logodisiac

The end of winter hibernation

2008-03-26T14:46:00.003+02:00

Thinking of you...

Filled and brimming

2007-12-01T17:49:00.000+02:00

Water cooler goddess, filling up for the overlit ordeal ahead of slides, greige and company so dull they need electroshock. Pity them for their vanillity, she smiles to
herself as she fuels up her desire ahead of the meeting. Cup and gulp, cup and gulp. Cup and gulp soon to turn to clench and grip, her sphincter will shortly be grabbing into itself tightly enough to snatch the cork out of a champagne bottle, legs flexing hard under her skirt - how lovely it is when Master has her do that under His bindings! Limbs jamming each other togther in her private festival of self-induced discomfort. Discomfort, then the wild rush of relief, perhaps today dressed with a spot of cubicle masturbation. Yes, today’s the day to treat herself. Fluid retention superstar, her thoughts are turning inwards, protecting her heart from the forthcoming trial-by-banality.

Pale flesh. Bright reflection

2007-12-01T17:48:00.000+02:00

It all starts with an image of metal on flesh, so let me set the scene. Starting with a detail, let’s take this idea for a walk.

I see: pale white thighs, of a body which amply reflects its owner’s appetite. Plump, plumpcious, even. Then a silver teaspoon, bright metal gliding carefully over the woman’s abundant pinkness. Smooth mysterious fleshtones and the sharp curving flashes of light reflected in the tiny metal bowl. I see also a stone floor, plain whitewashed walls and an oak beam running from wall to wall. The room is lit by a single window, outside the sky is that dead grey that winter does so well. The room centrally heated by a strange kind of unspoken intensity, the emotional space here is very far away indeed from the world outside. But just about reachable, if you try hard enough. If you have the imagination, I mean.

She who is here inspires her Master to his greatest feats. Let‘s call her Foodmuse, passively in charge of absolutely everything. The oak beam’s a giveaway is it not? Come on, try and guess what all this is about...

Naked, but for ballet heels, attached by her wrists to the beam, she’s looking down on to him. Not quite smiling though: the effort of listening to his touch over every inch of her surface is too much of an effort to waste her energy on anything else. Master tries to not let himself get too distracted by the way she totters around her centrepoint in her heels, delicate en-pointing around, loving the muscle-ripples in her legs. She’s in repose, nearly. She’s working, nearly. Whatever. Enjoying her tiny tip-toed struggling, they both are.

Get the picture so far? She’s standing, he’s ministering to her. An inventory of the essential equipment at this point reveals: rope, ballet heels, teaspoon, honey. And fruit, lots of it. My word, yes.

What I like about this fantasy is the idea of patiently working over Slave’s flesh, the way in which the Master must carefully attend to every square inch of it as he drizzles His slave all the shades of honey you could ever imagine. At once time pouring the honey dramatically over her shoulders, letting her enjoy the rivulets slowly rolling down her back, over her breasts, around her shoulders. Then carefully dripping it over her nipples, rolling the golden thread of his proxy ejaculate till it wraps tighly over her suckbuttons. Jamming the spoon hard into her navel: tugging the stickiness out for it to spill over her belly. Slave’s natural paleness slowly passes into a variegated pink-with-golden-smears, her gorgeously abundant body showing off its every curve under the attentive gloss of the repeated venerations of Master’s patient cumshots.

‘You’re working well today’

‘How can I fail to, with such materials as this?’

Paused, waiting

2007-11-23T20:49:00.000+02:00

Paused at the building’s entrance (entranced, paused at her entrance), and we waited together for me to enter. She, close to me and a sense of shared space starts to wrap its way around us, even as I stand at the entryphone. In the end, she had the keys and she let me in. Symbolism at the doorway, no less. The building, of course; I wait still to enter her. Finger to button to glance to the periphery of my vision. The woman’s waiting, though in some other sense, perhaps not just waiting for the door to open. I feel close to her. Close to a complete stranger of whom I know nothing yet but that she wears Boots and has Black Hair. Buzz. We step inside and I measure my pace to hers as we proceed to the lift. Attractive: time for us to share some more space, and the lift is on the top floor. Which means: a wait for it to come down to our level, which means: time for us to find our own levels together. Standing, half turned to each other: paused in the enforced tranquility of our waiting out the lift. There’s time for some almost-made glimpse, but in the careful incompleteness of our gestures, of our taking stock of each other, in the slowly connecting way of two strangers who already know they desire each other, we can sense our looks, gazes, timid smiles soon to be aligned. I look down, locking off my mind in the worn redness of the carpet. But I can sense her looking me, sense her face cast her desire over me. I’m looking at a fucking carpet and already she’s making me feel special. Well thank you, madam. Fucker. Lover. Friend. I’m pleased to repay the compliment, waiting for her to notice my face over hers, not caring to pull my face away when she looks up.

The lift is one of those which goes one floor at a time, you can’t press the buttons and have it remember where you all want it to go. So, in the place where I live, there’s a convention, a discreet social courtesy of asking where your lift-companion wants to get off. Just so you know which buttons to press. In this building, the lift is so small that it’s best for those leaving later to enter first, to avoid any tricky squeezing past in the tiny plastic laminate box. It’s with us two, finally. She fumbles the handle, twisting it too soon, and retwistingly opens the door. It’s time for my first words to her. I tell her where I want to get off; as I do, I’m aware of my weighting my words for maximum effect. It’s seduction, but all I’m saying is that I want to go my floor. A technical requirement with a lover’s entreaty hidden inside, such a delicious task. In ten words or less, too. You need to be on your toes for moments like this, and I am indeed so. It’s worked: she replies that she’s going further up: it’s her prerogative to enter the lift first, with her sexy voice and her smiling warm grasp of the meaning of my own simple declaration of intent. I feel her warmth. Yes, yes, the connection is surely there. The next time I meet her I really ought to say something like ‘I don’t care where you go, just take me with you and let me love you with my body where we get there’. Well, something briefer than that. Maybe I’ve already said it. I modestly lower my gaze - the lift is so small we’re nearly touching - but I do permit myself the modest indulgence of holding her alluring smile fully as I close the lift door behind me.

What have we shared? A minute, three glances and a couple of smiles: it’s already one of the world’s great almost-love affairs

Author’s wish list #1

2007-11-23T20:47:00.000+02:00

If I could just have the creative bit without the depressive overhead, that would be just dandy. Oh well, it’s the life you have, not the one you’d like to have, and it’s back to the grindstone/rubpebble/whatever; time to feed my appetite for creation.

F is for... blah

2007-11-16T09:18:00.000+02:00

Bugger. The mainstream discovery of the term rushes smoothly toward an irretrieveable banalisation. It’s this season’s Thing To Do. What did Quentin Crisp say? Fashion is for people who don’t know themselves. My word, sir, isn’t that just exactly right. Some while ago, I did wax lyrical on the prospect of a Ferragamo ballet boot, by which I meant that footwear for a Restricted Audience could still be animated by the best of Italian craftsmanship and the unbridled (oh, alright, stay tied up if that’s your kink) pleasure of a superbly crafted instep; that deep desire need be no enemy of superb quality. Which makes sense: if I want my love to feel as special as I know her to be, then only the best - as they say - is good enough.

Regarding their current campaign though, the author has two principal objections. Perhaps one is unoriginal: the complaint against the presumption that consumption is a form of radicalism. No it bloody isn’t. If you’re waiting for some stranger to tell you what you’re supposed to be wanting then you are most emphatically not at the cutting edge, neither of your nor of anyone else’s life. What annoys is the idea that there maybe people out there who seriously reckon themselves radical because they buy someone else’s object of desire. Why don’t you fucking wake up and admit to yourselves what you are: second-hand, spineless and compliant; so keen to wait to be told what you ought to want to desire. When sustaining a fetish is precisely the opposite: a journey - best shared with the desired Other One - into a special realm of delights, that no-one else can understand. Something uniquely yours, something that you just can’t put into production. Why don’t you wake up and free yourselves?

My other big problem is the imagery of the campaign itself: photography of the naked female body. Wow! Such a radical choice, none of us have seen a naked woman before, no? The photographic punchline is inevitably having the model wear High Heels. Well, fancy that. Recall: the company is question is one of Italy’s most famous labels. But is that all they now have to invent? Has the innovation and passion of the founder just bleached out to this self-apologetic vanilla? What a disappointment. The photograph makes no attempt to suggest a real human life, the body is just static, lifeless. Granted, there’s no way you could ever photograph the woman as she removes her strap-on, gazing at her lover with calm pleasure, retouching her scent with a dab from the bottle - and then expect the press to carry the ads. But surely you could suggest it and place this sadly inert body into the context of a real human life. And then give those nice people out there something truly radical to think about: that the rich things in life are right there inside you, just waiting to be discovered, if only you had the wits to look.

And now I’ve got that out of my system, my thoughts turn to a perfume that has that delicious smooth chocolatey aroma of fresh clean latex. I wonder where I could find something like that.

Lying down, watching up

2007-11-10T11:57:00.000+02:00

Inspired by Sannia

We’ve shared a quick smile before, in a slight dislivello as we acknowledged our pleasure in seeing each other again. The angle of affectionate engagement is different this time, however.

The smooth black flowingness of you, from floor to sweatshirt. Scanning in your shape to my desire. Hair, breasts, smile, a un-bird’s eye view of your details. Slowly watching the smoothness of your legs as they draw me up over the the sweeping darkness of your clothing to the hidden sweeping smooth purple darkness of your sex.

Your emphatically foreshortened allure.

In the semi-darkness, I’m sure she’s there; how pleasurably strange to exhibit my desire for something I cannot see. And I can see you changing too, small flickered shadows at the tips of your breasts. My hand reaching up to your leg, peaceful fingertips touching your leggings. Lightly to feel only the fabric, then presstasting you and the grace of your warmth. Fingers roll around your ankles, then calves, reaching round, palminggrasping you into my mind, then grasping you to come down closer to me, darling: I invite my lover to lower herself.

Requested and request granted, you slowly approach my face. As you near me, I pick up the sensations of your private life. First, the impersonal technical scents of your home: detergent and fabric conditioner, soon dissolving to bring me closer in to you. Then your perfume, rippling down off towards me (really, you scent your thighs too?) and with your knowing smile, shining as you see how I scent your body itself for the first time.

What do I find? Slight perspiration: the fascinating dignity of the way you discipline your body, wetness: your classically elegant desire. From bouquet to finish, my nose has just made love to you for the first time. My chest expands as I draw you into me, and my lover illuminates me with her loveliness, expanding into my mouth and belly as she searches out the spaces in me.

A modest proposal for a cultural initiative

2007-11-10T11:54:00.000+02:00

I’m looking to change careers, I'm no longer much convinced by the value of my talents in my current job. Recently, my therapist suggested that I seek to combine the things that move me the most and try to find a job that fits the description. So here it is: gastronomic mountainside orgies. Feeding, fucking and feeling the earth beneath you. The location would be well off the beaten track, let’s say, a two hour hike from the nearest road. This would have a number of advantages. Only those who truly love the mountain would come - maybe it’s snobby but the automobile has unquestionably done much to spread bad taste - and they’d all be fucking fit. The mountain retreat would allow us to make as much noise as we wanted, meaning human noise, not some lousy iPodded soundtrack. A weekend spent like this would be a recovery of what it means to be a human animal and would - wonderfully, gorgeously, lovingly - reconnect us with our mother earth. So, it’s a great idea from any number of perspectives. Now I have to get my thinking cap on to apply for the necessary EU funding. They happily hand out money to all sorts of stupid ideas, it’s about time they financed something intelligent.

Under instructions

2007-11-10T11:53:00.000+02:00

‘Stop it.’

‘What?’

‘I told you, stop it.’

‘Stop what, love?’

‘Stop biting mummy.’

Fine. But how do you explain to a five year old that mummy actually likes to be bitten?

Also: the time our she joyfully draped herself over my back as I was still inside her mother, calling out, ‘Hey! Now we have a family sandwich’. She was so quick into the bedroom, I hadn’t had time to move. We’ve since refined things so that her parents don’t actually have to be making love when we play the game. I can’t tell you how much more convenient it is to do it that way.

The week that’s past

2007-11-10T11:52:00.000+02:00

With my eyes closed and my heart open
My body at peace as I erectly wait for you to be with me
I wait for you to find me out
And discover the love for you
That hides beneath the despair I feel for myself

New! Fetish Yoga. It’s good for you

2007-11-02T18:56:00.000+02:00

New! Fetish Yoga. It’s good for you

One of the exercises our teacher took us though today: stand up, then bend over to touch the mat with the hands while standing on tiptoe, flexing the thorax towards the thighs. It’s one of those positions that makes every muscle in your legs light up like a funfair: painful but very pleasurable too. Your really get a measure of what the yoga is doing for you. And the discomfort is its own reward.

The exercise starts with you leaning forwards with your arms out front and legs stretched out down behind. But it was the next step that caught my imagination: walk on tiptoe, until your feet ended up between your hands, almost folding yourself in two.

I watched the teacher’s feet held upright as she showed what we were to do. As she tiptoed towards her own hands in this fabulously unnatural way, her legs so marvellously vertical, I saw her in rubber showing off the Correct Technique While Wearing Ballet Heels. Inspired by her example, we set to assuming the position ourselves.

Now that’s a course to join: Fetish Yoga. Sign me up today, please.

By the way, the gorgeous white-haired goddess wasn’t there today, sigh.

Untitled

2007-11-02T18:53:00.000+02:00

A first draft...

God, you’re pushed over hard in front of me. All the layers of you that I’ve seen today, from your grace to your driving insistence to have me inside. I’m pleased to oblige ma’am. Only if you insist. And how you insist, woman.

What is it that I like best about being inside you like this? Must be the cold-floor-tile warm-clenchy-cunty thing. Feels like I’m attached to the world in just three places. Two feet and you. Two feet and your pussycuntlickablefuckhole. Sorry, forget I wrote that. Two braced legs and your warm smotheringly fuckiness. Yes, that sounds about it. As for the sounds you’re making, shall we say they’re more of a coursing cursing, delighting obscenity sort of moment. The time when you throw off your grace and a million years of evolution takes control of your mind.

Watching your legs flexing against mine, I recall how they looked in your boots and the pattered tights that called my attention to them. You must have noticed how I mused on the contrast between the crumpled brown leather and the smooth lickable you-ness. Well of course you did, naturally you did. Else why did you touch my hand and smile the smile which means just one thing: I Want You, Too.

And now I’m here with my hands kneading your shoulders as you reach down to my balls.

The sight of you stepping back and forth in your heels. Totteringly desireable. Wanting to bring you balance, wanting to feel your poise as I glide into you. Poise me. Piss me too, if that’s your pleasure. I’m all yours.

My arse sweeping back into the space behind me, as you drag me left and right with your woman’s drifting around me. I feel every muscle in my back easing me as far away as I dare, to sample your constriction around my erection. Clutch me darling. Reach out to me as I reach inside you.

Then my climax dragging me wildly into you, pulling you down onto me as I sink to kneeling under you. I feel your wetness shyling weeping out over my body. Our bodies blossom out against each other, as do our hearts.

A tip of my black fedora to...

2007-10-27T15:48:00.000+02:00

A woman at this week’s yoga who didn’t catch my eye as rather pluck it clean out of the socket. Easily in her sixties, with long white hair and a great figure: just terrifically, unbelieveably, attractive. We have absolutely no choice about growing old, but we can choose to do it well. And when one finds oneself in the presence of such a talent as this, what can you do but admire it? Tanto di cappello, signora. Davvero.

Fetish furniture that’s worth having

2007-10-27T15:30:00.000+02:00

Odd, it’s only just occurred to me, that the appeal of the Poltrona Frau Regina sofa is in its marvellously fetishistic design. I mean, take a look at the holes in the back, there’s space there to pass through quite a lot of rope, no? Enough space to tie down quite a lot of imagination for quite a lot of time. Imagine having your Slave tie your ankles behind the wings, with your torso roped so hard inside it’s hard to breath. Exactly, just what I was thinking: wouldn’t it be luvverly... Of course, it’s upholstered in leather. Rubber ought to be optional, but most likely isn’t. Still, the dedicated rubberist ought to have no scruples in asking, there’s no harm in asking is there? By the way, regina is the Italian for queen. Someone’s private joke, perhaps?

Bar lick

2007-10-23T09:46:00.000+02:00

A fantasy I have long nurtured...

I’m with my love in a bar near home. Just after dropping our daughter off at nursery school, the place is crowded with mothers. Including me, there are just three other men in the bar, so crowded that you have to step carefully around the people just to get to the counter. There’s scarcely the space to raise an elbow. We queue, for cappuccini and brioches and I start to eat mine.

The thing with the brioche is that while you know it’s filled with custard, you don’t know quite where the filling happens to be in the one you’re eating.

I’m about a third of the way into it when a smooth yellow plume of custard gouts out onto my face. I can feel the cool filling on my chin and sense it slowly folding down, ready to land on my lapel. My reaction is to tilt my head far back to stop the custard falling off my face, for a sweet moment I recall doing the same thing an hour before, chuckling with delight as my love rode me to her early morning orgasm. My, the thoughts we have shared in the past. So it happens, there is a thought that we are sharing Right Now.

She reaches up to my face, brushing her fingers over my eyes to close them in one of her favourite gestures: depriving me of my sight so that I may more deeply feel her touch. I yield, smiling like a fool as I guess what she has in mind: she’s going to lick me clean in front of all these nice people. She pulls her hand away and I stand motionless, waiting for her next move, feeling her shine her sexiness on me. People around us have already started to notice something strange about us. Good.

My mind wanders off to the times when I've licked my semen off her face, when I’ve gathered it in to my mouth and shared it with her. When I’ve sucked it hard off her arse. When I’ve made sure she had no choice but to swallow it whole, the times when I’ve wiped it off her with a finger or spread it over her with the loving sweep of my hand. And now we have Custard As Metaphor and the tables are turned on me. My word, I do love her so.

Coming soon. What’s been going on here?

2007-10-22T09:41:00.001+02:00

‘You’re looking sparky. I'd never have thought that a simple visit to the bathroom could perk someone up like that.’

Quite, just that it wasn’t such a simple visit, was it? Anyhow, fuckwit you could never think that. That, and quite a lot else, to be honest, in your nice smart chinos and button-down shirt, bugger you. And how much I'd like to be around to see that happen.

Finally out of there. Dizzy with self-pleasure and boredom, but happy to know a couple of things more about her life. Pulling out her mobile, texting her boyfriend ‘Darling, I know now why I love so much about you. Be with me tonight so I can tell you in person?'

Notes for the Post-It Tango

2007-10-11T15:10:00.000+02:00

In the summer I had written on the erotic potential of office supplies. I apologise to anyone who’s been holding their breath in the meantime.

Of course, a tango...

Ah, taking one's time, such a treat. Let's face it, you’re both worth it and just jumping into bed like a pair of crazed raccoons is boring, anyway. Here follow some suggestions for joining up the dots in your minds, before you join up the ones in your bodies.

The tango. Not just a dance for a couple of people but a dance for a couple. She can drive him as much as he can drive her, but for it to work, the dancers need to know each other. So we have a couple, a block of notes and the play of their imaginations. Your lover writes out the message - perhaps only a single word - and reaches out to place it on you. Think of the delight of the weight of their fingers as they press onto you, gliding over you to leave their notes.

What are the varieties of Post-Its? Well, colour and size: the bigger the note, the greater the space for the heavy marker pen, the more emphatic the message? Small notes are by comparison whispered hints. What does repositioning mean? ‘You don‘t know me well enough, here is where you should have put it.’ ‘You’re being too timid, I want to feel you closer.’ Consider the significance of location: kiss me here/pay attention to this part of me. It’s a brilliantly simple idea. The following are some modest suggestions as to how you might take the idea for a long walk in the woods...

Exchange
Passing the same note back and forward, if the note is big enough, annotating it as you go. Each passsage of the note is accompanied by... kisses, caresses, licks and nips.

Palimpsest
The body’s own messages gradually superimposed by words. Spaces reused, time and again, gradually accumulating a meaning richer beyond the single messages that they once hosted. Writing on each other, tracing round the note before peeling it off again and passing it back?

Seduction shortcut
You write what you want your lover to do, and fix the note to yourself where you want it done. Simple.

Storytelling
Sentences and idea are attached at random. Once you’re quite covered with the notes, your take turns to read the story off each other. Perhaps a well-organised orgy could feature a couple of models who wander among the guests, inviting each to leave their own message. Each participant has their own colour of note, the messages on the notes themselves are enriched by the knowledge of who left them.

Retro-BDSM
Partcipants are pierced with rings, all over their bodies. Instead of sticking self-adhesive notes, they take turns to tie those classic reinforced cardboard luggage labels onto each other. Of course, the messages themselves are written with a fountain pen. Bodies are gradually clothed by a hand-tied suit of card; think of the growing teasing sensations as the notes gradually accumulate with every movement matched to a note, slyly pulling at your skin.

Wedding anniversary
A couple celebrate their wedding anniversary with a tando Each shaved smooth, they tango.... at the end, they’re photographed, festooned by the notes: an anniversary double portrait.

Well, that's the ideas that have occurred to far; new idea swill appear as and when they suggest themselves.

Red. Came. Finally.

2007-09-29T11:51:00.000+02:00

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

2007-09-28T09:32:00.000+02:00

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

2007-09-27T10:46:00.000+02:00

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

2007-09-22T19:53:00.000+02:00

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

2007-09-20T11:11:00.000+02:00

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

2007-09-18T09:24:00.000+02:00

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

2007-09-10T18:54:00.000+02:00

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

2007-09-07T09:31:00.000+02:00

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

2007-09-04T17:16:00.000+03:00

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

2007-09-04T10:10:00.000+03:00

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.

Time for some rest and recuperation

2007-08-04T10:22:00.000+03:00

I’m headed for my mountain retreat for the next three weeks; I'll be posting just as soon as I come back towards the end of the month. See you then...

Summer, with the utter joy of multiple, deep, intense orgasms

2007-08-04T10:20:00.000+03:00

A virgin ice in His hand. Slave’s eyes glued to His as she watches it near the clamp. Slight pressure, slide off, making pink flow into white. The fresh white-frosted ice laid onto her nipple: cold enough to stick and pull her teat up, roll it around awhile. Slave registers her pleasure in a ripple of clutched gasps and a rhythmic flexing of her thighs, as her teat is sucked upwards by the cool command of the coloured melting fuck toy. Simple arousal is now rushing away, carrying her to towards her climax. She’ll need Master’s permission for that, of course. Time to put the clamp back on now. Time to clamp her up well for her moment.

Master’s fingers sliding down her torso, down to her clit. Slave whimpers as His warm soooth pressure splays the flesh either side of her lovely bud. Her head rising and falling, she wants to see but wants to release her everything too and let her pleasure wash over her; slave really can’t decide how to use her body. Lucky slave to be in this dilemma, lucky master to have the privilege of creating it for her.

The ice goes down flat onto her marble and she starts to buck with the effort of containing her climax, asking, begging, imploring Him for His permission to come.

‘Not yet, love. Just be patient a little while longer.’

Master carefully drags the ice downwards as His slave savours the moment’s downwardly rolling centre of gravity. Breasts to clitoris to vagina, teats to bud to pussy. Slave can feel her teats urging her on, her whole body readying itself as her attention winds closer and closer around her loins.

There’s a smear of wetness under her pussy, testament to the delight she’s been feeling and Master can savour its perfume now, so close is he. The patient pink bloat of her lips and the patient pink melt of the ice must meet very, very soon now.

‘Remember Slave, only when I say.’

’Yes, Master.’

A last look from Him and she lays her heart back in the rich joy of her love for him, so happy to be controlled by Him, He who knows just what to do for her. Which is, shove ice, push coolly deeply inside and twitch, twitch with cumming-not tightness. Slave has to work hard to keep her pussy relaxed, waiting for the moment as she mind scrabbles to comprehend the gorgeous fat coldness of the diameters waiting inside her.

‘Master, Mast..., Master, I beg you‘

Master needs to check all is well, he doesn’t rush to reply as He takes His time to enjoy His part in her climax waiting for their minds to completely enter each other. That cool stare of His again, a coolness of wanting to stand time still and expand this moment out into the dark limits of forever.

‘Very good. You have my permission to come.’

Slave’s consciousness blurs over as her mind and body start to break out in orgasm. Breath sweeping out as her delight rushes over her, as her muscles pull her sticky body over the crackling plastic under her. Nipples harden under the clamps, two pinched points of discomfort counterpoint the expanding smooth pleasure that rolls up from between her legs. Bursts of joy light up her mind as her pussy lights up her body with the deeply urgent rolling joy only Master knows how to bring her. Contemplating the sprawling, mewling, crying woman in front of Him, Master reflects how rewarding it is to be with a woman who knows exactly when to come, His Slave with her inner knowledge of us. She knows that her place suits her so very, very well.

She’s riding her orgasm into the pure blue summer sky.

This story, as mentioned yesterday, was suggested by a friend, who graciously consented to its being rewritten here. There are so many other fantasies I'd love to write about. I'm very suggestible in that respect...

Golly gosh

2007-08-03T18:29:00.000+03:00

I notice that Belle has finally split with her boyfriend. Looks like we’re getting to the point where among the personals we may soon expect to see something along the lines of “f, 30s, n/s, solvent, with Tendency to Blog Vengefully, wltm...”

Do you believe it is different with every couple?

2007-08-03T16:24:00.000+03:00

Well, of course it is, is the short answer to that question. And if, dear Anonymous, that appears insufficient reward for your protracted wait for my reply, then I can only agree with you. I’ve been mulling over a reply to your question for all this time, quite clueless as to how to answer. I am no relationships guru and I’m not keen to pontificate on subjects where my inexpertise would be apparent from the first sentence, so this evasive reponse will have to do for both us. The Summer stories were suggested by a friend and I leapt at the chance to get inside the mood of the moment to explore the emotions that the participants could feel where their carefully ritualised encounter of pain and pleasure was the perfect way for them to express their love for each other. So much of us is shared already, language and culture, for example and there are again many pressures on us to conform and be predictable. What fascinated me about the encounter was precisely its strangeness: that two lovers could find the intimacy they sought only by means of a language of affection that the outside world could never grasp. A wonderfully admirable celebration both of themselves as individuals and their relationship. What could I want to do but write into the rich sensual detail of that encounter?

An article about Michelangelo Antonioni talks of his interest in the gaps between people. Of course, what a fascinating way to put it. The gaps. The gaps between us and how we manage to fill them. Nipple clamps and ice cream is just one way, what others might there be?

Maria Teresa

2007-07-29T09:57:00.001+03:00

Out for dinner in Canareggio with my wife, a friend and an old friend of hers, Maria Teresa. Maria Teresa was waiting for us at the restaurant* when we arrived; this being Venice, a fish restaurant.

At the time she was eighty, alert with an unbending desire to live that I could only admire. Vigorous both in speech and gesture, she was living her life right up to the very last day. Other details have faded from view, but I recall her in a red skirt cut at the knee, black tights and black pumps. A woman, sure of her looks, seeing no reason in her age to conceal her assets, yet dressed with a precise diginity: she looked terrific. She was ageing very, very well indeed. She had a talent for life itself.

We started with calamari, sarde in saor and scampi. If I remember correctly, we drank prosecco and the four of us chatted pleasurably. Maria Teresa lit up however, the moment I laid my fork on my scampi.

’No, no, use your fingers’

Maria Teresa being Neapolitan, this injunction was accompanied by a battery of hand gestures - the Italians are famously unconvinced of the merits of purely verbal communcation - and multiple repetitions of the instruction ’Your fingers, your fingers...’ What could I do? I laid down the cutlery and set to work with my mouth.

Of course, on a purely practical level, cutlery is unsuited to shellfish and it is just easier to work your mouth over shell and meat, sucking off juices and olive oil as you go. Without the distraction of having to handle the cutlery, you can just concentrate on the simple sensual pleasure of the food, we all know how rich and subtle the mouth can be when we use it well. In comparison knife and fork offer very poor sport.

As I ate, Maria Teresa offered encouragements, evidently pleased that I had taken her advice and she expressed her satisfaction by expounding on her theory of sex and food: that you fuck (her word) like you eat, that you can tell if someone’s any good in bed by watching them at table.

She started talking about when she was younger and that when she was attracted to a man, the first thing she would do would be to take him out to eat. To see how he performed at table, to observe what relationship he had with his sensual nature, to understand what kind of animal he was. Only having passed this audition would she consider taking him to bed. In fact on one occasion she had her eye on a man but called it off after having seen his poor performance in the restaurant. As she told this story, her voice shaded with irritation and contempt at the memory of the man who had disappointed her: no amount of physical beauty could ever compensate a man if he didn’t have the goods in this department.

Of course, she was perfectly right. To be able love someone with your body is not remotely connected to appearance and it begins with your own relationship to yourself; to turn a head is only a start. I admired her unwillingness to waste a night with an inadequate lover and her acumen in knowing how to discern the good ones from the bad ones. I had to admire too the style of the lecture itself. Driven by the need to impart this essential information she cared not who heard her. The couple next to our table with their nine year old daughter kept giving us nervous glances, though I am sure that that young woman would have a much better chance of a fulfilling life by listening to Maria Teresa’s advice than by torturing her body to make it resemble Paris Hilton.

We finished our meal and stood up to go home. Maria Teresa helped me with my overcoat and as her hand glided down to the small of my back, I did wonder how things might have turned out had we met a while before.

*Paradiso Perduto, Canareggio 2540, 30121 Venezia. Tel. 041.720581

Pavement, glances and Initiatory Audacity

2007-07-25T11:49:00.000+03:00

It’s impossible to know in advance how she would have reacted when I was just a couple of seconds with her. Well, not with her, really. In proximity: what we shared was something purely technical, something you’d only need a ruler to understand, absolutely nothing else. Certainly, the fantasy of the zipless fuck remains very attractive, much less so the twisting of a face into irritation. So how do you dare to search for an emotional dimension in a simple case of being-nearness like this? Perhaps my biggest fear would not be that of being to told to go to hell but rather having to accept that for someone I had become Just Another Invasive Creep.

Pavement and glances

2007-07-21T16:15:00.000+03:00

Have you ever had the sensation that by looking at someone, you’ve made them turn to look at you or felt yourself drawn to glance at someone who is staring right at you?

Stepping out of the shop a few paces ahead of me. Tall, graceful in a khaki dress swirling around her that’s too summery to hide her thong (did she wear a black one deliberately?) and a suggested strokableness, a bottom-for-cerebration-celebration, no less. She had my attention and my gaze I kept on her as I closed the distance between us, pacing fast up to her heat-savvy lope: our coincidental proximity. Not coincidentally watching her bottom and the thong curving over it, though. We were alone together on the pavement, no-one else near us and any sound my plimsolls made was easily concealed by the traffic. How could she have known when to turn her head as she did, what did her turning slowness mean? Turn fast is check-for-thief, right? Her turn-slow, holding her face in my direction; could she feel my attention sweeping over her, did she cue a smile from me? Why did she hold her head turned like that as I passed by her?

For an instant, I imagined a bubble of intimacy flow up around us as I gathered in her beauty. An opening of a new branch to my life, as her lover? as her husband? I paced ahead anyway.

Summer, with delight

2007-07-16T10:52:00.001+03:00

A consciousness pulled out of shape as its attention skitters from pussy to teat and back. Her body had turned the sex organ she always hoped for...

Raising my head, with difficulty. Will my presumption in watching Master spoil the moment? My field of vision grasps in a teat, my teat. My own suckable parts, clamped with Master's metal. Clutch at His gaze, follow it down to His fingertips. Tugtug, teatpinkpurple pulling white and red, sucky bit reddy bit. Teeth grip. GRIP. GRIP AND PULL. Oh my darling Master, you're pulling me out of shape, discovering me in the shapes you want me to take.

Sweet liberation. And a smile flows out of her face as teat trips free of Master's metal, slut's delight in the moment inching her closer to her prize. Her nipple, proud of its hardness, reaching up to the ice, patiently eyeing the cool stickiness that her Master is so careful to lay onto His slave.

Drip-pinkywhite froth, Master's cool collation tipping her closer and closer to where HIs slut wants to go. Slut flexes, slit juices. Master artist, painting His slave with the colours of her self, painting her with melt, releasing clamps to juice her up, then on again. Ice-clamp-ice-clamp. Teat free, teat unfree. Tight pain, smooth release. Flat slithering froth, commanding strokes of ice colouring in her by numbers; pushing ice down, sticky nipple, drawn off centre. Slut smiles, pleads to be told to disobey her clinging come wish.

A cool stare, sweeping in the beautiful abundance of her, but quietly:

‘No, slut. Not yet’

A cool, slow, glance is sufficient for her to control herself? Yes. Smooth belly shivering shadows of muscle, iced navel overflowing with colours, a warm pee-dribble rolling round off her belly and onto the pvc. She’s so meek, so disciplined, so worshipping, so worthy of worship herself. Slapbelly, sticky cunty hairs stand up. Mound smooth trimmed, smooth foam flavoured and teased to attention. Cunt smell too, for Master to scent attention-seeking pussy. Slap hard, stick close, marble cool hood tasty flavours. Of cunt lolly? Yes, now.

My rolling thighs, my widening legs, feeling me open for Him, knowing where next He’ll be. All of me between me to wait for Him. My teats calling me away from my cunt, I don’t know where to think next. My pussy perfume to meet the flavour of the ice? My adored darling Master, fuck me.

Hotlycooling cuntly me. Twitch and buck, juice to fuck. Colours of my day, colours drooling over me. Colours in my head and heart, twist me inside out as I scrabble my soul towards my Master’s joy.

Calm. Draw breath, drawing her in, icepussy perfume in my nose as I spread her over her treat, lips splayed wide and stuck open in their glossy sugar bloatedness. Fucking plump and fucking gorgeous. Such a delicious mess, I think I'll have to insist on cleaning her up myself.

‘Slut, why don't you taste yourself, you’re scenting well today.’

The blunted tip of the ice just in contact, I pull it over her nose, across her mouth. Slut’s tongue flips out to savour it.

‘No, take more. You’re especially good today, believe me.’

Oh, but I do so love to force things into her. Clamp her tight and go down into her mouth. Sweeping the ice round her face: sweat, fruit and juices. What kind of flavour is that? The sorry remains of the ice break off around the stick, flaccid with their efforts - how I sympathise! - falling onto her face, rolling onto the bed as she wipes her cheeks over them. Slut’s so special, a woman who thinks with her skin. Remarkable. She deserves all the pleasure I can bring her. For that though, we need to change gear. Smiling at her, I reach for my spare.

Scherzo. Allegro molto

2007-07-15T20:10:00.000+03:00

Franz Schubert String Quartet n. 14 D.810 Death and the Maiden
Third movement: Scherzo. Allegro molto

So different from Bach’s algorithmic complexity. Here, the music surges and plunges: the guiding principle appears not to be mathematic but hormonal. The movement starts with a compelling sense of dramatic impatience which, alternating with a weightless free-falling drama, suggests two lovers meeting after long separation and who begin to breathlessly hunt down their climax together. Close your eyes and you really can imagine them in front of you, fucking the daylights out of each other. The middle section of the movement is quieter, slower: a pause, our protagonists caressing each other, quietly sharing their happiness in being together again, but their appetites are not yet satisfied and they return to their duties with an orgasmic plunge over the edge of the cliff, falling through the air, all judgement and reason blown away by the gorgeous animal force of their desire.

The erotic potential of office supplies

2007-07-06T11:00:00.000+03:00

Suggested by events Elsewhere.

Fine, I don't suppose the subject is revolutionary either. So there. But giving it some thought, certain ideas emerge. Consider: two people attracted to one another, accompanied by a box of Post-It notes and a Mont Blanc.*

The Post-It belongs to that bleary milieu of the office: disturbance, disatisfaction, the smell and noise of the photocopier, the smell and noise of the boss. Whatever, the key thing here is to remember where the Post-It comes from. Now consider where it might go. Are you with me?

What's always interested me about fetish is the way in which we voluntarily delegate to an object an unmatched power to arouse us. There's nothing in the article itself, save its ability to compel us to obssess over it. We hand ourselves over to its power and achieve delight as we celebrate our weakness. I'm not criticising the idea; regular readers will have already noticed how often shoes appear in the blog. I don’t think anyone’s worth taking to bed who doesn’t have at least one fetish; what’s the human imagination for, otherwise?

In erotica, of course, there are the standard fetish items: BDSM, leather, rubber, stockings, shoes (yes, please), food, pee etc, etc.† I'm sure you already know pretty much what they are. What's fascinating is how one might expand the arena of fetish, so to speak, to find new articles with which one and one's intended may achieve new pleasures: what could be more amusing than to take such a sexless article as a Post-It note and invest it with new life?

So here goes: following shortly on the blog will be a series of observations about how our lovers might amuse themselves, both privately and in the company of friends. With the creative assistance of office supplies. Yet it may sound unlikely, but consider it possible to get an orgy off to a cracking start with a box of Post-It notes and a fountain pen.

* Sorry Lamy, your brand of Heidelberg enema clinic modernism just won't do here.

† Be sure to let me know if I've left out your favourite, I don't want anyone to feel neglected. But no, I don't write about scat.

Red. Cockshoe. Shoecunt.

2007-07-05T10:48:00.000+03:00

Dropping her foot down, amused to see his erection finally so hard as to be self-supporting. He does indeed look good. But should she fuck him afterwards? She still can’t quite decide.

Then turning her foot onto him, steadily pressing him back against the wall, flattening him out underneath as she goes. Shoving him harder and harder back and relaxing the pressure to course him up on a cock-gathering shoe ride. Examining his pain threshold, checking also to see if he has the required degree of self control. To come only now would only spoil all the good work he’s put in so far. And he’s doing well: hard enough to use as a hat stand and yet so cool with it. Very good; a worthy guest in her house.

Then dipping the toe under his balls (they’re so teabaggable, really!) to massage him underneath. Shame she can’t feel all the shapes he has down there; for the moment she has to content herself with the knowledge that he’s feeling all the welt she has to give.

Rubbing him slowly, feeling the crevice his ass and tucking the shoe in tight to drag it forward. Balls sweat-dragging against her toes. Hairs reaching out to her footwear. Balls splaying outwards as he’s pleased to show off his discomfort.

“The next time I’ll have a pair of shoes so pointed I’ll be able to massage your prostate”
“You’re on, can I choose the colour?”
“Of course not”

Twisting to the side: welt now on rim. Picking up his flesh, scrotum folding over the edge of the shoe. Balls on leather feeling so good the wrinkles stretch out and collapse. Ripple, flip, tuck and squash.

He’s completely still. She watches him. Is he passive now? Has he run out of ideas? Does he really want her to take control? She’s starting to enjoy the power she has over him. Smooth perfect red reflection of the leather perfectly bastes him in her power. Strange, she just bought the shoes on impulse, not really giving any thought to it. When the sales assistant asked her what she was planning to wear with them, she didn’t really have an answer. Oh yes, please let me have the courage to go back and tell them that’s I’ve discovered the reason why I got them...

Pulling the shoes over his rim and ridges, the leathered edge rubbing him glossy. He’s so inspired for colour and texture: fat red gloss. Out here in the open; no disguise, no excuse sought by either of them as the propel each other on. Rubbingrim redglossyfuck-ridges of his cock, of her shoe, of their shared wildness.

Cockshoe, shoecunt. Footwear, fuck-where. Come where?

Window shopping, and then some

2007-07-03T17:52:00.000+03:00

Not far from where I live in Milan is a shoeshop. Well, that’s hardly unique but what is is the range of the footwear they have. They don't sell fetish footwear, but they do have a windowful of sex objects that you can take out into the light of day. Really, erotica for your feet. For the variety of material, finish, idiosyncrasy, curvature, poise and sheer obssessive delight, there’s nothing like it in the city. Perhaps one might write some stories around what they have in the window?

Adagio

2007-07-01T20:50:00.000+03:00

JS Bach, Brandenburg Concerto No.1 in F major, BWV 1046
Second movement: adagio

In Italian, adagio means ‘slowly’ or ‘with care’, words which bring to mind an image.

Of two new lovers, out walking after a day's lovemaking. They seem not have been together for long, perhaps only hours, the sweet delicacy of their love is apparent in the attention they pay each other, in the way they hold hands. We see them in the English countryside in midwinter, perhaps around three in the afternoon as the light begins to fade. The fertility of the landscape will remain hidden until the spring but for now we can see two people together, strangers this time yesterday but now adored lovers, sharing a secret no-one else can guess. They walk slowly together in the cold, surprised to have found each other and warm in the knowledge that they will be together again as the approaching evening casts it mantle of desire upon them.

To a tongue, someplace

2007-06-30T17:46:00.000+03:00

Your mouth is a smooth as butter on my anus as I arch my back to receive you. We're growing together, my dear.

Musing

2007-06-27T16:36:00.000+03:00

As we stroked each other for our first time, you told me you fantasised about having a penis. Why don't you strap one on and show me how well you know how to use it? As much as your body, I do so want to feel your mind inside me.

Towards a language of orgasm

2007-06-24T19:59:00.000+03:00

How do you describe this most un-selfconscious of moments, when the desperate climb to the summit is rewarded by that welling rush,wiping away the world as it flourishes itself over you? How can we remove words from the conscious and place them directly inside the soul of the moment? That's quite a challenge, I'll have to do some research...

Nursing

2007-06-24T19:56:00.000+03:00

She was always slow to orgasm, except when I nursed her breasts. I had the impression that as soon as my tongue glided around her areolae, every bulb in her head lit up at the same time. She could be lying drowsily in the first breaths of the morning but all that would be left behind the instant she felt me near them.

She wasn't into s&m, but she did love to have some light tooth pressure on her nipples; it was a task to get the pressure right: for her to feel my teeth but not so much as to cause her excessive discomfort. At first, she'd lie almost still and it would be a simple matter to position my face and then my mouth and then my teeth on her teats. Gently holding the nipple between my canines by way of welcome then slowly dragging my face from side to side, letting the sharp edges of my teeth lovingly threaten her flesh. She adored it.

The thing was that, as she became increasingly aroused, and she exchanged the persona by which the world knew her for that of a driving, mewling-greedy fucker, it became ever harder to keep her between my teeth. She'd start to writhe and flex, jerking sharply, then dislodging me as she hammered on my back with her fists, I'd find I was biting too much. She'd drag by face off her and hold it hard front of hers to admonish me for my enthusiasm and imprecision.

Thus, just keeping her teats in my mouth became quite a challenge all by itself. So much so, that the first time I truly desired to tie her up was inspired as much by the plain technical business of keeping her still as by the odd pleasure in controlling her use of her body. The prospect of drawing her along to a [cascade] of orgasms was an incentive but I adored too the idea of someone physically immobile about to take a long journey that would move her body not at all but take her clean out of her mind.

Her body moving increasingly in spasms as her capacity for coherent speech diminished, I had to attend to her more fully with my mouth, by sucking her breasts deep inside. Lips to seal off the air, tongue free to wipe the nipple itself, my mouth defining the ring, my tongue the circus-master. She loved the way I'd trap a teat between the back of my teeth and my tongue, and then suck it up, folding it tightly behind my teeth. Alternatively, I'd pull my lips down over my teeth and clench tightly, thence to slowly pull away. Unfailingly, she'd cry out in pleasure as the nipple spring free from my mouth. How I enjoyed the change in texture between the breast, the side of the nipple and finally the crown itself; an astonishing galaxy of delights scarcely one inch wide.

She loved randomness. I've read that one approach is to trace out all the letters of the alphabet with the tongue: continuous movement whose lack of repetition ensures continuous stimulation but I confess, I always got bored by the time I'd reached b. Isn't one of the joys of lovemaking the way we refind ourselves as animals? With her breast in my mouth and legs around my back, the last thing I wanted was a primary school exercise. How much more satisfying to flick my tongue over her nipple: working it randomly from side to side, catching it on the side and folding it over as I dragged my tongue over, varying the strokes for weight and direction.

I still had to pay attention but with my body, not my mind. The central delight for me, other than that of witnessing her arousal, was to gradually let go of the intellect and let my body speak for itself. I noticed that I would lick her more and more deeply the longer I had her in mouth: I was letting my mouth itself do the thinking, giving it its head to race away alone, undistracted by reason and calculation. My lips would close and open, my tongue pull back to flicker over her lightly then push itself down to suckle. It appeared to happen outside of my control, all my existence appearing to serve only the ultimate ambition of keeping my mouth on her. On keeping her on her path to her next climax.

Summer, with melting

2007-06-19T11:04:00.000+03:00

Of course, it's great fun to buy sex toys. You browse, checking out colours, shapes and, well of course, sizes, wondering what will do nicely, and it's great to see that your idea of the perfect present turns out to be just that and to witness your partner's pleasure as they enjoy the gift. Lovely.

But that's just for the sex toys that are advertised as such. How much more satisfying to take something and give it a meaning that no-one else in the whole world could ever guess and take it to a private place of shared delights, a language of trust whose syntax is known only to two. And just think of the fun of standing in the checkout queue with a box of ice lollies, smiling like a Cheshire cat at the cashier. How big is the market for fetish freezer bags, anyway?

So here we are, the slut's to get her treat, a rippling cascade of melting coloured diameters.

Starting with some dilation, a vaguely obscene opening gesture: holding the ice to his mouth, inflating the wrapper with his mouth so it slips off easily, a contraceptive in reverse. Their attention held by the wrapper as it slowly pulls off the sticky ice: how it will stick to her?

Now leaning over her, carefully wiping the tip of the ice over her nose, dragging it round her mouth, noticing her reaction to flick it with her tongue, a gesture from deep behind her sex. Now laying it flat on her, letting her heat bleed out onto the yielding coldness, the ice's arousal appearing as a slow froth of sticky colour, a patient cumshot of liquid sugar rolling over the edge of her jaw. Glossy now with its desire for her, melting colour pushing her mouth apart as she joins its juices with her own saliva, pushing the white-pink bubbles out of the mouth to bathe her chin in an outpouring of desire and fluid.

He's picking up the rhythm, dancing-dabbling the ice on her belly, pushing it hard down into her navel, splling the melt over her, drawing it off her on the bed, her loving Him as he sticks her ever more in place. Then swirling the ice between her breasts, drawing the contours of her bondage bra on her: around and around, but not yet, over her teats.

So, where to next with the treat? Their thoughts both turn to what's left of her to tease...

Belly, ribs, spiral, colourclimbing coloursweatslick, closer and closer to metal and teat. A calmly stern smile for him as her prepares her for the next stage. Tears in her eyes, of deep happiness. Her pleasure? To be so constrained by her Master yet to release herself only for him. His pleasure? To own a slave who will let him come close to her, and let her whisper in his heart the secrets of her desire. What a delightful site she is, a rainbow goddess whose slowly flexing muscles draw him on. Spiral higher, spiral closer and closer.

A pause, so she can anticipate; eyes watching the ice draw near to the pinched red nipple. Contact.

"Master"
"Yes?"
"I love you"
"And I love you. Your submissive power to command me is my greatest happiness."

Pushing herself upwards to spread herself against the treat, Master flicking it away, then drawing it down, only permitting his slave the briefest of delights. A dance of flex, touch and stickiness. Does the kama sutra deal with the joys of adhesion? It really ought to. She's revealing herself so completely, her skin longer a covering of her body but the deepest expression of her sexuality. The world beyound them scarcely exists any more, she's all peeled back for Him, the one she can trust, here with her for her joy.

Metal rustles as he picks up the slack in the chain, slowly pulling it taut. She smiles sweetly at him, there's nothing they need to say to each other now. He begins by draping the chain with the cool drooling treat, small gobs of ice now breaking off, and slowly lets the chain slacken against her breast, cool metal relaxing against her, pulled round to surround her teat.

With care, placing the ice above her nipple, as he reaches to remove the clamp.

Red. Rubbed. Excited.

2007-06-05T14:42:00.000+03:00

No reply from him, save the sound of zipper and the rustle of his clothing. Gracefully drawing your full righteous hardness out of a pair of trousers isn't the the easiest thing to do, but he manages it. Ah, the pleasure of watching something done properly; the pleasure of watching a man who knows how to handle himself. Very good.

His cock presented to her, so insolent and unabashed, he coolly scoops his balls out, their flesh dragging tightly over his fly, pulling them out and down, hairs snagging on the zipper. Such a delicious moment: there for her, close, touchable and hard with the sight of her; her interest showing as two points of shadow on her shirt. Uncut, glossy head and veins pumped out in relief: she notices that the trouser fly is working like a cock ring, his erection pointing straight at her, the teeth of zip pressing against his flesh. Dark veins skeetering over his smooth balls parked so shamelessly outside. To think: they’ll soon empty themselves over my footwear. I must be mad to be doing this.

Such a handsome erection, close enough to touch. With her hands? Well that's just too obvious. Better: raise her leg and take the challenge to him. Didn't he say he wanted to fuck my shoes? Of course he did. Fixing his gaze as she pulls up the trouser, his eyes flickering down to her ankle. Just as he thought, she's not wearing nylons.

Now he's watching passively as she lifts her leg to him, the trouser pulling slowly over her thigh, her shape slowly appearing as she lifts her ankle, thigh muscles holding out her provocation to enjoy the play of his hardness and his balls as she draws him around her ankle, his bloated maleness flipping and dragging over her. It's lovely to watch him grimace as she pushes herself hard over him, pulling his balls lazily over her skin as she hefts his erection back.

She's musing: that's enough flesh-on-flesh, it's time now for him to feel some leather.

Dragging

2007-05-28T10:47:00.002+03:00

A pink sunburst gliding its way along me,
Your warmth flooding along to my heart.
The buggered red elastic,
Of my love's sweet fucked arsehole.

Moving

2007-05-28T10:47:00.001+03:00

From the scent of that which you had put on yourself when we spoke for our first time, I have journeyed to the warm places in you where you delight to put your scents on me.

Surging

2007-05-28T10:46:00.000+03:00

Ringfuck, mindsuck,
My tide flowing in to your cunt-shore.
Drag me back over myself,
Ripple me up with your not-quite-wideenoughness.

Reaching

2007-05-28T10:45:00.000+03:00

Puckering myself up to your puckered pinkbrown halo,
Our muscles reaching for each other.
My fingers hard over your rippling thighs,
As I ready me to crowd you.

Summer, with treats

2007-05-23T10:25:00.001+03:00

She's so ready.

My fingers snap away from the clamp, her body twitches as the chain tinkles onto her breasts; the pvc makes that delicious crackling sound as it arches up with her, slave and plastic fully together for me, moving exactly as I wish them to; she's mewling as the crocodile clip slowly takes possession of her flesh. I can't resist a smile at how well she knows how to behave for me. Her mouth alternating smile and grimace, her body twitching all its length. Grimacing, both in pain and with the effort to hold her climax in check. I'm so pleased with how well my slut's training has paid off. The cunt's good.

Her legs part wide enough for me to see how full her pussy is, how wet for me, how much mine it is too. And she's so disciplined with herself, so understanding of my control over her, how much things work better for her when she lets me decide the pleasure she'll take. A clever fucker, that's my slave. All she needs from me is a glance to know how much I'd disapprove of her impatience so she holds back, muscles the length of her body hardening as she forces herself to back down from her pleasure.

How to reward her for her efforts?

I'll think we'll start with some saliva and I lean over her carefully writhing body, slowly rolling the spit in my mouth as I hover over her one free nipple. The leanest trace of a smile between us: agreed, I'm taking her to the next stage. A slow, fat bead of my fluid reaches down to the slut-teat, rolling away over the breast to her belly. Reaching down, I clamp her nipple between my teeth, just hard enough to pull it upwards, not much I know, but the pain's just enough to pull her to the edge of orgasm. Looks like it's time for the other clip: she's moving in slow motion, silently begging me for more. And the woman's going to get it, too...

Whispering in her ear "time for you to feel some more metal, no?" The silent figure only gazes at me, her eyes watering with the happiness of being with her Master. Good. It's only right that she should be so appreciative of me. So to the other clamp, how to tease? Holding it half open, dragging the teeth along her teat, watching them clutch at her, watching her gaze clutch at them as I work the clamp open and shut, slowly, peacefully: crushed pink, popping pink button; squeezed red, keen red dot; crinkled purple, juicing cunt. She's started making plaintive noises too, small testaments to the roiling delight she must be feeling by now. I'll admit, I do find it very, very arousing.

Time to stop teasing, and let her take the full measure of discomfort she seeks, so the clamp goes on; she's all clamped up now as her mind drinks in the sensations she knows only I can bring her. I pause to contemplate my work: her belly working in and out, skin glossy with her sweat. I have to restain the impulse to lick her from head to foot, her perfume is so alluring: scent-cunt, fuck-cunt.

"Is that insufficient?"
"Master?"
"I'm not sure you're feeling as much as you should be"
"Please, Master, give me more, take me out of myself"

Sternly holding her gaze, I pull the chain down toward her belly, nipples and breasts distending in the direction of my will, pulling pink and white with the unnatural blood flow as my slave's heart flows out to me. Now pulling together, now dragging one nipple at a time. Sometimes easing the chain taut, then tugging it hard enough to make her gasp. Or pulling the chains round a full circle, observing my slave's breasts as they pull into shapes and colours nature never imagined. How I love to feel her flesh resist my desires for her, to feel the chain as it gets tighter and tighter, how marvellous it is to witness her carnal ambitions.

"You're performing well today"
"Thank you, Master."
"I'm impressed with your self-discipline"
"Yes, master."
"And it's so hot today, too. I do think it's time for some refreshment"
"Master?"

And I reach down to pick up her treat.

Red. Gorged. Full.

2007-05-19T15:03:00.001+03:00

What kind of a man says such things to a woman he doesn't know? Idiot...

She walks off, not bothering to look back. Neither of them are quite sure who's snared whom.

Follow her. Eyes cupping her full bottom, her trousers slack and taut over her assured legs. Passers-by noticing his erection. Followed. Toes twitching for his spectacle, wondering how he'll come. Quietly? Repeatedly? How much does he have inside? How much will she enjoy herself by throwing him out the second he's finished?

Her place: keys jangle, arm sweeps, door opens.

A quietly challenging smile, daring him to go through with it. He steps in and heads towards the living room.

"No, that's far enough for you" and pushing him back against the wall, turns to face him. They're barely past the doormat: she'll be wiping her feet on a new kind of doormat today.

Still, paused, settling down in the groove with each other. Gazes given and held, breathing slowing down together. With each other now, now it's her turn to scan him, to measure him up, take pains to show him he's under scrutiny. Half-closed eyes lower to his trousers. Her hands cupping his shoulders, then sweeping over his chest, teasing him with an index finger. Pleasure fickers over his face as her fingers flicker over his pleasure. Palm of hand twisting for length and fullness, pressing into him for proof. Is that him fully erect already?

Holding his gaze, she pulls up a trouser leg, smoothly lifting her leg to him as her shoe catches a ray of light in the semi darkness of the corridor, lighting up brightfuckmered. Pressing her knee against his groin then drawing her leg up to the ankle, making sure he can feel the bone against him as she rocks it side to side over him. She's relaxing now, lazily propped against the wall as she takes control of him, the linen flexing and relaxing over the mature fullness of her body. He's definitely hard by now.

"Well? What did you say you wanted to do?"

Red. Patent. Peep-toed.

2007-05-16T10:40:00.000+03:00

Almost a true story.

Well, anyone who's wearing those is seeking some kind of attention: I am Desireable and you are going to Notice Me. Late forties: attractive, full hips and thighs and walking with a deliciously relaxed, precise, asssertiveness. Khaki linen suit, white shirt and those. Red patent, peep-toed courts. Such a perfect, insolent, glossy red, plotting their owner's way along the pavement. Faultlessly sure of themselves and out there in the light of day too. On a younger woman they'd smack of overdressing; on her, it's something different: look at the way she's repressed the colours in the rest of her outfit; most surely, she's calling attention to something.

Shoes for sex, made to be worn, made to be wiped in semen. If ever there was a pair of shoes he'd wanted to come over, there they are, right in front of him. What a delight it would be to mess them up a little. The pleasure of watching his semen scooting over them, his base desire to leave his mark. The Selfish Gene, indeed. Trick is, how to manage it; he'll have to think of something quickly.

At ten paces, eye contact, eyes, then mouth, smiling next a glance over her body, scanning her to her feet, slowly, that she won't miss herself being caressed by his desire.

"Do I know you?"
"No, no. What a handsome pair of shoes you have."
"Yes, I couldn't resist them."
"Indeed", fixing her gaze to his eyes with a small smile: modest, deferential and desiring.
"You can be as charming as you like but you're not getting into bed with me. Is that clear?"
"I understand but really, I only wanted to fuck your shoes."
She's chuckling, disbelieving, yet not completely offended "You're kidding me, don't be ridiculous."

Smiling ruefully, at least he gave it a try; some you win and... oh well. Perhaps next time. Watching her go, watching them pull her away from him. Yet she's scarcely past him when she turns and pauses, chucking to herself in a fleeting crease in her forehead; now looking at him hard, flicking her head to one side: follow me.

[part two follows after the news...]

Insiding

2007-05-11T10:46:00.001+03:00

Stretching yourself over your outstretched me.
Fresh pink fuckcunt, my mind is inside out from insiding you.
Deep wet sunburst, shluck yourself along me, and make me yours.

Summer, with accessories

2007-05-09T13:49:00.000+03:00

As told by a devoted slave

My skin is no longer the outside of me anymore, it's become the membrane with which I love Him, a gorged clitoris fully the size and shape of me as I lie here slowly juicing, sweating happily onto the pvc.

My thighs drawing up and then shedding the sheet, pushing them down to feel my flesh stretch and pucker in a thousand gorgeous discomforts. Now arching my back, the pvc rises with me, a lover so attentive, so careful to push me only closer to my pleasure. Twisting my shoulders against the bed, I'm feeling the plastic slowly suck and pull at me. Can't tell if I'm becoming part of the bed or the bed's floating up to become part of me. Can't tell if my pleasure is a part of His will or whether it still belongs to me. I'm so peacefully in wait for Him as I feel the cascade of pleasure in my every movement.

Slowly squirming in my quiet joy.

The birdsong from the garden is only noise now, I haven't the attention for anything else. Except Him and His fingers. Except Him and His clamps. Except Him and His love for me, lucky slut me.

And now He's here with me, slowly approaching my bed with a slow smile as our eyes meet. No boy here, this is a man to make me orgasm. Centred in Himself, centring me with Him, He's getting us both into the space. Wonderful that someone would ever have taken the time to know me like this, to humbly dedicate Himself to me? When I climax with Him, naturally I feel the pleasure of my body but also the happiness of knowing Him, of being for Him, of letting Him see how well He understands me. It's the least I can do to reward Him.

Standing over me now, my knees parting for Him and I'm hard put not to clench myself any closer to coming, my bottom rising and turning as I try to fob my pussy off with some preview of what she'll be feeling before long. Unzipping your bag, my beautiful Master! Watching the chain thrown spangles onto my face as you hold it in the light for me, letting a clamp dangle down onto my nose, I'm smiling, close to pleading aloud for you to put it on me right now! What could be better for a hot summer's day than a freezer-fresh pair of nipple clamps? Let the vanilla people have their Pimm's: my Master has got me some proper refreshment. And now He's going to attach it to me.

Reflections on my face as the metal nears my nipple in His artist's hands. Watching Him prise the clamp open, I notice how white the tips of His fingers are with the pressure needed to open the clamp. He must have to press quite hard, no? I do so truly hope so.

My nipples have been hard for a while now, erect for Him as I can see He's erect for me. "Please, please..." asking, and again... Peacefully in charge of me, He's smiling at me as He drags the clamp over my breast, stroking it against my erection. My mind wandering dizzily between His gaze and my nipple. Begging for Him to put it on and just as keenly begging Him to make me wait just a little more.

Whispering: "Do it, I beg you.". "Are you sure you're ready?". "Master, please". "I'm not sure that..."

...and He lets the clamp snap shut over me. A flash of pain, so refreshing in the Heat, weaves through me as I cry out. My chest bounces off the bed, I'm whimpering in the pleasure of Him. I feel...what? Pain and happiness: released from my loneliness, blossoming in front of this man, joyfully admitting Him to my Heart. And plain admiration too: as many times as He's done this to me, He never fails to clamp me at the exact right moment, when I'm perfectly ready for Him. An artist, I'm privileged to have Him work His art on me. Proud of myself, to be worthy of His attention.

I feel myself twisting round as the long-desired pain subsides to a magnificent discomfort, my mind flickering from my free breast, to the clamp and to Him. And I'm not ashamed to admit, to my sex as well. She's starting to overjuice. She's starting to spasm, but I mustn't, must not, come yet.

[to be continued]

Enjoying the sensations

2007-05-08T15:09:00.000+03:00

My wife and I have agreed: the next time we make a joint presentation, we'll be sure to be wearing our butt-plugs.

Yoga and myopia

2007-05-04T18:10:00.000+03:00

What the eye can't focus on, the heart can't grieve over: attractive women folding their handsome bodies into positions the mere contemplation of which is sufficient to inspire one to acts of cunnilingus hitherto unreported by the Kama Sutra. I never thought I'd consider my myopia a blessing.

Of boots and marscapone | 3

2007-05-04T18:06:00.000+03:00

It's true, when it's love, you want to put her in your mouth.

Wheels on gravel, you're here. Looking out the window I see only your feet, red nails and flip flops making me giggle with myself. I can't tell if my fondness for your instep is an idiotic foolishness or the most sublime expression of love that I possess. Who gives a fuck anyway? You won't mind at all, not when you're riding me to orgasm with your toes in my mouth, pulling it out of shape as you scream obscenities at me. You'd make even a pair of Birkenstocks look sexy.

Such a lazy sexy suckable instep you have, standing in front of the window as you flex your slut-red toes for me. I'd say you were teasing if I didn't know you were rousing me to service you the way you deserve. Our private plot against the rest of the world, it wouldn't be half as rewarding if anyone else actually Understood What We're Up To.

Longing for you to draw out of myself and pull me to pieces in front of you; you're the only one who can solve the puzzle of me. Close my eyes and I'm already kneading your calves as I slaver over your instep, mouthing you softly then biting you then licking you then, then... Your instep, again, for heaven's sake. It's not enough just to desire you, I want to take your feet and place them my heart and worship them every day for the rest of my life.

I'm so indisciplined, losing focus again as I muse on my mouth running wild over you. No doubt you'll know how to correct that, won't you?

Climbing the stairs to let you in, I have to shield my eyes against the light, seeing you only in outline, holding out my hand, hungry to start touching you once again. It's time to take refuge from the light and hide ourselves in each other in the cool loving darkness of the cellar.

Lovemaking and parenthood

2007-05-04T13:48:00.000+03:00

Early morning. We've finished making love and we're still lying in bed, twined together, mouth to nipple, thigh to thigh. Our daughter has woken up and she comes into our bedroom to stretch out on our bed. So we have desire and it's fruit. And a love expanding out of sight to bless us all.

My thoughts drift off to the morning in Berlin when we conceived her, me pushing my erection into her mother (goodness, was I hard that morning!) - and the flooding joy of my orgasm as I left my seed inside her.

Desire and its fruit: loving parents, happy fuckers. Beautiful.

Summer

2007-05-03T13:31:00.000+03:00

Distant childhood memories of the seats in dad's car. There's the stickiness you had to put up with and now you're grown up there's the stickiness you can choose.

Of boots and marscapone | 2

2007-04-30T20:03:00.000+03:00

I've been thinking of your smoothness all day, trying to keep my mind off how I'll be touching you. Places and positions and what first and in whatever order. Will I be so greedy that I'll bring you to orgasm at once? What am I worrying about, you've always got more of where that came from, haven't you, gorgeous-sexy?

Smoothness, hmmm. But how to achieve it? Would you like to watch me work the razor over the strop? Do you trust me enough to let me pass the blade over your mound? I'd love to masturbate but I'll settle for a text message. dabfumbledabdab. How many letters did I get wrong there? I really should try to calm down.

So, you're instructed. You'll know what to do, fucking hell yes you do.

See you later, taste you even later... fuck you eventually yes, but not too soon, not today.

Of boots and marscapone | 1

2007-04-30T14:31:00.000+03:00

And the elegance of silver teaspoons grazing their way over shaven legs. Watch this space...

Fetish customer care, mmm...

2007-04-26T09:27:00.000+02:00

Credit where it's due: thanks to Rogerio of Libidex for his advice, it's going to be much appreciated.

Food and footwear

2007-04-26T09:26:00.006+02:00

I'm looking forward to being inspired soon by Foodmuse, who accompanies me in my thoughts anytime I shop for shoes or food. When you see me writing about either, you can bet that she'll have visited me in the night and planted some delicious notion in my head; it will be my great pleasure to write for her. Even as I write, I'm mulling over something involving shackles and fruit salad...

2007-04-26T09:26:00.005+02:00

Why doesn't Ferragamo do a ballet boot? Why doesn't Tricker's do a men's high-heeled brogue? Don't these people know how big an opportunity they're missing?

Idle thoughts

2007-04-26T09:26:00.003+02:00

No true love without desire; no true desire without love, I'm gorgeously releasing my happiness inside you.

Thank you

2007-04-26T09:26:00.001+02:00

...to Those Who Know And Understand, I bow to you all.

Ambitions and desires

2007-04-26T09:25:00.001+02:00

Still feeling my way in this, experimenting with a variety of forms: short stories, scenes, ideas for things to play with, single lines of something that moves me. I'm vain enough to suppose i might even be able to attempt some cinematic treatments: broad-brush, impressionistic scenes of lovemaking, drawn both from outside the body as well as inside the heart. I'd put poetry there too, if I didn't feel so foolish in admitting it. Also making irregular appearances will be my suggestions for Hopelessly Ambitious Opening Lines, gambits guaranteed to get you a slap across the chops.

So much erotica, so little that's any good

2007-04-26T09:23:00.000+02:00

I was moved to open this blog after I'd spent some time online and discovered a pleasure in writing about sexual experience; I like to think my blog can be more than just the usual porn-for-the-boys. I won't be writing anything along the lines of "Mark pulled his swollen member out of Jenny's sweet juicy butt-hole"*, there's already a superfluity of rubbish like that; what moves me much more (and what I think is very deeply arousing) are moments like the one when Mellors tells Connie "You shouldn't cry", moments in our lives when we can cleanse our pain and let someone come so close to our hearts. That's where I am: a sensual world described to the far distant shore of my erotic imagination. A simple theme addressed in a myriad of ways.

*thinking about it, that could work as a comedy pastiche: all the clueless porn you've ever given yourself tennis elbow to in one, digested edition. I'll start work on it just as soon as my physio ends.

Welcome to logodisiac, an anthology of my erotic writing.

2007-04-26T09:17:00.000+02:00

Whether you'll consider this admirably erotic or deplorably pornographic, I simply don't care. If you do decide to read on though, I hope you'll find much to arouse you and the special person with whom I'd like to think you'll be reading. Print it out, take it to bed and rub it all over yourselves. And no, you won't have to look like a pornstar to enjoy it either...