Monday, 25 September 2017

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a filthy excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's excerpt is from my short story, Wet, which appeared in I is for Indecent - an anthology of taboo erotica. You have been warned...

We made it across the final road to the block concealing the multi-storey car park. There were stairs up to the entrance and a wheelchair ramp and both looked equally impassable to me. I stopped.
‘I not sure I’m going to make it.’

Terry turned to face me and pushed his hand between my legs to take a firm grip, making me moan with equal parts shock and gratitude.

‘Get a room,’ suggested a passer-by cheerily but Terry ignored him.

‘Hold it in,’ he ordered, rubbing my clit. ‘You’re going to get there. Just hold it in.’

Gasping, I nodded. My cheeks were flaming. At any other time it would have been with excitement at his daring.

‘Do you want me to carry you?’

I shook my head and saw he understood; one squeeze and it would all be over.

‘Okay.’ He coaxed me up the stairs one at a time, holding tight to my hand, and we passed into the ground-floor interior of the building. This was a shopping arcade too, but a cheaper one. The stores sold tupperware and greetings cards and food you had to weigh out of tubs and everything-for-£1. They were shuttered but the concourse remained open all night because people were parked upstairs. They drifted through on their way back from pubs and restaurants and cinemas. It wasn’t the sort of place I’d want to be on my own in the small hours.

‘Oh God,’ I whimpered under my breath.

‘I’ll go check the toilets are open.’ Terry dropped my hand and trotted off before I could think to protest. I shuffled forward like a shopping-mall zombie, my thighs clenched and both fists balled at my hips. I felt like I had a fever; I was flushed with heat but plumes of chill kept washing up my spine. The shop fronts and the few passers-by were a blur at the periphery of my vision.

Then came the first little sensation of warmth and I realised I was leaking. I stopped, legs pressed together as if I could hold my urethra closed by brute force, unable to take another step, utterly frantic. There were beads of sweat on my upper lip. ‘Terry!’ I whimpered like a little lost girl.

And there he was, hurrying back to me, his face alight; nodding.

‘Help me,’ I begged him, writhing: ‘Oh please, Terry.’ Then my muscles finally gave way before the inevitable and suddenly there was hot wetness all down my legs and I was pissing as I stood there on the tiled floor. The relief was indescribable, the agony transformed in a second into bliss, but the shame was indescribable too. Tears ran down my face. I was shaking. Some part of me thought to try and save my new shoes so I opened my legs and let my water flood out. Other people were staring at me but I could hardly tell. I had eyes only for Terry who’d stopped a few paces off, transfixed. His pale eyes were wide like he’d never blink again as he watched me pee, staring at my crotch and my spread legs and the pool growing between my feet. I couldn’t look down at myself but I could see his face, his expression of horror and awe.

Slowly, after an interminable period over which I had no control, the soft splashing grew still. I was empty. I shut my eyes. I felt Terry take my hands in his.

‘Come on love,’ he whispered. And he led me away in my wet knickers and stockings. He took me to the enclosed concrete stairwell that we’d descended earlier in the evening. I felt light-headed, almost drunk, with release. I thought we were going up to the car but he pulled me into the short corridor beneath the stairs, his grip on my wrist so tight it was uncomfortable. He pulled up my spattered skirt. ‘Get these off.’

His hands tugged at my panties. Shuddering, I let him draw them down over my bum and my thighs and then I pulled the horrible reeking things off in a twisted wet knot. Terry flung them aside, then shoved me up against the cement wall. He was breathing hard.

‘Dirty girl,’ he breathed. He grabbed my hand hard and forced it against his crotch, letting me find out for myself that he was so erect that he was nudging out of the waistband of his trousers. Shaken and reeling, I was in no shape to do anything about it. He had to release it himself, with desperate clumsy movements. I stared aghast into his face; it was set and feral and almost unrecognisable. Then he pressed me back against the cold wall and hoiked up my skirt even higher, pushing my feet apart with his own. His hand groped for my sex. It found pubic hair in wet ringlets and, deeper in, a hotter more viscid wetness that’d been in readiness for hours. Where his fingers went the blunt head of his cock followed, and without ceremony he was suddenly inside me, nailing me to the wall.

Anyone could have come in and found us. Anyone could have glanced over the railings and watched.

‘Dirty girl!’ he repeated with a groan, his backside plunging under my hands. My wet hold-up stockings embraced his thighs. ‘What do you think you are? Wetting yourself in public!’

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