The sofa


, , , ,

I love to make her wet, to fuck her wet and hard and open and feel her hands upon my cheeks as she pulls me in deeper.

It was the smallest movement of her toes, an almost imperceptible act, which first alerted me and drew my attention. As a feather barely touches the skin this seemingly insignificant moment became weighted with expectation. My thoughts up until this time had been hovering on the mundane but now deep down somewhere amongst the multitude of neurons and synapses my primeval instinct, my hand-clenching for dear life urge to feel real, enveloped me.

Her legs were bare and crossed upon the sofa and her feet pointed towards me. With her alabaster skin exposed I could barely think rationally as I began to play out in my mind the many possible scenarios which may soon transpire. We exchanged a glance that would have turned me to stone had she been Medusa but the portent of her look made for a much more powerful captivity. The die had been cast and we both knew the rules of our game.


She parted her lips and offered a smile of recognition. I reciprocated in kind. Still we sat upon the sofa motionless with no contact. The distance between us, however, counted for nothing as I allowed my eyes to fuel my imagination. Her hair was down and cascaded towards her breasts which were protected from my eyes only by the veiling of her top. I was a devotee of the highest order and she knew the power she had over me. I was a slave to their feel, their shape, their warmth and of the eventual hardening of her nipples as my tongue would flick gently over them. Her moans of pleasure would be my cue to tease with my teeth and draw them deeper into my mouth. I loved to make her wet, to fuck her wet and hard and open and feel her hands upon my cheeks as she pulls me in deeper.

She now drew her legs towards herself and whilst holding my gaze she paused momentarily before allowing them to open just enough for me to see what she knew I wanted to see. My breathing now became shorter as I felt my cock swelling in my jeans. Her rawness was exposed and open and beating my imagination into submission. I wanted to simultaneously reach out, to plough my cock, my fingers, my tongue deep into her. I wanted to taste her, to breathe her in, to feel her warm wetness on my face, to feel the gyrations of her hips as her muscles clamped tight around my thickness. I resisted. Not because of any sense of self-control, but because this game, this time of preparation, this pre-cursor to the act was too pleasurable to curtail prematurely.

She now slid her right hand slowly downwards allowing me one brief moment of recognition in her eyes before focussing solely on her fingers. She wanted me to watch as she began to pleasure herself but she was also making it clear that this was her game and she was in control. As her legs opened wider I watched and became lost in her exploration, lost in the art of her manipulation. A manipulation to which I willingly submitted.

She wanted me to watch as she began to pleasure herself but she was also making it clear that this was her game and she was in control.

Love = Giving

Love is the goal

Love is as necessary to our existence as the air we breathe and the food we eat. If anyone tells you anything to the contrary then we can presume one of two things: they have either never fully experienced love in its purest form, which has resulted in a warped perception, or they have dived deep into its fullness only to be disappointed or hurt on an experiential level. We are biologically programmed to love as parents, children, siblings, friends and lovers. This simple fact is borne out by human history which is a catalogue of love stories between people and races and nations. Sometimes these stories culminate in momentous peaks of violent fury when the love is lost and its nemesis, hate, reigns supreme. Yet even in the midst of hate love will find a way to reaffirm its ascendancy. Humanity has always been self-absorbed in its story of love, and rightly so, for it is the one thing we can experience in our brief sojourn on this small rocky planet which can give us meaning and purpose? Love is the goal.

The nature of love is not a mystery 

The essence of love has been much dissected and a multitude of tomes have been written which aim to enlighten us and aid us in our pursuit of it. Counselling in abundance and a plethora of religious expositions of wise men and their teachings suggest that the pursuit of love is a tricky one beset by a myriad of obstructions. However, the nature of love is not a mystery. To love is to give and to fully embrace this act of love, which is demanded by its very essence, the giving must be unconditional. Do not love to receive back. Do not lay down terms and expectations for your love. Therein lies the source of so much marital disharmony. Love is a gift freely given away and if you can live in this manner then you can live like a king or a queen as you are operating by the purest of laws.

New Year’s Eve

The warm flood of Soplica melted my resistance as I embraced the feeling of resolution. The year was almost at an end as the clock ticked relentlessly towards a new era.

 The palpable sense of denouement made the whole affair seem slightly morose. Yet, even now I was beginning to understand that the future is just another way of reliving the past. There is nothing new: only the same mistakes wrapped up in new circumstances. Ultimately the only way we can grow is to accept our frailties.

A Mesh of Meaningless Hieroglyphs


, , , , ,


The silence of the shop was momentarily interrupted by the opening of the rather tatty and leaflet laden door which had for the past six months become a familiar friend to Tom. The brass handle and thumb latch had an overtly kinaesthetic appeal and his thumb would always linger momentarily in anticipation upon the coldness of the metal. The process of entering always peaked in a moment of orgiastic pleasure as the slightly warped door resisted every new client before the inevitable release. The intruding cacophony of street noises created a painful dissonance for Tom who was currently absorbing himself in a yellowing copy of Under Milk Wood. He flicked his eyes up from the brittle pages to identify the cause of the disturbance and saw the fleeting figure of a young woman. He would have returned to the bible-black cobble streets of Llareggub had it not been for the simple fact that she looked familiar. He had seen brown hair, an attractive profile, a petite frame and not a lot more but subliminally something had registered. He paused, frozen in thought in an attempt to resolve his curiosity. Now distracted, the weight of the book in his fingers began to prove slightly wearisome however his subconscious determined that the best course of action was to initiate a pretence of reading. He turned a page and read nothing as Dylan’s lyrical text now morphed into a mesh of meaningless hieroglyphs.

Although he could not now see her he was acutely aware of the young woman’s presence. The deadpan assistant on the counter was busying herself with sorting a stack of books into alphabetical order but her distance from him meant that the tell-tale signs of movement in the non-fiction aisle were the sole focus of his attention. The occasional and almost imperceptible scuffing of heels on the wooden floor betrayed a movement further down the categories. The familiarity troubled him. What if she knew his name and he would be reduced to fumbling around in a maelstrom of social awkwardness from which he knew he could not recover.

He adjusted his stance to take advantage of a better line of sight but continued with his pretence as before just as a book fell to the floor with a thud. There was a brief expiration of irritation from somewhere in the psychology section. A fortuitous gap at the bottom of the shelving allowed the young man to see the spine of Maslow’s Motivation and Personality before a hand deftly picked it up. If she continued her journey of perusal at her current speed, barring any further distraction by some psychological tome, she would appear from around the corner of his aisle within seconds. This prospect induced a state of heightened anxiety within Tom who now pivoted 90 degrees. Fleetingly, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of her figure retreating to the rear of the shop. He cursed himself for failing to obtain a better perspective.

With his pretence of reading all but now forgotten, he peered surreptitiously around the corner. The young woman had paused at a table to look at some ornately decorated diaries and calendars. She was quite simply unaware of his presence and the thought crossed his mind that now would be a good time to make his escape and avoid any potential embarrassment. The idea was credible and attainable as he was not too distant from the shop door but with every second he lingered his purpose rapidly became diluted.

She wore a neat grey coat, tied snugly around her waist which stopped just short of her knees. It reminded him of a bath robe. The coat was complemented by black leggings, matching grey shoes and on her head she wore a floppy brimmed fedora. The word chic popped into his head. As she reached for various items her shoulder length hair was falling across the side of her face which thwarted his attempts at identification.

The shop assistant coughed. Tom looked to his right and was met with an icy stare of judgment. He felt the colour rising to his cheeks as they began to glow hot with exposure. In the briefest of moments he desperately wished to communicate that he was not an habitual stalker of attractive women in slightly tired second-hand bookshops and that he recognised her act of interruption was borne out of solidarity with another woman against the misogynistic tirade of mankind, but all he could muster was a stifled grunt.IMG_1641

Testing The Water


, , , ,

Although not destined to be recorded in the history books as a pivotal event this first post, is, for me anyway,  a defining moment. The idea of putting pen to paper, to coin a now rather IMG_6881anachronistic phrase, has been fermenting for a considerable period of time. Like any normal person I have days when the creative urge finds a degree of resonance in a myriad of ways with any given event or item of news and the juices flow. Equally I share, in common with the vast heaving mass of humanity, a propensity for lethargy which can negate and easily extinguish any small spark of insight. This struggle is a self-revelatory journey into the unknown which either delivers you some degree of liberation from the excesses of human vileness or heaps a shovel full of angst straight back into your recently unburdened soul.

Now that the die is cast and I have established my platform (thank you I intend to gather my thoughts, fumble around with them and let the words meld together into some coherent form. I am reminded of the words of Ernest Hemingway who said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed”. Better get some tissues then.