Ready For Me…?

Well, it’s still Sunday in the UK (just), so here is my Sunday Story. I have had various technical hitches this week, not to mention a number of other distractions (spankings in order for any perpetrators of distraction, I think…you know I’m coming for you!). But here it is. Enjoy!


It’s become a habit of his to phone me at work on a Friday afternoon. I take my mobile with me to a nearby store cupboard and lock myself in at 2.55, waiting for his 3p.m. call. While I’m staring at the phone, waiting to grab it before it makes too much noise, I hitch my skirt up around my waist and get myself ready. Too long in front of the computer and all the moisture has gone from me, so I drown my finger in saliva before letting it roll round my clit. I only have to slide around under my finger and I can get really wet, and then it’s easy. He likes to know that I have my fingers inside me when the phone rings, so I do as he wants, pushing one in slowly, letting my skin get used to the roughness. It always reminds me of how I imagined thrusting myself into coral would feel, and I take a minute to feel my way around all the surface until I touch the front wall and an ache rolls like a surfer’s wave up through my belly and I become wet all over again. I put my middle finger in then, too, just as the phone rings.

“Are you ready for me?” Same words, every time, and he knows the answer, because I begin my gentle finger-fuck and begin to moan down the line where I know he will be sitting in his office in his shirt and trousers, wishing he could get out his cock and stroke it under the table. It’s beautiful when it first becomes hard, blushing a soft rose from the base of the shaft up to the head, except where his foreskin pulls right back and reveals his soft, deeper pink to me, shining with new wetness, and all I ever want to do when I see it is grab hold of it and lick round the edge of his head and into his cleft. I want to let my tongue massage his slit while my hand fondles his balls.

Sometimes I want to lick him all the way down the underside of his shaft until I get to his base, and then I want to take his balls in my mouth and suck while I tug him off gently. And always I want to run my hand around his thigh to his backside, and slide my finger between his cheeks. But the ball sucking drives his cock wild, and he throws me down so he can bury himself deep where my fingers are now. He fucks me, and he asks me, “Is that what you wanted?”, and his cock feels so good, and so full inside me, after spending all week without him, that I tell him what he wants to hear.

I detect his breath growing heavier, coming faster, as I moan my way to orgasm, and he encourages very moment. Carefully placed words, like “That’s it. Go on, It’s me,” and he has no idea how much it turns me on. And I give him what he wants, but it’s not with my fingers inside me. It’s with two fingers around my clit, moving in circles until one of them finds the spot that makes my pussy ache, and that spreads the throb right through me and into my back as I give him my last moan, there in the cupboard.

I know he can’t say much, there in his glass house where everyone can see through the windows into each other’s offices, but when his breathing regulates, he says, “Someone enjoyed themselves,” and it’s hard to tell whether it was me feeling the finger-fuck or him hearing it that was the biggest turn on for each of us. We both got what we wanted, one way or another, and we laugh—that dirty little laugh we both have—down the line. I know what comes next.

“So what is it you want—” His words must have got interrupted, I don’t know, by an unexpected visitor to his office or something, because it deviates from the norm, misses the ending. It’s always, “So what is it you want me to do to you when I see you?” It’s muffled on the other end, and I guess he’s speaking to someone with his hand over the phone, probably in case I tell him, and my voice carries to his visitor. It brings out the devil in me, and I contemplate shouting an answer down the line that his hand over me can’t melt into submission with its touch. But I don’t; I’m just not that cruel. I think, instead, about what he’s asked me. Every time I answer him, I always tell him what he wants to hear. How I want his face buried in my pussy lips, and his tongue as far inside my cunt as he can make it go. And I love it. I do. It makes me come like crazy. Sometimes, when he finishes work and he travels miles and miles to get to me, he’ll fuck me stupid then; other times he’ll wank himself off until I can watch him come over my breasts. It tickles as it runs off them and down onto my ribs, even though it’s still warm, and he loves it when I watch him lick it off my nipples, and he bites them and sucks until they stand as small, hard, deep red mounds to match the one I still have under my fingers while he gets himself off. And it’s great, all of it. But everything we do, he does to me. And I want—I want to try something new.

“I think we should try a carrot in your pussy. Do you want to do that?”

I tell him yes, I want to do that. He’s not fucked me with a vegetable before. He’s spoken about it often, and so I tell him that we’ll go shopping for a suitable one when he comes to see me. And I just can’t bring myself to answer him honestly. How do I tell him what I really want to do? He’s so adept at assuming control, at knowing what’s good; nothing phases him. I’ve no idea how to be like that.

He tells me how we’ll buy a big, fat carrot. How he’ll keep it in the fridge until it’s ice cold while he undresses me and kisses every part of my body with burning lips. How my flesh will be yearning for more of his heat, for his hot cock. How he will make me buck into his fiery breath and while I’m still writhing from his tongue in my folds, he will hold the carrot to my entrance and push, firmly, slowly, so every nerve, every part of the soft tissue inside me comes at the very touch of the cold hardness he inserts in me. How he will fuck me with it, slowly at first, then harder, licking my juices from it as I ooze over its epidermis. How much he wants to watch me. And I’ll let him, if that’s what he wants.


It’s a fortnight before I see him. The longest fourteen days I ever recall. I’ve spent all that time with my stomach clenched in a knot. His question rolls around my head in every waking moment; I dream, have little fantasies about how it would be, how I can do it and make him excited. In my dream it works. I wake up in a horny sweat without a clue what to do.

We make our first task to head to the nearest empty car park, so he can fuck me with his fingers, and my mouth can ease its desperation for his cock. We kiss hard then, and he’s full of himself as we drive to the supermarket. He holds up all sorts of carrots—short and fat, long with a point on the end, and one with the funny little extra shoot on the side that looks like a Rabbit. I laugh at his efforts, and eventually he settles on a nice, thick one, about the same length as he is. But my head is full of trepidation, full of fantasy, dominated by notions of what I want. I stroke his backside as he stands at the checkout, finding the seam that runs down the crack between his cheeks. It makes him squirm, push his backside out quite involuntarily which amuses me as I expect him to suck it in under him. He makes a funny little grunting noise before reaching round and clasping my hand to his tummy. My insides grow heavy; it’s going to be impossible if I try—he’s going to hate me.

But it’s all I can think about, and it’s preventing me being able to concentrate on my work. It’s time he realised that I can’t be beholden only to his wants and needs. That my desires run deep; they trouble me. That I’m scared of what I want—in case I lose him. But I won’t tell him, will I? Of course I won’t. He knows there’s something wrong as we drive to my place, but he doesn’t ask. Just looks at me every now and then when there’s a break in the traffic, or we’re at the lights. But I keep my stare rooted to the road.

“I’ll put this somewhere suitable,” he says, and he disappears into the kitchen with his new-found sex toy. When he comes back, I’m standing in just my bra and knickers. They’re the colour of sky, and I feel as if I’m watching from up there, detached, a passive observer to the needs of my body. If I’m detached, then maybe I can cope when he says no and pushes me away. He’s in control. He always is. Will it be the same between us—when he knows? There are far more hedonistic things I could want. I just want this one tiny thing. Will it ruin everything?

He walks towards me, removing his shirt and undoing his jeans. His clothes end up on the back of the chair, and I watch from my cloud as he moves closer and I can feel his cock pressing against my hip. I slide my hands in the elastic and push them down. They fall. Somewhere. And the second his hands take my ribs and push me back with his thumbs so that his lips brush the top of my knickers, I fall, too. He pushes me into the bedroom and I feel the edge of the bed against the tops of my thighs as I always do, and my breasts pushing into the duvet, just as usual. I feel his fingers undo the clasp of my bra and remove it, leaving my arms splayed forward on the bed. My heart is pounding. I know what’s coming, and what I have to do. At least try to do.

His nose is against the lacy back of my knickers. His breath is hot as he pulls the crotch to the side and his tongue runs its tip against one side of my folds, licking, dallying in my entrance because he knows it makes me ooze juices. He kisses my mound, his lips and nose buried in my hair, and I push against him, purely by instinct, as his tongue returns to enter me. There’s a pause, an emptiness, but he holds me to the bed with the heel of his hand, and then there it is—the tip of his cock, pressing against the edge of my knickers, moving them further, ready to take me, like always.

I reach back and grasp it. He stops.

“You want to feel it? Or open wide for it?”

I manage to stand up and turn around while he’s a bit stunned. I take a firm hold of his cock, run my hand over his chest, and he’s got the look of a wide-eyed deer, so I make my movements—slowly, sliding my hand across his body, round his side, over his shoulder. I take my steps around him, circumnavigating his body, still pressing his cock in my hand, stroking it, letting it slide through my fingers and back again. And I think I’m going to manage it, to get all the way around him and stroke his cock from behind him, but he forces my fingers open and pulls me back so that his cock is pressed hard between us and I’m looking into his eyes.

“I’ll do it for you. Watch.” And he plays with it himself. It’s rock hard, and the tip is drenched with globules of precum.

“Come on, Sweetie. You know what you like to do.”

I hesitate. “I like the taste, you know I do.” And, as always, seeing that uncovered head dribbling in fluid finds me with it in my mouth as soon as I drop to my knees in front of him. His eyes wait for mine to make contact, and I can see the enjoyment in them. I see the lust there, too. And the deep affection that permeates it always. I just want to cry.

I stop sucking. Both my hands are free, and they slide around his body, over his hipbone and to his backside. My finger ends seek a way in, kneading his flesh, until they get a tentative feel for each side. Using a bit more pressure with my fingertips, I pull his cheeks apart. He clenches them—an instinct, no doubt; I remember him telling me how he nearly laid out a doctor who tried to put a suppository up his backside once—and I take it steady. I love him. I think he knows that. It’s always there in the background, and it’s never a problem for us. But because of it, I want him to open up to me. To my surprise, he doesn’t pull away. He stands very still, watching me intently, confused, and I smile up at him and kiss his belly. I massage his backside for, oh, I don’t know how long; ages. He strokes my hair and I feel his muscles relax. There’s no rush; I wait a while. But I give him a clue. It’s only fair.

I put my index finger into my mouth. “It’s very wet,” I tell him. I watch his chest beginning to rise and fall faster as my finger slides along the length of his crack. His whole body becomes rigid the moment I put my finger on his hole, pinning my finger there. It would be so easy to push it in. But I do nothing—just hold it there, and eventually the tightness around my finger eases. I expect him to push me off, at minimum to feel his erection droop, but I take charge of that before it has the opportunity. I draw his cockhead into my mouth once more and manipulate it to full stiffness. In the end, all I need to do is kiss its tip.

“Are you okay?” I look at him, worried but smiling, and he nods back. “Ready for what I want?” His chest lifts up and down ferociously, but he licks his lips. They’re dry, and he’s swallowing, hard, an awful lot.


I take my little vibrator from the drawer, and he eyes it with suspicion. I tell him, “It will feel funny. At first. Sort of tingly. But relax and it’s nice.”

He never takes his eyes off the little bullet. “Are you going to…?” Then he looks at me. “What if…what if I just can’t…can’t let you?”

I kiss his hand. “Then I’ll stop.”

“You won’t be mad?”

I’ve never seen him look at me like this before. “No, I won’t.”

I stand behind him, pulling him into me. The tip of the vibrator is against his hole. It’s not switched on, but at the first touch of it he tightens. I tell him to breathe into it and after a minute or two he allows the tip in. I push just a little further, so I know it won’t fall clean out and he puffs at me.

“Ready? This might feel strange.”

I press the button, let it run on the softest setting. His body jerks violently, three or four times, and a guttural groan overtakes the air. He’s panting, but his muscles are just starting to loosen their tight hold on his frame.

“Do you want a little bit more?” I wait until I get a clipped little “yes” and I ease it in a bit further. His cock is standing semi-erect; I was worried that he would never cope with sensations front and back. I take hold of his cock and tease it with my finger and thumb until his breathing is long and slow and he is fully hard once more. The end is wet again, and I swirl my fingertip over it, spreading it across his cockhead. His moan at seeing the physical manifestation of his own arousal is all the encouragement I need now. I grasp at his shaft and begin; long, slow strokes. He moans into my movements, air hissing through his teeth, and I take my chance to move things on. Little by little, I fuck him with the vibrator, until I’m matching my hand on his cock with the thrust and withdrawal of my little bullet. His moans reverberate through the hand I have around his cock, and I’m sure he’s going to come, wide-eyed and stunned though he is.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this.” His words appear as whispers.

“Do you want me to stop?” I have to know.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

I know he can’t see my face, but my mouth presses against his thigh, and I know he will feel the stretch of my jaw as I break into a grin. I whisper in return, kissing the back of his thigh between my words. “Do you want me to show you what I really want now?”

“What—this isn’t it?”

“Only partly. Nip your bum cheeks together. Don’t worry, it won’t vanish. Kneel down.”

He does as I ask. I walk round to face him, looking down at his startled face.

“Remove my knickers. Use your teeth, but you can use your fingers if you get stuck. You’ve never tried it with me before.” And it occurs to me to ask: “Have you tried it with anyone?”

He shakes his head. “I never thought I would, either.”

“Before you do…”

I bend down and crank up the vibrations. He groans, deep and hard in his throat, and rips my knickers clean off, almost with his teeth alone.

“Touch it. Touch my pussy. Make your fingers wet.”

His fingers roam through my bush, sliding around my clit. His hands are shaking. I’m almost convinced he’s going to choke when he realises how dripping I am between my legs. “Now suck it from your fingers.”

And while he’s busy doing that, I crouch down over him, turning up his bum-fuck one last time. “I’m going to have you while you’re being fucked with my little helper. Do you want that?”

His hands wrap around my waist, his fingers splaying up my back. He’s never kissed me this hard before.

“Don’t move. Let me do all the work. Grip the vibrator. Stay still. I want to make you come with that vibrator up your arse.”

I lower myself down onto him, my legs squatted either side of his thighs, my arms clinging round his neck. I feel his cockhead against my entrance; push against it. Take him all the way in one motion, and lift off again, really slowly. And then I fuck him, and fuck him. Hard.

“Grip that thing that’s fucking your arse, just like I’m squeezing you with my cunt. It’s fucking you, isn’t it? And I’m fucking you. I’m going to make you come.”

I sit fully on his lap now, riding his cock. There’s not a space between us. My feet encircle him, grasping the vibrator between my toes, and I thrust it in and out his hole, rocking it in time with my thrusts forward onto him. His head is swelling inside me, pressing into my inner walls, filling me so I feel every ridge, every part of him and I’m as sensitive as I could ever be, while his balls tuck up tight beneath me. He yells, and I feel the hot jet of spunk fire into me and begin to run. I have to pull him sideways to prevent him falling back onto the vibrator.

His cock is still inside me as I remove the bullet, really gently. We lay there, nestled into one another, he trying to regain his breath, me trying to make myself believe that he let me follow my fantasy all the way and that I’m no longer in a cloud, watching down on myself but with this wonderful man, our bodies pressed together as long as it takes his cock to shrink and fall from inside of me. His semen trails on my leg, it oozes in my entrance and I feel it tickle the top of my thigh as some of it escapes. He doesn’t say anything. I’m not sure that words are what I want to hear right now. The kiss says it all.


It’s Friday, and my knickers are already damp, waiting for his call. I’m in the storage cupboard, the sound turned down on my phone so that only I can hear it ring. I wait, and wait. The back of my mouth goes dry. My chest lifts up and down much faster than usual. It burns. There’s a dreadful feeling, like a soggy dishcloth, swamping me, sucking me into my own wetness but leaving me unfit for use. Dirty. Is that what he thinks? It’s been a week and I’ve not heard from him. My eyes begin feeling the dampness now. What am I going to do? It’s done now. I wish—that he’d spoken more about it. It’s deathly in here; that scratching sound—an earwig scuttling across the shelf. Is this what I’m reduced to: wet for him and settling for a horrid insect for company?

The vibration fires through my body from my palm, and I can’t catch my breath. Answer the fucking phone, you idiot. The second it takes to press the button is an age; every conversation we’ve ever had replays in my head, every touch of his hands on my breast, my ribs, my hips, every kiss on my neck. I hold them all as I speak into the phone.


And there is his voice. The same voice, only its intonation is different. It takes me a few moments before the words lodge in my consciousness.

“What is it you want to do?”

Slowly, my body returns to life. My heart beats hard, strong. I bury my fingers into my waistband, push into the top of my knickers and stroke my bush, just as he likes. Just as I like. The significance of the words sink in as my fingers move lower, seeking the reassurance they need. They find it there, hard and triumphant. I squeeze my clit between my fingers as I reply:

“The question is: What is it you want me to do to you when I see you? Are you ready for me..?”


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