MonMouth

Exercise: Step on him, don't make holes

2012-01-23T00:18:00.001Z

Make him shiver with anticipation. First, he should strip to his briefs. Not fully naked, just naked enough to feel thrillingly exposed. Then he should lie down on the floor. A bed is not an option.

Tell him to wait while you step into the next room to put on your stomping outfit. You couldn't go very wrong with black thigh-high stockings and a short dress to accompany the high heels. Of course it's all up to his fetishes and your pleasures.

Whatever happens later, this is how you begin: You are clothed and he is nearly naked.

When you eventually step back into the room walk around him, giving him a view up your legs. Your skirt or dress should be short enough to give him a promising glimpse, while leaving the bulk of the work to his imagination.

The shoes must be extreme. Slick, sharp, with a heel reaching for the heavens...

Now, when you start touching him with the soles of your shoes the trick is to use the toes of your feet as much as possible. Never actually step down with the full weight of your body - the heel should be regarded as a sharp instrument, and used with extreme care to tease and titillate. Start with hands, feet, arms and legs, stroking with the toe, then gradually increasing the sensation by using the sole of the shoe.

Start on the outer limbs and work your way inwards. His cock should be hard and throbbing when you reach his crotch. Run the toe up and down his cock, wriggle around his balls - just generally take your time touching him with your feet through the fabric of his underwear. Only then would it be time to step on his torso. Be careful with your balance, and start with one foot, gradually increasing the pressure as you transfer a little weight at a time from the toe to the heel against some soft muscly part of his chest or belly.

Take your time.

And then, take your reward by sitting down on his face and make him serve you with his mouth. This being your show, of course, once you're done stepping on him you can take your pleasures any way you like - so long as you tell me about it afterwards.

Three (12) - closing instalment

2011-12-19T07:30:00.000Z

T gave herself over to her task. Sliding a couple of fingers inside Jessica accompanying her tongue flat on top of the clit, T looked like she was greedily satisfying a longstanding hunger - rarely indulged, never sated.

She was taking full advantage of her opportunity.

Jessica bucked against her face, grinding her hips against T's tongue and fingers with an urgency that I recognized, smiling to myself at the sense-memory of burying my own tongue deep within the very same sensitive folds.

But where I would have paused for a breather, broken off the swirling dance of tongue and fingers, T just kept going.

Even when Jessica had come a few times, her hips arching up, hands clawing the sheets... Even when she seemed exhausted, T kept going - like she was extracting the orgasms from Jessica's innards.

At some point I shed the delusion that I understood what they were doing, and merely paid attention.

T probably didn't either, at least not in some verbally communicable self-conscious way. It was a musical understanding of tempo, force - of cadences of fast and slow, hard and soft, gentle and brutal that undulated between the two of them.

(Weeks later, I enjoyed failing at imitating this, alone with Jessica. She appreciated the effort, but it was clear that if this was a race, I was the one-legged contestant).

The concluding rush of orgasm rolled in across Jessica's body and receded with a moan of exhaustion. T didn't so much stop as let Jessica go, releasing her to curl up in between the two of us while the sweat cooled on our skin.

For a moment that stretched as long as we could make it stretch, nobody made a move towards the edge of the bed. And no one mentioned what time it was.

Motivated by a superhuman sense of duty, Jessica finally reached out to check the clock.

While the receptionist downstairs summoned a cab for her, she pulled her clothes on and gathered her playthings with a laudable presence of mind that was alien to me and T, draped naked across the bed while Jessica made herself fit to set out into the darkened world of London at night.

When she was ready to go, she stood looking, smiling with the automatic authority that anyone with their clothes on will command over the naked. Before she leaned over to give each of us a kiss, her gaze lingered like she wasn't quite done with us yet, but there's no arguing with a waiting cab.

Three (11)

2011-12-16T01:31:00.000Z

It's difficult to locate it exactly, the moment when I found myself not quite in the moment...

We had untied Jessica. The expansive bed filled most of the hotel room, the mattress lodged firmly in the solid frame beneath us, yet it heaved with her frustration while she struggled against the ropes.

Her hands, feet, the intricate chest harness... Ms T lent me a hand unwrapping all of it, starting with the ball gag. It glistened with Jessica's saliva, the pink rubber indented with teethmarks when I pulled it out.

"You cruel fucker..." Jessica meant it. As if I had been solely responsible for her predicament. The accusation was unfounded.

I gathered the white ropes now scattered all across the bed into coils and threw them aside, one by one.

Meanwhile, my co-conspirator pushed Jessica back against the gathered pile of pillows, purring in transparently fatuous agreement with her complaints. It wasn't as if Ms T had not just been enjoying herself loudly, stroking the defenseless curves of Jessica's thighs with one hand while we fucked.

Jessica settled back, a smile playing about her lips while she spread her legs. "What are you planning now...?"

Ms T, her face set in concentration, leaned forward and placed one hand on either side of Jessica's vulva, pulling the shining wet lips apart to open her up even further.

Eyes closed, she kissed the bulge of Jessica's pubic bone, her lips lingering on the skin, relishing the move downwards.

Jessica's head dropped back, her mouth open...

...and watching them in the fullness of their moment, I felt pulled backward by the scruff of my neck. Just a few inches, lifted out of the immediacy of what we were doing. I was still tingling from the tight grasp of T's pussy.

I didn't merely feel like I was observing them; I was observing myself observing them, touching them, feeling them falling into a shared rhythm, the muscles of Jessica's thigh pressed against mine, separated by the thin fabric of her black stockings. We all moved together, our bodies pressed up against one another, yet there I was at just a slight distance, awash with a feeling that took me a little while to name. Envy.

I envied myself.

Three (10)

2011-11-21T07:30:00.000Z

Being the centre of attention suits Jessica very well. And being sidelined, relegated to mute observer... well...

I reached for the pink, girly ball gag she'd brought with her. Sturdy, designed for the kind of ball-gag-fancying fetishist who really wants to make sure the thing stays put no matter the strenuousness of the action. The leather straps closed under the chin as well as at the back of the head.

She put up a token display of resistance when I told her to open wide. Unconvincing. I know just how much she likes the gag. Ms T watched, amused, not entire sure where this was going, but paying close attention.

Once the gag was in, I hogtied Jessica. Her wrists, secured with rope cuffs, tied to her ankles, and then the position was fixed by attaching the wrists and ankles to the knot in the halter between her breasts. This had the pleasing effect of spreading her legs and putting her pussy on explicit display.

But there would be no touching, not for a while.

With Jessica so thoroughly out of commission, immobilised and silenced, I turned to Ms T and pushed her legs apart, enjoying the view while I reached for the pack of condoms.

Jessica's eyes widened, and Ms T smiled with the pleasure of the exhibitionist.

Our hogtied friend would be getting a show.

I slid my cock inside Ms T and began fucking her slowly, relishing the clasp of her tightness around me, angling our bodies so that Jessica could get a pornographer's view of the proceedings.

In silent agreement to take it slowly, to make sure Jessica would get no reason to hope that this would be a quick, hard fuck - that she wouldn't have to watch and wait for long.

The sounds of her moaning despair gave extra spice to our fucking.

T and I picked up speed and intensity, relishing the sounds of our sidelined friend who was now convinced that she was condemned to her predicament for a long time to come. Through the ball gag, we could hear her starting to beg.

I'm not sure what pushed T over the edge - the moaning begging, the exhibitionism, the fucking... She convulsed with greedy appreciation, grinding herself on my cock in an unmistakable display of pleasure.

Wiggling, writhing against her restraints, I thought Jessica was going to start weeping.

Still riding the waves of her own orgasm, Ms T looked over at her and laughed...

Three (9)

2011-11-18T07:30:00.000Z

At some point Jessica came. That's not particularly significant in itself. She comes a lot. They stack up for her, one after another, a chain of variously powerful bursts of sensation, some more explosive than others.

She's difficult to exhaust. That's one thing the two of them have in common - this orgasmic accumulation without a definite endpoint.

This one gave us occasion for a pause in the proceedings. A moment of relaxation in the middle of things.

T stretched out, enjoying herself while I untied Jessica, loosening the coils of rope, detaching her ankles and wrists from the bedframe, leaving only the halter around her chest.

She leaned back next to T, cozying up, the paired strands of rope snaking around the bed between them.

Jessica smiled as if she'd just gotten away with something. This gave me an idea.

Three (8)

2011-11-17T07:30:00.000Z

Ms. T and I broke off for a kiss and fondle, behind Jessica's back.

They both take profound pleasure in the theatre of sex - dressing to undress. T, now down to her knickers, black holdups and irresponsibly high heels, stalked around us for a moment. I stroked Jessica's defenseless pink bottom while T surveyed her kingsize domain with a mischievous smile.

Her arse in the air, Jessica was enjoying herself serving as the centre of attention.

In wordless coordination, T and I moved into new positions. Jessica's mouth was fetchingly positioned at the edge of the bed. It seemed like an obvious next step to remove my clothes right in front of her nose while T slid a pair of fingers down between Jessica's thighs.

I can't say for sure, not being able to see what was going on over on the other side, but I'm pretty sure that T did not put any fingers inside Jessica until I had stuffed her mouth full of cock from the other direction.

The muffled sound was deep and greedy. Hungry.

Three (7)

2011-11-16T08:00:00.000Z

After the enthusiastic, and well-received lapdance that Jessica had just performed for and on Ms. T, she seemed to be under the impression that she was about to get a reward.

Helping her out of the corset, the two of us reinforced that impression, perhaps not entirely intentionally. We had nipples to play with, after all, and the expression on Jessica's face as she enjoyed the sensation of four hands on her at the same time, unclasping and removing the corset, stroking her freshly liberated breasts and nipples - it was too good to cut short.

She raised her arms, helpfully stretching and accommodating while I looped a simple halter around her chest and behind her neck, leaving the rope trailing from a thick, round knot nestled between her breasts.

"Yes," she breathed when I bent her over, kneeling on the bed. Knickers gone, her bottom and the wet cleft in between were beautifully presented for stroking and fingering.

She closed her eyes and arched her back, lifting her buttocks to enjoy my hands competing with T's over which could find the longest path inwards.

Jessica's directness, her wide-eyed pleading to add one more finger, to lick her there, or fuck her harder, is both entirely honest (she means it when she begs) and a bit like a blinking road signal flashing "detour" with an arrow underneath.

Which is why the obvious choice was to tie her hands together, attach them to one side of the bed, with another length of rope attached to the harness in between Jessica's breasts, pulling in the other direction, wrapped securely around her ankles, then fastened to the side of the bed. Immobile and on display, she was entirely at our mercy.

I slid an experimental finger in between the lips of her pussy. "Would you like some of that?"

"Oooh, yes... please."

The sharp rap of the flat of my hand on the middle of her right buttock came as a surprise to Jessica.

After a while, the handprints forming on her buttocks made me laugh. Obviously coming from two directions, they would reveal to anyone lucky enough to see them the day after that Jessica had been spanked by two different people on either side of her.

She cursed us unconvincingly, loudly enjoying every second of it...

Three (6)

2011-11-15T07:30:00.000Z

I sat down next to Ms. T, the two of us facing Jessica across a small table. The setup seemed perfectly appropriate for the situation. Jessica appeared just a little bit uncomfortable, like she'd dressed up for a date and unexpectedly found herself at a job interview.

She leaned forward, smiling at Ms. T. "I'm so glad to meet you, at last."

Ms. T, sounded like she was enjoying the ever-so slightly surreal sense of meeting a literary character she hadn't quite believed existed, raised her wine glass: "And I've read a lot about you."

Jessica enjoys the theatre of kink - dressing the part, slipping into a role that allows her to play the wide-eyed subbie sex kitten. So it was only fitting that once we'd decided to head upstairs to turn flirtation into action, Jessica's first task was to give a lap dance.

To Ms. T, that is.

I watched from the bed while Jessica did remarkably well with the sinuous teasing moves and the slow unwrapping of her dress. I say "remarkably" because the corset she wore was noticeably (and delightfully) restrictive - it would have been a challenge for a burlesque performer, never mind an exotic dancer. T sat on an armless chair, leaning back like an appreciative customer at a strip club, enjoying the show. Starting with an almost coy display, pulling the hem of her dress up just enough for us to glimpse the pale, smooth skin above the tops of her black stockings, Jessica quickly graduated to the occasional brush of breasts against T's face, and finally the shameless grinding of crotch on thigh.

"Mon," T leaned over to catch my eye. "She's left a wet spot on my leg."

Jessica kept doing what she had been doing.

"Yes. We might have to do something about that."

Three (5)

2011-11-14T07:30:00.000Z

Jessica checked her lipstick in the encircling mirror of the lift on the way down.

I didn't tell her that the abbreviated blowjob she'd just given me was conducted according to Ms. T's specific instructions.

"I want to greet her with a kiss on the cheek, knowing that she's just had your cock in her mouth."

When we entered the bar, Ms. T barely glanced at me. She took in the sight of Jessica, freshly showered and dolled up, with a wide-eyed appreciative smile. I noticed Jessica's intake of breath when she caught her first glimpse of the elegant, long-legged shape of Ms. T coming towards us.

I tried to give Ms. T the knowing look of a man whose cock is still moist and smudged with red lipstick. No luck. She was far too interested in the blonde present I'd just brought her.

I made myself useful at the bar, collecting drink orders and pointing out a convenient table away from the interested ears of the other patrons. Whatever the conversation we were about to have, I wanted to keep it to ourselves.

Three (4)

2011-11-10T08:00:00.000Z

Jessica locked herself in the spacious bathroom with her black bag and a glass of white. I was not invited to join her.

She took her time, emerging only after sustained abuse of the hairdryer, swirling the last of the wine in the glass.

"I have a task for you," I said.

Jessica pulled an unconvincing coy look, head aslant, hands behind her back. "What?"

I unzipped my trousers, pulled out my cock. Already uncomfortably hard from sitting out there, waiting, knowing she was on the other side of the ensuite door. Combining a twinge of frustration and admiration for her successful teasing, I was perfectly happy being on the receiving end. She would soon find out just how frustrated she could get with two people refusing to listen to her beg...

"Get on your knees, please."

Jessica smiled and descended very carefully. High heels and what looked like a satisfyingly tight corset underneath her flouncy black dress seemed to limit her mobility somewhat.

She looked at my erection, then up at my eyes. "Now what?"

My answer was to pull her head towards me. She opened her mouth and took my cock in her mouth with a willing greed that said much about how horny she already was. Her wet mouth folded around me, her eyes closed with smiling enjoyment. Tongue swirling around the sensitive spot beneath the head of my cock, she moaned softly.

"I didn't ask for a tease," I growled. "Suck me like you mean it."

Jessica obeyed, enthusiastically clasping me with tongue and lips, sucking her cheeks in as she pulled back and descended with rhythmic force.

Letting myself go in the pleasure of the moment, I let her continue. When we started I thought I'd just enjoy a little dip, but this was turning into a full-on blowjob...

"Stop, darling. That's enough. Just an appetizer."

Jessica looked up at me like I had cheated her out of something.

"Let's go. It's rude to make girls wait." I put my hand out to help her up.

It was time to make the introductions.

Three (3)

2011-11-08T23:00:00.000Z

The logistics proved to be remarkably involved. In this situation it's important that everyone has a chance to make themselves presentable. Looking at what my improvised bondage-tape blindfold had made of T's mascara, I was grateful that this would not be Jessica's first impression of her.

T. put her clothes on with impressive speed. She had her own room one floor up from mine.

"I'll see you in the bar. Don't let her take too long in the shower…"

When the door shut behind her I pulled my trousers on and texted Jessica.

All this was, in a way, done at her insistence. Sometime in the spring we had met up for a chaste lunch. We hadn't seen each other in a while, and the conversation took an inevitable turn while we were still on our way from tube stop to restaurant. Standing at a busy intersection, waiting for the light to turn green at the pedestrian crossing, Jessica turned to me and said, with profound seriousness, "Mon, you really must organise another threesome."

True, I had introduced her to the pleasure of having more than one pair of hands on her arse at the same time, but I didn't think a repeat experience was so urgent. Clearly, I was mistaken.So, I promised to arrange something as soon as a suitable candidate presented herself. Danielle, who a few months earlier had been ever so helpful and enthusiastic about introducing Jessica to the pleasures of troilism, had moved out of town. There was no easy way to set up a repeat performance.

And then it took a while for the planets to align. When Ms. T mentioned something about exploring her domme side a bit further, I didn't have to think very long about a suitable candidate to bend over, tie up and present to her for a thorough spanking.

Now, sauntering into the room, holding a glass of white wine in one hand and a promisingly large black gym bag in the other, Jessica kissed me hello and admired how much of a mess the room was already in.

Three (2)

2011-11-07T07:30:00.000Z

When she arrived, T. explained in no uncertain terms that she was not to be marked in any way. This sounds straightforward enough, but her skin is delicate, and in the past I have given her swollen red marks with my hands, flogger and paddle. Indelicate treatment, yes, and not only did it start out throbbing and red, but it darkened later on to become tenacious purpe-tinged reminders. T. bruises with such ease that ropes were out of the question. On her, the indentations around wrists, ankles and torso turn into incriminating marks that last for days.

But this day she nevertheless wanted to be tied up, to feel the releasing rush of submission just enough to relax before Jessica would come along, eager to be introduced to someone new at whose feet she could kneel.

In place of rope I brought bondage tape, the remedy of the easily bruised. Flat, stretchy, strong and shiny, it has a sensuous pleasure all its own, a slickness against the sweating skin underneath.

First, I blindfolded her with it.

Then, taking my time, I wrapped it in a long, continuous spiral down T.'s slender, muscular torso. She sank into the sensation gradually as the vinyl covered more and more of her skin, and her arms were pinned ever more securely against her sides.

When the roll ran out I laid T. on her back on the bed, sliding my hand up her thigh from knee to cleft. She was wet from mid thigh on up. Cupping my hand over her pubis, resisting the urge to push a couple of fingers inside, I felt her throb against my palm. Thinking we had all the time in the world, we had arrived at this point in the game at a leisurely pace.

When Jessica rang my mobile, my cock was buried in T's cunt. She had just come, her long legs wrapped around me in a tight grip that she only loosened reluctantly when it became clear that I had to interrupt our fucking in order to answer the phone.

I put the handset down. "OK, stay still. I'm going to cut the tape off."

Had I been a responsible pervert I'd have brought those funky curved scissors paramedics use to cut the clothes off injured people. Instead, I sliced the tape with my penknife, the dull back of the blade leaving a cold trail along the sweating warmth of her skin.

Then I removed the blindfold.

T. looked down at the wrap, spread open on either side of her, and for a moment she seemed almost resentful that I'd removed it. She stood up, skin glistening with sweat, and stretched.

"I think I might need a shower…"

Three (1)

2011-11-06T22:30:00.000Z

I stood naked at the foot of a kingsize hotel bed, phone at my ear, saying to Jessica "you're an hour early."

In front of me, Ms. T. lay stretched out, wiggling helplessly with her arms pinned to her sides, an entire roll of bondage tape encasing her torso from shoulders to thighs.

"No, Mon. I'm ten minutes early. Your clock is an hour late."

It was like organising a very small party. Or a chaperoned blind date where the only thing the participants have in common is me.

Well, maybe not the only thing. They also shared a compelling mutual curiosity about what might happen. And some fantasies. It's a fragile, nervy arrangement that, if it doesn't collapse under the weight of planning and anticipation, might just get us all in bed together.

Almost, but not quite. There's no guarantee that the two strangers involved will get along, just like any other blind date arranged by a helpful mutual friend.

So, there we were. All about to meet one another. Slightly disheveled. And one of us, immobilized and lying across the bed, blindfolded.

This was part of the plan, in a manner of speaking. Stuck at work for a full day, Jessica was unable to join us until late afternoon. I like to imagine her bristling and shifting irritably in her seat, marooned in the mercilessly unprivate expanse of an open plan office, thinking about how we might be staving off boredom while waiting for her to arrive. This fortunate scheduling mismatch, gave T and myself a leisurely moment to wind down. And fuck. Not a hard, urgent fuck - more an appetising awakening of the senses for what lay ahead.

"Can you give us a few minutes?"

Over the phone, Jessica giggled. "I'm in the bar. Let me know when you're decent enough to receive visitors…"

Ribbon

2011-10-02T01:30:00.000Z

The instructions were simple:

I'd like you to wear a ribbon around one ankle for a day. Tied just tight enough for you to feel it. I leave the choice of colour and material to you (myself, I imagine red silk, but this is improvisational - all about contingency and what's available). Put it on in the morning, take it off in the evening. In the meantime, at some point during the day, take a picture of it and email it to me. There's no need for it to be visible. It's our secret aide-mémoire, for you to wear and think about how I'll tie you up next time we meet...

The next time came a few weeks later. She didn't say anything about it. The ribbon peeked out, red, wrapped twice around her ankle, a little trailing end of the bow sticking out from under her black jeans when she bent over, posing obediently while I unwound a hank of rope in front of her....

Lucy Gets Used (5th and final instalment)

2011-09-30T14:30:00.000Z

I pulled out and told Lucy to stick her arse in the air.

"Show me how obedient you can be..." I said, positioning her on the bed, pushing her thighs a bit further apart, casually slipping two fingers in between her slick, plumped-up labia.

"Now, because you're just here for my pleasure, I'm going to modify your cunt a little..."

I lubed up the smaller steel buttplug, and pressed the cold, hard tip against the pucker of her arse. Lucy shivered, wriggled and pressed against it (a bit too eagerly for someone supposedly being used for another's pleasure).

I pulled the toy away. "Hold yoursel open with both hands. Spread for me."

She obeyed, waiting, posed in front of me, kneeling with her face pressed down against the sheet, buttocks raised.

I slid the plug inside, slowly at first, then let her anus swallow it once I'd pushed it inside, past the thickest point.

When I placed my cock against the slick opening of her cunt, she let out a deep, luscious groan that continued while I worked my cock inside her.

The bulge of the plug inside her pressed against the shaft of my cock while I slid in and out of her. "This is nice. I'm enjoying fucking you like this, with a modified pussy. It's like having my own customized sex toy... with tits."

This time I didn't bother holding back.

Fucking her slowly, I relished every stroke selfishly, building up to an orgasm that stretched out in long waves of sensation. I was acutely aware of every millimetre of skin as it passed in and out of her tight warmth, stretched around me and the toy up her arse.

"Maybe I won't kick you out right away," I said, withdrawing. "You have been very good..."

At this point a pause, our sweaty limbs draped ove one another, yet humming with arousal. Hers. Unmet needs, a moist throbbing...

I cupped my hand over the rise of her pubis, fingers seeking out the swollen, wet lips.

Lucy angled her hips, rearranged herself subtly for access. Spread her legs with a smiling purr of anticipation. She wanted hers now.

Between us a subtle change of mood. An urgency in the thusts of her hips against my fingers. The game had been played out. Satisfying as it had been, it was time for a new one. I settled in between her legs, my mouth descending on the swollen pout of her labia.

Feeling like I had all the time in the world, I enjoyed being along for the ride, only stopping when there was no doubt that she'd come as much as she needed to, or wanted.

For now.

Lucy Gets Used (4)

2011-09-29T15:00:00.000Z

I rolled a condom on and nudged the head against Lucy's wet labia from behind, spreading the lubrication around.

"Actually, I don't think I can be bothered to do all the work of fucking you. Sit on top of me."

When she slid down on my cock, Lucy made a soft sound, something between a deep breath and a sigh. Her breasts were in my face, the steel of her barbell piercings cold and hard against my tongue.

Taking one piercing between my teeth, I pulled gently on one nipple. Lucy began to grind down on me in response, enjoying herself.

I grabbed her buttocks for emphasis, controlling the speed. "Just because you're on top doesn't mean I care about your pleasure. This is just me having a wank, using you like a nice soft sex toy."

Lucy, eyes closed, grunted her acknowledgement. I grabbed her hair and pulled her down to whisper in her ear:

"When I'm done, when I've come in your pussy and your mouth to my full satisfaction, I'll kick you out of here. I'm going to treat you like a single-use fuck toy. I won't even let you wipe the cum from between your tits. If you're a good little slut, I'll let you put some clothes on before I throw you out. If not, I'll just push you into the corridor naked and slam the door shut on you - see how well you do finding a cab home with your tits and pussy on display."

Lucy Gets Used (3)

2011-09-28T13:30:00.000Z

Lucy’s pale skin proved remarkably tough, barely reddening at the increasingly hard swipes of my hand. I began by spanking her gently, playfully, gradually building up to harder strokes, louder, enjoying the way she moaned and wriggled at the sting of my touch.

"Does that hurt?" I asked.

"Mmmmhmmm." Lucy was too deeply into the game at this point to say much.

"Do you think I care?"

"Uh uh..."

"Exactly. I don't care about your feelings. You're just a cunt and a mouth to me. If you don't like it, the door's that way. Go find some nice bloke to fuck. Maybe I'll phone up the advertising agency across the way and see if they have any nice blokes who'd like to have their turn when I'm done with you."

Her buttocks got a few more hard strikes. Then I paused for a moment, stroking the reddening skin, pulling her cheeks apart. "Whoever has the tenderest feelings will get to come in your ass. How about that?"

Lucy wiggled. I slid my thumb into her from behind, cupping the swell of her mons, avoiding any contact with her clit.

"It's time for you to make yourself useful. Bend over."

Lucy Gets Used (2)

2011-09-27T20:00:00.000Z

We entered Lucy’s room, and I immediately told her to face the window, hands on the sill.

When she’d assumed the position, I leaned in close to her ear. "You're mine to use. Don't be under any illusions that I like you, or that I'm even attracted to you. To me you're just a pair of big tits, a plump ass, and a wet cunt. The rest is disposable."

The sound of her breath catching at "disposable" made my cock twitch. Lucy hadn't been joking about her turn-ons.

"Feet further apart."

She obliged. I took advantage, pulled the dress up over the swell of her buttocks and cupped one in my hand for a moment before I undid the zipper down the back and pulled her dress up above her head.

The curtains were open. Anyone who looked up at the window from the offices below would notice her - the pale skin with swirls of black tattoos along her arms and down her side.

"Lean forward, fucktoy. Don't be shy. Let the boys down there see some cleavage."

I undid her bra from behind.

"There's no reason to waste such magnificent tits on me alone." The bra fell off her and I pressed her face to the window, holding her by the hair with one hand.

Then I pulled her back. "Come on. You have a cock to suck. Get on your knees and be useful."

Lucy did, and licked her lips mischievously, waiting for me to unzip my trousers.

"Good little fuckslut," I purred when I sank my cock into her mouth. She tried to start slowly.

"You're not here to be delicate. Suck harder, fuck toy." I took a handful of her hair in my fist for emphasis.

"You have a very pretty face. Too bad that I don't care. You're not here for your good looks. You're here for your mouth and your pussy..."

She sucked harder, appreciatively.

"That's not entirely true. Look at me." She looked up, eyes wide. "A good blowjob is even better when there's a pretty face wrapped around a mouthful of cock."

Lucy Gets Used (1)

2011-09-26T22:35:00.000Z

Lucy sent me a crisp, suggestive email: "Tease me in public. Outrageously. Talk filth to me. In private, use me for your own pleasure first."

Mindful of her request, I made sure to spend a bit of time with her out and about when we finally met, so I took her to to lunch like a civilized person would. Of course the topic of conversation veered into filth almost immediately when we sat down.

And stayed there.

Afterwards we wandered off into one of the semi-hidden walled gardens of London to recover from lunch. We sat down on a bench, I took my jacket off, draped it over my lap.

Lucy needed no further encouragement. Sliding up close, she slid her hand underneath, her fingers tracing the outline of my cock through the jeans.

I was hard.

She cupped the bulge, teasing me, pinching the shaft delicately between two fingers, working her way up to the head.

"Will you be taking me to the hotel soon, or do you plan to torture me until my skirt gets soaked through?" Lucy asked, nibbling at my earlobe for emphasis.

"I'm merely acting upon request..."

Lucy laughed. "Yeah. You've certainly made your point."

I stood up, holding the jacket to cover the bulge in my trousers in case anyone was looking.

"Lead the way, miss. After you..."

There were some steps that led out of the garden. I made sure to follow behind her.

"Fuck off. You're just looking at my arse."

There was no credible way of denying that this was exactly what I was doing.

Almost There

2011-06-08T10:00:00.002Z

I licked a puddle of sweat from the groove of her collarbone. Danielle sat on top of me, her wrists tied together behind her back.

She had ridden me like this, grinding down hard, leaning forward while I held her steady, cupping her breasts, pinching her nipples, my palms slick with her sweat.

When she came (again), I felt a rush of warm wetness at the base of my cock. And stillness. Sensitive to the point of pain, she needs a moment after coming, a pause after the frenzy.

(Note on vocabulary: She calls this the cum-cum, which is a distinct type of orgasm, arrived at after a series of precursors, the "little cums" or the "come-agains").

Eyes closed, she rested against my arms, hair tumbling down over her face. "Please come in my mouth. Please."

I extracted myself slowly and wiggled out from under her. She was kneeling, waiting, perfectly still. I stood up, pushed her hair aside.

"Open your mouth."

She hesitated for a second, looking at my cock pointing at her face, condom still on, slick with her juices and a little lube.

This was what she wanted. To taste herself on me.

I grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling her forward, slightly off-balance, and began to fuck her mouth. Danielle opened up, eager to please, sucking hard - enjoying the sense of being used for pleasure.

The orgasm swelling in me, ready to burst in her mouth, I slowed down to enjoy the buildup, controlling the pace with my hand in her hair.

Mischievously, she sped up, sucking hard, exactly at that moment when I would tip over, lose control, have no say in the matter of whether or not the sensations would simply take charge and flush the last remaining drop of willpower out of me with the flood of cum and heat and the irresistible softness of her mouth and tongue, demanding...

Afterwards, I stayed put in her mouth, recovering, the aftershocks flashing through me with every lazy stroke of her tongue across the underside of my cock.

She seemed content to stay like that for as long as I liked.

I took advantage.

Appointment

2011-05-28T12:02:00.016Z

Punctual, she was there when I walked into the lobby of the hotel. She had already made herself comfortable with a newspaper, reading intently. Dressed for a casual day out: Tight black jeans and a figure-hugging top, a necklace of pearls providing a delicate contrast.

We did not acknowledge one another in the slightest.

I went to the check-in desk, got the key, then strolled out of the front door to the shop across the street to buy a large bottle of sparkling water. We'd need it later.

Then I returned, sat down and ordered a coffee. Busied myself with my email while I drank it. All this while comfortably leaning back on a sofa directly in her sightline, a mere 3 metres between us.

She read the paper. I stroked my mobile. The coffee was delicious. I savoured it, taking measured sips while watching her out of the corner of my eye.

Following instructions to the letter, she didn't so much as glance my way.

After fifteen minutes or so of this, I zipped up my bag and stood up, making my way to the lifts in a leisurely fashion. Following behind, she called the lift, and I followed her inside and pressed the button for the correct floor.

I had my back to her. The first hint of recognition she gave was a heavy release of breath, when the lift stopped, like relief...

Leading the way down the corridor, I didn't look behind me but the sound of her heels on the carpet followed to the door.

Entering behind me, she took her jacket off and placed herself at the end of the bed. Legs spread slightly, she bent over, resting her hands on the soft white bedding. Back arched, buttocks up.

"Well done!" I complemented her as I sat down on the small sofa at the foot of the bed. The curtains of the room were open. I could see a man at the window across the courtyard, immersed in his laptop. He only had to glance over to notice the unmistakeable shape of long legs, black against the white of the bed. Bent over in anticipation, vibrating with the promise of pleasures to come.

I didn't close the curtains right away, enjoying the possibility of someone seeing her like this while I asked her pointed questions about her masturbatory habits for the past couple of days.

Forty-eight hours earlier, I had specifically requested that she avoid any and all self-stimulation, and under no circumstances was she to allow herself orgasms.

She had managed eight hours of the allotted period.

I think I managed to convey just enough dismay at this while I enjoyed her meticulously detailed description of the urgently-needed self-pleasuring she'd indulged in (and, needless to say, she'd enjoyed even more for having been forbidden to do so).

Fortunately, she had brought some disciplinary devices. A paddle, blindfold, and rope. All of which would prove necessary. I had brought her a present: A rubber ball gag, man-size, from a leather-fetishy gay sex shop.

Later, after I had closed the curtains, she stood naked, hands secured behind her back, attached to a rope halter around her chest, waiting while I punched an extra hole in the leather strap of the ball gag with a corkscrew helpfully provided by the hotel.

Her buttocks were already pink when I pushed the ball gag into her mouth and cinched it tightly around her head. By the time we were done, they would be sprouting purplish bruises that would last a couple of days.

The rope halter stayed on, a little tail snaking down from the base of her spine. It made for a very useful grip to pull on when I fucked her from behind, with force, the wet sound of my cock filling her cunt pushing me over the edge, the orgasm blasting through my entire body, released with an exceptionally powerful rush for having been held back, restrained for hours.

And then an almost unbearable sensitivity, every nerve ending phoning in at the same time, complaining about overstimulation. I pulled her tightly to me by the rope tail wound around my hand: "Do. Not. Move."

She obeyed, mercifully.

The moment passed. I let go, collapsing into the mess around us on the bed. For a moment the inside of my head felt like a snow flurry was blowing through...

Finding out...

2011-04-25T22:04:00.000Z

We begin with departure, my hand on the door handle, reluctantly dressed and ready to leave, looking at Ms. T stretched across the bed on her stomach, her black seamed stockings still on, a swirl of white rope draped around and under her across the width of the bed.

I left feeling like I had eaten an exquisite three-course meal at a restaurant, only to discover upon leaving that I'd merely ordered a couple of starters.

In a sense, this is what we had agreed upon all along. Starters. Sampling, not dining.

Sitting down on the strangely shaped sofa at the foot of the gigantic hotel bed, her legs invitingly parted, she reminded me of what I already knew.

"I need to be told…"

I obliged by giving a few instructions. Posing, unwrapping the black dress, showing me exactly how neatly she had managed to straighten those seams. Before, I had already told her what I expected her to wear. In particular, forbade any self-pleasure for a 48-hour period. No orgasms, no masturbation, no stroking of her freshly depilated cunt.

A few simple instructions, and then a little bondage. That was all we had planned.

By the time I unwrapped the white rope and ran the doubled end down across her nipple, I could feel the buzz of her arousal, resonating along with mine. When I looped the rope around her chest, T. arched and stretched, already growling with frustration that there was a limit to how much stimulation she would get for a while.

Her knickers were still on. She knew what she was in for. Enjoying the frustration of the tease.

I wrapped a sturdy halter around her, placing a knot between her breasts. Her limbs, pliable and cooperative, were easy to arrange. First I tied her ankles together, then attached them to her wrists, cuffed tightly together with the remaining length of doubled-up rope.

T. tensed, folded up, her slim body and long legs struggling… "Test it. Feel the tightness." She stretched out, pulling against the ropes as instructed, eyes closed, mouth open.

My fingers traced the edge of the black silk covering her pubis. I rested two fingertips against the wet spot gathering near her perineum. T. growled, and I had the uncanny sensation that if she wasn't so tightly bound I might not be entirely safe.

I teased her with my fingers, stroking her exposed bottom, nibbling at her nipples, marvelling at the ease with which she succumbed to the pleasures of the restraints.

Eventually, I untied her, changed the configuration of her limbs, gave her a chance to stretch out a little more. She groaned with the frustration of being untied and the anticipation of whatever would happen next.

I held back on everything, not letting her come when she could, not finger fucking her as hard as she would want, not spanking her with the force and violence that I suspected she wanted. Suspected, but wasn't sure. It was her first time trussed up for sex. I wanted her to get acquainted with these sensations, learn to appreciate them.

And the thing is, I wanted to taste her frustration. I had her bent over on the bed, hands tied together, anchored to the sturdy frame, buttocks sticking out for spanking. After hitting her a few times, building up force and speed, taking my time to see if she was into this.

She needed this - to be swallowed up by sensation, submerged in its intensity. And this was just a taster - we were nowhere near the limits of what she could take.

I never quite believe anyone who tells me about the capaciousness of their limits, their appetite for pain or even just the private theatre of submission. It may be what they want to believe, the thing that fuels a fantasy, but it might not be meant to be played out. T. did not seem to be worried about that possibility - she's not the type to sneak up on her own fantasy when she can just dive right in. Direct, fearless, she seemed to relish every sensation - harder, tighter, more intense...

Leaving her room, I almost regretted having been too careful; I could have been a lot less nice to her. Next time, I'm planning to get at least to within a shouting distance of her limits.

Glimpse

2011-04-23T13:11:00.002Z

One of those strikingly erotic sights that flashes back to me with throbbing force every now and then, especially in masturbatory daydreams, is a passing glimpse.

Not the sustained, dwelling voyeurism of which I am so fond, but a look caught on the move: Kim was sitting on a sofa next to a man we had just met, a fuckbuddy of Danielle's summoned to her living room to provide a bit of additional frisson and surprise (in case a threesome wasn't quite enough for her). He put his hand on her knee and ran it leisurely up the inside of her thigh, pushing her skirt up.

She spread her legs, smiling at the two of us walking past on our way to Danielle's bedroom. His hand reached its destination, cupping the triangle of fabric. Kim tipped her head back and opened her lips in a soft moan.

And then we were past them, her sounds following us up the stairs.

Show me

2011-04-02T22:33:00.002Z

I told her this fantasy later, after a short cab ride on a dark, chilly evening. It bears absolutely no relation to reality beyond that. It's merely my way of enjoying the sense-memory of her physical presence. We remained prim and proper throughout, nothing but hints exchanged that evening.

Thinking about it after we said a chaste goodbye with a peck on the cheek, I imagined our journey differently. Instead of sitting next to me on the back seat, she would sit down across from me with her back to the driver.

That's the way it starts. She gets in, and flashes me briefly as she sits down, parting her legs and smiling conspiratorially.

Looking at her, I tell her to give me a show, to pull up the hem of her white knit dress, and then spread her legs, touch herself.

The way I imagine it, she wouldn't wear knickers. Instead, she would slowly unveil, pulling the dress up to show me the white skin above the black tops of her stockings. Shy at first, she would stroke herself, from the insides of the thighs, progressing to her labia, teasing herself, wet lips glistening in the light of the streetlamps passing by.

The cab ride would be much longer than the all-too brief minutes that it lasted in reality. She would have time to masturbate languidly in front of me, showing me the wet fingers, giving me a taste of her juices, two fingers circling her clit while she held up the front of the dress to give me a better view.

She would come, almost against her will, suppressing the sounds of her pleasure, trying not to alert the driver to what's happening. Then she'd close her legs, smooth down the front of the dress, and very deliberately lick every finger clean.

In my lingering, slow fantasy the cab ride doesn't end - merely slows down, folding itself around her tongue circling her fingers.

Ships passing

2011-03-06T13:04:00.002Z

It was her first, unsatisfactory foray into adultery.

One cold winter I stayed at a chunky tower on the edge of the harbour of a European city. The weather was horrid, lashing wind and rain, but up on the 19th floor it was barely audible. Looking out the large windows over the city centre felt like standing in a separate world - adjacent to and overlooking the real one, just a lot quieter.

This room was made to have sex in. The bed was enormous, comfortable, and the variety of sturdy furniture (sofa, chair, desk) brought out the mischievous beast in me.

Then I found myself in bed with the wrong woman.

Tall, built like a Helmut Newton model, with close-cropped blonde hair that made her look like a particularly beautiful butch lesbian. I gravitated to her like a man who knows he has a large hotel room at his disposal.

We chatted over drinks. It turned out that she was merely a butch straight woman. She gave all the right signals, came up to my room without much discussion. In bed she sucked me enthusiastically and fucked me, sitting on top with my cock buried inside her and two fingers circling her clit.

She was very quiet. And there was something else - a sense of vulnerability, that despite the impression of physical strength, she had to be treated gently.

Only afterwards could I taste fully the astringency of her guilt, her postcoital inability to look me in the eye, the aversion to touch, the quick dash to the shower.

Weirdly, she came back the next night, for a quick, quiet, almost sad fuck. I should have said no, but she was just too beautiful to say no to.

She came with a clenched grunt, again on top of me.

Immediately, there was a sense of helplessness about her. As if she was slightly terrified, having had her orgasm, she was now faced with a man with a hard cock and little idea about how to make him come. She took me in her mouth, but daintily, struggling against me, and choking when I moved my hips with some pre-orgasmic urgency. She didn't want it. I pulled back.

The big disappointment for me wasn't the sex. It was the lack of noise. I felt like we hadn't used the room to its full potential. We should have tested the sturdy walls with our animal joy.

Orgiasts

2011-03-03T22:36:00.003Z

Being the tease that she is, Florence wanted to have sex with me while a group of people (men, she wanted lots of men) watched us. So she made arrangements for going to a sex club.

That's how I found myself in a room illuminated only with blacklight, on a large bed with four people on it. Florence sat on top of me grinding herself to the evening's orgasm (she's not a multiple-O kind of girl, normally, more a long-buildup-big-explosion type) while surrounded by men with towels around their middles, some stroking themselves lazily, watching her from behind.

Helpfully, I prised her buttocks apart for a better view while a couple of them leaned forward for a closer look at my cock thrusting into her - pussy twitching, mouth open in the pure expression of sensation washing through her.

We retired to the "lounge", a brightly lit chillout space with leather sofas encircling the room and a couple of large plasma screens showing porn. There, in the middle of one of the sofas sat a couple, probably just arrived, kissing. She was slim, petite, blonde and seemed to be in her early/mid-twenties - very pretty. He was a fit-looking early 40s type, wearing a suit. She had on a schoolgirl uniform of sorts - blouse, short tartan skirt, knee-high white socks, stripper heels.

When we entered the room he had her hand between her spread legs and his tongue in her mouth. An audience was already clustering around them, eyeing them expectantly.

Florence and I sat down to watch, still a bit dizzy from having just come moments before. The Boyfriend and the Orgiast were enjoying the attention, making a display of themselves. Their audience grew, quietly gathering to enjoy the view.

"I want to see them fuck," whispered Florence.

She didn't have long to wait. The Boyfriend unzipped his trousers and pulled the Orgiast's head down on his cock with practiced roughness. She opened wide and began sucking him enthusiastically. A bit too fast. He slowed her down by pulling on her hair, controlling the pace. He was not in a rush.

By now they had an attentive audience of men with hard cocks pointing in their direction. Had I not been watching them through a post-orgasmic haze of my own, I probably would have found the Boyfriend's supercilious expression a bit irritating. Despite the vague sense of dislike, my cock was beginning to stir.

The Boyfriend ordered his companion to stand and pull her skirt up. She did, facing the audience. Slowly, he pulled her white panties down, revealing her pale, smooth pubis, folded around a delicate line of pink where her labia peeked out. He stroked the pink slit with two fingers, making them wet before he brought them to her mouth to suck off the glistening juices.

Then he grabbed the back of her neck and gently bent her over the sofa so that her arse was in full view of the audience. Theatrically, he lifted her short little skirt to give everyone a better view. After all, this was a performance, and they were enjoying themselves.

The hard cocks of the assembled men twitched in anticipation when Boyfriend pointed to the guy sitting closest to them, gesturing him to come forward. The expression on his face was like he'd just won the lottery. The boyfriend watched him roll on a condom, then instructed him sotto voce to fuck her cunt, if he pleased.

That's what I imagine, anyway. I only heard a muttering "...cunt ...please."

While he did this, the rest of the audience quietly arranged themselves into a queue - around 15 men all in all.

My own companion leaned forward, porn enthusiast that she is, and watched the Orgiast get fucked from behind. The first guy lasted only a few strokes, coming within seconds with a subdued grunt of disappointment. He withdrew, and another immediately took his place, the Boyfriend directing traffic, making sure proper condom etiquette was adhered to.

I heard him advise the next man to take it easy.

They settled into a rhythm of thrusting, coming, the next one stepping up, then the next, and the next...

Some of the men took longer than the others, and the Orgiast seemed to respond to that - bracing herself, pushing against the thrusts, moaning. The Boyfriend would sometimes lean forward to kiss her on the mouth while she was being fucked, grabbing her by the hair, and whispering something in her ear while the next man in the queue went to work on her.

After a while, and I don't know exactly when, because I was distracted by Florence stroking my cock with a lubricated hand, the Boyfriend must have begun directing the guest cocks towards the Orgiast's asshole. There was a sudden sharpness to her moans, a hint of pain, but it quickly settled into a routine.

Florence whispered to me "they're fucking her up the ass. Fuck, that's hot."

We got up to accommodate the shifting arrangements of waiting fuckers and spent fuckers, all circling the centre of gravity that was the couple on the sofa. From this new perspective I could see the Orgiast's face properly, and her unfocused expression. She was into this, deeply under the sway of the Boyfriend's instructions and the rhythm of the conga line of men fucking her one after the other.

A man withdrew, and in the pause between his retreat and another thrusting into her, she tensed, mouth open, eyes closed, biting her lip while she waited for the next.

The supply of fuckers was coming to an end. The last one, over-excited and fumbling slid inside her - I couldn't see which orifice - and came with a whimper, apologising to the Boyfriend as he withdrew. He smiled reassuringly and flipped the Orgiast's skirt down, as if pulling the curtain.

No more show.

The Orgiast got up, unsteady, not really taking in her surroundings. She was floating. I recognised it, the throbbing, warm, buzz of pushing beyond, pushing inwards. The Boyfriend put his arm around her and led her down the stairs, unsteady on her heels.

Florence and I left soon after them. It seemed improper somehow to leave right away. Stepping into the brisk cold night, she took a deep breath. "What did we just witness?" she asked, slipping her hand into the crook of my arm. I can't remember my answer, but it can't have been half as interesting as the question itself.

Inspection

2011-02-18T18:42:00.002Z

Betty and I had an evening appointment, arranged days in advance. I didn't know that she'd been out before I rang her doorbell. She came to the door wearing an elegant, tailored cocktail dress, black. Bare legs. High heels.

And something else, also black, which she had texted me about 20 mins. earlier.

"I'm here for the inspection," I said by way of greeting, shut the door behind me and instructed her to bend over the back of the sofa.

She obeyed, waiting while I unpacked a few important items from by bag and put them down on the table behind her, cataloguing them meticulously for her: a pack of condoms, a bottle of lube, a ball gag.

The gag went in first. I recall a slight twinge of regret that I didn't get her one with a white ball - the black that I went with looked good, but the white would have gotten delightfully smeared with her lipstick when I put it in.

Having secured the gag I turned to her hands, pulling her wrists behind her back and fastening them together with a cuff made from my own necktie.

Then I pulled the cocktail dress up, stroking her bare legs along the way, gathering the tight material around her hips, framing the fullness of her pale buttocks. She wasn't wearing underwear. However, she was wearing the butt plug she'd texted me about earlier - a black, hand-poured silicone delight I had given her for her birthday a few months earlier.

She moaned when the first slaps landed on her buttocks. I ignored the protests, spanking her progressively harder while her bum turned redder, and her pussy went from wet to wetter.

I paused to check every now and then, opening her up with both hands to inspect the throbbing, dripping problem that was developing between her legs.

Betty wiggled, desperate for the touch (but she would have been disappointed if I'd obliged her with fingers and tongue).

Then I unceremoniously rolled on a condom and sank my cock into her. She's a sneaky one - even when incapacitated like that, she'll wiggle and manoeuvre to get an orgasm when I'm trying to deny her one.

When she seemed close to coming, I pulled all the way out.

She screamed through the gag.

To give her a little more, I pulled the buttplug gently out and daubed some lube around the puckered little opening while she continued to growl her protests.

While I slid my cock in where the the black silicone plug had been, I noticed that her moans changed. She was trying to speak through the gag, saying something about her clit.

"You want me to touch your clit?"

Uh-huh. She nodded.

"While I fuck your arse?"

Uh-huh. More nodding.

"That's tough."

More fucking. I gradually picked up the pace, giving in to my own enjoyment. Betty loves being taken like this, hard, and with a pair of fingers or a vibrator to her clit at the same time she'll have the most amazing series of screaming, neighbour-rousing orgasms.

But not this time.

"Maybe you'll get to come later," I remarked, in the flattest tone I could manage. After a few deep strokes for my benefit, I pulled out, removed the condom and stroked myself, my balls brushing against the pink globe of one buttock while I pumped out a load of splattery white cum all over the bundled-up dress around her hips.

Betty had not come yet.

I pulled the gag out of her mouth. "You fucker. You selfish fucking prick, you came... Did you cum all over my dress you selfish bastard?" (This is a rough reconstruction of her exact words. I have lousy memory for dialogue under such circumstances).

I kept her hands tied for a while longer, talking about how I was cleaning up, straightening my clothes and getting ready to leave.

I think she really believed me, at least for a moment.

When I finally started fingering her in a way that would push her over the edge, she kept saying "fuck yes, fuck yes, fuck yes..." in a steady stream, intensified by the animal groans of her release.

Apparently, her local dry cleaner was very understanding about the large cum-and-lube-stain on the back of her black gown.

Built to spill on

2011-01-31T23:31:00.000Z

We heard her flatmates coming home earlier than expected. Jessica glanced nervously at the door to see if it was properly shut.

They were right outside, and they'd brought giggling girlfriends with them.

She said I had to leave, but only offered token resistance when I pushed her head down on my cock.

I fucked her mouth, standing on the bed with her hair bundled in one hand, spilling my come over her breasts and thighs, making sure she'd have to spend a while in front of the mirror checking herself for white dollops in her cleavage.

She sighed: "You sadistic fuck." Approvingly.

Drive carefully

2011-01-23T20:12:00.002Z

For a moment we waited outside the hotel entrance, huddled against the cold wind coming off the North Sea until our ride pulled up. Jill got into the backseat of the car with me - her husband was at the wheel.

Sticking her head in between the seats she kissed Jack on the cheek. He sniffed her: "Did you shower after you fucked?"

I said "yes," she said "No fucking way." He laughed.

It was a half hour drive or so to their house from my hotel in the city centre. It was freezing outside, and the idea had seemed just a little mad half an hour before: Get out of the warm bed with it's crumpled sheets and wet spots, put on clothes, get in the car and drive to their house to watch the woman I had just fucked in every single orifice of her body have even more sex with her husband (this was not our first date, in case you're wondering).

"How was she?" asked our driver. He looked at me in the rearview mirror, conspiratorial.

"You have a filthy wife, Mr. Jack." She was sitting close to me, positioned squarely in his eyeline. I could see what they were up to, and started to unbutton her coat.

"I know... Did you take pictures?"

Jill laughed and said they were on her mobile. She'd email them to Jack and me over the next few days at inconvenient times while we were at work hundreds of miles apart. I like to imagine he was as distracted as I was when she dropped them into our mailboxes like horny little thrill bombs.

Their northern city was freezing on this crisp November night. I had arranged to meet Jill early in the evening at a bar near the hotel. She'd done a good job combining sexy with the frosty wind. A long, black coat, tight wool jumper underneath, long skirt, knee boots, black stockings and suspenders. She'd dressed while I was in the shower. Now I pushed her skirt up and spread her legs, stroking the soft skin of her upper thigh. Looking down, I noticed that she hadn't quite managed to put all her clothes back on.

"I'm returning her in excellent condition," I told our driver. "Although, I'd be obliged if you could inspect her thoroughly at the earliest opportunity. Her arse may be a little red.

Jill laughed. "Fucking hell, I've got welts! He spanked me with his belt when I refused to suck his cock."

This distracted our driver. "Really?"

"Yes," she said, spreading her legs as wide as she could, my hand wandering around her inner thigh. Jack had real trouble looking straight ahead without staring into the rearview mirror, following the progress of my fingertips up to her plump labia, on clear display when she leaned back in the seat to enjoy my two fingers circling the hard nub of her clit - never touching, just teasing.

"Mon, I'd be much obliged if you'd tie her up for me when we get home."

"Certainly," I said. "It would be rude not to, with all your hospitality." My fingers sank into Jill's wet warmth, drenched with anticipation. "Just drive carefully..."

The problem

2011-01-13T17:26:00.001Z

"You want to know why I have trouble finding sexually dominant men?"

I hadn't asked, but I was up for hearing the answer anyway. Tanya was standing in the middle of the hotel room, wrapped in a towel, drying her shoulder-length curly brown hair, and I was stretched out on the bed, suffering postcoital brain-paralysis and moaning that I wasn't in the mood to shower and go out into the cold evening. The wet streets of London don't look appealing from this perspective.

"You've got better muscle definition than most guys. We're gentle creatures - we spook easily." Tanya is no stranger to the inside of a gym. I had my suspicions about what she did for a living - just from her body language and manner - but at this stage in our relationship we hadn't discussed that in any detail.

"You have no fucking idea," she sighed.

I sat up and started gathering the coils of rope scattered around the bed, winding them into tight cylindrical shapes that wouldn't take up too much space in her bag alongside the dildo, buttplug, blindfold and the narrow leather spanking paddle. All of these had just been used on her to delightful effect.

"Can I show you something?" Tanya was done with the hair, the bath towel still wrapped around her.

"Sure."

"Try to get this towel off me in a... you know, forcible manner."

I stood up, stretched lazily, in the most unthreatening manner I could muster.

"What do you mean? Like..." I lunged at the knot holding the towel up. "This?"

She stepped aside, fast. I followed, reaching for the knot again, and just at that moment of not-quite-balanced stepping forward she caught my wrist and spun me around so I landed face down on the bed, helpless with my arm behind my back in a way that could get painful if she wanted it to.

"I see your point," I said. Tanya let go.

I turned around, stretching my arm to check if it was all there, and she laid down next to me.

"So, I guess you go to the gym for professional reasons."

She laughed. "Yes."

"What have I done to deserve this, then? I tied you up wrong or something?"

"No." Tanya tried not to sound too serious, but failed. "It was good. And I'd like to do it again... but, you know... next time, could you spank me a bit harder?"

Everything?

2010-12-28T23:07:00.002Z

In the darkened hotel room I grabbed the back of Justine's neck and kicked the door shut. Silently I marched her to the window and pulled the curtains aside. The thick glass in front of us reached from floor to ceiling. Looking into the courtyard of the hotel, we could see identical rows of curtained windows stacked on top of one another nine floors down and another five or six up.

Justine whimpered and I told her to shut up. Rudely. "You're worried someone might see you?"

She nodded, looking at me in the mirror of the window pane.

"You think I care?"

She bit her lip, shaking her head silently from side to side.

"Strip." I said this flatly, pretending I didn't care if she did or not.

"Like this?" she asked. "Here?"

"Yes. Here. Start with your blouse..."

She began to undo the buttons. The dark fabric contrasted nicely with the pale skin of her breasts, encased in a black bra.

To amuse myself while I watched her do this, I pulled her skirt up from behind, stroking her naked skin above her stockings, below the edge of her lacy knickers.

Justine had taken great care when she dressed for our date. Knowing her, she spent a leisurely hour selecting a skirt, jacket, blouse, the right lingerie.

She pulled the skirt down and turned around, still wearing her stockings, underwear and heels. "Would sir like me to take everything off?"

"Everything," I confirmed. "And face the window, please."

When it was done, she leaned forward, palms against the cool glass. My hand hovered over the pale curve of her buttocks, waiting to strike.

"I've never felt so naked..."

No pain

2010-11-21T17:31:00.003Z

She doesn't like pain. A bit of humiliation, a lot of bondage, but if asked she'll say no - pain's not her thing.

Except for her nipples. I brought her a pair of hefty adjustable nipple clamps attached with a chain. The first time we tried them, she made appreciative noises when I put them on her while she had her hands tied behind her back, sitting on a chair with her breasts thrust forward for easy access. Is that it? she asked when I had loosened the screws completely, and her nipples were feeling the full pinch.

I left them on a while, pulling the chain and playing with it, testing her appetite for this stimulation. Then I removed them without warning, and she yelped.

"You bastard!" she said when I reached down between her thighs...

Some weeks later we were in her bedroom. It's a small room, and doesn't offer many options for tying up a tall girl, but I'd made her kneel down at the side of the bed, and attached her to it by a halter tie around her torso, her hands behind her back. Quite secure, and necessary, because when I spanked her, she wiggled around very energetically. The wiggling didn't get any less energetic when I picked up a slender length of cane I found in the bag of toys she kept at the foot of the bed.

It made a very nice whoosh and a loud thwack against the pink, flushed skin of her buttocks. And her pleas took on an added urgency, particularly when calling me a bastard. She persisted until I slid my cock into her from behind and reached around to stroke her clit while I fucked her.

The puddle she left on the floor from coming was impressive.

Again, at a later time when we hadn't had much opportunity for play for a while, we spent an afternoon together at a hotel with a large bed and very sturdy anchor points. I tied her stretched across the bed, her hands bound over her head, legs spread wide and attached to the corners of the frame. Very secure. I blindfolded her, saying something about how she needed a good tease, pinched her nipples, and stroked the inside of her thighs in a way that suggested that I might just let go of my restraint and fuck her in this position.

Despite gagging her, I could tell there was surprise the noises she made when I began to attach soft-grip clothespins to the sensitive, pale skin of the inner thigh, creating a line on each side from the stocking-tops to her crotch.

I took my time. No rush. She wiggled helplessly against the ropes, desperately trying to close her legs against the encroaching row of pinching little jaws. What she couldn't see, being blindfolded, was that the clothespins perfectly matched the pink knickers and bra set she had on, and more importantly she had no idea that they were all linked together with a narrow white string.

"How does that feel?" I asked, facetiously.

Having her mouth stuffed full of pink ball gag, she seemed to have a remarkable lot to say. Probably calling me a bastard, but who could tell under the circumstances? I took an educated guess.

"Yes," I agreed and pulled all the pinchy little pink clothespins loose from her left thigh with one sharp yank on the string.

She screamed. Even with the gag, this was quite a loud noise.

I decided, since she was screaming and thrashing around anyway, that this would be a good time to pull the other row off.

When the angry, muffled noises subsided, I pulled the gag out of her mouth.

"You bastard," she huffed.

Having spent so much time between her legs already, I dipped in and circled her clit with my tongue a few times. It felt like I had given her head for only a few seconds when she started thrusting into my face and came loudly and powerfully.

So yeah, she's not into pain. Definitely not her thing, apart from the big orgasms and the puddles of girl-cum.

Teenage Kicks

2010-11-14T16:09:00.004Z

Danielle met me at the rail station on a cold, damp afternoon. Her long brown hair was wet from the shower, and bravely she was wearing only black lingerie and holdup stockings under her long winter coat. She flashed me very discreetly as a greeting, as if I needed any further incentive to follow her home.

It was a couple of months since we'd seen each other, so we had to catch up a bit. Lounging on her sofa with some red wine, we chatted while my clothes came off gradually, item by item, to match her state of near-undress. She did have a head start on me.

We both love the teasing anticipatory pleasure of taking it slowly, but restraint can only take you so far. Neither one of us managed to finish a full glass of wine before Danielle was leaning back on the sofa with her legs spread and knickers pushed to the side to accommodate my tongue and fingers in her pussy. I slid a couple of digits inside and rubbed in a come-hither gesture while I circled her clit with my tongue.

When she came, she locked her fingers behind my head, grinding against my face in a messy, slick frenzy.

My face was covered in her juices when I got up, and she laughed at the sight of me.

And then she said she really, urgently wanted to suck my cock. We had barely settled in, me lying back on the sofa, Danielle devouring me with slurpy and appreciative noises, when I started feeling unusually sensitive. She paused, we took it easy for a bit, went up to her bedroom, cooled things down a bit while we removed the rest of my clothes and hunted for condoms.

Danielle was impatient at this point. Once she's had enough of being teased, she's a hard woman to persuade to take it easy. She wanted cock, now. Being the assertive sort, she bent over the end of the bed, her bum in the air and pulled her buttocks apart to show me exactly how wet her pussy was. I obliged, and took her slowly from behind.

This turned out to be an unwise move. Fucking her like this, suddenly the hair trigger got out of control and I couldn't help it - I had a reluctant, irresistible and very satisfying orgasm.

Danielle is, among her other good qualities, a generous and good-humoured playmate. Like the mischief-maker she is, when I said something like "Oh, shit, stop... I don't want to come!" she clenched her muscles around my cock, wiggled her bum and seemed to enjoy tripping me up with a slightly premature orgasm.

She didn't seem too worried about being left frustrated and horny. We lounged around for a bit on her bed, and I made up for the hair trigger with a bit more tongue action. Taking our time, stroking, fingering, slapping some ass and enjoying each other's naked bodies, I eventually developed another erection. Danielle immediately made very good use of my cock by riding me so hard that I had sore thighs for two days afterwards.

It was dark by the time we made our way down her street to a corner pub for a late dinner. She found us a seat while I got the drinks. When I brought them to the table she looked at me and giggled.

"What?" I asked.

"Oh, just thinking about your little problem this afternoon. It's so cute - this is what it must be like fucking a teenager."

Exercise: The very slow spread

2010-10-10T01:18:00.000Z

Someone emailed me recently to remind me that I had promised to write more "exercises". Being the lazy blogger I am, I procrastinated until I had a phone chat with Audrey, who I haven't seen naked in far too long, and was reminded of how much she loves the slow, flirtatious tease.

So this is an exercise for someone who might need a bit of teasing in her life.

If she's a bit starved for cock, make sure you do not give her what she wants right away. Take her out to lunch, for example, and make idle chit-chat for as long as possible. Give her appreciative glances, flirt, and make sure to touch her - discreetly, of course - a stroke of the thigh here, a touch on the buttocks there.

Take your time. There should be no rush.

Once you're alone, keep your clothes on as long as you can stand it. Kiss. Long, lingering, urgent...

Strip her down to whatever fetching undergarments she has on. Heels, stockings, lingerie - they're all good. But if it's cold outside and all she's got on is thermal undies, naked will do just fine.

Keep your own clothes on, particularly if you're feeling the effects of all this yourself and there's an obvious bulge at the front of your trousers, crying out to be uncovered and sucked by a willing, hungry mouth.

But not yet.

Now, sit her on the edge of the bed and apply the blindfold. She's being looked at, but she can't look back. That's the point, and just to make it absolutely clear, I'd probably tell her this while stepping back to enjoy the view.

By the time she gets to spread her legs, she should be desperate for a touch. Anything.

Go on. You know you will want to taste her. Indulge.

Care Less, Fuck More

2010-09-15T23:05:00.000Z

Sometimes I simply have no power of resistance. I imagine, in some deeply self-deceiving way, that I am in control, and most of the time I maintain the illusion. But sometimes it just melts in the heat of lust.

This time it started well. I visited Jessica in her attic flat in West London, a bottle of nice wine and a couple of hanks of red rope in my bag. She greeted me theatrically at the door wearing an all-black lingerie ensemble that involved a corset, seamed stockings, high heels and a vintage dress that she took off almost immediately after letting me into the flat.

We had a few perfunctory sips of wine in the lounge before we moved to her bedroom. "Please fuck me," she pleaded and bent over her bed with her voluptuous ass sticking out.

"You want me to fuck you?"

"Yes please."

I had her kneel next to the bed so that her shoulders rested on the mattress. Then I tied her hands behind her back, using a simple rope cuff tie and stuck a ball gag in her mouth, secured in place with a leather strap.

"Too bad for you. I don't care what you want, but can beg as much as you like."

Jessica moaned against the obstruction in her mouth. I spanked her with the flat of my hand until my palms hurt and her buttocks were red. She wiggled so much that I had to hold her down by the back of her neck. Then I took out the short, narrow bit of cane I discovered in her bag of toys, in between the gags and the vibrators. It made a satisfyingly loud swoosh just before it cracked against the soft globes of her bottom.

The wiggling and moaning turned into thrashing and subdued screams. Good thing I gagged her.

My problem, particularly with Jessica, is that I simply don't have enough self-control to resist taking advantage of her wet little pussy or her accommodating mouth, even when I'm making every effort to tease and refuse her the relief of my fingers, tongue or cock.

This was very much the case that evening. Having left a few throbbing red stripes across her bum, I dropped the surprisingly useful miniature cane and slid a finger in between her thighs.

"You reprobate. I punish you, and this is what happens." I smeared her juices around her labia and inner thighs, avoiding her clit while I did so.

She wiggled and whined some more, seeking out my fingers with her rotating hips. I couldn't resist rubbing her a little bit. The moans were loud and grateful.

That did it. My powers of resistance were gone. I stood up, stripped and grabbed a condom. Jessica protested impatiently at my feet until I spread her buttocks and slid my cock slowly into her from behind.

Her reaction was immediate and gratifying. Her pussy squeezed around my cock as I pushed all the way in and began to fuck her in a slow, steady rhythm. After a while, I leaned over and reached around to stroke her from the front while taking her from behind. The effect was immediate and intense. Instead of the wiggling and moaning she was seized with a sudden stillness, concentrating. Enjoying the twitches of her cunt, I slid my wet fingers gently up and down her clitoral shaft while thrusting into her as hard as I could.

Jessica came hard, drenching my fingers with a sudden burst of her juices. When I looked down I noticed a glistening wet spot on the rug underneath.

I pulled the gag out of her mouth, and she laughed. "Fuck... that's never happened before."

"Yeah. You seem to have a puddle on your floor."

She reached for her wine glass. "I don't care..."

Not quite yet

2010-09-07T22:05:00.003Z

The first thing I noticed were the very tall bookshelves. "I like your bedroom."

I ignored Kay's enormous bed, and sat down on a sturdy wooden chair that seemed to double as a pair of steps for fetching things off the top shelf.

"Strip, please."

Kay undressed down to her knickers, red heels and tan holdup stockings. She wiggled with impatience, and smiled in a cat/cream sort of way when I picked up one of the coils of rope that she'd laid out so conveniently at the foot of her bed.

Standing face to face, I wove a snug bodice of rope around her body, a doubled strand passed in between her legs with a large knot resting on the mound of her pubis. When I threaded the rope back and forth around her upper body, from waist to chest, it gradually pulled tighter against the satiny fabric of her knickers. She smiled even wider when I told her to kneel in front of a chair, strategically positioned in front of a mirror.

With her hands tied behind her back she soon discovered that I'd linked the wrist tie to the strand that led to the big soft knot pushing directly on her clit.

I stood up, walked around and admired her kneeling figure - the small, delicate breasts, the pale roundness of her bottom - and removed my clothes as slowly as I could. She licked her lips.

"Maybe I've made a mistake." I stood in front of her, stroking my cock.

"What kind of mistake?" she asked, watching me intently.

"Well, you're kneeling there with your bottom sticking out, but I've stupidly put all this rope over your cunt. And you're so wet."

"Yes," she nodded.

"You'd like to get fucked, wouldn't you?"

Kay nodded some more.

"That's too bad for you. Instead, I am going to use your mouth. For my pleasure." I grabbed her by the hair, her lips just an inch away from the tip of my cock.

She snuck her tongue out to cover the distance. I almost gave in to the temptation, but not quite.

"Not yet..."

Softly Aroused

2010-08-22T12:56:00.005Z

Sometimes there's a disconnect between the nerves in my cock and my ass. No matter how aroused I am, no matter how much lube or whether it's fingers or tongue - when my ass gets stimulated my cock softens up. The same happens if I get lucky enough to have my toes sucked - if I relax into it, enjoying the spread-out tingling that it sends up my spine, it's as if my cock decides to take some time off and let other erogenous zones do all the work for a moment.

Of course, this erotic sign is easy to misread. Some of my partners have been disappointed, fingering my soft cock like they’ve done something wrong: “Would you like me to stop?” one experienced kinkstress asked after delicately inserting a buttplug. It was intensely pleasurable - a new, expansive orgasmic sensation for me. I was lost in it for a long, delicious moment before she asked, a look of concern on her face, like she’d failed an exam rather than given me a new kind of pleasure.

Another, a slim, delicate brunette with tiny, freckled breasts, bent me over and fucked me with her purple strap-on. It was a delightful, swimming feeling of giving up control and giving myself over to pleasure - until she reached around to stroke my cock. “You’re not into this, are you?” Nothing I said after that could convince her of the authenticity of my arousal. Disappointed, she didn’t invite me back to her roomful of books and sex toys - I hadn't responded properly. But it wasn't up to me - sometimes sensation and pleasure is too dispersed around the body to remain focused in one central physical sign of arousal.

Come Here

2010-08-10T20:06:00.000Z

It’s not that I take pleasure in the pain and humiliation of others, but I do.

No matter how much I like a woman - once I know that she takes pleasure from the controlled (sometimes barely-controlled) administration of pain, it kicks in. More than a desire to fuck, it’s a thirst for intensity, for sensation that washes over everything else, muting the rush of thought for a moment. I think I've sometimes said, in one of those quiet moments of anticipation: I like you. Now bend over - I’m going to hit you with my belt.

The pleasures of idle speculation

2010-07-04T18:45:00.001Z

Idly speculating to Jessica, over a glass of wine before we retreated to her bedroom, I asked if she'd like to be my date at an orgy. The plan is vague, the date uncertain, but I couldn't resist planting the seed.

Her eyes lit up at the suggestion, and I could see how she would, over the next weeks, wonder about it, imagine herself being watched by a roomful of people when she bent over to take my cock in her mouth.

She's a bit of an exhibitionist, in the sense that she loves to be looked at, and she likes the fantasy of performing for others.

So, now I have this impossible fantasy of myself in a room full of people, leaning back on a sofa with Jessica kneeling in front of me, the hungry warmth of her mouth enfolding me. And simultaneously, I'm with the watchers, the others spread around looking at her from behind and the sides, enjoying both the view and the blowjob.

Third

2010-06-24T21:21:00.004Z

The first time I watched other people have sex was not the moment of unqualified lusty pleasure that I imagined it would be. Once all the clothes were off, none of us knew what to do next. I suddenly felt an intense burst of self-conscious doubt, seeing him bury his face in between her legs. The tip of his tongue circled her clit. She leaned back on the pillows, eyes closed and moaning - lost in herself for a moment.

Her hand rested softly on my cock, almost as if she’d forgotten about it. I stroked her shoulder, noticing the complex, spindly lines of the tattoo woven around her deltoid. Seeing the pleasure they took in each other’s bodies, my arousal curdled into doubt: “What am I doing here? How can I add anything to this? They don’t need me.” She arched her back and tightened her grip around the base of my cock, orgasm pulsing through her body.

The boyfriend raised his head, surprised: “What was that?” His face glistened, wet. She turned around, laughing like she didn't quite know what was happening. “I’m on tonight babe...” The tip of my cock vanished into her mouth.

“Honey?” She sucked on me between sentences. “Can you...” Slurp. “Fuck me from behind.” Another pause while she enjoyed a good, long lick. “Please.”

And I got it, seeing the look in his eye when he spread her open and slid his fingers inside: That’s what my role was. To lean back, relax and simply be there for this intense new experience. I was their first third, and my presence alone was enough to make all of us wonder what exactly we were supposed to do.

Not knowing, we improvised.

Face/mask

2010-06-06T14:10:00.000Z

"I've been thinking about doing this for a while, but it's a bit scary to actually... you know." Betty smoothed her skirt and looked slightly uncomfortable sitting on a small sofa in the corner of the hotel room.

"You're a grownup. Change your mind at any time." I was sitting on the bed, learning to work her digital camera. It was an impressive piece of kit, with a big lens and many settings, most of which I didn't understand.

I tried to turn off the flash and accidentally took a picture of my feet. Pointing it at her I played with the zoom and autofocus. "Smile?" I suggested.

"No! Not my face."

"It's your equipment."

"I know..." she reached for her bag. "But I just don't feel like showing my face. Just in case." From the depths of her bag, Betty pulled out a mask and put it on.

It covered her eyes and nose, the rounded edge hugging her top lip in a surprisingly sad-faced downward curl. "Is it leather?" I didn't need to ask, I could see what it was. Black and decorated with dark blue feathers on either side, it fit her beautifully. "It looks handmade for your face."

"Well, it's my sister's...." Betty adjusted the mask. "She was doing some leather art project. I stole one of her rejects, cut holes in it and glued some feathers on."

"Nice." I snapped a photo. "So you're using your sister's face as a mask?"

"Funny," she smiled and pinched her nipple through the tight black top. "Now, shut up and take some pictures of my arse, please."

I obliged. Betty is a performer at heart. She likes being looked at - even with the cold lens of a camera pointed at her - and she particularly likes to obey instructions. We started simple, some poses fully clothed in a figure-hugging black skirt and high heels brought specifically for the occasion. Since she was sitting on the sofa we started there, then we progressed to her standing up, and finally bent suggestively over the bed, one knee on the mattress, stiletto heel sticking out straight behind her.

"Look over your shoulder and pout like a brat."

She pouted. "I'm not wearing anything under this skirt."

"I was wondering. No panty line there..."

"Just you wait. You've never seen me this naked before."

Betty turned around and sat down on the bed, leaning back on her arms, and spread her legs slowly, inch by inch. I bent progressively lower, angling the lens up her bare legs. She looked down at me and pulled her skirt up all the way.

"Very nice," I observed as I zoomed in on her crotch. " She had opted for a full-on, bare-skinned, no-hair-below-the-neck wax job with pornstar-worthy results.

I had her stand up, remove her jacket, top and skirt in slow succession, enjoying the way her pale skin was illuminated by the afternoon glow coming through the southwesterly windows of the room.

Finally, I had her repeat the pose at the foot of the bed, looking at me over her shoulder.

"Pout," I instructed.

"Fuck you," she smiled, then reached down and spread her labia with her fingers. "I seem to be wet," she observed.

I took a few more photos.

"Would you still like me to pout?"

"Yes."

She did. Two fingers had now disappeared in between the plump lips of her pussy.

"Maybe you didn't hear me earlier. I have a very wet cunt, did you notice?"

"And?" I put the camera down. We were done for the moment.

"I'd like you to take advantage of that fact." Betty turned around, leaned back and resumed stroking herself in long, lazy circles while I undressed in front of her. She looked at me, enjoying the reversal, and bit her lower lip as if to restrain a wide grin.

"Mon, I really need you to do something..."

"Oh?" I threw my shirt on the sofa. My black jockey shorts had an almost comical bulge on the front.

Betty, her eyes on my erection straining against the soft fabric, stood up and put her hands around me to cup my buttocks. "Give me head. Until I come."

"Sure." I kissed her and took a step to push her backwards. She let herself fall on the bed and positioned herself, luxuriously spread-legged in the middle of the mattress.

I got into position, stroking the insides of her thighs from knees towards the top.

Betty arched her back in anticipation. Kissing the smooth swell of her pubis, my lips traced a circle avoiding exactly the place where she wanted me to go.

"I mean it. Don't stop until I stop screaming."

I didn't.

Belt

2010-05-14T22:51:00.001Z

I often wear a leather belt that I've had for many years. It used to be black, but has now worn and faded to a dark grey. The decorative stitching is a bit hit-and-miss after all this time. The leather has softened with age and become warm, pliable.

Sometime last year I was in a nice, comfortable hotel room, with a tall strapping blonde lying face down across the bed, tied down by her hands and ankles. Jessica was struggling against the restraints, as she loves to do.

This is when I discovered I hadn't brought enough rope. Her hands were not tied down tightly enough, the whole thing was about to unravel, and I knew that she was having a good time, getting into it - this would not be the moment to loosen the ropes and say "Um, sorry darling, I've got to take these off and do the whole thing again. Won't take a minute!"

But if she broke free on her own, that would kill the buzz for her too. So what is a pervert to do? I took a narrow, pink belt that Jessica had recently discarded on the floor, threaded it between the bedframe and the rope linking her wrists, then pulled it tight. Hands secure, victim blindfolded and gagged, I spanked her with my bare hands until her buttocks were glowing red, then gave her a few lashes with my belt.

It makes a noise like nothing else on impact - a soft strip of leather on warm skin. Sometimes a flat, almost dull "slap" and sometimes, when it connects in just the right way, a sharp crack.

(Someone else, much later, emailed me after a particularly fun night together and said from now on she'd call me Cracker, after the sound my belt made when it hit her ass. But that's a different story.)

Jessica struggled, bound hand and feet to the bed while I used the belt on her. She struggled even harder when I fingered and fucked her with her own buzzing double-pronged pink dildo. Tremendous fun. Some more struggling took place.

When I began to untie her, it turned out that the belt I had so cleverly improvised with was not, after all, made of leather, but some pale crappy imitation thereof that had stretched, warped and torn when Jessica pulled on it.

Luckily, she was post-orgasmic and unable to string together enough words to explain to me the obvious error of my ways.

Then, with molasses-like slowness, it occurred to me that I had never used my trusty black leather belt to tie anyone up.

Later I experimented a bit with this new use for it and found that it needed one more notch. Wound a couple of times around the wrists, the belt needed an extra hole to fit snugly enough to restrain a person in a convincing manner.

And yes, I've tried this on Jessica. Hands tied behind her back, gag in her mouth and a cane across her bum, she struggled just as hard as before. The belt held up very well.

Guessing game

2010-05-02T14:12:00.002Z

When Veronica mentioned that she was an artist, I half-assumed she was just deflecting an implied question about what she did for a living. At first I didn't assume she was telling the truth. After all, there was no art on the walls of her flat - one of those awkward top-floor former attics in Finsbury Park that didn't have much vertical wall space anyway.

The cool austerity of her home was kind of sexy in its own way. She was 5 months into a 12-month residency in London when I met her, and she seemed to have moved into a furnished flat with two suitcases full of clothes, and not much else.

One afternoon, last summer, I tied her hands behind her back, bent her over the white plastic top of the kitchen table, and attached her ankles to its feet on either side. She giggled and sighed when her nipples touched the cold veneer.

I grabbed a flat wooden spatula that stood in a large glass jar next to the cooker, and ran it in a circle around her right buttock.

She couldn't see what I was holding. "What the fuck is that?"

"Let's see if you can guess." I gave her an experimental whack with it, more of a tease than anything else. "I'll hit you with it until you figure it out."

I gave her another, in a fresh spot on the left cheek of her bottom.

"Owww!" she squealed. "What the fuck is that?"

Harder this time, I struck the same spot a few times in quick succession. "Feel free to repeat yourself while I spank you."

Just to make things more interesting I set the spatula aside and spanked her with my bara hand, harder and faster.

"That's cheating!" she squealed, wiggling around in discomfort and pleasure.

"Maybe. But you're not in a position to enforce any rules, are you?"

I gave her another swipe with the spatula, just to emphasise my point.

"Umm, rolled-up newspaper?" she ventured.

By the time she identified my improvised spanking toy correctly her bottom was pink, red, and a couple of matching bruises were forming.

I took a bag of ice cubes from the freezer, wrapped it in a dish towel and put it on Veronica's hot, throbbing skin. She was sweating, sliding around on the slick plastic surface underneath her.

"Mon?"

"Yes?" I lifted the bag of ice from her ass.

"Touch my clit.... please."

I didn't answer right away, just bent down and spread her open from behind. The pink lips of her pussy were plump with arousal. When I pulled her buttocks apart, a little bead dripped on to the floor.

"How? With my fingers... tongue? Any preferences?"

Her body tensed with frustration and she pushed herself back at me. "You motherfucking bastard..."

I took this as an encouraging sign and leaned forward to meet her with my tongue stretched out. I took a long, greedy, flat lick of her pussy from clitoris to perineum. When I circled back again with my tongue she hissed a barely-articulated "Yessssssssss...." and stood perfectly still. I didn't have the heart to tease her any more, and licked her in the steady circular motions she liked. Veronica, when she comes hard, becomes still and quiet just before the explosion.

I could hear her taking a deep breath, then holding it. Then the hot burst of her cum squirted into my mouth and down my chin just before she let out a deep growl from the pit of her stomach.

When she finished twitching, I stood up and reached for a condom.

"Aren't you going to let me go?" she asked, rhetorically, while I put it on.

"Sure." The tip of my cock touched the glistening lips of her pussy. She arched her back. "But first I'm going to make very good use of you."

Circles and Lines

2010-04-24T17:53:00.001Z

The party was winding down. I sat down next to Ms. Goth and said something about heading to bed, busy day tomorrow, and so on.

"Come on. One drink can't kill you." It wasn't the words that made me stay put, it was the way she put her hand on my back and drew a circle with her fingertip across my spine.

"True," I said, smiling at the tingling sensation. "What would you like?"

26 hours and a few condoms later, I was standing in front of her mirror, twisting around to see how deeply she had scratched my back in exactly the same place.

One of the three red lines was encrusted with a little blood. Most of it had been smudged on to her sheets. "Stop being such a pussy," she laughed.

"Just assessing the damage..."

"Tough. You deserve it, nasty man. You hit me with a belt."

This was true, but I pointed out that she liked it. And the welts had already gone down.

She rolled out of bed and nudged me aside at the mirror, checking out her buttocks. There was just a little bit of pink left on each side.

"Well fuck me," she bumped me with her hip. "You've done this before, haven't you?"

After we'd gone our separate ways later that night she sent me an email: "Feeling good all over. Welts gone. Still tingling."

The Zen of Incommunicado

2010-04-21T22:58:00.002Z

I love being out of touch. There's a peculiar luxury to disconnecting, retreating to somewhere without broadband and mobile phone signal. But like all vacations, it's only fun for a while. Just like you eventually get sick of eating exotic food and sitting around doing nothing in particular, the lure of connectivity becomes irresistible after a while.

That's the point I like to reach when I go on holiday, that moment of actually wanting to get back into the whirl, to read emails and blogs and the rolling stream of status updates - that's when I know I'm ready to get back to normal.

And that, of course, is when the airplanes get grounded.

Mon does Miss Manners

2010-03-23T00:35:00.001Z

There's got to be an advice column question in here somewhere: My funbuddy Kim moves out of town, but not before introducing me to her friend Danielle.

So, Danielle and I find outselves in bed for the first time without one or two other people around. As we're lying around, recovering from our exertions, she tells me that her favourite local fuckbuddy is going abroad for a few weeks, and will be visiting Kim's city.

She wants to put them in touch. We've both seen them shag, so we know they get along. The real question is, do we ask him to take some presents along for her? Would it be rude to give him a couple of nice dildos to bring with him, maybe a roll or two of bondage tape?

Too much

2010-03-18T23:25:00.001Z

I used all the rope in the room to tie her up like a crab on her back, wrists attached to ankles, elbows to knees, held tight with a chest harness.

I adjusted the fur-lined leather blindfold over her eyes.

"Are you sure you've never been tied up before?" I asked, unbuttoning my shirt and enjoying the view.

"No," she said, quietly. "I mean, yes, never..."

"Whenever it gets to be too much, let me know."

She bit her lip. "Yes..."

Selfish

2010-03-09T22:12:00.001Z

When I unwound the bondage tape from around her eyes, I thought for a second she might have been crying. The mascara had smudged under the improvised waterproof blindfold.

Jessica blinked until she could see properly, then looked down at her chest. The white cum dripping down her cleavage was going to leave a stain on her black corset.

She looked at my cock just in front of her face. I stroked myself for her.

"Damn. I was hoping you'd come in my pussy."

"Yeah," I said, still stroking. "That was pretty selfish of me."

Say no all you want

2010-02-28T18:49:00.001Z

Veronica was standing in the corner, naked with her hands tied in front of her, facing the wall like a penintent while I rearranged her furniture and uncoiled lengths of rope.

We were in her living room. After turning her around, I had put a low, generously padded footstool in the middle of the thick, soft rug.

"I want to put you on display."

"For who?" she asked,

"Just me," I said after a long pause, wrapping a blindfold around her head.

I led her out to the middle of the room and helped her kneel down. Then I bent her over the footstool and slowly, meticulously, attached her hands and thighs to each of the four sturdy wooden legs.

The floggers and the whips were all hers. She had a beautiful collection that she'd only shown me after I'd tied her up a few times.

I started with something small, almost feathery - a long-handled wooden flogger with strands of woven horsehair that made a surprisingly satisfying sound when I finally stopped teasing her backside with it and gave her an actual swipe.

When the pale skin of her bottom had turned a warm pink, I stroked her for a moment, pulling her buttocks apart to deposit a little glob of cool lube on her pink anus. The buttplug I had brought was not hers. Made of heavy black silicone, it was a beautiful parting gift.

"What the fuck is that?" Veronica asked when I pressed the slick nub of the thing up against her opening.

"I'll tell you later."

"No, you can't do that to me. That's disgusting."

"Really? I can't?" I pushed softly but insistently. The pucker of her ass began to yield to the pressure and the lube.

"Please don't... That feels too big."

"Yeah. It's pretty big. You should see this thing, actually. I'm not sure it'll fit up there."

The panicky quiver sounded quite authentic. "Please... that hurts."

I pushed it in a bit further. The plug was now in almost up to the fat bulge in the middle.

"You're being a very good girl... Just a little bit more."

She moaned loudly when I gave it the last nudge and the flared base came to a snug rest against her skin.

"See, that wasn't so bad." I reached for the leather paddle, one hand touching the warm skin of her buttocks.

"This, however, might sting a little..."

Away With a Bang

2010-02-25T23:43:00.001Z

Danielle breathed into my ear. "Let's give those two some privacy. Joe's never done this sort of thing before..."

On the sofa, Joe smiled gratefully and went back to kissing Kim, who stroked his crotch and mouthed a silent "thank you" to Danielle as we passed them on the way out of the living room.

"They'll join us soon." Danielle led me to her bedroom, holding my belt with one hand and a glass of red with the other.

I hadn't even begun unbuttoning her jeans when Kim's moans began drifting up the stairs.

Danielle enjoyed the sounds. We kissed, stroking, undressing a bit more slowly than she would have liked. I just had to move slowly. She had come to pick us up at her local train station in blue jeans and a baggy shirt. Peeling them off I was rewarded with a much more promising outfit: A black corset, transparent knickers and black stockings accentuating her soft curves and pale skin.

I stepped back to take a better look.

"What?" she tossed her dark curls accusingly.

In the room below, Kim's noises were accentuated with the soft slapping of flesh.

"They're fucking, and you just want to look at my underwear." Danielle smiled.

That's how we know each other in the first place. She likes to show off, Kim likes pussy, and I'm easily led astray. Kim introduced us because she wanted to fuck us both at the same time. This turned out to be very very good idea. Danielle is not so much bi as heteroflexible, while Kim likes women just a bit more than men, so the two of them in bed with a horny voyeur is a delightful combination.

But all good things come to an end.

Kim comes from one of those priest-infested places that have a special police force dedicated to preserving the morality of residents and visitors alike. Apparently this kingdom is so thoroughly policed that they even X-ray the luggage of incoming airline passengers in order to confiscate dildos and vibrators.

Before she goes away to skirt the long arm of theocratic law enforcement, I felt it would be neglectful of me as a friend not to see her off in the style to which she would like to become accustomed.

This is how I found myself spread out in bed, getting my cock devoured by our curvy hostess, while Kim enjoyed the attentions of Danille's favourite fuckbuddy in the living room. Loudly enough for the neighbours to hear.

She twirled her tongue around the head of my cock. "She's very tiny. I hope he doesn't rip her apart."

I saw what she meant when the two of them joined us in the bedroom a little later. Danielle was sitting on top of me, slowly riding my cock when Kim and Joe strolled in, grinning ear to ear.

"Welcome," Danielle said, leaning over to give each of them a kiss.

They settled down at the edge of the bed. "Give us a good view," I suggested. Joe, still a bit shy with another guy around, smiled and let himself be positioned visibility by Kim.

"I told you he was big," Danielle said over her shoulder.

"Mmmmhmmm." Kim was already getting busy. After a while she laid down next to me on the bed, Joe fucking her, grasping her ankles. Danielle rode on top of me, she and Joe finding a rhythm together, coming side by side with different people.

Danielle paused and felt the puddle that had formed around the base of my cock. She giggled. "How are we doing for time, Joe?"

"Shit," he said, letting go of Kim's ankles.

Joe was on a strict time limit, with a bysitter at home who had to be out of there by 8pm. So he had to leave the orgy in full swing. Danielle and I waved goodbye to him while I took her from behind, and Kim saw him to the door.

When Kim returned, she crawled into bed with us and started complaining how sore she was from Joe's unusually thick cock.

"We can help you with that..." Danielle nibbled at Kim's thigh and looked over at me to make sure I had a good view.

We had some time left...

Busy

2010-01-22T22:12:00.001Z

I threaded the soft rope around Chloe's chest into an intricate harness from neck down between her legs and back all the way up. She relaxed into the enveloping tightness of the rope, lying back on the bed, legs spread lazily.

Roping her wrists together I attached her hands to the knot between her breasts and turned my attention to her pussy.

I pushed the strands of rope to the side, tongue and fingers teasing and circling around the swollen hard nub of her clit.

Chloe spread her legs further. "Where did you learn to eat pussy like a girl?" she asked.

I was too polite to point out that this was not the right moment to pause for a juicy story.

Sex Furniture

2010-01-11T21:48:00.002Z

So, there we were, two naked Londoners in a hotel bed enthusiastically complaining about the size of our respective flats, with rope and sex toys scattered around us, lube smudges on our sweaty bodies.

We were discussing sex furniture. The problem is that it's conspicuously functional and immediately recognizable. It simply looks out of place in a tastefully appointed London flat. To add insult to sex-injury, most of us don't have dungeons, spare rooms or big enough closets to hide stuff in. At least not stuff designed to restrain an adult for bondage, spanking or other forms of delightful torture.

Besides, it ain't cheap - I don't see Ikea coming out with a reasonably priced SHAGGA line of sex furniture anytime soon. Come to think of it, if any well-connected Swedes read this, please consider using your influence.

While you're at it, you influential Swedish kinksters, could you maybe ask them to bring back those cheerful-looking little stools shaped like giant vitamin pills? I bought a cute red one years ago, broke it with some vigorous woman-on-top sex, and have mourned its loss ever since discovering it was only produced for a year.

Of course there's always DIY. Kinksters are, generally, a highly resourceful bunch when it comes to mechanical improvisation. Bannisters, railings, sofas, sturdy chairs and dining tables - we turn humdrum fixtures and movables into exciting playthings all the time. But that doesn't make my design-fetishist's heart sing. I long for those beautiful sculptural leather, wood and brass constructions with cushioned stirrups and shamelessly accessible anchor points.

Jessica rolled over and looked at the chair she had just been tied to, spread-legged and gagged. It wasn't exactly an object of beauty. "Really, we'll just have to rent ourselves a dungeon."

Exercise: Sprint

2009-12-31T14:58:00.003Z

Now that the gyms are about to fill with the hopeful, the deluded and the determined, it's worth thinking about what kind of exercise might suit the kinksters among us. After all, the only successful exercise regimen is one that fits with established habits and lifestyle.

So here's an exercise that might suit a hedonist far better than trudging to the gym. I call it the sprint. Really an abbreviated quickie, the sprint is performed fast, under tight time constraints, and it might not end with anyone coming.

The last time something like this happened to me, it started when I called a cab.

I had spent a leisurely evening with Kim, who always seems to have one more orgasm left in her, no matter how much she fucks. The second I said to the dispatcher "5 minutes? Perfect. I'll be outside" she jumped off the bed, unzipped my trousers and put my soft cock in her mouth.

"What are you up to?" I asked, as if I didn't know. My cock stiffened from her enthusiastic sucking.

Kim leaned back and stroked me. "Fuck me as hard and fast as you can."

I reached for the condoms and put one on while she knelt on the bed and stuck her arse up at me in a most inviting fashion. Kim dipped a finger inside herself, spreading the wetness around.

"Let's see who comes first - you, me or the car."

She still had a couple of fingers circling her clit when I slid my cock into her pussy, plump and wet from a few hours of play. This wasn't the time to be delicate - I fucked her hard, with long, deep strokes, my hands clasping her waist and slapping her buttocks now and then for encouragement.

My phone rang. "Pick it up!" she shouted. I reached for it, my cock still inside her. "I'll be down in a minute," I said in the most normal voice I could muster while Kim ground up against me, her pussy twitching unmistakably from her orgasm.

I hung up. "I win," she smirked and pushed me away. "And you've got to go."

So I went without coming.

A happy, horny, adventuresome new year to you all - I'm sure you're planning on that anyway.

Ball gag misuse

2009-12-13T23:13:00.001Z

Jessica was quite cooperative while I tied her to the chair. It was a lovely steel and leather construction, with nice clean lines and a subtle bondage sensibility to it. Very easy to attach wrists and ankles to, as well. Good piece of furniture to have in a hotel room. At this point she indicated in no uncertain terms that she would really like to be touched, licked and fucked as a matter of urgency.

That's where my manners failed a bit. I pushed her thighs apart, stroked the outside of her knickers and felt her up for a while before pushing past the edge of the crotch for a quick feel underneath. I withdrew my fingers, which were conspicuously wet.

She reiterated her previous request for further fingering. Not unreasonable, by any means. I stuck my fingers in her mouth, giving her a little taste. Then I put a ball gag on her, fastened it securely around the back of her head, and sat down to admire her.

"Your problem," I observed, disregarding her whimpering, "is that on the one hand I'd really like to take this nice corset off, and remove your pretty knickers."

She stared at me, nodding her encouragement.

"On the other hand," I stroked the inside of her thigh with my fingertips, enjoying the soft skin, "you just look too damn good like this. I feel like just having a wank, looking at you..."

She believed me for perhaps two seconds. Not much more.

Blind date

2009-12-10T10:34:00.000Z

"So, where do you work out?" P rested her hand lightly on my buttock for a lingering while.

We had known each other for all of 7 minutes at this point. Well, 7 minutes plus the weirdly polite email exchange that preceded my waiting for her outside a little New Zealandish cafe in Soho. Our introduction happened through a mutual friend, a lovely charming whirlwind of a person who can't abide the thought of me being of no use while she's away for an extended family visit in a considerably warmer climate during the coldest months of the year. Standing outside, huddled into the thick wool of my winter coat, I noted the irony of the situation: She's on a beach, I'm standing on a wet Soho pavement watching the daylight vanish far too early in the afternoon.

And then with a rapid click of heels and a whiff of perfume, I was reminded why I wanted to be there in the first place. P strode up to me and in one fluid movement swirled a cascade of brown hair around my head while she planted a kiss on both cheeks. Then she stood back and looked me up and down.

"You look almost exactly like your photo," she smiled.

It's a bit like online dating, except our mutual friend introduced us by sharing some photographs. Proper ones, with clothes on.

"You too, but better," I replied, meaning every word of it. P smiled warmly and apologised for being late, linking arms with me and pulling me towards the cafe entrance.

"I'm desperate," she purred. "Only one espresso this morning. That's not nearly enough coffee."

The queue was out the door of the small coffee shop, moving slowly but steadily. We stood around, chatting, eyeing each other up. This is how I found myself a little while later waiting to pick up our order with P standing behind me, her hand cupping my buttock.

I mentioned the aspirationally named gym that I sometimes visit, mostly for their sauna. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, no reason..."

We got the coffee and rushed to claim the last available table. She sat down on the bench by the wall and I noticed her looking me up and down while I removed my coat.

And then it hit me. Our mutual friend, before introducing us, had sent me a few rather explicit photos of P in the nude, with strict instructions that I should under no circumstances mention this to her, that she was breaking all rules of trust, honesty and decency, but in the interest of the higher cause of getting me and P into bed (or some other sexually accommodating space) she'd loosen her ethical strictures just for me, just this once...

Seeing the way P looked at me, I knew she had received exactly the same email, with one or two of the very few photos that our mutual friend had taken of me naked and erect, wearing a black mask over my face.

"Just for me," she'd said after she snapped the first photo. Before taking the next one she leaned over, camera still in her hand, and flicked the tip of my cock with her tongue.

Sipping my coffee, looking at P, I wondered if the resulting photograph what she was thinking about - the close-up of my cock, our mutual friend's hand grasping the base, her saliva glistening on the swollen head.

Dark

2009-11-29T10:37:00.001Z

When we were naked she reached for the light switch. For a moment, she sat on top of me in the darkness. The first thing I noticed when my eyes adjusted to the light coming in through the curtains was her tattoo, black and spiny, snaking over her shoulder into the soft dimple of her collarbone.

Vanity, thy name is blogger

2009-11-23T21:15:00.007Z

Yours truly has finally arrived in the land of the Kama Sutra. This weekend I got the opportunity to read about myself in an Indian newspaper when The Hindustan Times ran a story on erotica in the Sunday supplement Brunch. Given that Indian notions of propriety are considerably different from my own, I take my hat off to the journalist, Supriya Thanawala, who had the unenviable task of making an interview with me printable for a mass audience.

The result: I am now the face (or more exactly, the lips) of kinky bloggery for the readers of the Hindustan Times. This involved some editing of my email/phone back-and-forth with Supriya. Her article is a 2-page spread, with obvious limitations on space, but on my blog there are no such concessions to the physical constraints of paper and ink, so here's the full Q&A that we did over email.

(I am ambivalent about this. Really, publishing an interview with yourself is like wanking, except with hyperlinks and formating buttons.)

Here goes...

Who are some of your literary influences? Did any particular writer stimulate you to start writing the blog?

Good filth is hard to find, and I have ripped off the good ones with great pleasure. I often go back to Georges Bataille's Story of the Eye, and to Pauline Réage's Story of O. Nicholson Baker's The Fermata is another book I've borrowed from - particularly style and tone. Of course, without Susie Bright's Best of American Erotica series I probably never would have gotten interested in literary pornography to begin with. Lately, Alan Hollinghurst's The Line of Beauty and The Swimming-Pool Library have probably given me the most stylistic rip-off material. His prose just makes me want to take the verbs and run.

How would you compare the experience of blogging to other media like books and films?

Blogging is an instant-feedback medium. Readers leave comments and send emails sometimes minutes after the post goes up on the blog. There's a sense of immediacy, of connection. It's an illusion, of course - like me, they just have their favourite blogs neatly gathered together on their RSS feeds, but I like the fantasy that there's a devoted army of eyeballs out there, thirsting for every crumb that falls from my keyboard.

Do you think that it's important for someone who writes erotica to be sexually experienced themselves?

I don't know. If someone who's only eaten at McDonald's their entire life wrote a cookbook on Indian cuisine, would the reader be able to tell? If there are chaste virgins out there writing hot sexy fiction, I'd be very happy to read their work. We need more testaments to the creative powers of the human mind.

What are some of your best memories of blogging?

The actual writing itself is not particularly memorable. I get pleasure from it, but the real kick comes from the reactions, the emails, the comments and the naked pictures that get left in my "tip jar".

Do you feel that if you were a woman, your style of writing would have perhaps been different in any way?

Since I started blogging, I have regularly been asked: "Are you a woman?" Apparently there's something in my style, tone, whatever that suggests femininity. I take this as a compliment, even when the question is framed like an accusation that I am somehow falsifying my blogging persona beyond all the other obvious and widely-advertised falsifications.

I've even had some rather strident emails from men and women, telling me that I am female and that I should admit it. Some of these emails were quite convincing, enough to send me rushing to the mirror for an emergency self-examination. You can never be too sure of your own gender.

Why does women's writing on sex grab a lot more attention compared to that written by men?

Maybe there are simply more interesting women out there who write about sex, and the interesting men write about other things like cricket and football. Of course, there are some brilliant men with interesting things to say about sex, for example Dan Savage's advice column and weekly podcast. If anyone was so misguided as to email me for serious advice, I'd exploit Dan Savage's work as mercilessly as I've lifted from Nicholson Baker and Pauline Reage. Too bad no one seems to want my opinions on how to conduct their lives.

How would you differentiate pornography and erotica? There are some who might say that erotica is more 'artistic' than pornography; pornography is entirely masturbatory. But would you argue that even good porn would have to be artistic in order for it to work well and in a positive manner? What is the 'real' line between the two according to you?

There is no inherent difference between pornography and erotica, there's simply arousing or dull. Fortunately, no one seems to have figured out exactly which is which.

Don't be late

2009-11-18T01:17:00.001Z

"Honestly, I don't even want you to say hello."

"OK." This was starting to look like an interesting plan. I had merely suggested visiting her for a quickie. Kim is a busy girl, and I thought I might drop by one afternoon.

"Knock, I open, then straight to the bedroom. Lead me by the arm."

"That's no problem..."

"No talking. Just tell me to get down on the floor and open my mouth."

"Yes. I'm just there to get my cock sucked by a greedy little slut."

"Greedy slut having her period. Remember, no touching my pussy."

"Got it. No touching pussy." And here I was, thinking I might finger her. Kim gets very wet, her plump labia pout when she's aroused, just begging to be stroked.

But that's not on the menu this week.

"I want to be used. You're just there for the cocksucking. One hour, that's all we have. Don't be late."

Belle

2009-11-15T11:14:00.002Z

So, the grand master of anonymous bloggers, Belle de Jour, has outed herself to India Knight in the Sunday Times. Honestly, I feel like writing her a fan letter just for the elegance of doing this with the journalist who panned her first book.

Not that it takes much to get me to write her a fan letter. I have admired both her writing and the carefully maintained anonymity of her persona ever since I first read her blog in the autumn of 2003.

The reference she makes in the interview to a talkative ex-boyfriend is testimony to the very clever way in which she handled the most difficult part of staying anonymous as a blog-to-book author - the money trail. She kept her literary agent and publisher in the dark (i.e., anyone in whose interest it might be that she get outed), stayed away from the myriad social temptations that go along with being a published author and having one's work parlayed into a successful TV series, and wisely entrusted her identity only to lawyers and financial professionals whose livelihood depends on confidentiality.

Belle has written some thoughtful pieces for the Guardian's Liberty Central blog on the responsibilities that come with anonymity (see here). In one such post she asks what benefit beyond selling papers and having the last laugh has ever been served by exposing the identity of an anonymous blogger whose writing is not a direct threat to the safety or reputation of some named person.

Not much, it turns out. We're a harmless lot, by and large, we whose writing is enabled by having a persona not identified with our boring everyday selves.

This is why I'm sad about this pseudo-voluntary self-revelation. I would have liked Belle's secret to have remained secret, and I don't really believe that she actually thinks that it's time to reconcile her saucy authorial persona with the research scientist. She decided to jump before she was pushed by some chatterbox who is only bound to confidentiality by such fragile obligations as trust, discretion and good taste. After all, a tasteful Sunday Times photoshoot at the Soho Hotel is far more flattering than getting papped at the supermarket for a tabloid kiss n' tell.

Good luck with the shitstorm, Belle.

Simple does it

2009-11-06T17:53:00.002Z

There's a particularly devilish form of pussy teasing, involving only the simplest bondage: Wrists tied together with a simple cuff, then attached to the legs just above the knees.

The thighs are pressed tightly together in this position, leaving very limited access in between. The subbie, either on her back or turned face down, has very little leverage other than begging. If the begging becomes tiring, or too loud, one can always straddle her face and silence her with cock.

But this isn't the only option. Pushed face down, possibly held with a hand on the back of the neck to keep her still, she can be spanked and fingered from behind in a most appealing, defenseless way.

Or not. It might not be in one's interest to finger her at all. Just let the frustration build until the begging becomes too pathetic to bear it any longer... Tongue, fingers, some buzzy vibrating toy with xenomorphic protrutsions - use whatever is at hand and works.

She will beg to be allowed to come. I advise being helpful on that front.

For today I am...

2009-10-20T18:01:00.002Z

A few moons ago "Kitty" emailed me. She had some interesting questions about feminine appearance, including breasts, bums and the relative attractiveness of the various shapes of labia. It quickly became apparent that she was asking because she was reinventing her own body.

One of her reasons for writing to me in the first place was a post that I published on another blog over four years ago with a bit of whimsical speculation about genitalia. She was speculating too, but on a radically different level. Now her speculation has finally become flesh.

To mark the date, with my congratulations and best wishes to Kitty for happiness and joy, here's the piece that she likes (and sensibly suggested I might want to put somewhere safe, in case the original vanishes):

A Y-chromosome is no excuse for not having a pussy. Yes, I know, the mirror doesn't lie. Nevertheless, it's a feeble, literal-minded gesture to unzip and with trembling fingers point to a full-grown cock nesting comfortably on a bed of balls and pubes.

Hello! There you are, my snake, my drill, my hammer... The vocabulary of insecure boys is brimful of power drills and lethal weapons lurking beneath every bulging crotch.

What is pussy-like about this lovely, smooth-skinned cock, this beast that has so often sparked up at the mere fragrance of its female counterpart?

Let's unzip and take a look. Growing erect, free of his denim prison he unfurls, hardens, rises to the stroking teasing of a finger. Hard and agonizingly sensitive, he's a funny monster—even in the passionate folds of a tightly clenching vagina he sometimes becomes overstimulated, the moist ecstasy tipping over into pain for a moment. Even there, while I stroke this hard boner, she's in there. Right there under my skin curled around every cell in my body, the sturdy X embracing her spindly brother Y.

Likewise, a pair of tits is no excuse not to have a cock.

I have never been with a woman who didn't have a bit of the cock about her. Which woman doesn't have a cock? Doesn't even the most virginal virgin sometimes feel the urge to penetrate, to sink into the wet depths, to be an invading phallus with her fingers, her hand, and to become that mirror organ that already has a place made for it inside her? Some women have bigger cocks than others, but they all have one, whether or not they can find them. It only takes a bit of patience.

And how do we find our inner cocks and pussies? We get help. Vulnerable, curious and hungry we spread our mouths, legs, fingers and arms open to each other, inviting and getting invited. Entering and being entered. The specific gender combination is utterly irrelevant; only the game matters. The play of appetites consuming each other.

I found my pussy playing a game like that. She's right there. Growling, purring, from below the pit of my stomach to the deepest whorls of the cerebellum, she is me.

I don't want one; I have one. Wanna see?

Credits: Originally posted on Viewing the Local Antiquities, 23 April 2005. Here's my own post in the depths of the archives.

Window

2009-10-11T21:24:00.002Z

Kim lives on the 8th floor of a Hackney towerblock. When we stepped into her room she pulled the curtains wide open and let in the unusually warm October air.

Later, she leaned forward, hands on the windowsill, and I took her from behind, visible in the golden afternoon light to anyone who might lift their eyes up. Faintly dizzy, I put my hands on her hips, steadying myself while I looked down, fucking her in a steady, slow rhythm up against the cool glass of the window.

Step into my parlour

2009-09-30T17:26:00.003Z

One bright day this spring I found myself outside a massage parlour in East London. It looked grim. The bricks of the front wall were painted a fading, peeling pink, and the neon sign in the downstairs window was switched off.

I was waiting for the new proprietress to show up and let me in. Betty stepped out of a cab a few minutes later, carrying a cardboard box. She gave me peck on the cheek and pulled out the keys.

"So, what do you think?" she asked, struggling with the lock. I stood back, too busy admiring the tightness of the skirt around her bottom.

"I don't know. It's a bit small. You'll have to upgrade if you want to run a proper brothel."

She elbowed me and opened the door. "Welcome to the new office..."

We squeezed through a cramped entryway, painted black. The former reception wasn't much more appealing, with burgundy wallpaper, a plywood counter and one leftover red drape hanging by a couple of rings, like someone had begun to take it down and then decided to leave it.

There were two small rooms downstairs, and four more upstairs. The largest of these seemed to have been an office, with a dusty metal desk shoved up against one of the walls at random. Betty put her box down on the table and started to explain how she planned to knock all the partitions down to open up the space.

I opened the back window, which required some hardcore chemicals if it were ever to become transparent again, and let in some air. There was a large goods yard behind the building, disused it seemed. Just below the window I could see a fenced-off paved area featuring a dead palm tree and a bucket of rainwater.

"You bought this?"

"Not exactly..." she smiled, and opened the box. "The owner couldn't find a new tenant, so I offered to do it up for him if he gave me a deal." She took out an industrial-sized roll of paper towels and some cleaning fluid, and started wiping the grime off the desk.

"Can I give you a hand?" I asked, admiring her bottom while she bent over.

"No, thank you." She smiled at me over her shoulder, and continued to clean the desk. A pile of smudged paper collected at her feet while she explained how she would convert this dump into a proper office.

Meanwhile I fondled her bum and thought how I'd convert this heap into a fuck palace.

"Will your office be nice and private? With a cushy, firm sofa? Perhaps a chair I can bend you over?"

Betty turned around and leaned against the freshly de-grimed desk. "Sounds nice. But have you thought about soundproofing?"

"I don't know," I cupped her breast, one hand stroking her hip, giving her my best impression of a thoughtful gaze up at the ceiling. "We don't want to frighten your staff. I guess the door will have to be pretty sturdy."

I slid my hand up her bare thigh, lingering on the inside, tracing circles on her soft skin with my fingers. She spread her legs a little wider and bit my neck.

"Ouch!"

"Stop faffing around." She pinched my nipple through my t-shirt for emphasis.

"I'm not in a hurry," I said, resting my hand on her upper thigh, an inch or two from where she wanted my fingers to go next.

"Yeah, but I am," she put her hand on top of mine. "And I have needs..."

Betty took my hand and pulled the rest of the way.

"You have very small knickers on," I observed after feeling around a bit under her skirt.

"Yes."

"Show me, please." I withdrew my hand and took a step back for a better view.

Betty raised herself from the desk, stood up straight and obliged my request. She had the look of a very naughty girl in a grown woman's body. Her underwear was, as I suspected, very scant, transparent, and surprisingly bright pink.

She pushed her skirt up around her hips and leaned back on the desk, thighs wide.

I leaned in closer and ran a couple of fingers along the fabric, feeling the curve of her vulva underneath. "These are very see-through. Is there any point in keeping them on, really?"

Nudging the flimsy material to the side, I stroked the wet, protruding lips of her pussy.

"Not really," she said and pulled my head down to her crotch. "But see what you can do..."

I did my best, searching high and low, up and down the length of her labia for that elusive sensitive spot I am told exists on all women.

No luck, though.

I tried to find it for a while, sliding my tongue in between the inner and outer lips, teasing her perineum and kissing the top of her pubic mound, which was completely hairless this time. I had never seen her groomed like this, so I took my time enjoying the feeling of her smooth mons veneris against my lips and tongue.

Betty squirmed and angled her hips, grabbing my head for emphasis to push me in the right direction, just in case I had actually forgotten how she likes to have her pussy licked.

During my fruitless search for her clitoris, I paused for a compliment. Remarking that someone had done an excellent job waxing her, I raised my head: "You going somewhere nice for a holiday?"

The look of desperation she gave me was almost as much fun as if she'd had an orgasm right there.

"Um, Ibiza..." she began, answering earnestly.

I interrupted her by diving down and flicking her protruding clit sideways with my tongue.

"...fuck!" she continued, abandoning any further discussion of her summer holiday plans.

What she really likes is when I circle her clit with my tongue, gently pushing it around for a while, then, just as she's getting ready to come, I stick a couple of fingers inside her and suck while curving my fingers in a "come-hither" fashion.

She clasped my head in between her thighs, blocking my ears in the most pleasant way I can think of and bucking against my face. There may have been noises as well, but my hearing was compromised at the time.

This, however, was not a problem a little while later when I took her from behind, bent over the freshly cleaned desk. I heard everything. Loudly. And so did the neighbours, if there were any around.

There was nowhere to relax afterwards. Not even a chair. I stood, swaying on my feet, slightly dizzy from my orgasm, having trouble coordinating my movements enough to zip up my trousers.

"Next time, will you have a sofa in here?"

Betty held up her very wrinkled skirt. "Maybe. First I'm getting an ironing board."

Cleavage

2009-09-22T18:37:00.002Z

At first, Jessica seemed shy about her impressive cleavage. For almost an hour after she stepped into the quiet little pub, she hid it with a scarf. I'm not the kind of pervert who stares, but once she removed the neckwear I couldn't resist taking a good look while she sat across from me eating tapas, discussing her immense frustration at how difficult it is to meet a guy who can tie a girl up properly.

In fact, she's not particularly shy about her breasts, just careful with the power of the cleavage. I think it's her way of testing out new men - if they can manage the same kind of eye contact before and after the décolletage comes out, they pass the test. She has the cool confidence in her own beauty to do something like that. Janeane is of course far too polite to admit it, but I think she purposefully wore a scoop-necked top the first time we met for a casual drink so that she could get a feeling for my self-restraint.

If it was a test, I passed: A few days later she asked me to come on her breasts, kneeling in front of me on a very disheveled bed, discarded rope coiled all around us.

Help, delivered

2009-08-26T21:01:00.001Z

"Don't be so anatomical about it," she said, reaching down between her legs. Naked, lit by the warm glow of a couple of lamps, she was bent over the sofa in her living room - posing.

"I said 'labia' - big deal. Spread your legs a bit wider." I had already taken photos of her fully clothed, provocatively posed, unbuttoning her blouse, hiking up her skirt and rolling down her stockings. She was completely naked at this point, and the battery icon on the camera had begun to flash.

She obliged, raising her bottom for a better view. Then she slid a finger inside herself.

"I said, 'spread your labia' - that's not spreading, darling."

"What is it then?"

"That's just masturbation."

She added another finger, just to make my life difficult.

"You look great." I snapped a close-up of two fingers buried in her all the way. "But I'm not sure if modeling is really your calling."

Take the Vamp Train

2009-08-15T18:34:00.003Z

My inner fetishist isn't often allowed to get in the way of my personal dignity or common courtesy. It's rude to stare at women in public, ruder still to circle around them for the best all-round view, just because they've gone out of the house looking like a wet dream on legs. It's acceptable to be an unrestrained voyeur at fetish clubs and sex parties; the rest of the time, be discreet.

Last night I broke the rule.

My local overground station is normally quite sedate. Late on a Friday afternoon, I was on my way downtown to meet a friend for drinks, and on the platform where I would have expected some tired-looking commuters I saw a sex goddess.

Unusually tall, with unusually large breasts, she stepped carefully down the treacherous steps in ludicrous heels. Obviously on her way to somewhere glamorous, she was wearing a beautiful vintage dress, divided into a white upper third and black from the waist down. Demure, while emphasizing every line and curve, it hugged and flattered her frame, topped by a striking face, tasteful makeup and a brunette bob.

The thing that made this outfit spectacular, and took me from mere passing admirer to a gawping ogler, was the shoes. Black leather stilettos, the heel easily six inches high and slender. The shoes themselves looked a bit like they were put together out of of thick black bondage tape tied around her foot and ankle, held together with a strip down the back with a zipper running the length of it from ankle to heel.

Of course she caught me looking. Usually, being what I am, I would have at least managed a smile, nod, possibly even a compliment. But this time, I somehow lost both my faculty of speech and flirting, and was instead reduced to that sad spectacle that attractive women so often face on public transport: a red faced pervert fiddling with his music player, pretending not to look.

The good thing that came out of this was that once I'd rediscovered my ability to maintain eye-contact and string sentences together at the same time, I overcompensated all evening by complimenting every well-dressed woman who passed through my conversational radius. This made for a very nice night out, so I probably owe the vamp on the platform my thanks.

Can you help?

2009-08-10T14:08:00.000Z

"So, can you help?" she concluded, and waited for me to say something. I could hear her breathing down the phone, slightly winded from walking and talking at the same time.

"You have no decent pictures of your arse, and you want me to take some. How can I say no? I'm just wondering what kind of dating site this is that you'll be posting these on."

She laughed. "You know perfectly well, pervert."

No objections

2009-07-31T16:00:00.002Z

Who am I to object if she wants to have her mouth used? She doesn't say as much, but the way she responds when I push her to her knees and tie her hands behind her back is encouragement enough.
The bondage is simple enough, rope wrapped into a sturdy pair of cuffs around her wrists, securing them softly. I had a blindfold there, but somehow I didn't feel like using it this particular afternoon. I wanted her to look up at me while I bunched her unruly curls between
my fingers and fed my cock to her, slowly pulling her head towards me,my cock filling her mouth deeper and deeper....
Struggling at first, she made a show of resistance. I grabbed her hair tighter, and she opened up, relaxed and took me inside, her tongue flickering along the underside while I pulled her on to me.
I fucked her mouth for a while, relishing the slowness. When I pushed her away so that the tip of my cock was resting against the shiny wet of her lower lip she looked up at me and smiled sweetly.
"It's been too long, " I said. "I've missed you."

Daisy

2009-06-29T15:35:00.001Z

We met at a fetish club a decade ago. She gave a whipping demonstration for a wide-eyed crowd of perverts, and I fell a little bit in love.

The venue was a basement rock-club, small but with a surprisingly roomy stage area. I arrived early, on the recommendation of a seasoned friend. The show was worth getting a good spot for. Even back then I'd have described her as "matronly". dressed all in black - her voluptuous curves accentuated by heels and pencil skirt, corset and tight-fitting leather gloves - Daisy terrorized a trio of two muscular men and a slim brunette I later learned was her girlfriend.

The boys stripped down to their white underwear, and the brunette sat cross-legged on a chair, dressed fetchingly in a black thong and bra. Mistress Daisy introduced her collection of pleasurable torture devices to the crowd. First, she pulled out a square-shaped, flexible leather paddle, instructed one of the boys to bend over and slapped his rump a few times with a satisfying thwack.

Daisy worked her way through her collection of various short- to medium-length whips, ending up with a riding crop in her hand. "Now this, you've got to be careful with," she said to the audience, holding it up like a TV chef introducing a tricky ingredient.

This seemed to be the cue for the two boys to seize the brunette. One of them forced her on to her knees while the other removed her bra. All very dramatic. They held her by the arms kneeling upright, one on each side - the pose looked satisfyingly "damsel in distress".

The man on her left had an erection that was in no way concealed by the flimsy briefs he wore. Daisy stroked the bulge briefly with her gloved hand when she approached them, crop in hand. The kneeling woman had small breasts, with perky little nipples that stood out even further when Daisy dangled the floppy loop at the end of the riding crop around them, gently stroking and tickling for a hypnotizingly long time...

The first swipe was so swift I didn't see it. Just the brunette's eyes widening, the jolt of her body and the pleasure-pain quality of the sound she made.

The crowd encircling the stage murmured and oohed in appreciation. Daisy smiled pleasantly, then turned her attention to the other nipple.

After the crop demonstration the brunette seemed dazed. The men led her to a sofa at the back of the stage and wrapped a shawl around her while she recovered, then returned to the front for the finale. Mistress Daisy stood calmly to one side while some minions brought out a sturdy-looking spanking horse. She motioned one of the boys - the one with the erection - to bend over it, then she tied his hands and feet to the legs with a length of black rope.

Taking her time, she picked up her final, most spectacular demonstration piece - a coiled bullwhip of glistening black leather.

A murmur washed through the audience, rising while she uncoiled the whip. She talked the whole time, probably saying something interesting and funny. I remember none of it

With a steady arm Daisy began wielding the whip, the lash hissing hypnotically through the air, back and forth. It gave the impression of the possibility of real damage.

The snap was surprisingly loud. The lash didn't touch the bound man's back or buttocks, but he startled anyway, struggling against the ropes.

I don't remember how many lashes she gave him, but they were delicately applied. When they released him, I only saw four red welts on his back. He seemed very satisfied.

It took me almost a month to work up the nerve to talk to her, but after that it was easy. We have interests in common, after all, and I was always a sucker for her style. "Buy me a drink?" she emailed me the other day. "I'm stopping over in London next month, and you're showing me around."

"Yes ma'am," I replied.

The Rule

2009-06-22T23:15:00.001Z

We have a rule: No marks. We leave as we came; no scratches, no stripes, no spots.

Standing in the middle of Victoria station, commuters rushing singlemindedly all around us, the fragrant storm of Layla's brown hair swirls all over my face and she bites my ear. Lightly. Just enough to startle, and then some.

"Ouch!" I pull back and she looks at me mischievously. There's a dark sharpness about her eye makeup, her lipstick more intensely red than usual.

I offer her my arm and we head for the taxi rank outside, and my mobile buzzes with a text message. I ignore it, enjoying the pleasure of Layla's arm through mine, our bodies softly bumping into each other. She would never admit it, but I think she's not used to wearing heels, and the tight black knee-length skirt can't possibly help her balance. We walk slowly because she's dressed for pleasure, not for speed.

In the back of the cab, I look at my phone. The text is from her, its arrival delayed by my trip underground.

Looking out the window she pretends to ignore me, her palm gently resting on my thigh. I stroke the back of her hand with my fingertips while I read the text message she sent minutes before her train rolled into the station, moments before she rushed down the platform towards me:

"I want u 2 mark me. No rules. x"

I put the phone away and pull Layla's hand towards me, resting it on the throbbing bulge of my crotch. She still pretends to have her attention elsewhere, but I notice how she shifts in her seat, ever so subtly.

It's a cloudy spring day, perfect for staying indoors. Sitting next to her, I lean over and draw in her scent, thinking about how she must have spent the morning getting ready. Picking out her clothes, showering, putting on her makeup...

I feel a buzzing lust while I sit and admire the meticulousness of her grooming, the obvious care with which she has selected the outfit, and the tense knowledge that I am here to destroy the composure that goes along with it. She wants to be reduced to messy nakedness, screaming to be fucked harder...

Our time is limited. She has a dinner engagement at eight, for which she will have to be recomposed, elegant and charming. Only the warm glow of reverberating pleasure will accompany her when she leaves, a faint bruise blossoming on her buttock.

Take me out

2009-06-04T21:41:00.001Z

We squeezed into an overflowing bar off a street that seemed entirely devoted to Friday-night stag parties. She seemed almost embarrassed on behalf of her hometown. "Usually this place is pretty good," she shouted into my ear as we pushed between the bodies packed into a dimly-lit space. The loud music made conversation almost impossible.

I started looking around for a dark corner to push her into. Somewhere a bit out of sight where I could slide my hand up her thigh, above the stockings, push her knickers aside and finger her pussy.

But she was leading me to the exit. Bumping up against her from behind, I rubbed the lump of my erection against her buttocks when the crowd pushed us together.

Pinch

2009-05-24T16:56:00.003Z

Chloe bit me hard, probably when I was on top, fucking her. I had bound her torso in a latticework of blue rope, like a bodice reaching from neck to crotch, parallel strands of rope hugging her slightly pouty labia, a thick knot resting on top of her pubis, pressing down on her clit.

I took a photo, just before this, of her lying on her back, legs spread, playing with herself. She is wearing black stockings with a swirly flower-pattern that complements the blue rope and her pale skin. She is rubbing the plump, glistening lips of her pussy with two fingers, hair wild, face turned away from the camera. Closed in on herself, she looks beautiful and completely wrapped up in the combined pleasure of bondage, exhibition and masturbation. Looking at the image, I can feel again the same urge to push her legs apart and lick.

Which I did.

And then, because she asked so nicely, spread and glistening, I put a bit of lube on the condom and pulled the rope aside to slide my cock into her. She grasped me with her pussy, pulling me inside. I could feel the rope on either side of my cock, her labia pinched between me and the rope. Every time I thrust into her, I could feel the knot, grinding against me.

It was the kind of thing that could get painful.

"Quit teasing me..." she said.

I took it slow, fucking her with long strokes, careful not to push to sharply against the knot and the rope.

"Fuck me harder," she growled. This is what she likes - the hard, sharp, unrestrained fuck. Gently only takes her so far.

I flipped her over to take her from behind, holding on to the rope bodice to pull her towards me while I fucked her, letting go of my self-control a little at a time, forgetting...

"Ow!"

She pulled away sharply.

"Fuck, I got pinched!"

Some combination of cock, rope and hard fuck had finally come together to rub her the wrong way at exactly the wrong time. But it was good while it lasted.

Later, I unwrapped the rope and tied her again with nothing to obstruct access to her pussy and arse. But that was later. For now we took it easy, slowed down...

She bit me while we were fucking like this, and the teethmarks vanished within hours, but a yellow bruise appeared a couple of days later and lasted through the week.

Bite

2009-05-04T16:19:00.001Z

My teeth rested gently on the aureole, the tip of my tongue pulling on the steel ring threaded through her nipple. Her left hand on the back of my head gripped my hair with a sudden pleasurable force.

"Yes, stay like that..."

I was sitting on a rather frail-looking desk chair, which creaked loudly when she shifted on top of me, straddling my lap. This was the room where they kept spare office furniture and an assortment of beige-coloured crap.

Her right hand slid into the waistband of her jeans, fingers working underneath the fabric.

I cupped her buttocks, enjoying the brief stolen moment, hoping no one would try to get into the storeroom just yet.

The piercing clinked against my teeth. When I pulled on it, stretching the nipple out to bite it softly, she made a sound that anyone standing outside the door would have recognized without having to look inside to see what we were up to on her lunch break.

Hand job

2009-04-21T21:22:00.001Z

She likes to play with my dick, hands slick with lubricant, my cock glistening between her clasped fingers. Part of the pleasure of coming this way is her enjoyment of having me between her hands, aching to come.

In the big bed, in her small flat I told her while she stroked me what I was thinking about: The view I had just had a little earlier, taking her from behind, stroking her tanned buttocks and gently holding a thick flesh-coloured butt plug in place while I fucked her, picking up the pace as she ground against me...

This is what brought me to orgasm. Just as pleasurable as the feeling of her hands around my cock, I imagined the soft curves of her ass, the way her pussy stretched around my cock, the quiet intensity of her orgasm when she sat on top of me, grinding away, whispering about how full she felt, back and front.

I came thinking about what had just happened.

"I'm thinking about fucking you..." I leaned back into the pillows, giving myself over to her.

She smiled, not saying anything, pumping my cock harder, wanting to see the white strands of my cum spill over her fingers.

50 words: Scream for the neighbours

2009-04-13T23:29:00.001Z

From the knot above her pubis I split the strands of rope between her legs, pulling her buttocks apart. Once her hands were securely tied, she helpless on her back, I worked her over with the vibrator until its blunt head rested on the knot. She came. The ropes held.

What have you been up to?

2009-03-20T12:26:00.006Z

We met for coffee in the sunshine. That was the gist of her text message: "Coffee? Sunshine? When?" A pleasant surprise, because I hadn't seen E. in a while.

I found us an outside seat while she ordered the coffees. The air was cool, but the sunshine was warm. A hint of spring in the air, but not just yet.

When she put the cups down she laughed at me for sitting there with my coat wrapped tight against the chill. She soon saw the point, though, after a few minutes sitting down, pulling her black wool shawl tight. We chatted about books - we seem to have a pattern of trading recommendations for good stuff. I like her taste in novels, and she likes me to tell her about music.

She spooned the last of her latte from the bottom of the cup. "So, have you gotten up to anything... you know... interesting?" When she asks questions like this, she shakes her reddish blonde curls down around her face, looking out from in between them like she's hiding from the rudeness of the question.

I obliged by telling her about an experiment with a short crop, some handcuffs and a ball gag. Mostly I told her about the marks on the recipient's bottom, the sensitive pink welts, and the pleasure they gave her the next day sitting down at work.

E. smiled mischievously when I asked the same question of her. "Actually, I'll just show you..."

She leaned forward and took my left hand. Glancing around to see if anyone noticed, she pulled my hand to her right breast so I could feel the nipple through the fabric.

Pinching it between thumb and index finger I could feel the little dumbbell ring underneath. She closed her eyes a moment while I teased her nipple and pulled gently at the piercing.

"Did you do them both or just one?" I asked.

"Both, definitely." She giggled. "And one downstairs - a week ago."

She refused to give me more details. "When it heals properly you can find out for yourself. A girl's got to have secrets, darling."

Distractions

2009-03-20T12:14:00.001Z

There are so many distractions. Writing is inherently quiet, one of those unobtrusive activities that can always be shunted aside if it doesn't come with deadlines and paychecks attached. I love it, I love the pleasure it gives me, but every now and then I realize I haven't gotten around to doing any in a while. No particular reason, just busy with things more demanding of immediate attention and tangible results.

Peep

2009-03-08T13:42:00.001Z

I went for dim sum a couple of weeks ago, with a woman who occasionally stops in London on her way somewhere else and asks me very politely to do unspeakable things to her.

This was just a lunch to catch up, not a prelude to play. That would happen a few days later. When we'd paid the bill I excused myself and went to the toilet. I was standing at the urinal when I heard her voice. "Mon, step back so I can see your cock."

I hadn't noticed that the ladies and gents shared a sink, and if you bent down, there was a straight line of vision from the other room to the urinal I was standing at.

Helpful as always, I stepped back, pushed my jacket out of the way and held my cock out. "This okay?"

"Perfect," she purred.

When I was shaking off the last drop, about to zip up my trousers, I heard someone enter the ladies' room.

"Oh..." the stranger said, surprised. She'd caught my lady friend bent over, peering into the gents'.

I washed my hands, then waited for my date outside the restaurant. When she finally arrived, she looked a bit flustered.

"That was fun," I said.

"Sorry to keep you waiting. I hid in the cubicle until she was gone." She took my arm, and we walked towards Carnaby St. She was about to be late for a meeting. "You know, while I was hiding... it was kind of sexy, waiting for her to leave." The grip on my arm tightened. "I was so tempted to masturbate."

"Did you?" I asked, very interested.

"No, but I'm fucking wet."

"We should do that again, without the disapproving intruder."

"I would like that very much," she smiled.

The Knot

2009-02-17T23:10:00.001Z

Boiling a 10 metre long hank of jute rope made the flat smell strange. Add to that the pulling and stroking and you get a significant workout. And blisters if you're not careful.

It was a present for an old friend. Looking at it coiled in the bottom of my suitcase, I wished for a customs inspection. Ideally, I should probably have conditioned a couple more while I was at it, but I don't think my biggest soup pot is big enough.

For my first attempt I thought it was good enough when I got it to the texture of rough cotton, still a bit coarse but not enough to hurt. Not inadvertently, anyway.

The recipients were very happy. My friend Mr. P likes being tied up and hit with objects that go "swoosh", and his partner, Ms. C, is happy to oblige. In fact, she took to bondage with the dedication of a true geek, amassing an enviable library of instructional literature and videos. I'm hoping they'll ask me to stash the goodies when their kids grow old enough to snoop around.

C's eyes lit up when she picked up the coil. "Oooh, that's nice..." she purred, running the (slightly unevenly textured) rope through her hands.

Quickly, she doubled the rope and tied a knot. "Let me show you something." Holding it in her palm like an apple, she turned to P and told him to open his mouth.

He obliged, biting down on the rope, his eyes closed.

"See, we tried this the other day..." she secured the rope around the back of his head, trailing half of it down the front, half down the back, then weaving the two together into a bodice or corset-like web laced around P's torso, all starting from the knotted gag in in his mouth.

P waited patiently while I complimented C on the ropework.

When she undid the rope she left the knot as it was and put it down on the glass-topped table. It seemed to belong there, surrounded by a swirl of rope, glistening with saliva.

Come quick

2009-02-01T20:31:00.001Z

"Oh, yes..." I leaned up against the cool white partition. The toilet cubicle was just big enough to accommodate the two of us. She had my cock in her mouth, sucking enthusiastically.

"Mon..." she tilted her head back with a conspiratorial smile. "Now's not the time to hold back." She flicked her tongue against the tip of my cock.

"I don't want to come just yet..."

"Fuck that. Just give it to me."

She opened wide and took my dripping wet cock into her mouth as far as it possibly could go. My senses shrunk down to this: The speed, the tightness and urgency of the sensation of her tongue swirling around the underside of the head. Knowing she wanted me to come, to come now, and to come hard inside her mouth, helplessly releasing...

There was no way to hold back against her. Not there, in this brief pocket of leftover time between getting up from the table and the others starting to wonder what we were up to.

Extreme Stupidity Put into Law

2009-01-26T00:01:00.001Z

As a blogger, pervert and a keen admirer of the liberty of tastes and pursuits, it saddens me to note that as of today "possession of extreme pornographic images" is illegal in the United Kingdom.

This is worrying news for those of us who think that government does not have any business snooping around the bedrooms and hard drives of consenting adults.

Even more worrying is the fact, already reported back in April 2008, that this law has raised relatively little interest in mainstream media, and critical coverage has been scant. That's not encouraging, given most professional journalists' sensitivities about any attempts to nibble away at our freedoms of expression. But this one is difficult to mobilize public opinion against. After all, which politician is brave enough to argue against a law that will (at first) only affect a sexual minority? Taking a stand with the perverts is not the way to scoop up the votes in most constituencies, so kudos to Baroness Miller for trying her best to scupper the law from the undemocratic safety of the House of Lords.

Backlash and CAAN are mobilizing kinksters and right-thinking people in general against this law. Check out their sites, and link to them if you can.

The Register has just published a sensible overview of the law, implications and how to avoid getting one's face splashed across the Daily Mail's front page. And if you want a chuckle along with your indignation, try Luka's take on the extreme porn law. Just hang on to the indignation - we're in for a long ride on this one, I fear.

Update: Here's another good piece on the debate and the problems of this law, from politics.co.uk: "Extreme porn becomes illegal" - thanks to JD for the link.

Up

2009-01-19T00:25:00.002Z

We had met 10 minutes earlier, and now we were at a crowded West End bar, going up a steep, narrow staircase. I was enjoying the full curve of her bottom, encased in a tight skirt. With each step she took, I could glimpse a stocking top and the outline of the suspenders underneath when the cream fabric stretched with her movement.

She felt me looking at her - stopped, turned half-around and smiled. "Didn't your mother teach you that it's rude to walk behind women like that?"

"I know. I'm being rude. What did you expect?"

Later, in a quiet corner of a beer-scented pub she waited while I fetched drinks. When I returned and put the glasses down, she turned to me, smiling like she did back on the stairs.

"Would you like a proper look?" she asked, the dark skin of her hands contrasting beautifully with the paleness of the skirt when she stroked the tops of her thighs, fingertips moving teasingly towards the hem.

She pulled her skirt up her thighs, exposing herself to me with a look of shy expectation in her eyes.

Sticky fingers

2009-01-17T14:48:00.000Z

"Frustration is good for you" Jill said over the phone. I could hear her smiling into the receiver. "Besides, you get lots of pussy." She was disappointed, despite the teasing. For a couple of weeks I'd been planning to visit her and her husband again, possibly just to watch them, possibly something more...

"That's not true - all my funbuddies have moved out of London, looking for glamorous jobs and happiness on the Continent and the other side of the world. I'm bereft!"

She didn't seem to have much sympathy. "Right. You'll be having a quiet winter, then?"

"Seems like it."

I was interrupted by a wet, lip-smacking sound from the other end.

"Um, what are you up to?"

"Nothing." Slurp.

"Doesn't sound like nothing. Is Jack there?" I could hear a quiet moan from a full mouth.

"Hello?" it was Jack. "Just saying hi. Listen..." He put the receiver right next to his cock while his wife went down on him. She was sucking him hard, I could hear breathing, her little noises of pleasure.

"Mon?" It was Jill. "Did you hear that?"

"Yes."

"His cock is so hard... He's going to fuck me. Would you like to hear him fuck me?"

"Damn... yes!" I could hear them moving around, the swish of fabric and the unmistakable sound of his hand slapping her arse a couple of times like I'd seen him do when I watched him take her from behind, bent over the sofa in their living room, a few feet away from me.

"Aaaaaahhh..." she sighed over the phone. "Yes...." I imagined his long-fingered hands spreading her buttocks, easing his cock inside her. They'd put the phone somewhere close - I could hear the rhythmic slap of him slamming into her.

After a while I could hear Jack, faintly. "Take it." Then Jill's voice on the phone. "Mon?"

"Mmhmm..." I mumbled.

"I'm going to come."

She did. Loudly. I listened to them until she picked the receiver up again, giggling. "My hands are soooo sticky!"

January

2009-01-08T23:25:00.001Z

The first month of the year has a bad rep. It's a scheduled hangover combined with an extended moment for contemplating your personal morass of debt. It's the month for looking in the mirror, locking bleary eyes with the unsightly reflection greeting you there and loudly proclaiming "We're fucked!"

Or not.

There's something sexy about the dullness of this month. When you have recreational sex in January it's made all the sweeter by the thought of all the poor souls out there doing penance for their Xmas overindulgence, joining gyms and reconfiguring their diet to include at least one item of virtuous unpleasantness for breakfast, lunch or both - as if starting the day in the depths of winter is made any easier by scoffing nonfat yogurt and wholegrain crispbread before having your toes frozen off at the bus stop.

For a hedonist, reading the London papers in January feels like a call to arms against the puritan hordes bearing down on this sinful city, ready to shove us all into vast, smelly gyms where we'll run on treadmills and be fed flavourless protein shakes until we submit or lose the will to live. Every morning the Metro seems to shout at me: Now's the time to eat well, enjoy a drink now and then, take enjoyable exercise (find a park, walk around in it) and get laid a lot.

Now, get out there and find some more lovers of the pleasures of the flesh...

Pretend

2008-12-31T17:25:00.004Z

"Pretend you don't know my name," she said when she let me into her flat.

"OK, stranger..." I kissed her. It was cold out, the snow melted on the shoulders of my overcoat, dripping on her bare arms. She was wearing a dark red knit dress and black tights, looking warm and cozy.

I pulled my boots off. "So, if I don't know you, how did I end up here?"

She held my coat, thinking for a moment before throwing it on the nearest chair. "You picked me up at a bar."

We had been seeing each other for almost three months. Secretly. I was a decade younger, her divorce wasn't final. It was all a bit improper. We had never gone out, not to a bar, concert, film, anything.

"Right," I nudged her backwards into the flat. "You saw me at the bar and pressed your tits against me until I bought you a drink."

"No, there was a queue for the toilets. You helped me sneak into the men's room..."

"Right. How could I forget?"

"...and then you joined me in the cubicle and I sucked your cock. I had to thank you for your help."

"I am such a gentleman," I said and unbuckled my belt. We'd come to a stop against her dining room table, her buttocks perched on the edge.

"So, this was last night? And now I'm back to see if this slut from the bar is a good fuck."

"Seems so." Sitting on the table, legs spread, she had pulled me in close and wiggled her crotch against the hard lump at the front of my jeans. Her hands slid around my waist, stroking my buttocks.

"What's this in your pocket?" She'd found the packet of condoms.

I stepped back, pulling her with me, then grabbing her arms to turn her around. "Let me show you." I bent her over the table and pushed the hem of her dress up her thighs.

"What are you doing?" she squeaked in mock indignation. "We barely know each other."

"I know." Both hands underneath her dress I pulled her tights down around her knees and pushed her on to the table. It was a bit rough. Rougher than we'd done it before.

Holding her down with one hand, just enough to make her token resistance fun, I ripped the packet open with my teeth, unzipped my jeans and rolled the condom onto my hard cock.

She stopped wiggling when I spread her buttocks with both hands and slid a thumb into her pussy.

"Why are you so wet?" I teased. "It's not enough for you to have a secret boyfriend, you also need to go out, pick up horny bastards at the bar?"

She pressed against me, "yes..."

"You just let some stranger into your house to fuck you over the table like this?" I pressed the head of my cock against the plump, glistening lips of her pussy. She couldn't spread her legs with the tights around her knees, couldn't push back any further. Pinned down against the table she just had to wait.

I slid inside her, relishing her twitching, greedy pleasure. Enjoying the way she gripped my shaft, I took my time. This is not what she wants, I remember thinking, realizing that I wasn't doing this - I was riding along with her fantasy.

"You know I'm just here to use you..." I said, picking up speed, fucking her a little faster, a little harder with every stroke.

"Yes," she whispered.

"I'm only here to fuck you like this. To use your pussy for my pleasure... If you want to come, you'll have to do it in your own time. Later."

I thrust into her hard and fast, pulling her buttocks apart with both hands.

"I'm here to take advantage of your tight pussy, that's all."

She began to come. A tremor swelling in her thighs, pulling against the restraints around her knees. It went on and on, not so much an explosion as a row of swelling and subsiding orgasms rolling in like waves.

I held back, miraculously, riding along with her without coming myself.

When she finished, I pulled out and sat down on a chair, watching her recompose herself. My cock stuck out, hard, the condom shiny and wet.

"Remind me," I said. "How exactly did you thank me last night?"

Morning

2008-12-29T18:20:00.004Z

Three days after I handed her my card, she led me into her bedroom, locked the door and pulled my hand up underneath her skirt.

"You seem happy to see me." I put down the coffee I had brought with me. If I get invited to a woman's home in the morning, the least I can do is bring coffee. And condoms.

She guided two of my fingers into the wet folds of her pussy and sighed. "There's something I didn't tell you, Mon."

"Oh?" I curved my fingers and slid them lazily back and forth.

"I haven't had any for almost a year."

"What? Coffee?"

"Fuck off!" She held my wrist tightly, rotating her hips against my hand. "Sex, you idiot. I think my virginity's grown back."

The muscles of her pussy clutched around my fingers. I kept thinking about how it would feel when they got to grasp my cock. She leaned back against the door, thrusting her hips forward, taking my fingers in deeper.

"A year's a long time." I tried to pull my hand back. No luck. "I think this calls for a detailed examination... You should take your clothes off."

"Yeah, I should..." She held my wrist with both hands while I fingered her cooperatively. "It's just... I want to..."

"Yes?"

"Let me come like this. Then we'll get naked. And fuck. A lot."

"Sounds like a plan."

Pause

2008-12-20T13:08:00.002Z

We were fully clothed, in a slightly chilly hotel room. I sat on the bed, leaning back and looking up at her, dressed entirely inappropriately for November. The lipstick was smudged from kissing, her blouse unbuttoned to expose the black, shiny fabric of the basque underneath. A little breathless, she swayed on her high heels, reflexively smoothing down the front of her skirt.

"Well?" I asked, spreading my legs.

"It's not like I'm some kind of slut," she said with fake indignation, her eyes fixed on my crotch.

"Of course not. Now get on your knees and suck my cock."

She swallowed me greedily into her hot wet mouth. One hand around the shaft, the other buried in between her legs. Taking me in deep, the moans of her orgasm were almost completely stifled.

There was a small pause when she caught her breath, looking up at me with a conspiratorial smirk. Then she opened wide again...

If at first...

2008-12-05T17:51:00.000Z

We all find ourselves at one point or another tying up a tall blonde from Manchester without the proper qualifications. It was all going pretty well. I had passed the soft black bondage rope, doubled up like it should be, in between her legs and through a loop at the back of her neck. There was a thick knot just above her clit, and when I would tighten the rope later, the soft bundle would press against her vulva in a lovely teasing way.

Kneeling on the bed, the black rope on her pale skin, she looked irresistible.

I began tying her arms, weaving the strands of the rope together in a pleasantly symmetrical way... and that's where the trouble began. I was about to run out of rope.

Fifteen feet had clearly not been plenty, like I thought. And I had clearly made too many wasteful decisions along the way, using too much rope just because I got caught up in the erotic intricacies of it all, maybe not thinking about how tall she is.

There was no alternative, I had to loosen the bonds and start over.

She had just been getting there... just about to slide into that state of letting go, the restraints hugging her torso from chest to crotch in a tight embrace. And then I muttered, "Um, I think I have to do this a bit differently..."

Her frustration only lasted a few moments, the premature loosening of the ropes followed by a different, more secure tightening. And this time, when I reached her wrists, there was even a foot of rope left.

On the photograph I took of her, bent over and kneeling, the spare rope slinks down between her buttocks like a tail.

Susie interviews me

2008-11-26T21:27:00.006Z

Because one of my stories is included in Susie Bright's beautiful X: The Erotic Treasury, here's a short interview she did with me. It was conducted over the vast expanse of the interweb, and not in bed as I would have preferred.

Have you ever won an award- or condemnation- for any of your talents?

I lost out on a Golden Phallus statue at the 2007 Erotic Awards, which I lusted for, but I have yet to be invited to any gala events where I might have to step onstage and make a speech.

Mostly I think there isn't an award that matches my ambitions in life. If there was some sort of Cunnilinguist award, combining writing and oral sex, I think I'd be a strong contender.

Have you ever used a pen name of the opposite gender from yourself?

No - well, "MonMouth" isn't exactly gender-specific - but a number of people who read my blog seem convinced that I am a woman. I find it enormously flattering, but it makes me wonder what exactly I would try to change if I attempted to write under a female pseudonym. Perhaps I write in a sort of hermaphroditic style?

Reprehensible

2008-11-24T00:03:00.001Z

I didn't really notice her wedding ring until I tied her hands behind her back. It was a slim gold band, barely noticeable between a couple of oversize plastic rings in bright green and pink. Plastic is a goth's best friend.

She knelt on the thick carpet, clad only in tattoos and dark hair extensions. Her torso was securely wrapped in a halter top of black rope around her chest,

"This is a morally reprehensible thing to do," she said, opening her mouth wide to accommodate my cock.

Bloglift

2008-11-10T15:53:00.003Z

Because this little blog is now 5 years old, I decided to give it a bit of a facelift.

This is what happens when you grow up in the public eye, after all. At first you're fresh and cute, then gradually your age starts to show, with unfavourable comparisons to the younger models becoming embarrassingly frequent.

It starts with innocent little questions like "Mon, why don't you have automatic backlinks for each post?"

Cue the old-geezer reply: "Heh? What's that? Some newfangled invention for bloggery? In my time, young whippersnapper, we didn't have automated backlinks, oh no, we had to scour the internet in our spare time looking for references to ourselves, then painstakingly hand-sew them into the blog posts, writing out lines of HTML in longhand..."

"HTML?" asks the youngster. "What's that? We just use templates, old man. We have better things to write than stupid HTML code!"

And so it has come to pass that the template gets updated, and I treat myself to a silicone bum-injection.

50 words: Exactly

2008-11-08T12:09:00.001Z

"I want you to tell me exactly what you want me to do," she said.

I instructed her to stand still while I undressed.

Swaying slightly on her stilettos, I could see her getting more fidgety; by the time she was blindfolded and bent over, she trembled ever so slightly.

Take it easy

2008-11-04T00:03:00.001Z

I was under the impression we were taking it easy, until she unzipped my jeans and took my half-hard cock in her mouth. Sitting on her sofa, I had been in her small North London flat for less than 10 minutes, and already I was having this enjoyable problem: When the hostess hands you a glass full of sparkling water, then immediately goes down on you, where do you put the glass?

There was no table within reach. I leaned back, relishing the feeling of her cool, fresh mouth around my hardening cock. She'd just had a large sip of cold water before pouncing on me.

"Ummm. Fuck. Mmmmm.... Rosie?"

"Mmmhmmm," she answered with her mouth full.

"I'm... aaaah.... holding a glass of.... fuck."

She came up for air and noticed my predicament. Laughing she took the glass and put it on the table.

"We're not in a rush, are we?"

"Sorry, no. I've just been looking forward to a bit of male company."

I began to unbutton her black shirt. One button at a time. Slowly. Pinching a nipple now and then.

Rosie giggled, stood up and pulled the shirt off, over her head. She was on to me with the teasing.

"Actually," she said, pulling her jeans down around her hips. "I'm just too fucking horny."

She tossed the jeans aside. Stroking a breast with one hand, and caressing the bulge of her pubis through the silky fabric of her knickers, she stood in front of me, her hand inches away from my nose.

I leaned back, and stroked my cock. "Really?" I asked, like it was all a big marvelous surprise.

She bent over to take it in her mouth. "You know, I'm just going to suck on this for a minute, and then I really need you to fuck my brains out."

"No rush," I said as her lips slid down the shaft of my cock. "Take all the time you want."

Songs in the key of X

2008-10-27T10:13:00.003Z

Susie Bright, the deviant goddess of sexwriting editors, has pulled together a musical sampler for her freshly published trove of goodies - X: The Erotic Treasury. Despite repeated attempts, I've been unable to embed the player here, but here's the full list of songs and why the writers picked them.

Yes, I happen to be on this very list of contributors. My smut, expertly edited by Susie, has been printed on creamy soft paper, pressed between the handsome covers... and if you detect a hint of smirky self-satisfaction here you're entirely right. Enjoy the tunes - normal blogging service will resume shortly.

Welt

2008-10-19T23:08:00.001Z

The scratches down my forearm lasted only a day or so. There were marks a bit longer where she had dug her nails into the mound of my deltoid while I held her thighs apart and slid my tongue up and down the length of her slit. Her scent filled my nostrils and she ground the wet softness of her cunt into my face - in the midst of all this I couldn't possibly notice the welts forming on my skin. Or rather, I noticed, but I didn't care, the sensation adding to the intoxication of the moment.

When I got up to find the condoms, she lunged for my cock with her mouth. Playing the game, I couldn't let her get what she wanted so easily. I slapped her face softly but firmly with the flat of my hand.

"Restrain yourself, or you'll get punished."

She smirked and took another shot, her mouth open, hungry.

I slapped her again across the face, harder, back and forth, the palm and the back of my hand striking the warm, flushed cheeks. To keep her still I held her head by clutching a handful of her brown curls between my fingers.

Once the condom was on I had the good sense to hold her down by the wrists while I slid myself into the twitching grasp of her pussy.

Taxi

2008-10-07T22:03:00.001Z

Even after my years in cities I still get a buzz from stepping into a taxi, instructing the driver and being taken where I want to go. There's a subtle erotic pleasure in submitting to the confinement, being conducted through the traffic, and the possibility that this car could be going anywhere.

Then there is the addictive electricity of being driven to meet someone, anticipation and anxiety bumping up against each other while the car approaches the destination.

I will be naked within minutes of standing up from this seat.

But it isn't just the anticipation, it's the sense of being taken away. Even for just a little while.

Security

2008-09-28T22:03:00.001Z

Connie was waiting for me at the outdoor cafe in front of Big Museum. The first thing I noticed was that she didn't have a handbag so much as a piece of luggage, lurking next to her chair like a medium-sized dog. She'd settled in comfortably, sipping a large latte, wearing sunglasses and a large smile. Clearly, the anticipation of an afternoon spent indoors on this lovely summer day seemed to please her a great deal.

I realised immediately why she hadn't wanted to wait for me inside - the dog-sized bag. The serious uniformed security staff at the entrance would probably have raised an eyebrow or two at the contents during bag search. Although, come to think about it, if you search bags for a living in London, chances are you've pretty much seen everything already. A couple of silicone dildos and a bit of bondage tape couldn't be the worst of it. Even at a museum.

"So what do you have in there?" I asked when I sat down next to her under the umbrella, discreetly stroking her thigh.

"I brought lunch," she smiled cheerfully, pointing at the plastic bag at her feet. "And fun stuff," pointing at her handbag.

"Want to go inside, see what the security guards say when they look in your bag to make sure you're not a terrorist?"

"Why not? I can just see the Daily Mail headline: 'Suburban Adulteress Caught in the War on Terror.'"

"Good point." We kept well away from the entrance.

A remarkably short while later, I was sliding her translucent pink knickers down her thighs. She stretched out and wiggled her bottom against the mattress. And just as I delicately traced the length of her labia with the tip of my tongue, relishing the ticklish anticipation of having her in my mouth, I felt a giggle coming on.

Connie spread her legs further, wanting my tongue on her clit...

The giggle kept pushing its way up out of the pit of my stomach. I had my face between the legs of a beautiful woman purring with horny appetite, and I couldn't concentrate. The thought kept accosting me: Her roomy handbag being unpacked by a squad of grim-faced security guards, a burly man with latex gloves, pulling a thick, long pink dildo out of it, his eyes trailing longingly along the bulging veins of the shaft...

It escaped, this giggle. It just had to get out.

If there's one thing worse than laughing in someone's face, it's laughing in the face of their genitals. Particularly in a state of arousal.

"What?" She wasn't exactly pleased.

I looked up from in between her thighs. "Sorry, I just couldn't help thinking about the War on Terror..."

She started laughing.

"You wouldn't happen to have a huge pink dildo with you?" I had to ask.

Busted

2008-09-27T00:23:00.002Z

Usually I am not one of those men who seem unable to control their eyes or smirking lustfulness in the presence of a beautiful woman showing a bit of cleavage or a bit of thigh.

At least this is how I like to imagine myself. So it came as a surprise to get caught in a meeting, absentmindedly letting my eyes linger with unmistakable carnality on a woman I had just been introduced to by a business acquaintance who sometimes conducts meetings one after the other in a quiet, accommodating bar. I was about to leave, she was early, and while I was packing my laptop and finishing the coffee she sat down for a chat...

And I realised why I almost felt like I knew her. She reminded me of an old friend - tall, with a London-Caribbean accent and very long legs. She lowered herself on to the sofa across from me. I checked her out discreetly while she was sitting down, arranging herself on the slightly awkward seat, taking her mobile out of her brightly coloured bag to switch it off... And that's when I got careless.

My eye trailed down from her scoop-necked top, down to the tight jeans and back up to find her looking straight at me, smiling.

Not in anything resembling a "come hither" kind of way, mind you. More like "got a good look, asshole?"

I was leaving anyway, so there was no way to rescue this in any other way than saying goodbye politely. Walking out I couldn't stop thinking about the horrifying awkwardness if I'd started to explain... "You know, you remind me so much of someone! This funbuddy of mine, you know, the resemblance is striking... well, she's a bit taller than you, but you've got much bigger breasts... uh, and the way you move too - very similar. Have you by any chance worked as a runway model?"

Or even better "Say, you look just like a hottie I know. Mind if I take a look if your phone numbers are similar too?"

On Paper

2008-09-25T08:59:00.001Z

Sometimes I like to be told what to do. I particularly like the sense of being in the calm, confident hands of someone who knows what she's doing, and takes pleasure in showing me the way.

This is the pleasure of being edited.

We bloggers are usually masters of our own little domains, and there's no quality control to keep us in line. We can publish whatever we want, and the only filter between us and the world is the very limited time and attention of readers, whose linkage and recommendations weed out the interesting from the tedious.

There's a lovely sense of freedom involved in this, but when the opportunity comes along to write for an edited paper-based publication of the old kind even the most seasoned blogger appreciates the discerning eye of an editor. Bloggery is a solitary vice until the comments start to roll in, and the feeling of having my writing scrutinized and tweaked is a surprising combination of anxiety and the pleasure of validation. It's a delightful thought that a seasoned professional is taking the time to go through my prose and declaring it fit for publication.

And now, by a coincidence of publication schedules on either side of the Atlantic, two books I have contributed to are coming out at the same time.

First by a couple of weeks is Ultimate Burlesque, a collection of smut, filth and glamorous depravity, edited by Emily Dubberley and Alyson Fixter, for the noble purpose of raising much-needed dosh for Macmillan Cancer Support. If you order it straight from Xcite Books, 55% of the cover price goes to charity (15% if you do it via Amazon).

Should you fancy seeing some of the authors in hot, sweaty action, the Ultimate Burlesque tour will be bringing dirty talk to bookstores across the land. Enjoy the mellifluous voices of the authors themselves reading filth in reputable bookstores on these dates:

2nd October
6.30pm The Big Green Bookshop, Wood Green Featuring Richard Bardsley, Maxim Jakubowski, Mark Farley, Sarah Berry and Carmen Ali
Tickets: Free
http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=27401121021

9th October
7pm Notting Hill Waterstones
Featuring Katie Fforde, Mark Farley, Christiana Spens, Alyson Fixter and Emily Dubberley with a burlesque performance from the fabulous Ophelia Bitz and Femme Ferale
Tickets £3 redeemable against purchase
http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=28404965675&ref=ts

12th October
3.30pm The London Fetish Fair, Shillibeers, Caledonian Road, Islington N7.
Featuring Mark Farley, Sarah Berry and performance from Beatrix Von Bourbon and Tallulah Mockingbird
Tickets £5 Fair runs 12-6, with author event from 3.30
http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=23404688157

16th October
8pm The Vibe Bar @ The Truman Brewery, 91 Brick Lane, London E1 Featuring Christiana Spens, Mark Farley, Alcamia, Sarah Berry and performance from Fifi La Bomb, Leyla Rose and Ivy Paige
Tickets £7/£5 NUS/concs
http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=22819034670

17th October
8pm The Dogstar, 389 Coldharbour Lane, Brixton SW9 Featuring Olivia Darling, Mat Fraser, Wanda Von Mittens and Mark Farley
Tickets £5
http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=40747621072

30th October
7pm Brighton Waterstones
Featuring Emily Dubberley, Carmel Lockyear, Kristina Lloyd and Richard Bardsley
Tickets £3 redeemable against purchase
http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=64067400514

1st November
5pm-7pm, Sela Bar, 20 New Briggate, Leeds, LS1 6NU As part of Leeds Erotica Festival (LeedsErotica.org.uk) featuring Alyson Fixter, Miranda Forbes and Claire Worldley plus performances by Anna Fur Laxis, The Boneshakers and Beatrix Boom
Tickets: Free
http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=36150649736

2nd November
Erotic Literature Day. 2pm onwards. Upstairs at Sela Bar, in Leeds, as part of Leeds Erotica Festival (LeedsErotica.org.uk) featuring Alyson Fixter and Miranda Forbes from BABC, along with Victoria Blisse, Alison Brumfitt, Tilly Green and Becky Cherriman.
http://www.new.facebook.com/event.php?eid=35451336531&ref=mf

Once you've gone to that little lot, you could always book a ticket to the Burlesque Against Breast Cancer Ball at http://www.burlesqueabc.com and help raise even more money for Macmillan...

As for the other book I'm in, it's not out just yet, but I'll post something about it when it does. I'm very excited, because it's edited by none other than Susie Bright. All I know right now is that the book will be gorgeous on the outside and filthy on the inside.

View

2008-09-13T21:32:00.001Z

The window of her room on the 6th floor took in the towering lights of the City. We dimmed the lights and removed our clothes, the view from the bed almost distracting us from the eager hands on each other's skin.