I watch as the chilled wine splashes into a large wine glass, his hand then sliding the glass towards me across the smooth marble kitchen top.
I raise the glass to my lips and I down it in one. It’s not the way I imagine he expected me to drink it, but sipping means conversation and conversation isn’t what I came for.
I move around the large island in the centre of the kitchen, my hand trailing along the cool marble beneath my fingertips. When I reach him his eyes are fixed on me, his own wine glass halfway to his lips, my behaviour having stopped him in his tracks.
I slipped inside of her, like a hot knife through butter. I’d tied her up, fucked around with her, ignored her, treated her like an object and she’d got so wet I could see her juices dripping down towards her arse. When I finally let her come I realised I still wasn’t done with her.
I wanted to fuck her like the greedy little slut she was always so good at being. Her cunt always ready, her filthy little mouth eager to be fucked, and even when I’d had my way with her she’d nuzzle against me, into my neck, against my cock, my feet, essentially anywhere she could reach. Trying to entice a little more action out of me.
Today she had her orders, I’d counted her down to her orgasm, and now she had to count up. How many orgasms could she had while I was pounding her cunt with my cock!
With a flower in her hair and stars in her eyes she was incandescent as she made her way through the world, nature at her heels and a flourish in her step she beguiled all who met her but only a select few would be lucky enough to lay with her.
Today she stood wiggling her toes in the warm grass as she waited for her latest beau. The sun was high and hot, and all around her animals rested under the shade of nearby trees and wandered lazily to the stream to drink and bathe in the cool water.
She herself had spent the morning with her back against the trunk of large leafy oak as butterflies fluttered around her, so many of them were there that they seemed to be emerging from her, as her hands raked through her hair the butterflies seemed to emanate from within those soft tendrils, fluttering into the surrounding air before returning to her and landing on and around her.
As many of you will know I entered the Smut Marathon 2018, which has no come to an end. We are now able to sign up for the Smut Marathon 2019 and our wonderful host Marie has confirmed that the minimum of 20 people have now signed up. It is now a case of the more the merrier. I’ll be honest and say I entered on a whim for 2018. I saw someone mention figured it might be a good way to further my writing and my blog and went for it. I had very little knowledge about what it was going to entail.
What it entailed was me writing the following pieces …
Fluid My body melts under his touch, he is the flame, I am the wax, I am fluid beneath him, I drip, drip, drip as he burns me with his desire
The Disciple The hot water cascades over his body, cleansing him as his ritual begins. Once dry he adorns himself with his symbols of submission. Reciting his mantra with every buckle he fastens. ‘I am bound to only you, I serve you with reverence and devotion.’ He is like the High Priest, called to worship at the temple of her body. I am their disciple. I bear witness to their passion, as I am baptised by the glory of their love.
That was it for me. Including titles, I wrote 112 words for the Smut Marathon. I was out after Round 2. My aim had been to make it halfway and honestly I thought I had that in the bag when it started out, which makes the saying ‘pride comes before a fall’ exceptionally relevant here. Leaving when I did though was the best thing that could have happened to me and I want to share the why of that with you and if my thinking encourages more of us to enter in 2019 then that is a bonus.
My bare skin sticks to the leather couch, my knickers down, my skirt up, access for fingers and tongue to fuck.
Barely visible in the darkness a face gazes down upon me, her painted mouth agape seductively as if inviting someone to fill it.
My own lips mimic hers as you pull my hips towards you, my skin painfully peeling from the leather, as cock meets cunt.
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Song to the Siren by Larry Becket and Tim Buckley. Lyric images created with ImageQuote app.
The waves lap at the hull of the boat. There are no other seaworthy vessels to be seen for miles. I am adrift, and I am lost. Though not as it might seem to some in a navigational sense, I am lost of heart, adrift in a sea of longing. I remember with a dull ache in my chest and I must confess a throbbing in my cock, how your eyes sparkled as I drew your lips to mine, your fingers firm and certain guiding my hard length into as yet unexplored waters.
My heart sang, or perhaps you sang to me, I cannot recall the details, the memories of our union made hazy by the way you enveloped me, your entire being taking over mine, your existence in my world and your proximity to my body rendering everything but my knowledge of you utterly unimportant.