High Tech and Low Tech Meet in the Middle – Guest Post By K D Grace

toysforboys-kdgrace-finalWhen my husband and I walked the Wainwright Coast to Coast Path across England, we took tons of photos, though there were a few days when the weather was the worst that the photos were sparse. On those days we were too tired and too wet to bother. Earlier that same year, we heard a talk from a man who climbed Everest for charity and somehow, even at the top, he had the presence of mind to record his epic moment on his device.

While I blogged that wonderful walk, taking photos as we went and then writing like a crazy woman in our B&B at night to get the posts out, I’d often wished I’d had the skill and the tech to do it all on my phone and in-situ as we moved across the landscape.

Having said that, one of the best parts of the walk was that it was mostly low tech – good walking gear and navigation skills and putting one foot in front of the other. That meant a feeling of accomplishment at the end of each day and it meant that we didn’t miss the finer moments because our noses were buried in our iPhones.

Will and Doc’s story is one of adventures with high tech while being very creative with low tech at the same time. That combo made for fun and sexy writing.

Toys For Boys Excerpt – Flesh To Flesh:

“We’re not going to make Ennerdale tonight,” Doc yelled into the wind.

Will’s answer was incoherent, an incoherence that wasn’t entirely because the wind was interfering with Doc’s hearing. They’d already got lost once and had fought their way back to the trail. Doc was fucking freezing, but he had spent enough time outdoors in bad weather to push his body way further than most people could. No matter how fit Will was, Doc recognised the signs of hypothermia when he saw them. They had to get out of the weather and get warm.

They lost the trail twice more before Doc made the executive decision to set up a tent in the first spot halfway flat. To his surprise it had been the damn urBrain that had saved the day. Will had downloaded detailed, interactive OS maps, but in his condition, Doc doubted if he could read his own name in bold letters, let alone the contours of a map. He’d pried the device, safe from the weather in its own little waterproof sheath, from Will’s icy hands and, with the light from the screen, he was able to find a wooded area relatively flat and as shielded from the weather as they were likely to get. The rain turned to hail and the Arctic wind made it feel like bird shot against all bits of exposed skin as Doc struggled to set up the tent. He’d shoved another energy bar at Will, and when he’d only stood there looking at it, Doc had opened it and half crammed it down his throat before he went back to work on shelter, desperate to get Will out of the weather.

Once the tent was secure, he chucked the bags inside, then grabbed Will by the collar and dragged him into the tight little space.

The energy bar must have helped. Will seemed coherent enough. “I can’t feel my hands,” he said, battling to get his sleeping bag out of its waterproof sack.

“Give me that,” Doc said through chattering teeth. “Let me do it. My hands aren’t all delicate and dainty like yours.”

“Would you look at that?” Will said as Doc grabbed the bag. “Amazingly, my middle finger works just fine.” He flipped him off.

“So does your smart mouth.” Without thinking, Doc zipped the two bags together.

“What are you doing?” Will was suddenly serious.

“You’re hypothermic. Get your wet clothes off and get into the bag.”

“Oh. Right.” But Will could no more manage the buttons and zippers on his clothing than he could his sleeping bag.

This time when Doc shoved his hands away and pushed the waterproof jacket off his shoulders, Will only watched, eyes focussed on the process as though it were something totally new to him. Doc cursed the fiddly buttons on the man’s shirt, his own hands none too agile from the cold and wet and the fact that he was undressing Will fucking Charles, about whom he’d been having less than pristine thoughts since his first view of the man’s arse. Will fucking Charles with whom he was about to cuddle down into a sleeping bag butt naked, never mind that it was with good reason.

Will sucked in a harsh breath. “Your damned hands are like ice cubes, Woodsy.”

“Oh shut it, William, or I’ll kick your arse outside and make you sleep in the rain.”

“Fucking like to see you try.” Will’s teeth were chattering hard, and his whole body trembling from the cold as Doc worried the shorts down over his commando bum and found himself face to cock, which made the blighter burst into hysterical laughter. “Have we ulterior motives, Mr Jones? Where the hell’s urBrain? I have to get this on camera.”

“Want a selfie of your cock, do you, you shivering bastard?” Doc turned his attention to the walking boots, which had stopped all progress of getting the man naked. Focussing on something other than the naked, very vulnerable body of Will fucking Charles helped clear his mind. He was too cold, too tired to get hard over what was essentially a matter of life and death, he told himself. Surely!

Once the boots were dispensed with, he shoved the man into the sleeping bag and went about the awkward business of stripping himself.

“Where the hell is the urBrain when I need it?” Will chuckled between chattering teeth.

“You point that thing at me, and I’ll shove it up your arse.” Doc’s own teeth sounded like a couple of spastic tap dancers had been turned loose in his mouth.

“Now that’s a function I didn’t find in the instruction manual,” Will replied.

What started out as ribald comments on the shrivelling effect of the cold on male tender bits dwindled to nothing more than the sound of convulsive shivering. By the time Doc had shed the last of his clothes and shoved his way down next to Will, he was seriously worried. It took all his strength, which wasn’t a helluva lot at that moment, to pull the bloke into his arms and hold him close enough to share body heat, what little there was of it. The worry subsided a bit when Will threw his arms around his neck and gave a harsh chuckle against his throat. “This was seriously worth getting hypothermic for. Pity I’m too fucking tired to appreciate it.”

Though Doc agreed wholeheartedly with the sentiment, his focus was on getting Will warm. Then he’d get out the backpacking stove and fix them something hot. That was the last thing he remembered, that and the feel of Will’s body shivering against him, in the tent redolent with the male scent of core heat and wet gear, all overlaid by the icy metal smell of the fells in a storm.

Toys for Boys Blurb:

Alpha nerd Will Charles teams up with Caridoc ‘Doc’ Jones in a coast to coast walk across England reviewing outdoor gift suggestions for the Christmas edition of Toys for Boys—an online magazine dedicated to the latest gadgets to tickle a man’s fancy. Will is recording their adventures with the latest smart phone technology. Doc is reviewing the latest outdoor gear. The two quickly discover the great outdoors provides even better toys for boys, toys best shared al fresco, toys that, in spite of Will’s great camera work, will never be reviewed in Toys for Boys.

Note: Toys for Boys has been previously published as part of the Brit Boys: With Toys boxed set.

 Buy Toys for Boys Here:

 Universal Amazon link: http://mybook.to/toysforboys

Barnes & Noble: http://bit.ly/2jPjrN2

iBooks: http://apple.co/2jpYvxK

Kobo: http://bit.ly/2kbYbQa

Smashwords: http://bit.ly/2kmFbRg

About K D Grace/Grace Marshall

Voted ETO Best Erotic Author of 2014, and a proud member of The Brit Babes, K D Grace believes Freud was right. In the end, it really IS all about sex, well sex and love. And nobody’s happier about that than she is, otherwise, what would she write about?

When she’s not writing, K D is veg gardening. When she’s not gardening, she’s walking. She walks her stories, and kd-grace-imageshe’s serious about it. She and her husband have walked Coast to Coast across England, along with several other long-distance routes. For her, inspiration is directly proportionate to how quickly she wears out a pair of walking boots. She loves mythology. She enjoys spending time in the gym – right now she’s having a mad affair with a pair of kettle bells. She loves to read, watch birds and do anything that gets her outdoors.

KD has erotica published with Totally Bound, SourceBooks, Xcite Books, Harper Collins Mischief Books, Mammoth, Cleis Press, Black Lace, Sweetmeats Press and others.

K D’s critically acclaimed erotic romance novels include, The Initiation of Ms Holly, Fulfilling the Contract, To Rome with Lust, and The Pet Shop. Her paranormal erotic novel, Body Temperature and Rising, the first book of her Lakeland Witches trilogy, was listed as honorable mention on Violet Blue’s Top 12 Sex Books for 2011. Books two and three, Riding the Ether, and Elemental Fire, are now also available.

K D Grace also writes hot romance as Grace Marshall. An Executive Decision, Identity Crisis, The Exhibition, Interviewing Wade are all available.

Find K D Here:

Websites: http://kdgrace.co.uk/


Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/KDGraceAuthor

Twitter: https://twitter.com/KD_Grace

Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/kdgraceauthor/

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Summoning Milo

It’s Halloween, and here’s a spooky short story for all those of you who love things that go bump in the night…

Two minutes to midnight. The lights are extinguished, a candle gutters on the table before me. I’ve surrounded myself with all I have left of him. A detective novel I borrowed from the teetering pile in his bedroom and never had the chance to return. A string of friendship beads he tied around my wrist the summer before we went away to college. A photo, creased and dog-eared from being carried in my wallet. His parents took it on some family vacation, right after he graduated. He’s in board shorts, his chest bare, his hair sun-bleached. He looks so ridiculously handsome, laughing and carefree. Unaware that he only had another three months to live.

I wish I had more, but the fire claimed almost all our possessions, as well as his life. If I hadn’t been on shift that evening, one year ago to the day, I’d be dead, too. The guilt and pain I carry haven’t lessened. I know there’s nothing I could have done to save him, but I let the sun go down on my anger and I need to put this right. To say the words I left unspoken when I stormed out of the apartment, late for work and angry at him for not hanging the laundry out to dry.

The clock chimes. It’s time. I speak the words, culled from the pages of a book so old it threatened to crumble to dust when I opened it. They’re hard to pronounce, so many guttural syllables to wrap my tongue around, but I do my best. I have to get this right, for the sake of my sanity.

For the longest time, it seems nothing’s going to happen. Foolish of me to believe it might, really. Then the air shimmers, as if I’m looking through a smoky haze. Peering through it, I see the outline of a figure. It grows more solid, till I’m looking at a full-grown man.

“Milo?” My voice cracks around his name.

“Jen.” He comes a step closer. I fight the urge to scream. His skin is blistered and burned; most of his hair is gone. The pajama pants he wears are charred shreds of fabric. I should be terrified, but I’m not. He’s still my gorgeous Milo, for all that. “It’s so good to see you. But I don’t have long…”

“Oh, Milo. The spell worked. It’s really you.” Tears course down my cheek and I swipe them away, determined not to let him see me so upset.

“Hey, babe. Don’t cry.” When he puts his arms out, I stumble into them. I’m almost afraid to touch his ruined body, but he smiles. “It’s okay. You’re not going to hurt me. Nothing can any more.”

There’s so much I want to ask him, but the words won’t come. Glancing up, I see his blue eyes shining, the depth of emotion obvious. When he bends his head and presses his lips to mine, I don’t resist. Returning the kiss with all the passion I possess, I let him guide me to the floor.

He kisses my cheeks, my eyelids, the tip of my nose. I run my hands down his back, all the way to the cheeks of his ass. Our bodies grind together. His erection is a thick bar, trapped against my belly. Without thinking, I reach to hold it, surprised to feel it warm and pulsing in my grasp.

“I want you,” he murmurs.

“Me, too. I’ve never stopped wanting you.”

Milo tears open my shirt, sending the buttons flying. He takes my nipple between his rough lips, sucking hard. Desire courses through me, fierce and urgent. I tug down my underwear, desperate to feel him inside me one last time.

He slides home in one long thrust. I’d almost forgotten how well he fits, like he was made for me. We move together, quickly finding a rhythm that suits us both. Milo’s eyes never leave mine as our pleasure mounts in unison.

My pussy convulses around him in the moment before he comes deep within me. I cling on tight to him, riding the waves.

“Milo, I’m so sorry for fighting with you about nothing,” I whisper, when I can find my voice again. “I love you. I always will.”

“And I…”

He’s fading before my eyes. The candle flame sputters and dies. All that remains is an acrid smell of smoke and his voice, lingering in the air like the Cheshire Cat’s grin.

“…love you too.”

Tall Story

Here’s another story I wrote in my early days on Forum, where one of our unofficial office mottos was ‘we like short men, because they get there faster…’

‘Let’s face it, it’s obvious why women chase after Joe,’ Mike Gallagher said, raising his voice to be heard above the noise of the party. ‘It’s because he’s tall.’

I was tempted  to reply, ‘No, it isn’t. It’s because he’s got gorgeous brown eyes and immense charisma,’ but I didn’t. Mike seemed like a nice bloke, at least from the twenty minutes or so I’d spent talking to him, and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He wasn’t bad looking, with his curly chestnut hair and cheeky grin; he just wasn’t my type. And, to be honest, he was short. In my high heels, I just scrape over five feet. Mike was only a few inches taller than me. Whereas Joe…

Joe Walsh was every woman’s dream despatch rider. Tall and lean, with a body that was built to wear leathers. Dark hair tied back in a ponytail and a permanently stubbled chin. He was often the only bright spot in my dreary day. Hilditch and Grieve aren’t a bad firm to work for, but chartered accountants aren’t the world’s most exciting people. Anyway, working as their receptionist is only a temporary move until I find someone who’s looking for a recently qualified zoologist – or so I’ve been saying for the past eight months.

Still, it was through working at Hilditch and Grieve that I’d met Joe. I can still remember the jolt that went through me when he first slapped a parcel down on the reception desk and took off his helmet – it was like a bolt of lightning straight to the groin. I must have managed to stammer out some coherent sentence and since then we’d chatted every time he’d come in with a delivery – or rather, he’d chatted and I’d drooled. A couple of the secretaries knew about my infatuation and giggled about it whenever they passed the desk and he was there, much to my annoyance. Infatuation was all that it seemed destined to remain, until the afternoon when he’d wandered in and casually announced that he was throwing a party that weekend.

‘I’d really like you to come along, Zoe,’ he said. ‘There’ll be a few eligible men there. Do you know my mate Mike? Short geezer, curly hair, rides a Yamaha? No? Well, I’ll introduce you. You’ll like him, he’s a good laugh.’ Then he winked at me. ‘I might even drag you into the room with all the coats, if you’re lucky.’

‘Won’t your girlfriend object?’ I asked.

‘Nah, we split up a couple of weeks ago.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said, but inside my heart was backflipping for joy.

‘Don’t be. I’m not. The party’s to celebrate the fact.’ For a moment, I almost believed him, until I saw the grin that was threatening to split his face. He scribbled his address on a docket sheet and handed it to me. ‘It doesn’t really matter what time you get there. I intend to party all night.’

Then he was gone through the revolving door. I clutched the sheet of paper he’d given me, already planning a knock-’em-dead outfit that would ensure Joe and I ended the night together.

And we still could, if I could prevent Mike from monopolising me all evening and Joe would turn his attention away from the tall, curvy brunette he was talking to on the other side of the kitchen. As if he’d read my thoughts, he glanced over and his dark, intense eyes met my grey ones. He raised his bottle of Newcastle Brown in a silent salute. I smiled back at him, my insides churning with lust.

‘Now,’ Mike was saying, warming to his theme, ‘if I could change anything about myself, it’d probably be my height, ’cos it’d make me more desirable. You, on the other hand, would probably want bigger breasts.’ Now who was mind-reading? I thought. ‘But they wouldn’t necessarily make you more desirable. I mean, I think they’re perfect as they are. And after all, the smaller they are, the more sensitive they are.’

That was certainly true. My nipples were already stiffening with the thought of Joe running his hands over them, pinching and teasing them.

‘Honestly, Mike, you’re perfectly desirable as you are,’ I assured him, slightly embarrassed by the directness of his compliments.

‘I’ll drink to that,’ he said, draining his can of lager.

I looked across the room and saw that Joe and the brunette were no longer standing by the fridge. Probably gone to dance, I thought. I’ll just finish my wine and then I’ll go and find them, see if I can get Joe to join me in a smoochy number.

I swallowed the last mouthful of wine and put the glass down.

‘Can I get you a refill?’ Mike asked.

‘No, thanks, I’ve had more than enough,’ I replied. ‘Can you point me in the direction of the bathroom?’

‘Yeah, it’s just down the hall.’

I left him and squeezed my way through the press of bodies into the hall. The party was beginning to warm up; a couple were kissing passionately in the kitchen doorway as I passed.

I pushed open what I thought was the right door, but I wasn’t in the bathroom. Instead, I was looking into Joe’s bedroom. In the semi-darkness, I could make out a couple on the bed. The girl’s top was pulled up, revealing her heavy breasts, and her legs were wrapped around the naked back of her partner, whose tight buttocks rose and fell as he thrust into her. There was no mistaking her partner’s familiar ponytail; she was making love with Joe.

They probably weren’t aware that there was someone else in the room, but I blurted out, ‘Sorry,’ picked up my coat from the pile on the floor, which they had obviously pushed aside in their exertions, and blundered out tearfully into the hall in search of Mike.

He was where I’d left him in the kitchen. ‘I’m going home,’ I announced. ‘Do you know the number of a taxi firm?’

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘Why are you leaving?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I said. I couldn’t get the sight of them out of my mind.

‘Look, don’t worry about a taxi. I’ll take you home. My bike’s outside.’

I looked at Mike dubiously. ‘Is it safe?’

‘If you mean am I sober, the answer’s yes. Come on, I’ll make sure you get home in one piece.’ He took my hand, grabbed his leather jacket from where he’d slung it over the back of a kitchen chair then led me out of the flat.

Mike’s bike was parked on the road outside Joe’s flat. He took a crash helmet from the top-box and handed it to me, but before I could put it on, he caught my arm.

‘Look, why don’t you tell me what went on in there?’ He sounded genuinely concerned.

‘If you must know, I went into the bedroom by mistake, and I saw Joe and this girl…’ My voice trailed off miserably.

‘Zoe, I know how much you fancy him, but he’s just a flirt. It’s all a game to him; he can pick and choose who he wants. She’ll just be a one-night stand. He would have done the same to you, and you deserve more than that.’

‘Let’s get away from here,’ I said. I climbed up on the back of the bike behind Mike and he kicked the engine into life.

We seemed to fly through the deserted streets of the city, the night air plucking at my clothes. It was an exhilarating feeling and, with my skirt rucked up and my stocking-clad legs clinging on to Mike’s surprisingly muscular body, an arousing one, too.

The bike pulled up outside my house all too soon.

‘Thanks for the lift,’ I said.

‘Any time,’ Mike replied.

‘Why don’t you come in for a coffee?’ I suggested. ‘I know it’s late, but the girl I share with is away, so we won’t be disturbing anyone.’ I was aware of a pulse beating between my legs, more insistent than that of my heart.

The front door stuck as I tried to open it, as it has a tendency to do. Mike gave it a helpful push; I was still holding on to the handle, with the result that we fell into the hallway in a tangle of limbs. We burst out laughing, then our eyes met, closely followed by our lips. Mike pulled me to him, and our kiss became more passionate. Our tongues met, tasting the softness of each other’s mouth.

‘Come on, let’s go upstairs,’ I said. Mike needed no further prompting. I paused only to fling off my shoes and coat and then I dashed up to my room, Mike following closely behind.

Mike was kissing me again before I’d had the chance to turn on the bedroom light. As his lips traced the contours of my mouth, I was struck by how well our bodies fitted together. Normally, I either have to drag my partner down so we can kiss in a sitting position, or else stand on tiptoe and strain my neck, but with Mike there was no problem. You could almost say we were made for each other. I didn’t have much time for philosophising, though, as he was pushing the straps of my dress down over my shoulders, his mouth moving down to nibble at the nape of my neck. The heavy buckle of his belt was pressing uncomfortably into my skin and I wrenched it open. Mike paused in his exploration of my dress to heave off his boots and jeans. His erection, free of its confines, slowly grew to a respectable length.

I stepped out of my dress and stood before him in my stockings, suspenders and skimpy lace panties, originally chosen to impress Joe. Mike ran his hands over my breasts; his fingers were calloused from work and my nipples hardened at their rough feel.

‘I’ll say one thing,’ Mike murmured into my hair, ‘I was right about your breasts.’ His tongue replaced his fingers and I sighed with pleasure. One hand snaked down to touch my clitoris, rubbing the slippery bud in circles until I was more than ready for him to enter me.

Mike’s erection was warm and hard against my mound, not poking into my stomach as a taller man’s would have done. ‘Before we go any further…’ I whispered, breaking away from him. There was a packet of condoms in my bedside cabinet; I took one out and peeled back its foil wrapping.

‘Perhaps if you lay down on the bed…’ I suggested, to his obvious puzzlement. He was clearly expecting to fit it himself, but quickly realised I had other plans in mind.

I knelt over him and put my face very close to his cock, so that my hair brushed the tip. Then I planted a kiss on the glistening purple glans and carefully rolled the sheath down over his shaft.

He smiled up at me, a smile that widened to a Cheshire cat grin when I slowly lowered myself down on to his latex-clad cock. My muscles tightened around it and he gasped. I began to rock gently backwards and forwards, gyrating my hips in a rhythm that he had no choice other than to follow. He cupped my breasts in his hands, squeezing and twisting my nipples in a way that sent spasms of pure pleasure down to my womb. I moved my hips more urgently, feeling my orgasm beginning to build inside me. The fiery sensation spread through my nerve endings and I threw my head back and cried out as the feeling peaked within me and my vagina clutched and clutched again at Mike’s cock. As I struggled to regain my breath, I could feel the surge of his own climax, his heels dragging at the bedsheets as his body shook with pleasure.

We hugged each other tight, the taste of sweat on our lips as we kissed, and then he carefully slid out of me.

‘And to think I thought you were only interested in tall men,’ Mike said.

‘I told you, it doesn’t make any difference,’ I replied. ‘We’re all the same height lying down.’

‘Well, perhaps we can prove this if you lie down this time.’

And that’s when I knew that this relationship was going to be anything but short.

Trading Licks

Ask any man what it is he finds most sexy about the woman in his life and he’ll have an immediate answer. Her eyes, her breasts, maybe her sense of humour – something which is instantly apparent from the moment you meet her. Stuart was different. If you asked what turned him on the most about me, he’d tell you it was the way I suck cock.

Not that I ever knew that. I mean, I was aware he and his mates talked about sex on their boys’ nights out, but I always assumed it was more on the level of which celebrities they’d like to fuck, or how much they fancied the barmaid in the Rose and Crown, the one with the Scottish accent and the generous arse. I never dreamed they might actually be comparing their wives’ and girlfriends’ oral skills.

And it was hardly a topic I ever discussed at length. You wouldn’t exactly stick the fact you’re extremely adept at giving blowjobs on your CV next to your clean driving licence and your hundred words a minute shorthand, would you? The closest I ever came to talking about it was one drunken night when a friend started giggling about a letter she’d read in a  porn mag she’d borrowed from her boyfriend, from a man who said his wife wore dentures and would take them out to give him the most incredible gum jobs. When we’d finally stopped shrieking at how outrageous that was, the conversation turned to the fact Denise had just admitted to reading porn and the moment passed.

But the truth was that I did love sucking Stuart’s cock. I know a lot of women think there’s something too subservient about being down on their knees in front of a man, but I must be a little bit submissive, then, because I never had a problem with it. I liked it best when Stuart sat on the end of the bed and I could rest my elbows on his thick thighs. Settling comfortably on my haunches on the soft, cream-coloured carpet, I would bend my head so it was resting in his lap, my long, silky brown hair brushing against his groin. At first, I would gently nuzzle the insides of his thighs, or lick along them and then gently blow on the wet skin.

Next, I would turn my attention to his balls, gently playing with the little sacs with my fingers and tongue until they began to tighten. By now, his cock would also be noticeably firmer than when I started. But even then I would do little more than tease him, swiping my tongue over the head of his cock with broad licks, as though I was savouring an ice cream on a hot day by the beach. Finally, when he was practically begging me with his eyes to go further, give him the blowjob he was craving, I would engulf the head fully in my mouth and begin to suck.

I’ve never been one of these women who’s tried to master the art of deep-throating. To me, it’s always smacked a little of showing off, and Stuart’s never complained that I can’t take him all the way down my throat. He’s more than happy with the manner in which I lavish attention on his shaft, licking lovingly while using my hand to stroke and stimulate the bottom few inches. He’ll gently stroke my back, encouraging me and letting me feel more of a flesh-on-flesh connection than just the point at which his cockhead disappears between my lips.

If we’re both in the mood, I can string this out for ages, pacing myself so I don’t end up with an aching jaw and sore knees. Eventually, his increasingly urgent moans and little grunts tell me he’s on the verge of coming. That’s the point when I look up into his eyes and increase the suction. Only a minute of this is enough to trigger his climax, his come spilling into my mouth, salty and with that indefinable taste of man. He never seems to care whether I swallow it or not – unlike of lot of men, he doesn’t take it as a measure of my love for him – all that matters is the closeness we feel as he runs his hands through my hair, his breathing slowing and his body relaxing.


So all in all, I was entitled to be more than a little pleased about my oral abilities, particularly as I had female friends who openly admitted that they had never let their lover’s cock anywhere near their lips. And Stuart was pleased with them, too – I just didn’t realise how pleased until the night I came home from work to find that he had run a bath for me and had a bottle of champagne chilling in the fridge.

It wasn’t our anniversary. Indeed, our anniversary wasn’t for another four months,  my birthday for six, so it wasn’t as though he’d forgotten some important date and was treating me by way of apology. Instead, he waited till I had enjoyed my bath and was sitting in the living room, dressed in my silky Japanese-print robe and sipping my glass of champagne, that he dropped the bombshell.

“Leanne,’ he began. “I’ve got a really big favour to ask of you – or, rather, Jimmy has.”

Jimmy was Stuart’s closest friend. They’d grown up living next door to each other and had been practically inseparable for years.  After school, though, their lives had taken very different paths. Stuart had started working in his father’s garage, met me and settled down. Jimmy had joined the army, stayed single and seen the world. They’d stayed in touch, but now Stuart only saw Jimmy in the brief periods he was on leave. I’d met Jimmy a few times, including at our wedding, and I really liked him, but I had no idea why he would be asking me for a favour.

And then Stuart enlightened me.

“Jimmy’s back from Afghanistan in a couple of days. He sent me an e-mail saying things have been really rough out there, and I said if there was anything I could do to cheer him up when he got back, he only had to say.” He paused. “Well, he remembered a drunken conversation we had on my stag night, when I told him that about how you gave the best blowjobs in the world. And – what he’d really like to cheer him up, more than anything else, is one of those blowjobs.”

I didn’t speak for a moment; just pushed the champagne glass in Stuart’s direction, anxious for a refill.

“How could you?” I said finally.

“I’m sorry, Leanne,” he replied. “But it was just one of those conversations blokes have, you know? And it’s true, you do give the best blowjobs in the world.” He searched for the words which would convince me. “Think about it. Jimmy’s been over there, fighting. I don’t even want to think about what he might have seen or done. He won’t have had a fuck in God knows how long. He probably hasn’t even had the chance of sneaking one off the wrist. Can you blame him for asking for this?”

I looked at my champagne glass. I seemed to have almost emptied it in only a couple of swigs. “But you’ve agreed that he can do this? You don’t have a problem with me sucking off another man?”

“I haven’t actually said yes to him yet, but I don’t have a problem with it. In fact, I really want you to do it. And I want to watch. Nothing would turn me on more than to see my beautiful, sexy wife with my best friend’s cock in her mouth.”

That was when it all came tumbling out: Stuart had fantasies he’d never been able to admit to me until now. Fantasies in which he shared me with another man. Just looking at him as he explained them to me, I realised how happy it would make him if I agreed to his plan, but I wasn’t entirely sure how I felt about it. Though I’d always assumed I would be utterly faithful to Stuart, I had to admit there was a wicked little part of me which was turned on by the thought of going down on Jimmy. He was a good-looking boy; big and brawny as a result of his years in the army, with dirty-blond hair cropped closed to his skull and brown eyes which gave the impression they had been undressing you from the moment they saw you. The thought of him naked, cock hard and ready for me, was a deliciously dirty one. And through it all, Stuart would be there – watching me, encouraging me, loving me.

Eventually, when Stuart had finished spilling out all his secrets, he looked at me and said, “So, will you do it?”

I waited just long enough for him to start thinking that he’d blown his chances completely, then decided it was cruel to tease him any further. “Yes,” I said.


Once Jimmy was back in the country, things moved swiftly. Stuart invited him to stay for the weekend, and though I intended to treat him to some decent home-cooked meals after months existing on army rations, I had the feeling food would be the last thing on his mind.

I was out shopping when he actually arrived, and came home to find the two men sitting on the sofa, drinking beer and watching the horse racing. Jimmy got up to greet me, enfolding me in a huge hug and dwarfing me with his broad, six-foot frame. We made all the usual pleasantries, but I found it hard to think of anything other than the moment when I would fulfil my husband’s fantasies by sucking Jimmy’s cock.

The atmosphere as the three of us sat down to dinner was like nothing I had ever experienced. The air seemed to crackle with erotic tension and anticipation. I had chosen a dress which I knew was one of Stuart’s favourites – a flimsy, pale-blue number with thin straps – and had deliberately gone without a bra beneath it. I knew that both men would be able to see the twin points of my nipples, sticking out as evidence of my excitement.

I barely tasted my food and hardly paid attention to the conversation between Stuart and Jimmy. My stomach was churning with nerves and anticipation, and when the two men finally decided it was time to get down from the table I followed them in a daze.

There was no longer any pretence that this was just a pleasant social evening; we made our way straight to the bedroom, where Stuart lit candles as Jimmy used the en suite bathroom.

“How do you want me to do this?” I whispered to Stuart.

“Just do whatever feels best,” he replied. “Do what you’d do to me.”

So when Jimmy came out of the bathroom, I shyly took him by the hand and led him to the bed. Stuart had kicked off his shoes and settled in the chair in the corner of the room, our keen and appreciative audience of one.

I kissed him, pressing my tongue against his lips insistently until he parted them to let it enter. I wanted him to imagine how it would feel when that tongue moved lower, to tease the head of his cock. Jimmy responded by tugging the straps of my dress down off my shoulders, smiling at the sight of my bare breasts. As his thumbs rubbed over my nipples, I glanced over to see how Stuart was reacting. He seemed to be enjoying himself, judging by the way he was caressing his cock almost absent-mindedly through his jeans.

While I was busy looking at my husband, Jimmy took the opportunity to pull the dress of me fully. This, I thought, seemed a little one-sided. Here I was, wearing only an indecently tiny pair of lace knickers, while the two men were still completely clothed. I made to push Jimmy back on the bed, which wasn’t the easiest thing to do, given the relative difference in our sizes, but he was compliant enough, anticipating the pleasure to come once I had him undressed. Quickly and efficiently, I undressed him from the waist down; there seemed something much ruder about the way his erection bobbed up above the hem of his faded black teeshirt than having him completely naked.

And now the show could really begin, I thought, as I slithered off the bed, parting Jimmy’s thick thighs wide to give me better access to his luscious cock.

Aware of Stuart’s eyes on me from across the bedroom, I bent close and nuzzled Jimmy’s groin, noticing all the little differences between him and my husband. Though they were fairly similar in size, Jimmy’s cock bent slightly to the right, and his balls were a little looser, a little more pouchy. His sandy coloured pubes were trimmed short, and he smelled more earthy than Stuart, somehow, though definitely not unpleasant. For a moment I thought how nice it would be to have the two men side by side, so I could compare them more closely, but that wasn’t what tonight was about.

I licked the soft skin on the inside of Jimmy’s thighs, feeling him give a quick little intake of breath as my teeth nipped at him, just for a moment. Lost in concentration as I was, I still heard the unmistakable sound of a zip coming down, and realised Stuart must be making himself more comfortable.

It was time to stop teasing Jimmy and get down to the serious business of giving him pleasure. “Relax,” I murmured. “I want you to enjoy this.”

I took a firm hold of his cock, pushing back the foreskin a little way, then lovingly took head into my mouth. Jimmy made a noise that was somewhere between a sigh and a whisper, and I wondered just how long it had been since he’d last experienced the friction and pressure around his cock of anything other than his own fist.

“That’s it, suck him,” I heard Stuart say. I couldn’t see my husband, but I could imagine exactly what he was doing. Indeed, when I paused in my suction, I could distinctly hear the soft slap of Stuart’s hand working up and down the length of his own hard-on.

Turning my attention completely back to the big, half-naked soldier who was so wonderfully mine for the moment, I lavished even more attention on his cock, twirling my tongue over the head while my hand rhythmically pumped the shaft.

“Fuck, that’s good,” Jimmy muttered. “You’re everything Stuart said you were, truly, Leanne.”

His words spurred me on, but the real compliment I wanted from him was to feel his come gushing forth thanks to my ministrations. I increased my pace, bobbing my head to take in as much of his length as I could. Both Jimmy and Stuart were moaning now, each deep in their own world of pleasure. I cupped Jimmy’s balls, feeling them warm and vital in my hand, and knew it wouldn’t be long before they gave up their seed.

Stuart groaned and announced to no one in particular that he was coming. Jimmy’s hands tangled in my hair, and as he gave one last, strangled groan, I felt his spunk pulsing out into my mouth, its tang lingering on my taste buds for a moment before I let his cock slip from between my lips.

He flopped back on the bed, chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to catch his breath. He couldn’t speak; he just gazed at me with an adoring grin plastered across his face.

I glanced over to Stuart, who seemed a little more composed. He mouthed the words, “Thank you,” at me, and I knew I had managed to make two men very happy.


As for my own pleasure – well, let’s just say both men spent an awful lot of time that night showing me just how grateful they were that I’d agreed to give Jimmy such a special welcome home. And Jimmy isn’t the only one of Stuart’s friends who I’d admit, if pressed, to finding attractive enough to get down on my knees and suck. Perhaps my husband should be encouraged to share the secret of my oral prowess more widely. After all, I’ve proved that if he’s prepared to open his mouth about it, then so am I…

An Unsuitable Man

Here’s a real blast from the past – the first erotic story I ever had published, when I was a young whippersnapper on the staff of Forum magazine, back in 1988. Luckily it hasn’t dated too badly, which is pretty ironic considering there are some very bad dates at its heart…

The worst thing about living with Laura Montgomery was not her tuneless singing in the bath, which woke me up at quarter to seven every morning and prevented me from going back to sleep. It was not the fact that she would borrow my mohair sweater and return it to the drawer covered with make-up stains, nor was it her attempts to cook, which left the inside of the cooker covered in an unidentifiable black gunk and the kitchen looking like a bomb-site. No, these and a hundred general other thoughtlessnesses I could tolerate. The one thing that annoyed me beyond all belief was her habit of bringing home unsuitable men.

There had been a constant stream of these during the five months I had been living with Laura. Each one’s arrival was prefaced with a general announcement that he was the most gorgeous man alive, and no, he was nothing like the last one, who had been a mistake, and yes, this was it. At the most, they lasted six weeks.

The first one I remembered had been Gerry, who Laura had been in the process of disposing of when I moved in; he had passed in a blur of late-night screaming matches and Turkish cigarette smoke.

Then had come Charles, who was something in the City, the something apparently being loud and obnoxious. Conversations with Charles revolved around money, usually how much he had made and how much his Docklands penthouse had gained in value that week. Laura had managed to ignore his overbearing arrogance and egocentricity, but had grown tired of his habit of making date which were then broken at the first hint of a Stock Market slump. We still had half a packet of the expensive coffee beans which Charles drank exclusively mouldering at the back of a cupboard.

Charles had been followed by the charming, boyish Jan, who was of Eastern European extraction. He had brought to their relationship a wicked sense of fun, small cuddly toys which he would leave dotted round the flat for Laura to find, and all the attendant neuroses which went with having an overbearing mother who was only waiting for the day when he brought his blushing bride under the family roof and blessed the union with half a dozen little Jans.

However, the most unsuitable of all Laura’s unsuitable men was the current one, Marcus Barrymore. His family were so rich that he didn’t need to work and he seemed to divide his time between various men’s clubs in Piccadilly and the more exclusive of the Virgin Islands. He had the kind of voice that could grate cheese and a jacket which looked as though it had spent most of its life as a Ford Escort seat cover.

Whatever Marcus did with his money, he did not spend it on Laura. Meals were strictly at-home affairs, and as Laura was terrified of Marcus discovering that she could barely boil an egg, my help was unwillingly enlisted; I had got used to scribbled notes asking me if I could whip up a Chicken Kiev and leave it in the freezer.

Marcus’ most disgusting traits were reserved for the bedroom, although there was a slight overspill, as I had on more than one occasion staggered into the bathroom in the early hours to discover a discarded condom floating in the toilet.

He went at sex with the kind of passion country gents usually reserve for the hunt, even to the point of shouting “Tally-ho!” at the moment of orgasm. The tortured shrieks of the bedsprings were only matched by Laura’s non-stop gasps for mercy, and I found that only listening to loud rock music through headphones would block out the noise. Even today, I still can’t listen to Pink Floyd without falling asleep, although many people who’ve never lived with Laura have also said the same.

But now, finally, my months of passive resistance were about to come to an end. Tonight I was bringing my own unsuitable man home…


Geoff Palmer was head of physics at the local comprehensive school where I taught English. He had been the one member of staff out of the sixty or so who’d really made an impression on me in my first confusing week. We’d been on dinner duty together, and he had listened as I moaned about my class of third-year horrors whose idea of decent literature was Page Three of the Sun and who thought Milton was something you cleaned up after babies with.

As well as being sympathetic, he was also extremely attractive: tall, with sandy hair which he continually pushed out his deep grey eyes, and a full, almost pouting mouth. The general consensus among the more gossipy element in the staff room was that he was definitely interested in me, but there was one slight impediment to our getting to know each other a little better – Geoff’s wife, Cathy.

An early, hasty marriage had degenerated into a trial separation. Geoff rarely spoke about Cathy, and I never brought the subject up, but privately I wondered about the wisdom of getting involved with a man who, technically, was still married.

However, as the weeks had passed, our train journeys had ended with gentle pecks on the cheeks which had evolved into more passionate kisses and I had decided to take my chance. I knew that Laura was taking Marcus out to celebrate his birthday, so I made an assignation with Geoff for that evening.

Leaving school that evening, we could have been two of the kids, holding hands and giggling over nothing on our way to the Tube station. Every word, every gesture that passed between us had a sexual meaning, and I could feel myself getting wet between the legs.

At Geoff’s insistence, we stopped at the nearest off-licence to buy a bottle of sweet, fizzy wine. ‘Are you trying to get me drunk?’ I asked.

‘Not so much drunk, more… lubricated,’ Geoff replied knowingly.

By the time we reached the flat, the sexual tension was becoming unbearable. I could have quite cheerfully begun ripping Geoff’s clothes off on the stairs if it hadn’t been for the fact that our neighbour’s cat was sitting on the landing, regarding us with a critical, unbalancing stare.

I fumbled with the key, afraid for a moment that I would open the door to be greeted by Laura. She had gone, but evidence of her hasty departure was everywhere: a discarded pair of tights hanging over the back of a chair; lipstick-smeared tissues on the table, and dirty plates in the sink.

While Geoff uncorked the wine, I slid my hands into his shirt, feeling his warm, taut body. He half-turned and pulled me to him, our soft mouths meeting in a hungry kiss, tongues pressing against each other. I could feel his hand cupping my breast through my sweater and my one thought was to feel that same hand underneath the sweater.

I slipped out of my shoes; the kitchen floor was cold beneath my stockinged feet. ‘Come into the living room,’ I murmured. ‘This is fun, but I don’t want to catch hypothermia as a result’

We stumbled into the living room. ‘Let’s get some of this nonsense off,’ Geoff muttered. He nuzzled my neck gently as he pulled at my sweater. I could feel his slowly-growing erection pressing against me.

Encouraged, I tugged off his shirt and began unbuckling his belt. He slid his lips gently down to the soft flesh at the top of my breast and his tongue flickered teasingly over my nipple. I moaned gently, feeling an insistent throbbing between my legs and needing his touch to ease the itch.

Our hands were roaming over each other’s bodies, greedily exploring every inch of flesh as it was revealed, listening for the sounds that would tell us we had found a sensitive and pleasurable spot.

I pulled down Geoff’s briefs to reveal his swelling cock. I glanced at it quickly, then looked away, half-embarrassed by the sight of this beautiful organ, bluish-purple against the sandy hair on his belly.

He sank to his knees, teasing my body with gentle nips and tugs. One finger hovered for a moment, achingly close to my hairy mound, then slipped ever so gently between my lips. His touch was like a soothing balm to my aching clitoris and I sighed, my eyes half-closed with pleasure.

Sensing my obvious enjoyment, Geoff replaced his fingers with his lips. The sensation of his tongue moving with long-practised ease coupled with hot breath at the entrance to my vagina was ecstatic. I twined my fingers in his hair, ground my hips against his face, wanting to impale myself on that tongue and die. My breath caught in my throat and my voice was thick; the words “Yes” and “Geoff” had become interchangeable.

Too soon, it seemed, the sensation became almost unbearably painful, before all sensation seemed suspended for a moment, then gave way to the warm pleasure of orgasm.

Weak at the knees, I clutched at Geoff’s head and hugged him to me, then ran one hand down to meet his cock, hard under its film of slippery juice. Suddenly, I wanted more than anything to repay his compliment and kiss his cock in love and gratitude. Tentative at first, my tongue grew more confident as I gently circled the tip, so reminiscent of a bruised mushroom. I chased the drips of salty liquid, explored under the rim and ran my tongue down the length of it, drawing one finger across his balls with a feather-light touch that made him moan. There was a look of childish wonderment on his face.

‘Oh God, Kim, you’re beautiful,’ he breathed. ‘Kiss me, honey.’

Reluctantly, I broke off from my task and our mouths met, each tasting the salt-sweet flavour of the other. I could feel his erection nosing hopefully at my entrance/

‘Yes?’ he asked softly.

‘Oh, yes!’ He gently parted the ragged flower of my lips and entered me with infinitesimal slowness, as if mindful of my relative inexperience. His movements, careful at first, gradually built to a peak of thrusting as my hips rose to meet his. My hands raked his back as I cried out with the beginnings of my orgasm; lost in my own sensations, I was still aware of Geoff’s own spasms and the trickle of lukewarm liquid down my thighs.

Seconds later, I was aware of other sounds: a key turning in the lock and voices raised in mid-argument dying away as Laura and Marcus were confronted by the sight of two bodies on the carpet, tangled together in the aftermath of orgasm.

I’m putting a card in the newsagent’s window for a new flatmate this afternoon…


Intimate Correspondence

Wednesday, 12th August, 1992

Dear Box No 248 – or may I call you 248 for short?

I’m not normally the type of guy who reads the lonely hearts column, let alone replies to ads, but when I saw yours, I thought, that’s a girl I’d like to know more about.

Before you start to think this is all far too corny and throw this letter in the bin, let me tell you a bit about myself. My name’s Steve, I’m 28 and I work for a firm of computer analysts in the City. But I’m not a typical ‘computer programmer’, by any means; I don’t wear glasses, I don’t possess an anorak and I’ve never been trainspotting in my life. I’ve enclosed a photo so you can get some idea of how I look; I don’t usually look that startled in real life, but then photo booths have a tendency to make everyone look like a criminal.

In my spare time, I like going to the cinema, and I read a lot of books, preferably anything by Clive Barker. I have been known to venture into the kitchen, and my chilli is legendary among those who’ve tasted it. Musicwise, I’ve got catholic tastes – I like Mary O’Hara! No, seriously, I love AC/DC, Faith No More and Yes, but nothing after the Drama album, because they really went downhill after that. Oh, and I support West Ham, but you wouldn’t hold that against a man you’ve never met, would you?

Why, you may be asking, if I’m so well-rounded and interesting, am I looking to meet someone through a personal ad? I really don’t know, I suppose I’m just bored of trying to meet someone through a pub or club, and the computer programmerettes at work are really looking for guys with anoraks.

Well, I can’t think of anything else to say, so I’ll sign off here and hope that you write back soon.

Yours in anticipation,


Friday 21st August, 1992

Dear Suzanne,

How much less formal that seems than a box number! It was really nice to hear back from you so soon. I thought after all that rambling nonsense I wrote that you’d probably think I was a complete idiot, but perhaps I’ve managed to convince you that I’m only a partial idiot.

Thanks for the photo. Not nearly half as scary as mine. I’ve never been to Barcelona myself, but from that shot it looks absolutely beautiful – and so do you. I’ve must say I’ve always liked brunettes, and you’ve got a particularly wicked smile. (Sorry if that was too forward – it wasn’t meant to be.) How flattering of you to say I bear a resemblance to Keanu Reeves; most people would say I look more like Jim Reeves!

I’m enclosing my phone number so you can give me a ring if you want. It would be really nice to meet up soon, and maybe I can persuade you to stop listening to Simply Red.



Tuesday 25th August

Dear Suzanne,

Yes, it’s me again! Just a quick note to say how much I enjoyed talking to you on the phone. You have a lovely voice, very rich and warm, just the sort of voice a brunette should have. It’s funny, but somehow it’s a lot easier to write something like that down, rather than say it face to face. Perhaps you don’t have that problem, I don’t know.

Anyway, this is just to confirm that I’ll meet you outside Tottenham Court Road tube station at 7.30 on Friday night – bomb scares permitting. I’ll be the one wearing a rolled-up copy of The Times in my buttonhole and reading a pink carnation

See you Friday,


Saturday 29th August

Dear Suzanne,

Wow! What an evening! Okay, so maybe Aliens 3 wasn’t the mind-boggling experience I thought it was going to be, but you weren’t too bored, were you? Next time we’ll go and see something a little more intellectual, like Freddie The Frog Detective, or whatever it was called. Well, the trailer looked good, and  I’ve always been a sucker for a good cartoon!

Oh, and you should have told me you didn’t like pepperoni on your pizza. I noticed you pushing it discreetly to the side of your plate when you thought I wasn’t looking. Ask for what you want next time; I won’t be offended.

Hope you I didn’t embarrass you too much when I asked the waiter whether his bow tie lit up and spun round, but he was such a surly git, he deserved it.

Anyway, the film and the food might not have been a success, but you certainly were. You looked absolutely beautiful in that blue dress; I was so tongue-tied I can’t remember whether I complemented you on it or not. Well, if I didn’t then, I am now.

And the way you kiss! You have the softest mouth… I had to buy this morning’s paper on the way home, just so I could conceal my excitement or they’d have thrown me off the tube. You can tell how dazed by your charm I was; I bought the Daily Mirror, and I hate the Daily Mirror!

Sorry if I’m behaving like a love-struck adolescent, but it’s just the effect you have on me.

Can’t wait to see you again. Ring me soonest.



Monday 7th September,

Dear Suzanne,

Would you believe I thought you were never going to get in touch with me again? I kept ringing your flat, but no one answered, and then when I did get hold of your flatmate, she said you had really bad flu and were staying at your parents’ house. There’s a lot of flu going round at work at the moment, so I’ll have to wear a surgeon’s mask between now and the weekend, so I don’t catch it myself. I’d hate to re-infect you, but I can think of some interesting ways to do it.

Is there any chance of your wearing that blue dress again? It really does show your legs off to perfection.



Sunday 13th September,

Dear Suzanne,

This is another of those letters to tell you the things I couldn’t say to your face. When I said, ‘Thanks for a wonderful evening. I’ll give you a ring in the week,’ what I really meant to say was, ‘Why don’t you come back to my place? I’ll cook you breakfast tomorrow morning.’

I wanted to continue that cuddle at the station so much. Well, I say cuddle; I suppose by the time your train arrived it was more of a full-blown grope. I was so excited to find out you were wearing suspenders; they’ve always been my favourite turn-on.

I know our letters and phone calls have got a lot more intimate since we met, but somehow telling you about my taste in music, or what I like to do in the evenings, doesn’t seem so relevant any more, now there are so many other things we could be discovering about each other.

Yours, about to take a cold shower,


Wednesday 16th September,

Dear Suzanne,

I hope this isn’t the letter that finishes our friendship. I think after what we said last night, you’re open-minded enough to read what I have to say without being shocked. You said we should be able to share our secrets and desires, so here goes.

When I got home last night, I was so excited from seeing you that I stripped off and lay on my bed, touching myself and thinking about you. I couldn’t stop myself; I wanked myself with long, deliberate strokes until I came all over my stomach and chest, great gouts of it, all the time thinking of how you looked, and how you laughed, and how you kissed, and how much I just wanted to bury my head between those fabulous legs of yours and give you a good tonguing. God, I’m getting excited just thinking about it again.

What would really excite me would be the thought that you lie there and play with yourself thinking about me. I’d love to think that you were going home after you’d seen me and making yourself come. But I’d love it more if I could be there to make you come.



Friday 18th September,

Dear Suzanne,

God, that was the most exciting thing I’ve ever done, talking to you on the phone and wanking at the same time, knowing that you were playing with yourself, too. You sound gorgeous when you come; I’d really like to see it happen. I’m sure I will, soon.

But that’s not really why I’m writing. I’ve got to tell you about this dream I had last night, after we’d put the phone down.

Have you ever had a dream that was so vivid you thought it was actually happening? Well, this was like this. Maybe I’ve caught flu, I don’t know, but I was lying in bed feeling really feverish, and I dreamed that you walked into the room, except it was as though you really had walked into the room. You were there: I could touch you, taste you, smell you… Ysatis, lingering on the air; if I breathe hard enough, I can still smell it now.

Anyway, I was lying there, and you came and stood before me. You were in your blue dress, and the moon shining in the window cast shadows on your face and the swell of your breasts. And as I watched, you began to dance, to some music only you could hear, swaying your hips slowly and rhythmically.

You reached up to the neck of your dress, and you unbuttoned the top button. The material fell away slightly, so I could see just a little more of your breasts, just enough to know that you weren’t wearing a bra underneath.

Then you undid the second button, and this time your tits fell free. Not as full as I’d expected, but they had the most exquisite chocolate aureoles, and I couldn’t help thinking how much I wanted to take them in my mouth, to see if they would taste of chocolate.

You just carried on, dancing and unbuttoning your dress, until all the buttons were undone and the dress was completely open. All you had on underneath was a tiny little pair of white knickers, and they were slightly see-through, so I could get a glimpse of your pubic hair through them. I could tell how excited you were, because the knickers were already damp.

You threw the dress to the ground, and began to rub your tits, turning yourself on. Then you ran your hands over your body, until you came to your mound, and you slipped just one finger down inside your knickers and began to rub there. You sucked on the fingers of your other hand, and it was the most erotic thing I’d ever seen.

And then you ripped your knickers off – literally ripped them in two – and you fell to your knees, one hand still touching your clit, and two fingers of the other hand buried deep inside your love channel. You rubbed faster and faster, and then you threw your head back as you came, crying out in ecstasy, shattered.

I thought the dream would end there, but it carried on. You weren’t satisfied, you wanted me. You came over to the bed, and pulled the sheets off me. I was erect, harder than I’d ever been, from watching you, and you never said a word, you just took my rigid dick and straddled me. Then you slid down on me, your muscles clenching tight around me, and you started to fuck me – that’s the only word for it. It was like you didn’t care whether I came or not, although it was pretty obvious after a minute or so that I was going to; you were just using me like some living vibrator to bring me to orgasm. You carried on pumping me, until you came again, crying out in pleasure, and I followed you, jerking helplessly in my orgasm.

When you’d finished, you just climbed off me, picked up your fallen dress and put it back on, then you simply left, without a word. In fact, you didn’t speak to me throughout the whole event. All you did was throw your sodden, ripped knickers at me as you left.

Then I woke up, and I thought if I ran down the stairs, I’d catch you before you left, but then, you were never there, were you?

Suzanne, I want you so much. Make my dream come true. Please.

I love you.




Thanks for last night. I knew you’d taste as sweet as I thought. Come round and fuck me again soon. I’ll pay for the new knickers.


Point of Departure

No matter how many times I fly, I will never enjoy sitting in a departure lounge. When I was a kid, and foreign travel was a novelty, the moment when you parked yourself on an uncomfortable plastic seat, making sure you had a view of the runway through a pane of glass so thick you could barely hear the planes taking off, was the moment which signified the holiday was really, truly over. Now they just bore and depress me, those plastic seats give me back pains for a couple of days and there’s no longer the cheap thrill of duty-free shopping to soften the blow.

We’re in Málaga, though in truth all airports merge into one after a while. Same selection of passengers: the nervous flyers calming their fears with tranquillisers or too much booze; the seasoned travellers with their feet up on their battered, over-filled rucksacks, bragging about barely noticing turbulence. Same smell of floor polish and sweaty, too-tanned flesh. Same stale air, heated past the point of comfort by the midday sun. Same tannoy announcements, barely audible over pointless chatter and the screaming and fighting of fractious kids. Same arguments, same tears, same delays.

I shift my position, feeling the backs of my thighs sticking to the plastic of the seat on which I’m perched. I’m still dressed for the heat of southern Spain, in khaki-coloured vest top and denim skirt with a fashionably frayed hem. When we get back to Luton, it’s bound to be twelve degrees cooler and raining. If we get back to Luton.

I’m sure Ewan thought he was getting a bargain when he booked with one of those no-frills airline. The only trouble is one of those frills, at this precise moment, appears to be the actual plane. The last piece of slightly garbled information we were given is that the one scheduled to take us home is currently sitting on the tarmac at Paris Charles de Gaulle, suffering from an unspecified mechanical failure. A replacement has been found and will be with us in some equally unspecified amount of time, by which stage we may well be too old to care.

What Ewan also didn’t realise is that to get from Málaga to the coastal resort where we were staying involved a bus journey of a couple of hours. We should really have flown to Almería airport, which was only a matter of miles away. But that would have more than doubled the cost of the air tickets, so it was never seriously considered. Like everything Ewan gets involved in organising, the whole thing was half-arsed, half-hearted….


The thing which saved the holiday from being the last nail in the coffin of our fragile relationship was the villa. Again, Ewan had settled on it because it was the cheap option, so I was expecting very little from it. I had visions of neighbouring building works that started at eight in the morning, cockroaches in the shower, and a fridge that didn’t work. I was wrong. It was beautiful. Set up in the hills, it was just far enough away from the concrete sprawl of new-looking hotels which had sprung up along the shoreline to give us some privacy without making the trek into town a chore. The tiled floors and blinds at every window made it cool and dark in the surprising heat of the September day. Pink and purple bougainvilleas grew in clusters round the door, and there was a pool at the back which was secluded enough for us to swim and sunbathe naked, if we chose.


Indeed, the first morning I woke at about eight, slightly disorientated as you always are having spent a night in a strange bed, to the sound of water splashing. I wrapped a robe around my body and padded out to find Ewan in the pool, his lean body cutting through the water in a slow breaststroke. I watched him, admiring the play of the muscles in his back and arms as he moved lazily. It was only when he levered himself up on the edge of the pool and reached for a towel to dry himself that I realised I had caught him skinny-dipping. Not only that, but he had the beginnings of an erection, his cock looking thick and tempting between his thighs. He caught me glancing down at it and smiled.

Back in London, we would have been getting ourselves ready for the Monday morning struggle to work, shovelling down toast and coffee before heading out to cram ourselves on to the Northern Line. If Ewan had been standing in front of me naked, and clearly aroused, I certainly wouldn’t have been thinking about taking his cock in my hand and stroking it to full hardness, as I was now. I would have been making some excuse to put the sex off until the evening, when I would come home grumpy, stressed and too tired to even think about keeping the promise I’d made earlier. I couldn’t remember the last time I had gone without breakfast in favour of swallowing a mouthful of Ewan’s salty cream, or been late for work because we had been in the shower together, exploring every inch of the other’s body with soapy fingers. No wonder things had become so rocky between us.


But here, we had all the time in the world. No rush, no pressure, nothing to think about but our own pleasure. It was too much to resist. I almost shoved Ewan’s still-damp body on to the sun lounger by the side of the pool. He sprawled there, watching as I unfastened the robe and let it slither to the ground, then got to my knees at the side of the lounger and reached for his erection. Bending my head, I took the tip of his cock between my lips; the earthy, early-morning smell of him was overlaid with chlorine from the pool, little drops of water shining in his blond pubes, but it didn’t stop me from swallowing more of his length. It felt strangely like the first time I had done this; the greed to taste him mixed with the need to take time to study and admire the way he was put together. He felt hot and alive in my hand, that column of dusk-pink flesh straining to touch the back of my throat. My fingers found their way between my legs almost of their own volition, rubbing with a mindless intensity that matched my mood. If he was startled by the enthusiasm I was showing for what, over the last few months, I had increasingly treated as just another on the list of chores that kept our household ticking over, he didn’t show it; he just lay back and went with the flow. I sucked him till he was thrusting his hips at me, begging to come in my mouth, and then I climbed on top of him and rode him for the few moments it took to reduce us to a sweaty, gasping mass of orgasm. Then I led him by the hand into the shower and we started the whole process of touching, teasing and getting to know each other sexually all over again.

That seemed to set the pattern for the rest of the holiday. We had made vague plans to explore the area, based on a couple of pages of local tourist information Ewan had printed out from some website he had accessed one lunch break. The fisherman’s quarter of Almería, where gypsy families still lived in caves and you could watch flamenco dancing and browse in the street market, sounded like it was worth a visit, even if you were advised to hang on to your handbag if you did, while Ewan fancied taking a guided tour out to the town known as Mini Hollywood, where all the old spaghetti Westerns had been shot, and living out his Clint Eastwood fantasies. But in the end, A Fistful Of Dollars was replaced in our interest by a fistful of cock. Sightseeing, shopping, sending postcards back to our families – all seemed less important than our sudden, overwhelming need to catch up on all the sex we had been missing out on.

We stocked up on supplies in the nearest supermercado, buying fruit, cooked meats, cheese and bottles of the best white Rioja they stocked, giggling like a couple of kids when we discovered the local bread was a brand called Bimbo and the coffee was the appropriately named Bonka. Everything we bought was designed for snacking, something simple to refuel us before we headed back to bed, or the poolside, or the front porch, or wherever else the mood had taken us for a quick fuck.

Of course, it didn’t take long before we realised we could combine the two; the first time Ewan tasted a strawberry after he had dipped it in my juices, he called it the food of the gods. And I responded by drizzling thick acacia honey over his cock and slowly, languorously licking him clean.

We began to experiment in ways we had never considered: vanilla sex was off the menu; raspberry ripple was the flavour of the day. Ewan had tried to get me to take his cock up my arse a few times in the early days of our relationship, usually when he judged I was just drunk enough to go for it, but I had always refused. Lying on the sun lounger naked one afternoon and feeling Ewan’s fingers straying nonchalantly down my crack, I hadn’t guided them back in the direction of my pussy, as I usually did. Instead, I let him touch me, rubbing and pressing against my anal hole until I began to relax into the feeling. The afternoon air was still; apart from the occasional snatch of birdsong, there could have been nothing else but the two of us in the entire world. I felt safe enough to let Ewan push me past my limits, and when his finger worked its way through the little ring of muscle, lodging itself in my arse, I didn’t object. To tell the truth, I had no reason to: what he was doing felt dirty, but so good, particularly when he pushed another finger up my cunt, stimulating both holes at the same time. I responded by thrusting my bum back at him, urging him on.

‘Do you want something bigger up there?’ he had asked me, and I’d just made some noise of encouragement, not sure how it would feel to have his thick cock forcing apart the walls of that tight passage, but willing to take the risk. And then his finger had slipped out and something thicker was replacing it. But it wasn’t Ewan’s cock; it was something cool and strangely rigid. Craning my head over my shoulder to see what the hell he was playing at, I realised he was thrusting a gnarly carrot he must have scavenged from the bottom of the fridge in and out of me. It was so unexpected and the sight was so depraved, it was almost enough to make me come on the spot.

Needless to say, I did take his cock there, though not on that occasion. That was a couple of nights later, when we had ventured out of our self-imposed exile down into town for dinner at one of the little restaurants on the beach front. Walking back to the villa, hand in hand, our whole conversation had been about all the deliciously filthy things we were going to do to each other when we got there. Ewan had told me how he was going to make me beg him to fuck my arse, and I had told him he could dream on, but my head was filled with thoughts I had never thought I could share with him. Perhaps tonight would be the night when I admitted I had fantasies in which I was tied to the bed, face down, while Ewan spanked my bottom and I pleaded with him to use my body in whichever way he wanted.

By the time we unlocked the door of the villa, we had got ourselves so horny there was only one way the evening was going to end. We stripped each other, leaving items of clothing strewn in a haphazard trail that led down the hallway to the master bedroom. Ewan practically threw me on the bed, hoisted my legs over his shoulders and started licking my pussy with almost manic enthusiasm, his tongue moving in long, slick sweeps from my clit all the way to my arsehole. When he started concentrating on my rosebud, I knew all his dirty talk hadn’t been just for effect; he really did intend to fuck me there. For once the thought neither alarmed nor repelled me; now I knew how fantastic it could feel to have something in my arse, I was willing to let him try.

There was a bottle of after-sun lotion on the night stand, and Ewan handed it to me. ‘Grease me up,’ he ordered, and I squeezed a dollop of the cool, white lotion into my palm before rubbing it along the length of his already hard cock. He used more of the lotion to lubricate my bum, thrusting his finger in far enough to get me squirming with pleasure and anticipation. Then I lay prone on the bed, limp and relaxed as I could be given how excited the situation had got me, and let him gently push his cock into me.

At first it was the slowest, most tentative fuck we’d ever had, Ewan desperately mindful of not hurting me. But as I got used to the unaccustomed fullness, the feeling of being stretched where I had never been stretched before, I urged him to thrust harder, faster. ‘Told you I’d get you to beg,’ Ewan said smugly, as his rhythm speeded up until he finally, inevitably, came inside my arse.

And so it went on: more sex, better sex than any we had had even in the first weeks of our relationship, when everything had been new and exciting and it had been impossible to keep our hands off each other. The bikini wax I had invested in before we came here, ludicrously painful though it was, had an unexpected side effect. All the beautician had left, at my request, was a little tuft of hair on my mound. At first, I had been shocked by the result, feeling it made me look like a porn star, but Ewan showed his appreciation for my smooth new look with his lips and tongue, spending hours licking the hairless flesh till I lost count of how often I came in his mouth.

In return, Ewan confessed he had always wanted to be sucked off while he was wearing a pair of my knickers, so we tried that. The pink panties were a tight fit, even with his slim hips, but he looked so horny with the shiny fabric clinging to his tackle, outlining every contour, that I couldn’t stop myself from licking him through the silk, getting him almost to bursting point before pulling down the panties so I could take the head of his cock in my mouth and swallow his spunk.

We were talking more, too, and not the monotonous conversations we had after a day at work, when all we did was complain about the impossible deadlines we had to meet or bitch about our colleagues in the office. Instead, we were talking about us, finding out about the other’s dreams and desires. I still hadn’t revealed all my fantasies to Ewan: I felt I had to keep something back for when we were in rainy old London, tempted just to slump in front of the TV and settle back into our mundane routine. All the things we had discovered about each other, here in the villa, were too good to forget about once we were back home, and I was sure I could find ways of keeping this Mediterranean spark alive. When the time was right, I would let him know about the blindfolds and the handcuffs and let him take it from there…


I look up, suddenly aware that Ewan had said he was going to get soft drinks for the two of us with the last of our euros and that was ages ago, maybe even before they announced that our flight might be with us some time between now and the end of the decade. And that’s when I notice the bloke in the seat opposite me is staring at me – or, more accurately, he is staring between my legs – with undisguised lust.

I follow his gaze, as discreetly as I can, and realise that when I’ve shifted in my seat, trying to get comfortable against the hard, injection-moulded plastic, my already short skirt has ridden up a little further than might be considered decent. The wisp of white nylon that passes for my underwear is clearly on display, and not only that, I have got myself so turned on thinking about all the sex Ewan and I have been having over the past few days that I can feel my juices soaking through them. I don’t want to think about what that will have done to the material, how the inner lips of my pussy, so neat on other girls and yet so big on me that they always bulge against my knickers, will be as good as exposed to the world. No wonder the bloke opposite is practically fucking me with his gaze.

It shouldn’t excite me; I should sit up straight, adjust my skirt, block his view. Instead, fired up by the thought that this is probably the sleaziest, riskiest thing I will ever do, I find myself wanting more.

I slump back in my seat, let my thighs loll apart just a little further. I know that if I wriggle ever so slightly, the thin gusset of my knickers will slip into the groove of my sex. I like the thought of that: the way the fabric will press more tightly against my gently pulsing flesh; the view this stranger will have of my smooth pussy lips, bisected by a strip of damp nylon. I want him to see how wet and ready to be fucked I am.

The stupid part is he’s is not even worth the show I’m putting on for him. In his fifties, probably, balding, paunch hanging over the belt of his trousers. On his own and likely to remain so. I see desperate blokes like him on the Tube all the time; indeed, I’ve had them press up against me in a crowded carriage, letting the stubby length of their cock push against my backside, ‘accidentally’ touching my breast as they reach for something to hang on to. My usual reaction is to oh so casually stand on their foot, feigning surprise at how sharp a kitten heel can actually be. It’s certainly not to invite them to look, to spread myself wide as I am doing now.

Ewan should be back at any moment, but when I risk a quick glance around the departure lounge to see whether anyone else has noticed my shameless display, he is nowhere to be seen. Part of me even suspects that, if he were to return with a couple of cans of pop in his hands and catch me flashing at an ugly stranger, he would be as turned on as I am. There would be more than enough time for him to drag me into the toilets and fuck me up against the cistern, with my skirt hiked up and my soaking wet panties pulled down round my ankles. I can see us staggering back out into the main departure area, flushed and feeling too satisfied to care how much longer we will have to wait for our flight.

But Ewan isn’t here, and I have reached the point where I am so desperate to feel fingers on my pussy that my own will do. Another check, to make sure there are no curious security guards patrolling, and then I move my bag so the view of anyone passing in the aisle is obscured. Ewan and I had bagged corner seats when we first sat down, however many hours ago it was now, and I’m pretty confident the only person who will see what I do next is my admirer opposite.

I glance across at him, establish eye contact for the briefest of moments. A more furtive voyeur would look away at this point, embarrassed to have been caught looking, but this guy doesn’t even blink. But this is still my game, my rules. I will go as far as I want to, and no further.

Almost as if I am not aware of what I’m doing, I let my hand stray down between my legs, let my index finger rest lightly against the apex of my sex. Another glance at him: his gaze is riveted to that finger, but his expression tells me he can hardly believe that I am doing this. When I casually run my finger along the point where my pussy lips touch each other, I could swear a bead of sweat breaks out on his brow. If I were to look at his crotch, I am certain I would see the bulge pressing against his fly; the bulge I have caused. I have him exactly where I want him.

My nipples press stiffly against the thin sun top. My finger works its teasing way back to my clit. I would love to string this out, but a pulse is throbbing madly somewhere deep in my cunt and I have to make myself come before anyone cottons on to what I’m actually doing.

My finger slips beneath the edge of my knickers, touching the slippery flesh there. It only takes the merest pressure against my clit for me realise that my orgasm is only a few strokes away. My eyes are half-closed as I begin to rub in earnest, but I am still aware of my audience of one, watching every movement avidly. I can’t make any noise, or it will immediately alert everyone in the immediate vicinity to what I’m doing, so as my hand moves faster, I bite on the fleshy mound beneath my other thumb. Hot, fierce spasms of pleasure shoot through me, and I arch my back against the hard plastic seat as I come and come.

When I finally open my eyes, I see the man opposite is studying the small print on his airline ticket, as though it is infinitely more interesting than what he has just watched me do. No one else seems to have noticed a thing. I give a satisfied little sigh and ease my skirt back down to a respectable position, just as Ewan comes wandering back towards me.

‘Good news,’ he says, handing me a cold can of fizzy orange. ‘I’ve spoken to someone from the airline and they say the plane’s on its way. They’re reckon they’re going to be calling us to the gate in about fifteen minutes.’

I smile, pop the ring pull on the can and take a long swig, slaking my sudden thirst. When we are finally in mid-air, I think I might have to tell Ewan what I’ve been getting up to in his absence. When we get home, I think he might have to punish me for having a naughty holiday adventure without him. And I think I might like it.