Ella and I

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Anal Fucking

Part One

Thing is, Ella and I got together on the last day of term, before the summer break of our post-grad art course. Our relationship hadn’t even started before she went away. And when I say ‘got together’ I don’t mean anything heavy. On the station platform – before she shot off to her parents’ in the south of France – we admitted we had feelings for each other. Well I admitted my feelings. Ella burst, “Fucksake!” then attempted to snog all six-four of me into her massive gob.

We squashed our bodies together on the busy station platform as if our admissions weren’t enough, as if we might still squeeze through the barrier of each other’s clothes and skin. Our tongues squirmed, hips rutted, hands groped. The platform guard blew his whistle right next to us three times to announce the train and break us up.

It was like an appalling outtake of ‘Brief Encounter.’

The train carried Ella away. My girlfriend. My new love. I swallowed my heart back down along with the vanilla taste of her kiss. That’s all it took? After two years of worshipping from afar? Not only that – if I’d decoded her panted confessions correctly – she felt the same. All this time. About me. Me?

I blinked.

I blinked again.

Yep, I had been teleported into a parallel universe where I was no longer the morose giant who lived alone in the woods, I was Prince-bloody-Charming.

Around me, commuters nudged and smirked. Probably at my wobbling chin, if not the ferret still trying to climb out of my trousers. I puffed up my chest with the biggest, gladdest breath of my life, stepped into the sky and looped-the-loop all the way home.

Ella was the prize of the art school. A French waif with medusa curls straight out of a Klimt or a Mucha. A snow-white, black-clad, red-head known as: ‘The-Fire-and-Ice-Maiden’. So, when I let on how I felt to my best mate, Tony, it was met with, “Well, duh. Who doesn’t fancy Ella?” Though he added, “From afar. And never by looking directly at her.” Tony didn’t even study at the college.

Ella had a reputation for an aggressive kind of heartlessness based largely on her dour, even sulky expression. Not to mention the number of hearts (egos) she’d broken. I got the feeling – based on her shapeless clothes, work boots and the serpentine tendrils forever over her face – that her looks embarrassed her. Especially the moronic cocks they attracted. Myself, included.

I know everyone would say this, but it wasn’t her looks I adored. I adored the Ella under the immaculate skin. Ella, who was happier to glug snakebite in the student bar with the lads, than swank around fancy galleries with artists. The Ella who worked nights to pay her own way through college, even though her family was loaded. Who arrived on the Masters course with no English and now cursed like a native. Most of all, I adored the Ella who was friendly to a dark-skinned roofer’s son, chucked into an ocean of pasty trustafarians. The Ella who talked to me when no one else would.

So I tell Tony this, and what do I get?

“Yes, she has a gorgeous, round, pert sense of humour, doesn’t she? Nice pair of morals, too. Apparently, she got an A-plus in her French oral. Know what a dream-girl like that needs? A lumpen great caveman at her side!”

Friends, eh?

I must have stood in front of the mirror for an hour when I got home. Glowing in the knowledge that whatever my fuckwit mate thought, Ella – my Ella – was happier to snog a caveman than any of the dandies that strutted about for her attention.

It wasn’t until after winning the ‘smug-off’ with my own reflection, that reality hit me. I wouldn’t see Ella for six weeks. And I didn’t have her address or phone number. And this was before email and smartphones; there was no way to contact her, if she didn’t contact me.

That’s when the doubts set in. She wouldn’t write. She wouldn’t call. She would find some tasty grand fromage over the holidays and forget all about me. What was I thinking?

Two days later, I got this in the post:

Sweet Jon,

To think you feel the same of me as I do of you, it is like a dream. I have watched you work so many times (and imagined it even more!) with your axe hacking hard wood, and hammering and chiselling it. When I try so hard with my little brushes to make my art, I cannot believe that you – such a quiet, gentle man – rips such beauty from lifeless things. And just by banging!

It is the sexiest thing I have ever seen.

Now I must tell you what I mean by this. The thoughts I have. So you understand what you do to me.

In lectures, I try to sit by you. I breathe you into me. I hold my breath to keep you inside me. And all the time I am willing your thick hands under my skirt!

Your arms make me want to eat you. They are big as my legs! I fantasise them wrapped around me. And my legs around you… Your arms around my hips, my legs around your neck!

So you see, even before I knew you wanted me, I was already in quite a head-fucked state. But now I know that Beylikdüzü Olgun Escort we could be together…

Well, this is what I am like now. Right now, as I write this.

I am naked in my room. Seated at my mirror with my legs very wide apart! And you are in my mirror! You watch me drip. And my drip is for you. And I ache for your cock. Down here, where I slide my middle fingers. Two of them, deep inside. Come and do me. Come now. Quickly!!


(put this kiss where you need it most)


The letter, written on the back of an old painting in neat, tiny script, came with her address and an overnight train ticket dated the next day.

I did nothing other than read and re-read that letter that night. Well, I did manage one other thing. Three times.

The next day, while I was packing, another letter arrived. My mouth turned to paper. My heart thumped so hard it trembled the page. My dick tensed on the start line. Ready, steady…

It wasn’t what I expected.

Jon, I am worried that I have given you the wrong idea. I let my cunt write to you and that was wrong. She is selfish and naughty. We cannot be boyfriend and girlfriend.

Not yet.

I will not lie to you. I have fucked many times with many boys. But I have never had a boyfriend. This is because no boy has ever given me what I need.

They all let me down. So I let them go. This upsets them, but they are bad cats and bad cats must be taught what is right and wrong.

Please, please, please my love, take time to uncover my deepest need. Then we can be together and happy. I won’t tell you what to do. If we are meant to be together, if you are the right one, then you will know.

Bon voyage xxx

Perhaps I should have run a mile from that letter, and its impossible challenge. Instead, I ran a thousand miles toward it.

I was too close to my dream to give up now.


In France, I greeted the bloke who picked me up at the station as if he was Ella’s scary, politician dad. But he was their driver. I’d heard Ella was loaded but I didn’t expect chauffer-loaded. Or, as we navigated a bridge toward her house, that she lived on her own island.

I assumed it was her mum who answered the door because she had the trademark ginger hair and fat, sulky lips. Albeit with a cigarette hanging from them. And when I say ‘opened the door’ I mean she unlocked it and immediately walked off, leaving nothing but a trail of smoke behind.

“In the garden,” she shouted from somewhere, as if in afterthought, then a door slammed.

I picked my way through the house, trying to find the back door. I don’t know what I’d expected. Certainly not this rambling pile; like a museum of the avant-garde. Half French chateau, half Barcelona pavilion, overrun with the strangest art and sculpture from every era. I headed toward the light; French windows and acres of green beyond. A sprite fluttered across the terrace. No. A girl. She bounced toward me in a white floral dress.

The doors flung open and Ella went to leap on me, then stopped herself. Framed by the gardens, dressed like flower-child and her hair loosely tied back off her face, she twisted a bare foot, and frowned. Her enormous, deep-sea eyes looked (licked) me over. I felt exactly like chuck steak chucked to a lioness. I think my balls might have even retreated a bit.

Her last letter turned into this wall of flaming ice between us. I didn’t know if I was supposed to treat her like my girlfriend or not. I hardly even recognised her. She cleared her throat. I leant toward her and we kissed lightly. All good. We hugged. Fine. Her body was warm and vital and left a phantom impression of itself under my shorts and shirt. I manfully ignored how the press of her breasts under light cotton revealed she was braless. I didn’t even squeeze her bum. All excellent. So why did she then reach up her skirt, wriggle off her knickers and shoved them in my hands?

I gawped at the tiny garment. A thin trail of smoke curled from my ear.

She yanked my arm. “Come and meet my brothers,” she said, and pulled me out into the garden.

I quickly shoved her underwear into my pocket, swearing at its dampness. My torturer winked. A smile lifted one side of her lips.

Half a smile, but still. A smile.

I was greeted by two jovial bruisers who pushed me onto a garden chair and insisted I have a beer. Ella plonked onto my lap and found any excuse to wiggle; two firm pillows and a smaller bulge between giving me a monstrous lump of my own.

I didn’t understand a word these identical, pedigree French hounds said, just that it was all the funniest thing I ever heard for a good ten minutes. Until they bounded off and Ella turned to me.

“Your lap is hot,” she said, shimmying around on it and resting her elbows on my shoulders. She leant to my ear. “And very hard,” she whispered. She smelt of soap and the sea. She pulled back to peer down at me.

I kissed her neck and her cool Beylikdüzü Otele Gelen Escort faltered with a flutter of her lashes. Her left breast, tipped to my chest, stiffened a nipple. She shivered.

“Would you like to see my… secret garden?” she said, and the terrible double-entendre hung between us like— Wait. She made a joke? I sniggered. She snorted. Her eyes crackled.

We sauntered, barefoot on spikily soft grass, across a garden that sloped gently down into a lake.

The topology of her island turned my head inside out. An island in the sea, with a huge lake in the middle and another little island in the middle of that.

“I am sorry about this hippie dress.” Ella tugged at her skirt. “Mother will not let me wear my black clothes, so I dress in her old things to punish her with my youth.” Ella tucked an errant red snake behind her ear. She was wearing thick eyeliner. She never wore makeup. With a gush, I wondered if she’d put it on for me.

“You look very beautiful,” I said.

She punched my arm.

Ella led us toward an arch in a crumbling wall. “Is that where I enter your garden?” I said with astonishing wit.

Ella tutted. “Do not forget, you have to give me what I need,” she said. “Before I give you what you need.”

“Of course,” I said, and smiled to prove I was cool. That her demand wasn’t fucked-up in any way at all.

“Is not a joke, motherfucker!” Another punch. “I have been hurt by selfish boys all my life. Who only want a hole to squirt into, a pretty hole so they can boast, and when I am angry about this I am either a whore or ‘The-Fire-and-Ice-Maiden’.”

I swallowed. “I just want… you,” I said. I took her hand.

Ella narrowed her eyes as if to say, “Hmm. We will see.” Her bionic grip was simultaneously comforting and scary.

She led me to a swinging seat in an alcove off this tiny, magical garden; tumbling with manicured flower-bushes, heady with scent and buzzing with fat bees.

“No one can see us,” she said and flumped onto the seat, clasping her floaty skirt between her knees as my gaze pounced underneath. I toyed with settling at her feet, ready to spread them and lunge up her skirt. I sat next to her instead.

Stretched beside me, Ella was all laid out like a picnic. She squirmed under my gaze, pink from cheeks to neck. My head spun. I didn’t know where to start. Or where she wanted me to start. Her lips trembled. “Fuck,” she burst. “Your eyes dig into me. Am I a piece of your wood before you attack it with your axe and release what’s hidden inside?”

My ears prickled. Did I objectify Ella? I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to read her. I looked away. She cupped my cheeks in both her hands and twisted my face to her. “Don’t ever stop looking deeper,” she hissed and tenderly pressed her lips to mine.

As we kissed, she shrugged off a loose strap and I took the hint, kissing her neck and shoulder and pulling down the front of her dress to reveal a perfectly perky breast. In my leathery paws, it was impossibly soft. She twitched, ticklish, as I tried to be gentle. Her smile lit me up. Her sweet, quiet laughter tore out my heart.

Honestly, all I wanted then was to get my dick out. And in. I could have just as easily erupted over her boob, as plant little nippy kisses to her nipple. Ella arched to my mouth and stroked my head. I ran my tongue around her tightening knot. Her free hand flattened a palm along the straining lump in my shorts. I clenched against her pressure and she squeezed a grunt out of me.

For the second time today, she shivered. “Fuckin’ell,” she sighed, and grimaced down at her fidgeting hips. “You make me too wet.”

I fought the urge to apologise, and swept my X-ray vision up and down her thighs. “You might need to prove that.”

Ella nuzzled under my neck and took a deep breath. “But you have proof in your pocket, no?” she teased.

I opened my mouth to protest, but needn’t have. She reached under her hem. I gulped, tensed for the big reveal, my mouth watering. Poised to dive.

But her hand rummaged around under skirt, instead. She caught a breath, and it reappeared. With narrowed eyes, she held up a couple of shockingly glossed fingers to glisten in the sun. Ella thumbed shut my gaping jaw and painted her fingertips in an x across my mouth, her lips parting as she watched my tongue slip across a salty trail.

She rammed a kiss to me and our tongues leapt together. Seeking a connection as fluid as their swirling my hand ducked beneath her skirt. We both whimpered as my fingers slid over crinkly fur to cup the slippery marshmallow beneath.

I slid a finger along her slick groove, and lightly tickled at her clit. She swore, and bunched her skirt to the back of my hand, clasping it harder and rolling her hips to quicken me. I pressed firmer, stirring and diggling and stirring again, drawing out anything that made her shiver or groan in my mouth. Her legs sagged wider the deeper I probed. The faster I Beylikdüzü Rus Escort fiddled, the higher her notes rose through the octaves. My fevered imagination tried to resolve the details of her sex from touch alone, conjuring a massive fleshy triffid with a plum-sized clit and a slavering maw that could easily swallow my whole arm.

In a handful of moans, Ella shuddered and clamped her thighs over my busy fingers. Her hole fluttered. Her tongue went rigid in my mouth. She squeaked. I bit back the urge to cheer. In fact, my delirium at pleasing her joined in with her rush. For one caught breath, there was no skin between us. No sloppy push and grind. Just our joy, overlapped.

I pulled myself together and dug and rubbed and kissed her through her climax, guiding its flight back down the scales into a deep, satisfied hum.

Ella curled up on my chest, and pulled my hand from its cave of delights. Her hair concealed what she did next but, before I could say, “Holy shit,” the warm wet of her sex was replaced by another, slurpier hollow. Each finger got rewarded with a plump kiss, a popsicle lick and a long suck, and when – in response – my cock pushed longingly at its trousery cage, Ella’s shoulders shook. I think she was laughing at it. No matter which way I turned it, this seemed encouraging.

However, Ella was back to her deadly serious self when she swung her flushed face back up to me for another kiss. She pawed my lump as we snogged, only breaking off to tug at my belt. I stopped her. I guessed that her ‘secret need’, whatever it might be, did not amount to a quick fingering. Also, without doubt, I would cum in a blink.

“Wait,” I rolled her off me and planted kisses behind her ear. “I’m not finished with you.”

Ella growled, and stretched. She took a deep breath of leaf-shady air. When she looked up at me again her pupils were saucers. Her fingers traced her nipple. “What will you do?” she whispered.

I sat back and admired her willowy body in all its blushed slinkiness. Her cheekily popped out breast. The wriggle of her bare toes, and how they seemed synonymous with the nakedness beneath her skirt. I schemed. There was no hurry. I would rub her feet, suck her pudgy toes if she liked, then return to that breast. Free its partner. Practice my clit-licking on her nipples…

Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men. Gulped all away when Ella swivelled across the seat and shuffled her hips below my head, butterflying her knees.

“Lift your skirt,” my tongue said, completely of its own accord.

At the exact moment, I mean the exact moment she grabbed the hem of her dress, Ella’s brothers burst into the garden, tumbling over each other, swearing. Mucking about, or a real fight, I couldn’t tell.

“Fuck. Sake!” Ella slapped her thigh. “Come on.” She stormed out of the secret garden. No easeful sauntering now. She marched. And if a woman has a sexier walk than this quickstep to a secret place to get head, then I’d like to know what it is. I’ve replayed it so many times: her knotted fists and stiff arms. The unfettered wobble in her bottom as her snappy bounce lead me down to the water’s edge.

We arrived at a mad boat, tied to a tree. Half row-boat, half gondola, scattered in rugs and cushions. She unfastened the rope and jumped into it, plonking down on the comfy end. A scowl flickered across her forehead as I struggled and wobbled, taking the seat between the oars, and almost knocking one out of the boat.

She folded her arms. “Should I row?”

I grabbed the oars and hauled, she nodded along the lake. “Go round the other side of the island. It is quiet there. And this is the only boat. We won’t be disturbed.”

After a few quick pulls, Ella settled back and her antsiness subsided, watching me row. She bit the inside of her cheek. I pulled harder and faster. The island was bigger than it looked, and further away. The day was baking and there was no shade out here on the water. Sweat rolled down my face.

Ella liked that.

She slid her foot between my legs, wriggled her toes and mimed a pout. “Not hard?” she said.

“Blood’s powering something else,” I heaved.

She relaxed back in her rugs and bolsters, and swung one leg out of the boat to dangle it in the water. Then she swung the other knee aside. She lifted her skirt to her waist.

“Now?” she said.

Ella branded me that afternoon. It wasn’t just her ginger fluff, flaming in the sunshine, or – nestled between creamy thighs and the press of bum cheeks – her smooth, puffy lips. It wasn’t her labia, either, poking out like a cheeky tongue. The image seared into my brain forever was the thick, glittering juices looped from her slot to her thigh.

I swallowed but my mouth was dry. Spots flashed as blood flowed back from trembling limbs to my hips. I thought I might faint, but I still got the boat scudding over the water so fast that Ella could have water-skied. Instead, she lay back regally wafting her knee as if enjoying the combination of cool breeze and hot gaze all over her bits.

When I showed signs of slowing, she reached down and toyed with herself, sliding her lips open or curling a finger inside and – shining – out over the rubbery nub of her clit. She slit her eyes at my crotch. Her foot tested my hardness and gently joggled as I powered across the water with all my might.

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