Welcome to my new short story series, Ella’s Fantasy Friday!
I took a stroll through my catalogue of erotica recently, and do you know what I discovered? Out of the hundred plus stories I’ve penned in the past two and a half years, only a handful touch on my personal fantasies and kinks.
That got me thinking about the stuff I have locked away in my head that turns me on. About the places my mind goes during masturbation and, sometimes, during sex. I soon realised that many of my turn-ons would probably be considered controversial. Unfeminist. Damaging. And I also noticed how each of the fantasies in my head tint the colour of my fiction, the impact they have on character dialogue and dynamics.
In a bid to offer you, my lovely readers, an insight into what goes on my head (should you want it) I’ve decided to write about my sexual fantasies. I’m not gonna analyse them here for two reasons: Continue reading “Ella’s Fantasy Friday: The Pole”
I haven’t followed the Wicked Wednesday prompt this week cos it’s true story time! Aside from reviews, I don’t think I’ve ever let you into my sex life, lovely readers, and I think it’s about time I changed that. So, here we go…
Holy fuck, I’ll be in for it when we get home, I can feel it in my bones.
How do I know? His sudden silence.
He’d been talkative when we left the shopping precinct, nattering away as he grabbed my bags so that I could use the cash machine. We’d reached the car and he’d stuffed a few over-filled tote bags in the boot, and was cheerful and smiling, right up until the moment I playfully smacked his butt as he opened the passenger door for me. Continue reading “A Surprise Attack”
Goddam Bella fucking Rossi.
Of all the people who could have taken over the family business when the old man kicked the bucket, it had to be her. The troublemaking, money-grubbing, self-serving bitch. Everyone knew she was only screwing him to get her feet under the table. We all knew she was just using him. Everyone but the old man, that is. And now, thanks to that old fart thinking with his dick, she’s out from under the fucking table and lording it above us all.
Any other day, the whirring of this ceiling fan above me would be soothing. I’m a fan of those things. I lounge beneath the one in my room at home, dosing off, lulled into a false sense of serenity by the humming and the gentle breeze. But not this day. No, today the breeze is too gentle to cut through the blanket of heat this hellish summer has thrown at me, and the humming is more of an irritant than anything else. Continue reading “Cut-Throat”
I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel right now. I mean, I’m the one who wanted this. I organised it. Orchestrated it. Carefully arranged every last detail from the level of lighting above us right down to the colour of the sheets on the now dishevelled bed. I chose where to put the chair I’m sitting in, where to place the condoms and lube. Everything in the room is exactly as I envisioned it would be.
But in my head? In there it’s a fucking car crash. I’m locked in a silent, internal war with so many different factions in play I can’t tell which will take the victory. Will it be lust? Pride? Or will jealousy win the battle? It would seem that I’ve prepared everything except for myself. Continue reading “The Capricious Cuck”
Image used with permission of Marie Rebelle.
**CW: contains verbal abuse and references to self-harm**
I’m so confused. Was I clear about what I want when I booked this appointment? I’m sure I was. I’m certain that I explained the type of woman I need. But now that I’m here, looking at her, I’m not sure I was understood.
She’s on the floor with her back to me in a position I’m used to assuming myself. On her knees with her soft ass cheeks resting just above her ankles. Arms pulled around in front of her, hands no doubt clasped demurely in her lap. Continue reading “Picking At Old Wounds”
Oh. My. God!
I can’t believe I’m actually standing in a lift with… no, it can’t be. I must be mistaken. Kidding myself. Dreaming even. I mean, what would he be doing here? Heading for the second floor of a bloody Travel Lodge? This guy must be a lookalike, an imposter, he can’t really be…
But he looks so much like him! The all-black ensemble is so on point it’s almost scary. Old band t-shirt stretched over hard muscle. Tight jeans, heavy with silver chains and trimmed by a tarnished belt buckle, the rubies in the skull’s eyes glowing when they catch the light. Leather boots, chunky, unlaced and showing flashes of uncharacteristically colourful socks.
And the famous bandana and shades combo! Continue reading “His Spitting Image”
A black velvet painting sprung to elegant life
Like a poignant Madonna perverted to night
And I have ridden from the westering light
To expend my lust
Verse from “Dusk and Her Embrace” from the album “Dusk…and Her Embrace” by Cradle of Filth
As the last light of day finally bleeds from the sky, Reign emerges tall and silent from beneath a weeping willow in the Church of St Mary Magdalene graveyard. He tightens his fist around the picture in his hand, feeling the crumpled canvas become wet from the cuts his sharp nails open the skin of his palm. His nose is pinched, his lips thinned, and his eyebrows are drawn together in his irritation. These mausoleum doors should be open. She should have made it so. She should understand what it is to make someone like him wait. Continue reading “I Will Reign”
This is an erotic story written in Geordie by a Geordie. I know, it’s painful to read, but with a Kink of the Week prompt like Accents, Languages, Voices (and after reading a fab short by May Moore), I couldn’t resist penning a stereotypical piece (mostly) in my own tongue. Please don’t ask for translations cos proper English will show this up for the heap of trash that it is. Enjoy 😀
Geordie’s got his dick oot. He’s owwer by the bar, leanin’ back against the brass rail wiv it in his hand. The joint is heavin’ but he gives nee fucks. Standin’ there, pointin’ it at us. Any uvver nite I’d have been ragin’. The fuckin’ cheek ov him, lobbin’ it oot in the middle ov the toon, doin’ a daft monkey face and grabbin’ his bollocks as if he finks the sight ov him jigglin’ his liggies aroond in tha auld leather bag is gunna help him score. Continue reading “Angel of the North”
Mavi isn’t famous. She wanted to be. The driving force behind her relocation from the country to the capital forty-odd years ago was the dream of A-list stardom. She got her foot on the first rung of the celebrity ladder, with a few TV adverts propelling her to Z-list status, but that’s where she stayed. Even so, she sees herself as one of the lucky ones. Nobody ever tried to take advantage of her, and though it should be a given that it shouldn’t ever happen to anyone, she still considers it an achievement.
We’re going out tonight. I’m already dressed and waiting for her. As she pulls a paddle brush through her thick tresses I have to stifle a smile. It’s a novelty to see the spiky little thing being used for its actual purpose for once. Watching the long strokes of her arm taking the bristles from root to end, I notice the flashes of silver. Continue reading “Once and Future Beauty”
I’m breathing hard as I follow Cam and Jean up a short run of stone steps. They’re already at the top waiting for me, but I don’t hurry. The longer it takes me to enter this massive building the better. They whoop and cajole but I pay them no mind. I’ll get there when I get there. Continue reading “Agalma”