My Trousers Rolled

It's from T.S. Eliot. I'm from England. PICTURES, WORDS, AND PERHAPS A LITTLE MUSIC. OFTEN D/S RELATED, SOMETIMES NOT. MyTrousersRolled [at] Gmail [dot] com OVER 18S ONLY.

[candyluxe-deactivated20241009]

[bdsmpunishments]

[instygravure]

[m1l41989-deactivated20181217]

[rolledtrousers]

Tired a little

Sex was a compromise between fantasy and reality, the venn diagram of the two brushing up against each other like melons in a fruit cart, with the friction being about as sexy. So instead she’d learnt to find the appeal in one and the other separately, compartmentalising her expectations and her desires as two different entities. It made life just that little bit easier, and it made sex just that little bit more fun.

She’d tried asking, a subtle request that they pull her hair, perhaps, before inept fingers would grab a handful far too low down, pull far too hard, and make her yelp in exactly the wrong way. Or perhaps the grip wasn’t so bad, but the fear was inherent in the hand, and the tug was never more than exactly that, as if she would shatter like an expensive antique at the slightest pressure.

Then she’d tried guidance, her hand on their wrist, taking them from the vanilla regions of her body to the perverse valleys, fingertips brushing between her cheeks, palm hard against the meat of her. Spank me, she’d whisper in their ear, an order dressed up like a request, need lending it the costume. And maybe they’d pat her a little, or if she was lucky there might be one or two good wallops in there before the hand went back to the default, underneath her leg or up against her ribs.

One long term boyfriend had had the conversation, a confessional in a coffee shop, something that felt like a breakup but should have been anything but. He had listened, to his credit, taken the time to try and process what she was saying, but even as she spoke the words she could see them dying on his ears, the meaning understood but not recognised, that same interest not shared. It had taken a little effort not to cry. The consolation was three clumsy attempts at creating what she had talked about, but if anything the way he was making the reality bleed into her fantasies felt like it was killing both, and on the third occasion she had to ask him to stop.

It became something internalised, tucked away in the recesses where it wouldn’t get any sunlight to grow, but also wouldn’t be debased or destroyed by incorrect attention. It wasn’t something she hoped for, because cultivating expectation only made it hurt the more when it inevitably withered. It was why she never thought of it with him, just enjoyed the company, relished in everything that wasn’t the sex, or the thought of sex. Besides, sex was still fun, still had its own merits. It just felt a little… unrealised. Like playing ‘I’m a Little Teapot’ when you could be performing ‘Flight of the Bumblebees’.

It was why, then, a shiver ran down her spine when his hand ran over it, the trajectory shorting out her thought process, taking her out of the kiss and making her blink a few times, as if trying to reset her mind. It was why her hips rolled against him as his fingers slipped into her hair, tangled themselves, and began to pull. It was why she felt an explosion go off in her head, illuminating all she’d hid away in darkness. It was why, when he asked if she liked it, she couldn’t do anything but nod.

[rolledtrousers]

You try a little

He tried to wedge it into the conversation the first time they met, in Regents Park on a hot day, clouds wandering overhead like voyeuristic eavesdroppers. He had known, after a little hesitation, what his intentions were, after seeing her in that sundress, and the way it would run its fabric over the swell of her ass as she sat down on the grass. But there were friends around, and any hint he dropped was far too subtle. The conversation lurched away from the sexual, the flirting died into general comfortable chatter, and the opportunity drove away with him looking forlorn in the rear view.

He tried to find a crack into which he could piton the topic, perhaps something innocuous enough in the grand scheme that he could use to hoist himself to more risqué climes. It was a bar this time, and she was smiling at him unbidden. He could have kissed her any number of times, any number of ways, and he was sure she could have met him, lips against lips. He knew it would be hot, and he knew it would be everything he was hoping, but something about falling into it felt disingenuous without telling her. So he looked for an opening, trying not to feel too much like a hunter trapping prey.

He tried to make a joke of it, a little work play around the word ‘kink’ as he rolled his shoulder and feigned a wince. She might have perked up, perhaps, but he couldn’t be sure. Instead of commenting on it she just sipped her milkshake through the straw, looked at him with those doe-eyes, and he thrust the imagery of hides and buckshot far from his mind. Maybe he could have pushed it a little more that day, but each time they met the stakes got a little higher, and the conversation became a little harder.

He tried to tell her without words, when tension overcame conscience and his mouth was against hers, one hand finding that beautiful swell and the other travelling in the opposite direction, fingers skipping up her spine until they slid over the taper of her neck. They brushed against the faint wisps of hair at the nape before disappearing into the body of it, twisting until they were snared, and then pulling back. Softly at first, gaining no reaction from her, and then a little more, a gasp and a pause, before the gentlest suggestion of a smile. He imitated it and pulled a little more.

He tried to ask her if she enjoyed it, whether he could take this as the beginnings of the edge of her desires, that he might forge ahead and chart the depths of it, climb to the tops of it, and take her with him. He tried to ask her whether she’d had him figured out this whole time, and was just waiting for him to have the conviction to actually take her up on all these hints that he’d been so poor at noticing. He tried to ask her whether she’d tried to ask him, whether they’d been stuck back to back, circling one another to try and get a face to face.

Instead he just asked “Like that?” And she just nodded enthusiastically.

[thequietfront]

[imoonshine]

[rolledtrousers]

Hot Dreams

Summer had become a tenant in their house, seeping into their habits without asking, making itself known in the smallest of ways. It hung heavy in the air, like something unsaid, although the shifts in their routine made it clear that they were well aware of the heat, the humidity, the long hours that discouraged sleep and encouraged them to make a sweaty situation even more fluid.

She’d taken to wandering around the house in little more than her underwear, and he’d lay around without a top most of the time, the hair on his chest dewy. It wasn’t a flirtatious choice, something undertaken to rile up the other, get the passions to bubble to the fore and push them from the innocuous to the not-so-innocent, but it was the result. Her muscles had been sore without reprieve for the past week, and he was finding his fingertips would protest at the strangest times, artefacts from the way he’d gripped her, the little arcs of bruises he’d left on her thighs.

The book he was reading on the sofa was inconsequential, but it was probably fiction. It was probably something he was reading to be seen to be reading it, or at least to see himself reading it, although that wasn’t to say he wasn’t enjoying it. Just that, in the combination of heat and heavy prose, his eyes were prone to wander. To drift left, like faulty steering, before they nudged up against the bollard of her beautiful butt. He’d spent as much time that morning looking at her as he had the book in his hands, and she was completely aware of this, had, in fact, disappeared into the bedroom after the first twenty minutes to re-emerge a little while later having swapped shorts for a pair of panties.

As she wandered past him the book fell against his chest, the dryness of the paper being pleasant relief against the humidity. His hand snaked out, swatting against the exposed cheek of her ass, and she paused in her stride, looking down at him with a mixture of mischief and affront.

“What was that for?” Her voice was quiet, but it wasn’t innocent. It was more of a hesitant invitation than a question, the smile on her lips wavering as if unsure which direction to push things.

For his part, he shrugged, waited a few moments, and then did it again, a little harder. His expression was implacable, although whether from the general lethargy of the morning or something else it wasn’t clear.

She waited a few moments before her smile drifted away and she eyed him suspiciously. “I didn’t do anything.” Again quiet, but not just a little confessional, her tone contradicting her words.

He looked up at her after that, amusement trickling across his face, before his hand pulled back and he brought his hand down against her again, not a swat this time, the clap of the sound swallowed whole in that hot air. She sucked it past her teeth quickly, closing her eyes and arching her back just a little.

“I didn’t do anything.” She let out again, and it was said like a testimony, as if she need it to be said, needed there to be some sort of account that she was innocent, that whatever was about to happen was undeserved, that it might earn her some benefit in the future. But really it was just to say it, to wrap her lips around those words and know them to be true, before she tossed them aside as if they were a lie.

That hand wrapped around her wrist, and tugged. Pulled her down onto his lap, across his legs. She could feel the strength of them through the light material of his trousers, could feel the sweat across her stomach prickling against the fabric. She squirmed, felt her body want to move into the position she was familiar with, hands sliding across her back, knees curled up around the thickness of his thigh. His hand wrapped around her wrists without urgency, and only a little forcefulness.

Expectancy hung in the air, and as anticipation curdled into confusion she turned and looked up at him. What was he waiting for?

And then he hit her, that wide palm striking her on her left flank, and her gasp cut out of her and dispersed into the air. And then another, his hand rolling from smack back into smack back into smack. He gave her a little reprieve, then, those fingers kneading the flesh of her ass and feeling the heat rise off it, hotter than the summer, hotter than the growing need that pressed against her stomach.

His hand began to settle, and he felt her wriggle underneath his hand, against his legs. Opening his eyes, he saw she was staring up at him. He smiled, arched an eyebrow in expectation of her question.

“More.” She whispered out, her blush barely perceptible on her cheeks. “Please.”

So he obliged.

[rolledtrousers]

Persistence

The thought was like a bug bite on the inside of his skull, something he should leave well alone but couldn’t help but touch, his mind rubbing over it as if that would make it go away, as if any thought had ever gone away after being thought too much. It was hopeless, but then so was he, in his own way.

She lay on the bed with a half smile on her face. The kind that you smile only for yourself, audience be damned. Her eyes were almost closed, all but slits against the soft light of the table lamp. He shifted, moving his body between her and the light, and they opened a little more. The thought itched, and as her eyes grew wider his narrowed.

“Shall we try something?” He offered, attempting to adopt an innocent tone, something playful and nonchalant, as if it was the smallest thing in the world. Her eyelids paused, reversed course.

“Every time you say…” There was a little coarseness to her voice, raw from the past hour’s overuse. “…I’m sore the next day.” She unfolded, stretching those soft curves into tight lines. He felt himself twitch, wake up a little more, which only made him commit to that itchy thought a little more.

“And every time you want to do it again as soon as you can.” At that she paused, looking at him with pointedness that made him laugh. “I’ll take that as consent.” He murmured, before pushing up and out of the chair and wandering over to the chest of drawers.

“You’ve never been…” He paused halfway through rummaging among the contents of the first drawer. He fumbled for the words as his fingers slid around what he was after. “Stuffed, have you?”

At that she curled up back into her ball.

The plug was small, the smallest he owned, and it looked smaller still in his hands, fingers holding it as if it was a particularly violent date. Her eyes slipped off his face and to it, going wide anew. But she didn’t move, didn’t pull that half smile from her face. If anything she was demure, the slightest blush hidden in the warm light, lost among previously ruddied cheeks.

“Come on.” He encouraged, his free hand sliding over the beautiful curve of her rear and pulling her into the position. Her face was lost among the sheets, something she more than appreciated, while the rest of her was folded so that that lovely little pucker winked at the ceiling.

Even after all this time, the lubricant gave him the slightest shiver as it dripped onto his finger. He knew that feeling was going to be amplified in her, and there was something pleasant about sharing a facsimile of it for a moment. The plug quickly glistened, and she gasped even more so as it pressed against her.

His was rarely a quiet mind, but in this it was, concentration necessitating a stillness of focus, paying attention only to the subtle movements of her body as she took each tiny increment of it inside herself. His left hand ran over her back, fingertips digging into the supple skin, a reassurance that was more automatic than considered, but just as effective. He imagined her mind was just as blank, just as basic, as his was right then.

And as the apex was reached, and she accepted the rest of it all at once, the noise began once more, the excitement, the titillation, the marvel of what he had done, what she had allowed him to do to her. He couldn’t resist being playful, tapping the nail of his index finger against the base of it and watching her shiver. Then he kissed her on the cheek and waited for her to be ready.

She nodded a minute or so after, to be followed by the sound of his buckle coming lose, jeans crumpling on the floor and those hands sliding over her hips. He could feel the heat of her at the end of him, the way it felt like eagerness, desperation, acceptance, excitement, and arousal, all at the same time. He could feel her heartbeat through her cunt, as he pushed into it. He could feel that recalcitrant plug pushing against him, as if trying to keep her all to itself. He pushed a little harder, heard her grunt. A little harder, heard her moan. A little harder.

[rolledtrousers]

His Imminence

She’d always liked his office. Despite its dimensional uniformity to the rest of the cubicles in the hall, he’d done what he could to imprint himself on it, paint it with pictures, books, odd curios that she hadn’t quite figured out just yet. A broken Newton’s Cradle lay at the edge of his desk, the strings cut, the balls arranged in a neat little pile. She’d almost asked him about it last time she’d been here, but he had a way of distracting her from questions.

Especially now, bleached in the dawning sun, it was thick with him. Sat on the edge of his desk, near those discarded steel balls, she was in the centre of it. It felt like he was there and not, the presence of him making the absence only more keen. One leg slid over the other, and she folded her hands over her knee.

It was early, and her mind wasn’t entirely up to speed yet, especially addled by anticipation as it was, but there was a little suspicion mixed up in there. The thought that perhaps this wasn’t as much of a surprise as she was hoping, that he would walk through that door and there’d be this knowing smile on his face, a smirk that made her come undone far before she meant to. This was her worry, and it wasn’t entirely unjustified.

One leg over the other. Rearrange, fold hands, recompose.

She could feel the pull of her hair on her scalp, the tight bun that wound its way around the back of her head, that slight pressure mirrored by the stems of her glasses behind her ears. It made her anxiety a broad one, the thought of her colleagues seeing her like this once she was done with him, once he was done with her, making her worry all the more. Perhaps it paid to make an effort more often. But then, it wasn’t really the environment for it.

His book was on her left, and she knew if she turned it over she’d see his face, that affected, unfamiliar smile on his lips. It was the only example of it she knew, the only time he’d ever made it, to her knowledge. Both oddly forced and weirdly easy, it made him look like someone else, a doppelganger leering up at her. She left it firmly as it was.

But perhaps it would be nice to see him, even if it was that odd visage. A reminder of why she was there, all the moments that had led up to this moment, the desperate evenings when she had been so utterly, beautifully distraught, taken out of herself and to somewhere entirely else. A reminder of those times when his hazel eyes turned to hard agate, and the centre of him shifted, like mercury. Those times that let her know that the evening had just turned ninety degrees to the left, and an innocent dinner became a prelude to perversion.

The clock thudded temptingly, the tick of the second hand a beguiling finger. He had to be here soon, had to find her there, all composure and intent, every inch of her presentation chosen and assembled with him in mind. The perfect little office girl, waiting for the perfect suited gentleman.

Something moved behind the frosted glass of his door, a vague approximation of a man. Indistinct, ephemeral. It was like he was still an idea, still a concept that she could dismiss like so many fantasies before him.

The handle turned, and the hinges surrendered.

[gouldbookbinder]

[masterschoicecake]

[thresholdofpain]

[jeuditreize]

[rolledtrousers]

A False Promise

The rope creaked as he wound it around her, wove it into knots and then pulled it tight. The sound alternated between a swish and that low groan of the jute, and it sounded like some surrogate protestation for her, inserting the reluctance she should have felt into the room, even thought it was entirely absent in her. 

Instead she was just calm. Excited, certainly, but overarchingly content, a pervading sense of belonging that was never quite matched apart from on his bed, under his hands, wrapped in his rope. Usually he would be talking, loud enough to mask the sounds that his hands were making. Loud enough to calm the thoughts that were now filling the silence in her head. 

It wasn't so much apprehension that she was feeling, or even anxiety, but nor could it be called pure excitement, no matter how enthusiastic she was feeling. Trepidation went most of the way, but then she knew what he'd said before he'd started, and there was an edge to the emotion that didn't match all those soft consonants and demure vowels. She needed something with a K, hidden among soft folds of 't's and 'p's. Something that would prick your finger if you weren't careful. 

"Not without permission." He'd started. He almost didn't need to say it, but something about the fact that he'd made a point of it had put her on edge. "You can ask." He'd stated, offering her the opportunity without the promise of reciprocation, that her pleas wouldn't fall on deaf ears, that he wouldn't just push forward discounting each and every request that burst from her mouth. 

When he was done he lent back on the bed, kneeling on the duvet to her right, and reached up to his neck. His tie came away in one strong pull, a smooth motion that seemed to go on uncomfortably long, until suddenly it burst free in his hand, coiling around it, serpentine. 

The silk slotted between her lips without protestation. He wrapped it around her head without difficulty, and she was gagged without fuss. Her eyes were wide, stayed wide, staring up at him from the bed, and she caught the glimmer of a smile flicker across his lips as he saw her like that. 

And then he started. 

Fingertips first, fluttering across her, all but whispering with a touch that did little more than make her push her hips up into the air. The rope held her back, did what rope does, but it was enough to display her need, to make a performance of her desire. And so he indulged her, his hand suddenly pressing down, cupping her fully, as fingers plunged, running between her, against her, up towards the core of her. The way she squirmed got a rise out of him, made him shift in his seated position, his free hand twitching on his thigh. She caught it out the corner of her eye, and pushed her hips upwards again. 

Before he'd started with the rope he'd taunted her. She lay there, fingers quietly folded on her lap, feeling the summer breeze sauntering through the open window, and he'd laid the vibrator on the bed beside her. It wasn't nonchalant, it was pointed, and he'd looked at her such as he'd done it. But he hadn't used it, had just left it there, Chekov's gun, the intent clear and unrealised.

But now he did. Now that she was prone, moaning, reduced and elevated all at the same time, now he pressed that flared latex head against her, and rolled his thumb over the dial. 

It was unfair, what he was doing. It was a shortcut to the destination, but when the destination isn't quite where he was wanting to go, he didn't feel so bad about using a proxy. Didn't feel so bad about the sudden electric change in her body language, the way she seemed to simultaneously try to pull away from the toy and press it deeper against her. Didn't feel so bad about the intense stare she'd fixed him with, request flashing in her eyes, asking for permission before she'd even uttered a single syllable. 

He smiled, minutely. He shook his head. She groaned. 

And his thumb slid up the dial, making her roll with the shock of it. He felt like he was trying to murder her, that the hilt of this thing in his hand was trying to be buried up between her legs, pushing and pushing until it finally disappeared in a scarlet plume. He wanted to see how she was going to take this, what was going to happen when she realised what he was trying to do. Wanted to watch her break, see that hairline fracture in her perception of the world. 

The violence of her spitting the tie clear of her mouth roused him from his thoughts. 

"Pleeease." She crooned, cooed, flirted. It was an attempt at seduction, a voice made husky with desire, but cracking with the first signs of desperation. 

He reached down, took the tie from her chin and pushed it back between her lips.

"No." 

Her eyes rolled and her body followed suit, the steadily increasing power of the vibrator between her legs making it increasingly difficult to retain her composure. The tie was expelled more readily this time, conduct be damned.

"Pleasepleaseplease" she blurted out, and he could see her muscles rising as she strained against the rope. He was close, and he could see that she knew they were both aware. His thumb rolled on that dial, and he sank down so that his face was close to hers, let her wallow in that potential release for a moment longer, and then uttered that single syllable again.

"No." Like a judges gavel. Like the reaper's scythe. Like the final digit of the timer on a bomb, all the definite finality of it coming down on her at once, so that she was condensed, crystalised, turned into something else. 

And that's when she did it. That's when he saw, in her eyes, in the way she was looking at him, the spark of realisation. And that's when she cracked, just a tiny bit, enough to allow the deluge to erupt, to flood through her, a burst dam thundering, collapsing, rendered moot. 

She came, came despite him, came because of him, came because he'd left her no other option but to come, even when he'd told her explicitly not to, even though he'd explicitly, resolutely, made sure she had no other choice. She came, and in coming, went some place new. 

[ftloas]