Red. Came. Finally.

The aroused male, what an agreeable sight. Foot back, pulling his tip down to the tips of her foot, she can just feel him with her toes, her eyes slowly wandering over their cockshoe, her eyes tightening with the desire coursing in her body. Her mind wanders off, dreaming of a carnal landscape of unexpectedly discovered pleasures such as this. From far away she hears a voice.

"Let me take over, you should’t be doing all the work"

His hand gentles her ankle and her shoe comes away. Free to move at last, she splays her toes on his balls as he starts to masturbate against her peep-toed fuck altar. Rippling his bloated shaft in front of her, she looks on, aroused? Well, maybe. It’s hard to tell in this light. Consenting, certainly.

It’s time for him. Time for homage to the shoe. His mouth opening in the pleasure of the moment, he’s almost giggling with delight at the success of his audacity. Her glance skips from man to cock to shoe to cockshoe and back again, this rhythmic drawing out of his orgasm, veins and muscle leading him out of himself is a truly most delicious spectacle. He comes in the opening at the toe of the shoe, his first ejaculations inside. we see his grey pearl come shoot up the inside of the shoe. She inhales deeply, concentrating on his cockshoe as she watches his perfect grey pearlplume fuck-gift.

But his climax isn’t over. Lust, daring, wantoness surge inside his head as he feels a second ejaculation rise inside his shaft, and he aligns his erection once more on the red leather, twitching off another strand of semen. His orgasm in evidence, yet he remains so poised, so cool as he carefully empties himself over her leather. His craftsmans’s hands carefully repositioning the shoe as his ripples his shaft, carefully wasting none of his seed in his task of pleasuring the shoe and her owner. Admiring the unblemished glossy semen drawled out onto her own footwear, she realises she’s finally met a man with a respect for feet worthy of her own, something she’s always wanted. Damn, the man’s an expert, this surely can’t be the first time he’s done this. Daniel is going to have to improve his performances from now on if he wants to keep her, that’s for sure.

‘You’ve prepared well, an excellent performance. Your seed is so rich.’

His ejaculations shorten in distance, lengthen in interval: he’s easing off, still with the cool elegance that she’s been admiring. One of the fascinations of the male orgasm is usually its rushing unpredictability but here it’s all so disciplined, his expertise, his control so evident, even at his moment of release. How much else does he do so well?

A last dab and the last of his climax takes its place on the leather. Red patent leather topped with a strangers’s ejaculate. Her own shoes shamelessly blemished with his perfectly unabashed unblemished semen. Perhaps one day she’ll let him empty them over me, she thinks as she takes back control of the soon-to-be cockless shoe. One last gesture of self-pleasure: his index finger swirled around his tip, cleaning up. They share a last complicit smile as he sucks himself clean. Then buttoned up once more, from his jacket, his business card: ‘Wild Moments. Craving your satisfaction’.

“You’re kidding me, you mean to say that you do this for a living?”

”Well, let’s just say that I’m giving it some serious thought.”

He turns and steps out in to the corridor. In the last moment of door’s collapsing rectangle, he catches sight of a woman raising a shoe to her face, a grazing finger outstretched.

Airport slap

A fantasy I have long nurtured...

I’d thought about masturbating that morning but didn’t, wanting to be properly full for her. With every day that passed, the bed had seemed to get bigger and colder; in the last few days, I could scarcely bear to lie down in it and feel her absence creeping slowly over me. But things are different this morning.

Scenario: I’m at the airport, waiting for my lover to arrive. Think: noise, crowding isolation, too-bright lights distracting me from my thoughts of her. Think also: desire, impatience and adoration. I’m standing patiently at the barrier, staying focused. I sense her so close to me now I can feel myself being reborn as a sexual being with her. I’m no longer so meanly me anymore, I am being recast, with every minute that passes, as my lover’s lover. The luckiest fucker born, I still can’t quite believe it.

There’s the usual flow of people, more maybe of a drizzle, to judge by the looks of these; their drooping look is definitely long-haul. There’s the usual beige-comfortable and garish-graceless. I look at them and thank my stars I don’t have to share my life with them. The surge of the long-hauled dies away, we’re back to the usual drizzle of bodies. My attention starts to wander, I’m tugged to the weight and over-fingered texture of the newsprint in my hand. My eyes glaze over under the light that is not there for people, but commerce. I’m starting to loathe the distractions now.

Then she’s there and desire itself winds tight around my heart. She’s scanning the crowd for me. We see each other and the rest of the world draws away to nothing.

I always imagine her in a dark grey tailored overcoat; her tight precision both in my bed and in my life expressed so well in her appearance. I want to throw myself at her feet and cry out my love for her for all to hear. She has a better idea, of course.

Stepping up quickly, she throws her shoulder bag to the ground and looks me right in the eye. My awareness flickers over her as she snaps off her gloves; I'm so focused on her face I don’t notice her arm pulling back, nor the outstretched palm. She hits me hard across the face with a blow so hard it twists my head around. I’m stunned. By the pain, by her audacity. By the sweet compliment she pays me: be wild with me, in front of all these strangers. My head is jerked forwards, my submission or her command? And my face is between her hands as I feel our love pour out over us from between the caress of her gloveness and my still-stinging cheek. She holds my head in her hands. We kiss, hard and deep as our love holds us weightless in front of the disapproving crowd. We’ll kiss again, soon, with no-one else around to gaze at us.

Forthcoming attractions

After long debate, I’ve finally decided to post some pee stories (oh alright, if that’s too vanilla for you, pissing stories); I’ll post the first one after the weekend. I don’t suppose they will be to everyone's taste but then, it’s my blog and as long as it’s legal and fair, I’ll write about whatever I please. But if you are of delicate sensibilities, consider yourself warned.

A fragment from a story I started to write a while ago

The original intention was to write it in collaboration with a friend, taking turns to write alternating installments. In the end we fell out of touch - sadly - and the project fell into abeyance. The following was to be the first installment: my own first contribution, which I even may get around to finishing. Re-reading it after an interval of months, I was pleased by the impression of drawled sensual laziness it evokes and though incomplete, I still think it worth sharing here.

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Lying still in the bed, must be a while since you left. Breathing slow, listening to the space around me, clinging to anything that you might have left behind. Looking across the bed to the creases where you were with me last night, watching the cotton peel and fold away as you left when you rose to leave me. Not wanting to move, not daring to erase the traces of your presence. Remembering my stomach still slick with your juices, your gentle imprecations as you slid the plug inside me, my contentment as you filled me up. My loneliness feels so heavy now. Feeling so small and poor, hoping the bed will remind me of the things we achieved in it. Achieved in each other, marking ourselves for good. Our fuckers’ Rubicon.

Not start the day. Not have to get up. Not do anything but listen here to your presence in my life and mouth. Pressing my forehead to your pillow, tracing my nose over the traces of your scents.

Teasing the lube in around me as your greedy arse clamped her way around me, pink muscle stretched hard around me. Your turning your head around, grimacing at the discomfort yet urging me on all the same, demanding your lover’s courage from me.

Twist over, feet down, arms out backwards. I’ll lie here for the day, motionless as I wait for your to return? My heart won’t move without you, all it does is wait, biding its time, for the moment your return. No one else can reach me now, spoilt brat that I am. It’s all your fault, all your doing, all my hoping that you’ll do it me again and again for the rest of my life.

Padding into the kitchen, the sink still with our coffee mugs from this morning. Picking yours up, holding the lipstick prints close to my mouth, hoping to discover something of your mystery from the china that was so close to you, pressing my mouth to the pink marks you left behind. Hours after you’ve left the space, I can finally be exactly where you’ve been. Jealousy of one’s own crockery, yes that must be crazy, holding the mug as I held you, hoping it’ll tell you how good it feels... I think I’ll use your spoon too. Kettlecupboardcoffeesugarfridgemilk, pour. Mug’s hot warmth in my hand, a warmth that doesn’t come form you, strange. Thoughts in my head that don’t come from you, stranger still. I’m still waking up, still feeling you waft away from my head. Needing to start the day, needing to think of anything but you. to reassure myself that i’m not losing my mind, that i can still function when you’re not with me. I can understand George Sanders now.

Fucker’s forensics: the place where I live I scarcely see, somehow it’s no longer mine. It has become the place where you may or may not have faked you first orgasm with me. The place with the table from which i licked your juices, the dresser over which i bent. The sofa where I licked the soles of your feet as you guided me to you. I’ve fucked before, but you reach inside me so far that last night I may finally have succeeded in losing my virginity. Finally traded my innocence for happiness, about fucking time too. About time i was joined to the earth, about time for me to pay homage to your fertility.

No way to make the 08.32 now, looks like I’ll be late. This time, though I’ll have to think up a special excuse...

File under ironic/confessional

I recently decided that I needed to liberate the Wrinkle Twins from their undergrowth and I bought some electric hair clippers for the job, from a shop so small there was scarcely space for the customers.

The other week, I was using them in the company of my Significant Other who asked me, as I glided the vibrating black monster over my balls: ’You can use it to trim beards as well, can’t you?’. Except that I'm clean-shaven there too, which makes me wonder if she couldn’t have asked me that in the shop...

Dreamtime

I'd been inside her for around a quarter of an hour and was in the mood for a break; she only comes up to my shoulders so to stay inside her and nurse her as she wants at the same time takes some contorsions on my part. Well, whatever makes her happy. It just that sometimes it’s nicer to let her do the driving. I glided off the edge of the bed and nestled my face on my forearms. What a lazy fucker I can be at times, with my arse so sweetly passive in front of my wonderful biting woman.

Drift off onto the floor, leaving my source of attention in front of her: hetero man wants it in the arse from his wife. Good. Certainly, the pleasure of feeling yourself tight and full is one thing, being able to relax with your wife and let the uninhibited sun shine in to your lovemaking together is something else. Eyes smiling to themselves out over the parquet as I waited for her. Pulling my legs back, belly clenching my attention to my arse. Tightening myself towards her mouth, waiting patiently for the first strokes of her tongue on my rosette. Cheekily flexing it for her, push-puckering it out and back.

She’s fingertipping me well, relaxing me onto the floor as I spread for her. A big slient smile crawls over my face.

Your hands. Cup and squeeze, kneading-fingers stretch and clutch. Fuckyes, drag my balls back for a kiss, heft them forwards to get your mouth in close. Joined to you like this, I’m so relaxed I can scarcely keep my erection. Your mouth, wide enough to trap me with her teeth, your bites scooting over me, some gentle, others not so. Thigh and back and bottom and back, me twitching under the pain, flexing under the pleasure. Where will your tongue appear first? Wet patch, wet slick, wet spit blown right up me. Fingertip press and twist. Circle my circle. Saliva round, flicked over balls and cock, now rising, now closing on my tonguefuck hole, so perfectly sized for your mouth, my dear. Swirlslurp. Flick down and in, teasing me aroused. Drawl-dabbing a circle around me, steadily joining up the patches of saliva that ring my righteous pink arsehole, drawing tighter and closer as I roll myself against your face.

I can hear her drooling over it, fellating the silicone. So gorgeously-messy, she knows how much love to hear the sound of her lubing up. Dabpress and drag over, while a plume of warm saliva makes its vertical trip over my muscleclutch. A cooling tip of wet, slowly pulled down over me. And the pressure. And the smoothness, onto my smooth pink soon-to-be-clenching ring. Clutch-relaxing to feel the snub, wanting to draw it in over its diameter and feel its snug unnaturalness fill me up. She illustrates with her tongue, as if I hadn’t guessed what I should be doing now: slyly forcing its way down into me, forcing me to open up. And now I can feel it starting to press into me.

Snub onto ring, smooth blunt purple onto wet pink muscle, dilating. Slipgrasping it, grabbing it deeper, working me wider. Subtle discomfort, smooth stretching tension widening me up. Widening me up until I climb over the top of my polymer guest and clench it firmly into me. Chuckling as she starts to play with me, turning it round (Just to check it’s properly in!) then slowly pulling it out: wide and slack, wide and slack. Twisting, bobbing it around; what to call this, microbuggery?

Her playing slackens off, looks like she’s satisfied with me. Now she’s pulling me back onto the bed, dragging my shoulders off the floor.

‘Come back, I’m ready for you again’ she says, as she pushes my face down once more onto her breasts.

Rushy words

Writhing down, falling onto our fucking rushy-words. can't tell, don't say, sad rushing to tell me to shut the fuckety up. not listening, not writing, do i me-embarass for my lack of invention? want not to think, want words to rush down and be unthinked for me. Grip you slip you inside me, hands skleaning your skin

Self-possessed by my unfulfilment, locked down into myself. I seem to have thrown away the key to me so long ago that I’ve quite forgotten that there never was a door to lock in the first place. I’d never have had the simple brains to see it if you hadn’t pushed at the it. And now we’re falling into our fucking rushy-ness as our skins slide with each other. Rowing my life and all the wasted not-with-you-ness that I want to leave behind on the shore as we push away from the quay on the sea-tide of swelling fucking sucking us away from the world of sad blue apartness.

Runny words, drizzling in my head as my urgency nears. Why be so impatient now? Want to rush into you, want to have the balls to let you rush into me. Want to savour the moment that my impatience wants to burn to ashes in an instant. Can’t wait

Easing past my isolation, reaching out to you. I just had no idea I had so far to go. What was the wellspring of my strength? The knowledge, secret even to me, that at some abstracted point on the trajectory of my life you’d there? Does it feel right because I knew that I truly did have to wait for you? More than a simple orgasm, do I finally get to grasp what my life’s about now? Can I get out of jail now, please? Please lover mine let me rush my strength inside you, collapse to a peaceful weeping on your shoulder

Shiver-slip and passion-whimpering your name, grasping you, clutching at your being over me being in my lifebedheart. Your namename, word spilling out of my mouth as your breast scampers free of my tongue. Your back arching, clinging to me even as she show off your gorgeous power to love. Minds stilling as our bodies show us the way.

We fled from our old lives like thieves. Like lovers, running off with the silverware, running lightly, joyfully secure that we finally have only the best parts with which to live together.

My love, you have released me from myself.

Dirndls

Or: Ogling in the Süd Tirol. With a limited number of variables present, you tend to pay attention to the details, no?

Towards the end of the holiday, I began to develop a taste for dirndls. Of course, at a time when pop stars can appear in latex in front of audiences whose members are below the age of consent without anyone fainting in disgust, the dirndl may at first appear a quaint tradition, quite overtaken by contemporary mores. That would be a mistake, of course. Consider when the dirndl was once the only kind of skirt to wear, not just a hotel’s dress code for its female staff. With so many dressed in a near-identical manner, details are naturally the best way for people to express themselves and one naturally seeks them out to discover what the person underneath is like. As i drank my coffee, there was time to watch the waitress and observe how the dirndl works wonders even today.

Dress code required a white blouse and the peacefuly gentle folds of the dirndl was offset magnificently by her lycra blouse, the textile faithfully showing off all the gorgeous curves in her arms and shoulders, her gracefully smooth muscles flexing for her. As her arms worked in freedom, I couldn’t help but notice how well her bodice worked to constrain her. Next time I’ll make sure I sit at her table.

Replying to you now, Anonymous

To continue our discussion regarding the ’Summer’ story, do you mean the submissive part appeals to you? It seems to me that one of the more beautiful qualities of submission is the way in which the sub waits for their partner’s presence. That an important aspect of submission is not the desire to be abused but something completely different: the desire to listen. We could call this moment of stillness-before-sensation ‘ecstatic patience’.

Tell me, what’s so problematic in an encounter like this? What sort of difficulties have you met? I think one of the things for many people arises from their inability to see that the relationship is not inevitably abusive, that the lovers consent freely to meet on mutually delightful terms. One of the fascinating things about the ’Summer’ story is trying to work out who is in charge; it doesn’t split easily into ‘domination’ and ‘submission’. The slave waits passively for her Master but she is immobile entirely by her own agency, she’s not tied down in any way. Although the Master is the more active of the two, the encounter is not at all about satisfying his desires. The terms of reference are set entirely by the slave: the lovers meet to bring her her pleasure in the way as she seeks it. Paradoxically, the Master is the servant of the slave, although quite to what extent we cannot say: the inner secret of the relationship is that only they can tell, that the inner dynamic of what they share is completely unknowable by the outside world.

The traditional pleasures of the country

Your correspondent has returned from Blond Ayran Goddess Gene Pool Headquarters.

During our stay, the town had its Hexennacht (Witches’ Night) and damn if those teutons don’t do witches rather well. Featured attraction: the town nymphettes, clad in matching white shirts and dark brown lederhosen, dancing in a circle and taking turns to slap each others’ thighs. Trust me, I’m not making this up. Naturally, I checked to see if they were all smiling and they were, though it was impractical to have asked them quite why they smiled so much: it was all I could to resist the temptation to cheer them on. Ah, the blessings of modernity. In our age the spectacle of young women in leather keeping tradition by subjecting each other to some mild s&m is nothing to get worked up over. At least, not in public.