Taste of Glory Cecilia undressing in the storeroom

Taste of Glory: Filthy, Part IV.

Cecilia’s wardrobe contains many dresses, many confections, many costumes. Colours, birds, beasts and trees and grasses, sky and sea. All the worlds and characters that she puts on. Some squeeze and primp, while others drift and sweep. Many, most indeed, she made herself. These she prefers for the most part, and knows their power. She’s seen her audience. Seen them watch her pass, seen them marvel at the intimacy of her close-coupled seams, the loving attention in her bodices and hems. Some, she knows, wish that they too could touch her skin with such close and perfect ease. Dressing, for Cecilia, is almost as much fun as taking off.

Cecilia chooses, as an intrinsic part of her plan, a bright yellow sundress of her own design. It has cap sleeves onto a short sweetheart-line bodice that ends just below her bosom from which its pleated skirts spring directly. It holds her breasts firmly, so that their softness shivers and shimmers above the bodice. It makes her feel vaguely Egyptian, and she has made it so well that it requires no bra at all. She wears only the dress, a pair of pink knickers embroidered with overlapping daisies, and roman sandals that climb a little way up her calves.
She revels in this part of the game. She has become two people. Ms Markham, the pleasant but steely Chief of Library, her day filled with budgets and timescales and cohort achievement and staff development and secure storage and the hundred thousand enquiries that filter up to her in her glass walled office with its three telephones and two desks and that sofa that both Renner and Quill have fucked her on, although not at the same time, not yet anyway. And she is also this other woman, the one whose damp knickers cup her neatly and who’s whole body tingles with the thrill of her secret, who is a seething pool of anticipation. Who, even as she answers her telephones coolly and prepares her papers for the hours of meetings yet to come, is imagining a belt-buckle hovering right before her eyes and making a mental note not to forget to palm the key to Welland 309b.
The anticipation stretches, stretches. A long wire tightening, singing with tension, just too high to hear. Until, mid-afternoon — while arguing that, no, it would probably not be a good idea to manage procurement out — it snaps.
Or buzzes, rather. The two-tone water-swirl reserved for Renner, the two-tone hum that the hidden Cecilia Markham feels as a sudden wash of heat across her cheeks and a tiny hook of smile in her right cheek. A flood of warmth from navel to kneecap. He is free. The remainder of the meeting passes in a dull ache of endurance punctuated by occasional electric tingles as she shifts in her seat.


They meet on the defunct basketball court at the back of the equally disused Welland Building. A grey blockhouse of stripped, outdated laboratories and computer centers it sits in disregarded isolation awaiting the munificence of the federal teat. The court is strewn with nameless trash – wood, plastic sheet, polystyrene foam – the flotsam of a clear-out not followed through. Renner – immaculately turned out in dark burnt chocolate, crisp white shirt, Marine Corps tie, is sitting on a stack of old lab worktops, their once proudly polished mahogany dull, silvering with weather under the gaze of the indifferent sky. As Cecilia picks her way across the court, She is soaking, and clenches hard against the long thrust of music that rises through her core, teasing her towards her tipping point. She feels a long, cool drip slide from crease to crease down her thigh, from hip-socket to knee. And he unfolds, stands, and comes towards her, tall and pristine. Cecilia Markham can hardly breathe.
Renner kisses her with fierce reserve and vibrates like a tuning fork under the hand she places on his hip. She cocks her head, looks at him. He speaks gruffly.

“I did as you asked. Three days. It’s been…torture.”

She looks down. He is tented. A straining pole behind the wool. She places her palm on the tip and enfolds him, looking at him from under her lashes.

“Not, not at all?” She asks. “Not even a little bit?”

“Last night,” he said, “I lay in bed and squeezed it for an hour. Like you do, tight at the root. I could hardly close my fingers round it in the end.”


She slides her hand down the wool and he leans in. She’s cupping him here on the basketball court and the tip of it is pressing into her forearm.

“No.” He hisses as she squeezes. “I promised, didn’t I?”

She is delighted, but teasingly says;

“Let’s hope you don’t just go off pop. I’ve got plans, Ren, plans.”

And that she does. She leads the way inside the old Welland Building and they navigate halls strewn with trash and stacked chairs, more mahogany, the walls clean, but marked by the squareish ghosts of long-gone paintings and pictures. She leads him upstairs, trembling, burning at the way his eyes stroke flame from the bare skin of her legs, the shape of her rump under the swinging skirt, wondering if he can see her gusset, full and damp with promises.


Finally they reach her well-planned goal. Welland 309. A long empty space floored in linoleum tile, scarred by former lab benches, their only remnant the pipe ends that rise from the spaces where they stood and a row of porcelain sinks along the far wall. Fume cupboards at the far end. The windows are unusual for Welland’s labs. Not the usual wide plain glass, but mullioned, lancetted, gothic. Renner gives a soft grunt of interest. Walks over, looks out through the leaded glass at the tumbling lawns of the point, the green easy flow of the Miskatonic below.

“Huh.” He says, appreciatively.

“I thought you’d like it,” said Cecilia, pleased.
“It’s part of the old barracks, of about 1895/1910. It was some kind of – mess?” She isn’t sure of the jargon, the secret tongue.

“Wardroom, probably. it’s kind of fancy.” He wanders about a bit. “And they were pretty damned Navy, back in the day.”

Cecilia feels her pulse in her throat, her tingling arms, in the big veins of her legs, and takes out the key to 309b. There’s a door in back, by where the main desk used to be. She opens it and beckons Renner to her. They step within.

“Goddam,” says Renner with feeling.
“They walled up the goddam bar.”

The former bar has been turned into a store-room. All the pumps and bottle-racks and optics and so on are long gone and the room is lined with metal shelving, apart from a single gothic window and a section of bar subsumed by shelving along the inside wall. The floor is crazed and filthy, once black and white tile, the walls behind the shelves a deep and opulent red. Behind the vague sense of old chemicals and cardboard and steel is the faint whisper of brandy, a sweet and rich undercurrent, ghostly in the bright full dark.
The white sky over the river fills the window with a hard radiance, which spills into the dark room and picks out the flat fronts of boxes, the edges of shelves, the deep glow at the heart of the old wood, and the dress, the bright yellow dress and she blazes in it, as if lit from within. She steps to him. Places a hand on his chest. Eases him backward til his hips strike the bar and he stops, reaches for her and she spins away. The dress spins up, up, she is a bright yellow top and she grasps the hem and dances a little. Spins back to him. Comes to rest with her back to him, the splay of her buttocks nudging his again tented trousers.

“There are buttons. There in the back.”

Her voice is husky and thick, dry throated. His fingers are clumsy but he finds the buttons well enough. There are three, covered in the same yellow fabric, a quarter-inch apart in a little stack at the top of her back, between her shoulders. The fabric parts happily, almost with a sigh. She spins away again and grabs the hem pulling the dress up overhead in one swift motion, baring herself to him. In a slow teasing unstrapping she removes her sandals, feeling his eyes flicker on her breasts as they move and swing, along the stretch of calf and inner thigh, resting on the dark shadow under the daisies. She feels the pressure within herself and flexes inwardly. That and the anticipation bring a small fluttered moan, and her mouth waters.
Her feet fall flatly on the grimy floor, their soles building a layer of filth and scratchy grit as she walks to him. He palms a flat square packet, bright red, carefully chosen, it’s contents slick with tingle lube. Thin and stretchy, strong. She remembers well the feel of his fatness between her fingertips as she rolls them on, the slithering stretch as in he goes.
She takes it from him and, kissing him with the vigour that now floods her, says;

“You won’t need that, Jack, not today.”

And she files it carefully between abandoned boxes on the shelf behind him and eases off his jacket, folds it, lays it by, and slowly unbuttons his shirt. She spreads her hands across his torso and slips fingers through his hair, rolls a nipple briefly and, kissing as she goes, descends.
The grit grinds at her knees as she sinks to the floor. As she kneels she settles her backside on her bunched feet, allows a heel to drift off-centre, to press against her. She settles back on her heel and squeezes, watches him through the brief sleet of lights that wash across her vision. Then sets herself to his belt. With leather smells filling her mouth she tugs and pulls away, watching the tiny metal pin spring free, and shortly after zips and tugging so does his cock.
She loves his cock. It is so pretty. Banded brown and pink and lavender, a lightly tapered, curving cylinder. A princess’ prison tower sprung from a thicket of light brown, its cupola glossy, dark and riven, flared and hard. She takes him between her fingertips and slides his skin back. Hot and soft over utter ridgy hardness, like velvet sliding over sculpted steel. She pulls it back until she sees his skin stretch, stretch and pull back on the splaying head. She watches delighted as the clear fluid beads and spills, and takes its first sweet-salt drop upon her tongue. They taste so alike she thinks, although he tastes a little darker, meatier.
She spends some time with it, kissing and licking, nibbling, while her fingers stretch and tug and squeeze. Her fingertips don’t meet across its full fat width and she cannot hide it with both fists. with both fists pressing back she can just touch the very tip with the ball of her extended thumb. She does this for a while, and pumps him a little longer. Her hands are slick with his arousal and the air full of his musk and salt, the open shore-line smell of him. She drinks him in, lapping at his wetness like a cat, while grinding down on her heel and making tiny noises while the music builds.
And somehow all at once too soon and yet so long-awaited she can feel his crescendo build, the tremble up his hamstring and a new urgent rhythm to his straining pulse. She settles herself and taking a buttock in each firm hand takes him in her mouth. All the way in one long stroke. He fills her mouth. Completely. From her teeth and lips and nose buried in his musky hair to the top inch of her throat. She feels a gag begin to build and bobs back a little, times her breathing and the movements of her head and feels her mouth fill with saliva, the flavours mingling and filling every breath. A full olfactory glory, this: stretching mouthfeel, taste of hot salt, musk.
She feels his fingers in her hair, strong grasp on her skull and he holds her steady as he begins to fuck her mouth, speaks at last.

“Look up. Look at me.” She does. “Look at me while I fuck you. God your fucking filthy mouth, so hot, just you. And. Me. Love watching my bare. Cock. Slam. Into you…want to fill you with me. Fuck, fuck, ohh fuck..”

And he bends her head back a little and she stares into his hungry eyes, the wrinkled lip, the sneer of curled command. He’s drooling too, just as she is, her pre-spunk mingled saliva spills in threads and loops, long glossy threads on her bare breasts, her nipples. She grabs harder at his arse, riding out the gag, eyes watering freely as he fucks her. And she can feel the pressure of his thrusts returned by the pressure against her heel, the same rhythm as he drives her back, she is full of cock and lust and music and the drips fall on the filthy floor, a paste around her sliding grinding knees. And then he comes.

She feels it in the iron clench of arse under her grip, and the tightness in his balls against her face and in the swell, the sudden extra fattening as his cock curls further and in the sudden spring that trembles in his legs as he clenches. And she pulls her head back and his arched cock twitches, the eye stretching before her and she is catching the flow of it, three hard spasms on cheek and chin and lip and her mouth fills with his hot saltiness, sour as liquorice and he keeps coming in long streams of heat and she feels it spill, hot flow around her neck and on her breasts and between them and down her belly and soaking into the waistband of her knickers. She is drenched in him, eyes watering, mouth full of salt which she swallows and dribbles and she sits back thrusting hard down on her heel and gazes at her glazed self, the wet gloss punctuated here and there, on nipple and breast and belly by the jewelled fragments of thicker jelly, glimmering in the half-light. And she lets out a long, shuddering groan and hangs her head back, hands on her ankles, and lets the air cool her, and grinds on her heel and pants and pants and pants.

A voice interrupts her from somewhere far away.

“Come now, Cecilia,”

And a cool kiss is falling on an eyebrow and a firm hand is under her left eyebrow and she steps back into the real from wherever she’s been, and Renner is shirtless, standing over her, helping her up. He picks her up gently and her head falls on his shoulder, her loose legs half grasping him and he puts her on the bar. He frowns briefly as she lands with a clunk, but kisses her forehead.

“Come on, Marx, let’s get you cleaned up.”

He takes his pristine white shirt, and using the tail of it, and starting with her cheeks and chin, and by gentle, easy degrees, wipes each breast and her cleavage her belly and thighs and he kisses her gently and strokes her hair and makes loving noises and she purrs like a cat and then, she moves again, and there is that clunk. A clunk and a scrape, and he looks at her, eyebrow a hook and he touches her knickers and strokes and she mewls and then he finds the flat oval of glass, where it rests in the gusset of her soaking pink daisies and he looks at her laughing and with a twist of his hand he reaches beneath.
He gasps at the heat of her and the feel in the wet of the slick ribbed glass shaft where it rests in her cunt and she flinches and bucks at his confident thumb and draws blood from his ear as she finally, happily, noisily comes.


Later on legs that feel like those of a colt, all wobble and lightness and the sense she might at any moment, float, the recoiffed and primped and scrubbed clean Chief of Library is leaning on the counter of the Reception Ring and a colleague looks at her scuffed and red knees and asks:

“Have you fallen?”

And Cecilia smiles and without conscious thought replies:

“You know.. I think maybe, I have.”


Part the fourth of “Filthy” read the other parts here:




A (late) entry into Masturbation Monday – catch up with the other one-handed reads here:

Masturbation Monday

7 thoughts on “Taste of Glory: Filthy, Part IV.

  1. Posy Churchgate says:

    This was beautiful Quill but occasionally too oblique for me to get anything more than a general impression what was happening. It was like a patchwork of sexy though – no denying that!

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