The end of winter hibernation

Thinking of you...

Filled and brimming

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

Pale flesh. Bright reflection

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You’re working well today’

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

Paused, waiting

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

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

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

Author’s wish list #1

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

F is for... blah

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

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

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

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

Lying down, watching up

Inspired by Sannia

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

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

Your emphatically foreshortened allure.

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

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

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

A modest proposal for a cultural initiative

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

Under instructions

‘Stop it.’

‘What?’

‘I told you, stop it.’

‘Stop what, love?’

‘Stop biting mummy.’

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

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

The week that’s past

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

New! Fetish Yoga. It’s good for you

New! Fetish Yoga. It’s good for you

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

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

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

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

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

Untitled

A first draft...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A tip of my black fedora to...

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

Fetish furniture that’s worth having

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