Ordered to stand at the window, I knew that drivers approaching the city centre from the south would have a clear view: we were only three stories up and the road descended a hill to the busy intersection where the hotel stood.
They'd see a woman's back, creamy-white and bare but for the black bra band---thank God he let me stand back on to the traffic: he'd fetched my breasts right out of the cups.
Motorists going about their Saturday errands would see me writhe, they'd watch my head sag, then jerk backwards. They'd note the strain across my shoulders as I supported myself on stiffened arms. They'd see the bra strap slip. It would take no effort of imagination to picture the man: he'd be kneeling or perhaps sprawling before her, his face buried in her crotch, stopping only to gasp for breath or to issue commands: Put your arse on the windowsill! Spread your legs! Wider!
The men among those drivers would lean forward and slack off the accelerator, peering upwards and hoping for a red, praying that he'd turn her around right there in the window with the whole line of traffic watching while her breasts swung and jolted up against the cold glass.
And when they saw him clamp his hand over her open mouth and her eyes bulge wide, they'd swear out loud because they'd know he was fucking her hard right up the arse, just like they would if only they had hold of her, the noisy horny brazen shameless little cockslut.
************** |
So Belle has finally outed herself. Wow. A research scientist, it turns out. Whoda thunkit. We always knew she had a brain, of course, and we imagined she must be drop-dead gorgeous, but apparently, she is not only a superbrain, she possesses a "curvy" UK size 8 figure and a face reminiscent, from some angles, of Catherine Deneuve. Surprise surprise.
Anyway, you go, grrl. May that magic realist novel you've just written win critical and popular acclaim for its own literary merit, and not simply because Belle wrote it. Yes, I can be dizzyingly optimistic.
Seriously now: even though my intellect, appearance, and sex life are rather less stunning than Belle's, I've always felt a bit of kinship with her, if only for reasons of timing. When I started writing PT in January 2004, sexblogs were thin on the interground. In fact, Belle was pretty much it, and she herself had been around for only a couple of months. Since then, multitudes of sexbloggers have writhed their way across countless beds. Most gave up after a few posts, some stuck around for a year or two, and more got bored and started writing about anything but sex. A few of us have stayed the course, with more or less dedication.
Those still banging away and scribbling about it include that darling Rentboy Mon and Phil over at HotAction. Bliatz is gone, Chelsea is writing about other things, and Zoe was outed, and it's never the same after outing, is it? Lost and sadly lamented are John P Smyth at Viewing the Local Antiquities and that sweet devil Badman, who, though I blush to think of it now, was my first sexblogging crush in those heady early days.
To those of you who are still popping in for a look now and then, thanks for keeping my counter ticking over. Feel free to post a comment or email me---it's always lovely to hear from you, and I can promise you two things:
1. Pussy Talk will always be about sex, and
2. I won't be coming out.
Even though, and I add this quite modestly, mine may be one of the most astonishing sexblogging stories of all.
***********
Links:
http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/books/article6917260.ece
http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/books/article6917495.ece
********** |
Tomorrow we meet. You asked me what I want, and I know it doesn't matter what I want, but these are the things that have kept me up or awakened me from sleep all week:
you kissing me for a long time
kissing you for a long time
you making me strip for you
you ordering me to assume the position
you making me repeat the rule
you touching me and teashing me
you pinching my nipples very hard
you sucking my nipples hard for a long time
you examining and nosing and fingering and kissing my cunt
you making me display myself for you
you licking and sucking my clit while your fingers plunge inside, curling and stroking
you stuffing me with pearls and eating me when you've filled me up, then whipping them out in a great slippery whoosh!
kneeling in front of you and sucking and gagging on your great juicy-purple cock
nosing and licking and kissing your balls
you taking out toys and playing with me and hurting me
you wiping your wet cock on my face
you spanking me until I cry out, with your hand or a belt
you taking off your clothes
you getting ready to fuck me
you making me display my arse and my cunt to you
you calling me filthy little whore
you spreading my thighs and thrusting into me
you tossing my legs over your shoulders or holding them to one side and fucking me
riding you backwards and touching us where we join
putting my fingers up inside you to pleasure you
you bulling me, your balls swinging free and slapping against my cunt
you coming in me, in my cunt, you coming home to me and emptying into me and exhausting yourself upon me
************** |
You'd think I'd know by now. After all, it's not exactly new anymore. You'd think that the past three years would have inured me to surprise and that the possibility of genuine shock would have diminished pretty much to zero by this time. You'd think I'd be conditioned.
Not a chance.
He still takes my breath away, every single time. And I'm not talking about lovers' trysts, about our scheduled secret meetings in hotel rooms when we get naked together for serious loveplay. Nor is this about those occasional rendez-vous we hastily carve out of afternoons between work and suppertime, when we grab a coffee or share a park bench for twenty minutes, friends as well as lovers.
No, this is simply about seeing him in a public place, not by chance but by arrangement. On Friday, I knew he would be there. I was expecting to see him there and I kept checking, but the moment I looked up---higher! my lover is delightfully tall---and met his eyes, my mouth went dry. We didn't speak. We couldn't have spoken without betraying ourselves, but we didn't have to speak. The look in his eyes was enough: to see him struggling to master the same impulses that he was igniting in me, to feel my body caving, melting, and opening to him just as his flesh stirred and swelled towards mine, to know that he was as hard as I was wet.
Every time is just like the first time we met, when he swept me into his arms and crushed his mouth on mine.
Come to think of it, I am conditioned. And I'm loving it.
**************** |
The thing we want most to do is the thing we can never do: for him to imprint himself fully upon my flesh, to mark me openly as his own with stripe and weal and handprint.
It’s not that he’s a sadist, nor am I a masochist, and this is not about inflicting or bearing pain for its own sake in the name of some cruel perversion. No, this is about exclusivity. For him, it‘s about owning and possessing the object of his desire, about claiming my body as his territory and about marking off with his hands and his belt the boundaries of his pleasure on my breast and belly and haunch. For me, it’s about being proud to belong to him, about giving myself up to him and giving him back as pleasure all the pain he is pleased to give me, and that pleasure is tangible: the very idea of me whimpering and writhing naked under his painstaking attentions makes him rock-hard.
But as much as we want to do this, we cannot, because we are each, in law and in practicality, bound to another. He must hand me back to my husband in good order, unmarked and to all intents and purposes untouched. (Not that he always has, of course. From time to time, and with a thrill of delight, I have had to hide a handprint here or a slight welt there, along with burns and scrapes on elbow or knee, and even the occasional bruise sustained in the fury of our love-making, for as he often notes, we fuck like tigers.)
So for now at least, we try to rest content with a kind of ritualistic enactment of our deepest longing, something more akin to Gawain’s symbolic nick on the neck than to the full-on gore of the Green Knight. Even so, the marks that fade by nightfall on the flesh are no less powerful as tokens of ownership and belonging, for the outline of every one is printed indelibly on the heart.
******************** |
I’ve been binge-reading lately, and one of my favourite reading-binge writers is Fay Weldon. The authorial equivalent of a triple gin and tonic, dry with just a hint of bitterness, effervescent with wicked humour, and ever so slightly medicinal, Weldon always packs an unexpected and thoroughly satisfying punch.
I’ve noticed that younger women of the smart sort seem to dismiss her as a crusty old feminist, but they should look again. Weldon in fact explores the boundaries of modern life to discover where women are “liberated”, as we used to say, and where exactly female sexuality parts company with feminist theory. And that’s where she gets interested, and interesting.
Here is Alexandra in Worst Fears meditating on worst-case scenarios after her womanizing husband’s death:
“That God was not good…..That the earth you stood upon shifted, and chasms yawned; that people, falling, clutched one another for help and none was forthcoming….That in receiving Ned’s flesh into her body, so often and with such a powerful awareness of love---so that it seemed to be far more than a physical excitation, a sacrament, a connection through to the source of the universe, the light which suffused all things, and was there, if you had eyes for it, in the glow of the sun against the stone walls, as well as in the dancing of butterflies---that in this she had been mocked.”
And here she is again, reflecting on the unwanted advances of her husband’s brother:
“He was not very adult, not very male, not very nice. He pawed and picked at her; he didn’t assault her or engulf her. He was a fly crawling over the skin, not a wasp stinging.”
Note the use of words like “sacrament” and “assault“: sex involves a kind of religious experience as well as violence. This is the sort of sex that Alexandra craves from an “adult…male…nice” man. She wants to be engulfed, stung, overwhelmed, transfixed. She wants, not bodice-ripping sex as titillation, but sex within the context of love so intense it makes a sacrament of every fuck.
Crusty old feminist? Nuh-uh. Which is why I binge on Weldon: not only does she write about sex from angles that are decidedly un---, or post---, or best of all, a---feminist, she also keeps it at the centre of the male-female puzzle, right where it belongs.
***************** |
In the little black dress and the killer heels that bring my shoulders level with his, and with the pearls he gave me---the opera-length string of pearls he pushed into my cunt---looped twice to adorn my décolletage: thus I appear on his arm at the rather swish literary function in the decidedly posh hotel.
Faces turn to us, curious, wondering: Who’s that with _____? Walking tall and feeling twenty pounds slimmer, I’m wearing my face-the-devil smile. Do I look as lucky as I feel? Hands reach out in greeting.
He introduces me as a visitor, a friend of a friend, and a fellow-writer, but they all know, and he knows they know, and he wants them to know, that in just a few hours, in a rather nice room just a few floors up, when I’m finally wearing nothing but a sheen of sweat, he’s going fuck me senseless.
******************* |
Even in the preparation, there is the thrill of arousal. Not that the preparation is in any way extraordinary, of course: I can’t afford to attract undue attention from my husband. No, it’s the usual girly stuff: shaving, trimming, smoothing, softening, getting rid of anything too prickly, bushy, or flaky. The thrill happens when I run my hands up my legs and higher, when I remember that tomorrow, this will be my lover’s focus, this is where his hands will play, not to mention his tongue, and eventually, the entire sweetly-labouring bulk of him and his cock, buried to the hilt in me.
So yes, I am meeting him tomorrow, and no, in all my primping, creaming, and fluffing, I neither aim for nor achieve anywhere near beauty-mag perfection. My skin has always been troublesome: blindingly pale and impertinent, it blooms algae-like in perverse freckles at the slightest touch of sun. In addition, the wear and tear of living is showing up as it never does in the magazine ladies, in clusters of thread-veins, incipient knee wrinkles, and silvery stretch marks.
Lucky for me, my lover does not expect air-brushed, botoxed perfection. Perhaps it is his poet’s eye or his forgiving nature, or maybe he’s simply old enough to have avoided the tyranny of the metrosexualist mind-set and its impossible, anti-human rule: all flesh, whether male or female, must be made hairless, firm and uniformly golden. He’s not into people as manikins, my lover, he’s into living, breathing, dappled things, he’s into things “counter, original, spare, and strange”. So if my skin is stippled with rose-moles and my belly too soft and creamy for fashion, he doesn’t care a fig. What matters is that everything works, that my nipples rise to his tongue, my arse flames to his palm, and my legs spread at his command.
And that’s enough to get me wet just thinking about this time tomorrow.
******************** |
Afterwards, when I closed my eyes, I saw you above me still, but in silhouette, square-shouldered and bearish, pummeling your way upwards to bliss for the second time, throwing back your head at the summit and roaring: BITCH! The day was so hot. Whatever did the maid make of those soaking wet sheets?
Afterwards, fresh and fragile from your arms and blinking in the sunshine, I wandered with the summer shoppers, mechanically seeking a few of the things on my list: a sensible bra, mushroom-toned hand towels, replacement watercolour pans in cerulean blue and Naples yellow (my essential sky hues, if you must know), a straw shopper to tote it all home in, all the necessary evidence of a four-hour “shopping” trip.
Afterwards, for hours, there were whiffs of you from my hair and cunt. Our shower notwithstanding, I fair reeked of you. I ached of you too: nipples sore from the chopsticks, skin burning from the flogger, ligaments screaming from the positions you ordered me to assume and hold, my whole body a living after-image of your desire.
************** |
Moon
Picture
me your crescent, sliver-slim, white,
head and tail upcurved
to embrace, receive, complete
the goblin bulk of
you my gibbous shadow-side.
We make of each other spheres,
tumbling, spinning head-over-heels,
sometimes me your darkened edge,
scuffed and thumbed soft,
sometimes you my bright eye-lash, slick, sharp.
Each to each by turns
we are the darkness
that obscures the glass
and makes the positive negative,
we are the very light of things,
the word that reveals all in a flash like night lightning
but sustained forever in still quiet brilliance,
each mirrored a-shimmer in the other,
each half in the other
always becoming one,
whole,
full.
***************** |
By lamplight, wearing her collar, my little doxy again climbs into my lap and asks if I would like to play with her arse, please, sir?
I smile, hoping to show myself more indulgent than proud of her for being such a quick study and never forgetting my instructions to offer herself politely. Yes, she has a natural gift for submission and an innate eagerness to please, but I like to think that my training, with its judicious blend of reward and correction, has been instrumental in bringing her to such a pitch of perfection.
I order her to kneel on the bed for inspection, which she does, holding her buttocks apart readily without waiting for my command, as if to say, Look at me, sir! Am I not a good little doxy?
The saucy minx!
I say, Today I will watch you play with your own arse.
There is a muffled cry of surprise from the pillow. I ignore it. I continue, First you will use one finger, then two. You will have to wet your fingers in your mouth. Then you must put your fingers right up your bum as far as they will go and move them in and out. You must put the fingers of your other hand into your cunt. I will watch you pleasure yourself fore and aft like this until you are ready to come.
She looks back at me, eyes wide in disbelief. Striking a pose as the soul of patience, I lightly stroke the crop. She gulps, then brings a tentative finger to her lips. With a deep breath, she reaches back and probes around for her pucker, but when she finds it, she hesitates. Stops, with her finger right there. Looks back at me again, eyes wide with fear, cheeks carmine with shame. I struggle to keep control: what an eminently fuckable little bitch she is.
I can’t do it, she whispers.
Yes you can, my pretty, I say. I know it’s difficult. Here, I’ll help you.
This is a crucial moment: I knew that she would need help, of course. To pleasure her own backside is one of the strongest taboos a woman has to overcome, but it is essential if she is to accept every part of her body as a source of erotic pleasure. A woman who learns to relish fore-and-aft finger fucking will have no inhibitions about either touching her master anywhere in any way or allowing him to do the same to her, thus proving an endlessly delightful bedmate.
I take her little white finger and suck it, then gently push the tip through her little pink door, sliding it right to the hilt.
She coos in astonishment. I pull it out, then insert it again. Like this, my darling, I say. Doesn’t that feel good?
Oh God, she breathes. Yes. Oh my. God. It’s so dirty.
Yes, it is dirty, and you’re a dirty girl, I say. A very good dirty girl. Now, two.
Chewing her bottom lip, she tries on her own this time, rooting and grunting prettily as she meets with rather more resistance in the natural muscular defences of the doorway, but with my continued humouring and coaxing, she relaxes, and presently, hey presto! Her defences melt away.
She sets to work with both hands. She is such a hungry little slut at heart, it does my old heart good to watch her. Picture the sight: my obedient doxy labouring as noisily as a common slattern, with her forefinger and middle finger up her backside and her other hand expertly working in her cunt, while her hips buck and crank as she seeks her rhythm. Soon her tempo steadies and she settles in to the job, her breasts jouncing pleasantly with the nipples distended, her mouth open and panting, her inner thighs a-sheen with the first gleams of juice. Dear God, she is a masterpiece in living, writhing flesh, all libidinous music in mouth and in hand, all lascivious chiaroscuro in torso and limb.
As she accelerates, I watch her closely, gauging the correct moment to intervene. When her breathing becomes ragged and sweat begins to rain from her torso, she is teetering on the edge of the precipice. She knows better than to come without permission, of course---the crop has taught her that much---, so she hangs there, gasping, trembling, begging loudly and piteously for release. She knows that I will ignore her pleas for a time, because it is good for her to beg. Begging, she abdicates all responsibility for her own pleasure and ascribes all control to me. Besides, the longer she can sustain herself on the brink of orgasm, the greater the pleasure I can take in her.
Eventually I can stand it no longer, of course. There is only so much temptation that flesh as weak as mine can resist, so I grab her by the hair and give her a right good hammering that culminates in a glorious spend right down her throat.
******************** |
How can I explain the thrill when my little doxy comes to me and asks meekly for her arse to be pleasured?
It is not a simple task, nor one to be assumed lightly. Her request places a huge, but I hasten to add thoroughly pleasant, burden of responsibility upon me as her master. In essence, it means that she wants me in her hottest, darkest core. This can never happen without her permission, and although many men think that permission is all, permission is but the first step and many lessons are in order to bring a woman to the pinnacle of bliss in this way.
For example, I must teach her to break through the wall of shame that imprisons her. I must encourage her to trust her animal instincts and to accept as right, and as hers by right, all the bodily sensations---touches, sounds, and smells---that convention and schooling have told her are wrong or dirty but which are part of her nature as the crown of creation.
I must subject her gently but firmly to the most abject humiliation so that she will learn to trust me not to reject or ridicule her. I will train her to give me every last vestige of her modesty and every scrap of her embarrassment without demur. I must show her that I will always be there for her and that we take this journey together, every step of the way, and in the end, when I take my pleasure in her, lodged to the hilt in her arse, she will understand what it is to be female quite literally in her very guts.
I have devised a simple but effective training regime to initiate a woman into the delights of arse-fucking over the course of three days. On the first day, I have her present on the carpet clad only in her drawers and chemise, the last pieces of costume before nakedness. Fully dressed with gloved hands and my riding crop tucked under my arm because she expects a show of masculine authority, I gaze at her from my chair, then order her to make a full turn, slowly. And another.
Take off your chemise, I say. Turn around again.
She is blushing hotly, aware of my hungry eyes on the jostle of her lovely naked breasts and the mounds of her plump arse shifting under the thin silk. All maddening curves, is my sweet doxy.
Stop, I mutter quietly when her back is to me. Bend forward.
She obeys. Casually, I reach out and loosen the drawstring of her drawers, letting them slide down her thighs of their own accord. There, just beyond my nose, her naked haunches glow rosy in the firelight, the crevice between them dark with lascivious promise and scented with temptation.
I make a show of inspecting her behind, cupping, squeezing, spreading, moving my face close enough to touch her crack with my whiskers. She gasps in mortification.
Bend over farther, I say. And I spread her further, sniffing, nosing, rubbing, growling my approval.
She whimpers, not in protest but in supplication, as she must. This is all good and necessary. I must embarrass her utterly and repeatedly, in order to inure her to embarrassment. I must strip away all her modesty and touch her in the most shameful ways in her most shameful places until she understands that this too, is part of her, and that this is, in fact, the very core and root of all her pleasure in the flesh. She endures me, trembling. It will do for now.
Good girl, I say, stroking her for encouragement. Now up on the bed on your knees.
Her knickers slip off as she positions herself with her face buried in the pillow between her forearms, seeking a last little refuge in modesty, hiding her face from me. I will allow her a little dignity yet.
I say, Give me your hands.
She extends her arms backwards obediently. The side of her face shows, eyes closed, cheeks beetroot-red.
I place her hands on her buttocks and instruct her to slide her fingers into her crevice and open herself. She has to do this herself, with her own two hands. She has to expose her most shameful and taboo parts to me, at my command and for my pleasure, in order to understand how it feels to give all of her self up to me. My opening her would be an intrusion that would teach her nothing but a resolve to withdraw and conceal herself from me even more, once out of my clutches. So she must learn to give me her arse on demand, gladly and completely.
This is why, when she breathes, No, I give her an admonitory flick with the crop up between the thighs. She knows very well that while I will put up with pleading, I will not brook protest. She knows she must bend to my will and that she will find joy in that. When the flag-tip of the crop comes away wet, I briefly rub it between her legs to give her a little reward for doing so well so far. She purrs. Little minx.
I say, Now, no more delays. Open for me.
With delicious discomfort, she obeys, burying her gasps of shame in the pillow. As her lovely rounds part, there appears, seated demurely in its secret cleft, her rose-brown little pucker, scantily mossed fore and aft, pursing madly with the lick of the cold air upon its moistness. Oh why should a woman be ashamed of such a sweet dark little doorway to bliss? Would I could kneel and kiss her right on that tight little mouth! But she has lessons to learn, such as giving me her all, and her grip is tentative and loosening. She mustn’t lose momentum now.
Wider, I say in a stern voice. She tightens her fingers. Not enough. I place my fingers over hers and force her to draw her cheeks wide open, making her receptive little arsehole twitch and gulp with the shock of exposure.
There, that’s better. I praise her in soothing tones. Now keep yourself stretched just like that, darling. Let me show you what a magical little threshold you’ve got here.
She whimpers and trembles while I run my middle finger between her legs to slick it up for penetration. Today she’ll get a gloved finger, tomorrow two, and the third day, me in her up to my belly. Placing my finger at the top of her crevice, I slide it down until I reach her anxious little pucker. She tenses as I finger her. I tease it with little taps until she gives me a rhythmic response with both hip and throat. Then I change the sensation and press little spirals into the centre, testing for the opening beneath the trap-door of tender skin, the hidden shaft where a man may mine the darkest and most precious of treasures.
She has been vocalizing wordlessly for some minutes now, and as I press her more vigorously, her hips writhe in her hands and her voice changes to a keen, a wail of pleasure punctuated with breathless grunts, that spills from her throat and makes my hair stand on end. She arcs back, her hands still gripping hard, seeking more. I give her more, with steadily growing pressure. My thickly-gloved digit sinks into her like a sword into butter. She lets go and throws herself backwards into my hand, her face uplifted and streaming with tears, her dark curls tossing in tumult.
Do you like that my pretty? Do you like my finger up your arse? I whisper.
Yes, oh yes oh yes, she moans.
Slowly, I frig her, dragging out, pushing in. She rocks back and forth on her hands and knees, screwing herself onto my finger, her breasts juddering, her face contorted and streaming with sweat, begging for permission to come. As a reward for doing so well this first day, I bull her hard.
****************** |
Later, during the second service, when I’m whorishly busy in his crotch, driving my tongue deep up beneath his balls, burrowing it into the buttery spot under the base of his cock, trying out my gag reflex on the magnificent curved bulk of him---and I will have the glistening purple plum of his tip right into my throat yet!----he vows, rasping and shuddering, that he’ll lodge himself inside me to the hilt.
My lover always keeps his promises.
****************** |
Let there be no illusions: my lover uses me. I know this.
My body is for him the means by which he experiences ecstasy, the material through which he explores his pleasure and expresses his delight. He uses me, as a traveler would a vehicle, to nose around in the dark undiscovered valleys of desire and to ascend the wild highlands of bliss.
He is like an artisan, and my flesh his medium, a living clay which, like all creative media, must be prepared properly for correct performance and maximum effectiveness. He understands, as many men don’t, how a woman’s flesh must be warmed, reddened, plumped, and moistened for use, and he labours intently over this preparation phase, applying his mouth and his fingers with infinite patience, by turns kissing, lapping, sucking, and biting, then pinching, twisting, smacking, probing, and mauling, until I am become all over taut and supple and glowing, throbbing in every nerve and streaming with sweat.
Just right for his purpose.
Which is to make of my body a living receptacle for all his cravings and a vessel of pliant and welcoming flesh into which he can plunge and roll and refresh himself, losing himself in a thunderous charge to the summit of his need, his throat hoarse with shouting, his eyes shining.
Yes, my lover uses me. And dear God, let him never ever stop.
*********************
|
Memories and observations, in no particular order:
* He sat me down, buckled me to the chair-legs at ankle and wrist, and made me look at myself in the mirror. I was wearing the dog collar with the engraved heart-shaped tag. He said, “Look how beautiful you are. You look like a porn star.” He pinched my nipples, he buzzed my clit with the vibrator, he mauled my breasts with his palms, he ordered my orgasms and he made me watch myself, even though I didn’t register much. All I could see was him.
* While I’m on my knees sucking him, he likes to grab me by the hair and rub his wet cock all over my face. He would have me stink of him. So would I.
* He enjoys skiing. This is his word for my straddling him and slip-sliding my cunt back and forth along his cock. We both slick up so nicely.
* When he bulled me, I felt his balls as they swung forward, brushing softly against me where he sank to the hilt.
* What a sweat we make. Does anyone lather up like we do, I wonder. How we revel in the exertion. How we grunt and howl! I think of Malory’s description of medieval hand-to-hand combat: they cam to-gydderes as two boars. The thud and slap of flesh in repeated collision. Frantic.
* He came in my mouth. Down my throat, in waves of liquid heat.
* I ended up with two sheet-burns from the bulling, one on my elbow and one on my knee. From lying in the crook of his arm afterwards, my hair smelled of his sweat, and my husband didn’t even notice.
************* |
When he opened the door and entered the executive suite she was there, all business, turning down the sheets on the far side, then bustling around the huge bed to the near side, plumping and replacing the snowy range of pillows along the headboard.
Her uniform was perfect. Just as he would have expected. Just as he had always wanted. He couldn’t decide which view he preferred: the black bodice buttoned to bursting across the sweet pair of apple-sized tits above the spotless apron with its ruffled edge, or the crisp bow behind, where the snug skirt cupped her firm round arse and revealed, when she reached to the middle of the bed with a little grunt, the shaded tops of sheer black stockings.
Stockings! He could have swooned. Stockings meant a garter belt and all sorts of naughtiness---a striptease? a lap-dance? God knows what delights a garter-belted woman might offer, what else she might be wearing. Panties or not, and what kind? Creamy Victorian satin? Those saucy ones that wedged themselves up into the crack and left the lower halves of the cheeks bare? A black lace thong? Something crotchless and perfectly sluttish, a la francaise? He closed his eyes and ached. He imagined her turning to him, smiling, unpinning her hair, unbuttoning, drawing up her skirt as she dipped into a slow undulating squat with her knees spread so obscenely wide he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
Admittedly, she was not young, but the more beautiful for that, he thought. Youth in women was highly over-rated. Beauty is as beauty does, and young women were just too young and too silly to know what they were about, let alone know what men were about. He preferred a woman seasoned in the arts of pleasuring a man, a woman who had done it all and knew from long experience what she wanted and how to get it. A woman utterly at home with her own lust and her own shamelessness.
He cleared his throat and she stood aside, shoulders back and tits upthrust, unconsciously pressing her apron flat over her thighs. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t see you there." She stepped forward, extending her hand respectfully. “May I take your jacket, sir?”
Oh God. She would be sure to notice. His erection was huge, monstrous. What a stonker she’d given him! Then again, he himself was no longer young and the generous cut of his trousers might conceal a multitude of sins. He took a chance.
“Yes. Thank you.” She helped him slip it off his shoulders. He glanced down in a mix of panic and despair not unmixed with abashed pride. His considerable thickness and length strained against the fine wool, and he was throbbing so hard he could barely see. There was nothing for it but to look her in the eye. He could not discern if she had noticed. Her gaze never seemed to leave his face, yet there was a knowing look in her eye and a smile playing around her lips.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
He swallowed Yes, there would be something else. There had to be something else or he would explode right there on the spot. He fished a banknote from his pocket, pressed it into her hand. A large crackling note, fresh and unwrinkled from the machine, a note equal to a month’s salary or more. Her eyes widened. His tongue was thick and dry in his mouth. “I’m looking for a very special service. Perhaps you can---direct me to a provider?”
The question hung in the air. The implication was, he hoped, clear. He was the soul of courtesy and discretion. He was not insulting her. He was most emphatically not soliciting her. He was merely asking her for advice, the value of which he indicated with handsome remuneration offered up-front and without obligation.
She frowned slightly. “The hotel policy is to provide everything in-house, sir. We are instructed to do our utmost to please our guests.” She looked up at him with a steady gaze, utterly professional. “What sort of service would you require, sir?”
“I would like----“ His courage failed him. He could not finish. Cursed fool! He stood there like a dolt, a moron, a dumb ox mired in miserable silence. When she finally tucked the bill into her apron pocket, he almost wept, almost fell to his knees with joy. “Perhaps you should sit down, sir?” she said. She helped him to a chair, where for a few heart-stopping seconds he watched her scurry about, dimming the lights, drawing the curtains, selecting something on the sound system. Something jazzy, something with a languid saxophone. Something perfect.
Just as he’d imagined, she turned to him, undid one button, then another, approached with a smile, hiked up her leg and settled herself astride his lap. He inhaled the warm scent of her, that maddening scent of a woman’s cunt, the promise of it, the hint of ecstasy, of flesh unleashed into flesh. She raised her arms and unpinned her hair, leaned forward to let it fall over his face.
She kissed him, opening his mouth with her tongue.
“Perhaps this is what you require, sir?” she whispered.
His head was swimming. Eyes closed, jaw slack, he fumbled a bit, then found what she was wearing under that skirt: dear God, what a delicious whore. And so eager! He had no trouble thrusting three straight up her, the horny little fuckslut! She squirmed and sighed.
“This is exactly what I require,” he growled, as if to himself.
She purred. “Good. Me too. Oh darling, I’m so glad you invited me along on this trip!”
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Oh luckiest of days, oh day most fortunate and blessed beyond measure: on Friday the thirteenth, my lover and I were together again at last in a sun-filled room, devouring each other in sweet rapture again. His tongue parted my cleft and his touch left sharp streaks of colour on my skin. I drank him down as he spurted, white-hot and salty, into my throat, his first time coming in a woman's mouth. He said, “That day on the mountain was the first time I ever ate a woman to orgasm.” Afterwards, we fed each other malted chocolate drops, and I rode him until he came again, hammering home upwards into me, exulting and jubilant. I swear our joy was palpable, I swear it shimmered in the air, I swear the sheets glistened with a million tiny sparks of it like tossed glitter, gilded and pink, iridescent in spirals and stars, the confetti'd detritus of our rolling, romping delight.
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Here's a special treat for all you well-read connoisseurs of literary filth, aka PT regular readers.
In honour of the 250th anniversary of the birth of Robert Burns, the world's most-beloved poet---(Oh come now, do you know one more adored? Can you name even ONE other poet whose birthday is celebrated annually around the world with muckle pomp and jollity wherever two or three of his countrymen, or their descendants aye unto the seventh and eighth generation, are gathered in his name for Burns Suppers? I rest my case!)---I offer for your enjoyment an exquisite collection of his obscene poetry entitled The Merry Muses of Caledonia .
There is much to delight here but I have to say I'm particularly partial to Come Rede Me, Dame, which Alan Cummings reads so engagingly for BBC Radio Scotland. Popularly known as "Nine Inch Will Please a Lady", this poem always reminds me of my lover, whose own cock, quite a "sonsy pintle" indeed, is well up to the task of---to borrow the roguish bard's own words from a letter to his friend Ainslie---delivering thundering escalades that electrify the very marrow of my bones.
Come rede me dame, come tell me dame,
My dame come tell me truly,
What length o' graith when weel ca'd hame
Will sair a woman duly?"
The carlin clew her wanton tail,
Her wanton tail sae ready,
"l learn'd a sang in Annandale,
Nine inch will please a lady."
"But for a koontrie cunt like mine,
In sooth we're not sae gentle;
We'll tak tway thumb-bread to the nine,
And that is a sonsy pintle.
Oh, Leeze me on, my Charlie lad,
I'll ne'er forget my Charlie,
Tway roaring handfuls and a daud
He nidged it in fu' rarely."
But wear fa' the laithron doup
And may it ne'er be thriving,
It's not the length that makes me loup
But it's the double drivin.
Come nidge me Tom, come nidge me Tom
Come nidge me, o'er the nyvel
Come lowse an lug your battering ram
And thrash him at my gyvel!
Ladies and gentlemen, A toast, to the Immortal Memory of Robert Burns!
Extra: For those of us who can't get enough, his letters will be posted here daily, on the days he wrote them.
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Want
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Jan. 21st, 2009 @ 05:59 pm
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I have to force myself not think about your body because when I think about your body I want you so much I can't even speak.
The only problem is that forcing myself not to think about your body never works for long because you slip back into my mind in so many ways, in memory, in fantasy, in numberless little pseudo-fictions, in half-formed journal posts that slip away into daydreams.
For example, the other night: you had me trussed, clamped, and pegged, and you let me watch you as you undressed, and when you were naked you came to the bed, and as prelude, just to tease me, just to make me squirm harder, you slid only the plummy tip of your cock between my lips, and you let me taste you, and your fist was knotted in my hair so I couldn't have you all, all at once.
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In the bookshop: see that woman over there at the bestseller table? She’s been standing there for some minutes, absorbed in a recent prize-winning novel by a new writer, smiling abstractedly to herself as she flips through it.
She might be looking for a good read, for herself or a matronly friend, or she might be browsing to pass the time while she waits for someone. But she’s not. She’s remembering the first time she read that book, piece-meal in email, as he wrote it and sent it to her for the detailed critiques he then gleefully ignored because they didn’t count because she loved him.
She’s remembering the first time he called her, the first time he kissed her, the first time he fucked her----see how her smile broadens and her eye twinkles? It was a rather fumbling and frantic near-disaster on the floor of his living room! They were so new at this extra-marital business then. But practice made perfect.
The day he fucked her outdoors on top of the hill that dominates the skyline of this place, the hill you can see for miles from everywhere.
Their first hotel afternoon. All the ones that followed.
The first time he bent her over on the bed and took her ass: the sensation of his hard cock penetrating that unfamiliar inward space, his moving in as she edged backwards, the thickness of him, the eye-popping hugeness of him, how he opened her wider and deeper than she had ever dreamed possible, how time stood still as she hung there trembling and came helplessly all around him.
How he made himself the solid core of her.
She’s been staring at the same page for several minutes now, without seeing it: it’s blank except for the dedication. Smiling still, she blinks---tears?---, puts the book down, and walks out without buying anything, her face aglow.
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