Pussy Talk

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What were the odds? Oct. 16th, 2014 @ 10:38 am
A million and more, and the numbers still climbing. Who knew?

Here's something: if you'd placed a bet on me ten years ago, you'd be doing a hell of a lot better than the stock market.

For anyone who's wondering: I'm reading Dante and Homer. It's a winter project, close and contemplative reading.

There are gaps to fill before time runs out.

If I come across any hot stuff, I'll let you know.

Is that the time? Jan. 21st, 2014 @ 03:52 pm
Well, look-a-here. PT is ten years old.

Ten years, and some.

Hard to believe. Over a million hits and counting. That's 100,000 a year on average and more per day than I care to do the math for.

Haven't posted for yonks, yeah, I know, but I do look in here more often than you think.

I wonder who's out there now? Any of the old crowd still around, or have you all drifted off to those social media thangs?

Leave a comment if you like.

If you're sensible and polite, I will answer.

If you sound like you're twelve, I won't. As usual.

DTG ;)

Room Jul. 12th, 2012 @ 08:26 am
There is something so open about a hotel bed, the duvet kicked away; it was like a plinth, or a padded stage, and the shapes we made there were more sweet and anguished for seeming abstract, as we fitted together our jigsaw love, one way, or another... When I think of those hotel rooms, I think of them after we left, and only the air knew what we had done. The door closed so simply behind us: the shape of our love in the room like some forgotten music, beautiful and gone.

---- Anne Enright, The Forgotten Waltz

Amen Jul. 17th, 2011 @ 01:04 pm

"It never ceases to puzzle me that, while men's and women's bodies fit jigsaw-tight in an altogether miraculous way, their minds remain wretchedly unaligned.”

---Taff Evans reflecting on his last night home before sailing into history on the Terra Nova.
 


After Mar. 4th, 2011 @ 09:27 pm


M asked for doggie and I complied, bracing myself both literally and figuratively, letting him pound away and pretending to clutch at the sheets in order to egg him on, to speed it up, to make it stop.

It was ordered, mechanical, just so. 

Not like you.

With you, it was organic, it was animal, not to say bestial. You'd brook no resistance. You'd be bulling me all the way up the bed and I'd be clawing at the mattress, striving to remain earthbound, trying to hold on and always failing, and you flinging me off into ecstasy in the dark rain of your sweat.

 

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The suspender belt Dec. 3rd, 2010 @ 04:24 pm

A suspender belt, sheer stockings, say 10 denier, and heels were required wear.

He made no bones about this: show up without it and you go home. The colour he left up to me, so of course I chose black: black for playboy-bunny playful,  black for provocation. Black for hot , fast, and dirty.  

He met me in the hotel lobby and led me by the wrist to the room. After a short but hard spanking for a previous disobedience, he instructed me to make myself presentable. 

The bathroom echoed with my every move as I undressed, unzipped my bag, fished the silky black nothings from their cellophane packaging, and coaxed them on, at one point bumping my head resoundingly on the towel rail. The stilettos, black peep-toes with an ankle strap, clattered on the tiles as I shoved my feet into them. One of the fasteners on the belt had been sewn on backwards, so I had to twist it to make it work. I prayed he wouldn’t notice. 

There’s this thing about suspender belts: you always see them advertised with panties---they have to be, I suppose---but surely the whole point of them is to get fucked in them. The black strips of  suspender and the lacy black tops of the stockings suggest, as bondage gear does, flesh contained, flesh outlined, flesh presented for enjoyment, for use even to the point of dissipation. A thong or panties gets in the way: you have to undo the belt to get them off or else fuck around them. I left them off.  

One last check: I stuck out my tits, sucked in my tummy, and dared to look in the mirror. You must understand that I am no longer either young or slim, and I had feared that I would look, well, silly in raunch. I didn't. I looked like a fucking babe.

As my lover said a little later, The belt frames the cunt so beautifully.

Not to mention the upraised arse. 

 
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November rain Nov. 20th, 2010 @ 11:13 am
A day like this is fit only for sleeping too late, rising slowly, making a perfunctory stab at washing and dressing, eating without paying attention and with not a little irritation---say, a peanut butter sandwich while stood up in the middle of the kitchen---, curling up all afternoon in a daddy chair reading Leonard Cohen and chain-drinking strong tea with mug after mug going cold, until shadows loom up in the corners like the monsters of childhood and threaten to swamp the room---the hour when people like my husband who hate this time of day rush around tutting and turning on lights (sitting here in the dark, for godssake!), but when people like you would finally arrive after a long journey through the deepening dusk, take me to bed, and fuck me and fuck me and fuck me all through the moonlit darkness until we make the sun rise.  



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Saturday night Nov. 13th, 2010 @ 04:17 pm


I dread having to pretend to want him.
I dread having to pretend to want to fuck him. 
I dread having to make the first move, every single time.
I dread having to lie there naked and coy, seduction personified, as proof of my desire because it's not enough any more to comply with his desire, I have to prove I desire it too. (It's not that he's suddenly become considerate, it's just that he can't get it up unless he thinks I want it.)
I dread having to prove something that is not true and never was true and never will be true.
I dread the way my heart turns to stone every time, every bleeding time I have to act this part. 




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Art project Oct. 5th, 2010 @ 02:12 pm


Thumbing through my sketchbook, he stopped at a drawing of my bare feet propped on the coffee table and crossed at the ankle.

The line was minimalist with a splash of crimson watercolour on the nails, and both the pose and the colour no doubt recalled one of his favourite photos, the one he took of my feet in peep-toe heels hoisted against the door of the hotel room.

He said, I like this. Then he turned to me and said, Would you do me a drawing like this, of you?

A naked self-portrait, in other words.

Et voici my current project. It's so simple: you just strip off, grab your materials---I'm using a charcoal pencil and in lieu of a big sketchbook, a clipboard stocked with chopped-up newsprint---and strike a pose in front of the mirror. In fact, you don't even need a mirror: you can simply disport yourself on the bed and scribble away, knowing that you are gaining valuable practice in foreshortening while making some very lively drawings indeed, especially if you keep your non-drawing hand busy.

This getting back in touch with myself quite literally was part of the fun of naked self-portraiture: full-time work and a retired husband leave me with almost no time for self-pleasuring these days. Drawing my own breasts, belly, and cunt, I had to look and touch carefully, and dare I say extensively, in order to get the curves and contours the right shapes and in the right places.

All very stimulating and satisfying, of course, but most fun of all was the thought of my lover's face, and yes, I'll be honest, of his cock and how it will stir and stiffen when he opens this little portfolio of drawings and sees how shamelessly and how joyfully I have displayed myself yet again for his pleasure.


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Somewhere beyond the sea Jul. 28th, 2010 @ 10:51 pm


An anniversary of sorts: four years ago today, on a stretch of beach none too deserted and in full view of assorted beachcombers, tourists, and dog-walkers, my lover swept me into his arms for the first time and kissed me like I'd never been kissed before. He took my breath away then, and he does so still, every single time.

 

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