A little shile ago I did my first Self Care Writing Prompt Marathon. I ended up doing 46 stories with a total of over 13,000 words. Thanks for the prompts and the encouragement! Here are all the stories:
He laughed his cruel laugh again as she felt the old rug grind against her naked knees.
“Listen, you’re just the new girl, you don’t think you deserve my cock all for yourself do you?”
The two other girls smirked and snickered.
She wasn’t a person really. Not that night. She was just one of three sluts kneeling at his cock.
Some part of her recoiled, knowing how fucked up it was, but a much stronger part of her wet her lips, assuring her that she would show them. She would suck the best and he would realize she was the best toy. He would see past those other girls, she just knew it.
But in her contemplation she had missed some signal he gave and the other girls had descended on his cock before she could. She could only hover near it, watching their greedy pink lips suck, waiting for them to give her enough room, unable to to do anything but lean in because of her bound hands behind her back.
The situation made her dizzy and confused and so wet she could feel her inner thighs slick with her messy need.
In her eyes, forever, there was a Midwest kindness. But New York City had let her down and most of the time she was sad under those thick black bangs.
It wasn’t exactly shame that shown in her face when she climbed the stairs to my apartment, but burden. Her kinks were a hassle and she wished she could come some other way, but she was stuck with her desires.
It concerned me, to a point, but there came a time when I had to trust in her ability to make up her own mind.
And after a few drinks her frown melted and the easy smile she fought against came out.
She was a good kid. Tall and strong, corn fed with a big ass. Tattooed arms and a too tight tee shirt.
Walking around my place naked when I had the curtains open made her nervous. She liked that.
What she hated, were the pigtails.
But in the end serving is what got her off. Embarrassment too. The way I made her ask for it. The way I spanked her until she was panting and begging. The way I laughed at how wet she got.
When she was getting fucked hard was the only time she stopped overthinking the world. I could see it in her eyes, a blank animal state, pure want and stupid lust.
Sometimes I felt guilty because I knew my belt was her drug of choice.
Usually I didn’t care.
She had been eyeing his suit since 59th Street. When the train emptied at 14th she took the sudden exodus as an excuse to sit next to him.
“I’ve never seen working sleeve buttons up close. It’s such a beautiful detail,” she said, her fingers hovering over his light gray glen plaid.
The button holes on his sleeve were stitched in orange, a delicate but striking accent that implied bespoke.
“May I?” she requested, looking into his dark eyes.
He nodded, trying to suppress a grin.
She felt the fabric, examined it more closely. Her leg pressed against his as she leaned in.
“Gaberdine. So soft,” she whispered.
Continue reading As He Likes It
Sometimes time slows until it is cool honey dripping off the end of a spoon. In those moments my mind opens and I look around with new eyes, taking everything in, relishing every detail, and recording every nuance in my memory.
Perhaps there was an element of mourning there, in the detachment, but it is only when I became the outsider, the onlooker, that I am truly content.
It happened on subway cars, in midnight diners, in libraries, and on dense city streets. It happened at bars, in clubs and most certainly at parties.
Of all the parties I had been to or been part of, there were some that made me question if my life was reality. At some point had I truly broken off? Was I sitting somewhere in a padded room dreaming it all up?
The big square loft had one wall that was just windows from the floor to the luxuriously high ceiling. The ceiling was a web of pipes and girders, many of which had been covered in christmas lights, hung with lanterns, or festooned with pretty ribbons and beads like a Mardi Gras float.
The cast of characters paraded in, all pretty, all scantily clad, most prompt. My eyes focused on the thighs exposed over long socks or stockings, luscious expanses of cleavage, the curve of an ass, the bow of red stained lips.
I engaged, certainly, being the charmer, the jokester, the helpful and dutiful friend, but watching was ideal.
A familiar friend, a lover, a toy, entered the room. She seemed to understand where I was; where my mind had gone. She sat next to me silently, but close enough that our legs touched, her hand brushing mine.
Her thighs were exposed too, my eyes fell on them and my fingers crept over them as she joined me in my voyeurism.
A couple on a cushion on the floor across from us, crawled around each other like caged tigers and my fingers crept up her thigh as they watched.
Two girls squeezed onto one chair shyly kissed under the command of their harsh mistress.
In the corner a girl stood facing the wall, her hand between her legs, face red, ass red, a man twice her age whispering into her ear. The word “slut” the only thing audible.
As we watched all of the little tableaus played out, the girl next to me made herself deliciously useful. She pushed herself forward so that my hand could slid right to her crotch. She pressed herself into my fingers, quiet, just a little toy I could play with while I watched the party.
Her panties were thin and moved to the side easily. My fingers slipping into her automatically. She was hot and wet and tight and receptive to my every movement.
We watched as the girl in the corner furiously worked her hand between her legs, biting her own lip, closing her eyes for a moment until her tormenter slapped her and made her open them.
“Do you like this whole room watching you fuck yourself?” he asked.
She nodded. He slapped her again.
“Say it, you dumb little cunt,” he said.
The war was visible on her lips. Her fingers kept moving. She fumbled for the right words.
“I-I, um. I like everyone watching me fuck myself with my fingers,” she said, seemingly surprised by the sound of her own voice and shocked by what she said.
Someone laughed. Someone else moaned. The couple on the cushion were fucking, the dull rhythmic slap of their bodies echoing along with the music.
The girl I was fingering suddenly sat up, then slipped off the couch and onto the floor in front of me. She pulled at my pants, though my eyes were on the girl in the corner. I wondered if she could come that way. The girl on her knees pulled my cock out and greedily sucked on it. She was brazen, messy, hungry. She pulled my pants down lower and kissed my thigh, she pressed her cheek against my hard cock, nuzzling, purring, then finally sucking again.
The girl in the corner kept closing her eyes and then getting chided for it. She was close. She looked scared and yet her hand never stopped.
Her tormentor pulled her bra down. Her breasts were beautiful, full, with large dark nipples. He slapped her breasts as she whimpered.
The girl sucking my cock stopped for a moment. She fished something out of her bag. She came back and standing in front of my, but not blocking my view, she pulled off her panties.
She was so very skilled. The way she rolled the condom into my cock so easily. The way she turned and backed up onto me, leaned forward so that she didn’t obscure my view of anything.
The heaven of watching the couple on the cushion fucking hard, the girls on the chair making out coquettishly, the girl in the corner shamed and on the edge. All of that as my toy backed up and my cock slowly slipped into her. Tight and wet and perfect. Her ass in my lap and her hands on the floor. My hands at my sides just enjoying it all.
Then concentration became a struggle. The scenes before me became flashes of images. The man on the cushion coming on his partners breasts. The girls on the chair lost in their passion, delicate fingers on each other’s nipples. The girl in the corner’s whimpers rising an octave.
“Please sir, can I come?” she begged as her breasts were slapped again and again.
I waited for his permission too, wrapped up in their tension.
“Do you deserve it?” he laughed.
She grappled with the right answer.
My toy pushed herself back against me again and again. Her rhythm became erratic, her pussy tightening around me as let out three high cries as she came.
A little flicker of anger came to me because she hadn’t asked permission like the girl in the corner did. As well I missed the girls reply to her master’s question.
I pulled my toy’s hips back and forth, since her orgasm left her too dizzy to keep up the cadence I needed.
I waited for his words. The man making the girl finger herself. I needed his permission too. I needed to hear her come. I needed to follow their game. I needed it even though my own body was falling closer and closer to the cliff or orgasm.
“Come then you little slut. Show everyone what a wanton little bitch you are-”
Before he was done with the sentence her pretty mouth was open wide as she contorted and leaned against the wall, coming on her fingers and whining and cursing.
Then all I heard was my own blood rushing in my ears. My toy’s tight pussy ready for me. She had gathered her strength and knowing I was about to come she pushed back fast and hard sitting up on my lap, pulling my hands to her breasts.
Then my eyes flashed open. All the people in the room and their hungry lips and their bare thighs and their wild abandon filling my head. And I came and I came and went into some far away space where we were all one throbbing orgiastic creature made of shame and fear and want and lust.
Her wrists get tied together, as do her ankles. My rope is old now, which sets off complicated feelings. Eight years since I got the tan hemp and it still has the same smell, though now it is worlds softer.
I don’t remember when it started feeling so comfortable in my hands, but I like it. I know the right knots. Maybe not the perfect knots, but ones I can tie fast and pretty and strong.
Some people need tight intricate ties or they will squirm out, but not her. She is the kind of girl who wouldn’t dream of escape. She is the kind of girl that sits and stays when told.
She gets shoved down on the bed with three pillows under her belly. This pushes her ass up high and puts her face down into the mattress.
It is a position I’ve put a lot of other people in, but every time and every person feels so new and electric.
All that pretty skin exposed. Red lines across her back where I scratched her while we made out. Her hips turning a little with want.
I pull her up by her hair for a moment. Her cheeks are bright red, her lipstick smudged across her face, her eyes open but unfocused. The drugs of need and sub space. That trance rope puts some people in.
She is sweet and beautiful. Very ready. There is something wonderful about turning someone so smart dumb with lust. She is panting like an animal.
I put one hand on the back of her neck, holding her in place, and put my other hand between her legs.
I want her to realize how wet she is. I want her to think about how fucked up she is for getting so turned on by this.
Another complicated thing is how I don’t get hard until I hit her for the first time.