Caroline's secret: an erotic short story in four parts. Fourth and final part.

Weeks passed. He didn't come back. At first, I thought he would. Expected him the very next day. So I applied some subtle extra make-up. Took a little more time with my hair. And though the customers got more flirty, it was otherwise all in vain. He never showed. Still, I didn't let up. I began a rigorous diet. Just in case. Joined a gym. Well, you never know. I lost eleven pounds the first week. Six pounds the next. It dropped off me. I saw my ribs again. Felt my hip bones. Lost the chins. Gained a coterie of admirers. I dyed the streaks of grey from my hair. Waxed away every bodily follicle. 

To fill the time - and everything else that mattered - I got myself a new bloke from the shop. I was filling shelves. He was emptying them. Dropping all sorts of crap in his trolley just so he could stand there and watch me bend, squat, and stretch. God, it felt so good! Though I'm naturally shy, the presence of this man turned me burlesque, created a pole-dancing shelf-stacker. Again and again, I rose and fell; up and down, like a wanking fist. Finally, I stood on tiptoe, stretched till my skirt rode all the way up my lean thighs. And hold... A cool breeze from aisle two kissed my arse cheeks. They were tight as a drum, primed for a good spanking. I could almost hear the blood pumping up his cock. He sighed. Mmm. For the merest moment, I thought of Alice and what she would do. Then I thought like Alice and spoke like her too. Confidently and care-free. Flirtily and fluently, with not a stammer in sight. It was almost better than cumming.

'Condoms are in aisle three, love.'

'Sorry?'

Like a dancer, I turned as I came back to Earth. Like a whore, I bit my bottom lip and smouldered.

'It's just that If you keep leering like that, we're going to need some.'

On our first date, I stopped the car and fucked him in the back like we were teenagers. On the second, he ate me out then shoved it up me while I did the washing-up after a takeaway. That Saturday, he invited me to suck him off while he watched the football then returned the oral favour during Strictly. And so it continued. However, despite the promising start and my best efforts, his interest eventually waned. And so did mine. At night, with him sound asleep and with my fingers gently circling my poking clit, I pictured Jack loading up my conveyor with sensuous goods: chocolate; champagne; cucumbers; and condoms. In my tightest black skirt, I'd slide off my stool, show him my stocking tops, my skimpy white knickers, then slip them off, stuff them into his bulging carrier, and whisper my sordid instructions. Wank into them and bring them back. I'll wear them. Press them to my smooth slippery quim till I squirt then hand them over to you again. Then we'll repeat it. Round and round. Cummy knickers. Spunky undies. Mmmm. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I realised too late that the bed was bouncing.

'Caz! Wake up! You're having a nightmare! Come on, wake up! For fuck's sake! I've got work in the fucking morning!'

'W w wha? Oh... S s sorry. Was I? Oh, yeah. It was a dream, that's all. Just a dream...'

One night, I called him James, the sex was so pedestrian. The next day, he walked out.

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus eleven further stories in ' The Big Bag of Sexy Allsorts', a tooth-rotting collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.

Caroline's secret: an erotic short story in 4 parts. Part 3

Still I waited. Day followed night followed day followed night until, on the next full moon, I sensed his impossible presence. Footsteps. Breathing. Though I dared not look, dared not break the spell, I barely needed to, could picture him in all his glory standing before me. Undoing his cloak. Letting it fall. Stepping forward till he stood naked between my welcoming thighs, his manhood drawn back, its shaft straight, the shining arrowed head aimed unerringly at its target.

Weight pressed on me. Bitter breath affronted me. The burning pain in my loins was instant and unbearable. My dripping blood hissed as it hit the crystal lattice that supported us. A monster's roar ripped the air. Shock prised open my eyes. A beast rode me, rose above me, its fiery hair casting sparks into the rising wind. A gaping mouth, a neglected graveyard of yellowed stones, now filled my incredulous gaze, and issued a string of humiliating obscenities from its putrid depths.

'Oh, fuck, Caz! Fuck! You're a virgin. You really are a fucking virgin!'

Believe it or believe it not, I was grateful for James. I loved him. And for a while we were happy. Eventually, two over-sized ginger crowns stretched my once-tight pussy; two hungry mouths suckled on my once-tiny nipples. As my twenties expired, I realised I'd put on some weight - something I used to dream of as a teenager, though something that gave me nightmares as a mum -  and had settled into dour though reassuring domesticity. We talked about school sometimes, James and I, laughed about the teachers and the stuff we got up to.

*

'You fancied that Cole guy, didn't you?'

We'd just fucked, a once regular event growing rarer and rarer. As he'd hurriedly withdrawn, James' last spurt had splashed my gaping gash then dribbled across my anus; the rest would soon be leaking from me and onto the sheets, and I had to clamp my thighs together to avoid the dreaded wet patch.

'Nnnnno!' 

He licked a stiff nipple.

'Yes, yer did. Alice told me...'

Her name and our marriage were uneasy bedfellows, even at more than ten years' distance. I pushed him off me and onto my side of the bed then rolled onto his. Clenching my teeth, I twisted my face, screwed up my eyes, but even in the stupid pig-ugly darkness, the words wouldn't come. Fuck it. In frustration, I opened my thighs, pulsed my loins and baptised the bottom sheet with his congealing cum. Sleep on that, you fucker. Childish, I know, but sometimes he deserved it.

'Then she was lying.' I flung my legs out of bed, slipped on my slippers and made for the bathroom. While snatching a silk dressing gown off the back of the door, I tossed sackcloth words over my shoulder. 'She lies about lots of things.' 

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus eleven further stories in ' The Big Bag of Sexy Allsorts', a tooth-rotting collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.

Caroline's secret: an erotic short story in 4 parts. Part 2

Alice and I were an odd couple. Though born within days of each other and under the same star sign, we were as different as sharks and sheep. She was brash, loud, petulant, and rude, whereas I was not. She was curvy, confident, soft, and sensuous. Again, I was not. She was experienced, an experimenter, a smoker and a drinker. And I was none of the above. She was wanton, womanly, wise, and wonderful. Aggressive. Fearless. Thoughtless. Shameless. I was...

I was wooden, hesitant, frightened. Skinny, spotty, sweaty. Awkward, boring, invisible. Amongst the people I wanted to impress the most, the few strengths I had were not seen as strengths at all. I was clever, diligent, bookish. Caring, thoughtful, sensitive. Forgiving and forgetting, and for my sake, mainly. 

And yes, I was jealous. Jealous of my best friend. What I wouldn't have given to be Alice 'Tits' Taylor. The girl every girl feared and admired. The girl every boy wanted to fuck.

Several of the boys - and several men besides - actually had.

Her dad would have killed them all if he'd known. He was a drunk. And violent with it. He'd been a soldier, but war had somehow fucked his head and, on coming home, he had been unemployable. Soon after his traumatic return, Alice's mum died. Cancer called and carried her away within three months. The funeral was in the same week that my lovable-but-layabout dad finally left home. Though Alice's loss was unimaginably greater than mine, it was she who consoled me. We were six. I have loved her ever since.

When our exams were done, we went camping, Alice and I. Perhaps not camping so much as we set up a tent under a tree in the park. It was, of course, Alice's idea. She said it would be a laugh. While she got drunk and filled the tent with smoke, I received her sermon, her salacious sexual sermon, some of which turned my stomach with disgust; the rest of which turned my pussy inside out with longing.

A gentle breeze swept across the sleeping moor and brushed between the flower-laden stalks. Within one nodding petalled head, the two tiny creatures huddled together. Gently swaying stamens scattered golden dust that slowly settled on the sleepy companions, intoxicating, mesmerising, and sweetening their dreams.

A wary eye eased open. A pointy ear strained to hear. Its owner held her breath while holding her sleeping friend close to her body. Beyond their velvet enclave the night was silent. Within their hushed hidy-hole, there was likewise no sound, save her friend's deep and even breathing, and her own thudding heart. Fingertips tested her own skin, sampled the familiar flesh that pressed against them, rehearsing the journey they would soon be making. Through deep valleys, over soaring peaks, across undulating plains, to where Eden awaited, her mythical downy meadow cleaved by a forbidden river of the sweetest honey.

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus eleven further stories in ' The Big Bag of Sexy Allsorts', a tooth-rotting collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.

Caroline's secret: an erotic short story in 4 parts. Part 1

Though her head is full of faeries and fantasy, a young girl aches to be a woman 

Caroline's secret. Part 1

'Don't start your story with dialogue, Caroline! How many more times?'

'But Sir, mmmost things I read start that way.' I bit my pen top. Teased my tongue around it. He tried not to watch me too closely. 'And sssso I'm merely d d drawing on my influences.'

Mr Cole raised his eyebrows yet immobilised everything below them and gazed right through me. No, not through. Inside. He gazed inside me, pursued my Secret as she scurried to safety. 

Through the ripening corn she sped. Past the line of trees into open ground. Pittered over the drawbridge. Pattered across the courtyard. A handle turned. Hinges creaked. She slipped through the heavy oaken door. Down the spiral stone steps into the kingdom's darkest cellars. Down into the dankest dungeons. Twisting and turning, she retraced her steps, sometimes appearing to pass through solid stone. She oozed through cracks; wafted through bars; slid under massive immovable doors. Deeper and deeper she ran. Another staircase. And another. Along a rough-hewn tunnel. Through a rough-hewn door. Till she reached the deepest, darkest, dankest stygian cell. She huddled into the corner. Buried herself under a pile of filthy, moulding rags. Held her breath. Heart thumping. Ears ringing. Blood coursing. She waited. And waited. And waited. Footsteps. Louder. Breathing. Closer. Slowly and carefully, one by one, the rags were picked away. A single flickering candle lit her pristine porcelain innocence. Shaking his head, her pursuer gently lifted her quivering chin and sighed at the guilty tears that filled her wide frightened eyes.

'It's okay, Caroline's Secret. I'll keep you safe in here. I'll lock you in. No one else need ever know.'

Secrets are quick and cunning creatures, and this one, my best and worst, was not going to fall for that old trick.

'There is nothing to know. I was simply playing, testing to see if you could follow me and find me.'

'Oh!' He feigned shock. 'A game is it? Ah! I see.'

'Yes. Of course. What else could it be?'

'I'm sure I cannot say. But you run fast and hide well for someone who does not in fact appear to exist.'

'Well, okay. Keep the dialogue in if you like. You're right; it's a technique often used these days, but it lacks class. It's for pulp, tries too hard to engage the reader, and comes across as desperate.' His breath warmed my throat as he leaned closer. 'You're a good writer, Caroline. You don't need to be that desperate. Okay?'

I was blushing. Only seconds ago, he'd silently promised he would keep it locked away, yet, for the briefest moment, my Secret had somehow escaped. Numbed buttocks subtly squirming in my seat alerted me to the fact that my cheap cotton knickers were wet. I stammered.

'O... okay. Thanks, Sir. I'll t t try not to be that...'

I couldn't even say the word.

Mr Cole rose slowly from where he squatted beside me and ambled down the aisle between the columns of battered desks. Alice's naked knee nudged mine. Her eyes sparkled. I knew what was coming before she did.

'Nice arse!'

The teacher stopped suddenly. Turned slowly. Narrowed his eyes and wrinkled his forehead, exactly as they teach them at teacher school.

'What did you say, girl?'

If quick with nothing else, Alice was always quick with her mouth.

'Can I arsk...' I shook my head at her insubordinate brilliance, 'if I can go to the toilet, please, Sir?'

He was emphatic.

'No!' After glancing at a non-existent watch on his wrist, he made do with the constantly tardy clock that hung slightly askew above the whiteboard. 'It's only just after break, girl.'

Alice whined as only a sixteen year-old girl can.

'But Sir! It's that time of the month and my nan says...'

Mr Cole clasped a hand to his eyes, while waving the other towards the half-glazed, half-open door. Some lads at the back sniggered. Some girls at the front did likewise. My best friend Alice had no shame at all. Still hasn't. The reddening young teacher spluttered.

'Yes, yes, of course. Just go. And be quick about it.' He glowered. 'And let's have some maturity in here, shall we?'

Her chair scraped. She bent and picked up her bulging handbag, a receptacle that hopelessly doubled as her schoolbag. No wonder she was always without the requisite books and folders, was always so ill-equipped. Across the aisle from me, an incessantly sleepy James Baldwin raised his ginger head from his heavily-graffitied desk. He opened his dried lips, bared his yellow twisted teeth and whispered.

'So you'll not be fucking me tonight then, eh, Alice?'

Again, Alice was quick off the mark. How I envied the sharpness of her coarse tongue. Still do. She slid her little finger between her plush lips then waggled it, glistening, in the air.

'No, but I might suck your little cock again, James, if I can find it, that is.'

Though barely more than a hissed whisper, the whole class heard it and there was uproar. At that moment, Mr Cole, perhaps because he was on the edge of laughter himself, chose deaf muteness as his momentary disability of choice. It was a good call. He was young and new to the school, yet it was evident to all that he was quickly going to become a very good teacher.

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus eleven further stories in ' The Big Bag of Sexy Allsorts', a tooth-rotting collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.

If I can love myself...

He's gone. Though before he departed, he was kind enough to write a tender yet terse note explaining how he felt it unfair. Unfair that I could not have all of him while he had all of me. Unfair that my life was put on hold while he lived his away from me, without me. Unfair blah blah fucking blah. 

I'll tell you what's unfair, Mr Holier-than-fucking-thou: that you get to choose for me, while I have no choice at all. I'm happy to have half of you, happy to have a quarter, an eighth (and I'm certain you cam and wank with plenty and at every opportunity, know the spunk is still dribbling into your boxers even as you say your first hello of the day to me), happy to have any fraction you deem fit. For how long, I cannot say, but at this moment it feels like forever. I would have taken the teensiest slice forever.

So much for self-respect.

I cried at first. Felt sorry for myself - and why not? We never even touched, yet he made me cum like no man ever has. Never ever kissed, yet he made me feel good about myself like no man ever could. Never ever fucked, but I will carry the children of our many magnificent masturbatory unions to their fullest terms. I love him, I need him. Present tense. Future tense. Perfect tense. Past unconditional. 

*

This is later. Not later this year, this month, or this week. Later this day. Before noon. Before the cock crowed, the crow cocked, the crock cowed. Less than an hour. Forty-six minutes.

He's gone and I'm over him. Torrents of tears fell on him. Splattered. Splashed. Soaked. He began to fall apart. Skewed. Sagged. Sogged. Tore. Disintegrated. Skin dissolved and fell away. Within, there were no bones, blood or organs, only spindly twisted sticks, a loosely-tied scaffold that had given his flat photos and even flatter words three dimensions. And within that scaffold, sitting on a little stool, wearing her tattered prom dress and twisted tiara, and manipulating strings and wires, waving sticks and an embarrassed tentative hand, her cheeks flushed and eyes anxiously half-averted, was... 

Me.

I'd constructed this pathetic papier-mâché Punch, made this pornagraphic pop-up puppet, manufactured this maleficent marionette, with the subtle skills of my own dexterous hands and mind. It was all me, all from my imagination. It reflected my needs. Was made of my expectations. Built from my insecurities. My aspirations. My shame. Brilliance. Corruption. Insight. Filth (I'd once asked if he'd piss on me, for fuck sake. He'd - of course - said yes, he would). When I searched through the remnants, the wreckage, for any sign of the man behind the masquerade, there was none to be found. Again the prom queen meekly waved, knees pressed primly together, a deep blush on her porcelain cheeks. Eyelashes bashfully fluttered; mouth wryly twisted. Simultaneously, we smiled, raised eyebrows, snorted derisively, bit bottom lips. I laughed. So did she, then threw down her sticks, untangled herself from the strings and wires, left her Miss Muffet tuffet, and tore off her pristine knickers. She raised her silky dress to her waist, squatted over the squalid remains of her erstwhile virtual lover and steadily and steamily emptied her bursting bladder.

Yes, he's gone. And I've moved on. I was in love, but only with myself, a fact that gives me great solace: for if I can love myself, with all the stuff that I know about me, then anyone can.

The sound of dreams breaking.

It broke. I pushed so hard, thrust myself upon him so hard, that it broke. He hasn't written for twenty-eight hours. Not a word. He logs on, but sends me nothing. I sit and stare at the screen, refresh, refresh, and stare again. Nothing. My heart breaks.

Fingering myself is lovely. I've done it for years, can tease the most glorious orgasms from my loins, orgasms that have me gasping and yelping, and leave me sweating and breathless, turgid and tingling. However, there isn't a fingering on this digital Earth that can replace a gently lapping tongue and simultaneous vaginal and anal finger insertion. No virtual penetration compares to a pussy-stretching, cervix-battering ramrod of a broad curved shaft replete with pulsing, swollen, purple head. And no self-stimulation can replicate the pleasure of being pinned helplessly down while being repeatedly and painfully violated to the very edge of legality... nor replace the wanton straddling then joyous pogoing onto a hard, hot and slippery cock till its owner pumps you full of his jism (which I love to eject onto his still-heaving chest and lap up like some crazed and twisted feline). 

And so, with the above very clearly in my mind, and with the arousal such admissions inevitably engender still reverberating around my petite but very desirable frame, I asked him. Asked the man who says he loves me, wants me, and will one day care for and cherish me. The 'why' and the 'who' were beyond question, so I posed the only interrogatives immediately important to me, and posed them as succinctly as I was able.

'When? Where?'

He answered with a smilie approximating raised eyebrows and a quizzical grin then quickly typed.

'When what? Where what?' 

To which I hit him with my accustomed bluntness.

'When will we fuck? And where will we do it? As you well know, I can accommodate, in every sense of the word.'

He didn't type anything for ten minutes, which is not unusual in itself, as his wife is often snooping about, getting in the way of our sordid exchanges (he spends so long in the bathroom tugging, videoing and photographing his cock for me that the poor woman must think he has serious toilet issues); however, I knew tonight she was going away on business and we would soon have all the wi-fi bandwidth to ourselves. And all the time in the world too.

In the habitual and still relaxed pause, I continued.

'I am willing to drive, to set off now (it was 7pm) and meet at some prearranged spot between us, spread myself thinly on the back seat of either your or my vehicle - or even across the bonnet - and let you pork my fit, lean body into crackling, penetrate all my holes in an order of your own choosing then squirt your cream wherever the fuck you like. We don't have to make love; we don't even have to talk. I simply want you inside me. Fucking me. Having me. Using me. Would that be in any way appealing to you?'

Twenty minutes passed. In growing desperation, I lifted my skirt, pulled aside my sopping knickers and took a picture. Beautiful. Though I say it myself, my pussy is very photogenic, whether glistening, gaping, dripping or even pissing, and I knew he would not be able to resist sending a response. I posted my pic across the ether. And waited. Nothing. I tried again, peeling open my lips and zooming in on my stiff little clit. Again, no reply. In the sure knowledge that videos always get him going, I propped my phone into position and brought myself to a swift and unnecessarily noisy climax, metaphorically causing the camera's eager eye and moist mic to almost pop from their shiny case. Lovely. Send. Wait. Wait. Wait...

I'm still waiting. Twenty-eight and a half hours, now. 

I've explained in earlier posts how I rarely take risks, and often find myself regretting my hesitancy. Now here I am, sailing full steam into a bank of fog, with no way to know where I am, where I am going, where I've been, or - and this is only just exaggeration - whether I am either dead or alive. I'm in limbo. How could he be so heartless? How could he be so gutless? Yet, for some reason, I love him still and will sit here staring at the screen, waiting for Skype's banner to fly high with that unique combination of smilies that accompanies my lover's every hello. My lover. That's a laugh. My hand is my lover. My fingers are his fingers, my thumb his tongue, and my fingers pressed together are a poor facsimile of his magnificent tool. I know he is real, for I glimpse him every day, yet today as we passed he could not even look at me.

It broke. I pushed so hard that it broke. Dreams break with the sound of sobbing, and if you listen very carefully...

Elegy on watching a man wanking

Dear Friends,

That's how contrary I am. One day I say I can't stop writing and then I write nothing for two weeks. In my defence, I have been away, and whilst away, I had little connectivity. It is hard to believe, I know, but there are parts of the world not yet afflicted by wi-fi, by 3G, never mind 4G, and some of them exist on my beautiful green and sceptered isle. And so, with no prospect of feedback or adulation, the need to write deserted me.

However, one particularly lonely and horny evening, I found time and signal enough (I had to drive into the next village, furtively park, and piggy-back an unsuspecting and unsecured yokel) to log onto my favourite cam site. Those among you who know me well (which, ironically, excludes all the people who really know me well) will know I am a sucker for a shadowy, grainy cock, a low resolution pair of balls and a three-frames-per-second ejaculation, and that night's entertainment turned out to be the peak of its genre. If anyone in the surrounding cottages had access to infrared spy technology, they would have clearly seen the rocking VW contained a thirty-ish woman with her hand up her short dress, her tits rudely out, their erect nipples being vigorously tugged, while her brown eyes popped out at the delicious scene unfolding on her dimmed iPad (cleverly hot spotted to her iPhone 6). 

It was a beauty. A thick and meaty fucking beauty. And he was cute. Not some flabby sorry perv wanking himself for his own satisfaction, but a fit, sweet and sexy guy showing all for anyone who cared to watch. And he cared who watched, engaging us all by name with his intimate whispers, his witty asides and his graphic descriptions of what he wanted to do to each and every one of us. My name that night - and it summed me up perfectly - was Wet'n'wild, and he used it flagrantly, repeatedly, its every utterance causing my lubricant to gush. Soon, the heated leather seat was dripping, my thrusting fingers were squelching, and my vocal exhortations (which he could not hear, but which inestimably helped the inexorable progress towards my own climax) were becoming ever more expletive-ridden.

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus eleven further stories in ' The Big Bag of Sexy Allsorts', a tooth-rotting collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.