The Storm Shutters on the Cornish Cliff

When an autumn gale cuts the power to their clifftop cottage, $name1 decides her husband has waited long enough for the anniversary present she has been teasing him about all week.

The lights went out at ten past nine.

One moment the kettle was rumbling and the radio was murmuring about the shipping forecast. The next, the whole cottage dropped into black, and the only sound was the wind throwing rain at the windows like handfuls of gravel.

$name1 laughed in the dark. “Well. That’s the electric gone.”

From the sofa, Tom groaned. “Of course it has. Seven years married, one weekend away, and Cornwall switches itself off.”

She found the box of candles on the dresser by feel. The landlady had left them out with a note that said *For when the weather turns, which it will.* $name1 struck a match and the kitchen bloomed orange. Her own reflection looked back from the window: thirty-four, dark hair loose over her shoulders, cheeks still pink from the walk along the cliff that afternoon, one of Tom’s old jumpers hanging off her to mid-thigh.

Underneath it she was wearing almost nothing.

She’d been planning this since Tuesday.

All week she had dropped hints. A text on Wednesday that just said *I’ve bought you something for Saturday. You’re not allowed to see it until I say.* A photo on Thursday of a lace strap against her collarbone, nothing else. On the drive down on Friday she’d rested her hand high on his thigh for forty miles of the A30 and refused to explain herself, smiling at the hedgerows while he shifted in his seat.

Now the storm had done her a favour.

She carried two candles through to the little front room and set them on the mantelpiece above the wood burner. The fire was low, glowing red behind the glass. Tom was stretched out on the sofa in his jeans and a T-shirt, one arm behind his head, watching her with that slow, curious look he got when he knew something was coming but not what.

“You’ve gone quiet,” he said.

“I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Shut up.” She knelt by the burner, opened the door and fed it two logs. The flames caught and climbed. Heat rolled out over her bare knees. She stayed there a moment longer than she needed to, crouched with her back to him, the jumper riding up at the back so that he could see the curve where her thighs met her arse and a thin line of black lace.

Behind her, the sofa creaked.

“Is that it?” he asked. His voice had dropped. “The present?”

“Part of it.” She stood, closed the burner door, and turned round. “Do you want the rest?”

“You know I do.”

“Then you have to do exactly what I say. All night. No touching unless I tell you.”

Tom swallowed. She watched his throat move. “Deal.”

The wind howled round the chimney. Somewhere outside a shutter banged against stone, again and again. $name1 crossed the room slowly, letting him look, and stopped between his knees. She took the hem of the jumper in both hands.

“Hands behind your head,” she said. “Both of them.”

He obeyed.

She lifted the jumper an inch. Then another. The candlelight caught the tops of her thighs, then the little lace triangle of her knickers, then the bare soft skin of her belly. She paused there and made him wait, enjoying the way his eyes stayed fixed, the way his chest rose and fell faster. Then she pulled the jumper all the way off over her head and dropped it on the rug.

The bra was black too. Barely there. Two scraps of sheer lace that framed her full tits rather than covering them, her nipples already tight and dark behind the mesh because the room was cold away from the fire and because she was so fucking turned on she could hardly stand it.

“Jesus, $name1,” Tom breathed.

“Happy anniversary.”

“I want to touch you.”

“I know you do.” She smiled. “Not yet.”

She lowered herself onto his lap, a knee either side of his hips, and settled her weight down. Through his jeans she could feel him, already thick and hard, pressing up against the damp lace between her legs. She rolled her hips once, slowly, and he hissed through his teeth.

“That’s not fair.”

“Nobody said it would be.”

She leaned in and kissed him. Not a quick married peck but a proper deep kiss, her tongue sliding over his, her hands in his hair. She kissed him until he was breathing hard through his nose and his hips were pushing up under her without him meaning them to. Then she sat back and took his wrists, still laced behind his head, and pressed them down into the cushion.

“Stay,” she whispered.

She kissed down his jaw. His neck. She dragged his T-shirt up and kissed his chest, his stomach, the line of hair below his belly button. She slid backwards off his lap and down onto her knees on the rug between his legs, and she looked up at him with the firelight on her face.

“I’ve been thinking about this all week,” she said. “Every time I sent you one of those texts I was thinking about having your cock in my mouth.”

Tom made a sound that wasn’t quite a word.

She undid his belt slowly. The button. The zip, one tooth at a time. He lifted his hips and she dragged his jeans and boxers down to his knees, and his cock sprang free, hard and flushed and twitching in the warm air, a bead of precum already shining at the tip.

$name1 didn’t touch it with her hands. She leaned in and breathed on it first. Just breath, warm, from the base all the way up to the swollen head. He shuddered. She did it again. Then she put out her tongue and licked one slow wet stripe up the underside, root to tip, and caught that bead of salt on the end of her tongue.

“Fuck,” Tom groaned. His hands twitched behind his head.

“Hands,” she warned.

“They’re there. They’re there.”

“Good boy.”

She licked him again, and again, slow lazy laps up the shaft until he was slick and shining with her spit. She swirled her tongue around the ridge of his crown, flicked at the sensitive spot just under it, pressed the flat of her tongue against the slit and felt him jerk. Only then did she wrap her lips around the head and suck, gently at first, her cheeks hollowing, her eyes lifted to his.

He was watching her like he’d never seen her before. Seven years and she could still do that to him. The thought made her pussy clench around nothing.

She took him deeper. Inch by inch, her lips stretching, her tongue pressed flat underneath, until the head of his cock nudged the back of her throat. She held him there and breathed through her nose and swallowed around him, and his whole body went rigid.

“Oh God. Oh fuck, $name1. Fuck.”

She pulled back with a wet pop and smiled at him, spit shining on her chin.

“You like that?”

“You know I fucking do.”

“Tell me.”

“I love your mouth,” he said, his voice ragged. “I love watching you suck me. I want you to take it all again.”

So she did.

She found a rhythm, bobbing slowly, sloppily, letting the spit run down his shaft so she could finally wrap one hand around the base and twist it in time with her mouth. With her other hand she cupped his balls and rolled them gently in her palm. The wet, obscene sounds of it filled the little room, louder than the rain, louder than the crack of the fire. She moaned around him and felt the vibration of it make him gasp.

The shutter banged. The wind screamed over the cliff. She didn’t care. Her own knickers were soaked through now, and she slid her free hand down between her thighs and pushed the lace aside and touched herself while she sucked him, two fingers circling her swollen clit, slipping down into the heat of her and back up again.

Tom saw what she was doing and his head fell back against the sofa.

“You’re going to make me come,” he warned. “If you keep doing that I’m going to come in your mouth.”

She pulled off him, breathless, her lips swollen, and stroked him slowly with her wet hand.

“Not yet,” she said. “You can touch me now.”

He didn’t need telling twice.

He came off the sofa and onto the rug with her, his jeans still round his knees, and he had her bra unclasped and thrown aside in seconds. His hands were on her tits, squeezing, his thumbs rubbing hard over her nipples, then his mouth was on them, sucking one and then the other until she was arching up off the floor and gasping his name. He hooked his fingers in her knickers and dragged them down her legs and pushed her thighs apart.

“Look at you,” he muttered. “You’re dripping.”

“Because of you. Because I’ve been wet for you all fucking week.”

He buried his face between her legs.

$name1 cried out. His tongue was everywhere, broad and flat over her lips, then pointed and quick on her clit, then pushing inside her. He slid two thick fingers into her and curled them up against that spot that made her toes clench, and he sucked her clit into his mouth and didn’t stop. She grabbed his hair with both hands and ground herself against his face, shameless, her hips rolling, her moans getting higher and higher.

“Don’t stop. Tom, don’t you dare stop. I’m going to – oh God – I’m going to come -”

She came hard against his mouth, her thighs clamping round his head, her whole body shaking on the rug in front of the fire. He held her through it, licking her gently, until she pushed him away because it was too much.

Then she pulled him up by the shoulders and kissed him, tasting herself on his lips.

“I need you inside me,” she said. “Now.”

He kicked his jeans off the rest of the way. She rolled onto her hands and knees on the rug, facing the fire, and looked back at him over her shoulder. The candlelight ran gold down her spine and over the round curve of her arse.

“Like this,” she said. “Hard.”

Tom knelt behind her. She felt the blunt head of his cock slide up and down through her soaked folds, teasing her the way she’d teased him, and she pushed back and swore at him until he laughed and gripped her hips and drove into her in one long, deep stroke.

They both groaned.

He filled her completely, stretched her, and for a moment he just held himself there, buried to the hilt, his hands spread on her hips. Then he started to fuck her. Long, slow strokes at first, pulling almost all the way out and sinking back in, the wet slap of skin on skin keeping time with the wind against the glass. Then faster. Then harder, until her tits were swinging beneath her and she had to brace her forearms on the rug.

“Is this what you wanted?” he panted. “Is this what you were thinking about on the motorway with your hand on my leg?”

“Yes. Fuck, yes. Harder.”

He gave it to her harder. One hand slid up her back and wound into her hair and pulled, not cruelly but firmly, so her head came up and her back arched and he could go even deeper. She was making noises she’d never make at home with the neighbours through the wall. Here there was nobody for a mile but the gulls and the sea.

“Tell me how it feels,” she begged.

“You’re so tight. So wet. You feel fucking amazing. I’m going to fill you up.”

“Do it. I want it. I want you to come inside me.”

He reached round under her and found her clit with his fingers and rubbed it in fast tight circles while he pounded into her, and that was it. $name1 came again, screaming into the rug, her pussy clenching and pulsing around his cock. It tipped him straight over. He slammed into her one last time and held there, groaning her name, and she felt him throb and pulse deep inside her, hot and thick, again and again until he was spent.

They collapsed together in a sweaty tangle in front of the fire.

For a long time neither of them said anything. The storm kept raging. The candles guttered. Her heart slowly slowed under his hand.

“Seven years,” Tom said eventually, still out of breath.

“Mm.”

“Best present you’ve ever given me.”

$name1 smiled and stretched against him like a cat, feeling him slip warm and wet against her thigh.

“Who said I’d finished giving it?”

Outside, the shutter banged again, and the power stayed off until morning.