good when the three of them came giggling through the door.  They were dressed in bright corsets and big ruffled skirts – they looked like they’d escaped from the Moulin Rouge.  If it hadn’t been for the fact that it wasn’t even lunchtime yet, I would’ve thought they were a bit tipsy, and we got into the photoshoot straight away.  As I predicted, they were brilliant fun – comfortable and relaxed, posing easily on the furniture and each other.  I suggested things, they suggested things, and to be honest, I hardly needed to direct them at all.  I was already on my second memory card by the time two of them skipped off to the kitchen, returning a minute or two later with a good-szied picnic, and wine.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t turned on.  Three women, clearly confident, happy with themselves, relaxed and having a good time was proving quite powerful.  And I think the fact that they were happy and felt sexy made them even more sexy.  Maybe having their pictures taken, posing and laughing and having me spend the best part of a day constantly telling them how gorgeous they were helped.  Once or twice I’d wondered if they’d noticed what must’ve been a fairly obvious bulge in the front of my jeans, but if they had, they’d kept it to themselves.

The dynamic between the three of them was one of such obvious fun that I carried on shooting pictures while we ate, and after we’d polished off two bottles of wine, the shoot carried on.   By mid afternoon, I figured I had a more than enough pictures to work with, so we called it a day and I cleared up my lights and stuff.  Aware of the several glasses of wine I’d had with lunch, they suggested I waited until the evening before driving home, and I had to agree that they made a good point.  I put all the rest of my stuff in the van, and brought in my laptop instead, and started dumping the images to it from the cards.  We sat for quite a while going through the images and sorting the wheat from the chaff.  Their delight at seeing how well the pictures had come out, even without any processing was evident, and once we’d picked a few favourites, I set about processing a few of them.

By the time the evening came, I suggested it was probably ok for me to drive, and they agreed.  When I pointed out that they were still wearing their costumes from the shoot, they laughed long and hard, leaning on each other and hugging me tightly, kissing my cheeks.  We arranged to meet up again in a week or two to go over the finished pictures and sort out what prints they needed, said our farewells, and then I walked on out into the cool evening air and got into my van.  I turned the key, but nothing happened.  Nothing.  Nada.  No lights, nothing.  I tried again, but still nothing.  Pulling the lever to pop the engine cover, I got out and had a look, but I couldn’t see anything amiss.  Not that I’d really know – looking into a dead engine bay is more of a reflex than anything else.  I got back in and tried the key a few times, but still nothing.  Shit happens – and there’s a reason for having AA membership, although when I checked my phone, there was no signal.  That’s the only problem with doing photoshoots out here in the sticks.  I got out of the van again and walked back to the house, pulling on the old-fashioned chain to ring the doorbell.

It was opened a few minutes later by the blonde woman.  She was only half-dressed, and I had to swallow a little before I could speak.  She’d got rid of the skirt, and was wearing a bright purple corset with matching knickers (which I’d seen repeatedly during the day anyway) and black fishnet stockings.
“Problem?” she said, looking a little concerned.
“Yeah.” I said, finally having opened my throat. “My,er, my van won’t start. It’s not doing anything at all.  I’ve got no mobile signal here, could I maybe use your phone to call the AA?”
“Of course!” she said with a smile, and ushered me into the hallway, closing the door behind me.  The redhead was just heading upstairs, also minus her skirt, and I definitely felt my cock harden at the sight of her arse wiggling in sexy red knickers as she went.
“Van won’t start.” The blonde said, as she looked back over her shoulder to see why I was back in the hallway, “Going to call the AA.”
She nodded and carried on, and then the blonde woman indicated a room off the hallway.
“There’s a phone in there.” She said, “On the table by the window.”
Thanks! I won’t be long.”
“I’ll put the kettle on and make some tea.” She said, and closed the door with a click behind me.

I walked over to the table where the phone was – one of those old-fashioned ones that’s been adapted to work with modern exchanges, and picked up the receiver of the phone.  No sound.  I dialled a few numbers, but still nothing happened.  I guessed that the phone was broken, and they didn’t realise, but when I looked more closely, I saw that it was just an ornament, and didn’t even have a cable.  Nice joke – she was probably giggling in the kitchen, where they had a regular cordless phone.  Walking back over to the door, I tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge.  I rattled it a few times, to no avail.
“Hello?” I called out. “Hello?  I think the door’s stuck!”
There was no answer, so I banged on the door a few times and called again.  Still no answer.  I was starting to feel a mild sense of panic now, and walked over to the window.  Looking outside, I could see my van parked in the driveway, but there was no way of getting any of the windows open.  I supposed that at a push I could break one with a chair, but that was stupid – you can’t go breaking peoples’ windows just because the door’s stuck and they didn’t hear you calling.  As I was looking out of the window, there was a click of a key, and the door opened.  The American redhead came in, alone, still in her Moulin Rouge underwear, one hand behind her back, and pushed the door shut.  She stood against it, obviously giving me no way of getting past her.
“We think you should stay with us for a while.” She said simply.
“You do?”
“We do.  You might want to take your jeans off.”
I smiled at that.  This was a joke, and although it was starting to go a bit far, I could still see the funny side.  Just.
“Why might I want to do that?” I said, playing along.
“Because I don’t want you in them any more.  You can either take them off, or I can handcuff you, and cut them off.”
I laughed at that, and stayed where I was, one hand in my pocket.  She was doing a very good job of keeping a straight face.
“You wouldn’t.” I said.
She took her hand from behind her back, and showed me a pair of handcuffs.  They didn’t look like costume ones.  They looked worryingly real and police-issue.  She reached back behind her and opened the door just a crack again.
“Liz? Can you bring me the scissors?” she called out, her eyes still on me.
I quickly measured the distance between us in my head.  Eight paces, I reckoned, maybe fewer, and if I bolted quickly, I might be able to push her out of the way and get through the door.  But what then?  I hadn’t noticed what locks they had on the front door, and I didn’t know if I could get out of the house.  And if I could, where could I go?  The van was useless, and although I could maybe start to run to the village, they had a couple of cars parked in front of the house too, so I wouldn’t stand a chance.  I was running out of options, and even as I was considering what I could maybe do, the blonde woman came into the room, along with my some-time girlfriend, carrying a large pair of dressmaking shears.
“He doesn’t want to take his jeans off himself.” The American explained.
My girlfriend folded her arms and smirked, as the blonde passed the shears to the American.
“Now, ladies…” I began, “There’s really no need to…”
“Take them off.” The American said, taking a step towards me. “One last chance.”

I considered things for a second, maybe two, and then, looking from face to face, I kicked off my shoes, and undid my jeans.
“Really?” I said, “I’m waiting for the punchline.”
“No punchline, darling.” The blonde woman purred as my girlfriend continued grinning, “Just get those fucking jeans off.  Now.”
She was clearly not messing about, and feeling distinctly uneasy, I pulled my jeans off and stepped out of them.
“Untidy!” the American snapped. “Fold them up and put them on the chair.”
Aware that my cock was bulging against my shorts, I picked up my jeans and did as I was told, placing them neatly on the chair.
“And the t-shirt.” It was the first time I’d heard my girl speak since I’d come back to the house.
I didn’t need to say anything – I gave her a look that said “Seriously?”, to which she just nodded.  In a way which said “Yeah, seriously.”
I pulled my t-shirt over my head and was about to drop it on the floor when I saw the American raise an eyebrow.  Quickly, I folded it up and put it on top of my jeans.
“Socks and shorts too!” she said, “Quickly!  Chop chop!”
“Oh come on ladies, this is ridiculous!” I protested, but the American simply held up the shears and snipped the air with them.
“Ok, ok!” I held out my hands to placate her, and took off my socks, placing them with my other clothes, and then slightly shyly pulling down my shorts and doing the same.  I stood up then, completely naked, holding my hands across in front of my cock, partly to hold it down, and partly to cover it up.
“Oh, that’s better,” the blonde said, nodding, and turning to my girlfriend “You were right, he does look better naked.
My girlfriend smiled and walked over to me, stroking my shoulders and running her hand down my chest in that way that made me shiver all over, and leaning in she whispered in my ear.
“They like you.  Be nice.  You’ll be fine.”
She looked back at the blonde, who nodded and walked over, circling me slowly as my girlfriend backed away.  I felt her drag her nails lightly down my back, and squeeze my arse.  I nearly lost my balance when she gave me a considerably more than firm slap on one cheek, and then squeezed it again.
“Nice.” She said, “I said you were lucky.”
She put her other hand on my other buttock then, and began to fondle and caress them firmly, as the American woman put down the scissors and the handcuffs, and walked over to us.  She took hold of each of my wrists, not harshly, but certainly firmly, and started to pull my hands away from my cock.  I resisted, but she looked up into my eyes and gently shook her head.  I let my arms be moved to my side, and she took my shaft in one hand, giving it a squeeze.  It was as if she was measuring it with her hand, checking the length, and the thickness, and the weight.  I gasped as she slid her fingers over the tip, realising that it was already slightly moist.  Hell, I hadn’t even realised how turned on I was getting by this, but at her gentle touch my legs nearly buckled underneath me.

A few thoughts about Micropoetry

Those of you who follow me on Twitter will probably have noticed a regular dribble of micropoetry in my timeline.  (And if you don’t follow me on Twitter, WHY don’t you follow me on Twitter?  Stop reading this and go and follow me on Twitter.  Actually,  no, read this, and THEN go and follow me on Twitter.)  I can’t even remember now how I got into doing that.  It’s entirely possible that I used it to put something I was thinking into words, and rather enjoyed it.

It’s a challenge, and one which I enjoy.  Painting a picture with words, but limited to 140 characters.  It’s not always easy – sometimes a poem will form in my head almost immediately.  Sometimes I’ll just be inspired by a single word, and feel the need to write a poem around it and the emotions and sensations that it conjures up.  Sometimes there’s something I want to say, and condensing it into those few lines is really hard, and can take ages before what was just an idea is ready to take to its own wings, so to speak, and display its tail-feathers to anybody who happens to slide past my Twitter feed.

So I enjoy the challenge, and the way the process of the writing gets my creative juices flowing.  The thing that surprised me to start with was how much other people enjoyed reading it.  Obviously, I wouldn’t make it public if I didn’t want it to be read, but the comments that I get regularly (and bless you all for those!) just make me want to do it more.  This morning, someone said that it’s a shame they’re not all on a blog in one place, so that people can read them.

I thought about that for a minute – to an extent, I like the idea, it would mean they’d be preserved, and it would make it easier for people to read them all.  But I like the fact that they feel a bit ephemeral.  My micropoems are very much of their time.  They’re a product of a distinct and often fleeting moment in time for me.  If it takes me much more than an hour to think of something to write, it doesn’t get written, because it’s already a stale idea for me.  I like the idea that they fly past, maybe touching someone’s mind, or heart, as they go, fading into memory as time passes.

In fact (and this is how it works sometimes) I just wrote a micropoem from that previous paragraph.  I wanted to boil that sentiment down into the space of a tweet.  If you missed it:
My words slip past,
I release them,
In the hope that they touch your mind,
Or your soul,
As they pass.

And that’s how it works for me – in that moment, the poem means something, it is what it is.  Written and preserved here (and if it didn’t have this explanation), it somehow has a lessened impact.  For some reason, it feels to me a bit like a joke – once you’ve had to explain WHY the joke is funny, it stops being funny.

And if, by chance, someone did want to look back through all of my little micropoems, they’re all on my timeline anyway – you just have to flick through the pages of nonsense, smutty suggestions, poor jokes and blog notifications to find them.  They’re in there, waiting for you to see them, I promise.

How I Learned To Love The Crop..

I’ll call her Sarah, although of course it’s not her real name.  I met her online, and after we’d chatted for a while, we decided we should meet, since we lived fairly close to each other.  We hit it off as well as we’d thought we would – so much so, that she ended up taking me back to her house.  I’ll leave the rest of the afternoon to your imaginations.  It was Sarah who taught me that I had significant dominant tendencies.

Now, it didn’t really come as a surprise to me.  I’d known for years that I was turned on by the idea of corporal punishment.  I can clearly remember one afternoon at home, probably in my late teens, I changed channel on the tv, and happened to catch ten minutes of an early Helena Bonham-Carter film – Lady Jane, in which she plays the historical figure Lady Jane Grey, (the Nine Days Queen), who was forced into marriage to maintain the security of the British throne after the death of Henry VIII (that’s enough of the history lesson!).  How was she persuaded to marry someone she didn’t want to?  From what I saw of the film, it was mainly by birching.  The birching scene itself isn’t really very long, and it was probably not intended to be sexy (although I maintain that HB-C can make just about anything sexy, even the monkey-suit she wore for Planet of the Apes), but in that short space of time it left me flushed, slightly breathless, and with an erection that demanded immediate attention.  My late-teenage years were before the advent of Sky Plus, so the three quarters of an hour which I subsequently spent in my room caused me to miss the rest of the film.  I still have no idea how it turns out.  Actually, I’m fibbing – I know that Queen Mary ended up on the throne and executed Lady Jane when she refused to renounce her Protestant faith, but not from watching the film.  I suspect that if I tried to watch it again, that scene would probably distract me as much as it did then, although this time I’d be able to pause it and still see the end.

So, in addition to sparking an enormous crush on HB-C, which has stayed with me to this very day, I blame that film for awakening a sexual interest in corporal punishment.  It was probably latent anyway, but that’s the earliest trigger I can point my finger at accurately.

Where was I? Oh, that’s right – Sarah (still not her real name).  We met up a few times after that first afternoon, and always had a thoroughly delightful time.  One day, at her house, she asked me if I knew that I was a Dom.  I didn’t really get what she meant, so she explained it a bit, and told me that she could tell.  We talked about it for a while, then she told me that she thought I’d look good in plain black trousers and a white shirt, then sat me down on the sofa and we watched “Secretary”.  It’s a fairly amusing film, and I was starting to see what she was on about.  The next time I went to see her, just to make her smile I decided to wear black trousers and a white shirt, because she’d mentioned it.  When I sent her a text to let her know I was on my way, she replied that the door was on the latch and I should let myself in when I arrived.  She followed that up with a short list of misdemeanours that she’d apparently committed that morning.

I was intrigued.

When I arrived, and went into her porch, I found that her front door was indeed on the latch.  I let myself in and closed it behind me, and called out to see where she was.  There was no reply, and as I walked into the open living room, she was kneeling in the middle of the floor, wearing a dark green wraparound dress, her face downcast, and her arms out in front of her, holding a riding crop on her open palms.

Now, I don’t think I’d ever even so much as held a riding crop up until this point, let alone considered using one on a person.  That’s not strictly true, I’d almost certainly fantasised about using one on a person, but I’d never actually done it.  In the instant I saw her though, I was incredibly turned on.  I could feel my cock growing, creating a significant bulge in my loose-fitting black jeans.  I still have no idea what came over me, but I just kind of slipped into character – no idea what character, or where it came from, but it seemed to work.  Taking the crop from her outstretched hands, I swished it through the air, feeling the weight of it, and the way it flexed.  I do love the sound a crop or a cane makes in the air.  I walked around her a few times, swishing it, and thwacking it against the side of my leg.  I made it look like that was all part of this stern master thing I was trying to pull off, but mainly I was trying to work out just how hard I should do it, never having done it before.

Now I think about it, she must’ve been taking a pretty big risk.  It’s more flattering now that I realise that than it was at the time.  I must have a trustworthy face.

Anyway, I quickly came up with a plan, and giving my voice a tone which I hoped was stern, flat, and very slightly cold, I ordered her to stand up.  She did so immediately, and without speaking, smoothing her dress down and then clasping her hands in front of her, her eyes still looking down.  Standing in front of her, I took hold of her chin, and turned her face to mine, surprising her with a deep hard kiss.  Breaking our lips apart, I walked around her again, running my hands over her, feeling the line of the edge of her knickers, and the corset that she was wearing beneath the dress.  I realised that she was wearing it for me because we’d discussed corsets a couple of times.  I grabbed a chair from under the dining table and slid it along the polished floor to the middle of the room, ordering her to bend over it and grip the seat.  As before, she did as she was told obediently, silently, and without hesitation.  I told her that I was going to give her six strokes – it seemed like a traditional number, and I didn’t want to go for any more given my novice status.

I gave the crop another few flicks through the air, and then lined it up across her bottom, stroking it back and forth against the green fabric of her dress.  Drawing it back, I delivered the first stroke with a little force and a flick of my wrist.  It made a lovely satisfying swish, and a delightful noise as it landed, although she barely reacted.  I took my time lining up the next one, and made it a little harder, hoping I’d find where her boundary was.  The only noise she made then was a quiet “Mmf” as the crop landed across her arse.

Clearly, the dress was providing entirely too much protection, so I reached down and lifted the hem, raising it over her hips to expose her from the waist down.  I could just see the bottom of a champagne-coloured corset, and her smooth round buttocks were covered with matching satin knickers.  A few inches of pale bare thigh showed above flesh-coloured hold-ups.  It was a delightful sight, and I felt my cock twitch a little more.  Lining the crop up on her lovely arse again, I delivered a harder stroke, and this time got a more enjoyable response, as she drew in a sharp gasp, her buttocks clenching and unclenching.  I waited until she was still before giving her a fourth stroke, which had much the same result as before, but with a little more clenching and unclenching.

“Now,” I said calmly, “Let’s have the last two without these knickers in the way.”

She arched her back slightly as I hooked my fingers under the elastic of the knickers, and slowly pulled them down as far as her knees.  I did like the sight of her arse anyway, and obviously this wasn’t the first time I’d seen it, but it was the first time I’d seen it in this deliciously hot situation, her legs straight, her pale round buttocks perfectly presented to me.  I wanted to prolong things, so I stepped back and gave the crop several more swishes through the air.  Each time I did so, I saw her tense slightly, as if expecting the impact.

Finally, the fifth stroke left a pink line across both cheeks, and her reaction was far more satisfying.  Her load gasp was followed with a moan, and she shifted her weight from foot to foot.  Her breathing was heavy and excited as I stroked the end of the crop over her skin, and when I gave her the final stroke, she at last cried out, arching her back and lifting herself up onto her toes.  The line which the crop had left was beautiful – perfectly positioned halfway down her buttocks, stretched across both of them, dark pink and slightly raised.  She gasped again as I knelt down and ran my tongue along it, sliding my hand between her thighs and feeling how wet she was.

I let her stand up then, and still standing behind her, I unfastened the single ribbon which held her dress in place, unwrapped it and let it fall to the floor, taking in the sight of her lovely curves, squeezed into her tight corset.  I sat on the sofa and told her to turn to face me.
“You’re very wet.” I said, quietly.
“I know. I’m sorry sir.” She replied, her eyes downcast again and her hands behind  her back.
“It’s alright.” I reassured her, “Touch yourself for me.”
“Yes sir.  Thank you sir.”
She slid her knickers all the way down to her ankles and stepped out of them, standing with her legs slightly apart, one hand between her thighs.  I could see her fingers moving, sometimes rubbing, sometimes sliding inside.  I leaned back on the sofa, casually rubbing my rigid cock through my jeans – I was looking forward to taking her upstairs soon so that we could fuck.  As she looked at me, her body began to shiver, her chest heaving and her breathing becoming irregular.  Suddenly she moaned uncontrollably, her legs shaking and her eyes closing.  She reached out with her free hand and grabbed the back of the dining chair to steady herself as her climax shook her body.

Almost instantly, she gasped, and stood still, clasping her hands in front of her and looking down at the floor.  I must confess I was a little confused by it, but then she said quietly.
“Sorry Sir, I forgot to ask permission to come.”

I almost forgot about just how much I wanted to fuck her right then, and slid back into this character that I’d somehow created for myself.
“I’m very disappointed in you.” I said sternly, “Now get upstairs and kneel on the bed.  Wait for me in that position and do not move.”
“Yes Sir!” she practically squeaked, and leaving her knickers on the floor, she ran upstairs. I  could hear her getting up onto the bed from the living room, and the temptation to follow her straight up was almost overwhelming.  But I reminded myself that she wanted, or needed to be punished, and I decided that I’d continue to make her wait.  I stayed on the sofa for a little while, just looking around the room, then I picked up her knickers and examined them, enjoying the way they felt against my hands.  I occupied myself for a little while by looking through her varied collection of books and dvds, and after about ten minutes, I decided it was time to continue.

I took my shoes and socks off, and left them in the living room, then picked up her knickers and the crop  and crept up the stairs, as quietly as I could.  From the landing I could see into her bedroom – she was obediently kneeling up on the bed, facing the wall, with her hands clasped on top of her head.  She’d taken the corset and hold-ups off, and all her gorgeous curves were displayed.  I admired the shape of her for a while, and then remembered what I’d decided I was about to do.  I tiptoed to the bedroom doorway, still behind her and out of sight.  When I spoke, she nearly jumped out of her skin with surprise.
“You left your knickers downstairs.” I said, and tossed them onto the bed beside her.
“Sorry sir.” She replied quietly.
“So that’s carelessly discarding items of clothing, and coming without permission.  How many strokes is that, Sarah?”
“Twelve sir.  Six for each.”

I was a little surprised – I’d only planned to give her another six, but since she felt she deserved twelve, I figured I couldn’t disappoint her.  Besides, cropping her sexy arse was driving a massive crescendo of arousal that almost had me shaking with lust.  Holding the crop as steadily as I could, I brushed it lightly over her cheeks, taking careful aim, before drawing it back and pausing just for a moment.  She was holding her breath, I could see, waiting for the stroke, so I waited a little longer.  Just long enough for her to have to start breathing out, and then I brought the crop in across her skin, making her gasp and cry out.  She almost lost her balance, but wiggled herself straight, her hands still clasped on her head.
“Aaaaah!  One, thank you Sir.”
I wished I’d thought of ordering her to count them, although I was glad she’d taken the initiative.  Each stroke left a gorgeous dark pink mark this time, some of them nicely raised, and I paused each time, waiting for her to regain her composure so that she could count.  It took quite a while, and by the end she was shaking.  A few times I noticed her straining not to take one of her hands away from her head to rub her bottom, which must’ve been stinging like mad.  She wasn’t crying, but she was shivering, and her breathing was heavy and irregular, and her arse and the backs of her thighs were criss-crossed with lines.

Still naked, she went downstairs and made us a cup of tea, which she brought back up to the bedroom, and after we’d drunk it, she slowly and thoughtfully undressed me.  The sex we had that afternoon was explosive, to say the least.  Enthusiastic, noisy, and very enjoyable, it’s a good job it was the middle of the day, while her neighbours were at work.  Later that night, when I got home, I found that she’d taken a photograph of the marks I’d left, and emailed it to me.  I still have it somewhere.

So, that’s how I learned to love the riding crop.  Now, I wonder if I can get a copy of “Lady Jane” from Amazon…

Music and me, music and sex.

I was having a conversation with someone last night, and a certain piece of music was mentioned.  A sexy piece of music.  It made me start thinking about the way I associate music with sex.


I think it’s pretty clear that I like sex.  Actually, no, I love sex.  I really fucking love sex.  What might be less well known is my love of music.  I’ve always loved music.  Many kinds of music – I’ve never tied myself to a genre.  My music collection (physical and digital) is really rather eclectic.  Come and have a look through my CD collection and you’ll find opera, movie soundtracks, classical music, country music, folk music, rock, thrash, jazz, funk, hip-hop, acid house, ambient, techno, even some pop.  I could go on listing what you’d find, but it would make this a ridiculously long post, and you probably get the general idea already.

So, do you – like me – mix sex and music?

There are barely any points during my day which don’t have some kind of soundtrack.  I have music behind me when I get up and start getting ready for the day ahead.  While I’m in the shower I’m generally singing, and the radio is on while I get dressed and eat breakfast.  I hate to drive without some music playing, and when I get to the office, I usually find myself quietly humming to myself, or hearing music playing in my head.  Given that constant soundtrack, it’s probably unsurprising that I like having sex with music playing too.  Obviously, it’s not always practical to have music playing, so in those cases, my mental MP3 player once again springs into action.

My sister, bless her, is the undoubted queen of the TMI conversation.  Thanks mainly to alcohol, I know far more things about my sister than a brother generally wants to.  She lives abroad, so I don’t get to see her all that often, but on one of my visits to her, she started extolling the virtues of sex to music, and in particular one song.  Namley “Smooth” (Rob Thomas and Santana, if you’re not familiar with it).  Now, I know the song, and quite like it, but it doesn’t feel like a sexual song to me.  Perhaps if I was a glossy-magazine tanned and toned hunk, living in Miami with my super-hot snake-hipped Cuban girlfriend, then Mr Thomas and Mr Santana would quite likely provided the music for at least one fuck a week, but I’m not.  I’m British, pale-skinned and a bit scrawny.  And the song doesn’t really suit the way I feel about sex anyway.

So I got to thinking about the songs that make me think of sex.  They’re either songs that turn me on in some way, or they’re songs that I’ve ended up having sex to, that have stuck in my mind.  And when I listed them, I felt that there was a kind of contextual thread to them that went beyond the fact that they’re all on my “fuck songs” list.  There are musical similarities, either in tone, or sound, or just the general feel.  I can’t help thinking that they somehow sum up the way I feel about sex, or the way I enjoy it, and the way it makes me feel.  And this list goes back quite a long way, which makes the similarities all the more surprising to me, because I think that way I feel about sex has changed over the years, as has the way I do it.  Perhaps the way I felt about sex subconsciously has always been the same, and was manifesting itself through the music, and it’s only now that I’m finally growing into my sexual psyche.

Either way, here are some of the songs that appear in my list.

3am Eternal – The KLF.  Had sex to it once, years ago, now can’t hear it without getting hard.

Bad Things – Jace Everett (the theme from True Blood)  – Felt hot and sexy the first time I heard it. Made out with someone hot to it, and have fucked to it too (same hot person).  Haven’t been able to hear it without getting hard and thinking about that first tentative, slightly nervous but still passionate kiss.  I think it may be “our song”

Atom Bomb – Fluke.  It was playing when I was having sex one time.  Always reminds me of that time.  I want to fuck to it again, but haven’t since.

Venus in Furs – Velvet Underground.  Hot. Dirty.  It makes me want to be utterly filthy.  Never have been, with this playing, but it always makes me hard.

Ninth Symphony – Beethoven.  No idea why with this one.  Never actually fucked to it, but it plays in my head sometimes.

Deeper – Orbital.  Oh god.  Oh dear god.

Hell Is Round The Corner – Tricky  I know what it is with this one.  It feels deep and low and slippery and sweet and sticky and sexy.  Although I never have, whenever I hear it, I want to fuck.

Dance of the Knights – Prokofiev.  It’s the famous one that everybody knows from his score for the ballet Romeo & Juliet.  Not so much a fuck song, actually, but I love the rhythm and feel of it, and I’m harbouring a deep desire to administer a sound a flogging while it plays.  Loudly.

Army of Me – Bjork.  I’m talking about the remix that forms part of the soundtrack to the movie Sucker Punch.  It’s rumbly, and deep, and drives slowly but inevitable, like a big agricultural diesel engine in a low gear.  Nothing’s stopping it.  I want to fuck to it in much the same way.

Cor – Green Nuns of the Revolution.  Quite hard, deep techno.  I love it’s aggressive edge, and the rhythm of it makes me horny.  I’ve never fucked to it, but I’d like to.

There are others, but that’s for another time, i think.  So – what are your fuck-tunes?  What songs never fail to make you horny?  What songs take you right back to being naked and blissful every single time you hear them?

My untidy car…

So I really don’t clear out my car as often as I should.  If I put something in the boot, it can often stay there for many weeks, until I need to empty the boot out for some reason to get a load of other stuff in there.

A couple of weeks ago, I went off to spend the night in a hotel with a delightful young lady (for “delightful”, please read “delightfully filthy”).  Because of my lack of commitment to keeping my boot tidy, and because I haven’t needed to have an empty boot since, some of the things that I had with me are still in the car.

Now, I the place where I work during the day is a nice secure environment.  We have diligent security guards on all the gates.  Because there’s always a chance of people stealing or smuggling stuff away from the place (I won’t go into detail, but there’s military hardware involved) the security guards carry out random car searches.  It’s never a big deal – they pull one car out of three over at the main exit and just have a quick look in the boot to make sure there’s nothing there that shouldn’t be there.

I think you already know what’s coming.

A couple of nights ago, I was heading away from the office fairly late, and as I approached the gate, the guard was holding up his little “Stop” sign and pointing me over to one side.  It’s fine, I’m used to it, I’ve been here for a while and I know the drill, and I know he’s just doing his job.  So I pulled over, wound down the window, and pressed the button to unlock the boot.  He apologised for stopping me (as they usually do) and handed me the clipboard so I could fill in my details and sign to say I’d been checked.  As I was trying to remember my department number, he called through from the boot and asked if I’d come and open a bag.  They’re not allowed to touch stuff in someone’s boot, they have to ask if they need to see anything, and so as I got out of the car to walk around and answer his request, I realised exactly what bag he meant.

He clearly meant the only closed bag in the boot.  The one which contained the box of condoms.  And the bottle of lube.  And the six metres of slender white rope.  And the whip.  And the vibrating cock-ring.  And the bright purple silicon rubber stick of anal beads.

Now, I got the impression that he was slightly more embarrassed than I was.  I held open the bag, fairly carefully, and he had what must’ve been the World’s Quickest Look inside, before coughing quietly, and looking elsewhere while he thanked me for my cooperation.  I signed the form on the clipboard and handed it back to him.  Neither of us said anything else as I shut the boot, walked back around to the side of the car, got in, and drove off.

I really should tidy up my boot a bit more often.


I seem to be on fire this week – here’s another little story that just cried out to be set free from my smutty mind and committed to the blank page.  As always, I hope you enjoy it.



She was lying on the bed, dressed but snoozing when I came out of the shower.  We had a while before we had to check out of the hotel, and she looked so peaceful and beautiful asleep, a faint smile on her slightly-parted lips, that I couldn’t bear to wake her.  As I dried myself, my mind wandered back to the night before, to the things we’d done on and around that four-poster bed, and to the early hours of the morning, when we’d woken up and fucked sleepily, lit only by the faint glow of near-dawn filtering through the curtains.


The fresh memory made my cock hard, throbbing slightly, and begging to be touched.  Quietly I walked around to the other side of the bed, and climbed on next to her, carefully, so as not to wake her.  I lay there, watching her sleep, reaching down and closing my fingers around my shaft, squeezing it softly.  Still being careful not to shake the bed, I began stroking, back and forth, with slow even strokes.  In my mind I replayed my mental video of the way she’d looked on all fours, a hand-mark on her arse, and her pink lips stretching around me.  I rolled over a little, onto my back, and closed my eyes, breathing deeply and slowly as the pleasure built inside me.


I became aware of a change in the sound of her breathing.  I opened my eyes, and realised she was awake, slightly drowsy eyes watching me, wandering up and down my body.  I stopped stroking, and her eyes turned up to mine.

“Go on.” she said softly, with a smile.


The thought that she wanted to watch me pleasuring myself turned me on more than I thought it would, and I felt my cock throb slightly as I started stroking again, shifting my position slightly so that she could see.  I didin’t just want to come any more, I wanted her to enjoy the display, to see all the ways I liked to touch myself.  I wanted to make this moment last.  It was no longer just me making myself come, it was me making myself come for her, and that had to be special.


I changed my grip, sliding my hand around on my cock as I slid up and down.  I reached over and picked up the bottle of lube from last night, squeezing some out onto the tip and sliding my fingers around it, feeling the delicious tingle that shot all the way up my back and down my legs as I teased the most sensitive parts of my cock.


She was smiling now, sometimes watching my hands and my cock, and sometimes looking into my eyes.  Occasionally she’d reach over and caress my nipples, stroking them, flicking them, pinching them, sending little electric shocks through my body.  Some of the time she ran her fingers through my hair, and whispered filthy things to me.  She told me I was dirty, that I was as much of a slut as she was, each word burning its way into my brain and driving me closer to the edge of bliss.


I remembered one last thing I wanted her to see.  Reaching over to the bedside table with my free hand, I picked up my cock ring.  Before she had a chance to work out how I planned to use it, I held it with the little metal vibrating bullet sticking out, and reached around behind me.  I pressed it against my ass, as she watched with deep fascination in her eyes.  Touching the little button to activate it, I jumped slightly as it began its furious buzzing against me.  My cock stiffened in my grip at the increased sensation, and I moaned deeply.


She smiled, and reached over to touch my nipples again, as I slid my hand up and down my slippery cock, feeling every ridge and bump along its length.  The vibrator pressed almost into my ass was driving me to the brink of climax, and I could feel one of my legs beginning to shake uncontrollably.

“Come for me.” she whispered, smiling more.  “Come for me.  Do it.  Come for me, you dirty slut.”


I couldn’t hold it back any longer.  She grinned with delight as I moaned loudly, my hips bucking and my legs shaking, gripping my cock tightly and feeling each twitch of my climax, pressing the vibrator into my tingling ass, and feeling the jets of come splash out, landing as hot streaks on my cool skin.


Exhausted, I went limp on the bed, switching the vibrator off and dropping it on the floor by the bed.  My hand still grasped my twitching cock, as I lay there panting.

“Did you enjoy that?” I asked her breathlessly.

“”I loved it.” she whispered, stroking my hair.