Torment Him Much and Hold Him Long

October 29, 2016

alexander-szekely-a-little-party

Diary 28th / 29th September

There are two universal languages: mathematics and music. One of them describes the universe in all its complexity; the other personalizes just how we feel about that.

Have you ever stopped to consider how amazing it is that you are anyone at all?

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I’m no gynecologist, but I’ll take a look for you…

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Overcast yesterday, but warm, no rain. Dead leaves from the trees down the lane strewn across the road. Some gorse on the common still flowering despite the time of year. Met a woman out walking her dog. The dog’s name is Henry, and off the lead he totally ignores the woman who calls to him to “STAY”. ‘He’s an absolute shit,’ she tells me. ‘He never comes when I call. Typical male. Only does what he wants.’

Henry is an Irish wolfhound with a one track mind. Why does she let him off the lead if he ignores her calls? The dog seems to control the woman, rather than the other way round. He’s very friendly, however, despite his intimidating size.

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Friday night was fun night. Four friends attending, two newcomers no show. Often happens. Individuals who we meet via the local munch, newcomers who express a desire to come play, invariably are time wasters. Drop outs. Their particular fetishistic kink would appear to be the initial discussions about role playing: a voyeuristic delight in pervy detail, if you will. They talk the talk, but never walk the walk.

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Muriel, apparently, is currently heavily into post orgasm “torture”, and her hubby, John, is looking very much the worse for wear (perhaps because of this?).

C’est la vie.

If nothing else, John proves he is very much more ‘obedient’ than that dog Henry! The benefits of obedience training, I s’pose. John even cums to his wife’s strident command – !

Fascinating.

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The world unrolls and watches around me. Here a fireside rug, gentle on the knees. Material to sink into. All here are equal. No ruffling of my life – except, perhaps, in the scent of a woman’s hair? The distinctive scent of her female parts? I am level with her eyes, with her mouth. Bruising kisses, exchanged. She makes no sound, draped in shadows. Then drops a sigh, softly sighing again, limbs flexing taut.

Outside darkness and moorland.

There are times, like now, when I believe the moor breaths the darkness.

They are like brother and sister.

‘Oh God,’ mutters a soft female voice nearby. Then again, like a loud exhalation between tightly clenched teeth. ‘Oh God…’

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