There’s filthy glory in this kneeling And the sense of prayer it gives The worship of each other Taste of him on my lips And I can feel my blossom blooming As its heat spreads on my heels As I take complete charge of him Even though it’s me that kneels. The store-room floor is filthy beneath her dirty, pretty knees. Gritty with the nameless filth of hidden, utile spaces. She glows in the half-dark, her pale skin luminescent, bare neck and shoulders arms and bosom, thighs and feet. She is almost naked, knelt before him, naked apart from a pair of pale-pink knickers of all over floral lace. Daisies in pink, linked petal to petal in a haze of blossom veiling secret spaces, humming with delight. She bends to him, taking the supple leather, its sharp-ridged edges, between her teeth and, hands cupping the swell of his trembling arse begins to unthread his belt.This newest assignation had begun as they so often do, with the faint trill of her – his – message alert. Cecilia had chosen one for him, the sound of water roiling over stones. It reminded her of him in so many ways – the sound of his chuckle – and, yes, the low growls he’d make as he took her, or nuzzled at her breasts or neck – but also the deep-water grey of his eyes, the tiny flecks of green in them, their wildness and depth and relentlessness. Sometimes it was as if he, Renner, engulfed her, carried her off like a torrent. So, that Tuesday, the little ripple against her thigh, the water noise that brought the sudden blush to cheek, the little secret smile, the knicker heat and nipple-knurl: “In Arkham on Thurs. Coffee?” These last few months it has rarely been coffee. She sat at the Library desk and read the message, the little knot of smile playing at the corner of her mouth and thought, wondered, planned. Time to change things up a little, she thought. What had they not yet done? He’d fucked her over several desks – even this very one one late night when he was Duty Manager and the place was empty – and finger-banged her to shaking among a heap of uncatalogued grimoires in the collections room. She’d been picking fragments of leather and hair from her skin and clothes for days after that. He’d even spread her open on his desk and licked and tongue fucked her til she begged for cock. Hmmmm.. Cock. She texted her husband. “Meeting Jack for ‘coffee’ Thursday. ??” The library is busy now, three colleagues around her here in the reception ring, the place full of students and meetings in the conference rooms. Work is constant, and with some regret, she slips the phone back into her dress pocket. Later, she’ll retire to her office and, feet up on her desk, explore herself until inspiration strikes. She feels her flesh moving, sliding against her knickers as the folds fill with blood, the slow slicking between them at the thought. Time to change things up.
This is the first part of a post in the key of filthy, all inspired by the ever-mucky and inspiring Molly and Wriggly Kitty, and their Story in 12 – in this instance the prompt “Filthy”.
Also part of the following batch of lovely kick-offs to your Wanking Week
I take part in the Summer 100 blogging group, which you can visit here:
And, finally a pair of recommendations for other work within that, first off Fairy Cake – A Balancing Act – this is a really powerful piece on polyamory – which seems relevant to Cecilia and her complexities! And secondly Miss Scarlet – Secret Twitter Accounts where Scarlet explores some of the perhaps subliminal motivations behind secret identity and twitter.