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The Cozy Spot



16 posts categorized "domination"

July 01, 2006

Employee Number: 5689254 - final

Part IV
His struggle pleased her. Sal struggled to vocalize his needs and victory echoed through Nicola's veins.
The outside world faded and the immediate realm of the conference room became their microcosm.
'This…'
She slid forward a couple of inches and placed her portable flashlight on the carpet.
'…Is unusual for me,' she said. Sal's mouth gaped and he squinted to catch a glimpse of her hand.
Nicola vigorously rubbed her sex and Sal's breath labored as each moist note escaped into the charged air between them. Her heady scent plucked his reserve.
'I can't help…'
Sal sighed.
'…Myself,' she murmured. A blind man could absorb the moment of her finger sliding into her saturated hot spot. She slowly tormented him. Each smooth thrust released fragrant notes; her aroma shot forth and plundered his olfactory centres.
'Come here…' his tongue slid over his lower lip. Nicola held up the flashlight, and cocked her head to one side. The cloud of inner doubt, that hovered over her each day, dissolved. Nicola unbuckled his belt, unzipped his trousers and lavishly stroked his swollen crotch.
'You want me to take him out?' she asked.
'What do you think?'
His glans peeked through his briefs. Nicola smiled and revealed his erection. She knew what he wanted and decided that he'd have to wait.
'I know you'd like me to suck it,' she breathlessly said, bowing her head indicating his cock. Nicola's fingers firmly lodged within the tunnel of her cunt. Relishing her internal warmth, she upped the slippery tempo. She slid out from her pussy and dragged her fingers upward, onto her stomach and over toward breastbone. Sal kept his eyes on her fingers for a few seconds before lowering his gaze. Licking his lips, he shifted his hips in an attempt to enter the simmering aperture of her sex.
Each damp lock of his ebony fringe caressed his moist forehead, and his broad chest erratically expelled fragments of the inferno within his gut.
He inhaled her essence and tilted his head back. She greeted him with her middle finger. Freshly moistened, it danced in front of his mouth. Sal’s loins buzzed with newfound lust. Her finger lightly brushed his bottom lip, smearing it with her fresh arousal. Sal craned his neck, opened his mouth, engulfed her fingertip, and ardently fellated it. Her elbow fell, as did her flashlight. Her free hand sought his shaft. Her fingers wrapped around his cock and her thumb stroked the underside.

‘You like this?’
His moist moan affirmed her firm grip. Nicola began the firm stroke until he groaned and let go of her finger.
‘More,’ Sal licked his lips and eyed her crotch.
Her first two fingers lazily stroked her vulva and burrowed into her flooded aperture for a short interval before sliding out and feeding him more of her self. She watched, absorbing each moist stroke of his tongue before returning to her cunt for more. He savored each morsel, drawing her finger deeper into his mouth. Nicola thought of ambrosia, the food of the gods and this instantaneously brought to mind Zeus, the one and only Greek god and how he couldn’t get enough. He needed one woman after the other, regardless of Hera - his wife - getting her nose bent out of shape about it.

Without any warning, she pulled out of his mouth and retained her grip on his cock. Nicola slid back and bent forward to taste the first pearly drop of his semen; cum, a deadly word for her, faded and she didn’t want to know about it, hoping he wouldn’t utter it during his climax. Her tongue liberally licked his glans. She tasted him slowly. Her tongue circumnavigated his glans and returned to his frenulum. A sharp thud resounded.
‘Take it…’ he groaned, staring toward the opaque ceiling.
Sal thrust forward, and she relented, liberally coating him with generous layers of her saliva before embracing his shaft and repositioning herself to give him an ample view of her ass. Her energetic mouth firmly embraced his cock and massaged its length. She almost lost track of the time as her lips snugly drew his cock into her mouth. Who was fucking whom? She swiftly detached her mouth. Sal panted and finally opened his eyes.
‘T-this is non-consensual….’
In Nicola’s mind, consent ceased to exist the moment his eyes began to follow her. A day never passed by without Sal’s eyes assessing her every move. One time she purposefully adjusted her bra in the elevator, knowing he’d be looking in on her as she rode up to her floor. Her return to ground and his piercing eyes confirmed his voyeuristic pleasure.
‘Shh!’ she turned round, leaned forward and balanced the weight of her torso on her elbows and forearms. Her buttocks greeted his mouth. Fresh, smooth and warmed from sitting on his lap, Sal ran his tongue over her right buttock before moving to the left. Each warm wet trail re-ignited her purpose.
‘Don’t stop there, Sal…’ she backed into him, ‘Ooh!’
His teeth grazed her flesh, teasing her before each unexpected bite. Her hand returned to her febrile pussy and she haphazardly rubbed her burning clitoris. Nicola didn’t desire to form words. A groan, or moan, sufficed as Sal sucked each morsel. Patience, what kept her going up to this moment, evaporated and she reached round and parted her buttocks, officially accepting his tongue into her unchartered ass.

At first, his moist tip settled at the cleft of her buttocks. Each circular lick whet her appetite and each sigh, gave way to a rumbling moan particularly when his tongue arced around her quivering sphincter absorbing her piquant flesh.

‘Take these off…’
‘Not yet,’ she replied, and shut her eyes to retain her equilibrium. Sal teased her, stopping short before acing her tight trembling hole. His tongue sensed the tautness of nervous agitation; she was primed for the fuck that he wanted to inflict.
He wanted it. She wanted it.
He repeated his argument and tickled her the outer reaches of her cunt in between stating his case.
‘Well, I can’t leave you like that all night…’ Nicola knew her logic would serve her something else. She slowly unlocked the cuffs and fumbled in her bag for her nail scissors. She didn’t anticipate Sal’s agility, assuming that his joints needed time to recover. He abruptly rose to his feet and she, frozen in awe, cowered. She then felt his arms grip her by her forearms, pulling her up to her feet. Her body, in his control, found its way to the desk. Sal wasted no time.

The term, ‘non-consensual’ raced around her mind. He manhandled her, using his knee to part her legs while holding her arms outward and over the desk until she fell on her hands.
‘Oh..this feels so fucking good…’ he brusquely whispered. His tongue liberally coated the side of her neck, licking its way to her ear. She next felt his fingers, three, tunnel into her cunt. Fuck, shit, fuck…

‘Uh…huh…’
Nicola embraced the stretch. Her pussy expanded to accommodate his busy, ardent fingers as they deeply scored her slick warm tunnel. Sal abandoned words, announcements, and proclamations. His cock abruptly barged into her pussy. Nicola groaned and braced herself.
Deep.
Fast.
Shallow.
Sal continued his barrage and Nicola continued to seep, coating his furious cock with a torrent of her stickiness. Her mind engaged with their dance, as her vocal chords were too slow to greet each near shattering thrust of his cock.
Each thought evaporated, as did the four walls that surrounded them. His sweat coagulated with hers, his cock burst her inner reserve and inhibition, and her mind floated higher and higher in conjunction with his visceral scream and the warm pool of his orgasm between her buttocks.

~~


‘Can I speak to Nicola please?’
‘Speaking…’
‘This is Salvatore, I have someone here to see you. You need to come sign them in…’
‘I’ll be right down….’

Nicola rang off and smiled.
I’ll be right down. Down on the ground on all fours or maybe…

END

 


June 29, 2006

Employee Number: 5689254 part III

Part III

The reality of her predicament shook her as Sal struggled on the floor.

'The least you can do is help me up,' he said.

Instead, she reached over to her handbag and retrieved her key chain and  twisted the metal cylinder that hung off it. The small flashlight offered just  enough light to illuminate his back and would, once he turned over, enable her  to see his face.

She grabbed hold of his arm and hoisted him up. Sal's bulky frame overwhelmed  her. He exhaled in short heavy bursts, stopping to mumble along the way.

'So you want to play…' he murmured, as his back fell against the nearby  wall.

'Don't you?' she asked, quite certain of his intent. Each time she sashayed  past his desk she'd notice the onyx sheen of his eyes as they followed her  body.

'Maybe, if the circumstances were different. This is…'

'Inconvenient?'

She reached over to her side and unzipped her skirt. Sal's eyes followed her  movement.

'I'm going to get up for a moment, no sudden movements Sal. It's not like  anyone will hear you yell and scream,' she said.

His face followed her body. He tilted his head upward and followed her  falling skirt. Nicola stood for a moment, waiting for his expected sigh.

'It's very naughty not to wear underwear,' she casually said, noting his  puckered lips.

She knelt, facing him and smiled at his trembling mouth. Nicola's first  instinct was to lean forward, lightly lick his lips with her tongue and taste  his angst. Instead, her hand shot forward and hooked around his belt buckle. She  firmly tugged it until his warm breath fanned her face.

'Tell me what you think about each time I walk past you…'

He heavily swallowed.

'Don't take too long to think about it,' she said, pulling his belt until he  arched forward.

Nicola inhaled the potent mix of his cologne and perspiration, and slowly  unbuttoned her shirt.

'Don't be shy, Sal…' she cupped her breasts and thrust her pelvis  forward.

'I think about fucking you,' he said. His chin jutted forward and he gritted  his teeth. A maniacal grin bloomed under the faint burnt yellow glow of the  flashlight.

His words, like oxygen, entered her stream of consciousness. Nicola deeply  inhaled and slid her pussy along his thighs, stopping a couple inches away from  his crotch.

'Are you scared to come closer?' he asked, 'I want to plant my fingers inside  that warm pussy of yours.' He licked his lips, enjoying her silence. Her breath  caught in her throat. She felt the currents within her circulatory river diverge  and the resultant heat pulsed within her face and between her legs.

Swimming within the river of arousal's phantasm, Nicola stroked her bristling  vulva.

'Slide your finger in deeper,' Sal hoarsely requested. She blinked, regarded  him and her moist fingers.

'I asked you a question and you haven't given me a satisfactory answer,' she  quipped, before unbuttoning his shirt. Her hands slowly parted the fabric,  revealing his chest. In the semi-dark, she satisfied herself with the downy silk  of his chest hair before capturing his gaze. Nicola ran her finger along his  left clavicle, all the way to the interval of the two bones. She then dragged  her fingernail southward, depressing it firmly as she slid to his navel. Each  wave of his laboring breath deepened.

'Unlock me, so I can feel it...' his lips twisted into a pained grin.
Nicola dragged her index finger horizontally along his midriff, depressing  her fingernail along the way.
'Answer my question.'
'I will, after you remove this belt...my cock...'
'Your cock is?'
His temporary discomfort aided her. Her potent river ran freer still,  impregnating the fabric of his trousers.
Sal's eyes met hers.
'I'd advise against removing these cuffs,' he said.
'And why is that?'
'Because there's no telling what I'd do to you right now...'
 
Do tell, she thought...
 
(to be continued)
 

June 27, 2006

Employee Number: 5689254 part II

Part II
Can you see without eyes? Can you speak without lies? I wanna drink from your naked fountain I can drown your sorrows I'm gonna burn, burn you to life now Out of the chains that bind you.. -Stone Temple Pilots

‘You don’t have security clearance to enter the building after six,’ he said. Nicola’s eyes pleaded with his. Had she peered over, she would have noticed Sal’s tapping feet. ‘But I left my wallet on my desk,’ she staidly replied. Her lips didn’t smile and her eyes lost their twinkle. Her frown materialized and caught Sal off guard. ‘Surely you can accompany me upstairs so I can retrieve my wallet,’ she snapped. He inhaled and smiled up at her. ‘You can try asking me nicely perhaps?’ Nicola rolled her eyes. ‘I think I may have to escort you out of the building. Technically you don’t have any business to be here at this time,’ he replied. Tempted to lick his lips to relieve the dryness, he sat upright and folded his arms over his broad chest. ‘Look, I’m sorry but I need my wallet to get home,’ she said. Sal shrugged, noticing her eyes and how they followed the slope of his shoulders. He needed to get close, or do something that enabled him to inhale her scent directly. ‘Come on, Salvatore…’ her voice cooed, and a lump materialized within his throat. ‘Excuse me?’ ‘It’s on your nametag. Impressive name…’ she raised her right eyebrow and smiled. He pursed his lips and frowned. ‘I’m not allowed to,’ he snapped. He needed to reach out and grab hold of the air. Her eyes glimmered, the fluorescent lighting overhead streaked her irises with quicksilver and she made no effort to leave. ‘Will you call security to remove me? Oh, wait, you’re the only person here Salvatore…’ ‘All right!’ he bellowed, and yet he didn’t startle her. This unsettled him. His irritation began to expand within his chest. She walked toward the elevator and waited. He expected to see her tapping one of her feet like a Sixties TV housewife - an irate Mrs Cleaver. Instead, she faced the elevator and waited. ‘It’s a bit careless to leave your wallet. What if a cleaner took it?’ he said, with a note of sadistic satisfaction. ‘Hmmm…?’

Sal loathed the musical selection. He summed up the song piping through the elevator’s speakers as a Barry Manilow Bossa Nova, if there could be such a thing. Nicola eyed each passing floor and he stood in his safe corner inhaling her perfume.
Two,
Three,
Five,
Ten…
The doors slid open and he decided to be chivalrous for a change.
‘After you…’
She smiled and exited. All the better for him to take in her derriere, he thought. Sal watched her hips sway. His eyes caressed her ass and shifted further down to her calves. Her knee length skirt was one of his favorites. Tight enough without restricting her fluid hips, it hugged her ass and thighs adequately and blended in with his nocturnal fantasies.
Nicola swiped her card, the door slid open and she stepped through.
‘This way,’ she said, and turned right.
Keep on walking, Sal thought.
They walked past many cubicles, too many he thought, and arrived to her desk.
He ran his eyes over her prettified clipboard and noticed a photo of her pet dog, friends, a shopping list but thankfully no boyfriend. Her Spartan desk held neat folders, a pen holder and little else. Something wasn’t right.
‘Oh, I must have put it elsewhere,’ she said, and turned.
‘What do you mean?’ and he knew something, but couldn’t place his finger or his mind on it. The purse wasn’t there, and she possibly misplaced it, but where?

Sal noted now Nicola’s quiet desk could enable a quick fuck. He pictured his hips grinding against hers, pushing her ass against the desk with enough force for her to sit. His hand would then race up her leg, creep under her skirt and into her pants. Nice and simple.

‘It’s not here so it must be elsewhere,’ she sweetly said.
No shit, he thought and reacquainted himself with his frustration.
‘I have to return to the front desk so you better make it quick,’ his stern voice calmed him for a few moments. She fidgeted with the top button of her shirt.
‘Fine…’ she slunk away from her desk and marched toward a closed door.
‘Where are you going?’ he called after her but she continued walking. Her handbag tapped her hip at each stride and he sighed, feeling like a lapdog.


After five minutes - he timed it - Nicola was still nowhere to be seen. He made his way to the door and opened it. Darkness cloaked him, confusion hovered.
‘Where are you?’
Despite his inner doubt, he stepped inside. If this was a joke, the joke was on her. He’d report her. See if Little Miss Muffet likes that, he thought. He changed tack.
‘It’s a wonder if you see anything in here, let alone find your wallet…’
His nostrils flared involuntarily. Her perfume floated past, reminding him of the cartoons he watched during childhood. He pictured himself floating with her scent. His eyes began to adjust and he began to find his bearings. A long table appeared to his right and this table was hugged by eight chairs on both sides.  For some unknown reason, it didn’t occur to him to switch on the light and he was overly fixated on Nicola’s whereabouts to notice her standing behind the door. It wasn’t until he heard the first faint metallic click, lost his balance and fell forward, that he realized that Nicola was in the same room.

Immobile, thanks to her weight on his upper torso, his shoulders strained but his hands couldn’t come apart; another barrier adhered his wrists.

‘How did you get those past the scanner?’
‘I have my ways Salvatore…’
She ran her fingers over his wrists.
‘I had to take a guess. I wasn’t sure whether they’d fit you…’
‘You’re crazy!’
‘Maybe I am,’ she said, ‘But we’re very much alike. No?’
He swallowed and tried to make sense of the unfolding moment. No woman had handcuffed him before and he’d never had the gumption to propose handcuffs during any sexual play.
‘I gather you haven’t lost our wallet?’ he eventually said.
‘No. Only my mind, for today…’
‘W-what are you planning to do with me?’ his stomach growled, nausea tickled his insides.
‘I want to play,’ she said.

(to be continued)

 

Photograph: Gettyimages

 

Employee Number: 5689254 part I

Part I

 

He’d see her and she’d briefly acknowledge his gaze. Other moments he’d stand, take a couple steps to the side and see if she’d open her mouth to greet him. She always walked past. This spiked him with irritation, and culminated into a residual wave of, according to his logical side, curiosity. In the dark confines of his mind, usually during lunch, he’d abandon the logic he relied on, the same deductive processes that were intrinsic to his position manning the front desk, and step into shallow dark waters of primal need.

The foyer brimmed with people each morning. She appeared a good half-hour before her start time and while everyone greeted him in passing, she continually avoided his eyes. This, he suspected, related to his brusque attitude during her first month with the company.    ‘Nice move Sal,’ he usually spoke to himself when he tasted bile at the back of his throat. That day she attempted to ask him a question that he had little time for. Patience ran out of his mind like flour exiting a sieve. The person on the other end of the telephone line, his niggling ex partner decided to keep his CD collection and he decided, at that moment, as the sun crept behind the concrete skyscrapers, that the term ‘fair sex’ was a feel good alternative to ‘Satan’.    She used a visitor card she had to return at the end of her day and, on the whim of courtesy, decided to reach over his desk and place it nearer to him, so as to not inconvenience him. A pure security breach.

‘What are you doing?’ he sternly asked, realising his voice was heard by a small group of departing employees.

    Her face reddened, and the pressure of her anger contributed to the blue tinged horizontal line that formed her mouth. Sal’s uncertainty needled his thoughts. Requited or unrequited, each interest usually sated him, with the exception of this woman who disregarded his presence.

Her icy lingering glance interrupted him mid tug each night. It simultaneously irked and inspired him, clutching his chest as he expelled his fiery climactic breath.

    The slow morning didn’t eradicate the accompanying images, visions that imprinted his thoughts. Her heels tapped on the floor as she walked past his desk. Her eyes, sneakily regarded him for a few seconds before she depressed the elevator button.    ‘I’ll see to you,’ he muttered, and continued monitoring the closed circuit cameras. She remained in the elevator foyer, faithfully waiting for her ride. He listened for the metallic slide of the doors and leaned into his chair.    He greeted lunch and prepared to swap over with his partner. Food was the last thing on his mind. His gut pleaded for nourishment but Sal, bored with the regular city fare, decided to circumnavigate the park. This, according to him, would aid his errant thoughts. Frustration, the bully from within, began to tweak his mind.

What are you going to do about it?

He had few ideas at work. The sterile front desk performed the dual task of shielding him from the drones and sucking up all his sexual energy. Sal knew he’d fulfil the daily prophecy; he’d return home after his shift and plant himself in his chair to read the newspaper and maybe call for some pizza if he were in the mood. He’d follow this with a few games on his XBOX and a DVD, then he’d shower and prepare for bed.

The park teemed with more drones, people he saw as living outside of his daily realm. They all laughed, basked in the afternoon sun and wiled away their lunch hour reading, talking or eating. He rounded the first corner and put his mind to the task at hand; one step after the next, pigeons raced away from his path and cars slid past. The traffic lights bleeped, people crossed, and as he rounded all four corners, he saw her waiting for the pedestrian lights to change. He caught her eyes before she diverted her stare. Oh, she saw him all right. It was more obvious than a neon sign in a red light district.

The traffic lights bleeped, giving the nod for pedestrians to safely cross but she decided to turn round and walk elsewhere – away from his oncoming body.

Anger fuelled him. If he had time, he’d pursue her and tap her shoulder before asking her what she played at each day. Her red coat concealed her rear. He imagined the contours of her rump against the palms of his hands, pictured her fluttering eyelids and crossed the street, abandoning himself to the electric undulation between his legs.

Name: Nicola Sterling

Employee Number: 5689254

‘Your time will come,’ he softly said, as the glass doors automatically slid apart


(to be continued)



               

 

April 23, 2006

At the Kafeneion (Adult Version) - Part 8

At the Kafeneion (Adult Version) - part 8
The mind and body appear to exist within the same plane but there are times where either one can behave independently. Sometimes the mind tries to outrun the body or visa versa. This depends on the variables at hand, and one can overrule the other.

My mind did entertain the prospect of going all out the moment I felt Panos’ erection rub my backside but my body also desired comfort more than the fuck. This need for comfort, or nurturing won over the inner (and novice) libertine within me. I didn’t have to light up like a Christmas tree. I turned round, facing him, eyes still closed and burrowed into him. It didn’t feel alien, I didn’t feel uncomfortable as there was no pressure. It felt like the most natural thing to do as his relaxed body, erection aside, rubbed off on me.

The combination of his skin, warmth and size, along with my leg between his soothed me to sleep. I didn’t feel like I had to snatch each second to score the hole in one. The advantage of an older partner on most occasions (for me anyway) is that they’re not wholly obsessed with instant gratification. Anticipation, mental explorations and the wait in itself is part of the foreplay whereas with one much younger, or close to my age (at that time) it tended to be the opposite and usually led to disappointment. So I turned my back on any notions I previously had, and embraced sleep.

I woke, realizing I’d slept for three or four hours. Panos, asleep, lay on his side with his back facing me and my first instinct was to curve my body against his. Wide awake, feeling the initial warm rush of anticipation, I lay there listening to him breathe for a long interval. At some point I decided to take a closer look - using my hands. My fingers traced the curve of his shoulder, from the base of his neck to the outer edge of his deltoid, then sliding inward and along the ridge of his scapula. I retraced this route many times. The texture of his skin under my fingers mesmerized me and I decided to travel further south, down his back, all the way to the cleft of his buttocks. The thrill of this, based on him being asleep, amplified within me. My pulse quickened the longer Panos remained adrift in the ocean of dreams.

I leapt over the initial hurdle and sought that little bit extra. Stripping the borrowed T Shirt off
me, I huddled closer, with enough distance to feel the heat from his skin against mine without touching. Moments passed. I needed something more. At that point in my life I had never specifically woken anyone up for sex. There was also the memory of choosing sleep much earlier when he was primed for action so the question of his reaction, should I have woken him, hung in my mind.

It’s strange how time and experience can alter a person. I wouldn’t think twice about waking a person now, and if they ‘ummed’ and ‘ahhed‘, I’d probably reply with a curt ‘fine’ and simply masturbate (in the same bed, they’d be watching but they’d be prohibited from touching - as a disciplinary measure), but back then the idea of intimacy took on a hallowed form for me. After my two encounters with two different males - the so-so to dismal sex with those people - I sought perfection or that idyllic sexual encounter. I had little idea as to how to obtain the ideal sex that my then girlfriends boasted they had and it usually mimicked what one read in romance novels or saw in films. As Panos slept, and my fingers continued their trek, I felt in control. I decided to press my body against his. My hand reached over his waist and rested on his stomach for a short moment. I then felt around, found that magical trail of hair that originated at his navel, and yielded to the temptation of walking that silky trail. My hand wandered up and down the warm playground of his lower belly for a while, purposefully refraining from stroking his cock only because I was, back then, quite shy about it. He boasted the morning semi-erection and my fingers surely felt the heat dripping off his cock but I focused on his respiration, body temperature and the possibility or hope of him waking up so the show could get on the road.

As I stroked his skin and felt my chest adhere to his back, the age difference slipped into another dimension. I didn’t care about it and saw it as having little to do with the rising flame within me during the moment. My toes rubbed his heels, my hand continued to wander and my restlessness was no longer restricted to my mind, it migrated to my limbs.

His body shifted, I held my breath. So nervous and it was ironic considering heat dripped off me back in kafeneion bathroom. In this circumstance we were both naked, in a bed, and that to me spoke not only volumes, but tomes of what was to follow.

The assumption of him being asleep was short-lived, he turned over, fully awake. He’d been awake for a while, he said, and that was all he said. From that point on it became automatic. Our faces made contact, as did our mouths, and it flowered into this moist, oral journey. Since that time, I have a tendency to correlate kissing with cunnilingus. The tempo of the kiss pretty much gives an indication of how explorative a person can be when their lips travel south.

His kiss was sufficient for me at that point. I was primed. It didn’t take much because I had all the previous imagery embedded in my mind. When his hand wandered between my legs, and stroked me in the same manner as before, I couldn’t help but raise my leg and wrap it over his hip - awaiting something more. My tastes were simple back then. I’d hear about spectacular sexual episodes, multiple climaxes and so on, but didn’t really stop to take them seriously as these stories that friends told me always ran along the same lines, like a choreographed dance sequence - the Solid Gold grind.

Panos was a pussy man. At that point that phrase wasn’t in use in my circle of sexually active girlfriends, and I hadn’t stumbled upon cunnilingus either. I had experienced making out, digital stimulation, the ‘finger fuck’, vaginal penetration, but not the French kiss of the south so I felt a little, well a lot, nervous when he left my mouth and journeyed south, kissing each square inch of skin along the way.

In the oral sense, mouth to mouth, Panos preferred slow exploration to rapid licks and sucks. Between my legs, he began in the same fashion, using the tip of his tongue. He elevated his head enough for me to see what he was doing, and this alarmed me. The first sensation of his tongue felt like he stripped me open and this was due to the fact that Brazilian waxes weren’t the fashion fad then as they are now, so he pried my labia open - not that it was that difficult, it wasn’t. He sensed, as he later confirmed by revealing this information, that it was a first for me. My thighs twitched, the sexual equivalent of restless legs syndrome. I clutched his shoulders, trying to hold or control him and didn’t know where to look because the sensation he unraveled with his tongue overwhelmed me to the point where I couldn’t let go and relax.

I’d never had a conversation with a man in that manner. He remained in place, looked up at me and asked me, rather nicely to relax. He continued, my gut was in my throat. He slowed down, and avoided any direct clitoral contact, but for me the entire act was more intimate than kissing and penetration - as weird as that may come across. Within my mind, I’d think of his tongue between my legs, tracing each contour of my labia and him tasting ‘me’, as in me, myself and I. His breath became more ragged, and his hands grasped my upper thighs. His thumbs dug into my inner thighs, probably to keep me still but this didn’t work.

I sometimes return to this moment of my life and ask myself what a younger male would have done in that situation, whether they’d continue or just plod along, shift a gear forward and proceed with penetration but it didn’t faze Panos. He casually sat up, stood and walked over to the dresser in the room. I lay there, admiring his naked physique - he may have been forty five, but he was a tall robust male - and hoped he’d return. I also felt embarrassed. When he turned, I avoided his eyes and focused on his arms but I noticed that he was returning to the bed with something else in his hands and I didn’t realize it at first, it didn’t really enter my mind and I’d never read about such things.

In his hands he held his leather belt, folded in half.

‘Lie back,’ he said. That was all he said, only for me to effectively tremble. The only time I’d heard of belts being used was when I was in primary school when my school friends acted up at home and got the ‘strap’ as a disciplinary measure. I never copped the belt across my backside, my mother preferred using the good old fashioned wooden spoon on my backside if I acted up.

I retreated into the bed. Obeyed him when he requested I raise my arms above my head, and in front of the bed head but inside, I trembled. His legs framed my torso, his hands stretched the belt, as if to show me its full span. I couldn’t hold out much longer and asked him what he was doing. He didn’t answer, at first. Needless to say, after he used the belt to tie my hands against the wooden bed head I lay there in disbelief. At first I thought he was joking. As he looped the leather around my wrists, I thought it was a prank, something to get me to behave, or lie still. It was only after he returned to the foot of the bed, parted my legs and faced me, when I couldn’t move my arms away from the bed head that I knew he was serious, that he’d actually tied my wrists.

What followed, for a decent interval anyway, was a completely unladylike reaction from me:

‘What the fuck are you doing?’
‘Fuck you!’

My legs rustled about the bed, and I only stopped when he warned me that he’d do the same thing to my legs if I didn’t stop. He then reminded me that I wasn’t relaxing. In his defense, he had no idea of my previous sexual encounter, it wasn’t something I wanted to reveal to anyone and I didn’t think I’d have to, but things have a way of resurfacing. He repeatedly stressed that he wasn’t going to hurt me, and this he followed through with a copious load of kisses before he went back to work.

In the room, sometime after noon, his lingual action forced my mind to meet the moment. This took a while. I didn’t have a watch, who really does have a watch when they’re intimate? For those who do wear a watch while they’re having sex, well hey good luck to you. To this day I’m not entirely sure what got me to the mental place where Panos was at. His tongue, labile and supple, not only traced each external contour, but explored me internally (if only a gyno exam could be that sublime!) and yet, his appetite didn’t abate. His breath labored with desire or hunger. It wasn’t a case of him performing a function to arouse me so he could stick his dick inside me for a few moments so he could ejaculate, it was a case of him dining out, eating me with panache. My emotions reached a crescendo and I couldn’t help expressing each visceral sensation with matching groans, moans and smutty verbal epithets.

All up, in light of all experiences I’ve had, this hit the spot in so many ways. It remains unique in that it was the first time for both restraint and cunnilngus. It was a teary intense climax for me and a feast for Panos, who didn’t request any reciprocation but slowly slid inside me and wrenched more emotion from my core. The first half of the journey was lengthy and flawed, reaching clearer hot skies later in the piece. My vulva, spent, pulsated madly. His light touch, as an after dinner stroke, made me wince with pleasure and the ensuing slow ride tortured me more. We didn’t care about doing it in a fancy Kama Sutra position. I forgot about my wrists being bound, and watched his torso overhead while his hips adhered to mine. The second half, the ‘fuck’, didn’t bring on a second orgasm, but that didn’t matter.

Panos took his time. I, ironically enough, wasn’t sure whether I’d be able to keep up and I focused on his face during each motion, watching how his eyebrows knitted together, how his lips relaxed and pursed together, there were so many expressions on his face that I lost myself in each and came out of the dizzying thoughts when he began pounding against my hips, into me.

Our mouths met after he climaxed. He kneeled up and untied my hands. I embraced him and felt the slick warm sweat on his back, and was surprised to notice my own sweat that coated my entire torso.

At that stage, I had no idea as to where it was heading. I didn’t particularly care. The moment was the only thing that mattered and when Panos, after some time, hinted about a next time I inwardly felt thrilled even though I knew that our assocation would be judged by many during that time.

In regard to what took place, his use of his belt: it overwhelmed me, thrilled me, aroused me in ways I can't find words to describe and, compared to what my girlfriends were experiencing at the time, it felt deliciously naughty or depraved. When I was 19, in 1989-90, I didn't really know what the term bondage or being 'bound' meant.


(to be continued)






April 22, 2006

At the Kafeneion (Adult Version) - Part 7

At the Kafeneion - Part 7
Once inside his one bedroom bachelor pad, I half expected him to make a move. This assumption, based on earlier events, was the only conclusion that I thought of and the reason why it featured in my mind was because I wasn’t sure whether I’d be up to it or not. Half of me felt like a stranger within myself. To react, in the manner that I did, was like seeing another person – not me. Now, of course, I see that period as the dawn of the faux sisterhood, where limits don’t matter and personal feelings have no importance in the realm of acquisition when the perceived commodity – the male – is up for grabs.

Panos quickly showed me round the place before grabbing my arm and guiding me to the bathroom. He set out to clean up my foot. This took a while because all the blood had dried. I stepped out of my shoe and felt odd about him performing this task. I was so accustomed to performing these tasks myself.

‘It’s okay…’ I’d say, and he’d tell me to be quiet and stop being so difficult but independence can also be, on the odd occasion, a security blanket too.

I placed my foot in the bath, he turned the faucets and rinsed the, now bruised, area of my foot. His fingers ran over my toes, up along my metatarsals and back again, all the while he pressed my foot in various places and asked me if it hurt, and if so, where.

‘It’s just a small bruise, Panos…’ I felt somewhat overwhelmed. I wasn’t really accustomed to anyone attending to me in that manner. Back then, I was more of a control freak in regard to these things. Such close proximity, in my mind at that time, equated to intimacy or an increased sense of intimacy. Warm water ran over my foot, the initial tingle of the water worked to relax me and I then felt the tiredness of the previous day invade my body.

Wrong timing, was all that it was. As I stood watching him towel my foot I hoped he wouldn’t get any ideas. This thought was followed by another thought, steeped with guilt, concerning the audacity of my assumption in the first place.

He told me to lie down in his bed. This instruction didn’t alarm me, only confirmed his sexual presence within my thoughts.

As assumptions go, I thought he’d follow me but he left the apartment, telling me he’d be back in a short while. I made myself comfortable, after borrowing one of his T-Shirts. Falling asleep wasn’t so easy. I wanted to fall asleep before his return. This way, I thought, I wouldn’t be awake to be on the receiving end of anything in order to decline it. His bed, a comfortable queen sized mattress, was decorated with so many pillows. I laughed as I removed each one, thinking how much time he spent each day adorning his bed, only to remove them. At this point my mind didn’t stop to consider other uses for pillows. I was tired and desperately in need of sleep.

I retreated under the covers, nestling into the duvet and pillows. The more nervous I am, the more difficult it can be to sleep, particularly when sleep also involves another new person. Panos returned and made his way through the hall, and into his room.
He crawled into bed, after removing his clothes (at this point I was feigning sleep) and I lay, on my side, feeling anticipation prickle me just about everywhere. It felt like a second gust of wind, or oxygen, danced past my deprived nose.

My ears heard the newspaper. He flicked through it, pages ruffled and after what felt like an aeon to me, he quietly placed the newspaper on the floor, and spooned by body with his.

‘I know you’re awake.’

Now when I think of it, I find it funny but there we were, effectively at the beginning of our sexual adventure, and the scenario that unfolded reflected the typical stereotype:

‘I’m really tired Panos…’

‘Then sleep,’ he whispered, wrapping his arm around my waist before pulling me against him.

‘I’m trying to?’
Cringe worthy huh?
In all seriousness, I did have a full on week at work, in addition to late nights at the gambling joint. A couple of residents passed away where I worked, and these events would always stir my mind and make me question my life, where it headed and mortality itself. The issue that did creep into my mind, as Panos’ pelvis hugged my rear end, was whether or not I’d be able to sleep. By this time, the cotton T shirt rode up until I felt our thighs slide against each other.

The sheets rustled as we wriggled around. Panos’ erection couldn’t be hidden, it just poked my ass and yet, he didn’t immediately try to remove my pants. It’s not so much the sight of a naked dick that will get me, early in the morning, it’s the sensation of it against my ass: prodding, brushing against, whatever. This is how it's been since that time - we're talking sixteen years now. When that occurs during spooning, it’s all it takes to make my lower engine purr.

(to be continued)




April 21, 2006

At the Kafeneion (Adult Version) - Part 6

At the Kafeneion - Part 6


Sparks erupted within the darkness of the nightclub. Nikki’s distorted face turned to me and words tumbled out of her mouth. My legs aren’t pins. They’re rather sturdy. I’m built that way, and during this period of my life I spent at least two years on and off working in nursing homes and the work involved a lot of heavy lifting. The proper way to lift anything is to bend the knees, so one can imagine the result of this after manually lifting human beings, many of which were largely incapacitated in some way or form. In between shifts, I’d maintain my physical strength by attending the gym, not so much to sculpt a thin, lean physique, but to maintain physical strength and this involved additional weight training. I didn’t resemble a wrestler, but my work and gym sessions meant that my calves and quadriceps were rather developed (in addition to the fact that I’ve never boasted a fragile physique – I’m not built for catwalks, in other words). So Nikki felt the full force, something I didn’t make any effort to minimize. I did examine my reaction at a later point, but during the heat of the moment I flew by the seat of my pants. I didn’t appreciate her initial gesture. Whether it arose out of her insecurity or whatever else, wasn’t my issue. While such ‘violence’ isn’t condoned, for the usual politically correct reasons, when one is effectively violated one will feel like adjusting the scales that are.

Nikki’s manner of minimizing her self perceived humiliation (of spilling her drink all over herself) was to lash out at me. Her self-involvement meant that her own gesture -that of using her heel to stamp on my foot (out of some need to mark her territory) – didn’t matter.

I’m not one for scenes, but I couldn’t dismiss her wrath. She exploded, thumping her fist on the table.

‘Poutana!’ she yelled, which (depending on how it's said) translates to whore/prostitute/slut.

The waiter tried to intercede. Panos sat, stunned at her outburst and the irony of what she uttered wasn’t lost on me, simply because she spiked me with her heel so she'd hopefully have her cunt penetrated by Panos.

‘Poutana eisai kai fainese,’ I replied, roughly translating to, ‘ that’s what you are and it’s rather obvious’.

I wasn’t specific as to the ‘what’ she was. I wasn’t entirely certain what she meant (except that it could only be negative) in calling me what she did and I found it amusing at the time. On stage she’d have seen our table. Common sense further validated that Panos had company, but as I’ve already mentioned moral values vary in this sphere or microcosm of the world.

Bitchy, perhaps. At that point my foot smarted and there was a sticky plug of congealed blood staining my sandal. My foot throbbed, and each pulsation dulled in comparison to my anger and confusion. I couldn’t comprehend why she did what she did.

I’d like to point out that I was far from being a saint, but the very term she used isn’t the same as calling one a slut in the sexual sense, not by definition anyway. It veered more toward defining one’s lacking morals more than anything else, or one's lack of humane respect. For me, her anger was amusing. During that period of my life I remember getting myself up to date on all the supposed global feminist issues. I was reading Dworkin, Faludi and Wolf (the Beauty Myth, back then, was a ‘groundbreaking’ text for every woman). The world they described, the one with rigid structures that supposedly enabled the patriarchy to operate, was always lost on me because in other spheres, outside the controlled environment these authors describe/ed – namely the white bread western world – these issues weren’t issues, they largely didn’t matter (and in many places today, these issues aren’t significant for if they were there’d be no child starving to death, no woman dying while breastfeeding in lands yet to have electricity grids and so on).

In short, my libido of the evening was sucked into a black hole. Panos interceded, told Nikki to calm down. I slugged down the rest of my drink. The others returned to the table and wondered what was going on. The waiter told Nikki to be calm. I kept on eyeing my stained sandal and felt like slugging her all the more. At that moment I learned that books, the academic kind, written by people who spend the bulk of their time on university campuses or immersed within faculties of knowledge, don’t necessarily reflect the wider world. The sisterhood that many tomes described didn’t exist and still remains a Utopian concept.

Panos, uncertain on how to take my response or reaction and caught off guard by Nikki’s tantrum, decided to pay the table bill. In the process of taking care of the bill, at the far end of the floor, I saw him talk to the club owner. They both looked at me from the distance. This conversation, as I later found out, resulted in Nikki being sent packing, back to Greece. Her spike heel in my foot was the final straw for the proprietor of the club.

We all left the club, someone suggested breakfast. I wasn’t in a sociable mood (at that point I was unaware of Panos discussing the incident with the nightclub owner) because Panos, in my mind, simply paid the bill and didn’t address the issue. It wasn’t until we arrived at the Bourbon and Beefsteak (in Kings Cross) that we both sat, and talked about the incident. The others decided to call it a night.

It was as I stabbed my egg yolks that I asked him about Nikki’s presence at the table.

‘Ask your waiter friend about that,’ apparently he visited the Gents and returned to find Nikki there - presuming she sat there waiting for the guy who was sitting to my right - so didn't evict her. It wasn’t as easy as that, apparently, because there were other vacant seats at the table and he didn’t see the point of engaging in a debate with Nikki.

My head still felt the aftermath of scotch, so I dug into my food and coffee.

We sat, for a while, after eating talking about everyday things. He asked me about myself, the usual family related questions and he didn’t express any shock or mock sympathy when he responded. Matter of fact, to the point, the conversation continued and fragments of his background unfolded. He adhered to the fragments. I didn’t push for more details, as I believed (and still believe) that an individual will divulge what they’re comfortable with divulging, not anything more or less than what they are comfortable with.

The moment, illuminated by a rising a.m. coppery sun, embedded itself in my mind. I remember feeling completely comfortable. There were no niggling doubts as to ‘futures’, his, and mine therefore no high expectations.

A quiet car ride followed and we ended up at his place...

April 20, 2006

At the Kafeneion (Adult Version) - Part 5

At the Kafeneion -Part 5

The dilemma that unravelled within was twofold: I felt uncertain about Panos’ underhanded gesture, and the effect it could have on others if seen, and felt more drawn to him as my backside nestled into his lap. His posture mimicked mine in that he sat on his side, facing the stage. Under the white tablecloth, his hand continued working away. His fingers, sandwiched between my thighs, squeezed through my flesh and sought the desired zone. It was difficult to tell whether I had his index, middle or ring finger in me. Our upper bodies welded together, his free arm braced the back of my chair and his head leaned against mine. To an outsider, it all appeared above board. Panos was another male whispering whatever he whispered due to the loud music and I, the customary female, sat and listened to whatever he had to say.

The club was half full, the majority of patrons filled the front section whereas our section was a quarter full. As I felt his fingers wriggle in and out of me, I caught onto the intention behind his choice of seating. I didn’t stop to think about such things in advance, even though I knew the sordid nature of night and everything that accompanied this particular zone of my world.

My skin, nose, my very mind, filled with Panos’ scent. His breath danced on my neck and ear, and I languidly sat, against him, permitting him intimate access. The entire night unwound in my mind as a night of extended physical and mental foreplay. I knew then, as I know now, that my initial attraction determined my response. Prior to him, I’d be wary, on the back foot as it were. He and I were similar – in terms of culture, language, and backgrounds – and this enabled me to feel comfortable, perhaps enabling me to allow myself to be attracted to him.

The regular interactions, on the lower dining floor, ceased to interest me and yet they were difficult to ignore. This era drowned in decadence. I’d grown accustomed to singers leaning over tables, as they paraded around the stage, flaunting their wares. Waiters buzzed around, fulfilling requests to break plates or open boxes of sparkling wine. One regular, a Romanian, presided over the central front table and successfully outmanoeuvred other males for the attentions of his favourite singer, an ambitious Australian born singer named Varvara, by having boxes (and I mean boxes) of Dom Perignon opened. This ritual was a common sight, and served as a compliment to the singer. The inflated price, per bottle, didn’t daunt him as he had plenty of dollars from his sordid transactions and every item on the menu was inflated. A person could buy a bottle of Heineken in a pub, for a less than three Australian dollars at that time but within the arena of these clubs that same bottle retailed for seven dollars.

Champagne corks popped, two waiters finally got down to the last two bottles in the small custom-made crate and poured enough to fill a champagne flute. The remaining champagne would be taken back to the bar or taken back to the patron’s table, depending on the request, but the only thing that mattered was for the remaining male patrons to see the Romanian’s flamboyance. This was the machismo that existed within this realm, it all depended on finance and dollars, and in many cases these aspects could(back then as it is now) easil outclass virility.

My temperature rose from Panos’s body temperature and his exploring fingers. I considered alternatives such as leaving separately, meeting outside (in his car) to continue the play but reconsidered it on the basis of it not meeting my sexual expectations. I wasn’t fond of cars, and decided that my need could wait. I still didn’t respond to Panos’ assumption of having me that evening. His statement left me speechless. It was more important that I maintained my composure, despite my drenched underwear.

He didn’t ask me how I liked it and he didn’t have to.

Throughout his slow expedition between my legs, he’d describe the warmth and the texture of the fluid that soaked his fingers. I’d float on his words, he’d slide in deep, stop, wriggle within me and slide halfway out. I reached a point of no return, where I needed air. I told him I needed a quick trip to the Ladies, his fingers casually slid out of me and he pushed his chair aside. I turned to get up and couldn’t avoid his eyes looking into my face. Panos drove the mental nail into me by brushing his moist fingers over his mouth, then inserting his middle finger into his mouth. His lips drew his finger further into his mouth.

I locked onto his mouth but obeyed my first instinct to find a quiet place to think. My eyes surely betrayed the circus of thoughts playing out in my head. I couldn’t take my cigarettes with me, as this would have revealed the turmoil within, and my need to pacify it. I was luckier in the Ladies room, bumming a cigarette from a woman who regularly sold flowers to patrons.

‘So are you and Panos…?’

We were familiar with each other. She sold flowers at all of the nightclubs and I knew her from the period I worked. She’d always stop by, after her rounds, for a quick drink and chat.

‘Are we what?’ I asked her.

‘Come on, I can see you up there…’

I usually blush when the unexpected confrontation occurs and I probably did (knowing myself). I didn’t confirm or deny anything.

‘Have all the fun you can, but be careful,’ she said.

‘He’s not a psychopath,’ I replied.

‘No he’s not, but don’t get too involved.’

‘Oh come on, he’s so much older than me…’ was the first thing that cropped up in my mind. She laughed, reminded me that digits didn’t matter in the realm of attraction but to not take anything seriously, ‘you’re young and impressionable but you know how the night people are.’ It can, and does sound like something out of a fantasy novel, ‘night people’, but there are differences between people of the day and people of the night. Similarities may exist, in that both types establish families, work and have relationships, but there are distinct differences between the two and these differences primarily concern different sets of moral values.

At this point, I was still constructing my own set of moral values. It wasn’t that I lacked morally, but I’d receive so many confusing messages from other people, family or others, which I’d have to sort through each, supposed value, evaluate it and decide whether or not it worked for me. My decisions were always based on how I’d feel. In short, I concluded that it was best to treat people, as one preferred to be treated.

I returned to my table to see my chair being occupied by a singer. This singer, slightly older, was an import who hadn’t had much success in inspiring men to cause breakages or open champagne bottles.

As I neared the table, I saw her leaning toward Panos. It wasn’t jealousy, but something else spliced into me. Did he invite her to sit to anger me? This was my first thought. If I walked to the other side and took a seat, this would elevate her in some way. The code of conduct, during these situations is tricky. One doesn’t want to reveal one’s inner tension or be misunderstood. I wasn’t jealous, I was miffed at not being consulted prior. Had I known of his intention to invite singers to the table I would have sat opposite him.

A waiter hovered around, as waiters normally did – to take the singer’s drink order. Each singer usually ordered a house cocktail (overpriced) or something else from the bar. It wasn’t a great idea to drink from the same bottle as the patron as this was already paid for by the patron and didn’t generate additional cash. I knew the waiter as I’d worked with him before. He greeted me and eyed me carefully, as though monitoring my intended move.

‘When did she arrive?’ I asked him.

‘I don’t know…’ he replied.

He, in his fifties, was a veteran and through him I learned many ways to improve bar service.

‘But you do know because you sent her here,’ I calmly said.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he continued.

The table was half vacated. My girlfriend was on the dance floor, Panos’ other friend, the man who sat next to me also eyed the singer with interest.

‘Sit down, have a drink…’ the waiter said.

‘I want to sit down in my seat,’ I said, pissed off at this point and he looked at me as though I had uttered the most stupid thing imaginable.

‘C’mon now… can’t you see?’ he said, eyeing the singer and Panos, ‘Panos is talking to Nikki.’

I didn’t particularly care about the singer’s name.

‘I can see that…’

I then remembered my short conversation in the bathroom, about not getting involved and the differences between certain sets of people. Uncertain as to whether I entered ‘night’ and effectively qualified as a night person, I stood trying to think of my next move. Walking out of the club was far too easy, and too emotional. I couldn’t find a term for the emotions I felt that moment but I wasn’t fond of many of the singers either. I had only warmed to a selected few, the remainder however, were cold and competitive.

Panos glanced upward, saw me standing talking to the waiter and leaned back.

‘Come, sit down!’ he called.

So I sat, on the opposite side. Nikki, a bottle blonde regarded me with faux interest. I regarded her with detached contempt, only because I felt her intentionally dig her spiked heel into my foot through the gap between the leather of my sandals.

‘Panos, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?’ she loudly asked. Her heel dug deeper into my metatarsals, I fought the urge to slap her across the face and lit a cigarette. I inhaled, tried to ignore the sharp pain in my foot. Panos introduced us, her heel remained in place. We didn’t shake hands, we only nodded, and she then leaned back in her chair facing Panos. I waited until she raised her tumbler, it appeared that Panos ignored the waiter and opted to share and share alike. She brought the glass to her lips, opened her mouth and tilted it. My free foot, slammed into her shin – with pure unadulterated intent. Her body jerked forward and she spluttered, the drink spilling onto her sequined boob tube.

‘Are you okay?’ Panos, slightly concerned, wasn’t sure whether he’d have a choking fit on his hands.

Nikki eyed me with hatred, I returned the favour.

(to be continued)

April 19, 2006

At the Kafeneion (Adult Version)- Part 4

At the Kafeneion - part 4

The anger I felt was fleeting. I leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.The giddiness gradually subsided, opening the door to uncertainty; the question of whether anyone outside would notice my absence wasn't as nerve racking as noticing Panos' absence. A good half-hour elapsed. As I smoked away, the door knocked and it was my girlfriend. I yelled out that I was on the way out, she asked me whether I was feeling all right - to be gone so long. I was fine, that's the only thing I could say. The half-hour perplexed her and I didn't really want to talk about what transpired between Panos and me in the bathroom. The fact that he was her boss made it all the more awkward, nevermind the age difference between Panos and me. I finally left the bathroom, collected my thoughts and avoided the tables. In the kitchen area, I buried my arms in the sink and washed up each cup or glass my girlfriend collected. Panos quietened down, focused on the game and his playing hand. Each time I'd sneak a glimpse, his eyes would be scanning his cards or sussing out other players. I gave up trying to detect his thoughts, continued washing up and as the night progressed, things quietened down after Panos won a few rounds. A couple of tables left, to go party, and Panos suggested we all go out to one of the nearby nightspots. My girlfriend didn't wholly disagree. Although a couple of hours passed by since our bathroom interlude, I still felt the tenderness around my inner thighs and vulva, in addition to my insides. I felt branded in some way, and I enjoyed the brief flights of ecstasy that resulted from this fiery sensation between my legs.

I waited for my girlfriend to give her final verdict, as did two remaining card players - Panos' friends - as they finished their coffee. Friday night was less formal than Saturday. I quickly borrowed my friend's makeup, brushed my hair into a neater ponytail and followed the others to their cars. I sat on the front passenger seat of Panos' sedan, a well used BMW, and huddled toward the window.

My girlfriend sat in the back - the two other males followed us in their car - and Panos casually drove toward our destination, which was a short fifteen minute drive away. Panos conversed with my friend through the rear view mirror, turning to look at me a couple of times. I didn't mean to ignore him. Every glance of his melted my makeshift icy reservoirs. Once we arrived, grouped together at the entrance of the venue, it was decided that we'd all sit toward the back. Panos didn't want to be seated at a front table. After we entered, a couple of waiters eagerly strode up to us all andgave Panos a brotherly slap on the shoulder. It took him a few minutes to decline a front table. The waiters frowned. I do have to stress that the waiters within a cabaret (particularly the Hellenic kind of nightclub) nightclub aren'tlike restaurant waiters (or similar). They act to introduce the singer to the patron, they act as the go between. In some cases they receive their own perks from the singers or the customers (by way of tips). Panos selected a table within the elevated section of the nightclub. From where we sat, we could see the stage, yet we were a comfortable ten-meter distance away from it. We were escorted to a table for eight. Panos held out the second last chair, at the rear of the table, out for me. I sat. He sat next to me. Infront of me, sat one of the card players, a man somewhere between thirty and forty, opposite him sat his friend and next to him, sat my girlfriend. Initially, all was calm, or I was. The waiters took Panos' order, bottles arrived at the table (bottles of scotch, gin and bourbon) along with the usual mixers, ice, water, tonic water and coke. We settled in, watching a male singeron stage warbling about some type of personal drama, and commenced the usualround of toasts. Within these places, a toast is customary each time glasses arerefilled. A table can go through ten or more toasts a night, usually 'to one's health'. The next singer, a glamorous female, slid on stage in her sparkling dress and began. Panos's arm rested on the back of my chair. I turned to my side to watch the stage, crossing one leg over the other. Panos waited while I sipped my drink. After some time, after a couple of other singers finished their sets and waiters attended our table, to change ashtrays and whatnot, I felt Panos's chair bump closer against mine. I didn't turn, only felt his hand crawling under the table cloth. His fingers slowly raised my dress and as I sat, cross legged and on the side, he found it easier to raise it. The others, continued to watch the singers, my friend danced with the person next to her, and Panos found a way to my crotch once again.

I left my drink on the table and lazily looked toward the stage. He leaned closer, told me how he'd have me by the end of the night with a taunting voice, and his finger, eventually found its way between my legs, via my ass.

It was a first for me. I felt exhilarated and shocked all at once. I couldn't refuse him or cause a commotion, yet I wanted him more. Dilemma.

(to be continued)



April 17, 2006

At the Kafeneion - 'Priors'

At the Kafeneion - 'Priors'
One can grow up with the notion of what a relationship ought to be and can find oneself somewhere else entirely, usually at the crossroads. This doesn’t have to be a single event, it can occur many times over so a person can reinvent this notion or sculpt it so they can acquire it. The idea, concept, construction that formulates the ideal union arrives from other people, it can be passed down like an heirloom.

Sex, throughout my adolescence, was a curiosity. That’s all it was, and I would be the researcher and little else. I’d be curious to read up on it, only to extend my understanding of adult relationships because I couldn’t make sense of the adult relationships occurring around me as a teenager. I couldn’t, for example, figure out why my then legal guardian had to date so many men. Why, for example, she had to go to the lengths she went to impress them and why there were so many of them, in addition to why they never led to that gilt pathway of marriage - the ideal place she’d constantly present as the ideal state.

Prior to my departure from that house, sex was the lowest thing on my list, as were relationships. I had only one thing in mind, to finish my studies. As silly as it may sound now, my goal was to finish a course, something like medicine, and head off to any type of hellhole, to work in places where God feared to tread. In my mind, this followed my mother’s expectations of me. She wanted me to seek something completely different to what she tried and this is the flame that I nurtured but I swerved and found myself somewhere else. The part of me that remained, even though my home and school life dismantled, and worked in medical establishments from time to time - retirement homes, nursing homes and palliative care wards.

As a teen, seeing an adult (my then guardian) treading the floorboards of relationships, as well as experiencing my own mother’s difficulties, relationships (and/or sex) weren’t viable options and this part of me still remains simply because the global economy is what it is, its important for women to be able to survive within it without depending on others.

Prior to Panos, I had two involvements. My first encounter wasn’t anything to write home about but it taught me or opened my eyes to my own desire, and made me comprehend attraction but it didn’t fill me with warmth. After my first encounter with ‘The Chosen One’ (which is what all the first person essentially is or can be), it dissolved into a battleground, where the other person developed this hatred/resentment that my then seventeen year old mind couldn’t comprehend. I still visit the brief ‘what if’ moment, wishing I could rewrite that one moment, it’s illogical,but that is how I can feel even though I realize and appreciate that people are the sum total of their experiences.

My second encounter, with a different male, a year after the first presented well in the beginning of the process that is dating. It, unfortunately, led to the ugly moment that no woman desires to experience - that of non consent. Back then the term ‘date rape’ didn’t exist, and sexual assault doesn’t have to be violent to be such. Assault is a breach of trust, where human respect ceases to exist for a small time interval.

He wanted it. I didn’t want it. I said no. He persisted. I had nowhere to run and as for a scream, no one would have heard me. Sometimes it pays to close one’s eyes and focus on a faraway moment until the moments pass, as they have a habit of doing. I chose the ugly moments, logic being that I had endured those moments therefore a marauding cock, to me, became miniscule during the pivotal moment. My ears heard the metal teeth come undone on his fly, his body completely pinned me down.

It was a little like a debased MasterCard TV commercial:

“Day you see your mother react to news that her husband died - upsetting”
“Day you accompany your mother to the morgue to I.D. your dad, only to see your dad from behind a glass screen - heartbreaking”
“Day you wake up to find out that your mother makes an executive decision on her life - fucking priceless”

By the time I finished the third thought, he had already climaxed and was zipping himself up. I
really have no time for the usual politically correct or feminist rant. It was a bad judgment call. I accepted it then as I do now. Some people, not all, are animals. This is the jungle and it pays to develop a sharper eye to detail. So I dealt with this event in my own manner, or so I thought. In the interim between this incident and Panos, I decided to visit my medical center, after making an appointment with a counselor. Eight months elapsed and I hadn’t dated anyone. I was all right socializing within a group of people but when it concerned one on one, forget it. Any physical manoeuvre set me off. I’d feel like a cornered animal, and yes, I’d strike back either pushing the person away or verbally attacking them with ‘what the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

Although I wasn’t afraid of traveling on my own, returning home from work at night or working in a bar where many would try their luck, I couldn’t bring myself to be alone with another male. I couldn’t tell anyone, because I didn’t want any lectures from those I knew at the time or any ‘there there, tell me all about it’ sympathy. So the person I saw, this eccentric middle aged male, was anonymous to me, who basically told me to get on with it, ‘My point is that you can’t allow one incident stop your life and tarnish your view of the opposite sex. Sure, it’s an unfortunate event, but an isolated event. You need to move ahead.’

He didn’t offer me tea and biscuits, and there was no shoulder to cry on. Besides, I ran out of tears but it was what I needed. The session made me feel better, made me realize that I was the person who was stopping myself. An incident can’t stop a person, it’s gone, part of a previous moment in time that can only be retrieved through memory.

I returned to work, continued serving drinks and life continued. The twelve month period that followed saw me share a house with three other males, who weren’t ‘animals’, that came to an end but the highway continued, stretching out before me, and I chose an alternative route that led me, and my sexual psyche, to Panos.

(@Kaf, adult version to be continued)

Photograph: Helmut Newton




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