Metal Spoon Dipped in Butter

They’re only little tears, darling, let them spill.
And does the gentlest grazing of my fingertips traced in circles around your flushed-rouge arse cheeks now soothe the stinging?
Meek as a lamb you raise your arms and allow me to lift the dress over your head. Now let me roll off your tights, we’ll be needing those.
See? I can kiss away your tears as fast as they fall. And a kiss for your quivering lips.
My hand smoothes over your hips, up your flanks and to your tits. I cup a breast in each hand, feeling their strange weight, kneading them softly. We both watch how your breasts react to my manipulations. I roll one of your pretty pink nipples in my thumb and forefinger; rub it, flick it, tease it to harden.
You know something? Feeling up you fantastic tits like this gets me very fucking hard. And you know I like to play a little rough when I get like this, don’t you? So I can’t help but squish your breasts in my eager hands; rub them fully, up and down; squeeze them and tug hard on a nipple.

I lift your head up to mine, cradling your face in my hands. So beautiful; lightly blushing cheeks, your eyes bright and alive, your lips slightly parted, a glint of wetness beyond them an open invitation to connect my mouth to yours, for my tongue to seek out yours, to kiss you deep and long.

I like to tie you up using your own underwear. An strong, old pair of your stockings do to bind your wrists to the headboard, but, as a blindfold, your recently discarded pantihose will suite. Wrapped round and around you head and tightly knotted. Next I rescue your fallen knickers to gag you with, carefully selecting the inside gusset to go into your mouth for you to taste your own sex. This is secured in place by a thin, lacy bra.

Now, sweetness, you lie supine amid the rumpled sheets, naked and helpless before me.
Softly I murmur, directly into your ear, all the things I might have in store for you as my fingers skate lightly over your smooth, pale skin; from the hollow of the neck down, in between your breasts, along the ribcage, across the delicate, defenceless belly which twitches slightly beneath my touch.
So much skin to travel over, my lips and hands navigate their way down over every dip and rise, sometimes lingering here and there to suckle on a nipple or to tongue your navel. My kisses down your milk-white belly, along the line of downy hair, down to the tuft of hair you keep so well tended and neat, but I am still able nuzzle in it and breathe in the pheromones that lurk there to charge my receptor nerve cells. I push apart your legs so that they lay splayed wide open across the bed.

You don’t mind if I take a little time out, do you babe? You would have said something if you did.
Leaving you gagged and bound as you are I go and fix myself another drink. Put on some more music. Sit in the chair at the foot of the bed and look at you for a while, splayed out before me.
I know you’re left wondering where I’ve gone, what I’m up to, what’ll happen next.
Your body jolts as the first few droplets of water that fall from the ice cube in my hand land on your tender belly. Your shrieks are muffled as you try and twist your body round. I flatten your body back out and lick up all the wet splashes and you begin to relax.
The dripping ice cube is now circling a nipple, goose-pimples appear on your breast as the ice leaves it’s chilly trail. It glides over your skin, it makes you shiver. I like that.
That’s nothing to the way your body arches as I slide the ice into your vagina. It slips so easily into the wet furnace of your cunt, but retrieving it proves a mite more difficult. But I have it before it’s reduced to moisture.
I pop the shrunken blob of ice into my mouth and suck on it’s new flavour. I say, now you’ve whetted my appetite good and proper, I think as I roll the dissolving ice against my tongue, making it all cold.
Just the job, and now I have my cold tongue lick right up your slit and then labour at your clit, giving your pretty button the benefit of the remaining coolness of my slavering tongue. I continue to lick around, and suck on the nub, delicately coating it with my saliva.

And I know you’re not allowed to say it but your vagina smells delicious.
So I kiss every inch. Bit by bit I explore your entire cunt with my lips and tongue, carefully mapping every delicate ridge and fold, dipping my tongue in everywhere; slowly along and around the labia, dip onto the urethra, a kiss for your perineum.
Is there a single part of you I don’t want to taste, or put in contact with my mouth or fingers?
No.
No, there isn’t. I’m greedy, see. I simply must have complete knowledge of your entire body. I mean to have all of you.
I discover the geography of your genitalia, and now I tease your cunt hole with light, flickering, circling licks. Right on the entrance which I keep open with two thumbs.
No good you moaning and twitching your pelvis towards my mouth like that, I’m taking my time with you.
A while later and I sense you’re getting infuriated with my quick, darting tongue dashing in and out with no substantive contact. So I continue with this for a little longer still.
I soon have enough of my own games and crave the strange, sensual pleasures of the inside of a woman’s cunt. So I go as deep inside you as my questing tongue can reach.

There is that old canard still knocking about which implies that oral sex is purely to please the partner. Yes, but why the [relative] silence regarding the gratification and corporeal pleasure the giver gets from the act?

My tongue like a thrashing dragon’s tail inside you, my face pressed into your mound. I’m submerged in a whole world of liquid and heat, a plush organic squish and pink, gleaming shine.

I have my fill and return to remove the gag and blindfold from you. I caress your flushed face as you gasp and blink in the half light. Are you okay my sweetheart?
Your ankles over my shoulders I push your legs way back and finish the proceedings by giving you a jolly good seeing to. My cock eagerly fucking your slick cunt like there’s no tomorrow. At this moment I don’t care if there is.

I'm Rubbish

Back soon.

Look who got out of the wrong side of bed this morning...

St. Valentine's Day then is it? In that case it's the left hand tonight. How fucking magical.

I'm in a bad mood. I've got every right to be after crawling through this miserable, cunting nightmare of a shitshow of a day. Jesus.

And as for all you red hot lovers out there with your fucking dead flowers and your nasty, acidic champagne, gurgling and cooing over each other in some over-priced restaurant you would normally run a mile from:

YOU. SMUG. FUCKS.

I'll probably delete this tommorrow.



Postscript: the day kinda ended okay, actually. One of my friends actually took my damn call and I ended up going over there and getting laughing drunk watching crap on the TV. Which was alright.

Kiss Chase

Do children even play this anymore? There’s a largely unexplored hinterland of human sexuality and that is the sexual awakenings of pre-pubescence. Specifically the time when boys and girls begin to notice each other as The Other and become curious about the differences, and in a way that is not entirely sexual, but then not entirely ‘pure’ either. This general and anatomical curiousness is often manifests itself in play with games such as Sardines, Doctors & Nurses, Kiss Chase, and eventually of course, Show Me Yours & I’ll Show You Mine. I clearly remember partaking in all of these as well as a great deal many other instances of exploration before I reached the age of 10; some of which I might go into at later dates, if it doesn’t make me out to be a bigger twisted sicko than I look already, that is. But I can tell you that my first ever sexual stirrings concerned a girl in my primary school class called MP.
(I’ll just refer to her as initials, just in case. But it’s a shame I can’t share with you this name, as it is without any doubt the coolest of cool girl’s names that will ever exist. Trust me on this, you will not have heard, or will have, a cooler girl’s name than MP. It has such music to it, such a flow, it immediately invokes an image of the perfect ‘60s beat-girl, swish sportscar, high-kicking, crime-fighting, cool chick. Think a combination of Emma Peel, Lady Penelope, Modesty Blaise, Barberella and the quintessential Bond girl - her name would undoubtedly be MP).
Even in primary school the kids were segregating themselves into groups of social strata. MP belonged to a bunch of kids you might call The Cool Set: the brightest, the prettiest and even with the coolest names; they were the ones going places, if they weren’t there already. Needless to say I wasn’t in The Cool Set. I was very firmly, absolutely, and permanently, on the outside. Looking in, being left out (what is it? “Give me the seven-year-old and I’ll show you the man”? Something like that).
Nevertheless I began noticing MP, and noticed myself noticing her. I can’t remember now if I had any clear idea what it was or just why I was drawn to her, but she had entered my consciousness in a way that no other person had up until that time. I even had a little regular dream about her; a kind of proto-sexual fantasy where I imagined I had a hidden room underneath the school playground where I would take her. She would be the only one I would show this secret hideaway, and it would be just me and her there. I don’t think it entered my head about doing anything sexual in particular with her, but I just enjoyed the strange, and new, frisson from just this idea of sharing something, impressing her and being alone with her.

Anyway, one day during dinner-break I ended up in a game of Kiss Chase. Now, Kiss Chase was essentially a girl’s game, organised and orchestrated by girls who would, if they could, rope in any boy who happened to be at a loose end with nothing else to do. Basically it’s a girl-centred game of Tag - or Tig or whatever variation - where, usually, a team of girls would chase whatever luckless boys who were partaking and, once captured - by use of devilish and SO UNFAIR! team-work and cornering most often - would force a kiss on their squirming prey. The fun boys derived from it was an extra incentive to NOT GET CAUGHT AT ANY COST, lest you were seen to be bettered by silly, yucky gurls and then, ignominy of ignominies, have one of the soppy things kiss you - yeacch!
So there I was. I joined the game late when the team of five girls needed to augment the paltry two-member boy team who had proved no match for the Velocaraptor-esque girls during the first round. Second round was decided to be boys chasing girls. And so there I was. And there was MP. Quite how she had managed to tail-off and become separated from her in-crowd, I don’t know, but here she was. And there I was.
We had to give the girls ten seconds to scatter before we were to come after them. Of course we did suggest amongst ourselves that it would be funny if we just ran off and left them, but once the girls started taunting us that we couldn’t catch them the game was on.
They shrieked as we gave chase. It really wasn’t my intention, in fact I kind of wanted to avoid it if anything as it might expose the fact that I liked her, but MP became my quarry when I caught her trying to double-back and get behind us. I spotted her, she then spotted me, so there was nothing else for me to do but go after her. She ducked and dived and managed to wriggle free of my grasp at every turn until I had her trapped in a narrow dead-end by the kitchens. She tried to dummy past but I caught her and wrestled her against the wall. We were now around the corner from the playground, and on our own. I had her by the wrists, pinned against the wall. Out of breath we stood facing each other, MP was panting and giggling, I imagined her heartbeat to be racing at ten to the dozen like that of a tiny mammal or bird. Here she was, the one who was mysteriously invading my thoughts at night; the prettiest girl I had ever known. I didn’t know what to do.
I just kept her there for a few seconds, my hands around her tiny wrists, holding them against the wall up by her head.
(It’s funny, but even during my teenage fumblings with girls I would unconsciously repeat this move, pinning their wrists to their bed as I snogged them. I’ve never quite known why, even when it eventually developed into tying girl’s wrists together or to the headboard, why I had this minor compulsion to render them helpless, or quite what I got from doing it. Now I begin to suspect, if it isn’t mere coincidence, that this particular kink of mine was forged during this exact moment during my developing years, or maybe it was simply the first instance of it. Is the kink inbuilt or was it made? And if it was made, was it with MP against the school wall all those years ago? And ever since have I, in a sense, been trying to recreate the moment as if to ensure that I won’t let the girl escape this time like I did the first?)
For the briefest moment I had an idea to go through with the game and kiss her, but I immediately became embarrassed and self-conscious. I let go of her and, silently, we walked back into the playground together. I was shy and didn’t know what to say to her; she looked at me warily out of the corner of her eye perhaps in readiness that I might grab her again. She skipped ahead of me, looked back once and then ran off into the crowd. I didn’t follow. I don’t have any strong memories of her after that day.

But now here’s a funny thing. This weekend I was out drinking with a couple of old friends, out at a country pub about twenty or so miles from where I grew up. As we were chatting a woman suddenly came and sat down beside me. “I bet you don’t remember me, do you?” she said to me. She was right, I didn’t. “We were in the same class together at school” she explained. Although I didn’t recognise her, there was something familiar about her. She knew my full name though, which caused me to panic as I desperately flicked through my memory bank in search of her name. “Oh!” I said, stalling “It’s, er… hello, how are you?”. I looked into her pale green eyes, at her short, neat blonde hair, her quizzical smile. I know this person, I thought.

As you will have already guessed, the person was MP, after all these years! I was quite stunned when it all dawned on me. Not only to be sitting beside her for the first time in god knows, but that she even remembered my full name. I never thought she ever knew my first name when we shared the same class, but here we are.
It turns out just as she finished primary school her family left England to live in Germany, and that’s where she grew up, married her high-school sweetheart, lived and had two children. She’s now divorced and back in the UK, in the same old town. Wowzers, my mind reeled. Am I supposed to be a grown-up now or something, then? Where’s all the time gone? So we talked for a while, caught up and chatted about our fellow class-mates from back in the day, which she has kept a better tag on than I (it seems one died from a drug overdose in an Amsterdam nightclub some years back; another was killed in a motorcycle accident only last year; and my first ever best friend who I also lost touch with after primary school, now runs a large successful company and is a millionaire). And that was about it.
Her friends were moving on so we said goodbye and she left, leaving me to stew in my memories, and the fact that someone else’s impressions of shared experiences are so often very different from our own.

Before she left she gave me her phone number, so now I really don’t know what to think.

Cumming In A Girl's Mouth

It is the city in the morning. The dawn light inches across the room to the tangled sheets of the bed: all of a mess; yanked half off the mattress and knotted from the events of the night before. Somehow we found sleep on it, but after last night’s little excitement, hardly surprising.
Now it’s coming back to me; a sense memory, the aches, the scratches, the gouges; images flash by behind my eyes: J, her eyes ablaze, teeth bared, strands of her hair caught in a filigree across her perspiring face, mad with determination in preventing me from taking her. Her whole body bucking and twisting wildly, arms hitting, fingers clawing my skin, drawing blood, her knees thrusting upwards, legs crossing and clamping together.
I finally win her when I have her turned face down, her arms in my grasp behind her back, and her body pinioned. I still have to prise her legs apart with my knees. No easy matter this, her dancer’s thighs are strong. I manage it, her legs are forced open and I am able to claim that delicate, secret part that she had so zealously guarded. I take her as swiftly and as savagely as I want, fucking the remaining fight out of her.

She is a tongue. A new day and it’s all the other way: The conqueror toppled, on my back, my strength all but depleted. My once proud battering-ram cock now quivers in her hand, at the mercy of her mouth. Eyes closed to the brightening light, focusing on the tiny cat licks I am being subjected to, each one sending a tickling ripple through my central core. Reaching behind me I grab a couple of pillows and bunch them up under my head so I can get a view of what fresh torments are being meted out on my captured prick. One long, soft, wet kiss after another - just like the one’s J planted on my many wounds to wake me from my slumber earlier - down my length ‘till she reached my balls where upon her lolling tongue lifted them into waiting lips to be sloppy-kissed. J then began nuzzling me there, and then started snuffling about in the hollow between my genitals and my thigh, breathing in musk before hungrily returning to lay her busy tongue at the base of the old chap and, with a hand behind it to firmly hold it in place, steadily ran her tongue up it’s entire length. J held my gaze as she did so, breaking out into a devilish grin when she reached it’s blushing summit. I held my arms back behind my head, gripping hold of the pillows. I had decided to play no active role in all this and just let J do whatever she wanted, completely unheeded. Which I was about to begin to sort of regret (though, of course, not really).
My foreskin was now being gradually pulled down, slid over the head and down about an inch or so to about, I suspected and felt, it’s limit. Now my cock, glistening and naked, stood before her. Momentarily fascinated she began examining it with a lightly applied middle finger, running it around the rim, feeling the texture of the glans, down the newly exposed shaft and back up to the tip where J grazed her finger back and forth along the eye. Her curiosity with the tiny slit piqued, she held the glans with two fingers and gently pulled down, opening up the eye for her to try and gaze down into. Satisfied with the examination, J returned a freshly wetted tongue to my poor beleaguered cock, eagerly circling the head several times, leaving it slickly coated in her saliva before performing great lollipop licks up the shaft. It was then that J wickedly stepped up her offensive. Once she had returned her tongue into her mouth to dip into the reservoir of liquid at the floor of her mouth, she resumed to lick cock, only this time concentrating a furious flurry of wet licks against the stretched and sensitive frenulum.
My mind and body reeled; my insides, especially in my chest, felt as if they had seized, and my cock seemed to be straining to tear itself away from it’s moorings in an attempt to escape the nigh-on unbearable outrage being committed upon it. The heels of my palms in my eyes I howled in protest.
“What?” J demanded.
“It’s too much!” I exclaimed. J was having none of it.
“Shush!” She said. “I want to do it to you”.
And so it continued only now sucking on it, then her rapacious tongue was flickering on the tip. Then gripping the penis in her fist she began pushing a hardened tongue directly down onto the eye, as if trying to burrow into me! Pulling open the slit once more, she dabbed a droplet of saliva from her tongue onto the small open hole for it to run down inside the cock. Finally she began sucking me off in earnest; sliding her lips over the glans, taking my cock into the deeper recesses of her mouth; her tongue massaging the shaft, rolling and rubbing; sluicing hot saliva all around it; the feeling of suction.
A fluttering sensation ran through my central nervous system and my breathing got deeper, my body beginning to tense. As J moved her mouth up and down my shaft in regulated strokes, she began to poke a hand around under my balls, feeling out the very root of my cock, caressing it, stimulating it, while a thumb gently stroked a testicle. Her head was now bobbing with greater speed, and sloppy squelchy noises escaped from her mouth as she sucked me. Her remaining hand was sliding the foreskin at the base of the shaft up and down in sync with her mouth.
My head just swam. My breathing now came in fits and starts, my fingers desperately clawing at the bedclothes as I tired to endure my cock being forced into submission by her mouth. She was trying to break it as she would a stallion. J gleefully watched me as she caused my body to rack to her will. Synapses popped in my head, my body, my legs, arms, all of held rigid as an eruption began to build somewhere deep in my loins. It was building, it was sending me over the edge, I let out a stream of invectives, my shouts surely carrying through the open window to the street below.
Building, building, building. My balls clenched tightly. “Fuck, I’m cumming” I warned her. She merely redoubled her efforts.
“I’m cumming” I repeated. “You’re making me cum!”
That was it. J kept her lips tightly around the head as I ejaculated into her mouth. Fuck! It felt like the head of my cock had been torn asunder and a wave of electricity zapped right up through my body before exploding into a storm of sparks in my brain, briefly sending me to another plain. I managed to refocus just as J sucked up and swallowed the second spurt. The momentary delirium was passing and J gently milked the remainder of cum into her mouth to drink before sitting back with a satisfied grin on her face, lazily still rubbing the defeated cock. I, on the other hand, felt like I had ran up ten flights of stairs and was trying to get my breath back. I groaned as J softly lapped clean the head of her prize.

“I’m going to be late for work” she said, rising. She almost bent double again, bunching her fists into the crotch of her skirt. “Ooh, but I want to cum now!” she moaned. She glanced at the clock. “I’ll have to wait ‘till I get to work, unless I can get myself off on the bus”. Hurrying about, she gathered up her coat, bag and keys before returning to plant a salty, wet kiss on my mouth. “I hope you realise I can barely walk thanks to what you did to me last night, you bastard”. And with that she trotted out the door. I flopped back down for a few moments, my cock now listing badly, punch-drunk as it was. I got up, went into the flat’s tiny kitchen and poured myself a cup of coffee from the pot J had made. I padded out to the balcony and leaned on the balustrade. Seven floors down I could see J had emerged from the building and was now walking as swiftly as she could up the busying street. I watched her until she had rounded the bend in the road and disappeared. How strange, I thought, that she is carrying me with her. That the people she will talk to: the bus driver, newspaper seller and whoever else, will be unaware that my cum will be, at that moment, working it’s way down inside her body, a residue perhaps still in the mouth she uses to speak to them with. I wondered about my cum being broken down in her stomach, any goodness extracted and used to fuel her. It’s a curious thought, that’s all.
For a few minutes I watched the waking city; the roads quickly flooding with traffic, the people milling back and forth like ants, or like blood cells, or like individual sperm in search of an egg - only to find oblivion in the centre of a girl, like we all hope to. I drained my coffee and went inside to shower.

Kissing Katie

In the lull of a late summer afternoon, in a room with a window to the garden wide open, the light breeze catching in the curtains, and Katie reclining in the cushions of the antique settee. Our glasses, now emptied of wine, rest on the book about cathedrals she was reading, on a nearby occasional table. A dip in our conversation and we share a moment of just looking into each other’s eyes. Slowly I lean over to her, bringing my face closer to hers. Katie lifts her chin a little and readies her mouth to greet my lips. First contact; a soft landing. Our lips kiss and then we kiss again but with open mouths, the very tips of our tongues touch for an instant then retract like snail antennae. Now I’m kissing slowly across her top lip, my fingers slide into the hair behind her ear and eventually our open mouths interlock once more, our tongues more confident now; meshing together, tasting.

I thought it was a joke at first. Kaite dancing with me, for the first time, on that open-air dancefloor. In the sweltering heat of the evening my shirt was already beginning to stick to my back by the time I even got to the club, and though things cooled down as I sipped my gin & tonic, gazing out to sea, into the Ibizan sunset with the melting sun bleeding into the horizon, things soon warmed back up again once I had delved into the throng of people grooving to the shimmering house music. Swaying her hips, her skirt pulled taut against her bottom, arms above her head, the swish of her long honeyed-brown hair; Katie was the sexiest thing I’d seen all night. No, in a year of nights. So you can imagine I could barely believe my luck when the sexiest girl in the place, maybe the whole human race, did not draw away when I began dancing with her. A look is all it took: a glance over her shoulder and an accompanying smile. Her back to me, my hands placed on her undulating hips. Moving together now. My hands slide up to her waist and touch the bare flesh there between her skirt and top. I venture a hand round to place lightly on her soft belly and discover a jewel nestled in her navel. Her behind, her hips now determinedly rolling with me.
Look at us, for all the world we are lovers! This is a fine fiction, I thought. I wondered what if I could leave here with Katie on my arm, a walk across the midnight sand, finding some comfortable place and settling down, the waves breaking against the shore providing our private soundtrack. But I was certain this butterfly would soon flutter off into the night; smiling she would slink away and dance into the arms of some undeserving sort as so many had before. However, when, at the end of the night, she was still by me, I decided to chance my arm and tell Katie of my plans. The way she took it amazed me.

Which all led to here, in the relative cool of an English room. A Saturday afternoon spent kissing Katie. Deeper now, our tongues drunkenly roll over each other; the delicate abrasion of our taste buds rubbing together, then the slick, smooth underside of her tongue; the grazing of her teeth. Stroking the fine hair on the nape of her neck, and down, tracing a finger or two along her collarbone, and down.
The lightness of the fabric of her summer dress, and Katie’s breast held tenderly in my palm. Placing tiny kisses around her lips, and in the corner of her mouth then sliding a tongue gently along her top lip’s wet underside. Now kissing a cheek. Now leaving a trail of slow kisses down her neck. Katie’s breathing now deep and measured as she lays languorously against the cushions. It was the last time we would do this. I couldn’t share her and she made a choice.