Flash Fiction – At My Feet

My foot looks incredibly pale and tiny, resting against the dark hair on his thigh. I smile as I watch him, tongue curling over his top lip in concentration while he applies the deep burgundy polish he chose to my toes, taking great care to not smudge any. His breath is warm on my skin as he gently blows to help dry the varnish. He smiles up at me, his eyes dark and wicked. Feeling greedy for him, I walk the painted toes of my free foot from his knee to his hip and as I begin to dip it towards his groin he casts me a stern warning glance… not yet.

Leaving the polish to set, he leans across and stretches my arms above my head, securing my wrists to the bedposts with a nylon stocking I had discarded on the bed before my bath earlier. I hope he might kiss me but, knowing how to prolong my anticipation, he hovers his lips over mine, teasing me with his breath, before taking my ankles and binding them together with the remaining stocking. He ties them tight so I cannot fight him.

His thick fingers stroke the soles of my feet so softly I can barely feel them; a delicious tickle trickles up through my legs and spine and I close my eyes to savour the sensation. I feel his weight shift on the bed and his hands are on mine. I have a flash of frustration that he has left my feet, until he begins caressing the soft, hyper-responsive skin on my wrists, moving his fingertips agonizingly slowly towards my inner elbow, where he lingers, teasing me with butterfly touches, making me writhe in pleasure. My skin is so alert that even the tips of his fingers repeating a pattern on it feels as if he is peeling skin away. They drift towards my armpits and he strokes in circles; I sigh contentedly. I feel like a spoiled kitten being caressed.

His hands glide down, over the silk covering my body, to the hem of my chemise. I lift my bum for him so he can push the flimsy material up over my hips, breasts and over my face, effectively blindfolding me. I feel heat flood my body; my face is flushed at being left so exposed and vulnerable before him. I start to feel a pulsing ache between my legs. I am torn between wanting this to last all afternoon and wanting the exquisite torture to end with him filling me, pumping inside me.

I flinch as his fingers find my nipple; rolling it, pulling it and twisting it the way he knows I love. A groan escapes my lips and I long to feel his mouth and teeth on it but he wants to extend my torment. His hands run over my torso, my waist, barely touching my hips and he firmly pulls down on my calves, straightening out my body, which has involuntarily arched in pleasure. My body is quivering; adrenaline and nervous electricity making my skin react instantly to his slightest touch.

I feel his breath again on my ankle as he traces his tongue over my ankle, pausing to gently suck on my heel before running it firmly up the centre of my sole. I cannot stop a moan from leaving my lips. He laps at my feet, tongue dipping between my toes as his nails cruelly scrape the sensitive skin underfoot. I instinctively arch my foot and curl my toes, trying to bend my knees to escape but he holds me in place, alternating his touch from excruciatingly pleasurable soft and gentle tickles to rough scratching as he nibbles and sucks my toes.

My breath is ragged, my heart racing, my cunt aches. I shake my head to move the chemise and allow myself to look down to see him. He is kneeling at my feet, his face and chest flushed, his erection straining against his boxers; a dot of precum darkens the pale jersey fabric. He pulls them off and rubs the tip of his gorgeous thick cock against my feet. I spread my toes wide and grip him between them.

“Please…” I whisper, my chest is rising and falling, my pulse pounding in my ears. I feel overwhelmed with the desire to render him helpless at my feet.

He unties the black stocking binding my feet, pushes us both further up the bed and leans back on his haunches allowing me to open my legs and take him between my feet. I know he can see how full and wet I am, how much I want this.

I rub the toes of one foot against his balls, pinching the skin gently while I run my other foot up and down his hard cock. I sandwich his glans between my soft, small feet and roll them, massaging him. Gripping my ankles, he thrusts himself into the narrow space between my arches, breathing hard, his eyes are fixated on what we are doing. I open my toes, gripping and rubbing along his shaft, my other foot circling his throbbing tip, taking it between my big toe and squeezing, milking him until he erupts all over my feet. His hot cum drips over my toes, blurring my new deep red colour, making it hard it keep a grip on his cock as it slips again between my arches. I caress him until he pulls away, satisfied.

He kneels forward, kisses the inside of my knee, his tongue once again teasing me as he licks the delicate skin of my inner thighs. He raises his face to smile at me before it sinks deep between my legs.



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Sinful Sunday – D is for Denier


As soon as I saw this prompt I knew my photo had to be about nylon so I donned two different denier stockings and had a bit of fun with my iPad.

I hope you enjoy the contrast!

Click the lips to see who else is sinning.


Copyright, 2017, illicitthoughts.wordpress.com

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Holy Grail

“James’ Street station. Please stand clear of the doors.” The automated voice crackled as the train slowed to a stop.

Rain beat against the clouded window. He pulled his long legs in from the aisle to allow fellow commuters to disembark and watched more people pile aboard. The smell of damp flooded his nostrils as wet coats crammed against each other.

The seat opposite him creaked as a young woman sat down, shaking her damp hair out of her eyes. Sighing loudly, she slumped against the faded, worn fabric and sniffed. His attention spiked, he looked up, noticed she was pretty; small, blonde, with a pale complexion, except for her nose, which was pink from the cold. She sniffed again. He smiled and returned to checking his emails.

A sudden gasp from across the table stilled him. Looking up from under his brows he watched as her eyes closed and lips parted slightly. She froze for a second, a tiny frown furrowed her brow and her hand moved involuntarily to her face in a fanning motion. He tensed, holding his own breath and waited. Another rapid inhale of breath and her shoulders rose, her chest expanded and her head fell back, exposing her throat. His pulse quickened. Her face creased, she curled up slightly and the cutest noise escaped her as she stifled her sneeze. Slightly frustrated by the anti climax, he closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. He enjoyed the illicit thrill of his secret voyeurism. To anyone else, this was just a girl with a cold, but for him… so much more.

She sniffed as she rummaged through her bag, producing a ragged tissue from its depths. His eyes snapped open. Once again, he felt her urge to sneeze build up. He sensed the uncontrollable compulsion for release battling with her need to rein it in. Her eyes were pressed tightly closed, allowing him to watch her quite freely; to see her face contort into a pretty little grimace and her chest heave as she fought to retain control.

“Ahhhhhh…” she breathed. His blood pumped, he felt himself harden and his heart raced, “Choooooooooo!” she fell forward burying her face into the tissue.

For that exquisite second, she was completely herself; vulnerable, exposed, her polite social mask had slipped to reveal her true self – her mounting tension and explosive release reminiscent of a sexual thrill. His cock throbbed, pulsing and straining against his trousers. He shifted his weight in the seat.

“Haaaaaaaahhhhhh…” she sighed, her breath hitched. Once again, her face and body tensed.

He carefully, discretely activated the video on his iPhone to capture her rapture for his own private enjoyment later, as he realised, with increasing excitement, that she was the holy grail for a man like him – a multiple sneezer.


Copyright, 2017, illicitthoughts.wordpress.com

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The Collector

Everyday he takes his seat in Liverpool Street Station, on the bench facing the stairs, large Costa coffee in hand, a newspaper he never reads tucked under his arm. No one notices him, the beige man in the M&S clothes. He fades into his surroundings.

He watches them.

The City boys in their slick suits and cufflinks, the students in jeans and hoodies, the hipsters with their ridiculous beards and porkpie hats, the tourists, made obvious by their bum-bags, cameras and dazed expressions.

They are not the reason he is there.

He is there to watch the women come and go. The stressed Mums with howling toddlers, the old ladies, bent over with age and arthritis, the giggling school girls in their uniforms.

He smiles, remembering his past trophies…

The short Indian lady with a long, sleek braid that fell to the small of her back, glossy black in beautiful contrast to the ivory sari she wore. The tall platinum blonde in ripped leggings and DMs, with her shaved sides and a mowhawk that spilled down to her shoulder blades. The coffee coloured girl with a magnificent wild bush of black curls. The petite twenty-something with longs soft waves of honey blonde layers that bounced when she walked. They were all beautiful in their own way, each a unique specimen of feminine splendor.

He sees her.

Her slim elegant legs carrying her down the steps, dressed as always in a tailored suit. She passes him on her way to the platform, never spotting him stand and follow her. As they walk he catches the faint trace of her perfume on the air. He watches the sunlight reflect off the soft loose waves that cover her back. Copper highlights spark from her deep dark red mane. He longs to reach out and caress it. But not yet.

She doesn’t notice him stand behind her on the crowded train. Her eyes scan the smart phone in her hand, thumb flicking through emails, a tiny crease between her fair brows. As she reads, a sudden jolt from the tracks sends her body pressing back against his chest. He breathes in the scent from her hair, a light fruity fragrance. Soon he would change that to the coconut he preferred. All his girls’ hair smelled of coconut.

She glances back over her shoulder at him, smiling and murmuring an apology for invading his space. She has no idea. No idea that he has been watching her for days. No idea that he knows her every movement, her every routine, from when she leaves her house in the mornings, to her commute to reach her office and then her return home in the evenings.

FullSizeRenderShe has no idea that this is her last day. No idea that tonight he will be waiting for her in her house, his sharp blade in hand, ready to take that glowing crown of red glory from her to add to his collection.

So he smiles back at her, reassuringly and watches her return to her emails, the zesty scent of her hair still lingering in his nostrils. Soon to be coconut.




Read more dark tales here!

Thanks to @cavey2014 for his time!

Copyright, 2016, illicitthoughts.wordpress.com

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Taking Emilia

Her skin is flawless alabaster, smooth and cool to the touch. Her cheeks pale, expect for the slightest hint of pink flushing the apples beneath her clear crystalline eyes, which are generously framed by long, doe-like brown lashes. Honey coloured waves hug her perfectly proportioned shoulders and cascade down her back to her narrow waist. My fingertips softly brush some hair back from her collarbone, exposing the curve of her upturned breast, her nipple the palest shade of pink. A defined line runs between her breasts down to her navel, marking the place where her hips begin to swell into a pleasing figure 8. My eyes take in her flat stomach, smooth all the way to the tempting V where her thighs meet in a coy cross.

Emilia remains still, unblinking; the perfect woman… My perfect woman.

I have loved her since the first time I saw her as I passed the store one day. Her immaculate, unblemished skin all but stole the breath from my lungs. Once I started working there, I noticed how her silent tranquility filled any room she was in. I knew then I had to have her. I had to make her mine.

I had waited in the toilets after closing time, until I was sure everyone had left the building – we are alone, Emilia and I. I have the car ready beside the fire exit, complete with a soft blanket to shield her naked skin and keep her warm. Soon she will lie next to me and my arms will  be her protection from any chill. I plan to bathe her in scented oils, wash her long golden curls and tuck her in to her new bed. She will never want for anything ever again. I will make her happy, as she will make me.

“Come, my angel,” I whisper in her ear, resisting the urge to recoil from her slightly dusty scent, and lift her. She is feather light but stiff in my arms, her limbs unyielding, but I manage to transport her from the storeroom and through the department store to the exit leading to the back alley. I care nothing about the security cameras following me – from this moment I have no intention of ever returning to this place. I will have no need to, now that Emilia and I are to be together.

A grunt escapes me as I struggle to position her in the passenger seat of my car; I must help her bend her knees to fit. My good, wonderful Emilia, as compliant as she can be, given her limits. Wrapping the cashmere blanket around her, I pause and allow my lips to barely caress her elegantly chiseled cheek bone as I fasten her seat belt, “Now, my angel, it will be just the two of us soon.”

Pulling out from the curb I reach over and take her small, rigid hand in mine, and squeeze. The fiberglass is cold and unyielding. A wide smile brightens my face. My Emilia will always be beautiful. She will never age or wither, never tire of me, never resist me.

She is eternal.

Mine forever.



Copyright, 2016, illicitthoughts.wordpress.com

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F4TF #16 – Kinky Fuckery


I discovered that I found it actually surprisingly difficult to answer my own question this week! So, I present a bit of a meandering post… apologies.

Do you have any fetishes? Will you tell us about them; what they are, why you enjoy them, maybe how you developed them? Are you ashamed or embarrassed by them or are you happy to be open about them? Do you think they are unusual?

Yes! Yes I do!

It’s no secret that I love to be hurt during sex – slapping, spanking, whipping, pinching… groan… I love to see the marks afterwards and feel the residual aches.

I adore being bound by rope, cuffs, his belt. A firm hand around my throat is always welcome.

I rarely have sex without a blindfold these days. I get off on the vulnerability of it and the sense of not being in control.

I am dying to try some blade and needle play but I need to get the OH on board with that first.

I have an exhibitionist streak, in so far as I loved to be watched as I play. Again it is the feeling of being vulnerable, exposed, being used in a way for someone else’s pleasure.

I am a submissive and as such I like to be controlled during sex, used. When I await him, in position on my knees, blindfolded and in whatever he has instructed me to wear, I tremble with anticipation for what he has planned for me. I physically shake and shiver. It’s deeply psychological.

I also identify as a little, and while this is not actually a sexual thing for us, it is technically a kink I guess. We do not engage in age play; it’s more so just who I am, childlike and playful in everything I do. On second thoughts, it is not a kink or fetish as I derive no erotic pleasure from it, it really is just me.

I am not sure it extends to fetish level, but I do really, really love a man’s hands and forearms… for me they are sexy as hell.

I do enjoy a certain amount of medical fantasy, but that’s all the detail you’re getting!

I can get incredibly turned on my accents and foreign languages – German and Russian in particular make me melt. Remember Jamie Lee Curtis’ character in A Fish Called Wanda? That’s me! (I even indulged in my love for German into a story.)

I do like a uniform! I cannot possibly divulge my favourite one though as it is pretty out there and, while I am not ashamed of it, I fear that it might put people off if I told you. I also have a particular ‘thing’ that I like that I am not comfortable sharing with you… it’s too personal.

Where my kinks come from I do not know. I think perhaps it’s a bit like magic… if I examine the ‘why’ too much it will lose it’s… well, magic!


Copyright, 2016, illicitthoughts.wordpress.com

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“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”

“How long since your last confession?”

“I’m sorry Father, I can’t even remember.”

“Go on my child, tell me your sins. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit…”

I smile in the darkness and take a breath.

“I’ve been having bad thoughts Father.”

“What are these thoughts about?”

“Well… There’s this man…”


“I think about him when I lie in bed Father. And when I think about him…”

“Carry on.”

I unbutton my blouse and pull it open, my breasts spilling free, nipples hard and erect as I continue.

“I touch myself when I think of him. His dark curls, his brown eyes, his build. I can’t help myself. I imagine it’s him touching me.”

My hands cup my breasts, fingers pulling on my nipples, stretching them, twisting them as the heat between my thighs grows and I feel myself getting wetter. I see him shift in his seat through the mesh and grin, loving that I have made him squirm. I watch as he runs his hands through the dark curls I described.

“Father, I think about what he would taste like in my mouth. How he would feel on my tongue, in my throat, inside me…”

He gasps from the other side of the confession box.

I unzip my jeans, push them and my pants down onto my thighs, parting my legs to slide my hand down to feel how wet I am. I know he heard the sound of the zip, his head inclines ever so slightly and I think he glances through the mesh divide. I breathe heavily, wanting him to hear me.

“I think about his body, what it would look like, naked. I imagine he is firm and toned under that black shirt and white collar he wears. I think about touching his body, running my hands over his chest and shoulders, pressing myself against him, smelling him. I imagine he has some dark hair on his chest and that my fingers play with it as I feel him hardening against me. Father?”

He clears his throat and shifts his weight in his seat, “Yes?”

“Can you see me?” I ask innocently, turning to face the grille, exposing myself fully, my breasts full and round, chest flushed pink.

“The Sacrament of Penance is anonymous.” His voice has a throaty quality to it now and I know I am affecting him.

“Father, I think you can see me. You can see my naked body and what I am doing to myself. I think you like it… I think you like looking at my bare little pussy, you like watching my fingers on my wet cunt, ” I whisper as I push my fingers inside and then bring them to my mouth to suck them, relishing the sharp intake of breath I hear through the grid.

“Father, would you like to taste me? I think you want to touch yourself too… you do, don’t you?” I see him moving in his seat, he is breathing heavily.

“I’m touching myself now Father. I am so wet… my pussy is dripping wet and I am rubbing myself. I’m rubbing myself and thinking of you,” my fingers on my clit, stroking and circling, “I’m thinking of you, naked in my bedroom. I am lying stretched out on my bed, stripped and exposed for you, for you to do whatever you want to me.”

A low groan from him and I know he has started to touch himself. My smile widens.

“I’m thinking of you pushing your hard cock into my mouth. I want to suck it, lick it, I want to choke on it as you thrust it into my throat. I want to feel your balls slapping against my chin, your hands grabbing my hair as you fuck my face.”

I am writhing in my seat, jeans and pants pushed down, naked from my neck to my mid thighs, knowing he is watching me through the lattice.

“I want you to put your face between my legs Father. I want to feel your mouth on me, your tongue licking me, drinking me in. I am so wet for you. I want your fingers inside me, pumping me as you eat me out. I’m fucking myself right now Father, thinking about you.”

The sounds of my fingers working on my wet cunt are impossible to disguise. The air in the confined box is heavy with the smell of arousal and sex. I hear his breathing getting harder and faster.

“I know you are watching me Father. I know what you are doing. It feels good, doesn’t it? Imagine your hand is my pussy. My hot, wet, hungry pussy, tight around you as you fuck me. I’m close Father, I’m going to come. Are you close?”

A very low growl from his side of the confessional tells me he is close.

“Father!” my voice a hoarse whisper, “I’m coming! I am fucking coming just for you!” the pressure builds and then erupts as my orgasm tears through my body, spasming, struggling to not cry out, as I bite down on my free fist.

“Aaaahhhh…” he groans and I know he has come too. I lick my fingers, making the sucking sounds very clear for him, button my blouse up and fix my pants and jeans.

“Thank you Father, for hearing my confession. I can’t say I am sorry though…”

Only the sound of heavy breathing from across the mesh as I leave the confessional, grinning and feeling very proud of my achievement, thinking of the next time I will visit for another confession.



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Copyright, 2015, illicitthoughts.wordpress.com

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