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The Cozy Spot

21 posts categorized "stranger sex"

September 25, 2007


“I have a living demon in my pocket, care to take a peek?”

The latter conversation turned at this point, and began without a moment’s notice. Bored with the flimsy Vogue brigade, I leaned against the bar, hoping that a sequential train of martini’s would spirit away my disenchantment. I had previously unloaded a torrent of piss in the Ladies, and had the luxury of watching a coiffed Amazon in a tailored Armani suit exit the cubicle; glass of champagne in hand. Style and poise can never be bought. The bitch had the nerve to flush. I played it out in seconds. She wiped her pussy with a scrap of toilet paper, flushed (without a glove, contacting the steel button with her finger) and held the glass. She smiled coldly as she brushed past me, and I thought…

She’ll be stroking someone’s hair (with her icky hand), possibly stroke the corner of a mouth. Yeah, baby. You turn me on baby, and the other, engulfed with a hard on the size of an obelisk, would nod and hope to hell that she sucked his cock. Things I think about… disturbing…

So, he thought I was joking. Perhaps I had one too many. I informed him of his outright piggishMatador09  attitude. Easy assumptions, I thought, remembering my moment in the bathroom and all the assumptions I’d made, but surely she walked out with a glass in her hand straight after flushing, so I bailed myself out and introduced myself. He played the nervous deer rather well. I was briefly disappointed, thinking that the time, nearing midnight, would have offered me a stag for the evening. Instead, I received a novice or eager cock and this unfastened my verve a little. What did I hope to gain, other than terrifying the fucker? He had appeal, that eager beaver anxiety that manifest in his creases, as his off the rack mass-produced suit attested. He was new to the game, spent many moments gazing at the crowd wondering what the fuck he was doing here, before remembering that he went along with the boys. New job, new friends, impressions counted; the usual variety of bullshit one tolerates from time to time.

He smiled, adjusted his tie a little (so as to breathe through the recently cleared air, as I salivated for a cigarette?) and asked me where I was from. What building. Which street and block? I told him that I had no interest talking shop, and asked him about his favorite music. Adolescent, I know, but who can be arsed discussing the day at work after a nightmarish episode with a frazzled client, who couldn’t see black from white, and had difficulty distinguishing night from day?

“I bet you’re an accountant,” I said, jokingly I may add, and he surprised me with a slow nod. I surprised myself. I thought I lost all my perceptual powers. Being a full time skeptic for a year can do that to a person. Not bad, I thought, considering I assessed him based on his looks. Full pink lips, lower lip slightly larger than the upper lip, and no pussy tickler in sight. Can’t stand the tuft of chin hair. What the fuck is it with that? Fear?

“You’re pretty good. How’d you guess?” Boyish, almost virginal, his lips stretched into a broad grin, as though I congratulated him on his first football goal. Go Beckham go, and be sure to lick the apex of my vulva! That’s the lad…

“I’m lucky,” I replied, taking another sip and following the gulp with another lewd thought, such as my hope to get lucky, although I didn’t put it down to luck, more about nous and sass, taking what’s desired and seeing an opportunity for what it is.

“Can I buy you another?”

“Ever the gent.”

How quaint. How routine, and that’s when the drums roared, and my stomach quickened a little. His hands, oh so beautiful and long, right down to his spatulate fingertips; scoop me out, eat me up until I-scream.

He lubricated my thoughts with candid statements; he liked the length of my hair, the way it gathered the light and reflected a kaleidoscope of colors; an amateur poet, the best kind, for all the others are fucking poseurs who dream of being Lord Byron with fancy airs, and bullshit words. One can almost see them counting syllables and vowels.

I complimented him on his naiveté; he had balls, or something I could attribute to guts, standing at the bar talking to me, laughing at my silliness. I needed a cigarette and why? He laughed, while castigating me, selling me the same line, and under normal circumstances, had he been some vintage gent, I would have ripped off a few shreds, told him to forward his disdain to the appropriate government body, and stick his cock up his arse, but this one…

I could entwine my limbs around his waist, ride him to the very depth of hell, and he wouldn’t question it. I like that, adore it. It’s right up there with my other vices…

I leaned in a little, offered him a slice of fragrance, noticed that his nostrils flared slightly. He absorbed silently. Another plus, and I absorbed his fading scent, detecting a note of nervous perspiration and fought the urge to run my tongue along his Adam’s apple. It bobbed, and I bobbed from within, each ligament loosening with the ease of a silk ribbon.

It was rather cliché, standing in a watering hole watching the scenery, but what other way? In front of a flickering screen, using those digits on a keyboard when I could have been using them in the space of real time, tickling the satin down lining his inner thighs? You tell me…

Each drink added more waves, until the natural tide turned and the wavelets formed a huge ripple that towed me into a mythical land. The beverage swirled within my brain like a seductive Jinn, promising the world, under its fiery breath and our words relaxed. We barely uttered dull leaden sentences that were weighted in polite observation, such as the weather. We jested and flirted. I told him I was a demon, ready to inhale his soul and he laughed at that.

“What would you be if you had a choice?” I posed the question, and waited, my finger lightly tapping his hand.

“I’d have to think about it,” he said.

“No time to think. Now. Right now.”

“Right now, straight off?”

“People think too much. Stupid thoughts like fear and bullshit.”

“A matador.”

“I’m beginning to like you,” I lied, I liked him from the very second he opened his mouth; his lips imprisoned my mind. All I could do was consider the various positions my lips could adopt. Push, pull, tug, and suck. My tongue would fuck his, until he struggled for breath and his rigid prick rubbed against the band of his trousers. Raw.

His choice intrigued me…

Motivation surfaced at my fingertips; the hellish urge to dip into my panties raced through my thoughts like a foaming wave just before the break.

“You’re definitely not a vegetarian,” I noted, downing the remainder of my drink.

He impressed me; he did…so flamboyantly naïve in his eagerness to impress.

“You know what it means?”

I feigned ignorance.

“I know what they do, but the word seems to be a blur.”


“Really?” Eyes widening like a vestal virgin plucking a harp for a heavenly concerto, my fingers traced many paths; desire, need, and fury, to name a few. Many wanted to be fucking astronauts, experience weightlessness, anything but blood, gore and possible death.

It began as a thought, and erupted into speech.

“I have a living demon in my pocket, care to take a peek?” His hand fitted in mine, the muscular trappings of his palm bolstered my resolve, and in no time at all he found himself in a tropical climate, one that was isolated by my hips.

“I plan on taking it all off,” I began, unleashing a fresh warm gust against his ear, waiting a second or three in case he ran away screaming like an emo girl. I planned a lot of things, and they tumbled together like a load of mixed colors. The rainbow writhed and contorted, finally stretching out to form a magic carpet that held me aloft. He inhaled, eyeing me with a mixture of emotions. His knuckles circled my crotch, intensifying by the second. I told him that I wanted his cigar, feeling to find the rising bulge. He blinked, and sighed. I licked my lips and waited.

Minutes coagulated. Each step we took, out the door and down the stairs, felt like the path to purgatory. Come on, I thought. He tugged my arm. Telepathic lust. Was that possible?

We raced through Hyde Park. Crisp air stung our cheeks, and my heel sank into the lawn, almost tipping me over. Come on! I imagined him naked, a wild man running through jungle; he stepped back in time, following his urges and I followed his fragrance like a primitive bride before the world created its fancy matrimonial prisons, opening my mouth to inhale every trace.

The darkness obscures many things. The metal teeth of his zip unfurled, melting into the air; energy transfer, who knew what would become of it? Fruit bats hovered high above, their leathery wings slapping against air. Night fell onto his cock; I couldn’t see it, but that meant little. I didn’t have to see it; it was like a hungry predator, a jaguar hiding in the foliage waiting for the ideal moment. I felt it before I touched it. Its weight commanded the foot long distance between us.

I grappled with it, fumbled in the dark and whispered the ‘me oh my, how I want it so very much’. It responded, stiffening in salute. He groaned as I stroked him dry, using my other hand to cradle his taut sack. The stars above had nothing on me. He clumsily raised my skirt, and treated me to a full scoop. It was then that I remembered my appetite or craving, and latched onto those lips. A tickle, nip, bite and suckle, the lugubrious world of yesterday could go to the shithouse for all I cared. His warm shaft cradled my desire, steered my thoughts and I navigated like a manic captain, ignoring the slutty Siren call, for the need to travel into his depth overtook my hand.

“You do enjoy it, don’t you? My hard matador,” my throat strained a little, and my hands engulfed his flesh, massaging his appendage until he ejected a stream of husky gibberish, until his spittle coated my lips. Ahh…Ghaaa… fu…ahhh…and I didn’t falter, even when my bare knees met the damp grass. His cock transformed into many things; icy pops, lipstick. I ran his length along my cheek, “just checking for a pulse.” I liberally applied many coats, circumnavigating my mouth; Dior, Chanel, Revlon, Max Factor; they could all go fuck themselves, and couldn’t compare to this stick of salty-sweet warmth.

He swam at first, just at the tip, and then he came into being.

I told you I had a living demon….

And it hitched a ride into his subconscious, directing his hips. Each elegantly aimed stroke tickled a new nerve. His cock swished and shimmied, and the tangy flavor of his skin migrated to my tongue. Grace, agility and fantastic coordination: a true matador, at least for the lush moment that transpired, for as long as my tetchy pussy lasted…

I needed a spike…the espada

I balanced, hands scraping against bark. His hand steadied my head, covering my mouth. I almost cried out; the bark scratched, as though annoyed by the interference. Two hundred dollars of wooden heel sank into the ground, meeting the point of origin once again. One with the gnarled century old tree, one with the body behind me as it slid with metallic precision into the bubbling warmth.

He wriggled into position, unleashing his guttural moans like a febrile Shaman. Fucking me into position, going where many have gone before, but with finesse. Inspecting each corridor and sticky corner, jamming me with his prick until the bark met my cheek, leaving a mark (that would greet me come morning). The maximum tensile force in each strand of hair, as he pulled, illuminated more stars. They danced behind my eyelids, like an exploding rainbow. He prodded, thrust and stuffed…

Until I bit into his palm, drawing the sweetest droplet of blood, detonating his primal sequence until he felt the chain reaction shift the ground beneath him…

Until he parted me further (and I cried), as the bats continued chirping, circling up above.


espada = sword

Image: ESPN

June 21, 2007


I’ve never played matchmaker; never in my entire life. I don’t plan on starting. I think it’s a gross invasion, and this thought is related to being on the receiving end of ‘good intentions’. The reason behind the inverted commas relates to the skepticism behind this supposed kind act. Really, when people pair their friends or associates off, or assume that their friend will ‘look great’ or ‘be good’ with a person they see or know, what is actually going on in their minds? Do they play God? Is it about something else entirely? Moreover, how can one be certain of their friend or acquaintance being a good match for another? If only I could be compensated for all the times people in my life have played matchmaker against my will, or behind my back.

Is there a behind the scenes interrogation going on? To be on the receiving end of such intent can be viewed in many different ways. It can depend on one’s mood, life circumstance, anything really.

I tend to view it as an insult, but that’s just me. I’m a cantankerous biatch in such circumstances, and often see it as a gross invasion, that’s never requested from my end. I’d hate it if one pictured me as a perfect match for another unwitting person, and then tried to manipulate situations based on one’s ‘view’ or assessment; like they’re an authority on all things that flick my personal switch.

I’d like to say that I can handle it well at this point in my life, but I don’t handle it well. More often, it’s a case of things occurring regardless of my input, and of it resulting in me standing knee deep in so much shit that I care for.

Continue reading "Υπομονή" »

April 05, 2007


Θέλω να λιόσω την ημέρα, να πάω κάπου αλλου, να έξαφανιστώ η να το σκάσω...να τρέξω, μέχρη σκαζμού, μέχρη το επόμενο εόνα.

Πέρυσι στάθικα όρθια, σήμερα πήρα μια βαθιά ανάσα, και αύριο θα δω που θα βγώ. Άραγε θα παω κάτα διαόλου…

Έτσι να καταλάβω, τι να πάει να πει ζωή.

These illiterate thoughts blend the present with the journey.

‘Where to?’

Unable to conjure a place, I stare at the face behind the window; he waits a few seconds, and then rolls his eyes, as a clerk normally does when one eye is on the clock, and the other governs the hand that issues the change. The path, or tunnel, leading to the terminal reeks of passing laborers, the nifty variety; suits, skirts, jeans, briefcases, manbags, backpacks, an assortment that can only exist in this city. The type distracts the wayward traveler; one can sit, and waste an entire day observing human traffic that undulates beneath the concrete.

By seven, the descending stairwell reeks; piss, litter and the ebbing current of cheap perfume (Impulse body spray?) waft through my nostrils. The clerk taps the window. ‘Hello? Haven’t got all day,’ he says. Can’t blame him, I think. It’s easy to lose track of time, and daylight, beneath the city.

‘Night,’ I reply.

‘Whatever,’ his eyes take a detour from the usual route. Tits. Mine.

Red guides the eye; the passionate color may guide those in need of intravenous infusion of passion.

‘Cross,’ as in Kings.

I watch the ticket slide down; his eyes linger, and his light frown reveals his bubbling brain. It’s like concentration for beginners; he tries to detect my nipples beneath my twin set.

It’s a nice night for it, I think and he doesn’t think anything of it being Tuesday, a non part-ay evening. Come to think of it, neither do I. The random destination washed up on my barren seashore.

The trouble with timetables is that they’re never ironclad. Ten minutes becomes fifteen, and another pre-recorded announcement, ‘the train on platform three is delayed by approximately ten minutes,’ adds to the mix. I’d like to light up, pass the time and this thought depresses the rewind button until I can remember the days where everything was less stringent, or more lax.

It rumbles through the tunnel, and comes to a silent stop; each electric door slides open to let a few drones off as we hop on.


I spy with my little eye something beginning with...H.

There are two in total, hookers that is, and their clacking heels grate against the pavement. They buddy up, making their way to their street-trader, a man who’s overshot his mid-life crisis. Leather and denim; the jacket harks back to the late Nineties, and his gold pinky ring bears the initial B. He’s a Yul Brynner-Mel Gibson hybrid, if you can visualize it; a cue ball with a Hollywood face, a face that is let down by his chin. The micro-goatee, a perfect vertical piece of art, brings to mind a pubic landing strip, the kind viewed in Hustler or Playboy, except it’s perched on his chin. The man next to him, a fresh-faced lad in his mid-twenties struts his stuff, sticks his thumb in the band of his jeans and smiles – at me.

Continue reading "'Fuck'" »

February 26, 2007

Liaisons: Exposed

My experience with S more or less led me to the conclusion, which I still maintain today, of the Internet providing another – perhaps easier – gateway to sex. Prior to S, my first older female-younger male thing, I broke the sexual drought with A. I’ve documented that period in parts but I don’t think I detailed the specifics of the meeting and that’s partially due to the stigma attached to meeting people online. Mind, I wasn’t actively dating or perusing online dating profiles at this point, I was still engaged – in what I thought to be – in socializing, and came across A.

Regardless of the rising popularity of online dating, and/or online testimonials of relationship Netdate success, the method isn’t discussed openly. I still blanch each time people ask me questions (within my real world) about my online experiences. I’m not embarrassed, but I am; I feel I could have done better at the time, and that I let myself down by conforming to a particular social fad that’s geared toward making money more than anything else. One seldom hears conversations at the water cooler about virtual dates or online dating sites. The only time people ‘talk’ at length about these types of dates is online, well away from their everyday acquaintances and/or family members. I’ve known friends, who’ve used online personals, but they’d need to have their teeth extracted before they discuss it at length; they’ll briefly allude to it, and change the subject. Other times they’ll downplay that particular phase of their lives (like I used to do), and classify it as one of the most stupid phases of their lives that offered little personal growth and oodles of anguish.

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February 24, 2007

Liaisons - Intro

Liaisons: Entering the Arachno-Web

As far as I’m concerned a new sexual era opened up when satellites, and telephone network exchanges enabled the Internet -initially a military tool - embraced the wider population; the freedom it offered, enabling humble everyday citizens and businesses to fly aloft, took the world by storm, and still does. Now we have moved beyond dial up connections, entering wireless Speak. There is satellite, ADSL/Broadband and cable; the ancient relic of dialup is something one may laugh at if one comes across it.

“You haven’t got broadband?” is a common question. Convenience, and fast information, is important; one need not wait twenty seconds for a dodgy page to load before sighing in disappointment. One click and its gone, one click and we are off somewhere else, one click and we may even locate a potential screw.

Tradition is the cornerstone of all relationships within my family, where most adults have met their partners the conventional way. It was all about introductions, where each individual was vouched for by a complete family, where one set of parents mingled with another set of parents, to produce the ideal union. Such unions were not based on whether a young adult found their potential partner sexually attractive. This didn’t play a large role in the scope of everything: home, family, work, and last but not least, survival.

A woman, for example, wasn’t noted for her ass or her gravity defying tits. In the era of the single income family, where men earned that single income, it was important for the female to know how to manage a household, cleanliness was not about godliness, it spoke volumes about being civilized. The things that unfolded within the bedroom where sacred, and privy to the couple in question. If one’s sexual life fizzled, it didn’t matter. Sex, a perfunctory act, continued the line by virtue of reproduction and if it did matter, it wasn’t discussed. One’s successful sexual life was based on luck than anything else, besides this, a woman or man usually slept with the intended spouse on the wedding night so there was no yardstick with which to evaluate sexual skill and repertoire; today, people are spoilt for choice, and sometimes aren’t fully certain if they like a particular sex act. Other times people engage in something for the sake of sexual conversation or braggadocio.

Continue reading "Liaisons - Intro" »

September 23, 2006


Sunflowers is 20 minute fiction: it took me a straight twenty minutes to type it, straight out of nowhere, typos included. I've been in a fiction/story lull this week where so many ideas collided, dazzling me. Sunflowers is one way of stepping out of the lull. This short fiction was also inspired by the song I was listening to on Windows media at the time - The Tea Party's "Temptation".


It’s the otherness within that catches up when I wake, and I take the day to run away from the moment, to take time out to inhale that this wave rises out of the usual place. Within the bed, tangled in the warm sheets, my hand lingers and the need fires through to my fingers like an electric current. My hands obey each pulse, and the action potential flashes. I frantically masturbate the moments, climbing up the pulsating vine - that could be a descending fiery ladder to hell - and turn my head, mouth agape, as the climax roars through to my ears.

Mid morning, the sun lingers in the sky and morning television bleats its usual special offers for industrious housewives. Fast action grease removers, miraculous facial creams and innovative pasta cookers flash by, all igniting my ire.

21st Century advancement, with the help of dapper hosts and salespeople who’ll sell their toe clippings off as ingenious accessories to the public at large, can’t obliterate the primal drive within my crotch and it’s off to the races. I fire up the machine, click open Explorer and log in to a room that features a wide array of possibilities.

It’s a virtual hunt. My ass shifts in my seat and I survey the room, its inhabitants and settle on the first screen that opens up. We converse, he and I, and I’m non the wiser. For all I know he’s a toothless seventy year old coot, with a boner and a full packet of Viagra raring to go.

We exchange niceties.
He tells me about his endowment and asks me what I’m looking for.
Expecting a level of coquettishness, the chat window stops and the words cease scrolling. I guess he needed to accustom himself to my sudden outburst.

‘I’m looking for a fuck…’

It’s the last sentence I typed, and I stare at it.

He fires back that he’d like a bit of that, and sets the ball rolling. He fancies himself, this I know, and sees himself as the number one seed, serving me a killer volley.

‘Where and when?’


My index finger slides over the street directory. Desire, the fuel that drives my every step, returns and logic reaches out to massage away my rose colored vision, and yet? It’s the danger that inspires me. Much like a high school dare, or an early adult game of truth or dare, I seek to please the inner other who stands on the outer expecting me to flee from lust’s clutches.

There, further down, I see the street. It’s a straight walk, then a right and the cul-de-sac seems like a dead end or the ultimate destination. Alternatively it can be the final destination if this gentleman’s a psycho. Then again, I can be a sociopath-nymphomaniac. Who is he to know?


Two more rings.

My cunt’s blazing, and I can feel the faint pitter-patter sound of my atriums and ventricles pumping blood faster than I can remember.

He opens the door, I gaze at his face. He gingerly shakes my hand while his grey eyes scan my body. Will I do? This age old question lurches forward, and its voice reminds me of a long lost young adult who skulked away disappointed after her rather lackluster defloration.

Of course he will. Two heads taller than I, his mouth widens and his smile meets his eyes, until a starburst of creases indent his olive skin.


Trepidation lingers.
No, I didn’t want coffee. No time for niceties. The husky other half of me stated my business.
Let’s just go upstairs, stick out our fingers and see where the wind leads?
His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he quietly nodded.
‘I don’t do this kind of thing regularly,’ he said, as I followed him like a devoted, albeit horny, acolyte.
‘Really? Can’t tell…’ I’m sarcastic when the moments arise. It’s misconstrued as bitchiness, but it quells the razor sharp nerves within my gut along with each erratic peristaltic wave.
His bedroom opens up before me. If it were food, it would be nouvelle cuisine complete with a neatly made king sized bed or, in my lingo, orgy bed. The northerly aspect gives rise to a golden glow that slices through the window, and slides onto the polished timber floor. His denim clad ass enchants me. He sits on his bed, shrugs his shoulders, and waits.

I casually step out of my clothes. Each shred of cloth falls onto the timber, and I casually walk toward him and take a seat.
‘Well, here we are…’ he rests his hand on my thigh and our predicament sears my brain. It’s much like stepping over an invisible line, or being the electrical pulse that’s stimulated a neuron to its peak; there is no question of turning back, only going forward and his fingers travel upward, to my now blazing pussy. His lips brush mine, my tongue slithers out and smoothly anoints his lips before fucking his mouth. I like fucking them this way, from the outset. It unsettles him for a few seconds, and he returns with the slippery assault. With impeccable timing, as his lips grip my tongue, his finger burrows into my delta and lunges forth.

A voice, that is mine, which hardly manifests during the nine-to-five routine of sanity, conformity and compliance, huskily orders him to fuck the hole.

‘Go on…fuck it…’

The innocent voice of past, to the present, softly whispers from within to inform me of my

sluttish ways and I tell it to pipe down as my fingers rip open his button fly. He breaks off and lowers his eyes, somewhat surprised to see the contour of his rigid cock, its head peering from the edge of his pristine white briefs.

He pushes me backward, kneels over me and slides his fingers between my legs. I push upward, and meet his eyes with my own, defiant and insanely horny. I reach upward, and clutch his shirt. Take it off, I think and realize that I’m actually demanding this in a near rabid manner, as my fingers clumsily undo his buttons.

It’s nice, warm and quite liberating to lay there with my legs spread wide, and my cunt blooming. Its calyx trembles, and each wet petal trembles as he plucks away between his deep exploration. His fingers are a nautilus that descend 20 000 leagues of cunt. I grab his arm, thrust upward, and rub my buzzing clit against his forearm to see a lust soaked star spangled cloud blur my vision. Spent, or so I think, he slides out and down, bringing his sweet lips to the simmering vat between my legs.

I turn my head away, as I did during my first waking moments earlier in the day, and focus on

a replica of Gogh’s Sunflowers. My eyes probe each yellow hue, and I can’t help compare each robust petal with my own sodden labia. My pulse settles, his salty sweat merges with the middle notes of his nondescript cologne, and I look to see his tongue mop up my mess, and further ahead I see his rigid cock, recalling that he hadn’t ….

‘I’m going to fuck you…’ he says, without looking up, ‘I hope you don’t have any plans.’

The best laid plans, of mice and men, oft go astray... I am the mouse, and he is yet to play.

Painting: Sunflowers, Vincent Van Gogh


January 22, 2006

Sex Type Thing/Blanca

Slam, bang, thank you Ma’am. This was the intention after weeks of careful deliberations, fantasy and interrupted nocturnal journeys. They all led me to the final solution, my thunderous collision with her body, only to feel it for one hot second and retain the sensation until my dying day.
To the standard observer of film, newspapers and gossip rags, I’m spoiled for choice and this is partially due to my fiery countenance. My dark menacing nature, often mistaken with Mediterranean lust, accounts for most of the fanfare and sexual overtures I’ve received over the years. Pussy in all shapes and sizes, regaled me and I felt like an indulgent king or ostentatious tycoon who only has to raise their finger, request a nicely waxed pudendum and receive the surrendered cunt on a fine platter garnished with lace, the occasional suspender belt or nothing else but freshly soaped skin.
She sat, her name’s irrelevant but I’ll call her Blanca, and observed the proceedings. Her hand whipped to her notepad, her fingers embraced her silver fountain pen and scratched more details on crisp bleached paper. The pen slid across the page, her fingers firmly guided it and I, seated at the end of the table, dreamed of my cock being the pen. The room perspired. My cock began to sweat and Blanca turned her head and regarded me with a raised eyebrow. The silky, sculpted ebony trail framed her hazel eyes. Her index finger followed and crossed her lips as if to remind me of my submissive position.
‘I won’t stand for any outbursts!’ yelled the man on the judicial throne. I sank further back into my chair and distracted myself with Blanca and her hot little mouth. Its pout curved into a bow, her flirty eyes met mine and infused me with a type of longing I hadn’t experienced. The forbidden factor always heightens the eroticism of the most mundane things. Blanca’s nimble fingers, as they gripped her hand, were enough to uncoil the Kundalini - you should try yoga sometime - within.

Continue reading "Sex Type Thing/Blanca" »

November 02, 2005

A Confession of Sexual Chaos - Finale, From Solo to Mutual Lift Off


I feel that I reveal more of myself when I entertain ‘myself’ in front of another person who happens to be physically near me as opposed to a person who’s sitting on the other side of a computer network. The picture may reflect the same mode of masturbatory delight, but other facets are missing. For a start, there’s only action, no breathing can be heard - not to the same extent as the erratic respiration rate that your ear directly hears - and the scent of the person cannot be detected.

I’d say, A was the first person I traveled that route with - to its full extent. I never considered it at that point. Prior to that, other attempts were met with uncertainty or a certain level of insecurity. In the instance of A, who was lying right beside me, the two year fallout of restrained lust wiped away any self doubt I had about my solo grope.

‘Show me how you play,’ he asked. I didn’t answer him, my hand migrated south and that’s where it remained, taking its time to feel the surroundings, including the slick waterfall that was continually flowing. His hands trailed my breasts, my eyes found his cock and noticed the beginnings of another erection forming.

Continue reading " A Confession of Sexual Chaos - Finale, From Solo to Mutual Lift Off" »

October 29, 2005

A Confession of Sexual Chaos - The Randomness, Arousal and (Equally Chaotic) Result

The Hot Zone


I call it the first blush of desire, that initial awareness of sexual anticipation. It’s not so much about self-awareness or self-actualization, it’s the salient sexual aura of the other person that diffuses through their pores, their mouth, their very skin and it’s this diffusion that affects us. The tendrils of the other penetrate - on a micro molecular level - the machinery that constructs what we call senses, firing up the inner core; olfactory nerves detect the other’s scent and transfer these molecules to the brain. As they speak, as each tone escapes their mouth by way of their vocal chords, each wave massages the auricle and the vibrations create other tiny molecules that are funneled through to the brain.

Now that may all come across as too technical, but it all culminates into the destination that is desire.

I sat, he moved closer, and when casually stoked my thigh with his index finger my ignition turned over with a shocking rumble. He couldn’t hear the rumble, but my mind became aware of the electricity all the while my circulation went into first phase arousal. My cheeks flushed, I lost my logical train of thought meaning that I couldn’t think of anything remotely casual to say. I lost my volleyball, and his mouth came into view. My eyes automatically shut and his lips introduced themselves to mine, followed by his curious tongue. A’s heat became more pronounced during the initial slide of his lips. The kiss was slow, hardly tentative, and straight to the point once I opened the gateway.

It’s difficult to describe, but it was a ‘thinking’ kiss, that first step one takes after a hiatus - the deliberately slow immersion. The spidery legs of nervousness crawled around in my stomach as our tongues slowly introduced themselves and after they liked what they say, the journey continued. On an explorative level, it was what Goldilocks would describe as being ‘just right’. A stopped at intervals to catch his breath. This catching of one’s breath isn’t due to any speed or exhaustion during kissing, it’s due to the overwhelming cloud of arousal that swoops on a person. It just hits you, and it did hit me as my lips and tongue explored the undersides of his lips, gums, and teeth. I’m a total hog where mouths are concerned, or an intrepid explorer that has to ‘see’ everything.

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A Confession of Sexual Chaos - The Randomness, Arousal and (Equally Chaotic) Result

Stepping out of the Comfort Zone


Back then, the technological world, the world that is more or less taken for granted now, was a new concept for me. Although people were using the Internet for many personal tasks, the entire ‘movement’ or shift to technology was just beginning to see the light of day here in Australia. There weren’t so many advertisements about online shopping, there weren’t many blurbs about dating sites, chat sites or any sites. In a sense I felt like I was one of those new pioneers, treading into unknown territory with my horse drawn carriage. As a result of re-entering the sphere of further study, my time on computers increased and this also introduced me to the Internet. In 1999, I did have a computer at home but that computer didn’t have an Internet connection. This came about after I moved away.

Fast forwarding to the unknown - to me at that time - virtual realm, I found myself becoming rather animated during my tete a tetes with A. I suppose the absence of face to face communication, in addition to the absence of the judgment potential, more or less pushed it all forward. We conversed about the usual things, about me, about him and there was a minor amount of flirtation but there was no real cybersex, not in the ‘I’ve got my head between your legs and I’m…’ type of thing. I found it all intriguing, yet freaky. There I was, being rather bold, what I can very well be but the person was unknown to me and sure enough, many moments flitted by where I considered the possibility of A being any type of psycho - and this was after twenty or so online communications. At the time, I wasn’t digitally savvy, so there were no photographic exchanges, I didn’t have a scanner and no, he only knew how to chat. Web cam didn’t really hit the scene back then, hardly anyone used web cam to communicate with visuals, so it also provided a mystique. Although I don’t see the mystique in online flirtations these days, only because I’m a semi-veteran, at the time, in between studying for my upcoming physiology practical test and functional anatomy practical final, A provided a distraction of the sexual kind. I entertained the possibility, especially after the odd textual flirtations, that I’d volley away, but they weren’t real possibilities:

I have exams. I have a small child. My house can double for a sterile quarantine area, especially the lounge.

So many thoughts went through my mind but the pivotal thought, the one that jabbed me every so often was the dread of the possible sex. After a two year hiatus, that wasn’t ‘normal’ in my mind when in a relationship, I wasn’t too sure about my own capability.

In the relationship that failed, sex transformed into a chore in many small ways. When one doesn’t reciprocate, the other person gradually distances themselves and this is what I did because I made many efforts, efforts of which were ignored simply because my partner was old school, I wasn’t ‘any school’ and our sexual views didn’t gel. So, I wasn’t sure what I’d get if I re-entered the sexual realm.

A and I eventually exchanged numbers. Although I didn’t permit him entry into my personal realm by way of revealing my home number, cell phone numbers were sufficient. A day elapsed, a second did as well, and there as I stood outside one of the building blocks having a smoko break in between a mammoth lab study session that decongested my hay fever (Formaldehyde is like ‘Sinex’ on ‘roids) I felt the familiar vibration in my lab coat pocket and mid puff, only because I had to quickly weigh the pros and cons of answering (I knew it was him), I answered it.

The transition to real, from online, in the sense of hearing a person’s voice is the first step of three dimensional animation. It’s strange, feels strange and when it occurs, only then you know that you’re in the real zone where anything can happen. On the computer, it all still retains an air of artifice but once you hear the voice, you exchange audible words, then you come closer to that decision of whether or not you’ll take it further.

He was a cocky male.

‘I wasn’t sure whether you’d answer and if you didn’t I would have left an unpleasant message on your voicemail,’ he said, with a macho grunt-giggle.

I say macho, because his voice skated on the edge of being gruff but retained a velvet deep timbre. Yes, that persuaded me to remain on the phone. I like macho, I like males who are males however, what I do realize now, after some years, is that there are few men that really try to immerse themselves with nature and this is the difference. Fewer males go camping, fewer still go hunting, hell there have been times where I’ve heard, ‘walk? Why walk when I can drive to the shop?’

So we got to talking, he flirted verbally and I had to light a second cigarette. He didn’t waste time and I still attempted to play volleyball.

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© Anastasia Mavromatis 2005 - 2008