Category: Erotica

This is my first time participating in Kayla Lords’ Masturbation Monday meme (guest posts aside). I’d been meaning to join in for a while now, and then today’s prompt just sort of blew me away a little bit. It also felt like a perfect match with an image from this book, by Luke Austin, which I’m hoping to have a chance to replicate at some point…

Anyway, I hope you enjoy the story, and do click on the purple square below to read more from the Masturbation Monday canon!

Capture

With the camera comes anonymity. With the camera comes power.

~

She is not accustomed to taking control – not in the bedroom, anyway. There she prefers to let Matt direct things. It’s not that she is silent or shy, nor is she passive, but his hands on her body generate a sensation almost unbearable in its intensity, and she gives herself up to him without hesitation. It is as if he draws all the heat inside her up to the surface, till her skin glows golden-red and each breath burns in her chest and throat.

Afterwards, serenity kisses the top of her head and falls around her like a soft towel at the end of a warm bath. The way they fuck is nourishing, or at least that’s how she thinks of it. Too long without his touch and her hair feels limp and dry; all the colour washes out of her. Shadows gather.

They often take photos together, just the two of them; she loves the way his camera feels like an extension of his eyes and hands, roaming over her as she moves into position for him. It is silent foreplay – she always knows exactly what he wants – and when they are done she falls back onto the bed, cunt slick with anticipation, and closes her eyes, not daring to move until she feels his arms hook under her knees, and the first long, languid stroke of his tongue between her legs.

She guards those private moments fiercely, and that’s why it jars, at first, when he asks her to shoot him with someone else. It’s for work, she gets that – there is no budget for a professional photographer, and it will be hard to sell tickets without an eye-catching poster to put up outside the theatre – but it still feels like an intrusion onto territory she’s always considered to be hers.

They arrive fresh from rehearsal, and she hears them clatter through the hallway below her apartment. Rich autumn sunlight spills through the living room window, wiping away the sullen expression she’d fixed carefully in place; she is left helpless by its beauty, and by the sound of Matt’s deep, carefree laughter echoing up the stairs.

She has met Liam once before, not long after the auditions. He’d given Matt a lift home from the pub, and they’d chatted briefly on the doorstep outside her building. She remembers only how self-contained he seemed; how soft-spoken, with a lilt to his voice that even now she can’t quite place.

When they bounce into the room, she already has the camera set up on its tripod, ready to go. It feels steadier fixed in place like that – or maybe she feels steadier. In her hands earlier it just seemed bulky and awkward; the weight threw her off-balance, robbing her of the poise she likes to wear as a shield in moments of discomfort.

Matt hands her a bottle of wine, and she roots around in the sideboard for glasses. It feels cosmetic – surely they have done this a thousand times – but she gives each man a half-filled glass anyway, and watches as they drain them in silence. She looks over at the record player in the corner, unsure what to do next. Matt clears his throat and the sound relaxes her; no, she’s really not used to calling the shots. He frowns, and gestures at the space in front of them.

“Let’s get started, shall we?”

~

Photo courtesy of Kilted Wookie

Welcome to Elust #75 –

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #75? Start with the rules, come back November 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Is it hate? Am I a fraud?
On Rape Fantasy
Just Breathe

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

sex, surgery, celibacy

Sex, Death, and Squirting

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

On Filth

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

The Van Cortlandt cross country course is precisely 3.1 miles long, and she knows it better than she does her own body. Its twists and turns.

Its roots and rocks.

Its humps and hollows.

She skips and skates through autumn leaves, ponytail swinging behind her with every step. Her cheeks flush red, and sweat pools in the dip of her collarbone; it glistens on the nape of her neck, releasing only to race all the way down her spine, till she can feel it sucking her shorts tight against her perfect ass.

That’s what he calls it, anyway. Perfect. He calls her the Hill Queen, and she burns with pride whenever she hears it. I’m the fucking Hill Queen, she thinks, teeth gritted into a feral snarl. She is not weighed down by self-doubt. She is 22 and she is indestructible.

He knows that all of us can be broken. He stands at the start line each day, stopwatch in hand, and stares as her perfect ass bounces off into the distance. He closes his eyes and tallies the seconds up into minutes. She is a sylph, a shimmering blur, but he remains completely still. As he waits, his feet sink slowly into the squelching mud.

Her only competition is the clock he cradles against his palm. In her head, she hears it tick over to the rhythm of her pumping thighs. She needs no other music. Its beat is implacable, relentless – a worthy enemy, and a hypnotic, seductive friend.

The final climb sets fire to her calf muscles, and sends the flame up to lick her lungs. She endures this fleeting reminder of her own mortality only because she knows it will pass. The Hill Queen may bend; she never, ever breaks.

She sprints the last 200 yards, knees high, and passes him for the first time. Despite herself, she glances across for the reassurance she already knows he won’t give. He is old enough to appreciate the value of well-timed cruelty.

Flicking her eyes back to the trail, she presses on. She runs laps, even though they no longer count.

Even though they hurt.

Sometimes, if she’s honest, she runs them because they hurt.

He watches her go, a frown fixed on his face.

The uncertainty gnaws away at her, sapping the strength from her legs. It is always close – a few seconds either way – and this precision, more than anything, tells her all she needs to know about him. About them. Her body is an instrument that only he can tune; when he lays his hand on her cheek in the morning she vibrates against him with barely-suppressed need. She sees his face go blank, as if he has to shut down part of his brain in order to understand what her hot, humming skin is trying to say. What her legs – her heart – are capable of giving him that day.

His eyes zero in on hers again only once the target has been set. She shivers and nods. It is the same course as it was yesterday, she tells herself, chin tilting up at him. I am strong and I can do this. I am the Hill Queen.

When she is almost bent double with exhaustion, she stops. Her skin is waxy and her muscles shake from the lack of glycogen. This brutal beast of a course has emptied her from the inside out, and it is up to him to fill her back up. She makes her way back towards the finish line, cunt wet with anticipation, even as the rest of her body is shutting down.

Before his blurred outline has fully coalesced into the broad, solid shape she knows so well, her brain is already screaming words that will never pass her mouth.

Have I done it?

Have I fucking done it, you fucking asshole?

She never hates him as much as she does in those final few metres, when she still doesn’t know, and the only thing keeping her upright is the fear that maybe today she’s failed.

That maybe today he won’t fuck her.

She looks at his long, thick fingers curled around the stopwatch, and the thought of not feeling them inside her that night, stretching her open, is almost enough to make her physically ill.

Because sometimes she does – fail, that is. Sometimes her legs and her heart aren’t quite strong enough to carry her home. She is not always indestructible.

He tells her gently, but it doesn’t stop angry tears gathering in her eyes. There will be more of them later, when the bedsheet is soaked through with the sweat from her hot, restless body, and the ache in her cunt is deep enough to push a sob of pain up through her throat.

Failure comes with a bitter price, but if it didn’t she wouldn’t want to win so badly. She needs his rules and his targets even more than she needs his cock. Killing herself each day on the back of that brutal beast takes hunger that can’t coexist with a simple, sated happiness. They both understand that suffering is the only whetstone capable of keeping her sharp.

Whenever she wakes up like that, unfucked, the insides of her thighs sticky with her own need, it feels like the sunlight pouring through her window is just a little bit brighter. She springs out of bed as if she is already streaking away from the start line, muscles bunched and eager.

The course is precisely 3.1 miles long, and it doesn’t change. It was the same yesterday as it will be tomorrow, and all the tomorrows still to come. But today…today, she is the fucking Hill Queen, and she will win.

It always starts with a shopping bag. Without warning, she’ll casually dump it on the dresser when she gets home from work, or prop it up against the foot of the bed on a lazy Sunday afternoon. It’s an opening gambit designed to be ignored, and I do my best to play along, often for days at a time; I am unwilling to spoil her surprise, or to shake the Etch A Sketch grin of anticipation from her face.

The bag is not fancy. It is the sort of cheap plastic destined to hold tomorrow’s vegetable peelings, or the dirty laundry our kids bring back from school trips. When it curls up around its contents with a rustling sigh, I feel like I’m looking through a steamed-up window on a winter’s night –a soft blur of colour emerges from that inner fog, and I want to press my face against it till everything comes into focus.

Buying online just isn’t the same, she says, and besides, we should support a local business whenever we can. I nod vigorously, lips pursed in a poor attempt at solemn agreement, until she throws a cushion at me, both of us already laughing as it sails over my head. The shop owner is a kind man, and she is his favourite customer, but I know it’s the routine that she really loves; the continuity, stretched now across a fluorescent flickbook of galloping years and endless, meandering miles.

Sometimes I know when the moment will come. I’ll burrow down under the duvet and wait, my eyes flicking open just far enough to catch the first rays of that sunny smile as it dimples her cheeks. It’s enough, that little head start, and I don’t think she’d resent the deception. I’m not a morning person – far from it – so it helps to know when I need to respond to her alarm, rather than rolling over and counting to ten as she disappears into the dewy dawn.

I should be clear about one thing: we are not bored. This is a game, but a playful one. That flame does not need to be rekindled; instead we coax constant life from it, our touch lighter with time. We are sure-footed, not ham-fisted; comfortable in our own skin, expansive and generous with each other’s.

Still, there are times when I wonder whether anything has made me happier than the sound of her fingers working the knot at the neck of the bag. Even when I’m half-asleep, unwitting muscle memory kicks in; my brain will trip a switch and prompt my body to respond with a hazy reluctance that’s quickly cleared by the emerging heat.

By the time I lift my chin onto the duvet and manage to peer over it, she has migrated to the bathroom. The shopping bag has played its part; it lies discarded, its contents already unfurled  and admired, then hugged close to her naked body. She has pressed herself against me at night for 20 years now – long enough that I feel like a sofa cushion, scooped out with the indentation of her milk-white arse – but familiarity has done nothing to lessen the desire I feel whenever I watch her stretch in front of the mirror, or pad out of the shower, water flying off her skin with every step.

Why then, does this undo me with such unerring precision? Why does it thump away at some deep seam in the pit of my stomach? As I wait for the bathroom door to open, I blink away the sleep still furring the corners of my vision, and flex my thighs to an impatient, staccato beat. I prop myself up on pillows that smell of her mussed blonde hair.

She appears in front of me without any fuss. This is not a show. We take our running seriously, and at that moment I know she would happily dance out of the door and onto the street, her new kit practically shining in the emergent sunlight. It clings to her slender frame, its lurid colours throwing into sharp relief the simple lines that my hands long to trace. Her sudden indifference is intoxicating; perhaps that, above all else, is what hooks into me and pulls out the words in a rusty, ragged growl.

She freezes in place when the first plosive spits through the air between us. Her head is perfectly still, and her hands go to the waistband of her lycra shorts, as if she too is compelled by instinct to respond in the same way each time. I take a breath, and repeat myself, steadier this time.

“No – come back to bed. You look too good to waste on the outside world.”

—

*Massive* thanks to the lovely @19syllables, whose photo inspired this story, and who was kind enough to let me include it in the final post. Make sure you go check out her brilliant haiku on Twitter, if you haven’t done so already.

I am propped up on pillows, in an ironic approximation of comfort. My fingers tense and flex as I watch him fuck you, and my wrists strain with the effort of remaining still. Inertia feels profoundly unnatural, given the waves of kinetic energy that tumble off your bodies at each roll of his hips; the rhythm is laced with the excitement of the unfamiliar, and your gasping, mewling cries crackle with an extra charge as they spit out towards me.

I am held in place by the awareness that moving would jar all of us back to an unwanted reality. There is a simple beauty to the way you piston back and forth on his cock; adding complexity at this point would drive only entropy, and an accompanying collective failure of will. Nevertheless, arousal and jealousy battle inside me, carried along on a surging swell of almost visceral frustration. I want to touch you both, but more than that I want to be invited in; to put myself inside your bodies and feel you fuck.

Despite our proximity, it is you with whom the disconnect is greatest. Your dark shock of hair brushes against my splayed legs every time he thrusts, but you refuse to look me in the eye. It is a test of my trust, I think, and perhaps my faith too, but it is also your way of losing yourself in this. You are tapping into a rich seam of pure pleasure, undiluted by caution or guilt, and your focus does not – cannot – waver. Instead you just stare blankly past me, or bow your head in silent submission to the physical punch of his dick inside you.

Half in shadow, he looms above both of us, his large frame made monstrous by my supine position. I look for uncertainty or triumph in his gaze, but can find only a curiously metronomic calm, as if he is maintaining control of his body through the suppression of any overt emotion. I am fascinated by his inscrutability, this other man of yours, and by the casual brutality with which he splits you open. There is no give to his body, no softness, and I flinch as your arms start to buckle and sag; he is a wrecking ball, pounding away at your fragile, crumbling facade, leaving it in pieces on the floor in front of us.

And it shocks me, how much I want him now. This stranger; this blank, brooding canvas you have brought into our bed. I want to step naked into the eye of the storm and let it batter me too, till I’m wrung out like a wet rag. Till I’m giddy and gasping and broken, all at once. I will kneel between his legs in genuflection, waiting for him to bless me with his big dick, coated in the sharp tang of your freshly-fucked cunt.

He sees it in me, I think, as we stare at each other over your upturned body, and I know then that you have already told him. It is why his violence seems so controlled; even as he unspools you from your reel, he is steadily taking the measure of me, turning each piece of visual data over in his head as he collects it. Reflexive shyness tugs my chin down and away, but it is flimsy and easily brushed aside. I want him to see it in me, this unchecked hunger. It will make me bold when the time comes.

You shudder against the bed, your orgasm forced out as a deep, gouging moan, and it is as if I can feel the vibrations in my stomach and thighs. Your hand gropes blindly for mine, but I don’t take it – not yet. Before you pull the three of us into the centre of your patch of light, I will stay out here for just a few seconds longer, bathing in its soft glow. Letting it warm my face as I move closer. Waiting for it to blind me.

On Saturday nights, he orders a takeaway and dozes in front of the TV. He does the crossword and watches porn. He feeds the cat.

On Saturday nights, he is in bed by 11. Sometimes he brings a book and sometimes he doesn’t. He is always alone.

He sleeps best like that. They both know it. Free from the restless weight of her body next to him, he settles into the middle of the mattress and closes his eyes. It is the one night of the week when he doesn’t set an alarm.

Occasionally, just before he drifts off, he thinks about her. It is not a focused thought; just his mind skimming over the possibilities, like a stone across water. Plip, plip, plip. It always reaches the other side. If it breached the surface, he wouldn’t sleep at all.

It is rare for her to arrive before dawn. Only in the middle of winter, when he is sometimes woken by the sound of stamping in the hall; as she shakes the snow loose from her boots, he opens his eyes to see the dim yellow pulse of the streetlights still visible through the curtains. Most weeks, Sunday morning is in full bloom by the time she closes the door behind her, never quite gently enough.

She sings to herself as she makes tea – snatches of songs she’s heard the night before – and her voice drifts up to the bedroom, but he doesn’t move. This is Sunday morning. This is her time. She drinks one cup, then another, and skims the newspaper for articles to read later in the day.

When her legs are trembling too much to stay still any longer, she pushes herself up from the breakfast bar. He’s never quite sure what happens in those final few seconds, when the house falls silent and the air seems to thicken around him. She is not smoothing down her clothes or reapplying make-up. To him it is as if she is suspended in time, frozen mid-step. He counts the heartbeats in his head, waiting for her to be released; only his fists, clawing at the bedsheets, betray his need.

The clack of her heels on the wooden floor gets louder as she approaches the bedroom. It grows in authority too: he imagines the air being beaten back by the swish of her skirt, the ground cracking under the weight and impact of her body. She passes the bathroom door without stopping. On Sunday mornings, she doesn’t shower.

He moves the duvet to one side just before she enters the room. He will always be naked for her – this they have agreed. If he is not already hard, she waits in the doorway and watches him use his hand. She suspects he prefers it that way, though he’d never admit to it.

Their bed is high off the ground, and she allows him to help her up, kicking aside her shoes as she crawls over to straddle his body. The first question is always the same.

“Where?”

His voice is a hoarse rasp, his throat dried out by last night’s wine and the anticipation of what’s to come. She looks down at him, her face solemn, smudged lips pressed thoughtfully together. Slowly, she lifts her rumpled dress to reveal her thighs and belly, or peels it off her shoulders till her tits push out towards him.

“Here,” she says, pointing. “And here.”

Sometimes she doesn’t speak at all, but instead leans down and kisses him, her soft tongue darting out to enter his mouth. It is its own answer.

His fingers follow hers, spreading out over her skin. They find the spots where her texture changes, and caress each gossamer streak. She knots his hair and pulls his face closer, inviting him to taste her night.

Eventually she settles over his cock and works it inside her. If anything, she is too wet, and he often slips out a couple of times before anchoring himself to her cunt. As she squeezes around him, he wants to ask how long it’s been. One hour? Two? Does she still ache from him? Did she moan a little bit louder with each thrust? Images flash across the edges of his vision; his mind-stone finally stops skimming and he allows it to sink, all the way down into her deep, cool waters.

She feels his heart thump against her, a strong, steady beat underneath the ragged lift and fall of his chest. Over the months, she has grown more daring with the details; early reticence chipped away a piece at a time by the way he throbs inside her when she whispers in his ear.

“I sucked him in the alley behind the bar – we didn’t even make it to a hotel. He was rough with me, but I loved it. Loved the taste of his cock, and the way he left my lips bruised and swollen. Could you feel him when you kissed me?”

His only answer is to dig his nails deeper into the soft flesh of her buttocks. He drives up with his hips; he is a runaway train hurtling down the track, fuelled by each word that drips from her tongue.

“Oh God, his cock was…So. Fucking. Thick. I didn’t think I’d be able to take it. But then he bit my neck – look, you can see it right here – and I just felt myself open around him as he pushed inside.”

There are men she returns to. ‘Recurring guest stars’, they call them. It has to be managed carefully – the dynamic afterwards is different, edgier – but she doesn’t always want to fuck strangers, and anyway, there are benefits to familiarity. Things they can plan in advance. A cologne that he learns to recognise on her skin. The ache of a new intimacy, and the different bruises it leaves.

“We used that toy last night – the one I showed you. He hit my G-spot with it in a way I’ve never felt before. Maybe I’ll let you have a go with it later. I was so turned on that I let him come inside me. Mm, that’s right, it’s not just my juices you can feel around your cock…”

He doesn’t last long inside her on those Sunday mornings, though sometimes she wishes he would. When the night has left her so tightly wound that her body threatens to unravel from within, she tries to hold back the details that she knows will make him shudder and spill – holds them back so she can first take her own pleasure on top of him, and root herself again in the home soil she loves most of all.

They both know this will change one day – that its sharp, thrilling edge will dull and fade – but she’s in no hurry to lose whatever it is they’ve created together. “It works for us,” she tells her best friend, with a small shrug. “Right now, this works for us.”

He leaves her to nap afterwards, and goes for his morning run. It clears his head; eases the remaining tension from his muscles. When she wakes up, they shower together. He washes her hair. Occasionally they go back to bed and make love, but it is not part of their normal routine. On Sunday afternoons, they walk through the fields behind the estate. In summer, they take a picnic blanket and lounge in the sunshine; in winter, they find a cosy snug in the local pub and drink beer in front of the fire.

They sleep together on Sunday nights, her leg slung across his. He lies awake and listens to her snoring. Feels her breath on the back of his neck. He reaches over, sets the alarm, and thinks again about the one night when he doesn’t have to.

Photo courtesy of HT Honey

 

In late July I wrote this, about a story I read many years ago. Reflecting on its lasting impact, I said the following:

“In the end, it’s that loosening of self-control that I crave when I read erotica – or smut of any kind. I want to feel it in my stomach, as well as between my legs, and I want to be halfway to orgasm before I give in and actually touch myself.”

What I didn’t say at the time is that The Swimming Pool wasn’t the only story to inspire that post…

While I was on holiday, I turned 34. Last year, I marked the occasion by inviting people to send me their own birthday sex stories. I’m taking a (possibly indefinite) break from running competitions, so that wasn’t an option this time; nevertheless, when I checked my phone just before dinner on the 9th, I discovered that someone had decided to write one anyway.

That someone was Malin James, which only made it an even nicer surprise. I scanned the first couple of paragraphs, but quickly realised I needed to save it for a time when I could enjoy it properly. After fidgeting my way through dinner, I settled down on the sofa with a glass of wine, let one hand fall lazily down inside my shorts, and started to read.

‘An Evening with Alex and Em’ is a story I felt both in my stomach and between my legs. It’s a story that made me come once that evening, and several more times in the weeks since then. It’s a story written to appeal directly to my kinks (and to one of my all-time biggest fantasies), so it may not have that instant, gut-wrenching, cock-stiffening impact on everyone, but fuck me, it certainly did the job where I was concerned. Of all the presents I got on my birthday this year, it was without question the hottest.

In fact, I loved it so much that I asked Malin whether I could post it here for other people to enjoy, and after a grand total of zero arm-twisting she said yes. Reading it again just now, I almost had to put off writing this post till later and scurry down to my bedroom for a bit.

Yes.

It’s. That. Good.

Basically, if you like this even half as much as I do, you’re in for a treat (and if you’re planning a hen night any time soon…um…do feel free to get in touch). For my part, I’m already looking forward to whatever she comes up with next year…