Twitterotica themes have been hanging around for some time, with various writers tackling weekly challenges such as #wankwednesday and so on, and writing challenges far and wide are abundant. Yes this is another one.
The goal is two-fold; for writers, a weekly challenge to keep the, err, juices flowing. For readers, you’ll find all the stories linked off at the bottom of each week’s prompt. Are you game? Will you try your hand at some on the fly writing? Will you expose your work to new readers, will you read along and find new authors? I do hope so.
So, welcome to the linky love edition of Fuck Me Friday. All you have to do is this;
Write a story with the prompt as your title. Today’s will be :
Tweet it with both the prompt hashtag and the hashtag #FuckMeFriday
And lastly add it to the links at the bottom of this post.(note, if you don’t want to tweet it or don’t have a blog, I invite you to post your story in the comments section.
“What are you doing?” Beyond the blindfold my lover hummed. Want twisted, a giant, lazy snake, through my gut. “I’m going to make sure you don’t move,” she replied, startling me with her sudden close response, her lips brushing the curve of my ear.
My tongue snaked out, traced the curve of my lip. My nerves joined the writhing lust, hot and cold rushes of goosebumps over my flesh.
“Now. Lie still.”
I obeyed. There’d been something in her eyes when she bid me lie down that had send a thrill of wanton fear down my spine, some dangerous note in her voice when she told me to close my eyes and stole my ability to guess her intent with the satin tie.
The night glowed warm; the moon; a thief, stole the sun’s ability to bestow energy on the world. A bead of sweat dragged a line down my side. The first touch of cold fabric jerked a gasp from my mouth.
“Don’t move, Lisa.”
That tone made me swallow. What was she doing? Wren crisscrossed my body with narrow strips of…silk? Satin? Some smooth weave that slid cool and slippery against my flesh before warming. Then she tightened them. How? How did she make them tight?
This mattress lay in the middle of my bedroom floor, no boxspring, no bedframe. My mind worried at the mystery as she worked her way back and forth across the bed.
With gentle hands Wren moved my arms, my legs; arranging them to her satisfaction. She laid me out as her own Vitruvian woman.
Then she walked away, bare feet making tiny sounds on the wood floor. I waited. And waited, my patience stretching like a piece of taffy. I twitched against the fabric, tested it. I was held fast, narrow strips at my wrists, elbows, ankles, knees, and anywhere else I might flex.
“Beautiful,” she murmured. My muscles contracted in response, proving again just how thorough she held me fast. “My own butterfly, pinned and caught.” My breaths came in shallow gasps as she settled beside me. A finger touched my lips, teased them open. I sucked at the sensitive tip, hungry for any contact she’d give me. Her own breath caught and she let out a low, sexy chuckle.
“It occurred to me today you never let go.” Wren leaned down and kissed me. I mewled, my lips parting for her tongue, my body trying to arch up into her as she swept a hand down my body, the silk strands lying like shadows over my torso, blocking her touch. “You never truly let loose, even when we fuck hard and wet.” My skin twitched, her fingers dancing across it, tickling, almost, a mosquito searching for that perfect, delectable spot.
Then that touch shifted, changing, morphing. The contact narrowed and sharpened. She drew a line down my arm, over my thigh, up my stomach. And suddenly I knew. I knew how she’d captured me.
When my breath caught that low chuckle returned. Suddenly the tie around my eyes loosened, freeing my vision.
My mouth went dry as I stared into her eyes. “Let go for me tonight,” she said. My eyes slid from hers to her mouth to the long, sharp pin in her hand. Pin. It’s called a pin but it’s more than that. Not the tiny seamstress’s assistant but a six inch long, wickedly sharp piece of stainless steel. She used them to hold the heavy rugs up as she wove their intricate designs.
Now they held me down.
“Can you move?” I knew I couldn’t, but I tested my bindings anyways. There was no room to wiggle, no way to escape. She’d bound me so softly and yet so thoroughly.
I shook my head; that I could move. “Are you ok?” The woman I love peeked from behind the sharp feral eyed predator waiting to pounce. I nodded. I wasn’t but I was. It was that fight or flight dichotomy. My heart beat in my chest with fear and want and a desperate need to trust. Could she get me to let go?
Her touch returned; not her fingers nor her mouth. The head of the pin, large for grip, smooth and cold, slid in figure eights around my nipples. The knowledge that those great metal darts held me fast plumped my cunt with blood. My lips parted and a sigh escaped. I watched her watch my flesh react to the pin, flexing, flinching, pebbling. When she flipped it and pulled that sharp point through the damp curls between my thighs I gasped.
“Breathe, baby,” she whispered, her gaze unwavering. I drew a shallow breath; it rushed from me as she pressed the steel length between my labia. The chill, perfect line held my every thought captive. “Oh fuck,” I breathed. Wren rocked it, back and forth, sawing it between my slick flesh. Somehow I grew wetter, tighter, and looser. That hot, languid pool of lust simmering in my gut shifted and reached, amoebic, through my body.
My eyes rolled back; my fingers gripped the satin looped around them; my toes curled. The tremor began in my lips and rolled down my spine. Wren didn’t touch me, didn’t speak. She simple slid that smooth, dangerous steel dart back and forth over my clit, sometimes rolling it from side to side, sometime dragging the length over the tip. I wanted to scream, I wanted to implode, I wanted to grab her and fuck her.
My hips tried to flex and tiny hot flares surged into my hips. “I said don’t move,” she warned gently. I whimpered, relaxing my muscles, forcing them to move my flesh away from the pins threatening my flesh. “Let go.” Her voice, so soft, so tender, held an equally sharp edge to it, matching her tool of choice.
The strokes of the pin over my clit lengthened. Somehow I knew which end drew close to my clit; the head or the point. My stomach tightened, I dripped want. I felt turned inside out, loosened and knotted and peeled apart.
“Let go,” she whispered again, drawing the point closer to my clit. I shuddered, teetering on the edge, a fuse smoldering on the edge of explosion. I gave up; gave in; surrendered.
Somehow she felt it, sensed the shift in my body, my brain, my chemistry. She twisted the steel once more and the round smooth head slipped into my cunt. It slid over my g-spot, rocked, pushed, and demanded. I screamed. My body wrenched against her tender bondage, sending the vicious points into my flesh, bright red stabs of lust and pain and love. I came and came and came until my voice faded into a raw gasp.
I sagged against the bed when the tears began to trickle down my cheeks. Undone, torn into ragged pieces. Wren pressed over me, held me down and kissed me with exquisite care, meeting my eyes, taking responsibility for what she’d done. Later, she’d pin me back together, help me find my composure amidst the wreckage.