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The Cozy Spot

11 posts categorized "edge"

July 08, 2007

Atelier - fiction

I’ve attempted to construct a bridge to unite the erotic or sexual, with elements of horror or fear. The comic book is a prop in the story, and its importance becomes more pronounced as the story progresses. There is only one word I can use in association with Atelier. Creepy.


He whistled while he sketched. The Acropolis towered over the nefos that plagued the city below; modernity coexisted with antiquity, while the people bustled underneath, often taking the relic for granted. Tourists roamed, and steel cased digital cameras glimmered; their Rockports hugged ancient rocks as their eyes surveyed past millennia. His ears pricked up to tour guides, and the tourist caught his eye. Lagging behind, she rolled her eyes at the small group, and continued to dawdle.

‘It’s a nice day for a tour,’ he said, continuing his tune.

Captured, her curiosity got the better of her.

‘What are you sketching?’ she asked. He hugged his sketchpad protectively.

Drawn, like an iron filing to a magnet, she gazed into his eyes. Blinking, she smiled and gathered her wits. A sensual face, marked with full mouth, his symmetry riveted her to the ancient ground.

'It is unfinished.'

His spoken English laced with a cornucopia of accents, slithered; music to her ears. A definitive change from the posed intonations she’d been accustomed to. His tan confirmed a Mediterranean leaning; white, a predominant shade of summer, swathed his limbs.

‘Are you drawing the Parthenon?’

He shook his head, and presented his surprise. Each flowing line, every precise curve, muffled her voice. She inspected his hands, from the calloused mounds cushioning the base of his digits, to the sinuous stretch of ligaments housed between his metacarpals.

‘Do you live here?’

‘No,’ he said. His mellow and resonant drifted through the air between them like smooth cigarette smoke, as it effortlessly blended with air molecules, to form a symmetrical helix.


‘έτσι και έτσι,’ he replied, his left hand teetering this way and that.


‘A little of this, a little of that, and the other.’

Continue reading "Atelier - fiction" »

June 30, 2007

Four Leaf Clover

“Fighting for peace is like screwing for virginity, and I thought I’d add…screwing for self-esteem is like mutilating oneself like a cutter…sitting in a secret corner, silent as a mouse, hoping no one will hear, let alone walk in on the bloody act…

It’s something that eludes my comprehension.

Get a punching bag.


Lash out, and tell that motherfucker to get knotted.

You won’t go to hell…

It’s not a given, there’s no definitive proof…All the holy men. Who are they? They are flesh, blood and bone; perishables that will dissolve in the earth, mere nutrients for insects as the world continues to turn, burn, churn and erode..

No one returns to say otherwise, or provide a bona fide proof that profanity will mar our hallowed entry into the realm of halos, angelic wings and pristine surroundings, should that realm exists…spend a lifetime pondering it…where will it get you when you’re inhaling the final breath?

It’ll be too late to rue.

Too late to cry…



C’es Fini…


Such thoughts or sentiments, matched the dimmed lounge. Each booth featured an array of sophisticated, if not, bourgeois patrons whose hands displayed glittering baubles; men wore pinky rings, while women allowed their creativity to take control. Some dared to display their 18 karat wedding bands and engagement rings, while others settled for abstract designs, spanning their ten digits.

A piano sounded in the background; mellow lullabies drifted through the room, like smoke, slipping through each crack or penetrating each microscopic pore. He sat opposite, one arm resting along the leather backrest to ooze more character than a method actor.

“It’s relaxing, isn’t it?”

Every square centimeter of flesh covering his face knitted together perfectly. I compared him to an oil painting. Each irregular daub formed a complex, lived-in portrait. His noble face could be included in a Roman setting. An orgy? I watched him raise his glass to his lips, noting his aquiline nose; nostrils flaring, the Martell eddied into his pleasure center, and his fingers slackened. He held the glass as though it were a breast, appreciating its weight and texture. Such hands could be considered a foreigner in a glam world. His thick fingers pried open a hothouse of blooms. His thick pinky boasted an unusual motif, and while I considered myself fortunate to avoid the dreaded wedding band, and faint tan line, I could not avoid the irony. Some displayed their initial, or boasted Onyx within a generic bezel setting.

I had to agree; idyllic surrounds enabled inner calm, even if one had to tolerate bourgeois phrases, sentences and discussion topics; each voice blended into the background, as those sorts of conversations usually do. I arrived at a fork in the road; there are no shades of grey here. It can be like an ancient warrior phrase; with your shield or on it, where every other in-between option is embarrassing. A shade of grey; the hue is ever so boring, a rainbow spectrum for the mild, meek and mind numbingly methodical.

He allows the fragrant liquid to lubricate his lips; the lizard king, he licks the corners of his mouth. I expect a set of fangs to materialize; I’m disappointed.

“We could talk all night. Comb through our hobbies, and occupational goals. We can dissect our brains like social neurosurgeons…or we can fuck,” it rolls out of my mouth, like a fine drop of dessert wine.

“You’re outrageous.” Eyes twinkling, his pinky taps against his glass. The gold ring glimmers, animating the four-leaf clover decorating his pinky finger.

“I’d call it luck. Do you consider yourself a lucky person?”

He dithers for a second, while I fine-tune his body, placing it above mine. I magnify to an unimaginable power, until I can glimpse his hair follicles rubbing against mine, warmth builds to a mind piercing frequency that pushes me off the libidinous cliff, for his skin to break underneath my nails. Blood will creep through his pores, initially, and his skin will begin prickle…

By the time I’m done, his back will resemble tic-tac-fucking-toe.

It’ll be too late to rue.

Too late to cry…

April 27, 2007

Eros + Horror

"The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents," - HP Lovecraft (The Call of Cthulhu)

Fear, above most other emotions, galvanizes a person into action. The action, or fight-flight response, hinges on survival and fear, unlike most other emotions, makes one realize one’s own mortality and there is no minimal age for fear. I clearly remember nights where I’d huddle under the bedcovers, terrified to open my eyes or poke my head through the covers lest some monster, or shadow, ended my days; I’d wonder if I’d wake up the next morning, or if I’d safely fall asleep, sleep being relegated to some kind of safety zone in my childish mind, and this all thanks to the horror movies I’d enjoy watching. I just never stopped to consider the period of time after the television was switched off.

By night I’d be seduced by actors like Vincent Price (such a haunting voice) and watch Peter Cushing transform into a dark provocateur, like the shopkeeper who’d knowingly sell evil antiques (pure, unadulterated Hammer House of Horror). Then there was Christopher Lee, seductively blending into the dark as Dracula. All this before I turned ten. Horror, back then, was more about the notion than the gore of today. Contemporary horror, or what is considered horror today, films like the Saw trilogy and Hostel, operate on gore as the prime mover, whereas films of yester-year operated on synergy; gore manifested as blood during pivotal scenes (not overkill), and along with this, the supernatural, folklore, and occult.

After experiencing horror films of then, I moved onto the world of comics and I think that once upon a time horror comics were more popular than horror literature. Comic books were more accessible to me, as a kid, than horror novels. I really didn’t know about horror literature or novels until I was older. I still think Stephen King put horror literature (in terms of worldwide book sales) in its current form, on the map with Carrie in 1974, and is considered a master of contemporary horror for the sheer volume of work he has created. That’s not to dismiss horror legends like H P Lovecraft, and Edgar Allen Poe, but King more or less resuscitated horror literature in our contemporary time; his stories revived horror, and enabled new readers to explore Poe and Lovecraft, to name a few. Horror literature isn’t a core subject in high school curriculums.

Continue reading "Eros + Horror" »

November 18, 2006



She knuckled down, her fingers stabbing at each key with caffeine-injected vigor. The screen greeted her eyes, and a hoarse grunt escaped her lips. The deadline loomed. Cartec, a major account, needed its monthly account summary and she almost forgot her afternoon appointment. She could always reschedule The Salon, and wait until the next opening. It could stretch to three months, and it wouldn’t do. “How’s it going Kath?” She looked up to see Julie, her vivacious colleague slide her ass onto her desk. “Getting there.” Julie’s emerald eyes scanned the monitor. Kathy’s mind rewound. Cats sometimes ate their offspring. She’d been ten, and hiked through the shrubs of her local park only to catch a glimpse of the local feral cat. Its blank green eyes focused on its offspring, and it was too horrific to recall but Julie’s eyes took her to the moment she heard the soft moist crunch… “I’m nearly done. How can I help you?” “Heard you’re using the gift voucher.” Kathy nodded. She received the plastic fantastic birthday present three months prior. The girls pitched in and come half three, they all gathered round her desk for her birthday presentation. “I’m going this afternoon,” three months passed, far too long for her liking. She’d always adhered to monthly maintenance but the new account placed more demands thanks to a corporate takeover and a sadistic General Manager who called her each day to be updated on the transition. “Well they’ve added a couple of new items on the list,” Julie smiled, “you should check out 23, 45 and 54.” “What am I going to do with a 54?” “I tried 54 two months ago, and I returned a month later.” Anything to show off, Kathy thought. Julie frequently reminded them of her regular schedule. Where others struggled to book appointments, Julie waltzed in with few problems. Her eyes quickly scanned her showy colleague. Kathy inwardly gaped at Julie’s radiant, near flawless, peachy skin. The whites of her eyes glowed, and she muffled her urge to sigh but venom seeped out instead. “The 54 would be more suitable to a woman of your…maturity?”


The afternoon, and each laborious task, almost ground up her brain. Kathy wondered if her head ached or whether her brain cells groaned. The wall clock had to be wrong. A half hour remained until her appointment, and her feet needed to pound five concrete paved blocks. “That’s it. You’re out of here.” A shrill ring burst through to her brain, via her ear. It took a moment for her to realise her desk phone came alive. She gently picked up the handset, cursing her forgetfulness. “Hello?” the masculine voice on the other end sprang forth. It could only be one person. “You’ve reached Kathy Williams. Unfortunately, I’m unable to take your call right now. Please leave a message after the tone.” She thought she’d pass out as the asshole on the other side left a long, terse message, and she couldn’t believe her inner child. Her hand gently replaced the handset, and she relaxed her lips in disbelief. Did she dare pretend to be an answering machine? Her fingers quickly entered her four-digit pin, activating the real deal and she shut down her computer.


23 seemed to be the right choice. She couldn’t help but smile. Sergei, the Salon manager, commended her on her choice. “Totally new. Fresh off the rack. Completely trained to satisfy,” his gleeful grey eyes met hers, and she blushed. They both turned their heads toward her selection. “Anything?” “Anything, Madam. You only have to request. No, demand.” She needed it straight up, without a twist or fancy arsed umbrella. Her eyes appraised the masked specimen. Once upon a time she would have thought 23 too young for her thirty odd years. She faced 23, a well built man, and appraised his downcast eyes for a few seconds before taking in the rest of him. Smooth tanned skin, visible musculature; he could pin her down at any time with the strength his muscles boasted. Bulging deltoids, cut triceps, she almost swooned as he lowered himself to his knees and waited like a trained canine.

Heat unfolded, like a coil, and occupied her pelvis. She watched the interplay of his Gluteus Maximus, and hamstrings, as he crawled along the cold marble floor. He stopped in front of a black painted door and leaned toward the brass door handle. A half moment passed, his mouth latched onto the metal and the door opened.

Well within the scarlet and black furnished vestibule, she stripped off her suit and stood, parting her legs.
“Get up.”
His exemplary obedience further moistened her anxious cunt. She needed him close by, standing a couple of inches away from her, and his fingers wedged deep inside her. He silently took his place, her eyes closed and she deeply inhaled his salty scent.
“Does it turn you on?”
The menace in her tone, so unlike her, briefly alarmed her. The song in her chipper sweet voice morphed into a cocktail of metal spiked lust. She pictured his face underneath the black shiny mask, and her eyes opened to peer down south, detecting a stirring erection within his leather pouch. How long before the tip of his cock slid out to nudge her belly?
Kathy grasped his collar, and firmly yanked it. Her ass nudged the edge of a heavy, ornate mahogany bench. She didn’t feel the need to strap him onto the table, even though each heavy leather strap beseeched her. God, how she wanted to laugh. Did he sigh with relief beneath the mask? She detected his eyelids, slowly blinking, and perched herself on the edge of the bench, spreading her thighs apart.
“You know what do,” she said, and gave him a brief introduction. Her fingertips skated over the wet groove, pushing her labia aside. Her three fingers merged, and she firmly rubbed herself up and down. His obscured face minimized his needs, and his psyche. 23 became a vessel, or toy, she focused on his middle and forefinger.
She panted as his fingers steadily ploughed into her creamy hole. A hole or slit, was how she saw it, in addition to it being a cunt or a pathway to her pleasurable climax. Her hands trailed over her torso, appreciating every microscopic river of blood that warmed her skin and inflamed her nipples to firm rosy peaks. She gripped his forearm, and held it firmly in place so she could grind against his knuckle deep fingers. A spasmodic pair of butterfly wings tickled her chest before rising to her throat, almost knocking the wind out of her.
She let go, ordered him to strip down, and redirected her attention to his cock, firmly stroking it without any wet love from her lips.
“Does it hurt?” Not that she cared. He was hard, and ready to fuck her.
She caught sight of his bulging Adam’s apple.
She decided to push the envelope, and take a risk.
“Take it off now,” she nodded, signaling his mask, “oh, you’re pretty,” and he was in a matter of symmetry. Flawless skin stretched over his high cheekbones, and firm jaw. For a moment, she couldn’t believe her luck and saw his fleeting glance, how his eyes glimmered within their sockets.
She quickly guided his cock inside her, a firm stab and he began his dance, pummeling into her. She told him to fuck her.
“Don’t stop.”
She looked at his shiny cock exiting before re-entry, coated with her need, lust and he then moaned, thinking he could take the lead because of his face.
She slapped his face on re-entry, her energy briefly adjoining with his to then reverberate through to her limbs. A train of soft moans danced along her neck as his hips repeatedly met hers. Each wild thrust sparked further thoughts. Her left palm met his cheek, but he continued fucking her. An orb of electricity coalesced at the base of her spine.
So this is Kundalini?
The orb emanated outward, and she squeezed her eyelids shut, appreciating the prickling heat within her.
Kathy rode it for a short while, and abandoned her initial mission. She pushed him away, stood and crouched.
She licked up the muted scent of her arousal off his cock, and swallowed it all, snatching it away from him. His eyes widened when she instructed him to fuck her mouth.
It was funny, she thought. She entered the room with a sense of authority, and now his hips became the lever, pushing his cock deeper into her mouth.
She slurped, and dribbled along the way.
What a messy bitch…
Her fingernails dug into his buttocks at the right moment of his cataclysm, and she eagerly absorbed each pearly jet only to stand, wipe her lips with her fingers and smile before stepping into her clothes.



She stepped inside, and was overcome by the scent of sautéed mushrooms in, what she correctly detected, red wine.
“You look energized. Gym?” her husband Terry smiled as he oversaw he oversaw his sauce.
“Went to the Salon.”
“How’d it go or how much did it set us back this time?”
Kathy fished through her handbag and retrieved the receipt.
Terry eyed it and whistled.
“Care to share?”
“It’s tax deductible…”
She'd paid cash, retaining the voucher for her next scheduled appointment. Kathy toyed with the idea of a prickling hot ass fuck.
He rolled his eyes. “Go on. I’d like to hear. Was he good?”
“That’s something I’ll discuss after dinner…in the bedroom, or anywhere that takes your fancy?”


May 14, 2006

Lunar Rising

There is no beginning, or end, to the feeling. I’d tell you about the kind of day I had, a day that anyone can have but this day the moon came to play so it’s streaked with lunar streaks, tinged with uncertainty.
The door slams shut. I decided against holding the doorknob. You look at me; a smile plays on your lips and a hint of Mozart streams through the stereo. You’ve waited for Friday to rear its head, the scent of bouillabaisse diffuses through to the living room and right now, a cold shower is what the doctor ordered except that I can’t be bothered.
Scanning my mental dictionary fails to deliver an ironclad word that sums up the totality of the moment. The bus driver grunted as I handed him correct change, and he simply slammed a ticket into my palm and the bumpy ride didn’t inspire any pleasant thoughts. Unsettled visions cluttered my mind from the second I crawled out of bed. Your snoring greeted my mind, followed by the delayed bleep of the alarm clock and I knew I was off to a great start from that second onward.

Now, within the living room, viewing the newspaper that blankets your thighs, a frisson of edginess awakens within me. The moon, on its ascent, nodded as my feet pounded the pavement. You, seated like a Zen master, tend to rile me when you’re so cool. Your lips open, your warm brown eyes squint as you smile and within two seconds you’re giving me a five-minute round up on the latest ultimatum handed to Iran.
‘You think they’ll blow us all to kingdom come?
I don’t particularly care.
‘I admit, it’s a scary thought. I don’t blame you for not wanting to stop and think about the state of the world,’ you smoothly say. The only thing missing is a pipe and a fragrant cloud of smoke to shadow you like a halo.
I dump my bag on the nearest armchair and pace the room.
‘You hungry?’
Like an animal viewing its cage, everything from the fine upholstered divan to each framed print rubs me the wrong way, as does Mozart. Why is the television muted and what’s the point of watching CNN on mute?
‘I’m tired,’ I say.
‘Aw, why don’t you come here,’ you say, patting your lap.
You’ve had time to change into your jeans. My skin’s itching to be free of my clothes, attire that’s made from sweatshops. The irony of my sweat infiltrating the fabric, during the course of the day enters my worn mind. I feel like a caped crusader, in the reverse. Fabric cloaks my skin, covering up the radical elements that don’t fit into the conservative groove. You adored the radical, ‘who gives a fuck’ element within me but you prefer the cool, haughty exterior or the beauteously pristine feminine side that leeches out during cocktail parties, especially when your colleagues marvel at the trinket you’ve acquired.

It fills you up.
Expands you to a point where you take my hand, at the end of the night, and whisper all those sugar sweet nothings into my ear. You want to kiss me all over, caress me in all the right places and make me cum, over and over, until our limbs are lovingly entangled.

Tonight I don’t want to deal with small talk.
I near your lap and tell you that I’d like to fuck. You lower your eyes. A light red blush caresses your cheeks. You’d prefer a light drizzle of love dust, like holy water to consecrate the unfolding moment but I want to be screwed. Your eyes dart about the room. Do I have to be so crass? Why, yes, I do. I like it very much. The moon’s shadowed me since its appearance. Full and luminous, it smiled upon me and irradiated my nerve centres. Each synapse, in turn, galvanised my thoughts.

You’re the prey, regardless of whether or not you’re casually reading the newspaper. My arrival pleased you.

'I cooked…'
'Not hungry,’ I reply.
'How was your day?'
We’re not married, haven’t crossed the threshold of Death Us Do Part and already you start the shit.
'How do you think I am?' the snarl unnerves you. I didn’t smile when I entered the living room, didn’t leap in the air like a court jester. It’s been a same shit, different day kinda day for me, matey. My nipples burn beneath my bra and you’re asking me a question that’s asked by every person in the entire world. If you asked the same of a pauper in Calcutta, I do wonder what they’d reply.
'So-rry,' you reply, somewhat frazzled at my attitude.
'So-rry!' I reply, parroting your voice.
You frown, as if to ask what’s up my arse. If I told you that I’d like your cock to be up my arse how would you react? Maybe you’d like a spot of dinner first, followed by a nip of fine liqueur. Drambuie? I’d prefer a beer.
Leaving you for a second. I rifle through the pantry in the kitchen. I fish out a calorie-laden biscuit and gnaw at it. Turning, I see you glance at me.
'You’ll ruin your appetite…'
'Yes Dad…'

Continue reading "Lunar Rising" »

January 28, 2006

Shadowlands II - Jacob's Ladder

Men like Jacob don’t make love; they only make you think that they do. They’re paid for their art by bored society matrons, lonely wives and I, unmarried and younger than the usual client, entered the fray simply because my hefty income enabled it. It’s vulgar to discuss money but one full night with Jacob equated to a week cruising the Pacific Isles on the Fair Princess.
I slugged down my gin and tonic and smiled at a passing drink waitress. Casting a skeptical eye over the dining room, five star elegance in the form of crisp table clothes and silver cutlery smiled back. Couples, in all shapes, sizes and wallets, dotted the dining room either eating or deliberating. Would it be the lobster or the organic grain fed beef? A bottle of Pinot Noir or Cabernet Savignon? Would Madam prefer a new husband, because Madam looks rather peaky? Would Sir prefer a threesome instead of the prawn cocktail and dull conversation about how Jason topped his math exam for the millionth time?
My favorite species was the silent couple, or those who managed to part with the perfunctory words without making eye contact. More often than not, one half would stare at the ceiling and the other glared at the cutlery, possibly asking themselves why they bothered in addition to how much prison time they have left?
A dapper middle aged waiter smiled at me from a distance of ten feet, his own feet moved and I noticed a pale Michael following him to my table. The waiter slid out a chair and waited for him to sit. His eyes betrayed his ire, glancing at me with uncertainty.

Continue reading "Shadowlands II - Jacob's Ladder" »

January 24, 2006

Art Erotique - I

To look at me, one wouldn’t assume I lived to swim in the whirlpool that is sex. When I first spied them, they resembled – and still do – the educated academics that one often sees and hears on television. Damon, an associate professor of English literature assessed me first whereas Anthony, a frightening managing director, sat alongside him interviewing me, firing off a series of well thought out questions. Tobias, on the other hand, a nomadic war photographer, busied himself in the kitchen stirring coffee and tea.

‘What do your parents think about this?’ Anthony asked, peering through a pair of rimless spectacles.
‘About you sharing a residence with three men, what else?’
Damon’s blue eyes met mine. Tobias interrupted by asking me whether I took sugar in my coffee and Anthony patiently waited as he licked his lips.
Anthony frowned.
‘Look, we’re busy as it is. We don’t have time to wrestle with frantic parents and ethnic concerns,’ Tobias stated, while Anthony turned to eye his colleague with surprise.
‘Ethnic?’ I replied.
‘Oh, you know. The usual concerns, whether or not we’re out to debauch you and whether we enticed you, so on and so forth…’
My face felt the first wave of blood pooling in my cheeks.
‘I’m not a teenager and I’d be a good housemate,’ I maintained.
‘We have no qualms about that. Your resume indicates as much…’
I adopted the logical male view.

Continue reading "Art Erotique - I" »

January 17, 2006

Like Father, Like Son - I

We sit around an oval table, chewing mints, lying in wait for the panther to strike. I sit, doodling, creating faces, possible caricatures of my colleagues only because the meeting always grinds along and the only thing missing is the token monkey jumping about.
There’s Toby, the ideas person, who thinks of himself that way, except he lurks in the shadows as he waits for the lights to be snuffed out before he creeps into the computers.
‘That was my idea,’ mutters Gloria.
‘Tell me something new!’ I hiss, scribbling a pustule on Toby’s paper nose.
Meanwhile, the man sits and he’s a troubled man or so he says. Each week, the regal panther presides and hollers about profits and losses.

Our return rate is high.
We need new marketing strategies.
I’m not satisfied with the presentation.

‘What say you, right up the back?’
Pointing to myself, like a red handed prankster, he nods and the fluorescent light catches the gray streaks splintering his black hair.
His lips curve upward, his jaw is set firm. Each digit, relaxed, rests against the mahogany table and I sigh, knowing I have to repeat myself yet again.
‘I’m leaving in a fortnight, there’s really little point…’
Nodding, he regards me with mock contempt, it’s the dance that is or has come to be ever since I handed in my resignation and spat the revelation that augmented his desire.
‘I need a little more. I’m unsatisfied,’ I’d said.
‘Unsatisfied?’ he asked, his voice lingering on the word.
Needless to say, he accepted the resignation. His edgy manner has risen steadily since and my cheeks burn each time our shoulders brush in the crowded elevator, our eyes cross each other in passing and when I lost my stiletto on the fire stair, him picking it up and deftly sliding it on my foot had me teetering on the edge of a red hot knife.

Continue reading "Like Father, Like Son - I" »

December 27, 2005

Fun to be Bound, Bound to be Fun - 'Endurance' (Part I)

'Endurance', the second helping along this theme is inspired by the more experienced male. He can be a satyr or anything else, basically someone who's been there, done that and who desires a highly intense interaction that is free from any hint of doubt or taboo. For me, he's the older male whom I shan't name, but he can be any seasoned male who has tasted edgier and/or darker sexual waters.

Fun to be Bound, Bound to be Fun - 'Endurance' (Part I)

It was on the beach, as I lay on my stomach, that I revealed the thought that captured my daily thoughts. Your hand busily applied the last dollop of cream, your fingers rubbing it into the small of my back, slightly above the cleft of my buttocks. I suppose the variety of males on the sand and in the salty blue waves sparked an old desire, the type that served my masturbatory needs. It was time to move onto the next level, or so I thought. In actuality, I sat on the fence.
‘More than one…’ I said, replying to your direct question asking me how many I desired. I couldn’t fix an exact number, but hungered for a continual gravy train of cock.
‘I didn’t quite catch that,’ you said, your fingers shifting down to pinch my left buttock, squeezing the flesh without a break.
‘A group of men…’
You nodded, smiling to yourself.
‘I’d like that very much. It would certainly please me to no end,’ you said.
From someone like you, who trod on the darker keys of desire, the idea lit your inner core whereas for me it resembled a simmering cauldron that released a tantalizing, yet enigmatic, vapor. I felt I had to catch up to you somehow, make you see that there were more facets to the serene female you met at a distant business function.


In the beginning, as the curtain opened, right after the CEO’s thank you speech, your eyes explored the room. Your sultry brown orbs then met mine and I couldn’t turn away despite the dark glimmer behind your gaze. Like a roaring high tide of salt water, your aura commanded attention. I swam and landed in your net and as you extended your large hand, quietly nodding, as the introduction unfolded, my mind knew - as did my skin receptors - about you and where it would all eventually lead.
The conversation unraveled; a rhythmic wave cascaded as you smoothly swallowed the last few drops of your Veuve Cliquot. The celebratory bubbly tickled my nose and my skin buzzed when you set your hand on the small of my back and commandeered me toward the nearby balcony. People milled, mingled or stood, eating their way through nervousness but we followed the velvet black night.

Continue reading "Fun to be Bound, Bound to be Fun - 'Endurance' (Part I)" »

December 05, 2005

Missed Call - IV

Each corner of his room blended with infinite darkness. The corners didn’t matter. One swift shove and the skin of my back rubbed against the wooden door. He cocked his head from side to side, observing me like a scientist observes their beaker, or test tube.

In one step, his sweet breath fanned my face and his hands miraculously disrobed me.
My clothes, top and jeans, lay about my ankles. I tilted my head upward and met his inviting dusky eyes. Thoughts of home, my errant husband and my mother faded from my mind the instant his lips parted.
As his tongue traced my lips, imparting a warm wet trail, the scent of lavender intensified. It took me back to a time filled with happiness, little regret and no shame.
‘I remember this scent…’ I murmured, as my lips met and embraced his tongue.
‘Familiar isn’t it?’
My hands snaked around his neck, pulling him close. He complied, softly grinding his hips against my abdomen. Our errant tongues traveled to each other’s necks, earlobes and shoulders. The staggering heat engulfed us, our skin exuded droplets of perspiration and my tongue traveled over his upper lip, absorbing his salt. His ragged breath deepened as his left palm and fingers massaged my inner thighs and crotch. Fast, slow, to and fro, his hand varied and progressed to languid circular rubs that distributed my moist arousal. Side to side labial strokes electrified, shook and led me to a higher plane.
Each internal wish manifest itself through his caresses.
Kneeling before me, head between my legs, I raised my leg and he placed it over his shoulder.
Each stroke of his tongue, every delicate exploration, and each soft lingual thrust inside me aided my body yet contributed to its gradual meltdown.

Continue reading "Missed Call - IV" »

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