The Lunch Break

A post for Masturbation Monday. Check out the other posts here

New tablets, a good night’s sleep for the first time in ages and I am feeling the love for my body. I fall asleep on the train to work and wake up mid-dream, with a beautiful woman at my feet. She is dressed in latex and runs her gloved hands up and down my newly waxed legs.

“You are gorgeous” she says. “let me worship you.”

She places her arms round my legs and begins to kiss my feet. I am turned on by this, I pull her gently, gently, to her feet. She is smiling. I say

“You are gorgeous too, Let me kiss you.”

And we kiss, there, in the bar area of the club, I drag her onto the dance floor and we shuffle slowly, pressed tight against each other, not in time to the music (as if that were important). We are beginning the first tentative explorations of each other’s bodies. .

I don’t even know her name but I want her, all of her and begin to grapple with her tight latex dress.

And then my train pulls in to my work station. I think I have to leave her behind. And I have to leave her behind. But she doesn’t go away. She is there on my screen, there in my mind, there on my notepad where I doodle and sketch her or write down odd phrases I might use I might later use in a story or blog post. She is not going to let me go. She wants me as much as I want her. .

My lunch break is usually half an hour. I go to the ladies, lock myself in a cubicle, put down the seat and sit to take off my skirt and tights which I hang up on the back of the door. I picture her, focus on her as she tugs off the latex for me. Then she stands before me, naked, and takes my hand, inviting me to kneel and tongue her clit.

I am on my knees in the cubicle, my face buried in my long skirt, I know that I can be seen through the gap below the door, I hear people come and go, snippets of conversation, I shut them off, focussed on my task. I work myself harder, harder and when the orgasm comes cannot quite suppress a low moan.

I look at my watch, half an hour has gone, Quickly I put on stockings and skirt, wait for a moment until I know there is no one else there, go to the bank of wash basins, touch up my lipstick in the mirror, run a brush through my hair as if I had just popped in in my way to the office. I go back to my desk smiling. My imaginary lover has gone, she will never return, I know as much, but I don’t care.

“Where have you been at lunchtime Eve? You’re looking really happy!”

Setting Sail

This is my entry for the 2018 Euphoff competition devoted to seriously bad erotic writing, run by the fabulous Other Livvy. This is the worst I could come up with. Check out the other entries here            

I have crested many a range, conquered veritable Himalayas of female voluptuousness, scaled the mountains of desire, reaching for bright galaxies of ecstasy even as I plunged into  the darkest depths. For it is the depth that I crave, not the heights. I still recall the first blissful night, when I sailed into the vast ocean of delight reached from the narrow bay between her thighs, its coastline thick with the gorse bushes of her pubic hair, warning me off, yet inviting me in.  And I grew hard, my manhood swollen with desire and the creamy pulsations rising up from my spheres of sexuality. And I saw that I was glistening, my bell end a bright purple bauble hanging from the stout tree of my gym formed frame. I rose up, a very Mars unhorsed, and came down brutally to plunge my sceptre of masculinity deep, deep into the erotic chasm she had willed open for me in her desire. I drove my manly member into those soft sensual feminine folds, fragrant with female juice, and gasped as the foreskin slipped back and my semi-moist treat stick lapped at the pools of pleasure she had prepared.  Our bodies moved in the synchrony of pure physical poetry, of a wonder beyond words.

She opened her beautiful mouth, its full lips rising and falling in hedonistic harmony as she moaned and gasped and said

“Oh Sixtus,  just fuck me. I want it hard”

And she rose up and bit my shoulder ran her ombre nails down my back.  And I knew the spell was broken by her cheap vulgarity I withdrew with more than a hunt of disgust.

“Sixtus, SIXTUS! Just give it to me now! I’m fucking gagging for it!”

“Oh Annunziata, how could you spoil such a special moment how…how can you deny the pulchritudinous poetry of the coupling, the sweet sonnet of sex, the hexameter of hedonism.”,

“For fuck’s sake Sixtus.  Are you going to ram me or not?”

I remained stunned.

“Because if not just take your things and get out. In this corner of Brexitland sex means sex. I didn’t bring you back here for pulchritudinous poetry. I brought you back here for a rough shag.”

Again I said nothing.

She slid down so that my erotic rod of state was by her mouth and took it inside that temple of her vulgarity. And I released my seed into her softness, not to give her pleasure but to cleanse her, before making her whole in an aesthetic of atonement, how I forgave her for spoiling the moment, yet, even as I sought to deny her I calmed the waves, the rushing torrents of sensation. Now I knew I was to be the poet, she the writing tablet, the recipient of my art, marked with my manliness, engraved with the erotic. And I put out to sea a second time, knowing I would never return home.

 

 

Imagined Desires

Most weekdays I get up at five thirty. I start the day with a cup of tea, a cigarette, and watch German breakfast television as I take my medication, eat breakfast and do my make-up. But every other week I get up half an hour earlier, a sacrifice I make because I have a crush on a presenter who is only on every other week and who normally only presents the first hour of the breakfast programme. Attraction is irrational and I still struggle to explain what I see in her, but a crush this definitely is.

I don’t spend the half hour fantasising, but rather watching and adoring. This is a lovely feeling and one I haven’t known since I fell in love with a school teacher over forty years ago. I look forward to this half hour in the stillness of the early morning. On the days I oversleep and miss her I can be in a foul mood all day. When I have worshipped I leave the house in the winter darkness with a spring in my step. The tiredness I suffer later on in the day is very much a price worth paying. Sometimes I take out my notebook on the train and write her a short love letter, one of the “letters I’ve written never meaning to send.”  And I live in hope that she will one day follow me on Twitter.

So I, as a fifty five year old woman, find myself in love with an unattainable woman young enough to be my daughter. I will never meet her in real life, my love and devotion will never be returned. I know this and don’t care. I am sharing with you a part of my inner life, something that makes me happy.

This is something too that gives me emotional release and which helps in my depression and anxiety. Even though I don’t actively fantasise about her, and have never masturbated to her, she fuels my erotic imagination. A few days ago, it was a Saturday, my body clock woke me up at five. I rolled over in the darkness and searched for the alarm clock. Two more hours in bed I thought before I need to get up to go running. I dozed off into the light sleep where dreams unfold.

She came to me, stood before me. No words were said. I knelt before her, kissed her boots, gently and with devotion. I reached up, unbuttoned her jeans, pulled them down a little. I moved her panties to the side, gazed in awe at her magnificent cunt. I moved forward, wetted my tongue, then buried my face in the coarse, luxuriant hair and began to worship……

I woke up wet and with a deep feeling of contentment. I grabbed the notebook I keep on the bedside table and began to write. Some of my dream might end up in a story. Some of it will be transferred to real life. Then my lovers will feel for themselves the beauty of the crush, the magic that can be wrought by unrequited love.

Bake Day 2

He took me by surprise. I had just lifted the fruit cake out of the oven and was about to ladle the sponge cake batter into the second tin I had prepared when he came into the kitchen, stood behind me and held my wrist, not roughly but firmly enough to stop me working.

“Sinful Sunday tomorrow” he said. “I’m going to take a pic of you as my cake lady. But before I do…”

He reached under my skirt and pulled down my panties.

After a quick application of margarine from the tub his finger began exploring my cunt.

“Not now” I said half resisting “I am trying to bake.”

“You have baked. How many cakes do we need?”

“Charity bake day at work on Monday” I replied, the upward inflection in my voice betraying my uncertainty of my own arguments as two fingers propped deeply. I was wet.

“The second cake won’t need baking. I have always liked uncooked batter. Did you lick the spoon as a child?”

I gasped as he probed deeper and began to stimulate my clit with his other hand.

“Stop it, I’m trying to work, I’m trying to…”

He worked my clit harder and began to nibble my earlobes.

“Stop it…seriously I need to

He pushed his finger deeper into my wet cunt.

“Actually just fuck me.

I leant forward so that my hair dangled in the wet batter and he lifted up my skirt and I felt him go in. Our kitchen quickies are always hard and rough which is just  how I like them and he was soon finished finishing with a hard thrust that nearly pushed my face into a kitchen cabinet. I came with a moan and he stepped back spent and panting, fumbling to move his foreskin back into place. I stood up and felt his come seeping out of me and running down my leg.

“Get on the table”

I took my clothes off and lay on the table. He spooned the rich batter over me, massaging the mixture deliciously around my crotch, then kneading my breasts  with sticky cakey hands before standing back admire his handiwork. He washed his hands in the sink then took his phone and took a picture of me, lying there in batter, desperate for more of him.

He showed me the picture he had uploaded onto our blog, with the Sinful Sunday logo beneath it, inviting us to click and see the other sexy pics our fellow bloggers had posted..

Then he stripped, and came down on me licking the batter if my tits, off my stomach before burying his face in my crotch, working me with his greedy tongue. He moved his mouth towards mine and we kissed, the sloppy batter passing between us. .

Then he fucked me again until we were both a mass of batter and sweat and come and pussy juice.

I had a feeling we were going to enjoy showering together. And then I thought how thoughtful it had been of me to bake two cakes.

“I bet the fruit cake will be cold by now won’t it?” he said. “I’ll put the kettle on. I’m dying for a cuppa.”

The Mirror Cracked

The mirror cracked. My partner pushed me roughly back onto the chest of drawers which partly collapsed under my weight. I slipped and fell, the large dressing mirror tumbled down behind me and fractured diagonally about two thirds of the way up. I knew that this was a one night stand I would remember.

This has started out as a social drink with a former work colleague. Wetherspoons curry (this was a Thursday night in Wolverhampton) might seem an inauspicious start to a evening of rough sex but the pub, with its sticky floor and uncleared tables became an oddly appropriate place to start the evening.. I don’t  remember at what point the conversation turned to sex and we both realised we were horny, fancied each other and just wanted to fuck. We went out for a cigarette and my friend made the move. We kissed, she fumbled with my bra strap, pulling it dwon my arm, lifted my top and began to explore with her hand.

“Not here” I hissed.

“Let’s get a room” she said.

There were two hotels nearby. We went to the nearer one, but left when we were quoted ninety pounds for a double room including the breakfast neither of us would be around to eat. Round the corner, the other hotel oozed seediness. It seemed the sort of place that just might have rooms to let by the hour. A heavy fug of cannabis hung in the air. The man on reception grinned with a kind of “I know what you are here for look”

We took the room. It was dingy, grubby, the sheets were soiled, and we didn’t examine too closely the debris under the bed. But it was so appropriate for what we were here to do. I pulled off her clothes….. pushed her onto the damp bed with its sagging mattress. There I went down on her.

Just over half an hour later, flushed and sated, unwashed, (the shower looked rather uninviting) we walked out past the unshaven man who grinned again as we handed him the key. I felt his gaze follow us as we walked out. We shared a cigarette, and after a peck on the cheek, went our separate ways. .

I have only seen her once since, for lunch, this time without hot sex. But I am not disappointed about this. After that spur of the moment quickie, there would almost be nowhere to go in terms of friendship. But I have such found memories of that evening It is as if the seediness of our surroundings enhanced the experience. Discomfort and no distractions turned us in to focus on each other’s pleasure.

I arrived home smelling of sex. In my exhilaration I didn’t shower before bed. I wanted my bed to smell of her, even my warm cosy bed that she would never see.

And back in the room a cracked mirror swayed drunkenly from a collapsing chest of drawers, reflecting a bed, sheets wet with pussy juice and stained with the fat from the pork scratchings we had eaten off each other. It was that kind of night. .

Getting The Block

I have had a lot of good sex recently. I have had sex with a cisgendered man, a cis woman, and a trans woman. I suppose I count as pansexual. I have been horny for much of the time and would have had more sex of time permitted. But stuff gets in the way, work, domestic matters, and writing. Writing? I haven’t written anything for a month and it seems almost as if  I need not ti be having much sex to be able to reflect on it and write. Some of this sex has been mind blowing, particularly when my friend Stephanie and I seized the moment in Birmingham’s main lesbian bar. Erotic tension had been hanging in the air as we talked and drank pints of Stella Artois.It was a relief when she took the initiative, pushing me into the outside loo and bolting the door behind us. I kissed her, buried my face in her breasts, then knelt on the cold floor to work her clit with my tongue before pushing my fingers into her cunt, which was wet and dilating rapidly. Four fingers went in and worked up and down, increasing the tempo until, she came with a moan which must have been heard by the several people trying the door.

Just like car sex this was exciting because we courted discovery and had little time. It left me the most amazing high but unable to write. I have had ideas for blog posts which I have discarded, others I have written but feel unable to publish  because  they are born of my darkest, most intimate fantasies.

And then came the call for the Eroticon anthology with the subtext “Truth”. I had a day off work and sat for three hours over my new exercise book. I write nothing. I fantasised, I masturbated, I came but no words were out down in the page.

But last week, with a little distance from this wonderful sex, I got some ideas down. I will get my mojo back. I am going to fuck myself creative. And I hope you like the result.

A Fit Bird

I am sure I heard a compliment as I walked into the gym. You know, one of the kind that most women don’t enjoy.

I am sure I hear the words “fit bird” from one of the two builders as they see me go by and haul up their trousers to hide the cleavage.

I look round and glare. They make eye contact and smile defiantly.

“Wankers” I mutter underneath my breath and go in to begin my workout.

I love the feel of Lycra, love the look of my sculpted legs in pink legging the tightness around the crotch. I am aware of the looks I attract as I work out but I pretend not to notice. I always start on the exercise bike and, even at 6.30 in the morning, I am reading. I read obsessively and usually have four books on the go. One of these is always a book of filth.

I don’t mind reading openly in the gym, in fact, if they want to look at me, and admire, my legs , my bum, my tits beneath the loose fitting top, let them know what kind of woman I am.  I read, I pedal my way into an easy rhythm, feel the Lycra hugging my skin. Exercise can be deeply sensual and I am feeling aroused even before I begin to read.

I read a page, dwelling on the words, the images, I put the book down, I feel again the Lycra on my skin, the tightness of the leggings around my crotch.  A damp patch is forming, darkening the pink.

I pull Natalie to the ground, roughly pull down her blouse. I suck greedily at her nipples, pulling the breasts, squeezing hard with y lips and twisting so that she gasps with pain that is at the same time pleasure.  I draw her head close pulling her hair as I do so.  I want to hurt her, want her to feel pain, because this makes me horny. I kiss her, pushing my tongue into her mouth as roughly as I can. ,

“I am going to make you suffer for making me suffer when I read your book, in the gym, on the bus, in places where I ache for relief but can’t get any, because I spend so much time at the office when I should be working, locked in a cubicle in the ladies’, playing with myself.”

I kiss her again. She smells of cider, of the roll up cigarettes we have often shared outside conference venues, the hair is unwashed and unkempt but she smells of animal sexuality. She is so different to me, no make-up, there is a mysterious masculinity about her whereas I am all girl. I kiss her again and smudge my bright red lipstick over her cheek. This is a marker of my ownership.

“You’re a filthy slut and I am going to spank you hard.”

I drag her roughly over my knee and pull down her panties. I rubbed my hand over the blank white canvas of her buttocks and pinched until she cried out. I lay my left arm across the base of her spine and, cupping my hand loosely, took aim.  The force of the first blow reverberated back through my hand.  The second made my hand sting. She cried out as it landed and left a red hand print on her right buttock.

I continued, building up the tempo, feeling the warmth I generated. I felt arousal as I began to hit hard and rhythmically and she began to moan. After a while I stopped and caressed her glowing buttocks before digging my fingernails in to twist and scratch,

“Stop it you bitch!”

“You what?”

I dig in harder.

“Fucking bitch” she shouts as I drew blood.

“Your turn now” she says. She stands up, walks across the room and picks up a dildo and harness.

“I am going to take you up the bottom.”

I am soaking wet by now.

“I just want you inside me. Just do it.”

And she bends me over a chair, felt for me with two fingers, before pushing in inside slowly, with a cold slap of lube. She thrusts and I pedal. She is strong, she is forceful and I am aware of a shift in the power dynamic of this encounter. She is pushing harder than I have known before. I clench the muscles to tighter my passage against the invasion. But yield as I must. I cry out as if seeking rescue. Natalie’s buttocks sting and now she is turning the tables on me.

I lean forward and increase the speed of the exercise bike a notch. I feel a stabbing brain in my quads. I need more of this. And when Natalie has finished, she takes off the harness, throws it casually aside and returns to her writing.

I am wet.  A patch of darker pink is spreading across my crotch like tea through a sugar lump. I raise myself slightly out of the saddle from which I am starting to slip to keep pedalling.  I am nearly done, I have burned a bacon sandwich worth of calories but I will resist that temptation as I pass the café on my way home. I pedal hard, embrace the pain.

And even now that I am so nearly spent, Natalie isn’t finished with me.  She looks up from her laptop and motions to me to lie down again and spread my legs. Once more she straps on the dildo and approaches. She is magnificent, six feet of Amazon in stockinged feet, a toned body. She takes my wrists and holds them tight, pushing them roughly to the sheet twisting the skin in her hands as he does, Chinese burn style, .

“Stop it” I say “You’re hurting me.”

Sarah says nothing, just slips a finger inside my c**t, holds it against my mouth.

“Taste” she orders quietly.

Then she takes a longer, fatter dildo, and goes down on me, pushes her way in and begins to pump forcefully. I arch my back to allow her to penetrate more deeply.

I look furtively around the gym, slip a finger inside my leggings and rub my clit as I pedal harder and faster to a climax.

I come with a scream and sink back onto the bed. The exercise bike bleeps to tell me my workout is finished.  I take a sip of Lucozade, pick up my book and kiss it.

Natalie withdraws and slides the condom off the end of the dildo. She leans over me and kisses me gently on the forehead.

“You’re a fit bird you know that?”

She smiled.

I pack my things into my gym bag. The workmen are still in the gym reception area as I leave. I smile at them and they look away, avoiding eye contact.

I swing my bag over my shoulder for the walk home.

I can’t stop smiling.