I had multiple ideas for the before and after prompt. Some fictional. Some fact, some sexy, some not. Most of the ones based on personal experiences are long since past, while the after maybe still remain in my life in terms of being part of my life experience it isn’t ongoing as such. Then I was lost down a rabbit hole of music on YouTube and Spotify and I came across a song that got me thinking about before and after where the after is still very much my present and I decided that should be my post for this week.
It’s factual. It’s honest. It’s emotional. It’s lovey-dovey and it’s a lot of things I never really take the time to say, to myself or anyone else.
Content Warning: Potential themes of Non-Consent, though in my head as I wrote all parties were willing even if explicit consent hadn’t been given, but it may be lines crossed for some people.
I shouldn’t do it! I really, really shouldn’t do it! They both sleep so deeply though and they responded so well the first time, which I never planned, it just kind of … happened!
It all started when I noticed their door was ajar as I went to the bathroom and moving to close it for them I noticed they both slept naked. Curiosity got the better of me and I crept forward to peek, just briefly, at their naked bodies sprawled and interlinking.
It was the curve of her breast that tempted me and as I imagined how they’d feel beneath my fingers I found myself edging ever closer to the bed and soon enough her smooth skin was beneath my touch. I had a feeling I could have asked for this anytime, they’d hinted … I think and flirted .. I think, but I was too embarrassed by my lack of experience to admit I was hot for them too.
When I first saw the Kink of the Week theme I pretty much noped out of it in my mind. As a bottom, whether that is during a kink session or a getting fucked session, eye contact is definitely not my thing.
If you want me to look you in the eyes during a session where I’m the bottom you either need to wait for that to happen naturally or accept that it most likely won’t happen!
If you get off on requesting someone look you in the eye or eye contact is one of your main kinks or prerequisites for play, I am not the play partner for you.
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.
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.
I did know the rules or should I say his rules and I thought they were fucking stupid. Not least of all because they weren’t my rules, but they were still imposing on my life and spoiling my fun. I wouldn’t mind if she was saying no, because she didn’t want it, but saying no when she did want it, just made no sense to me.
Rules aside, she began to remove her clothes, leaving nothing on but her white shirt and her tights, sheer with a hint of blue, I wanted nothing more than to rip them from her body, before pushing her thighs apart and delving tongue first into her delicious, wet cunt.
I think my desire for her is a form of madness, it twists in my gut, makes my mind foggy and pushes out any sense of propriety. Which always worked very well for us, friendship and passion combining, we would spend hours talking, fucking and exploring our mutual interest in photography.
… I wanted to call this post ‘On Writing‘. I shan’t dwell on that though. However, if you haven’t read that particular title of Stephen King’s I highly recommend it.
Back to the post at hand and what perfect inspiration this week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt is for me. The blog has been quiet the last week or so. New working hours have been well and truly kicking my ass, there has been a lot of daytime snoozing to make sure my physical and mental health don’t slip. I have had to accept that for the moment the blog isn’t the most important thing in life right now. That doesn’t mean regular service won’t resume though, it will and the reason is that I love writing and when I saw the Wicked Wednesday prompt I knew it was the perfect blog post to kick start my writing again.
For me, writing has been an outlet of emotions since my teens. My first love when it came to producing writing was poetry. I can’t recall my exact age but I was around twelve I think when I read ‘Love’s Philosophy’ by Percy Bysshe Shelley. That single poem felt to me like the purest and most wonderful thing ever written. It sent me on a journey to discover a poem I loved more than that one. To this day I have never found one, that poem remains my all-time favourite. It moves something inside me everytime I read it and I never tire of it.
I watch the people pass me by as I nurse so many coffees I lose count, they are all endlessly fascinating but it’s the women who tend to catch my eye most often. I am careful though, I look but I don’t draw their attention to my enjoyment of them. It is regretful that I can’t invite them to sit with me or pursue a dalliance where my hands could roam across their warm soft flesh. In fact, I could do that, but I shouldn’t, it is far too recent since my last encounter, it would be reckless to embark on another so soon.
I am lost in my thoughts of rueful longing when her voice startles me and pulls my focus immediately to her presence. Her hand rests on the back of the spare chair at my table, she is quite unbelievably asking if she can join me. I glance around and see one or two other places she could have chosen, all of which do not contain a single man sitting alone. I realise it is I who has caught her eye and I feel a mixture of excitement, for myself and pity for her, as I confirm that the seat is indeed free.
The word fiasco didn’t even begin to cover the shit show that was unravelling in front of Elly. She had thought she was at the helm of all the deceit and mayhem. It turns out she was as clueless as Jay. Poor Jay. He’d had his faults, but he did not deserve the torture Richard and Ben had put him through. No one deserved that, except perhaps Richard and Ben.
They thought they were so clever, putting all the pieces together, erring on the side of caution that Elly wasn’t all she seemed and that her interest in Richard might not be genuine. If only Ben hadn’t seen that rare picture of her and her mother that she’d tagged Richard in after he’d made an irritating number of enquiries as to what she looked like. It was Ben seeing that photo that ruined everything, he and Richard had connected far too many dots and when Elly reached out to Ben it was the confirmation they needed that she was plotting against her husband.