Historical erotica take 2, and the inevitability of personal fantasy

Image by the brilliant Stuart F Taylor.

Last week I wrote a bona-fide erotic story. One with two characters who definitely weren’t me, in a setting that wasn’t my lounge, partaking in a dirty fuck that I have never had myself. I very rarely write fictional stories. Of the nearly 400 posts on this blog, fewer than 1% of them are fictional.

But every now and then something in particular strikes me as gorgeously hot, and it’s something that isn’t possible to recreate in my life at that exact moment. Whether it’s sex with a stranger, a gang-bang of some kind, or the kind of sex that would require my own Tardis. This week (and last week and – thanks to my recent discovery of The Tudors – probably next week as well) the hot stuff comes wrapped in lace and frills. Tight stomachers, breeches, and hard leather riding boots. ‘My Lord’s and ‘Your Grace’s and posh people dismissing their hot servants with a casual wave of their hand.

Thing is, with any fantasy I have, it always seems to end up in the same place. Last week I wrote about a maid getting fucked by a duke – the cold barrier between two people of different ranks, and the easy and nonchalant way in which he shagged her, with the same proprietorial ease with which he’d order her to turn down his bed or scrub the fireplace.

And this one, despite the complete role reversal in terms of power, doesn’t fundamentally differ because… well… when I give my mind free reign to wander wherever it likes, it always pops back to a very similar place. Guy on top, girl getting used, urgent sweaty fucks performed for no reason other than a desperate desire.

Every now and then I get drawn into a discussion about whether you can shape your own sexual desires. Obviously you can’t change fundamentals, but some people assert that, by introducing yourself to new experiences or pushing yourself into new fantasies, you can mould your own fantasies into something different to what you’d normally go for. I strongly suspect you can’t. I certainly can’t. While I’ll embrace any number of filthy fucks, unusual fetishes, or brand new experiences, my core sexuality will never significantly change. From the first wank I ever had over the idea of pirates punishing a serving wench, to the last one I’ll have on my deathbed, I suspect the theme will remain:

Guy meets girl. Girl bends over. He uses her like that’s all she’s good for.

Now here’s the story.

Historical erotica – take 2

She doesn’t even know his name. He’s just the boy who keeps the horses. Tall, naturally. Dark-haired and dark-eyed and muscular, of course. Big hands. All those things that she shouldn’t notice but does. Occasionally, when she goes out for a morning ride alone, he’s the one who helps her into the saddle – cupping his hands to lift her foot into the stirrup. He smells warm and – if she’s honest – sweaty. As if he’s run further and worked harder that morning than her husband would do in a week.

He probably has.

It’s that smell that gets her. The hands and the downcast eyes and all the rest of him just adds to his charm, but the attraction comes from the raw, sticky scent of him. She imagines him fucking her harder than she’s been fucked before. Not gently bedding her after evening prayers, then slipping out gently as if to will his seed to stay inside her, as her husband does. That specific, purposeful love that only exists because he needs an heir.

No, the stable boy would fuck her with one purpose only: to have her utterly. Perhaps there’d be some cachet in using the mistress of the house as an outlet for his sexual urges, but she doesn’t really want that to be the case. She wants him to take her with the same perfunctory ease with which he’d take a giggling parlour-maid. She wants him to lift her skirts roughly and press down on the small of her back with one of his big hands – caring nothing for her pleasure, only directing her body so that it gives him the easiest access.

When he fucks her, she won’t be a lady any more. She won’t be the mistress of the house, who has to be aware of every movement, every breath, every turn of the head. She won’t be the one who has to carefully measure every smile. She will just be the girl he’s fucking: a hole to be filled and an object to be used.

He might use his big hands to hurt her, and she likes the idea of that. If he were to rip down her bodice, exposing her pale flesh, and pinching her nipples with a strong grip until she cried out. Using his other hand to try and smother her cries, or perhaps putting it on her throat – closing tight around her and letting go just as she struggled to breathe.

Maybe reaching with both hands to her throat – fucking her from behind over the hay bales in the stable yard, and squeezing her neck rhythmically, making the most of the sensations as, each time she gasps for air, her cunt clenches tight around his prick.

If she spread her legs open wider, perhaps he’d use those hands again to direct her closed – to clamp her thighs together so as to make herself tighter. To envelop him. To squeeze the spunk out of him.

And as he pinched her nipples, gripped her throat, and thrust into her with increasing speed and force, the kind of powerful needy fucking that the horses do in the field, he wouldn’t care about anything else. That’s the greatest attraction of it for her – he simply wouldn’t care. About who she was, what she enjoyed, whether his quick, sweating fuck would push his seed home. It wouldn’t be sex for a divine purpose, or an act of duty – merely a fuck to fulfil his desire.

And he would desire her, she’s convinced of that. Because that morning when he cups his hands to lift her into the saddle, she catches his eye for the very first time, and for a second a flicker of urgent lust passes across his face.

She’ll ride again tomorrow.

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