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  1. This flat I'm in, today, is mine. This morning, finally, I dared. All of the bits, all that I've learned. Watched. Seen in others. Wondered.

    The woman in the grand's worth of designer clothes is sitting in my own little haven. Where people take their shoes off at the door. Her shoes are not off. Neither are her mate's. I'm still naked in front of them, in my shackles. They understand how hard it is for me, but they need it to be.

    I'm on my own floor. Way too few rugs for this. There's no cum on it, but there will be. It's just shiny, and clean, and lovingly varnished. Joined the other one, though, and lost its virginity. It happened the moment I opened the door, cautious, but invited them in... No, actually. The first time that Jag ever turned up, visiting, and I passed her on the stairs. That's when it really happened. She looked, and she knew. Until she knocked, though, I never knew she was coming. But she knew I would be.

    The mate. What is she, actually? Half bitch, half minder? She gets up, goes over to my dresser. My woven Persian mat absorbs her harsh, echoey footsteps, for some of the journey. But not for much of it. I wish she wouldn't.

    Maybe some final lies.

    She watches me, as she fingers my special ornaments. Fuck, she's good. She's getting warmer. Getting warmer. She picks on that shepherdess. Takes it in her hand. Brings it over towards the devil, in Prada? I know exactly what she is going to do. I watch it fall, slow motion. All the little bits, flying everywhere, after it hits the polished pine. She turns, to see how that was for me. A shard crunches under her foot. She spots some other stray pieces, kicks them bit by bit back towards where most of it still is. I want to cry forever.

    She yanks on my invisible chains. I crawl towards the smashed remains, in their collective little area. My untended flock. She looks at me, telling me, without words. I roll over, like a dog. More shards crunch, and something's cutting into my back. Prada woman stands, and her pretty mean assistant takes her hand. Prada woman steps up. Oh, God, that hurts. From front and back. But somehow I know I have to be quiet. If I get this wrong, she'll piss all over me. And leave.

    Good girl. She says. And kicks them off. Well, not exactly kicks. Like I was just some ordinary carpet, digging her heels into my skin to stop them moving, as she pulls each foot out. They drop off me. She presses her bare foot to my lips. I kiss, like I've never kissed before. One day, maybe I'll be her. But not today.

    Her jacket is off. The trousers fall. Onto me, and then off. Then she's off me, too. The chains are just tissue. But they are so, so strong.

    Roll over, she says. With just a touch of her toes. And then back. She's naked, now. She's lying, where I was lying before. On those little, sharp.... they cut me, and now they are bound to be cutting her.

    I'm on my knees, crawling to her feet. I know I have to start at her feet. The other bitch is back in a chair. Another one, on a phone. Seen it all before.

    I start to kiss, and she kicks out at me. I can taste blood. More blood. I try again. She does it again, harder. Maybe I'm getting this wrong.

    But I know I'm not. Third time, fourth time, the same. Except harder. Five, and I'm allowed.

    I kiss, and I lick, and I like. From her toes, up her shins. Every inch, careful, worship. All the way to Eden. She is so, so ready. I take my first taster. Something sharp in my back. I thought it was her nails, but I realise it isn't. Some piece of porcelain. My shepherdess. Between her fingers and thumb.

    She's carving her pleasure into my back. I'm ready too, now. More than ready. I work her harder, and the pain is more. Tiny circles... it feels like.

    Somehow, I know this will be my only ever time with her. Because when she's finished they'll be nothing left.

    No pride. No skin. Just pain. Immeasurable pain. Pouring out, between our legs.
    Mittimer likes this.
  2. The other morning I’m in this very familiar place, just after dawn. Don’t ask. I see these two girls on their way home. They don’t look like they’re shot. But not like they’ve slept, either. They look like they’ve only just dressed, again, and the outfits are cool. No, not cool. The opposite. Lotta leather, lotta hints of flesh. They’re not on the way to work. Almost like vamps, who have found they can keep going into the sunlight. I wish, I wish. We could find some dark little corner. It could have been two guys. It wasn’t. Right now, pretty much anything will set me off. I didn’t quite know it would happen this way. Maybe the guy who wanted someone to step on his beloved England team might still find the odd crumb. Or maybe he could get his wish at a Bjork concert. In Rejkjavik.

    To be honest, I really hope so. He’s a great fuck. He’s even given a few pairs of my peep-toes a pretty good seeing to. Thing is, hun - do it in front of me. Do it as a proper tribute. I’d wear them just the same. All over my tights. I could stand in them, and get fucked by some other guy? Which I probably did.

    Football. Cowboy boot girl would just grab the remote off him and turn it over. Even while they were all lining up, for a live game. He goes to get another beer, and comes back and she’s watching Eastenders. Playing with her phone again, more’s the truth, while Eastenders plays out in the background. Some bit of moving wallpaper. Maybe after 10 minutes she’d get bored with that, and piss off upstairs. This time, I’ll follow. Her turn, to be down below - I think!. She has serious boots on. Right to the thigh. Ripped jeans, almost completely hidden by the boots, and an old top which shows plenty. A lot of people would imagine boots like that along with PVC, and a whip, and all sorts. Clean, shiny. Nothing about her is clean and shiny. She’s a dirty bitch. Her dirty bitch tongue goes dirty bitch places. Don’t like to think it could ever be too dry, when there’s so much fun to be had… She’s never the hardest worker. Could do better. Try harder. But I don’t care. We choose his bed, not hers. She don’t undress, and neither do I. I have this short little skirt, denim, no knicks. Wedges, but no chance of a wedgie. Probably ok, the shoes, though there's sometimes a few mucky pups round our way. If I’d had the knicks I’d have waited a bit before taking them off, soaked them a bit, then left them on his bed after. Like she would have, but she’d have done it by accident.

    That outfit is like something she’s just thrown on, like she got up and just picked up the first things from the piles on the floor. It looks like that, because that’s how it is. She’d go down Tesco in well worn four inch heel thigh highs and ripped jeans and some old top Or meet some guy for coffee.

    She gets plenty of offers. Shove her phone up her pussy, stick it on vibrate. She’d be set.

    So he’s down there trying to watch his game, and we’re up on his bed making a fucking royal mess of it, and of each other, and it creaks and I’m moaning even louder than usual. I’m on her face and loving it and then I pull away… I’m standing now, my back against his wall, my purple painted toes, in my mucky puppy, strappy shoes, almost lost in his pillows, either side of her surprised looking face, her eyes almost angry… but she turns. Moves round, so now she’s kneeling. And her tongue is back where it specially ought to be. Shit, that’s so good. Leaking, leaking. Into where she can taste it. More, and then more, and then… OOOOOh, shiiit!

    I grab her fucking hair. Pull her up. Face to face. My lips to hers, my hands tight on her ass. Digging my fingernails in. I turn her round. Her back to the wall now. If I had a cock she’d be in so much trouble. I’d go all the way in, right up. I’d cum so fucking hard. It would be pissing out everywhere. I’d bore straight through the jeans… My lips are so hard against hers it hurts... Her head’s against his wall.

    Oh God, with her almost more than with anyone else. Sport. On telly. Jesus. That’s why I just had her, myself.

    But this bit isn’t so much about her. Because my mind’s gone rampant. All those things you see, and think about, and never say.

    She’s someone's mum, some pussywhipped fucker, with a blue badge in her Jag. Also someone else’s. She sits on one chair, and her mate sits on another. Mum has really wide cut trousers and Prada heels. I don’t actually know that they are Prada. But I know that her mate’s are not. Her mate’s are just very, very thin, and getting thinner, all the way down to the tip. Maybe only £200. I can’t see the price, and I can’t see the metal. But I know that I’m right about both. Fit, and sound. Mum’s outfit is a grand. I don’t know the labels, but I recognise the extravagance and she is well aware. The mate’s dress is tight, black, slit leg and low cut. Bare legs. I’m never sure about that, on an older girl - but she makes it work. No problem.

    I’m on the couch, but in my head I’m shackled to a wooden chair. Naked. Legs chained apart. One of those chairs you get in a church, with a little place for the prayer books.

    He’s not here, and neither is cowboy boot girl. So we’re just hanging about, waiting. They’re due. With more wine. Or maybe they’re not. There’s plenty here. Her mate gets up and refills with what the three of us still have. They’re in a cab, today. I do admit, this room always had a stunning floor. Not all of it is rugs. Lovely old polished wood, underneath, and in the parts where they don’t cover. Soft, and then harsh. The sounds, as our forty year old trying not to be Essex girl visitor makes her way round the room. No rug where that wine bottle was. He’d have his cock out if he could replay those couple of minutes. All of that woman, every inch of her. Every pound, earrings to cunt and then on down, delivered in full onto the tips of those heels. If you wanted a really, really good fuck with him…. That floor’s no virgin to it. But that’s gonna be bad.

    The conversation’s not what I might have expected. How can that be possible?

    My old man used to use a strap on me, she says. Mum. Almost to no one in particular. But doing the action. Fuck, you can believe how much it would have hurt, if she’d actually been holding a strip of leather. The look in her eyes. She fucking means it. I’m not exactly sure what pays for all of those rings and baubles but it’s pretty clear what direction the strapping took her to. She looks like it’s a pretty damned fond memory. I don’t think she gives a fuck about the flat. Pay a few boys to come in, when the time comes. Not pay them, even. She probably knows that there’s cum on the boards, and on the rugs. Dried. Where we all just walk on it.

    Yadda, yadda, yadda. For a bit.

    Then I went and married the one he told me not to. Poor cunt.

    That little Filipino mixed a cake for him once. She said. She waited a bit more.

    I thought, fuck it. Put some wine in the mix. So that’s what I did.

    Yeah, say’s her mate. But you need to tell her the important bit. She turns to me. She drank it, first. Turns back. Didn’t you, darling?

    Yes, well. I was taught never to waste. Another of the old man’s maxims. And it did give me a nice buzz. Well, anyway, she baked it all up for him and we made sure we got some cunt to ice it….

    Never been the same since then. Cake. She says. Always thought different about it.

    That’s true. Mate says. Found out what type you really liked.

    Black Forest Gateau. She nods. Smiles, wicked. Reaches out with her hand.

    Likes it with a cherry on top. The mate says.

    And I can see her point. They look at each other. And at me. Like, is it my birthday? Will I need candles?

    Oh fuck, oh fuck. That’s how bad it is.
  3. Could I possibly have chosen a more stupid name? The person I might want to be but not the person I am. Or maybe just a person I'd despise. Someone who talks out of school. Someone who hides.

    I have picture of her in my head. She has that white dress on. I don't know exactly when it was, now - the particular day that comes back to me, when I'm on my own sofa, at home. She's on that couch, his couch, and it's fawny coloured. It has those pretty embroidered cushions that are so not his. From his mum I think. His mum would give that bitch such a spanking. Lying there, with her dirty cowboy boots all over them. If they were mine, with... she moves her leg. Sinks one of her heels deep into the softness. If that was mine...

    He's cum on those boots. I just know he has. The same as he's come on her tits, which would't be hard. I can near enough see them. He's cum.... She knows I know it, or she knows I think it, and she thinks... She thinks everyone in every room, everyone in the street, is going to want to eat her out. At least, that's the way she acts and she thinks there's people who want to taste on that self-assurance. To have her sit on their face and let it flood into their mouths. To fight for breath in all the wetness as she moans. She won't even tell you - go harder, harder. She knows it's going to happen that way.

    His mum's visited. His mum actually fucking likes her. But his mum probably doesn't want to do what I want to do.

    I want her to sit and play with that phone, while I lick his cum off those boots she's wearing. The cum that I want inside me, that he unloads onto the floor as a tribute where sooner or later it ends up all over her feet... I want to hold his cock, to have it in my mouth, to bring him right to almost there and then.... let it jerk wherever... kiss and lick his creamy jizz, from whatever bits of her it lands on. Or from the sofa, or even suck it from a rug. The rug that her boots have stepped all over, or the one that they haven't.

    Fuck it. I'll beg. Let me lick that pussy.

    Oh, you lovely bitch. Thank you. She's put down the phone.

    I'm on the floor. They're above me. Her, and him. Their feet, either side. Both naked, except the for the cowboy boots. I don't know why it's those. It just is. Something about all of that soft, curvy browned skin and how it looks... Something about how often she wears them, and how it shows...something about that she line dances.... Those boots are so, so close. She treads on my hair. He's kinda fucking her, and she's treading on my hair. It's part of the rug now.

    She moans. She lifts her foot. I think she's actually going to press the sole of her boot into my face. Fuck, maybe both boots are coming. But she doesn't. Because realizes she doesn't want to squat where a dirty boot has just been, more than likely. Cum drips on me. A mix. His, and hers. I think.

    Finally, she kneels. Her ass comes down on my face. Her pussy is so, so wet. His cum and her come.

    Oh God baby I'm...


    Proud of who I am. Even if I find it hard to say so.
    WorstBehaviour and Mittimer like this.
  4. Last night was a whole new experience for me. As though I'd graffiti'd a wall. Written the word cunt on it. Where everyone could see, and where I knew it was me that had done it. I know a girl who doesn't flush after she shits. Is that the same kind of thing? I don't know if I'm a fool, and when I look at some of what's on here...

    But I looked, and I liked, and I don't claim to be an angel and I'm clearly a long way short of wild. I like wild. From a safe distance.

    I said before, I know a man who likes women to walk all over him. If I'm honest, maybe what I like about that is that I like the women who are only too happy to grant his wish.

    A long time ago now we met at the youth club. Don't you want me baby? He used to run me home sometimes. I never noticed much about what was on the floor of his car. It was messy, but I never twigged for ages that it wasn't messy the first time. If you get in a car and there's nowhere to put your feet then for a minute or two maybe you sit in some weird pose, but pretty soon if it's a long ride you give up on that.

    Some girls wouldn't even go two minutes. Some girls, if they started to work out the deal, might even have started deliberately acting up to it. I guess. Some might even have done his tidying for him, instead. Not many though, these days.

    The first time I was invited into his room there was an England Football Team poster on the floor. I could hardly get in without treading on it. Next time, there was no gap. Oh, well. I got used to it, those couple of steps, time after time, under my feet. In the end, he fessed up and told me that he really valued it. But it stayed on the floor. I liked it. It didn't turn me on the way it turned him on but... I wore flats and sneakers, mostly. Or no shoes. I never really hurt it.

    We came back from a club once. Me, him, and two of my friends. It was late, and I took off my heels to go upstairs. They didn't. He opened his bedroom door... I watched them both walk in. I watched him watch.

    I almost couldn't bear it. Cheap stilettos, worn and slutty. I would have moved it, I would have kept my own shoes on, I would have gone first.... I don't know, really, what I might have done because I never saw it coming and then it happened. I just watched and wept and... kind of understood. Just some shitty poster. All they'd done was tread on his shitty poster. Not on his lovely cock. What would it have felt like, if they'd stepped on his lovely cock, like it was some old bit of that on the floor? The cock that...

    They didn't have a clue. Didn't want him to thank them by kissing their feet. That's not where we were, back then. Sprawled on his bed in their tarty dresses and high heels that they could hardly walk in, drunk... But even just that... My guy.. on that bed with them, after what he's just watched. Bitches. So how can that be hot?

    He's not my guy now. But in a way, he's still so special. This big, bear of a rug. That's just on the floor, getting walked on... girls in dirty designer trainers, girls in sharp expensive stilettos that properly know how to wear them . Girls who put their feet on it and use it as a living cloth to get the crap off their floors....

    Just stay right where you are, babe. And I'll just enjoy what they do to you...!

    Maybe when your ready I'll stand on your cock, where my man is that much taller than me. Kiss him, while he enjoys it too?
  5. By way of explanation. I've known this guy ages, and I love him to bits. He near enough begged me to hang his kinky knickers out online. A fetish all in itself? Careful what you wish for.

    Remember back in the pub, babe?

    By the river? And we were just sitting, talking, drinking. Waiting for her to come. Finally she turned up. She was wearing those high black boots and the leather dress. (I'd always thought they'd get on but he couldn't take his eyes off her )

    And didn't you just love those heels. I saw you looking. Maybe I'd told her that you were a bit of a legs and heels man? Can't remember. Yeah but I lie a lot. She had you nailed from the start, I reckon.

    She was looking to move out. His eyes went wide. I saw it, I knew what was coming. She did too. Rich mummy, big flat. Spare room.

    How long was it before she was in there? Two weeks. No boyfriend, job. Nice pliant young man with space to spare and a whole new plan of what to do with it. A few young professional woman as friends, all a bit competitive but candy wouldn't melt... cos candy just gets crunched, if she bites and not sucks.

    Oh, but she doesn't clean, does she babe.

    But then why should she? Always some man ready to help a damsel in distress. Ready to get on his knees and be her little bitch. You told here there was a cleaner. You really think no one knew? Sweet, though. Wiping her boots with your Spiderman comics. So how did it feel, babe. When she 'caught' you?

    Down to business. Boy, was she the girl for you. Maybe there's a lot of guys would think this was them. Maybe there's not just one leather and stiletto loving pervy in the world? Because that's exactly how it was with the guy I'm talking about. She knew a soft touch when she saw it. Meals made, lifts home. Hugs, dirty talking and..

    I'll tell you a secret. He acts all cocky but...

    He likes to clean floors after she's walked all over them in her dirty boots. How does he like to do that...?

    He likes to get on the rug when she's watching telly and lie at her feet. Under her feet, if I'm honest. He specially likes to do this if she has 'one of her close friends' over and he sure shows how much he loves it if she plays with his cock while it's under her feet and 'they' talk about how many inches it isn't... he likes it specially if she's wearing shoes and even better if they're sharp heels. That's not a problem. She likes a nice shoe. Got plenty. Indoors our outdoors. Her all dressed up. Him naked except his little invisible pinny?

    He likes her to have friends over especially if they wear their spiky stilettos on his old mum's wood floors. Always nice to have an excuse to dig a specially spiky pair out of the wardrobe and pop over somewhere for a nice drink... Works well for her, too. She likes to tread in the mess after he's wanked over the floorboards where she's walked all over them in those specially sharp heeled black boots...

    So speaking for myself, her friends are only too happy to help out. Goes nicely with a glass or two of wine, a bit of banter about some lame sod's naked cock that's being squashed under a friend's boot as she chats away about...

    Don't know what all the guys and girls on the internet will be thinking though? Maybe they'll want to know more. How? Why? Who knows.

    See you soon