We left our friends at the pub, excusing ourselves before the small party began to grow or relocate to another venue. After long goodbyes, (why can’t people just say goodnight when tipsy?), squaring our bill and making sure the birthday boy and his friends got another round on us, we left the crushing din of the crowd and stepped out onto the street and into the fog. I shivered and you put up the collar on your coat, and as we began to walk your hand found mine. 

“This fog is lovely but it’s a bit chilly!”, you exclaimed, hunching your shoulders up.

“I knew I should have worn pants!”, I laughed, grinning, teeth chattering.

“It’s not far, you’ll make it. Soon we’ll be snug in bed.”

The walk along the water front was deserted, and the dense fog lay blanket-like over everything. We walked under the lamp posts, their golden glow delineated by the fog, and between them, in hazy darkness before the next pool of lamplight. Unexpectedly you stopped at a bench, half way between one lamppost and another, in the trough of foggy darkness. I stopped and turned to you.

“What is it?” my voice was small and scared, assuming you had seen or heard something threatening. Your hand squeezed mine as you pulled me against your chest, making me smile as your face burrowed into my neck. Safe again.

“I want you. Here and now. I can’t wait until we get home.”

“But … it’s so public …” my heartbeat thudded in my chest, part fear, but more thrill.

“It’s almost 2 am, the fog is like porridge and I’m not asking. I’m telling.”

Your hand moved from my back, over my ass and around my hip, and slid up under my dress and into my panties by way of the leg hole, roughly rubbing.

“Take your panties off.” Your voice was low and heavy. I obeyed the direction and slipped my panties off my hips and stepped out of them, shivering as the breeze blew past my wetness. You took the damp ball of cotton from my hand and pressed it to your face, breathed deeply and told me to open my mouth.

“It may be late and dark, but we don’t need you waking the fine people asleep in their beds nearby, do we?”

I shook my head ‘no’ to your question and closed my eyes as you pushed my panties into my mouth and turned me around.

“Good girl,” you growled.

You pushed me roughly against the bench, my knees on the cold wooden slats. I quivered with excitement as I heard the jangle of your belt and the sound of your zipper, and I moaned into my gag as you shoved your cock into my sopping cunt, balls-deep on the first thrust. You pulled my wrists from the back of the bench where I braced myself, to behind my back, crossed and held tightly with your one hand, the other one tight in my hair. Your thrusts were deep and hard, filled with hunger and intention, taking what you knew was yours and revelling in the darkness of your deeds.

There is no more blissfully filthy feeling than being taken and used, when being taken and used is something that you crave. Your cock filled me, bruised me, owned me, as you pumped yourself into my guts. My mind, despite the ever-present threat of someone emerging through the fog and catching us in the act, was pleasantly blank, while every nerve in my body screamed with pleasure. I could hear from the sounds of your breathing that you would finish soon and I began to moan at the thought of walking the rest of the way home with your come running down my thighs. Just as I thought I would feel the mighty gush of your hot come, you released my wrists and hair and turned me around.

“Now, open.”

Your voice was gruff and urgent, and you moaned as I obeyed and dropped to my knees, opening my jaw to accommodate your cock; willing and ready to be defiled with your semen, hoping to be fed every salty drop. You pulled the sodden panties from my mouth and jammed them in your coat pocket before cradling my face in your hands. You pushed into my throat, as you had done my cunt, and filled me. With a few deep strokes, your cock twitched and I felt the warmth coat my throat, as your prize, your love, slipped downward to my stomach. Your hands slid into mine and you pulled me up before you knelt to brush the bits of dirt and gravel from my dented knees, and I felt a flutter in my chest as you stood up and looked down over me, your hands tilting my head back to kiss me, much more softly than expected.

“You’re shivering,” you whispered. “Let’s get you home.”



Violet Fawkes

Violet Fawkes (she/her) is a freelance writer and sex blogger focusing on pleasure education, erotic fiction, and the intersection of identity, kink and mental health.