collection of stories you shouldn't read at work
Hello – I recently wrote an erotic novella. It’s a sensual character and details-driven story. It is long – and I hope you enjoy it. I wrote It for someone who encouraged me to bring everyone to life, to love the people I’d created and to let them play in a vibrant, real world.
If you do read it please do drop me a message as I love feedback.
[Full story here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/11CH9Gq5nPVWbcy3Fat2hE3R3EqRFnl3eNgU-Le8mGQA/edit)
I posted for an anonymous lunchtime hookup a while ago. I ended up spending a day in a hotel room with many hours of rough, kinky sex with tons of cuddles and aftercare.
If you’ve been inspired by this I’d love to hear from you. Drop me a line. I’m in London in a hotel on 1 Aug if anyone is seeking similar…
**The taxi ride**
He stood at the edge of the station concourse, leaning against an information board. Six feet tall, thick dark hair, sunglasses, trim beard, jeans and a tee on a sunny day. He was outwardly cool, calm, but inwardly fizzing with adrenaline, nerves. He thought of the hotel room he had checked into: the made bed, the double shower, the sofa, all so pristine. Then He saw her at the barriers, recognised her from the video calls. Shorter than him, chin-length red hair, a low-cut summer dress leaving nothing to the imagination. He couldn’t see it but knew she had the underwear on he’d chosen for her the night before.
He’d planned to wait, but he walked forwards to meet her. Hello – then a kiss. That was what they’d agreed. They had both agreed they had to break the ice, fast.
We had a thing, he and I. We were – on paper – not the most obvious match. Me: tall, dark, bearded, professional, deeply male, almost forty. You: nearly twenty years younger, a beautiful boi, short hair, tiny cock, gorgeous pussy. We found each other on the Internet – that’s how life is – and it just got more intense from there. He wanted more and I happily gave it; he helped me understand what it meant to be a dominant and a good daddy and I helped him find new corners of submission. It was a deal that worked.
It was dusk. That was when he was alone in his apartment. When all the others were out. The door was never unlocked when he knew I was coming. It was part of the deal, part of the agreement that he was mine and I could come and have him.
I walked in and closed the door behind me. I knew he’d be waiting in his room. It was where he was. He was in the last ray of sunlight from the window, a golden orange. He wore a mesh top over his bra, a pair of combat trousers. His hair was as short as always, those big round glasses on his nose. The way he looked at me. Ugh, over the glasses, up at me. That look of fear, and lust as he ground his ass and hips back at the wall.
The darkness of the bar was carved out in slashes of neon, scrapes of sodium, mad flares of Curaçao blue. It felt warm there, cosy and safe among the hum of bodies, the smeary blooms of light.
We were on bar stools, he and I. It was a second date. The first had been before the *events* of 2020. A lifetime away. A universe away. A distance spanned by a Scheherazade’s library of longing words and blushingly filthy pictures.
Enough time had passed for me to get over the embarrassment of how needy I had been, how readily I offered him my body. It felt like a dream rather than a memory before, that last cold February night, back then with the cocktails in my veins as I looked over my shoulder and asked him to take me from behind. He had, oh fuck he had. He came quickly but whispered filth into my ear until he was hard again and then…and then a blur of begging, of mewling, of hot bodies, of his thick cock inside me. I burned for it, for him, to forget this shitty crumbling world and to turn to ash in the stellar blaze of lust.
Rebecca dressed up for it; as if he was someone worth dressing up for.
A pink and white thong and bra set that hugged close to her thin body and tiny bust. A blue dress with a short pleated skirt, a matching cardigan in cashmere. It hugged her shoulders and the neck of the dress was low enough to show off her clavicle. Black pumps. Real pearls, no fakes.
She looked at herself in the mirror, ran her hand through her pixie cut, freshly bleached silver. She looked good. Like she was going for an interview at a law firm, or off for tea at an expensive hotel. It was the outfit of someone who was going to marry a banker or lawyer or high-flying civil servant. Not someone who was going to do what she had planned. She looked at her phone.
*2oclock sheffield rd social centre round the back*
That was what the message said. There were other messages above it that made her blush to review them. When she had told him what she wanted, what she needed. And he had told her what he was going to do. She was trembling a little. The adrenaline was coursing hard. She applied a little perfume. Finished her makeup, caught her reflection: she looked wide-eyed, startled, afraid, horny.
*The following is a transcript of a document found in the attic of a house in St Mawes, Cornwall. The house was bought in an auction after the owner died without a will or living relatives. Nothing is known about the author bar his name – Charles Trelewick – and his date of birth (1945) and his date of death (2018). The original was typewritten. It is reproduced here in full, in several sections given its length, with editorial marks where water damage caused small sections to be unreadable.*
——— Transcript Part 1 Begins ———
**Note from the author**
In the mid-1960s I hitch-hiked across the British Isles, young and without responsibilities. From Dover to Cornwall, through Wales and Cumbria through the Highlands and Islands and fens I travelled. The one photograph I still have – from before the events I am about to retell – show me a good looking young man, tan and taut, in my boots and shorts, my backpack with its straps over my shoulder, my scruffy hair and a day of stubble.
Bryony and I got to know each other because our sons were in the same class at school. She was fun, energetic. A deep brunette with a sharp-cut fringe, huge eyes and a big smile. She was a bit of a hippy; she could afford to be as her husband did something incomprehensible that paid well. We’d go for a drink now and then with a bunch of like minded mums, drink wine, talk kids and politics and steer politely clear of the subject of husbands.
It was winter and we’d arranged to go to Bryony’s place, a big terraced house near the town centre. It was nice. There were candles, there was wine – a lot of wine. Gradually the others left until it was just the two of us.
We were in the sitting room, Bryony at one end of a sofa, her legs tucked under her, me sitting on the floor on a tasseled rug, leaning back against the sofa arm. We were in a pool of light from a standard lamp. Fairy lights twirled around the open bannister to one side, a wood burner kicked out a faint glow and a pleasant fug. I stretched my legs out.
In the depths of lockdown Melanie and I went for a walk in the woods. It was an old forest, dense with beech and oak, broken by darker stands of pine. We wore the usual outdoors sorts of things – boots, jeans, rain jackets. Mel had her long blonde hair in a loose plait that hung over her shoulder. I had my short purple hair under a beanie.
We walked without speaking to one another. I liked that. We were comfortable in each other’s company; no need to fill the space, no need to exchange words to seek confirmation that we were wanted. I knew I was wanted. We crunched through leaves, over mulch. Early spring birds sang a few tentative bars of song, stifled into silence, embarrassed when no other birds joined them.
Mel kissed me against a trunk, her hands going under my jacket to take my waist, my shoulders. I kissed her back, startled by her passion. It came on like a cloudburst, Mel’s lust. Drought to drench. But I was grateful for it and kissed her back, my hands on her belt already. This was a story I knew and I wanted to hear it again.
The dawn came slowly, softly. Though the duvet was heavy my nose was cold. I stretched as I woke and felt Kate beside me. I reached out and snuggled close to her, feeling her slender limbs, the smoothness of her skin.
Her eyes opened slowly and she looked at me through the hair that fell across her face. She smiled and I kissed her shoulder, reached over to cup her breast. I loved her breasts. They were small and soft and under her t-shirt I felt her nipple harden beneath my palm. She moaned a little and I moved my hand and kissed her neck.
Kate stretched and I felt our legs tangle a little. I had pyjama bottoms on, she just had a pair of panties. I stroked her belly and began to stroke between her legs.
She moaned again quietly and we kissed as my hand stroked over her mound, as she opened her thighs a little as my hand moved down. I raised myself on my elbow to kiss her better and I felt her palm on my belly, my ribs. My breast. She pulled slowly on my soft nipple until it was hard, until I said her name quietly.
*Twas the night before Christmas and I made a prayer, that the baby I wanted soon would be there…*
The snow fell heavy outside as I got into bed on Christmas Eve. The hot water bottle in its furry cover was clutched tight against me. It, my silk shortie pyjamas and the fresh cotton sheets made the bed an oasis of comfort. But I wasn’t happy. I wanted a baby. It was all I could think of. I saw other mothers and felt so jealous. So I made my impossible prayer and in the softness of the night fell asleep.
I was woken by a bump on the roof and the jingling of bells. I snuggled deeper into the pillow. A dream. Must be a dream. Then the sound of a stamping hoof, the snort of an animal’s breath. My eyes snapped open. No dream, this. I heard boots walking towards the crest of the roof. Could it be? Was it possible? I sat up in bed, the duvet clutched to my chin. I turned on the sidelight and stared across the room at the fireplace with the holly along the mantle.