Since I attended Eroticon last weekend, I’ve been thinking. About lots of things. But, in particular, making more time to write. Not reviews, not articles, but erotica. More Five-minute stories. More serials.

Chintz went live approximately eight months ago and since then I’ve blogged nearly every week day. That’s a fair few posts! But while I’m tapping away furiously on my keyboard for a good few hours Monday to Friday, I’ve found that I’m devoting more and more time to reviews and less and less to writing stories.

Eroticon’s given me the impetus to examine my objectives and more clearly prioritise my goals for 2013:

• I want to finish Garden, my ‘long form’ fiction project within the next two months.
• I want to write more Five-minute erotica pieces.
• I want to look at compiling an erotica anthology.

So what does this mean? Well, from Monday, that I’ll be posting a little less frequently. I’ve come to the conclusion that two – maybe three – times a week is plenty, and giving myself a bit more breathing room will be really beneficial to achieving my writing objectives. There’ll still be reviews, there’ll still be Alert Me posts – there just won’t be as many of them.

Fingers crossed the slower pace doesn’t stop you all from visiting me!

The post Some changes … appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

Image: Lupa – Julo (own work)

Since July of last year:

• Thirty-five book reviews.
• Fourteen Garden of Earthly Delights episodes [*please note these are no longer available on the blog].
• Three five-minute erotica stories.
• Twenty-eight sex toy reviews and countless other sex toy references.

As I’ve added more and more reviews and articles to Chintz, I’ve become increasingly aware that it’s more difficult for visitors to find what they want quickly. Chances are, if you’re diving into the Toy Box or Words sections, you want to know what’s in them without having to scroll through all the pages.

Behold.

Two hyperlinked lists to make your Chintz navigation life easier: the Toy Box Index and the Words Index.

You can find the relevant links to them at the very tops of the Words and Toy Box pages, or simply scroll down to access them via the Behind the Chintz Curtain footer. (The plan is to update the indexes every time a relevant post is added, but you’ll have to forgive me if there’s a short delay.)

For now, I’m leaving out Alert Me posts and Toy with me Tuesday entries, but I may add these in over the coming weeks, too. We’ll see how things go.

Here’s hoping that these indexes make finding your way around Behind the Chintz Curtain quicker and simpler.

The post For the love of an index appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

Image: Gabel – Foto von: wiktionary:de:Benutzer:acf (Own work) 

After what seems like ages, I’ve finally completed my latest ‘Five-minute erotica’ story. I started Table Manners before Christmas, but the holidays and illness kept scuppering my attempts to finish it. Initially, it featured more than two characters but I decided whilst writing that the scenario actually worked better when the third participant wasn’t exactly … present. (You’ll understand what I mean when you read it.) It’s a bit longer than usual, too (more like ‘ten-minute’ erotica, actually), but – I hope – still a quick and enjoyable bit of smut.

Let me know what you think …

Jane

PS – I know some of you are waiting for the next Garden instalment [*please note this is no longer available on the blog] and I promise that’s the very next thing on my writing list. And for those who’ve missed my previous ‘Five-minute erotica’ stories, you can find them here:

• Frostbite
• All Girls Love Ponies

IMPORTANT: Please note that Table Manners is a work of fiction and contains explicit sexual content and BDSM elements, including impact play. If such material offends you or you are under the age of 18, please don’t read any further.

TABLE MANNERS

In a frantic scramble to find the proofs for my last client meeting, I picked up the bleating mobile and wedged it between my shoulder and ear without bothering to look at the caller ID.

‘Beth speaking,’ I snapped, making minimal effort to hide my frustration at being interrupted. It was my personal phone – none of my clients had this number – and most of my friends would forgive me barking at them in a moment of stress.

No reply.

‘Hello?’ I said distractedly, as I continued to lift up job bags in my in-tray, in search of the one containing the Crestworth mock-ups.

So much for the paperless office. If this was another one of those stupid marketing call centres flogging insurance …

More silence. I paused in rifling through the job piles on my obscenely over-crowded desk, dislodged the phone from beneath my cheek and glanced down at the display to check if the call had disconnected.

Everything inside me froze.

Someone was most definitely on the other end. And I knew exactly who it was.

Proofs forgotten, I sank down into my chair and glanced furtively around at my colleagues. As much as I loved our modern, open-plan office with its buzzy atmosphere and feeling of ‘in the trenches together’ camaraderie, at times like this I wished I worked inside a cardboard box, shielded from all the eyes and ears around me.

Of course, that was likely exactly why he had phoned me, knowing what a struggle it was for me to talk with him in the way he expected, surrounded by a sea of oblivious workmates.

Pressing the phone to my ear, I leaned down towards the floor, pretending to look for something inside my handbag but, in reality, trying to hide my side of the conversation I was about to have from the two colleagues at the desk island opposite. Thank goodness James, whose desk was next to mine, was out with a client for the rest of the afternoon. Having him overhear this exchange would be beyond mortifying.

‘Sir,’ I said softly, lips brushing against the mouthpiece of the handset in an effort to make my barely-there voice heard. ‘I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t know it was you.’

There was the sound of a sigh at the other end of the phone and I knew straight away that he was seriously annoyed with me. Courtesy was something he placed monumental value on, and in all our debauched dealings with one another he’d taken great pains to stress that respect between us was paramount.

‘You didn’t even bother to check who it was before you answered, did you?’

My face flamed and I shook my head, forgetting that he couldn’t see me. ‘No, Sir. I was looking for …’

‘Don’t even try, Beth.’ His voice was level but the tone stopped me mid-speech. ‘You were rude. End of story. There was no call to speak to me – or anyone you know – like that.’

I don’t know how he managed it, but a reprimand from him, no matter how small the misdemeanour, had the power to shame me to the tips of my toes. A cool look, a single admonishing word and I invariably felt worse than the time I’d broken the glass vase my mum had inherited from her great grandmother.

I was momentarily grateful not to be in front of him. Having to deal with my transgression in person, and bear the weight of the chastisement that would no doubt be in his eyes. Cowardly, but true.

‘You know what happens to girls who aren’t respectful, don’t you?’

With great effort I swallowed around the lump rapidly forming in my throat at his words, its presence called forth partly by fear, partly by the desolation at having let him down. But, most shamefully, by my excitement at the prospect of submitting to the punishment he undoubtedly had planned.

‘Beth?’ His voice was sharp, demanding I answer his question.

‘They get corrected,’ I croaked, my voice breaking despite my best efforts to control my whispered response.

My ears picked up a grunt of vaguely amused satisfaction at my answer.

‘And how should they be corrected, Beth?’

I knew the answer, but, nonetheless, it was hard to say.

‘However Sir chooses.’

‘I’m glad we agree.’

I let out a breath I was unaware of holding. The seconds ticked by without either of us saying anything, although I could hear the steady pulse of his breathing down the line. Finally, I couldn’t stand the quiet lying between us a moment longer.

‘Sir?’ I whispered.

‘I’m trying to decide what to do with you. I had planned on treating you to a nice supper this evening. But under the circumstances, I don’t think that would be appropriate.’

‘Oh,’ I said, at a loss as to what else to say, mentally kicking myself for my stupidity.

I waited, knowing he would speak when he was ready. Stared down at my open handbag and the still arm that had given up all pretence of searching for a random item.

At last: ‘My house, 7.00pm.’

‘Of course, Sir.’

‘I suggest you dress to please me.’

………..

At exactly 6.49pm I tottered up the steps to his front door in the ridiculously high stilettos I knew he loved to see me in. They were a striking peacock-green suede and made my legs look gratifyingly long, but the five-inch heels meant they were total hell to walk any distance in. Thankfully, I’d only had to stagger from where my car was parked a short way down the street.

A cool wind blew against my stocking-clad legs as I reached for the doorbell and I couldn’t help pressing my thighs together as a gust slid beneath my mac and licked over my knickerless pussy.

‘Dress to please me’ had been the instruction and after six months of getting to know him, the real him, I hoped I had come to understand exactly what that meant. Nothing covered that he would want to play with or look at. Decorative garments only – hence the shoes and stockings. I’d even pulled my hair up into an artful knot on the top of my head so that my neck and throat were fully exposed. I’d never done that before, often hiding behind the veil of my hair during our more intense moments, trying to preserve some vestige of modesty. Would he recognise the physical and metaphorical significance of my gesture?

Just as I was about to press the bell again, the door swung open and soft light spilled outwards over the doorstep. My eyes went briefly to the suit-clad man towering over me before dropping down in deference.

‘Hello, Sir,’ I said softly.

‘Good evening, Beth.’ His voice had a low rumble to it that never failed to make my stomach tighten. ‘Do come in.’

He took a step backwards, allowing me to brush past him, and closed the door with a firm click. I heard the bolt slide home as he turned the deadlock.

My gaze remained fixed on the tiled foyer floor but I had no doubt he was looking at me.

‘Eyes up please, Beth.’

I raised me head and barely stopped myself from taking a step backwards. His expression was stern, but also laced with a look of complete devilment that I’d not seen before. At least, not while we’d been playing.

‘Remove your coat and hang it up.’

My hands went automatically to the fabric belt, making swift work of picking apart the knot tying the ends together before unfastening the row of buttons down the front. As the last one slipped free of its hole, the lapels of the mac parted to reveal my nakedness beneath. I shrugged my arms out of the sleeves, carefully gathered the coat in my right hand, and reached up to hang it on the coat rack next to the door.

Turning once again to face him, I waited.

His eyes studied everything. They slowly made their way upwards from my peacock-heeled feet and stocking-clad legs, paused briefly at my suspender-framed pussy and bare breasts, and – finally – came to rest on my face.

I struggled not to fidget as he looked at me, his eyes narrowing slightly at the sight of my bared throat.

‘You have been paying attention.’

A flush of relief crept through me at his praise and the note of approval in his voice, but a shiver of nervousness whispered through me when he moved to retrieve some items from the small hall table.

A collar. And a leash.

I forced myself to stand still as he moved to stand behind me, reminding myself to breathe as the cool, smooth leather of the choker surrounded my neck.

In all the time we’d spent together, he’d never placed anything around my throat. Had never so clearly marked his ownership and my subjugation.

There was a gentle clinking as he drew the collar’s leather tongue through the buckle and then a soft tugging sensation as he fastened it in place and probed between the leather and my neck with his fingers to check the fit. Seemingly satisfied, he reached around and retrieved the leash dangling between my breasts. ‘How does that feel? Is it too tight?’

I shook my head, too shaken to answer verbally.

A firm tug had me turning immediately to face him, red-faced with embarrassment and arousal.

‘I need to hear you say it, Beth. Is it too tight?’

‘N-no, Sir.’

‘Excellent.’

He gripped the leash close to my throat and pulled it lightly upwards, forcing me to raise my chin. ‘Rules for this evening.’ His green eyes bored into mine. ‘Since you seem to be having trouble being polite to others, I am removing your right to speak. The only exception to this is if you need to use your safeword.’ He cocked his head to the side. ‘Tonight is a lesson in manners and your behaviour will be a direct reflection on me. I expect you to conduct yourself impeccably, no matter what.’ His eyebrow raised imperiously at the look of dismay on my face and I hurriedly schooled my face to a neutrality I was far from feeling lest he think I was challenging his order.

Satisfied, he continued.

‘Because of your behaviour earlier today, you have forfeited the right to eat supper with me and will eat at the end of the evening, once the lesson is complete.’

He tilted my head even higher, bringing my face even closer to his until our lips almost touched.

‘Any questions?’ he murmured against my mouth.

I shook my head, as much as my elongated neck would allow.

He smiled, relaxed his hold on the leash, and took a step backwards.

‘Come.’

………

My mind was still struggling to process the sensation of being led like a lamb to the slaughter as he pulled me down the hallway and into dining room, but the moment I walked through the door and saw the long dining table, all thoughts of leashes and collars flew from my mind.

I felt as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown over me.

Instinctively, I tried to back up and reverse out of the doorway I’d just walked through.

The leash pulled me up short.

My mouth opened, words of protest poised to trip off the tip of my tongue. But then I remembered I’d given up my right to speak.

I glanced sideways at him and then back at the table in front of me, forcing myself to take it all in.

Candles. A perfectly starched white linen cloth precisely laid with a single setting. A folded napkin. Chopsticks. Silver cutlery flanked by a cane and a shiny metal plug.

Instinctively, I clenched my buttocks.

I managed to tear my eyes away from the objects in front of me and look at the man at my side.

He was studying me carefully, taking in the nuances of my reaction to the table of instruments before me. ‘Do you want to use your safeword, Beth?’

Did I? Even as I asked myself the question, I knew what my answer would be. Yes, I was scared – but I knew him well enough by now to understand that he wouldn’t push things further than I could handle.

I shook my head and stood a little straighter, trying to project an air of confidence when, really, I was shaking in my impractical shoes.

The ghost of a smirk passed over his lips and then he tugged gently on the leash. ‘Down,’ he said firmly. ‘On your hands and knees.’

At first I thought I’d misheard him, but a glance at his face told me my ears definitely weren’t playing tricks on me. Registering my hesitation, he looked pointedly at the ground.

I dropped awkwardly, the soft carpet pressing against my shins, and as soon as I was in position, he moved towards the table, forcing me to crawl after him.

It was humiliating. Trailing after him on all fours like a naughty puppy, my breasts swinging unfettered beneath me as I crawled. But despite my brain’s mental protests at being treated like an animal, my body was undeniably turned on. The space between my legs felt achingly heavy, and each time my thighs rubbed together, I could feel more and more moisture gathering between the lips of my pussy.

He stopped. Lowered himself into the antique wooden dining chair next to the place setting, allowing the loop of the leash to fall down over his wrist as he sat.

I sidled awkwardly up to him and almost squeaked when his hands unexpectedly gripped me around the waist and aligned me so that I was pressed against the side of his chair and his legs. Then, without warning, one was fisted in my bound hair, gripping firmly, pushing downwards so that I was staring at the floor. At the same time, two fingers were shoved unceremoniously into my increasingly wet cunt.

The shock of the invasion caused me to try and buck upwards, but the hand holding my head merely tightened its grip and the fingers inside me pressed in harder.

My body shook as I fought to still myself. Now that the initial surprise was over, I wanted to fuck against the fingers inside me, to push backwards and forwards against them and bring myself to orgasm. But I knew from experience that if I tried to take control, to direct the course of our session, he wouldn’t hesitate to punish me.

Courtesy. Obedience. Surrender. These were the terms of our arrangement, and I knew better than to flout the rules.

It took a few moments, but I somehow managed to get a measure of control over my increasingly turned-on body. Yet as soon as he felt me rein myself in, he started moving his fingers in a smooth, firm rhythm in and out of my body. A rhythm that he often used to make me come.

Thrust, retreat. Thrust, retreat.

It was unbearable. All I wanted was to shove myself back against his hand, but I knew that if I did, or worse, had an orgasm without his permission …

He paused briefly. Added a third finger.

I gulped a breath in and held it, trying desperately not to move.

The fingers slid forwards, all the way in.

Paused again.

As the seconds ticked by with them buried in my cunt, giving me a brief respite from their glorious friction, I almost believed I could hold on to myself.

But then they crooked downwards and slid backwards, dragging across my G-spot. Pushed vigorously forwards again. Pressed firmly downwards in retreat.

I exploded.

Became nothing but a writhing body riding a lightening strike through the aether. The ability to dictate my body’s reactions completely gone. Worse, my mouth was open and I was whimpering softly as the orgasm threaded itself through me, simultaneously sewing my body together and ripping it apart. Technically, it didn’t count as talking, but I had no doubt the distinction was meaningless as far as he was concerned.

My brain, well aware a rule had been broken, fought to regain the upper hand, to bring my body back to itself. I clamped my lips together and locked my knees in an effort to stop my hips from moving but it was an uphill struggle.

Gradually, however, the shivers settled and I became aware that his fingers were resting lightly on the swollen lips of my labia.

The air around us seemed ominously heavy.

‘Did you ask for permission to come?’

‘N-no – Ow!’ I leapt like a doe as his hand landed squarely and firmly between my legs.

‘Remember your manners. You don’t have permission to talk, Beth.’

Oh, crap.

I shook my head vigorously – or as vigorously as the fingers tangled in my hair would allow, each shake causing small bursts of discomfort as the strands pulled against my movements.

The hands let go of me.

‘Sit up, please.’

I did as I was told. And found myself at eye-level with the top of the table. Directly in front of me on the spotless linen sat the chopsticks, the plug and the cane. A trio of silent tormentors, waiting to be used.

‘Pass me the chopsticks, Beth.’

With a trembling hand I reached out, plucked the four wooden utensils from their small obsidian cradle, and laid them gently in his outstretched palm. They were bound together in pairs, held against each other by rubber bands at either end.

‘Stand.’

I wobbled to me feet and stumbled slightly has he pulled me closer to him, his face level with my chest.

The chopsticks still gripped in his right hand, he used his left to push up the breast closest to him and bring my nipple to his lips. There was a warm feeling as his tongue licked across it and then a silky wetness as he sucked the pink flesh into his mouth. I leaned in as he gently teased the flesh into hardness, jerking slightly when he contrasted his softer pulls with light, scraping bites.

Eventually, he released it, leaving it aching and tight in the cool air, before turning his attention to its already peaking sister.

By the time he’d finished with both nipples, I was unconsciously rubbing my thighs together to relieve the throbbing feeling building relentlessly between my legs. His hand came to rest against my thigh – a warning – and I immediately stilled.

I’d had a pretty good idea of what he planned to do with the chopsticks the moment I’d seen them, and my assumptions were confirmed when he proceeded to prise the bound rods apart ­– as much as the rubber bands would allow, at least – and sandwich my erect flesh between them.

I barely managed to stop myself from crying out when he removed his fingers after positioning the sticks on the first nipple, allowing it to be squeezed mercilessly between the two spokes of wood. The second set was even more difficult to take – mainly because I knew what was coming.

Once they were in place, he didn’t give me any time to gather myself.

I was still trying to regulate my breathing, to move past the achy pain assaulting the crushed tips, when he put a hand around my forearm and tugged downwards.

‘Back in position.’

I dropped to my hands and knees immediately and swivelled myself so that I was once again pressed against his legs and the side of his chair, head hanging down.

‘Stay.’

I did. Concentrated on holding perfectly still. Embracing the slow throb of my clamped nipples.

I heard him get up and leave the room.

I wasn’t bound – the leash around my neck hung down on the floor – but I didn’t dare break position.

When my ears picked up the vague sounds of pots and pans rattling, cupboards opening, and the chink of crockery in another part of the house, I realised he was in the kitchen.

The minutes ticked by, steady but endless.

I stared at the carpet beneath my hands, studying the endless rows of woollen loops and trying to ignore the chopsticks torturing my breasts.

Eventually, I heard his footsteps, the slight creak of the door as he re-entered the dining room. There was the sound of something being set on the table and then I felt him pause – perhaps to study me? – before settling back into his chair.

Rustling. A soft click, and then music was drifting through the air.

He’d turned on the sound system.

Oddly, with the mellow notes floating us, his verbal silence seemed more and more pronounced. The scrape of cutlery across a plate. The sound of liquid being sipped. Slight rustles as he shifted position.

While the noises clearly told me he was at my side, the fact that he didn’t speak reminded me loudly and clearly of my place. And the lesson he was giving me.

……….

The sensation of fingertips trailing lightly across my back at what I judged to be the midpoint of his meal was so unexpected that I nearly wriggled out of place, but the comfort of his acknowledgement quickly overrode my surprise. They began to drift lazily up and down my spine, slow and unhurried, and I couldn’t help but relax into the pleasurable caresses. It was as if all the nerve endings in my back were chasing his fingers as they traversed my skin.

When his hand trailed down to the crease of my buttocks and swept through the slick flood of moisture trickling from my pussy, however, my earlier tension returned with a vengeance. And as his hand moved upwards again and he paused to rub his wet fingers across the pucker of my anus, I knew which item would be next to make its way from the table to my body.

‘I believe I’d like you to pass me the butter and the plug, please, Beth,’ he said as he continued to stroke the tight opening.

As I jerked upright to obey and his hand slipped up my back in response to the change in position, he must have registered the look of horror on my face, because he chuckled with undisguised mirth. ‘Oh, Beth. You’ve never seen Last Tango in Paris?’

I shook my head.

He leaned towards me, grabbing the leash close to where it was attached to the collar and bought our faces together so that they were bare millimetres apart. ‘Go get the butter.’

His dark tone had me on my feet in an instant, the leash sliding through his fingers as he allowed me to rise, and my eyes skittered frantically over the table for the butter dish. I spotted it on the far side, sitting by itself on the pristine, white tablecloth, and started to make my way around to it.

‘No.’ The leash stopped me short. ‘Lean over.’

I noticed he had pushed his half-finished plate of food aside and that there was a gap directly in front of his chair between the butt plug and cane.

Oh, shit.

My mouth was dry as I bent forwards and practically lay across the starched linen cloth. The friction as I strained towards the butter dish pulled at my poor, clamped nipples, the pointed ends of the chopsticks dragging against the fabric. I was stretched so far only the toes of my green shoes remained on the ground.

As my fingers closed around the little porcelain saucer, a warm hand pressed against the back of my neck, holding me in place.

‘Reach back and grab the plug, Beth.’

Unable to turn, my left hand floundered at my side like a seizing jellyfish but, eventually, the cool metal plug was gripped in my fist.

The hand moved from my neck to the small of my back.

‘Pass me the butter please, Beth.’

Another awkward scramble as I tried to hand the dish back to him from my prone position on the table. When I managed to get it to my hip, I felt him take it from me and place it in the middle of my back.

‘Don’t move.’

A pressing feeling against my spine – the fingers of his free hand dipping into the dish – and then a relentless pressure against my ass as a well-greased finger was slowly pushed inside. When it could go no further, he withdrew completely and then eased in again.

His movements were completely unhurried, speaking absolutely of his power over me.

The next time his finger left my body, he said only, ‘Plug.’

I released my grip on the metal bulb, loosening my fingers so it lay free in the middle of my palm. Within seconds, its weight was gone and I could feel the butter dish moving on my back as something was pressed into it.

All too soon, the plug’s cool tip was at the entrance of my anus.

‘Breathe out and relax.’

Easy for him to say. No sooner were the words past his lips and he was driving the toy slowly but steadily forwards. At its widest point, the burning sensation was almost unbearable and it felt as if I might split in two, but then it slipped deeper and I was left with it buried inside of me, together with a feeling of fullness that was both disconcerting and arousing.

‘Stand, please.’

I dragged myself backwards across the table and tottered on the ridiculous heels as I tried to get my balance. A hand on my arm steadied me, and I was grateful.

‘I think it’s time we moved those chopsticks, don’t you?’

I knew an answer wasn’t required – that I couldn’t give one anyway – but if I’d had my voice I knew I would have protested. I knew from experience how much their removal was going to hurt.

Sure enough, as his hands released first one nipple, and then the other from their wooden jailors, it took everything I could not to whimper in pain as sensation rushed back into the blood-starved nerves.

Thankfully, he gave me a moment to gather myself. Allowed me to grab the edge of the table as I muscled the ruthless throbbing into a masochistic box. Waited until I stood there quietly: naked, plugged and ready for him to cane me.

‘Nicely done, Beth.’ He moved to my side and briefly caressed the side of my face. ‘You’ll be pleased to know that I’m giving you your voice back for this last part of the lesson.’

Thank God. I’d had no idea how I was going to get through a caning from him without making a sound.

But then he reached into his suit, pulled his mobile from the inner pocket and placed it in front of me on the table.

‘However, you may not be so pleased to know that I’m expecting a business call from James in,’ he glanced at his watch, ‘about ten minutes.’ He paused. ‘He knows you’re here for supper tonight, so don’t worry – he won’t find it odd when you answer my phone – politely – and tell him that I’m on the landline.’ He paused, his eyes glittering. ‘Understood?’

The sadistic bastard.

James. Whose desk was directly next to mine in the office. And he was expecting me to have a conversation with the man while he caned me?

Part of me doubted my ability to do it. The other part, the defiant part, wanted nothing more than to accept the challenge.

‘I asked you a question, Beth.’ His voice was sharper this time. ‘Do you understand me?’

I took a deep breath and nodded, remembering as I did so that I could actually speak once again. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I understand.’

‘Then hand me the cane and bend over the table, please.’

As I picked up the thin instrument and placed it in his waiting hands, I realised that, despite my fear of what was about to happen, I was impossibly excited. Everything – the subjugation, the clamped nipples, the humiliation of being lubricated with a common household condiment and subsequently plugged, for goodness’ sake – had tangled together to bring me to a pitch of arousal that was equivalent to a scream.

The evidence was smeared all over the pink flesh of my cunt and the soft skin of my inner thighs.

I leaned over the table.

‘I’ll warm you up with my hands first. But when James phones, you can expect six strokes from the cane. Three on each side.’

I nodded. ‘Yes, Sir.’

………

To start with the swats of his hand were almost playful, the intensity light, but then they started to become more forceful and the heat in my buttocks began to build. Every so often, his palm would catch me on the base of the plug, and the sensation would ripple through my body and elicit an uncontrolled groan.

By the time the phone rang, I was sure my backside was blushing a fiery, fiery red.

Initially, the trilling caused me to freeze, but then he said ‘Pick it up, Beth,’ and I somehow found the courage to reach out, press the Answer button and bring it to my ear.

‘Gray’s phone. This is Be-.’

The first strike caught me across the left buttock and I whooshed in a breath, momentarily depriving myself of the ability to speak. As the pain burst forth like a sunrise, I struggled in vain to finish the word I’d started. My own name. ‘Beth,’ I gasped. ‘This is Beth.’

‘Oh! Hi, Beth. It’s James. Gray mentioned you were popping over to his place tonight. Something about the …’

My brain short-circuited, James’s words becoming a distant buzz as the cane fell again – not once but twice on my behind in rapid succession. My breathing sounded like thunder to my own ears and I battled to bring it back under control, forcing myself to suck air through my nose.

‘Beth?’

‘I’m so sorry, James,’ I gasped, wracking my brain for a plausible excuse for my stilted speech. ‘I … I thought I’d knocked my drink over. I do apologise. What was it you were saying?’

Crack.

The cane landed on my right cheek this time, and I realised he’d switched sides. Thankfully, James was talking again and I was saved the embarrassment of trying to immediately provide a coherent answer as I tried to ride out the pain.

‘… mentioned you were going over the budget for the Crestworth designs. Anyway, I won’t keep you. Is he there? He wanted me to run him through the latest sales figures.’

‘N-o.’ The word came out partially strangled as he chose that precise moment to strike me on the lower curve of my bottom.

Keep it together, Beth! Only one more …

‘No,’ I stammered again. ‘I mean, he is, but he’s on the landline. Can I get him to call you back?’ I had no idea how I was actually stringing the words together, the buzz in my head, the pain in my bottom, and the throbbing between my legs were pulling at me like a riptide, but, somehow, I actually managed to finish my sentence.

‘Course he can. I’m around all evening.’

‘I’ll tell him.’

‘Thanks, Beth. See you tomorrow, okay?’

‘Yes. Goodbyeeeee.’

The last lash was by far the hardest and there was no way I could moderate my response. Thankfully, my finger had been resting on the phone’s End button, and I could only hope that I’d managed to press it before James heard my ear-splitting shriek.

As I swam in the drugging aftermath of the cane’s kiss, my body shaking and sheened with sweat, I was aware of the plug being removed from my body and a new pressure taking its place. A crisp shirt pressed against my back and strong arms wrapped around me, inserting themselves between my stomach and the table beneath it.

A finger snaked down and brushed lightly over my clit, causing me to buck backwards against the cock buried in my ass. I could feel an orgasm hovering just out of reach.

‘Do you want to come, Beth?’

‘Yes,’ I sobbed. ‘Very much.’

‘Then what do you say?’

‘Please, Sir.’ I tightened my inner muscles around him and heard his breath catch in the back of his throat. He was as close to the edge as I was. ‘Please may I come?’

He pulled back and then rocked his hips forwards, driving me against the edge of the table. Pinched my clit between his clever fingers.

‘You really do have lovely manners when given the right motivation, you know.’

‘I know,’ I gasped as I started to come. ‘How do you think I talked you into becoming my business partner?’

The post Five-minute erotica: Table Manners appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

Image: Karlyne (Own work)

All Girls Love Ponies is my second five-minute erotica offering and involves a sadistic dressage instructor giving some rather unorthodox instructions to his female pupil. If the idea of a whip applied to a soft backside makes you hot, then this story might be for you …

Missed the first five-minute erotica, Frostbite? You can find it here.

IMPORTANT: Please note that All Girls Love Ponies is a work of fiction and contains explicit sexual content and BDSM elements, including impact play. If such material offends you or you are under the age of 18, please don’t read any further.

ALL GIRLS LOVE PONIES 

I was late for my lesson. Again.

Hell hath no fury like a dressage instructor kept waiting and to say that Sebastian was going to be displeased with me was a colossal understatement. Monumental, in fact.

The industrial lights from the indoor school blazed in the darkness and I swallowed, briefly toying with the idea of getting back in my car and driving off.

It was tempting. More than tempting. But I was in no doubt that if I hightailed it I’d banned from his tutelage forever. And I didn’t want that, because even though Sebastian Cavendish was a total asshole with a heart of granite and the demeanour of an angry bear, he was an absolutely brilliant riding teacher. People waited months and months and forked over hundreds of pounds to have him yell at them just once. I, on the other hand, paid for the privilege, physically, financially and mentally, every Friday night from eight ‘til nine.

For whatever reason, I’d decided that resurrecting my childhood riding hobby was a good way for me to relax, to shed the stress of my job as a lawyer at one of Oxford’s busiest and most prestigious law firms.

To a certain extent, my theory was working; it was virtually impossible to think about my caseload while sitting astride five hundred kilos of difficult horseflesh and being yelled at by an ex-member of the Household Cavalry.

A dark figure appeared between the open double-doors of the school, illuminated by the manege’s lit interior.

Sebastian.

He stood silently; legs apart, hands on his hips. Six foot three of intimidating shadow, waiting for me to approach.

I glanced down at my watch once more, praying for miracle.

8.17pm.

Nope. Time hadn’t stood still. I was nearly twenty minutes late.

A boulder of dread sitting heavy in my stomach, I reached back inside my Mini and grabbed the velvet riding helmet on the passenger seat, thankful that I’d scrambled into my breeches and jacket in the ladies’ loos at work. Asking Sebastian for additional time to change at this point would have been like volunteering to be shot by a firing squad.

Slamming the car door, I reluctantly started towards the manege, my anxiety growing with each step.

With the light behind him, it was impossible to see the expression on Sebastian’s face but there was absolutely no doubt he was royally, royally pissed; his displeasure was a living, breathing energy that radiated outwards and wrapped around me like constricting serpent.

A metre from his imposing frame, I ground to a halt, unwilling to get any closer to the explosion that was certain to occur. It was hard to keep my eyes up, to not look at the ground like a naughty schoolgirl, but I forced myself to face him despite the fact that I was literally quaking in my riding boots.

I knew better than to say anything. To him, excuses and placations meant nothing. The only thing this man responded to was perfection – and he never got that from me.

I stood and waited for him to address me.

But, disconcertingly, he simply stood there. Hands braced against his hips, face in shadow, caustic gaze burning holes in me as I squirmed like a gill-caught sprat on his line of contempt.

I was on the verge of breaking the horrible silence with a stuttered apology when Sebastian simply turned on his heel and strode back into the school.

For a moment, I stood dumbly. Should I follow? Or did his silence mean he was washing his hands of me for good?

He must have realised I wasn’t trotting along in his wake because he paused briefly and without turning his head uttered three words in the most scarily level tone I’d ever heard him use.

‘Get in here.’

I stumbled forwards, jogging slightly to catch up with him as he marched to the collecting area on the far side of the arena.

And was almost ill when I saw the jet-black horse waiting for me.

The Boatman.

Named after Charon, the ferryman of the Underworld, he was easily the most difficult ride in the Sebastian’s stable – and the few times I’d been on him, things hadn’t ended well. I really had felt like I’d been crossing the River Styx to the world of the dead without a coin to pay for my passage.

I was so busy eyeing my equine nemesis and panicking about how the hell I was going to stay on him that I momentarily forgot about my human one.

Until he spoke, that was.

‘Take off your jodhpurs.’

My head whipped around so fast I was surprised I didn’t give myself whiplash.

Sebastian was standing just to the right of me, arms folded across his chest, face completely impassive.

‘Excuse me?’ I spluttered.

‘Your jodhpurs. Take them off. Now.’

Anger surged through me at his audacity – the nerve of the man! – but, most alarmingly, the ghost of a thrill came hot on the heels of the outrage.

I drew myself up and somehow forced myself to assume the expression I used when facing down opposing barristers in court.

‘How bloody dare you, you arrogant shit.’

Sebastian’s eyes took on an evil gleam and my blood turned ice-cold at the frightening promise in them. Well, except for the place between my legs, which, against all odds, seemed to catch fire at his look.

He uncrossed his arms and stepped closer to me.

‘Natalia.’

Leaned in.

‘Take. Them. Off.’

All the air seemed to leave the arena. Just for a moment, I wondered if I was having some sort of hallucination, but then I realised, no. This was very, very real. On some instinctive level, I realised that I was on a precipice. Even worse, I was going to willingly step off it.

Glaring defiantly at the man in front of me, I let my helmet drop to the ground and bought my fingers to the hook at the top of my riding trousers. Popped it loose and yanked down the zip below it. Unfortunately, my air of challenge, such as it was, lost all effect as I realised I would be unable to rid myself of them without first shedding my boots.

Reluctantly, I dropped my eyes and attempted to toe them off. Usually, I removed them with a boot jack – the fit was very tight – but here in the riding school there was none. As I struggled to lift my right heel upwards, I glanced briefly at Sebastian.

He made absolutely no move to help me despite my obvious difficulties, seeming perfectly content to watch me contort myself as I attempted to follow his ludicrously inappropriate instructions.

My humiliation grew. Yet something in me refused to back down.

Eventually, the boots came off – along with my socks. I was so embarrassed by my lack of grace that it was almost a relief to peel my black jodhpurs down over my thighs and calves. At least until I had to hop about in front of him pulling the clingy fabric over my ankles.

When I finally stood bared legged and barefoot in the sawdust, my breeches in a heap next to my hat, I was red-faced with embarrassment.

‘Lose the knickers. Put your boots and socks back on.’

Without waiting to see if I would comply, he turned and made his way over to the rail of the collecting area and picked up the long dressage whip leaning against it. Then Sebastian turned towards me, tapping the long, thin stem across his palm, narrowing his eyes at the pants still in place over my sex. ‘It seems that you’re as appalling at following instructions as you are at riding in a straight line.’

‘I–’

‘Don’t say a word,’ he snapped. ‘You’re in quite enough trouble as it is.’

I swallowed.

‘I’m going to give you one last chance, Natalia. And if you don’t do as I tell you, you’re going to be very, very sorry.’

I was in absolutely no doubt that Sebastian’s threat wasn’t an idle one. My hands flew to my hips, tangled in the elastic waistband of my knickers, pulled them down my legs. When it came to drawing my socks and boots on, I didn’t hesitate. I simply sat bare-assed in the sawdust, the rough shavings brushing against my pussy, and drew them on as quickly as I could. When I stood, the chips that had clung to my skin rained down the backs of my legs like wooden confetti.

Sebastian regarded me critically, in the same way he would take the measure of a horse he intended to break.

‘Come here. Bring your things.’

I didn’t dare disobey. I bent to scoop up the detritus of my riding gear and made my way towards him, the various items spilling over my arms. Funnily enough, I was more concerned with not dropping anything that the fact that I was exposed from the waist down.

‘Put it down.’

I did. Straightened.

‘Look at me.’

My eyes met his.

‘You’re going to ride every drill I give you perfectly. No errors.’

My jaw dropped. In the four months I’d been coming to Sebastian for tuition, I’d never managed to execute a single line, circle, or change of rein that met his exacting standards. And that was on a horse I could actually control.

‘And if I don’t?’

He smiled, showing off his lovely straight, white teeth. ‘You’ll be reprimanded.’

Oh, God.

‘Any questions?’

Hell, I might as well go for broke. ‘Why am I not wearing pants?’

‘So that I can punish you more easily when you fail, my dear Natalia.’

I sincerely wished I hadn’t asked.

The Boatman seemed to sense something was afoot. He flicked his ears backwards and forwards and shifted restlessly as I moved to mount him.

Don’t panic, Natalia. You can do this.

Gathering the reins in my left hand, I grabbed onto the saddle and prepared to pull myself onto the gelding’s back but, as I did so, I was suddenly struck by an awful thought.  When I swung my leg over, Sebastian, who was holding the stirrup on the opposite side to prevent the saddle from slipping, was going to get an absolute eyeful.

‘I haven’t got all night, Natalia,’ he barked. ‘If you don’t want me to take this whip to your ass, get on the horse.’

That decided it. I pushed my weight into my left leg and pulled myself onto The Boatman’s back. And almost lost it when the cool, smooth saddle leather pressed against my bare pubis. I’d had it waxed not two days before and the skin was achingly sensitive.

The Boatman chose that moment to dance sideways, his body moving like liquid silk beneath me. I sat deep and tightened my legs in an effort to bring him under control – and was immediately distracted by a sharp bolt of arousal as my unprotected clit rubbed against the pommel of the saddle. Somehow, I managed to keep hold of the reins, but it was a close-run thing.

I bought the gelding to a stand-still and hurriedly got my right foot into the stirrup. When I looked up, Sebastian was frowning at me.

‘Warm up. Two circuits at a walk. Change the rein. Two more.’

I nodded and gently squeezed The Boatman with my calves to move him to the outside of the arena. After a brief battle of wills, he complied. But not before his undulating movements had caused further havoc with my rapidly swelling clitoris.

Initially, I was just thankful that I had the horse moving in the right direction, but by the time I’d completed my second circuit and started riding the diagonal line that would see us moving clockwise rather than anticlockwise, I was rapidly turning into a ball of messy, distracted arousal.

The rhythm of The Boatman’s springy walk, my bare pussy and the leather rubbing against it, was bordering on unbearable. Worse, I could feel the saddle growing damp as my pussy started to leak its juices onto its smooth surface.

The Boatman chose that moment to take advantage of my inattention and dance out of alignment, throwing in a few small bucks for good measure as he did so.

Heart pounding, I wrestled to bring him back under control.

‘Halt!’ boomed Sebastian, who was now standing in the centre of the arena, mere metres from our mishap.

Easy for you to say, I thought, somehow managing to bring the black devil beneath me to a stop.

‘Dismount.’

I took my feet from the stirrups and slid to the ground next to him.

‘Tie him up at the collecting ring and come directly back to me.’

On shaking legs, I led The Boatman to the side of the manege, secured him, and returned to face the seriously displeased man holding the dressage whip.

‘Get on your hands and knees, Natalia.’

Thud, thud, thud.

My heart was deep and hollow, pounding like a kettle drum. How far was he actually going to take this? The man had a frickin’ whip in has hand for Christ’s sake. And just how far would I let him go?

As far as you need to in order to earn his approval a small voice whispered.

It was an uncomfortable truth. Deep down, as much as I railed against Sebastian’s awful attitude, I genuine wanted to please him, to do something worthy of his praise. Now he’d well and truly thrown down the gauntlet and, fool that I undoubtedly was, I didn’t want to be found lacking any more than I already had been.

Decision made, I lowered myself into the sawdust, keeping my eyes locked on his the entire time.

The corner of his mouth turned up as watched me. ‘Drop your head,’ he said as he moved to stand behind me.

I did as I was told, the helmet adding its own weight as my neck arched downwards.

‘Why are you being reprimanded, Natalia?’

‘For not keeping control of The Boatman.’

‘No, Natalia, that’s not it.’

There was a whistling sound and then, a millisecond later, a stripe of excruciating heat arced across my bare buttocks. I yelped in pain and lurched upwards, tried to cover the stinging skin with my sawdust-covered hands. Sebastian was ready for me, though; a broad palm pressed not ungently against my spine, stopping me from getting far enough up to balance. I was forced to lean forwards again and put my hands back on the ground to stop myself from face-planting. For a split second, my instincts screamed at me to crawl out of reach, away from Sebastian and the cruel sting of the whip in his hand, but they were quickly superseded by the desire to hold my ground and prove to him that I could take whatever he chose to dish out. Steeling myself, I took two deep lungfuls of air and braced for whatever was coming next.

It was as if Sebastian had been waiting for me to strengthen my resolve, because the moment I firmed my posture, mentally accepted what was happening, he addressed me.

‘If you move out of position again, I’ll tie you to the railing of the collecting ring. Do you understand?’

I nodded.

‘Good. Now, Natalia. Why are you being reprimanded?’

This time, I thought before opening my mouth.

‘For losing concentration.’

‘Excellent.’

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sebastian’s leather boots appear near my left shoulder.

‘You have an appalling attention span when you’re struggling with something, Natalia, and that’s the reason you ride so shockingly. So, I’m going to make things both better and worse for you. Each time you lose it, I’m going to give you five lashes with the dressage whip.’ He paused, as if waiting for me to say something.

I thought it best to hold my tongue.

Sebastian continued, sounding vaguely amused. ‘I’m also going to make things more difficult for you every time you slip up.’

Uh, oh.

‘For each error, you will receive something that will make it even more difficult to concentrate.’

Unable to stop myself, I snorted. ‘What could possibly be more distracting than a backside that’s on fire?’

‘Oh, Natalia. Believe me, your backside is going to be the least of your worries.’

My heart actually stopped beating.

‘So it’s really very simple. Keep your concentration and you’ll escape further punishment. Lose it and you’ll make things more and more difficult for yourself.’

My palms started to sweat.

‘Now, I’m going to give you the remaining four strokes I owe you and you’re going to take them gracefully. Aren’t you?’

I gritted my teeth. ‘Yes, Sebastian.’

And then my backside exploded in pain as the dressage whip swung down to meet it with a fierce kiss.

From that point on, the lesson became my own personal chamber of torture. I’d been back on The Boatman less than ten minutes, valiantly trying to ignore my newly striped bottom (which screamed in fiery protest every time it rubbed against the saddle), when I screwed up the sequence Sebastian had asked me to ride. He had me off the gelding in an instant, and the moment the horse was tied up out of the way, he laid down five blistering lashes on the lower curve of my bottom, one on top of the other. Then he pulled me to my feet, tears dripping down my cheeks at the humiliation, and unceremoniously stripped me down to my bra. I was sure I looked ridiculous, standing there in just my boots and a black lace underwire, but Sebastian didn’t seem the least bit concerned by my appearance. He pulled the delicate fabric cups down so that my breasts were completely exposed – and unsupported – and ordered me to get back on The Boatman so we could continue the lesson. As I climbed back into the saddle, I sent a silent ‘thank you’ to the man above for blessing me with small breasts – officially the only time in my life I’d ever been grateful for being an A cup.

The next five lashes came when I failed to move The Boatman from a trot to a canter as quickly as Sebastian would have liked. These ones landed across the fleshiest parts of my buttocks and the blows had enough force behind them to make my mind go completely blank as I tried to process the pain. While I remained on my hands and knees, trying to breathe through the aftermath, Sebastian crouched down beside me and reached for one of my nipples. It was shockingly erect and I realised, suddenly, that this out-of-left-field session of punishment – the pain, the humiliation, Sebastian’s dominance and his implacable orders – were all speaking to me on some base, sexual level.

I was totally and utterly aroused. More turned on than I could remember being in my entire life.

And a glance at the rather impressive bulge in Sebastian’s pants told me he was too.

My moment of epiphany was cut abruptly short, however, because just as the realisation entered my head, he pulled something silvery from his pocket and attached it to the turgid tip of my left breast.

‘Fuck!’ I whipped my hand out of the shavings and tried ineffectually to bat his hand and whatever the hell was now clipped to me away.

‘Put your hand back down, Natalia.’

‘What the fuck have you done to my nipple you sadistic shit?’ I half snapped, half wheezed.

‘You watch your language.’ He punctuated his command with a firm tug on the silvery thing and I immediately crumpled in agony, clenching my fingers into tight fists.

I’d just managed to ride the wave of it out when an identical crushing pressure enveloped my right nipple, too.

‘Aaahhh!’

‘It will pass. The first few seconds after the clamps go on are the worst.’ Sebastian smiled. ‘Well, until they come off, that is.’

Clamps?!

‘On your feet, get back on The Boatman. We have another twenty minutes left.’

I looked frantically down at the watch on my wrist. ‘But I was late and it’s already nine o’clock!’ I protested.

‘You’re mine for a full hour, Natalia, and you’ll get the lesson you paid for.’

The next fifteen minutes went relatively smoothly. For the majority of them, my mind managed to overrule the tingling in my pussy, the increasingly raw skin of my bottom, the weight of the clamps as they dragged at my aching nipples with each bouncy step The Boatman took. Against all odds, the additional distractions were forcing me to focus every part of myself on the horse beneath me; concentrating on every little detail of the ride was only way I could rise above them and keep my ever-increasing arousal at bay. That was until my clit took a delicious rub during a leg yield, the reins went slack and The Boatman bolted.

Off I came again. Another five lashes. Alternate cheeks. As the final stroke landed, Sebastian gave me the shock of my life by burying one of his fingers in my embarrassingly wet pussy, then drawing it out and around the pucker of my anus.

I tensed. He snorted with laughter.

His finger left me briefly and there was rustling followed by a squelching noise, as if something was being squeezed from a bottle. Then the feeling of something cool, firm and slippery pressing against my ass – which I immediately clenched in protest.

‘You owe me five more minutes, Natalia. And I’m going to make them count.’

‘By sticking something in my bottom?’ I retorted.

Sebastian leaned down next to my ear. ‘Are you looking to add another ten minutes of complimentary instruction?’ he whispered.

I shook my head frantically. No way. I was close to the limit of my endurance – physically and emotionally. These last five minutes might as well be five hours.

‘Pity. You’ve made more progress this evening than you have in the past four months.’ He punctuated the end of his sentence by pressing whatever it was in his hand through the resisting ring at the entrance of my anus. Stopping briefly when I flinched, and then continuing until it was fully seated within me.

I whined. I actually whined. The object wasn’t painful, exactly, but it was uncomfortable. Only the discomfort had an edginess to it that was inexplicably tantalising. It didn’t make sense – especially to someone like me who generally disliked anal sex.

Sebastian slapped my bottom the flat of his hand none-to-gently and I scrambled to my feet.

‘You have five minutes left, Natalia.’ He paused, studying my flushed face. ‘Don’t disappointment me.’

It was like being in the eye of a hurricane. Three hundred seconds of heaven and hell.

Every time my bottom hit the saddle, the bit of the object protruding from my ass was shoved further inside me. My nipples felt both numb and tingly, the clamps on them feeling heavier than ever before. The welts on the skin of my buttocks became more and more tender with each movement of the horse beneath me.

The only way to escape the assault of sensation was to become part of the animal between my legs, an extension of the reins in my hands.

And for the first time ever, I rode the drill Sebastian gave me without making a single error.

When I finally drew to a halt in front of him, The Boatman in a perfect outline, legs absolutely square, I was on the brink of a complete meltdown.

Sebastian took hold of the horse’s reins and nodded at me to dismount. ‘Wait here,’ he said, and led the gelding to the collecting ring, rubbing his muzzle as he did so.

I looked down. Saw the silver clamps quivering against my breasts as I trembled. Registered the damp smears of arousal on my shaking thighs.

What the hell was happening to me?

Before I knew it, Sebastian was back, standing like a conquering king in front of me, the dressage whip in his hand. My eyes widened and I took a step backwards.

‘Stop.’

I froze.

He stepped closer. ‘That sort of riding, Natalia, is what I will expect from you every time from now on.’ Keeping his eyes locked with mine, he lifted the long whip and trailed it very, very slowly from the hollow of my throat to the start of the crease between my legs. ‘Very well done.’

The wash of happiness Sebastian’s approval induced was so deep and so great I almost sobbed with relief. At last! I finally had his respect.

But as great as the gift of his compliment was, it did nothing to ease the twisted state of my virtually naked body, wrung so taught it felt close to breaking.

Even as I bathed in his praise, I felt like I was lost in a thick, dense emotional fog and that any second I would shatter into a million disconnected molecules.

I made to turn away, desperate to cover myself and gain the sanctuary of my car, but Sebastian had other ideas.

I got exactly one foot before he tackled me from behind and forced me back down on my hands and knees.

‘Don’t you want your reward?’

Then that wickedly long crop was raining down on my derriere until my skin felt like it had been dipped in gasoline and set on fire.

The pain was like nothing I’d ever felt before and the orgasm that had been threatening to break loose the entire lesson exploded through me like a Fury. On and on it went, re-igniting to an excruciating peak when Sebastian reached beneath me to pull the clamps of my poor, tortured nipples, bathing them in a euphoria of blissful agony.

When the storm finally subsided and I came back to myself, I was lying on my stomach in the sawdust, head resting on my bare arms. Sebastian was crouched beside me, stroking my back, the dressage whip discarded at his feet.

Barely able to summon the strength to move, I turned my head in his direction and looked at him in wonder.

‘How long have you been planning that? I mean, how did you … know to do that to me?’

Sebastian smiled slightly, not even pretending to misunderstand.

‘You always did respond to the sadist in me, Natalia – even if you didn’t realise it until now.’ His grin turned wolfish. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to be late again for almost a month.’

I grunted, and sucked in a breath when his fingers drifted down to my behind and gently extracted the object from my anus. He held it up for me to see.

It was a small glass plug, quite beautiful in its own way.

He glanced pointedly from it to me. ‘Next time you fuck up, Natalia – and you will,’ he added casually, ‘you’ll have an even bigger one of these to contend with.’ He rose to his feet, picking up the dressage whip as he did so. ‘And I’ll blister your ass so badly you won’t sit down for a week.’

I smiled against my arm as he walked away.

‘I look forward to it,’ I whispered into the silence.

The post Five-minute erotica: All girls love ponies appeared first on Behind the Chintz Curtain.

Image: Ivje, Godvisna (own work)

So, the days are getting colder and the chill is starting to set in. Need to warm up quickly? I have just the thing …

Frostbite is an erotic short story I penned a few weeks ago following a fabulous (sedate!) walk in the English countryside: A woman, walking by herself on a desolate, frosty footpath, is taken by surprise when a man steps from the trees in front of her. They’re alone, it’s bitterly cold, and night is falling. It sounds like the beginning of a nightmare – but is it?

I really enjoyed writing Frostbite and it seems now’s the time to post it, given that winter’s bearing down on us with a vengeance.

If I get the time – and provided they’re popular enough – I’ll try and write more of these ‘five minute’ shorts going forwards.

IMPORTANT: Please note that this story is a work of fiction and contains explicit sexual content and elements of dubious consent. If such material offends you or you are under the age of 18, please don’t read any further.

FROSTBITE

In the fading winter light it’s impossible to see him standing beneath the trees. It isn’t until he steps from the froth of dried bracken at the side of the footpath, coming to a stop mere feet in front of me, that I realise he is there. The shot of adrenalin that courses through me as I freeze, mid-step, feels more like a bolt of electricity and the hairs on the back of my neck come to attention as if court-marshalled.

I stare at him, my mouth slightly parted, a breath away from a scream.

He looks back at me – and I can’t help but think it’s in much the same way that a lion contemplates a foolish, stray gazelle.

With an effort, I break his gaze and look frantically behind me. There is no one but us on this lonely track; the frozen path I have just walked, a mess of frosty grass and cold mud, stretches empty across a desolate field before disappearing into a tall stand of distant oaks.

We are quite alone.

And as I turn my head back towards him, he pounces. Moves so quickly I don’t have time to process it. One leather-clad hand is like a vice around my arm, the other a dead weight against my shoulder, pushing me to my knees on the hard ground. I hear the frosted grass crackle as my legs make contact and feel the almost immediate seep of cold through the wool of my tights. The hand on my arm shifts to my head, pulls off my wool hat and grasps my hair. I arch my neck backwards, trying to relieve the strain but he simply pulls harder and I start to lose my balance. Involuntarily, my hands come up and I grip his denim-encased thighs in an effort to steady myself.

In the dim grey light, I can see the corners of his mouth curve upwards in a hard smile.

The way he is gripping my hair, I can’t look down but I hear the metallic clink of metal and suddenly realise that the hand that’s no longer on my shoulder must be undoing his belt. My thoughts are confirmed when my ears pick up the distinctive sound of a zip being undone in the almost-silent evening. Instinctively, I start to struggle but he merely tightens his fingers until the roots of my dark hair scream for relief. The pain is unwelcome and, almost immediately, I quiet, seeking escape from the punishment.

His grip loosens fractionally but my moment of leniency is short-lived. He steps closer to me and I feel the head of his penis, hot and hard, brush across my cheek and press against my dry lips. A finger taps my jaw in warning and I immediately open my mouth.

He pushes in without any preamble – desperate to get inside or desperate to escape the cold winter air swirling around us, I can’t tell. I have no time to prepare myself, and start to gag as he rams himself to the back of my throat. After a second or two, he backs off slightly, allowing me to swallow and get some sort of grasp on my reflexes before pushing forward again and holding himself deep. I tighten my fingers on his thighs, doing my best to accommodate the not insignificant width of his cock.

The hairs of his groin brush against my nose and, as I desperately suck the frigid air, I catch the lingering scent of soap and musk.

He pulls back until just the head of him remains safe and warm inside my now wet lips. Pauses momentarily. Studies me intently.

And then he is moving again, his cock fucking my mouth in a steady, even rhythm, one hand on my scalp guiding my movements, the other at the back of my neck pulling me closer to him. As he moves in and out, wet sounds squelch from my mouth and saliva trickles down my chin. My eyes begin to water as the intensity of his thrusts increases and twice I nearly lose my balance, but, somehow, I manage to hold myself in place.

I have no idea how long he uses my mouth but, finally, I begin to feel him swell against my tongue and I know he his close to coming. But instead of ejaculating deep in my throat as I expect him to, he pulls out, grips my shoulders and pulls me roughly forwards. I put out my hands to stop myself face-planting and my glove-covered palms hit the ground. Almost immediately, I feel his hands on my hips, turning me around.

My knees scrap across the dirt.

A gust of wind rushes over us and a flurry of ice crystals rise up and sting the skin of my face. There is a rustle and a thud and I sense he has dropped to his knees behind me.

I don’t even think about moving as pushes my denim skirt up around my hips, or when he yanks my tights and knickers down around my thighs with a single vicious pull.

I don’t think about crawling away from him on my hands and knees as I feel a hand rest at the small of my back and the engorged head of his penis plug the entrance of my embarrassingly wet pussy.

The fingers digging into my right hip cause me to buck slightly against him and a sharp slap stings the exposed, rapidly cooling skin of my buttocks.

I freeze.

He remains motionless for a moment, and then grunts – the only sound he has made so far – as he slowly pushes forward into my warm cunt. There is a momentary respite from the increasingly biting wind as his hips come to rest against mine, but it doesn’t last. He begins to stroke lazily in and out, and each time he pulls back, the Arctic chill rushes in, punishing my bottom and the swollen, spread lips of my vulva.

I have almost become accustomed to the vicious air when he leans forward, drops his weight onto my back, and reaches underneath me. I drop my head to watch as his gloved hands fumble with the zipper of my winter coat. He pulls it towards him, and then his hands are at the hem of my jumper, pushing it and the shirt beneath upwards, over my breasts. As he runs his hands downwards again, his fingertips catch the top edges of my bra and yank the cups so that they come to rest beneath the lower curves of my breasts.

I clench involuntarily around the cock buried deep inside me as the icy cold hits my exposed nipples. They tighten, becoming hard as diamonds and I desperately want to cover them with my hands but, even as the thought registers, I am being pulled upright as he lifts his weight from my back. Gripping my arms, he forces me to straighten and rest my weight on my dirty walking boots before capturing both wrists in one hand at the small of my back. As I kneel between his thighs, impaled on his cock, he reaches around and gently squeezes the tip of one frozen nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

I bite my lip to stop myself from crying out, even though I know there is no one to hear me.

He begins to move his hips, pushing upwards with his cock in short, sharp jabs. As the pace picks up, he starts twisting my nipple more sharply – and this time I cannot help but lift my face and groan at the darkening sky.

The bare branches of the trees dance like black skeletons over my head and, as I watch them, I see a single, fat snowflake flutter downwards like a white angel. It swirls away into the gathering night but, almost immediately, there is another to take its place. And another. And another.

They land all around us. On the dirt. The grass. The bare flesh of my breasts.

I am being pushed forwards again, back onto my hands and knees, and now the snow falls softly against the skin of my bottom. Almost as soon as it makes contact, it melts, sending little threads of liquid dribbling downwards. As I try to acclimatise to the sensation, a bare, wet thumb skates over the tight pucker of my anus and I hold my breath, the freezing stings of the flakes momentarily forgotten. It pushes gently yet ruthlessly inwards, overcoming the tight resistance it encounters with shocking ease.

I force myself to relax.

It slides in further.

Before I know it, the gloveless digit is stabbing in and out of me and I am pushing back on its meagre width with shameless abandon. From out of nowhere, the beginning of an orgasm starts to whisper through me and I strain towards it, desperate to send myself over the edge. But before I can climax, the hips behind me give three hard, measured thrusts and the cock inside my pussy swells to monstrous proportions. At the end of the third, deep stab I feel a rush of warmth, and then it slides backwards, pulling fully out, leaving me gaping and open to the cold.

A trickle of the seed that has just been deposited inside me runs from my desperate, empty, well just as I feel the thumb retreat from my anus and hot splashes of come fall like acid rain on its spasming mouth. Moments later, however, the thumb returns to massage and push the rapidly cooling ejaculate into the still-hungry pucker.

I groan and pant, the elusive orgasm hovering like a dark abyss before me, but before it can detonate, he stops touching me completely and I hear him getting to his feet.

I cannot bring myself to look at him.

I remain on my hands and knees, half undressed, sperm trickling down my thighs; a shivering vessel of need.

My ears pick up the sound of him fastening his pants, and then his footsteps crunching across the ground. All too soon, they fade into the distance.

The seconds tick by but I cannot seem to make myself move. Eventually, though, the pain of my freezing nipples and the exposed skin of my buttocks spur me into action. I stand, and as I do, feel more dribbles leak from my cunt.

I re-adjust my shirt, jumper and coat before trying to sort out my lower half. As I pull my knickers up, I feel them cling to the damp patches on my inner thighs and groin and know that I will be walking home in a sea of stickiness. My tights are no better; they’re caked in wet dirt and the left knee now sports a ragged hole. My hat is nowhere to be seen.

I look around. The night is now in full bloom around me and it’s no longer snowing; a silvery moon and a mass of brilliant stars hang in the inky sky, illuminating the light blanket of white on the grass and bushes.

On shaky legs, I start off once again down the track, following the single set of footprints imprinted upon it. A mile later, I reach the country lane the leads to my house and follow its hard surface until I reach the porch light that marks my front door. Key in hand, I insert it into the lock and let myself in.

A wall of warmth hits me and I briefly close my eyes, savouring the welcome heat. After removing my boots and hanging up my coat on one of the hooks by the stairs, I make my way into the kitchen. My husband is sitting at the table, a book in his hand, a cup of steaming tea at his side. He looks up as I enter the room and takes in my dishevelled appearance: the wild hair, the dirt, the tear at my knee.

‘How was your walk?’ he says.

I hesitate. ‘It was … interesting.’

‘Interesting?’ He quirks an eyebrow.

I nod, not sure what else to say.

He puts his book down and pushes his chair back so that his legs are free from the table. ‘Come here.’

I walk over to him and as soon as I’m close enough, he grabs me and pulls me down, face-first, over his lap. His hands go straight to the hem of my skirt. He lifts it up and pulls the waistband of my tights and knickers beneath the curve of my bottom before plunging his fingers into my sopping cunt.

‘That feels more than interesting to me.’

I groan and squirm, unable to formulate any coherent words.

He spreads the slickness over my engorged clit and I bury my face against his calf, noting the still-drying mud on the knees of his trousers. His hand drifts backwards and I feel a finger circle my anus.

‘Please,’ I wail.

He chuckles and plunges it in to the knuckle.

‘You just want your orgasm, greedy girl.’

I tighten around his unmoving finger, desperate for friction.

He pulls it out slightly, pushes it back in with more force, and leans forward so his lips are close to my left ear.

‘Sorry I ruined your tights, babe.’

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