half a mile high club

He left the plane ahead of her, after resting his hand on the small of her back and saying goodbye, he had a meeting to go to while she went to wait in the lounge for a connecting flight.  He didn't look back after that, but the married ones never did.  Not now the weird intimacy of sitting by a stranger for thirteen hours was over.

Hurtling through the skies in a darkened cabin, over land so far below and so uninhabited that there were no lights to be seen even though the clouds had scudded out of the way.  You couldn't feel the speed except when the turbulence sloshed the wine in their glasses.  He kept calling the stewardess over to top up the wine, and the first few times she smiled as he spoke in her native language.

It was nice, to talk to someone on these flights, she thought, so many times they passed virtually in silence after the opening Good Evenings.  He asked questions and listened to the answers, and she was in a sociable mood, open to the flow of conversation and ready to talk.  They talked with the ease of people relieved to find a pleasant way to pass the time.  They were the same age.  His job, her job.  His youngest child was just five months old.  They talked through the meal, and the chocolate tart went virtually untouched as she explained that blogging was her main hobby. 

The wine helped of course, and as the meal trays were cleared away, further top ups requested and their heads inclined together as their voices lowered.  He asked her what she blogged about, and she smiled as she told him, Sex.  He smiled back, more drawn in, they both were.  Engaged in flirting, he made a note of a couple of websites she told him about.  She said Fuck deliberately, spelling out the website's address.

People reclined their chairs all around, put eyemasks on and slept fitfully.  The cabin lights were dimmed but his reading lamp was on, creating a warm pool of light between them.  He asked her if she'd ever had sex on a plane, and she said, truthfully, No.  Heads leaning ever closer, and when the stewardess grew resentful at bringing more wine, he went to fetch some, stepping over her legs, stepping close to her with his groin at eye level.

More talking, and now she cannot remember what was said when, but they both knew it was only talking to fill a gap until something more.  The wine bottles were drained so she got them whisky, and then at his turn, he said the purser refused to give them more as they had had enough to be drunk.  They giggled at this and then he reached a hand to her face to kiss her.

Faces sideways on the pillows under the privacy hoods, lips touching and even this was only a prelude for his hand reached into the neckline of her blouse and he grasped her breast in his long fingers.  His hand was not gentle, it kneaded her, fingers pushing into her flesh and squeezing towards the nipple.  His kiss was gentle but he gripped her tightly, she felt the strength in the bones of his hand under the rubbing skin.

He removed his hand and told her to unpack the airline blanket and lay it over herself so he could move his hand lower.  She loved being told what to do, loved that he took charge and let her lay there under his exploring touch.  He slid his hand into the elastic waistband of her trousers and under her knickers and now his hand was gentle again.  He told her to move her legs apart and she did.  Her knickers proved to be too much of a barrier for him to probe her folds so he told her to go to the toilet and remove her underwear. 

She took her knickers off in the garishly lit cubicle, mirrors reflecting her flushed face back at her, saying Look at you!  What are you doing?  She ignored this voice, and on her way back to the seat had to scoop the knickers up from where she accidentally dropped them before tucking them into her handbag.  Back in the seat they adjusted the blankets and he replaced his hand inside her trousers, bumps under the blanket as he rubbed his finger expertly along her slit, and she whimpered, quietly. 

Ssshh he told her and then made it hard for her to do so.  Made it hard for her to concentrate on anything other than the growing need for release, the trousers slid down and she tried to clutch the blanket so it would cover her bare legs.  Ssshh he said again, and smothered her rapid breathing in his kiss.  Ssshh and he brought her thumb to her mouth to bite on it and Ssshh as he plunged two of his fingers deep into her cunt.  She could feel the cool metal of his wedding ring against her.  She could feel so much.

Afterwards, she wanted to return the favour but he said there would be too much mess.  She pulled her trousers back up and they slept, and in the morning, bleary with lack of sleep and incipient hangovers they exchanged business cards and she found out his name.  His long fingers rested on his black jeans as they talked, coming into land, and lust coiled lazily in her stomach. 

I said it again...

...what I always end up saying and what always gets them running for the fucking hills.  Men, I mean.  Married men even more so.



"Make your mind up"



They seem to want to believe that they have no fucking choice in things, that they drift through life and things just happen to them, without their volition.  Innocent victims of their own magnetism.  The merest suggestion that they are complicit in their own lives, and not awash in a sea of circumstances is ignored if at all possible, shrugged aside or compartmentalized somewhere else that doesn't interfere in the here and now so they can carry on saying the things they say to me, doing the things they do to me.



And really, they ask, what is wrong with me that I can't turn a blind eye forever?  That I can't just keep on compromising?  Why do I have to hold up a mirror to their actions and make out as if they have done something wrong?  It's not like they've been caught, so it's not a real problem, is it?  Why can't I just go back to before and be an adoring foil for their ego? 



I do it so well.

It's the smallest things that let you down...

They were out shopping, browsing through the underwear in a department store with pretensions, the red-head's fingers flickering expertly through the racks to find the perfect size for her.  She riffled through bras and knickers in vibrant colours, embroidered and appliqued lace trims in contrasting colours, even ruffles, for goodness sake, the brunette shook her head at the sheer extravagence.

"I like wearing nice underwear," she explained, pouting slightly, "And not just for him, for me too."

"But what are the logistics of underwear?" her friend asked, "How do you decide how many knickers to buy to match, for example?"

"Oh, I tend to buy two pairs of matching knickers for every bra, if they have them.  And in this case, well, one of the matching pair can always be accidentally tucked away at his house, just to test how strong his marriage really is..."

Hypocrisy

I wonder if he imagines me still... 

17 days since I said goodbye (again).

Once I managed 4 weeks without contacting him, but I'm not sure there is anything to go back to this time.  Or, well, at least anything I would want to go back to.

But I want him to still want me, I wish he would be burned up thinking about me.  Pumping one out in the shower where she will never know.  Thinking of the things I did and things I said.  He will be checking online every day to see if today will be the day I would break down and send an oh-so-innocent message enquiring how he is.  He did that last time, well he said he did.

But he doesn't actually want to be with me.  I am not sanctioned.  I am only what he chose in a weak moment and not what he thinks society would choose.  How come that they really do tinge the "fun" girls like me with suspicion, tar-splotched good time girls?

And, for fucks sake, how do the girls who are not seen as "fun" ever manage to catch a man to marry them?  Do they go out and think, "Well fuck me, she's dull, I wanna spend the rest of my life feeding sperm down the shower plug hole, and occasionally, every couple of months, she might let me feed shit into her?" 

And I?  More hypocritcal, knowing all that shit, even questioning it like he doesn't, I still want the attention, I want to have the beam of interest focussed on me even as I decry the good time girl tag, the one I live up to so well.  I want, oh I want.  I want to be put first.  But I don't want to put someone else first unless they do first.

I do hope his life is fucking dull right now.  I hope he wants to tear his hair out with boredom; that will hurt as he shaves his hair so short, pulling it out would require individual hairs to be wrenched out with tweezers.  I would volunteer to do it, except I don't trust me to do only that.  He is only tempted with me if we are in the same geographical space.  He can say no when I am hundreds of miles away.  Well, he says "Yeah, but no" when we are hundreds of miles away.  He says if I was there he couldn't resist.  Great, yeah, I can resist anything but temptation too.  Especially convenient, playing away from home temptation... 

I fell for him because I thought we thought the same way, and I thought that he cared.  It has taken me 16 months to realise I was little more than a fantasy that had the added advantage of coming true every once in a while.  And really it was the fantasy and not the reality that sustained anything, for him.  And I guess I have to think that might be true for me too...



yeah, but, he imagines me still.  jacking off he imagines me.  kneeling in the shower in front of him, water drops pearling on my skin and anticipating the pearls he wants to release over me.

spaghetti man

you streak of pasta piss,

virtually useless fucker

without heat, wetness, you are brittle

easily snapped into fragments.

when you are done you cling,

wanting to stick, to stay

inside my convulsing walls.

you are bland, you taste

of nothing.

You fill me up but

it is me that adds flavour.

Today, arrabiata,

tomorrow, you go back 

to your ground up dusty future.

next poem-->

each time...

I think I am safe still, safe from being drawn back in to actively yearning for you.  You log in on your "secret" ID, known only to me, just so you can chat with me.  I sort of want to be just friends now, but I still want you to lose your reason over me.  Among other things.  So you grow hard as you pick up on my inneundo, your pants bulge in your mother in law's study while you talk to me and then you tell me it is only your cock taking over your brain.  And that, honestly, you do respect that I have a brain...

confessions...

I have 76 e-mails in my inbox from today titled "oh fuck fucking fuck"

With this level of attention, I don't feel the pain of his absent minded good wishes so much; I can rein in the level of neediness I display to him and of course it has obvious results.  I withdraw, he pushes harder.  He withdraws, yeah you guessed it, Pavlov's dogs, bitch in heat stuff.

I can imagine fucking someone else now.  I haven't told him that, that someone else is throwing those switches in my mind, I want to hug that secret from him.  I do imagine fucking someone else.  But I still imagine telling him about it.

Oh fuck fucking fuck indeed.

just desserts

I mean yeah I have been raped but you know it wasn't like a bad one like?   It was one of those things you know I, well I wouldn't say it was all my fault but you know wrong place wrong time?  I was drunk, I mean, of course, it is me; and yeah so I went back with him when I was drunk and we had sex and I don't remember it but when I woke up with him in the morning I knew I didn't want to do it again.  He had other ideas though and although he wasn't much bigger than me he was stronger, muscles where I had beer flab and he pinned me down on the cheap student hall mattress and I tried to struggle and I really did struggle for a while before something clicked in me and I let him get on with it and I lay there underneath him pushing and grunting and I let him. 

Does that count then?

"Rose Bush" or "My Private Jet"

I wanted to be a good girl today.  I was going to take off my dirty-girl, stain-hiding grey nail varnish and paint my fingernails and toenails palest pink.  The grey varnish is chipped now anyway, I won't tell you why.  I went swimming before 7am because exercise is something good girls who care about how they look do.  I put my bikini on and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and I looked OK, the muted light was kind and creamy on the skin of my shoulders and neck and the uplifted swell of my breasts and the mirror finished before my eyes could travel further down my body to see flaws there.  In the news today the beauty queens refuse to wear their swimsuits.  These good girls worry about showing the impressionable young their perfect bodies.  In the news today a lottery winning benefit fraudster is uncovered.  A 51 year old guy did it but the picture is of a girls hands filling in a lottery ticket and the hands wear dark blue nail varnish.  I still think I will change to probably french manicure pink.  Benefit cheats wear dark varnish.  Lottery addicts too.  Bad girls, nasty girls.  Good girls don't scratch at the other person and mark their flesh as the excitement builds, don't collect his'n'her bodily fluids under their nails.  I do have days where I want to be a good girl and I thought today was one of them.  But now I can't decide between "Rose Bush" or "My Private Jet"

words

He says my cunt mound is soft and the folds are fleshy and he can stick his tongue in there and get lost until he finds the hot nub, a homing device, an addictive taste that he will never want to leave alone...

I say I love the feel of the weight of him, pushing at the entrance to my insides, my cunt, the filled stretched glutted feeling of his cock pushing inside me...

We both say how the other makes us feel, how we feel dirty sexy horny excited ravenous dirty longing greedy sexy dirty.

Minds and words meld.  I don't know if I would ever meet him one day for real?

Anniversary

It's

a

year

today

since

I

last

had

sex

with

the

ex.

Or

at

all.

One

year.

But...

heknowsitwasthistimelastyearbuthehasn'tcontactedmetoday,

IwonderifheremembersasclearlyasIcanhowitfelttobebehindme

myfaceinthepillowashetookmefrombehindifhecanrecallasIdo

howitfeltwhenhethrustnotcarefullythefeelingjustthissideofpain

howIwantedhiminmeovermehowIwanted.

How

I

still

do.

Struggle/Chocolate

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

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

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