The lodger – “You filthy little tart”

Image by the exceptional Stuart F Taylor

This gleefully filthy erotic fiction is written by Kate, and originally appeared on her website. It is read here by Girl on the Net. 

There’s four of us at the breakfast table – the father, the son, the mother and me. Well, I say four, it’s three – the father, the son and me – the mother is making breakfast like a dutiful housewife and the son gets packed off to school sharpish, leaving the father and the mother and me. His and hers dressing gowns. She balked at my ill-fitting t shirt from some summer festival in ’75. I was a child, then. She didn’t know me, then. Whoever bought this t shirt bought it for a boyfriend or lover who turned out rotten so to the thrift shop it went and I scooped it up and sleep in it, after a boil wash.

Pink terrylene. Terrilene. Frills up to her neck, she’s frying eggs. Two for him, one each for the women. Almost a woman. Not a woman to her, though. A student. The third gender. Old enough, though. Old enough. Painted nails, plucked eyebrows, high heels and this threadbare t shirt that only covers my cooch til I stretch upwards “good morning!” and he looks and looks and a look is all it takes.

1985. First in my family to go to uni. Insisted I lodge with ‘a nice’ family. The dad’s got fucking me on his mind from day one. From a terse interview in this kitchen where she quizzed me on my degree, part time work, social life. Too busy scoping me out to notice him scoping me out. Me scoping him out. The wife, the lodger, the husband. 43 – 22 – 48.

It only took a week. Showering with the door open, dressing with the door open and wandering around their modestly palatial home in the aforementioned crotch-skimming t-shirt.

It’s not that I don’t like the wife – she works hard, she’s noble, if fraught. I just want to fuck her husband and I’m young and new and exciting. Fresh meat.

He strokes my arse when giving a friendly, almost fatherly hug. I know he lingers at those open doors, picking out tits and twat through the steam. He’s got a fair sized dick that brushes against me more than once.

As a nice, almost-nuclear family group we head to the swimming pool one Saturday and during horseplay and diving I mermaid around his waist, palm sliding against the tent in his Bermuda shorts and when I surface, I don’t look back.

That night he walks through my open bedroom door and stands over me. We stare at one another til I ask him if he’s going to get in the child-sized single bed I rent for over the odds in their box room, and pull the sheets aside to show I’m naked; that there would have been sex in this bed whether he had come to my door or not.

I say the magic words “I’m on the pill,” and his dick hardens, my thighs fall apart like butter and he’s on top of me, inside me, rough chest hair itching against my breasts, not even seven minutes in heaven but seven minutes of thrust and shudder and cum and a bite mark on my neck I don’t even hide the next morning.

“Eczema.” Off the wife’s quizzical look; she tells me it looks infectious and makes me cycle to the chemist for e45 and paracetamol.

That night he comes to my open door again; I kick off the lower sheets.

“Make me come.” he looks at me like I’m speaking a foreign language.

“Make me come, or fuck off.” I clarify, spreading the damp lips of my cunt with both hands, the most direction I intend to give. A second more’s hesitation but he comes forward, kneels and tries his best. My hands cradle his skull, bringing him forward, crushing his face against me.

“Fuck. Use your fingers!” I hiss, mindful of the family unit sleeping unknowingly a few locked doors away.

He complies, though he isn’t successful. I fuck his fingers, writhe around them until I make myself come.

“You might want to wash your hand.” I snigger, turning to the wall and closing my eyes.

A man of 48 isn’t going to come to your door every night, even moreso if he has a sham marriage to keep going. I don’t care. There is sex in this bed regardless of whether I am alone or entertaining visitors.

Sex in other places too.

The son goes to school and I leer at the father over my toast and orange juice. Here is my fork in my hand and – whoops! – now it is on the floor. I had better pick it up, crawl on my hands and knees, and what’s this I spy across the way? There is no pretence; his cock is pointing straight upwards, the petals of his dressing gown fall elegantly apart to reveal a straining, crimson-tipped weapon. More appetising than the tea, the toast, the single fried egg.

I’ve sucked that dick a hundred times this autumn. A hundred more in winter. Plenty more sucks to come, but not so many with his wife plating up bacon and black pudding as my mouth slides possessively over the head, licking the spoils of precum to the tune of him sucking his teeth and reaching under the tabletop to push my head down, sucking up more of that delicious, forbidden dick, my cunt aching, seizing up with every lick, pucker and slurp. He realises the mistake. How can his wife not notice what’s going on? That I disappeared two minutes ago and didn’t return?

On cue, she returns with the plates. I watch her turn on her heel and stop.

“Where’s Chloe?”

I suck harder, wetter, my mouth full of sympathy wetness for my unfucked cunt, desperate for the first wave of spunk filling my mouth, allowing myself small moans that tangle in his pubes, hit the underside of the table.

“Popped to the loo. She’ll be back.” His voice is strained, she must give him a look because he continues “Why don’t you call her?”

She calls my name and I massage rivulets of spit into his balls as he whines “She probably can’t hear you – try the bottom of the stairs?”

“What did your last slave die of?”

“Starvation.” After all, she has been dragging her feet with the breakfast prep. Stupid cow.

Her huff is audible and she stomps her slippers into the hallway.

“You filthy little tart.” He’s pushed the table back so he can see me but I don’t see him, I’m working – my hand on the shaft and my youthful mouth and throat doing the rest. He tenses, his wife’s voice calling my name over and over and oh, a smidgen more bravery and I’d clamber aboard and feel the last ten seconds of that stiffy inside me before he explodes and cries and she comes back to find the lodger straddling her errant husband, helplessly pumping her full of cum.

I do like having somewhere to live, though, and back in the mouth he goes, tricksy tongue, swallow swallow and a big fat protein pay-off for me. My inner thighs are damp – my body feels inflated, like a blow up doll with huge fake tits and a waxed bush.

The wife comes back to join us, surprised to find me there in the middle of her muttered rant about my ungratefulness.

“Where have you been?”

“Getting the paper.” I respond, making no move to produce the offending article.

“Your breakfast is cold.”
I look at the plate, the undercooked bacon and congealed egg.

“It’s ok, I’m not hungry. I lick my lips at her; all he sees is the flicker of my tongue at the corner of my mouth, the pert curve of my backside as I stretch on my way out of the door.


Find more of Kate’s amazing work at, and visit the audio porn page for more sexy stories read aloud. 


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