This story was inspired by @EA_unadorned and his genius idea for a GBBO themed writing competition. This excites me in many ways, because one thing I love almost as much as fucking is cake. It is based on a combination of realities, drawn together for this story.
We’d been at it for three hours now. We began after an energising breakfast, had a quick stop for a cup of tea and now I was tired. I sat down and, reminiscent of a small child, exclaimed that I was exhausted and needed a rest.
He sat beside me, kissed my head and told me it was okay. That we didn’t have long to go, and I have a long bath to look forward to when we were finished.
We’d been staying in the Dales for a few days. The loveliest little cottage, lots of red wine, open fires and long walks, of which this was the last one and the longest yet.
As he pulled me in towards him, I could smell the mixture of the fresh air heavy with his sweat. Sweat does funny things to me, and before I’d even noticed I could feel the throbbing between my legs. He knew this, because I gasp in a certain way when something turns me on. He stood up, took me by the hand and pulled me up.
‘There’s the pub down there’. He pointed towards the village at the bottom of the valley. ‘That’s the end of the walk’. He ran his hand across my arse, and gave it a little tap. He definitely knew.
The pub was everything you’d expect, from the beaten copper tables, real ale selection and muddy dogs asleep on the floor. We picked a table in the corner, threw our backpacks down and ordered a beer. Nothing is quite like the first taste of beer after a long day of walking.
We slumped beside each other, a little bit closer that planned, falling onto the bench against the wall. I laughed, he didn’t. His hand was on my thigh, to steady himself as he collapsed down, but now his grip was tighter, and showed no sign of loosening.
A member of staff arrived at our table, and asked if we were after anything to eat. I was hungry, really very hungry, but I wasn’t sure what for. I felt his hand under the table trace up my thigh, between my legs and adding a small amount of pressure.
He asked for the roast of the day. She turned to me, waiting for my order as he started increase the pressure and rub between my thighs.
‘Same, please’ was all I could manage (for which I deserved a medal) before she turned her back and I tried to keep myself quiet.
‘We’ve got about 15 minutes, which I think is a good amount of time to see how long you can bend over the toilet and be fucked, before your legs start to shake.’
He grabbed me by the wrist. If he grabs me by the hand, we fuck, together. Grabbing my wrist means he is about to fuck me.
True to his word, he locked the stall, pulled my trousers halfway down my legs, gave me two hard slaps on each cheek before gripping my hair in a fist at the base of my neck. The spanks had already made me start to shake, but I knew I had to stay until he had finished with me.
Luckily he had let me use my hands to brace myself against the wall. My breathing started to change and he instantly recognised that the build up to an orgasm, for which I got a third hard slap and told not to come. He didn’t care if anyone was in the toilet, or what they heard.
He was fucking me hard now, pulling my head back with each thrust. He knew how close I was to orgasm, and he knew I would be doing everything I could not to give in. Spanking was a punishment, but he also knew it could tip me over the edge. He gave me a fourth slap, which sent me into quivering panic as I knew I would go tumbling over that edge with the fifth.
‘Do you want to come?’
‘Are you allowed to come?’
And the fifth slap came with the no, with the tumbling over the edge, the biting of back of my hand and the trembling thighs. I knew exactly what was next, as I was pulled onto my knees by my hair. The thumb in my mouth, tilting my head up, pulling down my lower jaw.
He fucked my mouth hard, whilst reminding me I was disobedient, and this was only the beginning of my punishment. I felt him against the back of my throat, faster and faster before the hand on my hair pulled sharply downwards so I was looking at him. I didn’t take my eyes away as he sprayed all over me. Hot, thick, filling the air with his scent mixed with sweat. He pulled up his trousers, gave my hair a stroke and walked out.
I sheepishly returned to the table, exhausted and ravenous. The food was just being placed in front of him, as I slipped in beside and quickly grabbed my knife and fork.
My favourite part of a roast dinner is the Yorkshire pudding, filled with gravy. At home I eat them with my hands and enjoy when the gravy spills out onto my fingers. Today I’d opted for the more civilised knife and fork, but still let a little bit of the gravy slide down past my lips.
‘You’ve missed a bit’. We both grinned as I watched him lick his finger and go for the gravy. But he didn’t. He went for the other side, above my left cheek, wiped something away and lick his finger clean.
‘There’ll be more of that later.’