Sinful Sunday

Talk dirty

Talk dirty to me he said…

Her mind immediately blanked in panic at the words on the screen and then it scurried around, searching for a place to hide from the request. He couldn’t mean it! Surely he knew, that it was impossible, that she didn’t know what to say, that she couldn’t allow herself to sound like a 2nd rate porn actress? Who did he think she was?

The words on the screen still blinked innocently forcing their way through the resistance. But he’d asked, she couldn’t just refuse. She had to at least try and not just try half-heartedly and let herself off. Really try, be braver than a brave thing, be his brave girl.

So later on she finds herself holed up in her bedroom, a large glass of wine beside her, the sounds of the family all around, writing not talking, but she is trying. Limbering up for the challenge like a sprinter before the 100 metre dash.

She is getting, literally, hot under the collar. Her sweatshirt comes off and she looks down at her breasts in the vest top she wears underneath. Smaller now, not pert exactly, but pleasing all the same. Remembers the pulling, rolling, squeezing and biting of her nipples, the sweet torture she endured that made her jerk and pant and stamp like a pony. It seems pointless to keep them confined when trying to talk dirty so she pulls them both out of her bra and runs her fingers around the nipples. Creating as she does the craving to feel his hands on her again. Sighing she wonders what she could say that would actually be dirty?

He’d asked for her deepest, darkest thoughts, the ones that made her blush. Yet again her mind refused to go there. In her head she sat in a corner in a white-collared blue dress with lacy knee socks picking at a cotton thread with apparent innocence, but she also knew that she was glancing up through her eyelashes with eyes that watched, and assessed, and calculated, how far, how long, should she stop now? And that this time she had met her match.

She began to knead her breasts and wondered “if I could do anything, without worrying about what people thought, about what I thought of myself even. What would I do, how far would I go?” She thought back to her teenaged years, in a pub garden, out with another couple of couples, allowing the man with her to hold both breasts in his hands and to turn her around and say, “Look! A living bra!” and the shame reddening her cheeks and making her wet. So – being publicly displayed and humiliated – they were dirty thoughts that had been pretty well covered over in the intervening years.

Oh! A blush starting, the discomfort palpable, breath quickening. Could she say to him, “I want you to publicly display and humiliate me?” Did she really want that? And didn’t that sentence just sound too well put together and articulate to qualify as dirty? How to rephrase that?

It struck her then, as it often did, that he knew what he was doing. He knew she would spend the evening trying to reconcile her desire to please him with her internal limits. That this struggle of these two parts of her were one of the things that drew her to him in the first place. That this was what it was all about, always. Not fucking and not fucking about. But a struggle between a bad girl that wanted to be good and a good girl that wanted to be bad. In that moment she knew that it was time to let her out, let the bad girl have full rein and to trust that she would be held. That it would be OK. That there would be nothing she could say that he did not want to hear.

She grabbed another glass of wine, and pressed the button that allowed her to record – “I want you to..”


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