High-speed Connections

commuting is hot sweaty grotty and nasty but sometimes its special.

The place is humid, I can feel the sweat pooling down my back soaking my shirt. I’m in a shirt and tie and I’m choking in the heat, sliding off the tie and bundling it into the pocket of my leather jacket. I’m almost pinned to the thin metal walls -- half leaning, half sat --on the cushion by the window. Watching the stations fly by, my own fault really, the rush hour tube, I have half an hour left before I get to my bike.

Looking out across the carriage I can see the mix of tourists and workers crowding the train. I turn, no wonder the bloody tube train is like an oven the window is shut. I spend the two minutes we are waiting between stations turning, wriggling, and edging so I can get my left hand to the clip. Bugger, there’s no way to release the other side because I cant get past the crowd. I fumble noisily with the catch hoping someone will get the hint and yank the left hand catch down. It takes a little while but I finally feel a little play and suddenly that ‘thunking’ sound as the window slides down the greased runners and almost, almost . . .  No! Bollocks, its stuck. I raise my hand, a closed fist and give the top of the glass a thump as I see in the corner of my eye another with the same idea.

I meet their eyes and nod in thanks as the cool air hits my back. I’m drawn to her eyes, a deep violet, lenses I think. I smile and blink letting the image lenses I wear show the picture printed on the film. I’m rewarded with a beautiful giggle as she see’s my green eyes turn to green Cat eyes. I keep the contact and we have a slow conversation of lip reading and nods.

She can see I’m sweltering and suffering and smiles. We share our misery and feel a little camaraderie. Over the next ten minutes the crush of people ebbed and flowed and slowly, strangely I was sure that the girl with the violet eyes was moving not towards the doors and the vague hope for a seat, but instead I would swear she was moving towards me.  My suspicions were confirmed when I felt a tap on my chest tugging at the misshapen lump of copper and lead hanging off the chain round my throat and though my eyes were closed, I could feel her, could see her in my minds eye.

A four foot eight girl with an impish smile wearing a trouser suit and a black fitted leather jacket, I opened my eyes and smiled “heya.” I knew she was going to ask as she fingered my “lucky charm” but as I started to speak she gently placed a fingertip to my lips which I kissed gently.

“First business, then talking.” As she said that she reached for the zipper of my jacket, that I couldn’t reach, my hands occupied by my cane.  She undid the popper and slid it down, breaking my heavy leather prison open. I sighed in relief as she saw my sweat dampened purple shirt and I sighed gently. She smiled again, this waifish girl with elfin features and reached up on tiptoes to push the garment off my shoulders, rocking and bouncing with the train with the practiced ease of a commuter, her converse creaking a little on the metal floor. She looked confused as the jacket didn’t drop to the floor as expected and I sighed, knowing that the twin canes would kill her interest for sure, even if this was more than a helpful sweet gesture.

I gestured and she saw them, well the pistol grip tops of them trapped by the crowd against the metal wall. Rather than recoiling, she scooted close in and told me “Lean on me.” Taking the cane from my left hand, she pulled my arm over her shoulders rocking me forward to lean on her as she slid the cuff and arm off my wrist before repeating the process, my jacket hitting the floor with a jangle of keys and lighter and shrapnel change. She bent into me as I leaned once more on my supports and I felt her hips wriggle down my body, my breath catching at the look of what id swear was arousal as she almost rode my thigh and knee, snaking back up and tying the jacket around my waist.

“Thank you.” I murmured hoarsely, as she stumbled into me on a particularly vicious swerving jerk of the carriage, my arm automatically round her waist to brace her and protect her from injury. When I began to move it away again she stopped me and smiled, reassuring me and stroking my chest just once with a finger tip. “Stay like this” she murmured, smiling again before going back to the petal like shape of expanded copper.

What is it?

Oh! Um, well it’s an old lucky charm of sorts, a reminder. I talked into her ear as she did mine, our breath tickling each other as we talked slowly amid the hubble and noise of London.  I don’t know why I told her, I just felt she deserved to know.

It’s a hollow-point bullet.  The bullet that changed my life, ended my career. I was shot in the spine during a house search in Helmand province. It was removed from my lower back by the medical team that saved my life. I was hit by someone, I was the point man on the search questioning the guy in his bedroom. A woman stepped out from a hidden doorway and fired.

She took the knowledge in stride.  The first I saw who didn’t change, didn’t suddenly treat me as an invalid. She didn’t shy away but just continued to toy with it. She told me she was a solicitor and I told her that I work for Lloyd's of London. I worked as a negotiator and shared a little about my role working to return kidnap victims.

She stayed touching me.  I could feel her warmth, her touch, as we talked about our work and other little things. But alas, all good things must pass. We pulled into the stop I needed, I moved to leave and to my surprise so did she. She followed me from the first to the second tube train and we made our connection and waited in the crush, still talking but I still didn’t have a name for this remarkable woman. As we pulled into the point where I would have to leave the tube, I waited with baited breath as I walked, my canes clicking against the tunnel, still talking; still I hadn’t managed to fuck this up. She didn’t care that I was broken.

I stumbled as my cane slid in the wet puddle of either sweat, piss or spilled drink in the tunnel.  She caught me, telling me that I should just lean on her, my hand snaking into hers as we navigated the stairs and through the exit, her taking my Oyster card and swiping me through the gate before doing the same herself, sliding the card back into my back pocket and just for a second, I swore she took the chance to squeeze my arse. Was I imagining it or was she dropping almost constant subtle hints as to her intention? I tapped my way up to the sign leading the way to the national rail station and waited. At that point I stumbled on my words, I looked into her eyes and walked with her somehow still hand in hand with me and leaning against the wall. I pulled out my wallet, retrieving a business card from work and pulling a pen from my other pocket I scrawled my private number on the back of the card.

“Um hey, well as you can tell I’m, and that’s my private number if you wanna go for a coffee some time.  I’m heading up to the train to Croydon and I thought, I’d um, well. . . I guess, well I hope you will call me sometime. It’s been really nice talking and um, stuff.” I hated the sound of my voice there, this sudden reverting to a nervous teenager, talking to a girl down the youth club.

My heart soared as I heard her rolling my name across her tongue thoughtfully, “David,” she paused, “It suits you. Well, as it happens I’m heading out to Croydon tonight so if you want I would love to carry on chatting and um… stuff.” She paused, mimicking me, teasing and I threw my head back laughing uproariously. Suddenly that was the funniest thing in the world and she laughed with me. “It’s Ellen by the way.” I smiled back into those violet eyes.

“Shall we then, Ellen?” She nodded and we walked up to the train, waiting in the bleak aluminium shell of a platform that was the southbound platform of St. Pancreas. The metal cool against our backs, trains rocketing past bringing a gorgeous breeze through dragged with these tin monsters flying under the city streets. We slipped onto the train, facing each other across a table I tuned out through habit, pulling a travel chess set from my jacket pocket set up ready, expecting to play myself as I always did on the way home. I was shocked back into reality by the fact that White had started whilst I was stretching “Oh um right,” I blushed and responded to her opening.

We played in silence, a nice companionable silence rather than the oppressive loneliness that is commuting alone in the under-dark of London.  Playing as we rocketed past Thames link, past Gatwick, and finally into East Croydon. She matched my rocking swinging gait effortlessly as we walked through the station and out into the car park. I walked over to my trike checking it over as I approached.  No clamp, no ticket due to a stolen parking slip, no fat chavvy “wide boy” sat arsing about with my controls. Perfect!

I swung myself into the seat and stretched, the trike built off a chopper front end and the back end of a VW beetle. The seat more bike than car with a large rack for storing my wheelchair or other luggage. The violet purple paint job contrasting with the diamond plate. The paint matching her eyes as she admired the snow leopard curled up painted on the back of the machine behind the storage plate. The tank the playground of a leaping snow leopard leaping to engulf the fuel cap in her strong jars, “That explains the eyes” she said slyly. I blushed and nodded. “Long story, but yeah.”

“So, where are you heading from here?” I asked, the loss escaping into my voice; loss of the company and the contact as we prepared to part. My heart stopped as she spoke, the pounding, pulsing in my head all I could hear.  She kissed me hard and fast for a second before she slid onto the trike, her legs straddling the seat behind me as she slid forward till I felt her breasts pressed against my back as she almost straddled my body.  Her heat radiating into the small of my back as she stood on the back pegs and slid up my back rubbing up against me like a cat.

“I don’t know,” she whispered before flicking her tongue wickedly across my right ear “You tell me.”

Some Kind of 50's Housewife

Dear Diary,

It’s that time again, comfortable and happy and talking to you as I have since I was twelve about my day.

Settling into the sofa after a long day of work I almost melt into the soft comforting red cotton covers. My back sore from spending the day sat a desk typing endless lines of literary criticism. My partner is in as well, home after meeting each other in that last gentle walk that we share cutting across the park full of kids goofing off after school and mothers trying to corral theirs from the larger herd in order to head back to the boring world of Friday night homework and the chores.

My hand snaked into hers my world exploding into colour at her touch, that 3 inch strip of contact somehow engulfing my whole being. We walked home, chatted and talked about our day, about what we wanted for food and our plans for the weekend ahead. I’m a housewife only without being bound by anything more than love, I write from home and cook and generally try to spoil my Lana by just creating things to make her smile. My friends and fellow writers call me a fifties housewife when they witness our homecomings. Lana comes in, I’m there sliding her coat off, sitting her down on the bed and sliding off her heels.

 She’s greeted with a smile and a drink, a glass of Prosecco, a tea, a coffee, a fruit cider all depending what I feel she needs based on her chatting through the day. Not to brag but I’m very rarely wrong, but anyway. I’m always trying to make her see she’s desired and wanted to put the effort in and show her she’s worth the world to me, I’m changed from my slippers to my three inch Mary Jane heels, or my three inch Wedges. My make up is restrained just a hint of my sexuality, a little blusher, a faint red lipstick and eye shadow, my clothes fresh, not marred with the damage of a day’s travels, the ink and flour stained hooded top and jeans in the wash or hanging to one side for tomorrow.

The fifties housewife thing started as a joke because when I get writers block I clean or cook as you know but over time as I continued to work from home I began to get these weird thoughts, more and more I found myself reading that kind of erotica, and writing these stories of a loving wife greeting her husband after work, dropping to her knees in adoration as he stepped over the threshold. So I began to play on it, I’ve always loved 50’s fashion and the way it looks on me so I slowly began my plans, little things, like doing my make up fresh for her and tidying up my clothes so she wasn’t greeted by flour coated mess. And well, she liked it! Her coming home to me dolled up for her, she kissed me like I was all she needed, all she wanted like she wanted to devour me. So I started to do more. I’ve always grabbed her a tea or a brandy when she’s come in so this isn’t anything different for her. Today is the day I’ve decided to go all the way, that this is the relationship I want, the role I am choosing to play, I’ve spent weeks agonizing on the clothes and the shoes and the hair, I look like a regular June Cleaver.

. I’m in a dress today, a mid calf  button up light shimmering baby blue cotton dress with white trim, finished off with a pair of low heel black pumps and a single set of white pearls across my throat with matching stud earrings. Underneath I’m in stockings and a pair of sheer baby blue panties and matching bra and garter. The whole thing finished with perfect Swing Bob cut hair. I can feel my arousal leaking into my panties as it always does as I walk by her side my clit aching with desire because this perfect woman who looks so fucking hot in a business suit is mine. Her in short hair, but still all woman and effortlessly sexy in a powerful strong aggressive almost masculine way but with gorgeous boobs, fantastic legs and a figure to die for.

We are in the house now, I slip her coat off and place her bag down hanging off the banister, and I walk her into the living room and half guide her half push her down into the armchair we curl up in when I am feeling vulnerable or we are gaming together, the archetypal 50’s man’s spot, the prime view of the TV and the remote is there and her Manhattan is there just how she likes it. She half mumbles a “wha?” as I look into her eyes and whisper one word “Please.” When I use that look she can never deny me anything and she knows she will end up enjoying it so she just let me move her into the chair.

I dropped to my knees the look of adoration there like something from a Kirsten Pipe advert and my hands move to her feet, I slide off her heels and my hands move upwards and I undo the buckle of her belt and tug at the waistline of her trousers. She lifts her delectable bottom automatically at my pleading eyes and I tug them down and off her fantastic strong and silky smooth legs in one movement. Leaving her in nothing but the top half of her trouser suit as her knickers had pooled into her trousers and slid down with the outer garment. I move straight to this morsel I just uncovered and taking her clit between my lips I suck her greedily, eagerly, my head bobbing, tongue tapping on her sex and working her. I’m using every trick I can to drive her to an explosion. If anyone could see this now, I think, her with her short hair and her fifties housewife on her knees bobbing her head. It would be a scene from all across the US in decades long past but when you look closer when you look beyond the short hair and the suit you see that feminine figure that I fell for at the start, that smouldering gaze of lust that can drop my panties at twenty paces. I can hear her mewling gasps and moans, her grunts of animal lust as I bob my head faster and stroke her thigh driving her up and into new heights of ecstasy, her knuckles white as she gripped the arms of the chair exploding with a grunt jerking her hips and squirting into my mouth.  It’s not like when a boy does it, its sweeter, and doesn’t choke me in the same way that the one boy I ever let do that did. It’s her scent, her taste and it’s perfect.

I look up into her eyes, she can see her juices oozing down my face ruining my makeup and marking me as hers. I’m on my knees my eyes shining with desire breathless with lust and joy. I was grinding my leg against her bare foot, my skirt shifted up exposing my garter and my sopping panties and I watch her eyes rake across my body in frank appreciation and watch her blush as she realises how hard she was gripping my hair and how much to me it was perfect. How much it was me giving a blow job to my husband coming home from the office, how much that I want the housewife fantasy they all tease me about. She pulled me up into her arms and sat me on her lap like a child.

“You really want this?” she asked amazed and breathless.

“Oh gosh, yes please my darlin” I reply the juices running across my lip.

“You are the perfect little woman for me to come home to.” 

I blushed faintly at the praise and watched her sit and sip her Manhattan content to wait for her to allow me to move at her discretion. I watch her happily, my arousal pounding through my clit as I sit there curled up at my “Master’s” feet, my place, my role in life. I decide to be brave “I want this relationship to be like this, all the books I read as a little girl were like this, all the magazines my mommy had were like this.  I had three ideas about my life, the first that I would be in pearls and a dress when my husband comes home from work and I would keep house and work as a writer if he permitted. The second that I would have a full wedding dressed in white and on that night I would allow him to take my virginity.” I blush remembering the conversation from a week ago where I told Lana, ‘if you want to fuck me with a strap-on, you have to put a ring on me’ from the look of arousal on her face I think she was remembering that now as well. I look up from behind my lashes blushing daringly “And the third idea was that my Husband wouldn’t be a boy because boys are icky.” I giggle as Lana starts to laugh, “I still think boys are icky and still want this, so please, please.” I beg with my eyes, my hand in hers, my heart racing.

She looked at me almost as if weighing up the options before speaking, speaking the words that would change my life. “You will be my wife, you will act as a dutiful housewife, you will work as a writer, keep our home well kept and attend to your duties and to me. In return I swear to provide for you, to protect you and to love you. We both have our duties to each other.” She stood an pulled me to my feet, I stood small against her in her arms as she lifted me onto my toes to kiss me, a hard, fast, rough, claiming kiss. I knew that I had found my perfect life here. She wouldn’t allow me to be hurt or to have to help provide for the house. I am hers.

I bounced a little “Oh thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. I promise I won’t let you down Sir.”

“Sir, My darling husband,” I try the words out, gently smiling to myself at the aroused but shocked expression on my Lana’s face, shocked at this whole turn of events and still so turned on due to my ‘blowjob’ and my new title for her. “May I be permitted to ask a favour?”

She smiled down, the amused doting lover caressing the back of my neck, “Of course my darling ‘wife’” I led her to the sofa and laid her down before lying the opposite way turning the television on so she wouldn’t miss the car show on television and I began to rub her feet slowly, over the next half hour I idly watched the television and rubbed my ‘boy’s’ feet as we discussed the minutiae of this new relationship. I learned I would be allowed to drive though if we were to go anywhere together, she would drive even in my mini, that I would be allowed a bank account of my own but all bills would come from the joint account and many other things which cemented my trust and love and desire for my ‘husband’. Especially when she gave me permission to ask for sex when I desired it but also permission to say no. My husband, even though she owns me and I wish to be owned, respects me.

 She also setup for us a set of safe words and passwords to check I am OK and happy, and told me that I can ask for my old life back at any time. My lip began to shake and I blubber a bit telling her “I don’t want to go, don’t make me leave” she simply pulled me close, stroking my back, reassuring me and promising that she wouldn’t allow her wife to leave. Calmed and relaxed I carried on stroking ‘his feet’ until I began to doze off happy and content.

I felt a warm pressure on my slit. It was stroking, slow and gentle, as I rubbed my love’s feet after ‘his’ long hard day at work. The pressure comforting me as I spread my legs as the dutiful wife I am. My body is his for everything. I’m half asleep and relaxed. I must have drifted off as I wake up later the television off and the lights turned down low but still that pressure remained. I was soaked with my arousal and that’s all I could focus on until my eyes opened to my lover staring into my eyes stroking my hand as she rubbed my wet cunt, grinning she smirked at me and ordered me to keep watching and not shut my eyes and suddenly my world exploded. I had been fingered before, but that wasn’t this, this was more, was better and I howled with need begging my ‘husband’ for more. His foot grinding into me, ‘his’ heel making me pant and whimper in need, my dress undone by his hands while I slept allowing me to breathe my stocking clad legs entwined round the leg parting mine as I writhed and shook. The big toe wriggling inside me stretching me making sure so ‘he’ said that on our wedding night ‘he’ and I saw my Lana grin at the words just as turned on as I was, “can pound my wife's pussy the way she needs it, the way she deserves it.”

I begged my ‘husband’ to pound my pussy. I debased myself diary, because I need my ‘husband’, need him to know ‘his’ desires can be sated in me, on me and by me and that I am begging ‘him’ to teach ‘his’ sweet innocent wife everything he talks about at work or at the bar with the other men. My eyes rolling back into my head as I howl ‘his’ name, blacking out seeing stars falling asleep a sweat soaked ball of mess and love collapsed onto my Lana. ‘He’ pulls me into the strong arms I adore so much and I rock against the strong body for one final shuddering spurt of orgasmic release. The last thing running through my mind is that I really need to get a male name for my husband.

red wine and candle lit dinners

The Candle

by

Ben Hannigan

The candle flickered as the two girls ate, lit at the start of the meal they shared.  It was an anniversary, the candle a dark, rich red, unscented; the flame licking at the air as they shared the wine. The venison rare and rich, the dark chocolate truffles melting on the tongue as they talked into the night, the kisses they shared tasting of the meal and each other. One smoking a pipe the other content with the wine as they talked, the candle pressed into service to light and relight the pipe as the flame still licked at the air.

Neither remembered who kissed who first but they both remember that hunger and that pull as they moved from the chairs to the bed. The fire that pulsed through them and that heady arousal, Louise’s body a healthy tan -- that of an outdoor girl -- contrasting beautifully with Lara’s in the candlelight. Her body a squiggle of cream on the dark bedspread, her lover grinning to herself as the black silk ties contrasted against her pale wrists. Once she was bound and under her control, Louise began the slow, languid, torturous movements she favoured, nipping and licking from neck to ankles before her mouth nipping, licking, sucking and starting to devour the younger girl as some sort of dessert. The sounds her treat was making; a mix of heady gasps, whimpers and begging howls. She saw that candle still licking at the air and grinned, her hand snaking out of the bed to remove the candle from the heavy brass candelabra.

During the Raising of the candle all Lara could see was this floating tongue of flame dancing across the air, nervous and unsure what was to happen she watched from her position bound on the bed. Louise slowly, gently leaning the candle forward and they both breathless with anticipation watched the bead of wax drip off the candle. Almost in slow motion the wax hanging in the air before it splashed onto the younger girls breast, the red wax spreading and oozing before hardening. The flash of heat and pain stinging and causing indrawn gasps and whimpers of shock and desire through her, almost begging for more as the second drop landed. Her back arching and writhing as her teasing lover slowly worked the wax lower leaving a trail of redness splashed across her bare white skin. The candle moving closer, lower and lower moving inextricably towards her wetness the candle had half burned down as Louise presented what she had decided would be the last drop of wax. Lara laid there, her back arched, staring into her lovers eyes as she watched that last drop slowly fall towards her clit. The wax landing on her lithe body and engulfing her in a fire, the warmth sucking her up and into an explosion of lust and desire, as the wax cooled it bound her clit tightly in a vice-like grip squeezing her as she shook and spasmed with lust; craving anything, more, a touch, a kiss, anything to keep this going. Her mewling howls had startled Louise who smartly jerked causing the flame to splutter and die before she dived into her lover’s body peeling the now solid wax from her skin the tugging sending shudders of pleasure through Lara as she calmed.

Grinning, she dove  into the girl’s wetness once more as she begged for more, leaving her clit bound and imprisoned in this waxy tightness. Crawling up her body Louise ground into her as Lara begged for more. She whimpered with need as Louise rode her, their wet slits sliding  across each other. Testing the candle and finding it cool to the touch,  she used her weight to hold the girl down.  She pushed her virgin rosebud onto the candle, working it into her, feeling her contract and beg to be untied, beg to be kissed, and beg to wrap her arms around the woman she loved. Once, twice, three times she rocked and bounced into Louise and gasped again, screaming for more before it ended and she went limp, pressing gentle kisses across Louise’s throat, losing herself into a shaking mess of desire.

Chocolate as a Sex Aid

Are you ready for a tasty treat?  Why not dive into some Godiva or Ghiradelli's? This girl loves her chocolate

 Chocolate Love 

by 

Ben Hannigan 

 

The girl grinned to herself as she dipped her toe into the bath.  It was warm and offered no real resistance to her entrance. It was perfect. She had one hundred and ninety minutes to prepare and she would need every last one.

She checked that that A4 size plaster on her lower back was still in place and smiled to herself before she slowly slid her toes into the melted chocolate mess. This was a special formula that would coat the body, but would dry to an almost lycra like finish meaning that she could still walk and move whilst covered from head to toe in this rich delicacy. It was a recipe designed for the gold dancers and the human statues who appeared to be plated, the plaster there to stop her from mimicking the Bond girl, suffocated by her own skin.

Slowly, gracefully, she slid down into the bath and set a timer before she began to lose her mind. The liquid was warm. That comfortable engulfing warmth that soothes a woman to slumber, but with that warmth was something new, something intense, the feel of the chocolate definitely not like water. The ripples and waves caused by her movements lapping at every sensitive area of her body. The back of her knee kissed gently, her nipples as they sunk under the waterline, a hot wet mouth sucking at her, engulfing her in a gentle way. The ripples around her wet slit were much more intense.  The ripples a rolling tongue lapping at her hungrily as she spread her legs needing, craving more. The chocolate soaking into her skin, feeling like she was almost dissolved into the liquid.  This warm dark mouth consuming her body and soul.

She lay there for minutes, or maybe hours, she wasn’t sure but what she did know, the only thing she knew at that moment was the feel of the chocolate coating becoming tacky, her body absorbing until it was saturated. The chocolate conforming to her delicate form, sheathing each toe, each finger and each raised bump on her body. She blinked and gasped in shock. “FUCK FUCK FUCK” she screamed, losing her voice into a breathy howl as her body, outside of her control, now rocked up into the air. This rolling movement sucking the now solid blocks of confection that filled her wet folds, as she rocked up and into this new finger of chocolate that had filled every contour of her willing cunt, she bounced back onto the bottom of the bath, feeling the shock of the toy in her backdoor that was shaped to strike every erogenous zone.

What started as a treat and a tease for her lover had become some exquisite torture. Her whole body on fire and used by this candy lover. Her spasms rocketing through her legs allowing her to hook the bath plug cord and feel the mouths on her cunt, her clit, and nipples becoming so much more intense. The draining adding a hard, rough, sucking to the fucking she was so eager for. The bath empty she slumped drained on the stained white plastic panting heavily. Looking lazily at the timer she had set she had another ninety minutes to recover her strength and shake off the afterglow, assembling the bows and bindings and stepping into the cellophane wrap cut the day before. She grinned as she looked forward to being bound in position, legs together tied by an elegant bow, hands placed demurely at first glance, covering her sex. Revealing only on closer inspection the location of the pressure of the heel of the palm, painting an expression of naked desire on her chocolate painted face. She imagined the delicious torture of being sat waiting, riding the chocolate toys with just a subtle clench as the treat dried harder on her skin eventually binding and setting rock hard.

She wanted everything, wanted it all.  The faint pressure and constriction of the ribbon at her throat, the chocolate dried hard almost painfully binding her clit. The toys sat blocking her entrances, appearing that she was cast of chocolate. Standing she carefully applied the white chocolate accents, the lips painted with a brush, the lashes done gently and the hint of the soft peach-fuzz thatch at her crotch dusted with the dark cocoa powder appearing as stubble expertly applied by the confectioner. Her nails white chocolate, long and elegant. Finally she decided she was ready and she went and sat on the bed, all bows and ribbons. A short sharp blast of sexual pleasure as she pulled the ribbon just tight enough to make her breathing something to enjoy. Her eyes bright with submissive lust as she pulled the cellophane up and around her like a tent, She was finally ready, all she had to do now was wait. Wait and hope she didn’t pass out from desire. Struck by that notion she finally remembered, as the world went fuzzy at the edges to yank the plaster off, immediately the pressure at her chest eased as she scooted back hiding the giveaway patch of bare white skin. 

She waited, nervous, the last thing running through her mind was “All women like chocolate right? So a chocolate covered submissive should be ok, right?” Overcome with worry and arousal she waited for her mistress to come home.

a lover's reflections

 Realizing Love

by 

Ben Hannigan

He lay there spent in my arms as I traced lines across his skin. His bare flesh warm and comforting. Sprawled on my bed displaying the body I adored and the scratches, the bites that I added. My own stamp on this work of art, he could be carved in stone or cast in bronze, his body so lithe and toned. He is physically perfect to me. I run my hand over his sleeping body and each time I explore I find something new.

He reaches for me in his sleep and I’m here, pulled close as he grips me.  All I can do, all I want to do is just hold him here close to me. The way he touches me when we kiss keeps me here.  The way he holds me through the nights, the way he promises me my dreams and desires. I don’t feel I’m enough for him, but when I challenge him he doesn’t argue.  Instead, he just states what he feels for me. The passion, that drive, and that confidence he is utterly right is enough. Is enough to calm my fears and my doubts and relax knowing I'm his.

As he wakes he reaches for me, I feign sleep because I don’t want to worry him.  Don’t want to admit I stay up to watch him at peace.  He kisses me greedily and I feel myself responding.  My body betraying me in a way I can't be angry about. His kisses flutter across my throat and shoulder, his teeth grazing my neck as his hand wanders lower.  He finds me waiting and wet as I arch towards him my morning nuzzles becoming more strained and breathy.

“Baaaby,” I cry begging, “God please, please just don’t ever stop.” I raise my hips meeting him as he fills me. I’m rolling up his length pulling him close, my lips tugging him into my embrace as I begin to howl.  He is working me. How does he know my body so well after so little time? 

He’s mumbling words I never catch but I feel the intensity of the emotions so well, I don’t need to. I hear his heart race and his breath catch and I know he’s close to that edge and I’m being pulled along behind by his youthful enthusiasm. 

“Come on baby please, I wont break.” This point is always where I take the lead, pulling him close, making him see its OK to want this, to want us as I pull him in deeper. Showing him, making him feel my impending crash and wanting to drag him with me.  He gets his confidence from me here, allowing himself to draw on me to lose himself, to let go.

I pull him close locking my ankles behind his back and allow him to lose his composure as I kiss his chest. And that’s the bit I love most.  That slow hitch of breath, that growl as he fires and the world contracts into just us, just this moment. He lets go and drives me with him as he melts into my body and we kiss. The world dissolves into mumbled words of love, sighs and some small tears as the guilt hits him and I have to be strong to reassure him that it’s OK, that enjoying what I give freely doesn’t mean he is Him. I stroke his back as we cuddle in this moment, realizing I have dealt with my past better than he has.  My years an advantage here and that re-forged determination to teach him and to help him see that this is not only OK, but great.

Oh the end is here, that sweet wonderful end where I’m pulled close and just held.  Where he and I kiss softly. 

“Morning sweetheart” I mumble as I am pulled into his warmth and just allowed to drift into dreams. Secure that I am not alone, not left wanting for at least one more day.

Cabaret

Erotica, a characters thoughts, pace and tension with an object given voice.

Cabaret

The audience's eyes follow my soft red light as it moves across the deep rouge curtains. It is tantalising, tempting, guiding, and deceptive. My blinding beam silhouettes the figure that descends the centre aisle, step by step, more eyes are entranced, captured, dominated. The stage erupts with flames as the back of the figure reaches the final step before plunging the audience into pure darkness. My glow lights him from beneath and he begins, voice barely a whisper.

"Girls and boys, madame's et monsieur's, ladies und gentlemen...Cabaret"

I guide you across the stage, enveloping you with a soft glow; your clothes neat, tidy, not a hair out of place. You are in control of the audience, your voice and your actions, appealing to those who gaze upon you, entrancing them. Your suit a soft grey, so ordinary, so plain and yet my light touches the barest hint of what is to come.  The glint in your eyes as you hungrily watch the woman who glides across the stage past you. Gracefully, her black gauze dress swirls around her as she moves. My soft glow enhancing her features, highlighting her innocence, capturing her curls, a halo dancing around her body as she curtsies. The audience knows what is to come and yet I allow them to be fooled, drawn into the simplicity of their entrance, wit and charm. Her smile enraptures them; his self deprecating laugh holds their hearts firm. The connection between Compere and audience bound together as tightly as the very beams of light that orchestrate this scene. 

 I’m standing on the stage now. I can hear the band waiting, their breathing and the crowd; ah the crowd. How I adore the crowds.  Over time as I speak they become mine, they and I walking through this journey together as lovers. They follow my every word, their emotions dictated by my hand. I am sick in my stomach, my body churning as it always does before the show.  My heart racing though the band is playing as I begin my story. I cannot hear anything but my words and my heart. Its beat a sharp staccato rhythm. As the music comes to its crescendo, the routine a comforting welcoming blanket around my shoulders.

I know my role, my place. I have welcomed them to the club, introduced the girls and boys who are, at least as far as the audience can see and be allowed to believe, my puppets. My suit is plain, the light creating a glossy sheen of sweat across my brow as it bathes me in its loving embrace. I know the audience is mine. I see their shining eyes, their awe, their desire and fear; fear that I will let our Helga prove her femininity and most importantly fear that I will take this away, that I will return them to Berlin, return them to the drab world outside.

“Now you have met my darlings, my beautiful ladies, and as you see they are ladies.” I watch their eyes lusting over Emilia and Loren and grin a wide smile.  The smile with a razor edge to it, a dark mocking grin, that of a jester or a clown in the moonlight. “If you don’t believe these honest claims, Our Helga can perform her celebrated dance of the seven veils.”

The laughter and catcalls that had before so warmed them as they sat grinning and smirking, subtle winks and nudges amongst comrades are gone now. Extinguished as surely as it was I who blew out the candle. Their grins, now warped, show all the signs of strychnine poisoning , one grimace and I know they are under my spell. I alone control their moods. The move from giddy cheer to a sickening horror is sudden, though they cannot look away from the Follow spot for fear they may miss what so enamours or appals their comrades.

I appear on the surface much like my Vittoria, she is beautiful but she appears to be innocent, she appears gentle and delicate. And she is ... oh she is! On the surface that is, I cannot resist allowing my eyes to flash wickedly as she enters behind me. I introduce her to the crowd. Not for her the lewd innuendo of my opening act. She is the delicate flower that we protect.

My opening is filled with crudity and sleaze but also a soft, comforting compassion. It is imperative that the crowd see I love my girls, my dancers. They need to believe the myth, the magic. They need to be mine and they need to believe what I am showing them. They need to see her, this gentle sweet darling become mine through the power of just my words. They need to see her fall under the same spell I have over them. She is a comfort as she, at least to them, believes in the magic.

It is time now, I feel it. I’m flying, relying on my memories, on the way the club is filled with the atmosphere. I am standing in the centre of a storm here, the air charged with electric sexual tension and its mine to command.

And then, my glow burns red, deep, dangerous, passionate and deadly.

I feel the heat as the glow changes, deepening all the emotions flowing around the theatre. I’m looking into her eyes now, those eyes that make her perfect for this act as I talk to her, talk to the audience but through her. She is staring at me as I begin to prowl, the band now silent as they too slip under the spell. I feel the words flowing as the tension builds, I begin to weave the silky soft sentences that so entrance her and them. I am offering her everything and yet nothing. Promising to broaden her mind, to challenge and bewitch her senses.

The air heady with anticipation, I feel my sweat dripping down into my collar as I talk. My mouth on her ear but the audience can hear every word. My darling is smiling inside. I can feel it by the heartbeat trapped beneath my thumb. She knows this game, a dance as old as time. She begins to move, slowly shedding the persona of the delicate innocent slip of a girl, peeled away layer by layer as if it were the soft skin of a snake.

My words sensual and teasing fuel her shivers as she begins to shake. The audience hypnotised by her as I prowl, watching, devouring her and her alone, as I work my slow seduction. She is unsure, nervous and the audience are caught on our baited hook.
I have them in my hand, just as I appear to have this beautiful morsel. I am talking to her, they can see that but to each lady in the crowd I am talking to them and them alone as each man watches her hungrily.

"My flower, my lily, you are so delicate, so pure, so...tantalizing.” my voice almost oozing like a thick rich chocolate, they can see the words engulf her, her gentle blush, her coy movements, they believe her to be young and fresh. Naive.

Now in this place, in this time. It is real.

I run my hands across her bare arm eliciting a soft moan, the slow seductive sound moving through the mind and body of each of our guests, they are craning closer, flushed hearts pounding just as my Vittoria’s  is on the stage.

 “Your scent, your grace, is intoxicating. I see you, I gaze upon you, my fingers running over your silken folds, tracing my way up your stem, so innocent and yet so dangerous. For you have thorns, do you not?”

 My movements delicate and slow, somehow totally innocent.  Yet they ooze sex, my words mimicking this torturous blur, each innocent gesture and word seemingly more obscene than any depraved act seen on this stage before.

 “My love, you like the danger, the nips, the plucks, the spins, the way I cause you to whirl in the wind and yet forever find yourself back in my hands. I peel away your layers, a bright cheerful buttercup you rest under my chin, spreading yourself across me, hair tumbling like liquid fire. I want you, I will take you, pluck you from the earth and carry you to new heights." I undress her hair, gently easing the coils of tied plait out until her tendrils caress and almost lick her skin bathed in red light. She is mine as I weave the spell.  Asking her consent, begging for everything I have offered in my speech as if I need it!  

And... she begs, she pleads on the stage, dropping to her knees in ecstasy, the audience watching this pure innocent flower become something much, much more.  My words continued as I stare into her eyes, the line between innocent hints and direct overt, almost lascivious, demands blurred in the sheer poetry of my description.

“I take this silken flower, stroke and caress each petal in my explorations. This plucked flower, fresh from the bush, is torn as I begin to peel away each petal slowly.” The rose in my hand has become the whole focus of my attention and drawing the audience both to me and her.  She writhes and shakes falling back on one hand showing just a hint of lace the audience coming with her on this ride, on this release.

Her movements giving the audience, what I want them to feel. What I command them to feel; this and nothing more.

“I walk through the city and I peel away each petal until” I pause, my voice husky and unhurried. My Love looking up at me, needing me to continue. Her sanity held by this pause, the rose stripped to its very central folds a symbol and more.  I bring it to my lips and smile. "I gently kiss the centre of the rose. The perfume, the pollen contained in its core, its essence, the pure centre a divine taste on my lips.  Its glorious scent filling my nose, this moment of heaven, this beautiful flower giving up everything to me.”

My tongue flicks over the centre of the flower and the audience gasps at my audacity. My tongue parting the lips of the flower, reaching for its very core and then it comes; it rushes up, this sweet glorious nectar.  The first shaky orgasm of a young girl on the cusp of adulthood, playing a game she doesn’t truly understand with a man who wants . . . oh, so much more. I hear the audience gasping and moaning with her.

They experience everything she does as the feelings run through her. I see and hear the moans and gasps of this young woman, not just coming from her but from the women watching.  The men torn between her and their relatives; sisters, lovers, wives and daughters. The air is thick with tension and the tantalising smells of arousal. I raise my hands in ascension falling backward onto the waiting wires that balance me there. The rose dropped and crushed by my foot as I step back, a dark symbol for those few who can see past the magic. A warning of what lies ahead.

 I’m raised into the air just a foot, only I can smell the leather, the sweat and the strain we are under. I feel the taut wire cutting into my flesh. But to them I am floating, the master of all. I survey the demon incubus taking this girl through a journey. I smile beatifically at this group, consumed by the character I portray. They are mine. 

The Glow of the Lights Look Like a Burning City

a challenge to take what I hate about Christmas and make it something worthwhile, warning there is some drug use in this piece.