Monthly Archives: April 2007

Biker Girl

This is my continuation of a dream that I described here. What follows is how the dream might have ended. The fact that the dream was rather truncated because I woke up is a shame, but it did save on the laundry LOL.

The hot sun ignited her fiery red hair, creating a halo of infernal promise. The road was silent save for the occasional chirrup of a bird and the rustling of leaves on the canopy above us.

I hadn’t dismounted yet, the engine of my Triumph still idling between my legs. I smiled a salacious smile from inside my helmet as I watched her leather-clad body slink towards me.

I killed the engine and rested the bike on its stand, by the time she had reached me I had removed my helmet and was enjoying freedom from the humidity within it. She kissed me, perfume, leather and he own distinct aroma mingled with hydrocarbons from the hot engine and warm tyres. Is it a man-thing to be turned on by such things, I don’t think so, anyone can feel their pulse race at such stimuli if the associations are right. The smell of the car where you first made-out in, the texture of the shirt that you rested your head against when you got to slow dance with that guy you’d been after all year at your high school Christmas dance. Yes I think women have those sort of triggers too.

And Suze does like leather, leather and a little restraint now, not like when I first met her, the restraint is a new development. Evolution, that’s our relationship, constantly changing and reaching into new areas that we’d never imagined before. I digress.

Leather creaked against leather, I pulled her towards me and she responded by pressing her lips against mine. I parted her soft lips with my tongue and asserted my lingual mastery of her mouth over its lithe inhabitant. Her tongue supplicant to mine I broke away and dragged her into the copse.

We climbed over a ridge that might have once been a field boundary and down into the ditch on the other side. She slipped on the lose leaf mould and slid almost to the bottom of the gully. I stood astride her thighs, enjoying her laughter, it was like a welcome, cooling shower on a hot summer’s day. Blue-white rivulets of joy trickled down my skin just listening to her.

Suze propped herself up on her elbows and letting her gaze slide down my body to my crotch. A hand shot up and grabbed the leather between my legs. “Lay down.” She asked, so I did. Her hands quickly yanked my tight fitting leathers down to my knees. Suze leant forward and took my hard cock gently in her teeth through the cotton of my boxers. With skill derived from hours of practice she bit me to the point of pain and sent shudders through me.

Wanting all of me she released me from my underwear, pulling the waistband down enough to rest under my balls. She grazed the head of my cock with her teeth, white sparks fluttered down my shaft, became yellow in my groin and spread out across my back. I slid my hand into her dark red hair and without care or tenderness pushed her mouth hard onto me, filling her mouth, invading her throat, feeling her gag.

For a moment I held her there and she submitted, knowing I was in control trusting me to release her to breath again.

When I did she drew in a long, gasping breath. Then another. With the third she asked “Fuck me, please.”
She unzipped her boots and threw them across the leafy floor, I yanked at her trousers, the smell of their leather suffused with her freshly exposed hot skin. Her jacket was opened, but left on revealing her lacy teal bra and matching panties. She helped me remove my boots and trousers, then lay back in the leaves, ass on the discarded leathers, ankles drawn up and legs spread.

The darkened wet crotch of her knickers beckoned. I knelt and slid two fingers behind the seam of the waistband and slid them down to the slick, warm crotch, lifting them away and to one side. I couldn’t resist raising my hand to my mouth and licking her essence from those fingers. Suze opened her mouth tongue quivering inside, begging for a taste. But I denied her.

Her disappointment was quickly assuaged by my intrusion in to her cunt. I needed to fuck and hers was the perfect pussy for my need. Hot, wet and greedy for penetration. Her eyes implored I fuck her too, no love making or subtle manoeuvring of the hips. Tantra? Ha! She needed a bang, a fuck, a rogering, a ragging, a pounding of such intensity that feelings are expunged from the participants and all that is left is the carnal desire and need to be sated.

I would not disappoint her, it wouldn’t be gentlemanly, would it? Our groins collided, hard and fast, action that would make a porn censor wince, have them with their pen hovering over the “Refuse Certification” box. With every deep thrust she moaned, louder and louder her appreciation doubling her desire until she is frantic, oblivious to the world around us. I focus on her, driven on by her lust, fuelled by her reckless ululations. I press my palm across her mouth, the edge sliding inside. She bites, hard, teeth almost breaking the skin. I cry out, the pain turning to pleasure, mingling with the fiery sensations from my cock.

I am clenched by the muscles in her pussy, her orgasmic spasm matched by the tearing of her teeth into the flesh of my hand. The rushing of semen accelerates from 0 to 60 in the blink of an eye, opalescent jewels of high-revving pleasure.

The world blurs and I slide onto my back beside her. My vision returns the overwhelming cacophony of colour subsides and I swim in a sea of blue bliss, Suzanne licking the last drops of cum from my cock.

Just One Look

Alex’s recent post about the rights and wrongs of ogling the opposite sex.  I personally don’t have a problem with it.  😉  For me it is a huge compliment to feel the gaze of another male or female for that matter upon my body.  It makes me feel good, attractive and very sexy to know that others enjoy my body as much as Alex and I do.

I admit there are ways to do this and sometimes if done in the wrong way it came be a bit creepy.  To catch someone’s eye when they are checking you out and see the look of embarrassment appear on their face as the realisation hits that you have caught them out.  Being … well, salacious.  Oh, how I love that word, it is very much a delicious case of onomatopoeia sssssalaciousssss. 

That word makes me horny, just thinking about it.  Don’t ask me why.  Are there any words which trigger your sexual urges?  It would be interesting if just the very thought or sound of a particular word gets your juices flowing.  😉

As I interjected in Alex’s post…yes I have now come back to my previous subject after that wonderful trip in to naughty word world.  Lol 

I once was out walking the dog some years ago.  It was dusk and I think around the end of August because I was wearning just a t-shirt and denim mini skirt.  Walking the dog was a chore but it was a good time to do my thinking and after a hard day at work it also helped me to wind down.

On this particular evening I was walking down a quiet lane with houses backing on to it.  They all had their curtains closed and the lights on ready for the evening ahead.  I admit I like to nosey and I had several opportunities to take a look in to these houses as they put on their lights and left the curtains open to let in the last of the day’s light.

The dog was walking quietly at my side and I was just enjoying the calm balmy evening.  I passed one or two like minded people on my way down the lane and said exchanged pleasantries and the dogs got to sniff each other’s butts.  Lol

I was nearing the end of the lane where it runs down a hill into the village when I spotted an open illuminated window upstairs.  It was a large frosted glass window, which opened out in to the night.  As I approached I noticed that there was steam escaping through the opening.  The bathroom I thought.

My pace quickened as I got nearer to the open window.  And when I was level with it, my heart’s pace quickened too.  I could just make out through the steam a naked girl, with a short blonde bob standing at the far end of the bathroom under a shower head.

There was a shower pink shower curtain drawn across behind her, I assumed she was standing in the bath taking her shower.  The dog distracted me as he sat down at my feet and began to scratch or something…I can’t remember what he exactly.  I told him to lay down in a hushed voice as I stood behind the garden fence.

I recall an overwhelming feeling of being naughty, looking at this girl without her knowing, tempered by one of guilt in ogling her in secrecy.  The guilt was soon eradicated by my desire to see more.  The dog was now laying quietly at my feet and I was enjoying watching her distribute shower gel all over her pert breasts.

From my position I could see the naked girl’s body down to just below her breasts.  I love to watch a woman run her own hands over her body, there is something so sensual about it.  As she glides her fingers over her shoulders and down her fleshy mounds.  Soap suds following her hands as they descend towards her pussy.

I couldn’t make out if her nipples were fully erect but I do recall that she had rose pink nipples and a fair complexion.  I must admit that I was so excited by my voyeuristic act that I didn’t take in all the detail.  My nipples were hard and my pussy pulsing with the excitement of my visual spectacle.  If I had been there a moment longer I’m sure my own hand would have been making it’s way up my skirt and inside my panties but the moment was spoiled by a couple approaching from down the bottom of the lane.

“Come on Max”, I prompted as I tugged at the lead and encouraged the dog to stand up.

Just one question…do you consider me a pervert for standing there and watching that girl take a shower?  Is it more acceptable because I am the same sex?

This got me thinking too…

The Red Shoes

Another quickie.

We went out to do a bit of shopping and while searching for some summery footwear for Suze came across these shoes.

I’m not big on shoes, by which I mean that they aren’t the focus of my attention. Yes, I like high heals, boots and even plain court shoes on a woman, but it’s not what I’d call a fetish. I simply like to see a woman well presented for the occasion, be that in the street, the office, at a social event or in the bedroom. All of which may or may not involve nice shoes.

Wait a minute, I also like hiking boots unlaced and slobbing off a woman’s foot, especially if she’s wearing shorts. Espadrils I like them too, with wedge heels. And strappy sandals, with a kitten heel. Hang on, I may actually have a bit of thing for shoes.

This pair caught my attention however hehehe.

Should Suze splash out and buy them?

Dream Biker

It’s around 08:00 and we’ve just woken up. I opened my eyes to see Suze smiling at me, eyes sparkling, here thick hair framing her face. “I love you” I said and she responded in kind.

All’s right with the world.

I’d woken from an interesting dream. We’d been out, shopping I think, and were trying to get out of a jam-packed carpark. We witnessed an accident as the drivers tried to edge in front of one another in a very chaotic and ill-tempered fashion. At this point we decided to abandon the car and hopped onto a pair of motorbikes.

No, I don’t know how we came to have a pair of motorbikes in the carpark when we had the car with us. But it’s a dream. We headed home, Suze leading the way, her beautiful butt filling out a set of black leathers perfectly.

We rode towards home but stopped a few miles away in a layby. Suze kicked down the side stand and dismounted. She removed her helmet and shook her hair as she walked towards me unzipping her jacket to reveal …  Grrrr.

And that’s when I woke up

Very Freudian.

So, where are we going? Dunno yet, but I feel a story coming on hehehe.

Global Warming

In true British tradition, let’s talk about the weather. 🙂 This spring has been unusually clement don’t you think? Well you probably think so if you live in most parts of the British Isles. Whether it’s down to global warming or the planet’s cyclic warm and cold periods the effect at the moment is the same; Summer’s arrived early and if the current weather is anything to go by it’s going to be long and hot.

Now I know this has its downsides, water shortages, crop failures, increased demand for energy due to increased use of air conditioning with a consequent increase in global warming … Too serious?

OK try this.

Sea level rise means the beaches are going to be closer to our house, and with the consequential necessity for lighter clothing there’s more opportunity to ogle the opposite sex in Lycra and gossamer-thin cotton. More chance for mutual suntan product application *evil grin*.

Now from those less than serious observations let me ask a serious question. Is it right to ogle the opposite sex?

*Suze jumps up and down waving her hand in the air*

From my point of view I’d say no. But then of course that’s purely subjective and based on the fact that I know I’m not a total pervert (feel free to discuss that point if you wish 🙂 ). My thoughts when I look at a female of the species are appreciative rather than predatory, I like the look of women’s bodies, clothed or unclothed, I’m just a simple man after all.

The question is does the object of my appreciation and observation welcome this attention or do they feel that being eyed-up by a stranger is unwelcome attention, even if said stranger is simply enjoying the colour of their hair, their eyes, how their cleavage looks in that deeply cut top, the shape of a calf …you get the idea … rather than wanting to club them over the head and drag them into the bushes.

I suppose that in itself partly answers the question, how the hell does a woman know that the guy whose eye she just caught doesn’t have his mother in a rocking chair in the basement?

Now I can only speak as a man so ladies, what do you think about when you look at an attractive guy in the street, or office, or through that pair of binoculars you keep handy by the window that overlooks the construction site? Hmmmm?

Suze says “I have a confession to make…I once had the opportunity to watch a woman taking a shower from outside her house…shall I tell you more?  😉

It’s Nearly That Time …

It’s our [blog’s] birthday tomorrow and we were wondering how to celebrate. YES, obviously we’ll be doing that it goes without saying. I’m talking about something on the blog.

Well, first of all we’ve created a new wallpaper for you all. We hope you like it.

But then I thought how about something a little more personal, a bit more special, story just for you. So … I would like you all to say why I should write a story, for you in particular, about you or around an idea you provide. The idea can be anything as simple as telling me about an object that means something to you (maybe email me a picture of it), or it could be an adult scene that you want me to develop. Either way, comment on this post or drop me an email and I’ll write something around it for you.

BTW we haven’t forgotten the podcasting of replies to your questions, they just need editing and I’m a bit tied up at the moment, not like that :P, which is why this post is a bit short too.

See you tomorrow.

Office Gossip And Other Shit

Fuck this job doesn’t seem to be getting any easier.  Hands up who would rather me be around to chat during the day.  🙂  No seriously.  The more I learn the more they want to give me to do, it’s like being on the receiving end of an in-house trainer with tasking diarrhoea.

But, there are humorous moments throughout the day, I don’t think they are supposed to be funny but they are hilarious.  🙂

I told you that I work with 3 blondes but what I didn’t know is that they are all professional dieters.  We have all been there in our lives, feeling down being a little over weight or in my case when I was younger, very over weight.  And I assure you that I have been there and got the t-shirt when it comes to being a little outside the “normal” range, so I by no means make light of those with a problem shedding the pounds.  Right, that over with, on with my post.

I discovered that only 2 of the girls are attending weight watchers.  One is a little over the weight for her frame but she does have a splendid pair of boobs.  Ok…I admit to taking a look now and then.  😉  The other girl is what I would call normal, has hips and a cleavage but no tum to speak of.  Although she still insists on the fact that she wants to shed a further 14 pounds.  I can’t be arsed to give you the metric, go look it up.  Lol.

However, I didn’t realise that a prerequisite of being a weight watcher in our office means you have to have an obsession with food!  Most of the conversation during the day is taken up with what was eaten at the table last night or over the weekend, closely followed by how much they could just eat a piece of cake or chocolate at this moment in time.

But what amuses me most is the fact that the third person, who incidentally, cannot be seen she turns side-on to you, has to loose a stone before her holiday in a few weeks.  This amuses me greatly because:

a) she is already too thin
b) she is the one who talks the most about food in a guilty way
c) she dresses at least 10 years younger than she can get away with and 20 years younger than her actual age
d) Is inadvertently pressurising her co-workers who know they need to shed a few pounds.

I am reminded of the woman (Majorie Dawes, played by Matt Lucas) from the sketch in Little Britain who runs “Fat Fighters” countless times throughout the day.  One of her classic statements is “It’s only half the calories, so you can have twice as much!”.  I constantly hear statements like this…

…”I only had a ham salad and Rivita for lunch but I was a bit naughty and had bacon, egg, tomatoes and sausage for dinner at the weekend”


…”I could just eat some chocolate, shall we have a piece of the chocolate cake left over from the meeting?  I’ve been good all day!””

And even better…

“We are going for a quick bite tonight at the local wine bar after Weight Watchers”.

I’m not taking the piss out of people who are generally struggling to keep on top of their weight but these people who are constantly talking about food and reward themselves more than they adhere to the diet plans make me laugh.

I really have to cut off sometimes as the smile starts to form on my face and think of other things, mainly sex, to stop myself from saying “Just shut the fuck up!”.  😀  Does anyone know of a quiet vibrator I could take in to work?

Ambiguous Borderlands (the paradox of masochism)

Thanks again to Mistress 160 and Solipsist for this, the final part of their splendid contribution to The Journey.

Ambiguous borderlands (the paradox of masochism)

BY: Mistress 160 and Solipsist


What is Pain Like for the Masochist?
1. It just plain hurts. Battered nerve endings waiting for cessation.
2. Delicious: imagine your lover’s fingernails moving across your back, finding an ambiguous borderland where gentlest agony mixes with erotic delight.
3. Sometimes my mind has departed for parts unknown I think. Sadly I depend on Alexandra’s memory not my own.
4. You fill in the blanks
(Richard Evans Lee)

In Part 1 of “Ambiguous borderlands” my husband Solipsist documented the history of his submissive and masochistic needs.  In Part 2 he discusses how we moved as a couple from theoretic to real time masochistic exploration, and how masochists experience pain.

“For some time after Mistress160 and I married, my masochism remained theoretical.  We played with mild pain as an adjunct to sex, but my fantasies resolved around severe pain.  I had daydreams of being caned with strokes so hard that it was a struggle to stand still, and after each stroke I would have to say “thank you Mistress, may I please have another”, while she tried to make them so painful that I couldn’t speak, and would have to have repeat strokes. 

“It was only on my 40th birthday that we finally embraced this side of my sexuality, and she spanked, whipped and caned me, leaving bruises that lasted for days.  How it is that a fantasy I had nurtured for over 30 years but never come close to experiencing turned out to be just as good as I imagined I will never know.  All I know is that it was”.

I know that many people are interested in how masochists perceive pain, so I asked Solipsist to comment on this.  He wrote:

“Some people describe masochists as experiencing certain types of pain as pleasure – as though the nerves are somehow wired to different centres in their brain.  It’s not so for me.  The pain is just pain.  I feel the stroke of a cane much as I would imagine anyone else does, I just happen to like that pain in that context administered by someone who cares.  Psychologically I like the fact that I am submitting willingly to being hurt, and it’s hard to do if I don’t feel I am submitting.  There are times when I would like to have a session, but can’t bring myself to ask, because if I have asked for it, it’s somehow not as satisfying.

“Pain on the ‘sweet spot’ of my ass is ‘good pain’, and when a flogger or cane strays outside that area, for example if it ‘wraps’ around to the side it quickly becomes intolerable.  But a well chosen word from Mistress (‘Did I wrap ?  Oh dear.  Don’t you dare move, let me see if I can do it again’, or laughingly “that got your attention!’) can snap me back into a space where even the ‘bad’ pain can be enjoyed.

“Another often touted explanation is that masochists are endorphin junkies – I certainly get enjoy the endorphin high that some sessions produce, but I also enjoy sessions that don’t get that far.

“I have occasionally likened the start of a session with beginning a rock climb.  If you have ever led a free climb, you will be familiar with a surge of fear and excitement that comes when you start a climb, particularly one that is poorly protected.  You think ‘I can’t do this’, ‘Why do I put myself through it’, but you push yourself, concentrate on the technique, and when you reach the top you look back at how exhilarating it was”.

Sol and I know that masochism is a difficult subject, that for many in the vanilla world the line between it and abuse seems a thin one.  So it’s worth our repeating that BDSM activities only ever take place between consenting adults, and recalling for you once again the wise conclusions of Havelock Ellis who in Studies in the Psychology of Sex noted that the sadomasochist generally desires that the pain be inflicted or received not in abuse, but in love.  And there is extraordinary love between Solipsist and myself.   How could I deny such an important part of him?  After each session with  him I remember the words of Raven Kaldera who asked of those who reject SM:

Look into our eyes. When we return with those bruises, do we walk taller and stronger? When we touch our cuts, are we more serene? When we give up our power, do we grow more sure of ourselves? When we accept power over another, do we learn more compassion? Do we return from the Underworld better for the journey? That’s how you know, those of you who are worried, whether we’re doing it right.


Raven Kaldera as cited by lili The Spirituality of Sado-Masochism (excerpt) 2005


Wikipedia entry on Sadomasochism (discusses the history of the term, biology (regarding the release of endorphins) and psychology as well as providing examples of SM in popular culture)
Richard Evans Lee How does a Masochist Capture the love and hate of pain  – Masochism: an oxymoronic experience 30 March 2005
Richard Evans Lee What is Pain Like for the Masochist? 25 April 2005
lili The Spirituality of Sado-Masochism (excerpt) 2005

Thank you:
the title of this article is drawn from
Richard Evans Lee’s
What is Pain Like for the Masochist?
25 April 2005

Hot And Dirty

It’s sods law that the minute I return to work things start to happen around here and I miss out!  *pout*  This week has been a scorcher in more than one way.

Monday I set out for work from our quite little street and when I returned it was far from quiet.  As I drove down the road I was greeted by groups of workmen in various stages of undress, some using power tools, others just spades. 

The whole of the street was dotted with semi naked guys from the utility company, who were digging up the footpath to lay new pipes.  As I drove down towards the house I was reminded of the series of Diet Coke ads they ran over here recently.  I don’t drink it but I could be persuaded.  😉  Bodies glistening with sweat droplets as the sun beats down…

Anyway.  I was rather distracted as I meandered in and out of the parked cars and heavy plant which they were using, I nearly ran in to the back of a generator as I spotted a particularly fit guy with a spade.  Lol

The fun I could have had if I hadn’t got to go to work!  I could have invited some of them in for refreshments perhaps.

On Tuesday morning, after Alex left for work I had just stepped out of the shower and there was a knock at the door.  I must admit to feeling a slight fear that it was going to require answering and a bit of excitement at the prospect of opening the door to a burley young workman.  😉

I quickly slipped on my robe and ran downstairs, so as not to miss him.  When I opened the door I was greeted by a guy in a pair of navy shorts and a clipboard.  His blue eyes met mine as I opened the door.  He was a blonde haired guy with short cropped hair and quite a muscular physique, sporting a tribal tattoo on his left upper arm.

He looked slightly embarrassed as he realised I wasn’t quite dressed and his gaze fell upon the gaping neckline of my bathrobe.  He leaned towards me and pushed aside the left side of my robe with his tanned right hand.  He cupped my naked breast and massaged it under his palm…

Ok so it didn’t quite happen like that but a girl can dream can’t she?  😉  Whoops!  I tried to pull the gown together without making it too obvious that I had noticed the attention he was giving to my exposed cleavage.

“Can I take a look at your meter love?”, he asked in a North Yorkshire accent.  “It’s just through there I said as I guided him through the house to the garage. 

Shame things could have been so different.  *sigh*

Ambiguous Borderlands (the paradox of masochism)

I’m delighted to be bringing you this pair of posts as the latest in my regular series “The Journey”. Last month brought insight into Mistress160’s view of her relationship with her husband Solipsist. This month we gain an insight into Sol’s perspective.

Ambiguous Borderlands (the paradox of masochism) 

BY: Mistress 160 and Solipsist


Masochist: “Hurt me!!”
Sadist: “No!”

(Mistress160’s favourite SM joke)

My article “A D/s Life: Becoming” a few weeks ago explored how I became dominant , triggered by my husband Solipsist’s submissive and masochistic needs.  In “Ambiguous borderlands” Solipsist presents his own account of becoming aware of those needs.

True masochism, as Richard Evans Lee points out, is not an easy thing to live with : “many people seem to misunderstand masochism. I need the agony and misery. But that doesn’t mean that I enjoy it in the same way I enjoy good music, prose or a fine meal.  It is the ultimate oxymoronic experience: wanting it, hating it – at the same time”.

What does the term actually mean? Wikipedia states:

  • “Sadism is the sexual or social pleasure or gratification in the infliction of pain and suffering upon another person. [It’s] counterpart is masochism, the sexual pleasure or gratification of having pain or suffering inflicted upon the self, often consisting of sexual fantasies or urges for being beaten, humiliated, bound, tortured, or otherwise made to suffer, either as an enhancement to or a substitute for sexual pleasure. The name is derived from the name of the 19th century author Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, known for his novel Venus in Furs that dealt with highly masochistic themes…

    Havelock Ellis, in Studies in the Psychology of Sex, argued that there is no clear distinction between the aspects of sadism and masochism, and that they may be regarded as complementary emotional states. He also made the important point that sadomasochism is concerned only with pain in regard to sexual pleasure, and not in regard to cruelty, as Sigmund Freud had [earlier] suggested. In other words, the sadomasochist generally desires that the pain be inflicted or received in love, not in abuse, for the pleasure of either one or both participants.The term BDSM describes the quite common activities between consenting adults that contain sadistic and masochistic elements …. [a] masochist in consensual BDSM is someone who enjoys the experience of pain in a particular context and, usually, according to a certain scripted and mutually agreed upon “scene.” These “masochists” do not typically enjoy pain in other scenarios, such as accidental injury.”

How does this impact on the individual in real life?  How does one discover one’s masochism, and come to express it?  Here Solipsist picks up his own story:

“I’ve always been kinky. In fact I was kinky long before sex ever came into the picture. I won’t dwell on this stage of my development too much because I know it can be a potential minefield. If at age 5 you have fantasies about being made to undress in front of a room full of people, is this a sexual fantasy ? What if by a couple of years later you have constructed a whole fantasy world that you use to entertain yourself for half an hour or so before going to sleep almost every night?  By the time I was seven, the fantasies included pretty girls that I used to admire from a distance at school, and were including serious pain.

“So you see I’ve always been a masochist.

“For most of my life this was only in theory. Many people’s accounts of their early years talk about how they were spanked as a child or as a teenager and this gave them early erotic associations. I didn’t. I vaguely recall being smacked on the back of my thigh by my parents once when I was about 3, but that was it. If my parents were annoyed with me I would get a cross look and a telling off, like parents these days are supposed to do. So no childhood CP to start me off.

“I learned to masturbate when I was 12. It was as though a missing connection had been made and the masochistic, submissive fantasies that I had always had suddenly had a real purpose – they weren’t just fantasies, they suddenly became sexual fantasies.

“I lost my virginity when I was 19, after my first year of university.  While I knew instinctively that I was going to be sexually adventurous (when I finally managed to pluck up the courage to ask a girl to have sex), I assumed that my fantasies were always going to be private and would never play a part in my sex life. That somehow they were an adolescent ‘phase’ that I was going to leave behind or be ‘cured’ of once I started having ‘real’ sex. But of course they weren’t.

“So when a few months later my next girlfriend and I were lying silently together in post-coital bliss, she asked me ‘what are you thinking’, and I was stumped. My mind had drifted back to my masochistic fantasy world and I could hardly tell her about THAT. Or so I thought. A few months later we became close enough that I could actually start to share my fantasies with her, and via Penthouse Variations magazine, she started to show me that there were other people like me out there, and that people actually played out their fantasies in real life.

“For several years, we used this shared understanding in our sex life by sharing fantasies as we made love. We played a little bit with a dominant/submissive dynamic, and a little with pain. I have very sensitive nipples, and she would tease me by flicking a fingernail across the tip of my nipple, and gradually get harder till she was scratching, gouging and pinching occasionally to the point of breaking the skin.

“And other times we would play with a D/S dynamic. One moment I remember vividly was where she and I and several friends were relaxing together, and I and a male friend were going out for a couple of hours. My cigarettes were on her side of the table and I reached over to pick them up. She picked up the packet, to pass them to me, I thought, but she just put them in her lap. I asked “can I have my cigarettes”, and she just looked at me with an expression that I couldn’t decipher at the time, and said “no”. Our eyes met, and she held my gaze, as my mind raced. Do I say “please ?” Do I reach over and take them anyway ? Or will she just hand them over. But I looked into her eyes, and the act of submitting to her for no real reason in front of a group of our friends gave me a great erotic rush. So I let her have her way, and left.

“What else could I do then, but marry her ?”

In Part 2 solipsist reveals how he and Mistress160 moved from theoretic to real time masochistic exploration, and explores the question of how masochists experience pain.

Havelock Ellis, Studies in the Psychology of Sex
Richard Evans Lee How does a Masochist Capture the love and hate of pain  – Masochism: an oxymoronic experience 30 March 2005

Thank you:
the title of this article is drawn from
Richard Evans Lee’s
What is Pain Like for the Masochist?
25 April 2005

New Haven – Part 2 of 2

“Unzip me”, demanded Poppy. She was standing with her back to him, the red dress clinging to her every curve. He reached up from his seated position on the bed and slowly drew the zip down from the nape of her neck to the firm roundness of her ass. She shrugged the garment from her shoulders revealing her red satin-clad cheeks.

Kevin ran his hands across the smoothness of her buttocks, palms coming to rest on each hip, fingers reaching round to draw her ass towards him. He kissed her through the silky material, then up to the indentation at the base of her back, his lips now replaced by a tongue, tasting her flesh, leaving a moist trail up her back as he rose to his feet.

His hands moved from her hips around to her front, up her stomach and onto her imprisoned breasts. She pressed her back into his chest as he crushed the soft mounds, her head arching backwards and to one side, exposing her neck. Kevin kissed her neck from shoulder to ear, then back again, the kisses metamorphosing to nibbles, then bites. She yelped, but did not pull away, instead she reached back with one hand and held his open maw on her exposed flesh, teeth almost breaking the skin.

She could feel the heat of the blood in his cock pressed against her back. As his teeth left her shoulder it became the focus of her attention, so much so that she hardly noticed when he unfastened the clasp between the cups of her bra. Only when Kevin pinched her nipples to the point of biting pain did she stop the instinctive, gyration of her pelvis against him.

Her hands joined forces between her legs, one pulling the satin to one side, the other invading her swollen wetness. She tingled as the fabric curtain was drawn back and the air cooled her pouting lips. She groaned as her fingers traversed the sensuous ravine.

Kevin turned her round and gently laid her on the bed. Poppy’s legs were splayed to allow her access to her needful pussy. Kevin watched for a moment while she rolled and wriggled on her back, red bra cups still flapping on and off her chest, hands working with an earnest passion on her sex. He stroked himself, considering the possibility of cumming there and then, spraying this total stranger with a creamy white stream.

No, he needed to fuck her, to be the architect of her impending climax, to fill her as she reached the Zenith. He lay on the bed with her and crouched astride one leg. The other leg he held high in the air while he teased her pussy, closely trimmed pubic hair glistening with her excitement. Sliding into her was a journey of some seven inches, a slow journey, to be savoured and remembered.

Poppy’s hands moved up to her breast, kneading them, letting Kevin attend to the fiery desire between her legs.  Kevin watched his cock disappear between her lips, the thrill of the encounter enhanced by the sight of his thick, veined member sliding past a soaking wet red pair of panties.

The wall in the guest house may have been thin but that was not going to stop Poppy from vocalising her enjoyment. Kevin was past caring about Rose, even though she might hammer on the door at any moment. He responded to the increasing volume of Poppy’s moans by thrusting frantically with hard, deep strokes. The form ferociously he drove into her the most she seemed to want “Yes! YES!” was all the confirmation Kevin needed to continue the powerful, but unsophisticated fuck.

Poppy seemed to reach orgasm several times, or was it just one long orgasm. Her eyes rolled, her inner thighs were wet with her own juices. She moaned and shrieked, no longer able to form on her lips. Kevin’s balls glowed with anticipation, he held back for a few thrusts but that was all. One final thrust and then his hips ground against hers.

Kevin collapsed on top of Poppy, still impaling her on his cock. Her leg curled around him.

They fell asleep.

In the morning she was gone. When he entered the dining room for breakfast she served him, with tea, ensuring that he could see down her white blouse. She smiled and winked before moving to the next table.

He left soon after breakfast, his client would not wait. And anyway, she’d said it herself, it was just a fuck. No regrets. He paid Rose in cash and bid her farewell on a day that promised to be warm and bright.

It was autumn, Kevin slipped into his local sex shop to treat himself to an “artistic” DVD. The plasma screen inside was showing previews. “Not bad” he though as the dark haired girl walked into the room, “Funny camera angle. Nice ass though”. The scene cut to another angle, slightly obscured, the girl sat on the bed, crossed her legs, the red dress rode up exposing a knee. Another cut, another angle, she was rather cute, she was rather familiar, as was the briefcase at the end of the bed.

She was Poppy.

New Haven – Part 1 of 2

It’s a fact that in some seaside towns in England there’s a tendency towards the gaudy and the tasteless. Normally you would have to concede that taste is a subjective thing, a complex interaction of upbringing, culture, fashion and the life experiences we all have. Taste is varied and as individual as every one of us, from the most reserved to the most flamboyant.

But in the case of these towns, and in particular some of the B&Bs taste is something for other people. It’s partly because many of them were decorated in the 1970s and have not been updated since then, but mainly because even in the 70s the owners had an eye for pattern and colour that would make most people wince. Add to that a tendency to collect ornaments of the cheapest and nastiest kind, mass-produced prints of terribly painted pictures and nylon bed sheets and you have hell on earth.

So why do they survive? Because they’re reasonably priced and some of the UK population go back to the same establishment year after year. They’re as familiar as a comfy pair of slippers and just as unlikely to surprise you.

It was late spring, about seven in the evening and the tide was in. There was little wind and the waves that there were lapped gently against the Victorian built granite seawall. A silver Mondeo drove slowly along the road behind the prom. Its driver was becoming concerned, he should have booked something in advance and almost at the end of the two kilometres of seafront he had seen nothing in the bay windows of the villa style houses but “No Vacancies”.

Just as he drew parallel with the stacks of deckchairs chained to the railings on the seawall a sign jumped out and filled him with a warm relief “Vacancies”. He parked in the next side street and trudged back to the door of the “New Haven” B&B with his laptop in one hand and overnight bag in the other. He stopped in the porch and was about to place his bags down on the tiled floor when the door was opened. The orange glow of low-wattage tungsten bulbs spilled out and enveloped him, that and the smell of shepherd’s pie and floral air freshener.

He guessed from her appearance that she was the landlady. She looked around fifty-five but dressed twenty years younger. Twenty years ago she would have made jaws drop, not to mention trousers, and she still retained that look in a more mature and quietly seductive way. Her eyes were still young, a piercing blue. Her initially cautious smile softened and widened as she examined her new guest, deciding she liked this nice young man in his neat business suit.

“The sign says you have vacancies?”

“And you’re very lucky we do. Just the one room, probably the last in town.” She giggled, a schoolgirl’s giggle. Unsure how to react he smiled nervously and followed the landlady inside.

Her name, it transpired, was “Mrs Robinson” Could it be anything else? “… but you can call me Rose.” He felt obliged to reciprocate “Peterson, er, Kevin …”. Being after six thirty she apparently couldn’t oblige him with a hot meal, but promised to bring a sandwich to his room.

“That would be great. ” Peter was grateful for an evening meal that didn’t come out of a packet with a golden “M” on it. “I don’t suppose you could give me about half an hour or so could you? I really need a shower.”

“Of course Kevin. Please, follow me.” And he did through the psychedelically wallpapered hallway and up the stairs with a carpet that would have felt at home in a 1960s rock stars acid trip. He passed the glass clowns in alcoves and pressed on down the flock-wallpapered landing to his room for the night.

Kevin hung up his suit and managed to shower in the smallest cubicle he’d encountered outside his parent’s 2-berth caravan. Apparently en-suite meant in the corner of the bedroom, but he wasn’t complaining. It refreshed him and alleviated some of the stress of the day. In fact he didn’t even care that the TV didn’t have satellite, Channel 5 was fuzzy and BBC2 seemed to be missing altogether.

Laying back on the lumpy double bed in his bathrobe with his arms behind his head he started to drift off to sleep. A knock at the door pulled him back into a room now lit by the TV and the quickly setting sun.

“Just a minute.” He made to get up, but the door opened before his feet touched the ground. A woman entered, not Mrs Robinson, but a woman in her mid-thirties. She was slightly shorter than Kevin shapely and wearing a light red dress, cut in a deep V to expose the tempting valley between her boobs.

“Mum said you were hungry. I hope you like tuna” She looked at him, blinking occasionally, with dark brown almond shaped eyes.

Kevin took the tray she was carrying from her. “Thanks, that’s perfect. So you’re Mrs Ro … Rose’s daughter? I can see the resemblance.”

“Everyone says that, it’s Poppy by the way. ” Her eyes had started to look him up and down, Kevin felt a little disconcerted. “So”, she continued, “what brings you here?”

“Business.” Kevin suddenly felt disinclined to reveal too much.

“What sort of business?”

“I’m a management consultant.” Kevin shuffled from foot to foot. “Look, I’m keeping you, ere, thanks for the sandwich, and thank your mum.” He smiled, hoping to bring the conversation to a polite end.

“What’s wrong?” Asked Poppy.

Kevin found himself looking at the curve of the smooth skin of her neck, contrasting against the rich brown of her long hair. “Nothing, I just feel a bit awkward talking to you, dressed, well not dressed. And your mother outside, somewhere, and …” his voice trailed off. Poppy had turned to the door and dropped the latch.

She turned to face Kevin, “Better?”


Poppy took the tray from the dithering Kevin and placed it on the hideous lace covered dressing table. She sat on the edge of the bed, and crossed her legs, the hem of her dress riding up over her knee. Kevin was dumb-struck.

Poppy patted the bed. “Look I’m bored, you’re on your own … I just wanted a chat.” She smiled a sweet smile which melted Kevin from his immobile state and drew him to the bed beside her.

“So, erm, are you and your mother running this place on your own?” Shit that sounded like a cliché, he may just as well have said “You girls up for a threesome?”

“Yes, that’s right, dad left us with the B and B but not much else so since he died we’ve had to manage on our own.” Kevin felt a little tactless for asking, but she seemed surprisingly up-beat about their circumstances. Poppy continued, “Oh, did I say chat? I thought you might be up for a bit of casual sex? No strings you understand, I haven’t had a good seeing-to in months and I’m in danger of getting RSI with the amount of masturbating I’m doing. I’d close your mouth if I were you, it makes you look a bit simple.”

“Wa? We? Woo?” Replied Kevin.

“Oh for heavens sake.” Poppy kissed the wide-eyed Kevin on the lips. He returned her kiss, hesitantly at first, then with more enthusiasm as the sight of her red satin bra peeking out under her dress and taste of her lipstick mitigated any fears of discovery he might have. His hand came to rest on her upper arm, eliciting an approving “Mmm”, finally thought poppy “He’s got the message.”

Her hand sought out his knee and disappeared under his robe, stroking the hairs on his thigh, creeping upward towards his groin. She found a handful of pulsating flesh, soft skinned and slightly humid from his shower, but firm and growing as her fingers encircled it.

Kevin moved one hand to her waist, pressing his fingers into the soft flesh he found there through the thin fabric of the dress. His other hand pushed her dress up and exposed a smooth thigh. His hand slid up until it found a round buttock then squeezed leaving a five-fingered impression. Poppy expressed her appreciation more loudly this time, breaking from their kiss and letting out a giggly “Ooooo!”

“Now look at that!” Poppy was looking at his cock, now erect and crowned with a single drop of pre-cum.  She collected the glistening jewel on the tip of her finger and tasted it, the look in her eyes changing from playfulness to one of lust.

To be continued.

A Shared Moment

The weather over in the UK has just got better and better over the last few days and this weekend was a scorcher.  The days have been warmed by the intense heat of the sun and the nights have been warmer.

Consequently we have had to open the windows in the bedroom to air the room and the heating has been turned down.

Now our bedroom is a fair size but not huge which means that the bed isn’t far from them.  Last night Alex flipped me over after kissing, embracing and allow things to take their natural course.  I was lying on my back and he forcefully parted my legs climbed between them and grabbed firmly on to my hips.

Don’t you just love it when your guy is forceful?  😉  Especially when you have had the painters and decorators in all week.  Ok, stop scratching your head!  I will rephrase that for those unfamiliar with that expression.  When you have been having your period.  Lol

We don’t abstain from sex during my cycle but the sensitivity quite often isn’t there internally.  I think it may have something to do with the uterus walls being swollen, making things a little desensitised.

But last night…whoo hoo!  Things were back to normal.

He pulled me on to his erection and I felt every inch of him penetrate me and savoured the feeling.  😉  I now had my legs through his arms and he was holding my hips as he pounded his swollen glans in to me.  Within minutes I was engulfed in the rush of my first orgasm and could hear the slushing of my cum frothing up on Alex’s cock as he fucked even faster.

My boobs were now happily bouncing up and down and I took hold of each nipple between my index finger and thumb and squoze, then quickly followed with a cheeky tug.  Nipple stimulation during a good fucking is essential.  Sometimes if I am being taken from behind I like to hover my nipples over a pillow and as I move up and down on Alex’s cock my nipples graze the pillow.  They become so engorged and receptive that I can almost come by the stimulation alone.  😉

A stronger, deeper and all encompassing orgasm was now building inside me and I started to beg for more…”fuck me!…fuck me”, I demanded.  “Harder!”  I came and again I felt Alex become wet inside me and a tiny trickle ran between my buttocks.

“Agggghhhhh”, Alex came with a shuddering last push deep inside me.  He then collapsed backwards on the bed.

The next thing I became aware of outside our world was car door slamming.  The sound was very, very clear…conclusion…if I can hear them with clarity, then surely they heard me.  I never heard the car pull on to next-door’s drive.

“If next-door are currently reading this post, sorry if I was a little demonstrative last night”.  Unfortunately I can’t promise it won’t happen again. 😉

Thinking Blogger Award

We were nominated for a thinking blogger award this weekend. First of all a big thanks to the blogger who nominated us, we have a huge amount of respect for the blogger in question so being nominated by them makes it all the more meaningful.

However as we prefer not to be involved with the tagging thing we’ll not be nominating five bloggers as the next recipients of the award. OK, I admit it, this is also a little bit of cowardice on our part as it would mean picking just five of all the great blogs out there too. Primarily however it’s because we try not to do tags, a little idiosyncrasy of ours I’m afraid.

If you want to check out the origin of the award itself see this site.

Suze points out that perhaps there should be a “Blogger Thinking About Sex All The Time” award.

Driving It Home…

The weather in the UK had taken an amazing turn this past weekend.  It’s the first time I can remember Easter being so warm and dry.  Out came the summer skirts and t-shirts and it feels good to let some air get to my bits and pieces.  🙂

As I drove to work with the sun blazing through the windscreen I felt lifted and full of the joys of…well, sex really.  The warm weather makes me even more randy than usual.  Alex you better watch out.  😉

I took to looking around at the local talent as I drove in and watching people in their cars as they hurry along to work or just get in the bloody way!  Why is it that people who don’t work have to jump in their cars at peak times and drive slowly.  Not just slowly but in front of me.  It’s just like Saturday morning at the supermarket, these people have all week to do their shopping but when do they choose to do it, at peak time.

Sorry about that, I just went off on one.  Lol.  So I’m looking around and observing people, the guy with his finger up his nose who doesn’t seem to realise that we can all see him through glass.  And the girl trying to put her makeup on whilst driving!

But what interested me most was guys’ driving styles.  I began to wonder if there was some correlation between the way they drive and the way they behave between the sheets.  See what you think…

The Tailer – he hangs around in the offside lane, only just visible in your rear view mirror.  He matches your speed exactly and just sits there, not overtaking but being a hazard should you want to pull out to overtake a slow moving vehicle ahead.

He won’t commit to overtake you and is indecisive, covering all options.  Probably a sub who needs to be guided by his female, told what to do and how to do it.  Likes the girl to take control and make the decisions.

The Lane Weaver –  This guy is such a chancer, he can’t make his mind up what he wants jumping in to one lane then another.

He probably likes to dip in to both holes just like a porn star.  First anal then pussy, then anal…you get the idea.  Never sticking with entrance long enough to enjoy it.

The Tailgator –  You’ve all encountered him.  He pulls right up to your bumper, so close you can see his nasal hair.  Lol 

This guy likes to take you from behind, probably an anal man.  He likes to dominate his woman and ram it home good and hard.

The Pimper – This guy is usually young (or wishes he was).  With his double exhausted noise bucket, loud music and peaked cap.  He can barely see over the steering wheel and has to wear a hat to give him those vital mm’s of height.

This guy is suffering from little cock syndrome.  I’m not saying that having a small cock is a problem but to him it is because his car is now compensating for his lack of manhood.  Big exhausts, which look to me like baked bean tins welded to the rear of the car.  Now what are they saying?  I’m sure it’s not just me.

Loud music blasting out, vying for everyone’s attention because if you met this guy out of his pimped up ride you wouldn’t give him a second look, in fact you would probably trip over him if you were my height.  Lol

The Lane Hog – He gets in to the offside lane and nothing is going to move him.  There may be a long line of traffic building behind him but he doesn’t care.  Because he is quite content in his lane thank you very much.  🙂

He know what he likes and sticks with it, no room for experimentation between the sheets here girls.  Once he gets his motor running he just sticks it in drive and goes along for the ride.  Don’t expect anything other than missionary with him, to him there is no other position.

The CruiserAka Mr Smooth.  You know the type, one arm on the wheel the other resting on the door.  He does it with one hand and thinks he looks so cool! 

Any girl lucky enough to get off with him will need to put some work in.  He may have his arm behind his head as he fucks you, watching himself in the mirror over the bed.

You won’t be his first and you certainly won’t be his last…tonight.

There are plenty of “Chicks” just waiting to get their hands on him.  NOT!

Avarice – Part 2

He bathed the grazes on her elbows and cheek with cold water from a chipped enamelled bowl. The anger in her eyes melted away and transformed into tearful relief. He wiped away the first glittering from her cheeks, his tenderness making her more tearful, his humanity allowing her to drop her guard and released the emotion her ordeal had filled her with.

He held her, a comforting warm embrace, her head on his chest, body shaken by uncontrollable sobs. Eventually her shuddering emotions subsided and she turned her head upwards to look into his kind brown eyes.

They both felt it, they both knew it was probably just the stress of what had happened earlier making them feel as they did, but they kissed. Not a tender, loving kiss, not a kiss to comfort or to thank Michael for her deliverance. This kiss had only one meaning and in its deep tongue-filled depths it gave rise to a breathless carnal desire. His hands gripped her shoulders, gripping harder as their kiss progressed.

Michael pulled off her dress, ripping it further, but this time the tugging of strong hands at the fabric was welcomed and only made her more eager to free his swollen cock from his trousers. She pushed the enamel bowl off the kitchen table, it clattered to the floor, water running across the rough tiles. She lay back on the table and pulled her red knickers to one side. Wetting a finger in her mouth she slid it across her lips to ease his entry.

He stood between her legs, stroking his cock, poised at the gateway to her deep pink interior, its entrance flanked by dark brown, swollen lips. He nuzzled inward, sweet sensations pouring from his cock, through his central nervous system and into his pleasure centres. Her eyes urged him forward against her impossible tightness. He hesitated, but the desire he felt was mirrored in her eyes.

Then he knew, he was the first. He stopped “Are you sure …”.

“Yes” was her reply. She shut her eyes and bit her bottom lip. He pressed forward, through the resistance. She cried out, with joy and pain.

He grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself and slowly, tenderly moved inside her. Eventually their passion engulfed them and the tenderness gave way to reckless passion, fucking as Michael had only ever dreamed off.

She watched Michael’s forearms, thick ropes of muscle tense under dark brown skin, criss-crossed with scars from his work in the mine. Her eyes returned to is face, to his eyes, gazing down at her. He released the table for the moment, slowing his thrusts. He pulled his shirt over his head revealing a broad, well-defined chest and abdomen beaded with sweat.

Michael reached forward and took a nipple in his mouth, sucked for a moment then took it in his teeth, biting with enough force to make her cry out. She raised her chest towards him, back arched, moaning. Michael broke away, feeling the approaching detonation as if he were watching a blasting code streak toward a charge, swift, unstoppable. At that moment there was only the thrust, the need to drive into her as he came.

In the final, climactic crescendo she screamed and the horror of the black pit of the mine called him back, dragging him from his dream. From the welcoming glow of then, to the damp despair the here and now.

Peter was screaming.

“What’s the matter?” asked a bleary Michael turning on his now dim orange helmet light and scrambling across the loose rock to Peter’s living tomb.

“Fuck! It was just a dream. I felt a rat was chewing at my foot. Just phantom pains I suppose. I can’t see me playing football again, can you?”. Peter smiled, but it was a weak smile, his face was now grey-white.

Michael dripped the last of the bottle of water they had with them into Peter’s cracked lips and watched him drift off to sleep, or was it unconsciousness. The smell from his leg was stronger now. Being trapped with a corpse until his own inevitable demise was not an appealing prospect. He returned to his pile of hessian and waited.


Hours, maybe days passed, Michael ceased to care. Peter stopped responding to Michael’s voice then even his breathing became silent. Michael didn’t turn on his light after that, he wasn’t scared of death, he’d seen too many friends die down here for that, but he did not need to be reminded of it by the white-skinned corpse only a few metres from him. The delirium of thirst numbed him to the point where in the blackness, dream and waking became one. He was thankful for that, the pure unfiltered reality would have been too much to bear.


They had split up after only those few months together. Bliss to oblivion in a dozen short weeks. Perhaps they were too different, Michael thought not, but persuading her to stay, to quit the job at the bar had proved to be impossible. He’d turned up there the night before and rowed with her. The owner’s heavies had thrown him out into the street and chased him off.

He sat, in the dark, past midnight, with a half-drunk bottle of beer in one hand. It had been ice-cold when he’d opened it but now it was warm and flat, no solace for Michael in the bottle. He stared into the darkness, watching the stars wheel past his open window.

There was a knock at the door. He ignored it.

Another knock, more insistent.

“Alright, alright …”, he rose and walked to the door. He had almost reached it when it was shoulder-charged open, the cheap lock flying across the room. Outside, silhouetted in the light from the single street lamp were shapes that he recognised from the night before.

There were no words, no explanations were necessary. He’d caused trouble in the bar and he needed to be taught a lesson, away from the premises of course, wouldn’t want to upset the customers. The five heavies didn’t get away without a scratch, Michael got in the first couple of punches, a broken nose, an eye that would swell up and leave its owner a Cyclops for a week. But five against one has only one conclusion. And as the beating went, blow upon cruel blow, on Michael realised that he was being taught a special lesson, to leave her alone. So perhaps the wild words he threw at her during the argument were not so wide of the mark? The bar owner did have his eye on her.

He felt the bones of his ribs crack, dull thuds of kicks to his arms as he shielded his head, the flesh deadened by the blows, only later would the flesh ripen into deep swollen welts and their accompanying deep biting agony. The real pain was the thought of her in his arms.

Hands pulled at him, sharp rocks in his back.

The blackness was pierced by dancing lights, the silence broken by familiar voices. Hands lifted him onto the stretcher, four men with blurred faces carried him to the foot of the top of the drift.

It was dawn, pale pink and yellow clouds were dotted across the sky. The sound of generators driving lighting rigs rang in his ears as he emerged into the new day. One of the mine’s ambulances waited, engine running. They slid him inside, a doctor followed, and a nurse. The doors were about to close when he heard a woman’s voice, beautiful, strong, insistent, a voice with an intent that could not be denied.

She crouched next to him and held his hand.

With a hard, dry tongue, through parched lips he expressed his joy for life in one word, “Elisabeth”

Avarice – Part 1

Drip, drip, drip.

Michael stared at the peeling paint of the ceiling. The dripping tap the only sound not quelled by the midday heat. The surrounding bush was silent, wildlife sheltering in any available shade from the merciless glare of the sun.

She lay on her side, head on his chest, long beaded braids of black hair cascading across his chest. Her right arm lay limp across his belly. His arm held her to him, behind her back, hand resting on her full, firm buttock. His fingers slowly stroked the smooth dark brown skin of her ass.

He felt the need to wash, their recent exertion had left her asleep in his arms and him feeling the need to cleanse himself. He was also in need of a pee, but he didn’t want to disturb her, to break the divine magic of this moment.

Drip, drip, drip.

The damn tap wasn’t helping.

Drip, drip, drip.

The room began to slip into darkness. What? It couldn’t be that time already … then reality took him and the dream slipped out of his grasp, the damp darkness of the mine gallery had hold of him and the clammy fingers of despair held him again.

Drip, drip, drip water seeped unseen through the roof of the section of the gallery which they had called home for two days and hit the damp floor.

“Sir, are you awake?” asked Michael quietly.

“You tell me, and stop calling me Sir. My name is Peter” replied a voice from the dark. “Anyway, it’s bladdy difficult to sleep with half of Zambia on your leg.”

Michael  turned on his helmet light, illuminating the prone Peter. Since the roof collapsed it had become clear that Peter’s left leg was trapped, covered, but unharmed, whereas the thigh and calf of his right were pinned. Michael scrambled across the loose rock on the floor of the gallery and examined Peter’s exposed right foot, it was blue-black and cold to the touch. Michael was sure he could detect a smell beginning to emanate from the leg.

“It’s looking OK … ” Began Michael.

Peter squinted back at him, blinded by the sudden illumination, “Oh, give it a rest mun. I haven’t been able to feel it for … ” He raised his watch into the light, ” … 36 hours now.” Peter paused for a moment, “But thanks for trying to cheer me up.” He settled his head back onto the rolled up bundle of sacks under his head. “So, finish telling me about her.”

“Not much more to tell, anyway I need to piss, hang on.” Michael knelt in the furthest corner of the galley, turned off his helmet light and a few seconds later filled the gallery with the sound of his splashing urine. He felt his way back to his own nest of sacking.

“I last saw her about a year ago. She was working on the east side of town, I didn’t approve of the job she took.”

“So she was a hooker, you didn’t mention that”

“She was no bloody hooker!” retorted Michael angrily, “That’s why I didn’t like the job she took, she was working in that bar, in that part of town and everyone thought she was a hooker. They’d treat her like one, offer her money. She said she could handle them, but no woman of mine puts herself in a place like that.”

“But she’s not YOUR woman now. And anyway, if you objected why didn’t you tell her to stop?” Asked Peter.

“On my wages? I’m a miner not a damn supervisor.” He spat out the word, filled it with contempt for the over-paid, self important bastards who lived in the air-conditioned houses outside the run-down dormitory town that the real workers inhabited. “We needed the money.”

“I tried to make her get another job, but she told me I didn’t trust her and we split up. I ended up sharing a room with six other guys. Her sister told me she got friendly with the bar owner and after that I didn’t ask about her any more. Her sister said they were going to get a big house and get married, all in three months …”.  Michael sucked his teeth in disgust.

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks, but that’s history now.”

“Well the present isn’t too fucking great is it. Stuck in a collapsed gallery 250 metres below ground with a bladdy supervisor.” He added with an unseen smile, “And a South African supervisor at that.”

“Are you calling me a bigot?”

“Oh come on laughed Peter. I know what the guys on the faces think of us. Overpaid, lazy bastards. Am I right?”

“Too bloody right. But you’re OK. If you hadn’t pushed me out of the way when the charges were detonated I’d have been under there not you. It should have been me under there.”

“So why were you here? The gallery had been cleared ready for blasting.”

“I saw something.”

“You saw something? … Let me guess, you spotted a diamond in the spoil?”

“A big one, as big as your fist. I saw it when I was loading one of the ore trucks, I hid it behind the roof support. I was collecting it when you arrived …”

“So how were you going to get it out of the mine? You know what the security’s like and what they do to the ones they catch.”

“There are ways.”

“I’m sure there are. Look we should rest. I know there’s air getting in here from somewhere, but it’s starting to smell a little stale, it’ll stay fresher longer if we rest and don’t talk.”

“OK” Agreed Michael. “We might hear the rescue team too eh?”

The complete darkness of the mine gave way to the cloudy grey prelude to a dream. Michael welcomed its coming, a sanctuary from the dark, damp deadly reality that his corporeal body now inhabited.

It was almost midnight in the east of the town. Michael was walking home after a night at the bar. He was drunk, sober enough to walk, but drunk enough not to care that his shift started in four hours and the blackest pit of Hades would be his workplace for the best part of the following day.

The sound of music from the bars began to recede into the distance as he walked toward his rented, shared room. It was still loud enough to mask the commotion in the next street, which is how he stumbled into the middle of the standoff.

She was literally backed against a wall, two muscular miners looming over her. Her dress was torn, eyes wide, not with fear but with anger. She waited until one of the pair came within arms reach then lashed out, nails biting into the skin of his face. He cried out, shouting at her, “Bitch!”, “Whore!”.

They both lunged at her, she screamed, kicked and punched as they wrestled her to the ground. Michael ran towards the pile of arms and legs, grabbing one of the miners and throwing him to one side. As he grabbed the second Michael felt an arm around his neck, pulling him viciously backward. A well aimed elbow to the solar plexus left his unseen attacker on the floor gasping for breath.

As he took hold of the second man the girl’s knee dealt a swift blow to the man’s groin. Michael dragged him away from the girl, where he lay on the ground, doubled up, vomiting from the burning pain in his testes.

Michael stepped backwards and felt the first assailant’s hand grasp his left ankle. He brought his right foot down hard across the man’s forearm, feeling a sharp crack followed by a howling scream from the arm’s owner.

Before her attackers could recover and take up the pursuit, Michael scooped up the girl and carried her the three streets to the communal kitchen of his rented room.

Image: Oppenheimer diamond, Smithsonian Institute.

Sock It To Em!

As a teenager like many girls I knew, I had my share of household chores that I had to do in order for me to receive my pocket money.  I must admit sometimes I would get a sub and not do them but there has to be some perks to the job, yeh!  😉

One of them was to help my mother with the washing and ironing.  I wasn’t very good at the later.  Don’t tell anyone but I deliberately made a hash or pressing the clothes so that I wouldn’t be asked to do it again.  Strange it didn’t work.  Lol

I had brought all the washing in from the garden and folded and placed it on the kitchen work surface ready to be ironed.  Mum was hoovering the lounge and tidying it ready for dad when he got home.

Next was one of my favourite things, and to this day it still is.  I gathered all of my dads socks together in my hands and started to ball them.  Hey stop right there!  This is not a sexual practice.  😀  For those who don’t know, you place the tops of both socks together and then roll the top of one sock back over the other, creating a ball of socks.

Oh, there is a picture at the top of the post if you can’t imagine it.

When I had carefully matched up the pairs I took them upstairs to my parents bedroom and opened my fathers bottom draw containing his sock balls.  It was very full and as I opened it I saw a pair disappear over the back of the drawer and in to the base of the fitted units.  I pulled the draw free from the unit and placed it on the carpet.

I couldn’t believe what I saw laying on the floor inside the drawer unit under that sock.  Quickly I picked up the sock and put it in the drawer and withdrew the video tape from it’s hiding place.  It must have been hidden, nobody keeps videos under their sock draw I thought.

It was a porn film, I can’t remember what it was called but the title did give it away.  Next time I’m at my parents I will have to see if I can find it.  Lol.  I remember being excited at the prospect of viewing the video but also being cautious not to get caught finding it.  I put it back and pushed the draw back in to place.

As the hours passed, I became more and more excited at the prospect of actually getting the opportunity to view a porn film.  I had never seen one before and I felt a little giddy every time I remembered what I had discovered earlier in the day.

It seemed like an age but eventually my parents went out, leaving me to hold the fort.  Oh yes of course I’ll be good…just hurry up and leave!  They went out for the evening, I remember it was summer time and still fairly light.

I prepared myself, putting the video in the tape machine and grabbing myself a glass of Coke and some beef and onion crisps.  I know, not exactly haute cuisine but to a teenager more than adequate sustenance.  Lol  God, I bet I had the most delicious breath and ass for the farts…well.  😀

I turned on the television and then the video player.  Then it struck me that it would be a good idea to close the curtains.  It was just starting to get dark so not so obvious that I was watching porn.  I then remembered that it would be a good idea to put my key in the lock and turn it so they would alert me with the doorbell when they returned.

All bases and eventualities covered I settled down in front of the television, crossed legged on the floor.  I don’t know why, I think it gave me the reassurance should they return early I could quickly eject the tape and switch to normal viewing.  I hadn’t thought about where I would secrete the tape but I’m sure I would have come up with something in my panic.  Lol

I turned down the volume, didn’t want anyone to hear what I was watching either.  The party wall wasn’t very thick, I could sometimes here the neighbours.  After a little flickering of black and white snow the tape started to play.

The scene was a memorable one, which is why to this day I remember it so clearly.  A woman was in a love swing  surrounded by a circle of guys, naked guys all stroking their cocks.  My mouth opened wide and the crisps lost their appeal.  I had never witnessed anything like this before and I felt a little flutter inside.  I suppose it was adolescent arousal.

The girl was a brunette with BIG hair!  It was the 90’s and she was naked except for a black leather belt around her waist.  The guys were your typical male porn star of the time, all dark bushy hair and moustaches.  She was refreshingly natural, with a nice pair of boobs which slipped gently under her arms as she lay spread eagled in the swing.

Even then I appreciated the curves of a woman.  I love the natural shape of the breast and the way it bounces when the girl is being fucked.  The way they sway when she is being taken from behind.  Anyway, I digress.  😉

It was apparent that the tape had been removed from the machine part way through and I wanted to see “Everything!”.  I made a mental note of the starting point on the counter and the scene on screen just in case it was wrong.

I started to rewind and shuffled about on the floor in anticipation.  The whiring stopped and as the tape hit the end.  I pressed play.

Bing, bong!  The bloody doorbell rang, shit they were back already or had they forgotten something?  I reached over to the video player and pressed eject, no time for fast forward.  The tape sprang from the drive.  Bing, bong again.  I pushed the tape between the cushions in the chair behind me and headed for the front door.

It was my parents…

Happy Easter!

Alex and I would like to wish everyone out there a wonderful Easter.  I hope you are all enjoying your chocolate eggs and being very naughty.  😉