Monday, 7 September 2015

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a rude bit from one of my stories, for your entertainment.

After seeing the Foo Fighters in concert yesterday - complete with Dave Grohl gliding Davros-like on his shiny chrome throne - I really have to share an excerpt from my story
 Dubbel. It's one of my unattributed stories that appeared in the Nexus "Confessions" series, which were all anonymous pieces written for a male readership. It features the FF track "The Pretender" and appeared in Nexus Confessions Vol. Six

You can, btw, read my take on the Nexus Confessions books right here.

‘Hey,’ he whispered very softly in my ear: ‘Do what you’re told.’

I quivered, inside and out. Those were Bedroom Words. They meant we were starting on the obedience game – and there were only two possible responses to that phrase. I could use our safeword to chicken out. Or I could do what he told me to. Suddenly I was hot all over.

Craig had never done this in public before. I wondered what the hell he and Damien had been talking about before I came in, and I cast a wary look at our friend sat in the armchair opposite. Damien’s eyes were on the screen, an open bottle cradled at a casually suggestive angle in his lap. I’d always fancied him quite a bit; he’s pretty good-looking in his way, with thick backswept red hair and intense eyes. And don’t let anyone tell you that women don’t assess all their husbands’ friends.     

Deliberately I relaxed against Craig, letting his fingers continue their work on my breast. He showed his approval by kissing my flushed cheek and nuzzling my ear, his tongue-tip tracing its whorls, his breath hot, his teeth nibbling my lobe. I had to force myself not to squirm visibly with pleasure. His thumb and finger tightened to a pinch on my nipple, and I squeaked under my breath.

Damien’s eyes flicked in my direction. His expression stayed neutral. If it was obvious that I was looking flustered he didn’t acknowledge it. Under the tight stretchy cotton of my clothing, Craig’s fingers played vigorously with my nipple.
Damien turned back to the screen. ‘Bet she’s a wild fuck, mind,’ he said dreamily. He was talking about the singer, of course. He had to be.
God, this was turning me on. It was years since the early days when Craig and I had been wild-horny enough to mess around in public. Did Damien count as ‘in public’? Who was Craig trying to tease more?
The music changed; the new video was The Pretender by the Foo Fighters. I really like that song. Craig wasn’t about to allow the fact to remain a secret.
‘Now this is Rhiannon’s song. She loves to fuck to it.’

I opened my mouth to protest but my poor tortured nipple got a pinch that sent electricity jumping all over my skin.

‘Does she now?’ Damien looked faintly amused.

‘Fast and rough.’

Damien ran the tip of his tongue over his teeth, thoughtfully.

‘And if I start shafting her when it starts, she comes dead on the final lines.’

Damien lifted an eyebrow and I squirmed against Craig.  He was exposing my intimate secrets, and the humiliation felt horribly, unbelievably good – because, I supposed, it was Damien, and I’d always deep down wanted to bare myself to him and get a response. Or maybe just because it was so dirty a thing to do. The point of the obedience game is to see how far I can be pushed, after all – and to see how horny I get on the way.

For a moment the three of us watched each other silently, half-listening to the pounding chorus. Then Craig bent his lips to my ear. ‘Want to sit up on my boner?’ he whispered.

I caught my lip in my teeth, but nodded, and he let go of my breast in order to pull me into his lap, facing outward. I kicked off my shoes and tucked my feet behind me before I relaxed back against his torso. I guess I was obscuring his view of the TV a bit, but he didn’t seem to mind. From this position, once he’d set his beer aside, he could slide both hands up under my top to cup and squeeze my breasts; my right nipple was burning from his earlier attentions and it was a relief to have the left one tormented too. I could feel Craig’s cock hard against my bum-cheek and I writhed my hips to make sure of his arousal. Damian sat back in his armchair, his eyes resting on me even while he tilted his bottle to his lips.

‘I think you should pull down your top and show Damien your pretty tits, love,’ Craig murmured. My pussy pulsed, warm and wet, and I obeyed, lifting my breasts out into view while he transferred his hands to the outside of my clothes and resettled them. The cooler air made my nipples stand out harder. Yet our friend showed no sign of emotion, even when Craig pulled at my swollen teats, tugging them out then flicking them cruelly before stoking them in soothing circles. But he was watching carefully. I groaned as the stimulation became too much for me.

'Just you watch the telly, love,’ I was instructed. But I couldn’t; I couldn’t take my eyes off Damien, though my lids were heavy and I had to gaze at him from under my lashes. Was he properly enjoying the sight of my tanned, pert tits being played with? His free hand rested in his crotch, hiding any sign of arousal.

Then Craig moved one hand down to my pussy and rested it between my open thighs, sending a whole new thrill through my body and saying, ‘I think he’d like to see your snatch too, love.’

‘Okay,’ I whispered, because his hand on my pussy was making it soften and open and I couldn’t think any more about anything except how much I needed to be touched there.

‘Pull your skirt up.’

I used both hands to draw it right up my thighs, revealing the gusset of my lacy panties – which Craig’s tickling fingers instantly discovered to be soaked through. He stroked my clit through the cloth, scratching with his fingertips, then pushed the moistened fabric aside to get his fingers into my wetness. I squirmed even more, both self-conscious and helplessly needy. The fact that Damien was looking at my swollen pink pussy-lips was incredibly arousing. The fact that my husband was making me do this for his best mate was even more dirtily delicious and made me unable to resist the waves of heat surging through me. Forget about needing a good shafting; it took only one hand mauling casually at my breasts and a single finger on my clit to bring me off there and then, as the last lines of the song roared out through the room. And I didn’t hold back on the gasping and crying out either.

I was rewarded by Damien’s unblinking attention, and the slow slide and squeeze of his hand on his thigh.

‘Kneel up,’ Craig urged, when I’d recovered from my spasms. I put my hands on his knees and lifted my backside up: giving him room, it turned out, to tuck my skirt up into its waistband and wrestle his cock out of his fly. He guided my bottom back into his lap, spearing me with his thick prick and sliding it right the way into me.

‘Hold on,’ I gasped, head spinning. ‘Give us a drink first.’

‘Ask Damien.’

I groaned as he pushed deep inside me. ‘Please Damien ... Could I just have a sip of your beer?’

Damien stood then, and the bulge in his jeans made it clear at last how much he’d been enjoying the show. He came forward to stand in front of me, and put the mouth of his bottle to my dry lips. ‘How deep can you take it, Rhiannon?’

Buy at:
Amazon US : Amazon UK


Jeremy Edwards said...

So I've just read this sexy excerpt, and I also went back and read your 2009 analysis of Nexus vs. Black Lace—which is still interesting and thought-provoking (and makes me nostalgic for 2009, when It All Still Mattered and We Actually Had Conversations on Each Other's Blogs).

But anyway, here's my question: Do you recall to what extent, if any, you consciously altered your authorial voice when writing these "anonymous confessions"? I don't mean the content, but rather the voice per se. For instance, I was once hired to write an anonymous "Male Shot" piece for Scarlet, after having already published many pieces with them under my usual by-line, and I remember suppressing my more idiosyncratic language and stylistic "tells." (I kept an eye open for JA "tells" when reading this piece, btw, asking myself if I'd have recognized your voice. Nothing jumped out at me, though for the most part it didn't read unlike you, either—though I'm guessing there might not be "tanned, pert tits" under the JA by-line, and maybe not as much of the boner- and snatch-type vocabulary.) Anyway, it's a very effective piece, and I'm sure it was just what Dr. Nexus ordered. So really I'm just wondering how much you had to wrestle the tone into place, versus its just falling into place through your instincts. (As if you're going to remember, six years later, haha.)

Janine Ashbless said...

Absolutely I *did* change the tone for a male audience. (And yes, you spotted the tanned and pert tells). Taking my cue from reading other writers in that subgenre ... My female characters written for men are optimistic, confident and supremely sex-positive. They have no body-image issues, no worries about the consequences (social or psychological) of sex, no nervousness of the men. They are out for fun and orgasms and have no Baggage, no Issues.

Men, so I gather, don't want read that sort of stuff. They are not interested in how messed-up we are in our heads.

In summary: I'm much more idealistic.