there is nothing
sexier for me,
than a woman
writing dirty poetry.
i’ve got this pedometer app on my phone. its really cool and tells me how far i’ve walked. i guess it works by measuring the up/down motion of each step, i’ve never really given it much thought. until today.
as i was about to go out for a jog, i checked that the app was on. it drains the battery, so i often switch it off if i know i’m settled for the evening. it was on, and in fact it said that i’d walked 3,247 paces already today. now, this was impossible. i’d only been out of bed for 20 minutes and had walked no further than the loo and the kitchen. 3,247 paces is almost two miles.
i checked the times of this supposed jaunt, only to discover that it had happened before i’d even got out of bed. then, it hit me. when i’d woken up, after listening to the news, i’d checked my phone and read my mail. a sweet and sexy friend of mine had sent me some pictures of herself, and i had spent some considerable time ‘enjoying’ them. it would seem that my trusted app is not so accurate when it comes to measuring up/down motions as i thought it was.
now i’m left wondering how many 20 minute wanks have been logged as two-mile jogs. maybe that explains why i’m putting on weight.
you ride me. rising and falling with growing passion and vigour, feeling me drive deeper and harder into you, feeling your lust growing with every thrust
Stop it Kyle! I’ve got ppl here!
your pussy glows with a wet, hungry heat
I fucking mean it. Stop! I can’t touch myself right now!!!
but you will … your thighs tremble and your whole body tingles with delight as you reach down and tighten my collar by a single notch
you see the fear in my eyes and drink it in like strong liquor – your power magnifying your pleasure a hundred-fold – you stare deep into my soul and lap up the helplessness you find there, and you tighten the collar by another notch
I kinda hate you right now!
as my panic rises, you ram yourself harder and and faster onto me, my cock bulging like my eyes, your pussy so wet and hot, it burns. you know you shouldn’t, but you tighten my collar further still. your control over me, so thrilling that you cannot help but scream with such primitive and animal delight that it sets off several car alarms
I told you! I CAN’T touch myself right now!!!
but i know you are
the terror in my eyes is so intoxicating, it sends your mind to a whole new place. and as your orgasm crashes into you like a 100 mile an hour juggernaut into a brick wall, you know you will not let go until you are spent, no matter what.
I fucking hate you! Asshole!!!
did you come?
You know i fucking did!
so who really has the power?
I love you.
i wanna lick you
lick your shoulders
and your neck,
lick your feet,
and lick your hair.
lick your belly
and your toes,
lick your asshole,
lick your nose.
lick your chin
and lick your back,
lick your nostrils,
lick your crack.
lick your ears
and your eyes,
lick your pussy,
lick your thighs.
lick your knees
and your armpits,
lick your elbows,
lick your tits.
So, the rooms we live in are provided by the charity we work for, the rent is very reasonable. they do keep nagging us though. about smoking pot in them. “please smoke your joints outside?” they keep asking, “that’s our property and we are legally liable”. of course, they have a good point, and of course, we ignore them and keep puffing away like octogenarian grannies on a the 25th mile of a marathon. thing is, the job is stressful, all that bum-wiping, and lifting, and bed-sores, and feeding, and death, and boredom and stair climbing, and caring. you need an outlet and weed was ours. well, that and e, and acid, and ska, and football hooliganism, and speed and uk surf: a genre of music that has sadly not survived.
eventually the bosses do what they got to and call the fuzz. i’m watching the box in the communal area and supping on a pint of shepherd neame, when i see four burly looking blokes and a german sheppard stop outside my room. i know instantly what has happened, and rather than panic, i get up and walk calmly into my fate of being a homeless and jobless criminal. i even manage a smile.
i lead them into my room and just point to the weed on the table next to the bong. they say “all very well and good sir,” all of them staring at my sorry little bag of grass, “but we will need you to strip.” so, i go through the humiliation of a strip-search (wishing that there had been at least one wpc there, to see my dong), and then they let the dog have a good sniff around. she is well trained and loves me, or at least how i smell. there is no other puff in my room and the only point that grabs her attention is my laundry basket. there are socks in there that, if you threw them at the wall, would stick to it, and the cops ask if i have anything in there.
“not that i know of.” i lie, knowing that the cop will have to rummage, very thoroughly through them all.
As they take me to the cop shop i think of doug.
doug and i have rooms next to each other, we smoke a lot of weed together. we score from the same geezer, every thursday, on payday. just like we did today. only difference between us is that i cycle and he walks or grabs a bus. i always get home quicker. he was just arriving, as i was leaving, which means… he’s like half an hour away. he ain’t back yet. there may well be a chance for him to avoid getting busted, if only i can get hold of him before he gets home.
the cops aren’t rough with me or anything, after all, they have what they want, and we almost have a laugh together. all the time i’m thinking of doug. “am i allowed a phone call?” i ask.
“sure.” they smile, “who do you want to call?” i tell them it’s my mate doug. “come with us.” they beckon, and i follow, assuming they are taking me to a telephone. all i wanna say to him is
‘get out of the fucking house man! the pigs are coming!’ they lead me into a room where i see doug, sat, being interviewed by two other cops.
“here is is”, says one cop, “what do you want to say to him?”
“get out of the fucking house man!” i say, “the pigs are coming!”
how i love your eyes,
and your tits,
and your thighs.
how i love your toes,
and your butt,
and your nose,
how i love your armpits
as i love your tits.
how i love your ass,
like a cow
loves the grass.
how i love your tits,
already said this.
There are just some people, who, without really possessing any amazing qualities, are nevertheless, amazing. Usually this is because they think they are, when they are not. Perhaps this immense sense of self denial, is what actually makes them amazing.
I just had a brief conversation with a woman I met coming back from the store, who was such a creature. We bumped into each other because I was not really looking where I was going, my mind on other things, and this resulted in the very English tradition of us both apologising repeatedly to each other. Why was she amazing? Because despite being older even than I am and having let her body go, to chips and KFC many decades ago, and looking like a poorly strung up sausage, she was dressed as though she were Beyonce. Fish-nets, mini-skirt and so much cleavage on display, that if i were to attempt to bare that much flesh, I would have to strip naked, and probably twice.
For the moment of conversation we shared, I got the impression that she was a thoroughly nice old girl. Not bright, but friendly and open and nice, and as she waddled off in front of me, shovelling chips into her mouth, between gulps of White Ass Cider, I wondered and marvelled at human nature and our ability to delude ourselves.
Then I thought about myself: 50, still with a mohawk and sporting bright camo-pants and wondered how ridiculous I must look. I was too scared to actually answer the question but then two 20 something hotties walked past me and giggled. So I got my answer anyway.
I arrived home with the feeling that we can all be amazing, if we are only brave and stupid enough to try.
i long for your rewards,
i fear your punishment.
your control is total
and obedience guaranteed.
but what will you ask?
how much of me
will you demand?
will you push me to my limits?
will you test your own?
i do not know.
how dark is your imagination?
or how far you will go?
i just know,
i want you to take me there.
first you have me sharpen the knife, in front of you, on the whet stone. you have me get it so sharp that it could cut a human soul in two. there is something greedy in your eyes as you watch, something animal and deep and dark, something beautifully frightening. you don’t have to ask, i know to hand it to you. i try not to tremble. you hold it so that the tip barely touches my cock. i feel just the tiniest prick against my yielding flesh. all i have to do, you tell me with a smile that is as evil as it is sweet, is not get an erection. stay flaccid and i am safe, my cock is safe. i know this to be true. i can see in your powerful, lust filled, beautiful eyes that you are not going to move the blade. all i have to do is not get a hard-on.
you know what you are doing to me as, with your other hand, and insanely slowly, you start unbuttoning your top. you look right at me and into me as my already watering eyes start to take in the sight of your cleavage and the way your nipples start to poke through the soft cotton. even through the length of the cold sharp steel, you can feel me growing. longer and thicker, pressing against it, my pulse quickening. your top unbuttoned, all you have to do is slide it open, with a single finger to expose your glorious breasts. all i have to do, is not get an erection.