The Little Red Kilt (Matryoshka #1) by Elizabeth Woodham Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Woodham
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want them inside me, his
fingers, one at a time, until completion. Somatic sense alerts my
core, the molten centre of me, volcanic, magma bubbling, hot, red,
and fiery. I’m melting.
‘Sweet, sweet
girl.’ He vibrates against me as his mouth reaches mine.
Tactual
exploration, making way for his tongue and he probes, darts, licks,
slurps, my jelly legs trembling again juxtapose my ankles in
bondage. Osculation drives sensation to my brain as he nibbles my
clit and introduces his fingers one at a time into my blazing red
room, my passage, my vessel. His vessel. Filling slowly, my tight
walls grip, gripping, I concentrate my energy on him, looking down
at the top of his head, thick dark hair, threaded with far more
grey than I’m partial to, already looks familiar as he eats,
gobbles, guzzles, and devours.
The stream of
my ejaculate is a surprise. He reaches down to my boots, slick
fingers struggle, I assist and step out one at a time, using the
wall for balance he frees me and himself, discards my tights,
returns to my crown and more. He lifts me, aloft, a few inches, I
straddle his waist. His back feels strong, muscled, and capable, in
common with his arms. He moves into me, impales me, works back and
forth, lifting me up and down, his strength enthralling. I’m
breathless.
‘Which
way?’
‘End of the
hall.’
‘I won’t make
it that far.’
He turns us
away from the wall, lifts me down and drapes me on the floor of the
passageway, drops between my parted thighs and enters again. I wrap
him; imprison him via his waist, my broken hand redundant against
his broad back. The rest of me, my sheath jacket and little red
kilt surge against him, we soar upward, ever upward as if we’re
packed within an exploding New Year rocket, a pyrotechnic of heady
perfume, our intoxicating fragrance sticky in the air.
My cells
speak. Articulate in all languages, they vibrate pleasure against
his skin, and grasp him, tight and pulsing, urging his flood, a
rush of essence, a tidal wave soaks my senses, hot release matches
my waterfall, our sparkling droplets pool in an ecstasy of
completion.
Fluttering
fingers pull at the silken knot, he doesn’t resist. Zorro
unmasked.
Later, we
assess the damage. My arse, carpet burn pink, matches his knees. We
laugh and I pop another cork.
11.01.13 -
11:00 hours
Dressing
carefully for my Harley Street appointment. A sawbones for my sore
bones.
11.01.13 –
14:00 hours
‘Good
afternoon, Miss Merrywell.’ Chestnut meet cerulean. ‘You’ll be
eager to be free.’
‘Yes, I have
deadlines, some already passed.’
‘I see.’ He
turns my hand this way and that. Long, warm, skilled fingers, make
gentle assessment.
‘I’ll refer to
you to physiotherapy.’
‘Thank
you.’
‘Nurse
Pringle, fetch the necessary paperwork for Miss Merrywell, please.
Soft balls to squeeze periodically for a matter of months,’ he
continues after the nurse’s exit and my healing hand trembles.
‘Thank you.’ I
smile.
‘You look
lovely today, Miss Merrywell. Galway plaid is my family
tartan.’
He leans
towards me.
‘Oh,’ I
breathe, my lips against his, ‘it’s my lucky little red kilt.’
oOo
Miss
Merrywell’s story continues:
A Stranger In
Capricorn (Matryoshka #2)
Kamarovsky’s
Girl (Matryoshka #3)
And coming
soon: Khloya (Matryoshka #4)
About the
Author
Elizabeth lives
and works in London, England. Always passionate and erotic,
sometimes amusing, occasionally harsh, she wishes you as much
pleasure reading her stories as she's had creating them.
From the
Author
Thank you for
your interest in my work, I hope you enjoyed this story, please
keep watch at the website for details of work in progress, new
releases, and free offers. I welcome your thoughts and views, am
eager to hear your opinion and appreciate reviews.
I’ve been interested in pornography and erotica since the day
I found a stash of magazines for men under my parents’
bed.
Alone, in the house I sat in
fingers, one at a time, until completion. Somatic sense alerts my
core, the molten centre of me, volcanic, magma bubbling, hot, red,
and fiery. I’m melting.
‘Sweet, sweet
girl.’ He vibrates against me as his mouth reaches mine.
Tactual
exploration, making way for his tongue and he probes, darts, licks,
slurps, my jelly legs trembling again juxtapose my ankles in
bondage. Osculation drives sensation to my brain as he nibbles my
clit and introduces his fingers one at a time into my blazing red
room, my passage, my vessel. His vessel. Filling slowly, my tight
walls grip, gripping, I concentrate my energy on him, looking down
at the top of his head, thick dark hair, threaded with far more
grey than I’m partial to, already looks familiar as he eats,
gobbles, guzzles, and devours.
The stream of
my ejaculate is a surprise. He reaches down to my boots, slick
fingers struggle, I assist and step out one at a time, using the
wall for balance he frees me and himself, discards my tights,
returns to my crown and more. He lifts me, aloft, a few inches, I
straddle his waist. His back feels strong, muscled, and capable, in
common with his arms. He moves into me, impales me, works back and
forth, lifting me up and down, his strength enthralling. I’m
breathless.
‘Which
way?’
‘End of the
hall.’
‘I won’t make
it that far.’
He turns us
away from the wall, lifts me down and drapes me on the floor of the
passageway, drops between my parted thighs and enters again. I wrap
him; imprison him via his waist, my broken hand redundant against
his broad back. The rest of me, my sheath jacket and little red
kilt surge against him, we soar upward, ever upward as if we’re
packed within an exploding New Year rocket, a pyrotechnic of heady
perfume, our intoxicating fragrance sticky in the air.
My cells
speak. Articulate in all languages, they vibrate pleasure against
his skin, and grasp him, tight and pulsing, urging his flood, a
rush of essence, a tidal wave soaks my senses, hot release matches
my waterfall, our sparkling droplets pool in an ecstasy of
completion.
Fluttering
fingers pull at the silken knot, he doesn’t resist. Zorro
unmasked.
Later, we
assess the damage. My arse, carpet burn pink, matches his knees. We
laugh and I pop another cork.
11.01.13 -
11:00 hours
Dressing
carefully for my Harley Street appointment. A sawbones for my sore
bones.
11.01.13 –
14:00 hours
‘Good
afternoon, Miss Merrywell.’ Chestnut meet cerulean. ‘You’ll be
eager to be free.’
‘Yes, I have
deadlines, some already passed.’
‘I see.’ He
turns my hand this way and that. Long, warm, skilled fingers, make
gentle assessment.
‘I’ll refer to
you to physiotherapy.’
‘Thank
you.’
‘Nurse
Pringle, fetch the necessary paperwork for Miss Merrywell, please.
Soft balls to squeeze periodically for a matter of months,’ he
continues after the nurse’s exit and my healing hand trembles.
‘Thank you.’ I
smile.
‘You look
lovely today, Miss Merrywell. Galway plaid is my family
tartan.’
He leans
towards me.
‘Oh,’ I
breathe, my lips against his, ‘it’s my lucky little red kilt.’
oOo
Miss
Merrywell’s story continues:
A Stranger In
Capricorn (Matryoshka #2)
Kamarovsky’s
Girl (Matryoshka #3)
And coming
soon: Khloya (Matryoshka #4)
About the
Author
Elizabeth lives
and works in London, England. Always passionate and erotic,
sometimes amusing, occasionally harsh, she wishes you as much
pleasure reading her stories as she's had creating them.
From the
Author
Thank you for
your interest in my work, I hope you enjoyed this story, please
keep watch at the website for details of work in progress, new
releases, and free offers. I welcome your thoughts and views, am
eager to hear your opinion and appreciate reviews.
I’ve been interested in pornography and erotica since the day
I found a stash of magazines for men under my parents’
bed.
Alone, in the house I sat in
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