Archive for February, 2012

as dark as it is beautiful

My Own Private Universe

Here lies the warrior of dreams

Rotting away in this casket

Forgotten now – all roads once paved

As the flesh slips away from the bone.

Here stands the carrier of lies

Whispering to the wayward masses

Enchanting them so with disease

That they can’t even see they’re alone.

Here weep the children of shame

Not once – but a thousand times shunned

Sleeping in hovels of dirt

Whilst living in an age of charity.

Here kneels a man of the cloth

Praying to a god that’s gone deaf

Lost up in a cloud of confusion

Preaching to his flock about clarity.

Here steps the daughter of virtue

So chaste and so pure and naïve

Struck down by the hands of obsession

She then slits her wrists by the sea.

Here be humanity’s cancer

– An eternal, devouring beast –

Hunger that goes beyond need

Cold destruction that fights to…

View original post 2 more words


Harry had a little cock

harry had a little cock
it was as white as snow
and everywhere that harry went
the laughs were sure to follow

he got it out at work one day
which was against the rules
it made his colleagues laugh and play
to see his tiny tool

And so his boss she turned him out
but still he lingered near
and wandered aimlessly about
for women to appear


Trending now


You

You have not let me cum for two and a half years although

you have had numerous partners in that time and made me watch many of them fuck you.

You watched a lot of them fuck me.

You mount me and sink onto me, groaning.

You ask me if I understand the price I must pay,
you know I do, and I nod meekly.

You rise and fall, filling yourself with me, your head back, your magnificent breasts bouncing, your passion rising, hot and wet.

You find my jugular with one hand and take the small, silver craft knife with the other, and as
you feel me start to cum,
you push it swiftly, expertly into my throat, thrilling at the sensation of steel against flesh and artery.

You push the palm of your hand onto the incision, filling my throat with my blood.

You feel another gush of my orgasm squirt hotly into you and
you start to cum yourself, riding me harder and deeper. I try to say “I love you” but all that comes from my mouth is a plume of thick red bubbles.

You watch me bleed.

You kiss me, and feel my orgasm begin to peak, and
you cum harder than you have ever known as my life begins to ebb.

You reach down behind and under you and squeeze my balls, disgust and delight fill
you as you feel first one and then the other burst like cherry tomatoes under a car.

You make sure my final seconds are seconds of agony as
you watch the fire go out behind my eyes.

You do not climb off me until my body has stopped twitching.


Bare your sexual soul day

Gillian Colbert of Black Door Press has declared February 28th “Bare your sexual soul day”. So I thought I’d have a go. Before I start I want to recommend this post by lovesexandmarriage.com, which is part of that. Its red hot stuff.

I thought about writing about one of those sexual fantasies that I’m kinda ashamed of, like having the woman I love make me watch her get fucked by another, better endowed, man and then have her watch me get fucked by him, but then I thought “No. I can write up a dirty fantasy any day of the week. I can go deeper than that.” So, what better way to bare my sexual soul than to tell you all what a slut I am and then to tell you to all fuck off!

I have had to do a lot of thinking recently – its been horrid – I’ve hurt people over the last few months – but I’ll come back to that.

You meet a lot of people on the internet – I seem to meet a lot of women – I like to think that its because women like me and my words but it may be just that I like them.
I don’t know.
I looked through my Farcebook mates just now and over 70% of them are women. I thought about the people I know in meat-space, and wondered if it was the same. At first I thought ‘No. Most of my mates are men.’ I love my male friends, we seem to understand each other, the importance of video games and football, and we get to say stuff you can never say in front of women and it is fun and dear. Then I thought about who I talk to about the really important things in life and realised it was my girl friends.
So, I still don’t know.

I am a slut.

I never used to think that you could fall in love online, I thought people like that were nuts, but I was wrong, incredibly wrong, and the last 6 month have been a whirlwind of virtual sex and genuine emotion. My heart has been broken by a single facebook message, and crushed by being blocked. I have broken hearts too though. I have been as big an asshole online as I have been offline, maybe bigger.

I have made deep spiritual connections with a woman with beautiful eyes and shared filthy fantasies with another that has a giggle that sparkles like a mountain brook. I have been dominated by a truly gorgeous woman from far away and done some disgusting things as a result and loved every moment. I have fallen in and out of love. I’ve had fucking rows with women I’ve never even kissed. I’ve laughed and cried and Farcebooked and Skyped. I’ve met women from all over the world and from every time zone. I’ve been asleep when they’ve been awake and vice versa and had to invent the word ‘morvening’ just to describe this weird phenomenon.

As you can see, I’m a slut, emotionally rather than physically, although I can be that too – you only have to ask.

I have never sent unsolicited photos of my dick to anyone, I know women don’t like that but I have wanted to (although I have sent a few solicited ones and if you want one just say, I have some corkers). I understand why men do it. We are proud of our willies and want to show them off. Like a child with their favourite toy or a fanboy with his iPhone, we want to shout “Look what I’ve got!” First thing I did when I got a video camera was film myself cumming. I don’t know why, I just had to, it seemed like the obvious thing to do. I never sent it to anyone though (well OK, one person, shhh you). It looks best when viewed in slo-mo. I asked a female friend today if that was sick. she said it wasn’t sick, but it was a bit pathetic and rather silly. She also asked to see the video.

Someone said to me that you can’t be in love with more than one person at a time – but that is bollocks – I’m in love with all of you.

I’ve had incredible sexual experiences with women I’ve never actually touched and shared mind-blowing orgasms with them. Thank you Skype, thank you Farcebook. I’ve had better online sex than a lot of the sex I’ve had in the flesh and I have made real, deep, significant connections with women I think perhaps I will always love. I’ve made friends that I hope I have for life.

One thing that has to be said for internet relationships is that you can fart and no-one really cares.

Not sure if I should have written any of this.

I fall in love too easily which makes the internet a romantic death trap for me. So, if you care, stop following me, stop liking my posts, stop turning me on. If you are a woman, and attractive, then please, please fuck off.

PS: Wanted: single mum, must be creative, foreign and intelligent and must like being fucked around a lot.


Metaphorically speaking of course

I’m a writer darling,
You can’t trust anything I say,
Like a magician
But not as clever,
But with a bigger cock.


Is she?

is she fat or thin?
don’t care. is she beautiful?
Yes.
is she young or old?
don’t care. is she beautiful?
Yes.
is she black or white?
don’t care. is she beautiful?
Yes.
beautiful on the outside? because beautiful on the inside is what i want.
Dunno sir. its fifty bucks an hour, she can be as beautiful as you want.
Fuck you! she’s not here.


Men in skirts

At first, she is irritated by the idea: just a pointless photo shoot, with some dumbass military medics – but it will highlight the work she is trying to do, help promote her charity and let more of the world see how awful the suffering in these war zones actually is, so she goes along with it.

When she meets them, her mind sways a little, these guys have been through some tough times together and the bonds they have formed seem deep and real. They joke amongst themselves in a way that she has rarely seen before and she sees real familial ties between them.

They are all from a Scottish unit, and are dressed only in their kilts. She thinks this a bit cheap but they all have wonderful, battle hardened bodies, not what you would call muscle men at all, but well defined, well worked chests and arms and backs. They glisten slightly in the afternoon heat, and she finds herself staring at their sun bronzed torsos. These men have seen action and sadness, known love and fear and bravery and heartbreak.

They greet her with a series of grins. They lift her effortlessly into the air for some shots and call her Ma’am or Miss. They hug each other and laugh and punch each other playfully all the time and she senses a deep brotherhood.

During one shot she feels a little twitch behind her, tickling her buttocks and lower back and looks around, and down, the guy behind her is getting an erection. She glares at him angrily and he blushes through a delightfully cheeky smile, tries to whisper ‘sorry’. she glares even harder, shooting him a look of real scorn, but she stays where she is, feeling him swell against her, she even leans back gently into it at some points.

Something flickers in a corner of her vision and she glances its way, a sporran bounces playfully. “My God,” she thinks, “he’s getting one too!” She almost doesn’t dare look at any of the others but cannot help herself, and everywhere she looks she sees rising cloth and flickering sporrans. “Are they all getting stiff? she wonders excitedly as her eyes dart around her. They are. Apparently, they have all been on active duty and most of them haven’t even seen a woman for months. Little thrills run up and down her imagination and her body.

“Okay” shouts the one that seems to be in charge, “That’s it for today.” and then, “We need one or two volunteers to escort our young lady back to her quarters.” All of them thrust their hands eagerly into the air. “Er, up to you then ma’am?” says the boss and she turns round to the man behind her, the one with the cheeky grin. “Him.” she says with slightly less hesitation than she’d hoped. On the way to the jeep, she turns back, points again, “and maybe him too.”


I realise my stuff is just crude wank fantasy when I read beautiful, evocative stuff like this. Kudos.

My Own Private Universe

Abed; in darkness and in slumber;

I lay tangled in dreams…

dreams of life

dreams of death

dreams of rapture.

Through the inky blackness of night,

he silently steals…

to steal a moment

to steal an embrace

to steal a sigh and caress it into a groan.

I stir, but do not wake.

I inhale

I exhale

I moan.

I am stuck to the webs of illusion,

painted pretty by an unconscious mind.

Grinning wickedly with moistened lips,

he maps out a ravenous trail…

a trail of butterfly kisses

 a trail of prickling heat

a trail of building electricity.

With a serpentine tongue,

he entices and excites…

exciting the flesh

exciting the heartbeat

exciting the desire that has long been dormant.

I grope out, but find no purchase.

My body arches

it aches

it yearns.

He brushes in hues of pleasure

to awaken my appetite for passion.

With fingers far softer…

View original post 125 more words


Ok, now I’m warming to the ice cube theme.

it is hot – one of the hottest days of the year, if not the hottest, even the walls are sweating and we drip with it, but we have a bucket full of ice cubes.

we strip and start by cooling each others brows with the ice, it melts quickly, trickling down our faces in tiny, delicious, chills. we hold a cube between our mouths and let our lips melt it, kissing around it, biting at it.

i caress your neck with an ice cube in each hand, licking at the rivulets as they fall over your breasts. you run two, in long slow sweeps across my belly and smile as little shivers spread out across my body like ripples on a pond. then i take two fresh frozen cubes to your breasts, lingering on your nipples, the contrast between heat and cold is extreme and you gasp uncontrollably with it.

i place one in your belly button and hold you down until it melts; you make the most delightful noises. next, you hold one, fresh from the bucket, to the tip of my cock, which twitches uncontrollably with the sensation, so intense that it feels like electricity, like tiny lightning bolts shooting down its length. you rub it around in little circles and i struggle to keep still; it melts incredibly quickly. the next, you rub slowly up and down the length of my length, licking gently at the droplets of melt water, letting them cool your lips and tongue, listening to my moans of delight mingling with my squeals of shock.

my next starts on your belly button again, but now i slide it, ever so slowly, directly downwards, and you gulp in anticipation and squirm but you do not want me to stop, and i don’t. when the cold of the ice touches the heat of your clit there is almost a hissing sound, like a snowball being thrown into a bonfire, the contrast is so great and you scriggle (which is word i just made up and means ‘halfway between a scream and a giggle’). it melts almost instantly and i take another and pop it gently inside you and through your gasps you call me a bastard. i use my cock to slowly push it deeper into you. its cold wetness colliding with your hot wetness. it is almost unbearable and we both struggle to catch our breath as it goes deeper.

it is way too hot to fuck fast or furiously and our love making is slow and deep and when we cum we do it together in long close shudders and, like the ice cubes, we melt.


I just had to share this amazing site

I always feel a bit lazy when I reblog but this site has a real beauty to it:

http://charmcityvacancy.com/

I hope they are cool about me reposting one of their many wonderful pictures.

I must thank Lauren for turning me on

to the site.


A quickie

I imagine a hot day, sweltering in fact, and I imagine the air-con has broken down. I tied up to our big bed and helpless, I would torture you with an ice cube. First I would cool your sweating forehead with it. Then your mouth, I would chill your red, lusting lips making them cold to the kiss but I would kiss the warmth back into them. Then i would move down your body, very slowly wetting your neck, loving how it made you giggle. I would watch you shudder and I would lick greedily at the melting but chilling water as it slowly drenched your panting breasts. I would linger slightly too long and you would writhe under me, pretending to want to be set free but you would not stand a chance of that. I would find the hottest part of you and the ice cube would melt completely over the stove of your longing. you would beg me, ever so slightly, to stop but I would not. I would release you and enter you and we would fuck like angry tigers. Tearing at each other, pulling ourselves into each other, forgetting ourselves. We would collapse after into brainless heaps unable to even remember our own names. We would have no names. We would just be.


Where I live

hackney is the most wonderful place – it has a real harmony to it although sometimes i wish it could be more peaceful – there are no minorities here – 33% white, 33% black, 33% other and because of this there is virtually no prejudice. there is a high crime rate but this is because of poverty – hackney is one of the poorest boroughs in the country. my local health centre has to employ no fewer than 17 different interpretors

hackney is full of musicians and artists and mad people who shout at empty spaces and have philosophical discussions with traffic signs

hackney is filthy and it stinks, it has wonderful markets with stalls that sell stuff that shouldn’t ever be sold anywhere and food you will never find anywhere else – you can buy african snails (live) as big as your head (not kidding) and they crawl over their vendor’s arms and faces

hackney has more than its fair share of violent youths and guns and shit like that but it is a vibrant place and it never ever sleeps. police sirens wail all the time and their choppers buzz overhead, scaring us and protecting us. cops in london beg not to work here and we struggle to find teachers to work our schools but the youth of hackney are beautiful, they make their own rules, not always good ones but their own – they are not kids you would want to fuck with, a friend of mine recently got mugged by a gang of 8-10 year olds

i never feel that i live in a town or a city or on an island here: i feel as though i live on a planet. when the aliens come, they will come to hackney, where they will at least feel at home. later this year they are holding the olympics just down the road, most londoners are proud of this (and i am one of them) but the general consensus in hackney is to not give a shit. there were riots in the uk last year but hackney hardly got scratched, kids here don’t need a news item to tell them to kick in a shop window. it is sad, i know, but it has such vibrancy, such vitality. there is nowhere like it on earth and although i want to live on an island in the sun and would swap this place for such a paradise in the blink of an eye, i will always love this shithole of a borough, its stink, its skanky whores and drug dealers that pester you every time you go get a pint of milk, the fact that people will just play loud music and not give a shit about public order. and most of all, even if we are all a little scared of each other, we never, ever judge.

I have used a little poetic licence with this post, to make it more readable but only a little.


The prisoner of war

She watches the smoking enemy plane as it is shot down in the skies over her farmhouse, watches the distant figure of the enemy pilot float down under his parachute and land softly at the end of her little orchard.

She approaches the scene gingerly, the old service pistol wobbling in her hand as she points it at him. Everyone says terrible things about the enemy, that they are all merciless killers and torturers, raping everyone they capture, male as well as female, young and old alike. He does not look like a rapist she thinks, or a killer, as she holds up the lantern to get a better look at him. He looks rather sweet, has curly blonde hair and sparkling brown eyes. He is younger too than she had imagined, and is clearly quite scared of her and her revolver.

She doesn’t care what the enemy are like, she will show him that she is from a civilised race; he has cuts that need attending to and he is clearly in need of food and a bath. She gestures with the gun, towards the house.

After devouring the ham and cheese and bread she gives him, he lets her dress his wounds, and watches, less afraid, as she fills the tin bath with steaming hot kettles of water. He undresses timidly, with his broad, powerful, back to her, but must turn to face her when he steps into the bath, and she sneaks glances at his member. It has been two-and-a-half years since her husband had been killed in the war, three years since she last saw him, and felt him. She had not even pleasured herself in that time, in memory of him, but now, the sight of this naked, stunning, young man, stirs something really deep and hot within her.

She toys with the idea of making him masturbate, at gun point, in front of her and the thought thrills her and makes her wetter than she can remember being, but she restrains herself. Before throwing his uniform on the fireplace, she checks the pockets: an empty tobacco tin, a half eaten packet of sweets and a purse containing a lock of hair and a photo she reckons must be of his sweetheart, although it is so fingered and worn that she can barely make out a face.

Exhausted, he sleeps deeply, she has decided to watch guard over him, in case he tries to escape. She sits in the chair at the end of the bed watching him breathe and fantasises about him wrestling the gun from her and overpowering her, having his evil, enemy way with her. Ashamed at her own imagination, her grip tightens around the revolver and she tries not to stare at the twitching of his nocturnal erection under the blanket.

He is out cold and would be quite hard to wake, but the feel of her cold little fingers round his engorged prick cause him to gasp lightly in his sleep, and she stares at his face as she strokes gently up and down his length, watching smiles and dirty little foreign words flicker across his sleeping lips. He is magnificent, reaching right up to his own belly button, her thumb and middle finger barely meeting around him.

She tries, as best she can, to undress herself as she watches him stir, and is as good as naked by the time he opens his eyes. The expression of surprise and pleasure in him, as he looks down at what she is doing, sends long guttural throbs of pleasure shooting through her from her loins outwards.

She kisses it, gently, briefly, on the tip and looks up at him. She kisses again, for a little longer, opening her lips a little, taking a little more of him into her mouth, drinking in the sounds he makes, not understanding his words but knowing their meaning inside-out.

She has no way of knowing that he has been almost as long without the touch of another as she has, but she feels it, instinctively, and watches him cum with delight, watches as months and months of pent up frustration burst as freely from his cock as they do, from his lips and lungs.

He is stiff again within seconds and she climbs thirstily onto him, riding him like a circus rodeo, their eyes locking, their fingers digging into each other’s flesh, their mouths entwined, their screams of joy united. He is insatiable, they both are, and when he is not stiff he goes down on her, caressing her clit with the tip of his tongue, with his lips, at times with his fingers too. Bringing her to the brink, over and over again, he then leaves her for sheer infinite moments, hanging, teetering on the chasm of her orgasm, then releasing her like burst dam, in such a cascade of coming that all before it is smashed, her orgasms washing and thrusting all else from her brain, her body, her very being. Leaving her shipwrecked on the rocky shorelines of her mind.

She loses count of how many orgasms she has had at around eight.

It is getting light when they take their first break. She makes tea and brings it to bed. They try to drink their tea and try to communicate, through a series of gestures, learning little more than each other’s names and smiles. He has a hard on throughout and she can’t help herself playing with it as they attempt to chat. She grabs at it, he pulls away, giggling. She flicks it, gently, he pretends to be shocked.

She forgets that she had left the gun in the room when she went to make tea.

He pushes her down onto the bed, smiling, slips himself into her, filling her and making her squeal with the fun of it. He fucks her so hard the bed shakes, the floorboards shake. They lie there after, panting, him still inside her, throbbing and still good to go. They fuck to their own physical limits, and they finally collapse in a heap around noon the next day.

She is making them both something to eat, bacon, eggs, toast, when she is suddenly brought to, by the realisation that she has left the gun in the room with him. When she gets back, she treads cautiously into the room. He has the pistol in his hand, he is emptying the barrel, chucking the bullets to one side of the bed and the revolver to the other, he is wearing a huge smile and an erection that makes her want to cry with joy.

The following day the military police arrive, and she has to tell them that she saw nothing, she’d heard the crash but had been too scared to investigate. The MPs understand and promise to return in a day or two and check on her. She thanks them and they assure her that the war will be over by Xmas. She thinks of him upstairs, all naked and stiff and grinning and hopes that the war will go on for ever.


this blog is enchanting – i strongly recommend following

tales of a charm city chick

Baltimore is just not turning me on these days. Look at this mundane, lifeless lab. I’m editing a paper about T cells. The only sound I hear is the humming of a centrifuge. This feels like the longest day of my life.

I’m sick of dead grass and brown buildings. I’m tired of seeing prostitutes, crazy people and sidewalk syringes.

I could use a stimulating conversation. Switch me on. Give me visuals. I want colors and life.

This is where I was 7 years ago….

Now that’s sexy. Even just the memory of this place flushes my cheeks and fills me with light. It makes me want to run as fast as I can and use the full capacity of my lungs. I want to scream loud and hear my echo. I’ll be back for you, rolling hills, and you better ravish me just as you did upon our last…

View original post 25 more words


The plumber (part two)

Suddenly she remembered the silver ball. The one she got for Christmas one year, for the tree, but liked so much she hung it up in here. She liked the way, when she had candles round the bath, that it reflected their lights, like little stars, on the ceiling. She liked how you could see the whole bathroom at once by looking into its reflection. He was looking at it now, into its reflection. Looking at her.

He turned round, and smiled sweetly at her, still lathering his chest and stomach. ‘Oh my God!’ she thought, ‘He saw me!’ and ‘Oh my God! He really does have a hard on!’ She flushed with embarrassment at the thought of this complete stranger watching her touching herself. Her mouth had been wide open too.

The plumber reached over and took a big bottle of hair conditioner from the shelf and, with his other hand, he held the base of his prick, using just his thumb and forefinger so she could see its full length. Her mouth dropped open again. Holding his cock upright, the plumber squeezed the conditioner over the tip. It was thick and white and ridiculously suggestive. A part of her was saying ‘That’s bloody expensive hair conditioner you’re wasting there matey!’ but she very quickly shut it up. The luscious liquid trickled slowly down the length of him, ‘Is he squeezing it, to make those veins stand out like that?’ she wondered. He started to play with himself, not really masturbating but more just stroking, playing, running the tips of his fingers through the creamy liquid as it dribbled down him. ‘No, he hadn’t been squeezing it.’ she realised.

The plumber stepped, dripping, from the shower and took the three paces it took to reach her. If she could have seen herself at that moment, she might not have felt very proud – her eyes gaped and her mouth hung open like a broken door, and she was staring, very obviously, at his erect cock, watching it twitch and quiver, watching little droplets fly off it as it did so. She was actually dribbling.

He hooked his forefinger into a gap between two buttons on her blouse and walked backwards into the shower, pulling her. She followed without any resistance or question, or thinking, her eyes now drawn to his – locked on them. “But bu- my clothes. I’ve still got my- but?” she found herself saying, as he pulled her to him, held her against his chest with one arm and his hotness with the other and kissed her. His kiss was like electricity and she could feel his erection through her clothes pressing against her pussy, and she thought for a second she might come right there and then. He tore off her clothes, one by one, and flung them aside, until she stood there naked, shivering with the heat. Her clothes lay in sodden, disregarded heaps in the corners of the shower.’That blouse cost four-hundred-and-fifty dollars pal!’ she almost found herself thinking.

The plumber’s eyes played over her body for a moment before he spun her round and held her, spread eagled, up against the wall. He grabbed hold of her hips and slipped his cock between her legs. He rubbed the tip of his wood against her clit for a second before entering her hot, wet pussy, pushing his way softly but deeply into her, drawing from her a long whispered moan. He fucked her slowly but fully, giving her the benefit of every millimetre. It woke something inside her, something primal. She could feel the veins on his cock, ripple the hot red flesh deep inside her, veins like thick vines climbing a great tree trunk. God, it felt good, she thought. Fuck, did it feel good? She wanted more!

A dam burst inside her and she felt a thousand frustrated, angry screams rise up from her gut. From behind the dam sprung an animal, a wild and beautiful animal, a beast, one she had thought long extinct. It stormed across the ruins of that dam and landed snorting in her bathroom.

A torrent of foul words sprung from her, words she didn’t even know she knew. Raw animal desire and lust tore through her soul and her inhibitions fell from her like a snake’s skin. She started moaning loudly each time his prick reached its depth, cursing under her breath. Her soul screamed for more.

“FUCK!” she screamed, “Fuck me harder! You motherfucker! Fucking HARDER!” He speeded up and she screamed furiously through gritted teeth in response. “Harder you motherfucker! Harder! She stamped her foot petulantly on the floor, lips curled in a snarl. “Come on you COCKSUCKER! What ARE you? Some kind of FUCKING HOMOSEXUAL?” she screamed. He kissed her neck – she tried to bite him. “Fucking COCKSUCKER!”

She spat angrily on the wall in front of her. “CUNT!” she yelled at him, spitting again “Fuck me harder I said. Fuck me harder you CUNT!” She stamped her foot again, deliberately bringing it down hard on his. She felt his wince and looked round at him, “Well? FUCK ME HARDER THEN!”

He was taller than her and had had to bend slightly to get into her in the first place; now, he straightened up with each powerful thrust, forced her on to her tiptoes, forced loud, bestial groans, from deep within her, with every plunge of his powerful cock. She turned her head to look at him, her eyes burnt like furnaces. He went to kiss her and she spat thickly, into his face, baring her teeth , trying, in vain, to kick him in the shins with her heels.

Turning back to herself, she reached down and rubbed at her clit fiercely, feeling his cock, as it slipped wetly in and out of her, with her fingers. Fire burned in her belly and monsters danced around it. She snorted like a bull and kicked back wildly again, this time her heel bone connected sharply with his shin bone. The pain stung his eyes and he pulled out of her, but she grabbed it and pulled it up in front of her and held it tightly against her steaming pussy. She rubbed herself up and down on it, faster and harder, working herself into a sexual frenzy.

He was holding her, tightly. She listened to his moaning and became aware of how the noises we make when in extreme pleasure are indistinguishable from those we make when in pain. She knew he was about to come before she felt the warm splashes on her tummy and tits, she could tell by the pulsations of his erection. She took it in her hand and watched as he squirted and dribbled his pleasure around her and over her. She squeezed his cock hard, and felt the waves of his ejaculations pulse in her hand, his hot breath on her back. He groaned behind her, like a big old lion coughing up a fur ball, and his body shuddered in great gulps.

She started coming seconds after him. Her orgasm was like fire, it burnt her, consumed her, a thousand rioting looters, rose up from her groin and torched and petrol bombed her body. He held her, firmly but kindly and she bit him, but only gently, called him a cunt, but in a whimper.

Slowly, as the violent waves of pleasure began to subside she looked down, he was spent. She let go of his cock and they both collapsed into a panting, sticky heap on the floor. They held each other until the gasping and trembling were all but gone. “Fuck!” she whispered repeatedly as they lay there delirious, unable to move or speak.

Until the hot water ran out and they were suddenly hit by an icy shower, making them both shriek and leap up.

Later, when he was back in his washed and dried clothes and they shared tea together, she apologised yet again. He assured her that it was fine, that he liked a bit of rough – he nearly said, that he’d met women like her before and knew exactly what he was getting himself into, but didn’t. She was sorry, again, about the awful language too, and the spitting. It really wasn’t like her. She didn’t even remember spitting in his face and was very sorry about that, again. She really didn’t know what had come over her. “I did.” he joked but it passed her by.

As he left he handed her a sheet of paper and winked, his number perhaps, she hoped.
His bill! Three-hundred-and-fifty dollars?! “the CUNT!”


Just a band!?

I love this cunt.


I feel cheap

I feel cheap just posting some You Tube Video (I mean, isn’t that what Farcebook is for?) but whenever I feel low, this clip just makes me fall in love with our ridiculous, silly, bizarre and loveable ape arses al over again.

I feel sorry for today’s youngsters a lot of the time, they have an uncertain and probably crappy future to look forward to – but look at the sheer pleasure in being alive they get from stuff like this – it thrills me – when I was young we took drugs to be cool, how much cooler are these chaps?

I know you’ve all seen this before but watch it again, watch it often.

I love it when they do the super mario shit and bounce off walls – i love that it has a plot – i love that you get to see what good mates they are and i love the music

Did I ever tell you how much I love you? Who? You, the one that’s reading this right now – if your not reading this, then fuck off!


brilliant post – amazing mind – powerful words
“beating tim kelly with a broken spatula.naked, exotic, violent, and aroused.”
i love it


This just gets me so wet


wow!

Chicquero


Robert Gligorov
 was born in 1959 in Kriva Palanca, Macedonia.
He lives and works in Milan, Italy.

Gligorov
‘s work attempts to shock the viewer. Each piece tantalizes the imagination, awakening it from a state of lethargy. Confronting a society accustomed to sophisticated and extreme forms of visual communication, Gligorov amplifies the shock value of his work in order to compete with the deluge of images that cloud our visual field.

Human beings have speculated about the relationship between inspiration and insanity for centuries. Paty Duke

>>>YOU MAY ALSO LIKE<<<
Paranoia, hope and fear
I reject your reality
Priviet! Russian art
Dreaming in a pragmatic way
Sweet meat
Talk to my hand 

View original post


Can’t believe its been ten years since we lost him

“You feel the pain much worse than anybody else but you see a sunrise as much more beautiful than anyone else.”

~ Spike Milligan


The plumber (part one)

Her arms pumped up and down, her fists clenched around it. Harder and harder she pumped, faster and faster. Still nothing. If anything the smell was getting worse.

This was how you were meant to unblock a sink though, she knew that, she’d done it before, plenty of times: block the overflow with something and pump the plunger repeatedly over the plug. She had been doing this for ages now and her arms really ached with it. She didn’t want to call a plumber, and not because she couldn’t afford it – she was a successful woman – but because she didn’t want some man patronising her. She pumped away again for another good ten or fifteen minutes but the ugly, foetid water just sat there stinking and belching. She relented, she had so much to do, “Local plumber!” she barked into her Blackberry’s voice search.

Maybe it would be a woman plumber she hoped, there were a lot of women plumbers, it was more common than people thought. Perhaps she should have checked. Too late now.

It wasn’t a woman though and she was a little annoyed at herself that she wasn’t disappointed by this; he was gorgeous. ‘As if that makes any difference!’ she chastised herself, but he was. Not in the traditional sense, he looked more like an artist or a writer than a plumber, it was something in his eyes. Anyway he was strong and powerful and that’s what she needed right now, what the sink needed, rather.

There hadn’t been a man in the house since the divorce. Just her, her and her girlfriends, who would come round and get her drunk and agree what a bastard he was, what bastards men were. She showed the plumber the sink. There was something about his smell that confused her. He looked at the the sink, and under it, tapping at things and making little ‘hmm’ sounds as he went. ‘Its only coffee grinds blocking a sink’, she thought, ‘not Fuku-bloody-shima!’
“Its coffee grinds.” he told her.
“Really?” she smiled as sarcastically as she could manage.
“It won’t take long.” he grinned, seemingly oblivious to her hostility.

She watched his powerful arms working the plunger up and down, watched his energy, his rhythm. He worked with just one hand at a time and it could only make her think of one thing. It was only when she found herself licking her lips that she realised that she had been daydreaming of watching him doing that to himself. Then it happened.

The sink exploded! Gallons of disgusting, months old, drain water, erupted through the plug hole in a stinking torrent of filth, drenching the plumber as he tried, vainly, to stem the flow. She shrieked at the sight of him when he turned round. He was gagging and covered in brown, slime. “Oh er, er” she said, looking around as though the solution lay within arms’ reach. Then, ‘Of course.’ she thought, collecting herself. “The shower.” she said, “This way.” and lead him round into her bathroom, pointed at the shower and left him there.

Door closed, she leant back against the wall, surprised to find herself shaking slightly and wondering why. He’d be naked by now she thought and then suddenly that she should perhaps get his clothes, naked and wet, so that she could wash them. She waited until she could hear the water running and knocked on the door. “I’m just coming in for your clothes.” she called, and opened it. He was under the shower, his back to her and he had not heard her come in. She watched transfixed as pools of lather cascaded down his back, caressed his buttocks and trickled down his thighs. She opened her mouth to say something, but the sight of him there, naked, washing himself, water and foam tracing his outlines, robbed her of her powers of speech. His soapy hands slid around and down his body.

She wondered if he was washing his cock, it looked like he was. She imagined it, lathered up, wondered whether it was stiff or not. She could touch herself right now she thought. She could, she could easily see if he started to turn round and stop – she was only in here to get his dirty clothes. He was definitely washing his cock though, she was certain of that, and taking his time too. She rubbed at herself through her clothes, glad that she had chosen to wear silk panties. It looked to her, that he was doing more than just washing it too. Was he masturbating she thought. Would she get to see his back and butt shudder in orgasmic pleasure? Would she have time to cum herself? What if he turned round when she was in mid-orgasm? All these questions raced round her mind but she rubbed at her self harder and faster all the same, making little thrusting movements with her hips.

Suddenly she remembered the silver ball. The one she got for Christmas one year, for the tree, but liked so much she hung it up in here. She liked the way, when she had candles round the bath, that it reflected their lights, like little stars, on the ceiling. She liked how you could see the whole bathroom at once by looking into its reflection. She froze. He was looking at it now, into its reflection. Looking at her.

Part two tomorrow…


Good morning

Good morning world. Good morning sun. Good morning cold. Good morning erection. Good morning teddy bear. Good morning kitchen. Good morning coffee. Good morning Hackney. Good morning garden. Good morning to everyone in Australia. Good morning to everyone in the States. Good morning to everyone in all those other countries. Good morning you.