logodisiac

The end of winter hibernation

noreply@blogger.com (logodisiac) — Wed, 26 Mar 2008 12:46:00 +0000

Thinking of you...

Filled and brimming

noreply@blogger.com (logodisiac) — Sat, 01 Dec 2007 15:49:00 +0000

Water cooler goddess, filling up for the overlit ordeal ahead of slides, greige and company so dull they need electroshock. Pity them for their vanillity, she smiles to
herself as she fuels up her desire ahead of the meeting. Cup and gulp, cup and gulp. Cup and gulp soon to turn to clench and grip, her sphincter will shortly be grabbing into itself tightly enough to snatch the cork out of a champagne bottle, legs flexing hard under her skirt - how lovely it is when Master has her do that under His bindings! Limbs jamming each other togther in her private festival of self-induced discomfort. Discomfort, then the wild rush of relief, perhaps today dressed with a spot of cubicle masturbation. Yes, today’s the day to treat herself. Fluid retention superstar, her thoughts are turning inwards, protecting her heart from the forthcoming trial-by-banality.

Pale flesh. Bright reflection

noreply@blogger.com (logodisiac) — Sat, 01 Dec 2007 15:48:00 +0000

It all starts with an image of metal on flesh, so let me set the scene. Starting with a detail, let’s take this idea for a walk.

I see: pale white thighs, of a body which amply reflects its owner’s appetite. Plump, plumpcious, even. Then a silver teaspoon, bright metal gliding carefully over the woman’s abundant pinkness. Smooth mysterious fleshtones and the sharp curving flashes of light reflected in the tiny metal bowl. I see also a stone floor, plain whitewashed walls and an oak beam running from wall to wall. The room is lit by a single window, outside the sky is that dead grey that winter does so well. The room centrally heated by a strange kind of unspoken intensity, the emotional space here is very far away indeed from the world outside. But just about reachable, if you try hard enough. If you have the imagination, I mean.

She who is here inspires her Master to his greatest feats. Let‘s call her Foodmuse, passively in charge of absolutely everything. The oak beam’s a giveaway is it not? Come on, try and guess what all this is about...

Naked, but for ballet heels, attached by her wrists to the beam, she’s looking down on to him. Not quite smiling though: the effort of listening to his touch over every inch of her surface is too much of an effort to waste her energy on anything else. Master tries to not let himself get too distracted by the way she totters around her centrepoint in her heels, delicate en-pointing around, loving the muscle-ripples in her legs. She’s in repose, nearly. She’s working, nearly. Whatever. Enjoying her tiny tip-toed struggling, they both are.

Get the picture so far? She’s standing, he’s ministering to her. An inventory of the essential equipment at this point reveals: rope, ballet heels, teaspoon, honey. And fruit, lots of it. My word, yes.

What I like about this fantasy is the idea of patiently working over Slave’s flesh, the way in which the Master must carefully attend to every square inch of it as he drizzles His slave all the shades of honey you could ever imagine. At once time pouring the honey dramatically over her shoulders, letting her enjoy the rivulets slowly rolling down her back, over her breasts, around her shoulders. Then carefully dripping it over her nipples, rolling the golden thread of his proxy ejaculate till it wraps tighly over her suckbuttons. Jamming the spoon hard into her navel: tugging the stickiness out for it to spill over her belly. Slave’s natural paleness slowly passes into a variegated pink-with-golden-smears, her gorgeously abundant body showing off its every curve under the attentive gloss of the repeated venerations of Master’s patient cumshots.

‘You’re working well today’

‘How can I fail to, with such materials as this?’

Paused, waiting

noreply@blogger.com (logodisiac) — Fri, 23 Nov 2007 18:49:00 +0000

Paused at the building’s entrance (entranced, paused at her entrance), and we waited together for me to enter. She, close to me and a sense of shared space starts to wrap its way around us, even as I stand at the entryphone. In the end, she had the keys and she let me in. Symbolism at the doorway, no less. The building, of course; I wait still to enter her. Finger to button to glance to the periphery of my vision. The woman’s waiting, though in some other sense, perhaps not just waiting for the door to open. I feel close to her. Close to a complete stranger of whom I know nothing yet but that she wears Boots and has Black Hair. Buzz. We step inside and I measure my pace to hers as we proceed to the lift. Attractive: time for us to share some more space, and the lift is on the top floor. Which means: a wait for it to come down to our level, which means: time for us to find our own levels together. Standing, half turned to each other: paused in the enforced tranquility of our waiting out the lift. There’s time for some almost-made glimpse, but in the careful incompleteness of our gestures, of our taking stock of each other, in the slowly connecting way of two strangers who already know they desire each other, we can sense our looks, gazes, timid smiles soon to be aligned. I look down, locking off my mind in the worn redness of the carpet. But I can sense her looking me, sense her face cast her desire over me. I’m looking at a fucking carpet and already she’s making me feel special. Well thank you, madam. Fucker. Lover. Friend. I’m pleased to repay the compliment, waiting for her to notice my face over hers, not caring to pull my face away when she looks up.

The lift is one of those which goes one floor at a time, you can’t press the buttons and have it remember where you all want it to go. So, in the place where I live, there’s a convention, a discreet social courtesy of asking where your lift-companion wants to get off. Just so you know which buttons to press. In this building, the lift is so small that it’s best for those leaving later to enter first, to avoid any tricky squeezing past in the tiny plastic laminate box. It’s with us two, finally. She fumbles the handle, twisting it too soon, and retwistingly opens the door. It’s time for my first words to her. I tell her where I want to get off; as I do, I’m aware of my weighting my words for maximum effect. It’s seduction, but all I’m saying is that I want to go my floor. A technical requirement with a lover’s entreaty hidden inside, such a delicious task. In ten words or less, too. You need to be on your toes for moments like this, and I am indeed so. It’s worked: she replies that she’s going further up: it’s her prerogative to enter the lift first, with her sexy voice and her smiling warm grasp of the meaning of my own simple declaration of intent. I feel her warmth. Yes, yes, the connection is surely there. The next time I meet her I really ought to say something like ‘I don’t care where you go, just take me with you and let me love you with my body where we get there’. Well, something briefer than that. Maybe I’ve already said it. I modestly lower my gaze - the lift is so small we’re nearly touching - but I do permit myself the modest indulgence of holding her alluring smile fully as I close the lift door behind me.

What have we shared? A minute, three glances and a couple of smiles: it’s already one of the world’s great almost-love affairs

Author’s wish list #1

noreply@blogger.com (logodisiac) — Fri, 23 Nov 2007 18:47:00 +0000

If I could just have the creative bit without the depressive overhead, that would be just dandy. Oh well, it’s the life you have, not the one you’d like to have, and it’s back to the grindstone/rubpebble/whatever; time to feed my appetite for creation.

F is for... blah

noreply@blogger.com (logodisiac) — Fri, 16 Nov 2007 07:18:00 +0000

Bugger. The mainstream discovery of the term rushes smoothly toward an irretrieveable banalisation. It’s this season’s Thing To Do. What did Quentin Crisp say? Fashion is for people who don’t know themselves. My word, sir, isn’t that just exactly right. Some while ago, I did wax lyrical on the prospect of a Ferragamo ballet boot, by which I meant that footwear for a Restricted Audience could still be animated by the best of Italian craftsmanship and the unbridled (oh, alright, stay tied up if that’s your kink) pleasure of a superbly crafted instep; that deep desire need be no enemy of superb quality. Which makes sense: if I want my love to feel as special as I know her to be, then only the best - as they say - is good enough.

Regarding their current campaign though, the author has two principal objections. Perhaps one is unoriginal: the complaint against the presumption that consumption is a form of radicalism. No it bloody isn’t. If you’re waiting for some stranger to tell you what you’re supposed to be wanting then you are most emphatically not at the cutting edge, neither of your nor of anyone else’s life. What annoys is the idea that there maybe people out there who seriously reckon themselves radical because they buy someone else’s object of desire. Why don’t you fucking wake up and admit to yourselves what you are: second-hand, spineless and compliant; so keen to wait to be told what you ought to want to desire. When sustaining a fetish is precisely the opposite: a journey - best shared with the desired Other One - into a special realm of delights, that no-one else can understand. Something uniquely yours, something that you just can’t put into production. Why don’t you wake up and free yourselves?

My other big problem is the imagery of the campaign itself: photography of the naked female body. Wow! Such a radical choice, none of us have seen a naked woman before, no? The photographic punchline is inevitably having the model wear High Heels. Well, fancy that. Recall: the company is question is one of Italy’s most famous labels. But is that all they now have to invent? Has the innovation and passion of the founder just bleached out to this self-apologetic vanilla? What a disappointment. The photograph makes no attempt to suggest a real human life, the body is just static, lifeless. Granted, there’s no way you could ever photograph the woman as she removes her strap-on, gazing at her lover with calm pleasure, retouching her scent with a dab from the bottle - and then expect the press to carry the ads. But surely you could suggest it and place this sadly inert body into the context of a real human life. And then give those nice people out there something truly radical to think about: that the rich things in life are right there inside you, just waiting to be discovered, if only you had the wits to look.

And now I’ve got that out of my system, my thoughts turn to a perfume that has that delicious smooth chocolatey aroma of fresh clean latex. I wonder where I could find something like that.

Lying down, watching up

noreply@blogger.com (logodisiac) — Sat, 10 Nov 2007 09:57:00 +0000

Inspired by Sannia

We’ve shared a quick smile before, in a slight dislivello as we acknowledged our pleasure in seeing each other again. The angle of affectionate engagement is different this time, however.

The smooth black flowingness of you, from floor to sweatshirt. Scanning in your shape to my desire. Hair, breasts, smile, a un-bird’s eye view of your details. Slowly watching the smoothness of your legs as they draw me up over the the sweeping darkness of your clothing to the hidden sweeping smooth purple darkness of your sex.

Your emphatically foreshortened allure.

In the semi-darkness, I’m sure she’s there; how pleasurably strange to exhibit my desire for something I cannot see. And I can see you changing too, small flickered shadows at the tips of your breasts. My hand reaching up to your leg, peaceful fingertips touching your leggings. Lightly to feel only the fabric, then presstasting you and the grace of your warmth. Fingers roll around your ankles, then calves, reaching round, palminggrasping you into my mind, then grasping you to come down closer to me, darling: I invite my lover to lower herself.

Requested and request granted, you slowly approach my face. As you near me, I pick up the sensations of your private life. First, the impersonal technical scents of your home: detergent and fabric conditioner, soon dissolving to bring me closer in to you. Then your perfume, rippling down off towards me (really, you scent your thighs too?) and with your knowing smile, shining as you see how I scent your body itself for the first time.

What do I find? Slight perspiration: the fascinating dignity of the way you discipline your body, wetness: your classically elegant desire. From bouquet to finish, my nose has just made love to you for the first time. My chest expands as I draw you into me, and my lover illuminates me with her loveliness, expanding into my mouth and belly as she searches out the spaces in me.

A modest proposal for a cultural initiative

noreply@blogger.com (logodisiac) — Sat, 10 Nov 2007 09:54:00 +0000

I’m looking to change careers, I'm no longer much convinced by the value of my talents in my current job. Recently, my therapist suggested that I seek to combine the things that move me the most and try to find a job that fits the description. So here it is: gastronomic mountainside orgies. Feeding, fucking and feeling the earth beneath you. The location would be well off the beaten track, let’s say, a two hour hike from the nearest road. This would have a number of advantages. Only those who truly love the mountain would come - maybe it’s snobby but the automobile has unquestionably done much to spread bad taste - and they’d all be fucking fit. The mountain retreat would allow us to make as much noise as we wanted, meaning human noise, not some lousy iPodded soundtrack. A weekend spent like this would be a recovery of what it means to be a human animal and would - wonderfully, gorgeously, lovingly - reconnect us with our mother earth. So, it’s a great idea from any number of perspectives. Now I have to get my thinking cap on to apply for the necessary EU funding. They happily hand out money to all sorts of stupid ideas, it’s about time they financed something intelligent.

Under instructions

noreply@blogger.com (logodisiac) — Sat, 10 Nov 2007 09:53:00 +0000

‘Stop it.’

‘What?’

‘I told you, stop it.’

‘Stop what, love?’

‘Stop biting mummy.’

Fine. But how do you explain to a five year old that mummy actually likes to be bitten?

Also: the time our she joyfully draped herself over my back as I was still inside her mother, calling out, ‘Hey! Now we have a family sandwich’. She was so quick into the bedroom, I hadn’t had time to move. We’ve since refined things so that her parents don’t actually have to be making love when we play the game. I can’t tell you how much more convenient it is to do it that way.

The week that’s past

noreply@blogger.com (logodisiac) — Sat, 10 Nov 2007 09:52:00 +0000

With my eyes closed and my heart open
My body at peace as I erectly wait for you to be with me
I wait for you to find me out
And discover the love for you
That hides beneath the despair I feel for myself

New! Fetish Yoga. It’s good for you

noreply@blogger.com (logodisiac) — Fri, 02 Nov 2007 16:56:00 +0000

New! Fetish Yoga. It’s good for you

One of the exercises our teacher took us though today: stand up, then bend over to touch the mat with the hands while standing on tiptoe, flexing the thorax towards the thighs. It’s one of those positions that makes every muscle in your legs light up like a funfair: painful but very pleasurable too. Your really get a measure of what the yoga is doing for you. And the discomfort is its own reward.

The exercise starts with you leaning forwards with your arms out front and legs stretched out down behind. But it was the next step that caught my imagination: walk on tiptoe, until your feet ended up between your hands, almost folding yourself in two.

I watched the teacher’s feet held upright as she showed what we were to do. As she tiptoed towards her own hands in this fabulously unnatural way, her legs so marvellously vertical, I saw her in rubber showing off the Correct Technique While Wearing Ballet Heels. Inspired by her example, we set to assuming the position ourselves.

Now that’s a course to join: Fetish Yoga. Sign me up today, please.

By the way, the gorgeous white-haired goddess wasn’t there today, sigh.

Untitled

noreply@blogger.com (logodisiac) — Fri, 02 Nov 2007 16:53:00 +0000

A first draft...

God, you’re pushed over hard in front of me. All the layers of you that I’ve seen today, from your grace to your driving insistence to have me inside. I’m pleased to oblige ma’am. Only if you insist. And how you insist, woman.

What is it that I like best about being inside you like this? Must be the cold-floor-tile warm-clenchy-cunty thing. Feels like I’m attached to the world in just three places. Two feet and you. Two feet and your pussycuntlickablefuckhole. Sorry, forget I wrote that. Two braced legs and your warm smotheringly fuckiness. Yes, that sounds about it. As for the sounds you’re making, shall we say they’re more of a coursing cursing, delighting obscenity sort of moment. The time when you throw off your grace and a million years of evolution takes control of your mind.

Watching your legs flexing against mine, I recall how they looked in your boots and the pattered tights that called my attention to them. You must have noticed how I mused on the contrast between the crumpled brown leather and the smooth lickable you-ness. Well of course you did, naturally you did. Else why did you touch my hand and smile the smile which means just one thing: I Want You, Too.

And now I’m here with my hands kneading your shoulders as you reach down to my balls.

The sight of you stepping back and forth in your heels. Totteringly desireable. Wanting to bring you balance, wanting to feel your poise as I glide into you. Poise me. Piss me too, if that’s your pleasure. I’m all yours.

My arse sweeping back into the space behind me, as you drag me left and right with your woman’s drifting around me. I feel every muscle in my back easing me as far away as I dare, to sample your constriction around my erection. Clutch me darling. Reach out to me as I reach inside you.

Then my climax dragging me wildly into you, pulling you down onto me as I sink to kneeling under you. I feel your wetness shyling weeping out over my body. Our bodies blossom out against each other, as do our hearts.

A tip of my black fedora to...

noreply@blogger.com (logodisiac) — Sat, 27 Oct 2007 13:48:00 +0000

A woman at this week’s yoga who didn’t catch my eye as rather pluck it clean out of the socket. Easily in her sixties, with long white hair and a great figure: just terrifically, unbelieveably, attractive. We have absolutely no choice about growing old, but we can choose to do it well. And when one finds oneself in the presence of such a talent as this, what can you do but admire it? Tanto di cappello, signora. Davvero.

Fetish furniture that’s worth having

noreply@blogger.com (logodisiac) — Sat, 27 Oct 2007 13:30:00 +0000

Odd, it’s only just occurred to me, that the appeal of the Poltrona Frau Regina sofa is in its marvellously fetishistic design. I mean, take a look at the holes in the back, there’s space there to pass through quite a lot of rope, no? Enough space to tie down quite a lot of imagination for quite a lot of time. Imagine having your Slave tie your ankles behind the wings, with your torso roped so hard inside it’s hard to breath. Exactly, just what I was thinking: wouldn’t it be luvverly... Of course, it’s upholstered in leather. Rubber ought to be optional, but most likely isn’t. Still, the dedicated rubberist ought to have no scruples in asking, there’s no harm in asking is there? By the way, regina is the Italian for queen. Someone’s private joke, perhaps?

Bar lick

noreply@blogger.com (logodisiac) — Tue, 23 Oct 2007 07:46:00 +0000

A fantasy I have long nurtured...

I’m with my love in a bar near home. Just after dropping our daughter off at nursery school, the place is crowded with mothers. Including me, there are just three other men in the bar, so crowded that you have to step carefully around the people just to get to the counter. There’s scarcely the space to raise an elbow. We queue, for cappuccini and brioches and I start to eat mine.

The thing with the brioche is that while you know it’s filled with custard, you don’t know quite where the filling happens to be in the one you’re eating.

I’m about a third of the way into it when a smooth yellow plume of custard gouts out onto my face. I can feel the cool filling on my chin and sense it slowly folding down, ready to land on my lapel. My reaction is to tilt my head far back to stop the custard falling off my face, for a sweet moment I recall doing the same thing an hour before, chuckling with delight as my love rode me to her early morning orgasm. My, the thoughts we have shared in the past. So it happens, there is a thought that we are sharing Right Now.

She reaches up to my face, brushing her fingers over my eyes to close them in one of her favourite gestures: depriving me of my sight so that I may more deeply feel her touch. I yield, smiling like a fool as I guess what she has in mind: she’s going to lick me clean in front of all these nice people. She pulls her hand away and I stand motionless, waiting for her next move, feeling her shine her sexiness on me. People around us have already started to notice something strange about us. Good.

My mind wanders off to the times when I've licked my semen off her face, when I’ve gathered it in to my mouth and shared it with her. When I’ve sucked it hard off her arse. When I’ve made sure she had no choice but to swallow it whole, the times when I’ve wiped it off her with a finger or spread it over her with the loving sweep of my hand. And now we have Custard As Metaphor and the tables are turned on me. My word, I do love her so.

Coming soon. What’s been going on here?

noreply@blogger.com (logodisiac) — Mon, 22 Oct 2007 07:41:00 +0000

‘You’re looking sparky. I'd never have thought that a simple visit to the bathroom could perk someone up like that.’

Quite, just that it wasn’t such a simple visit, was it? Anyhow, fuckwit you could never think that. That, and quite a lot else, to be honest, in your nice smart chinos and button-down shirt, bugger you. And how much I'd like to be around to see that happen.

Finally out of there. Dizzy with self-pleasure and boredom, but happy to know a couple of things more about her life. Pulling out her mobile, texting her boyfriend ‘Darling, I know now why I love so much about you. Be with me tonight so I can tell you in person?'

Notes for the Post-It Tango

noreply@blogger.com (logodisiac) — Thu, 11 Oct 2007 13:10:00 +0000

In the summer I had written on the erotic potential of office supplies. I apologise to anyone who’s been holding their breath in the meantime.

Of course, a tango...

Ah, taking one's time, such a treat. Let's face it, you’re both worth it and just jumping into bed like a pair of crazed raccoons is boring, anyway. Here follow some suggestions for joining up the dots in your minds, before you join up the ones in your bodies.

The tango. Not just a dance for a couple of people but a dance for a couple. She can drive him as much as he can drive her, but for it to work, the dancers need to know each other. So we have a couple, a block of notes and the play of their imaginations. Your lover writes out the message - perhaps only a single word - and reaches out to place it on you. Think of the delight of the weight of their fingers as they press onto you, gliding over you to leave their notes.

What are the varieties of Post-Its? Well, colour and size: the bigger the note, the greater the space for the heavy marker pen, the more emphatic the message? Small notes are by comparison whispered hints. What does repositioning mean? ‘You don‘t know me well enough, here is where you should have put it.’ ‘You’re being too timid, I want to feel you closer.’ Consider the significance of location: kiss me here/pay attention to this part of me. It’s a brilliantly simple idea. The following are some modest suggestions as to how you might take the idea for a long walk in the woods...

Exchange
Passing the same note back and forward, if the note is big enough, annotating it as you go. Each passsage of the note is accompanied by... kisses, caresses, licks and nips.

Palimpsest
The body’s own messages gradually superimposed by words. Spaces reused, time and again, gradually accumulating a meaning richer beyond the single messages that they once hosted. Writing on each other, tracing round the note before peeling it off again and passing it back?

Seduction shortcut
You write what you want your lover to do, and fix the note to yourself where you want it done. Simple.

Storytelling
Sentences and idea are attached at random. Once you’re quite covered with the notes, your take turns to read the story off each other. Perhaps a well-organised orgy could feature a couple of models who wander among the guests, inviting each to leave their own message. Each participant has their own colour of note, the messages on the notes themselves are enriched by the knowledge of who left them.

Retro-BDSM
Partcipants are pierced with rings, all over their bodies. Instead of sticking self-adhesive notes, they take turns to tie those classic reinforced cardboard luggage labels onto each other. Of course, the messages themselves are written with a fountain pen. Bodies are gradually clothed by a hand-tied suit of card; think of the growing teasing sensations as the notes gradually accumulate with every movement matched to a note, slyly pulling at your skin.

Wedding anniversary
A couple celebrate their wedding anniversary with a tando Each shaved smooth, they tango.... at the end, they’re photographed, festooned by the notes: an anniversary double portrait.

Well, that's the ideas that have occurred to far; new idea swill appear as and when they suggest themselves.

Red. Came. Finally.

noreply@blogger.com (logodisiac) — Sat, 29 Sep 2007 09:51:00 +0000

The aroused male, what an agreeable sight. Foot back, pulling his tip down to the tips of her foot, she can just feel him with her toes, her eyes slowly wandering over their cockshoe, her eyes tightening with the desire coursing in her body. Her mind wanders off, dreaming of a carnal landscape of unexpectedly discovered pleasures such as this. From far away she hears a voice.

"Let me take over, you should’t be doing all the work"

His hand gentles her ankle and her shoe comes away. Free to move at last, she splays her toes on his balls as he starts to masturbate against her peep-toed fuck altar. Rippling his bloated shaft in front of her, she looks on, aroused? Well, maybe. It’s hard to tell in this light. Consenting, certainly.

It’s time for him. Time for homage to the shoe. His mouth opening in the pleasure of the moment, he’s almost giggling with delight at the success of his audacity. Her glance skips from man to cock to shoe to cockshoe and back again, this rhythmic drawing out of his orgasm, veins and muscle leading him out of himself is a truly most delicious spectacle. He comes in the opening at the toe of the shoe, his first ejaculations inside. we see his grey pearl come shoot up the inside of the shoe. She inhales deeply, concentrating on his cockshoe as she watches his perfect grey pearlplume fuck-gift.

But his climax isn’t over. Lust, daring, wantoness surge inside his head as he feels a second ejaculation rise inside his shaft, and he aligns his erection once more on the red leather, twitching off another strand of semen. His orgasm in evidence, yet he remains so poised, so cool as he carefully empties himself over her leather. His craftsmans’s hands carefully repositioning the shoe as his ripples his shaft, carefully wasting none of his seed in his task of pleasuring the shoe and her owner. Admiring the unblemished glossy semen drawled out onto her own footwear, she realises she’s finally met a man with a respect for feet worthy of her own, something she’s always wanted. Damn, the man’s an expert, this surely can’t be the first time he’s done this. Daniel is going to have to improve his performances from now on if he wants to keep her, that’s for sure.

‘You’ve prepared well, an excellent performance. Your seed is so rich.’

His ejaculations shorten in distance, lengthen in interval: he’s easing off, still with the cool elegance that she’s been admiring. One of the fascinations of the male orgasm is usually its rushing unpredictability but here it’s all so disciplined, his expertise, his control so evident, even at his moment of release. How much else does he do so well?

A last dab and the last of his climax takes its place on the leather. Red patent leather topped with a strangers’s ejaculate. Her own shoes shamelessly blemished with his perfectly unabashed unblemished semen. Perhaps one day she’ll let him empty them over me, she thinks as she takes back control of the soon-to-be cockless shoe. One last gesture of self-pleasure: his index finger swirled around his tip, cleaning up. They share a last complicit smile as he sucks himself clean. Then buttoned up once more, from his jacket, his business card: ‘Wild Moments. Craving your satisfaction’.

“You’re kidding me, you mean to say that you do this for a living?”

”Well, let’s just say that I’m giving it some serious thought.”

He turns and steps out in to the corridor. In the last moment of door’s collapsing rectangle, he catches sight of a woman raising a shoe to her face, a grazing finger outstretched.

Airport slap

noreply@blogger.com (logodisiac) — Fri, 28 Sep 2007 07:32:00 +0000

A fantasy I have long nurtured...

I’d thought about masturbating that morning but didn’t, wanting to be properly full for her. With every day that passed, the bed had seemed to get bigger and colder; in the last few days, I could scarcely bear to lie down in it and feel her absence creeping slowly over me. But things are different this morning.

Scenario: I’m at the airport, waiting for my lover to arrive. Think: noise, crowding isolation, too-bright lights distracting me from my thoughts of her. Think also: desire, impatience and adoration. I’m standing patiently at the barrier, staying focused. I sense her so close to me now I can feel myself being reborn as a sexual being with her. I’m no longer so meanly me anymore, I am being recast, with every minute that passes, as my lover’s lover. The luckiest fucker born, I still can’t quite believe it.

There’s the usual flow of people, more maybe of a drizzle, to judge by the looks of these; their drooping look is definitely long-haul. There’s the usual beige-comfortable and garish-graceless. I look at them and thank my stars I don’t have to share my life with them. The surge of the long-hauled dies away, we’re back to the usual drizzle of bodies. My attention starts to wander, I’m tugged to the weight and over-fingered texture of the newsprint in my hand. My eyes glaze over under the light that is not there for people, but commerce. I’m starting to loathe the distractions now.

Then she’s there and desire itself winds tight around my heart. She’s scanning the crowd for me. We see each other and the rest of the world draws away to nothing.

I always imagine her in a dark grey tailored overcoat; her tight precision both in my bed and in my life expressed so well in her appearance. I want to throw myself at her feet and cry out my love for her for all to hear. She has a better idea, of course.

Stepping up quickly, she throws her shoulder bag to the ground and looks me right in the eye. My awareness flickers over her as she snaps off her gloves; I'm so focused on her face I don’t notice her arm pulling back, nor the outstretched palm. She hits me hard across the face with a blow so hard it twists my head around. I’m stunned. By the pain, by her audacity. By the sweet compliment she pays me: be wild with me, in front of all these strangers. My head is jerked forwards, my submission or her command? And my face is between her hands as I feel our love pour out over us from between the caress of her gloveness and my still-stinging cheek. She holds my head in her hands. We kiss, hard and deep as our love holds us weightless in front of the disapproving crowd. We’ll kiss again, soon, with no-one else around to gaze at us.

Forthcoming attractions

noreply@blogger.com (logodisiac) — Thu, 27 Sep 2007 08:46:00 +0000

After long debate, I’ve finally decided to post some pee stories (oh alright, if that’s too vanilla for you, pissing stories); I’ll post the first one after the weekend. I don’t suppose they will be to everyone's taste but then, it’s my blog and as long as it’s legal and fair, I’ll write about whatever I please. But if you are of delicate sensibilities, consider yourself warned.

A fragment from a story I started to write a while ago

noreply@blogger.com (logodisiac) — Sat, 22 Sep 2007 17:53:00 +0000

The original intention was to write it in collaboration with a friend, taking turns to write alternating installments. In the end we fell out of touch - sadly - and the project fell into abeyance. The following was to be the first installment: my own first contribution, which I even may get around to finishing. Re-reading it after an interval of months, I was pleased by the impression of drawled sensual laziness it evokes and though incomplete, I still think it worth sharing here.

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Lying still in the bed, must be a while since you left. Breathing slow, listening to the space around me, clinging to anything that you might have left behind. Looking across the bed to the creases where you were with me last night, watching the cotton peel and fold away as you left when you rose to leave me. Not wanting to move, not daring to erase the traces of your presence. Remembering my stomach still slick with your juices, your gentle imprecations as you slid the plug inside me, my contentment as you filled me up. My loneliness feels so heavy now. Feeling so small and poor, hoping the bed will remind me of the things we achieved in it. Achieved in each other, marking ourselves for good. Our fuckers’ Rubicon.

Not start the day. Not have to get up. Not do anything but listen here to your presence in my life and mouth. Pressing my forehead to your pillow, tracing my nose over the traces of your scents.

Teasing the lube in around me as your greedy arse clamped her way around me, pink muscle stretched hard around me. Your turning your head around, grimacing at the discomfort yet urging me on all the same, demanding your lover’s courage from me.

Twist over, feet down, arms out backwards. I’ll lie here for the day, motionless as I wait for your to return? My heart won’t move without you, all it does is wait, biding its time, for the moment your return. No one else can reach me now, spoilt brat that I am. It’s all your fault, all your doing, all my hoping that you’ll do it me again and again for the rest of my life.

Padding into the kitchen, the sink still with our coffee mugs from this morning. Picking yours up, holding the lipstick prints close to my mouth, hoping to discover something of your mystery from the china that was so close to you, pressing my mouth to the pink marks you left behind. Hours after you’ve left the space, I can finally be exactly where you’ve been. Jealousy of one’s own crockery, yes that must be crazy, holding the mug as I held you, hoping it’ll tell you how good it feels... I think I’ll use your spoon too. Kettlecupboardcoffeesugarfridgemilk, pour. Mug’s hot warmth in my hand, a warmth that doesn’t come form you, strange. Thoughts in my head that don’t come from you, stranger still. I’m still waking up, still feeling you waft away from my head. Needing to start the day, needing to think of anything but you. to reassure myself that i’m not losing my mind, that i can still function when you’re not with me. I can understand George Sanders now.

Fucker’s forensics: the place where I live I scarcely see, somehow it’s no longer mine. It has become the place where you may or may not have faked you first orgasm with me. The place with the table from which i licked your juices, the dresser over which i bent. The sofa where I licked the soles of your feet as you guided me to you. I’ve fucked before, but you reach inside me so far that last night I may finally have succeeded in losing my virginity. Finally traded my innocence for happiness, about fucking time too. About time i was joined to the earth, about time for me to pay homage to your fertility.

No way to make the 08.32 now, looks like I’ll be late. This time, though I’ll have to think up a special excuse...

File under ironic/confessional

noreply@blogger.com (logodisiac) — Thu, 20 Sep 2007 09:11:00 +0000

I recently decided that I needed to liberate the Wrinkle Twins from their undergrowth and I bought some electric hair clippers for the job, from a shop so small there was scarcely space for the customers.

The other week, I was using them in the company of my Significant Other who asked me, as I glided the vibrating black monster over my balls: ’You can use it to trim beards as well, can’t you?’. Except that I'm clean-shaven there too, which makes me wonder if she couldn’t have asked me that in the shop...

Dreamtime

noreply@blogger.com (logodisiac) — Tue, 18 Sep 2007 07:24:00 +0000

I'd been inside her for around a quarter of an hour and was in the mood for a break; she only comes up to my shoulders so to stay inside her and nurse her as she wants at the same time takes some contorsions on my part. Well, whatever makes her happy. It just that sometimes it’s nicer to let her do the driving. I glided off the edge of the bed and nestled my face on my forearms. What a lazy fucker I can be at times, with my arse so sweetly passive in front of my wonderful biting woman.

Drift off onto the floor, leaving my source of attention in front of her: hetero man wants it in the arse from his wife. Good. Certainly, the pleasure of feeling yourself tight and full is one thing, being able to relax with your wife and let the uninhibited sun shine in to your lovemaking together is something else. Eyes smiling to themselves out over the parquet as I waited for her. Pulling my legs back, belly clenching my attention to my arse. Tightening myself towards her mouth, waiting patiently for the first strokes of her tongue on my rosette. Cheekily flexing it for her, push-puckering it out and back.

She’s fingertipping me well, relaxing me onto the floor as I spread for her. A big slient smile crawls over my face.

Your hands. Cup and squeeze, kneading-fingers stretch and clutch. Fuckyes, drag my balls back for a kiss, heft them forwards to get your mouth in close. Joined to you like this, I’m so relaxed I can scarcely keep my erection. Your mouth, wide enough to trap me with her teeth, your bites scooting over me, some gentle, others not so. Thigh and back and bottom and back, me twitching under the pain, flexing under the pleasure. Where will your tongue appear first? Wet patch, wet slick, wet spit blown right up me. Fingertip press and twist. Circle my circle. Saliva round, flicked over balls and cock, now rising, now closing on my tonguefuck hole, so perfectly sized for your mouth, my dear. Swirlslurp. Flick down and in, teasing me aroused. Drawl-dabbing a circle around me, steadily joining up the patches of saliva that ring my righteous pink arsehole, drawing tighter and closer as I roll myself against your face.

I can hear her drooling over it, fellating the silicone. So gorgeously-messy, she knows how much love to hear the sound of her lubing up. Dabpress and drag over, while a plume of warm saliva makes its vertical trip over my muscleclutch. A cooling tip of wet, slowly pulled down over me. And the pressure. And the smoothness, onto my smooth pink soon-to-be-clenching ring. Clutch-relaxing to feel the snub, wanting to draw it in over its diameter and feel its snug unnaturalness fill me up. She illustrates with her tongue, as if I hadn’t guessed what I should be doing now: slyly forcing its way down into me, forcing me to open up. And now I can feel it starting to press into me.

Snub onto ring, smooth blunt purple onto wet pink muscle, dilating. Slipgrasping it, grabbing it deeper, working me wider. Subtle discomfort, smooth stretching tension widening me up. Widening me up until I climb over the top of my polymer guest and clench it firmly into me. Chuckling as she starts to play with me, turning it round (Just to check it’s properly in!) then slowly pulling it out: wide and slack, wide and slack. Twisting, bobbing it around; what to call this, microbuggery?

Her playing slackens off, looks like she’s satisfied with me. Now she’s pulling me back onto the bed, dragging my shoulders off the floor.

‘Come back, I’m ready for you again’ she says, as she pushes my face down once more onto her breasts.

Rushy words

noreply@blogger.com (logodisiac) — Mon, 10 Sep 2007 16:54:00 +0000

Writhing down, falling onto our fucking rushy-words. can't tell, don't say, sad rushing to tell me to shut the fuckety up. not listening, not writing, do i me-embarass for my lack of invention? want not to think, want words to rush down and be unthinked for me. Grip you slip you inside me, hands skleaning your skin

Self-possessed by my unfulfilment, locked down into myself. I seem to have thrown away the key to me so long ago that I’ve quite forgotten that there never was a door to lock in the first place. I’d never have had the simple brains to see it if you hadn’t pushed at the it. And now we’re falling into our fucking rushy-ness as our skins slide with each other. Rowing my life and all the wasted not-with-you-ness that I want to leave behind on the shore as we push away from the quay on the sea-tide of swelling fucking sucking us away from the world of sad blue apartness.

Runny words, drizzling in my head as my urgency nears. Why be so impatient now? Want to rush into you, want to have the balls to let you rush into me. Want to savour the moment that my impatience wants to burn to ashes in an instant. Can’t wait

Easing past my isolation, reaching out to you. I just had no idea I had so far to go. What was the wellspring of my strength? The knowledge, secret even to me, that at some abstracted point on the trajectory of my life you’d there? Does it feel right because I knew that I truly did have to wait for you? More than a simple orgasm, do I finally get to grasp what my life’s about now? Can I get out of jail now, please? Please lover mine let me rush my strength inside you, collapse to a peaceful weeping on your shoulder

Shiver-slip and passion-whimpering your name, grasping you, clutching at your being over me being in my lifebedheart. Your namename, word spilling out of my mouth as your breast scampers free of my tongue. Your back arching, clinging to me even as she show off your gorgeous power to love. Minds stilling as our bodies show us the way.

We fled from our old lives like thieves. Like lovers, running off with the silverware, running lightly, joyfully secure that we finally have only the best parts with which to live together.

My love, you have released me from myself.

Dirndls

noreply@blogger.com (logodisiac) — Fri, 07 Sep 2007 07:31:00 +0000

Or: Ogling in the Süd Tirol. With a limited number of variables present, you tend to pay attention to the details, no?

Towards the end of the holiday, I began to develop a taste for dirndls. Of course, at a time when pop stars can appear in latex in front of audiences whose members are below the age of consent without anyone fainting in disgust, the dirndl may at first appear a quaint tradition, quite overtaken by contemporary mores. That would be a mistake, of course. Consider when the dirndl was once the only kind of skirt to wear, not just a hotel’s dress code for its female staff. With so many dressed in a near-identical manner, details are naturally the best way for people to express themselves and one naturally seeks them out to discover what the person underneath is like. As i drank my coffee, there was time to watch the waitress and observe how the dirndl works wonders even today.

Dress code required a white blouse and the peacefuly gentle folds of the dirndl was offset magnificently by her lycra blouse, the textile faithfully showing off all the gorgeous curves in her arms and shoulders, her gracefully smooth muscles flexing for her. As her arms worked in freedom, I couldn’t help but notice how well her bodice worked to constrain her. Next time I’ll make sure I sit at her table.