writingdirty

Dirty stories by Jack Stratton

Tag: rope

Marionette


Title image by chikache. CC BY-NC 2.0

From a somewhat silly request on a forum comes a story I’m quite fond of.

The studio, his studio, that dirty gentleman’s studio, was bare.  All the carefully collected furniture (he collected many things, all of them carefully) was pushed out of the way. The long main room was clear and the mats were on the hardwood floor and early morning light was shining in thick square beams from the old windows and showed the little particles of dust in the air.

Dorothy, as usual, was making art. Luckily, she sometimes let me watch.

She said nothing but led me to a little chair with a connected desk; the ones they have in college lecture halls. On it was a small old fashioned portable typewriter. Black and scratched and loaded with a fresh sheet of paper. A table next to the desk held a box with more paper.

She kissed me on the cheek and left me to my part, which was to record what was about to happen.
Continue reading

Choke

The girls were sat on a blanket, back to back; naked, save their panties. The black blanket was laid neatly on the somewhat dusty hardwood floor. I knelt in front of Margot and Hector knelt in front of Betty. The rope was around both of their pretty necks. Looped and looped around and around. Their hands tied at their sides, their backs held straight out of either eagerness to please or suspense at what might happen next.
Continue reading

Word of Mouth

Downstairs, a bar that’s a half secret, a party that is supposed to be kept quiet. We were told when the door closed things would get interesting…

The painter is a chemical necessity in these situations. She is a catalyst in a way I am used to being. One of the million ways we are the same. The same hungers, the same taste, the same perceptions.

The redhead is on someone’s lap. She has been morsel I’d been coveting for a while now. Not seriously, not even particularly, but one of those shiny beautiful people your eyes linger on for a few second when you see them across the room. All cream skin and fire hair and cool attitude.

For all the ways we are alike, the painter has many advantages I do not. She is a woman, she knows all of the privileges of that, especially in this setting. And she knows everyone. I thought I knew everyone, but she is entrenched and this is her crowd. I get a nod from this crowd, she gets a kiss on the lips. And now she is kissing the redhead.

The music is loud, I am next to a pretty blond thing, my hands around her waist, my lips on her neck, but my eyes across the room as the painter is on her knees in front of the redhead who is still on someone’s lap.

The well dressed crowd is throbbing around us. Suits and ties and garters and fishnets and finery is everywhere. Clothes are coming off quickly though. Lean muscles and naked breasts catch my sight and the whiskey is making everything vivid and dull at the same time.

The blond in my arms is squirming. She’s watching the show too. She is nervous energy under my fingers as I toy with the edge of her panties.

The painter is pulling down the redhead’s flimsy bra, her bare breasts small and pretty. Nipples almost the same cream color as the rest of her skin. Then the painter’s curly black head is between the thighs of the redhead. I can see her hungry hands pulling black panties to the side.

My girl, doing the exact thing I would do to that prize of a redhead. I can close my eyes and almost slip away, into her, imagining what she tastes like.

The thought dissolves as I kiss the blond, hands consumed with all that skin in front of me.

When I see the painter dizzy and swaying towards me later I am smiling and she is smiling and she kisses me. She knows, of course, of my crush. We spill secrets faster than we spill our drinks. She knows and she kisses me again and I’m torn between wanting to kiss this beautiful woman and wanting a little taste of the redhead.

“I want to taste her,” I groan into the painter’s ear. She laughs and almost slaps me, but then her fingers are in my mouth. Salty, and wet. It’s bad, but it’s just a little bad. I suck on those two fingers and I can taste her. Then the fingers are almost down my throat, because I should remember what’s mine and what isn’t. Then we are kissing and her eyes are on my eyes and as always we are communicating a million things.

I’m drunk and happy and the world around me is dark electric bacchanalia. The music gets louder, people are hitting each other and kissing and rubbing and pulling. A girl stretches her hands up to the ceiling as a man ties her tight with red rope.

This is exactly where I want to be with the person I want to be with. It’s perfect.

The View from the Bottom

I can’t stop thinking. Over and over I am telling myself to let go. I’m telling myself to submit, but I really have no idea what that means in this context. I tell myself to relax while every fiber of my being tightens and closes up. Some instinct in me is forcing me to protect my center.

I’m tied to a chair, my wrists bound behind me with thin hemp rope and she is hovering above me; interrogator, torturer, top, woman, beauty. Those eyes are unwavering. I wouldn’t say they are cold, but they are certainly unnervingly calm and predatory. Those are the eyes that made me want to do this. Those eyes are studying me, figuring me out. Figuring out how to take me apart.

Her nails rake my chest, then a hand in my hair pulling my head back, then a solid punch to my chest. My jaw clenches and I ready myself for this. I can take anything she can give me. I am a rock and I am unbreakable. She is this immense dangerous force, this powerful, intelligent woman, but I can take anything. I want to take it from her. I want to show her how tough I am.
Continue reading

The Callipygian Sublimation


Title image by itsholly. CC BY-NC 2.0

She is a candy stranger. Perfect in the way someone you don’t know at all can be perfect. Her small breasts and her large hips and soft swell of an ass that seems nearly impossible on her tiny frame. Her thin waist and her wild hair. That exoticness that is so difficult for people to get right.

She is new to this, but she’ll do just fine. In fact, it’s hard to find regulars with an attitude so perfect for these games. Right for me, that is. Everyone wants something different from places like this. The Venn Diagrams of our emotional, physical and sexual wants. Cross-indexed by our needs.
Continue reading

HNXMas

What to do while you wait for Santa? Practice your rope skills!

A half naked Christmas present from someone who is putting off taking the long train ride out to his family.

It’s a pretty decent double column!

Fiction – The Date, Part Two

Warning: This story involves forced sex/rape fantasies and role playing. Read Part One first.
Continue reading

Mister McIntyre’s Secret – Part Four

Mister McIntyre’s Secret
Part Four

There was a line and it had been crossed.

I wasn’t stupid. I knew how I looked, how I acted. I was his puppy dog, his whipping post, his girl Friday. I swooned around him, I knew I did that. For all my dedication and obedience I got a pat on the head, not even on the butt. I was sexless on his eyes, but at the same time he took advantage of my attraction to him. I was alright with that. In fact it made me work harder. I wasn’t doing it to win his heart or get a kiss. I served Mister McIntyre because I wanted to and it made me happy and he deserved it.

This was something else though, something new and of scared me more than all the secrets, all the waiting and all the frustration. My heart had given up racing. There was a new fear and it was slow and methodical.

He didn’t call me into his offce for the rest of the day. He came back from lunch and as he opened his door I could see the little bit of pink on his desk.

He went to a meeting and had a drink with a client. When he came back he didn’t even look at be as he walked inside. His face was as irreadable as ever. I was sitting like a death row inmate. The calm of inevadable doom had come over me.

At five he came out I the office holding his jacket, his briefcase and my diary. He placed the book on my desk and looked down at me.

“Interesting. I wonder what Jung would say.” his eyes were on me and I was frozen.

“Finish it.”

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. I tired again and it was only a croak.

“I don’t rem-”

“Make it up, then. Just finish it.”

He put his hat on and slipped his arm into his jacket.

“You’re a pretty girl, Abigail. It’s too bad you don’t have much luck with love.” his smile was small, but enough to hurt.

“But you certainly do have a healthy imagination.”

*

I didn’t cry on the train. I opened the book and looked through the pages wondering what he’d read, wondering what he skipped. I wondered how much of me he knew. Fingering my silly words, my Catholic school script. His shadow now loomed over my first date and my first kiss. The awkward shyness that kept me home on Friday nights and the dirty thoughts that made my hands creep under my sheets at night or up my skirt…

A flash of dark ink caught my attention. It was on the next to last page I wrote in.

There I was in Mister McIntyre’s office, my skirt pulled up and my hand pressed tightly in-between my pantyhose and body. Soaking wet from his eyes on me, rubbing myself fast, hoping not to get caught, maybe hoping to get caught. When it came it was so hard I nearly fell down.

And then in his dark bold print, the kind he uses to add an addendum to a contract, he wrote:

Interesting. I’ll have to try and hurry back from lunch from now on.

He knew. I wasn’t his mousy little secretary anymore. Well, I was but I was something else too. A dirty little pervert. I wanted to cry, I wanted to quit, I wanted to crawl into a hole and never leave.

In my stomach this poison shame was bubbling up, but the whole time it was mixed with something else. All the time I was clenching my fists and barely aware of the ache. Arousal and shame so tied together I didn’t know where one started and the other began. So bad in so many ways.

What would come that morning? Would he laugh at me or punish me or scratch some fraction of the itch that was always there when he was around? What would I see when I looked up at those piercing eyes?

At home I forgot to eat dinner. I threw myself on the bed and look out my pen and opened my diary, which suddenly felt new and electric and frightening. I put my pen down on the page where I’d left off. I waited, I tried to remember. I couldn’t really write what happened in my dream, could I? Now that I knew he would read it. Now that I knew every dark fantasy would be exposed to him.

I had to try. I closed my eyes and pictured the hotel room. Marcy with her bratty little grin. Mister MacIntyre walking towards me, taking the rope. He was going to wipe that smile off her face. I’d watch and help. I’d be good and do what he told me to do, to the letter. Marcy wouldn’t. That’s why he was tying her down.

My hands were on my body as I remembered. The weight of the day had made me weak, but hungry. My breasts were sore under my bra, I got out of bed and pulled off my shirt and skirt and underthings. Naked, I laid back down, I went back to the diary where I hadn’t added anything to the dream but a blue dot where my pen rested. I laid back down and rubbed the soreness from my neck, smoothed the little lines my brassiere left under my breasts.

My nipples were so sensitive I almost couldn’t touch them. So much arousal and fear all day. My body was so primed, pulled so tight the lightest touch was almost painful. I imagined being on Mister McIntyre’s big chair, naked. When my fingers trailed down to the soft hairs between my legs I was scared to touch. It was like a cold drink after a day in the desert.

Then the warm wet welcome, the familiarity of my body as well as the shame. It wouldn’t take long. I was already climbing. I could finish the story when I was done, free of the burden of all this desire.

*

The sun hurt my eyes. My cheek stung. I awoke to find the edge of my diary resting on my face, the hard cardboard digging into my skin.

Morning? I looked at the clock and it read 8:20am. I rubbed my eyes knowing it was lying. 7:20am. I went to the livingroom, naked, and saw the same on the clock on the wall.

Panic. I didn’t finish it. I was late for work. I would be even later if I try and write something. I would try and write something on the train, but what if I couldn’t? I’d never been late in my entire life. How did this happen?

I picked up the phone on the wall in the kitchen. Some part of my brain had taken over. Damage control. I called the head of the secretarial pool.

“Hi Margie… It’s Abigail. I’m not feeling well, I’m sorry for the late notice but I can’t come in today.”

Margie was nice as always. She laughed because it was the first time I’d ever called in sick. She said she was glad I was human like every one else.

The idea of a whole day alone in the apartment was horrifying. My roommate Eloise was a dental assistant and she would be out all day. Even more terrifying was the image of Mister McIntyre coming in to see some temp from the steno pool at my desk. Someone who wouldn’t know how to take care of him the way I do. Plus he would know I failed. I really failed him for the first time.

With that I tumbled back into bed and cried.

The doorbell rang a little after eleven. When I sat up I knew it was him. I knew it without a doubt. I’d failed him, I’d called in sick when I wasn’t, I was a dirty girl who fingered herself in his office. I wasn’t even pretty enough to be his slut. I was just a mess. A servant who had outlived her usefulness and become pathetic.

I was still naked. I found a nightgown and slipped it on. I ran to the door and stood in front of it. The bell rang again and again.

My hand on the knob, turning, slowly, this was it. He would be in my apartment. He would fire me or fuck me or slap me. I don’t know which I was more afraid of.

And then the strangest thing happened. I opened the door and saw a black dressed, black gloved, perfectly manicured Marcy Elizabeth Spencer-Peterson.

Next Chapter

Mister McIntyre’s Secret – Part Three

Mister McIntyre’s Secret
Part Three

April 19th, 1964

Half asleep, rolling around in my worn white sheets. The clock says I have a half an hour before I have to get up. My heart is already starting because of a half remembered dream.

In the dream there is a large lavish hotel room. Rich crimson and gold wallpaper, a huge bed, gilded chairs and lavish mirrors. Mister McIntyre is standing in front of the largest mirror straightening his tie. He is in his black suit, the one he wears to big meetings. His shirt is harsh white and he is wearing his cornflower blue tie. He is freshly shaven, his hair is parted neatly and slick. You can count the comb lines.

Marcy Peterson, his mistress, is walking out of the washroom. A slinky low cut black dress. Her black hair long and silk soft falling over her shoulders.

He towers over her. He stand almost six foot five and she, like me, is just over five feet tall. He leans in and they kiss, at first tenderly and then his hand is in her hair, pulling her back so he can kiss her neck hungrily. Her eyes are glazed with pleasure.

He picks her up and carries her to the bed. Standing over her he takes off his jacket and folds it neatly on the night stand. He then methodically rolls up his sleeves exposing his muscular hairy arms. He loosens and removes his tie, she sits up on the bed eagerly wanting more of his lips but he pushes her down.

Picking up the phone he presses one button and I answer.

“Yes, sir?”

“Abigail I’m going to need some rope.”

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

There I was at the door, dressed in my mousy brown skirt and my beige top with my hair in a ponytail and my glasses falling off my nose. Two thick coils of rope in my hands.

That’s what I had written in my diary that morning on the train into work. That’s what I had went to finish at lunch when Mister McIntyre came in. I left my sandwich on my desk and slipped my diary back into my drawer. Mister McIntyre called me in to take a letter. When we were finished he sat back in his hair and made a little steeple with his fingers the way he did and he rocked there and looked at me.

“I’d really prefer if business acquaintances didn’t call the office.”

I swallowed hard. Stupid heart revving up again. I wished he didn’t look at me like that. That examining look that makes it so I can’t move, but I can’t stay still. Deer in headlights doesn’t even start to explain it.

“You handled it well, though I’d prefer if you didn’t use anyone name on the phone. You never who is walking by.”

“I’m so sorry, sir. I will never happen again.” I wanted to crawl away. I wanted to cry. I wanted to get on my knees… on over his knees.

He cleared his throat. “You did fine, I’m just explaining the protocol for the future. You always exceed my expectations Abby.” and with that he turned around and looked out his window, the sign that I was dismissed.

I turned, scampered out, but just before I closed the door his voice pulled me back.

“What was that you were writing?”

Fear, icy and numbing my fingers on the doorknob.

“Sir?”

“You were writing something as I came in, what was it?”

Lie. Make up anything. But I knew I couldn’t. I can’t lie to Mister McIntyre. I wouldn’t. He’d probably see through it anyhow.

“Nothing, sir. Just my diary. I… write in-” he cut off my mumbling.

“Speak up, Abby.”

“My diary, sir. I write in it at lunch sometimes.”

He considered this.

“What were you writing today?”

The panic was in my throat and I couldn’t speak. I felt like I was alone in an alley with a gang of thieves. No where to run.

“Just… a stupid thing. A dream. It was nothing-”

He cut me off again.

“Dreams can be very interesting, Abby. Haven’t you heard of the work of Jung?”

I didn’t know what to say. I just begged that this was the end of the conversation.

“Bring it in here. Leave it on my desk. I want to see what kind of dreams you are having.”

“Sir?”

He didn’t say anything. There was silence. There was more silence. I looked up and his eyes were on mine. I almost never look him in the eyes and the power of that icy blue made me let go of the door knob.

“Bring it into my office and leave it on my desk.” he said, standing up and picking up his hat.

“I’ll read it when I get back from lunch.”

He walked towards me. His body suddenly close. He slipped past me, his chest brushing against me, the smell of him, the hugeness of him. Then he was gone. My legs were shaking so much I almost couldn’t sit down. The blood was draining from my body. I was starting to hyperventilate.

I wanted to go home, but I knew I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. There was only one thing to do, it wasn’t even a choice. I would put my little pink and purple striped diary on his desk. I would put it there and it would sit there on his big dark wood desk next to his fancy pens and his big black telephone and all of his newspapers and business things. My heart and my dirty thoughts just waiting.

And so I held my book to my chest and marched in feeling naked. I put it down and my eyes stung. I walked out and closed the door and sat back at my desk.

And then I waited.

Next Chapter

Dating Archives: Comfort Food

My most recent ex, The Musician, and I have a pretty friendly relationship. Basically I broke up with her because I don’t think we would do well together for the long haul, we are too different.

That being said we are still good friends and she occasionally calls me and says something like “I really need to get fucked can I come over? If you cook for me and fuck me I will blow you and and let you do what ever you want to me.”

This works out well. It’s sort of funny that my cooking is just as much of an impedes for these booty calls as my cock. It’s nice to get my sex ego and my cooking ego stroked at the same time.

Deep down, hell most of the time even on the surface, I am a nice guy. So fucking a girl who is in love with me takes some moral sidestepping because I know she is going to get hurt. I brought this up and she said she is ok with it. She’s a grown up and the sex is amazing, so we will see how it works out in the long run. I’m expecting her to find a nice boy with a nice job to take care of her pretty soon, until then I will enjoy our little sleep overs.

She came over last night, but just for a home cooked meal. She was rather emphatic about this.

Chicken, potato and carrot curry over rice. Naan. Followed by a carbohydrate haze. We played a little Scrabble. We lounged on the couch. When my hand lazily grazed her breasts she said “No sex, mister.” which honestly I was fine with. I was tired. Of course knowing her the way I did all I had to do was not try and have sex with her if I really want it. So I smiled and eyed her and put on the television.

She tried to kiss me during a commercial, but I pulled away. She said no sex and so we shouldn’t even get started. She pouted. I smiled. She nuzzled my neck and I gave her a obviously fake look of annoyance. It was amazing how well ignoring her worked. By the next commercial she straddled me and pulled off her shirt.

Oh those tits. She is this tiny thing, 5 feet tall, those tits look like they are going to make her topple over. That size ten waist with those DD tits that she doesn’t even know what to do with, and damn how I missed that ass. So thick and so spankable. It’s too bad she can’t take much of a spanking. The first few slaps make her eyes glaze and her lips pout. Then she winces and squirms away. There are so many things I like about the Musician, but she is so very vanilla in a lot of ways.

Still, the fact that if she rubs her clit while I fuck her slowly from behind she squirts. The fact that she will come over just to suck my cock because sometimes she just needs to suck cock. All of this makes her a lovely pet to have around.

I remember a cute little moment. It was one of the first times we were together. She was trying hard to talk dirty, but her little girl voice made it almost comical. It was adorable.

“You like that big dick in my tight little pussy? Give me that dick! Do me with that dick!”

It was dick this and dick that and it sounded oddly childish the way she said it. I grabbed her and said “Cock. Say cock. And fuck!”

She kind of giggled, turned red and timidly tried out the harsher words.

“Fuck me with you thick… cock.”

Adorable.

For all of her vanilla she does have a streak of dirty. Wrist restrains and rope were out of the question, even calling me sir wasn’t her taste (let along Daddy… that was an awkward conversation). She does like to be called a slut, though only when she is primed for it. I pushed it a little farther and told her I should pay her for sucking dick so well. The idea made her eyes roll back in her head with shame and pleasure. The fact that I was rubbing the head of my dick over her clit at the time might have helped.

I wondered if I went to far for her, but in a few minutes when I had that big ass in both hands she looked back at me, hair across her face and asked how much. She said I should offer her money to fuck her. This led to a whole little prostitution game.

She ended up not even staying over. Leaving me alone on wet sheets to ponder what happened. She IMed me later that night to tell me the idea of me paying her for a blow job was all she could think about and she fingered herself in cab.

© 2014 writingdirty

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑