He, Alexander the delish, as I will call him from now on, was her third Internet date. She didn’t have her story straight, yet, but she would make it up as she went along, she had her name, Eva, and the rest would just come along as the night evolved.
They had stood each other up, she waited an hour and left, and then he waited for an hour while she decided if she was to come back or not. She did.
Two vodkas and three scotches later he invited her over. She was unsure. She told him her boyfriend was around, an open relationship as open relationships can be. Bisexuality and freedom reigned the day, plus three rules: no sleepovers, no unprotected sex and full disclosure.
She was unsure of going home with him, but as soon as they kissed, chocolate melted in her mouth and she was gone. She did take a pic of two of his credit cards, plus a pic of his face and sent it all with his address to his bi-boyfriend who was on a date that night too.
There has never been such a happy taxi driver as the one they picked that night, he got a huge tip plus a huge view of Eva’s groans and purple underwear.
They got to his place, small, clean. He took her small gray skirt off, he had been dying to do that since he saw her. Alexander was embarrassed and at the same time eager to show her around. This is my sister, and my office, and that’s my yoga mat and she nodded and waited for him to be ready, to feel at ease.
He took her to the other bedroom where he had set both single beds together. They were naked and kissing before anyone could talk more. He tasted like chocolate, such a cliché, but he did. Her white alabaster skin against his blackness was delish. He was delish, so was she.
“I knew you were a fountain…” as he slid two fingers into her and bit her right nipple. Groans, moans and he was so big, she thought he would break her, but it was just the right size, with the right lubrication.
As he got more excited he tasted like mint chocolate.
The first is always the quickest and as they lay there, kissing. When he came he tasted like cherries. Delish.
They chatted away, nakedness as the most normal thing. He was still eager to astound her. She was still making up her story as she went along.
“So, have you ever squirted?” Her eyes sparkled. No, Eva had never squirted, not under that name and not under other names. But it was one of her sexual goals. “It’s one of my fantasies, to make a woman squirt”. Perfect.
They went at it again, doggy style at one point. “Have you ever done anal?” “I have, but not with you darling, you are way too big for me.” And she came again, and again.
And talk. And sex, and kisses and caresses. And more. And more. And more.
He tried, tickling her G-spot or something else. His finger was smooth and long, perfect for the adventure. He kept telling her how much he loved her body, and her moaning, and how sexual she was. How very lucky he felt that night.
She was almost asleep and asked him once more, so, how was he doing it? The squirting stimulation? He showed her, introducing one finger into her still very very wet pussy. “It’s here, you have to touch it here, and then on the outside, I read about it somewhere and became obsessed…” and Alexander the magnificent kept at it for who knows how long. How can you measure time in pleasure?
And suddenly Eva saw white, everything was white and her moans where flashes of yellow on the white. Her body ceased to exist as it is and felt as if it were imploding. His hand was soaking wet. A different kind of texture and smell than the usual foresty she usually exhaled. She had, finally squirted. Annie Sprinkle would be so proud.
They went at it again. She would whisper and groan into his ear what color orgasm she was having: “orange… orange… blue… orange… yellow… red… purple…”
The gate had been opened. The color of her orgasms were back, and his fantasy had been fulfilled.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
I spy a spy
I said I was born in the southern hemisphere. I said I had gone to boarding school near Zurich and then off to collage in London. I went alter a Balkan band before I decided to become a music producer.
As the glasses of wine kept coming it was harder to keep track of my fiction. and my seduction.
Of course, he had identified me by the hat I was wearing. The only woman with a hat at a wine bar.
He invited me to his room, I declined and went my way, thankfully without much of a blunder on my accent.
I am sure he will masturbate to my fiction.
As the glasses of wine kept coming it was harder to keep track of my fiction. and my seduction.
Of course, he had identified me by the hat I was wearing. The only woman with a hat at a wine bar.
He invited me to his room, I declined and went my way, thankfully without much of a blunder on my accent.
I am sure he will masturbate to my fiction.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
a hat, a skip and a Venezuelan
She had told him he would recognize her by the hat. He asked what color. She didn’t respond.
She got there five minutes late, of course. He thought she had stood him up.
Since she had arranged the meeting her plans had changed. While she was deciding what to wear an old lover of hers appeared on her screen. He told her about a dream he had, luscious wetting dream. She laughed it off and told him it was good that he had good memory because it wasn’t going to get a rerun. He asked her if she was single and looking for a lover. Lovers. With an S, plural, she said. One isn’t enough, they get tired.
A friendly proposal, a friend. He looked him up on facebook, yes, he would do, and with an accent, how delish.
So she left to her dinner knowing that most probably it would be a dinner and then she would run to a party where she would cast another to satisfy her that evening.
She got to the restaurant and didn’t quite recognize him as he said hi.
There had been so many responses, so many pictures, of erections, hairy chests, stupid smiles, sunglasses, and whatnot, that she barely remembered what this one looked like. She knew he wasn’t the ugliest, and he was the one that had made her laugh the most.
She was there to have dinner with her first Internet date. Yes, wine, yes snails smeared in butter, yes a chocolate soufflé. No, not her address, no, not her number, no, not her last name.
She knew how to play men, she knew how to seem interested although she was getting bored by his talk. She knew how to turn a bit of information about her, a question, into a whole different subject and to twist it into something concerning him, something he wanted to say. In the end, men want to sell themselves and be listened to.
He paid, she smiled, took the rest of the soufflé and hurried to a party where she knew she could scratch the restlessness between her thighs.
She was definitely turned on by the Internet date, by the fact that she had a lavish dinner and had not even touched the hand of the man in front of him, and by the fact that her ex-lover had introduced her to a new lover.
She got to the party, talked, drank, laughed and kissed the new guy. No need for words. She wasn’t looking for a conversation. Her ex –lover was there with his girlfriend, he stared at the purple lacey bra strap that kept on moving out of her shirt. He smiled, he blushed, he craved her but couldn’t have her.
After a bit and too long, they met by the stairs. She and the Venezuelan. They kissed, headed for his bedroom, and within two minutes she was naked and he was between her thighs. His left thumb stuck up her ass, which was surprising, using the backdoor is always a bit of a tentative issue. His index finger inside her, and his middle one on her clit. Ah, big hands are delicious. His right hand was squeezing her nipple, he was kissing her all over. Yum.
She sucked him only enough to get him up and going. He craved him inside her. Now. Condoms, caresses. And orgasms.
She was quite loud, she didn’t care there was a party going on outside the door. She was there to enjoy herself. And she did.
Three positions and twenty orgasms later she got up, went to the toilet, got dressed and said she was going back to the party. He said he wanted to rest. She smiled. Ah, she was indeed untiring and didn’t want to cuddle, she wanted sex, not intimacy.
She returned to the party as glances passed over her, they knew where she had been the last twenty minutes and what she had been doing. Ah, jealousy is a turn on.
Her ex lover come up to her: damn, I’m really jealous, it was me who wanted to fuck you. Ah, she responded, that you will never do, go fuck your girlfriends brains out, you will never have me again, but your friend was delicious, he just needs to get into shape.
At that she finished a warm beer she had abandoned, and said goodbye, eating leftover soufflé on her way home.
She got there five minutes late, of course. He thought she had stood him up.
Since she had arranged the meeting her plans had changed. While she was deciding what to wear an old lover of hers appeared on her screen. He told her about a dream he had, luscious wetting dream. She laughed it off and told him it was good that he had good memory because it wasn’t going to get a rerun. He asked her if she was single and looking for a lover. Lovers. With an S, plural, she said. One isn’t enough, they get tired.
A friendly proposal, a friend. He looked him up on facebook, yes, he would do, and with an accent, how delish.
So she left to her dinner knowing that most probably it would be a dinner and then she would run to a party where she would cast another to satisfy her that evening.
She got to the restaurant and didn’t quite recognize him as he said hi.
There had been so many responses, so many pictures, of erections, hairy chests, stupid smiles, sunglasses, and whatnot, that she barely remembered what this one looked like. She knew he wasn’t the ugliest, and he was the one that had made her laugh the most.
She was there to have dinner with her first Internet date. Yes, wine, yes snails smeared in butter, yes a chocolate soufflé. No, not her address, no, not her number, no, not her last name.
She knew how to play men, she knew how to seem interested although she was getting bored by his talk. She knew how to turn a bit of information about her, a question, into a whole different subject and to twist it into something concerning him, something he wanted to say. In the end, men want to sell themselves and be listened to.
He paid, she smiled, took the rest of the soufflé and hurried to a party where she knew she could scratch the restlessness between her thighs.
She was definitely turned on by the Internet date, by the fact that she had a lavish dinner and had not even touched the hand of the man in front of him, and by the fact that her ex-lover had introduced her to a new lover.
She got to the party, talked, drank, laughed and kissed the new guy. No need for words. She wasn’t looking for a conversation. Her ex –lover was there with his girlfriend, he stared at the purple lacey bra strap that kept on moving out of her shirt. He smiled, he blushed, he craved her but couldn’t have her.
After a bit and too long, they met by the stairs. She and the Venezuelan. They kissed, headed for his bedroom, and within two minutes she was naked and he was between her thighs. His left thumb stuck up her ass, which was surprising, using the backdoor is always a bit of a tentative issue. His index finger inside her, and his middle one on her clit. Ah, big hands are delicious. His right hand was squeezing her nipple, he was kissing her all over. Yum.
She sucked him only enough to get him up and going. He craved him inside her. Now. Condoms, caresses. And orgasms.
She was quite loud, she didn’t care there was a party going on outside the door. She was there to enjoy herself. And she did.
Three positions and twenty orgasms later she got up, went to the toilet, got dressed and said she was going back to the party. He said he wanted to rest. She smiled. Ah, she was indeed untiring and didn’t want to cuddle, she wanted sex, not intimacy.
She returned to the party as glances passed over her, they knew where she had been the last twenty minutes and what she had been doing. Ah, jealousy is a turn on.
Her ex lover come up to her: damn, I’m really jealous, it was me who wanted to fuck you. Ah, she responded, that you will never do, go fuck your girlfriends brains out, you will never have me again, but your friend was delicious, he just needs to get into shape.
At that she finished a warm beer she had abandoned, and said goodbye, eating leftover soufflé on her way home.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
8 year crush
the desire had grown for years, almost ten, but not quite. As she laid in bed, knowing he was breathing next to her, she smiled, unable to sleep. Her professor was there, lying next to her. She had dressed up for him for two semesters. Carefully choosing what would make him more nervous. The literature talk was just an excuse for foreplay.
She couldn’t sleep, she blinked and smiled. They hadn’t even kissed. They had met finally after many years, dinner with just a cup of white wine. Long stories, many heartbreaks and walking on the cobbled streets. He put his arm around her, and they talked.
He had to go back to another city, she told him it was too late. She told him she had a futon.
Eight years after they had met on different sides of the classroom she set up an old futon for him, gave him a tour of her house. She was an adult now.
They washed their teeth together, strange to share that intimate moment.
She told him that the futon was old, it might be uncomfortable, that if it was too horrible he could jump into her bed and spoon her. “But I don’t do the outside part of the spoon…”. So, he said, if I come I should hug you and my chest should be against your back. Exactly.
The futon was used for five minutes.
Their pajamas for fifteen.
A desire that had been boiling up for eight years while each one of them laid on their side of the bed. He hugged her. She felt him growing. He began to kiss her neck, touching her hands, caressing. She sighed.
His hands under her shirt, around her belly button, up her shirt. Her shirt off.
His shirt off.
He smelled of cardamom and smoked firewood. She inhaled him.
He kissed her, longingly.
It was eight years later and it was as if their bodies had been suspended at that moment. The kisses and caresses where part of a history that had been written in a classroom. His fingers went inside her. She saw the memories past.
She sucked him, with such a force that he began to tremble. They smiled. They exploded at the same time, one after another after another.
They fell asleep in each others arms. An ocean of sweat spreading on the bed, mixing their odors, their smells, their consumed pleasure.
He woke up with her touching him, waking all of him up. As he went into her, she felt eight years crumbling around her, inside her. She pressed her muscles, pressing him, making him want her even more. She squeezed him into her, biting his shoulder, he kissed her, their hands together, clinging to the sunrise.
Eight years of desire melted into one night.
Sleeping with a university professor is as pleasing the day he gives you your notes as well as an encounter years later. They had spooned, he on the outside, she on the inside, their skins writing a new story.
She couldn’t sleep, she blinked and smiled. They hadn’t even kissed. They had met finally after many years, dinner with just a cup of white wine. Long stories, many heartbreaks and walking on the cobbled streets. He put his arm around her, and they talked.
He had to go back to another city, she told him it was too late. She told him she had a futon.
Eight years after they had met on different sides of the classroom she set up an old futon for him, gave him a tour of her house. She was an adult now.
They washed their teeth together, strange to share that intimate moment.
She told him that the futon was old, it might be uncomfortable, that if it was too horrible he could jump into her bed and spoon her. “But I don’t do the outside part of the spoon…”. So, he said, if I come I should hug you and my chest should be against your back. Exactly.
The futon was used for five minutes.
Their pajamas for fifteen.
A desire that had been boiling up for eight years while each one of them laid on their side of the bed. He hugged her. She felt him growing. He began to kiss her neck, touching her hands, caressing. She sighed.
His hands under her shirt, around her belly button, up her shirt. Her shirt off.
His shirt off.
He smelled of cardamom and smoked firewood. She inhaled him.
He kissed her, longingly.
It was eight years later and it was as if their bodies had been suspended at that moment. The kisses and caresses where part of a history that had been written in a classroom. His fingers went inside her. She saw the memories past.
She sucked him, with such a force that he began to tremble. They smiled. They exploded at the same time, one after another after another.
They fell asleep in each others arms. An ocean of sweat spreading on the bed, mixing their odors, their smells, their consumed pleasure.
He woke up with her touching him, waking all of him up. As he went into her, she felt eight years crumbling around her, inside her. She pressed her muscles, pressing him, making him want her even more. She squeezed him into her, biting his shoulder, he kissed her, their hands together, clinging to the sunrise.
Eight years of desire melted into one night.
Sleeping with a university professor is as pleasing the day he gives you your notes as well as an encounter years later. They had spooned, he on the outside, she on the inside, their skins writing a new story.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Sitting down or sitting up?
There is just so much information one can give over a fist date. There is just so much you can talk about without disclosing too much, without putting into jeopardy a second, more amiable encounter.
They had met randomly, as random as a dating web page can be. They had talked a few times, emailed some more. He was fascinated by her, she was curious about him. He called her ‘babe’, she thought that was funny.
They met at a public place, as it should be.
He took her to dinner, not too fancy, but expensive enough.
She thought about all of this as she gulped down her third whisky, as she asked all the men around if what he had said was in some way, normal.
She thought about how much of a gentleman he had been, she reminisced how she had stared at his soft hands, wondering what they would feel like on her naked body, how many fingers he could cram into her, how he would kiss, if he was loud or not. He ordered some wine and she bit her lower lip. She wasn’t too sure about anything, but she was ready to find things out.
Their first encounter had been a bit of a height misunderstanding. Never ever wear 12 inch heels when meeting someone for the first time, she though as she gazed down on him. They laughed it off, and now he was pouring her some wine.
The usual questions, the usual small talk. Nothing at all.
Sexual tension, she asked him about his sexual preferences. She’d downed half a bottle of wine plus an apple martini, he had twice as much as her, it seemed like the perfect moment to unleash their expectations.
He pushed away her questioning eyes with his thumb, with his laughter. It was not the time nor the place. It seemed like a date was really a date.
He stood up, went to the toilet.
She wondered what was going on, what would happen next, licking her lips with expectation, excited, wandering wonderment.
He took longer than expected and as he came back, sat down and said, ‘well you see, I pee sitting down… always’. Where that information came from or why, she had no idea.
A night later, as she was questioning every male in sight about the normalcy of this confession, she still had no clue why he had told her that.
She gaped at him, didn’t know what to respond, and told him that well, she knew how to not touch the seat, she had traveled a lot, and was rather flexible… so she could pee standing up.
Needles to say, she didn’t see him again, although a friend did say that she would never encounter the ‘toilet seat down’ problem with a guy like that…
She decided she didn’t want to know more, and still today, she asks her male friends if men do really pee sitting down… the only normal situations she has gotten for this seating arrangement to be accepted has been, too much alcohol, too much lack of sleep, or too sick.
No, her curiosity was great, but not as big as to let herself be taken on a second date to find out what other bathroom etiquette he could spring on her. And so the blind date and the bathroom preferences end with two lonely souls going to the w.c. by themselves without sharing their toilet paper exploits.
They had met randomly, as random as a dating web page can be. They had talked a few times, emailed some more. He was fascinated by her, she was curious about him. He called her ‘babe’, she thought that was funny.
They met at a public place, as it should be.
He took her to dinner, not too fancy, but expensive enough.
She thought about all of this as she gulped down her third whisky, as she asked all the men around if what he had said was in some way, normal.
She thought about how much of a gentleman he had been, she reminisced how she had stared at his soft hands, wondering what they would feel like on her naked body, how many fingers he could cram into her, how he would kiss, if he was loud or not. He ordered some wine and she bit her lower lip. She wasn’t too sure about anything, but she was ready to find things out.
Their first encounter had been a bit of a height misunderstanding. Never ever wear 12 inch heels when meeting someone for the first time, she though as she gazed down on him. They laughed it off, and now he was pouring her some wine.
The usual questions, the usual small talk. Nothing at all.
Sexual tension, she asked him about his sexual preferences. She’d downed half a bottle of wine plus an apple martini, he had twice as much as her, it seemed like the perfect moment to unleash their expectations.
He pushed away her questioning eyes with his thumb, with his laughter. It was not the time nor the place. It seemed like a date was really a date.
He stood up, went to the toilet.
She wondered what was going on, what would happen next, licking her lips with expectation, excited, wandering wonderment.
He took longer than expected and as he came back, sat down and said, ‘well you see, I pee sitting down… always’. Where that information came from or why, she had no idea.
A night later, as she was questioning every male in sight about the normalcy of this confession, she still had no clue why he had told her that.
She gaped at him, didn’t know what to respond, and told him that well, she knew how to not touch the seat, she had traveled a lot, and was rather flexible… so she could pee standing up.
Needles to say, she didn’t see him again, although a friend did say that she would never encounter the ‘toilet seat down’ problem with a guy like that…
She decided she didn’t want to know more, and still today, she asks her male friends if men do really pee sitting down… the only normal situations she has gotten for this seating arrangement to be accepted has been, too much alcohol, too much lack of sleep, or too sick.
No, her curiosity was great, but not as big as to let herself be taken on a second date to find out what other bathroom etiquette he could spring on her. And so the blind date and the bathroom preferences end with two lonely souls going to the w.c. by themselves without sharing their toilet paper exploits.
the park and a bag
Two gin tonics. Three beers. Four whisky shots, Jameson, of course. I think that was it. His conversation? I don’t remember much of it. I am sure he must have said something interesting. It must have been so, if not, why did I stay absorbed with his gaze for so many hours?
Poetry was not a subject, perhaps movies where, the way the screen penetrates your body, letting it caress you with other people’s bodies, with sighs that are not your own. Perhaps between one bar and the next (yes, I do think we did more than one, no, I am sure of it, perhaps three or four). The first bar was kind of ‘wanna be more than we really are’, and we talked about nothing at all, for some reason he kept avoiding my eyes, as if he didn’t want to say too much to them.
The second bar was empty, or too full. One or the other. In retrospect its kind of hard to think, to remember how things were. In the glaze of an alcohol filled night, all is not as it appears.
The walk back, back where? I guess at that point in the wee hours of the morning I did have an intention as of to where I was going. I guess.
The walk back to wherever I was really going went thru a park. I guess we had kissed at that point. I believe we had.
Why did I not lead him to my hotel is beyond me, I guess at that moment when he was sticking his hands down my pants and kissing me the grass looked more enticing, and it was nearer. So I threw him on to the grass and we rolled around.
He bit my neck, my ears, I screamed with pain and pleasure, I licked his lips, his eyelids, his hands up my shirt, my nipples as hard as his cock, his tongue in my ear, his middle finger down my navel and further down, my hand on his ass, grabbing. Me on top, forcing him to lick me, to kiss me, my hands over him, his hands over me.
He’s on top now, we are rolling around in a dewy grass with the smog glazed moon shining on our alcohol filled breaths. His hands pull my hair so that I am forced to stick my breasts out, he bites them, I bite him. We roll around.
Hours go by, breaths intertwine.
Suddenly we get up, as lovely as the grass is, a bed seems like a better place to get naked.
My earings are gone, he bit them off.
My bag is gone too. Rolling around and keeping an eye on a bag don’t go together. Who would exploit sexual concentration on a park to pick pocket a bag?
I guess I learnt my lesson well. Don’t roll around on the grass with too much alcohol. Or, if you do, don’t take a bag with you.
Poetry was not a subject, perhaps movies where, the way the screen penetrates your body, letting it caress you with other people’s bodies, with sighs that are not your own. Perhaps between one bar and the next (yes, I do think we did more than one, no, I am sure of it, perhaps three or four). The first bar was kind of ‘wanna be more than we really are’, and we talked about nothing at all, for some reason he kept avoiding my eyes, as if he didn’t want to say too much to them.
The second bar was empty, or too full. One or the other. In retrospect its kind of hard to think, to remember how things were. In the glaze of an alcohol filled night, all is not as it appears.
The walk back, back where? I guess at that point in the wee hours of the morning I did have an intention as of to where I was going. I guess.
The walk back to wherever I was really going went thru a park. I guess we had kissed at that point. I believe we had.
Why did I not lead him to my hotel is beyond me, I guess at that moment when he was sticking his hands down my pants and kissing me the grass looked more enticing, and it was nearer. So I threw him on to the grass and we rolled around.
He bit my neck, my ears, I screamed with pain and pleasure, I licked his lips, his eyelids, his hands up my shirt, my nipples as hard as his cock, his tongue in my ear, his middle finger down my navel and further down, my hand on his ass, grabbing. Me on top, forcing him to lick me, to kiss me, my hands over him, his hands over me.
He’s on top now, we are rolling around in a dewy grass with the smog glazed moon shining on our alcohol filled breaths. His hands pull my hair so that I am forced to stick my breasts out, he bites them, I bite him. We roll around.
Hours go by, breaths intertwine.
Suddenly we get up, as lovely as the grass is, a bed seems like a better place to get naked.
My earings are gone, he bit them off.
My bag is gone too. Rolling around and keeping an eye on a bag don’t go together. Who would exploit sexual concentration on a park to pick pocket a bag?
I guess I learnt my lesson well. Don’t roll around on the grass with too much alcohol. Or, if you do, don’t take a bag with you.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Easten amateur spank
He said he wanted to spank me, I thought that was cute.
He said he wanted to fuck me, I thought that was cute.
He said he would like to lick my ass, if I had showered before, and I didn't like him talk about my hygiene. And he didn't get it up. and there was so much skin there, so much more than I am used to.
I spanked him, because he deserved it, because he couldn't get it up, because I didn't have anything better to do.
He tried to spank me. He didn't know how to do it. You can't spank both ass cheeks at the same time, you can't spank continuously. You have to wait for the pain to penetrate, to float and warm the skin. You have to let the skin get redder and when it knows its resting, its healing, you can spank again, rythmically, increasing the force, touching different parts, licking at points to subside the pain, to calm the skin, to make the next spank a bit fiercer.
Spanking is an art.
No, you can't spank as if you were drumming away. He didn't know it, and I knew it.
So I had to protect my delicate reddening skin from this spanking amateur. I had to tie him up. I did.
I tried to get him up, to make him hard and dark, thick and delicious.
I am sure he has a gay part of him somewhere between his foreskin and the rest of him.
I went to sleep.
He was tied up and I kept the blanket to myself.
The next morning I untied him, gave him a kiss on the cheek and told him to be on his way.
He said he wanted to fuck me, I thought that was cute.
He said he would like to lick my ass, if I had showered before, and I didn't like him talk about my hygiene. And he didn't get it up. and there was so much skin there, so much more than I am used to.
I spanked him, because he deserved it, because he couldn't get it up, because I didn't have anything better to do.
He tried to spank me. He didn't know how to do it. You can't spank both ass cheeks at the same time, you can't spank continuously. You have to wait for the pain to penetrate, to float and warm the skin. You have to let the skin get redder and when it knows its resting, its healing, you can spank again, rythmically, increasing the force, touching different parts, licking at points to subside the pain, to calm the skin, to make the next spank a bit fiercer.
Spanking is an art.
No, you can't spank as if you were drumming away. He didn't know it, and I knew it.
So I had to protect my delicate reddening skin from this spanking amateur. I had to tie him up. I did.
I tried to get him up, to make him hard and dark, thick and delicious.
I am sure he has a gay part of him somewhere between his foreskin and the rest of him.
I went to sleep.
He was tied up and I kept the blanket to myself.
The next morning I untied him, gave him a kiss on the cheek and told him to be on his way.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
press down on the gas
He picked me up at quarter to three, I knew he was coming and still I made him wait, obviously.
I had dressed up for the occasion, blue tights, a small white skirt, black jacket and no underwear.
He was a friend, an old friend with whom I used to have neo-liberal discussions when I thought make-up was for fascists.
He gave me a helmet and I put it on while I hugged him from behind. I had never done that before. I liked it.
I had been craving for a motorcycle ride, I guess, since my James Dean teenage fascination, and that night at three in the morning, was when that fantasy was to become a reality.
I hopped on. He stepped on the gas. And I understood. I Understood e-ve-ry-thing.
I rearranged myself and laughed, my driver, my friend, smiled with me. I couldn't believe it.
Motorcycles vibrate when you press down on the gas, so while you are riding all over, you are really traveling on top of a gigantic vibrator that nobody can see but you. It's like the sexual imaginary friend, sort of.
We rode, up and down and all around. ANd I kept laughing and making noises that my friend (thank god!) wasn't able to hear because of the wind. I saw the cars next to us, and I made sure to make them feel jealous for not being on a motorcylce while I enjoyed hugging them from behindç
I have no more to say. I have become a motorcylce junky. I can even ride it wile it is in a pause... so long I can press on the gas and make it purr (to make me purr).
I had dressed up for the occasion, blue tights, a small white skirt, black jacket and no underwear.
He was a friend, an old friend with whom I used to have neo-liberal discussions when I thought make-up was for fascists.
He gave me a helmet and I put it on while I hugged him from behind. I had never done that before. I liked it.
I had been craving for a motorcycle ride, I guess, since my James Dean teenage fascination, and that night at three in the morning, was when that fantasy was to become a reality.
I hopped on. He stepped on the gas. And I understood. I Understood e-ve-ry-thing.
I rearranged myself and laughed, my driver, my friend, smiled with me. I couldn't believe it.
Motorcycles vibrate when you press down on the gas, so while you are riding all over, you are really traveling on top of a gigantic vibrator that nobody can see but you. It's like the sexual imaginary friend, sort of.
We rode, up and down and all around. ANd I kept laughing and making noises that my friend (thank god!) wasn't able to hear because of the wind. I saw the cars next to us, and I made sure to make them feel jealous for not being on a motorcylce while I enjoyed hugging them from behindç
I have no more to say. I have become a motorcylce junky. I can even ride it wile it is in a pause... so long I can press on the gas and make it purr (to make me purr).
Saturday, April 18, 2009
the wedding
"Nice to see you, congratulations." she said. "You've gotten so much prettier and hotter”, he responded. She blushed, shied away and asked him if there were any single friends around. There weren’t.
Still a bit baffled she walked away, holding the plate with the food that had gotten to a second place in her priorities, and thinking how odd it was to be hit on by the groom at his own wedding.
Well, yes, kind of obvious too, she thought, or at least, tried to put a bit of logic into it. The fact was that she was the only person at that wedding who had slept with the bride and the groom, needles to say, at the same time.
She saw the ceremony, she saw them dancing, kissing, and she kept wondering if she had been a discussion for them. Should she be invited to celebrate with them, or not.
How uncomfortable her presence was. The bride seemed to have forgotten what had happened a couple of years ago, but she noticed how the groom kept staring at certain parts of her body.
When she had gone to congratulate him, he kept staring at her chest, and as she walked away, she knew her ass was embedded in his pupils.
So there she was, dancing away in that night, the only single girl in sight, and the only one who could tell how the bride and groom moaned when they came.
It had been one crazily normal night, a bit of alcohol perhaps was involved, a lot of pot too, it seems. They were in his apartment, staring at the stars, talking about life and all it involves at that age. Suddenly she was in the bed, probably relaxing, and she felt hands over her, two pairs of hands, two big, two small.
They never kissed. They licked their whole bodies, they explored different openings, but they never kissed. As she watches them doing their first dance as a married couple she remembers how at some point during that night her friend told her boyfriend to put a condom on, that she, the extra one, the invited one, had to do it with a condom. And she did, and they did.
She was fucked from behind, while she licked the bride’s pussy. It tasted like a black woman, she remembers. She had been her first girl. She saw them fuck while she sucked on his balls and on her nipples.
And now they were dancing, and now the groom had hit on her years later.
And now, well, now she was wondering if the reason she had been invited to that wedding was to be asked to join them for their wedding night. Or not.
Still a bit baffled she walked away, holding the plate with the food that had gotten to a second place in her priorities, and thinking how odd it was to be hit on by the groom at his own wedding.
Well, yes, kind of obvious too, she thought, or at least, tried to put a bit of logic into it. The fact was that she was the only person at that wedding who had slept with the bride and the groom, needles to say, at the same time.
She saw the ceremony, she saw them dancing, kissing, and she kept wondering if she had been a discussion for them. Should she be invited to celebrate with them, or not.
How uncomfortable her presence was. The bride seemed to have forgotten what had happened a couple of years ago, but she noticed how the groom kept staring at certain parts of her body.
When she had gone to congratulate him, he kept staring at her chest, and as she walked away, she knew her ass was embedded in his pupils.
So there she was, dancing away in that night, the only single girl in sight, and the only one who could tell how the bride and groom moaned when they came.
It had been one crazily normal night, a bit of alcohol perhaps was involved, a lot of pot too, it seems. They were in his apartment, staring at the stars, talking about life and all it involves at that age. Suddenly she was in the bed, probably relaxing, and she felt hands over her, two pairs of hands, two big, two small.
They never kissed. They licked their whole bodies, they explored different openings, but they never kissed. As she watches them doing their first dance as a married couple she remembers how at some point during that night her friend told her boyfriend to put a condom on, that she, the extra one, the invited one, had to do it with a condom. And she did, and they did.
She was fucked from behind, while she licked the bride’s pussy. It tasted like a black woman, she remembers. She had been her first girl. She saw them fuck while she sucked on his balls and on her nipples.
And now they were dancing, and now the groom had hit on her years later.
And now, well, now she was wondering if the reason she had been invited to that wedding was to be asked to join them for their wedding night. Or not.
Monday, April 13, 2009
resonance
I lay naked on a piano, almost. no one was around to tell us that laying, wearing an impossible little undergarment on top of a piano was not allowed.
I lay almost naked on a piano and my gaze told him to play. to play the piano, and to play me.
I felt his fingertips on my body thru the notes, the vibration.
I felt him feeling me.
I wanted him to make me moan, I knew he would know how. Or at least he would try.
I lay naked on a piano and he played. Classical? Bossa Nova? and suddenly he turned the piano into an organ, I gasped, my thighs wanted to explode, to open up wider on top of the piano, to feel him feeling the notes feeling me.
He played the piano while I struggled to keep my balance, while I watched a bulge under the notes, on top of the pedals, and I oh, so wanted to touch it, to touch him.
and he played harder, and he played me harder, and I groaned. and I screamed, and I wanted him, but I knew that if I had his music, I had him.
and he knew that if he managed to touch my core with his notes, he would have me.
And he did.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
oh, I forgot...
He wanted to fuck me with my glasses on... and no, his cock wasn't so small. I guess he was into the whole intellectual look. I thought it was cute. Especially because I could see him sing poetry to me as he exploded into me.
black panther / white panther
The issue of who picks up who is always an interesting one, especially if you don't wonder about it until the next day.
She was dancing at a concert with a long skirt and a tiny top, her stomach moved with the rhythm, and she knew she was being watched. Oh, so many men watched her, and so few dared to go near.
He did go near, the sexy Argentinean with the pose and the big back, he came, he saw, he panted, he conquered.
He took her to the meet & greet after the music, trying to show off, she knew that although he depicted such confidence, he wasn't very sure what he would do with her.
They went to his hotel.
Lovely.
The best lovers are those that are here only for a little while, those that will leave and leave no regrets. Those that live in an hotel room where you can read their personality by what they have there and how it is arranged, but you can't get to intimate because there is a limit of how much you can learn from someone from what they take along when they travel.
He wanted her to dance some more, she was amazed, she had thought she didn't dance so well, but oh, the belly dance.
He kissed her. She didn't understand why someone would rather lick most of your face than kiss you on the lips, but she laughed.
He undressed her, kissed her, caressed her.
His body was delicious, he did boxing as a hobby, he was soft and hard in all the right places.
He wanted to be inside of her, but she played around, licking, panting, while he growled like a panther, and she laughed.
Finally they fucked.
And fucked.
and fucked.
He didn't want her to come, little did he know.
They came. She smiled. He growled and then sang a song in Spanish, something about an angel, she wasn't sure if that was really happening or if it was the post-orgasmic illusion.
They slept a little bit, and then she was at it again. He was bigger than her, much stronger, and yet, he had lost complete power. She made him hard, kissed him, licked him, put the condom on, and mounted him. And mounted him, and mounted him.
He didn't want her to come, and she laughed and told him to be still.
She mounted him and came, and came, and came once more.
He tried to stir, to move, to lick. She told him to be still, and came, and came, and came.
After eternities and orgasms filled oceans, thet stopped.
He asked her if she knew that she wasn't normal, that she came so much, so beautifully, so deliciously. "I am going to recommend you", he said, she laughed, for what?
He growled again and asked her about herself. She said just enough and not too much.
He insisted on asking her about her pleasure capabilities, was it real, since when was she able to do that, to enjoy so much, to come as much as she did. She laughed and growled a bit, imitating him, and said that one needs to enjoy oneself in order to enjoy others, and caressed his beautiful back.
Once more they were at it, he was on top of her, trying to regain control of the situation, to have the power position... he failed miserably. And it was lovely.
She came, and came and came.
He didn't want to come so quickly, so she kept giving him subjects to think about: politics, soccer, Ronaldinho.
Oh my, he was so hot, so turned on that even Ronaldinho seemed sexy to him.
She allowed him to come.
They exploded, and once more, with his husky voice, he began to sing a song.
Who sings a song when they come, and the same exact one?
Ah, lovely men do strange things.
She told him she was leaving, and did. With a great big smile and fully satisfied.
At three thirty in the morning, in a cab, post-fucking, its the only time when she misses smoking, but she smiles.
She was dancing at a concert with a long skirt and a tiny top, her stomach moved with the rhythm, and she knew she was being watched. Oh, so many men watched her, and so few dared to go near.
He did go near, the sexy Argentinean with the pose and the big back, he came, he saw, he panted, he conquered.
He took her to the meet & greet after the music, trying to show off, she knew that although he depicted such confidence, he wasn't very sure what he would do with her.
They went to his hotel.
Lovely.
The best lovers are those that are here only for a little while, those that will leave and leave no regrets. Those that live in an hotel room where you can read their personality by what they have there and how it is arranged, but you can't get to intimate because there is a limit of how much you can learn from someone from what they take along when they travel.
He wanted her to dance some more, she was amazed, she had thought she didn't dance so well, but oh, the belly dance.
He kissed her. She didn't understand why someone would rather lick most of your face than kiss you on the lips, but she laughed.
He undressed her, kissed her, caressed her.
His body was delicious, he did boxing as a hobby, he was soft and hard in all the right places.
He wanted to be inside of her, but she played around, licking, panting, while he growled like a panther, and she laughed.
Finally they fucked.
And fucked.
and fucked.
He didn't want her to come, little did he know.
They came. She smiled. He growled and then sang a song in Spanish, something about an angel, she wasn't sure if that was really happening or if it was the post-orgasmic illusion.
They slept a little bit, and then she was at it again. He was bigger than her, much stronger, and yet, he had lost complete power. She made him hard, kissed him, licked him, put the condom on, and mounted him. And mounted him, and mounted him.
He didn't want her to come, and she laughed and told him to be still.
She mounted him and came, and came, and came once more.
He tried to stir, to move, to lick. She told him to be still, and came, and came, and came.
After eternities and orgasms filled oceans, thet stopped.
He asked her if she knew that she wasn't normal, that she came so much, so beautifully, so deliciously. "I am going to recommend you", he said, she laughed, for what?
He growled again and asked her about herself. She said just enough and not too much.
He insisted on asking her about her pleasure capabilities, was it real, since when was she able to do that, to enjoy so much, to come as much as she did. She laughed and growled a bit, imitating him, and said that one needs to enjoy oneself in order to enjoy others, and caressed his beautiful back.
Once more they were at it, he was on top of her, trying to regain control of the situation, to have the power position... he failed miserably. And it was lovely.
She came, and came and came.
He didn't want to come so quickly, so she kept giving him subjects to think about: politics, soccer, Ronaldinho.
Oh my, he was so hot, so turned on that even Ronaldinho seemed sexy to him.
She allowed him to come.
They exploded, and once more, with his husky voice, he began to sing a song.
Who sings a song when they come, and the same exact one?
Ah, lovely men do strange things.
She told him she was leaving, and did. With a great big smile and fully satisfied.
At three thirty in the morning, in a cab, post-fucking, its the only time when she misses smoking, but she smiles.
Monday, March 30, 2009
a pencil and a joint
I let him make love to me in the best way I knew how, I let him draw me.
I knew his pencils were caressing my skin, I could sense his cock protruding against the pages he was so eagerly trying to hold still.
I didn't want to kiss him, I knew he was leaving in a couple of days and he needed to take some sort of me with him, so when we came into his room after a meal filled with oysters, nervous laughs and double-meaning words, I took my clothes off, layed on his bed and ordered him to draw me.
He tried to kiss me, he did. He caressed me, and I let him, and then I told him with all the authority someone almost 20 years younger can have, told him: go, draw me.
He was stoned, so was I, but between my giggling and my nudity, I told him to draw me.
He told me I moved too much, and he wanted to make love to me. I told him no. I knew we were making love in a more intimate way, but I needed to find a way for him to feel that too.
I told him to draw me, and I touched myself.
I think that when I trembled with ecstasy, reaching a rainbow colored nirvana that made the whole world collapse and arise in new brightness a couple of times, he finished his drawing.
I let him keep it, as well as his orgasm, I knew that when he touched himself next, he would know that we had made love, I with my nudity and gasps, he with his pencil and paper.
I knew his pencils were caressing my skin, I could sense his cock protruding against the pages he was so eagerly trying to hold still.
I didn't want to kiss him, I knew he was leaving in a couple of days and he needed to take some sort of me with him, so when we came into his room after a meal filled with oysters, nervous laughs and double-meaning words, I took my clothes off, layed on his bed and ordered him to draw me.
He tried to kiss me, he did. He caressed me, and I let him, and then I told him with all the authority someone almost 20 years younger can have, told him: go, draw me.
He was stoned, so was I, but between my giggling and my nudity, I told him to draw me.
He told me I moved too much, and he wanted to make love to me. I told him no. I knew we were making love in a more intimate way, but I needed to find a way for him to feel that too.
I told him to draw me, and I touched myself.
I think that when I trembled with ecstasy, reaching a rainbow colored nirvana that made the whole world collapse and arise in new brightness a couple of times, he finished his drawing.
I let him keep it, as well as his orgasm, I knew that when he touched himself next, he would know that we had made love, I with my nudity and gasps, he with his pencil and paper.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
I left my hat on...
Turpentine and bright lights have acquired a new meaning for me.
Last night I posed for my artist lover and for his six artist friends. I sat naked for two hours and wondered about desire.
I took my dress off and told them I would leave my hat and my red stilettos on; I sat on a high chair, and began to look at them.
I have exposed my body in many different ways, but I don't think I have ever exposed it like this, utterly naked, motionless. I sat naked for two hours in the same position and watched them watching me. My body hurt, and I browsed them. They told me not to. I had to stare at one point and not move my eyesight from there... I cheated when I thought they weren't looking, they were always looking.
My body hurt, I needed to move just a bit, to feel I was still me, I hadn't turned into just somebody else's desire. I began to move my pelvic muscles, my orgasm muscles. I stopped. I couldn't see if they could see I was moving them, under an enigmatic situation, better to cease and wonder than to continue and wander. I felt faint, the light was too bright, I asked for wine, water, and a spliff. It made me more nervous to drink in front of the canvases than to just sit.
Just sitting requires so much more effort than I had known, and my thoughts wondered around, listening to the music, exploring the artists' gestures, feeling myself being watched by so many.
I stared at my lover, he was so professional, every brushstroke, I realized, was aimed at caressing my body. I couldn't stare too much at him because I smiled and my sensual gesture changed.
I felt as if I was an Anaïs Nïn character, being painted by a lover and his friends.
They were done, I put my dress back on, took off the shoes and the hat and looked at what had come to pass between my nakedness and some canvasses. I didn't recognize myself, but I knew myself wanted and gorgeous.
After the session, a couple of orgasms and spankings later, as I was naked, once more, but not alone in my nakedness, I asked my lover if he didn't mind that his friends saw the body he was making love to at the moment. He grinned. And I realized, so many hours later, what had really happened.
My posing was just the excuse for my lover to show me off to his friends.
Last night I posed for my artist lover and for his six artist friends. I sat naked for two hours and wondered about desire.
I took my dress off and told them I would leave my hat and my red stilettos on; I sat on a high chair, and began to look at them.
I have exposed my body in many different ways, but I don't think I have ever exposed it like this, utterly naked, motionless. I sat naked for two hours in the same position and watched them watching me. My body hurt, and I browsed them. They told me not to. I had to stare at one point and not move my eyesight from there... I cheated when I thought they weren't looking, they were always looking.
My body hurt, I needed to move just a bit, to feel I was still me, I hadn't turned into just somebody else's desire. I began to move my pelvic muscles, my orgasm muscles. I stopped. I couldn't see if they could see I was moving them, under an enigmatic situation, better to cease and wonder than to continue and wander. I felt faint, the light was too bright, I asked for wine, water, and a spliff. It made me more nervous to drink in front of the canvases than to just sit.
Just sitting requires so much more effort than I had known, and my thoughts wondered around, listening to the music, exploring the artists' gestures, feeling myself being watched by so many.
I stared at my lover, he was so professional, every brushstroke, I realized, was aimed at caressing my body. I couldn't stare too much at him because I smiled and my sensual gesture changed.
I felt as if I was an Anaïs Nïn character, being painted by a lover and his friends.
They were done, I put my dress back on, took off the shoes and the hat and looked at what had come to pass between my nakedness and some canvasses. I didn't recognize myself, but I knew myself wanted and gorgeous.
After the session, a couple of orgasms and spankings later, as I was naked, once more, but not alone in my nakedness, I asked my lover if he didn't mind that his friends saw the body he was making love to at the moment. He grinned. And I realized, so many hours later, what had really happened.
My posing was just the excuse for my lover to show me off to his friends.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
greek for dinner
We met at a bookstore. His accent was what made me wonder who he was, where he was from and it was also the perfect excuse to strike up a conversation.
As we were lying naked and he was nibbling my body I asked him who picked up who. He asked me for my number and called me immediately after that encounter, but I had smiled at him.
He's a painter and will leave in two weeks.
I left his apartment at 3:30 in the morning. I love waking up alone and wondering if all that my body tells me happened, did indeed happen.
We went to a jazz club where he is an associate. It used to be a bank and it has vaults all over. After the first two drinks, lots of conversation and mystery (I didn't tell him much about me, and he found that very enticing) he wanted to show me around, his place, his area, his territory. He made me open up a vault, I turned the handle with some effort and stuck my hips out, I knew he was watching.
We went inside and he showed me around, the door closed behind us. It could be opened, only, from the outside. He asked me again about the bruises in my arms and knees, wondering what sort of perversity I was into, I let him wonder.
He touched me, he kissed me, he nibbled my bellybutton and my thighs. I wasn't sure if I was going to make him suffer, to play the 'conservative' little whore that warms up but doesnt bite. I was playing around with my options when his nibbling got the better of me.
There we were, standing inside a vault, the jazz was coming thru the thick walls, I knew I was trapped, even though I could have done an escapade... and I let him seduce me.
Its sad when the pre- is so much better than the post-. And its even sadder when a guy uses the "condoms aren't working for me" excuse to excuse their non-hard-on issue.
I did have fun though... and the Greek, no matter what they tell you about stereotypes, they are true and oh, so anal.
As we were lying naked and he was nibbling my body I asked him who picked up who. He asked me for my number and called me immediately after that encounter, but I had smiled at him.
He's a painter and will leave in two weeks.
I left his apartment at 3:30 in the morning. I love waking up alone and wondering if all that my body tells me happened, did indeed happen.
We went to a jazz club where he is an associate. It used to be a bank and it has vaults all over. After the first two drinks, lots of conversation and mystery (I didn't tell him much about me, and he found that very enticing) he wanted to show me around, his place, his area, his territory. He made me open up a vault, I turned the handle with some effort and stuck my hips out, I knew he was watching.
We went inside and he showed me around, the door closed behind us. It could be opened, only, from the outside. He asked me again about the bruises in my arms and knees, wondering what sort of perversity I was into, I let him wonder.
He touched me, he kissed me, he nibbled my bellybutton and my thighs. I wasn't sure if I was going to make him suffer, to play the 'conservative' little whore that warms up but doesnt bite. I was playing around with my options when his nibbling got the better of me.
There we were, standing inside a vault, the jazz was coming thru the thick walls, I knew I was trapped, even though I could have done an escapade... and I let him seduce me.
Its sad when the pre- is so much better than the post-. And its even sadder when a guy uses the "condoms aren't working for me" excuse to excuse their non-hard-on issue.
I did have fun though... and the Greek, no matter what they tell you about stereotypes, they are true and oh, so anal.
Monday, March 16, 2009
dancing queen
There is a possibility, its slight, it might not even happen in real life, but the possibility exists. I might become a vedette. Just the thought of me dancing on a stage, all eyes, all male eyes on me.. it makes me quiver.
I see myself outside myself, a spotlight on me, I sit on a chair, I look at them without seeing them, seducing with the anonymity of my make up name. I dance.
The clothes fall off, one by one, I undo buttons, zippers, unhook things.
I dance, I'm almost naked and I dance for me, in front of men. They don't realize that I'm seducing myself, not them. I dance.
I'm wearing a pink thong, I spread my legs, and believe that I am not fully exposed because although they see my body they don't know my name.
I dance within the possibility of becoming a dancer.
I see myself outside myself, a spotlight on me, I sit on a chair, I look at them without seeing them, seducing with the anonymity of my make up name. I dance.
The clothes fall off, one by one, I undo buttons, zippers, unhook things.
I dance, I'm almost naked and I dance for me, in front of men. They don't realize that I'm seducing myself, not them. I dance.
I'm wearing a pink thong, I spread my legs, and believe that I am not fully exposed because although they see my body they don't know my name.
I dance within the possibility of becoming a dancer.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Dreaming dreams
Dreaming dreams of him, dreaming his skin in my dream, dreaming his skin...
It happened a couple of days ago, in yoga class I was in one of those gravitational impossible positions, and he was next to me, showing us how to do it better. His shirt went up, and I saw a bit of his back, it looked so soft, so touchable, so lickeable, I almost fell.
The next day I dram about that back, the skin, his skin on mine... I told him I dram of him, he asked what, and I said that it was one of those dreams that only with many shots of some sort of heavy liquor one could confess. He didn't say a thing.
Since then my yoga classes have been a sort of nightmare, or a dream come true. The object of my desire, his skin, is right there, at the front of the class, sometimes closer to me, but so unreachable.
I wonder if my dreams will turn into my yoga class or if my yoga class will turn into my dreams... I wonder.
It happened a couple of days ago, in yoga class I was in one of those gravitational impossible positions, and he was next to me, showing us how to do it better. His shirt went up, and I saw a bit of his back, it looked so soft, so touchable, so lickeable, I almost fell.
The next day I dram about that back, the skin, his skin on mine... I told him I dram of him, he asked what, and I said that it was one of those dreams that only with many shots of some sort of heavy liquor one could confess. He didn't say a thing.
Since then my yoga classes have been a sort of nightmare, or a dream come true. The object of my desire, his skin, is right there, at the front of the class, sometimes closer to me, but so unreachable.
I wonder if my dreams will turn into my yoga class or if my yoga class will turn into my dreams... I wonder.
Monday, March 9, 2009
flithy yoga
Breath in, breath out, contract the muscles of the stomach, foot up, foot down, leg up, toes down. Breath in, breath out.
I turned into one of those unbelievable knots that the body does when nobody is looking, My face was staring into parts of my body I hadn't thought of in years, my arms were stretching in ways I thought would make them break, I was trying to breath, but it was almost impossible. Then I saw it, there it was, staring in my face, in a way, protruding would be more accurate.
We were all in impossible positions, and there it was. Shit. How was I supposed to concentrate when the teachers package was right in my face?
There it was, almost in my mouth and so far away.
It was another reason to become more flexible.
Maybe next time I will reach, and then we will see how his breathing is controlled.
I turned into one of those unbelievable knots that the body does when nobody is looking, My face was staring into parts of my body I hadn't thought of in years, my arms were stretching in ways I thought would make them break, I was trying to breath, but it was almost impossible. Then I saw it, there it was, staring in my face, in a way, protruding would be more accurate.
We were all in impossible positions, and there it was. Shit. How was I supposed to concentrate when the teachers package was right in my face?
There it was, almost in my mouth and so far away.
It was another reason to become more flexible.
Maybe next time I will reach, and then we will see how his breathing is controlled.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
XXL
I had stopped at the pharmacy on my way home, buying some stomach stuff, antacids, floss, and as I turned to the lady on the other side of the counter I asked for a specification I had never had asked for before "Do you have extra large condoms?" The woman was over 50, with a very bad hair dye, and a facial expression that clearly depicted that not only had she never used extra large condoms, but that she hadn't even had the necessity of thinking of condoms in years. "And lubricant too?"
She walked away, into the abyss of medicine boxes and pharmaceutical smells.
I stretched myself over the counter, trying to look at the condom boxes on the other side.
The middle aged acid lady returned with boxes of flu and stomach and all sorts of boring things to put into the body.
"So, do you have extra large condoms?" I was ignored, once more, she gave me the meds, and then with a toss of her head, she pointed to a younger girl, the assistant, who would, from this point onwards, help me out in my condomnastic endeavors.
"Yes, so, I'm looking for extra large condoms." I had to repeat once more, the girl, with really highlighted highlights smiled, and said she didn't know. So there we were, looking at the durex and the trojan, the ultra-thin and the ribbed, the extra pleasure and the extra-protection, and all the candy-like-condom boxes looking for those specific ones. "The black ones, magnum, I think those are the ones" I told her. She smiled and gave them to me. "Yes, I think these are it." Great, I responded, and we exchanged smiles, again, "What about lubricant?"
"Oh, this one works wonders, its really fun." And she gave me a box with the corniest of the corny sunsets painted on it, the outline of a couple and the extra-pleasure legend tried to convince whomever had picked it up that that was it, the ultimate lubricant pleasure, what we had all been waiting for, but hadnt found as of yet.
Mmmmh, I thought and pondered. "And does it work with condoms?" I asked; such a responsible adult I'd become, not only was I looking for health and pleasure, but I wanted to combine them and be a real postmodernist kind of girl. We turned the box over and over, looking at the happily pleasured couple, and at the instructions, "Well, I don't know if they work for those condoms, but with others it does, and very well." and she winked. "Ha, well, I haven't tried these condoms either but the ones I have don't fit him..." and the complicity of the size of a penis was exchanged.
I took a box of extra large condoms and of a variety of lubricants home, you never know what kind of lubricant you might be in the mood for. Especially when you are using extra large sizes.
She walked away, into the abyss of medicine boxes and pharmaceutical smells.
I stretched myself over the counter, trying to look at the condom boxes on the other side.
The middle aged acid lady returned with boxes of flu and stomach and all sorts of boring things to put into the body.
"So, do you have extra large condoms?" I was ignored, once more, she gave me the meds, and then with a toss of her head, she pointed to a younger girl, the assistant, who would, from this point onwards, help me out in my condomnastic endeavors.
"Yes, so, I'm looking for extra large condoms." I had to repeat once more, the girl, with really highlighted highlights smiled, and said she didn't know. So there we were, looking at the durex and the trojan, the ultra-thin and the ribbed, the extra pleasure and the extra-protection, and all the candy-like-condom boxes looking for those specific ones. "The black ones, magnum, I think those are the ones" I told her. She smiled and gave them to me. "Yes, I think these are it." Great, I responded, and we exchanged smiles, again, "What about lubricant?"
"Oh, this one works wonders, its really fun." And she gave me a box with the corniest of the corny sunsets painted on it, the outline of a couple and the extra-pleasure legend tried to convince whomever had picked it up that that was it, the ultimate lubricant pleasure, what we had all been waiting for, but hadnt found as of yet.
Mmmmh, I thought and pondered. "And does it work with condoms?" I asked; such a responsible adult I'd become, not only was I looking for health and pleasure, but I wanted to combine them and be a real postmodernist kind of girl. We turned the box over and over, looking at the happily pleasured couple, and at the instructions, "Well, I don't know if they work for those condoms, but with others it does, and very well." and she winked. "Ha, well, I haven't tried these condoms either but the ones I have don't fit him..." and the complicity of the size of a penis was exchanged.
I took a box of extra large condoms and of a variety of lubricants home, you never know what kind of lubricant you might be in the mood for. Especially when you are using extra large sizes.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
books, emptiness and rainbows
He picked me up 10 minutes after the time he said he would. I made him wait ten more. We saw each other, measuring our sizes, our likes, our clothes. I realized that we had known each other in another life, when we were 9 years old, and he pulled my hair, and I had a crush on someone 10 years older than me.
He was handsome, in a darkish sort of way, he wore his suit, attempting to pretend that it was his normal attire, that he had been born to be elegant. I smiled. Elegance is carried within.
He didn't know where to take me, so I said, lets be adventurous and just drive around until we reach a restaurant we seem to like. It didn't work out. I took him to a place I knew.
we talked, he talked, he exposed all of his ego on the table. and I told him of the emptiness I sensed in him. He invited me to an adventure... he would take me to an amusement park, now? I asked with excitement. No, we would have to plan it. My disappointment seeped into the pasta I was eating.
All in all, I would have rather stayed at home.
I got home, and decided that I didn't want to date anymore (liar-liar, indeed, but hell, we can all lie to ourselves once in a while)... and I had my books and my poetry to protect me.
And I had just bought new batteries for my best friend, the one that made me see blue rainbows in bed. Sigh.
He was handsome, in a darkish sort of way, he wore his suit, attempting to pretend that it was his normal attire, that he had been born to be elegant. I smiled. Elegance is carried within.
He didn't know where to take me, so I said, lets be adventurous and just drive around until we reach a restaurant we seem to like. It didn't work out. I took him to a place I knew.
we talked, he talked, he exposed all of his ego on the table. and I told him of the emptiness I sensed in him. He invited me to an adventure... he would take me to an amusement park, now? I asked with excitement. No, we would have to plan it. My disappointment seeped into the pasta I was eating.
All in all, I would have rather stayed at home.
I got home, and decided that I didn't want to date anymore (liar-liar, indeed, but hell, we can all lie to ourselves once in a while)... and I had my books and my poetry to protect me.
And I had just bought new batteries for my best friend, the one that made me see blue rainbows in bed. Sigh.
Friday, February 13, 2009
the stare
I'm wondering if the encounter of the third type that happened a couple of days ago changed me completely...
I walk in the street, and they stare at me, men smile, smirk, do the elevator look, and continue walking.
Is it me? was it him?
I'm wondering what happened to me, was I this attractive before he seduced me and I just didn't notice, or do men smell the post-sex aroma on me? Do they want to fuck me? Do I want to fuck them?
I see them coming towards me, smirking, smiling, and I picture them kissing me, all of them at the same time, three, four, seven random men in the street, just hoggling over me in the middle of the sidewalk, caressing my post-orgasm aromatic skin, licking me... and I let them. I'm in a kind of euphoric trance, and everybody I see in the street, (almost everybody, at least), seems attractive, and I wonder if I would let them fuck me.
I'm wondering, and while I figure out what's happening around me, I enjoy the attention. Definitely.
I walk in the street, and they stare at me, men smile, smirk, do the elevator look, and continue walking.
Is it me? was it him?
I'm wondering what happened to me, was I this attractive before he seduced me and I just didn't notice, or do men smell the post-sex aroma on me? Do they want to fuck me? Do I want to fuck them?
I see them coming towards me, smirking, smiling, and I picture them kissing me, all of them at the same time, three, four, seven random men in the street, just hoggling over me in the middle of the sidewalk, caressing my post-orgasm aromatic skin, licking me... and I let them. I'm in a kind of euphoric trance, and everybody I see in the street, (almost everybody, at least), seems attractive, and I wonder if I would let them fuck me.
I'm wondering, and while I figure out what's happening around me, I enjoy the attention. Definitely.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
blushing
(A dress, opened with buttons, exhales a red bra with white lace, on top of it there is a brown sweater, big, soft... on the floor two pairs of underwear rest, one red and one gray... pants, socks, stockings... I didn't touch the evidence, it was too beautiful as it was.)
I see him, in my head, touching my skin, and I blush. I see him in my head, licking my back, beginning at the nook of my neck and then slowly, tongue by tongue, going down, between my legs, and I blush. I hear him groaning as I wet myself between his lips, and I blush.
His skin is silky, its plastic, its velvety, its just absolutely touchable. His skin blends into mine, his body, bittersweet, tastes like chocolate, lovely, just lovely to be in his arms.
He woke me up, he kissed me up, he sexed me up.
I think of all the things he did to me a couple of nights ago, and I pulse, I blush, I vibrate and my cheeks are red with the remembrance of his body on mine, his smell permeating into me...
He invited me to his house, he cooked soul food, we drank a bottle and a half of red wine, we talked about classic porn, there was a Spanish/ English dictionary lying around and I picked it up. "Ask a question", I said. He did, I opened up the dictionary at random, flipping the words between my fingers. "Proximity", I read. Good, he said, but who should go near who... The couch where he was lying was bigger, so I stood up and melted into his arms, feeling the wine, the desire and the sea food playing with my temperature...
We kissed, he touched me. We kissed, I touched him. I was amazed, he was so beautiful, and so touchable... I didn't sleep much, and when I could, I preferred to watch him sleeping as he wrapped himself around me.
The rest of the things we did, well, they are left to my blushing and to your imagination... but I can say that some nights later, as I remember instants of that memorable moon filled evening, I blush as if I were still a practicing virgin.
I see him, in my head, touching my skin, and I blush. I see him in my head, licking my back, beginning at the nook of my neck and then slowly, tongue by tongue, going down, between my legs, and I blush. I hear him groaning as I wet myself between his lips, and I blush.
His skin is silky, its plastic, its velvety, its just absolutely touchable. His skin blends into mine, his body, bittersweet, tastes like chocolate, lovely, just lovely to be in his arms.
He woke me up, he kissed me up, he sexed me up.
I think of all the things he did to me a couple of nights ago, and I pulse, I blush, I vibrate and my cheeks are red with the remembrance of his body on mine, his smell permeating into me...
He invited me to his house, he cooked soul food, we drank a bottle and a half of red wine, we talked about classic porn, there was a Spanish/ English dictionary lying around and I picked it up. "Ask a question", I said. He did, I opened up the dictionary at random, flipping the words between my fingers. "Proximity", I read. Good, he said, but who should go near who... The couch where he was lying was bigger, so I stood up and melted into his arms, feeling the wine, the desire and the sea food playing with my temperature...
We kissed, he touched me. We kissed, I touched him. I was amazed, he was so beautiful, and so touchable... I didn't sleep much, and when I could, I preferred to watch him sleeping as he wrapped himself around me.
The rest of the things we did, well, they are left to my blushing and to your imagination... but I can say that some nights later, as I remember instants of that memorable moon filled evening, I blush as if I were still a practicing virgin.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Help Me Eros
He is smoking into the phone, on the other side there is a girl from the suicide line. He smokes into the phone, and she inhales the smoke on the other side, her cubicle is suddenly transformed into an erotic cube, her clothes barely cover her in the girlish school style, holding the phone with one hand, closing her eyes, she starts to touch herself...
She sees them playing pool, her husband and his lover, they play and she walks by, not creating any disturbance in the way they play. she walks away, with an Ice cream bucket cradling peacefully in her arms... the two men continue playing, the husband shows the lover how to aim, and as the balls touch, I can see that neither one of them has pants on, their buttocks stick out while they aim...
She has walked away. She enters teh bathroom and leaves the bucket of ice-cream aside, she looks into the tube, at the slithering beings that live there. They have been her silent lovers for a while, but just with the foot fetish. This time it will be different, she undresses for them, a bit shyly leaves her underwear on, her huge breasts storm freely into the water.
They cover her, and little by little, she takes her pantys off, she opens her legs, and they, all of them, caress her...
He smokes his joint, and breathes into her face. He smokes a joint, and breathes into her face. He smokes a joint, and breathes into her face. He has captivated them with his smoke. They are on the roof, three of them, the fourth, she stares at them from the staircase. The three of them on the roof, and the light that melts on their skins has figurines, designs, making them plastic, artifical, while the three of them make love and the fourth stares...
He makes love to her in a white room, black bed. The light comes from every corner. He makes love to her in a white room, holding her on top of a black bed. He carries her while makes love to her on a black bed, standing up, in a white room. He loves making love to her in a full light white room on top of a black bed, holding her, she floats... her hands touch the black bed... her feet never did.
A photograph oozes from each frame; texture stems from the struggle between eros and thanatos... the seemingly call girls sell cigarretes and seeds in glass frames, life sized dolls, as they struggle with their bodies and desires, being in this self-abandonement of the night. He sells his life, selling his things. A grain of rice as their metaphor, they sink into photographs that frame each of their seconds.
(Snowflakes made of days.)
Directed by Lee Kang Sheng
She sees them playing pool, her husband and his lover, they play and she walks by, not creating any disturbance in the way they play. she walks away, with an Ice cream bucket cradling peacefully in her arms... the two men continue playing, the husband shows the lover how to aim, and as the balls touch, I can see that neither one of them has pants on, their buttocks stick out while they aim...
She has walked away. She enters teh bathroom and leaves the bucket of ice-cream aside, she looks into the tube, at the slithering beings that live there. They have been her silent lovers for a while, but just with the foot fetish. This time it will be different, she undresses for them, a bit shyly leaves her underwear on, her huge breasts storm freely into the water.
They cover her, and little by little, she takes her pantys off, she opens her legs, and they, all of them, caress her...
He smokes his joint, and breathes into her face. He smokes a joint, and breathes into her face. He smokes a joint, and breathes into her face. He has captivated them with his smoke. They are on the roof, three of them, the fourth, she stares at them from the staircase. The three of them on the roof, and the light that melts on their skins has figurines, designs, making them plastic, artifical, while the three of them make love and the fourth stares...
He makes love to her in a white room, black bed. The light comes from every corner. He makes love to her in a white room, holding her on top of a black bed. He carries her while makes love to her on a black bed, standing up, in a white room. He loves making love to her in a full light white room on top of a black bed, holding her, she floats... her hands touch the black bed... her feet never did.
A photograph oozes from each frame; texture stems from the struggle between eros and thanatos... the seemingly call girls sell cigarretes and seeds in glass frames, life sized dolls, as they struggle with their bodies and desires, being in this self-abandonement of the night. He sells his life, selling his things. A grain of rice as their metaphor, they sink into photographs that frame each of their seconds.
(Snowflakes made of days.)
Directed by Lee Kang Sheng
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
it smells like...
He was perfect. Beyond perfect. Blue eyes, darkish skin, salt and pepper hair, doing a PhD in philosophy, read poetry, wrote stories, a stranger in this land... absolutely perfect.
So, after a few emotional crisis, I was able to see him, at his place; there is nothing sexier than letting a guy cook for you, so I did just that.
He hadn't finished cooking when I got there, lingerie touching skin ready, with a scarf that profiled my neck and a smile that didn't say too much.
He, lets say his name was J, so J acted the cutest way as he tried to cook for me. I had seen him before at a bar, we had talked for hours about poetry and religion, philosophy and contemporary art... the smoke of the cigarettes that passed in that conversation stuck to our skins and throats... two intellectuals trying to flirt and getting stuck in poses. Lovely.
This time it was different, we had talked on the phone a few times, we had confessed indecent things over the phone, and, despite all our mind masturbations, we were quite horny, and J was nervous and showed it with pots and pans, I just stood there, smoking, drinking, and smiling.
So he cooked and I watched, drinking my wine, and picturing him in my home... he would be cooking while I read some filthy poem from the Victorian era out loud, he would do the laundry while I recited a bit of Heidegger, he would fold my pantys while I wrote... It would be perfect... and there would be lovemaking in the morning and at night and in the afternoon, we would make love on top of our philosophy books, we would masturbate each other as we wrote the things we needed to write, we would write very deep intellectual letters and jerk off as we read them... he was perfect, and I thought about all of this as he cooked for me.
We ate, and had more wine, and I wet my lips thinking how perfect he was.
and then, then... it happened. He kissed me.
and my dream home, my dreams, my hornyness, it all went down a very existentialist drain.
I thought maybe it wasnt true, maybe it was me, maybe something was wrong with me... and I tried it again. But no. He smelled like Cheese. J smelled like hickory cheese, like blue cheese, like cheese. and seriously, who wants to smell cheese in bed?
I don't have the cheese fetish well developed, and was quite upset about that. I tried, I really did. Again and again, I smelled his neck, there was cheese, I smelled his bellybutton, cheese. I didnt go further south, because I didnt want to encounter Raclette or something even worse...
and the dream poped with the cheese smell. J was perfect, except for his natural B.O.
I am sure he is still searching for a mousy girl who will adore him.
So, after a few emotional crisis, I was able to see him, at his place; there is nothing sexier than letting a guy cook for you, so I did just that.
He hadn't finished cooking when I got there, lingerie touching skin ready, with a scarf that profiled my neck and a smile that didn't say too much.
He, lets say his name was J, so J acted the cutest way as he tried to cook for me. I had seen him before at a bar, we had talked for hours about poetry and religion, philosophy and contemporary art... the smoke of the cigarettes that passed in that conversation stuck to our skins and throats... two intellectuals trying to flirt and getting stuck in poses. Lovely.
This time it was different, we had talked on the phone a few times, we had confessed indecent things over the phone, and, despite all our mind masturbations, we were quite horny, and J was nervous and showed it with pots and pans, I just stood there, smoking, drinking, and smiling.
So he cooked and I watched, drinking my wine, and picturing him in my home... he would be cooking while I read some filthy poem from the Victorian era out loud, he would do the laundry while I recited a bit of Heidegger, he would fold my pantys while I wrote... It would be perfect... and there would be lovemaking in the morning and at night and in the afternoon, we would make love on top of our philosophy books, we would masturbate each other as we wrote the things we needed to write, we would write very deep intellectual letters and jerk off as we read them... he was perfect, and I thought about all of this as he cooked for me.
We ate, and had more wine, and I wet my lips thinking how perfect he was.
and then, then... it happened. He kissed me.
and my dream home, my dreams, my hornyness, it all went down a very existentialist drain.
I thought maybe it wasnt true, maybe it was me, maybe something was wrong with me... and I tried it again. But no. He smelled like Cheese. J smelled like hickory cheese, like blue cheese, like cheese. and seriously, who wants to smell cheese in bed?
I don't have the cheese fetish well developed, and was quite upset about that. I tried, I really did. Again and again, I smelled his neck, there was cheese, I smelled his bellybutton, cheese. I didnt go further south, because I didnt want to encounter Raclette or something even worse...
and the dream poped with the cheese smell. J was perfect, except for his natural B.O.
I am sure he is still searching for a mousy girl who will adore him.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
one sunday afternoon...
As any other Sunday afternoon I felt the depression creeping into my body... I knew it was coming although I woke up filled up with energy, reason, a purpose in life. Yes, my heart said, its Sunday, and if you don't do something about it, it will creep up on you as it always does, and you will end up with the worst kind of insomnia. Sunday night-cold bed-purposeless life- horrid emptiness insomina.
So, what to do? the television had reruns on, the coldness crept into my apartment as it always ends up doing, so, what then?
Supermarket time was the only thing I could think of. My pyjamas, my long Sunday partner, warming me up as the cold appeared around me, well, I couldn't bear to be separated from it, so I just put a long coat on, buttoned up, and went to buy milk, vodka, and whatever else I thought my depression could crave.
Even though I go to other places to buy fruit, it thrills me to touch the cold, refrigerated, almost unseemly real fruit that just spreads there, waiting to be chosen by an unlucky hand.
The empty excuses to go to the supermarket dissapeared from my mind as I touched the round, cold apples. Red.
I loved the texture, and my fingers, warm a moment ago inside my coat pockets, turned icy cold. I loved that feeling, and I loved touching the silky texture of the peaches.
I went from an aisle to the next, touching the fruit, smelling it, and starting to feel some warm craving creeping on me on this lazy, grey, afternoon.
I couldn't resist it, and as my left hand caressed the pomagranates, my right hand slid between my coat buttons, and up my pyjama shirt, icy cold fingers on my nipples.
The oranges, the melon, and the apples again, the red apples. My right hand slid between my legs, and I touched myself, feeling how my wetness warmed up my fingers. I changed hands, and I groaned.
I guess someone was watching me, but I didn't care, I kept on touching the cold fruit, the strawberries, and caressing myself.
I forgot the milk, and the vodka, and I did see some dark shaded form, probably a man, taking the apple that had woken me up, unlike Snowhite.
I wonder what kind of dreams he had that insomniac Sunday.
So, what to do? the television had reruns on, the coldness crept into my apartment as it always ends up doing, so, what then?
Supermarket time was the only thing I could think of. My pyjamas, my long Sunday partner, warming me up as the cold appeared around me, well, I couldn't bear to be separated from it, so I just put a long coat on, buttoned up, and went to buy milk, vodka, and whatever else I thought my depression could crave.
Even though I go to other places to buy fruit, it thrills me to touch the cold, refrigerated, almost unseemly real fruit that just spreads there, waiting to be chosen by an unlucky hand.
The empty excuses to go to the supermarket dissapeared from my mind as I touched the round, cold apples. Red.
I loved the texture, and my fingers, warm a moment ago inside my coat pockets, turned icy cold. I loved that feeling, and I loved touching the silky texture of the peaches.
I went from an aisle to the next, touching the fruit, smelling it, and starting to feel some warm craving creeping on me on this lazy, grey, afternoon.
I couldn't resist it, and as my left hand caressed the pomagranates, my right hand slid between my coat buttons, and up my pyjama shirt, icy cold fingers on my nipples.
The oranges, the melon, and the apples again, the red apples. My right hand slid between my legs, and I touched myself, feeling how my wetness warmed up my fingers. I changed hands, and I groaned.
I guess someone was watching me, but I didn't care, I kept on touching the cold fruit, the strawberries, and caressing myself.
I forgot the milk, and the vodka, and I did see some dark shaded form, probably a man, taking the apple that had woken me up, unlike Snowhite.
I wonder what kind of dreams he had that insomniac Sunday.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
the scarf in silence
What was he going to touch? My knees, my clit, my nipples or my navel?
I couldn’t see.
He had taken my scarf and while he melted his tongue into my mouth, tied it around my eyes.
The moment I couldn’t see it seemed like I couldn’t move either. My hands, which had been untying and undoing everything they could a moment earlier, suddenly became useless, laying at my side, all that was alive in me was my breathing and sudden gasps.
Suddenly I was alone, I couldn’t hear him and I felt powerless. I knew I could untie what was covering my sight, but the expectation was wetting me, and I knew that as helpless as I seemed, I looked completely enticing.
I felt something cold to my lips, I opened them, and felt drips of vodka going inside my throat, sliding down my cheeks, and wetting the little hole that my neck makes as it merges into the rest of my body. The cold suddenly became warm as I felt his tongue tracing the vodka where it had slipped. That’s all I could feel, his tongue licking me, exhilarated by the taste it had on my body.
He poured something cold on my navel, I guess it was the same vodka, and then he lapped it up. I couldn’t move.
My hands wanted to touch him, to sense that he was still there, that it was not just a tongue caressing me, but they refused to break the spell of uselessness.
While I was trying to figure out where exactly he was at, I realized that my sense of smell and ear had become acute. I could hear him, half dressed, drinking vodka, breathing from a corner, staring at me, naked, useless, wet and wanting him more than ever.
I smelled his excitement, and stuck my hips out, telling him without words how much I needed him to touch me, to feel me up, to know that his body was there, for me, for my complete use, although I had become the object of his desire.
With an agressivenes and force I had never even sensed in him, he turned me around, I was lying on my stomach and breasts, and sensing some contact from the carpet, I began to move my body, to excite myself as well as him with the only thing I could.
My hands, useless up to that moment went down and between my thighs. And I began to caress my clit. I was wet but I needed more, so I stuck the index finger of my left hand into my mouth and salivated it profously. Then I moved it down to my clit once more.
I couldn’t see, but I knew he was watching, with that questioning look which was the first thing that had attracted me to him.
I masturbated in a completely different manner than I always do because I knew he was watching. I wanted him to see how I touched myself, to make him feel as though I felt alone, as though I really didn’t need him.
As my groans became louder and came in shorter intervals, I felt his body above mine. He took my hands and moved them away from my pleasure center. He licked my back and spread my ass cheeks apart. He breath into them, and licked me all the way down to my clit, which at that time was vibrating with such intensity that I felt as if I was about to explode. I didn’t tell him that, but I guess he sensed it. And he spanked me. The surprise of that action made me unable to react. I didn’t move, I didn’t scream. I was awed that he would do a thing like that. Then he did it again, and the pain of his hand against my ass made me scream. “Shhhhh, be quiet” he said “or you will make me too excited and I will have to spank you harder.
He turned me around once more, and kissed me on the lips, caressing my teeth with his mouth.
Once more I was alone, I couldn’t feel him above me, his body had moved away from me, I moved again, my hips trying to make some sense of love to the carpet. My groans echoed into the silence. I couldn’t sense him around anymore, I tugged the scarf away from my eyes. He was gone, and there I was, naked on the floor and wet between my thighs.
I couldn’t see.
He had taken my scarf and while he melted his tongue into my mouth, tied it around my eyes.
The moment I couldn’t see it seemed like I couldn’t move either. My hands, which had been untying and undoing everything they could a moment earlier, suddenly became useless, laying at my side, all that was alive in me was my breathing and sudden gasps.
Suddenly I was alone, I couldn’t hear him and I felt powerless. I knew I could untie what was covering my sight, but the expectation was wetting me, and I knew that as helpless as I seemed, I looked completely enticing.
I felt something cold to my lips, I opened them, and felt drips of vodka going inside my throat, sliding down my cheeks, and wetting the little hole that my neck makes as it merges into the rest of my body. The cold suddenly became warm as I felt his tongue tracing the vodka where it had slipped. That’s all I could feel, his tongue licking me, exhilarated by the taste it had on my body.
He poured something cold on my navel, I guess it was the same vodka, and then he lapped it up. I couldn’t move.
My hands wanted to touch him, to sense that he was still there, that it was not just a tongue caressing me, but they refused to break the spell of uselessness.
While I was trying to figure out where exactly he was at, I realized that my sense of smell and ear had become acute. I could hear him, half dressed, drinking vodka, breathing from a corner, staring at me, naked, useless, wet and wanting him more than ever.
I smelled his excitement, and stuck my hips out, telling him without words how much I needed him to touch me, to feel me up, to know that his body was there, for me, for my complete use, although I had become the object of his desire.
With an agressivenes and force I had never even sensed in him, he turned me around, I was lying on my stomach and breasts, and sensing some contact from the carpet, I began to move my body, to excite myself as well as him with the only thing I could.
My hands, useless up to that moment went down and between my thighs. And I began to caress my clit. I was wet but I needed more, so I stuck the index finger of my left hand into my mouth and salivated it profously. Then I moved it down to my clit once more.
I couldn’t see, but I knew he was watching, with that questioning look which was the first thing that had attracted me to him.
I masturbated in a completely different manner than I always do because I knew he was watching. I wanted him to see how I touched myself, to make him feel as though I felt alone, as though I really didn’t need him.
As my groans became louder and came in shorter intervals, I felt his body above mine. He took my hands and moved them away from my pleasure center. He licked my back and spread my ass cheeks apart. He breath into them, and licked me all the way down to my clit, which at that time was vibrating with such intensity that I felt as if I was about to explode. I didn’t tell him that, but I guess he sensed it. And he spanked me. The surprise of that action made me unable to react. I didn’t move, I didn’t scream. I was awed that he would do a thing like that. Then he did it again, and the pain of his hand against my ass made me scream. “Shhhhh, be quiet” he said “or you will make me too excited and I will have to spank you harder.
He turned me around once more, and kissed me on the lips, caressing my teeth with his mouth.
Once more I was alone, I couldn’t feel him above me, his body had moved away from me, I moved again, my hips trying to make some sense of love to the carpet. My groans echoed into the silence. I couldn’t sense him around anymore, I tugged the scarf away from my eyes. He was gone, and there I was, naked on the floor and wet between my thighs.
Friday, January 16, 2009
colecting smells
Lately I have been thinking of smells.
I remember the wonder it caused me when, after my first sexual encounter (which I, naively, had called love-making), I discovered a new smell. Sweat, bodily fluids and gasps intertwined and created the strangest and most enticing bouquet I had ever encountered.
I became obsessed.
Love-making, which was the axis of that relationship, was overthrown by the creation of that new perfume. I could almost skip the first part as long as I could inhale for hours that wonderful, delightful and strange new aroma.
He found it funny, even cute, that I could spend hours after the act, naked as we were, smelling the bed, smelling him, smelling myself, breathing all that had passed. My eyes rolled back and I inhaled deeply, expecting that new powerful aroma to impregnate my body, to stay with me. It only lasted a few hours, and then, it was gone as magically as it had appeared.
So I decided to keep it, to create my own little perfume brand.
After the naked gymnastics I would ask him to stay put, not to move, and I would go all around the bed, or the floor, or wherever we were, and start putting all the fluids I could find into a little bottle.
I was saving the creative fragrance for later, for my own use, for my own pleasure.
I didn't stop to think that maybe, just maybe, bodies were necessary to withhold that essence, to create the powerful scent that made me orgasm once more.
I didn't care. I had my fluids, and in my mind, I could open it up and take a sniff whenever I wanted to, keeping the most precious of the sexual act inside a glass bottle.
Now, years later, I wonder what happened to that precious item, where it went, and if anyone found it, if they would think it as enticing and delicious as I had.
I remember the wonder it caused me when, after my first sexual encounter (which I, naively, had called love-making), I discovered a new smell. Sweat, bodily fluids and gasps intertwined and created the strangest and most enticing bouquet I had ever encountered.
I became obsessed.
Love-making, which was the axis of that relationship, was overthrown by the creation of that new perfume. I could almost skip the first part as long as I could inhale for hours that wonderful, delightful and strange new aroma.
He found it funny, even cute, that I could spend hours after the act, naked as we were, smelling the bed, smelling him, smelling myself, breathing all that had passed. My eyes rolled back and I inhaled deeply, expecting that new powerful aroma to impregnate my body, to stay with me. It only lasted a few hours, and then, it was gone as magically as it had appeared.
So I decided to keep it, to create my own little perfume brand.
After the naked gymnastics I would ask him to stay put, not to move, and I would go all around the bed, or the floor, or wherever we were, and start putting all the fluids I could find into a little bottle.
I was saving the creative fragrance for later, for my own use, for my own pleasure.
I didn't stop to think that maybe, just maybe, bodies were necessary to withhold that essence, to create the powerful scent that made me orgasm once more.
I didn't care. I had my fluids, and in my mind, I could open it up and take a sniff whenever I wanted to, keeping the most precious of the sexual act inside a glass bottle.
Now, years later, I wonder what happened to that precious item, where it went, and if anyone found it, if they would think it as enticing and delicious as I had.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
the noodles
So, I seem to be a bit drunk. Smoking a cigarette and with half a bottle of pinot noir in my system... including about a pound of noodles.
I just got back from a date, at least I think it was a date, because he picked me up, took me to the restaurant, picked up the check and all... but seriously, was it a date?
He is a 39 year old guy who I would have never had flirted with if it hadn't been for the fact that a month and a bit ago, when I thought I had no Mojo left, I kind of flirted with him.
He owns the store where I buy my glasses, and now I am starting to wonder if I will ever be able to buy glasses again. Shit. That happens when you mix glasses and wine, needs and fun.
So we had a rather nice dinner, talked about his recent divorce and how he wouldn't be able to stand his ex-wife living with another guy and his absolute belief that that will never happen. Yeah, right.
I talked about my economic issues, the crisis sucks, life, family, noodles, oh, those noodles with wine, absolutely delightful.
Now I thank god to alka-seltzer and to the fact that he thinks he is a gentleman and dropped me off at my place without any clear intentions. Or maybe its was his cornyness which didn't allow him to try to do anthing else. Of course, if he wasnt as corny and as nerdy as he is I wouldnt have been wondering about what would have happened if he had tried to make more contact with my body.
Anyhow, although I knew nothing would have happened, I did put on nice lingerie, probably for my own delight, and for the fact of slurping noodles knowing what I had under my clothing.
Of course the fact of going out with a geek after seeing the gorgoeus guys at my yoga class didn't help. They take their shirts off, and so do I (I wear a sexy sports bra)... and they are gorgeous. It doesn't matter if I haven't had an interesting inteligent conversation with them, they are beautiful and I can imagine my tongue caressing each musle of their backs...
And yes, I am a bit drunk, and I am thinking of my yoga class mates and of the poor guy who bought me a real expensive dinner and has no hope of getting any, but such is life.
I mean, he doesnt believe in god, and he told me so, and we had this deep theological conversations... (and seriously, whoever has had multiple orgasms cannot be an atheist), so if he doenst get any after such a dinner, well, its not god's fault.
I just got back from a date, at least I think it was a date, because he picked me up, took me to the restaurant, picked up the check and all... but seriously, was it a date?
He is a 39 year old guy who I would have never had flirted with if it hadn't been for the fact that a month and a bit ago, when I thought I had no Mojo left, I kind of flirted with him.
He owns the store where I buy my glasses, and now I am starting to wonder if I will ever be able to buy glasses again. Shit. That happens when you mix glasses and wine, needs and fun.
So we had a rather nice dinner, talked about his recent divorce and how he wouldn't be able to stand his ex-wife living with another guy and his absolute belief that that will never happen. Yeah, right.
I talked about my economic issues, the crisis sucks, life, family, noodles, oh, those noodles with wine, absolutely delightful.
Now I thank god to alka-seltzer and to the fact that he thinks he is a gentleman and dropped me off at my place without any clear intentions. Or maybe its was his cornyness which didn't allow him to try to do anthing else. Of course, if he wasnt as corny and as nerdy as he is I wouldnt have been wondering about what would have happened if he had tried to make more contact with my body.
Anyhow, although I knew nothing would have happened, I did put on nice lingerie, probably for my own delight, and for the fact of slurping noodles knowing what I had under my clothing.
Of course the fact of going out with a geek after seeing the gorgoeus guys at my yoga class didn't help. They take their shirts off, and so do I (I wear a sexy sports bra)... and they are gorgeous. It doesn't matter if I haven't had an interesting inteligent conversation with them, they are beautiful and I can imagine my tongue caressing each musle of their backs...
And yes, I am a bit drunk, and I am thinking of my yoga class mates and of the poor guy who bought me a real expensive dinner and has no hope of getting any, but such is life.
I mean, he doesnt believe in god, and he told me so, and we had this deep theological conversations... (and seriously, whoever has had multiple orgasms cannot be an atheist), so if he doenst get any after such a dinner, well, its not god's fault.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Black Mamba
When she saw what he was hiding in his pants she turned white.
There was no way that could fit anywhere, not inside her, not above her, not anywhere. No part of her body could hold him.
And yet, the attractiveness of his dark skin reflected on her freckles made her wet, the possibility of the existence of such a big member made her gasp, the fact that he was kissing her body made her horny...
but there was no way that could fit anywhere.
And so the story ended, as a possibility of things unfulfilled, of pleasures untried, and of the terror of a huge black dick entering a white pussy.
There was no way that could fit anywhere, not inside her, not above her, not anywhere. No part of her body could hold him.
And yet, the attractiveness of his dark skin reflected on her freckles made her wet, the possibility of the existence of such a big member made her gasp, the fact that he was kissing her body made her horny...
but there was no way that could fit anywhere.
And so the story ended, as a possibility of things unfulfilled, of pleasures untried, and of the terror of a huge black dick entering a white pussy.
Gol... he moaned
So, as it usually happens, when I thought I would enjoy a nice quiet evening with me, myself and I, a man appeared in my life.
The circumstances of how we met are not of interest at this moment, but they were quite unusual, and, I must say, completely unexpected. From the moment I saw him I said, wow, this guy is cute... Maybe it was that the last few months I have only encountered ugly men, or maybe he was really hot... the fact is that his green eyes, tanned and ageless face made me wonder what could happen that night.
At the second bar we had gone to he bent over me and his lips encountered my own. Delicious. I hadn't tasted Brazilian in a while, and I must say, his blood was really warm.
So, a couple of beers later we were at my place, which, really, is not the kind of thing I do, but there was a thing about him that made me trust him, so there we were.
At my place I set the mood with a bit of Simone White... and a beer later we were kissing once more...
He started to go down my neck, and began to moan...
I had never seen something like that, a guy moaning when he's kissing your neck, or touching some parts of your body... and it was cute. He had a kind of 'ay, ay' high-pitched moan which went great with the music that we had completely ignored...
One-hand-Bra-undoing is usually a first test (obviously if a guy has passed the kissing exam), to see how experienced he is, and how nervous he denies being... and he failed... but what the heck, the kisses were good, his skin was soft, and I helped him out.
I did take him to my bed, and we did do things that I had craved and fantasized about for a while (celibacy is not my thing...), and although the first time is alway a bit off, when the other body is strange terrain you must discover and explore, we had a lot of fun and probably woke up some of my neighbors.
a couple of orgasms later, I was absolutely exhausted...
(At this point I have to add that two things really baffled me, the first was that he was a grower... He had a very small dick, and I was quite disappointed when I touched him, but when he stood up to salute me and my body, the size was nice... I hadn't seen that before.
The second thing was that he was uncircumcised... and I had never been with a guy with so much skin down there... I am still uncertain if it was good or bad... it certainly was interesting).
I was exhausted, and he kept going on and on about his trip, and his life, his issues with his father, and his relationship with his sisters. His job, what he thought and felt... and I, well, I wanted to go to sleep, it was 4 in the morning and I was very tired after such an extensive orgasmic workout...
He kept on talking and I kept on nodding and saying uhu to the things he said.
At one point, he started talking about soccer. Talk about a turnoff. I'm not sure if it was because he was Brazilian, or because he was chatting away about all the things he is intense and passionate about, but soccer did enter the field, our field.
As I was trying with all my might to not fall into the post-orgasmic slumber, I did learn that Brazil won its first world cup in 1962, that before that they had good players but their strategy wasnt as great. In 1986 Argentina won the cup because of Maradona, who is amazing, but nothing compared to Pelé...
When he went for water I did fall asleep... half an hour later I called him a cab and he was gone with the words "Eu gosto que voçe seja tao fogosa"...
The next morning I looked for the condoms everywhere to dispose of them, and they were nowhere to be found. I wonder if somewhere in the world a soccer ball exists that is filled up with used condoms.
The circumstances of how we met are not of interest at this moment, but they were quite unusual, and, I must say, completely unexpected. From the moment I saw him I said, wow, this guy is cute... Maybe it was that the last few months I have only encountered ugly men, or maybe he was really hot... the fact is that his green eyes, tanned and ageless face made me wonder what could happen that night.
At the second bar we had gone to he bent over me and his lips encountered my own. Delicious. I hadn't tasted Brazilian in a while, and I must say, his blood was really warm.
So, a couple of beers later we were at my place, which, really, is not the kind of thing I do, but there was a thing about him that made me trust him, so there we were.
At my place I set the mood with a bit of Simone White... and a beer later we were kissing once more...
He started to go down my neck, and began to moan...
I had never seen something like that, a guy moaning when he's kissing your neck, or touching some parts of your body... and it was cute. He had a kind of 'ay, ay' high-pitched moan which went great with the music that we had completely ignored...
One-hand-Bra-undoing is usually a first test (obviously if a guy has passed the kissing exam), to see how experienced he is, and how nervous he denies being... and he failed... but what the heck, the kisses were good, his skin was soft, and I helped him out.
I did take him to my bed, and we did do things that I had craved and fantasized about for a while (celibacy is not my thing...), and although the first time is alway a bit off, when the other body is strange terrain you must discover and explore, we had a lot of fun and probably woke up some of my neighbors.
a couple of orgasms later, I was absolutely exhausted...
(At this point I have to add that two things really baffled me, the first was that he was a grower... He had a very small dick, and I was quite disappointed when I touched him, but when he stood up to salute me and my body, the size was nice... I hadn't seen that before.
The second thing was that he was uncircumcised... and I had never been with a guy with so much skin down there... I am still uncertain if it was good or bad... it certainly was interesting).
I was exhausted, and he kept going on and on about his trip, and his life, his issues with his father, and his relationship with his sisters. His job, what he thought and felt... and I, well, I wanted to go to sleep, it was 4 in the morning and I was very tired after such an extensive orgasmic workout...
He kept on talking and I kept on nodding and saying uhu to the things he said.
At one point, he started talking about soccer. Talk about a turnoff. I'm not sure if it was because he was Brazilian, or because he was chatting away about all the things he is intense and passionate about, but soccer did enter the field, our field.
As I was trying with all my might to not fall into the post-orgasmic slumber, I did learn that Brazil won its first world cup in 1962, that before that they had good players but their strategy wasnt as great. In 1986 Argentina won the cup because of Maradona, who is amazing, but nothing compared to Pelé...
When he went for water I did fall asleep... half an hour later I called him a cab and he was gone with the words "Eu gosto que voçe seja tao fogosa"...
The next morning I looked for the condoms everywhere to dispose of them, and they were nowhere to be found. I wonder if somewhere in the world a soccer ball exists that is filled up with used condoms.
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