Lady Lovecome’s Diary: Part 3.
The King and Belle enter the forest of fantasies.
Based on a post by A Big Cat. Listen to the Podcast at Explicit Novels.
Silently, Belle and the King sauntered away from the castle toward the woods, their footsteps guided only by an instinct for privacy. Belle was glad she'd dressed lightly in one of the wardrobe's many slip dresses; a shoulder-fastening grey silk number; because the spring afternoon was hot, and the king's leonine presence even hotter.
She squeezed his hard bicep. "Well you've granted me my wish, have you considered yours, Your Majesty?"
The king smirked. "I've considered little else. But now you have the keys to the kingdom, I fear you'll deny me again."
"Sir, if I deny you, it's only to whet your appetite. I always keep my; no." Belle stopped walking, feigning irritation. "I won't have you doubting me." She looked about. They were still well within sight of the castle, and the windows busy with passing staff.
Oh let them see. Let them know her efforts.
She reached up her skirt, hooked thumbs in the lacy waist of her panties and wriggled them down. She stepped out of them, presenting him the cream silk just as he had the keys. "A token of my commitment to your wish."
He nodded, took the garment, and put it in his pocket. "Let me show you a secret place."
The air under her skirt felt wild and deliciously rude. As they carried on walking, he put his arm around her and rested his hand lightly on her bottom. She felt conscious of every unfettered wobble against his fingers.
The walked for some time deep into the cool dim of the pine-carpeted forest. Then a single cherry tree seemed to pop out of nowhere, heavy with blossom and lit stark white against the black and green by a single shaft of sunlight.
"This is the Love Tree. My forebears planted it. They say five generations of kings were conceived in its shade. Even I." The king patted the trunk. "Come. Feel."
Belle stroked the satiny bark stretched taut over the trunk. It made her think of the king's erection. The light in his eye suggested he knew this.
"My wish is simple." He rummaged in his pocket, pulled out her underwear. "I want you to hold onto the Love Tree. No matter what happens."
She slid her hands up and down it. "Like this?"
He snorted, walking around her, putting the tree between them. "I fear you may still deny me my wish." He looped the underwear over her hands, and with a quick flourish tied them in a knot. She might've resisted but chose not to. The silk felt excitingly out of place on her wrists and being restrained, at the king's mercy, made her stomach flip.
He sauntered behind her, raised her skirt, and there was nothing she could do about it. Her knee wobbled. The breeze fanned the skin of her exposed rear, while his eyes seemed to heat it. She'd only appeared naked for him in the dark. This would be his first clear sight of her. A long moment passed and she fought the urge to cross her legs.
"You have a damn fine rump." He stroked her, slapped her lightly. Then again. He squeezed her as if testing fruit.
"Thah-thank you, sir."
He rumbled, pressed his front to her back. His trousers sported a bludgeon.
The king chortled. "Since I didn't call you with our bell today, because we meet at your convenience, I decided I should, instead, ring you, Belle. Three times."
"This sounds more my wish than yours, sir." She wriggled her bottom at his lump. "What of your pleasure?"
"This afternoon, your pleasure is mine." He reached his hand up the front of her skirt, and gripped her lightly between the legs. She felt cupped in a warm, leather saddle. His squeezed her like a sponge. "Christ almighty, woman, are you always wet?"
"Only in your presence, sir. And your queen's." She wound her hips at the thick digits skating around her sex. He lacked his wife's accuracy but the blunt manliness of his grip compensated for grace. She melted over him. Her eyes drooped.
He pressed lips to her ear. "Look at me."
She cast her best glassy stare over her shoulder.
He cursed, shoved his hips at her bottom. "Damn those eyes."
The man seemed on a hair trigger, how would he "ring" her even once without exploding in his trousers, let alone three times? She prepared to fake some orgasms. It was very important he feel rewarded today.
Then he set his jaw, coiled his free arm around her waist, and got organized. Gone was his male fumbling, now he did what his wife must've taught him. He worked her clit with his palm and thumb while a finger explored deep inside. She'd had cocks smaller than his middle digit, and was glad for his grip on her waist as his fingers unhooked her joints. She was weightless as a doll, draped over his arm.
A fever came over her, a wave of dizziness from the cool, pine breeze, his pale grey eyes, from his woody scent and his woody limbs, from the invisible plunge and wriggle between her legs. She dug her hips at his digging and his bulge. Her eyelids were iron shutters, too heavy to hold open. When she turned imploring glances up at him, his outline fizzled. A smile tugged the corner of his lips. A fireball flared in her hips. She was too hot. Her cunt was on fire and she couldn't cover it or fan it.
All she could do was burst.
Her cry scattered crows from the trees. She grunted and ground on the king's deft, insistent fingers, her weight entirely, easily, held in his one arm while he drew more and more pleasure from her like a magician tugging trick scarves from his hat.
Dimly she became aware of her feet dangling. She found this hilarious. She laughed as he put her down and removed his hand. She settled into his solid, but tender embrace.
He offered her his fingers. "One, my lady."
She sucked her familiar taste from him. He licked his fingers with her, causing illicit, electric clashes of their tongues, and a pull to their lips. She inhaled his sigh, and he inhaled hers; the ghosts of forbidden kisses floating from mouth to mouth. Her lips nibbled at his. He pulled back.
His breath billowed hot on her neck and she was glad she'd tied her hair up this morning. He unfastened the bows on her shoulders and her dress slipped to her feet. He removed it, stepped away, and outside his embrace, her vulnerability was complete. Every millimeter of her body was exposed to the sun and air and the king's scrutiny.
He hung her dress on a branch like a battle banner, and prowled about her naked form. His features were implacable, eyes slits. She was familiar with the serious, almost cruel, expressions of aroused men. Their eyes darkened and retreated as they ate the sight of her. Usually she relished the supremacy she felt, teasing their hunger with intimate glimpses, and she'd felt all-powerful in the moonlight the night before, but here in the stark sun and the cool breeze, tied to a tree in front of a king, her confidence waned.
A life of one meal a day had left her limbs thinner than the queen's creamy form. Next to Charlotte's kittenish curves, Belle was a gazelle. When the king unabashedly took in her tight little tits, it was as if he compared them to Charlotte's bouncing abundancy. The queen's ribs didn't protrude, and Belle's belly was used to emptiness and flat as a board, not sensually soft. Then his wandering eye snagged at the pubic hair atop her pronounced mound and Belle wanted to hide. He tilted his head and stared at it. She kept her curls neat, and lips bare, but now Belle worried he preferred his waxed-bald queen. The king cleared his throat, mesmerized by her lower half, and suddenly her wet thighs were shameful. She rested one foot on the other, drew her knees tight and curled her hips back to tuck her sex away. She slid her hands down the tree trunk to settle in front of her and fought the urge to slip from the shackles' silky hold and cover herself properly.
He bit the inside of his cheek. Was he enjoying intimidating her? This would not do.
Fortified by irritation, she regarded him back, coolly, from his smirk to his ridiculously tented trousers. She bit her lip and pictured his erection bursting free of its cage, plundering her salivating mouth and hole. Her dirty thoughts were so vivid she must have projected them. He shifted awkwardly.
"See what you do to me, woman?" He approached the tree until his bulge rested against her wrists. "I've known many, many lovers. None make me this hard." She fanned her hands to cup him. Jesus, he was like a length of scaffold. She squeezed. His eyes widened and he jerked back.
Belle shrugged. "No more gawping, your majesty. Ring me again." She smiled. "With that hammer;”
He puffed out a long, growly breath, folded his arms.
"Please." Swallowing all her inhibitions, she willed one leg to wrap around the satiny-rough bark. She rocked her hips at the tree trunk like some kind of wood nymph pole dancer. It felt quite nice, but not as nice as her faked sigh made it seem.
The king blinked slowly. She could almost hear him screaming inside, "Calm!"
He strolled behind her, but his torment made her brave. She had nothing to hide. She stood proud under his inspection, sensing now that her lithe nakedness, her blushed skin, her tight nipples and dripping sex made him dizzy with lust. This man worshipped her, and she could burst him without even touching him, without even looking at him. She joggled her bottom. He groaned. She chuckled even though her skin tingled, every hair on end, straining for the touch that was sure to come.
His kiss hit her neck like a soft explosion.
However it was his whisper, "Perfection!" that threatened to undo her on the spot. Everyone should have this said to them once or twice, preferably while naked and tied to a tree.
He kissed along the dip of her spine and she found herself gripping the trunk for support. His mouth moved down her body and she placed her feet wider. She was wet to her knees and didn't even know that was possible. Far from shame, now this brought expectancy, and then even more liquid.
The king's shadow knelt behind her. She stood on tip-toes, tipped up her hips, displaying her need.
"My God," he burst. He gripped her bottom, pulled it to his face.
He nibbled and kissed her ass. She bent lower, to show him where that mouth was needed, but he avoided her buzzing clit. Annoyingly, he seemed most fascinated with her juices, slipping his fingers up and down the tracks on her legs. She guessed Charlotte was never this aroused by him. Perhaps none of his concubines were. This suited her plan well, so she indulged him, and tried to sigh off the jangling little alarm bell between her legs. However, when he ran a rough tongue up her inner thigh, she groaned.
"Steady, woman." His voice was all grin. "You cleaned me, remember? A gentleman always returns a favor."
She sagged against the tree, wedged her shoulder to it, and opened her legs as wide as she could. This elicited a boulder snigger, then a bristly chin shoved between her thighs to press his lips to her vulva.
Damn the silk shackles. She wanted to spread to him, see to her itchy spot herself. The man was in no hurry. He played with her lips, stroking, kissing, holding back his tongue, nipping at her labia and clit hood. She bent over deeper, and he nuzzled under, hunching his massive form to fit beneath her. She felt her cunt lips slip open around his tongue as he probed and tasted, but only his bottom lip grazed her clit, leaving it to hum for now.
"P-please, your majesty." Goodness, she sounded like a bleating lamb. "Eat me."
Another tectonic chortle. The heat of his mouth disappeared, and he opened her lips like a book. Studied her. Unfortunately, it seemed she was a riveting read. He opened and closed her, rubbed her labia together, it seemed to persuade more juice from her judging by his occasional hot snorts of approval.
She wriggled her hips and cursed, her tied wrists around the tree's roots. Perhaps the king deliberately mistook her body language, because instead of giving her what she wanted, he parted her bottom cheeks. A slippery fairy danced circles around her anus. She yelped, wriggled a hand loose from her shackles to cover herself, then paused. The dirty, wet tickle seemed to unhook something in her. Some last tension or inhibition, released. She melted, groaned, and gave over to him, to her body, completely.
As if someone had finally found the right key for the right lock, at long last her clit was bathed in warmth. He lapped at her without his wife's skill, but with a firm, steady rhythm. She bent double, folded to maneuver her clit into his mouth, but he was still too big to fit between her thighs. He turned over to sit, leaning back on his hands between her feet. She could see him now. He sparkled up at her, eating like she was a juice-laden monster cherry he'd plucked from the tree, his cheeks and chin a mess, lapping and sucking her clit with his single-speed incessant lick. She wound on his face, as if eating him, not vice versa.
She enjoyed this notion of consuming him. She bore down, crouching lower, until he was completely on his back and she was indecently spread on him, queening his face.
That was better. Now she could control where his tireless tongue stimulated. She shut her eyes and relaxed, squatting on his warm mouth, possessed with the image of some silky sea creature slipping about her hyper-sensitive nooks and crannies.
He groaned first.
She sighed off her swelling bliss and opened her eyes to find his shut below her, lost in his own animal pleasure. He groaned again, louder. It thrummed her like a violin. She looked over her shoulder to check his trousers, which looked comically like a woodland creature had got in there. She wished she could release it. As if reading her mind, he unzipped his fly and hauled his hard meat into the fresh air.
His excitement doubled hers. A gorgeous tension flared in her core, sucked bigger and wider by the king's hungry mouth. His cock rocked, dripped, and his hips thrust at the air. He rumbled under her. Would he spurt there and then, just like that, just from licking her?
The image tore through her: his lovely spunk shooting all over his elegant, laundered shirt, splattering hot up her back, uncontrollable in his desire for her. Her hips spasmed and she was glad of the tree to hang onto. He sucked her clit, tugging it deeper into wet heat, and even the king's big, dumb tongue worked with a fluidity nothing else could match. It felt like a flickering, wet flame. She juddered again, then suddenly that's all she was, a bloom of fire, pedaling inside out and inside out and inside out again. A vixen screeched somewhere deep in the woods, or perhaps that was her, primally splayed and shaking on the king's mouth, on his deep, bone shaking, hums of pleasure.
She wiped herself around his slimy chin, puffing tremoring breaths, then stubbed out the last of her orgasm, splodging his face while they giggled.
He winked. "Two, my lady."
There was only one thing she needed now. She heaved to her feet, slid her tied-up tree hug along the trunk, and tipped up her bottom. "Fuck me, your majesty."
He wiped his wrist across his face, but lay where he was, between her feet, his cock dancing and his brow wrinkled. "Belle; "
"You promised me three orgasms. Fuck me."
"No. You will come sucking me."
"I'll come with you in me, but this end." She jiggled. "And you won't come until I say."
"Woman! I am your king; "
"You are a beautiful cock. Fuck me." She stamped her foot. "Now."
He rolled to his feet. His shadow loomed over her, departed, returned. He grumbled. Something like a hot lemon wedged against her slot, rested there. She pushed back against it, lodged the tip at her entrance. It didn't retreat. She eased onto it with a lascivious shock at how much she needed to stretch, and keep stretching, to accommodate him.
Once she had a grip on his hard bell, she smiled over her shoulder. "I'll tap you three times, then you can come." She took more of him in, glad she was wet and loose from her last two orgasms; he filled her so completely it forced her breath out.
The king stood to attention, neither pushing nor pulling away, and Belle understood. Let the betrayal be hers. She rocked back at him until she was stuffed to the brink and, mercifully, his hips met her bottom. They moaned together. So this was how a man was supposed to feel. She felt more worn than penetrated, stretched over him like a perfectly fitting dress. She writhed, relishing every cell of her softness gloved to every cell of his hardness. The king cursed and could stay still no longer. He gripped her hips and slid out, and for a sinking moment she thought he would leave, but he plunged back in, forcing a squeak from her. Then again, and again and she braced and each powerful thrust pumped more joy into her. His perfect dick lit her up brighter with each stroke, fizzing along her skin to her fingertips and toes, then back again to be doubled up by the next thrust.
She turned to him, grinned through tousled hair, but could hardly form a smile for panting. His face was stoic. Serious. She grunted, shuddered to a halt. He moved her hips for her, his power and control jamming hard and deep but never too deep. And even though she was too full of him, she still cried out, "Yes, yes, yes;” He pumped her lungs, her heart, to bursting and then crammed more joy in, and more and it doubled and redoubled and she yelped, thrust back greedily, a feeding frenzy, even though it was too much, too delicious, and she was tight as a drum and still more came and more and more;
She lifted onto her toes, squealed.
And burst into a billion tiny stars.
But her juggernaut king drove on, rammed her off her feet, shoved gasp after gasp from her. He tossed her from her own skin, like there was no room for her ghost now. Too much. Too good. Too;
Oblivion.
She roused bouncing, cackling, every joint slack, every muscle warm and floppy as the king rammed her up and down on his cock. His movements grew spasmodic. His hips slapped her bottom and for a delirious, dreamy blink she wanted him to come in her, but her instinct intervened. She slipped her hands from her shackles, and slipped off his cock. He carried on shoving, unable to stop. She swiveled, dropped to her knees, stuffed his slippery meat into her mouth.
He stiffened, gnashed his teeth. Placed his hands on her head.
A wickedness tickled her. She unsuckered from him. "No. Wait."
He snarled, screwed his eyes shut.
"Wait;” She said as if to a dog. While his perineum fluttered like a bird's heart, and he made strangled noises, she calmly licked her drooling juices from his balls, running a flat, cleaning tongue up his quivering rod. She sniggered, lapped under his bulb, fluttered her eyelashes. "What do you say?"
He juddered. His fists clenched, every muscle, every vein on his body flexed to bursting point. "Please. My Lady. Please."
She tipped her mouth over his end, and slapped his arse three times.
Then braced for the gorgeous flood of power.
The queen returned to a new kingdom. When her Rolls Royce rolled through the streets, people gathered to throw petals over her, a band played, and children sang songs.
Queen Charlotte stepped from the car and into her king's arms looking visibly shaken. The new palace staff formed a circle about them and cheered.
He explained Belle's discovery. Madam Couteau's keys revealed many secret rooms, including storerooms crammed with produce, filing cabinets crammed with orders and a safe crammed with gold. Madam Couteau and her cohort had been increasing the taxes behind their backs. If the taxes were paid, Couteau paid the monarchs what they expected and pocketed the difference. When the taxes increasingly couldn't be paid, Couteau took the villagers' produce and sold it on to the kingdom's old buyers.
By royal decree (Though the queen guessed it was more likely Belle's decree) the stockpiled produce and stolen profits were divided amongst the townspeople, who were re-united with their old buyers. The king was happy with the same royal taxes he always received, as none of Madam Couteau's profit every reached the royals anyway.
Queen Charlotte hugged Belle hard, clasped her face and covered her cheeks in kisses. The king wrapped them both in his big arms and Belle felt like the filling in a very expensive sandwich.
Their bodies gravitated toward the royal chambers. "And how have you two managed without me?" Charlotte's hand stroked the small of Belle's back, downward. "Have you enjoyed yourselves?"
Belle shrugged. "Your husband is an adequate lover, Madam. But I missed you. It takes a woman to know a woman."
The king smacked her left arse cheek. The queen squeezed her right.
Belle chuckled. "I think your majesties deserve a nice bath." She said this even as she led them away from the private quarters, toward the doors to palace's public balcony. "And perhaps I might be allowed to treat myself; by treating you both?"
One purr. One growl.
"After you've greeted your subjects of course."
She threw open doors to the roar of thousands.
More to the story.
You'd think that was the end of Belle's story, but it wasn't. Of course they lived happily ever after and all that, and Belle eventually left with their royal blessing to forge her own life as the head of the world's most exclusive finishing school.
But my reason for telling you this story is the following. One last thing Belle told me that got me so hot and bothered last night I had to; well, you know. Twice actually.
A year after Belle saved the kingdom, the subject of a royal heir came up. The queen, preferring women, did not want, "The king's batter beast running riot in my little froufrou." The king, who enjoyed fucking Belle a great deal, wanted to impregnate her on the queen's behalf, and often. Belle didn't want a baby at that time and always took precautions.
Yet nine months later the queen had triplets.
Belle told me how.
One morning, they were playing in the mirrored dressing room between the royal bathrooms. The room was like an inside out jewel, octagonal and mirrored on every surface, including the ceiling, except for a roof light. The only furniture was a large, teal velvet chaise set in the middle of the space. This was Belle's favorite place for sex. So much so she had a pull-chord installed, connected to bells in the king and queen's private bedchambers so she could call them to her whenever she needed them.
She'd called them that morning, in fact. And lay waiting, naked on the chaise. The royal pair arrived from their ablutions, naked and wet; and hard; and they commenced their happy dance.
As usual, Charlotte hopped onto the chaise and settled on Belle's mouth. The king sat at Belle's feet and watched his wife get licked while he stroked his wood. Belle opened her legs to let the king see her excitement grow, but wouldn't let him touch her. The Queen watched from every angle.
When Belle patted their bottoms, they swapped. Belle stayed regally reclined, but shuffled up to rest her head on the seatback as the king stood beside it to offer his manhood to her mouth. The queen watched, stroking her sparkling clit, and Belle licked and sucked her husband. Belle opened her legs to let Charlotte watch her excitement grow, but wouldn't let the queen touch her. The king watched from every angle.
The royals loved Belle's mouth, and they loved her wholesome beauty on their rude places, but they loved Belle's arousal more. Perhaps it's a fantasy of all who are served that their servants take extreme pleasure in serving them. Perhaps everyone likes to be adored, and Belle dripped with adoration. So much, one would wonder who was pleasing who.
There was the usual hysterics as they royal couple fought to get "first bite" of Belle. She stood over them, then, stroking their heads, while they knelt at her feet. One licked from the front and one from behind and Belle, by bending forward or back, could control whose mouth got most of her. She could never last long and her cackling climax always threatened to undo one of the royal couple, usually Charlotte on either her own or her husband's fingers, or she'd leap up and beg for her turn "in the tongue sandwich.”
They did the king last. In that way Belle and Charlotte could lie him out first, and have their fun on his cock and face, even if Belle; whilst being licked; would sixty-nine him to pretend her mouth was Charlotte's sex, while his wife rode Belle's fingers like a cock. The conceit drove drive the royals mad. It was very touching, and a little sad, that they loved each other so much, but couldn't express it directly to each other without Belle. Not that Belle was complaining.
All yummy of course, but this one morning, Belle wanted to try something different. Instead of sucking the king's essence from him, she tapped their arses to change position again. She lay Queen Charlotte upside down on the chaise, her hips on the back rest, so she could sixty-nine the woman. Of course, the king liked the look of this very much, but even more when Belle wiggled her bottom for him to fuck her doggy style while his wife licked them both.
They kept it going as long as they could, which wasn't very long. The king puffed calming breaths and repeatedly jammed his happy monster into Belle's happy hole. He even held back when Charlotte slurped him as he fucked, then through his wife's orgasm under Belle, and even through Belle's screaming climax on the king's cock and the queen's tongue.
Only then did Belle pat his hip, pat-pat-pat, and beckon him to her face.
He darted around the chaise to Belle's mouth and she guzzled him in. Not a moment too soon as after all his wife's licking and Belle's soft wet cunt, he was bursting. He filled her in frantic spurts, and Belle milked every drop, careful not to swallow or to spill and not letting him go until he was flaccid. But instead of carrying on until he was hard again as usual, she discarded him.
To dribble still-warm sperm into his wife's spread, wet hole.
The king and queen laughed. The queen even climaxed one more time under Belle's gooey, lapping tongue, and this stirred the king again.
So Belle sucked him again, and filled his wife again. And again.
Three times all together. Naturally.
So that's what got me hot and bothered this morning. Licking, and being licked by, a beautiful woman (yes, Diary I am a woman of catholic tastes) while a thickly endowed, powerful man, attended to my hole.
Sigh.
Diary, one last note. It's the middle of the night in the drawing room. Bill is snoring on the chesterfield beside me, naked. By which I mean he's naked. Though so am I. After work, I ran him a bath, and cooked him a meal (beans on toast) and led him in here to read him today's entry.
It's a long story, and he liked it a lot. Early on, when Belle first displayed herself to her queen in the bath, I acted out her position as I read. I stood opposite him and put my foot on the sofa seat beside him.
We were both still clothed then. (Though remember my cheekiness beneath my dress.) Well, when the queen dropped to her knees to adore Belle's bits, so did Bill! Rather, he told me not to stop reading, and lifted my skirt.
I felt like one of his blooms being inspected and my voice wobbled. I wondered if I could read while he licked me, while I came, but he kept me waiting. He dropped my skirt, then removed his clothes.
Log, diary, he sports a log.
I don't know what's more exciting, that I aroused this man with my physicality or with my story.
While I stimulated him with my words, he unbuttoned my dress and removed it so my body stimulated him, too. I stood before the fire, naked, reading, and he kissed me from jaw to neck then shoulders and tits and in a slow spiral, round and round me to my feet. We haven't even snogged yet. All the while he snorted or rumbled over some detail in my tale. All the while his leathery fingertips traced his kisses. All the while, Diary, I dripped for him.
Then he was at my feet, which I'd planted wide, obvs, and he glinted up at the state of me with his icy blue-diamond eyes and sexy-rough smirk. Then, at the moment Belle let the king lick her, he kissed my cunt and my legs wobbled so fiercely he picked me up and plonked me here on the Chesterfield. Diary, he opened my knees, then kissed and licked me throughout the rest of my story, complaining if I stopped, and stopping if he thought I might come.
He stayed there, teasing me up and down. He's very curious, kissing and licking and fingering me, testing what I like and where. He only let me come when I'd got right to the end. He clapped my story, then, as if calling upon all he'd learned from his experiments while I was reading, burst me on his mouth so hard I passed out. When I woke I found him lying on me, his head prickling my belly, drooling, erect.
And I've written all this extra bit and he's still asleep and still hard. Do you think it's rude I didn't return his favor?
It is, isn't it? Very rude.
Forgive me Diary, let me just;
Diary day two.
Oh my. What a very long day. And night.
Diary, let me pick up right from where I left you yesterday.
Remember, I'd read my first diary entry to my most excellently muscular and well-endowed gardener, Bill. While I read to him, he rewarded my dirty scribbles by attending me dirtily between the legs with his fingers and mouth. Note, just his fingers and mouth. All the while, his great veiny cock was rigid and I didn't get to visit him because I was busy reading and, anyway, a girl likes to see a man enjoying his work. Then, remember, I came so hard I blacked out. I didn't even know that was a thing, so it was quite a shock. So what's missing with this porno picture? Exactly. A shag. Oh and his release too, but mostly I was missing a shag. I guess he wasn't likely to shove it in me while I was comatose, thank goodness he's a gentleman, but then he nodded off waiting for me to wake up, bless him.
So that's where I left you. Both of us naked in the drawing room, fire still crackling, us lying along the Chesterfield with his head lolled on my belly.
His cock, still half hard, nudged and rolled on his belly as he slept. I felt I'd treated him rudely, not pleasuring him the way he had me, so decided I'd do him now.
Ok, if I'm honest, I wanted to sit on that brutish club, repeatedly. But he was going to come before I was finished with him, one way or the other.
So, I carefully squirmed out from under him, and knelt on the rug by his hips. He could be harder. I kissed his cock head. Now, I've got a very big mouth and lips and they must have been too soft for him to feel because he didn't stir. So I did it again, and again, up and down him. Delicious. I kissed his balls, and the bit where his balls met his staff. That got a groan from him.
My toes curled, and I suppressed a cackle. I couldn't imagine what he must be dreaming and wondered how it felt, this warm, moist, plumping all over his nethers. I swathed my tongue up and down him and, weirdly, kind of felt an echo of it between my own legs. Licking him was making me madly horny.
I've given a few blowjobs in my time, not as many as you might think, or as many as I'd like, but they've always achieved their goal: I get someone ready for rumpy. Sometimes, for particularly lucky someones, I've not been able to stop myself and they've made an unholy mess. (I've much to say on that subject and will come back to it, mark my words.) And I know, Bill had sorted me out good and proper with his gob so I really should've returned that specific favor, but what can I say? He was so sexy he made me feel selfish.
Anyway, I'm ahead of myself. I lapped his great rod and checked his reaction to find his eyes glittering at me. He smirked and my ears and cheeks blazed like a virgin. Jesus, I even giggled. He tucked his hands behind his head to watch me, and that's why my "suck or fuck" dilemma suddenly became so important. Everything about his body language was settling back to enjoy the ride, and why shouldn't he? But my thigh-tops were slippy. I was salivating down there. I was still hungry.
I'm such a cow, I loved him glowing down at me so much that I took his end into my mouth while I stared into his eyes. I've got wicked eyes and he gulped. Diary, I hummed. I loved that he thought I wanted to suck him off! I gave him a proper going over. I Nodded and slurped just as I was taught. (Yes I promise I'll come back to that too.)
Now he could hardly keep his eyes open. He rumbled, "Oh Madam. Madam" and I didn't correct him because in this impolite context his politeness made me actually drip. Diary, I rubbed him into my mouth! Two hands!
What does that body language say, hmm? I was performing for him, I guess. I wanted him overwhelmed by the anticipation of coming in my mouth and me loving it. That thought overwhelmed me too, but ironically got me so horny it made me want to fuck; not suck; forever. I'm such a slutty tease, I know. That was exciting too.
His fists clenched, and muscles bulged all across his chest and shoulders, his abs knotted.
My cunt clasped in frustration. I couldn't resist any longer. I hopped up, threw a leg over his hips, spread my cunt lips with one hand, gripped him with the other. My hole was almost groaning! I nudged his hard end at my mythically slippery hole. And God he was so hard, so hot.
That's when he covered himself. "No, Madam."
I slapped his hand away.
He tried to shuffle out from under me. "Madam, that's not a good idea. I've no protection."
"Pill." I gripped his cock, lunged my hips at it.
He grimaced. "They don't always work."
"I'll get one of my rubbers. Don't move."
"Condoms always split for me, Madam."
"Bash. Bash. For fuck sake call me; what do you mean they always;” Stupid question. Bill had the biggest dick I'd ever seen, not freakish but in proportion to his larger-than-most frame. And I couldn't ride it!
I growled, clawed my hair. "Fuck sake." I waddled up his torso. "Eat me again. Then I'll suck you off. But Bill, this really is the most; "
That's when Father's car crunched up the gravel outside.
We rushed about, gathering clothes, keeping our heads down because the shutters were still open. Bill, pale and instantly limp, bolted out the back like a burglar. I huffed up the stairs to my room.
But not before I left you, Diary, on the hallway floor, pages open like a primed bear trap.
In my bedroom, I frustratedly fingered myself, squatting over a hand mirror that I pretended was Bill's face. An insane horsey laugh came from downstairs. Jules. Father had brought his party boy home.
Oh, no.
I clasped my soggy folds and blushed all over. I didn't mind opening up to Father, in fact I wanted to torture him, but Jules is funny and cool. We're kind of friends because he's my age. As far as I know, the last few months with him has been as close as Father's ever got to a relationship since I was born and mummy died. Not that it's a relationship as such. It's Jules that refers to himself as Father's party boy. He even charges Father a thousand pounds an orgasm. "His or mine, darling, same price!"
So that loud laugh could've been Jules laughing at you, poor Diary. God it was just too awful.
Some banging around downstairs, more hilarity from Jules, then silence. The front door slammed. Gravel sprayed as father gunned his fuckwit James Bond sports car up the drive.
I curled up on my bed, wondering should I warn Bill, when there was a knock on my door. It could only be him. Naked, I jumped to it, threw it open. "Bill you've; oh!"
"Oh!" Jules covered his eyes. "Sweetie, please."
I grabbed a bed sheet, wrapped it around me. Jules prowled in; he's the kind of man that prowls everywhere. He clocked my hand mirror on the floor, swept it up and handed it to me with a smirk. He didn't say a word but his eyes were all-knowing.
"Oh I must've dropped it." I put it on the bedstead, only then noticing the syrupy drips I'd made all over it. I am debauched. I will go to hell.
"You're in the poo, Bashie." He sat on my bed and crossed his legs, looking all cheek-bones and fabulous in his Saville Row and a shaft of moonlight, like a Bowie video. He produced my diary from his jacket pocket.
I groaned. "Did you;”
"Yup." He slapped my bottom, squealing with laughter. "Dirty, dirty girl!"
I covered my face.
He tore my hands away. "Listen to me, tart. I loved it, and yes I want to visit Bill; as intimately as he'll let me; but Daddy's gone biblical. He's called the police."
"What?"
"Duh, he owns them remember? But worse, he's driven straight to Bill's."
Typical Father to drive to the bloody gatehouse. It's only a ten minute walk.
Jules's jaw dropped. More slaps. "So get your knickers on!"
Jules and I ran to the gatehouse, but the flashing blue lights were already there. Two policeman lead Bill from his front door. He was handcuffed and wouldn't look me in the eye.
Father watched, smiling like a shark. "Bathsheba, darling. Are you Okay? We got the bastard." He put his fat little arm around me. He smelled of whiskey and cigars. As usual. "Jules you shouldn't have brought her here."
Jules leant into Father's ear, seemed to whisper some entreaty. Father shoved him aside. He waved his finger in Bill's face. He had to reach up to do it. "Predator! You will regret taking advantage of an innocent. That's rape, you know." Spittle flew from his mouth. He wiped it with his sleeve. "My daughter's young for her age. That's what you like, isn't it? I bet you like them young. You know what prison does to men like you?"
I stepped between Father and Bill. "I'm twenty-two!"
He laughed. Slapped a policeman on the back. "Tell the commissioner I'll see him at the club."
They bundled Bill into the back of the car. He caught my eye as they shut the door, and bless my gentle man, he mouthed, "Sorry."
"Little tip for you." Jules walked me back to the house across wet lawns. "You should've sucked that man off. Not for him, for you. And"; he curls a lip; "flicked yourself off while you did it. Everybody happy. Nobody frustrated and angry and wanting to hurt their fathers."
I punched him hard in the arm, but he was right. For all my whining, there was no way I'd have really left my diary for Father to find if I'd been clear-headed.
Damn Father. It was typical of him to read you, Diary, and totally choose to miss my point. And then revenge himself by taking away the thing I want. The man I crave.
Ugh. Two hours later, and I'm still awake. I can't get poor Bill out of my head, locked in a cell, because of me. And worse, I still want him. Even more for being denied. Father's gone back to the city with Jules. He won't take my calls. The police have told me not to contact them again.
Come daylight I'll go to the police station. I won't move until sweet Bill is released. If necessary I'll let the whole bloody station read you, Diary, so they know that none of this is Bill's fault. I don't care if it revolts them, if they think I'm a shameless slut. I don't care if it makes them hard or wet in their uniforms. Actually I'd quite like that. Whatever. Bill will come home.
I wish I could get a message to him, tell him not to worry, tell him how I feel.
Ah but I can. Via the medium of you, dear Diary. I'm sure to read it to him sometime.
So, Diary, Bill, this is what I'm thinking.
I've been thinking about the last time we were together, and that I was cross with you. The thought of you in a cell is awful, and that you're sitting there thinking I was disappointed with you too, that you don't have my affection and support, is even worse. This lead me onto considering why you won't fuck me and how that might not matter and it called to mind my friend Gabrielle. Coincidentally, this is the woman who told me how to please a man orally. Or at least she told me how she pleased her man and I've copied her ever since. It remains to be seen whether I'm as suck-sessful as she was. I plan to practice on you Bill, carefully and over some time, to find out if I'm as good as I think I am. And to find out what you like. God knows you deserve it.
Gabrielle was an up-and-coming artist I met at a gallery opening. She was one of a handful of bright new things being touted by a gallery famous for finding new talent. I'm always invited to these affairs. Having aristocracy show up at a gallery puts it on the map, and having them show interest in an artist can make a reputation. Also bear in mind that when you don't have to work, and when you're rich enough to have everything you want, life is very, very dull. You become obsessed with novel ways of passing the time. Horrors are committed by my kind because of that simple fact. Boredom.
Anyway, I love artists, they're always surprising company, and these events are always an ego-trip because cool people wine-and-dine me and fall over themselves to attract my eye. That's why Gabrielle caught my attention, because while all the other artists fluffed me, plying me with fizz and flirtation, this red-haired waif sat sullenly by her artwork, glowering at the world.
I couldn't take my eyes off her. She was cat-like and exquisite: big green eyes and a love-heart face with naughty lips. Even though she was dressed in a short, floaty summer dress, she sat with the elegant carelessness of a drunk ballerina, willowy limbs sprawled.
An older artist with bright red cheeks, was telling me how "fabby" I looked in my dress and all I could think was how to visit the grumpy pussycat doll. (Though I did look fabby. I was wearing a little black Chanel number that made me sleek, yet curvy, and gave me legs that another artist, via a hot, boozy whisper, suggested I wrap about her neck.)
Finally, I approached the girl. Of course, she ignored me. I pondered her painting: a large, square canvas depicting a pink, very fleshy, very dewy flower.
"Goodness," I said, swilling my wine glass and trembling a little, for some reason. "You paint exquisitely. This is more real than a photo. It looks; solid. Like I might tumble into it and find myself in a magical land."
The girl tutted. Looked away. I didn't know if I wanted to punch her or snog her. I blathered on, hoping to sting her instead. "But of course, it's very derivative of O'Keefe's work."
"Pah!" The girl glared at me. "O'Keefe, she paints flowers to look like cunts." She thumbed her chest, which wobbled bralessly. "I paint cunts to look like flowers, and what are flowers but ravenous mouths? I paint cunts to look ravenous!"
Of course. French. Parisian by the accent. I carried on, in French. "Well it's a beautiful cunt. Who's is it?"
"Mine, of course," she replied in English.
Saucer-sized green irises flicked about my face. She'd need to try harder than that to get a blush from me. Instead I carried on, in French. "Well I'll buy your lovely blossom. Do you have other; "
"Not for sale. It's shit. Shit idea. Shit execution."
"You are the worst salesperson; "
"But maybe you come to my studio, I make some beautiful art of you, non? You know Beatrice Dalle?"
"Not personally; "
"You look like her. I want to paint Beatrice Dalle like a predator, she's so feline, but I can't afford her. And you look like a huntress in that dress, Lady Vampire." She ran a gaze up and down me. "I paint you as that predator Little Red Riding Hood, you know this story?"
"She's a predator?"
"Oui."