In which he tells me a sexy story…

About this story

Everything that happens in this blog post is consensual. But it involves two people exploring consensual non-consent fantasies, so please be aware before you read. I love a good bedtime story. Ideally a story told in hushed whispers, with his lips pressed right up against my ear and his hand rummaging eagerly at my cunt. It’s probably frustrating, when you’re getting hot and hard and ready, to have your partner pause for a break in proceedings to ask for a bedtime story. But there’s something about a sexy story that gets me wetter than a hand could. The plot, the fucking itself, the veiled implication that these are things he would do to me if he could… Yeah. I like sexy stories. Most of the time, bedtime stories take the form of memories or future plans. “Remember when we…?” “Have you ever wanted to..?” And they’re great. But they’re different. I’m talking here about real bedtime stories – scripts he writes in his head, with the express purpose of turning me on. Here’s one of my favourites. Fuck the princess You’re a princess. No. Wait – not a princess. Just a maid working shit hours at a castle. The King and Queen don’t appreciate you – they barely even look at you. You scrub floors and you sweat and you wish your clothes weren’t so heavy and tight and restrictive. One day you’re cleaning out one of the dark rooms behind the throne room. Polishing silver, that kind of thing. You shine a tiara until it sparkles, and you try it on – just quickly, while no one’s looking. You preen in the mirror. Twisting one way, then another, admiring yourself, it takes time for you to notice that the King is standing behind you. “Don’t do that,” he says. “Never do that. That’s my wife’s.” You’re scared. But only a bit. More than scared you’re excited being this close to power. Standing in front of the King. “So you want to be the queen, do you?” You nod, slowly, and he tells you to turn around. Lift your skirts high and kneel on the floor in front of him. He takes a long, slow look at you – seeing everything except your face – and unfastens his trousers. You’re so hot at the idea of him fucking you. Not because he’s attractive – attractive doesn’t feature when it’s the King. You just do what he says because you’re happy to please him. He tells you not to look directly at him, just to lie face-down on the floor. He doesn’t know your name. And at this point I’m going to switch the story – because hearing it from his mouth and hearing it from mine are two very different things. The reason this story is one of my favourites is not just because he tells it, but because he tells it in so much tailored detail. Everything I love about the way the King fucks me comes from something I’ve told him before . The way he stands over me, feeling hotly, grotesquely entitled to my cunt. The way his cock stays flaccid in his hand for just too long, as he tries to squeeze and beat a hard-on out of it. The anger that builds as he struggles with it, and the flash of blame he feels as he struggles with his limp dick, becoming more determined to fuck me as he gets more enraged that I’m not quite good enough. And all this sounds better in my words rather than his. Because if I only tell you his then the storyteller himself sounds grotesque. But he’s not. He’s telling me a story that I want to hear, pieced together from a patchwork of my other fantasies. “And then?” I ask him, trembling slightly and hoping that as his King reaches the climax he’ll slip two fingers into my aching cunt. “Then,” he says, matter-of-factly, “he fucks you. Lying face down on the floor, shaking slightly with a need for it, you feel him kneel over you. Dick just hard enough that he can push it in. One stroke… two strokes… it’s all he needs. After two strokes, he spits come into you with a shudder.” “Unngh.” “You like that story?” “Yeah.” “When he’s done, he zips himself up and leaves.” I smile up at him, delighted that he gets the dismissal is as hot as the fuck. Any more? Oh yeah: “You don’t get to keep the tiara.”