Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
09 January 2011
on waking
I smelt strong this morning, I must have been aroused in the night, in some lost dream. I wonder who and how.
11 November 2010
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.
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.
22 October 2010
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.
"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.
09 October 2010
Q Block beer festival
Have you ever been naked in a room with several men? In porn films, the men are all interchangeable dicks but in real life it is a bit more complicated than that.
They weren't all standing in the background holding themselves, tugging themselves, at least, I don't remember that, or remember that well; though I know I was the centre of attention splayed on the kitchen table. They might have been content with only splashing beer and some flatmates honey over me, rubbing it into my skin though I don't really remember where they touched. They made me so sticky but there was no malice, they were only playing with me. I kind of sobered up in the shower with Geordie, whatever his real name was, at least enough to somehow stumble back to my room in his t-shirt.
They weren't all standing in the background holding themselves, tugging themselves, at least, I don't remember that, or remember that well; though I know I was the centre of attention splayed on the kitchen table. They might have been content with only splashing beer and some flatmates honey over me, rubbing it into my skin though I don't really remember where they touched. They made me so sticky but there was no malice, they were only playing with me. I kind of sobered up in the shower with Geordie, whatever his real name was, at least enough to somehow stumble back to my room in his t-shirt.
oh my dedication
yesterday he asked me to write something nice for him, to him; which really means something he would call nasty and something i would call raw, i guess, as natural sounds too insipid for the things he wants me to write to him. something about sex anyway. something for him to download and sneakily read, hunched over the computer like he sneakily reads the e-mails we exchange when it gets late at night and he won't be caught. and i don't know what to write now, i could embellish the 'performance & cocktails' mini series a little more, he liked that, especially when i said penis in it and when i mentioned semen, but i think i am finished with those pair of characters now. i could use one of the sleep.snort.fuck prompts to write something like i have been meaning to for ages but when it comes down to it i use up my inventiveness when i am e-mailing him and the words i write for myself afterwards are about flatness, about non-relationships. sex on your mind, in your mind and oh it should not feel more intense and interesting touching someone only through words on a screen, it should not make the real world seem plain and dull and i don't know which came first, no not out of the pair of us responding to the words, i mean it's chicken and egg whether you turn somewhere unreal for excitement when real life is grey or whether the excitement you find makes real life grey.
so the dedication? the writing of something nice because he asked me? i guess i will dedicate the "post coming" to him since it is anyway about him but i think he did not read it so it will be new for him and i can save up, hoard my imagination until he will e-mail me again...
so the dedication? the writing of something nice because he asked me? i guess i will dedicate the "post coming" to him since it is anyway about him but i think he did not read it so it will be new for him and i can save up, hoard my imagination until he will e-mail me again...
06 October 2010
negative fuck
the guy who said he would come and see me didn't
the guy who bombarded me with fucking talk stopped talking
the girl whose hand i held whose tears i dried does not call me now that i could use a hand
i would not tell anyone i want a hand but...
well... shhh...
the cat hears an outside yowl and slips out to his nocturnal fun
his tail waving a fluffed question mark
i thought i had cast the guy who bruised my heart out of it
though as absence and abstinence make the heart grow fonder i guess i am fucked
although i am not
erm... apologies to a magazine with a similar name... especially as it's editor has been kind enough to feature me... what can i say - it was a pun waiting to happen...
the guy who bombarded me with fucking talk stopped talking
the girl whose hand i held whose tears i dried does not call me now that i could use a hand
i would not tell anyone i want a hand but...
well... shhh...
the cat hears an outside yowl and slips out to his nocturnal fun
his tail waving a fluffed question mark
i thought i had cast the guy who bruised my heart out of it
though as absence and abstinence make the heart grow fonder i guess i am fucked
although i am not
erm... apologies to a magazine with a similar name... especially as it's editor has been kind enough to feature me... what can i say - it was a pun waiting to happen...
29 September 2010
post coming
post coming
I am always drowsy
dreamy and pliant
and...
I don't mind then
that you called me
another girls name,
it was only Sasha
and I see her movies,
see her enjoyment
and i know why
you want her.
I am always drowsy
dreamy and pliant
and...
I don't mind then
that you called me
another girls name,
it was only Sasha
and I see her movies,
see her enjoyment
and i know why
you want her.
19 August 2010
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.
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.
31 July 2010
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.
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.
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.
07 June 2010
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...
29 May 2010
is someone else here?
Yeah got a chick lined up for tomorrow night, sure need to get my rocks off for real in a warm sweet wet cunt, my cock is red and aching from all the jacking off I been doing recently. Couldn't help it I just got addicted to it this last week, there's this girl, no I've not met her, she's like another writer, in Europe somewhere and man she writes some hot stuff.
-
"I'm out on a date tonight," I tell my flatmate, "You know with Martin? The writer guy?" I am kind of in awe of him he's published a book and he runs a magazine, how cool is that? I'd love to write a novel you know, they say everyone's got a novel inside them and I want the world to see mine, see how creative and cool I can be!
-
Oh I love hearing from my favourite correspondant; right about now he should be checking out the mails I sent to him last time, asking in my faux naive way to tell me about how it feels when a guy is ready to come. Time for another e-mail conversation which will end up with us both sticky and wet and satiated. I love that he jacks it off at his work for me. I even sent him some pictures.
-
Thing is, we have these conversations and they make me so fucking horny, and cos there's like a time difference she's playing with herself at home and I'm in the fucking cubicle and every day this week I had to get up and shuffle to the mens room to jack one out quickly but when I get home she's gone to bed but I can read the mails over again and again and I feel so fucking horny all the time at the moment. So it'll do me good to get out there in the real world with, um, yeah Trish.
-
"We're gonna meet up at that new bar, you know, we all talked about it last week? Apparently it's only a couple of blocks away from his apartment..." I want to tell her not to wait up but he might not take me back there. I'd like him to, it would be pretty cool to introduce him to people as My Boyfriend, The Writer. I'm sure I could be creative, I mean my brother has a blog so it must run in the family. I could be his muse!
-
I know I told him it had to be virtual only. I think I said my head was pretty messed up with an ex and hinted that things were messy in real life. I thought if it was only virtual, only make believe then I wouldn't be prone to all the worry, the neediness, the wondering if I had done something wrong when the beam of attention is not on me. And writer guy did oblige with the attention, I could not complain about that.
-
It is loud in the bar, one of Andy's mates runs it and Andy had a spare couple of VIP tickets which is bound to impress, isn't it. We drink little bitty fizzy cocktails in a raised area with squishy black leather sofas. Trish is cute but a bit enthusiastic puppy. The noise means conversation is difficult but she keeps at it, along with peeking up at me in a come and get it way. Which is good. I'm fucking dying to grab a hold of her and her all american sweetheart tits. Push her down onto the sofa.
-
Wow, we sit in the VIP area and the bartender brings Champagne Charlies. This is what it will be like all the time when he gets famous! Well I will smarten his clothes up a bit, it's alright to look boho and geeky when you're just starting to get known, but nothing says success like a well dressed guy, you know? I'm so glad I put this dress on, it makes me look sweet and sophisticated at the same time. He isn't saying much, but he's enigmatic like that.
-
But when he told me he was going out with some chick tonight I felt a stupid pain. I know it's really nothing to do with him and all to do with the ex, but I still felt it. The pain of being left behind, the self-disgust at being taken again and again for a cheap fuck to be kept apart from a person's real life. I'd been kept apart from his real life containing his marriage that was so fucking sacred that I was the third person he'd cheated with in less than a year. Hmm, and as for writer guy, well I should be rational.
-
Gotta get out of here, I got her a load of them cocktails and she's sure enthusiastic now, couldn't manage more than three or four myself, too sweet and fizzy. Cute dress she's got on, white and sort of lacy but more like embroidery, pretty, and fucking love the way it rode up those thighs the more she talked and drank those cocktails down. "Hey, lets grab some fresh air and starry night," I tell her, and hand her up all gentleman like. She wobbles a bit on her heels and clings on my arm.
-
He does like me, people are looking at us I bet they think we look really good together. Oops, little wobble there! Coffee at his place is such a good idea. We'll sleep in the same bed, and kiss and cuddle and stuff but nothing full on until I'm sure he likes me in the morning. I am a little tipsy and he can read me his poems while I fall asleep and he can stroke my hair and in the morning we'll have more coffee and the sun will shine and he'll tell me he thinks he loves me.
-
I should be rational about him going on a date but I am not. He doesn't know that I do know him in real life and the reason I insist on it being virtual is well, complicated. He thinks I am some girl in Berlin that he would never meet. I love it that he thinks I am a girl, and that we can talk and meet mind to mind even though I am starting to suspect that he's only interested in the fucking talk, not in me, or any personality behind the words. If I was a girl waiting on the end of the line for him I guess I would be disappointed.
-
Fuck this isn't going too well, I got her back to the flat and the bedroom fine even through all her "baby we'll do this when..." and "baby when you are so famous..." stuff. And she did look so hot laid out on the bed in that white dress and the long legs but when I crawled up on the bed behind her and kissed her neck and rubbed my hand along those legs she crossed them and my cock is not even properly hard she's just too much of a good girl. I leave her on the bed to sleep while I grab a beer, and I can't help it, I turn the computer on to see if Berlin girl has sent me anything new and if not I can read one of the old conversations and jack off and the night won't be a total failure.
-
His flat wasn't that nice really. A bit small and cramped. And instant coffee, how cheap was that! And he had been a bit presumptuous, taking the coffee straight through to the bedroom but then the main living area wasn't really much more than a sofa, a dining table and a tv in the corner. Some bookshelves, yeah. But he got more presumptuous, sliding his hands between my legs as I lay sleepily on the bed, so I wriggled them closed and pretended to fall asleep because I didn't want to fuck him there and then, suddenly wondering what if he didn't get to be famous?
-
I needed a distraction, I turned on my computer even though I knew writer guy was out on his date, but it would pass the time. I called my sister for a chat, even if she is a bubble-headed gossip she can be fun in small doses, but her flatmate tells me she is out on a date. With Martin, you know, the writer guy?
Fuck, fuckfuck, fuck fucking fuck.
How could she have got to him?
And then a mail comes in from him, "Are you there Berlin Girl?"
with apologies to "writer guy" for taking something out of context as inspiration ;)
published at new wave vomit here
-
"I'm out on a date tonight," I tell my flatmate, "You know with Martin? The writer guy?" I am kind of in awe of him he's published a book and he runs a magazine, how cool is that? I'd love to write a novel you know, they say everyone's got a novel inside them and I want the world to see mine, see how creative and cool I can be!
-
Oh I love hearing from my favourite correspondant; right about now he should be checking out the mails I sent to him last time, asking in my faux naive way to tell me about how it feels when a guy is ready to come. Time for another e-mail conversation which will end up with us both sticky and wet and satiated. I love that he jacks it off at his work for me. I even sent him some pictures.
-
Thing is, we have these conversations and they make me so fucking horny, and cos there's like a time difference she's playing with herself at home and I'm in the fucking cubicle and every day this week I had to get up and shuffle to the mens room to jack one out quickly but when I get home she's gone to bed but I can read the mails over again and again and I feel so fucking horny all the time at the moment. So it'll do me good to get out there in the real world with, um, yeah Trish.
-
"We're gonna meet up at that new bar, you know, we all talked about it last week? Apparently it's only a couple of blocks away from his apartment..." I want to tell her not to wait up but he might not take me back there. I'd like him to, it would be pretty cool to introduce him to people as My Boyfriend, The Writer. I'm sure I could be creative, I mean my brother has a blog so it must run in the family. I could be his muse!
-
I know I told him it had to be virtual only. I think I said my head was pretty messed up with an ex and hinted that things were messy in real life. I thought if it was only virtual, only make believe then I wouldn't be prone to all the worry, the neediness, the wondering if I had done something wrong when the beam of attention is not on me. And writer guy did oblige with the attention, I could not complain about that.
-
It is loud in the bar, one of Andy's mates runs it and Andy had a spare couple of VIP tickets which is bound to impress, isn't it. We drink little bitty fizzy cocktails in a raised area with squishy black leather sofas. Trish is cute but a bit enthusiastic puppy. The noise means conversation is difficult but she keeps at it, along with peeking up at me in a come and get it way. Which is good. I'm fucking dying to grab a hold of her and her all american sweetheart tits. Push her down onto the sofa.
-
Wow, we sit in the VIP area and the bartender brings Champagne Charlies. This is what it will be like all the time when he gets famous! Well I will smarten his clothes up a bit, it's alright to look boho and geeky when you're just starting to get known, but nothing says success like a well dressed guy, you know? I'm so glad I put this dress on, it makes me look sweet and sophisticated at the same time. He isn't saying much, but he's enigmatic like that.
-
But when he told me he was going out with some chick tonight I felt a stupid pain. I know it's really nothing to do with him and all to do with the ex, but I still felt it. The pain of being left behind, the self-disgust at being taken again and again for a cheap fuck to be kept apart from a person's real life. I'd been kept apart from his real life containing his marriage that was so fucking sacred that I was the third person he'd cheated with in less than a year. Hmm, and as for writer guy, well I should be rational.
-
Gotta get out of here, I got her a load of them cocktails and she's sure enthusiastic now, couldn't manage more than three or four myself, too sweet and fizzy. Cute dress she's got on, white and sort of lacy but more like embroidery, pretty, and fucking love the way it rode up those thighs the more she talked and drank those cocktails down. "Hey, lets grab some fresh air and starry night," I tell her, and hand her up all gentleman like. She wobbles a bit on her heels and clings on my arm.
-
He does like me, people are looking at us I bet they think we look really good together. Oops, little wobble there! Coffee at his place is such a good idea. We'll sleep in the same bed, and kiss and cuddle and stuff but nothing full on until I'm sure he likes me in the morning. I am a little tipsy and he can read me his poems while I fall asleep and he can stroke my hair and in the morning we'll have more coffee and the sun will shine and he'll tell me he thinks he loves me.
-
I should be rational about him going on a date but I am not. He doesn't know that I do know him in real life and the reason I insist on it being virtual is well, complicated. He thinks I am some girl in Berlin that he would never meet. I love it that he thinks I am a girl, and that we can talk and meet mind to mind even though I am starting to suspect that he's only interested in the fucking talk, not in me, or any personality behind the words. If I was a girl waiting on the end of the line for him I guess I would be disappointed.
-
Fuck this isn't going too well, I got her back to the flat and the bedroom fine even through all her "baby we'll do this when..." and "baby when you are so famous..." stuff. And she did look so hot laid out on the bed in that white dress and the long legs but when I crawled up on the bed behind her and kissed her neck and rubbed my hand along those legs she crossed them and my cock is not even properly hard she's just too much of a good girl. I leave her on the bed to sleep while I grab a beer, and I can't help it, I turn the computer on to see if Berlin girl has sent me anything new and if not I can read one of the old conversations and jack off and the night won't be a total failure.
-
His flat wasn't that nice really. A bit small and cramped. And instant coffee, how cheap was that! And he had been a bit presumptuous, taking the coffee straight through to the bedroom but then the main living area wasn't really much more than a sofa, a dining table and a tv in the corner. Some bookshelves, yeah. But he got more presumptuous, sliding his hands between my legs as I lay sleepily on the bed, so I wriggled them closed and pretended to fall asleep because I didn't want to fuck him there and then, suddenly wondering what if he didn't get to be famous?
-
I needed a distraction, I turned on my computer even though I knew writer guy was out on his date, but it would pass the time. I called my sister for a chat, even if she is a bubble-headed gossip she can be fun in small doses, but her flatmate tells me she is out on a date. With Martin, you know, the writer guy?
Fuck, fuckfuck, fuck fucking fuck.
How could she have got to him?
And then a mail comes in from him, "Are you there Berlin Girl?"
with apologies to "writer guy" for taking something out of context as inspiration ;)
published at new wave vomit here
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.
20 May 2010
circulation II
the blood now staining my cheeks has already run through the rest of me; it enlivened the tips of my fingers as i explored you the arteries split and divided and got smaller and finer and the red cells flowed along through ever narrower capilliaries until they gave up their precious iron-bound oxygen to enliven the flesh of my fingers until, exhausted, the deoxygenated red cells limpingly start the long flow back; the blood starts to run back along my arm gathering momentum and flow as it joins other cells, tiny muscle movements in my arm drive the blood flow, send it back to my heart where it is expelled, the pulmonary semilunar valve thumps open and closed and the blood goes through and is sent empurpled to my lungs; my lungs were busy gasping at air for your mouth was fastened on mine in a slow dreamy kiss and even the oxygen was recycled; my lungs inflate draining your breath down on in to my trachea and sucking down into the alveoli slowly inflating, the blood flows past the little sacs and relinquishes the spent gases and picks up the oxygen and the blood runs back to my heart again, rich and red this time; my heart with its steady bpm pumps and sends pulsed waves of fluid back out into my arteries to the extremities of my skin, i wonder if your heart is pumping the same way can the beats be synchronised could the cells be synchronised the blood reaching the skin of our fingertips at the same time could they jump the barrier of skin at our fingertips, cross it like the oxygen in our breathing? your touch calls my blood to the surface my touch calls your blood closer to mine; the blood now staining my cheeks
19 May 2010
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?
Does that count then?
16 May 2010
Measure for measure
She sat down at the computer to wait for his e-mail to feed the latest obsession the explicit and horny sexy e-mail conversations with a stranger she had read his writing and he hers and they had looked at and liked each others blogs and now each night for the last three nights they had exchanged flurries of mails in linear and forked conversation strands and played with words and she had played with herself as he told her about playing with himself.
While she waited she played the damn facebook games that she had been so enthusiastic about the week before in the absence of the fucking talk she robbed properties and did jobs for dons and fought yakuza and sent virtual gifts for virtual chop shops and weapons depots and when she had run out of energy and stamina and had to wait for time to refill those she went to the farm and planted tomatoes and helped virtual friends raise barns and fed their non-existent chickens.
While she waited she recalled the mails and the mood from the day before OMFG to use one of his acronyms but the words moved her beyond heat she loved the way his words made her feel and the way her words did too and in some ways she didn't really care that she would probably never meet this stranger especially as this stranger might not be the same as the picture of the stranger she had in her head from reading his blog he might be a completely different virtual stranger.
And OMFG his mail came in and the conversation started again and when he typed how much he wanted to ram his thick fat cock into her she felt herself responding and typing back that she wanted him to she wanted to feel this lust rising she wanted to feel the strangers lust wanted to feel that there really was a person at the other end who wanted to turn her onto her stomach and pull her arse cheeks apart and dip his fingers into her juices and spread her legs apart and work his enormous cock deeper into her and she slides her own fingers into her folds and feels the stringy wetness and thinks of him sat at his desk at work with his hand in his pants too.
Oh she is warm and wet now and needs more more stimulation needs to feel the push of something inside her and as she types about his thick cock stretching her walls she finds the wine bottle is empty how did that happen but its good and in a quick break from the screen she rinses the bottle and pulls her trousers and knickers down and places a towel on the chair underneath her and rejoins the one handed typing as the wine bottle takes the place of her fingers down there she tells him where she is at the conversation forks again one half still in fantasy and the other half describing what she is doing feeling and are both strands fantasy for him or is one of them real and she has to stop typing and finish herself off.
And after she is done he types that he is not yet so she asks him to tell her about his thick cock again and then the new obsession is kicked off for he believes in driving a specific bargain and tells her his cock is 6.5" in girth and at first she cannot imagine how big this is then she finds a tape measure and makes a loop with it to see how big it is but a loop isn't very easy to imagine pushing at you so she measures the wine bottle and fucking hell 6.5" is way bigger than the neck of that even though it wasn't a champagne bottle it was only 3.5" around and though there was a little room for manoeuvre she thinks double that size is really too big so she looks around for more objects to measure.
In her bathroom she finds the deodorant stick, short and stubby but at it's widest only 5" although an interesting shape she sees the travel shampoo but no don't bother with that it is no wider than the wine bottle the shower gel looks huge but it is only 5.5" it looks as big as she imagines she could take and it is nowhere near the 6.5" she can't imagine how fat the strangers cock must be there is the bath foam but that is eye wateringly big and and there is no way that would fit her.
She imagines wandering up and down the supermarket aisles with her tape measure inspecting the various bottles and jars on display looking for the perfect fit and the shop assistant watching as she wraps the tape measure around them but she measures the bath foam and that is still only 6" and she measured it even though she thought it was too big and now she is a little sad for if she did ever meet the strangers cock it would not fit her the owner of the cock with his fantasies is too big for her she has an inadequate cunt she is too small for something that size although then she thinks maybe because if she met the stranger his cock would be flesh and blood and filled with blood and therefore flexible and not the planar smooth unyielding surface of a bath foam bottle and maybe it would work.
But if even the strangers cock was flexible it was still 0.5" bigger than the bath foam bottle then she was still too tight for the strangers cock even if she was hot and wet and yes in theory she knew they were capable of expanding to the size of a babies head but how much work would that take and maybe the stranger had exaggerated his size after all men do that all the time she wondered if there was a graded scale by which men did exaggerate so that if the stranger said 6.5" then she could look at the penis girth exaggeration (PEG) scale and know that he would really be (in the norms of statistical distribution) somewhere between 4.75" and 5.5" and then having a tight wet cunt would not be so much of a disadvantage after all.
Sometimes she wished she had majored in something other than Mathematics.
Also published here
While she waited she played the damn facebook games that she had been so enthusiastic about the week before in the absence of the fucking talk she robbed properties and did jobs for dons and fought yakuza and sent virtual gifts for virtual chop shops and weapons depots and when she had run out of energy and stamina and had to wait for time to refill those she went to the farm and planted tomatoes and helped virtual friends raise barns and fed their non-existent chickens.
While she waited she recalled the mails and the mood from the day before OMFG to use one of his acronyms but the words moved her beyond heat she loved the way his words made her feel and the way her words did too and in some ways she didn't really care that she would probably never meet this stranger especially as this stranger might not be the same as the picture of the stranger she had in her head from reading his blog he might be a completely different virtual stranger.
And OMFG his mail came in and the conversation started again and when he typed how much he wanted to ram his thick fat cock into her she felt herself responding and typing back that she wanted him to she wanted to feel this lust rising she wanted to feel the strangers lust wanted to feel that there really was a person at the other end who wanted to turn her onto her stomach and pull her arse cheeks apart and dip his fingers into her juices and spread her legs apart and work his enormous cock deeper into her and she slides her own fingers into her folds and feels the stringy wetness and thinks of him sat at his desk at work with his hand in his pants too.
Oh she is warm and wet now and needs more more stimulation needs to feel the push of something inside her and as she types about his thick cock stretching her walls she finds the wine bottle is empty how did that happen but its good and in a quick break from the screen she rinses the bottle and pulls her trousers and knickers down and places a towel on the chair underneath her and rejoins the one handed typing as the wine bottle takes the place of her fingers down there she tells him where she is at the conversation forks again one half still in fantasy and the other half describing what she is doing feeling and are both strands fantasy for him or is one of them real and she has to stop typing and finish herself off.
And after she is done he types that he is not yet so she asks him to tell her about his thick cock again and then the new obsession is kicked off for he believes in driving a specific bargain and tells her his cock is 6.5" in girth and at first she cannot imagine how big this is then she finds a tape measure and makes a loop with it to see how big it is but a loop isn't very easy to imagine pushing at you so she measures the wine bottle and fucking hell 6.5" is way bigger than the neck of that even though it wasn't a champagne bottle it was only 3.5" around and though there was a little room for manoeuvre she thinks double that size is really too big so she looks around for more objects to measure.
In her bathroom she finds the deodorant stick, short and stubby but at it's widest only 5" although an interesting shape she sees the travel shampoo but no don't bother with that it is no wider than the wine bottle the shower gel looks huge but it is only 5.5" it looks as big as she imagines she could take and it is nowhere near the 6.5" she can't imagine how fat the strangers cock must be there is the bath foam but that is eye wateringly big and and there is no way that would fit her.
She imagines wandering up and down the supermarket aisles with her tape measure inspecting the various bottles and jars on display looking for the perfect fit and the shop assistant watching as she wraps the tape measure around them but she measures the bath foam and that is still only 6" and she measured it even though she thought it was too big and now she is a little sad for if she did ever meet the strangers cock it would not fit her the owner of the cock with his fantasies is too big for her she has an inadequate cunt she is too small for something that size although then she thinks maybe because if she met the stranger his cock would be flesh and blood and filled with blood and therefore flexible and not the planar smooth unyielding surface of a bath foam bottle and maybe it would work.
But if even the strangers cock was flexible it was still 0.5" bigger than the bath foam bottle then she was still too tight for the strangers cock even if she was hot and wet and yes in theory she knew they were capable of expanding to the size of a babies head but how much work would that take and maybe the stranger had exaggerated his size after all men do that all the time she wondered if there was a graded scale by which men did exaggerate so that if the stranger said 6.5" then she could look at the penis girth exaggeration (PEG) scale and know that he would really be (in the norms of statistical distribution) somewhere between 4.75" and 5.5" and then having a tight wet cunt would not be so much of a disadvantage after all.
Sometimes she wished she had majored in something other than Mathematics.
Also published here
13 May 2010
circulation I
the blood now staining my cheeks has already run through the rest of me; it enlivened the tips of my fingers as i explored you and it ran back along my arm to my heart where it was expelled and sent empurpled to my lungs; my lungs were busy gasping at air for your mouth was fastened on mine and even the oxygen was recycled and then the blood ran back to my heart again, rich and red this time; it joined the surge flooding to my groin where it pulsed in time with your blood again engorging you to slot in easily; the blood now staining my cheeks called to the surface from your slap calls your blood closer to mine
11 May 2010
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?
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?
08 May 2010
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.
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.
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