Plum – Wank Wednesday

Before you read this, let me just apologise for it.  If you’re a sensitive soul, you might want to have some tissues handy.  Not because of the filth, but because it’s just a bit, well, teary.  If it’s any consolation, I had to blink a bit myself when I wrote it.  I’ve shoe-horned in the plum reference a bit, but I reckon it just about works.  See what you think, anyway.

 

It’s my submission for this week’s WankWednesday prompt, which you can read more about here -

 

I’d joined the Resistance as an idealist. I believed in the freedom that we stood for, and our righteous cause against the Alliance who occupied our world. I think we’d all been idealists then. Freedom. Destiny. Comradeship. They were big words, powerful words, important words, and we used them freely. But that had been a long time ago. We were dirty now, ragged, hungry and scarred. Those of us who were left had all seen friends die. We’d all seen new faces come and go. Surviving the first few weeks was the worst. If you got through that, you considered yourself hardened. A veteran, almost. And after that, things got easier to deal with. You got cold. You learned to shut out the things you did, the things you had to do, and make them a part of someone else. You became that other person. Someone who wasn’t you. You learned to hope and pray that the person you were before you joined was still there, somewhere, unscathed, and when this was all over you could get rid of this new person, and go back.

 

After three years, I was beginning to think I’d never be able to go back. And like all the other long-timers, I’d started to see that we were no better than them, really. In some ways we were worse. They knew what they were, but the people who controlled us were pretending to be about something else. Those important words – freedom, destiny and comradeship were still used, but not by us. We’d outgrown them.

 

I’d done things I wasn’t proud of. We all had. Ok, there were times when we were proud. At the beginning, shooting down a drop-ship, or destroying an installation, that made us swell with pride, but then we started to think about the people who wouldn’t be going back to their families, about the people whose loved ones we were taking from them, and we had to either blank that out, or go mad with guilt. Or stop fighting, and we couldn’t do that. As a result, over the years, those of us who were still alive had become cold. Inhuman. Machines, who did what we had to do, because it had to be done by somebody. We killed. We sabotaged, and poisoned, we assassinated, we booby-trapped, we maimed, some of the time we fought secretly, other times openly. It was a war. And always we fought.

 

From the day I joined, I hadn’t seen my home, or my family. I didn’t know if they were still alive. I’d been fighting for three years, and never had a break. And so during a messy retreat, I realised that I was not only emotionally drained, psychologically as well as physically scarred, and just plain exhausted – I was also lonely. I was desperate for some ordinary human contact. For a conversation that wasn’t about bombs or guns or supply lines or tactics or escape routes. I craved a woman’s touch, above anything else, that tender feeling of a soft fingertip on my face.

 

We’d been running for half a day, back across ground that was supposed to have been ours. We’d abandoned the vehicles, acquired new ones, abandoned those, and now we were dispersing on foot, aiming to regroup in the hills. We’d gathered what supplies we could from some patchy farmland that hadn’t been completely destroyed, and planned to hide for a few days, until the Alliance pushed past us, and then carry out guerrilla attacks from behind their lines.

 

Luckily, I was in the middle of a small shanty town when I heard the sound of approaching jets. Alliance craft, probably advance recon, and I ducked into one of the little huts made from corrugated metal and plastic sheets. A middle-aged woman sat in the corner, mending some item of clothing, and a younger woman, presumably her daughter was brewing tea. They both jumped as I burst through their doorway, my rifle slung across my shoulder. I put my finger to my lips and made the sign that told them I was friendly, and meant no harm. I crouched where I was as the jets passed overhead and roared into the distance, and they relaxed a little.

“You have food?” the younger woman said.

I nodded, and indicated my backpack. She smiled, and handed the tea to the other woman, and then beckoned me through a doorway at the back of the small room.

“Come.” She said quietly, disappearing into the gloom beyond.

I followed and let my eyes adjust to the semi-darkness. The room was only just big enough to hold us and the tiny bed that I could see. She looked up at me, desperation in her eyes.

“You said you had food.”

“Sorry! Yes..” I unslung my rifle and leaned it against the wall, taking off my backpack and rooting in it for the bag of supplies. I gave her some packets of hard bread, and some dried meat that I had, and then found the fruit that we’d picked. A few dismal apples, and a small handful of plums.

 

Her eyes lit up.

“Plums!”

She grabbed one of them, looking at me with a wide smile, and began to eat it greedily, not wasting a drop of the juice, and carefully sucking every last bit of soft flesh from the stone, which she placed on a shelf. She threw her arms around my neck and began kissing me, warm and deep, and I could taste the fruit on her mouth. The sudden contact with another human being – an actual human, not somebody I was fighting with or against – was overwhelming, and I felt hot tears on my cheeks as I held her. Unable to control myself, I began pulling at her dress, trying to lift it over her head. She was naked underneath it, and as I ran my fingers over her slender body, she pulled at my shirt, exposing my chest, and then turning her attention to my trousers.

 

I hadn’t even noticed that my cock was hard, but she dragged my shorts down and began stroking it, hard, fast and rough. I didn’t care. I was being touched, by someone, and it felt unbelievably good. I practically collapsed onto the small bed, breathless, sitting with my back against the wall, and she climbed astride my lap, kissing my mouth and running her hands over my body, trailing her fingers gently along each of my scars, touching my face, scratching my shoulders. I could do nothing but hold her tenderly. I just wanted to feel her skin against my hands. I ran them down her back, over the curve of her arse and down her thighs. I could feel her bones in places, these people had probably been scratching a living through the war, surviving as best they could for ages, and it was probably over a year since she’d had a decent meal, if she could still remember what a decent meal was.

 

She lowered herself onto my cock with a smile, and her eyes flickered shut for a moment. I moaned at the sudden pleasure, so intense it was almost painful. I tried not to think about this sudden random union of two people who didn’t even know each others’ names, and concentrated instead on the way her skin felt, the way her breathing sounded, the way my cock throbbed inside her. Holding her by her hips, I helped rhythmically lifting and lowering her, and after a minute or so, began to move our position so that she was on her back, and took over. As she wrapped her legs around my waist I thrust deep inside her and she cried out. I couldn’t tell if it was pleasure or discomfort, and I’m ashamed to say that at that moment I didn’t care. She didn’t stop me though, and I carried on. It was raw, animal sex, in stark contrast to the tenderness of touching her skin before. I pulled my twitching cock out of her, and grabbed her by the waist, turning her onto her front and lifting her to her knees. She made an appreciative noise and lowered her shoulders, pressing her face against the thin pillow and arching her arse up to meet me. I held her firmly by the hips again, and carefully guided the tip of my cock between her damp lips. She pushed back against me slightly, and I slid inside, all the way, with a single stroke. Her moan was long and low, and I felt her tighten around me.

 

Gripping her firmly, my fingers digging into her skin, I fucked her as hard as I could, fast and urgent, focussed on nothing but my own climax. It didn’t take long. My last few strokes were sharp and hard, and made her cry out, and I grunted loudly as I came inside her, my cock throbbing and twitching as I emptied myself. I pulled my cock out, and watched a small amount of my come dribble out of her as she lowered her hips to the lumpy mattress. I began to lie beside her, and she turned to me, her eyes welling with tears. I pulled her close to embrace her, but she pushed me away.

“You must go. Hide. In the hills!”

“But…”

“Go. If they find you, they’ll kill us all.”

“Come with me.” I said, simply.

“I can’t. My mother. Now go! And thank you.”

I wasn’t sure whether she was thanking me for fucking her, or for the food, but I pulled my trousers back up and got my stuff together as quickly as I could. She was sitting on the bed crying as I left, and I turned in the doorway.

“I’ll come back for you.”

“You won’t.” She said.

“I will, I promise.”

“You shouldn’t make promises. You might be killed, and I’ll be waiting forever for you to come back. You won’t come back, you can’t promise it. Now go.”

“I swear to you, I’ll come back and make sure you’re safe.” Even though the words sounded hollow, I knew that I would. I wasn’t promising it to her, I was promising it to me.

 

We regrouped in the hills, and hid out in secret caves for two days while the Alliance forces passed us. And then we received the message that our leadership had been almost completely destroyed. The war was essentially over. What Resistance authority remained ordered all fighters to surrender. The Alliance had promised a complete amnesty for anybody who did, and promised we’d be treated as regular war veterans and pensioned as such. It felt unreal. I could go home. I could live again. The man I’d been before I joined could come back, if he was still there. But there was something I had to do first, a promise to myself that I had to keep.

 

It took me half a day to get back to the shanty town from the hills. Or what remained of it. The Alliance had flattened it as they passed, presumably looking for any Resistance fighters. Everywhere, the little tin shacks had been destroyed, piles of broken furniture and belongings, some of them smouldering. I picked my way through the ruins, between the displaced and homeless, until I found her. She was kneeling next to what remained of where she’d lived, crying silently, her face a mask of such total desolation that I could hardly bear to look at her. As I took her in my arms she beat her hands against my chest and began to wail. I let her. I stood and held her and let her grief finally spill out. When she finished, I helped her dig out her mother’s body, and we buried it with the others in the fields beyond the town. As I helped her search through the mess to rescue what belongings we could find, my hand chanced upon the plum stone, and she cried all over again.

 

We planted it in our garden, and years later, our children grew up looking forward to the taste of plums every autumn.

Kidnapped…

This is probably going to run to two or three parts – I got a bit carried writing the first bit…

 

I got the job through a girl I was seeing at the time.  She and a couple of her friends wanted to have a “glamourous” photo session (and for “glamourous” I naturally read “sexy”).  With the aid of sat-nav, I managed to arrive at the address they’d given me pretty much on time – a reasonably large house just outside a smallish village, about 30 miles out from the city.  It looked like a pretty old place, Regency in style, and I was looking forward to how the light would work inside, with the large high windows and the lofty ceilings.  It looked as if there’d be plenty of rooms to use, and I hoped there’d be old furniture, and that the decor inside would be in keeping with the house.  The girl I knew answered the door, and then gave me a hand in with all my gear.  I’d brought quite a bit with me, neatly packed into trolleys, that made transporting easier.  Once we’d unloaded, I locked the van and she brought me through to a large farmhouse-type kitchen with a real flagstone floor, and introduced me to her two friends.

She’s about the same height as me, maybe slightly taller, and her two friends were shorter.  One was blonde, and one was slightly red-headed with an American accent.  They both had fantastic curves, sexy eyes, and wicked giggles, and within ten minutes I was pretty confident that we were going to have a fun time.  We picked a room that we thought would be good to start with – quite large, with a baby grand piano, a sofa, a chaise longue, and a few antique wooden dining chairs, and I set about setting up lights and things while they went to get changed.

The room was at the back of the house, and despite the large windows, it wasn’t overly bright, which meant I’d be able to control the light more easily for some fun and moody results.  I was just taking some test shots to make sure things were good when the three of them came giggling through the door.  They were dressed in bright corsets and big ruffled skirts – they looked like they’d escaped from the Moulin Rouge.  If it hadn’t been for the fact that it wasn’t even lunchtime yet, I would’ve thought they were a bit tipsy, and we got into the photoshoot straight away.  As I predicted, they were brilliant fun – comfortable and relaxed, posing easily on the furniture and each other.  I suggested things, they suggested things, and to be honest, I hardly needed to direct them at all.  I was already on my second memory card by the time two of them skipped off to the kitchen, returning a minute or two later with a good-szied picnic, and wine.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t turned on.  Three women, clearly confident, happy with themselves, relaxed and having a good time was proving quite powerful.  And I think the fact that they were happy and felt sexy made them even more sexy.  Maybe having their pictures taken, posing and laughing and having me spend the best part of a day constantly telling them how gorgeous they were helped.  Once or twice I’d wondered if they’d noticed what must’ve been a fairly obvious bulge in the front of my jeans, but if they had, they’d kept it to themselves.

The dynamic between the three of them was one of such obvious fun that I carried on shooting pictures while we ate, and after we’d polished off two bottles of wine, the shoot carried on.   By mid afternoon, I figured I had a more than enough pictures to work with, so we called it a day and I cleared up my lights and stuff.  Aware of the several glasses of wine I’d had with lunch, they suggested I waited until the evening before driving home, and I had to agree that they made a good point.  I put all the rest of my stuff in the van, and brought in my laptop instead, and started dumping the images to it from the cards.  We sat for quite a while going through the images and sorting the wheat from the chaff.  Their delight at seeing how well the pictures had come out, even without any processing was evident, and once we’d picked a few favourites, I set about processing a few of them.

By the time the evening came, I suggested it was probably ok for me to drive, and they agreed.  When I pointed out that they were still wearing their costumes from the shoot, they laughed long and hard, leaning on each other and hugging me tightly, kissing my cheeks.  We arranged to meet up again in a week or two to go over the finished pictures and sort out what prints they needed, said our farewells, and then I walked on out into the cool evening air and got into my van.  I turned the key, but nothing happened.  Nothing.  Nada.  No lights, nothing.  I tried again, but still nothing.  Pulling the lever to pop the engine cover, I got out and had a look, but I couldn’t see anything amiss.  Not that I’d really know – looking into a dead engine bay is more of a reflex than anything else.  I got back in and tried the key a few times, but still nothing.  Shit happens – and there’s a reason for having AA membership, although when I checked my phone, there was no signal.  That’s the only problem with doing photoshoots out here in the sticks.  I got out of the van again and walked back to the house, pulling on the old-fashioned chain to ring the doorbell.

It was opened a few minutes later by the blonde woman.  She was only half-dressed, and I had to swallow a little before I could speak.  She’d got rid of the skirt, and was wearing a bright purple corset with matching knickers (which I’d seen repeatedly during the day anyway) and black fishnet stockings.
“Problem?” she said, looking a little concerned.
“Yeah.” I said, finally having opened my throat. “My,er, my van won’t start. It’s not doing anything at all.  I’ve got no mobile signal here, could I maybe use your phone to call the AA?”
“Of course!” she said with a smile, and ushered me into the hallway, closing the door behind me.  The redhead was just heading upstairs, also minus her skirt, and I definitely felt my cock harden at the sight of her arse wiggling in sexy red knickers as she went.
“Van won’t start.” The blonde said, as she looked back over her shoulder to see why I was back in the hallway, “Going to call the AA.”
She nodded and carried on, and then the blonde woman indicated a room off the hallway.
“There’s a phone in there.” She said, “On the table by the window.”
Thanks! I won’t be long.”
“I’ll put the kettle on and make some tea.” She said, and closed the door with a click behind me.

I walked over to the table where the phone was – one of those old-fashioned ones that’s been adapted to work with modern exchanges, and picked up the receiver of the phone.  No sound.  I dialled a few numbers, but still nothing happened.  I guessed that the phone was broken, and they didn’t realise, but when I looked more closely, I saw that it was just an ornament, and didn’t even have a cable.  Nice joke – she was probably giggling in the kitchen, where they had a regular cordless phone.  Walking back over to the door, I tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge.  I rattled it a few times, to no avail.
“Hello?” I called out. “Hello?  I think the door’s stuck!”
There was no answer, so I banged on the door a few times and called again.  Still no answer.  I was starting to feel a mild sense of panic now, and walked over to the window.  Looking outside, I could see my van parked in the driveway, but there was no way of getting any of the windows open.  I supposed that at a push I could break one with a chair, but that was stupid – you can’t go breaking peoples’ windows just because the door’s stuck and they didn’t hear you calling.  As I was looking out of the window, there was a click of a key, and the door opened.  The American redhead came in, alone, still in her Moulin Rouge underwear, one hand behind her back, and pushed the door shut.  She stood against it, obviously giving me no way of getting past her.
“We think you should stay with us for a while.” She said simply.
“You do?”
“We do.  You might want to take your jeans off.”
I smiled at that.  This was a joke, and although it was starting to go a bit far, I could still see the funny side.  Just.
“Why might I want to do that?” I said, playing along.
“Because I don’t want you in them any more.  You can either take them off, or I can handcuff you, and cut them off.”
I laughed at that, and stayed where I was, one hand in my pocket.  She was doing a very good job of keeping a straight face.
“You wouldn’t.” I said.
She took her hand from behind her back, and showed me a pair of handcuffs.  They didn’t look like costume ones.  They looked worryingly real and police-issue.  She reached back behind her and opened the door just a crack again.
“Liz? Can you bring me the scissors?” she called out, her eyes still on me.
I quickly measured the distance between us in my head.  Eight paces, I reckoned, maybe fewer, and if I bolted quickly, I might be able to push her out of the way and get through the door.  But what then?  I hadn’t noticed what locks they had on the front door, and I didn’t know if I could get out of the house.  And if I could, where could I go?  The van was useless, and although I could maybe start to run to the village, they had a couple of cars parked in front of the house too, so I wouldn’t stand a chance.  I was running out of options, and even as I was considering what I could maybe do, the blonde woman came into the room, along with my some-time girlfriend, carrying a large pair of dressmaking shears.
“He doesn’t want to take his jeans off himself.” The American explained.
My girlfriend folded her arms and smirked, as the blonde passed the shears to the American.
“Now, ladies…” I began, “There’s really no need to…”
“Take them off.” The American said, taking a step towards me. “One last chance.”

I considered things for a second, maybe two, and then, looking from face to face, I kicked off my shoes, and undid my jeans.
“Really?” I said, “I’m waiting for the punchline.”
“No punchline, darling.” The blonde woman purred as my girlfriend continued grinning, “Just get those fucking jeans off.  Now.”
She was clearly not messing about, and feeling distinctly uneasy, I pulled my jeans off and stepped out of them.
“Untidy!” the American snapped. “Fold them up and put them on the chair.”
Aware that my cock was bulging against my shorts, I picked up my jeans and did as I was told, placing them neatly on the chair.
“And the t-shirt.” It was the first time I’d heard my girl speak since I’d come back to the house.
I didn’t need to say anything – I gave her a look that said “Seriously?”, to which she just nodded.  In a way which said “Yeah, seriously.”
I pulled my t-shirt over my head and was about to drop it on the floor when I saw the American raise an eyebrow.  Quickly, I folded it up and put it on top of my jeans.
“Socks and shorts too!” she said, “Quickly!  Chop chop!”
“Oh come on ladies, this is ridiculous!” I protested, but the American simply held up the shears and snipped the air with them.
“Ok, ok!” I held out my hands to placate her, and took off my socks, placing them with my other clothes, and then slightly shyly pulling down my shorts and doing the same.  I stood up then, completely naked, holding my hands across in front of my cock, partly to hold it down, and partly to cover it up.
“Oh, that’s better,” the blonde said, nodding, and turning to my girlfriend “You were right, he does look better naked.
My girlfriend smiled and walked over to me, stroking my shoulders and running her hand down my chest in that way that made me shiver all over, and leaning in she whispered in my ear.
“They like you.  Be nice.  You’ll be fine.”
She looked back at the blonde, who nodded and walked over, circling me slowly as my girlfriend backed away.  I felt her drag her nails lightly down my back, and squeeze my arse.  I nearly lost my balance when she gave me a considerably more than firm slap on one cheek, and then squeezed it again.
“Nice.” She said, “I said you were lucky.”
She put her other hand on my other buttock then, and began to fondle and caress them firmly, as the American woman put down the scissors and the handcuffs, and walked over to us.  She took hold of each of my wrists, not harshly, but certainly firmly, and started to pull my hands away from my cock.  I resisted, but she looked up into my eyes and gently shook her head.  I let my arms be moved to my side, and she took my shaft in one hand, giving it a squeeze.  It was as if she was measuring it with her hand, checking the length, and the thickness, and the weight.  I gasped as she slid her fingers over the tip, realising that it was already slightly moist.  Hell, I hadn’t even realised how turned on I was getting by this, but at her gentle touch my legs nearly buckled underneath me.

A few thoughts about Micropoetry

Those of you who follow me on Twitter will probably have noticed a regular dribble of micropoetry in my timeline.  (And if you don’t follow me on Twitter, WHY don’t you follow me on Twitter?  Stop reading this and go and follow me on Twitter.  Actually,  no, read this, and THEN go and follow me on Twitter.)  I can’t even remember now how I got into doing that.  It’s entirely possible that I used it to put something I was thinking into words, and rather enjoyed it.

It’s a challenge, and one which I enjoy.  Painting a picture with words, but limited to 140 characters.  It’s not always easy – sometimes a poem will form in my head almost immediately.  Sometimes I’ll just be inspired by a single word, and feel the need to write a poem around it and the emotions and sensations that it conjures up.  Sometimes there’s something I want to say, and condensing it into those few lines is really hard, and can take ages before what was just an idea is ready to take to its own wings, so to speak, and display its tail-feathers to anybody who happens to slide past my Twitter feed.

So I enjoy the challenge, and the way the process of the writing gets my creative juices flowing.  The thing that surprised me to start with was how much other people enjoyed reading it.  Obviously, I wouldn’t make it public if I didn’t want it to be read, but the comments that I get regularly (and bless you all for those!) just make me want to do it more.  This morning, someone said that it’s a shame they’re not all on a blog in one place, so that people can read them.

I thought about that for a minute – to an extent, I like the idea, it would mean they’d be preserved, and it would make it easier for people to read them all.  But I like the fact that they feel a bit ephemeral.  My micropoems are very much of their time.  They’re a product of a distinct and often fleeting moment in time for me.  If it takes me much more than an hour to think of something to write, it doesn’t get written, because it’s already a stale idea for me.  I like the idea that they fly past, maybe touching someone’s mind, or heart, as they go, fading into memory as time passes.

In fact (and this is how it works sometimes) I just wrote a micropoem from that previous paragraph.  I wanted to boil that sentiment down into the space of a tweet.  If you missed it:
My words slip past,
Ethereal,
Fleeting,
I release them,
In the hope that they touch your mind,
Or your soul,
As they pass.

And that’s how it works for me – in that moment, the poem means something, it is what it is.  Written and preserved here (and if it didn’t have this explanation), it somehow has a lessened impact.  For some reason, it feels to me a bit like a joke – once you’ve had to explain WHY the joke is funny, it stops being funny.

And if, by chance, someone did want to look back through all of my little micropoems, they’re all on my timeline anyway – you just have to flick through the pages of nonsense, smutty suggestions, poor jokes and blog notifications to find them.  They’re in there, waiting for you to see them, I promise.

How I Learned To Love The Crop..

I’ll call her Sarah, although of course it’s not her real name.  I met her online, and after we’d chatted for a while, we decided we should meet, since we lived fairly close to each other.  We hit it off as well as we’d thought we would – so much so, that she ended up taking me back to her house.  I’ll leave the rest of the afternoon to your imaginations.  It was Sarah who taught me that I had significant dominant tendencies.

Now, it didn’t really come as a surprise to me.  I’d known for years that I was turned on by the idea of corporal punishment.  I can clearly remember one afternoon at home, probably in my late teens, I changed channel on the tv, and happened to catch ten minutes of an early Helena Bonham-Carter film – Lady Jane, in which she plays the historical figure Lady Jane Grey, (the Nine Days Queen), who was forced into marriage to maintain the security of the British throne after the death of Henry VIII (that’s enough of the history lesson!).  How was she persuaded to marry someone she didn’t want to?  From what I saw of the film, it was mainly by birching.  The birching scene itself isn’t really very long, and it was probably not intended to be sexy (although I maintain that HB-C can make just about anything sexy, even the monkey-suit she wore for Planet of the Apes), but in that short space of time it left me flushed, slightly breathless, and with an erection that demanded immediate attention.  My late-teenage years were before the advent of Sky Plus, so the three quarters of an hour which I subsequently spent in my room caused me to miss the rest of the film.  I still have no idea how it turns out.  Actually, I’m fibbing – I know that Queen Mary ended up on the throne and executed Lady Jane when she refused to renounce her Protestant faith, but not from watching the film.  I suspect that if I tried to watch it again, that scene would probably distract me as much as it did then, although this time I’d be able to pause it and still see the end.

So, in addition to sparking an enormous crush on HB-C, which has stayed with me to this very day, I blame that film for awakening a sexual interest in corporal punishment.  It was probably latent anyway, but that’s the earliest trigger I can point my finger at accurately.

Where was I? Oh, that’s right – Sarah (still not her real name).  We met up a few times after that first afternoon, and always had a thoroughly delightful time.  One day, at her house, she asked me if I knew that I was a Dom.  I didn’t really get what she meant, so she explained it a bit, and told me that she could tell.  We talked about it for a while, then she told me that she thought I’d look good in plain black trousers and a white shirt, then sat me down on the sofa and we watched “Secretary”.  It’s a fairly amusing film, and I was starting to see what she was on about.  The next time I went to see her, just to make her smile I decided to wear black trousers and a white shirt, because she’d mentioned it.  When I sent her a text to let her know I was on my way, she replied that the door was on the latch and I should let myself in when I arrived.  She followed that up with a short list of misdemeanours that she’d apparently committed that morning.

I was intrigued.

When I arrived, and went into her porch, I found that her front door was indeed on the latch.  I let myself in and closed it behind me, and called out to see where she was.  There was no reply, and as I walked into the open living room, she was kneeling in the middle of the floor, wearing a dark green wraparound dress, her face downcast, and her arms out in front of her, holding a riding crop on her open palms.

Now, I don’t think I’d ever even so much as held a riding crop up until this point, let alone considered using one on a person.  That’s not strictly true, I’d almost certainly fantasised about using one on a person, but I’d never actually done it.  In the instant I saw her though, I was incredibly turned on.  I could feel my cock growing, creating a significant bulge in my loose-fitting black jeans.  I still have no idea what came over me, but I just kind of slipped into character – no idea what character, or where it came from, but it seemed to work.  Taking the crop from her outstretched hands, I swished it through the air, feeling the weight of it, and the way it flexed.  I do love the sound a crop or a cane makes in the air.  I walked around her a few times, swishing it, and thwacking it against the side of my leg.  I made it look like that was all part of this stern master thing I was trying to pull off, but mainly I was trying to work out just how hard I should do it, never having done it before.

Now I think about it, she must’ve been taking a pretty big risk.  It’s more flattering now that I realise that than it was at the time.  I must have a trustworthy face.

Anyway, I quickly came up with a plan, and giving my voice a tone which I hoped was stern, flat, and very slightly cold, I ordered her to stand up.  She did so immediately, and without speaking, smoothing her dress down and then clasping her hands in front of her, her eyes still looking down.  Standing in front of her, I took hold of her chin, and turned her face to mine, surprising her with a deep hard kiss.  Breaking our lips apart, I walked around her again, running my hands over her, feeling the line of the edge of her knickers, and the corset that she was wearing beneath the dress.  I realised that she was wearing it for me because we’d discussed corsets a couple of times.  I grabbed a chair from under the dining table and slid it along the polished floor to the middle of the room, ordering her to bend over it and grip the seat.  As before, she did as she was told obediently, silently, and without hesitation.  I told her that I was going to give her six strokes – it seemed like a traditional number, and I didn’t want to go for any more given my novice status.

I gave the crop another few flicks through the air, and then lined it up across her bottom, stroking it back and forth against the green fabric of her dress.  Drawing it back, I delivered the first stroke with a little force and a flick of my wrist.  It made a lovely satisfying swish, and a delightful noise as it landed, although she barely reacted.  I took my time lining up the next one, and made it a little harder, hoping I’d find where her boundary was.  The only noise she made then was a quiet “Mmf” as the crop landed across her arse.

Clearly, the dress was providing entirely too much protection, so I reached down and lifted the hem, raising it over her hips to expose her from the waist down.  I could just see the bottom of a champagne-coloured corset, and her smooth round buttocks were covered with matching satin knickers.  A few inches of pale bare thigh showed above flesh-coloured hold-ups.  It was a delightful sight, and I felt my cock twitch a little more.  Lining the crop up on her lovely arse again, I delivered a harder stroke, and this time got a more enjoyable response, as she drew in a sharp gasp, her buttocks clenching and unclenching.  I waited until she was still before giving her a fourth stroke, which had much the same result as before, but with a little more clenching and unclenching.

“Now,” I said calmly, “Let’s have the last two without these knickers in the way.”

She arched her back slightly as I hooked my fingers under the elastic of the knickers, and slowly pulled them down as far as her knees.  I did like the sight of her arse anyway, and obviously this wasn’t the first time I’d seen it, but it was the first time I’d seen it in this deliciously hot situation, her legs straight, her pale round buttocks perfectly presented to me.  I wanted to prolong things, so I stepped back and gave the crop several more swishes through the air.  Each time I did so, I saw her tense slightly, as if expecting the impact.

Finally, the fifth stroke left a pink line across both cheeks, and her reaction was far more satisfying.  Her load gasp was followed with a moan, and she shifted her weight from foot to foot.  Her breathing was heavy and excited as I stroked the end of the crop over her skin, and when I gave her the final stroke, she at last cried out, arching her back and lifting herself up onto her toes.  The line which the crop had left was beautiful – perfectly positioned halfway down her buttocks, stretched across both of them, dark pink and slightly raised.  She gasped again as I knelt down and ran my tongue along it, sliding my hand between her thighs and feeling how wet she was.

I let her stand up then, and still standing behind her, I unfastened the single ribbon which held her dress in place, unwrapped it and let it fall to the floor, taking in the sight of her lovely curves, squeezed into her tight corset.  I sat on the sofa and told her to turn to face me.
“You’re very wet.” I said, quietly.
“I know. I’m sorry sir.” She replied, her eyes downcast again and her hands behind  her back.
“It’s alright.” I reassured her, “Touch yourself for me.”
“Yes sir.  Thank you sir.”
She slid her knickers all the way down to her ankles and stepped out of them, standing with her legs slightly apart, one hand between her thighs.  I could see her fingers moving, sometimes rubbing, sometimes sliding inside.  I leaned back on the sofa, casually rubbing my rigid cock through my jeans – I was looking forward to taking her upstairs soon so that we could fuck.  As she looked at me, her body began to shiver, her chest heaving and her breathing becoming irregular.  Suddenly she moaned uncontrollably, her legs shaking and her eyes closing.  She reached out with her free hand and grabbed the back of the dining chair to steady herself as her climax shook her body.

Almost instantly, she gasped, and stood still, clasping her hands in front of her and looking down at the floor.  I must confess I was a little confused by it, but then she said quietly.
“Sorry Sir, I forgot to ask permission to come.”

I almost forgot about just how much I wanted to fuck her right then, and slid back into this character that I’d somehow created for myself.
“I’m very disappointed in you.” I said sternly, “Now get upstairs and kneel on the bed.  Wait for me in that position and do not move.”
“Yes Sir!” she practically squeaked, and leaving her knickers on the floor, she ran upstairs. I  could hear her getting up onto the bed from the living room, and the temptation to follow her straight up was almost overwhelming.  But I reminded myself that she wanted, or needed to be punished, and I decided that I’d continue to make her wait.  I stayed on the sofa for a little while, just looking around the room, then I picked up her knickers and examined them, enjoying the way they felt against my hands.  I occupied myself for a little while by looking through her varied collection of books and dvds, and after about ten minutes, I decided it was time to continue.

I took my shoes and socks off, and left them in the living room, then picked up her knickers and the crop  and crept up the stairs, as quietly as I could.  From the landing I could see into her bedroom – she was obediently kneeling up on the bed, facing the wall, with her hands clasped on top of her head.  She’d taken the corset and hold-ups off, and all her gorgeous curves were displayed.  I admired the shape of her for a while, and then remembered what I’d decided I was about to do.  I tiptoed to the bedroom doorway, still behind her and out of sight.  When I spoke, she nearly jumped out of her skin with surprise.
“You left your knickers downstairs.” I said, and tossed them onto the bed beside her.
“Sorry sir.” She replied quietly.
“So that’s carelessly discarding items of clothing, and coming without permission.  How many strokes is that, Sarah?”
“Twelve sir.  Six for each.”

I was a little surprised – I’d only planned to give her another six, but since she felt she deserved twelve, I figured I couldn’t disappoint her.  Besides, cropping her sexy arse was driving a massive crescendo of arousal that almost had me shaking with lust.  Holding the crop as steadily as I could, I brushed it lightly over her cheeks, taking careful aim, before drawing it back and pausing just for a moment.  She was holding her breath, I could see, waiting for the stroke, so I waited a little longer.  Just long enough for her to have to start breathing out, and then I brought the crop in across her skin, making her gasp and cry out.  She almost lost her balance, but wiggled herself straight, her hands still clasped on her head.
“Aaaaah!  One, thank you Sir.”
I wished I’d thought of ordering her to count them, although I was glad she’d taken the initiative.  Each stroke left a gorgeous dark pink mark this time, some of them nicely raised, and I paused each time, waiting for her to regain her composure so that she could count.  It took quite a while, and by the end she was shaking.  A few times I noticed her straining not to take one of her hands away from her head to rub her bottom, which must’ve been stinging like mad.  She wasn’t crying, but she was shivering, and her breathing was heavy and irregular, and her arse and the backs of her thighs were criss-crossed with lines.

Still naked, she went downstairs and made us a cup of tea, which she brought back up to the bedroom, and after we’d drunk it, she slowly and thoughtfully undressed me.  The sex we had that afternoon was explosive, to say the least.  Enthusiastic, noisy, and very enjoyable, it’s a good job it was the middle of the day, while her neighbours were at work.  Later that night, when I got home, I found that she’d taken a photograph of the marks I’d left, and emailed it to me.  I still have it somewhere.

So, that’s how I learned to love the riding crop.  Now, I wonder if I can get a copy of “Lady Jane” from Amazon…

Music and me, music and sex.

I was having a conversation with someone last night, and a certain piece of music was mentioned.  A sexy piece of music.  It made me start thinking about the way I associate music with sex.

 

I think it’s pretty clear that I like sex.  Actually, no, I love sex.  I really fucking love sex.  What might be less well known is my love of music.  I’ve always loved music.  Many kinds of music – I’ve never tied myself to a genre.  My music collection (physical and digital) is really rather eclectic.  Come and have a look through my CD collection and you’ll find opera, movie soundtracks, classical music, country music, folk music, rock, thrash, jazz, funk, hip-hop, acid house, ambient, techno, even some pop.  I could go on listing what you’d find, but it would make this a ridiculously long post, and you probably get the general idea already.

So, do you – like me – mix sex and music?

There are barely any points during my day which don’t have some kind of soundtrack.  I have music behind me when I get up and start getting ready for the day ahead.  While I’m in the shower I’m generally singing, and the radio is on while I get dressed and eat breakfast.  I hate to drive without some music playing, and when I get to the office, I usually find myself quietly humming to myself, or hearing music playing in my head.  Given that constant soundtrack, it’s probably unsurprising that I like having sex with music playing too.  Obviously, it’s not always practical to have music playing, so in those cases, my mental MP3 player once again springs into action.

My sister, bless her, is the undoubted queen of the TMI conversation.  Thanks mainly to alcohol, I know far more things about my sister than a brother generally wants to.  She lives abroad, so I don’t get to see her all that often, but on one of my visits to her, she started extolling the virtues of sex to music, and in particular one song.  Namley “Smooth” (Rob Thomas and Santana, if you’re not familiar with it).  Now, I know the song, and quite like it, but it doesn’t feel like a sexual song to me.  Perhaps if I was a glossy-magazine tanned and toned hunk, living in Miami with my super-hot snake-hipped Cuban girlfriend, then Mr Thomas and Mr Santana would quite likely provided the music for at least one fuck a week, but I’m not.  I’m British, pale-skinned and a bit scrawny.  And the song doesn’t really suit the way I feel about sex anyway.

So I got to thinking about the songs that make me think of sex.  They’re either songs that turn me on in some way, or they’re songs that I’ve ended up having sex to, that have stuck in my mind.  And when I listed them, I felt that there was a kind of contextual thread to them that went beyond the fact that they’re all on my “fuck songs” list.  There are musical similarities, either in tone, or sound, or just the general feel.  I can’t help thinking that they somehow sum up the way I feel about sex, or the way I enjoy it, and the way it makes me feel.  And this list goes back quite a long way, which makes the similarities all the more surprising to me, because I think that way I feel about sex has changed over the years, as has the way I do it.  Perhaps the way I felt about sex subconsciously has always been the same, and was manifesting itself through the music, and it’s only now that I’m finally growing into my sexual psyche.

Either way, here are some of the songs that appear in my list.

3am Eternal – The KLF.  Had sex to it once, years ago, now can’t hear it without getting hard.

Bad Things – Jace Everett (the theme from True Blood)  – Felt hot and sexy the first time I heard it. Made out with someone hot to it, and have fucked to it too (same hot person).  Haven’t been able to hear it without getting hard and thinking about that first tentative, slightly nervous but still passionate kiss.  I think it may be “our song”

Atom Bomb – Fluke.  It was playing when I was having sex one time.  Always reminds me of that time.  I want to fuck to it again, but haven’t since.

Venus in Furs – Velvet Underground.  Hot. Dirty.  It makes me want to be utterly filthy.  Never have been, with this playing, but it always makes me hard.

Ninth Symphony – Beethoven.  No idea why with this one.  Never actually fucked to it, but it plays in my head sometimes.

Deeper – Orbital.  Oh god.  Oh dear god.

Hell Is Round The Corner – Tricky  I know what it is with this one.  It feels deep and low and slippery and sweet and sticky and sexy.  Although I never have, whenever I hear it, I want to fuck.

Dance of the Knights – Prokofiev.  It’s the famous one that everybody knows from his score for the ballet Romeo & Juliet.  Not so much a fuck song, actually, but I love the rhythm and feel of it, and I’m harbouring a deep desire to administer a sound a flogging while it plays.  Loudly.

Army of Me – Bjork.  I’m talking about the remix that forms part of the soundtrack to the movie Sucker Punch.  It’s rumbly, and deep, and drives slowly but inevitable, like a big agricultural diesel engine in a low gear.  Nothing’s stopping it.  I want to fuck to it in much the same way.

Cor – Green Nuns of the Revolution.  Quite hard, deep techno.  I love it’s aggressive edge, and the rhythm of it makes me horny.  I’ve never fucked to it, but I’d like to.

There are others, but that’s for another time, i think.  So – what are your fuck-tunes?  What songs never fail to make you horny?  What songs take you right back to being naked and blissful every single time you hear them?

My untidy car…

So I really don’t clear out my car as often as I should.  If I put something in the boot, it can often stay there for many weeks, until I need to empty the boot out for some reason to get a load of other stuff in there.

A couple of weeks ago, I went off to spend the night in a hotel with a delightful young lady (for “delightful”, please read “delightfully filthy”).  Because of my lack of commitment to keeping my boot tidy, and because I haven’t needed to have an empty boot since, some of the things that I had with me are still in the car.

Now, I the place where I work during the day is a nice secure environment.  We have diligent security guards on all the gates.  Because there’s always a chance of people stealing or smuggling stuff away from the place (I won’t go into detail, but there’s military hardware involved) the security guards carry out random car searches.  It’s never a big deal – they pull one car out of three over at the main exit and just have a quick look in the boot to make sure there’s nothing there that shouldn’t be there.

I think you already know what’s coming.

A couple of nights ago, I was heading away from the office fairly late, and as I approached the gate, the guard was holding up his little “Stop” sign and pointing me over to one side.  It’s fine, I’m used to it, I’ve been here for a while and I know the drill, and I know he’s just doing his job.  So I pulled over, wound down the window, and pressed the button to unlock the boot.  He apologised for stopping me (as they usually do) and handed me the clipboard so I could fill in my details and sign to say I’d been checked.  As I was trying to remember my department number, he called through from the boot and asked if I’d come and open a bag.  They’re not allowed to touch stuff in someone’s boot, they have to ask if they need to see anything, and so as I got out of the car to walk around and answer his request, I realised exactly what bag he meant.

He clearly meant the only closed bag in the boot.  The one which contained the box of condoms.  And the bottle of lube.  And the six metres of slender white rope.  And the whip.  And the vibrating cock-ring.  And the bright purple silicon rubber stick of anal beads.

Now, I got the impression that he was slightly more embarrassed than I was.  I held open the bag, fairly carefully, and he had what must’ve been the World’s Quickest Look inside, before coughing quietly, and looking elsewhere while he thanked me for my cooperation.  I signed the form on the clipboard and handed it back to him.  Neither of us said anything else as I shut the boot, walked back around to the side of the car, got in, and drove off.

I really should tidy up my boot a bit more often.

Watched..

I seem to be on fire this week – here’s another little story that just cried out to be set free from my smutty mind and committed to the blank page.  As always, I hope you enjoy it.

 

 

She was lying on the bed, dressed but snoozing when I came out of the shower.  We had a while before we had to check out of the hotel, and she looked so peaceful and beautiful asleep, a faint smile on her slightly-parted lips, that I couldn’t bear to wake her.  As I dried myself, my mind wandered back to the night before, to the things we’d done on and around that four-poster bed, and to the early hours of the morning, when we’d woken up and fucked sleepily, lit only by the faint glow of near-dawn filtering through the curtains.

 

The fresh memory made my cock hard, throbbing slightly, and begging to be touched.  Quietly I walked around to the other side of the bed, and climbed on next to her, carefully, so as not to wake her.  I lay there, watching her sleep, reaching down and closing my fingers around my shaft, squeezing it softly.  Still being careful not to shake the bed, I began stroking, back and forth, with slow even strokes.  In my mind I replayed my mental video of the way she’d looked on all fours, a hand-mark on her arse, and her pink lips stretching around me.  I rolled over a little, onto my back, and closed my eyes, breathing deeply and slowly as the pleasure built inside me.

 

I became aware of a change in the sound of her breathing.  I opened my eyes, and realised she was awake, slightly drowsy eyes watching me, wandering up and down my body.  I stopped stroking, and her eyes turned up to mine.

“Go on.” she said softly, with a smile.

 

The thought that she wanted to watch me pleasuring myself turned me on more than I thought it would, and I felt my cock throb slightly as I started stroking again, shifting my position slightly so that she could see.  I didin’t just want to come any more, I wanted her to enjoy the display, to see all the ways I liked to touch myself.  I wanted to make this moment last.  It was no longer just me making myself come, it was me making myself come for her, and that had to be special.

 

I changed my grip, sliding my hand around on my cock as I slid up and down.  I reached over and picked up the bottle of lube from last night, squeezing some out onto the tip and sliding my fingers around it, feeling the delicious tingle that shot all the way up my back and down my legs as I teased the most sensitive parts of my cock.

 

She was smiling now, sometimes watching my hands and my cock, and sometimes looking into my eyes.  Occasionally she’d reach over and caress my nipples, stroking them, flicking them, pinching them, sending little electric shocks through my body.  Some of the time she ran her fingers through my hair, and whispered filthy things to me.  She told me I was dirty, that I was as much of a slut as she was, each word burning its way into my brain and driving me closer to the edge of bliss.

 

I remembered one last thing I wanted her to see.  Reaching over to the bedside table with my free hand, I picked up my cock ring.  Before she had a chance to work out how I planned to use it, I held it with the little metal vibrating bullet sticking out, and reached around behind me.  I pressed it against my ass, as she watched with deep fascination in her eyes.  Touching the little button to activate it, I jumped slightly as it began its furious buzzing against me.  My cock stiffened in my grip at the increased sensation, and I moaned deeply.

 

She smiled, and reached over to touch my nipples again, as I slid my hand up and down my slippery cock, feeling every ridge and bump along its length.  The vibrator pressed almost into my ass was driving me to the brink of climax, and I could feel one of my legs beginning to shake uncontrollably.

“Come for me.” she whispered, smiling more.  “Come for me.  Do it.  Come for me, you dirty slut.”

 

I couldn’t hold it back any longer.  She grinned with delight as I moaned loudly, my hips bucking and my legs shaking, gripping my cock tightly and feeling each twitch of my climax, pressing the vibrator into my tingling ass, and feeling the jets of come splash out, landing as hot streaks on my cool skin.

 

Exhausted, I went limp on the bed, switching the vibrator off and dropping it on the floor by the bed.  My hand still grasped my twitching cock, as I lay there panting.

“Did you enjoy that?” I asked her breathlessly.

“”I loved it.” she whispered, stroking my hair.

 

 

Cloud…

So I’ve been following the #wankwednesday prompts on Twitter, but I haven’t got around to actually writing anything from one yet. This week’s prompt – #cloud – put me in mind of a fairly special evening I had a few years ago, so I figured it was about time I shared something with the rest of you. I hope you enjoy it:::

 

 

For once, the weather forecast hadn’t been far off the mark, and as I rode to her house, the air had become thick and humid, with that heavy closeness that suggests an incoming storm, and it made the prospect  of a pleasant evening in the garden drinking wine and waiting for the stars to come out an ever more distant one.  By the time I pulled into her drive and shut the engine off, very dark and threatening clouds had rolled in, leaving half of the sky blue, and half of it a dark slate grey, brooding and angry.  The light had a brownish quality to it, as if the world was trying to turn into a sepia photograph, and I could feel the static electricity in the air, fizzing and tingling, waiting for an opportunity to release.

She answered the door in a tight white top and long floral skirt, and as I stepped into the house and put my crash helmet down she looked up at the sky.  There was a hint of disappointment in her brown eyes as she turned to me.
“Barbecue’s off then.” She said simply.
“I guess.  The company’s still good though.”
She smiled at that, and walking through to the kitchen, she poured me a glass of red wine, to match the one she’d already started.  Barbecue food is never as enjoyable when it’s cooked under a regular grill, but we still had a pleasant meal, and as the rain started to fall outside, she turned up the volume on the tv to mask it, and we squeezed ourselves close together on the sofa to watch a film.

The rain became heavier and heavier, and about twenty minutes into the film, a bright flash briefly lit the room.  As a reflex, I started to count in my head, waiting for the rumble.  Still some way off then, although the sound of the rain was too loud to keep turning the tv up.
“Ooh!” she said, standing up, “Let’s watch the storm!”
I followed her to the window and she leaned onto the window sill.  I stood behind, with my arms gently around her middle, watching over her shoulder.  Beyond her garden, the view fell away from the house, and out over the city, where lights were beginning to come on.  Although the rain was blowing away from the house, leaving the window clear, it was thick and heavy enough to cause a sparkly halo around each glowing point of light.  As we watched, there was another flash, lighting up the distant hills in the darkness beyond the city.  She tensed slightly, as both of us waited for the rumble, pressing her firm arse against my groin.  I held her slightly tighter around her waist, and felt her relax as the thunder finally boomed across the city’s rooftops.

I wondered how many other people were standing as we were, watching the storm, or if anybody else even cared.  She jumped at another sudden flash, pressing herself against my groin again, and this time I could feel my cock respond to the contact.  I heard her take a deep breath, and then felt her reach back to run her hand over the bulge in my jeans.  She made a small appreciative noise, and as the thunder rumbled again, she began pulling up her long skirt.  I slid down to my knees behind her, helping to push the thin cotton up to her waist, running my tongue up the backs of her thighs, pulling her knickers down and kissing her soft skin, letting my tongue graze over her, exploring her body.  She was soaking wet already, and as she stepped one foot out of her knickers, I slid a finger inside her, loving the deep moan that escaped from her mouth, and seemed to echo slightly in the alcove of the window.  With my finger still inside her, I stood up, hastily undoing my belt and pulling at my jeans, letting them fall down to my knees.
“Please!” she breathed, “Do it!  Do it now!”
The energy of the storm seemed to have somehow flowed into both of us, and I needed no second bidding.  She braced herself against the window sill, and taking my cock in my hand, I guided it between her lips, gently at first, until the tip was just inside her.  I waited there for a moment, enjoying her reaction, before a single thrust slid the entire length into her.  She felt exquisitely tight, and almost lost her balance, crying out as I gripped her narrow waist, pressing myself inside her.  She gasped as the lightning flashed yet again, once more illuminating the distant hills with the raw power of nature, and I withdrew my cock slowly, waiting until the thunder cracked to slide it back into her.
“Oh…. God….” she whispered, her voice deep and hoarse with passion already.  She reached back between her legs with one hand, parting her wet lips with her fingers, and gently rubbing at her clit.  When I plunged my cock back into her, she shifted her fingers and her nails grazed against my balls lightly, part scratch, part tickle.  Enjoying the sensation, I stayed where I was, grinding my hips in a circle against her, my cock probing deep into her hot cunt.

She moved her legs a little further apart, and moved back towards me, arching her back down so that her pussy was angled more towards me, and I began to fuck her more rhythmically, ignoring the timing of the thunder and lightning, carried away by our own enjoyment.  I trailed my fingernails lightly down her back, from the nape of her neck all the way down over her arse, making her groan deeply and shudder slightly.  I licked one finger to moisten it, and gently started teasing her ass, circling her tight hole.
“Oh fuck, yes..” she moaned, arching her back a little more and pushing herself towards me.  As I thrust my aching cock into her again, I began easing my finger into her ass, a little at a time, until finally I could feel my cock sliding in and out against my fingertip.  I worked it around and around, and in and out, in a different rhythm to my fuck-strokes, making her gasp incoherently.

Her orgasm came out of nowhere, sudden and deep and powerful.  Her ass clamped around my finger, and her pussy throbbed and pulsed as I sensed the waves of pleasure and increased my pace, slamming myself into her with hard urgent thrusts.  She reached up and grabbed the handle of the window with both hands, practically shrieking with pleasure and surprise as her body shook.  Her climax was marked by another flash of lightning, and in the darkness that followed it, I saw her beautiful big eyes in the reflection on the window, wide open and looking back at me, her mouth open, half-gasping, half-smiling.  I knew I was reaching my final stroke, the tingling sensation starting somewhere deep in my groin and spreading out to encompass my entire body.  It wasn’t deliberate, but as the thunder rolled after the lightning, I let go, my cock throbbing and twitching inside her, filling her with jet after jet of hot come.  She moaned incoherently as she felt it, sagging against the window sill as I held her waist with one hand, one finger of the other hand still buried in her twitching ass.

Still breathless, I withdrew my cock and my finger, and helped her upright.  She turned towards me, and threw her arms around my neck, holding me tightly and kissing around my neck and shoulders.  I reached down between her legs, and felt our mingled juices start to ooze out onto my hand.  Bringing my hand up to my mouth, I began to lick my wet sticky fingers.  She joined in, and we kissed around my fingers, tasting the delicious mixture of my cock and her pussy as the thunder and lightning and rain carried on outside the window.

“Are you just about ready for dessert?” she asked, smiling?  It wasn’t even remotely surprising that I was.

Senses…

You twist my senses.  They become indistinct, the boundary between each blurs, melts away, and all the senses are one.  A single uncontrollable rushing waterfall of sensation, feeling, scent, taste, sound, vision.  Desire – it blends them all together.

The feeling of your nails, drawing so gently, yet so tantalisingly sharply down my back.  The sound of my blood rushing through my veins, my heart beating in my ears.  The scent of your skin, fresh from the shower, so clean and sweet.  The way you smile when you touch me and make me gasp, the glint in your eyes when I moan.  With an expression of almost juvenile glee, you tug at the belt of my jeans.  I reach down and help you with the buckle, and as you reach up and tweak my nipples I lose control once again.  My arms fall to my sides and my head falls back, a low moan escaping from my lips.

Finally naked, our skin burns with the heat of our lust, as if we could fuse together on contact.  We flow together over the sofa, seeming to switch position without moving, you on your back, looking up at me, your eyes whirling pools of desire.  One leg hooks around my waist, pulling me closer, and in the instant that I slip easily inside you, nothing else exists beyond our bodies.  There is only you and me, in this perfect moment.  This one point in time and space where everything is just as it should be.  The noise of the traffic outside fades, the light from the window disappears.  All I can see and feel and hear and smell and taste is you.

That waterfall of senses washes over me, and the rest of the world is held in a state of suspension as our bodies writhe together, skin against skin, my breathing matching yours, our hearts beating in time.  A crescendo of desire, of want, of need, building inside of both of us, until finally, spent and exhausted, we lie side by side.  There is no need for words, your eyes, and our heaving chests say everything that needs to be said.

The world outside can carry on now.  We are ready to acknowledge your existence again.  Until the next time.

Addiction.

I take the drug because it is there.
Because it calls to me without words.
Because I know its sweetness.
Oh, the euphoria.
The feeling of my blood turning to honey.
That sensation of flying, of being all-powerful, all-knowing, all-seeing.
The knowledge that I can do anything.

I wantonly ignore the advice of friends, who look on,
And tell me that it will only do me harm.
They have never felt such complete happiness as this.
They have never had their eyes opened the way I have.
They have never felt the blood rushing through their bodies the way I do.
They have never been aware of every single hair standing on end.
Of the tingle, the anticipation, the rush of pleasure that follows.
They have never felt every molecule of air passing between their lips as they breathe
Or felt every fibre of carpet beneath their feet.

You, friend, who have never felt this way,
Do not presume to tell me that I should not want it.
The pain and emptiness between the pleasure is mine to feel, and mine alone,
The freezing rain that shreds my skin from my bones,
The burning wind that sears my flesh.
These are mine to feel.
This is the cost that pleasure extracts from me.
This is how I know I am alive.
This is how I appreciate the next time.

I will take the drug.
I will hear it calling me, without words.
I will seek it out.
Because I am an addict.