More - a treat for those in self-isolation

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.

More

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.”