Prosecco and coconut oil – we made a real mess

Image by the brilliant Stuart F Taylor

This story is part 2 of ‘The Virgin and the Escort’ – written and read by Ariadne Awakes. “For my 40th birthday, I decided to treat myself to my favourite thing: you. I bought the whip and the spreader; you bought prosecco and coconut oil…”

“What the fuck? You bastard!”

Was my immediate thought as my eyes fizzed with prosecco that I couldn’t wipe off due to having my wrists tied up.

How dare you throw cheap booze in my face, I wanted to scream as soon as I could get my breath back. Then I realised the sheer shock of it, the unpredictable switch from “yeah, you like that, naughty girl” to a casual breather, then – BAM! -prosecco in my face, was like that first time you really went at me and fucked out twenty years worth of sexual tension. And I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or scream. I had all the feels in one go that totally emptied my head of twisted shit and filled my cunt full of melting joy. It was that same feeling and just as quickly as I wanted to demand an explanation I melted and I grinned and you grinned back.

You fucking genius.

For someone who hasn’t done the whole ‘tie a girl up and whip her’ thing before, you ace it, as you ace everything in the bedroom. It’s our fourth night together and it’s a special occasion so I decided I was ready to hand myself over totally as I handed you my new shiny whip and black satin blindfold and said: ‘Do whatever you like to me.’

The vulnerability of it made me feel so powerful, so turned on, another contradiction that fascinates me and makes me wet and that I can barely find words for. I love these feelings. I’ve waited so long to have them and with every wave, I get braver. Sex has really delivered on actually being the mysterious, mind blowing, visceral connection with someone that I always knew instinctively that it absolutely should be, despite my social conditioning always kicking in to ruin it with:

“Yeah, as if, you’re a naive fantasist.”

To have it exceed my imagination, when my imagination up until meeting you was the only thing that kept this tiny flame alive, well, suffice to say, this girl is on fire.

When I fall to my knees and unleash your gorgeous thick dick and announce to it with childish glee:

“Oh my god I love cocks!”

This, from the girl who would find a reason to exit the conversation if enquiring minds wanted me to contribute to sex talk.

Your stern command when I wriggle against my bonds while you’re whizzing the whip around my head:

“No smiling.”


Jesus. I try so hard to beat down the joy of you going at me with that slick little pain giver but I can’t stop the smiles bursting out of me, like my cunt is smiling too saying:

“Yes, this is the kind of pain we’ve always wanted, the fun sexy kind, more please.”

God you made such beautiful art on my backside, my thighs. I couldn’t stop touching them for days. Relishing the stinging reminder every time I sat down. Loving the little grin that crept onto my face when someone asked:

“What the fuck did you do to your legs? You’re a mess.”

Oh yes, we made a real mess.

The mess of me choking up coconut oil onto my tits after going at your smothered cock like a starving animal and saying sorry. But as usual with you, ‘sorry’ doesn’t wash, because nothing I do is ever a problem. That salacious smile you gifted me with when I said with total conviction:

“I wish I had a bigger mouth.”

Yes, you sexy bastard, I know I’m the one paying you but you know you’ve struck gold with me too. That’s why I asked if you like how submissive I am. When you said yes and I knew you meant it, god, I was on that cock again like a shot.

I ask you to throat fuck me. I lie back on the bed, dangle my head over the side. You bring it in and I grab your sweet tight butt-checks and go to town, just like in that porn video that turns me on so much and I imagine how we must look the same from above, like we’re fucking porn stars.

I’m feeling more like one of those mysterious, effortlessly cool sex siren anti-heroines I always wanted to be, knowing they’re not really real, and more like me than I’ve ever been, at the same time. Clumsy, messy, awkward and it’s OK to be both. Because you want to fuck me, bite me, tie me up, fling me over and fuck me another way. Fill me up. Whip me.

Fuck! That whip.

Even the sound of it gets me wet.

Me underneath you, hands and feet tied. You swishing it in circles above me, until it sounds like branches scratching windows in a gale, looking into my face, waiting until I can’t stand it anymore and I tense and then waiting until I relax and then: THWACK!

It’s a good job I don’t see you in any other context. I’d be like some kind of sleeper agent. All you would have to do is whisper “good girl” in my ear and I’d strip and bend over the nearest hard surface and shove my arse out and beg for that whip.

It makes me feel so naughty and bad ass and smug to imagine what the staff who do the laundry tomorrow might think of these prosecco soaked sheets. I love the idea that someone might accidentally walk in on us. What an arty sexy tableau we’d make: you stood up on the bed, legs against the headboard, me at your feet, back of my head leaning against your stomach, my hands pulled down by the spreader cuffs. Blindfold on, naked, coconut oil dripping down my tits as you push the handle of the whip between my lips, like the bit on a horse bridle. It would look fucking awesome taking up a whole wall of the Tate in some fantasy Sex Positive art exhibition called ‘Sub/Dom’. I imagine someone bursting in, freezing in shock, then just marvelling at the sheer fucking sexiness of it and it’s such an unexpected turn on that they have to leave the room and find someone to fuck, immediately.

Oh god I love the way you fuck me. You’re so fucking beautiful when you’re on top of me, your face taunt with pleasure as you plough your need into me, filling me up as you pound out my tension.

I guess I thought I’d like it all romantic and sanitised and slow like costume drama sex. That I’d be too scared to be active. I never thought I’d being so utterly overjoyed to be passive while I’m fucked like I’m being punished for being such a good girl.

I’m so overwhelmed with the sheer force of whip then cock then whip then cock again that I suddenly start crying. I say to you:

“I’m OK, I think I’m just letting go of something.”

And you hug me and tell me to say what’s going on when I’m ready and I whisper “I love you” into your shoulder knowing I do and don’t mean it so there’s no point in saying it so you can hear but I just have to say it.

Because I still can’t believe you’re real.

You tell me you’re proud of me, how far I’ve come so quickly, amazed at how trusting I am, handing myself over, letting you hurt me. It’s really just relief, joy, gratitude, that I’ve spent so long mistrusting men, being afraid of their sexuality and to be able to just let it all go, hand a man a whip and go “I want this.” Sex, it’s so much more than what happens when two bodies fuse into each other. Don’t get me wrong, having a good hard pounding from your beautiful thick cock as you grunt and sweat then pull out and give me another good whipping and say:

“You think you’re a good girl? You’re nothing. You’re mine. You should be cleaning the floor, dirty girl.”

That’s the best thing in the world. I could do it all day. And I don’t feel remotely obvious when I say to you, adorably I think: “sex is just the best thing ever isn’t it?”

But it’s the moments before, after, in-between, the alchemy of them. The thousand tiny ways I fetishize you. I love the line of your body, the curve of your hip pointing down to the good stuff. The way you laugh at the way I hold my little finger up around the glass: “So English.” I love how easily you slip into my body, get lost in it. Your pleasure turns me on more than my own I think. Because it’s someone else involved for once. I love the smell of us when we’re fucking. The sweat. The specific smell of the fusion of my cunt and your cock. The earthiness of it. I love it.

And after that night, I give myself a reality check. No, I don’t love you. 24 hours together all together, most of them fucking. I need more than that for those kinds of feelings. But it doesn’t mean we don’t connect, get into the shit that really matters. In fact, it’s the distinct absence of ‘romance’ as you fuck me hard, make me squeal, throw fucking prosecco in my face, that makes it better that whatever I think romance is actually supposed to be for.

But when you rubbed your forehead against mine, cat style, in the afterglow of our fuck session…

I was totally slain.

So I confess, to the internet, what I can never confess to you, though you know all my secrets, all the nuances of my desires, the biggest fucking cliché all my friends keep warning me about: I fucking love you.

Not in ‘that way’, fuck that shit! I love the way you fuck me, the way you are, your ease with your body, my body, sex in all its beautiful messy coconut-oil-soaked glory. Your charm, your sensuality, your absolute assured confidence that you know how to get me off, without being a dick about it. Your dick, your fucking thick juicy fat cock I could suck all day until my jaw died. Your tongue lapping at my pussy, groaning when I rub it up against you, silently demanding more and you say “yeah, that’s good.” Me, the girl who was so disconnected from her pussy for so much of her life she ignored it, hated it, tried to shut it down, now giving it to you like you’re starving and it’s your fucking food.

All my kinky blog posts are about you, more about me, mostly about desire itself, trying to tame that slippery bitch with words, but they’re all for you. My way of worshipping the idea of you in all its unbound glory because why not, why shouldn’t I? You deserve it. None of it would have happened if the train wreck that was my life hadn’t giving me some faith back in humanity by realign itself to point at you.

Love has a lot to live up to if it wants to top this messy, easy, kinky hilarity, that would astound anyone who knows me were they to witness who I am when I’m pinned between your thighs.

It’s what stops the churning thoughts of society, friends, my conscience and replaces them with pure visceral in the moment lust that teaches me more about myself than any procrastination ever has.

I know this has a shelf life. Even these blogs are a way of capturing it, savouring it, celebrating it, keeping it alive by sharing it, but it’s still mine. No one really knows how it feels for me, not even you. All those ‘prosecco in the face’ moments make me feel alive. The rest of the time I’m bored and everything’s just had the edge taken off it slightly. It’s all about the idea, the promise of more with you, with whoever, whatever, desire…

They talk about it in all my meditation sessions like it’s the root of all suffering.

I say, it all depends on whose administering the suffering and what you get in return.

Whip crack, tongue in pussy. Arse slap, cock in mouth. Win win.

So I hand over the whip to you, my stranger-lover and I say “Do whatever you want to me.”

Because I’m fucking forty and life has finally begun and I’m done with shame and restraint and censorship and I want to keep on making you proud.

I am yours to pin down and mark as your own. Yours to fling prosecco at any which way you want. Yours to gag on the end of your cock until it makes you cum so hard you forget your own name.

You beautiful sensual slut. You were officially my best birthday ever.


If you enjoyed this gorgeous story about prosecco and coconut oil, you can find more of Ariadne Awakes over at literotica, on Twitter, or head to the audio porn page for more hot stories read aloud.  

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