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The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.
The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. All sexual acts depicted in this story take place between consenting adults. Any similarities of the characters in the story to real people are purely coincidental.
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This story competes in the Femdom Fury Contest.
Title: Sweet, Sweet Mess
Author: @Claire
My stories: Claire's Cesspool of Sin
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This is my first consensual story. And it's probably the most carefully crafted story I've written so far. It's also the first time in 3 months that I wrote something just for fun, not for a contest with the intent to support the site. I had a lot of fun writing this, I really needed that.
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Sweet, Sweet Mess
I’m getting annoyed. I’ve been ready to pay for my hot chocolate for ten minutes now, but still no waiter in sight. Finally, a day with good weather during my vacation, and here I am wasting sunlight in a café that, to be fair, is rather cozy. I grab the empty mug in front of me. It still carries the seductive aroma of delicious chocolate. I head towards the counter, done waiting for someone to come to my table. Well, they do have a lot of guests, so I could be more forgiving for the delay. Then, I freeze. I can’t believe it. It’s you.
I recognize you instantly – your posture, your head resting on your fist, the pen twirling between your fingers like always, caught mid-thought. Who writes on paper these days? Of course you do, or you wouldn’t be you. A tear escapes my eye before I even notice I’m about to cry. I quickly wipe it away. You’re no longer the remedy for my pain, nor are you the enemy I once perceived you to be. So why can’t you just stay in my memory, where you belong?
I take a step closer, still watching you from a distance. You look older now. Not 17, like when we got together. Not 21, like when we broke up. The six years since I last saw you feel short in this moment. That boyish smile on your lips looks almost like a man’s now. I wonder whether you’re still trying to become a writer. ‘Trying’, as in you not having succeeded yet. Maybe you did? I never bothered to check.
I could walk past you, ignore you, leave you to yourself. Instead, I stop behind the chair opposite you, observing you, waiting for you to notice me. It takes you a while. I see you make a note. Your handwriting has always been pretty. It still is. You called it the expression of a writer’s soul back in the day – you pretentious little prick. And I was all over you for it.
I spot the ring on your finger. Then I catch your eye. Your gaze slowly wanders up my body as if you were hesitant to just stare at some random woman besieging your table. I can see the moment of recognition on your face.
“E… Elena?!”
I smile at you.
“Hi, Julian.”
You look as baffled now as I did just a minute ago when I first saw you.
“Wha… What are you doing here?”
Your voice is curious and friendly, but you lack your usual composure. You’re 27 now, but still unravel the same way you did at 17 when something catches you off guard. No matter how much we age, we remain the same at our core. You put the pen down. Your thumb instinctively reaches for the ring on your finger as if it had to make sure it's still there.
“I’m on vacation. Just doing some sightseeing today. You too? Quite the coincidence, us meeting like this, huh?”
My casualness feels suspicious even to myself.
“Uhh, no… actually, I live here. I mean, not in the café, obviously. But there are apartments above it. Mine’s on the fifth floor. Please, sit down.”
You gesture towards the seat in front of me. I hesitate for a second, then I sit down, setting the empty mug on the table.
“But you’re right. It’s still a crazy coincidence. I never expected to see you again like this, just walking in here. Can I get you anything? My treat.”
I twirl the small spoon inside the empty mug, tilt my head from left to right as if I were contemplating the offer.
“Hmm… actually, I was just about to leave when I spotted you. I’ve been here for almost a week now, but this is the first day with decent weather since I arrived. So I still have a lot of sightseeing to do.”
This wasn’t a no and I wasn’t standing up to leave either.
“I could tell you about some nice spots you won’t read about in any tourist guide. I can’t help you with the weather, though. I swear, it’s better usually.”
I hear you chuckle as you finish your sentence. I give the spoon a moment of rest, fold my hands, and rest my chin on their back. I look you in the eye, daring you to hold my gaze.
“What’s so funny?”
I ask with a smile on my face.
“Nothing, I was just thinking…”
Your voice carries a hint of amusement.
“… what would our 17-year-old selves think if they could see us like this, talking about the weather?”
I agree with you. That is an amusing thought.
“Oh, our 17-year-old selves were awkward idiots too. They simply weren’t self-aware enough to notice that.”
Are you now? You laugh at my remark. It doesn’t sound fake.
“True that! … You sure you don’t want anything?”
You ask me again. The ring on your finger: it’s gold. It doesn’t suit you.
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You seem to be doing well for yourself. An apartment with a living room this big can’t be cheap in a city like this.
“So? What can I get you? Coffee?”
I chuckle slightly at your question, brush a strand of hair behind my ear while doing so. Hands clasped together, you look at me with friendly eyes.
“You do realize we’re just coming from a café, right?”
I tease you a little. The confidence you exude is a mask. You offering me coffee, forgetting the context of our meeting, is proof of that. It’s just what you do when someone comes to visit. Without knowing what you’re supposed to do, you flee into ritual. You’re as nervous as I am with me standing in this living room I shouldn’t be in.
You point at me.
“Good point. So, what else can I offer you? Wine? Tea? Just water?”
You offer me wine but not beer. Did you remember that I don’t drink beer?
“Surprise me.”
A small challenge for you. You nod with a forced smile on your lips.
“Alright, then make yourself comfortable while I’m in the kitchen.”
You’re asking me to stay in the living room, implicitly. I get it. You need a moment away from me. I don’t mind the break either. I feel a little high just being near you, breathing you in. I can almost hear you sigh in relief as you disappear into the kitchen. I take the opportunity to look around a bit.
“So, uh, Elena, how much longer do you plan to stay here?”
I hear your voice from the kitchen. I like your living room. The bright furniture, the large windows, the view of the street below us, the cat tree in the corner. I spot a photo of you with a woman. Your wife or fiancée, I presume. Dark hair, no smile on her face, expressive eyes, the freckles make her look young, probably younger than she is.
“For another week.”
I browse through your bookshelves. A lot of fiction, obviously, then books about writing. So these are yours. Then a shelf full of psychology, sociology, and history. Are these her interests or is that you doing research for your stories?
“Are you still into photography? You always had a good eye for the perfect shot. There are some places nearby I’d love to see you capture with a camera.”
Flattery. You always know what to say. Praising my skill, not my looks. Showing a real interest, showing that you remember, making me feel – oh – so – seen. I wish I could say it didn’t work.
“Uh, yeah, thanks… I left my camera in my hotel room, though. But you could show me some of those places tomorrow, if you want to.”
I get distracted from the bookshelves by a sudden sound. The hiss of a cat. I look at the black ball of fur, sitting on its cat tree. It’s glaring at me from a distance. Must be hers then.
You return. Wine it is. You step close to me, two glasses in hand.
“White wine for you, right?”
Of course you remember. I inspect the glasses for a moment, one red and one white. I look at the hand offering me my glass. You took your ring off. You don’t expect me to believe you always take it off at home, do you? Not with your hand shaking so much. I let you simmer in the heat of the moment a little longer, waiting a few more seconds than necessary before I take the glass out of your hand.
“Always, thanks.”
You take a step back. With the glass in my hand, you seem to relax a little. We both take a quiet sip. I taste nothing. My raging heartbeat overshadows simple sensations like the taste of wine in this moment. You break the silence.
“So, six years, huh? What do you think? Do I look like how you expected?”
You raise your arms slightly, presenting yourself to me. You’re so overeager you almost spill some of your wine in the process. I always liked this playful side of yours.
“I don’t know. What’s with the goatee?”
You grin, then stroke your beard in an exaggerated manner.
“Yeah, I actually thought about shaving it off after I found a few gray hairs last week.”
I take another sip from my wine.
“I like a little gray in a man’s beard. It’s hot.”
You gulp. You flee for another sip, just like me.
“Heh, thanks! But still, I could do without the mirror reminding me I’m closer to thirty than twenty now. Today the hair’s gray, tomorrow it’s gone.”
You ruffle your hair as if to make sure it’s all still there. Alright Julian, just for today, I’ll remember you as you want me to.
Another moment of silence. Our glasses are getting emptier faster than you are supposed to drink wine.
“You look grea...”
“So, who is she?”
Fuck! I regret asking the question the moment the words leave my mouth. You look at the photo I nodded at. In the brief moment you don’t see me, I gulp down the remaining wine in my glass.
Why did I say this? Am I trying to give you an out just before it’s too late? Too late for what? I don’t know how to get out of this hole we’re digging for ourselves here! More than that, I don’t want to! What am I so scared of? When did the love I feel for you, still feel for you, start to frighten me?
“Uhh… That’s… Mia. Mia… she’s… m…”
I interrupt the silence your hesitation offers me with the truth.
“I don’t care.”
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“You kept this?”
It’s been eight years, but I remember everything. The old bookbinder’s patient smile as he walked me through the options – full-grain leather or buckram, gold embossing or simple print. Ten of your short stories, bound across two hundred and fifty pages, each one paired with its own illustration. Three hundred bucks I didn’t really have, but I paid it anyway. It felt like so much money back then.
“Of course I did. How could I get rid of this?”
My fingers slide over the cover, feeling the texture of the leather. It feels familiar, just like your shoulder brushing against mine while we’re sitting on your bed indulging ourselves in the nostalgia of our shared memories.
“I just thought… Never mind.”
I let myself fall onto the bed, holding the book close to my chest with one hand, the other resting just above my head. I look up at you, still sitting on the edge. For the first time since I met you today, I’m unable to tell what you’re thinking. You don’t look at me. And I don’t know whether you can’t or don’t want to.
“It… It wasn’t all bad… was it?”
Now you give me a short glance before you look away again. So you can’t. Are you asking me for permission to remember our time together fondly despite how it ended?
“No…”
I don’t say more than that, but I shake my head slightly as if to put more weight behind my words. But you don’t see that. It would be so much easier if all of it had been bad. You stand up with a sigh.
“Sorry for bringing down the mood.”
Somehow you manage to make even your back look apologetic as you throw up your hands in an attempt to dismiss the sincerity of what you just asked. I don’t say anything, just look at you standing there.
“Anyway, let me put that back into its box. I made sure nothing would happen to…”
You stop mid-sentence as you turn around and truly see me for the first time today, lying there with your precious memory clutched to my beating heart. Could you articulate what made you stop if I put you on the spot to express your thoughts?
“… it.”
I’m not handing you the book. You come closer, placing one knee onto the edge of the bed, no more than an inch away from me, yet careful not to touch me. You lean over me, slowly, still hoping that my hand will let go of the book on its own. It won’t.
For the first time in six years, I feel your hand on mine. Our fingers interlock and you lift my hand off the cover that is now quaking with the rhythm of my heated breath. Your thumb briefly caresses my knuckles before you lay my hand above my head beside the other. I’m acutely aware of the weight of the book on my chest. You seem surprisingly calm. Your gaze slowly wanders back to my heaving chest. Your fingers slide beneath the trembling book, brushing over my breasts in the process.
“Julian…!”
I can’t say more than that, but it’s enough to make you pause. The gravity of our shared memories presses the back of your hand into the soft tissue of my breasts. Your gaze lingers on the tears streaming down my face.
“I’m here.”
Please, I’m begging you: don’t look at me with those caring eyes that see me, and only me.
My shivering hands find your neck. I’m trembling. You reach for my face. You’re about to wipe my tears: gently, carefully, lovingly, as if they were the most precious thing in the world. I know you. That’s why I can’t let you do this. I shake my head, bite down on my lip, struggle for control over my emotions. You’re about to touch me. Before you do, I pull your face towards mine with such force that our teeth almost collide. A violent kiss. I won’t submit to your performative empathy, not this time.
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You grow harder in my mouth. Your precum is sweet to the taste and I lap it up eagerly. My body isn’t different from yours, producing excess liquid so fast you can barely keep up licking it all away. I feel your smooth tongue parting my lips and circling my clit. And whenever you decide to plunge your tongue inside me, I find myself wishing that it was just a little longer, that it would just reach a little deeper.
Earlier I mocked you for your goatee, but now I love how it brushes over my clit as you’re eating me out. Have you gotten better at this? Or is my excitement making me easy to please? No matter, just don’t stop, and let me taste more of you, all of you.
Your cock muffles my moans and I don’t complain. I tease the soft purple head with my tongue, squeeze the sweet nectar out of it with my lips. I enjoy the sensation of your desperate hardness on my tongue, your undisguised need for me. We’re naked, but your skin is so hot on mine that I wish I had more clothes to shed to cool myself. I’m drenched in sweat and so are you. And then, my body jolts.
You suddenly slapped my ass and the effect ripples through me. Instinctively, I press my legs together, my naked tits jump with the rest of my body. You force a moan out of my mouth directly onto your cock as if it’s a microphone I’m supposed to scream my lust into.
I’m on top of you, but you just had to assert yourself, didn’t you? I don’t need to see the satisfied grin on your face. I can feel it with my pussy while you keep frenching my overflowing cunt.
Careful, Julian. Don’t forget who’s in charge here. I drag my nails up your thigh and scrape them over your balls, making sure you remember exactly who’s in control. My teeth glide along your shaft, just to remind you of the position you’re in. In response, you besiege my clit with your tongue and I bite back the moan you so desperately want to hear. I keep sucking you off with abandon until you groan in pleasure. I’m so wet that I can’t imagine you’ll ever forget what I taste like after today.
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You’re on top of me, filling me. I love the slight curve in your cock. It makes you hit all the right spots, just like I remember. I watch the sweat streaming down your face and pooling at your jawline before it finally drips onto my skin. I expect each drop to evaporate in an instant, leaving only salt and heat behind.
The sound of your hips crashing into mine fills the room. Each thrust shapes my pussy a little more in the image of your cock. I moan without restraint, shamelessly demanding the attention of your neighbors. I can’t stand the heat, and yet I pull you even closer, wrap my legs around you, and draw you further in.
In this moment, I don’t want you to stop fucking me, ever. Please, Julian, stay inside me like this. I have no intention of waiting for your orgasm before I surrender to my own. I already know I’ll be coming more than once before this is over.
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You’re behind me, thrusting into me, reaching even deeper than before. Your cock squeezes the wet arousal out of my cunt, dripping from where you tear me open, drenching the fabric beneath us in more than just our sweat. My face grinds against the bedsheet every time you impale me on your cock. In between my excited moans and your ragged breaths, I can hear the frantic scratching of her cat at the door. It doesn’t approve of us.
Tell me, Julian. What's it like, pounding your ex’s imprint deeper and deeper into the mattress you share with your wife every night, one desperate thrust at a time?
I come again, and I’m ecstatic that this doesn’t get you to slow down for even a second.
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I’m on top of you, riding you. You’ve had your fun. You’re my plaything now. I increase the speed. I’m close again and so are you. Your hand squeezes the breast above my heart. Can you feel it underneath? The heartbeat that’s desperately trying to keep up with our rapid-fire fucking? My cunt devours your cock.
“Ah… I’m… ha… close.”
I love the desperation in your voice.
“I… mhm… know.”
I put my hands on your chest, giving me the leverage to drive down harder, to increase the intensity of my thrusts. You look at me as if you expected something else. Did you really think I’d let you pull out now just because we didn’t have a condom at hand? We’re making such a sweet, sweet mess here anyway. So what does it matter? You’re still trying to hold on, but the reflexive tightening of your grip on my tit tells me you’re losing control.
“Come… Julian!… Ah!… Come inside me!”
And that is what sends you over the edge. You and me together.
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I don’t know how much time has passed since I laid my body to rest next to yours. Normal sensations are slowly asserting themselves in my mind again. My throat is dry and my body screams for water to replace what it sacrificed for that session of relentless fucking.
I place my hand on my heart. Good, it’s still working and slowing down. I glance at you. I was on top of you in the end, but you’re just as much out of breath as I am. What sensations are returning to you? Lying naked and drenched in your sweat and mine, I’m actually starting to feel cold. I wonder, will this be the last time I feel you pouring out of me? Or the first time of many?
“Fuck… fuck, fuck, fuck…!”
The moment of realization hits you hard. I see you bury your face in your hands. It was about time you stopped acting like you don’t care in this toxic love affair. What’s done is done, Julian. Even the cat has given up at this point.
But the pain on your face tugs at my heartstrings. Do I have the right to comfort you after what we just did? Do you want me to? I’ll be here for you, if that is what you want, but I won’t let you hide from this moment. I roll onto my side and put my hand on your shoulder.
“Julian…?”
I plant a tender kiss on your arm. My presence doesn’t seem to reach you. I can’t deny that this hurts. Maybe what we did was a mistake. Maybe it was the best thing ever. But we did it together. Don’t shut me out. I need you to own this, with me, together.
I look at you. Your deflated cock rests against your body, still glistening with a generous coating of our combined fluids. I crawl on top of you. My exhausted body protests against the implication. The mess we made drips out of me onto your stomach before I come to sit on you with my labia gently hugging your tired penis.
That gets your attention. You remove your hands from your face and I can see that you’ve shed a few tears in silence.
“Elena… I… we…”
I have no idea what you’re trying to say, probably because you don’t know either.
“It’s okay. I’m here.”
I return your words to you. Then I take your hand, pressing a kiss to each knuckle before placing it on my heart. You should be able to feel it, my heartbeat. It’s calm now.
You look at me with confusion on your face. I lower myself until my face is close to yours. You don’t stop me, and I think I understand why. In this moment of hurt, you seek comfort. Even if it comes from the source of your pain.
I place a gentle kiss on your cheek, brushing away one of your tears. I feel your other hand tentatively rest on my back, unsure whether it’s okay to hug me. With a mischievous smile on my lips, I lean in and whisper into your ear.
“Let’s do it all again.”
Your tired cock twitches in response.
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And that is it, the end of my first consensual story. If you enjoyed this story, please like, comment and subscribe! ... Ok, forget about subscribing (although that is technically possible on our forum here, too...), but seriously: If you read this and found some enjoyment in it, share your thoughts with me. I had a lot of fun writing this and I'm dying to know what part of this story resonates with my readers the most.
I have, and it was a cool idea to use a song in a non-obvious way as the starting point for your story.