Dusk

A Fuck Me Friday entry.

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I shiver as the wind rustles through the trees, plays upon my shoulders, blows my scarf around. The sun is setting and the temperature is dropping, dim moonlight replacing the harsh glow of day, wrapping the world in a sensual haze. I can hear the ocean lapping at the shore beneath the cliffs, lazily in and out, like a lover that wants to prolong the sensation. Occasionally a wave breaks on the rocks with a crash, and my breath catches in my throat imaging the passion in the white froth which spills across the sand.

The breeze catches my skirt and reminds me that I'm not wearing any pants, as if I could have forgotten. Although I come this way every day, this evening I feel different, as though I have offered my body to every passing stranger with my attire and demeanour, even though I have not made eye contact with any of them as they have walked by me. I noticed the coy glances and the drowning eyes that drank me in, hoping that I would not see. I blush as I consider that perhaps they rape me with their eyes every day and I do not notice. The only difference is that today I am hiding a secret of my own. A delicious secret that I cannot keep to myself any longer.

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Rush

A Fuck Me Friday entry....

I'm nervous. My palms are sweaty, my wrists itching from rope tied a little too tight. The blindfold is caught up in my hair, which is tickling the back of my neck. I can't see a thing. My ears are picking up the smallest sounds; rustles from the curtain in the slight breeze at the window, the faint sounds of cars on a distant road, you as you pace up and down the room in front of me. At least, I think that you're pacing. I can hear your footsteps padding up and down, and my feet on the floor are picking up the vibrations as you put one foot in front of the other. As I can't see you, I have no idea really what you're doing, or what you're planning. And I'm nervous.

But I like it.

I'm dying a little inside with each minute that goes by, waiting for you to do something, I want to speak, but I know that if I do, you're just going to make me wait a little bit longer. I asked you what you were going to do and you blindfolded me and now you haven't spoken to me for five minutes and I'm biting my tongue trying not to say anything else. There was fire in your eyes when you tied the rope around my hands and your expression promised exciting things to come. You ran the tails of the whip up and down my bare arms until the goose bumps stood out from my shivering skin and I whimpered because I know what that whip is capable of, what it's done, what it wants. I know what you want, but you're making me wait.

The whip cracks and I jump from the sudden sound. Every nerve in my body is tingling, waiting for you to bring the whip down on me. I tense, trying to figure exactly where you're going to hit me.

Silence.

For a few minutes, I crouch, tensed, feeling the lactic acid build up in muscles which are waiting for you to strike them. I'm holding my breath because you're so quiet that I can't hear you over the sound of my breathing. You're standing, running the whip over in your hands. I can just about hear the leather creaking as you thumb it. I'm starting to feel lightheaded. My muscles are screaming from holding them in this position. I wonder if you plan to do anything. I let out a long, slow breath, my ears straining to hear if you've moved. A tiny rustle, nothing more. I breathe in, and my back loosens just a little bit.

You strike.

I yelp in pain, and surprise. The sting is sharp but brief, and as the warm, slow heat spreads out across my back from the impact point, I inwardly sigh with relief. I have missed you, and your whip, and this pleasure that somehow must be subjected in order to be enjoyed. My breathing resumes normality, and I gulp in deep lungfuls of air, previously unaware just how tightly I had been holding my breath. I pant, and feel my chest rise and fall, and I can imagine you standing over me, amused, stroking the whip against the palm of your hand, waiting for your next moment.

You crouch down next to me and whisper softly in my ear as I recover:

“You wouldn't want me to rush this, would you?”

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Court: A Fuck Me Friday Story

With thanks to Aisling Weaver for this fantastic idea.

It’s the middle of the night. I know I shouldn’t be here but it’s so quiet and peaceful and sometimes I think it’s the only place I feel I can really think, unhindered by other worries. The security lights went off about an hour ago and it’s completely dark. My only gripe is that I am alone. I still can’t quite believe how long it has been since you left me. I’m slightly embarrassed to say that I’ve been coming here a lot in recent months, just to remember you.

I never would have thought we could even break into the tennis centre if you hadn’t dragged me along that night in June, when the stars were bright and the air was warm and cool, and it seemed the whole world was asleep except you and me. We lay on our backs in the middle of the court and gazed at the sky and you pointed out constellations to me and reminded me of being a little girl in the Brownies, first uncovering the mysteries of the universe.

Then you kissed me, and I was no longer a girl but a woman again, with all the ferocious animal passions that only you ever awoke in me. There have been other men since, but nobody touches me like you did, nobody makes my skin come alive with fire and electricity like you. You traced the lines of my body with heavy fingers until I nearly screamed at you to fuck me, and then you gagged me with your scarf so that you could continue to torture my aching body without fear of being caught. You took off your shirt and I marvelled at your lustrous body, finely muscled and toned from years of dedicated tennis training. I wanted to lick the sweat from your chest and your nipples until you gave into my desires, but you were having none of it. You took control of me like you knew my body inside out.

You laughed at me as I piteously tried to persuade you to penetrate me and the more you resisted, the more I wanted you until I was nothing more than a slave to your will, open to whatever glorious pleasure or pain you had in store for me.

That was when you had me where you wanted me. As you slipped the condom over the handle of the racket I knew that I would never, ever forget you, or the depths of lust that you drove me to. I looked at the shaft with a mixture of fear and excitement. I was innocently curious, my desire-fogged brain slow to catch on to your intentions. I think I tried to scream but at that point you thrust your fingers inside me and I was lost in a rush of ecstasy and I forgot all about the ridiculousness and stupidity of your plan. When you drove the shaft inside me I was ready, wet and loose and you just slipped it in like you had done this a hundred times before. My body revelled at this strange and curious sensation and I raked desperate fingers at your body, pulling you into kiss me, again and again as you slowly moved the handle in and out, the strings tickling at my thighs.

As you began to pick up speed, you added fingers to the equation, rubbing my clit like it was a button that could be pushed to release me into oblivion. At times I thought the sensory overload would drive me insane but you somehow kept me teetering on the edge between madness and bliss, until finally my body could take it no more and I tipped over the precipice into orgasm, sweet joy rushing through all my limbs.

I lay there for a while, unable to move, my cunt sore and throbbing, my heart beating so fast that my head pounded, rendering any thought impossible. You stroked me and told me I was a good girl, and I was confused at the flush of pride that I felt, as though I had done something amazing.

Sometime later, I asked you why you’d done it. You just shrugged and gave a wicked grin. I looked away, speechless.

Even now, I cannot watch your beloved sport without feeling dirty and subversive, and blushing so much that I have to leave the room. When you’re playing, I have to hear about the score afterwards, because I am overwhelmed with memories as soon as you walk onto the court. And when you kiss and thank your wife when you win, I take smug satisfaction in knowing that you still have that piece of me, unseen but always present, wherever in the world you find yourself.

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