Horse racing season may be coming to a close, but not in Judi Reed's world.

Racing

I went to the races once, with a man I hadn’t been seeing for very long.It was a corporate event, so a certain amount of decorum was required. I had dressed for the occasion, and felt I was looking fabulous, he was looking dapper too, and we looked very good together.

We sat down at the table in the corporate marquee as he introduced me to his colleagues. And, as expected, we started conversing about all the typical socially accepted and expected things that one does at these events.

I don’t know what it is about the races though; perhaps it’s the excitement of the horses thundering down the straight, or the huge amounts of money that are won and lost, or the abundance of alcohol that invariably flows. But it always seems, that regardless of everyone’s finery, and the usual airs and graces which are displayed at the beginning of the day, as the hours pass, people seem to drop their guard, lose their inhibitions and begin to behave in ways they wouldn’t normally do.

As the day wore on, and several glasses of champagne had been consumed, I felt myself getting into this spirit and started feeling a little bit naughty. It appeared my date was too, as he began rubbing my thigh under the table, while continuing to carry on his conversation about who to back in the next race with the others seated around us.

His hand inched a little higher with each upward stroke, first sliding under the hem of my dress, then to the lacy edge of my black stockings. Higher and higher until I felt his fingertips slip under the elastic edge of my underwear. Then, agonizingly slowly and sensuously, he traced the edge, down, lower, probing until I felt compelled to uncross my legs and part them slightly to allow his insistent fingers access so they could continue on their journey. However, here, they paused for several minutes. Fingers nestled in the warmth between my legs, fingertips tucked, every so slightly, under the very edge of my knickers.

The surge of sexual excitement I had felt as they started their journey transformed into an aching, pulsing heat between my legs in anticipation of where his fingers would journey next. I was trying very hard to keep my upper body, face and voice, from giving away what was happening under the table, but in doing this my excitement just escalated further, and I didn’t know how much longer I could go without reacting and giving away what was going on.

He was teasing me though. He didn’t move his fingers further inside to seek out the core of that moist pulsing heat. Instead he just moved his fingers up and down the path created by the edge of my underwear, so that every once in a while, his fingertips, ever so lightly, skimmed the outer lips of my aching cunt. In contrast his palm felt firm and strong, moulding to and rubbing along the bare skin on the inside of my thigh in the space provided between my stockings finishing and my knickers starting.

He was playing games with me, creating an exquisite, almost painful sensation causing my heart to beat harder and my blood to pump faster from the arousal he was inducing, but not allowing to be satisfied. I shifted slightly in my seat, trying to force him to touch me properly, but his hand moved with me and refused to give me what my body was crying out for. While all of this was going on, he maintained remarkable composure, at least outwardly anyway, continuing to chat away with his colleagues.

Then he turned towards me and winked as he said ‘I think it’s time we went and had a bit of a flutter, don’t you?’ and stood up, holding his hand out to me. We went outside the corporate marquee where we were being entertained for the day. There weren’t many people around at that time though. The race was going to start soon, and everyone was either placing last minute bets or finding the best vantage point to watch it.

We peeked into the women’s toilets, which were really quite lovely, being in the corporate section of the track, and they were empty. We looked at each other, smiled and hurriedly slipped into one of the stalls before anyone noticed. As we locked the door he started kissing me hungrily, while I frantically tried to undo his pants to release his cock, which by this stage was straining against his pants, already hard, set to go. I leant against one wall and lifted up one leg so that I could brace myself with my foot on the opposite side of the cubicle, causing my dress to ride up around my hips revealing the entire length of my black stocking clad leg, and giving him a glimpse of my brief, silky, black underwear.

As I managed to get his pants undone and his cock in my hand I finally felt his fingers plunge inside me, but I was well beyond foreplay, I wanted to be fucked hard, and fast, I couldn’t wait any longer. I whispered hoarsely in his ear ‘oh god, just fuck me, hard, now’. As we heard the gates spring open and the horses start racing, he thrust into me with such force that I could instantly feel him filling me completely. I gasped from the sensation of being so thoroughly taken. And as we could hear the horses thundering down the track, we created our own pounding rhythm. I had my hands under his shirt now, and as the crowd outside started cheering and yelling, trying to spur on the horses I felt more and more excited, and our rhythm quickened to match it – deeper, harder, faster.

I could feel my fingernails digging into his back as his plunged his cock, again and again, deep inside me. As we heard the crowd outside reach a crescendo when the horses crossed the finish line, so did we, as I felt him come inside me and my muscles contracted with my own release. We were both panting from the hard and fast ride we’d taken, but there was no time to recover properly. The race had finished and it was only a matter of moments before the toilets would fill up with women waiting to use the facilities. I pulled my dress down, and he hurriedly did up his pants and tucked in his shirt and we managed to sneak back out again just as we saw the first group of women heading towards the toilets.

There had been no time to tidy my hair or fix my makeup, and I could see that my date’s shirt was unevenly tucked in and his hair was dishevelled. As we sat back down at our table I’m sure it was obvious what we’d been up to. And it made me smile as I a saw a few raised eyebrows and knowing grins being exchanged as one of them asked us if we’d backed a winner…

© 2011 - 2012 Judi Reed

This week's guest blogger is poet and short story writer Louise Turner.

The Blanket

In honour of the cooler weather I bought myself a new mink blanket. Normally I’m a stickler for natural fibers, but something about this plush synthetic covering reached out to my love of the sensual and I had to get it. Even though I paid for it I snuck out of the shop with it like a thief, partially obscuring the label by holding another shopping bag over the top of the carrier. Once home I pulled it free of its plastic cage and flung it wildly across the bed, and then flung myself across the top of it, burying my face in its furry folds and running my hands through the thick pile. When I stood up again and my feet touched the nylon carpet I got little a little shock of static on my toes…

That night in bed I laid my arms on top of the covers for a change, admiring the way my flesh looked pale and round and Russian against the dark mink fur. I imagined myself Anna Karenina, beset by lovers, unable to find satisfaction in the ordinary; all that night I tossed and turned, restless in my dreams. When I awoke I found I had pulled my arms in under the covers to a more familiar sleeping pose, yet my first desire was to lay them back across the blanket, scrunching it up between my fingers like the loose fur on the scruff of an animal’s neck. The insistent alarm shrilled at me and I had to leave the bed, but I thrilled at being able to make my bed on this morning, smoothing away the wrinkled and creases in the fur, brushing it down so the pile lay smooth and flat and sleek. It was a sensation of delight to sit on the corner of the bed, clad in my knickers and bra, pulling my stockings on bit by bit so that the tickling sensation against my thighs would last as long as possible.

During the day at work I thought about how nice it would be to get home and snuggle into the blanket, cocoon myself in its folds, warm and comforting. I could not seem to get warm all day, no matter how much I rushed about or turned up the heating as high as my colleagues would allow. At the end of work I jumped in the car and hightailed it home, pushing through hideous traffic with one thought on my mind – mink blanket…

Throwing my bag on the floor, letting the door slam behind me with the momentum of my entry, kicking off my shoes, tugging my coat and jacket off, pulling my shirt over my head, sliding my skirt down with my stockings, I leapt onto the bed in my underclothes and let my skin drink in the sensation of fur all over my body, tickling, teasing, warm. I rolled about, grasping folds of the blanket in my hands, pulling it over myself, flinging it away, pulling it back again. I slid a leg out and over so that there was a thick mass of blanket between my thighs.

My back arching, hands grasping, I rubbed myself up and down the minky fur, my excitement growing so that very soon my pussy was pulsing in time with my gyrations. I felt myself getting wet and I reached down between my thighs, pulling my knickers to one side, running a finger over and around my labia, teasing the hood of my clit. I could feel the blanket pelt against the back of my hand, my own pelt under my palm, soft warm slippery flesh under my fingers. As I wriggled and moaned the blanket warmed beneath me and it became a creature of its own, caressing me, urging me on to deeper pleasure.

Recklessly I plunged two fingers deep inside myself and drew them slowly out, then slowly back in. My pussy lips sucked against the insurgence, my whole being shuddered. I increased the motion of my fingers, allowed my other hand to drop back against the blanket, threw open my legs and abandoned myself to the caress. It seemed only moments before I came, hard, rocking against my hand. I allowed my fingers to rest there before slowly withdrawing them, bringing them up to cup my mons, one finger tracing the lazy outline of the top of my slit. Now the pelt was holding me, warming me, and I sighed as I relaxed against its soft embrace.

Hours later I woke in the dark, cocooned in my mink blanket and the thought occurred to me that I hoped it was machine washable…

© 2011 - 2012 Louise Turner

This week's guest blogger is poet, artist and musician Dan Moxham. These are poems from his collection called Red Wings.

Three in a Bed but One of them is Dead

Taking photos is like having someone else in the room

We show off in front of the camera

Trying to impress it

We don’t have to get it drunk

Or whisper sweet nothings in its ear

But we take it out on our date

And sit it at the table –

Maybe place it on a chair

The silent partner

We take it to the bedroom

You strip and I take photos –

It starts quite normal

But after 10 minutes

You bend over

Move the silk separating each buttock

And start to finger

I take photos (it’s just for fun)

I change the exposure, hue and color temperature

This makes you look like a porn star

Even when it comes to having sex

We have to document it

First you take pictures of me on top

My face hidden holding your legs up

Then I take pictures of you from behind

Maybe switch the button over to video

And capture it going inside?

Are we a couple or is this a three-way?

The camera winks with its little mechanical eye.

***

Vanishing Rose

She has a tribal tattoo on her back

I know this because her back is close to her ass

And I like looking at that

Her blond hair runs between her shoulders

It flows down to her Lumbar vertebrae

It touches the top of the tattoo

The one at the crest of her ass

And I like looking at that

I hope she drops the potato she is peeling

It falls –

Fuck yeah, I high-five myself

She chases it across the kitchen

She bends down to grab it

The top of her underwear showing

Then the tattoo –

A rose surrounded by jagged black pattern

The ink is slightly faded

Washed out on her back

Just above her ass

And I’d like to fuck that.

***

© 2012 Dan Moxham

This week's guest blogger Ben John Smith has recently released his book of poety Horror, Sleaze, Trash.

I’m a World Famous

Poet

Me and my girl

stand

at the kitchen table.

In my hand is a cold tin.

In hers, a flume of pink

champagne.

A girl with massive tits

and the prettiest

brown curls

you ever saw

calls me “the poet”

and

asks to fuck the both of us

in an orgy I couldn’t handle

anyway.

But we have to speak to her boyfriend

‘cause he’s a little bit shy.

On the drive home,

with the passing red lights

a smudge to my

drunken eyes,

I say,

“You hear that, baby?

They called me a poet.

I’m a world-famous poet...”

***

There's No Way

Sit down,

I pat at the felt seat

beside me.

Pull up your skirt.

Show me your

Amazon thighs,

for the leg show.

Spill the wine

all over the floorboards.

Don't worry about it,

I'll clean it up

later

with a second wipe

of a gym sock.

There's no way,

no-way-Jose,

that we can

pull

back

now

I wanna keep my shirt on

just for a little while.

Until the blood in my body

warms up my skin

while it floods to the

purple tip of my dick.

My foot slips in the wine.

It's ambient

and

cold.

Even if one of us vomits

there is no way we could

pull

back

now.

***

A dress hem creeping from her thigh

and into the warmth of her

yawning,

blushing crotch. My Bow-legged Baby

Undressed at the height,

breathing white clouds of smoke,

that settle around her lips

and hang heavily

with a dissipated weight

around her nipples.

Glowing grey,

in the awkward neon

of the porch light outside.

The staunch, black, outside.

The television hums in the other room,

just like it always does.

And I yell out the wire screen door

that the next few pages are for her,

as if they have ever been anyone else's.

***

© 2011 Ben John Smith