AislingWeaver, Erotica, Fuck Me Friday

Skirt ~ Fuck Me Friday

Note: I’m going to endeavor to have the weekly post up on Thursday mornings in order to give people the time in all time zones to undertake it.

Twitterotica themes have been hanging around for some time, with various writers tackling weekly challenges such as #wankwednesday and so on, and writing challenges far and wide are abundant.  So when Ruby Kiddell and I started talking about trying to get the weekly smut-a-thons going again I was all for it.  Well, she tackled it with her customary flair and the first linky love Wank Wednesdaywent off with great success!! The goal is two-fold; for writers, a weekly challenge to keep the, err, juices flowing.  For readers, you’ll find all the stories linked off at the bottom of each week’s prompt. Are you game? So, welcome to the linky love edition of Fuck Me Friday.  All you have to do is this;

  • Write a story with the prompt as your title.  Today’s will be :


  • Tweet it with both the prompt hashtag and the hashtag #FuckMeFriday
  • And lastly add it to the links at the bottom of this post.(note, if you don’t want to tweet it or don’t have a blog, I invite you to post your story in the comments section.



True to form you did your best to skirt the issue.  You ignored the collar waiting patiently on the coffee table.

The reminder.

The promise you made on blatant display.  A nudge to make clear I hadn’t forgotten.  I watched your gaze rest on it, your color rise.  And with a breath you set your shoulders and turned away from the slender curve of leather.

I knew how it smelled.  How it coiled of its own volition; a lithe, smooth, extension of my will eager to circle your neck.

You ignored it.  Though I could smell you; that musky, sweet, tantalizing scent that betrays your arousal; you turned your attention to dinner.  I helped; set the table, diced the onions, decanted the wine.

I waited.  Patience I have in abundance.  When you turned the burner off I slid the lid over the pot and let the leather uncoil.  The buckle chimed, a sweet, musical note, and you froze.

“Do you remember that sound?” I murmured behind your ear, pinning you against the stove.  The front radiated heat into us, almost too hot.  You nodded, and I shook the collar by the tongue, letting it jingle again.  A shiver traced the length of your spine.  “What is it?” I demanded.

“A collar,” you whispered.  My breath fanned against the curve of your ear; I watched your nipples peak beneath the thin silk of your blouse.

“Just a collar?”

Another ripple, this time a tremor.  I could feel the tension of your body; a strung bow waiting for my plucking.  My mind turned towards the instruments awaiting us in the bedroom; silk rope, blindfold, suede flogger.  I knew, with a prescient clarity, that I wouldn’t let a one of them touch your skin.

I would show them to you.  Let you smell them; the sweet scent of lavender clinging to the coils of rope from the sachets in my closet, the lingering traces of sandalwood from my office drawer on the blindfold, the sensual, distinct character of the leather.  Oh yes.  I’d let you smell them, look at them, then tuck them away.

You might for them.  If you did I’d grant you the pleasure of their caress.  I made that promise to myself as I nuzzled your neck, the length of the collar hugging your hip.  My lips whispered over your flesh, too soft and too fleeting.

“It’s your collar,” you finally added.  I smiled and waited, my body moving in tandem with yours, holding myself away.

You radiated heat and want into me.  “It is mine.”  Your breath caught at the tone of my voice and desire slithered through my stomach, turning, coiling, shifting.  “Are you mine?”

A hunted rabbit would draw attention before you.  Your stillness caught my heartbeat and it stumbled as I waited.  My pulse thrummed through my veins; I sipped shallow breaths.  I had naught but the barest sliver of your profile to read.

I locked my knees when your head dipped in the barest of nods.  Uncertainly tore at me.  I waited still longer.

You turned, gaze guileless and open, so vulnerable it took every bit of restraint I had not to take you at that exact moment.  The slide of your fingers down my forearm made the hunger inside me shift, baring teeth and dark, hungry eyes.  Your grasp closed around the collar.

I held my breath. . .

. . .then watched, stunned, as you lifted it and fit it around your own neck, buckling it with deft, quick moves.  You didn’t look at the candlelit dinner table, nor the waiting food.  Instead you turned and walked to my bedroom, pausing in the door to let your eyes meet mine once more.


I heard in that one word an answer, promise, instruction, plea, and last of all the memory of what it had meant when I bowed my neck to your collar.

I followed.  Followed and knew by the end of the night that curve of leather would wrap around my neck and you’d be fucking me, again, and again, after I’d taken my fill of you.







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