On Display

“Look at her” Kris says with admiration. “Isn’t she gorgeous?”

He’s talking about me. Appraising scrutiny from our audience brings forth nods of approval and encouraging smiles. I’m awkward, nervous at being so exposed in front of this many people. They’re all looking at my naked body. There’s nowhere to hide. Heat rises to my face in an embarrassed blush and rushes to the pit of my stomach in a flare of arousal.

Sex dream

…you love this don’t you, slut? Your cunt was dripping as soon as you saw her, watching her doing you makes me want to fuck your mouth until you choke, you bitch. I might just hold you down and let her hurt you…

My libido woke from its temporary hibernation and delivered this dream, alongside my writing mojo. Welcome back to both. Please feel free next time not to drag That Guy up out of my subconscious along with you.

CW: hatefuck


like all good parties, most of the action has coalesced in the kitchen. Guests lean against the counters, drinks in one hand, the other draped casually around nearby waists or scrabbling at tortilla chips. Robust opinions mingling in good-natured rowdiness against the backbeat of the nostalgic 90s Britpop blaring from the corner speakers.

I’m standing alone by the back door, trying not to sneak too many glances at him in case he notices. It’s been a long time since we split up, under not-entirely-amicable terms (for which I must accept my share of responsibility – which is most of it). He’s changed little, his long blond hair showing evidence of recent highlighting; handsome, boyish – almost delicate – Nordic cheekbones and wide blue eyes, tip-tilted nose a startling contrast to the sandy goatee and black leather clothing. My stomach flutters when I look at him. Admiration, for he is as pretty as I remembered. Apprehension, in case he is still angry or worse – disdainful. Hope. A tiny, flickering butterfly of hope. For what, I’m not exactly sure. Something.

#Pervember Joker: Spit-roasting

Today’s prompt was “branding” and that’s definitely not one of my kinks (nothing wrong with it between consenting adults of course, just doesn’t do anything for me) so I couldn’t really think of anything to write about it. Instead, I’m playing one of the jokers – something I have always wanted to experience and fantasise about frequently.

Spit-roasting, with its connotations of gluttony and primitivism; myself as nourishment and celebration, as sacrifice and utility.

A choice, perhaps; between the carnal and the alimentary….

CW: this story depicts not-quite-consensual sexual activity.

Window-shopping

Silhouette of woman against a townhouse window

I’m pretty sure I actually saw this on the way home today. Even if my eyes deceived me at the time, it makes for a pretty damn hot fantasy. How lucky it just happens to be #MasturbationMonday!

So picture this. You’re on the bus on the way home from the station. It’s been a long and demanding day, so all you want to do is silence the whirling work-thoughts buzzing around your brain. You’ve been idly contemplating your favourite sexual fantasies on the journey so far, picking out which to play on your mind’s projector that evening when you settle naked onto your bed. You’re gazing out of the window, not really registering what you’re seeing as you picture scenes of dominance, restraints, floggings and hard fucking.

Then it happens. The bus jolts over a speed bump and you look up momentarily, to meet her eyes.

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