It is only thanks to your good looks
I can take part
in the rites of love.

Mystical ecstasies,
treasons delightful
as a crimson lipstick,
a perverse rococo
of psychological involutions,
sweetness of carnal longings
that take your breath,
pits of despair
sinking to the very bottom of the world:
all this I owe to you.

How tenderly every day I should
lash you with a whip of cold water,
if you alone allow me to possess
beauty and wisdom irreplaceable.

The souls of my lovers
open to me in a moment of love
and I have them in my dominion.
I look as does a sculptor
on his work
at their faces snapped shut with eyelids,
martyred by ecstasy,
made dense by happiness.
I read as does an angel
thoughts in their skulls
I feel in my hand
a beating human heart,
I listen to the words
which are whispered by one human to another
in the frankest moments of one’s life.

I enter their souls,
I wander
by a road of delight or of horror
to lands as inconceivable
as the bottoms of the oceans.
Later on, heavy with treasures
I come slowly
to myself.

O, many riches,
many precious truths
growing immense in a metaphysical echo,
many initiations
delicate and startling
I owe to you, my thigh.

The most exquisite refinement of my soul
would not give me any of those treasures
if not for the clear, smooth charm
of an amoral little animal.

Anna Swir
translated by Czeslaw Milosz and Leonard Nathan

Pleasure to me is wonder – the unexplored, the unexpected, the thing that is hidden and the changeless thing that lurks behind superficial mutability. To trace the remote in the immediate; the eternal in the ephemeral; the past in the present; the infinite in the finite; these are to me the springs of delight and beauty.

H.P. Lovecraft
The Defence Remains Open!

The Encounter

November 6, 2018

enchanted by this strange proximity

Longing, and mystery, and delight…
as if from the swaying blackness
of some slow-motion masquerade
onto the dim bridge you came.

And night flowed, and silent there floated
into its satin streams
that black mask’s wolf-like profile
and those tender lips of yours.

And under the chestnuts, along the canal
you passed, luring me askance.
What did my heart discern in you,
how did you move me so?

In your momentary tenderness,
or in the changing contour of your shoulders,
did I experience a dim sketch
of other — irrevocable — encounters?

Perhaps romantic pity
led you to understand
what had set trembling that arrow
now piercing through my verse?

I know nothing. Strangely
the verse vibrates, and in it, an arrow…
Perhaps you, still nameless, were
the genuine, the awaited one?

But sorrow not yet quite cried out
perturbed our starry hour.
Into the night returned the double fissure
of your eyes, eyes not yet illumed.

For long? For ever? Far off
I wander, and strain to hear
the movement of the stars above our encounter
and what if you are to be my fate…

Longing, and mystery, and delight,
and like a distant supplication…
My heart must travel on.
But if you are to be my fate…

Vladimir Nabokov

dark, malicious delight

September 6, 2018

She was beautiful, pale, and serene. Her eyebrows were smooth and thin, and angular, as in all antique portraits. Her mouth was very small and scarlet, her teeth set close together. In my heart she roused terror. A terror which nothing can explain, a dark, malicious delight.

Zinaida Nikolaevna Gippius


August 11, 2018

Nothing in this world is permanent, and we’re foolish when we ask anything to last, but surely we’re still more foolish not to take delight in it while we have it.

W. Somerset Maugham
The Razor’s Edge

all the girls

She was I suppose my nursemaid. I recollect that she sometimes held my little prick when I piddled, was it needful to do so? I don’t know. She attempted to pull my prepuce back, when, and how often, I know not. But I am clear about seeing the prick tip show, of feeling pain, of yelling out, of her soothing me, and of this occurring more than once. She comes to my memory as a shortish, fattish, young female, and that she often felt my prick…

…I recollect a female being there in bed with me, that I awoke one morning feeling very hot and stifled, and that my head was against flesh; that flesh was all about me, my mouth and nose being embedded in hair, or some thing scrubby, which had a hot peculiar odour. I have a recollection of a pair of hands suddenly clutching and dragging me up on to the pillow, and of daylight then. I have no recollection of a word being uttered…

…These feelings got intensified when I thought of my aunt’s backside, and the cunts of my cousins, but when I thought of the heroines, it seemed strange that such beautiful creatures should have any. The cunt which seemed to have affected my imagination was that of my aunt, which appeared more like a great parting, or division of her body, than a cunt as I then understood it; as if her buttock parting was continued round towards her belly, and as unlike the young cunts I had seen as possible. Those seemed to me but little indents. That the delicate ladies of the novels should have such divisions seemed curious, ugly, and unromantic. My sensuous temperament was developing, I saw females in all their poetry and beauty, but suppose that my physical forces had not kept pace with my brain, for I have no recollection of a cock-stand when thinking about ladies; and fucking never entered into my mind, either when I read novels or kissed women, though the pleasure I had when my lips met theirs, or touched their smooth, soft cheeks, was great. I recollect the delight it gave me perfectly. After having seen frigging, it set me reflecting, but it still seemed to me impossible, that delicate, handsome ladies, should allow pricks to be thrust up them, and nasty stuff ejected into them. I read Aristotle, tried to understand it, and thought I did, with the help of much talk with my schoolfellows; yet I only half believed it. Dogs fucking were pointed out to me; then croaks treading hens, and at last a fuller belief came…

My Secret Life


As a younger man George Chambers had been possessed of a full head of hair. Now, however, almost tripping into middle-age, the baldpatch on his head brought to mind the tonsure of a medieval friar: a whippet-thin one, with high cheekbones and sensuous mouth. Easy, indeed, to imagine him sneaking into the local convent, his head full of inappropriate ideas.

Gabriella suggested he looked a little “seedy”. ‘Time has been unkind to him,’ she said. ‘But she, on the other hand, like a fine wine, has improved with age…!’

“She” was Mattie Chambers, George’s curvatious wife. And she craved an “adventure”, or so George claimed.

Mattie had always been curious about love…physical love…between two women. As a young girl at school she had formed a romantic attachment to Mrs Wood, her English teacher. This crush had been unreciprocated, of course, but on occasion, at night alone in her bedroom, Mattie had fantasized a flaring of interest in the older woman’s eyes. An exchange of lingering kisses.

Reality, however, always returned to impinged on her dreams of love “realised” with Mrs W. And Mattie came to understand, consequently, that love wasn’t an equally balanced equation. That you could love another with great passion, but that that other might, unfortunately, remain totally oblivious to your feelings.

During her late teens, Mattie dated various boys. She was, she said, a “late developer”, surrendering her virginity, for what that was worth, to a young man named Bill Sutton, shortly after her nineteenth birthday. Bill wasn’t a very good lover; although friends said he was “good with cars”, a “much sort after” mechanic, apparently.

George Chambers, on the other hand, had a certain “bonnes allures”, and bearing in mind the physical restrictions of space, they made love on the backseat of his Ford with a certain lack of inhibition. The “mystères de l’amour” were mysteries no longer to Mattie. While raising her bum to ease down her pants, she realised she’d probably found her “Mr Right” – two months later, amazingly, they were man and wife.

Time passed. Familiarity, they say, breeds contempt. Whatever the truth of that, it certainly breeds boredom. Sexual boredom for George. He craved fresh flesh. While remaining a respectable pillar of the community, he took to secretly visiting prostitutes. Each time this happened, he’d tell himself: ‘Never again’…but the need would return, stronger than ever – that overarching need of cold, unloving, rubber insulated sex with a stranger.

His dad had been a butcher with a largish shop in East Harrow. The young Chambers delivered customer orders on a black, sign-written push-bike. His first sexual experience had been with one of those customer’s, a Mrs Dooley, who had taken in her package of chops, beef mince and sausages, suggesting the boy ‘Come in for a mo, while I get your tip…’

Mrs D, forty-something, a widow, took the boy to her bedroom, undressed him, caressed him, and fucked him five times. With or without an order, young George returned weekly to the widow’s soft embraces. He became, in time, sexually prolific.

As Mattie’s husband, George increasingly adopted the persona of confident poshness. He joined various societies, a film club, became involved in armature dramatics. And all the while his head was filled with images of explicit and kinky sex. He wanted to see his wife used by another man, while he in turn used that man’s wife. These daydreams recurred with frightening regularity, until George decided to “take the bull by the horns” and approach Mattie with a tentative suggestion of “Wife swapping” to “spice-up” their lovelife…

Having awkwardly broached the subject in the living room of their home, George waited for some sign of reciprocation from his silent and stony-faced wife.

‘Who, exactly, would we do this with?’

‘Well, I thought about, perhaps, touching on the subject with Julian Jackson and his wife…’

‘Pam Jackson?’

‘There’s rumours they “swing”. Swap partners…?’

‘My God, no, not her. The only thing she’s ever swapped with is a pair of sabre-tooth pensioners, and that terrible man from the post office and his wife – the one who looks as if she’s just escaped from the “House on Pooh Corner.’

‘What do you suggest, then? EBay?’

‘Well, first off, if this is to happen, I want to get something out of it myself. I don’t want some lust-filled brainless knob pumping away at me. Understand? I want to be with a woman…perhaps two women? Who I could then watch together? The rigors of Sapphic sex are a mystery to me. As an experience, it could prove very educational…’

‘I could watch, too, I s’pose?’

‘Probably so, yes.’

‘Do we know of two women like that?’ He sounded sceptical. Her promiscuous deployment in a Sapphic scenario, while fine for the voyeur within him, suggested little in the way of rumpy-pumpy for himself: lesbians weren’t known for welcoming the tumescent phallus of a randy male into their bodily orifices. He sagged. This would come to nothing…

‘I think I just might,’ she said. ‘And in the right circumstances, they’d probably see to your needs also…’

George gave a small whoop. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’


So George stood in our kitchen, all cheeky-chappie charm, with a slight undercurrent of nervousness. He wore a red and white stripe shirt beneath a navy-blue V-necked sweater from Marks & Sparks. Dee and Gabriella took Mattie in hand, leading her upstairs to Sapphic heaven – found today (hopefully) between the clean sheets of Gabby’s double bed.

George had earlier gone to great pains to explain to me he was “a woman’s man”…perhaps, fearing the engorged member of Peedeel lancing his nether regions like a piston when he least expected it? Yes, while thrusting into the delectable Dee, most likely, bare-arsed, vulnerable. Ruthlessly Rogered while Rogering…A most unedifying thought, even for me…but wait, perhaps there’s some hope left in the bottom of Pandora’s box?

George asked: ‘What’s the procedure now? When do we join the ladies?’

‘We wait until invited,’ I replied, feeling just a little like Jiminy Cricket with Pinocchio. ‘Fancy a gin and tonic for now? They might be awhile.’

George, looking like man whose unobtainable sexual fantasy is about to be realised, sipped his gin impatiently. Lust tends to occupy time and thought on such occasions. It made George fidgety. ‘Are they usually this long?’ he asked.

‘Frequently,’ my reply. ‘Love making is an art, and art is oblivious to time’s passing.’

The doorbell went about three o’clock. Outside it was warm and windless, a fine drizzle falling. A parcel for Dee which I signed for. From the hallway I could hear soft grunts and groans. The sound caused me a sudden hard-on.

Upstairs, of course, there was a tangle of limbs. Dee and Gabby had kicked-off the performance for Mattie’s education and entertainment. She sat on Gabby’s stool beside the bed, watching. Inevitably the collision of a long held fantasy with this stark uncompromising reality had an effect on her; she began to feel slightly breathless, intensely hot, and uncomfortably wet in her new lace panties. Almost without thinking about it, Mattie reached out to stroke Gabby’s plump rump.

‘Join us,’ Dee said. ‘There’s plenty of room for three.’

Earlier Gabriella had asked Mattie: ‘D’you want to watch us with your clothes on or off?’

‘Oh, on, I think. Keep them on’d be best.’

Now she wished she’d stripped like them. Because she had to stand and undress with the pair watching her. She felt self-conscious and shy and a little embarrassed about how thick she was becoming around the waist. The damp patch on her knickers. A dead giveaway, that. Like a bitch on heat…

She felt so excited and yet close to tears. One part of her wanted to stop this now: turn her back on the women in the bed, and depart for good. Unfastening her brassiere she experienced a momentary swimmy-headedness. She would do this, or she’d regret it for the rest of her days. She slipped her panties down her legs, turning them inside out as she did so.

Finally naked the pair reached out to Mattie, taking hold of her hands. Together they pulled her to the bed.

‘It might feel a bit of a rocky ride at first. But you’ll soon get the ropes,’ Dee said to reassure. Then kissed her full on the mouth.


We were dully summoned to Gabriella’s boudoir, which was a little stuffy, heavy with the intermingled scent of the three women; they sank back on the bed in reciprocal quiescence, smiling at us, newcomers to their “petite fête”.

George ripped his clothes off, a veritable maelstrom of sexual energy. In contrast the movements of the women seemed weary and slow, almost slumberous…Dee spread her legs, exposed her small wet sex, and said, ‘This is just for you…’

George did not require a second invitation. As Gabriella and Mattie climbed from the bed, he mounted Dee. Oblivious to all else, he thrust into her with an almost primordial force. Seconds later, he moaned loudly. Nirvana quickly, unexpectedly , finally achieved.

I helped Mattie gather up her clothes and escorted her to the bathroom across the landing. ‘I’ve put out fresh towels for you,’ I said, gesturing vaguely at the rail. ‘Did you enjoy yourself?’

Blushing slightly, she nodded. ‘Yes, very much so.’

‘I’ll leave you to shower. We’re downstairs when you’re finished. I’ll sling some food together, you’re probably hungry. And if you’re not, I know Gabby is…’

George, disappointed by his sudden climax, the culmination of two hours waiting with a painful hard-on in anticipation of the fleshy treats in store upstairs, rolled onto his back. Dee kneeled astride him. ‘You don’t get off that easily,’ she said gently. ‘Oh, no. You’ve got a job to do, mister, and I’ll see you do it, come what may…’

‘A job?’

‘You’re going to make me cum six times before you get to leave this room. That’s how many times Mattie came for us. You’re going to match it…’

Downstairs in the breakfast room Gabriella sat at table in a white robe with a towel wrapped round her hair, which was still wet from the shower. Opposite her, Mattie, now fully dressed, fresh makeup applied, forked small chucks of roasted aubergine and red pepper into her mouth.

‘George is still with Dee?’ she asked.

‘He will be for awhile,’ Gabby said. ‘Dee puts her heart and soul into these things. It’s what I most love about her.’

I smiled. Poor George. Dee would use him as her living sex toy. She had let him shoot his first load, certainly, but now he’d be closely controlled. She would keep “edging” him, taking him as close to climax as possible, then stopping all movement. “Restricting” him, until he “relaxed”, then her “demands” on his aching cock would be renewed with fresh vigour.

‘You can go up and watch, if you want?’ Gabby said. ‘Dee won’t care.’

‘No, I’m alright, thank you…’

Dee had an unending repertoire of sexual tricks. She might, for example, allow George to just touch the finish line…but then brutally ruin his orgasm. A milky dribble without pleasure. And Dee, smiling, would say: ‘Whoops. Don’t worry. Just a hiccup. Look. It’s still stiff and wonderfully usable.’ He wouldn’t be allowed a break, of course, not even to go for a pee. Poor George.

‘Dee is good with electrics,’ Gabriella said. We were now in the sitting room with a bottle of wine between us. ‘She’s got this wonderful ability when it comes to diagnosing faulty electrical appliances. Hasn’t she, Peedeel?’

‘Indeed she has.’ Almost equaling her ability to torment (probably) a now red-raw cock. I glanced at my wristwatch: quarter past seven. George had been “at it” for two-an-a-half hours with voracious Dee. Probably feeling quite exhausted by now, no doubt. And experiencing a desperate need to pee…

‘More wine?’ Gabby asked.

Finally, a little after eight o’clock, George, fresh from the shower, edged his way carefully down the stairs. He moved like a man who has suffered a serious blow to the balls. His face was peculiarly lacking in colour, sallow, but dark beneath the eyes which now appeared rather bulbous to me. A haunted face, I thought.

He had a neat “stiff gin” but nothing to eat, wasn’t hungry. He nodded to his wife and to Gabby, gulped at his gin.

‘You were a long time,’ Mattie said. ‘Piggy at the trough, eh?’

Dee made her appearance in a flowing flowery kaftan of black silk, her damp hair piled high, looking gorgeous and certainly good enough to eat…George had probably experienced Dee’s “culinary delights” to ample sufficiency by the strained look on his face.

‘Have you paid the electric bill yet?’ she said to me.

‘Taken care of.’

‘We must do this again Mattie.’ She sat on the arm of Mattie’s armchair, kissed her chastely on the cheek. ‘It was an eye-opener for me.’ Her smile was more a grin, like the Cheshire cat from Alice. ‘A real blast…’

‘Oh, yes, we must…’

George’s face dropped. It was as if he’d received an unexpected slap to the face. Or another roughish blow to already swollen testicles.

And for no discernible reason I thought of the Chambers’ house in the next village, a modern, stone-built affair that had originally belonged to a German woman who raised parrots. When they first moved in, apparently, there’d been perches everywhere in the downstairs rooms. George had ripped them out along with most of the guts of the house to create a whitewashed minimalist’s dream. That was George, really: Minimalist Extraordinaire!

‘I think we’d better get going,’ George said. ‘Leave you good people in peace.’

‘It’d be really nice to have you again,’ Gabriella said, rising from her seat.

‘Yes,’ agreed Dee.

Gabby kissed Mattie on the lips then smiled at George. ‘See you soon,’ she said.

I shook George by the hand.

‘Nirvana,’ I said quietly. ‘Is never achieved without cost…’

I watched as he hurried towards his car. Mattie, walking slowly behind him and occasionally turning to wave at us on the porch, called out: ‘I’ll phone you tomorrow.’

‘Oh, yes, please do…’