get eaten out

August 13, 2017

I need someone who can keep up with my sex drive lol, someone who I can give a “Look” to, you know what I mean? And seeing my “Look” they’ll know I wanna get dicked hard or pushed onto the nearest surface and get eaten out for an hour or more.

Andrea Stevenson
Secret Desires

What do you tongue on Sunday morning…?

I like going down on a woman because:

The sounds: the way she whimpers; the way she brings it up back to my mouth when I stop licking. The broken moans. Hearing her breathing get harder & feeling her legs shaking, when she looks down at me as I look up at her, and she bites her lip, my gosh. The way her back arches. The way she grinds her clit on my tongue. The death grip on my head right before she cums and her legs give out. The way she pulls me back up & tastes herself on my lips.

Angela Bell
Lipstick Lesbian

23rd July

Living here with so many ghosts I feel like a caretaker of the restless dead – a protector of spirits who haunt my life – so that I’ve become my own haunted house, attempting communication with partially glimpsed movements at the edge of perception, or the sound of a creaking stair, or a noise in the attic which might only be the patter of falling rain…My ghosts can be cranky on occasion: they can whisper words, the meaning of which I’m unable to determine.

It’s been a long time since anyone treated them well –

#

So the Saturday evening play-party. With our friends from the local munch, people possessing the emotional bandwidth to comply with our safety standards, while sharing similar aesthetic tastes to ourselves.

Like a small film club, are we, eagerly awaiting the main attraction: crisps, freshly roasted nuts and popcorn are liberally distributed to ‘the audience’ in small china bowls. Missy A has been naughty and is to be disciplined while we watch. Furniture has been moved to accommodate this tableaux.

Seeing Missy A bent over a chair with her skirt hitched up is breathtaking. Hearing a hand slap against her buttocks, is so very arousing – how could it be otherwise? Savouring the slight trembling of flesh with each fresh impact. Her yelps of discomfort –

Then E rising to join T who is tiring. E has a riding crop. She takes T’s place. Her skin-head hair cut is intimidating. She uses the crop with consummate skill –

Yelps become cries. Missy’s poor glowing bum is criss-crossed with red stripes –

Missy’s now estranged husband used to take her to play-parties in the boot of their car. Almost nude, gagged and handcuffed, even in winter, she would endure this humiliation without complaint. His treatment of her became harsher and harsher, until she finally left him eighteen months ago.

It should serve as a lesson to us all, how quickly such consensual abuse can become pure abuse –

I’m reminded of Jean-Paul Sartre and his theory of emotions as ‘magic’. Because Missy has simply exchanged one sadist for another. The new man in her life allows his fantasies free rein. She is, it seems, one of life’s natural victims –

E’s skill with that crop is superlative. Her strokes are hard enough to mark Missy’s naked bum but not to break the skin. I can’t take my eyes from Missy, her tear-filled eyes, parted lips, writhing as if in the grip of some invisible power. Sex is inherently ritualistic, a symbolic act whose meanings extend beyond itself. And there can be no doubt that Missy’s submission is sexual, that she takes pleasure from E’s practiced flogging of her backside. And every face in ‘the audience’ is slightly flushed with sexual excitement as they look on. And my own arousal is equally obvious –

Finally, aftercare. Caresses, kisses, gentle stroking. A smile on Missy’s tear-stained face. She experienced some sort of climax near the end of her ‘punishment’, and all the tension is now drained from her.

I finish my popcorn (which incidentally is homemade) as E takes Missy upstairs to the bathroom to fix her make-up.

‘I hope they don’t wake the ghosts,’ I say to no one in particular.

And no one, as expected, bothers to reply.

#

Hamlet experienced an encounter with a ghost and it ended in massacre. Macbeth was confronted by Banquo’s ghost during a great banquet, and lost his peace of mind forever. It’s more than likely that Shakespeare’s ghosts are simply psychological manifestations of guilt – imagined apparitions, in other words.

But what of my ghosts?

Trish, for example?

She used to love me reading out loud to her. At bedtime I always had to read to her or she couldn’t sleep. On occasion she would perform an act of fellation upon me as I read –

She once described herself to me as ‘Terribly thin’. And her body, I must admit, was like a sabre slash in silk. As flat chested as a boy, was she. ‘You’re fine,’ I’d tell her. ‘I love you as you are.’ And then laid her back and performed cunnilingus on her for almost an hour –

I read her ‘The Story of O’ and we both got turned on by it. It was Christmas Eve I remember, and Trish guided me between her buttocks. I gently sodomized her for the first time while she masturbated herself.

We talked a lot about art, writing, music and cinema. One time I told her about André Gide, his enormous influence on the young, which sprang from his teaching that one’s only duty is to oneself, that one should never be ‘encumbered’, either by material possessions, memories or other people –

‘Often the best in us springs from the worst in us.’

And so I read ‘Isabelle’ to Trish, and we both visited le chateau de la Quartfourche with Gerard Lacase, and accompanied him on his quest for Isabelle in the grip of ‘amorous curiosity’.

Books, reading, more reading and fucking. ‘Why don’t you read me something you’ve written?’ she asked. It was a bridge too far for me. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Never that. It’s all too awful.’ But she insisted, so finally I recited some of the poems in ‘Summer Births’ from memory. And while the words spilled gently from my mouth like little lost souls, Trish fondled me erect and masturbated me –

Trish had always had a thing about India. For her it seemed a magical, mysterious, exotic place. One day she announced she was finally going to go there. She’d saved the money. She was going for six months – longer if she could!

And so she drifted from my life almost as casually as she’d drifted into it. And now she keeps company with the crowd of ghosts occupying this place; a spectre who loves to hear me read out loud late at night –

My panties were still on but he didn’t let that stop him, nosing them out of the way and tonguing my sex, making low, growling noises in his throat like a big cat purring with pleasure while it devoured its prey.

Emme Rollins
Dear Rockstar

talk dirty

July 2, 2017

Oh, is my baby’s little pussy finally getting wet?” He put his hand on her knee. She tried to cross her legs. “Yes, and it’s a lot. It feels very messy.” He could smell her now. Bending over and presenting her ass had done something for her. So had dirty talk. Yeah, he could talk dirty. “Messy is good. I want that pussy dirty and ripe when I start to eat it.”

Lexi Blake
A Dom is Forever

the waft of smoke

June 27, 2017

Cunnilingus is not a three-minute twerking fad, here today junked tomorrow. It is Tchaikovsky. An overture. An operatic experience that makes you high, then takes you higher. Orgasm is the waft of smoke seen at the top of the volcano. As we know, the journey is pure pleasure, the arrival like the Big Bang that created the universe.

Chloe Thurlow
Katie in Love

13th May

All good art is subversive either in form or content.

I have in mind, for example, Andres Serrano’s ‘Piss Christ’, a photograph of the crucifixion submerged in the artists urine which outraged critics back in the 1980s: it was (is) considered disrespectful to those of the Christian faith, a blasphemous work that led to debates about the issue of public funding of artistic projects. Twenty-four years after the work’s first showing, a print of the photograph on display in Avignon was destroyed by French catholic fundamentalists. No one understood that the photograph depicted the cheapening of Christ’s image; and the ongoing hypocrisy of those who misinterpret or twist the words of Christ for their own ends. The artist, Serrano, is a devout Christian.

And what about Tracy Emin’s Turner-nominated instillation ‘My Bed’? Sold recently for four million quid, complete with an ashtray full of fag ends, used condoms and the artist’s dirty knickers. Many, probably the vast majority of people, feel the work meaningless and the artist’s success illegitimate. Me? I think it’s worth the four million for Tracy’s knickers alone! Although in fairness, the bed is representative of a bad period in the artist’s life, depicting the four days she lay in bed contemplating suicide. It is a work about life and death; life in the balance; it is Hamlet’s famous soliloquy ‘To be, or not to be…’ It is a four day lay -in, a long sleep – sleep, death’s sweet counterpart.

Then we have Hans-Peter Feldmann’s The Hugo Boss Prize instillation: exhibited at the Guggenheim Museum in New York, he’d cashed in his $100,000 honorarium, pinning it to the walls of the gallery in rows of dollar bills, some crumpled, some folded, some not – much to the outrage of the many who viewed it. Oh, ‘money, money, money…’A fresh blasphemy, but this time against the ‘new’ God of plenty and his royal court of austerity, poverty, hunger and ignorance.

The Guitar Lesson by (Balthasar Klossowski de Rola) Balthus from 1934, created outrage and controversy when it first appeared and still has the power to shook today. This painting of a young girl pulled backwards by her hair across the lap of an older woman, both fascinates and disturbs: the girl has pulled free the breast of the woman who in turn plucks the girl’s naked, prepubescent genitals like the strings of a guitar.

Then we have something like the Mona Hatoum exhibition at the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art. Sarah Kane tells us: ‘In a tiny cylindrical room I watched a projection of a surgical camera disappearing into every orifice of the artist. True, few people could stay in the room as long as me, but I found that the voyage up Mona Hatoum’s arse put me in powerful and direct contact with my feelings about my own mortality. I can’t ask for much more’ (from a work of art).
(Sarah Kane, Drama with Balls, 1995).

Again, take William Holman Hunt’s painting The Awakening Conscience (illustrated above). Controversial or not? In its day (1854) it caused consternation among critics and the viewing public alike. Here we see a young woman rising from the lap of a bewhiskered young man. Critics were uncertain as to the subject of the painting. The fact the artist had painted the carpet’s pattern with as much care as the young woman’s face, many felt the work to be simple ‘illusionistic imitation’.

But then John Ruskin in one of his letters to the Times newspaper explained that what we were viewing was a ‘kept’ woman and her lover:

‘there is not a single object in that room – common, modern, vulgar…but it becomes tragical, if rightly read…the torn and dying bird upon the floor; the gilded tapestry…the picture above the fireplace, with its single drooping figure – the woman taken in adultery; nay, the very hem of the poor girl’s dress…has story in it, if we think how soon its pure whiteness may be soiled with dust and rain, her outcast feet failing in the street…I surely need not go on?’

Outrage followed. ‘Not only had the artist famed for his religious conviction dared to portray a mistress rather than a prostitute – prostitutes were non-threatening to families, mistresses were terrifying – he did so with compassion.’

The face of the woman we see today is not the face these early Victorian viewers would have seen. The model, Annie Miller, Hunt’s fiancée, was prone to infidelity, and when Hunt found her out, he removed the expression of guilt-stricken horror for which the painting was most noticeable when first exhibited. The new expression on Annie’s face has far less impact ‘than the painting’s contemporary reviews show’.

#

The weather has been pretty shit the past couple of days. Warm and wet. God bless rising levels of humidity, especially when accompanied by falling rain. Horrible. Hopefully, today will be drier?

#

If your eyelids aren’t sticky after giving a woman oral sex, you didn’t do all you could to please her…

Gateways

May 7, 2017

7th May

Sandra, Sandy, blond and randy. If you recall while still attending school she became a ‘fashion model’: so tall and beautiful on the catwalk, she was. At the time it seemed the only qualification required in the modeling game (beside good looks) was the ability to upchuck everything she’d ever eaten in her life. All the other girls, too, were enthusiastic users of suppositories. They didn’t realise that with hardly any food inside them they wouldn’t poo anymore. Roughage was carbohydrate and to be avoided at all costs. Diverticulitis was a fact of life.

One evening with red headed Claire, I replaced the gentle action of her Dulcolax with slow thrusts of my cock. ‘OMG,’ she said. ‘It’s like pooping backwards…’

That may have been the case but it did relive her constipation, eventually, didn’t it? And yes, in that act, she lost her final and only remaining virginity. Although it might have felt as if she were using her butthole as an overstuffed handbag, it got the job done, which is all that matters at the end of the day, isn’t it?

But with Sandra, my Sandy, I loved the smell, taste, and texture of her excited vulva. I really did. I’d go downtown on her at every opportunity. Often I felt myself enclosed by white light emanating from her, from between spread legs; and this light, her light filling me with pure positive energy.

#

On the moor near Minions are three interconnected bronze age stone circles. This site was obviously used for religious ritual and ceremony, details of which are now lost to us. The location is significant. These stone circles lay near two converging rivers, thus placing them where travelers and traders would meet. Such positioning is not uncommon for such circles. The surrounding moorland is dotted with ancient remains: cists, standing stones, barrows. Often, standing with my hands on one of these stones, I experience an emanation of pure white light much as I felt radiating from Sandy all those years ago. Eyes closed, I bask in this luminosity; feel myself overflowing with positive energy. It is the most wonderful feeling. To touch these stones is to step back in time. To become aware of the remarkably numinous quality of the location.

Personal Darkness

May 5, 2017

5th May

Imbibing alcohol can make fools of us all, but it can also make us more candid than we’d otherwise have been…

Dee, slightly intoxicated last night, explaining that as a young girl she offered a kiss to a boy, a neighbour, if he’d take down trousers and underwear then sit in a patch of nettles. Surprisingly, the boy complied. Dee told him he must ‘wriggle’ on the nettles. Again he complied. But shortly afterwards, he began to cry. She encouraged him to stand and kissed him several times on the mouth in an attempt to stop his tears. She was eight years old; the boy nine.

At home later that same day the boy’s mother created holly hell with Dee’s parents. His bottom and testicles were covered in little white blisters from the nettles; he could not sit still, and had been liberally bathed in calamine lotion. Dee’s mother, furious, sent Dee up to bed without supper. Both her mother and father said they were disgusted by her behaviour.

Dee remembers mainly the boy’s penis being very stiff when he sat in the nettles and when she kissed him.

In confessional mood, Gabriella told of her mother’s coldness towards her as a young child. Her mother had really wanted a boy, but ended up with a girl. There was no intimacy between the pair, no closeness and cuddles.

And when Gabby’s brother was born, he became the apple of mum’s eye: nothing was too much for him. Gabriella felt more isolated than ever. Hers was a childhood of loneliness and confusion. She needed love, but was haunted by a sense of inadequacy. Alone in the vast world of childhood, she made the place inhabitable by complete and total submission to the will of her mother, who she saw as the dominant force in her life. A force that must be appeased at any cost. Then, and only then, love would follow.

At age fourteen, one sunfilled summer afternoon, Gabriella and a school friend, a slightly older girl, played a game of ‘strip poker’ in Gabby’s bedroom. They were alone in the house: Gabby’s mother was at a carboot sale in a neighbouring town; her father was at work, and her brother at a friend’s house. Inevitably both girls became naked, but they continued to play – only for ‘dares’ now. There were intimate touches, caresses. An element of mutual masturbation. Finally Gabriella was ‘dared’ to go down on the other girl – and she did, without a moment’s hesitation…

It was at that moment her mother walked into the bedroom! She’d returned early with a splitting headache.

There followed a highly charged and emotional scene. Gabby’s mother called her ‘Ugly and unnatural’. She ordered the other girl to dress and get out of the house. Her final comment, ‘You’re both a pair of dirty lesbians…’ broke Gabriella’s heart.

Dee grew up with a conviction that in human relationships, there were only two possible positions: one of rapacious domination; the other of docile submission. Dee would never play the role of submissive. She could not, would not struggle against the duality in her nature. Gabriella on the other hand, always sought love, intimacy, acceptance: to obtain these, she submitted to others thoughtlessly, flitted from one sex to the other, always humble and eager to please, but sexually avid.

#

It’s always best kissing the middle of a sentence, long languorous kisses to melt the words…

#

Ghosts?

I once encountered a ghost. A terrible apparition, it was, too. The following morning I woke believing the encounter to have been a nightmare, a simple bad dream in which I stood powerless and screaming at the spectre of one recently dead.

It was some days later Ailsa told me she had hurried to me after hearing my cries in the night. That part at least had been no dream. She saw no ‘ghost’ but I was standing in the centre of a locked room in an almost hysterical state.

How had the room become unlocked?

Neither of us could say; it was a mystery.

So, was it dream, hallucination or horrifying reality? I’m still not certain.

Beats sticky toffee pudding with or without dates!