5 short bedtime stories (for open minded adults only 🙈🙉🙊)

5 short bedtime stories (for open minded adults only 🙈🙉🙊)

By (S)llew la Wulf | Llewella_love_wolf | 17 Feb 2021


 

These stories are not for the easily shocked or disturbed, so enter with caution... I wrote these some time ago. Not based upon personal experiences, not even necessarily fantasies. More simply an exploration of sexuality; of love, lust, yearning, the lewd at points and ultimately that which is essentially human. The reason we are all here; that inbuilt, biological and borderline spiritual urge to connect beyond merely skin with another. Chemistry. Sex. 

 

 

BRINKMANSHIP – part 1 (The art of respectful control)

 

 

I want you to open this here heart shaped box with my own desire, wielded by yours... hot, musky and tense like the deer in September falls... open me up and take me to the borders and brinks of my own ecstasy... starting at the back of my knees, that delicate area of skin that I’m usually ticklish on and working your way up... I want to feel your mouth; warm, wet, capable – traversing the landscape of my thighs... as you get closer to the centre piece of my need, parting my cheeks, just enough so my sex opens up momentarily, releasing the scentual blooms from the moisture being produced... My face is flushed. My mouth is wet, heavy, silent. Gentle but guttural noises escape from my throat but I can see you in the mirror ahead... the explosion of your hair obscuring your expression, but I think I know what it is... I can feel the wolf in you rising each time you part my cheeks...

 

Your mouth inches closer to the entrance of my sex, which is pouting, dripping and calling out your name...You (engaged, held back, contained) part my cheeks once again, exposing the landscape of my desire... I can almost smell your resolve dissolving, breaking apart and consuming you, but one of your many talents appears to be patience, something I’m pretty low on...

 

I can feel your eyes staring, catch a glimpse of you in the mirror licking your lips... ‘oh Mr Wolf, what a big wet tongue you have’ I mumble to myself and just as I’m thinking what little red riding hoods saucy response would be, I feel your tongue softly... gently at first, teasing me, making little pulses and contractions ripple across the tops of my thighs and lower abdomen... I arch my back. You stop and much firmer than I would have expected, slap me on my bottom...

 

I feel your hands upon my cheeks, gently stroking the contours and squeezing them... I can still taste you in my mouth and am eager, over eager to ‘taste’ you elsewhere but you appear to have switched key... and much as I love the sensuality of your caresses, we both know I want something else... ahh, this game of push me pull you, who is the sub and who is the dom? Fuck knows and actually, who cares... yes I... ‘play your sub like a thespian’ but we both know who the creative director is…

 

 

 

 

BRINKMANSHIP – part 2 (Releasing the 9th hole)

 

I’m sat on you, we are both sat up, in this apparently King size bed in our usual hotel room, me with my back to you, my head resting on your shoulder and our ankles touching. The sunrise streaming in through the window is making the sweat on our skin shimmer like dew drops on a spring morning and I can smell our incantations sweet and low in the air. Your beard (long, black and sweet), tangled up in my hair so much that where you end and I begin is blurred, irrelevant... there is nothing more blissful than this...

 

Your hands are gently holding my breasts and you are inside me... we’ve been fucking for hours but we both know that there is one more dam aching to burst... we are insatiable and I gather that we both kind of want to stop, need to stop from sheer exhaustion but as this will be our last time together, neither of us can quite say goodbye, so we are just rocking gently back and forth... mumbling sweet nothings, literally nothings (primeval murmurs, groans, whimpers) into this light filled space; this ante chamber to our respective heartaches. Your flight leaves in 4 hours, we’ve not slept all night and really, you should already have gone. But we are both unwilling to do what we know we must.

As if waking from a dream,  I feel a sudden urgency in your previously almost imperceptible movements. Feel your cock go from semi to harder to full mast inside me... I feel part of my heart cave into my stomach from the most sickening yet beautiful combination of love, desire, sadness and impending grief. You move your hands from my breasts and holding me tight round the waist with one arm and pushing me forward with the other, you angle me into the correct position to enter me in that tight secret hole... all the wetness from my gushing, your cum and all that coconut oil eases your passage as you slip seamlessly inside me, smoothly yet with that same urgency... I’m remembering that first time I asked you to take me there and the look of horror on your face. You and your wife had only ever had sex in the missionary position. Never taken each other's sex into your mouths like a sacrament, generally not even any kissing. It was perfunctory, for the sake of making the child which she now carries for you. I wouldn't stand in the way of that even if I thought I could... I just wish things had been different, but they are not. Your world is not mine. 

 

We move slowly, at first but hard and in sync... each push bringing us both closer and closer to sublime abstraction... my legs start to tingle like they are filled with a thousand weak, tiny sparklers... fizzing and numb all the way from my knees to my ass... I love this feeling of slight vulnerability, because I don’t care what anyone says, anal sex is a tender operation, it can really hurt if not done with the utmost delicacy and it forces an intimacy that standard sex simply cannot touch. I’ve not really enjoyed it with anyone other than you before, but somehow I knew from the gentleness of your eyelashes, the way your hands look like a pianists and the slight stutter in your voice that you had the sort of sensitivity I had always sought but not found with other lovers. That’s why I asked you to take me there. But this, our last time together, is the first time you have taken the initiative and I think it is precisely because of the timbre of Intimacy it brings. How else could we say goodbye?  And I want to cry with the sad perfectness of it all... I am crying, crying salty voluminous tears and despite my thighs feeling numb, I can still feel that waterfall gushing between them. I am awash.

 

The last tremors of your orgasm shudder through your body and you hold me tight. So tightly, I felt momentarily safe and began to drift off. I think I heard you say sorry but then all of a sudden I awoke, to an empty room and a single red rose upon those cheap shitty sheets.

 

 

 

 

BRINKMANSHIP part 3 – The art of persuasion

 

She looks at me and I…melt into either wordlessness or a deluge of ill thought out noises aiming to be communication. I hate the fact that she has this power over me, yet still, I succumb, like all the others have done before me I would imagine.

 

 

I imagine she would have definitely been burned as a witch in days gone by, for I am not the only man to have fallen under her spell, of this I am certain. She moves like some kind of fucked up, alien non-Newtonian liquid, and not just how she, as a physical entity moves through the air around her, displacing it, destroying it with the brutality of her grace, but how she moves through me. I find it hard to keep up with the ease and simplicity with which she erases all that came before. Beyond hard in fact, it is an impossible task. I am awash and…she fucking knows it. I want to tell her to, go easy, because I don’t believe I(t) will (can) last, but I know I must try. I know I have to at least attempt restraint. But fear has been my mistress for longer than she and unfortunately has her claws in deeper than I have any control over.

 

Later, that day or year, at some point, I forget when really because she induces a kind of dementia of the heart that I find hard to keep track of, she asks the question. The question I’ve been dreading, been avoiding, trying to silently stop her asking since we met and I... inevitably fuck it up because...because I knew it could not last, I knew I would never be able to be enough for her, so why try... so, when she asks it, as I knew she would, I push her and all her blinding rawness far, far away from me, despite myself… I am awash and she hasn’t got a clue.

 

But before that fated question and equally fated (and fatal) response, during even, I was, despite the suggestion of my actions, like a moth to a flame. I was, in my own way a man obsessed, just unfortunately a man also possessed with an inability to express… but I was beyond merely persuaded and she…she was beyond merely artful, she was a Mistress of Dark Arts.

 

I remember the way(s) in which she looked at me, those words beyond eyes, that gaping void deep within her, screaming at full velocity, too loud to be honest for me to fully take on board, but clear and direct enough for me to instinctively understand. I remember feeling like I could touch it…that dark runny bit at the centre, touch it and breathe through it almost…yes, we carried similar injuries and understood, silently how it felt but our methods and cures were too different to ever fully bridge that gap. But there were always those moments when the gap disappeared altogether and openness felt easy, comfortable, exciting even. She was always so wet, when I touched her there, so wet and so warm, I often wondered if that was just her natural temperament or if I actually did that to her. Perhaps the very action of me second guessing that meant I never fully understood her, or us, I mean, how could I? She was almost a different species to me but…fuck I miss her…

 

I tried so hard to delete her from my mind, ignore her blatant provocations, turn off the instinct I have towards her but it’s a bit like trying to get the toothpaste back in the tube once you’ve trodden on it and emptied the lot on to the floor. Yes, it needs to be cleaned up but not by going back in. Not by pretending it hasn’t happened and refilling the void left in its (her) wake. The thing with toothpaste is that it has a tendency to bleach surfaces and leaves an aroma that is almost impossible to disguise. She has indeed left her mark and like a drug addict, I know I just have to wait it out, pretend she doesn’t exist and hope the tremors stop soon...hope the memory of how she smelled...how her skin felt so soft under my hands, tasted so sweet under my lips will fade. For now though, those memories are too tangible and vivid and I just have to not allow them or her in.

 

I remember a time, years ago, amidst us both trying (and failing abysmally) to end ‘it’ and be just good friends, her suggesting I come over for a night of passion, one for the road as such. Even back then, I knew that road was a dangerous one and there was no such thing as one drink when it came to her. I tried to be sensible and said no. All my ‘no’ did was pique the lioness in her though and after sending me a series of suggestive yet tasteful photos, I lost what little reserves of cool I thought I had and wrote her a stream of lust filled, gloves off messages... The opposite of the platonic, non-sexual friendship we had decided we should, for our own sakes stick to. I knew it was a mistake and would have deleted them immediately if I could but alas, not possible. I had played right into her hands, so after telling me to come over and put my money where my mouth was...and then my mouth where her money was, I left the party I was at, jumped in a taxi and went straight to her, like a moth to a flame, eager to be burnt to the merest, flimsiest of crisps.

 

We fucked like animals that night. Like hungry animals, starved of sex, affection and love for longer than either of us cared to admit. The taste of her sex as her juices gushed and spilt forth like a waterfall made me want to drown, be completely submerged in this sacred space she had pulled me into... Did she get this wet with everyone? I couldn’t help but wonder...there, in the midst of pure unadulterated lust, love and connection, my fears crept in...can I keep this woman, do I have any right to hold her hostage with this instability that lies between us like a dog with no name, dribbling, carnivorous and feral… is it me she really wants or will she eventually leave me, find someone better, more exciting, more fitting to her status as Queen, High Priestess, Goddess...more capable of giving her what she needs. In the shadow of her prowess, I felt her need and for a moment, kid myself I am capable of delivering, but really, she was simply taking what she needed from me. She was barely human, as the tendrils of her beauty and heat penetrated my being and pinioned me to the floor... Watching her move above me, feeling the weight of her whole body as she rode me, pushed her sex, with the full force of her femininity on to mine, relentlessly, sublimely, I knew I was awash, with more feelings than I knew how to process. I didn’t want that moment to end but knew it had too, knew that one day, it would...knew that one day, i would not be able to hide the wealth of my feelings from her and that the question would surely come. But somehow I knew that, despite my worries and fears, that what we were sharing was reverent and unique. The feel of her soft contractions building as her excitement grew and burst its banks, eradicated the small amount of self-control I had and we both imploded, my sex deep, deep inside her, her sex undulating and surrounding mine, our bodies a sweaty, writhing mess of coconut oil and heavy breathing and wet kisses and hands...and eyes.

I should have ended it there and then, properly, not half-heartedly (like I did) because I knew in that moment, as her body went limp against mine that this persuasion, this hold she had over me was so much more than the sweet curve of her thighs, the softness of her skin or the way her words cut into me like a thousand knives, it was her, all of her and it ran deep. Too deep for comfort and really, she didn’t even need to ask the question, it was there and I was never going to be able to be the type of man to face it, let alone answer...but fuck, I miss her...

 

 

BRINKMANSHIP – part 4 (The faceless fuck)

 

 

 

The hall is packed and full of an amazing mixture of beautiful caricatures; hippies, rockers, bass junkies and the trancey weirdos with neon hair and black eyes... they all look amazing – and I feel amazing, joined in the common adoration of this wonderful music and theatrical performance we are being treated to in our small town... who is playing right now is almost of little importance compared to how connected we all feel...

 

You were behind me... hands in pockets, looking like a proper jumper tugger last time I had looked, I was mesmerised by the energy and to be honest had forgotten your presence... until I felt those hands upon my waist... slipping gracefully under the fabric of my vest top, those hands, larger and rougher than I remembered yours to be, softly and ardently caressing the curves of my stomach, the fullness under my breasts, the erectness of my highly sensitised nipples and the curved lines of my ribcage, through to hips... those deft hands slipping seamlessly under the elasticated waistband of my skirt – the one you called a belt cos the hem skimmed the peak of my bush and the line of my buttocks.... you seemed irritated that I had refused to wear knickers to the gig. Irritated and maybe a bit appalled, because perhaps I should care that other men might be checking out my ass and catching a glimpse of my foxy box under the hem of my skirt... perhaps you thought I wanted the attentions of other men. You were wrong though, it was actually your attention, admiration and ardour I sought. Had been seeking for some time now.

 

 

All of a sudden, you stop and I feel you start to unzip yourself. Panicked slightly because we are in a public space and, you, we don’t normally do shit like this, I start to look around... to see if anyone is watching us, no one is but then I see him. I see you.

 

Seemingly you are not the one with the large capable hands or the temperament that has made me feel hot and wet and wild... you are looking at the band, some distance away from me with a beautiful but placid look on your face. This faceless stranger pulls my waist up so my back arches slightly. I could stop him but I don’t want to... I feel the tip of his thick cock upon my hot wet sex and I arch my back further to receive. As he pushes the full length of his fat cock inside me, I gasp and still looking at you start to move, slowly but firm against this faceless cock... letting the pulses grow, knowing that at any minute we may have to stop... knowing that I just might not be able to, because this cock, the hardness, the fatness, the angle of it, is making my sex contract so deep that I don’t care who it is... I want to cum like this, over and over and over again and for the remaining 40 mins of this gig... that’s exactly what happens... this faceless stranger, with an almost inhuman cock, not cumming until right at the end after my multiples that quickly ran into a blur until I just felt like my whole being had dissolved into dust... this faceless, inhuman, angelic cock, delighting in the undulating ripples of my sex as I cum, continuously, like birth contractions, get deeper, more intense and closer together as we move hot and slow against each other.

 

 

 

Finally he cums inside me, as the crowd clapped and hollered... both he and I silently screaming and shaking with exhaustion and ecstasy... at this point I clock you looking at us... frozen in time your eyes look at me, emotionless but curious... I know I should but had no will to stop the pleasure coursing through me, a pleasure you know you had never been able to, wanted to supply. He, my faceless fuck, disappeared not long after that and I NEVER found out who he was... and I never saw you again either... but I sense all 3 of us got what we needed from that moment; release.

 

 

 

 

BRINKMANSHIP - part 5 (The art of restraint)

 

 

 

The sound of my own heartbeat is all I can hear in the still depths of this here night... It is hot. Musky. Humid. The air feels thick, tangible and static...alive almost. But alas, I am the only sentient being within these four walls... I am alone yet thoughts of you persist.

 

It’s been 7 weeks and 2 days since last our eyes met, since last time we touched. And another 4 until next we meet... For someone with as high a sex drive as I’m endowed with, a long distance relationship sometimes seems like it was the wrong decision but really, it wasn’t a decision that I made... Some things in life are as inevitable as cellular division and seemingly as necessary as breathing. And well...if necessity is the mother of invention then what we have created is surely the product of some kind of Immaculate Conception and could not, despite our rational selves have been avoided. And thus the pain of yearning, of longing must be the child that this invention bore and must be accepted. I tell myself these things on nights such as these, when the yearning is so dense you can taste it in the back of your throat, tell myself these metaphorical mantras on those nights I lie awake, incapable of sleep yet it does little to relieve the tension.

 

Lover. I wonder sometimes where the line is between want and need. Wherever it is, it is blurred and weak...like my resolve... This decision I made to NOT engage in ‘self love’ in this 11 weeks between us seeing each other has been harder than abstaining from anything; dairy, alcohol, tobacco have nothing upon the vice like grip my need for sexual relief & indulgence has upon me...my desire for you, because as I’ve become aware, I tend to feel less need to touch myself when I’m not feeling desire towards another. At points in this last 7 weeks I’ve taken to rubbing my finger tips on the silky red inner parts of hot chillies to stop myself but that internal debate rages on... Which pain is worse I wonder? This unbearable tension or the burning tingle of chilli upon my sex?

 

The sound of my own heartbeat is all I can hear in the still depths of this here night. And the smell of my sweat interacting with the stifling air in this room is heightened by the sensory deprivation I am amidst. It is pitch black as well as silent and still... I am unfortunately reminded of the last time you were inside me, actually inside me, and the combination of both of our smells... Me; musky and coconut...you; pancakes and milk...by all rights you should inspire an allergic reaction in me...my dairy fascism should not tolerate the milkiness of your demeanour and perhaps that’s how this other worldly desire I have for you could best be described, an allergic reaction. I want you so much it hurts and I convince myself that placing a hand on my stomach, just above my fur is somehow not breaking the rules...because surely I can’t make myself cum if I don’t actually touch myself there, there where the river flows betwixt my warm thighs...

 

 

The skin on my stomach is soft and dewy (from the heat of the night) and because I’m bleeding, the water retention I always suffer from at this time of the month means my belly is rounder & more pouty than usual... almost reminds me of being pregnant, a very full curve as opposed to the flaccid curve of normal belly fat...it is a sensual curve with a purpose, it is part of my womanhood as I experience it... Being menstrual also means that my sexual temperament is slightly more intense than usual... Am not sure I understand the science of this. It’s generally the case that statistically you are highly unlikely to be able to conceive during menstruation, as even if a sperm can live for 7 days inside you, if you have a normal length cycle, which I do, then ovulation isn’t going to occur until 11-20 days in... cutting it fine but, that doesn’t explain (biologically speaking) why this is the time of the month when I most want to be fucked, and I don’t think I’m alone in that, but it is what it is what it is... Many men get squeamish about sex whilst their lover is bleeding and that has definitely caused me to feel a slight discomfort expressing that desire to fuck during that time but fortunately not all...and more pertinently right now, I’m not squeamish about touching myself whilst I’m bleeding, I have the most immense earth shattering orgasms at this time of the month, because everything is so smooth and wet and overly sensitive and well... I love the colour red...if sexual desire were a colour, red would be it...it screams passion and cut loose unbridledness and is remnant of that from whence we all came...

 

I am pressing at the hollow just above my public mound... knowing full well that that tiny bud of my clitoris that I desperately want to touch is merely the tip of a much larger iceberg that lies within...an iceberg that will definitely be provoked by my current, not so innocent pressings... In my minds eye the ripple effect of cell to cell is massaging that iceberg softly and my minds eye is sharper and keener than my real ones... I’m imagining that you, lover dearest are holding me tight...tighter than would normally for me be acceptable, because as a rule I don’t like to feel controlled by a sexual partner, I prefer to dominate...but with you, I find it beyond thrilling. Because I know how & why you need that and it has nothing to do with a desire to dominate me, as an individual. I get off on your lava flow just as much as you allow and get off on mine.

 

You are holding me tight, pinning me literally to the bed and fucking me hard and slow, making me choke on my own breathlessness... This little picture is a safe one, because much as I love fucking you...in every which way we do (who is the sub and who is the dom is of little importance) the images that produce the most extreme reactions in me are generally far more abstract than straight missionary position penetrative sex... The ones I most like to think on when I want to cum often involve your sex in my mouth or your mouth on my sex or other forms of sex we haven’t experimented with (yet...?)...the taboo ones...the one I’m scared of in real life because...it hurts...yes, the illusive 9th hole... But I’m not thinking of that, I can’t because...I don’t want to cum...I want to prove to myself that I can show restraint, but even the word restraint causes my sex to contract & gush further...

 

I will not think of you making love to my mouth like it’s my pussy.

 

I will not think of you licking softly at my clitoris as you push your fingers deep inside me...

 

I will DEFINITELY not think of you softly and gently entering me in that sacred, secret tight little space, the tenderness and the excitement at the taboo like rawness making us both cum quicker than either of us intend.

 

No, I won’t think of those things... because already I feel like I’ve lost sense of what is blood and what is the moisture being produced from my excitement...and I know, even though my chilli soaked fingertips have not touched the soft wet landscape of my sex, that if I let myself go I could easily cum any minute...

 

My phone pings... it’s you, telling me that you can’t stop thinking about me...that you’ve been distracted all day and that perhaps it’s the full moon... And for some reason that puts it all into perspective... I am Diane after all... Goddess of said tidal mistress, not to mention the hunt. And with that thought, that you too my love are suffering similarly, I fall into a deep sleep, filled with vivid dreams of running through woodland naked, bathed in moonlight, hand in hand with you, until we collapse and do what we do most naturally...

 

 

 

 

Goodnight... X

 

 

 

 

 


(S)llew la Wulf
(S)llew la Wulf

Yet another artist screaming (colourfully) into the void. I like to dance. I write. I do self portraiture and i draw... I cover topics ranging from racial bias to female sexuality to capitalism to rape culture and of course, love ❤️


Llewella_love_wolf
Llewella_love_wolf

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