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It's a long time since I managed to write a complete story, and even longer since I managed to write a complete story that was pure fiction, and not smutty. I am still too entrenched in the subjective process of dragging this story out of my head and onto the screen to able to objectively consider whether it has any merit, but I'm posting it nonetheless, simply because, even if it sucks as a work of fiction, I'm proud of myself for actually writing it.


Lana took a sip of her wine and surveyed the chaos surrounding her. Half filled boxes formed a maze through the room, flattened boxes leaned against the wall waiting to be unfolded and packed with the accumulation of her life. She contemplated the room she sat in, she had already taken the paintings down, and the walls stared blankly back at her. These walls had absorbed years of her life, but it was time to move on. And moving on meant packing up. She set her wine down on the floor beside her, dragged her chair closer to the cabinet and picked up a framed photograph. It was a candid snapshot, taken at Jez’s birthday the year before. They’d been so happy then, and Lana smiled at the captured moment, remembering the love and joy they had shared, before the fighting and bitter resentment took over and tore them apart. She wrapped it carefully in a piece of newspaper and leaned over to the box on her right, resting it on top of other carefully wrapped memories.

( graphic, filthy smut )

This is posted with thanks to Spencer, who inspired it with a single evocative line he posted on his LJ some time ago. Also, with apologies to Spencer, for appropriating his line and taking it somewhere his head probably wouldn't have. I hope it's ok...

( NB: Adult Themes - sadomasochism, sex )

NB: Adult Themes - sadomasochism, sex

I want.

I want something pretty.

( I want something pretty and sparkly. )

The phone rang and interrupted my sulking, I had hit yet another dating dead end only hours before so there I sat on my lounge, listening to Portishead and sulking. I didn’t answer the phone and let it go through to messagebank, but my curiosity outweighed my sulks and after waiting long enough for someone to leave a message and hang up, I dialled up to check who it was.

After pressing the necessary buttons, I heard a click, then a sigh, then a familiar voice, “I was going to come over and fuck your brains out but you’re not there, that’s a shame”. It was my on again off again fuck-buddy, we’d been off for about 8 months, so this message came as quite a surprise, although definitely not an unwelcome one. I rang him back, and as soon as he answered I blurted out,
“I’m home, you can come over”
“Okay, half an hour, you’re lying on your bed, you’re naked, you’re blindfolded, your legs are spread and you’re fucking yourself with that big lilac dick of yours”
Oh god, instant flood of wetness.
“Got that?”
“Yep, got it”
He hung up. With anyone else, the complete lack of predicability and never knowing where I stood with them would drive me crazy, but with this man, it was exactly what drew me to him.
( Read more... )

snippety bit

I stand in front of my mirror, tired and aching, my brain and body scream for rest but first I have to see. It’s been a long day at work, and an even longer night prior, succumbing to Daddy’s desires. She showered me, dressed me and sent me off to work this morning with instructions that I was not to explore until I got home tonight. I have spent the day languishing in the delicious twinges, aches and pings of pain that reminded me of Her. And now I can finally see.

I unknot the red silk scarf that adorns my neck and slide it from my throat, smiling at the memory of my colleague complimenting me on the way the colour lifted my dark suit. As if that was the reason I wore it. I lift my chin and turn it side to side, my smile widening at the dark love bites on my neck and I get a flashback of me pressed against the wall, Daddy’s hot kisses, her mouth at my throat, her hand in my pants.

I remove my suit jacket and toss it to the armchair beside my bed. I unbutton my blouse, pulling it free of my skirt and letting it drop behind me on the floor. My eyes flick over the rows of small red puncture marks as I unclasp and remove my bra. Flashback to me fastened to Daddy’s wall, the smell of alcohol wipes and the delicious burning sting of needles piercing my flesh. Daddy deftly pushing the needles through my skin, intent on her task, seemingly oblivious to me as anything other than a canvas for her designs, smiling at her handiwork.

I turn my body slowly around, my gaze remaining on the mirror, gasping and grinning as my fingers press into the dark purple teeth marks on my shoulders and back. Flashback, laying on my stomach, Daddy’s body pressing me into the bed, her cock filling me, fucking me like an animal, growling, biting… making me scream and beg.

I unzip my skirt and slide it over my hips, hooking thumbs in my underwear, stepping out and kicking both aside. My eyes take in the purple-red welts striping my arse and thighs down to the tops of my stockings. Flashback to me bent over the bed, legs straight, elbows resting on the bedspread, Daddy behind me with cane in hand, telling me what a good girl I am, assuring me “just a few more, you can take just a few more for Daddy”, clenching my teeth, breathing deeply through the pain. Daddy sliding her fingers into my cunt and teasing my clit in between strokes, alternating pleasure and pain until the two become indistinguishable to my endorphin-soaked brain.

I stand in my stockings and high heels and turn around slowly in front of the mirror, eyes roaming over my bruised and coloured flesh. As I face forward again I meet my stare in the mirror and smile at the colour, the texture, the brilliant variety of Her marks. Every welt, every bruise, every puncture wound, every bite, a testament to Her desire and pleasure in me.

the more I look at this and work it, the more i think it needs to be spoken-word... the page is too flat for what I hear in my head... or maybe I've just been watching too much Alix Olson :o)

He loves the curve of a woman's breast... the glimpse you get when she is naked, her back to you and she turns ever so slightly, the outside curve of her breast dark against the light from the window...

It's funny, how the world lumps us together, sees our similarities, but not our differences. We are both labelled "female", both labelled "dyke"... I wear these labels with a greater degree of comfort than he does, they fit me just fine, but he... he chokes. He. I don't even have to think about that pronoun, it falls off my tongue like he were born to it. How can he be called a female? a dyke? But he is, because that is what the gender-binary-bound masses see when they look at him... the second or third time.

It's never what I see.

He loves the curve of a woman's breast, and for that he get's called a dyke. I get called a dyke too, but it's not the curve of a woman's breast that makes me contract. It's the bulge in his pants as he sits with legs wide, and casually kicks a chair out for me to join him. It's the way he calls me "girl", like something small and precious. It's the binder I can feel under his uniform shirt when he lets me hug him. See, now there is a similarity that people miss... I wear clothes to shape my body as well, restrictive garments to change and enhance my shape to something I wasn't born with, something some would call "unnatural". And there we are, hugging, his hands on my tightly corseted waist, face buried in my overspilling cleavage, and I trace lightly with my fingers from shirt over binder, to shirt over flesh, and my hands flatten against his body and I pull him in, press tighter against his flattened chest.

And I giggle, because the world looks at us and sees the similarities that don't matter, misses the differences that do, and labels us the same... but from the same mold, we are everything the other is not.

And that's just part of why we love each other.

Your body covering mine, a restraining weight pinning holding controlling me. I am free to struggle and fight as much as I want. So I do. But my thrashing is double-edged, my fight belied by my whimpers of need.
( Read more... )

I remember everything about my first kiss with a woman. We were standing out front a friend’s house, there’d been a bunch of us there watching videos, eating popcorn, laughing, drinking wine. It was late now, and everyone else had gone home, except for her and me, we were staying the night at this friends house. ( Read more... )

Fuck me like you hate me. That's the refrain that has been buzzing my head for the last week. Fuck me like you hate me. Treat me like the dirt I am. Don't take it slow, don't ask me what I want, don't caress me. Walk into my room, stare at me with disdain, when I try to engage you in conversation cut me off mid-sentence "blah blah blah who gives a fuck, get your clothes off bitch, you think I want to hear you talk? do something useful with your mouth for once slut". Wrap your fingers in my hair and force me to my knees, shove your cock down my throat and fuck my face till it is covered in tears and snot and my lips and throat are bruised from your thrusts. Put your hands around my neck and choke me as you drag me to my feet, walk me backwards, gagging, off-balance, eyes wide and hands gripping your wrists till you push me down onto the bed. Fill your hand with lube "spread, whore" and fill my cunt with your fist. Make me scream with the pain. When I look at your face, let me see you sneering even as you pound my insides. Roll me over. Grab my hips and jerk me to my knees, leave purple finger marks in my flesh. Wipe the lube and cunt-juice from your fingers into my arse crack and fill my arse with your cock. Fuck me hard. Use me. Sink your teeth into my shoulder as you slam in and out of me. When you have cum, shove me away from you, spit on me and leave. Fuck me like you hate me. Treat me like the dirt I am.

I got taught a lesson the other night, a lesson on the dangers of not thinking before I answer, the perils of not taking responsibility for myself. I hate voicing my desires, and sometimes I just don’t want to have to think, or talk about, fucking… I just want it to happen. So when she asked “What do you want?” I stupidly said “whatever will please you”. And that’s what she did.
( Read more... )

She stood in the shower, water sluicing over her body as she thought about the evening ahead. She knew where she wanted it to go, but how to take it there? He had asked her to give him a massage, a service activity, but she didn’t feel like serving him tonight, she wasn’t feeling submissive. She’d give him a massage alright, but she was hungry. She wanted the control, the power. The fun had already started, and with it the battle for top, he was so assured that she would submit to him, it was the given dynamic of their relationship, but not tonight, she thought, not tonight. She knew she had to get him off-balance mentally if she had any chance of flipping him, the problem was how to do that, how to make him uncertain enough, so that she could dominate him. And then it came to her. She would be Hilda.
( Read more... )