Sex Magick

This was written at the end of last year, but I never quite got the image right. I’m still not 100% happy with it – the image I hasten to add, not it’s subject – who is as deliriously toothsome as ever. Enjoy the gallop to midnight.

She’d left a little earlier, to change for our gig, and I waited quietly by the dark and curtained door. There was very little light in the billiard room, just three old fashioned downlights which lit the baize of the table, and here and there the tiny coals of our hostess’ subtle incense. All the room’s many windows were tightly draped and, had they not been, there would have been only the starlight up here above Whitby in the dark of the moon.

    The atmosphere was warm, expectant, happy. Nevertheless, the guests were like celebrants in church. Low voices. The rustle of clothing. All stood around the edge of the room, staying out of the light, the uncovered parts of their faces dim in the shadows, light only falling on their immaculate shoes.
    We were at the end, the crescendo, of a dinner party. One among hundreds of thousands on this night of the year. In common with many, the guests were dressed up. Black tie, and many a black gown, the paler colours mere hints in the dark. There was, however, a big difference about this party, and she was about to return.
    I heard her tread on the stair outside. The whisper of nails on the door. Behind the curtain I found her. She had been a flower in the bright dining room. A flame in fuchsia and elaborate necklaces, lit with glee, and not a little champagne. Now she was a dark thing, silent. Purposeful. She handed me the end of her leash and led me towards the table, above which the dull bulbs swelled to full light.
    She wore a black velvet dress buttoned right up the back. It fit her with sinful attention to detail. Above the wide neckline, her skin looked like milk. Bare shoulders. Bare arms. Her throat was encased in a wide leather band from collarbone to nape. Bright jewels sparkled in her ears. As she glanced back I caught a glimpse of scarlet on her stern lips. A hush fell.
    She stepped right up to the table, the edge of it pressing into her hips, and she straightened, allowed the light to caress her, and her midnight sheath. Her white skin. Her shape. I came up behind her. I could feel the shape of her somehow in the beat of my blood. I began to uncurl.
    I unbuttoned her dress. All seventy-two close-coupled black buttons, and one at a time, the dress bloomed like a flower.
    It parted and fell, revealing her slowly, and as it did so, I could hear swallows and murmurs and movement, away in the dark. I watched as I exposed her shoulder blades, spine. The flat plain at its base. The slow magic of her spreading hips, the swell of her glutes. I couldn’t see, but I knew from her breath that she was touching her breasts. She makes little cat-noises, little growls and snarls. I bent further to my task, easing the dress to the cusp of her thighs. Finally, it fell like water to spread on the floor. She was pulling hard on her nipples now, grunting deep in her throat. Almost pulling herself up with them, stretching her legs. Up on tiptoe.
    I touched her skin, and we both flinched and shivered. I touched the base of her back, fingertips settling into well-mapped spaces, well-known dimples. I pushed her forward, pressed the hinge of her tight to the table. The fold through hip bone and mons. I knew her muff was now pressed on the curved edge, knew that the dark stripe of hair would be parting. Could smell her as she split, hot and damp against the polished wood.
    I wedged her in place with my thigh, pushing her legs a little apart, so her toes barely rested on the carpet. Grabbed handfuls of the leash and pushed her down till her red and sore nipples scuffed hard on the baize. The groan that she gave then brought gusts of delight from the crowd, and the fullness of blood to my now aching cock. She muttered some kind of invective as I stroked her backside.
    Wide slow circles, winding inward and away, faster and faster while her skin grew red and hot. I pulled the folded strop from the back of my trousers and dragged it fast over her rump, leaving a thin white mark among the blooming red. She squeaked, and her thrashing began in earnest.
    For all her sang-froid, she was quickly undone. Flinching and twitching and squeaking and yelping, she moved, both fleeing and raising herself higher for more. I was merciless and hard, an orchestra of arousal from my knees to my navel. She kicked her legs prettily and squirmed and rubbed against the table and tugged and bit at the baize. I gave her the leash to bite on as I turned her arse and her thighs red.
    Around us was movement. A choosing. Partnerings negotiated.
    Some old, some new, none conjugal. A dance of thrills and eye contact. Hands clasped, agreements made.
    Around us the sounds of clothing discarded and kisses and guttural delight. Two by two they came to the table, and one by one they bent.
    Mine hauled on her leash and I looked down. One eye glared back over snarling teeth on the leash. Her lipstick was smeared with drool and her lip raised in an eager growl. She dragged on it again. Dragged me to her. Hands snatched at my trousers, pulled me free. Tugging squeezing pulling. I watched as she hitched up her arse and spread herself wide and, parting her lips with eager fingers, laid me to her. Her heat seared me as I slowly squeezed in. She howled and grabbed handfuls of baize, while around her our companions followed our lead.
    It was a beautiful thing. A table of jewels, I thought. All tones of body, and skin. All colours of hair. Soft, firm, hard. Pale to ebony. Blonde to black, green and blue. All the pairings. Cocks bobbing happily, weather male or not, silicon or not. Jolly and ready and rigid. All the holes, too. Ladies, gentlemen and non-binary folks all teasing the New Year midnight down, all moving together, all loving together.
    Around the table drifting hands found others and kisses were exchanged. I watched as she kissed her neighbour, the two of them tangled in the other woman’s wild pink hair. I watched as pale freckled hands grabbed this new woman’s hips, watched the dragon tattoo bunch and stretch as she took his peeled, impressive cock.
    All around us the same dance, the same rhythms, and our slow matches building until, hand in hand, mouth to mouth, we were fucking each other as a hive mind, coupled around the table in a mad, hot, wheel.
    Our hostess walked around us, clad in only a Basque and leading her chosen by the tip of his cock. She was lightly spanking here, and squeezing there, whispering and encouraging, bringing us together, to the crescendo.
    I hadn’t thought it would work, beyond the hotness of it all, but it was that heat which saved us and drew us together. The joining. All awash with bright heat, almost numb, edges lost. The frantic upbeat swing as our hostess slid home her own bright pink instrument and, pegging her man and pumping his cock, counted us down.
    My lover began to move faster and faster, her cunt driving back onto me, one knee on the table, rubbing us both on the edge of it, one hand in the pink woman’s hair as they tongued and bit at each other, until on the last stroke of the countdown, she ground herself into the wood, where her crux met its apex, ground us together and, with a sneering grunt, came. The pressure on the table edge squeezed at my cock and, lost in that mad whirl I felt it rise and pitch, the pressure filling me utterly, blood leaving my brain as her come-tightening cunt held me shut and bursting like a thumb on a cork.
    And then she shuddered, and I burst. And all around us the couples burst, and screamed and swore and came. Thirty-eight orgasms all within seconds of each other, thirty-eight bodies sprawled on the ruined baize, blinking and gasping and twitching like fish. And laughing like idiots, as happy and empty as the lights that gazed down.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

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