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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Tilt

A Wank Wednesday entry.

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She is tied, hand and foot, to his desk chair in his office. He sits here, thinking of binding her as he talks coolly with China, of teasing her as he settles million-pound deals with the USA, of fucking her as he chats with his secretary on the intercom.

He tilts her head to kiss her neck. She shivers, his soft lips a whisper against her heated skin. His hand is motionless between her thighs, her cunt a throbbing testament to their shared desires. As he slides himself inside her tight wetness, he smiles. Work is rarely this much fun.

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Incognito

In celebration of my functioning replacement fishie from sextoys.co.uk. ;)

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I'm sitting at the table, my hands folded into my lap, my eyes downcast. I daren't look at you because all I see in your eyes is sex when you think that no one is watching, and the thought of you is making my mouth water, making me hot and wet and most unladylike for civilised dinner company. The trouble is, the more I try not to think about the lust written all over your face, the more I want you. My face goes red and I hunch down further into my shoulders and hope no one has noticed. Thankfully our friends are chatty and cheerful and don't seem to be noticing that I'm not talking much.

There's a throb between my legs and I glance up at you. You've got a wicked gleam in your eyes, a grin twitching at the corners of your mouth. I all but begged you to let me wear the remote control egg during dinner, but I'd half hoped you wouldn't use it. It's one thing to fantasise about being remotely fucked in a public place, but another thing to actually do it. I'm sat quite still, one leg crossed over the other, and the gentle vibrations of the egg send sensations up and down my abdomen. It's pleasant, not overly arousing, and I relax a little. Perhaps I won't get too turned on and it'll be fine.

A rustle at my ankle. You've slipped your shoe off and are caressing my foot with yours. I shiver at the warmth of your toes on my bare skin. The vibrations increase and I inelegantly quash a spasm as the egg shifts about. I stifle a moan as it settles on a sweet spot and flutters of heat radiate outwards into my legs. I want to touch myself. I put my hands calmly on the table and lace my fingers together. I shift in my seat, which doesn't help, but sitting still just makes the vibrations seem all the more potent. Again, an increase in intensity. I gasp and try desperately to muffle it as a cough. You're laughing at me, your hands under the table, and I know that you're slowly turning up the settings, pushing me to see how long I'll last before I either come or run away to the ladies. You look so smug that I'm determined to see it through. Even if I come here at the dinner table. I won't give you the satisfaction of knowing that you beat me.

The food arrives. I whisper a breathless thank you to the waiter as he places a plate of pasta in front of me. He glances at me a little oddly but says nothing, just tops up my wine glass and goes on his way. Our friends look at me with concern. I cough a little and say that some wine went down the wrong way. I sneak a look at you. Your eyes are drowning, satisfaction and want and amusement and I have to swallow another gasp because all I want right now is for you to fuck me over the table. I'm beginning to tremble with the effort of keeping my composure but I'm stubbornly not going to give in. I look at my plate and somewhere at the back of my mind is a query about how I'm going to eat, but I can't really think it through because you've notched up the egg another level and the heat pulsing between my legs is all I can concentrate on.

I can feel a flush creeping up my neck. My breathing has gotten very shallow and I'm starting to feel light-headed. My legs are shivering, my stomach turning knots, and the electric lines of orgasm are beginning to creep outwards into the rest of my body, small currents that promise larger currents to come... I grip the edge of the table and grit my teeth. I will not moan. I won't give in. I bite my lip but even that feels sensual, my mouth dry at the thought of release. I've given up trying not to look at you. You look good enough to eat, and all I can think about is what you'd be like inside me. I imagine that you're hard just watching me, and I want to take your cock in my hand and show you what it feels like to have control of your arousal taken away from you until you beg me to stop. I want you so much that I almost manage to stop focussing on my building orgasm but with a wicked half sneer you jack the remote up to the final setting and I catch a moan in my throat, managing to release it as a strangled sob. Our friends look at me again and my face turns bright red. I try and stand up but my knees buckle before I'm more than a few inches off the seat and as I flop back onto the chair with a thump I come, my back bowing outwards, my hands curling around the seat of the chair. I somehow manage not to moan, but I close my eyes and let out a long low breath, every nerve in my body tingling, fire flooding through my veins, spilling into every limb and leaving me weak and lethargic. I shakily get to my feet and apologise and say that I'm going out for some air.

Mercifully you turn the egg off as I leave the restaurant. A cool breeze wafts into my face as I open the door and I realise just how hot I am. My hair is stuck to the back of my neck with sweat. I walk a little way down the road and lean again the wall, enjoying the jagged bricks against my back. You appear next to me within a few minutes. You're swaggering, your face a picture of pride and amusement. You pull me into the circle of your arms and my skin tingles. I realise how strange it is to have come without any physical touch. I'm tired. I rest my head in the crook of your neck and you massage my back. I let out another long breath and allow myself to whimper a little. You chuckle softly and a plant a kiss in my neck. You trace the line of my neck with your nose and gently nuzzle my hair. I shiver again and moan slightly. I still want you. Your hand is on my thigh, travelling under my skirt to my panties, which are soaked. You groan into my neck, your breath hot and tickly against my skin. I feel you harden slightly against me as you push my back against the wall and kiss me roughly on the lips.

“You wanted this,” you growl in my ear.

“I did,” I reply, my voice brimming with pride. I've passed the test. You chuckle.

“Careful what you wish for,” you say.

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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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