What’s the point in always looking back?

This was written for Exhibit A‘s song lyrics erotica writing challenge. I went with the prompt ‘WHAT’S THE POINT IN ALWAYS LOOKING BACK?’ and inspired by a real-life filthy happening, I had a lot of fun playing with words this evening. It definitely pushed me to explore new ideas. I hope you enjoy it!

“What’s the point in always looking back?”

The words are rolling around in my head, haunting me. I miss him – I miss them – but I’ve moved on. I have new friends, new fantasies. However, that doesn’t mean that those months didn’t leave me with memories which provide the best wank material.

I saw them in the bar tonight – what were the odds that the one night I had managed to set aside to catch up with K that they’d also be out? I watch her laughing, I watch them kissing, I watch him whisper to her and imagine the filthy words he’s pouring into her ear, and when K catches me looking she scolds me. I’m over them, but that doesn’t mean that seeing them doesn’t leave me full of nostalgic horn.

Once the door of my flat is safely shut behind me, I begin to strip. It was easy to ignore the gentle throbbing between my legs while K was telling me about her adventures in Slovakia and the campaign she’s getting involved with, but on the bus home the ache became inescapable. By the time I reach my bedroom, I’m naked save my ruffled knickers. The memories are coming thick and fast, and while usually I push them away tonight I embrace them.

As I look at myself in the mirror, I remember kisses and I remember touches. I remember rough, hard fucks and long nights of playful sex. I remember wearing these exact knickers and being forced to my knees to take his cock in my mouth, and being forcefully face-fucked while she knelt behind me and teased me by dipping her fingers into my cunt. I remember the spanking I got because I pulled away from his dick and looked back over my shoulder to seek out her lips, but that kiss, and her fingers rubbing my clit as I twisted round, was worth it…

I admire my reflection for a few more seconds – if there is one thing they helped me with was learning to love every inch of my body, despite its imperfections. I remember how he once made me stand in front of the mirror (at their flat, not mine) while he used a riding crop, not to hit me, but to tease me and make me say positive things about myself. I was shaking with anticipation by the time he finally threw me on the bed to fuck me, his hand on my neck, forcing my head into the pillows.

Another memory replaces it quickly: this time it’s her, standing in front of that same mirror, looking back over her shoulder, in an attempt to see the butt-plug tail he had worked into her arse. “You realise you’re drooling?” he asks me, delivering a light smack to my arse. I whine, my eyes following her as she walks across the room, swinging her hips to make the tail swish. She looks back and blows us a kiss before she leaves.

For a moment, I contemplate digging out my bag of toys – maybe my most powerful vibrator, or my glass dildo. Then I remember who bought me that glass dildo, and more memories overwhelm me and I’m pulling aside my knickers – too horny to take them off now – and rubbing frantically at my clit.

The dildo was her gift to me on my birthday. His gift to me was a birthday spanking, with the new flogger he had bought especially for the purpose. He’d taught her how to use it on me as well, and they kept going until I was elevated to a place beyond the pain, and I was incoherently begging for more, for someone, anyone to fuck me. She fucked me with the dildo, while he played with my boobs – pinching and tweaking and sucking my nipples – and gave me biting kisses which left bruises for a week. I was overwhelmed by sensations. I cannot remember ever coming harder.

A snatch of reality between the slew of memories makes me conscious that two of my fingers are buried inside me, and my hips are bucking. This in turn sparks another recollection, this time of me kneeling in front of her in their kitchen, smelling her arousal, looking at the wet patch on her knickers from where his come is dripping out of her. Despite having a naked girl in front of her, she was managing to maintain a fairly coherent conversation with him. Desperate for her attention, his attention, anyone’s fingers or cock in my greedy cunt, I leaned forward, pushing her skirt up and her knickers to the side so I could taste her. I pulled back from her and licked her wetness from my lips, grinning when I saw that she had finally looked back at me. And pulled me up to kiss me. Then she’d looked over her shoulder to beckon him over, and soon I was being fucked on the kitchen counter.

But as my fingers move in faster circles and I bite my lip to hold my moans back, I reach for one of the best memories to push me over the edge. Him. Underneath me. Pushing back on to my strap-on. Making small whimpers and begging me – begging me­ – to fuck him. And while I was, turning around, twisting at the most awkward angle so I could lean forward and kiss him. A hot, desperate kiss, messy and out of sync. I was holding him, fucking him, and he twisted round to look back and kiss me.

Remembering the expression on his face, I climax. I lie there, exhausted but satisfied, as the memories drain away. I smile.

There’s no harm in looking back for a nostalgic tribute wank.

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