Hey, I wrote a smut. I’d tag people, but I’m not sure if Tumblr fixed that annoying tagging glitch yet.
Based very loosely on a real life thing. Or at least the fantasies from it.
The lights are dimmed. At least the telltale flush blossoming along my collarbone will be less visible.
In the silence her heels click on the floor. She seems to sense my discomfort, which probably radiates from me in waves. “This shouldn’t take long,” she reassures me. A small nod jerks from my neck and I wonder why this is all very much doing it for me. I hate it. I kind of hate her, other than the fact that she is clearly very nice and has a good bedside manner.
She asks for my glasses, which I place on her extended palm. I accept the small paddle she proffers. “Please cover your right eye.” I gaze at the eye chart that is projected on the opposite wall. “Can you read the fourth line from the top?” Her body settles on the wheeled stool and I can sense but not see her steering herself closer to me. It is reasonably easy for me to take in the full line of letters at once. I am unable to speak. This must be a joke.
“Are you able to pick out the letters? Just do the best you can.” “D…” I squeak. I clear my throat and race through the “E…E…P.” “Good!” she practically purrs at me. I am fairly sure that the letters are supposed to be random and are not supposed to form actual words. I shift uncomfortably in my seat and there. THERE. I imagine that I feel a slickness developing and plead with my body not to betray me in this way.
“How about the next line?”
I squint a little and am entirely incensed. And turned on. I bark out the letters: “R – E – L – A – X.”
It sounds like a reasonable suggestion. It occurs to me that I haven’t really breathed in a while, and I direct my shaky inhale all the way down until my abdomen rises.
“You’re doing very well.” It probably is just my imagination, but her voice seems a little lower and more resonant. In response to her praise, my nipples beginning to harden in my thankfully well-padded bra. I find myself nodding again, though my neck and shoulders are significantly less tense. That’s probably a good sign.
“The next line, please.” The shape of the letters are certainly less defined here, and I feel the limits of my vision. I can still manage if I focus very intently. I blink a little to clear my vision for each letter. “T”. My voice has an odd faraway lilt to it, which I find a little puzzling. “R”. “A.” I pause as my eyelashes flutter. “N? It’s either an N or an M. C…E.”
Yeah, it was probably an N. My skin feels electrified. I can feel my hips shift up imperceptibly. There is definitely a wetness that tingles just at the edge. A finger tracing along it would likely pull some of it away. I have the distinct urge to check, but the only free hand grips the arm of the exam chair.
“Can you read anything on the next line?”
My eyes try to make sense of it, but I’m somewhat fatigued. “D?” I manage, and fall silent. Nothing else comes together. My breaths are long and slow.
We run through the series of letters with my other eye, and she thankfully takes back the paddle. My arms feel very heavy at this point. She pivots something in front of me, and I notice a chin rest and a bar along the top. She directs me to place my head against it, so I nestle my chin down. I am not quite forward enough, so her hand snakes between my neck and hair and she gently pulls me forward until my forehead meets the plastic. I’m not sure if I detect a faint squeeze before she lets go or if it’s just wishful thinking. My skin prickles at the feeling of being restrained. I push forward a little more, eager, and train my eyes on her. She smiles and something drops in the pit of my stomach.
She directs my focus to a sparkling earring that I hadn’t noticed before, as a pinpoint light dances at the edges of my vision. Everything seems to slow. I just want to close my eyes, but I am captivated by the jewelry that spins so delicately from her lobe. I allow myself the momentary thrill of imagining how it would feel to close my mouth on this part of her ear and to flick my tongue along it. I swallow, with effort.
I am slightly disappointed when the chin rest is removed, but she positions a broad piece of equipment in front of me with two lenses. I understand from previous exams (that were significantly less erotic) that this will determine my current eyeglass prescription. I bring my head forward.
“Can you focus again on the fourth line of text?”
“You’re a little far back, can you rest your head here?”
“Good. Now I’m going to flip the lenses back and forth. Let me know which one is clearer. Can you do that?”
“Do you remember what the fourth line says?”
“Deep.” Desire burns in me. I no longer push it away.
“Very good. One?” I hear a pleasant click. The second click brings the word into sharper relief. “Or two?”
“Two.” I squirm a little in my chair. Deep.
The lenses flip back and forth more and more quickly. It occurs to my dull mind that it’s usually not this fast. In fact, the options are not getting progressively sharper as the test progresses. One is always slightly blurry, and two is always perfectly clear. Deep. My mouth repeats “two” almost robotically. By the time her voice deepens and her instructions change, I realize too late that I am already hypnotized. But it is OK. My only job right now is just to focus on the word and to tell her which option is better. It is two. Her words meld together and spin around me until I can no longer track them. She could be saying anything. Please. “Two.” I feel my legs spreading apart slowly, but I understand that there is no need to feel embarrassed. I’m just doing what makes me feel better.
A flash of realization hits me. My eyes are closed. And yet I’m still parroting back the only word I seem to know.
Something in her tone calls me to whisper “two” again as I spread my legs wider. When I speak it I feel a flutter between my legs which dissipates very fast. I want it back. My skirt presses against the outside of my thighs and I can vaguely hear her amusement at how exposed I am. I nod. Please. I need to feel it again. How…
“Two,” I croak, and this time I feel the pressure of fingers pressing against my underwear. I’m not sure if it’s real or imagined. In an instant it’s gone again. A moan escapes me. I tip myself up in desperation, which is helpful because I feel the distinct tug of my underwear being removed.
A gasp charges through me as a finger barely moves to separate me. Words tumble out of me. They are wrong. I feel the absence of touch and almost lose my mind.
I forget. My hips reach up to find nothing. My back arches deeply. I beg for help. Sweet words move around me and I understand that it’s the arousal that’s making me a little dumb right now. But I have the right word now. Thank you.
Something moves inside of me and I cry out. All I hear and all I can see is that number. All I feel is a finger moving rhythmically inside and out of me. I find that the faster I speak it the faster it thrusts. My nails dig into the side of the chair and in the back of my mind I think that this is wrong. This is WRONG. But still I pant “two” and still the finger splits me apart. A thumb begins to circle at my clit even as the pressure builds deeper within me. I stop speaking. I am on the very edge of something and my whole body shakes in anticipation.
I barely feel her lips graze my ear as she murmurs, “one.”
Ladies and gentlemen (and everyone else) of the jury, the defendant claimed via internet message in the month of July that she, and I quote, “never really [has] ideas” for smut, and has generally promoted the idea that she was unqualified to write erotic fiction. I submit the above story as evidence of her OUTRAGEOUS LIES.
(Mmm that’s some good smut.)
(Also whelp now my next eye exam is gonna be uh. Interesting.)
made by: PHAZED
Prepare for pain.
all text and layout by me
featuring @ropebaby and @viscous-violence
Failure is simply the opportunity to begin again. This time more intelligently.
I don’t get what’s the big deal about wooden spoons.Standard
A wooden spoon is THERE.
Just out of reach, something you didn’t even notice. You’re making some smart remark, and suddenly there’s a hand gripped tightly around your arm. You’re surprised! Your stomach drops to the floor as you realize that it’s trouble, and you begin to protest and beg your way out of it.
But it’s not working. Your feet are sliding across the floor as you’re dragged through the kitchen, and that damned wooden spoon you didn’t notice is picked up. You feel pants and underwear dropped around your ankles, and that same rough hand pushing you bent over the kitchen counter.
The first crack is like a lightning bolt in your brain, and you barely react before the second one. That’s when you start to cry out. Your hand reached back to stop it, was it involuntary? A reaction you couldn’t control? It doesn’t matter. Strong and sure hands that aren’t yours pin it uselessly to the small of your back.
The wooden spoon resumes.
You’ll do your best not to forget it’s there next time.
This is fucking amazing.
So easy too. Couple hole saws and it’s done 😍