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Showing posts with label guilt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label guilt. Show all posts
20 November 2010
08 October 2010
Performance & Cocktails
...part 1
Everything was set up perfectly for tonight to be our first night, he'd even been on my wavelength earlier, when a flower seller had come hawking roses by the table, seen my glance at them and correctly interpreted it, laughing that we would have another carafe of the juicy wine instead.
He had put his arm around my shoulder as we walked back through the cobbled pedestrian zone, and I didn't shrug it off although I didn't like the possessive tone it imparted.
Walking back he'd paused us under a streetlight, by the pond and the stone walls of the old city boundary and he'd bent his head across to kiss me and I acquiesced.
I'd thought of the cover of that Stereophonics CD and the bored eyes of the woman being kissed there, and I'd wondered if my eyes were just as bored, and I'd noticed that his eyes were closed, and wondered if he too had needed that to believe that this would go somewhere, or perhaps he knew his eyes would be just as ennui filled.
We'd gone to my flat, not so much caught up in the moment, but moving along inevitably with the slow seep of honey running down a knife blade.
We'd tried not to allow the sense of loss to enter our conscious thoughts but, the chase was over, it would never be the same again
...part 2
My hair still smelt of the burnt meat from the restaurant he'd taken me to; stank not from the innocuous looking grey salted stones, heated to flesh searing temperatures, but from the scents emanating after we had dumped our raw steaks, prawns, chicken breasts upon them.
Carafe after carafe of house red, pinkly echoing the blooded centres when I'd cut through the meat again.
I guessed that to others in the place, to observers, we looked warm and cozy in the snug by the bar, happily hazed by the smoky fat in the atmosphere as much as the wine.
A pretty, convivial picture and I wished I could feel that we were a pretty convivial couple but if the truth be told, I didn't really like him all that much when I started to contemplate what would happen after the meal.
I was waiting, not because I wanted to be sure it was right, I was pretty sure it wasn't right, or I'd have jumped him at the end of the first date, but he kept paying me attention despite my ambiguous goodbyes.
He kept on casting his attention my way, shovelling it into the aching hole that he didn't even know was there, and I know I am coming to depend on his attendance, his willingness to be with me.
...part 3
In my flat, I guess I did just go along with him coming back here, his willpower for that must have been stronger than my sulky resistance.
It wasn't that I didn't want to be possessed, but with him it is not the all consuming need to be possessed that I feel; more the sullen recognition that he is the only chance, the only option I have right now.
I wonder if he too somehow senses the mismatch, and if he does is he just going along with me because it half fits what he wants too?
From the pressure of his hand behind my head when we break mouths apart from some robust to rough kissing, what he wants seems to be my face in his lap, and I don't really want to suck him, to feel a new penis against my lips, have a jet of his semen into my mouth, like white silly string, wormily writhing on my tongue.
I think I will spit if he makes me do it, but although I don't conciously go through the options, somehow I guess that a gracious enough attempt at sucking him off now will keep me from having to go to final base tonight, I can keep something back in reserve so he will spend time with me again.
I will gag, and then spit, he will like that, it will make him feel the big man and I will rinse my mouth and my mind out with the next slug of wine.
Everything was set up perfectly for tonight to be our first night, he'd even been on my wavelength earlier, when a flower seller had come hawking roses by the table, seen my glance at them and correctly interpreted it, laughing that we would have another carafe of the juicy wine instead.
He had put his arm around my shoulder as we walked back through the cobbled pedestrian zone, and I didn't shrug it off although I didn't like the possessive tone it imparted.
Walking back he'd paused us under a streetlight, by the pond and the stone walls of the old city boundary and he'd bent his head across to kiss me and I acquiesced.
I'd thought of the cover of that Stereophonics CD and the bored eyes of the woman being kissed there, and I'd wondered if my eyes were just as bored, and I'd noticed that his eyes were closed, and wondered if he too had needed that to believe that this would go somewhere, or perhaps he knew his eyes would be just as ennui filled.
We'd gone to my flat, not so much caught up in the moment, but moving along inevitably with the slow seep of honey running down a knife blade.
We'd tried not to allow the sense of loss to enter our conscious thoughts but, the chase was over, it would never be the same again
...part 2
My hair still smelt of the burnt meat from the restaurant he'd taken me to; stank not from the innocuous looking grey salted stones, heated to flesh searing temperatures, but from the scents emanating after we had dumped our raw steaks, prawns, chicken breasts upon them.
Carafe after carafe of house red, pinkly echoing the blooded centres when I'd cut through the meat again.
I guessed that to others in the place, to observers, we looked warm and cozy in the snug by the bar, happily hazed by the smoky fat in the atmosphere as much as the wine.
A pretty, convivial picture and I wished I could feel that we were a pretty convivial couple but if the truth be told, I didn't really like him all that much when I started to contemplate what would happen after the meal.
I was waiting, not because I wanted to be sure it was right, I was pretty sure it wasn't right, or I'd have jumped him at the end of the first date, but he kept paying me attention despite my ambiguous goodbyes.
He kept on casting his attention my way, shovelling it into the aching hole that he didn't even know was there, and I know I am coming to depend on his attendance, his willingness to be with me.
...part 3
In my flat, I guess I did just go along with him coming back here, his willpower for that must have been stronger than my sulky resistance.
It wasn't that I didn't want to be possessed, but with him it is not the all consuming need to be possessed that I feel; more the sullen recognition that he is the only chance, the only option I have right now.
I wonder if he too somehow senses the mismatch, and if he does is he just going along with me because it half fits what he wants too?
From the pressure of his hand behind my head when we break mouths apart from some robust to rough kissing, what he wants seems to be my face in his lap, and I don't really want to suck him, to feel a new penis against my lips, have a jet of his semen into my mouth, like white silly string, wormily writhing on my tongue.
I think I will spit if he makes me do it, but although I don't conciously go through the options, somehow I guess that a gracious enough attempt at sucking him off now will keep me from having to go to final base tonight, I can keep something back in reserve so he will spend time with me again.
I will gag, and then spit, he will like that, it will make him feel the big man and I will rinse my mouth and my mind out with the next slug of wine.
29 July 2010
Get off the fence...
You say "The thought of being with you again is fantastic but as you said it wouldn't change how things are in real life. I know that basically states that it would be great to have a one night stand but that isn't what I mean."
You say "In an ideal world I would like to see and be with you in the knowledge that neither of us are pressured afterwards."
You say "But I love my wife, and my family."
I wait. You say all this moral crap but you don't believe it, and if I would absolve you upfront of the consequences of any feelings I might have as a result you would risk it like a shot, like a rabbit down a hole, your cock rising as if it feeds on air.
But still, I do wait.
You say "In an ideal world I would like to see and be with you in the knowledge that neither of us are pressured afterwards."
You say "But I love my wife, and my family."
I wait. You say all this moral crap but you don't believe it, and if I would absolve you upfront of the consequences of any feelings I might have as a result you would risk it like a shot, like a rabbit down a hole, your cock rising as if it feeds on air.
But still, I do wait.
27 May 2010
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.
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.
21 May 2010
when does the story end?
It was so hard to let go of him I wanted the story to go on I still do I hate to be without a story.
It was a slow start with him knowing him being acquaintances drinking with him but not sparking until one day the brain and the sense of humour clicked in and that was that then the story started properly, chatting for hours on end and then flying on a plane and racing along the dark motorways to meet up with him for a real date.
It was real even though we both knew there was only one place it would end up, he wore yellow and oh god I knew it was risky as I was already half in love with him for chatting to me and finding me interesting all that time and I thought the biggest risk was that being with him wouldn't live up to my imagination but it was worse than that as it was so much more and we laughed and his arms cradled me and I felt cherished and spent and cherished again and then of course he went home but that didn't matter so much as we still chatted and chatted and planned the next chapters.
But the expectation monster grew and I wanted more of him and he wanted more of me too but he hadn't left his old life behind he was still living that he was greedy for two stories while I only wanted one but he couldn't always tell which story he was living in and one day he got them confused and took his wife with the passion that was meant for me and then one day after that while we were holed up and hungover in a cheap hotel she called him with the news that wrenched our story off the rails and called him back into her story which she called their story.
I did not want to let him go although I said I only wanted what was best for him but of course I thought that I was the best for him although it turns out that he valued respectability over happiness, over his own happiness for sure but over mine as well but our story continued through more hotels and bedrooms until I finally pestered him as there was nothing new happening in our story pestered him to the point where he had to make a decision and he did make the ending decision but even then our story was not through for all the repeats of the story had to be lived through.
And although I did let him go and there is no new story and you would have to search hard in the multichannel world to see a repeat to spark up that story again it will be dead and quiet while he and his wife bring up their child it will be quiet so quiet and he will have regrets and swallow them down and not turn to me until one day he will turn to me and tell me how bored he is and then I would have to decide how that story goes on as I am a storyteller and I weave many people into my stories.
It was a slow start with him knowing him being acquaintances drinking with him but not sparking until one day the brain and the sense of humour clicked in and that was that then the story started properly, chatting for hours on end and then flying on a plane and racing along the dark motorways to meet up with him for a real date.
It was real even though we both knew there was only one place it would end up, he wore yellow and oh god I knew it was risky as I was already half in love with him for chatting to me and finding me interesting all that time and I thought the biggest risk was that being with him wouldn't live up to my imagination but it was worse than that as it was so much more and we laughed and his arms cradled me and I felt cherished and spent and cherished again and then of course he went home but that didn't matter so much as we still chatted and chatted and planned the next chapters.
But the expectation monster grew and I wanted more of him and he wanted more of me too but he hadn't left his old life behind he was still living that he was greedy for two stories while I only wanted one but he couldn't always tell which story he was living in and one day he got them confused and took his wife with the passion that was meant for me and then one day after that while we were holed up and hungover in a cheap hotel she called him with the news that wrenched our story off the rails and called him back into her story which she called their story.
I did not want to let him go although I said I only wanted what was best for him but of course I thought that I was the best for him although it turns out that he valued respectability over happiness, over his own happiness for sure but over mine as well but our story continued through more hotels and bedrooms until I finally pestered him as there was nothing new happening in our story pestered him to the point where he had to make a decision and he did make the ending decision but even then our story was not through for all the repeats of the story had to be lived through.
And although I did let him go and there is no new story and you would have to search hard in the multichannel world to see a repeat to spark up that story again it will be dead and quiet while he and his wife bring up their child it will be quiet so quiet and he will have regrets and swallow them down and not turn to me until one day he will turn to me and tell me how bored he is and then I would have to decide how that story goes on as I am a storyteller and I weave many people into my stories.
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
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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