29 April 2010

Knitting pattern man

I don't know why I suddenly remembered him; I was lying on the bed trying to reminisce about the ex, trying to recapture the last time he fucked me before going back to his pregnant wife, coming dozily awake after the last drunken embrace and holding him until he was hard enough; and then knitting pattern man suddenly came into my head.  I hate it when my fantasies start to have a mind of their own. 
Knitting pattern man was the first bloke I knew who really liked going down on me.  Can't say that I was that bothered about it at the time, but he liked it and I stupidly liked him.  Of course in hindsight it's easy to see I was naive and easy to see I was being used but at the time I was thrilled that this more experienced guy was interested in me.  He looked like a taller Tom Cruise, I couldn't believe my luck.  He wasn't married, that one, but lived with his girlfriend, hundreds of miles away in Portsmouth.  I didn't care.  She wasn't anything but a name to me.

There was this time, he'd called me in the office to ask if I was wet.  My office was a Portacabin shared with 3 other blokes that all thought they knew he was fucking me, one of them handed the phone to me.  I'd never done phone sex before and didn't know what he meant - how he must have smiled at me as I said it wasn't raining.  He asked then if my pussy was wet, and this time I twigged and I didn't tell him about my two cats.  I told him I was a little, but it was that time of the month.  He must have been exasperated with me by then, but he told me he would be at the factory the next week and that he was going to fuck me again, in my green bedroom; he'd let me know when he could get away from the meetings.

I remembered why I called him knitting pattern man. That time he knew to come to my back door.  He pulled the curtains closed as my flat looked out onto the road that went to the factory, everyone from the factory drove home past it.  My next door neighbour worked at the factory too, but he was on shift at the time.  I'd liked the thought that people could see in, catch a glimpse on the way past, but I guess he didn't. 

He'd kissed me as I closed the back door, pushing me up against the kitchen wall.   I thought his impatience was for how much he wanted me.  He'd led me into my own front room, and pulled my trousers down at the same time as pulling me down onto the armchair.  It felt odd to be bare from the waist down in my armchair.  I could feel the texture of the tapestry material pressing against my skin.  I could feel his breath over me.  Warm.  Warm breath, warm mouth.  He positioned my legs over the arms of the chair.  He kissed me down there and his tongue probed those folds.  I wondered what I tasted like.  But I thought this was something I should already know about so I didn't say anything.  I felt something nice, but most of all I felt slutty sitting in my living room half naked with my legs over the arms of the chair, almost in the middle of the day, while a fully clothed man knelt between my spread legs and pulsed his tongue against me.

He took his coat off.  He was wearing an ugly knitted jumper underneath, the kind that you are given as a present for Christmas and have to mumble "How nice," even though it isn't; but you don't usually wear them except to visit the person who gave you the jumper.  It was very early in the evening, almost daytime even though it was dark because it was winter.  It was a cold evening outside, and his fingers were still cold when he put them inside me and used his cold thumb to rub me where his warm mouth had been. 

I stopped keeping track of time.  It took me by surprise, that he made me come without getting his own release.  After that, I wrapped my legs around his back and pressed myself up against his ugly jumper.  I liked the idea he would wear the jumper with my juices soaked up in it.  He picked me up and carried me through to my green bedroom and took the jumper off with the rest of his clothes.  Not much later, he put the jumper back on and took off with the rest of his clothes.  It was still early evening.

Yippee!  Published at my favourite place here with this fantastic picture!

21 April 2010


I sat in the cubicle with my head crunching, trying to collaspe in on itself. My stomach was moving to a similar rhythmn that seems deliberately a few beats out of sync.  Knickers round my ankles, but hunched, holding my stomach to my thighs, my head to my knees.  Laying bets on which end will spurt first as I sweat and shiver at the same time as while my body decides which part is next to fall apart.  I struggle not to moan out loud.  If I puke first I have to get off the toilet, spin through 180° and aim for the toilet bowl.  Gipping at the back of my throat.  Oh god is it possible to die of a hangover?  Panic starts, no bog roll in the holder, shit shit shit; literally, I will have to walk out with shit stuck in my crack to find some, or grab the paper towels by the sink.  Oh fuck I can't get up to look.  A wave of illness washes me.  The bottom end wins, a fat solid plug is expelled first.  Black, like finest dark chocolate, and the rancid fruity smell I associate with the bears at the zoo.  I must cut back on the red wine.  Perhaps intersperse each 75cl of Merlot with a bottle of Pinot Grigio?  The solid shit passes and my arsehole contracts afterwards, a few times, a few waves of mild pleasure to counteract those of nausea, before the rest comes spurting, spattering out.  The bowl is pebble dashed in 60% fine cocoa solids.  I do groan now, my eyes are watering; and then I notice on the floor a few sheets of tissue clinging to the end of the cardboard reel.  Oh thank fuck for that.

Inspired by a ThinkingTen challenge; but decided not to post at that site due to the content so submitted it to the guys at SSF, and it's published here

18 April 2010

The next married man...

He wants to smell my fingers

after I have dragged them from my slit,

and he wants to taste them too.

Second hand cunnilingus.

He wants me to bend my head to his

peel back the skin and push my tongue into his slit.

Suck him to the point of no return while

he is sucking at my fingers.

I think I won't do it, he is a bit too old

and set in his ways. He thinks that as long as his cock

isn't pushed up in me then it is not really

cheating. His heart won't unfold.

But, I am not a ripe fruit,

they are not juices but secretions, more sluggish

and oh I want to stay damp as I age,

I don't want to be dried out.

Whoever I take into me next will

always suffer by comparison, no, not to the wide

necked wine bottle by the bed but to

"the ex", I want him still...

The old guy texts again, "Lets meet,"

I am bored and scared of life without sex, without

an admirer, someone to flirt with and

be naughty but occasionally sweet.

 We walk on the heath and into the trees

He is tall and sturdily built, and I hope his cock is too.

He is not getting away with just being blown,

I want him to betray his life.  "Please,"

he says, groans as he lies on the ground.

Trusting me to hold him in my mouth and only do as he

wants me to do, wrinkled balls but smooth

skinned shaft, my lips slide round.

Suck, pull him towards my throat

grazing his head on the inside of my cheek, teeth slide

and suppressing gag reflex. His hips move

jerkily, I push him back on the coat.

My hand under my skirt, rubbing.

"I'm touching myself so you can taste me," I'm powerful

as I move up to kiss him, see if he likes his

taste. "God I was nearly coming!"

Move the gusset across to the side

dabble, then thrust my fingers under his nose, press my thumb

into his mouth, he likes being dominated. Then

straddling him, I slide his cock inside.

Afterwards I pretend, that

his cry was only ecstasy, it contained no loss, he

wanted it just as much as I did but,

seeping spunk, I feel flat.

Also published at SSF here

05 April 2010


Still I wish for you;

The sap rising in the trees

I will not blossom.


Yes, it is calmer

without you close, rain clouds scud

across the grey sky.


Ripe for seeding, sun

falls on open eyes, legs, heart;

you push into me.


You pull out of me,

drive from the hotel; litter swirls

windblown vortices.


Your seed trickles out

a wet patch; summer is due,

sunshine flew away.


Your words trickle in

Why do I let you? Cut, not

clutch at memories...

Published at The Camel Saloon here