The Highwayman

Young lady, it seems

That in your dreams

There’s a story incomplete

Where a highwayman bold

As the story is told

Whisks you away to his secret retreat

“Young lady!” he cried

As her eyes opened wide

“Fear not ! My beautiful goddess!”

And with his sword’s sharp tip

He proceeded to rip

The lacing which fastened her bodice.

Thus a highwayman bold,

The story is told

In the good books of this fair maid,

Used his allure

And humour impure

To lead her astray in that glade

For with swash and buckle,

Belly-laugh and a chuckle

And poetry sent without warning,

He would tease and delight

Twice in the night

And then once again in the morning.

But the tale is not finished

Nor the mood diminished

Nor in the morn did she woke by his side,

Though a highwayman b’lieves

A true gent never leaves

A fair maid unsatisfied.

For the fair maid was alarmed –

For the Highwayman armed

With sharp sword held in his hand

One swish it took

To the floor fell her book

‘Mills & Boon’ (by the bodice it did land.)

“Oh Highwayman!” she did plea

“Oh, I do beseech thee!”

Before him she delicately knelt

“My honour is intact –

Pure as snow – that’s a fact

Thus I wear a chastity belt!!”

There in the glade

He did sheath his blade

Cried: “ Young lady, this did I foresee!”

And he honoured her honour

Never put a hand on her

But instead produced the key

‘Pon sight of the key

She cried “I must pee!”

And soon undid the lock

Twas not much of an issue

As he produced a tissue

And she re-adjusted her frock

At her feet as he knelt

His heart, it did melt

As she gazed ‘pon her lusty suitor

“O highwayman fine

I could make you mine-

But in truth tis I wot is cuter.”

Tears were shed

As he took to his bed

Alone without his fair maid

So the story is told

Of a highwayman bold:

Not even his plans that night got laid.


Perhaps you’ll see this when you awake… when you open sleepy eyes, stretch an arm out to me, lightly rub my chest, smile when I stir, turn my head to look at you, into your eyes. Smile.

Perhaps we’ll wriggle and shuffle as my arm sneaks under you as I turn to you.

Kiss you.

Perhaps, no need to speak, we move close, wanting each other. Wanting the reassurance that our beautiful lovemaking a few hours ago was a part of something continuing – just one chapter in a book.

Perhaps your hand will reach for me, perhaps you’ll let a leg flow over me, perhaps you’ll simply stroke my sides, your hand skimming over my skin, brushing my side, hips, buttocks.

And perhaps my lips will move lazily over your wakening skin, thrilling it with nips and nuzzles, tugs and teasing. Perhaps I’ll feel your nipples harden between my lips, my own body stirring and swelling in sync with yours.

Perhaps your arms will hint to me want you want, rolling me gently to rest between your legs, our lips searching for each other, finding each other with a soft crushing crash of desire, passion, want.

And need.

And perhaps you’ll spread and open for me, for the exquisite moment when we join, when the easy immersion draws sighs of blissful satisfaction and you fold around me to hold me tight to you. Within you.

Perhaps we’ll lie still, absorbing each other, absorbing the moment. The sublime ecstasy.

Or perhaps we’ll move gently together. As one. United. Slow, steady, purposeful rolling and rising and falling. The slightest hint of the slide and drive within, beautifully restricted in length of stroke, held by smooth, stretching clench. As beautiful in its intensity of limitless long, sweeping strokes which plunge just as deep, generate the same passion, the same fierce energy which rumbles from our depths to ferment and froth and ripple through us, locked together as we pulse and throb.

And shudder.

And perhaps you feel the swell and spill inside you, or I the fluttering grip, the shake and quiver as I give you all I can. And you take it.

And perhaps we will lie for a while before the unstoppable day forces us out and away.

© DeviantWriters2019

The Train

I don’t think I noticed when the train stopped. The long roll through the green-grey bush, the sudden break into the rolling plains of the wheatbelt, the big, bright, dark-blue skies and that deceptive, brutal sun; all had  conspired to lull me into a rumbling doze, massaged by the steady, rhythmic clack of the track below the wheels.

Maybe in the haze and daze of the journey, the hypnotic shimmer of air-warping heat above blond-burned stubbles,  I had been dimly aware of the slow deceleration and eventual halt of the train. But my drowsiness  could not rouse my interest enough to take note. Until I heard the vacuum swish of the door, the clump of sturdy boots in the passage and the slump of a body in a seat across and behind me.

I think I thought the  train was at a station – one of those small, solitary platforms – really no more than small, raised dais – at which you can only join or leave the train if you have booked well in advance. I registered through somnolent eyes the stretch of the wheatbelt away from my window to a solitary ghostly tree on the horizon. I registered a similar view out of the opposite window, turned, craning my neck in the search for a sign announcing our station, our platform.

But the shimmer of expanse stretched away in all directions. It was at that point that I turned to see who had joined us, out here in the desolation of paddocks.

He was looking out of the window, battered hat perched back on his head, its brim drip-dipped down as if melting. Wise, green eyes stared into the distance, a dark brown fist supporting the bristle on his chin, the sharp, inquisitive nose. Patience. Kindness. Those were the first impressions.

He turned to me,  a long, magnificent finger rolling out from his fist to brush the molten brim.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am” Well-spoken. Sincere in eye and tone. A small smile. Sad eyes.

I mumbled something about how  he had not disturbed me at all. Turned back to to look out of the window.

A long, low diesel hum, pitched low enough to lull the senses, even enough – no sound of acceleration, no preliminary clank or whoosh of brakes, or jolt of carriage – just a low, vibrant murmur through the still, sultry atmosphere, adrift in the expanse of that hot, still afternoon.

We stayed there. I had a vision, as if I was soaring high, of our small train, still in its glimmer-glare surrounds, a solid metal block among the fragile, crackling stubbles and occasional spindle-branched tree. We did not move.

I turned back to the latest passenger. He was still gazing out of the window, lost in thought, it seemed.

I was about to turn back, having thought better of my question, when he answered me.

“It did stop for me. I came from over the hill. Waited til it came. It always comes. It always stops for me.” He turned, those eyes surveying me as if gauging my reaction. Weighing me up. His gaze flickered, I’m sure, to my lips, when I smiled.

“Not a bad service…” I smiled back at him, noted, again, the quick flit of his gaze. “Are we waiting for someone else? Am I going to see someone galloping over the hill toward us?”

A long, deep, genuine chuckle. “A posse, maybe!” A warm smile. A cheeky twinkle in those eyes.

Those eyes. A beautiful deep but definite green. Alive. He held my gaze.

“Or a highwayman..” I don’t know why I said that. There was something infectious, perhaps, about his laugh, the imagination, the humour.

“Stand and deliver, fair maid!” A hand extended as if threatening me with a sword.

“O sir! You do frighten a poor maid so. I beg ‘e, have mercy upon me and my frailties!”

“I’m a highwayman!” He laughed. “Debonnaire and gallant as I ply my trade. Show me your baubles!”

An outrageous flirt. I knew it at the time. And I welcomed it, although I don’t know why: the ridiculousness, the spontaneity. That silly thing when you recognise that his humour – that he – appeals – to you and you want to know more.

“O sir! But you do sport with me so. I have nothing to give you”

“Maybe – but a couple of hours of your company might soften a vagabond such as I. May I?”

The question was accompanied by raised eyebrows and a languid gesture toward the seat across the aisle from me.

“Of course.”

And he played it – played me – beautifully. Interested in me yet dropping pearls of information about himself; asking my opinions, my likes and dislikes but always light, bright. An occasional quip, an expression stating more than words.  A touch on my arm. And I liked it. Very much. The flirting, the steady, natural game he played. His lips, the lower one, as if pondering whether to purse or not, protruded ever so slightly below the upper, giving an impression of  a grin barely suppressed. But when he smiled, they pulled together then parted to reveal even white teeth. I even liked the tiny beads of sweat which rested like dew among the light stubble. It hinted at something beyond the humour, the connection – an intensity, perhaps, something pure and inalienable, unstoppable. Like the sweat on a stallion.

He caught me watching his lips, fascinated by the elasticity involved in his word formation, the way they puckered and stretched so smoothly and effortlessly, soft yet exaggerated in their movements.

I know I blushed. I know he knew he had caught me. I brushed an imaginary strand of hair behind an ear. Something to do. A distraction. I looked out of the window.

“No sign of the posse?”

“No…” I smiled, turned to him. “It seems no one is coming to rescue me..”

I loved the malleability, the softness with which his lips brushed mine: inquisitive, searching for a  welcoming response, yet firm and determined as his tongue peeled its way into my mouth. I loved his hand firm on my back, supporting me yet preventing me from falling away from his eagerness.

And I loved his hand coming up to brush my cheek, affection, tenderness, care as his lips softened mine, softened me and I gulped him in, pulling him to me. And I was lost.

A delicious urgency, that’s what I recall. An unstoppable gentle momentum geared solely to impart  a passion which I felt had been withheld for so long. There was none of the frantic flurry of a man lost in desire, but a steady, deliberate seduction of my senses: steadfast, irrefusable, sensuous and erotic.

Determined hands slid under my blouse, smoothed the skin on my sides, fingers, stretched across my stomach, the hint of one near my hip before my skin prickled under light pressure as he moved toward my breast, cupping it over my bra, thumb lazily rubbing above my nipple until he could feel its hardness straining to his touch.

His lips worked away from mine, kisses on my cheek, pulling at skin by my jaw, beneath my ear, my earlobe, my neck, which I exposed for him as delectable strands  shivered down to my breasts, across my stomach to my thighs.

I loved the feel of his muscular back under his shirt, the ripple as his arm moved to guide his hands across my body, the flow of him as he moved to kiss my throat, my chest, the shallow start to my cleavage, where I felt the slick of sweat run under his tongue.

“Mmmm. Salty.” he murmured. “Beautiful”

And he crashed back to my lips so I could taste my saltiness for myself, mixed on his tongue and lips.

He pulled away, that smile, large-pupilled eyes gazing down at me, the puckering lip almost smiling. Fingers, buttons eased through their holes, a fidgeting release of my bra. His mouth on my breasts, taking each into his mouth, my nipples hard like nuts in the warmth and swirl of his mouth, the slow rock of his hips as he moved between my thighs.

My hands resting on his hips plucked at his waistband. A well of anticipation, wet desire and hunger was rising in me, a shrill chill pooling  below my waist exacerbated by the streaks  shooting through me from the exotic tease of my breasts.

A fumble at the button. The rip of the zipper. Working my hands in to smooth buttocks, edging elastic over. Down. Moving my hand round  until I could feel his weight, his firmness. Feeling him lengthen and swell yet more to my touch, my admiring stroke along his shaft and down to cup heavy, heaving sack, tracing a finger through soft skin and back to encircle him again.

A groaning sigh as he stood, cock twitching-proud, to bend, fumble at my skirt, peel my panties away, sink back to me. I look back now and wish we had the time to explore more, for me to take him, to taste him in my mouth, for him to have used those soft, pliant lips between my legs, to have felt him delve his tongue into my heat, to have melted to the tug of my swollen lips between his. To have felt his tongue swirl and stab at that sweet spot. But at that moment, we wanted to immerse ourselves in each other.

And I loved the way he fell into me, the weight of him, his masculinity, the crush of his chest on my breasts and the rough, soothing comfort of his hips between my thighs as I stretched to take him in to me. I loved the firm, sultry penetration, the sense of being filled by an intensity of beautiful muscle and sinew, of blood and bone stretching me, of my clutching, clenching response as he reached my depths, of the quavering whimper which wriggled up through me to tremble out of my mouth as he kissed me, drank me, a hand on the back of my neck to smash me to him, another soothing a breast and its puckered nipple.

I felt him heave into me, groaning in his struggle to drive deeper, felt myself raise my hips, swing my legs back to take him, to feel more of him sliding inside me, to welcome the polished creaminess of his smooth slide, to feel the sleek slipperiness of our bodies smearing together in the humidity and warmth of the cabin.

And I loved the exquisite detail of him, detectable because I was so open to him: the gorgeous elegance of his stroke coming to rest briefly against me, the hard bone grazing my clit, the feel under my reaching fingers of his tight-clustered balls, swollen, I fancied, clinging to the base of his  plunging cock.

And I knew he would come when he raised himself off me, agony written on his face as he braced himself on his forearms, the sweat streaking his cheeks, his chest sleek and glistening above me as his buttocks moved beneath my heels, now locked on his undulations. And as he paused and cried and pushed into me  I reached up and brought him to me, to my mouth, into my arms to feel him shudder, throb and gush  into me, his whole body freezing at each racking, cramping spurt.

It was the slowing down, the return of the sensuous, long stroke, still intense, unbeaten by the climax, the sense that, despite all being given, he wanted to give more, He was still large inside me:  I could feel the graze of his balls brush my buttocks, felt the sticky trickle of his spill, still wanted him  – in me – to shatter me. And so I rose and fell to his easy stroke, absorbed him, felt myself gulp him and squeeze him, holding him in me until a low sweeping trembling rolled over me and he held me and kissed me as I shook and shuddered around him and under him.

Later, after we had exchanged uncertain looks, shaken by what we had unleashed, after we had rearranged ourselves, the train moved. I was in the dunny when I heard the engine power from idle to effort, heard the whoosh and puff of brakes released, the creak and shriek of wheels gaining traction.

And he had gone.

After a few minutes, when I judged he should definitely have returned from the bathroom, I walked through the  carriages looking for him. I overcame some shyness to ask the attendant if he had seen my lover, described the hat, the stubble. Was astounded when he told me:

“Ma’am. I’m not sure what you mean. If he didn’t get on at the last station, he didn’t get on at all. We don’t stop for people waiting by the side of the tracks anymore. Haven’t done for years”

I checked the disembarking passengers at each station where we stopped, waited longer when we got to Perth.

I never did see him again.


Fremantle Prison

May 15 1899

“When I came over the hill, broke from my cover by the eucalyptus, the train slowed and stopped as I knew it would. There was a lady in my carriage.  I admired her, would have liked to have courted her, perhaps married her.

I didn’t think the police would be waiting for me in Merredin. I thought I’d got away. Well I didn’t, did I? I should of got off the train at one of the pissy stations, but I liked her, see? I liked being with her, laughing with her. And she liked me. If I had known I would of got off the train. Or maybe made love to her if I’d known the police would come on board after me.

Can you try and find that girl? Tell her what I felt. Tell her I’m sorry.

I don’t know what will happen in the afterlife, but if I can, I’m gonna try come back and find her. I will.

 I gotta finish now. It’s nearly  nine o’clock and they’ll come for me soon.

I’m sorry for what I did, for the pain I cau….”

© DeviantWriters 2018

Miriam’s Tale: Dov


Dov. All that a parent would want for their offspring. Hard worker, a lawyer, well connected in circles within and without the synagogue. Not very exciting, though.

He was civil, polite at our first meeting. A little glimpse of humour suppressed for the sake of decorum, I suspect. I admit I was not attracted to him in the way I was at first attracted to Natan, but I told my parents I would see him again partly because I wanted them to be happy that I was trying, partly because Dov was not, I could see, a bad man and partly because, to be honest, I missed having a man around, maybe even the touch of a man, strong arms at night.

So we met and we laughed and yada yada yada… he met the girls and was gentle, kind, with them and they liked him which was important to me and here we are 25 years later still married, still happy. We do not have the same zesty passion Natan and I shared. With Dov it’s different – and why wouldn’t it be?

Our first night was almost awkward. I think I knew more about sex than poor Dov at that point. He was hesitant, not about what to do but how to please me so I guided him, slowed the pace with gentle strokes and brushing kisses or intensified the passion with crushing lips and raking nails and urgent clutches. It was not great, but it was not bad – something to build on, as a teacher once said to me about an essay I had written. And I suppose I became the teacher.

Over time we have perfected our love making. We have experimented a little bit here and there, less with ‘toys,’ maybe a bit of bondage, blindfolds, vibrator – that sort of thing but more with technique and location. I showed him how to apply his tongue to me, to twirl it around my nipples, to crimp them between his lips. How to use his hands to direct and intensify tingling anticipation. After a reluctant start, he has perfected cunnilingus, teasing me to the point of orgasm before retreating only to bring me to the boil once more. He knows me, my body, so well: what I like when I’m in certain moods, what I don’t like. It takes years, I suppose, to enjoy such leisurely intimacy. It’s a far cry from the youthful exuberance Natan and I shared and instilled in each other, but it is comfortable and enduring.


Dov knows I have this thing about my ears, that his kisses, breathing or whispers send a shivering shock through me, neither pleasant nor unpleasant – but both, at the same time. Innervating. It sends prickles down my neck, over my breasts, petrifying my nipples, spreading a rash of goosebumps down my sides, moistening me between my thighs. It’s sudden and quick and always makes me shriek and pull away involuntarily, even though I love it.

He knows, too, the effect he has on me when he starts kisses at my ankles, works his way down my inner leg, across my thigh and bypasses with a brush of beard or waft of hot breath my eager pussy so that, by the time he has kissed my stomach, maybe skimmed my breasts as he skin-tugs his way up my throat, around my jawline and nuzzled my lips apart with his, I am ready, desperate, for him to return to the places he has ignored.

I can also read now the effect I have on him, whether his mood requires me to caress his length gently, to squeeze softly or take him in my mouth and work him vigorously to his spilling point. It all depends…

We often spend Sundays in bed. I often wake him with a gentle stroking, firming him in my hand, nuzzling his neck until he stirs, rolls on his back, lets me lay extravagant, lush tongue strokes to him, working his length to shine and strain. And I might kiss him as I lower onto him to move slowly with him to our own soft rhythm.


Or perhaps he stirs me with a caress of my breast, kisses along my sides to my hips. I love him waking me so softly, an easing apart of my thighs so he can breathe hot breath onto me, extend his tongue to flicker, quavering, at my lips so I feel them swell and part to greet him. And how he uses his tongue tip as a question mark, querying his way around, as if with caution, testing each fold, each millimetre, encircling and tapping my clit in slow palpating dabs. He knows when to come to me, how to trail and rest his body across my pussy as he makes his way to my breasts. He knows the pressure I like to feel from his muscle on my mound, the small movements which bring me to move against him, massaging myself on his skin. And he knows how to kiss me, mellow, at the very moment he reaches me, eases into me, absorbs my shuddering, satisfied gasp.

Usually we lie almost still, tongues or teeth testing lips, each aware of the slightest signs of our consummation: my clenching around him in small, unbidden pulsations; a slow swelling and expansion of him inside me. It’s delicious, unhurried and really quite erotic. Often we come together, an unspoken, abstract intensification which escalates and rolls over us as I feel, I swear, him expand and wash into me as I grip him Other times we start to move;  the soft sliding accumulating, building, rousing us to  a gasping crash.

I wouldn’t start my Sunday any other way.

We do have a little place out of town, by the beach. We go there a lot in summer, for weekends. It’s very private. We can let our hair down there. The glimpse of humour I first recognised in Dov comes to the fore down there. He is away from work, people know not to disturb us when we head to retreat. I remember one hot afternoon, after lunch, we are on our large bench swing: a ridiculous, huge circular seat – a bed, really – supported by a central ornate chain hung from an expensive, wrought iron frame.

It sits on our patio and, having a shade over it, is a perfect place to retire to with a book for some rest and relaxation.

Or not.

This afternoon, still and silent except for the far off cries of kids and the tinny incantation of Greensleeves from some ice cream van a million miles away, I am lying on the daybed, as we call it. I’m not dozing – quite. Just absorbing the atmosphere, the heat, the lazy hum of some insects in the jasmine, its perfume. I’m wearing my bikini. A sarong is wrapped loosely around me and I am feeling very content in the world.

Dov appears with some cool drinks – a gin, wine or something – and lies down next to me. The bed starts moving, much like a hammock, but more comfortable, less constricting, just as relaxing. And I don’t know what it is – the movement, perhaps, dreamy and sensuous – but we both look at each other and we know.

Dov smiles his wonderful relaxed smile. A man confident in what he is doing as he kisses me lightly on the lips, at the corner of my mouth, under my ear – he doesn’t whisper or breathe in my ear:  he doesn’t want to shatter the idle idyll of this soft afternoon. A hand glides over me, pausing on a breast, barely touching it through the material of my bikini top, but I can feel him there and my nipples harden in expectation of his touch.

And I’m delighting in his kisses which have progressed to lusciousness sealed in our mouths by pressing lips. I’m drinking in the headiness of swirling tongues and, in my mind, Im moving to the rock and swing of our daybed as if Dov was already in me, ebbing and flowing, rising and falling with me.

His hand slips under my bikini top, fingers rolling my crystal nipple, smoothing my breast, sending tingles through  my stomach to pool between my legs. I roll to him, a hand reaching for him, working its way under the elastic of his shorts, to find him rigid, engorged. And I work his shorts over his buttocks and his length, freeing him to my caress. Dov takes his hand from my breast to pull the string of the bow at the back of my neck and at my back and with the flimsy bikini gone, there seems little point, he says, in keeping everything else on.


And so I remove his shorts and take him in my mouth like a delicacy to be savoured and relished. There is no hurry, just the savouring of his taste, the salty sweetness, the veinous, firm texture, the occasional, small pulse which stiffens him for a second and the  tight, wrinkled cluster which moves imperceptibly to my touch and tongue.

And he loosens my sarong, peeling it away from me and twists and turns to kiss my shoulder and back, my neck, my ear, this time blowing into it so that I rise from him and he kisses me, eases me back onto the bed, slips his hand under the elastic of my bikini bottoms and eases the over my trembling hips, under my raised buttocks and away down my legs to be discarded with contempt upon the patio.

And we are still rocking on our bed. A delectable motion both refreshing and soothing as it transports us both, naked in our garden, in our thrilling intimacy. I do not think either of us would have cared had our garden not been so private at that moment. The silence, the motion, the heat of that lazy afternoon… all conspired to abandonment of inhibitions in the moment; to absorb the beauty and enchantment of the time, the place. So when Dov rolled between my legs, lowered his head to taste me, explore me and tease me as we swayed under that summer sun, I was lost.

He has this fascinating technique of seeking out my clit with his tongue, then taking it between his lips and tugging it lightly, only to let it slip out at the extremity of his pull. It is very sensuous and delectable, especially when he precedes the tug with a long stroke of the tongue. It is what he does now, in perfect time to our swinging, as if he is pushing us forward with his tongue, only to let us swing back upon my release. And I come in an undulating, fluctuating wave which shudders up from my feet to my head. I feel  the accumulation and the cramping bliss which arches my back, forces my fingers, already caressing Dov’s head, to rake his scalp, pull him into me and buck against his all attentive tongue.

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In my afterglow, Dov is tender, soothing kisses on my clit, on hips and stomach, hands cooling my sides, mouth finding a breast, my throat, my lips. And we lie there, kissing, caressing, idle and perfect. I’ve taken him in hand again, languid strokes as we drowse on our ripening way through the dreamy afternoon. And I feel my legs fall apart to his touch once more and I need him to fill me, to move inside me, to flood me so I guide him over and onto me, feel the soft nudge, the inquisitive, speculative probe as he finds me, my heat, and eases in.

I hold him to me, arms tracing his back, legs folded above his buttocks. And he starts that motion again, surging us forward, withdrawing us back, as slow and slumberous as the afternoon itself, sensuous and stimulating.

We stay there for what seems like a long time, all that could be said is communicated by the concentration of energy in the senses: the perfumes of sweat and jasmine, the drone of insects, the lulling heat, of touch of lips, fingers, the throb of his firmness, its smooth, slick strokes and the intensity of our grip and kisses.

So when I sense the jumble and clustering of his coming, the slight change in pace and power of his thrust, a tension in his breath and body, I respond. Pulling him to me with my heels, raising my hips to take as much of him in as possible, to feel him land hard and full on my clit, buttocks clenching as the fervour rises to take us both in its spate. A bursting deluge shakes and shudders us in its tremor. Dov trembles with each convulsion as he breaks deep in me, quaking sighs rushing out  as if they deplete him as much as his stream of spill. And I feel the flutter and jitter as he comes, that deep pulsing climax which triggers a quavering palpitation which breaks over me in spasms coincidental with his releases.

And when its all over, we’ve subsided and our deep breaths are all that’s left of us, we are still swaying on the bed, a silent pendulum on an indolent afternoon. Naked and replete in our own world. Just the two of us. After all these years.

So I still think I have a lot to thank my parents for – not just for letting me find out the hard way that love is not solely guided by the heart, but for finding Dov, my solid rock. The man who I still love to make love to after all these years.

©DeviantWriters 2018

Miriam’s Tale: Natan



My story comes in two parts, so please do bear with me. This is not something we usually talk about in my world, but I will do my best to be  frank, as you have asked, and to be detailed about what was – is – important for me then and now.

South Africa was a fine place to grow up. Until I hit eighteen. Then it gets difficult both for boys and girls in our circles. More difficult, maybe, for girls. More difficult, definitely, for headstrong girls with attitude. Like me.  I did not want the shidduch expected of us all, boys and girls, at eighteen. I did not ask for or want the  traditions of our people: the marriage to a stranger, the hoardes of children. But at eighteen, it all started.

My parents started looking around for a suitable boy. Other parents called mine with suggestions of suitable boys. All going on behind my back.

It is not an arranged marriage – it has always been clear that either party can  – and often do – refuse the other. But it is an arranged date with an approved member of the opposite sex, complete with the expectations of both families.

So you get the picture? My parents were busy sniffing around for a nice boy with a good heart, an aptitude to make money who was respected at the synagogue… all the usual stuff which impressed them. But not me.

I had met Natan. (It is of course not his real name, but the name I would have given to a son had I been blessed with one.)

Natan was at Uni, like me. Tall, astoundingly good looking with gorgeous tight curly hair, green eyes which laughed and a brain which buzzed with fun, cheekiness and naughtiness. He was a rebel, an aphrodisiac to a headstrong girl like me. He was fun to be with and fun to be seen with by my trusted friends, although, of course, we had to keep our alliance secret from anyone moving in my parents’ circles.

But I knew what I wanted and it would not be denied to me. if I was to have children it would be with someone of my choosing – and I wanted them to be beautiful children, so I would marry a beautiful man.

For I knew best then, didn’t I? We all know best at that age.

And so Natan came quietly to our house on a still afternoon when the hum of the traffic and cries of the street sellers were mellow ripples in the sultry air. My parents, suspecting nothing, were visiting relatives somewhere in the city and I knew Natan and I could be alone for a few hours and we both knew what we wanted to do in those few precious, snatched hours.

Too dangerous to be seen at my door, he appeared at my window where I, tremulous and trembling opened the window, looked nervously out and helped him in. Within seconds we were locked at the lips: frantic kissings, tongues probing and searching, hands scraping and scrabbling at clothing, rushing over skin.

Natan took charge, as I knew he would and I was grateful for it. He always said he had never taken a lover before me, but I am not sure I believed it then or now. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing as he popped the buttons on my blouse, peeled it away from me, unfastened my bra but did not pressure me to uncover my breasts when I paused, clutching the garment to me. He led me to my bed, pulled back the sheet, undressed himself while I removed my skirt and climbed in. He held out his hand, that delightful cheeky grin on his face and I passed him my bra. He slid in next to me wearing only his underwear.

He took my face between gentle hands kissed me gently, his face a picture of concern and gentleness which stirred me in my stomach, a sharp pang piercing my belly, exciting me.  I knew what I was doing, what we were doing. I just did not know all the intricacies of it.

I did not know or expect the shivering excitement or the prickling skin which flared to his touch. I did not expect to find his cock so large and so hard, so dangerous in its demeanour, his clustered testicles so hard and tight below. I did not realise how my breast would ache and tingle for and to his touch, or that he would use his tongue as well as his fingers to titillate them.

I did not know his kisses on my neck and by my ear would set blood rushing to my head or that, when his hand skimmed my stomach, slid under the elastic of my panties that I would welcome his touch, that my hips would rise to meet him, that I would thrill to the confident weight of his palm on me.

I remember our breaths, urgent and panicked as we fumbled amongst the whirl of passion and kisses, the  exquisite tension of touch and daring as he slid my panties down and away, guided my hand  to his cock, making it clear it was up to me to negotiate his tumescence as I removed his underwear.


And finally we were naked and it felt as if that is how we should be: skin on skin, nothing hidden from each other, open to all intimacy, closed to nothing. He mumbled comforting words as I shivered next to him.

“Are you cold?”

“No. Just nervous…”

“Are you alright? Do you want to do this?”

I did not answer but instead pulled him to me, felt his hand brush me, felt things I had never felt before down there: a heat and rush, a moistness, a puffing swelling and bizarre ache which was soothed by the touch of his fingers. And at some point my legs parted to take him to me, and I welcomed his weight and fierce passion, the hands which soothed my sides and held my face as he kissed me. And I felt for the first time that innocuous nudge of him probing and searching for me, felt myself open and spread to receive him, willingly, not knowing of the sharp pain which was to follow his firm gentle thrust into me.

He paused, acutely aware of why I had ceased my kissing, my caresses of his back.

He was looking at me, concerned.

“Ok?” he whispered.

I nodded, biting my lip. “Be gentle.”

And he was. Easing into me a fraction of an inch at a time as if he could detect the moment to stop, allow my poor unaccustomed muscles and system to accomodate this intrusion before nature’s oils and slick allowed him to move in further.

That first time was sore. I did not come, but I was … fulfilled. I recognised the satisfaction of feeling him deep in me, the base of his cock pushed hard against me, knowing he was giving me everything he could yet could not get quite enough of me. I loved the weight and heat, the sweat and sinew of his body and its labour crushing me, the sensation of his skin on my breasts, his breath on my neck.  And I loved the tremor and throb when he came in gulping sighs, the agitation and convulsion of the deep eruption which pulsed and rumbled deep inside me.

It was the start of many, many times of deepest fulfilment. It was passion and lust rolled together and undeniable in its urgency and frenzied delirium. A week or so later we were at it again but the tenderness and care was soon discarded for the plunge and fury of hectic, crazy craving. We discovered as time went on the exalting crash of high passion at its climax and how to raise the peak to make that explosive descent more salacious, more delicious, more gratifying.

Natan would come round at any opportunity when my parents were away and we would take to my bed in lazy delight which soon morphed into delectable hedonism. With the loss of my virginity, I was now relaxed and free of inhibitions with Natan. I loved to explore him, his chest, buttocks and cock. I was fascinated by how my hands and light touches could bring his length form flaccid, pendulous flesh to a taught menacing muscle, designed  in its sleekness and shape, its blunt penetrative head and smooth, veinous shaft for one purpose and one purpose only. And I was the subject of its attention and intention.


I loved  his balls which climbed up high to his cock’s base as turgidity set in and I loved the way they descended afterwards, as soon as he had burst and washed inside me, to flop against the slick and juices draining out of me. I first took him in my mouth not because I particularly wanted to give him any pleasure but because I wanted all of him. Every millimetre inside me. All of him.

And he thrilled me, too. I felt safe enough, comfortable enough with him to let his kisses and mouth stray to my most intimate place, where the bizarre flick flick of his tongue soon brought me pleasure and my first experience of the luxury of orgasm. After his mouth left me quivering, my body shattered, my head awash with wafting sensations, he took me firmly and deeply, an indulgent, slick penetration so easy in its moist, friction-free ingress, so deliberate in its drive and thrust against me that I came again in wracking shudders, and then once more as he, too, flared, burst and  spurted inside me.

It was love. Of course it was love.

Until my parents heard that I had been seen with Natan and sped up their search for an appropriate date for me.  I did not really worry too much – every time they suggested someone, I refused and my poor parents went back to the drawing board. And I carried on with Natan.

In the holidays I sneaked him into my house, at Uni I sneaked him into my room. To be honest, it was more fun smuggling him into my parents home. The need to be quiet was imperative and the risks of being caught higher and the consequences more severe. But it added a thrill: not just the thrill of not getting caught, but the erotic thrill of making love in silence, muffling sighs, moving quietly in case creaking bedsprings gave us away.

It meant we had to move so slowly, lips grazing skin, passions barely suppressed under the torture of a lazy finger, the brush of a languorous hand. At home, in my room, a beautiful headiness contrasted with the lusty Uni trysts. At home Natan would treat me softly as if  I was a prize to be worshipped and adored over every inch of my body. He would take his time sampling my  breasts and nipples, kissing my stomach, running a leisurely hand up the back of my legs, over the curve of  a buttock, his thumb thoughtful and diligent between my legs.



It was on such nights when he would bring his mouth to me, softly, as if tasting a rare delicacy, lips and tongue hesitant as he sampled the shivers and quivers I was impotent to control. Those long strokes of the flat of his tongue, the inquisitive flick and glance of the tip as he discovered what he could do to send an electric thrill through me. Those were beautiful nights of quiet intimacy and long, rolling crescendoes which left us sweet, mellow and lusciously overwhelmed by the intensity of culmination. When Natan slid out of the window of a moon-washed dawn, it was then that I felt most saddened, most lonely at his departure.

At Uni, we snatched what time we could  for our love making. These time were frantic, noisy affairs on quiet afternoons when we could throw away all inhibitions in a welter of sweaty limbs, hungry mouths and furious union. The kisses were ravenous, predatory in their quest to stimulate skin and breasts. The sheer force of passion overwhelmed us and I would find myself hungrily tasting his cock, feeding as much of it into my mouth as possible, rendered delirious by the tastes and textures of this hot, twitching, pulsing muscle.  As if famished, he would gulp and tug on me, furious strokes of his tongue unleashing both a slick which he spread deliciously around me and an involuntary twitch of my hips as I pushed against his mouth, the source of such pleasure. It was those time when we would join in a fast deep immersion which coiled us together, arms wrapped around each other, my legs holding him firm as he bucked and thrust, hard, fast, rapid; mouths pulling, biting skin in the madness of our frenzy. Those were the times when we were left shattered and exhausted by the fury we unleashed.

It was love. Of course it was love.

And then my parents found Aaron. After my rejection of so many of their suggestions, I knew a crunch time was coming. A time when I would have to own up to what I wanted. They knew of Natan and I knew they would never accept Natan – he was from ‘the wrong side of the tracks’, not from an ‘approved family’ with the required wealth. They had no idea of the strength of our bond, what we did to affirm that or what we planned for our futures.

Aaron, though… it all changed when they discovered Aaron

I knew of him. Dull, respectable, wealthy – and pig ugly. And at 33 totally unacceptable to me.

But my parents were insistent and I grudgingly attended to meet his mother because that is the way it is done. I was polite but diffident, doing my best to hit the balance between indifference and rudeness. I failed. Aaron’s mum approved of me – I still think it is because they were desperate to marry him off to any girl who would take him – and my parents insisted it was time to meet my potential husband.

And that’s when Natan and I eloped. It was so easy. Instead of me slipping him into my house, I simply slipped out. We  ran to the bus station and by dawn we were well away from our homes, breathless, flushed with the daring of what we had done. I left a note for my parents.

We set up home in a cheap rental  in Durban and married. Natan found some work to pay our rent and keep us in food. I did  some office work and helped out a beauty salon. I always liked the idea of being a beautician rather than a lawyer.

There were tearful conversations with my parents who refused to meet Natan and threatened to drive to Durban to  bring me home, but they never did until the birth of our first child, a girl,  exactly nine months after we arrived in Durban. I think they knew I would not return with them and that their best option was to stay in touch, if not supportive, and be there in case things went wrong. And when their grandchildren – the second, also a girl, arrived 18 months after the first – they visited and did meet Natan and were civil to him, if not exactly welcoming.

The girls, of course, were beautiful. I mean it, no bias! They inherited Natan’s darker skin, his jewel-green eyes but had my high cheek bones. They were wilful and hard to handle but I loved them dearly and wanted the world for them.

But, you know, Natan could not give us the world. He worked a way at some two-bit job that enabled us to get by but, I guess, I was used to the wealth of my parents and the easy life which went with it and the constant budgeting, the interminable effort to keep our costs down while doing the best for our girls took its toll. And, you know, sex isn’t everything. It does not counter the gnawing worry of poor finances, of the relentless drudgery of child-rearing. Our fierce passion and contrasting, sensual smoothness  dwindled into routine lovemaking. Pleasurable enough, but not the magic it once was. How could it be when we were both tired and there was no end in sight to the toil and fatigue? Reality bit.

And little by little my parents’ words before we eloped encroached into my mind and I knew, deep down, that they had been right: a solid partner with an ability to look after and care for a family was more important than good looks and passion.

And I left Natan, returned with my girls to my parents house. And they welcomed me back with not a hint of the “I-told-you-so”, helped me settle the girls, get them into a nice school, make new friends. I will always respect them and love them with the deepest gratitude for that, after all the angst and pain I must have put them through.

Natan and I divorced a year or so later. As soon as the papers were all signed and sealed and it was official, they talked to me gently about finding a good husband to take care of my family, perhaps to have more children. They started their matchmaking inquiries again and this time I went along with it.

And they found Dov.

But that is another story  which I will tell another time.

©DeviantWriters 2018

May the Fourth

I’m not at all sure this will fit with what you asked of me because it was not so much the acts which were significant or memorable, but the circumstances – and repercussions.


These days people chuckle every year with the date the fourth of May: “May the fourth be with you” they say, after the Star Wars incantation. For me though, the fourth of May, every year, reminds me of a party I went to with my boyfriend, live-in lover, partner, whatever, of the time, Alex (I’ll call him).

We were living in a grotty London basement flat with all the chill and damp you would expect. Heating was a single bar electric fire which murdered our savings, such as they were, but the mould on the walls, the peeling paint and rotting window frames did not seem to dampen our affections. Al did, though.

He had this thing about ‘freedom’. He did not want to commit to me and maintained he was fine if I slept around as he would. But he didn’t. We were monogamous and in love, but this freedom thing kept pecking away at us despite our nights of loving.

Most of the time everything was fine – better than fine.  Laughter and loving under the covers on cold winter nights: the shrill and shrieks of cold hands’ first touch on warm skin, the childish chuckles and whoops of exaggerated shock which melted and slowed into breathy lovemaking with all the hectic heat and passion of two people in love. Al was considerate, taking care to cultivate my orgasms. I say cultivate because now, all these years later, I see the kind of scientific approach he had to fucking me. The tease of lips to lips interspaced with urgent, desperate crushes, the inevitable tug of skin at neck and ear. Hands easing round to cup and caress a breast, thumb and forefinger rolling a nipple only leaving when his mouth reached there.

I liked it, maybe loved it, but I was innocent at the time, knew little of love and sex and I suppose I was happy to let him run the show. These days I am not afraid to say what I want and insist upon it. I suppose, after the experience of a few lovers, I know as much about what I like as don’t like and would not put up with repetitive modus operandi like Al’s: the hand which would slip to my thigh, run over my mound and work its way between my thighs, rubbing gently, a finger running the length of my lips as much to stimulate as to detect my moment of readiness.

And when he did climb on top of me, I was ready for him and it felt right taking him in but then he would slip into the mechanical. Passionate kisses would wither, his mouth would stray away, his long, slow thrusts would become fast and sharp. And though I would react to his urgency with my own sense of excited rush, and I would come – sometimes before him, sometimes after – I look back now and think: “We were both kids, playing at this sex thing. No idea, either of us, on how to guide or stimulate the other. Just going through the moves thinking that was enough, no need  for more.

But it was this polygamous – as we would say these days – thing of his which wore me down in resentment. He would never admit, offer, suggest anything which might suggest commitment, anything longterm and I could have taken that but he always went the one step more with this sleeping around thing. I don’t know if he did it to assert some sort of independent streak of his, to piss me off or to prepare himself – or  me – for the day we would part. It just wore me down.

And so the fourth of May came round: a warm, still day when even our flat did not seem too bad in the spring sunshine. But this freedom thing had come up again, despite a slow-burn session between the sheets the night before. Al had left me replete, convinced that his attention to me, the gentle kisses and touches, the soft use of his tongue and fingers to bring my fragile senses to an ecstatic climax at the very moment he submerged himself in me, was a product of love, of genuine affection. How could it be anything else?

But in the morning light he  reverted to type, shrugged of my advances, climbing out of bed, muttering about things he had to do before the party that evening. He sniped at me: little things – why wasn’t the washing done, had I paid this bill, done some shopping. And so it went on, all day. I was sure he was pissing me off deliberately but didn’t know why. I still don’t. And then the evening came round…

John’s party was at a smart riverside house in Hammersmith. All white wine and cheese on cocktail sticks. Several levels, balcony, views over the Thames. John made no secret of his attraction to me. He had called me while Al was away, pretending to see if I was ok, if there was anything I needed, anything he could do and so on, though we both knew he was ‘casing the joint’, so to speak. I wondered at the time if that was why Al was so irritated by me, trying to piss me off with is “see if I care” attitude. It wasn’t me who ever encouraged John. Ever.

We were there, all la-di-da and mingling while Hendrix or Cream or some psychedelic music pulsated around the house and I see Al checking out this Twiggy lookalike – you know, all whippetty-limbed, pretty face, high cheekbones, long legs. And I had had too much shitty wine so I asked Al if he fancied her and he came on all nonchalant: “Ah yes, she’s a pretty girl” type of stuff. And John had been hovering around me, smiling, touching, teasing and I got this fucking dumb idea in my head when I was sitting on the stairs with Al, saw him looking at Twiggy and I said “Why don’t you sleep with her?”

Maybe I was trying to annoy him or had decided this was crunch time. I suppose I was testing him, he testing me, daring each other, seeing if this freedom crap was really what he wanted or – I don’t fucking know, it was all so silly. And then bloody Twiggy comes sit down by us and I found some excuse to go downstairs to look for a drink, or something I guess.

And Al rolls up a while later on his own with some shit about her last train having gone and he was going to take her home. He looked me straight in the eye. And he said that’s all he would do. Run her home. Come home.

So that was it. He did want to sleep with other girls: he was being up front and honest, I suppose. But it hurt. I had always supposed it was some childish act he had put on to keep me on my toes. But that night, the fourth of May, he showed me he meant it. And he left. With her.

And I slept with John. I didn’t even fancy him, but I was pissed, angry and hurt and thought if Al meant it, then he would have to accept me sleeping with others. So I did. It wasn’t that I was horny or really wanted to fuck John. I think I just wanted to get back at Al in a ‘well if you think its ok for you, then its ok for me’ sort of way.

So John came along all schmooze and schmaltzy, touchy feely, suggestive, would I like to come upstairs. And I did, not because I wanted to – really, I didn’t. It was just I was pissed and pissed off and it was getting back at Al.


It was torrid, lacking in tenderness and not particularly satisfying. He made no pretence of affection, instead replaying a routine I am certain to this day he had practised before and thought was the ultimate in the lexicon of lovemaking: tongues and crushing kisses, nips on the neck, a tweak of the nipples and a hand between my legs to check if I was ready for him. A hurried intromission, frantic thrusting and a grunting ejaculation, with him raised on his forearms- he could not even find it in himself to kiss me, to let me hold him to me, to share the intimacy. Nor did he afterwards: he pulled out, muttered something about seeing to the rest of his guests and cleared out, leaving me to clear up.

I went home, felt dirty, guilty, remorseful. And I must have showed it because, when Al sidled in later, he knew at once what I had done and was furious.

Fucking furious.

Apparently Twiggy had been up for it, but Al wasn’t. He maintained they kissed, and she held his head to her breasts, tried to loosen his pants. He was adamant that he did not fuck her and he would have done if it hadn’t been for me.

Yes. Mr Letssleeparound now pissed off that I was the one who had fucked someone else.

Go figure.

And he would have cared less if I had fucked someone other than John, he said. He was all wounded pride, hurt, betrayed and would not listen to anything I had to say. Nothing. It was my fault. I had betrayed him as far as he was concerned.

He kicked me out. He’ll never admit that, but he did. He slept on the couch that night, steered away from me in the morning, told me not to speak – and not to cry.

I caught the train to my brothers university in the late morning, wrote a letter that afternoon. Poured to much into it, I think: I let him know I was at rock bottom, needed to hurt myself to ease the pain, could see no future without him. All that stuff.

And he asked me back,  pleaded. And I went back but something now was lacking.


Whatever we did together comprised the unspoken, the shiftiness, the loss of completeness we had once had. The sex was the same, yet it wasn’t. There was something forced on both our parts, his attentiveness, my response. We were now kidding each other.

I went with my parents on holiday to the Mediterranean and was schmoozed by the classic waiter, all puppy eyes, olive skin and charming words – and I succumbed to the hedonistic idyll of glorious siestas spent in a breeze of warm air and kisses from a man who instilled in me a reciprocated tenderness: it wasn’t love. No, it wasn’t love. It was purely the expression of a passionate, mutual attraction which, welcomed in its freshness, spilled inhibitions I did not know I even had. We spent lazy afternoons on the bed, curtains billowing in the warm breezes, his mouth sucking on my toes or fingers, relishing each morsel of me, teasing a thrill from every kiss, nip, tug, lick or stroke. He worshipped me, my body, I honestly believe it: he would place my hands above my head, stretching me out so that he could trace every bit of me with his tongue, a hand perhaps skimming my cheek, breast, side or thigh, raising a leg to delight his mouth on the soft skin of my calves, thighs and buttocks.


And he listened – not with his ears alone, but with his whole body: a twitch, a gasp or sigh, a shiver or involuntary move on my part would be read by him and he would tease the spot, apply more pressure, less pressure, search for the point which thrilled me most. He was the first lover I had who really spoiled me, taught me that sex was something to be mutually enjoyed and explored, that there was no set way to do “it.”

He teased horribly, beautifully, running his tongue up my thigh, circling the throb building in my pussy, his cheek brushing my lips, but his tongue never plunging in until the quivers of my anticipation could bear it no more and I shattered at the first delicate flicker. He was the first man to overcome my inhibition, my reluctance to allow such intimacy between a male mouth and my most intimate, private area.


And I loved the marvel of his muscles and sinews, the flex and flow as he moved, rolled, writhed to love me, the fullsomeness of his shaft; the ripe, taut cluster, weighty in my hands, the heaviness poised for silent pump and flooding surge. Uncaring, unthinking, I would take him in my mouth and adore the salty sweetness of the first traces of what he leaked to me as my tongue explored him. He was the first man I took in my mouth and, although, I don’t do it these days, allowed to come in my mouth. I think I even enjoyed the hot globs washing over my throat, the sensation of emptying and stilling this hard, stiff, twitching muscle.


He was gentle in his attention to me, giving his tenderness to express his affection. He would slip between my legs and ease into me in delicious fulfilling culmination of our foreplay. Sometimes he would lie still, deep inside me, kissing and caressing but remaining solid and stationery, the occasional pulsing twitch the only clue to the presence of the strong, still force of contentment fulfilling me. At these times I felt the most loved – no, appreciated – by my lover, by his luxuriating in me, embodied precisely by the long roll and palpable pulse and surge of his coming, when I would cling to him, my whole body clenching and wrapping around him to take him in, completely. Those times seemed like they could and would never end: we seized the moment, made the most of the time together.

I stayed on after my parents returned home. I wrote to Al, confident in myself, now. Feeling I could call the shots, knew what I wanted. I told him I was staying in Spain unless things changed. I was straight, honest, told him I had found someone who was teaching me so much about myself, that he made me laugh, and I didn’t know  how it would all work out. If it would work out

And then Al appeared. Out of the blue. Thank god he found me in the plaza and not entwined with my Spanish lover. Al was frantic, he had raided what savings we had, flew in and trawled the streets until he found me. He begged and pleaded for me to return with him and I caved in again. Probably hoping what I heard about love and a future was true, although I think I knew it wasn’t.

I went back with him. To London. To our fucking basement flat. But it was awful now. My Spanish lover had taught me to expect to be appreciated. He had showed me how a man could make love to me, not just fuck me. He had opened my mind and life to the possibility of new experiences – and I had enjoyed them and wanted more: more experiences, more enjoyment. More men, I suppose. The right men.

Al tried, I think. He never mentioned his fucking freedom thing again and it was kind of perverse that it had all turned round so that Mr Freedom could have his freedom as far as I was concerned and it was me who was wanting to be free of him, free to find my own way.

It was over. And within a few weeks I was gone, neither of us able to hold on to what little was left of what we had lost. And it’s funny that as I write this, I still feel sad and angry, probably more angry than sad. Angry at the waste of it all, angry that all these mind games were played around this freedom thing, which was all such shit anyway, it turned out. And I still miss Al deep down. Miss the laughs and adventures we had and am sad it panned out like it did, with neither of us knowing anything about the other, despite what we had.

So fuck the fourth of May. The force may be with you, but it’s the fucking fourth with me.

Every fucking year.

©Deviant Writers 2018

Money for Nothing… and kicks for free


tumblr_p4x3w4xIqb1x6y305o1_500Ok then. I’ll do it, although I don’t really know where to start. With The Bitch or The Squeeze.

Maybe at the beginning – always seems like the best place to start, though it would be quicker if I started near the end, wouldn’t it?

So I met The Bitch at some mate’s swish party awash with booze, blondes and boob-jobs. I was a bit fitter then – I mean FITTER, not more athletic: I don’t really do sport, unless you count my golf. I call it “wack fuck” on account of my incompetence. I like to score by counting how many balls I lose per hole. That way I can get a hole in none. 

Anyway, she was there, all tits and glitz and I got pissed and then sucked in – literally –  by all the touchy army, fluttery flirtiness, pout and pert and she’s blowing me off in a bedroom and we swap numbers and so my life nearly starts to end. I should have left it as a one night stand, but no, I had to pursue her out of some sense of, o fuck it, I don’t know… doing the right thing, I suppose. Seeing if what we “had” was real, more than a drunken dalliance.

She’s not – was not – beautiful but she knew how to play it. So we date a bit and she gives good head, always comes on loud and energetic and as being mad keen on me although I now think she was more in love with my lifestyle than me. I suppose I fell for the blondeness and her large breasts. I know I’m weak minded but those breasts… I remember the first time we fucked, at her shabby little apartment. The breathtaking moment I freed her breasts from her bra and they sprang out as if overjoyed to be liberated. I loved, was mesmerised, by the expanse of smooth, taut skin skin over which I could roam with fingers, hand and tongue and the fat, large nipples. Succulent, they were. Succulent. Ripe. Begging for me to take them and enjoy them.

It was great. It really was. She moved and pushed against me, her lips soft, yielding and ravenous for me, her tongue greedy, her hands frantic. She guided my head to her breasts and nipples, my hand to her cunt and I felt her moisten to my touch. She wasn’t one for long foreplay though. She manoeuvred me on top of her, reached for me, placed me against her lips and heaved me in. She yelled and groaned, bucked and twisted and I thought it was all me then. Thought it was my skill and passion which turned her on. Which drove us wild so we fucked like rabbits, hard, fast and breathless. Anywhere. Everywhere.

Screen Shot 2015-06-19 at 12.40.16 pm

Until we married. Then things changed. Almost straight away. The things I found attractive I began to find annoying: her being the brash and loud one at parties for example. Fine at her friends but frankly embarrassing at some of my mates. All the drinking, flirting, swearing. No sense of class. I may not have minded but it was incessant and she did fuck-all around the place: never cooked, never cleaned. We had to eat out, have a cleaner. I grumbled and she threw a tanty, wouldn’t have sex, started to  criticise me – maybe fairly, may be not – about my physical appearance and manners, the way I like to do things properly, like the nice things.

We thought our daughter might patch it all up but it made intimacy an even scarcer event.

Anyway, now we really do not like each other:  she thinks I’m fat, unfit and thinks I can’t get it up – which I can’t. For her. But she won’t move out because she likes our house and I won’t move out cos I love what we have made of the house. She likes the lifestyle my work brings us though she still contributes fuck-all toward it. And I don’t want to leave our daughter in her care with all the partying that she likes, the drinking she does and, I’m sure, the men she sees.

Which is where The Squeeze came in. The ex of a mate of mine. Everything The Bitch isn’t. She has class: the way she dresses, carries herself. Her accent. She’s Polish with stupendous legs  and awesome auburn hair. And she knows what she wants and I like that she is so open about it. She does flirt with other fellas, but I don’t mind because she always comes to me and I love the way the blokes all watch her long-limbed, leggy stroll into my office and she ignores the girls. The way she shuts the door carefully and deliberately behind her and sits opposite me with her skirt hitched up so  I can see a hint of lacey undies – and sometimes not, if you get my drift –  although she pretends to be tugging it down.

And she makes me laugh. Really laugh.


She has a wonderful sense of humour: slightly sarcastic, risqué, teasing. All delivered in that sexy accent. Well, it gets me hot and bothered and usually, after she’s been in I need to leave and catch up with her. At her place. And that’s what keeps me sane.

It’s her natural, provocative sensuousness. The way she flows over to me, all long limbs, languid, unhurried. The genuine, warm smile as she loosens my collar, my shirt. Kisses me gently, nothing hurried. Just a deliberate certainty. And she doesn’t like me to hurry: soft and sensual. Slow brushings of her sides, soft searching kisses, hands which lightly find their way to her skin under her blouse or on the back of her thigh. I love the way I can feel a peppering of goosebumps, or the way she arches her neck as I burrow my lips below her auburn locks to reach the soft scent on her neck.

She enchants me. I want nothing more than to worship her, to show I worship her and her body. It’s why I sink to my knees, tracing my tongue from her lips to her throat, cleavage, belly and pussy. I love the feel of her hands on my head, her fingers flexing in my hair as  I delicately, reverentially prize her open with my tongue. I love the tangy, sweet taste and the delicacy of her folds and that her clit is discreet and that she responds to the mild not the maul. I love the trim strip of hair she leaves, the contrast of its rasp to the smooth silkiness my tongue finds between her lips; the way her hips lean, not push, to my mouth. And I love the way she moistens in exquisite elegance: no gushing but a graceful transformation from smooth to slick, her lips’ subtle transformation from firm guardians to soft, billowing welcome.

In bed I relish the way she eases me out of my clothes: she turns it into an art form, her lips barely leaving mine as she eases trousers and jocks down, reaches for me with soft strokes and mild squeezes. Nothing frantic, but soft, thoughtful as if she is crafting a an intricate part of an artwork, a small piece of the whole which requires thoughtfulness and care and force in sophisticated measures.


She exalts in my attention to her breasts: beautiful in their gentle curves and small nipples, she raises them to my mouth, clutches my head to them, holding my mouth in place as I take in each one almost in its entirety and let my tongue wash those dainty buds. Sometimes she stretches full, like a cat, every sinew and tendon tight as she reaches far above her head, points her toes, pulls her skin taut over breasts, stomach, as if imploring caresses, long strokes of hands and tongue.

She is delicious to watch and to touch: the half smile, the glint of white hinted between the soft red of her  slightly parted lips; her eyes closed in demure pleasure, the cascade of red hair beneath the creamy skin of her neck; the long lithe sweep of her body from her chin to her breasts, stomach, hips, thighs, calves and feet. The irresistible urge to kiss her and to feel her stir  in a languorous flow of arms which fold to clasp and legs which unfurl to open, to channel me in.

The long gasping exhalation as we meet and I fall and she rises. And the sinking. The consummate subtlety of smooth slip and slide, the sleek resistance which expands and yields to me. The way she can grip and release me, the way she streams her body to mine, exquisite breasts soft to my chest, hips hard to mine, feet caressing my calves, nails sharp on my back, mouth inquiring on my neck and shoulders, placid hunt for my lips, the completion of the whole with the seal of our lips, the passion of searching tongues, smooth roll of our bodies, and the relentless, sublime drive of our immersion.


And I love  the destruction of what we have so painstakingly created under her finesse. The slow burn and sweep which pervades us, swells us, cripples us and crashes through us in lurching reverberations. The urgency of my submergence matched by the neediness of her thrust, writhe and gulping clench at my rupturous outpouring. The slow subsidence and collapse and lazy talk and touching .


She is what lets me put up with The Bitch – knowing that she can provide the salve and bandage to the wounds.


On the Beach

tumblr_p8lpoqLRWc1tpkyhyo1_500A root to remember, eh?

Well… in the Pilbara in northern Western Australia, bloody hot, worked on a mine site but  it was in the days before the companies flew the workers in and out. Instead we lived in a camp – a small town, really – out in the scrub. Long gone now, nothing left.

We worked hard, 12 hour shifts, but we also knew how to party. If there were enough of us off we might all head for the beach. If you don’t know WA, the beaches are awesome, especially in the Pilbara. They stretch for miles and miles with no one on them. No restrictions, no law – it was an open party place! Also, being the Pilbara, we were a long way from the beach : about 100 kilometres down a bone-rattling dusty track.

And when we got there the beach would hold all sorts of shit from the ocean: rubbish, dead sharks a lot of crap – and far too risky to swim cos of the bloody sharks.

Anyway, a load of us bowled up – a convoy of 20 cars or so one evening. All hot and dusty, quick dip in the shallows then out with the generators to power the fridges. The fridges held all the grog to keep it cool as well as the stuff for the barbecue. We put up tarps, we put down tarps, we put up tents and swags, lit fires, cranked up the ghetto blasters and the hippies cleared off to play guitars. We all got pissed.  Would pack it in with the dawn, sleep in our tents or swags til it got too hot, then we’d get up, cook up and piss off back to town. Good fun.

Well this night I hook up with this fellow; we’re both in good spirits, caught in the mood, both a bit pissed but we end up in my swag and we’re getting all fresh and feisty, I’m well lubed up and ready for the action but he’s having difficulty winching it up – probably the grog. I can’t really blow him as there’s not enough room so I’m trying soft and vigorous strokes to see which works when he tells me to stop, clambers on top and  is kissing me with his old fella dangling down brushing my pussy, just flopping there. He’s kind of stroking me with it.


It’s quite nice in a way and I’m in the mood for having him inside so I’m moving a bit against him while he does the usual stuff: sucking nipples, licking breasts, hand on pussy, moistening whats already wet with a finger. Then I feel it.

His flaccid cock, pendulous when it was knocking at my door, is now stirring and I can feel it on my lips stiffening, almost as if uncoiling.  But what I really like is that as it hardens it is pushing between my lips, opening me up, making its way stealthily in. And it’s fucking gorgeous. Beautiful. Such a turn on feeling this muscle swell and stiffen just about inside me. Finally it sort of leaps to attention right inside me and I come just like that, with the feel of this turgid mass uncurling with a jolt like that.

And cos its a swag  and there are people around we can’t really do much so he starts rooting fiercely and I come again cos he kind of surges in with an upward motion, holds at the deepest point and then slides out almost completely before he does it again and it’s fucking lovely.

I reckon I came three or four times before I felt his pumping waver and then burst inside me.

And it was all a bit drunk and silly but I loved that feel of him swelling and uncoiling into me.

That was good. My root to remember.

On The Buses…


I feel  embarrassed to tell you about this little liaison, not because it happened or even how it happened but because I’m crap at writing and I’m afraid it will sound like a piss-poor attempt at some amateur porn piece for a 1970’s Playboy. But I swear it’s true and all the more memorable for it sounding like, well, a porn piece from a 1970’s Playboy!

I was in England back then, the late 1980’s – all Cindy Lauper and Billy Idol lookalikes (the blokes Billy, the girls Cindy  – even the ones who should not have been wearing the rah-rah skirts – or those tights or leggings combos…), a young bloke  been working here and there for a while, wheeling and dealing, ducking and diving as we used to say and , it’s fair to say, I had a certain way with the girls: I developed a bit of patter, some chat and cheekiness and it got me so far – all the way, sometimes!

My uncle employed me for a while to drive his buses – yeah, yeah, just one bus at a time – which he used to hire out privately for tours – old folks outings to open gardens, school trips and – and this is where I seemed to come into it – hens nights and girls nights out. I’m not sure if I got the girlie gigs because of my stunning good looks and chat or because nobody else wanted to do the late night runs with a load of pissed up girls. I suspect it was the latter.

Anyway, it wasn’t a bad gig for a young bloke, a bit of a pain in the arse having to head count them all onto the bus as we moved from pub to club or whatever and then send someone back in to round up the strays – and then someone else in to round up the one I had first sent in, but we always got there in the end and I was paid by the hour so I didn’t really mind.

I also didn’t mind the attention. It was probably because of my Billy Idol blond, spiky hair or my attitude: I did like to tease the girls a bit, laugh with them over the little dramas of the evening and I always got propositioned. Always. It was flattering but, honestly, I never took any of them up on their offers. If I knew then what I knew now, I might have made the most of all those opportunities but I suppose I felt they were pissed and I shouldn’t act all unprofessional. But it was bizarre: sometimes two or three of them would proposition me together, maybe the female equivalent of  blokes needing mates to bolster up their courage before approaching a girl, or maybe just they needed to affirm their attraction to men. Or giving me back some of the cheek I gave them. I don’t know.

The propositions would be like:

“ I’d like to see how you drive that!” accompanied by a glance at my crotch.

Or: “Can you park your bus in my garage?”

Or: “You deserve something special for your work this evening… can we do anything for you?”

Or, more blatant passes like: “ Where are all the decent blokes?They are all dickheads in the clubs. Why can’t we find a bloke who knows how to treat a girl – like you…”

Or: “What are you doing when you finish?”

You get the drift.

Anyway, there was just the once. I can’t remember now if it was hens night or a girls night out or what but I had taken these girls from pub to pub and club to club and we had got to the last stop – probably the only place in Derby – that’s where we were – still open at that hour. Out they all got almost pouring themselves into the place they were so pissed.

I had noticed a  gorgeous girl among them, but no more than noticed she was hot: blonde hair frizzed up and tumbling down round a pretty face, wide-spaced eyes and a nose which gave her an aristocratic air. She started off the evening quite demure but got steadily rowdier with the others as the evening went on. Maybe she smiled at me at some point – I don’t remember much more than her face, a pair of decent sized breasts and the rah-rah skirt worn with no leggings, for a change. I honestly would not have given her any more than the chat and cheek I doled out to all the girls.

They had teetered into the club, I parked up, had a smoke and then parked myself on the back seat of the bus for a kip. I never heard her come in, no noise or disturbance at all until I become vaguely aware of a fidgeting down by my crotch – and I automatically brushed away the cause of the disturbance – and it’s a hand, but I’m savvy enough not to jump up cos I know what’s going on and am interested to see where it will go. So I pretend to be asleep. I doubt it fooled the owner of the hand at all as she – well, you can guess who it turned out to be, can’t you? –  returned to my fly and slowly unzipped me. A hand gently wormed its way in to my jeans and cupped my cock through my underwear. While still pretending to be half asleep I made little mutterings, mocked up some sleepy twists and turns to lie on my back to  allow easier access for her.

She gently unfastened my jeans, peeling the fronts aside before sliding a small, cold hand under my elastic. The shock of the  chilly fingers nearly made me give my game away, and I still think she knew I was only pretending. If so, she didn’t care. A finger curled under my steadily swelling length to ease him out from his cotton incarceration and she slid another hand in to cup my balls, which she gently squeezed as if kneading them softly with her fingers.

It was only then that I acknowledged her work. Opening my eyes I saw that girl I had noticed earlier looking down at me with that demure smile on her face – almost like that Mona Lisa, a knowing half-smile. A quick, almost imperceptible flick up and down of one eyebrow and she leant down to kiss me  on the lips.

Her mouth was gone from mine even as I parted my lips to pash her. Instead she was down by my cock, her hand pulling tightly down to the base, her mouth poised to envelop me. I’ll be honest, Ive had a few blow jobs in my time but this girl had it down to a fine art.  Her lips only parted when she pushed down on my head. Even then she kept them tight, as she slid down, her lips, elastic and pliable following the contours over my head and rim and down the length of my straining shaft. She sucked in her cheeks on her exquisite travel to the base so a sensation of a silky warm glove would follow close behind the rasp and ripple of her lips. She moved her hand from the base when her lips reached there as I felt my head touch the roof of her mouth or back of her throat, I couldn’t tell. Either way, the touch of moist, warm skin on my head was electrifying, a jolt spasming my cock and forcing a gasp from me. She moved slowly up and down but close to the base, clearly playing on my reaction to titillate me more each time my cocked touched her.

Her other hand, caressed and cajoled my balls, occasionally straying around my buttocks, a finger pressing on my perineum. She replaced  a hand on my shaft as she brought her lips back up toward my head, but this time her hand moved rhythmically up and down, tight, persuasive. She was undoubtedly mimicking the clasp and contraction of a pussy on my cock.

I could feel the tell tale tingle down by my feet, the undeniable announcement of an imminent climax. My hips were rising and falling to the stroke of her hand and mouth but I didn’t want to come in her mouth: I needed to be in her. Deep.

I mumbled something to that effect.

Her response was was immediate but measured: she let her lips trail from my cockhead, stood up from her kneeling position by the seat, rucked up her skirt, swung a leg over me, grasped my cock and guided me to her, before lowering herself onto me.

I can still see her now. Eyes closed, lips parted in a semi-smile of contentment as she rose and fell on me, her hands pressed on my hips to steady herself. Her motion changed from up and down to forward and back which she clearly found more rewarding as small sounds, whimpers mixed with ragged sighs, began burbling from her. Her movements became more rapid, her expression changed to one of gritty determination before her head hung down, her hair tumbling down obscuring her face from me.

I made a feeble attempt to caress her breasts through her top from my prone position,  brushed the cascade of hair away to reach her, tried to bring her mouth to me, but she shook her head, clearly indicating my interference was not necessary. It did not take long before her mumblings and burbling transformed into a shuddered gasp and expletive as she came.

I’ve always found it hard to come when the girl is on top. Don’t know why – it just doesn’t do it for me, like hand jobs, but not blow jobs. Anyway, I took advantage of the lull in proceedings and after some ungraceful rearrangements, she was on the seat, legs up high below my armpits and I was sinking into delicious satin glow.


Well, I’m sorry but I’ve always maintained that a girl’s lips accurately simulate her pussy lips: that plush soft yielding lips at her mouth is an indication of the same ‘down there’ and, similarly, pliant, taut, elastic lips which grip hard and explore will be mirrored at her pussy. I’m not sure if this girl was the source of my as-yet-undisproved theory, but she certainly confirmed it if not.

The sensations she conjured with her lips earlier on my shaft were reproduced now: a slow-yielding tautness as I pushed and slid through a delicious  encompassing ring which seemed to cling to the straining relief of my length. Inside  the soft clench and sublime tightening of a sleek glove around me, a luxurious sensation of firm softness and warmth.

I was raised, braced on my  forearms, exertion tensing my body as I moved inside her. We never kissed: apart from the one light kiss she placed on my lips early on, we never kissed. I felt her legs lock around my chest, I remember seeing her below me, comfortable smile playing on her lips, eyes closed in relaxed contentment. I though was succumbing to the rise and swell of  a burgeoning thrill which crept, then swept, up my legs. She could tell – something in my tension, near-desperation to stave of the gushing finale. She moved, not much. A wriggle of sorts, a slight squeeze, a push into me, a small extra envelopment of me.

And I was gone. A welling, rolling crash as I came, shuddering, struggling to relax before plunge in again for the next heave and surging paroxysm.

And there was no ceremony afterwards either. Some muttered comments about  ‘that’ being good, something witty from me about backseat driving and she was gone. The rest of her crowd meandered back to the bus in due course, a few were missing but none of the girls seemed bothered, all apparently knowing where each was, or if they had gone home. I never did find out my girl’s name, nor saw her again but that encounter I will never forget for its unexpectedness, the bizarreness and the  lack of affection which I have never experienced again when having sex.

That’s my story.


Un D Un Fun (1)


Undulating under me

Unpeeled by lip and tongue

Unctuous and welcoming

Unbridled passion soon to come


Unfettered now by underwear

Unfurled manhood now springs free

Unleashed rises into the air

Undone am !! Woe is me!


Uncurled, now keen and full of glee

Unquestionable lust.

Unswerving, slow, slides in deep

Unbroken, long, smooth thrust


Unrestrained, I’m plunging hard

Unrelenting in my drive

Until a gasp, a groan, a burst and I

Unload deep inside.


Unlocked legs, unclasped hands

Uncoupling gentle, slow

Uninhibited we fall

Untroubled afterglow.


©DeviantWriters 2016