Tuesday, 29 November 2011

Madonnas by Firelight


The warm Spring made us think of camping and the
boys built a big fire to keep
Spring’s heat alive into the  night when some
berk with a Blackberry found it was
Beltane when it behoved us to dance
naked round the flames and we hooted and
laughed and shouted “NO!” but the
bottled beers and the craik
cracked our shells and clothes were shed  with
whoops of embarrassed excitement  and we
danced naked in the firelight, even
podgy Judy looked amazing with her
tits flying, our hair
whipping round our faces and the
sparks from the fire shooting up as our
boys revealed mens’ erections and
Spring was properly fertilised.

Sunday, 27 November 2011

A Tale of Two Parties


A.
Only a sliver of moonlight aided her
tiptoe search amidst the
wreckage of the party, past an
outstretched leg, a bra (sadly
not hers), cold pizza, empty
cans and no sign of the
friend she had lost.

B.
Unwillingly she’d gone but it seemed quite
chic and staid and unexceptional
until, looking for the loo, she’d heard the
grunts and moans and an
open door and a woman with
two men whilst
another watched.

A.
All she could think of was the
bollocking Becky would have if she didn’t
get her home, but at least she found her
crumpled dress and her
too-high shoes, and then she heard
Becky’s voice—but a Becky she’d
never heard before.

B.
She was as transfixed as the woman
impaled on one cock, sucking another, the third
oiling himself to join the mix and as he
fixed his mortar against her tight pestle the
woman’s eyes shot open,
straight into hers with a look that went
directly to her pussy.

A.
Becky was barely visible in the
scrum of bodies in the skanky bedroom but
she recognised the polish on her
tightly-clenched toes and the
hank of red hair held by the man
vigorously fucking her face from which grunts came that
amounted to Becky’s voice.

B.
The airtight woman kept her eyes on her,
eyes that made her wet so that when her
husband suddenly pressed his
erection against her ass and whispered “She looks
beautiful, doesn’t she?” she knew it was going to be a
long night and his wasn’t the
only cock she’d have.

A.
The hand with the hank of hair
yanked harder as he came but
Becky took it all and when she could speak
muttered “more”, then saw her and
“her next” before another cock
semi-silenced her and a hand reached out which she
didn’t refuse.

B.
She dozed through the dawn drive home, her
body sore and leaking and the
unfamiliar taste of pussy in her
bruised mouth and the knowledge that
nothing would ever be the same
swimming like the semen in her
happy stomach.

A.
The first bus back broke the dawn and
Becky burped a sperm-scented belch as she
slept on her shoulder and she knew that
nothing would ever be the same as she
remembered Becky’s sopping vulva
descending on her face with an
unexpected pleasure, like a
bolt of lightning out of a
clear dawn sky.

Thursday, 24 November 2011

Events in the next room


The little black dress still looked chic
carelessly dropped on the floor with the
black thong and the
stilettos he thought she’d keep on but
maybe the finer points of erotica were
lost in her lust so he put down the
ice-bucket he’d been
purposelessly sent for and
picked up the camera just as his
wife moaned “Oh fuck yes...” in the
next room.

Tuesday, 22 November 2011

Books and Covers


She had a plummy voice and
Bovey Tracey manners, a
laugh you could hear in Highgate,
appeared in Harpers and
Tatler and looked as if she’d be
happiest with horses or
hunt balls burdened by beaus and
butter wouldn’t melt, etc., but
in truth she was the finest
fuck in Fitzrovia, liked it
rough and hard and talked so
dirty in that Oxford voice that she kept me
hard for hours as other men and
women joined us and her
knees got dirty in the
alley behind Annabel’s.

Sunday, 20 November 2011

Whatever


The blindfold, the ropes, the
bar spreading your legs, the
hard surface across which you are
bent, your
helplessness—all give you the
freedom to just
let go and accept
whatever, whoever, whenever.

For T

Saturday, 19 November 2011

Saved by the Belt


Each stroke was another red stitch in the
poem of love embroidered on the
bare bottom of the brat and
bitch she knew she’d been before, the
boys and men she’d teased and
titillated and then left hanging, until
that night when this man
upended her over his knees,
quelled her effortlessly, her
knickers around her ankles, spanked as she
blubbed, squirmed, felt
humiliated, came hugely on his fingers, heard herself
beg and the door slam, the week he
waited until he summoned her, the
door opening and the belt in his hand that would
save her.