Burn

She has been coming here – quite literally: she’s been fucking the landlord for as many summers as she’s been renting the apartment – for thirteen years now. This summer, it’s changed – the kitchen is brand new and the old, unreliable TV has been replaced with a 40″ widescreen model.

He teases her, as usual, about the colour of her skin – her legs poke out like two milk bottles from the bottom of her dress and they’ll stay that way for the rest of August – she never tans, no matter how hard she tries. He always said that was what made him notice her, that first summer – the way she looked like a stick of chalk in the middle of all those tanned bodies.

She asks when he’s free, anticipating with every word the first thrust of his cock – could they go for dinner one night this week, perhaps? Or drinks? They never fuck on the day she arrives and it makes the anticipation ever sweeter.

Sure, he says – Thursday? – and she has to force a smile. The wait makes the anticipation sweeter, but it’s only Saturday and four days of waiting is, well, bittersweet, at best.

On Tuesday, passing one of the cafés on the seafront, she sees him with someone else. Someone who is, at a guess, five years younger than her. He’s nuzzling the girl’s neck, his hands grazing her tight, pert breasts and while she watches, trying to reconcile the sudden ache in her stomach with the fact that until now she hasn’t thought about this man from one summer to another, her pistachio ice-cream starts to melt, flowing stickily down the cone and landing in a messy pale green dollop at her feet.

She should cancel Thursday but she doesn’t, the pull of the anticipation too strong now to back out. But whereas once she would have basked in the promise of seeing him – repainting her toenails, curling her hair – today she couldn’t give a fuck about either of those things. What good will it do now if she looks hot? It’s not like it’ll make a difference. And so her body goes un-preened, hair unwashed, sunscreen shoddily applied, and by the end of the day  the skin on her shoulders and cleavage is pink and raw.

In the shower, after she’s recoiled at the sight of it, she allows herself to fantasise that he’ll be equally horrified – that when he sees the state of her he’ll kiss her hot flesh tenderly and ask what the hell she was thinking. That he’ll peel her bra straps carefully from her tight and glowing shoulders and fuck her slowly while heat radiates from her, as unwelcome and painful as her feelings.

But he is late and he is horny, and he doesn’t undress her at all. Instead, after they’ve shared a bottle of rosé he bends her over the arm of the sofa (also new), pulls her knickers to one side and shunts into her from behind, until she has come from the way her clit grinds against the furniture and he has pumped her full of semen. Then he folds her skirt back down, pats her arse affectionately, and says he has to go.

The burn goes unnoticed.

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2008-2016

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2008-2010: Snicket
It’s his idea, the first time. It’s a shortcut she takes every day on the way to and from the office, but usually she’s in low heels and a suit, always in a rush. It’s never occurred to her before what it might feel like to be made to kiss the bricks, to feel her bare knees graze against them. She’s never dreamt of stopping on a double yellow to fall to her knees and suck cock, never imagined what it might feel like to have water from the hanging baskets and semen mix on her upturned face. He – David – teaches her to want all those things.

2011-2015: Jitty
Adam. Adam is the only one who uses a word for it she’s never heard before. Adam is not sure he’s up for fucking in a backstreet at all. Adam is not an exhibitionist – he prefers the feathery softness of the duvet, the soft glow of a bedside lamp. She convinces him by waking him early one morning, when the sky is awash with purple, the milk still icy cold on the doorsteps. Adam makes her come so hard that morning, lifted against the wall, legs around his waist (he’s a big guy, in more ways than one), that she swings from the lampposts as they make their way home.

2015-2016: Ginnel
Paul calls it a ginnel, and fucks her in it in broad daylight, his thrusts as harsh as the word sounds in his flat, mancunian accent. They duck into the doorways, listening for the sound of footsteps or voices approaching. It’s different in the sunshine – dirtier, somehow – and they go back there day after day, until this road, this dank, unfrequented backstreet, feels more like home to her than her neat, clean little flat. When Paul calls time on their relationship, she doesn’t cut through to work that way for three whole months.

2016-: Alleyway
She’s single now, and the shortcut has regained the bland, regionless name she  gave it before them – alleyway. It’s always been part of the appeal of fucking men with regional accents, the fact she doesn’t have one. Three men have fucked her here, and each one had his own name for it. Those words – snicket, jittyginnel – they feel as intimate, as personal to her now as pussy or cunt, as unique to each man as the taste of his come, the shape of his cock. She’s single now, but from time to time, in the dead of night, she’s there, alone, kissing the brick. Remembering.

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Knees

Everybody blames their knees, says the physio, but the knees are rarely to blame. The hips and the ankle are to blame for everything that goes wrong at the knee, they rotate more, so what you’re feeling is referred pain.

I can’t blame my knees. Or my hips. Or my ankle. 

I can only blame myself.

Or, to be more specific: I could blame the flushed head of your cock as it butts against my lips. I could blame your hand on my jaw, or in my hair, or between my legs. I could blame the way you smell, the way your pubes tickle my nose as I suck you. 

Or, before that, even, I could blame myself for unseeing the ring on your left hand, for not minding when you pretended to your wife that I was a conference, not a woman. I could blame the fact you said my mouth was made for sucking cock.

I could blame you. 

But, of all the things, my knees are not to blame.

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Absinthe & chartreuse

He is drying glasses behind the bar when they discuss it for the first time. They’ve been seeing each other for three months now, and lately he’s been leaving bruises on her, bruises the colour of absinthe and chartreuse. Bruises that she’s begged for, in the heat of the moment, but cannot quite yet bring herself to talk about in the cold light of day.

The cold light of day is what she’s hibernating from here, in the cosy wood-panelled quiet, under the old Campari poster, with a chilled glass of white wine, at 4p.m. on a Tuesday. When your boyfriend’s a barman, she’s learnt, there’s no point hoping for alone-time after dark.

Occasionally, she presses her fingers to her collarbone, to a mark he’s left there, until he catches sight of her and says, ‘You’re pretty fond of that, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’ There is strength in Chardonnay.

‘You like it when I hurt you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And when I fuck your arse?’

‘Hell, yes.’

He strikes a match, and the hiss of fire fills the silence. He lights the tealights on the bar, and then holds the burning match under her chin, like you would a buttercup, not close enough to burn, but close enough to remind her of his power. Only this doesn’t turn her chin yellow, this turns her cunt slick.

The tealights are well alight now, the wax beginning to soften. He blows out the match, drops it in the sink, and picks up the candle instead, swirling the molten wax so it surges up against the glass. ‘Wax play?’

‘Does it hurt?’

‘Depends. It can do, if you want it to.’

‘Maybe.’

‘OK. Rape fantasy?’

‘One day, I think. Not yet. I’m not ready.’

He chops limes into wedges. ‘I should be keeping notes.’

This reminds her of something, something unappealing. It reminds her of bloody Christian Grey. ‘No contract,’ she says. ‘That’s a definite hard limit for me. I do not want my desires neatly typed up in a bulleted list, thank you.’

He laughs. ‘Got it. No contract. What about another kind of list?’

‘What kind?’

He plucks a menu from the pile on the bar. ‘A cocktail list?’

‘Stop teasing me.’

‘I’m not. It’s perfect.’ He gestures at it, his handiwork, all flowing calligraphy and clever names. ‘See – there are soft drinks, hard drinks, and -,’ he flips it over, ‘–harder still on the back.’ He’s talking about the ones with absinthe and chartreuse rinses, the  ones she’s always terrified to order, lest she end up a teary, crumpled mess at the bar after two sips. The ones that remind her how much she loves the bruises.

‘So the things I find tempting go on the front, and the other stuff on the back?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘And what happens if I change my mind?’

He grins. ‘We change the menu.’

0

Best thing since sliced bread

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She’s grown tired of him, though the affair is only a few months old. Truth be told, she was never that fond of him in the first place. It was the little things that drew her to him – the red leather chairs in his office, the way his hair smelt of Brylcreem – the little luxuries that have disappeared, one after another, since the start of the war.

He pokes fun at her for her fury at the sliced bread ban. What will it cost her, he says: a minute here, a second there? He pushes his penis deep inside her and says, of course, he should have known, a glutton like her, hungry for cock, would also require an endless stream of bread and jam. He’s joking, perhaps, trying to recall the lightheartedness of their earliest trysts, but she can barely contain herself. What would he know, pen pusher that he is, about the life of a housewife, how long it takes to make sandwiches for four hungry mouths? The knives are blunt, too, of course – another luxury she’s had to give up.

Right now, she’d quite like to stab him with one of her blunt knives.

Two months later, the anger is replaced with delight. The ban is lifted, its savings apparently negligible.

In his office, the following day, his mood is black. The whole thing has made him look a fool. Even the headlines jest about all the housewives’ thumbs that will be saved as a result. It gives her an idea.

As she kneels on the plush carpet and takes him in her mouth, he groans. He’s needed this, she imagines. He closes his eyes, puts his hands on the back of her head, and, feigning the need to breathe, she pulls away for a moment and spits into her palm. She rubs the saliva between finger and thumb, and as his breathing grows faster, she slides her thumb inside him.

He gasps, surprised and overwhelmed. Before he can protest, he’s spurting into her mouth. His come trickles from her mouth as she looks up at him, grins, and spits what’s left into her handkerchief.

It’s the last time she sees him. Their affair has gone stale.

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‘How a bad girl fell in love’ competition (of sorts): winner

Slightly (very) guttingly, in the end there was only one entry for this competition. In the hope that that says more about my current absence from Twitter, and therefore a lack of competition promotion on my part, rather than a lack of interest in the competition in general, I decided not to extend the deadline, and instead to award the prize to Jo at Teachers Have Sex, since her entry was outstanding and would no doubt have been a strong contender for the winning place even if there had been more entries. You can read her (superbly titled) story below…

Underground Eruptions Could Cause Quakes Months Later

Sitting on a KTX train bound for Daegu, I see my own reflection absentmindedly staring out the window at the mountains passing by.  As so often happens when I’m not thinking of anything in particular, my thoughts drift to you.  To your strong fingers, your expressive brown eyes, your dirty words whispered lovingly into my ears.  Your mouth on my nipple, seen from above as I’m straddling you.  Your sex and heat and body odor-mingled scent in the late morning after an all-night fuck marathon.

You often joked with me how you’d want to see me right off the train or bus because long-distance transit makes me insatiably horny.  I don’t know why; the rumblings of the engine or the bumps in the road, the freedom of my mind to wander now that I’m far from home, the shadows crossing my face as we enter and exit tunnels.

I’m thinking of you and I remember (or did I dream it?) coming home one night after a weekend away to find you lounging on my couch, reading a book.  Waiting for me.  I didn’t expect to see you.  Didn’t expect for you to stride over to me without saying anything, kiss me full on the lips (god your lips), and then ask if my bus ride was good.  I couldn’t muster an answer as I was too busy dropping my bag, fumbling with the buttons on your shirt, and barely getting my own pants down a bit before you picked me up and put me on my kitchen counter, pushed my pants off with your foot, and grabbed the back of my hips to pull me forward enough for you to slide into me.  I came hard that night with my head banging against my cupboard, clutching your back as though I hadn’t seen you in years, feeling a hunger in my cunt for more and more of you.

Now, sitting on the train and thinking of your body pressed against me, I feel my lips swell, blood pulsing deep inside me.  Sometimes I think that if I fantasize hard enough I can make myself come – but not having accomplished that yet, I stand up suddenly, push by the passenger next to me, and enclose myself in the train bathroom.  Still standing, I move my hand into my panties and dip my fingers inside, drawing up my own lube, and rub two fingers in circles around my clit, breath coming hard, biting my own lip.  It doesn’t take long.  My whole body shakes soundlessly, vibrating against the bathroom wall.  A series of powerful contractions takes my breath away, and my body relaxes.  I see myself tremble in the bathroom mirror and I think, sorrowful for just a moment, about how much I’d like to come home to you.  You’re 7,000 miles away now, but you still erupt inside of me now and then, spilling out of me, aftershocks stretching out into the night.

Six men in the kitchen (The Lady, October 2015) & competition reminder

Someone once told her that she only needed six things in her kitchen: a food processor, a microplane grater, a good set of knives, digital scales, a stand mixer and a vegetable peeler.

It’s not true, she realises now. Sometimes you need other things. Sometimes you need six men, all of whom you’ve bedded, leaning against your worktop – not because you have doubts, but because you want a reminder of how you got here.

Her hen do was supposed to be mixed, but it has separated out, somehow – the girls and the plastic, novelty cocks in the living room, the boys – and their real flesh and blood ones – in the kitchen. She intends to flit between the two groups, but there’s an easiness to hanging out with the men. She’s never been one for slick, organised parties; she’s certainly never been one for pin-the-dick-on-the-fireman.

Instead, she plays her own game. She weaves between the guys, topping up their champagne, and for each one, she challenges herself to remember a specific moment or detail about the way they fucked.

Jamie’s fingers, and the way they curved against her G-spot until she drenched his sheets.

Max, who taught her to love face slapping, though she can’t for the life of her remember what made them try it in the first place.

Edward, bestower of tiny yellow thumbprint bruises all over her tits, and bigger, purple ones on her arse.

Stephen, the biggest of the six, who liked to slide into her before she was quite wet enough, stretching her wide around his cock.

Zac, who she only fucked once, at uni, when she was so drunk she can barely remember it, but whose pale arse, disappearing out of her bedroom door the following morning, will stay with her forever.

Fraser, who made so much noise when he came, the neighbours complained. More than once.

She’s found a man who is all these things for her now, but she would’t have got there, without these men. She wouldn’t have known that these things mattered to her.

*

The day itself doubles the contents of her kitchen cabinets. There are vegetable steamers, beautiful stoneware casserole dishes, cheese knives, and, from her grandma, cutlery for best, a concept that is still beyond her.

The boys don’t bring gifts – it’s not their style. Besides, they don’t need to – over the past ten years they’ve given her more than she could ever have hoped for.

For obvious reasons, this isn’t an entry for my competition to win a signed copy of Girl on the Net’s new book, but it is a reminder that you only have four and a bit days left to enter.

I’ll put up a separate post linking to the entries as soon as I have a few more, but for now, check out this epically-titled entry by Jo at Teachers have Sex.

e[Lust] #79

Elust 79 header
Photo courtesy of Marie Opens Up

Welcome to Elust #79

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #80? Start with the rules, come back March 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

The Joy of Sucking Cock

Making Porn

My Valentine

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

The One

Midweek Fantasizing – The Portrait

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

Marionette
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

A kiss is just a kiss
Turning Corners
Another Day, Another Planned Parenthood Visit
My first vanilla date
Want, Need the Power of your Masculinity!
I don’t know how to date.

Erotic Fiction

Soft Lips
The Introduction
Erotic Fiction: “Words”
Darkness and the Rose
Taste
THE SESSION THAT WENT WRONG
Be Careful What You Wish For
Motivation
porn
The Tube

Erotic Non-Fiction

For You, It’s Always Yes
Gawan: Intro to Flogging
The Talker: An Introduction
My wildest fantasy: Ship slut
Marionette
Time for something quick…
Spread Legs and Open Mouth
My Girl in Havana
Let’s Watch some Porn

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

An Artist’s Story: Tails and Portholes
Sleeping With Our Future President
To Dude Who Was Offended By Lack of Escort
Try Love, Not Anger
Risky Sex
Why Cosmo is the worst (again!)

Writing about Writing

Condoms: fictional contraceptive of choice
Writing Fat Characters In Erotica

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Masochistic Mastermind
Take me to where I need to be.

 

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[e]lust #78: The one with ‘£10.53’

Malin James Elust 78 Header Image
Photo courtesy of Malin James

Welcome to Elust #78

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #79? Start with the rules, come back February 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

£10.53
Balance of Light
Advent Calendar 2015 – Day 24

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Why Sex Fiction?
On using him

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

Guest blog: ‘Quite Delightful’, James Deen and me
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Make-Up Sex
Wide Open
Believe in You
I am softly athletic
Making a Short Story Long

Erotic Fiction

First Kiss
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
A Spicey Christmas Eve Tale…..
The Annual Christmas Party
If Only He’d Said Yes…
Very Very Necessary
concrete
Holly and Ivy…
Frothy White Stuff
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
30 Minutes

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Boundaries
Stress Makes You Blind and Your Cum Orange
On Eating Ass
Confessions of an Ambivalent Masochist
Joyous Jizz

Poetry

Ode To My Favorite Sex Toy
Earth
Fuckable

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Lady Fapping: The Itty Bitty Kitty Committee
Does Size Matter?
A Feminist’s Guide to Sexting with Cavemen

Erotic Non-Fiction

Having Angelic Sex With The Virgin Mary
New Lingerie

Blogging

The First Day of the Rest of Our Lives
40. 41. One.
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Free porn

  
 
‘It has a great bar, and -‘ Emma pauses for effect and she and Jason chime at the same time ‘Free porn!’

Bless them. They had their first baby three months ago, and this was the first time they’ve spent alone together since. We should be kind.

I picture the two of them in a hotel room, watching said porn. Emma drifting off and Jason …

Urgh.

‘Sounds great!’ you say. ‘We should book it; have a weekend away. What do you think, Soph?’

‘Fine by me!’ I say.

‘You must try the strawberry margarita,’ Emma says. ‘Best cocktail I’ve ever had.’

I knew she hadn’t watched the porn.



The hotel has everything they promised, though the gin fizz is better than the strawberry margarita. When we’ve put our bags down in the room, you flick the TV on, and sure enough – free porn!

But the carpet is covered with random words, and you make me pick one – I choose ‘sign’ – and then you scrawl ‘Free porn’ on the back of the room service menu, tell me to strip, and make me stand, naked, in the window, holding the sign you’ve made for thirty minutes, while you lie on the bed and drink a glass of red.

And then you fuck me against the glass, because you’re not a man to break your promises. 

Over the course of the weekend, the action in the window varies. You make me wank, you order me to suck your cock, you press my face to the cold pane while you stick your dick in my arse.

We take breaks to head down to the bar. I rank the cocktails. The gin fizz is better than the strawberry margarita, the strawberry margarita is better than the negroni.

It’s a good hotel. And there’s free porn.

But we’re making it; not watching it.

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