The penis: mightier than the sword

Month: March, 2013

A Promise

I’m writing this because I made a promise. But we’ll get to that in a minute.

We’ve been going through a patch. I’d say a rough patch, but I’m not exactly sure it’s been that rough. Awkward, maybe.

A patch, anyway.

We haven’t been getting as much as we’d like, and every time we gets a chance it feels like we’re having to perform for the sake of it, not ‘cos we enjoy it.

We do, though: course we do, it’s always very enjoyable. It’s just that sometimes – most times – we go through the motions, doing just what we always do, because that’s what we’ve always done. A routine, you might say.

So, anyway, the other night we’re in bed, and I roll over and get ready to get her going, like I always have to do, when she (my wife, this is) reaches down and starts sort of stroking her fingertips up and down my cock.

Most unexpected! A welcome change of pace, in fact. Showing a bit of enthusiasm (which if you ask me had previously been sadly lacking, but that’s another story!)

So there I am, somewhat distracted, caught with my hand hanging half-way between the obligatory tit squeeze and the customary are-you-wet-yet check, and about to get down to some serious bean-flicking, and all the while she’s touching and teasing, making me thrash and gasp like a fucking carp out of water. Dragging her nails up and around my shaft, rubbing circles on the bell-end. And every time I remember what I’m sposed to be doing, and go to touch her again, she pushes my hand away! Can you believe it? She actually pushes me away and says, “You know you’re rubbish at multi-tasking. Just lie back and enjoy it.” The bitch.

Well, after a couple of half-hearted attempts to show willing, I get the message that she’s actually serious for a change, so natrally I lays meself back and starts paying attention.

Now, normally, when she gives me a hand job it’s pretty good; soft and what you might call rhythmic and, well, you know. It’s a hand job, innit? Just like you’d do yourself if there was no better offer; only not quite as good ‘cos you’ve had years of practice and she’s only done it, like, a couple of dozen times, tops. But still, it’s pretty good, and you appreciate the effort, don’t you? Since you know she’d rather be asleep already, or reading; anything to avoid The Routine.

But now she’s getting into it, like I’ve never felt before; really giving it some effort and gripping her fist round me like she’s scared it’ll run away or something. Just pumping away, slow and steady and strong. You know that rhythm you get into, right in the middle of an epic all-night fuck? When you’ve found the perfect position inside her – not too exciting, but enough of a tickle to keep your interest from flagging, if you know what I mean – and it’s just your two bodies twisting and heaving together, totally in tune, just grinding away and miles from the finish, enjoying just being in her and in the moment?

That rhythm? That’s what she found, all on her own. Her and her hand, totally in tune. I was just along for the ride.

Then, right, she starts playing around my balls with the other hand. No lie, I nearly hit the roof! Holding them right in her hand, squeezing them so they pops out between her fingers, then tugging and twisting like a cat with a ball of wool.

Well, I must have said something stupid – can’t remember what – ‘cos she took offence. Only not seriously, you know, just playful, like. And then she slaps my balls.

Now, this is really unexpected. We both lays there a minute, me panting for breath and kinda groaning a bit, her really quiet and still. Sort of like she thinks she’s made a fucker of a mistake, even though she ought to know I like it a bit rough. So I just says to her, quiet like, I says, “Harder.” She starts fondling them again, gently, then pulls back her hand, and this time I know what to expect.

I kid you not, when she slaps them this time I see stars. Proper, fireworks-in-the-sky, end-of-the-world stuff, but it’s like I leave all that behind and my whole being, my whole essence gets wrapped up in those two little aching plums she’s cradling in her hand.

And as I come round I can still feel her tugging hard on my cock; faster now, each stroke pumping tiny drops of pre-cum out of it. I am so close to cumming for real now, I’d do anything for her to carry on; that’s when she slows it right down and starts bloody talking to me. Talking! Like I could string a sentence together anyway! She asks me if I want her to go on, to do it harder.

Well, of course I do. I even say please.

That’s not enough for her, though. I say pretty please with sugar on it, and tell her to hit my fucking balls.

She’s laughing now. She says she’ll do it if I do something for her. Well, we’re back where we started, aren’t we? Pussy rubbing here we come.

She says not that.

Well, at this point I don’t care what it is, and I says anything, anything she wants. It turns out what she wants is yet another un-fucking-expected turn of events for the night.

She wants me to come on here and tell you lot all the filthy details of what we got up to. That’s all. Just write about what a caring, loving, hand-job giving, ball-slapping kinky slut of a wife I’ve got. I guess it’s some kind of ego booster for her, isn’t it? Never thought she’d get off on that kind of thing, though. Dirty bitch.

Of course, when we’ve finally stopped playing twenty questions I says yes straight away, cross my heart, hope to expire, and then she starts off stroking again; hard this time, fast and determined, and even though the tingly floaties are a distant memory, the new feelings coming from my cock are really fucking intense – and I can’t even think straight let alone remember what I’ve just damn near pleaded with her to do to me – so it comes as one big fucking shock to the system when she pulls back her hand and belts me hard in the balls.

Pain like you would not believe.

That kinky oooh-hurts-so-nice feeling has long since scarpered; this is just dull, grinding, dizzy hurt. Like the pain was just the icing on the cake, but now there’s no cake and you’ve just stuffed your face with spoonfuls of icing and you want to throw up or spit it out, but you can’t, and every bit you swallow down makes you feel ill but you have to keep trying just so’s you can get space to breathe again.

When I comes round, holding my battered bollocks, she’s smiling a bit too sweetly and licking my cum off her fingers. “Don’t say I never do anything for you,” she whispers, like she’s done me some kind of favour, then turns over and settles down to sleep. Well, I guess I had been asking for it.

And a promise is a promise….

Spacey Thoughts From The Back Of The Room

The artists gathered – drank anonymous coffee; nibbled at familiar pastry.

They made the unusual small talk and waited to begin.

One took herself over to the room-behind-the-room, and peeked inside with her other pair of eyes: the nearest of the girls within stood a little straighter, and preened. Her companions took the given hint and struck their poses hard.

(Meanwhile, muttering in quiet corners, the storytellers bend their listeners’ ears; the kind of aural sex that leaves marks. If it’s done right they’ll be read for days.)

Our dual artist, and her friend, admired the parade of naked flesh – “My other self would never do this!” – and keenly complimented girls on keeping natural beauty.

“Real cunts, my dear! Real tits – divine and rare!”

The pair moved on, with others following behind, appraising lustily the swell of cheek; the arch of spine; the musculature and mis-culture of bodies turned for pleasure. “This is profoundly me: that one is more your Alter’s thing, my dear!” 

The girls, at this point, perk up and play; begin to paradox. Ice softens, hardening the flesh beneath; the tightened ropes offer release; a lone pugilist fights gravity on pointed toes; the human host is offered up to a new congregation.

Thoughtfully the artists mingled, and discussed the finer points of finer-pointed bristles; and how to capture the subtle play of light on skin.

Later, on stage, the canvas was displayed. They took no notice.

A version of the piece I submitted for the Eroticon2012 anthology, Dirty Thoughts From The Back Of The Room.

Coming To Terms With It

I’m a writer.

I write.

It’s not something I ever thought I could do, or rather, it’s something I thought everyone could do until I tried and failed. Repeatedly.

But with encouragement and a little free time, I will be posting new material here occasionally; some true, most fiction. I have realised that I have a voice, and a point of view, and that they are worth something, to me if not to anyone else.

No apologies, no excuses, no explanations. I’m a writer. This is what I write.

Something Hot and Steamy

You talk about pastries, taking tiny nibbles of the pleasure that’s offered up on a plate. My pleasure is had in the making; stirring sloppy dough until it stiffens beneath my fingers, then leaning hard into the firm, resilient mass of it as my palms coax its springy body to life.

I coerce it, stroke by folding stroke, into obedience. I squeeze until it cannot resist, flattening it mercilessly, then turning and lifting it back into shape before crushing it again and again. With the pummelling comes strength, and form, and substance. The tender, wheaten form that emerges is a tribute to the hands that lovingly teased it into being; its glorious triumph lasting only as long as it bakes, when it becomes a glorious sacrifice.

Crisp, nutty crust and humid crumb part before the blade. Anointed with butter, it is devoured with a sigh; and so my soul is fed.

Submission for www.acuriousmuse.blogspot.co.uk Birthday Giveaway, with the theme “non-sexual erotica”.