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Posted by on Jan 16, 2011 in Erotic writing | 3 comments

Stale :: part 1

Marge heard her husband’s tread on the stair.  She closed her eyes tighter and rolled the blanket closer around her body.  The creak of the top stair and brushing of the door announced his arrival.  She listened to the sounds of his nightly preparation, shuffling out of his clothes, hacking his lungs clear and the rummage in the drawer for his entertainment.

The bedside lamp clicked on, the colour behind her lids changed, the bed lurched as he settled onto it and she felt the heat of his back inches away from hers.  He grunted her name, she didn’t answer but listened as he ruffled through pages she imagined that were sticky from overuse.  She felt the vibration of his movement through the mattress, it never took him long; chugging his hand up and down his cock until his body stiffened, he grunted and spurted his come over his fist and pyjama bottoms.

This was their sex life, had been for years, they didn’t talk about it, pretended to each other it didn’t happen and continued on in their stained sexless marriage.  Except of course she did know about it.  She saw the evidence of it on the sheets and his pyjamas when she did the weekly wash.  She smelt the fetid heat of his lust almost nightly and found and threw away the magazines when they became too tattered and offensive to her to stay in her home.  New ones replaced them and the non-courtship repeated itself.

The light clicked off and true to form her husband snored into the night.  Marge lay there, opened her eyes and brushed the tear that bloomed on her cheek.  She thought about her life; one disappointment after another.

She had been the one to watch at school, pretty and clever but not so much to be intimidating.  Popular with the boys and leader of her own little gang of girls.   Harry had courted her, it was inevitable, they were equals in the town’s youth’s social strata.  He had the scooter, the chat and his own retinue of hangers on.  They were made for each other except they weren’t really.  What did they have in common?  What dreams did they share?  She’d wanted to go to secretarial college, get a nice office job, settle down with her fella and have a family.  Steady, nothing too ambitious but better than her ma’s life in the canteen of the local factory.

But what happened, she let him into her knickers before they walked up the aisle and there you go, shotgun wedding and all thoughts of doing anything other than juggle baby bottles and nappies up in smoke.  Then she found out he had no ambition, no lust for life except, fags, beer and a Thursday night at the dogs; and once the babies came she found out he had no lust for her either.

Kids grown and gone and she’s serving pap in the halfway house to a mixed bag of care in the community and old men on their parole.  Not even as good as her mum.  Silent tears salted her face as she thought of the straight jacket of her life.  50 years old and nothing to show for it, no-one to want her and no-one to care.

In the morning she cleared up the house and on a whim dropped her husband’s magazines into her bag.  New ones, he’d only had these a day or so, he’d obviously had a win on the dogs.  Once in work and on her fag break she took the porn to the loo with her and flicked through it.  Women with dark eyes, pursed lips and red tipped hands holding breasts and cunts open.  Glistening, arching and pouting out of the pages.  She felt a flutter in her stomach.  Here was one holding herself open and filling herself with fingers, another being bent over and fucked by some large cocked and muscle chested god of a man.  Marge’s mouth watered, she bit down on her cigarette and slipped a hand between her legs as she sat there.

She’d forgotten herself, her need, her sex.  She rubbed at her clit and quivered but overcome with shyness of herself she stopped, closed the mags, flushed her cigarette butt away with her piss and shit and went back to work.

He was there early, he always was.  She wasn’t sure what he was doing there exactly, something in the admin office but his shifts meant he always had his dinner early.  Alone.  She always served him but today something in her shifted and she spoke to him as she collected his plate;

“Do you want to see what I’m reading?”

Too polite to say no to her he nodded, she smiled as she returned from the kitchen and slid the magazines over to him.  She settled into a chair opposite  him and watched as he flicked through them.  He was what, 18 or 19?  Younger than her youngest son.  She watched his eyes widen and his tongue lick over his lips nervously.

“Do you like them?”

“Err yes” he answered carefully, closing the magazines and pushing them back to her, raising his eyes to hers and holding them for a moment, “Thank you”

And just like that a ritual began.  She would bring him the magazines her husband enjoyed instead of her and he would look at them while she watched.

For his part, Robin liked the curious arrangement.  Of course he liked looking at the porn, he was no innocent, he’d had girlfriends, played around but still 19 was young in the world of sex and self knowledge.  He liked feeling his cock fill with blood as the older woman watched him.  A strange authority figure that reeked of disappointment as much as she did of boiled cabbage, cheap fags, stale sweat and talcum powder.

And one day instead of taking her usual seat opposite him she sat on the table next to him as he flicked through the magazines.

“Would you like to touch me?”

She opened her legs, brown utility stockings, stubbly thighs and beige knickers.  Granny pants he thought.  Pubic hair escaped them and he could smell the staleness of her body.  Robin stood slowly and reached his hand forward and up to her cunt.  The fabric felt cheap and slippery as he rubbed his palm over her, he wondered idly about static electricity.  He flicked a finger under the edge of the elastic and was rewarded with her groan and harsh whisper in his ear.

“I know you boys; you all want a piece of pussy well here you are, lets see what you can do with it.”

The pubic hair was matted, he could feel the crust in her knickers against his knuckles, christ did she ever wash? But wetness on his palm that chased all other thoughts away.

“Take your cock out, I want to see it.”

He obeyed as he shoved a finger into the seeping wound of Marge’s sexless marriage.  His other hand closed round his cock and tried to time his strokes to her pokes.

Marge watched him, saw the colour rise in his cheeks and the cock swell in his hand.  He was young it wouldn’t take long to see his cock spurt.  She didn’t believe in the female orgasm, not for her, they only existed in the magazines spread out on the table, but she got a perverse pleasure from his embaressed fingering of her and his obvious shame at his fleshes response to her.  A woman past her prime brought low and made ugly by misfortune and poverty of expectation.  With a husband too selfish and too tight to heat more than a bathfull of water a week, her life felt as dirty and mouldered as she felt in her body.  So different from those golden beauties in the magazines or from the nice girls that he no doubt met and courted in the hope they would allow him what she was giving him.

Fuck them all, the men the women, the beautiful and the ugly, the young and the old.  What did she have?  She had a 19 year old boy coming over his boxers as he fingered an old unwanted cunt.  She smiled at him as he gasped over his orgasm, slapped his hand out of her pussy, stood up and walked away;

“You can keep the mags, just make sure you don’t leave a mess”

Thanks for reading,

Ruby x

If you enjoyed my writing you can find more of my erotic fiction stories on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com, don't be shy leave a review!

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Posted by on Jan 7, 2011 in Erotic writing | 1 comment

Flood

The rain came down.  The water’s drum against the window reminding her of childhood camping trips and the tin can rattle of long car journeys.  The downpour outside always made her glad to be in.  Emily shrugged her cardigan closer around her body and looked out of the attic window at the estuary.  The flat expanse of water shimmered under the force of the storm and flashed as lighting rocketed into it.

Pip draped himself over her, one arm around her waist the other passing her a mug of hot chocolate.  Thick and glutenous, the rich dry smell of cocoa beans and vanilla took her back to the arid days of a summer spent in Spain.  So different from the grey dark of an English winter.

She sipped the chocolate, it clung to her lip and coated her tongue.  Warmed her from the first sniff to the last sip.  She pressed back into Pip closed her eyes and tried to convey all her thoughts through her body.  An osmosis of lust and longing.

His chin on her shoulder Pip responded, tightened his arm around her belly, pulling her closer to him than she could push.

“I love the rain”

“Mmm me too” she replied.

“It makes me think of shelter and safety in the midst of passion.  It makes me think of you.”

Emily closed her eyes.  How could he always know the words to say?  The words to shift her heart in her chest and hot wire it to her cunt?  Biting her wind chapped lips blood mingled with chocolate and she dropped her head forward against the cold window, willingly lost to a maelstrom of thoughts with no centre other than her lover.

“Yes, please”

Her voice no more than a whisper, almost drowned out by the percussion of rain on glass she gave her permission to him just as she always did.

Pip’s fingers found the hem of her skirt and lifted.  The soft drape of wool against the back of her thighs adding texture and warmth to his caresses.  Finding and lingering on the tops of her thigh highs.  He never quite understood why a woman so sensitive to the cold refused tights for old fashioned stockings.  Not that Pip minded, the transition from fabric to flesh always moved him.  The unexpected playfulness of the garments, as if the ring of skin from stocking top to knicker was a prelude the introduction to flesh’s pleasures.

He felt her shift in his hands, many years of companionship taking over the courtship of flesh.  And still every time was like new.  His hand reached up and cupped a breast through the fabric of her dress.  Was her nipple hard from the chill of winter or the warmth of lust?  It didn’t matter as his hand scooped Emily’s flesh she moaned against him, pushed and twisted under his palms.

Emily sighed and the warm blush of chocolate and lust spread from her cheeks, rivulets of pink running down, striping her arching body, snaking around hips and belly to pink her mound.  They both felt her labia swell, plump and redden.  Her pussy wet and open as she shifted back under Pip’s stroke.

His lips on her neck, whispering words of familiar lust, comfort and sex the thrum of the water flooding  on glass as his fingers and words drew the matching response from Emily.

Safe, home, together.  Contentment’s flood.

Thanks for reading,

Ruby x

If you enjoyed my writing you can find more of my erotic fiction stories on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com, don't be shy leave a review!

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Posted by on Jan 4, 2011 in Erotic writing | 5 comments

Bitch :: Challenge winner

The lovely Sarah of  Geek Girly was the winner of the Challenge I set on New Years Eve.

She requested a story with a blindfold and a man that was no good for her.  Here is what I came up with.

:: Bitch ::

His breath was warm on my neck, it smelt of the peppermints he ate to disguise the smell of beer and cigarettes that went  hand in hand with his job as bar manager.

I knew that he was a womaniser, everyone did.  I’d even consoled friends with wine and chocolate when they realised they had only been Miss Right Now, but still I had accepted his approach.  As far as I was concerned he was another fuck as surely as I was to him, I didn’t expect more than this night.  Funny thing is as he led me into the bar cellar and slipped the blindfold over my eyes I realised that even though we all knew the girls he had been with not a one of them had ever said anything about how he fucked.

“I’m not going to pretend I can remember your name, so I’ll just call you bitch. You don’t have to like it, but if you argue I’ll walk away now, okay?”

I nodded my head.  When I’d walked into the bar with my friends that night and his smile and raised eyebrow had told me that I was his choice for the night I had felt like a bitch in heat.  My nipples had tightened under my dress and I had felt the spreading warmth in my cunt.  My clit throbbed as I’d stood at the bar ordering drinks for my friends.

I knew it was all a game and I was happy to fall in by his rules.

He turned me around, without my sight to help me balance I wobbled against him a little, he held me and guided me to sit back.  I felt the metal rim of a beer keg against my thighs, a little too high for comfort I folded back against it, half standing half sitting as he lifted the hem of my skirt.

“Take your knickers down bitch and show me your pussy, don’t make me do all the work”

Wriggling I pulled my thong down, I knew he would see the shine of my wetness on it.  Opening my legs I could feel my slick need for him on my fingers as I exposed myself.

I waited.

“Very nice and because you have such a pretty wet cunt I’m going to be kind to it”

I felt his fingers on me, easily finding my clit and circling around it, flicking and teasing it, making me gasp and bite my lip, afraid to make a noise incase he stopped.  I felt him close the distance between our bodies as he gently entered me with a single finger.  Whispering in my ear as I pushed to meet him.

“My pretty bitch, that feels nice doesn’t it?  I’m not going to be mean to you, I want you to enjoy yourself, open wide for me”

I couldn’t refuse, the need to feel him fill me was overwhelming.  The slow withdrawl of one finger and deliberate screwing into me again with two then three had me gasping for breath.  As his mouth closed over mine, my arms were round his neck and I was kissing and panting and clinging onto him.

“Let go for me, come for me, I wont stop till you come over my hand.”

I needed so little encouragement, splayed on his hand, his pace pefectly matched to me, I pushed my hips forwards and threw my head back as the snake of my orgasm snapped through my body. Sliding and recoiling back and forth on him.

“Pretty bitch I’m not finished with you”

And suddenly I was tipped back, feet off the floor, knees up, I guess hooked over his arms, and his hands on my quivering stomach.  Mouth to cunt he started on me again.  With no time to recover from his hand I was surrenderd on his tongue.  Sucking, licking, biting the sensations exploded in me like seeds tossed on a fire and as I lost myself to him again, I stopped trying to think only to feel and to come.

When he finally pulled his mouth from me and spread my own come over me with his kiss I would have done anything for him to not finish, to not send me away.  I was sated by still hungry, his touch had created a never ending appetite in me.   His hands closed in my hair and he pulled me off the keg and onto the floor, pushing me onto my hands and knees, the stale smell of beer rose from the rough floorboards as he unzipped and positioned himself behind me.

I tried to push back to swallow him with the cunt he’d made so wet, so swollen and ready, but I found myself trapped.  He gripped his hand tight in my hair, pulling my head back as if to encourage my greed for him, but his palm on my hip stopped me from reaching him.  He rubbed at me with his cock, tipped me toward it and back from it.

“And now you’ll know why it is called doggy style pretty bitch.  There are two conditions to me fucking you.  First you must never tell anyone what we did, you can say we fucked and that I’m great but never tell the detail.  Secondly you must bark for me.  One bark to agree not to tell and then one to beg me to fuck you.”

Trapped in so many ways, I hesitated only long enough to draw breath, lick my lips and deliver two clear barks.

“I want more”

His cock head nudged into me, I could feel the smooth flare of it pushing into my pussy.  I barked again, he pushed further and then I realised, the only way to get my fucking was to bark like the bitch he called me.  So I did. I yipped, I yapped, I wooffed and howled while he fucked into me, hard, fast and feral.  He’d got his prize, his bitch for the night.

Thanks for reading,

Ruby x

If you enjoyed my writing you can find more of my erotic fiction stories on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com, don't be shy leave a review!

Read More