Dust Bunny

As a new found lover of Sinful Sunday I was excited to see the competition from Exhibit A: taking an image from the submissions for Sinful Sunday and using it as inspiration for a written piece. My image inspiration can be found here, from Cammies on the Floor and what a lovely image it is. My first time writing fiction in years, here is my rusty comeback.


“Oh Daddy!” the voice was sweet and playful as she sprawled herself out onto the grass, elbows giving way, landing with a thud. Back twitching from the impact, she listened. A neighbour to her left fighting wet laundry onto the line – thankfully hidden from view by overgrown, cascading butterfly bushes – sent the fresh smell of mint and tea-tree. But her thoughts were miles from the mountain of laundry awaiting her.


Tiny feathers brushed up the outside of her thigh and to the  of her waist, the grass prickling her naked ass and tickling her lower back. It wasn’t fair – him keeping her waiting like this – and she was beginning to wish for the picnic blanket, still in its plastic packaging. They weren’t the picnic going type.


The last official day of spring, there was no chill in the air as she laid in the sun. But she knew that if he chose to leave her out there into the evening, she would be shivering.


But why wait? She could make herself shiver perfectly well and it would be far more enjoyable her way.


Nipples hardening beneath the feathers, she wondered momentarily if He had heard her. Perhaps not? Maybe she could call again? Maybe she should give up, get and go find Him. But those ideas were silly and were tossed from her mind as His words repeated in her mind. Patience. That’s all she needed.


A cute little tickle to her cheek made her smile but it was the test swat with the handle to the pale skin just above her nipple that brought the real happiness. The excitement.


The written rule was a primal ‘obey’ that reminded her of cavemen and those wearing that stupid hat. Twats, she thought. But they had other rules, too. Unspoken, long standing rules which she knew better than to break on the sly. No toilet breaks without permission. No letting the cat out during the day. It was known to fight with dogs so they avoided peak walking hourslike the plague and yet, in her haste to set her tits free in the open air, the door had been left open. The pompous walking cloud of a cat was found sat, basking in the sun as if it were a lizard.

“You let the pussy out.” She heard him before she saw him and once he came close she looked between him and the damn cat. One step towards it was all it took for him to get the cats attention and it legged it, under the bush, between fence posts and away.


Unphased, he rolled his shoulders and set his attention onto her by his feet. “A guy can make do with just one pussy. And this one is all out and ready, huh?”


She wanted to be fucked hard.


“What do you want? Out here, all alone with a bloody feather duster. You have some cobwebs that need busting?”


“I want to be fucked. By you. Please.”


“I’m afraid I don’t have enough details. You went to so much trouble taking your clothes off and dumping yourself amongst the dandelions. Do tell me how I can make you feel special and where the hell you left your clothes. The neighbours might see from their upstairs window-”’


“I already told you!” Reaching over, tapping his calf with the tickler, she whined and snorted. Attractive. Speaking of her wants so bluntly left her awkward. Shy and red in the face, she hated the way he stared down at her so intently. She looked away only to feel his foot press into her cheek, forcing her head back to its previous position slowly.


“I’m up here and still waiting.”


“And I was here, kept waiting!” She knew, even as the words left her mouth, she was speaking out of turn. “I want you to fuck me hard.”


“Oh. And you think that type of answer will get you what you want?”


“I want you to pick me up, throw me into tulips and fuck me. I want to be on my knees with you pounding me, slamming into my red, stinging ass as you keep my back against your chest, your fingertips digging into my scalp, your fist full of my hair. I want you to press my head down into the soil and battered flowers, your hand on my cheek, your thumb hooked in my mouth. But what I really want right now is to take this,” she waved the tickler around, beating the air. “and shove it up your fucking arse.”


“Nice. Time to go inside.” Crouching down, the tickler was snatched from her hand, fingers left grasping at air.


“That’s mine!”


“You don’t need it anymore. Playtime is over.” He grabbed her still dangling wrist, kissed the back of her fingers and yanked hard. Once she was on her knees, staring up at him in confusion, he turned and walked back toward the door, never letting her go.


“Flowers aren’t this way!” She wasn’t aware that playtime had even begun, nevermind ended.


He shook his head, “No, but your fucking is.”

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” On her hands and knees, she had only made it a little beyond the stairs, head in their bedroom, ass and grass stained feet on the cheap laminate of the hallway. Her wrist, red and stiff from the way he’d dragged her, didn’t matter anymore as she wiggled her ass and squinted over her shoulder into the harsh white light. He never used nice light bulbs.


“I am.”


And it was true. What she had meant to ask was why he wasn’t doing what she wanted him to. His hands were never coming close to leaving her skin, kneading the plump area of her thighs, just beneath her ass. A deep roll of thumbs proved his point and had her wavering.


It didn’t hurt. Not like the pussy slap that followed. That stung like a bitch and had her squeezing her eyes shut and snorting through her nose.


She couldn’t stand the waiting. Forever waiting for permission to piss or change the channel. Forever waiting to be told she could cum. But she hated pussy slapping most of all.