Hello there, twitterers.
This blog is full of cobwebs, but I had a little blast from the past last night, when I opened my dusty box of collected erotica anthologies, and revisited my story from Alison Tyler's Morning, Noon and Night.
Full disclosure, this is my favourite of my own stories, a little wish fulfilment tale of being wanted after all.
If anyone would like to read, you're welcome to. But please - in return, follow the proper self-isolation protocols. Let's not have a thousand dead loved ones and nowhere to put them. Dublin's pubs are full, and kids are thronging the playgrounds. Stop. Stay home, if you can, don't socialise. It's not for long, but it will be longer and longer, if we don't do it, with added tragedy.
Stay in and enjoy this story, a little humour, a little sweetness, a little wetness, and little sentiment.
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I swing around, pint glass in hand, and there he is. Rob.
The broad shoulders and shoulder length hair are unmistakeable. He’s dancing
with some girl, and the eye contact he’s making looks convincing from her
vantage point, but most of the time he’s scanning the crowd under the cover of
the strobe lights. Under cover of the strobe lights, I try to pretend I don’t
know he’s catching my eye.
Last time I saw him, he’d been tiptoeing out of my apartment
in his socks, collecting his scattered belongings and sneaking out the door.
That’s why I decided. No more flirty eyes across the bar at kicking out time,
no more grinding on the dance floor. No more shot-for-shot games sitting either
side of a bottle on the floor. No more rum and sweat soaked orgasms in the small
hours, followed by a two day hangover and a three day comedown where I cursed
my luck with men and whatever perky breasted bitchslut he was surely sniffing
after now.
Nope. Not good for the mental health. I grasped my resolve
in my silver ringed fist and set my sights on surer things.
Tonight, though, those surer things weren’t exactly lighting
up my crosshairs. If I’m honest, I’ve been the one tiptoeing barefoot away from
yet another snoring disappointment the last few Saturday mornings. Those
lacklustre encounters haven’t been as good for the psyche as I’d anticipated.
So I’d been planning to just go dance with my girls. Thick
soled, lace up boots with leggings and a clinging cotton shift dress. I’m
grunging tonight, though the dress does have low back. Still, if I had the
tits, I’d wear a bra with it anyway, brazen, but it’s one of those nights I
feel blessed with my perky little boobs that push against the cotton without
any need for support. I’ve got boots and skin and a necklace
hanging the wrong way - my jet beads tight at my throat and hanging down my
spine, pointing like an arrow towards my ass. I tip my head back, and hold my
arms out, slopping beer through my fingertips caging the rim of my pint glass,
balancing myself with its weight. No cocktails tonight, no handbags, just
lovely, dirty, sweaty, nostalgic music in the humid, beer tainted air.
It’s dark, but he sees me. I can feel his eyes on me. But
I’m not going to look. He can flaunt all the floozies he likes, I’m gonna get
my dance on and walk home alone.
12.30 am and I’m sitting on the wall outside his flat.
Lights on. I’m a stalker, sitting here, waiting for two silhouettes to cross
the window. It’s cold and my ass is going numb on
this wall. I’m fighting the Shoulds pouring through my brain – shouldn’t have
severed contact with him, no, should never have slept with him in the first
place, should really be home in bed with a book and woolly socks, and at this
stage, possibly hot cocoa. I stand up and look at the window one more time. As I
move to leave, my phone beeps. I don’t recognise the number at first, because I
so virtuously deleted him from my address book.
Were you planning to come in, or
are you just going to sit there all night?
I look up. The window still seems empty. I text back,
desperate for a one liner that will somehow excuse my undignified behaviour.
Do you want me to?
Facepalm. Not so suave. A second ticks by, and his door
swings open, his familiar shape backlit. I jog across the street and then drag
my heels up to his door. I stop in front of him and he reaches out and runs a
finger up the zip of my scruffy black parka.
“This is
nice,” he says. “Retro.” I smile. I know from his record collection that we
shared similar tastes in the past.
“I’m in
fancy dress.” He raises an eyebrow, fingers still lingering on the black
canvas. ‘I’m dressed as my fifteen year old self tonight. Out for a pint and a
dance, it’s nice to have a warm coat for the walk home.’
‘Or for
stalking?’
‘I
wasn’t stalking!’ Lying indignantly is the best defence.
‘Tea?’
So tea will be the stream we float on, until we arrive at a
place that’s comfortable again. I sit on the sofa, knees pulled up, hands
clasping a hot mug, and breath in the steam. I glance at him while taking a
sip. He’s looking at me, openly, and he
looks amused. I can feel myself blushing – this is far harder without the
blanket of drunkenness we usually operate under. I’m not sure what he’s waiting
for and I look around the room to buy some time. I’ve only been here once before,
late at night. The next morning was a sort of stagger-round-in-sunglasses
affair, I didn’t remember much about the decor. But it’s nice. Not what I
expected. I thought it would be cheap flatpack furniture and student squalor,
to be honest. But it’s a lot more tasteful than that. Rich neutral colours and
reclaimed boards. Art on the walls. The place must be his, and he’s done some
work on it.
“Your
place is lovely, Rob.” I gesture at the heavy wooden coffee table and bookcase.
He nods at me in acknowledgement. He cocks his head to one side and studies me
and I squirm under his gaze a little.
“Thanks.”
There’s no, ‘do you want a tour?’ or suggestions about the
bedroom. He just keeps watching. “I like your place too.” I frown at my tea.
“You’re always in such a hurry to
leave it, though.”
Crap. That was meant to come out like jaunty banter, but
instead it falls flat, and sits in a sad little puddle between us. I smile too
brightly and wish he’d offer me a splash of something in my tea to give me a
little Dutch courage. He leans his head on his fist and his blue eyes burn
bright.
“Would
you like to stay with me tonight?”
I clear my throat and nod, tongue tied. It’s the first time
he’s ever asked. Usually there is grinding and groping and tacit agreement, and
we stagger home and fall into bed. I have no idea why tonight is going so
differently, but then I suppose I initiated a different protocol, with the
stalking and all.
“Stand
up.” His voice is soft, low and firm. I lean over to put my cup on the table
and uncurl my legs. I pull myself to my feet and look down at him. “What is it
you want, tonight, Cally?” The question paralyses me. I’ve no smart answer,
because for once it doesn’t really seem to be a smart question. I wrestle with
the fear that I shouldn’t be there, with that conviction I’d had that I was
chasing my tail. I open my mouth, and close it again. He sighs, but it’s not
irritated. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to do all night.”
He stands
up and walks over to me. Putting his hands under the shoulder straps of my
dress, he slips it down to my waist, and inches it around and replaces it, so
the high front is at the back, and my front is... backless. My nipples pebble
under the air and exposure and self consciousness. He’s framed my breasts like
they’re a painting, and sat back down to look at it. “Will you take your boots
off, Cal?” I nod. My voice is gone. I bend and unlace my right boot, fumbling
with the knot, the eyelets seem endless. I stand and balance myself to shuck
it, kick it under the table and this time prop my left foot on the table. With
my leggings on I’m still quite modest, or would be if my chest wasn’t naked. I
get the other boot off more quickly and drop it with a clunk. The noise makes
me giggle, there’s no question these are fuck-you boots not the other, but Rob
doesn’t seem to mind, judging by the look in his eye.
He
gestures, and I slide the leggings and underwear off myself and toss them onto
the sofa. “What do you want, pretty girl in my living room?” I resist the urge
to um and blush and I walk over to his chair.
“I want
to be closer to you.”
He holds a hand out to me, and I climb onto his lap. As I
do, he reaches up and palms my breast, and pulls me in.
“Well?”
“You
usually... you don’t usually ask, you just take,” I whisper, leaning into his
hands, arranging myself so I’m straddling his thigh, shivering with the chill
on my bare skin and the contrasting heat of his hands.
“Well,
you’ve never shown up at my door before.”
He lets me tip his face towards me,
and find his mouth with mine. His lips are firm and full and I can feel his
sandy beard scratching at my face. He tastes familiar when I flick my tongue
across his. Little shivers fill me at the connection. He hooks a finger into
the strand of beads at my necks and starts to pull. Caught in my dress, they
come slowly, snaggingly over my shoulders, then faster as there’s more slack.
They fall between my breasts and he fists them loosely in one hand and rubs the
sliding mass of them over my exposed and eager tits. The beads are cool on my
nipples. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. Rob pulls me forward by the
necklace and loops tight around my throat. It’s so long, he still has a lot to
hold on to. The strand around my neck is taught, but I can still breathe, and I
suck in air sharply when he catches my nipple in the fistful of beads he’s
holding and closes his hand. The beads crush together around it with tiny
shrill noises and I feel a multitude of little points of pain light up on my
tender flesh. I squeak and try to pull away, but the choke chain he’s made of
my necklace doesn’t make that any more comfortable. He pulls me back in and
does the same thing to the other nipple, reaching up to kiss me again as he
pinches my delicate skin. The beads are light, but they have a multitude of
edges that pinch and grind. I moan in protest but I don’t move again. “What do
you want?” he whispers into my ear.
“You?” I
try, mashing my crotch against his jean clad leg. He trails his fingers down my
thigh and strokes my bare pussy. I tilt to let his fingers in and even at this
awkward angle they fill me. I thrust onto them but he slides them out of me,
trails them up through the beads, which tinkle and whisper as he goes, and
pushes them into my mouth. This. I want this. The taste of him in my mouth,
tart with a slick of my cream, this is exactly what I want.
“Ass on
the table.” Rob moves forward with ease, pushing me back until my legs hit the
table, and I sit, more abruptly than I would like to. He slips to his knees,
and puts his mouth to the nipples he’s just finished abusing. Lightening darts
of pleasure zing around my body as he eases me backwards, and pushes the skirt
of my dress out of the way. He nuzzles my inner thigh all soft lips and
prickling beard, then his lips move slowly up to my cunt. I open for him and
whimper when he tongue delves deep into me before licking up to my clit. His
mouth feels so firm, so wet, his moustache and stubble press into my soft flesh
and the burn drives the pleasure upward. My hand settles on the back of his
head, winding tight into his thick hair as he starts a steady rhythm, building
pressure, sucking on my aching, swelling, throbbing flesh until my abdomen
begins to tighten and contract. And then he stops.
“What!
What? Rob!”
“What do
you want, Cally?” He rests his head on my thigh and begins to play with my
cunt, just lightly, running his fingers up and down my lips, spreading the
wetness of his spit and my juice around.
“I..! I
want to come! Rob, please!” I try to grind against him, but to no avail. He
moves away and lifts my hips, flipping me over onto my front. The smooth wood
of the table is cold against my breasts and belly and I shiver. Rob hunkers
down beside me and whispers in my ear.
“Not
until you give me what I’m looking for, baby. Now, remember that time we played
with the hairbrush?” I gulp. I do indeed. I not only remember it, it has played
a starring role in plenty of my fantasies since that night. “Hmm?” He smoothes
my hair off my face so he can see me, and I nod.
“Yes.”
It comes out as a whisper.
“And you
remember we agreed on a word you’d use if you needed things to stop or slow
down?” I nod again, caught in the bright blue of his eyes. My face flushes but
my pussy is flooding with the excitement and fear of anticipation too. “Do I
need to tie you down, Cal?” I really don’t know if he does or not.
“No?”
He pats me on the head. I try to feel indignant, but it
doesn’t work. His fingertip trails all the way down my spine and taps three
times. A beat, and his hand cracks onto my ass cheek, it sparks and burns and I
moan and put my head down, and wait for the next one. He smacks me and waits,
timing each pause just long enough to make me fear the next one, make me long
for it. My pussy throbs and flames along with my ass, I want his face back
there, even better, I want him to fuck me now. But he doesn’t. He stops his
punishment, and strokes my hot cheeks. I groan, and writhe and try to press
myself back against him but he just smacks me once more.
“Up. Bedroom.”
I scramble, slither off the table, melted and liquid and eager. He leads me
into his room. It’s white, mostly. The floor is stained dark, and the bed is
dark wood, but everything else seems white in the dim light. I clamber onto the
bed and as I make to turn around he catches my wrists and stretches them in
front of me. Beneath the pillows are straps! I didn’t notice them the time I
was here. Velcro straps he fastens me into. My arms are spread wide and my head
is low to the bed. He pushes my ass up high and checks my pussy. His fingers
stroke, then enter again, he pushes against my g spot. “What do you want, Cal?”
I groan in frustration. Isn’t it obvious?
“I want
you to fuck me, Rob, please.” It’s a good enough position to beg from, being
tipped up onto my face and spread open like this always undoes me. I can’t
think of much else but his cock at this point. But he’s having none of it. He
pulls his fingers out of me, leaving me gasping at the cold absence of his
hand. He crawls to sit beside me and pushes my hair out of the way, touches my
lips again. All of a sudden he smacks my face, not so hard, but I startle and
try to jerk away. The straps mean I’m not going anywhere, and he does it again,
a little harder.
“What do
you want, Cal?”
“Ow!”
I’m not used to this, and I’m shocked. I feel completely helpless, and small.
He smacks me again and the side of my face stings. Before I can even analyse my
reaction, I start to cry. Wet, lonely tears run from my eyes and he wipes them
away – and smacks my face again, lazily.
“What?”
I’m spread open, and within a few minutes, he’s put me in a
place I could never access by myself.
“More.”
It comes out as a hoarse whisper. I press my face into the pillow as best I
can.
“Oh,
honey. It’s ok, we’ve just begun. I can do this all night.” I sob and shake my
head.
“No, more. I want more. Than this. I want you.”
“Ohhh.”
He moves his hand over my breasts, spreads it on my stomach.
“I want breakfast with you.
Television. I don’t want to have to go home.” I start to babble. His hips press
against my thighs and I can feel him lean to the side. I hear a condom packet
rip and his hands leave me for a second and manoeuvre the rubber on. His cock
presses against my open, wanting cunt and for a second I’m worried he didn’t
understand. But as he pushes into me he leans over and kisses my back, touches
his forehead to my skin. His cock feels so good inside me that I almost don’t
care if that’s all he’s offering, but he leans over me and reaches for the
straps, pulls my hands free. He pulls me up to his chest while he thrusts into
me and wraps long arms round my torso, crossing my breasts and stomach. I am
penetrated and held, it feels like flying, like floating.
“Is that
what you want?” he whispers in my ear, licking the curves of my ear between
sentences. I try to answer, but now the tip of his tongue is running electric
shivers between every tiny hair inside my ear, hot as he exhales, cool as he
pulls his breath away. His pubic hair bristles against my sore ass, He’s pounding
against that swelling wall inside and one big hand is pressing on my clit,
rubbing as he fucks me. I’m trapped and there’s no escape from the waves of
pleasure that burst through me. He pinches my tender nipple and I reach back to
hold onto his arm as I come, the heat and hurt and tightness of it shaking me.
We
collapse to the bed, and he pulls me to his chest, arms around me. “It’s what I
want too,” he says, deep voice in my ear as I start to float away. “Sleep.
And in there morning, there will be more.”
