Prattlings from a Pervert

This blog has moved home

noreply@blogger.com (Severin) — Thu, 03 Mar 2011 18:13:00 +0000

I’ve been blogging in a number of different places for a few years but until now have always used Blogger, now part of the Google family.

But my growing frustration and impatience with it has tempted me to start experimenting with WordPress and so, just for a little while i’m going to move the blog to a new home before deciding whether a permanent switch over is called for. Most (but not all) of the comments have successfully transferred over as well.

New entries have already been added, so you're missing out. Although most of it is of course utter rubbish.

Anyway, to go to the new log, click here.

Yet another event i can't go to.

noreply@blogger.com (Severin) — Tue, 01 Mar 2011 21:50:00 +0000

"Come to a drinks evening" they said. "Ok, thank you, I'd love to."

"Come to a drinks evening with some added films to watch" they said. "Ok, thank you, again I'd love to."

And so the date was set and all i had to do was look forward to it. There was even going to be someone there that I knew, maybe a couple of people, so my hatred and fear of being amongst crowds of strangers was lessened.

And then the email arrived a few days before. Oh yes, by the way, we've decided to have a 'theme', so dress accordingly, it's "obsession".

Now I just have a wardrobe. It just has shirts, trousers, socks, shorts, ties and fleeces in it. Nowhere does my wardrobe have some magical costume compartment where obscure and abstract words can be interpreted through the medium of textiles.

And in any case I just don't feel I look good in anything that I do have. I’m now a fat, aging bloke who has long lost any sense of looks or style. The next thing that I’ll be wearing that anyone thinks I look good in will be a shroud. It's so much easier for girls for whom there's a never-ending supply of pretty dress and shoes to choose from. I'm not fashion conscious and really don't have the imagination or the skill to just 'put together' an outfit like other people seem to do.

I hate dressing up. Ever since I was a tiny child I’ve hated fancy dress parties. Hated costume parties, hated and avoided them. I thought this was just going to be a nice relaxing evening with drinks and some friends. Now it seems there’s some fancy dress theme which I’ve no idea how to interpret. No idea and no inclination to. I hate with a passion this need that every party organiser seems to have of including a ‘theme’.

So yet again this is something else that I can’t go to because I’ve no idea what I’ve got that would be appropriate and I’m not going to have a guess and then turn up looking either completely bland or worse, looking like a twat to be laughed at.

I just wished I’d known there was going to be a dressing up element before I paid for the ticket.

My Year Off

noreply@blogger.com (Severin) — Thu, 03 Feb 2011 19:17:00 +0000

I was recently given the task of choosing and recounting any story that had moved me in some way and whilst I am not sure whether this is exactly what my task-setter had in mind, it is a story which most certainly did move me.

I regularly do a "school run" (and do call me to discuss rates) which is about 45 minutes each way. It coincides quite nicely with the afternoon play on Radio 4, which i've taken to listening to upon the wireless set that is rather cleverly installed within the automobile (what will they think of next)?

Well one day last week, the play they produced was called "My Year Off" and was based on the book of the same name by the writer, novelist and war correspondent Robert McCrum, now the associate editor of the Observer.

In 1995, McCrum had only been married for two months to Sarah when, at the age of only forty-two, he suffered a massive stroke. The book and subsequent radio play, chronicles the following year as he struggles to accept the hand dealt to him. The narrative includes many diary entries made by his new wife, also a writer.

Together they have to learn how to accept what is happening. She has to learn how to carry on loving this new stranger, who is now an all-encompassing part of her life. They have to learn how to communicate again and how to set about finding the will and the inner strength to overcome the many hurdles suddenly thrown up into their marriage.

Ultimately it’s their combined strength that beats it and he learns to talk and to walk again.

I found the play incredibly moving – to the extent that actually, I never ever want to read the book. It was just too hard going and I was in uncontrollable floods of tears by the end and was grateful that I always allow plenty of time before arriving at the school. Time to recover, aided as I so often am, by mouthfuls of healing juices courtesy of the good doctor (Dr. Pepper).

Had I not activated the wireless receiver located within the confines of the automobile, I doubt that I would have come across his story, it is certainly not a book that I would pick up and chose to buy. But I’m pleased that I had the opportunity to hear his story, even if it was at times an emotional roller-coaster of a ride (and that’s without my driving)!

"My Year Off (Rediscovering Life After A Stroke)" is published by Picador and available from Amazon and no doubt many other fine book sellers.

Smooth

noreply@blogger.com (Severin) — Sun, 30 Jan 2011 15:19:00 +0000

Personally i see body hair as a barrier. When I'm being physical with a woman, I want to bite, touch, taste and devour and smell flesh, the real woman beneath. And for me she's not naked, until she's naked.

On a personal note, i feel so much more sexy when i'm smooth. I remove everything from chest to groin, inclusive. I feel that i've prepared myself especially for sex but also for (ab)use. And if it's before i give my body over to someone, it's a wonderful act of submission, but one willingly given. And when my ass is silky smooth, the cane, crop, whip, flogger or even the hand, all hurt more. I'm in direct contact with my tormentors and their tools.

And rope looks and feels so much better on smooth naked flesh. I would hate submitting to rope if i wasn't given the chance to get smooth first.

And interestingly for me, i only ever want to masturbate when i'm smooth (unless i'm directed to at other times). I love the feel of my own hair-free naked flesh. My ass feels like a little cunt, begging to be fingered or filled; my cock, even though a very male organ, feels like some big silky smooth dildo.

So i'll continue to make myself smooth if i know i'm likely to be naked. And if you plan on getting me naked, best to give me some notice! (Well i wouldn't want your tongue to suffer now would i)?

Don't Panic Mr Mainwaring

noreply@blogger.com (Severin) — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 11:43:00 +0000

And so it came to pass that I was invited to attend a social gathering.

Well let me stop you right there. You see, for someone with the social ineptitude of a disenfranchised Common Warthog, the words “gathering” plus “social” plus “invitation” all together and heralded in my direction, strike fear, panic and a dozen other negative reactions straight into my very being. You see I’m not actually a sociable animal. Oh sure I can type, from the safety, seclusion and comfort of my sounder (that’s what you actually call the home of a Common Warthog in real life. I know, educational, who knew)? I can chirp in 140 characters or less on the Tweeterings and I can flirt on the Facialbook in 140 characters or more. However, ask me to actually attend something, in real life and stand there, remain clothed, talking to people, face to face, in a sociably interactive kind of way, and I will instantly come up with seventeen different and highly original excuses why I am sadly unable to attend in person. I may even send a video message. I’m nothing if not inventive.

Who can forget my memorable absence from a party owing to having stay with the lady who went into labour in aisle 12 of Safeway? I mean, Safeway???!!! Or the unfortunate delay of many hours caused by my singularly spectacular but ultimately doomed attempt to rescue the cow? Or the completely implausible excuses that I had period pains; a dog with leprosy; or had to practice my maiden speech for the House of Lords. In other words, if it’s at all possible to get out of turning up, I’ll give it my best shot.

Which brings us to last night (or several months ago if you’re reading this on Dave). I had been invited to attend a social gathering in city far far away (well London) and had arranged to accompany a lovely lady, whom, for the sake of anonymity, we’ll simply call Petunia Bigglesthwack.

Now as it happened I had been up since 4am that morning and was very very tired. And then Petunia Bigglesthwack sent a textual communication directly to my portable telephone instrument, indicating her unfortunate inability to attend (I believe this is called “being blown – out)”. Well sad though that was to read, there was a part of me that went down on one knee (I believe it was the left) and praised Saint John the first, Saint Gregory the seventh, Saint Cornelius and all the other dead but never forgotten Popes and gave thanks for providing not one, but two, actual, true, real life reasons why I could get out of attending, without having to go through the whole rigmarole of having to actually think of an excuse myself (aisle 4 of Tesco?)

So all I had to do was convey my heartfelt sadness, make my (true) excuses and flop onto the sofa where no doubt I’d soon be accompanied by a brace of beagles.

And then something strange happened. Possibly divine intervention, who knows? I was persuaded to go. To reject the warm snuggerly sofa-like, beagle-infested sounder, and shower, dress up in shirt and tie and waistcoat (ok, so the M&S tie says “Tie Me Up” on it) trek mountains and traverse fjords and actually travel the short distance from Wimbledon into London (we don't actually have a fjord, yet. But give Boris time, anything’s possible if you have vision).

And am I glad I did? {Insert more genuflection and the canonised Pope of your choice here}. For behold as I entered the venue I was immediately welcomed with the beaming smile and warm embrace of a lovely lady who I had only recently met and the equally warm welcome of her partner (who also wore a tie, his more tasteful, with hearts on).

And so like a barnacle clinging to a bit of old bilge wood, I was impossible to shake off all evening. I had just the most lovely time in the company of these two people. I also met a charming, brave, adventurous American gentleman. Let’s just say he knows first hand what hurricane Katrina was all about and who has now settled here. We will definitely keep in touch.

The evening with my gorgeous new friends ended with talk of possible photography involving rope lights and my soon-to-arrive straitjacket (which I’ve been instructed has to be red)!

So what did we learn from last night?

Well firstly we learnt that: a lack of sleep, eating nothing all day, being over optimistic with our choice of trouser waist band, drinking a double coffee on the train on an empty stomach, adding a glass of wine upon arrival, all go to make one feel a little odd towards the end of the night.

But we also learnt that if you make the effort to dress up, it’s quite possible that a very naughty lady will start to undress you soon after you arrive!

But also that life is full of surprises: lovely sexy people who will let you talk utter codswallop for three hours and who you can’t wait to see again; and singing belly-dancers.

Good morrow.

In pain, and bizarrely, craving pain.

noreply@blogger.com (Severin) — Fri, 19 Nov 2010 01:45:00 +0000

Firslty n apology. This blog / journal entry will contain far far more mistakes han is usual n my postings. There will be spelling mistakes, grammatical errors and pssibly grave punctuational sins. Ibeg your indulgance and dear listeer, your forgiveness.

The reason for this apparet absense of mntal dexterity is simple. I'm in the middle of one of very stupid headaches. I won't bore you with the details, suffie it to say that i suffer with "Cluster Headaches", a side effect of which is an ability to read, write, type, crochet and drive. Actually i coudn't crochet anyway, but for a ew brief hours or days, i have a lgitimate escuse.

This one was actually artly my fault. I ate something whch, had i thought it through properly i would have realised contained an ingredient which is one of the triggers. Sily boy.

Anyway, so now i'm n pain. A lot of pain, and none of it the good sort.

One option which ften comes into my head for consideration at times like this, is the neck on the railway track method of pain relief. I hear it's instant, although there's enough sanitry in me to realise that that would really screw up some poor train driver (and track cleaning crew).

And there's something that i've alway wanted to try one day when i'm haing one of these things. The trouble is it's almost impossible to organise, mainly owing to my inability to drive (or at least it would be very sily to try).
Right now, i would dearly dearly love to be tied, standing, arms stretched straight up above my head, naked. I need to be whipped. Whipped, flogged and eventually caned. Whippe until i'm in floods of tears. And then taken through it. No let-up, made to cry and cry and wail until i've othing left. Into unconscioutness would be nice. (Not fair on the Domme though).

I have no idea what effect it would hae on the headaches, but I' curious to find out. I realy want to know. There's a danger of course that my blood presure would continue to rise and i'd have a stroke. But i think it's a small risk. But as i say, it's ifficult to arrange. Not many folk would want the responsibility, plus i've no idea how i'd get there. An of course there'd have to be some advance arrangemet, s that no matter what i said, there was no let-up. I'd ned it t not stop.

And is this even moral? I'm a sub. It's not supposed to be about me. It's about what the Domme wants. Should i even be thinking about what i'd like? Confused dot com.

Anyway, it's unikely to hapen. I'm at home. There are beagles. They ill help. So will sleep. And possibly the good heavenly juices of the good Dr Pepper.

But one day. One day.

Nw feel free to tell e that that was a load of self-indulgant tripe. After all most of what i write is.

Do you keep fall asleep in meetings?

noreply@blogger.com (Severin) — Tue, 02 Nov 2010 16:20:00 +0000

This has been around for a long time, but still relevant today.

Do you keep falling asleep in meetings, lectures and seminars? What about those long and boring conference calls? Here's a way to change all of that :

1. Before (or during) the next meeting, seminar, or conference call, prepare yourself by drawing a square. I find that 5" x 5" is a good size. Divide the square into columns - five across and five down. That will give you 25 one-inch blocks.

2. Write one of the following words/phrases in each block :
Synergy, Strategic fit, Core competencies, Best practice, Bottom line, Revisit, Expeditious, To tell you the truth (or "the truth is), 24/7, Out of the loop, Benchmark, Value-added, Proactive, Win-win, Think outside the box, Fast track, Result-driven, Knowledge base, At the end of the day, Touch base, Mindset, Client focus(ed), Paradigm, Game plan, Leverage.

3. Now tick off the appropriate block when you hear one of those words / phrases.

4. When you get five blocks horizontally, vertically, or diagonally stand up and shout "BULLSHIT!"

Photo ideas - adventurous photographer wanted

noreply@blogger.com (Severin) — Mon, 18 Oct 2010 19:40:00 +0000

Over the past few years I've enjoyed being used by a number of photographers for both fetish and non-fetish (and usually adult) pictures. And I enjoy that. Who am i kidding? I love it. I'm an exhibitionist. Paradoxically, stupidly shy in front of the camera, unless i'm naked - yea, suck on that Freud old bean!

And I have a very simple self-imposed rule. I don't try and steer the session, or chip in. I'm the photographer's muse and he or she is being the creative, I'm merely the object. Almost insignificant, just something to be pushed, pulled and positioned. It's when i'm at my most obedient. I'll adopt the pose, position or demeanour demanded. I'm not there for me, I'm there for the artist, for them to get whatever they want. And i love that set-up. Submission to the artist; submission to the lens; submission to the, as yet unknown, audience.

But just occasionally i have some ideas of my own. Something i'd like to create. And as much as i try to put them out of my mind, there are two pictures which i'd really like to create:

1) Flotsam
In this image I'm washed up on a beach. Entangled in and almost covered by seaweed, flotsam, driftwood, old rope, rusty chain etc. I'm naked and partly submerged. Even my face is getting washed over by the waves. But am i dead? Is it worth reviving me? It's hard to tell.

2) Beauty destroyed
In this image i'm face down on glass, photographed from underneath. I'm lying on a bed of roses, not beautifully arranged, but ragged, the thorns cutting into me. I'm bleeding from many of them. The idea is that it'll look as if i've fallen, from a balcony perhaps. Again the question it might pose is, "is he dead?"

A common theme to both is obviously the closeness to death and I admit i have a bit of a fascination with death and execution scenarios feature heavily in my fetish fantasies (whoops, Freud has just cum)!

So my question to you dear listener is, do you fancy creating these images? Are they the basis of an idea you'd like to explore? Happy to take this in any direction, an additional creative mind would be welcome. If so, this camera-shy, camera whore would like to hear from you.

Painting by numbers (when there's only one number)

noreply@blogger.com (Severin) — Sun, 05 Sep 2010 04:37:00 +0000

When i first started school, there were some things that i learnt very quickly. That little girls like to crawl under the door to watch little boys pee; that glass milk bottles get extremely cold when left outside in the winter; and that i should never EVER be allowed to hold a loaded paint brush.

Whenever i was forced to pick up a paintbrush, it was always a disaster. If the paint got in my hair, it hurt when it got combed out. If the paint got on my hands, it hurt when my hands were scrubbed by an annoyed nun. If the paint got on my clothes, it hurt when i got a walloping at home later that day. The likelihood of me successfully applying the paint to the target area of paper (or toilet roll or cereal box) were tiny. The likelihood of me getting into a lot of trouble for making quite a bit of mess, were by comparison, huge. Furthermore i hated getting messy, well actually i still do, i'm a very clean boy you see. No really, pure and spotless, through and through.

Anyway, i never liked painting, i never wanted to paint and i was never any good at it. And this remains true to this day. Giving me a paintbrush is likely to get the same result as offering it to a chimp high on caffeine. The paint will go anywhere and everywhere, with the possible exception of where it's actually supposed to be going.

So imagine my horror when i realised that the new garden shed (10' by 5' !!!) needed to be painted, inside and out, before it could be built. Painted with an Acorn Brown waterproofing paint.

Carnage.

The fence is now Acorn Brown. The lawn is now Acorn Brown. Barnaby the new puppy is now Acorn Brown. Many of the apples still on the apple tree, are now Acorn Brown. I am now more Acorn Brown than that orange antique bloke off the telly.

Oh sure, some of the Acorn Brown did actually make it onto the shed, but it looks rubbish. Like a two year old did it.

And now i see that the paint manufacturers want me to apply a second coat!! Well they can get knotted.

My little friend's gone

noreply@blogger.com (Severin) — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 03:09:00 +0000

With regard to death and in particular, the death of others, I suppose in a way, I've been quite lucky. I have no family really and therefore have had very little contact with death. The last time that I had to deal with any effects of death that involved me personally was "Lockerbie", way back in 1988 and even that was an extremely unusual relationship with death, involving court and inquiry appearances.

And yet as I sit here now, I can glance up to the mantelpiece and see a small wooden box upon it. It's about five inches long, three inches high and three inches deep. If I were to get up and look at the top of it, I know I'd find a shiny brass plate, which is simply engraved, "Basil".

Basil was a beagle who died, rather tragically a short while ago. He was never my dog as such, yet he had been a constant companion for the past three years. Referred to in the house by others as "the stupid beagle" he was considered the genuine "underdog", the slightly simple boy. Because of this I think, he quickly became my favourite of the two dogs.

I've been surprised a little by my own reactions to his death. As someone who has previously delivered bereavement counselling to others, I should be familiar with most of the possible emotional responses, yet, I still seem to have managed to surprise myself. The true owner of Basil decided to have him cremated and his ashes kept in the aforementioned box. In the past, I would have expected to have not wanted to let go and to have relished the prospect of hanging on to his ashes in an attempt to hold on to him and not let him go. Yet as I sit here and regard the box of ashes, it just doesn't feel like he's there. To me, he's gone. I wish he hadn't, but he has.

Of course I completely respect the desire of his owner to want to keep his ashes, but to me it doesn't really represent any lingering tactile reminder of him. To me, Basil is in the dozens of blankets in which we still find his doghairs. He's in the ragged soft toys that the new puppy is busy destroying. He's on the landing stair where I'd sit and chat to him, singing him little songs i'd make up about him. He's on the sofa where he never should have really been, but frequently was, usually pretending to be asleep so we didn't move him (and they called him "stupid")! He's in many places, just not in the box above the fireplace. At least not for me.

We have another beagle, Bertie and we have a new puppy, Barnaby and together they make a great pair, but i still miss my little friend.

Eye-eye!! (Or, sometimes I truely marvel at the extent of my own stupidity).

noreply@blogger.com (Severin) — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 12:46:00 +0000

I recently had occasion to perambulate down the road. It was a sunny day and I was having difficulties with my eyes which were both itchy due to an excess of pollen and watering somewhat, due to bright sunlight. Essentially, eye-rubbing was called for. Now, rather than rubbing alternate eyes as many a common folk might be seen to do, i opted for the time-saving “dual rub” method.

Unfortunately this had the rather inconvenient (and bizarrely unforeseen) effect of rending me unable to see. Unable to see at all. Unable, in fact, to see the low garden fence that i wandered into, or indeed to observe the group of school children at the nearby omnibus stop, who laughed heartily as i went head first over it and into someone's garden.

Ask me anything, no really, anything! (Formspring Questions)

noreply@blogger.com (Severin) — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 10:11:00 +0000

For those of you unfamiliar with the formspring.me website, it basically allows anyone to ask me any question. I don't know yet whether i'll keep it going, that all depends on how entertaining the questions are. I'll try wherever possible to answer everything honestly and, hopefully, with a little humour where it's appropriate. The questions asked so far, together with my answers, are reproduced below. So, it's over to you!

(Newest questions inserted at the top).

14) Why are the best nudist villages abroad, why can we not have good places over here?
The only nudist (or naturist) village that i’ve been to on holiday is Cap D'agde on the South coast of France, midway between Toulouse and Marseille. It’s a complete town where naturism is the norm.

My girlfriend at the time and i camped there for two whole glorious naked weeks. On our first night there we were taken into a bar by a couple of very friendly guys from the tent pitch next to ours. They suggested that i at least wear some shorts, but i was determined to stay naked.

It took a while, but after several little notes had been delivered to our table, it began to dawn on me they’d taken us to a gay bar. To this day it remains the only gay bar that i’ve walked into naked.

13) Who was your childhood sweetheart? Will you tell us about that person?
Oh this is easy. My childhood sweetheart was Sally Parsloe and we met when i was four years old. I remember that it was my second day at the convent school. I’d got into trouble on my very first day for rushing past a Christmas tree and knocking a glass bauble off which promptly smashed. (I’ve no idea why i started school just before Christmas).

Anyway, day two and i was in the toilet having a wee. Quite unexpectedly, Sally crawled under the door (there was a gap just big enough) and watched me having my wee (well i could hardly stop could i)? Once i had finished, we emerged from the cubicle together and there, standing tall and fierce, was Sister Francis, glaring at us and tapping a ruler in her hand menacingly. Sally got a severe telling off and a finger wagging warning. I got the ruler, very hard, across both hands.

I didn’t tell Sister that it was Sally who had invaded my ablutions and i think Sally thought i to be her hero for taking the punishment that should by rights, really have been hers. We were inseparable for many years.

12) If porridge is a substitute for sex and cake should be fed after play, what should soup, steak and sponge pudding be substitutes for?
Our thanks to Mrs Spatula of Cockbobbing for this question.

Well they don’t necessarily need to be substitutes for anything. But they could of course simply be substitutes for kinky play when the players just fancy a cosy time together, enjoying each other’s company. And two people, sitting naked, cross legged, right up close to each other, in front of an open fire, feeding each other, is very erotic (although the hot soup is possibly not a good idea under these conditions).

Sponge pudding of course offers the possibility of custard or cream or ice-cream and all the sexual nuances that they provide. And with any food, forcing a submissive to feed from a bowl, perhaps on the floor, perhaps in the style of a chosen pet, with no cutlery, can be a highly intense D/s experience for both.

11) What sexual position do you feel is most submissive, and which one is least submissive?
Now this is an interesting question. I suppose for me, the most submissive sexual positions would be things like having a lady sitting on my face, forcing me to taste and pleasure her (although i’m not sure it would take much forcing). Or being raped by a lady who’s wearing a strap-on. Fairly stereotypical i think.

As for the least submissive, I suppose any position which has me on top or over or holding down the lady. Or any position where it is me that’s positioning the lady or her legs.

But of course that’s not the whole story. A Domme might easily want to be held down or bent over and fucked hard by her sub. She might demand anal sex of him. Neither makes him Dom, merely obedient. Similarly a dominant might demand that a girl sit on their face so that they can take pleasure from eating and tasting her. But that doesn’t make them submissive.

So i don’t think it’s the actual act or position itself, but rather, who is asking and who is obeying and giving the satisfaction desired.

10) As a submissive have you ever had sex with your Domme (instigated by you) part way through playing, or would you like to try if you were turned on by what she was doing and felt that way inclined or do you not consider sex should be part of playing?
I haven't in the past, but i would if the Domme desired it. As the sub i see my role as being there to provide pleasure, it's up to the lady how she chooses to take that pleasure.

9) Your love for cake after sex and other debauchery.....would you/have you ever integrated the two?
Well i have been forced to cum onto cake before eating it, which is kinda hot.

8) What can I do to put more oomph into my sex life, my girlfriend is great and I really want to give her more pleasure, what would you do?
It's great that you're asking about giving HER more pleasure. But every woman is different and what makes one girl scream with pleasure might not even distract another from her knitting. But it's fun finding out what presses her buttons. And of course you can ask her. A lot can be learned from having an evening of sharing fantasies.

7) If you were offered the job of U.S. president would you take the job?
Yes i would actually. I used to say that electing the POTUS was too important a job to just be left to the American people. The problem is of course, that it's two jobs. It's president of the United States and it's citizens and also the leader of the "free world" with global responsibilities.

I think that during the Bush years, America and most of the world were hoping that the next president wouldn't be just another career politician, but someone with common sense, someone would look at issues and just try and do the right thing, both for the American people and on the world stage. I think they've finally got that this time, although of course only time will tell whether i'm right.

6) What can I do for my guy, sexually, that will send pleasure thru his entire body? Something he will remember for a long time as a great experience.
Oh my gosh, that's a difficult one although bizarrely, one answer did immediately sprang to mind. Everyone is of course different and has their own buttons waiting to be pressed and you'll both have your boundries.
If you haven't already tried it, then dildo / strap-on play can be extremely intense and mind-blowing.
Or maybe an evening at a swingers club or dungeon.

5) Where have I hidden my toys?
Well they are probably in your safety deposit box along with all of your gold. And porn. Failing that, have you tried looking under the bed? If nothing else, it'll prompt you to have a good clean under there!

4) Should porridge replace cake after sex, degradation and filth?
Oh my goodness, my gracious, my heaven's to Besty, no. Porridge is a substitute for sex. Cake will always be the preferred source of nourishment and aftercare following a bout of sex, degradation and filth. Why, were you offering?

3) Why don't you put these answers on Facebook so I can keep up with them? Huh huh huh??
And our thanks go to Mrs Milkspoon of Nether Wallop for sending us this question. Well I can tell you Mrs Milkstool that that is indeed something that we at Severin industries are looking into. Indeed, by the time that you read this reply, it may have already appeared on Facebook.
Or possibly Crimewatch.
Probably not Gardener's Question Time though.

2) Why are you so damn sexy, asks the spider.
Because you're having so much damn good sex, it's sending your eyes crossed. But maybe one day i'll pop over and you can see for yourself. xx

1) What was your favorite movie as a child?
Oliver

Ask me anything

HNT

noreply@blogger.com (Severin) — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 10:13:00 +0000

_________________________________________________
3rd February 2011

(I'm surprisingly pleased with this - and the reaction it got)
_________________________________________________
11th February 2010

(Taken by Merrynb99 during a break in a shoot)

_________________________________________________
4th February 2010

(Taken by Vanillascreen - during a rope and chain shoot)
_________________________________________________

Whoops, it might be sooner than i thought

noreply@blogger.com (Severin) — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 12:17:00 +0000

In recent years (and certainly since i turned forty) i had assumed that my fiftieth birthday would be the half-way point in my life. In other words, i was still in the first half. I hadn't reached the point of no return and was a long way from starting the second half.

I had time to sit back and relax before the serious work of "life" began in earnest.

And then a book that i've been waiting for arrived today in the mail. It's the "Pocket Ref" by Thomas J. Glover and has a huge variety of useful (and for others useless) information. It's a pocket reference guide to the world really. Sample topics include :

Hand signals for crane and hoists (p.105)
Formulas for electricity (p.203)
Clamping force and standard dry torque (p.407)
Approximate hole sizes for wood screws (p.442)
Beaufort wind strength scale (p.640)
Igneous rock classification (p.368)
Mortality tables (p.328)

Yep, it was that last one that got me. It helpfully tells you how many more years you've got left to live, given your existing age today. It's based upon the United States Social Security Administration Period Life Table.

And, apparently, a male of my age today, has only another 29.71 years left.

SHIT !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I was banking on getting to one hundred. I've got stuff to do don't you know. And there's a myriad of kink that i haven't tried yet. And i do intend to try them all you know!

Actually i've just noticed that a woman gets an extra 4.5 so i might go and get "swapped over" to buy me some time.

And ironically, i notice that the table is immediately followed by a "Firewood / Fuel comparison" chart (p.330). So at least i now know the most efficient way to self-cremate.

Useful book.

One partly-used Severin for hire

noreply@blogger.com (Severin) — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 06:27:00 +0000

Now, as it happens, i'm looking for a change in direction. A new challenge. And as i've been looking around at various possibilities, it occurs to me that i've never asked the very people who i enjoy spending time with - i.e. you lot.

So ......

Would anyone like to employ a Severin? Various skills available. Not looking for play, but for hard cash. Money. Wages. Salary. Being very old, i've experienced a lot including :

Commercial Aircraft operations (you'd be surprised what i can park)
Surgery (i could take out your gall bladder if you ask nicely)
Back stage work including Stage Manager (the only chance i get to Dom)
Follow spot operator (a lot harder than it looks to do it well)
Driving (once out of London, i've the patience of Abraham and i do regular airport runs too)
Geeky things especially Excel and Access and Powerpoint (hmmmm pretty graphs & Pivot Tables make me orgasmic)
Managerial, Information / Data Analyst (i can crunch really big numbers)
Software Test Designer (if you've written software, i can break it)
Modelling (in the right light (i.e. a blackout) i can look very arty)
Good with animals (maximum of four legs)
Not too bad with people (maximum of two legs)
Artistic use of bullet points (too much time maybe?)
Oh and I write a bit, but it's all bollocks! (Erudite bollocks i'm told!)

But it doesn't have to involve any of these things, because, as i say, i'm looking for something new. As long as it pays a suitable wage that i can live on.

For once it wasn't DIY

noreply@blogger.com (Severin) — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 06:16:00 +0000

I have a cock (no really, i do). And i know some of you do too. And then again, some of you don't. You have les cliterati. But whether you have cock, clit or both, it's usually the case that there's no-one better at taking you through those final moments of orgasmic bliss, than yourself. True you might have had a troupe of Paris showgirls (with their feathers), or the massed ranks of the Household Cavalry (without either their horses or feathers) fiddling with your bits, but in order to get the maximum possible crescendo to your cum, you sometimes feel the need to brush those hands aside and take matters into your own experienced fingers.

Well that's how it is for me normally anyway (although without the Household Cavalry obviously). I can count on the fingers of one sticky hand, the number of girls who have wanked me to completion. Sure it feels very nice to be played with and teased and masturbated, but very few have been able to make me cum.

So (in true BBC style) imagine if you will, my surprise last night when i found myself, on my back, my face buried in a pussy that was wiggling atop my busy mouth, when a hand that wasn't my own, sneaked down and began to wank me. Imagine further if you will, my absolute shock and surprise when this very same hand, managed to take me all the way. My usual and highly erotic orgasmic exclamation of "Oh my god, oh my giddy aunt" was somewhat muffled, but the thought was there, as i squirted my nectar of purification.

So now all i need to do is find someone who can take me all the way with their mouth and i'll be a very happy boy! Yes i know, i'm greedy.

Oh and in case you're wondering about the picture, 34,500 Yen is about £240.

Is Panto sexist? Discuss.

noreply@blogger.com (Severin) — Sat, 09 Jan 2010 13:56:00 +0000

I should warn you, that if you're not English (or at least have lived in England for many years) this blog may well make absolutely no sense to you at all. For it takes as its central theme, the cross dressing antics of the pantomime, a particularly English type of theatre experience.

Anyway, in most years at around about this time, I usually get involved in a pantomime or two - and please don't - no, stop it - oh go on then, get it out of your systems -

"Oh no you don't"!!

There, are you happy now?

As i was saying before you naughty boys and girls interrupted me, I'm involved with a panto or two. I work backstage and do techie things, i don't dress up and perform (at least not until the after-show party and even then it's more likely to be UNdress and perform).

And yesterday i was training my follow-spot light on Dick Whittington, the principle male character, who was, as is tradition, played by a girl. I was enjoying watching her parade about in her tiny shorts and long leather boots and giving her thigh the occasional pantomime slap. And i must admit she looked extremely gorgeous. A lesser man may have weakened and lusted unprofessionally.

But, and it's a very big but (no i don't mean she has a big butt, she doesn't, it's a very nice butt, well i haven't looked, i mean, what do you take me for, some sort of pervert)?

No, the thing is, her cross-dressing is hardly ever the subject of comedy. There's nothing "camp" about a girl dressing as a boy and adding elements of male behaviour to her performance. It's simply accepted by the audience with hardly a titter.

But then there's the dame. There's always a pantomime dame and of course, "she" is always played by a man. The character is embellished with as much "campness" as it's possible to muster. From her costumes, to her songs, to her demeanour, to her, quite frankly desperate attempts to get off with every leading male character, there is nothing feminine about the role. And, it's hilarious (for the most part and if done well).

But why is that? A woman dresses and behaves like a man and it's not funny. A man dresses and behaves like a woman (admittedly like no woman i've ever met) and it's funny.

I suppose the correct question to ask could be "why is that part written as comedy, whereas Dick isn't"?

I'm not complaining, it works very well (assuming you like the whole panto thing of course).

If I was to tell you that i thought someone to be "camp" i suspect you'd immediately assume i was speaking of a male. I guess the opposite of "camp" might well be "butch", but that hardly encourages comedy.

So is panto, essentially, sexist? And if it is, do we care?

I'd like to buy a shovel please

noreply@blogger.com (Severin) — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 03:33:00 +0000

I recently visited a large orange coloured DIY store. My mission, was simply to purchase a shovel, with which to be prepared for any snow shovelling activities which i might become engaged in. This dialogue is (more or less) an account of that visit :

ME : "Hello young man, i'd like to purchase a snow shovel please".

STAFF : "Certainly sir, they can be found in the gardening section, between the forks and the hoes".

ME : "Alas no. You see i venture to suggest that you are in fact mistaken, for those implements of which you speak, are in fact spades".

STAFF : "Yes it's the same thing".

ME : "Oh good gracious me. No it is not, as one is for digging, the other for shovelling, a shovel being much the wider don't you know".

STAFF : "What do you want it for?"

ME : "Well i'm hardly likely to be grouting the bathroom with it, i want it for shovelling".

STAFF : "Couldn't you just use the spade?"

ME : "Oh dear. Let me explain. Very soon now i shall be wanting to cut your balls off. Now i could use a petrol driven chain saw from your fine outdoor range, but i know i'll favour the garden shears instead. You see it's all about using the right tool for the job".

STAFF : "Security !!!!"

New Year Resolutions - a strategy

noreply@blogger.com (Severin) — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 14:18:00 +0000

Now don't think for a minute that this blog entry will detail some, few or many of my own New Year resolutions. For I'm not that stupid and you're not that interested.

I learnt a long time ago that there are three key strategies for use when dealing with these annual little critters. You may have more and if so, perhaps you'll be so kind as to share them with us by way of a comment.

First there's the "To make them / To not make them" debate. Now just because your parents or siblings or peers encouraged you to make them in your childhood, doesn't mean that you should get suckered into thinking that you have to make them now. There's no city ordinance or Canon law requiring them of you. So chill baby.

Secondly, don't for the love of all that's holy and cake based, tell anyone about them. As soon as you say to your work colleagues "hey i've decided to give up chocolate and go for a twenty mile run every lunchtime" they'll be watching you like a hawk, teasing you with cocoa based goods and then all going off to lunch at every new Tapas bar for miles around and insisting you leave the jogging just this once. No. Tell no-one and then no-one will know if you've slipped up, given up or just plain got bored with it.

And finally my third little trick for surviving the whole New Year resolution minefield (and i'm rather proud of this little gem of wisdom) is don't start them on January 1st. Rather, try and start them on December 1st. That way, you've got a good run up until the New Year, time to get used to the notion of giving up EastEnders or promising to iron your partner's knickers long before the actual resolution launch date. Sure you'll slip up a few times, especially if they're food based, but it doesn't matter, because you haven't actually started yet, so no guilt. But come the fireworks and the traditional televised blowing up of the London Eye whilst making up words to the tune of Auld Lang Syne, you'll be a dab hand at walking your poodle every morning at 5 o'clock or reading poetry to you lover while they're on the toilet or whatever crazy promises you've made.

No connection whatsoever

noreply@blogger.com (Severin) — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 16:53:00 +0000

Those of you who were astute enough to take up the opportunity to study psychology at some point in your lives, would have doubtless been compelled to spend a little time reviewing the writings of one Sigismund Schlomo Freud. And your tutors will have (or should have) gone to great lengths to emphasise that whilst it is important to study Freud’s works, one should always bear in mind that what our Austrian friend proffers is a collection of theories, not gospels. You are free to agree or disagree with him and indeed such challenges to his ideas are to be encouraged.

One of the many topics of which he wrote, was of course masturbation. Now, wanking is one of those sexual activities which, if I’m on my own, I can either take it or leave it. Sure I have pleasured myself on occasions, but on the whole, it’s something which I’ve never really got into – unless there’s an audience; a lady watching or orchestrating or involved in some way. Now what would Freud make of that?

Well, let me take you back to when I was a young boy of about eleven or twelve, I cannot remember exactly which. My journey to and from school could be achieved either by bus or on foot. But as the bus service was very infrequent (it was the 190 i believe), I generally opted for the pedestrian option. My regular route therefore, took me past what at the time, I thought of as a large forest. In reality it was probably no bigger than a small, slightly overgrown, parkland area. I walked on my own both to and fro, and, as a regular walker treading the same path at the same time each day, I met and passed by the same people quite frequently. Of these passersby were three school girls, who were several years older than me and who attended a different school. Our journeys would cross at or about a pathway leading into the aforementioned wooded area. But day after day, we simply passed by, ignoring each other, me head down or reading a book, they engrossed in girlish chatter and laughter. I hardly noticed them and vice versa. Or so I thought.

One evening on my way home from school, I saw this group of girls approaching and thought nothing of it, as usual. I neither feared them nor noticed them really. But this time, as our paths crossed, they suddenly grabbed me and dragged me into the woods. I was terrified I remember that. They quickly took my satchel and blazer from me and told me that I would only get them back only if I did as they said. I knew that if I were to turn up at home missing either of these items, I would be in for quite a walloping; such was my fear of the one called “The Mother”. So I knew I had to try and agree to whatever their demands were.

It was obvious from the outset that one of these girls was the “ringleader”. Hers are the only commands that I can remember. First she lifted her skirt, took my right hand, pushed it into and down her knickers and commanded “Stick your finger in the hole”. Well I found “the hole” very quickly and I’m ashamed to say that my reaction was to instantly try to pull my hand away in disgust as I found her hole to be wet and slimy. It was only years later that I realised that she had been wet even before I touched her. But I was disgusted at the time and I remember that my reaction caused all three girls to laugh at me.

Next I was held by the other two girls whilst the ringleader undid my trousers and pulled both them and my underpants straight down. I still remember the feeling of embarrassment. But the command I heard next, practically made my heart stop. I can remember her words exactly as if it were yesterday. She said, quite simply “Rub it ‘til the white stuff comes”. And I had absolutely no idea what she meant. Sure I’d touched myself a little bit before then and it had felt nice, I’d got hard before and secretly enjoyed that, but I’d never really wanked properly and certainly not to completion. But she was insistent and reminded me of what was at stake if I was to disobey. She told me exactly what to do and I don’t know whether it was the fear or the excitement or the excitement of the fear, but somehow I got hard and started to “rub it” as instructed. I had no idea what she meant by “... ’til the white stuff comes” though; all I knew was that I didn’t dare stop. I had no idea how long I was going to be made to rub it; I just knew I needed to earn my satchel and blazer back. I remember that the feelings of shame and humiliation and excitement were a new phenomenon to me.

Well soon I became aware of a weird sensation. It was scary, but not painful, possibly almost pleasurable, but still new, unknown and definitely scary. The girls must have sensed that the time was near because I remember being told not to stop, but to keep going as instructed, regardless. And then this weird feeling got unbelievably strong and my body began to experience a strange series of almost involuntary spasms and seconds later I came, right there, right in front of these three girls. And they laughed. They knew it was my first time and thought that my ejaculations and my look of fear and surprise were hysterical.

And as quickly as my ordeal had begun, it was over. I was rewarded with a kiss on the cheek and the return of my possessions and then they simply walked off, leaving me shell-shocked.

Now I’m not making any connection between my preference for a female audience during masturbation and my first orgasmic experiences.

But I wonder if old Siggy would.

I have nothing much to say, except ...

noreply@blogger.com (Severin) — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 22:05:00 +0000

It occurs to me that I have been rather amiss in my Bloggatory undertakings of late, i believe the last missive was over three months ago and oh, how you’ve revelled in the stillness of my quill. But since the majority of quill feathers are plucked from either the goose or the already much-suffering turkey, i felt that now, during this season of frantic turkey chasing, would be an ideal time to sneak up upon one of the little darlings and metaphorically wrench a large one from it.

You see my very dear listener, during this self-imposed lexical interregnum, my fingers have not been idle (oh do stop tittering at the back, this isn’t a Carry On lock in)! No. I have kept by my side, almost constantly, my little red Moleskine notebook. I’m sure i must have mentioned that i’m a bit of a Moleskine whore, i mean fan. The quality and reliability of their range being second to none don’t you know! Now true, a first glance through the recently penned pages does reveal a variety of seemingly uninteresting trivia :

The beagles’ email addresses (i kid you not);
A note to reply to a letter from the highly respected “Polite Society” of London;
The wording on the side of a highway infrastructure maintenance vehicle which caught my eye by advertising themselves as being perfectly capable of carrying out “Manhole Rehabilitation” (i see the sniggerers are still here);
A list of the times when my gymnasium would kindly be able to offer me something called “Circuit training” (none of which were convenient, clashing as they did with various dinner engagements and cake tastings);
A note of a rather catchy line that i thought would go rather well on my Cheese Art website “Cheese Art, it’s spreading like Dairylea” (i may change my mind on that one);
My renewed affirmation that the word “forsooth” should be used far more that it is presently;
A list containing the venues “British Library”, “South Bank Centre”, “Westminster Abbey”, “The Dana Centre”, “The Wellcome Collection” and “The Science Museum”, being as they are, purveyors of some of the best cake in London whilst simultaneously offering excellent WiFi facilities;
A reminder to examine in detail the duties and responsibilities of an “Exhumer”;
A growing list of things to take with me on my next visit to the naturist club of which i am a member (this list including but not limited to such things as “a long screwdriver”, “trellis” and “Wasp-ease”);
Another list with entries such as “Howard Goodall” (Classic FM’s composer in residence) and “The Pet Shop Boys” (and no i’m not divulging what this list refers to);
And a constantly evolving shopping list, recent entries to which include “MDF” and “Twinings Lapsang Souchong”, or bonfire tea as a delightful friend refers to it – do try it, it’s delicious and smells like .... well i’m sure you can figure that out for yourselves.

And believe me there’s more. But no, aside from these noteletts of sometimes puerile trivia and scribbling, there are pages of notes relating to potential blog topics. And perhaps, over the Christmas repose, I shall make the time to sharpen my quill and dip it into the dross of thoughts which i have collected. Many will, thankfully (and you’ll want to bless me for this) never see the light of day (or the light of your laptop screens anyway).

As some of you know, I shall be served my Christmas dinner at approximately forty thousand feet as I fly to the home city of The Coca-Cola Company, UPS and Delta Airlines. Yes I am Christmassing in Atlanta in the state which is the largest producer of pecans in the world, Georgia. Well i say “Atlanta”, in reality my home for the four day retreat will be Union City, where according to City Ordinance section 10.103, it is illegal for anyone under seventeen to loiter or eat in any public place between 11pm and 6am (12midnight Fridays and Saturdays) and anyone wanting to work for the city has to undergo a polygraph test.

So fear not, i shall not be relaxing in the hotel swimming pool too often, besides it shuts at 11pm, presumably to prevent the under seventeens of the area loitering in it! No instead i shall be thinking of you all and banging my brain to try to come up with something vaguely interesting to say.

So until then, I wish you all a most merry and memorably festive holiday season. May you never run out of mince pies and may your mistletoe antics pay off spectacularly.

Good Crimble.

You're all invited ....

noreply@blogger.com (Severin) — Mon, 07 Sep 2009 23:12:00 +0000

To my daethbed party. Yes you did indeed read that right. But maybe i shold explain.

You see right now, i'm in the middle of one of the nastiest cluster headaches that i've had for a long while. However ... in a sick twist of introverted pyschology, i've decided to enjoy it and look at the positives rather than dwell on the pain. I should perhaps also point out, that i've had a shovel-load of painkillers about an hour ago and in the words of the song "...it's gone right to my head". So i'm chemically pissed you see my dears.

)Actually I just went back and added the hyphen between "shovel" and "load" so as you can see, i'm actually remarkably incoherant for someone who's a little way out there)!

Where was i? Oh yes. My deathbed.

Picture the scene (as radion four would say "if you wiil") me, all dressed in white, lying neatly under folded sheet, a group of close friends all standing round whispering or weeping. Well i want none of that. So i've decided that i want a death-bed party. I'm determined that the last thing to leave me will be my sense of humour. And I have left instructions.

I'd like someone to make areally sick banner to hang up, something along the lines of "Congratulations on your death". Seriously, it'll be a laugh. We'll have party games (volunterr organisers please). No idea what, but pass the parcel with an urn in it should be a hoot! The sicker the better please. Ask Rory to help, he's a sick f*cker with a wicked imagination.

I'm hoping Ingrid will organise most of this (it'll keep her mind off any morbid aspects you see). I'd love it if Beautiful Baby Jo cold be there (she'll need a cheeky rosé or three though) and her Pete too. If you need me to move to one side whilst you spit-roast the girl then go for it with my blessing.

And Beautiful Baby Jules too, she'll love the chance of some medical play! I'd be so happy if my beatiful little Emily (RiC) was there too, one of the best huggist around and with a filthy glint in her vey beatiful eyes. Speaking of beautiful eyes, if the one i call my beautiful little Ruthe could be there, i'd love that too. (God this is so selfish. These people might not want to be there). And if someone could invite my very pretty friend Zoe too plaese. She's secretly a really filthy bitch who's quickly becoming less secret about her inner filth. Take her to your hearts (and to your parties) she's a wonderful person. And no partyt would be complete without Ben and Lilly. Ang and Kieron have often featured in my little sordid fantasies, but we've never the chance to act them out, so if they fancied coming alongand teasing me with what might have beem, it'd be lovely to see them. So now we have the makings of a dirty little get-together.

I have to paws here because i've got the sensation of rats inside my forehead trying to get outand i've a mind to let them.

So as well as alcohol, do bring nibbles, party food, but not those 'orrible little sausages. No-one actally likes them.

Oh i've just had a little Pecan Pie that Ingrid brought back from Atlanta. Very very morish, but i'm watching my weight. Imagine the shame of hearing the coffin carriers groan and call for backup!!

Obviously at some point during the afirementioned (oh check me out using big wordsd whilst chemilly pissed)!! What? Oh yes, at some point, i'll probaboy die. No need to go, in fact, rather like a bride and groom leaving for the two-week shag-fest, that's usually when the party really gets going. Feel free to stick silly things in my mouth and take a picrure, i won't mind in the slightest. I don't want any of this "paying your last respects" rubbish.

Have a laugh. Take the piss. Get drunk. Have lots of very filthy sex. And drink to my ... well anything but health!!

Naturism and bad first-aid really don't mix

noreply@blogger.com (Severin) — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 18:38:00 +0000

Picture the scene if you will. Me, naked, sitting outside, at the naturist club, eating lunch. It's a lovely day. A Monday, to be precise. The birds are singing. The flowers are in bloom. The traffic is too distant to hear. Just the sounds of nature fill the air. Until ...

ME : Oh no, i think i've just been stung on my cock by a wasp!

HER : Well i'd better boil some water then!

Where does it say that the established first aid remedy for a wasp sting is to plunge the affected area into boiling water???!!!!

P.S. This is the correct and only version of this episode. Any other versions are entirely without merit and are unauthorised.

If ever she combines her twin loves of rope and bees, I'm outta here!!

noreply@blogger.com (Severin) — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 11:39:00 +0000

So i have this friend and she's become a bit of a bee-geek. She can tell you about the buzzy little buggers' sex lives, their work ethics, their construction techniques and even their climate preferences. Sadly she can't yet tell when they just want to be left alone and her nosey intrusions recently met with the sharp, pointy and venomous end of a bee's ass. I gather it hurt both her nose and the bee, no doubt with the offended bee looking sternly over its rimmed glasses and reciting that old (and on this occasion poignantly true) line much preferred by headmasters of old "Now you know that this going to hurt me far more than it will you". With that, said honey-bee lanced its intruder on the nose and promptly died. I suspect the funeral notice will say "DO send flowers".

Now said same friend also loves attaching rope to people and when she's entwining someone within her intricate coloured webs, she sings to herself, chuckles a lot and has a stupid grin on her face (although of late that's stupid grin and bee stings).

And so i was very pleased to be asked to be her rope bunny for a get-together of fellow kinky rope-lovers recently at Peer Rope London. I enjoy being her easel, her white-board, her canvas. I enjoy not having any preconceived ideas or any desires. I'm not a "Oh can you tie me like this, facing this way, in one inch silk, blue if you have it and i'll have none of those horrible rope marks don't you know". I just enjoy adopting the pose she requests and then letting her get on with it whilst she amuses me with the aforementioned songs, grins and chuckles.

Of course as all of my friends know, i don't do humiliation, so having to don a pair of her skin-coloured knickers caused a slight blushing of the upper cheeks but the reality was that it was a perfect choice, since her art didn't really care for the intrusion of clothing (I'd come dressed for a day at the beach - the shorts were something to behold i can tell you)!

She would claim to just be a novice, someone who messes about with rope and enjoys the creative process. And that's fine. She shuns the formal approved and 'correct' methods and prefers to free-wheel and experiment. And no two sessions will be the same. I love just letting her get on with it, never knowing what it's going to turn out like.

Yesterday was a lot of fun. It's a really friendly event and i met up with some really lovely lovely friends. And one of them's going away for what'll seem like ages and i think i miss her already.

And as long as my friend keeps her bees and her rope entirely separate, i'll be fine. thanks hun xx

Free Lesbian Porn !!

noreply@blogger.com (Severin) — Thu, 14 May 2009 16:42:00 +0000

Good evening.

As those of you who know me quite well can testify, I'm a normal everyday guy who's actually rather posh. I therefore only live in posh areas, like Harrow and now Wimbledon.

And so it came to pass that i was on my way home from the railway station today, where i had been travelling amongst the common folk. Thankfully, Wimbledon is at the end of the line and so most of the passengers actually live in Wimbledon and therefore of course don't smell.

But i digress. During my walk home I passed my local and rather posh, department store. (For those of you who take an interest in these things, they sell French knickers, wedding hats and doilies).

But today it was one of the store's windows which grabbed my attention. For there, within full view of the passing pedestrians was a display of pure lesbian filth. Now i'm sure i'm not the only red-blooded male who has looked at many of the shop window manikins, dressed in their little flowing summer dresses or in a selection from the nightwear department and thought just how hot they looked. These smooth-skinned, slightly tanned and petite-breasted ladies, who always have a smile on their faces, a twinkle in their eye and the slight hint that it's impossible to actually get their knees together. Well I find them very erotic and i know most of you do too. I mean, it's hardly likely to be just me is it?

Anyway. As i passed the window, two of the young female sales staff were engaged in the rearrangement of the window display (or at least that's how i'm sure the court papers will describe it). What i saw, were two very pretty ladies wrestling with a rather lovely red-headed manikin, or to be precise, with the gorgeous satin nightie that she was wearing. I have no idea whether they were trying to get it off her, or to put in on her, or whether they were simply caught up as i was, in the lustful ambiance of the occasion, but i just had to stop and watch. The intertwining of six arms and six legs, the frequent display of thigh, sometime skin, sometimes plastic, was just so erotic. The straps slipping of those smooth shoulders, the merest hint of those satin-covered nipples, merely inches away from my nose, pressed as it was, against the rapidly misting-up glass pane.

Pedestrians passed me by, some, bizarrely, keeping quite a distance. Eventually the two lovely ladies realised that i was watching the whole filthy episode. Thankfully, i'd fought the urge to get my mobile 'phone out and film the whole sordid display. Unfortunately i'd completely forgotten to take both of my hands out of my pockets and i fear that the stupid grin i had on my face may not have helped me feign innocence. But I'm sure it looked worse that it was.

I decided to leave anyway, just in case the police turned up (well i do have my public reputation to think of).

But i might go back tomorrow - or maybe in the night

Goodbye.