The penis: mightier than the sword

Category: Erotica


Things had changed, for certain. He had changed. He wished he could decide whether the change was for better, or worse. Sitting with his wife and child at the big kitchen table – breakfast bowls half-full and steaming sweetly – things looked perfect, domestic, the same as always. Same as … before. As if it had never happened.

He sometimes wished it hadn’t. Sometimes.

It had all been his fault. Hers, too, of course; she was hardly blameless – but if only he had thought to check the locks! Then that little vandal, that little slut, would never have broken in to their lives.

His wife murmurs, from across the room, “Are you all right, Dear?”

But of course she can never know the truth. Already the little suggestions and assumptions are piling up, hiding the awful, raw reality of what her husband has seen.

Assumptions of youth – the stranger, though young, had surely been a full-grown woman. Assumptions of innocence – this girl had been far from innocent. His wife will never need to face those truths, with any luck.

He lifts his head in response and focuses his gaze, a polite grimace the best he can do for a smile. Then his eyes look through her once more.

He sees the stranger in front of him, although she has long since fled. He sees her flesh again, and feels the hunger. Pale, so creamy, tender and soft. Smooth and curvaceous, full of thigh and hip and rump. Her head thrown back in ecstasy, throat exposed, breasts offered up. Her hand is working swiftly, smoothly; her fingers draw and coax those delicate folds of flesh and honey. She gasps, soft little insistent sounds, as if urging herself on to new feats of dexterity, new heights, new depths.

His wife speaks again, breaking the reverie. “You mustn’t dwell on it, Darling.” She moves closer. “It was a horrible, shocking experience for us all, but it’s just something we must accept, and learn to live with.”

“I know,” he says at last, “and I … try not to think about it.” His voice is now deep and soft, filled with awkward emotion. “I find it so hard,” he whispers.

Vandal, tearaway, mischief-maker and liberty-taker. On the rampage, she happens upon their house, their cosy little world. Seeking only pleasure, she enters. Insinuates her lithe figure into their solid, sensible lives and flexes her thighs, wriggles her hips, pushes and pushes to see what will snap. She must have been hungry, he thinks, or she wouldn’t have taken all but the dregs of their breakfast from the table. She was angry enough to ransack the place before they got back; angry or spiteful, he can’t decide. Cold, too, maybe, if she was prepared to break in, but had she really been looking for a place to stay? Would she have stayed?

“Is it too hot, dear?” asks his wife, gently. He notices his spoon, lifted halfway to his mouth. How long has he held it there?

“No, no. No, it’s fine,” he says, and places it reverentially between his lips. He closes his eyes and takes a long, deep breath.

The harlot upstairs writhes in the sheets. Flowing blonde curls caress her breasts; nipples harden as to a lover’s touch. Her neck spasms, whipping that lustrous fall of silk up and around, slapping it across her naked back. She ducks her head again, her tresses flogging her own taut stomach and trembling breasts. As her hands play up and around her thighs she nods and ducks again, in a slow, steady rhythm that underscores the frantic movements of her fingertips. Between those thighs, at the crux of her body, the hair grows fine and fair and bushy. From beside her she takes the tempting handle; the thick, gnarled, carven wood gleaming dully from years of loving use. She slides the spoon handle deep inside her, making it quiver with every twitch of her muscles and drip with her juices.

“Shall I wash that up for you?”

“No, don’t bother yourself. I’ll do it, love.” He takes the empty bowl to the sink, fills it with water, and slowly, lovingly, washes the spoon. His wife doesn’t notice that he is careful to keep the handle perfectly dry.

As he stands there, slack-jawed, mesmerised by the wanton, decadent creature in his bed, he knows that his life is changed forever. You go up first, his wife had said, and he went – the big, grizzly male doing his duty, to face whatever danger lay waiting. He never could have imagined this danger. The danger of lust. Of sudden dissatisfaction. He watches her now, slender limbs working to bring herself back and back to the edge of release, and knows how it would feel to take her. Knows how salty-sweet she would taste, how lightly musky and fresh she would smell, how exquisitely she would struggle – half in jest – pinned by his powerful frame. Knows how hot and ready she would be, how slickly he could enter her, slowly working every last inch of himself into her tight, eager body. In that instant, he knows how it would be to … yes … to fuck her! Again and again, each day, each night, and have her like this; always willing, always ready, insatiable. And as he thinks this, something inside him, some little ignored part of him, turns over, like a key inside a lock. The fit is tight, precise; as perfect as she is. He feels suddenly secure, safe, and yet he recognises that he now does not have the key to his own release. He has changed, for certain; locked these thoughts inside him, for good.

His wife sits beside him, leans on his broad shoulder. “You know we won’t be seeing her again, don’t you?” she says. “I don’t understand why it bothers you so. It’s safe, now. We make sure we put the locks on. You said she was only a little girl, for goodness’ sake! She can’t get back in to torment us again.”

But he knows the locks are on, and she is already inside.

She comes, then, at last; nearly silently, the breath whimpering out of her. He sighs softly, in sympathy and regret. She breathes, fast and deep; then, slowly at first, opens her eyes. Turns those eyes to him, the huge stranger whose home she has invaded on a whim, whose bed she has abused, whose sheets she has soiled with sweat and come and lust. Her eyes open slightly wider. Blue eyes, he thinks, like the summer sky. Her lips twitch, and she carefully slips out the very tip of her glistening pink tongue to moisten and lick those suddenly dry lips. He watches; the girl starts to smile, and closes one eye in a shameless, bawdy wink. Unbidden, his feet begin to move, and he takes one great, lumbering step towards the bed, his bed. The moment cannot last. His wife calls from downstairs; has he found the intruder? Is it safe? The girl, startled, scrambles from the bed, her gorgeous hair falling demurely to cover her luscious breasts and the still-hard puckerings of her nipples. She grabs her clothes, pulling on the simple dress in one smooth movement, and scampers from the room. He doesn’t turn to see her go, doesn’t move to catch her. He is left, staring in wonder at the detritus of her personal orgy, trying to explain to himself how this happened. Trying to understand what she had wanted, what she had needed. If things had been different – if he had been different – would she have stayed?

He huffs and growls in resentful frustration, shrugs his shoulders and paws awkwardly at the newspaper. He buries his nose in stories of other people, of things that happened far, far away. His wife rises and, with a backward glance, continues to potter around the kitchen, washing up the three bowls and the dirty porridge pan. He looks up for a comforting glimpse of her soft brown coat, but all he really sees is that young, supple body, and those gorgeous golden locks.

A Promise

I’m writing this because I made a promise. But we’ll get to that in a minute.

We’ve been going through a patch. I’d say a rough patch, but I’m not exactly sure it’s been that rough. Awkward, maybe.

A patch, anyway.

We haven’t been getting as much as we’d like, and every time we gets a chance it feels like we’re having to perform for the sake of it, not ‘cos we enjoy it.

We do, though: course we do, it’s always very enjoyable. It’s just that sometimes – most times – we go through the motions, doing just what we always do, because that’s what we’ve always done. A routine, you might say.

So, anyway, the other night we’re in bed, and I roll over and get ready to get her going, like I always have to do, when she (my wife, this is) reaches down and starts sort of stroking her fingertips up and down my cock.

Most unexpected! A welcome change of pace, in fact. Showing a bit of enthusiasm (which if you ask me had previously been sadly lacking, but that’s another story!)

So there I am, somewhat distracted, caught with my hand hanging half-way between the obligatory tit squeeze and the customary are-you-wet-yet check, and about to get down to some serious bean-flicking, and all the while she’s touching and teasing, making me thrash and gasp like a fucking carp out of water. Dragging her nails up and around my shaft, rubbing circles on the bell-end. And every time I remember what I’m sposed to be doing, and go to touch her again, she pushes my hand away! Can you believe it? She actually pushes me away and says, “You know you’re rubbish at multi-tasking. Just lie back and enjoy it.” The bitch.

Well, after a couple of half-hearted attempts to show willing, I get the message that she’s actually serious for a change, so natrally I lays meself back and starts paying attention.

Now, normally, when she gives me a hand job it’s pretty good; soft and what you might call rhythmic and, well, you know. It’s a hand job, innit? Just like you’d do yourself if there was no better offer; only not quite as good ‘cos you’ve had years of practice and she’s only done it, like, a couple of dozen times, tops. But still, it’s pretty good, and you appreciate the effort, don’t you? Since you know she’d rather be asleep already, or reading; anything to avoid The Routine.

But now she’s getting into it, like I’ve never felt before; really giving it some effort and gripping her fist round me like she’s scared it’ll run away or something. Just pumping away, slow and steady and strong. You know that rhythm you get into, right in the middle of an epic all-night fuck? When you’ve found the perfect position inside her – not too exciting, but enough of a tickle to keep your interest from flagging, if you know what I mean – and it’s just your two bodies twisting and heaving together, totally in tune, just grinding away and miles from the finish, enjoying just being in her and in the moment?

That rhythm? That’s what she found, all on her own. Her and her hand, totally in tune. I was just along for the ride.

Then, right, she starts playing around my balls with the other hand. No lie, I nearly hit the roof! Holding them right in her hand, squeezing them so they pops out between her fingers, then tugging and twisting like a cat with a ball of wool.

Well, I must have said something stupid – can’t remember what – ‘cos she took offence. Only not seriously, you know, just playful, like. And then she slaps my balls.

Now, this is really unexpected. We both lays there a minute, me panting for breath and kinda groaning a bit, her really quiet and still. Sort of like she thinks she’s made a fucker of a mistake, even though she ought to know I like it a bit rough. So I just says to her, quiet like, I says, “Harder.” She starts fondling them again, gently, then pulls back her hand, and this time I know what to expect.

I kid you not, when she slaps them this time I see stars. Proper, fireworks-in-the-sky, end-of-the-world stuff, but it’s like I leave all that behind and my whole being, my whole essence gets wrapped up in those two little aching plums she’s cradling in her hand.

And as I come round I can still feel her tugging hard on my cock; faster now, each stroke pumping tiny drops of pre-cum out of it. I am so close to cumming for real now, I’d do anything for her to carry on; that’s when she slows it right down and starts bloody talking to me. Talking! Like I could string a sentence together anyway! She asks me if I want her to go on, to do it harder.

Well, of course I do. I even say please.

That’s not enough for her, though. I say pretty please with sugar on it, and tell her to hit my fucking balls.

She’s laughing now. She says she’ll do it if I do something for her. Well, we’re back where we started, aren’t we? Pussy rubbing here we come.

She says not that.

Well, at this point I don’t care what it is, and I says anything, anything she wants. It turns out what she wants is yet another un-fucking-expected turn of events for the night.

She wants me to come on here and tell you lot all the filthy details of what we got up to. That’s all. Just write about what a caring, loving, hand-job giving, ball-slapping kinky slut of a wife I’ve got. I guess it’s some kind of ego booster for her, isn’t it? Never thought she’d get off on that kind of thing, though. Dirty bitch.

Of course, when we’ve finally stopped playing twenty questions I says yes straight away, cross my heart, hope to expire, and then she starts off stroking again; hard this time, fast and determined, and even though the tingly floaties are a distant memory, the new feelings coming from my cock are really fucking intense – and I can’t even think straight let alone remember what I’ve just damn near pleaded with her to do to me – so it comes as one big fucking shock to the system when she pulls back her hand and belts me hard in the balls.

Pain like you would not believe.

That kinky oooh-hurts-so-nice feeling has long since scarpered; this is just dull, grinding, dizzy hurt. Like the pain was just the icing on the cake, but now there’s no cake and you’ve just stuffed your face with spoonfuls of icing and you want to throw up or spit it out, but you can’t, and every bit you swallow down makes you feel ill but you have to keep trying just so’s you can get space to breathe again.

When I comes round, holding my battered bollocks, she’s smiling a bit too sweetly and licking my cum off her fingers. “Don’t say I never do anything for you,” she whispers, like she’s done me some kind of favour, then turns over and settles down to sleep. Well, I guess I had been asking for it.

And a promise is a promise….

Spacey Thoughts From The Back Of The Room

The artists gathered – drank anonymous coffee; nibbled at familiar pastry.

They made the unusual small talk and waited to begin.

One took herself over to the room-behind-the-room, and peeked inside with her other pair of eyes: the nearest of the girls within stood a little straighter, and preened. Her companions took the given hint and struck their poses hard.

(Meanwhile, muttering in quiet corners, the storytellers bend their listeners’ ears; the kind of aural sex that leaves marks. If it’s done right they’ll be read for days.)

Our dual artist, and her friend, admired the parade of naked flesh – “My other self would never do this!” – and keenly complimented girls on keeping natural beauty.

“Real cunts, my dear! Real tits – divine and rare!”

The pair moved on, with others following behind, appraising lustily the swell of cheek; the arch of spine; the musculature and mis-culture of bodies turned for pleasure. “This is profoundly me: that one is more your Alter’s thing, my dear!” 

The girls, at this point, perk up and play; begin to paradox. Ice softens, hardening the flesh beneath; the tightened ropes offer release; a lone pugilist fights gravity on pointed toes; the human host is offered up to a new congregation.

Thoughtfully the artists mingled, and discussed the finer points of finer-pointed bristles; and how to capture the subtle play of light on skin.

Later, on stage, the canvas was displayed. They took no notice.

A version of the piece I submitted for the Eroticon2012 anthology, Dirty Thoughts From The Back Of The Room.

Something Hot and Steamy

You talk about pastries, taking tiny nibbles of the pleasure that’s offered up on a plate. My pleasure is had in the making; stirring sloppy dough until it stiffens beneath my fingers, then leaning hard into the firm, resilient mass of it as my palms coax its springy body to life.

I coerce it, stroke by folding stroke, into obedience. I squeeze until it cannot resist, flattening it mercilessly, then turning and lifting it back into shape before crushing it again and again. With the pummelling comes strength, and form, and substance. The tender, wheaten form that emerges is a tribute to the hands that lovingly teased it into being; its glorious triumph lasting only as long as it bakes, when it becomes a glorious sacrifice.

Crisp, nutty crust and humid crumb part before the blade. Anointed with butter, it is devoured with a sigh; and so my soul is fed.

Submission for www.acuriousmuse.blogspot.co.uk Birthday Giveaway, with the theme “non-sexual erotica”.