Laundorama – a recollection

LaunderetteI have not been to a launderette for – what? – 30 years? Back then, fresh from home, travelling in a foreign country on my own,  on the cheap, a visit to the launderette was a weekly ritual. I used to make my way on a Monday afternoon from my small bedsit, down the grubby street with the exhaust-belching cars queuing to go nowhere slowly, past the poky pub and dingy servo where I worked, carrying my large carry-all with week’s washing. Monday’s were good: few people chose to do their washing at the start of the week, and even fewer during working hours so I found I had the choice of washers and driers and could read my book while my smalls, skirts and shirts rumbled and tumbled their way through their cycles.

Those machines were so uncomplicated then and, today, sitting in a launderette because my bloody machine picked a fine time to die,  it appears not a lot has changed. The settings are still: ‘Off’, Hot, Warm and Cold’ with a ‘Half Fill’ Option.

The driers are similar: Hot, Warm, Cold air, a few minutes per coin.

It really has not changed. In all that time.  And here I am back in a launderette…

In with the washing, powder, and coins, hit the button and wait, the grumble and tumble, slow slosh and wet wheezes of the machine nearly as mesmeric as the rumbling rotation of my clothes.

And in my mind, I’m back in London… wet afternoon of cursory nods to the handful of regulars wandering in to add to the heat and steam of the sparse, humid room with its bare wooden benches, tatty signs, vandalised soap-vending machines mounted on yellow, tobacco- stained walls chipped and pocked by countless years of weary washers.

Occasionally I chatted with customers – mainly the young men, occasionally single girls, never the mums with their fidgeting kids. I had nothing to say to them nor they to me. Most of the girls looking at me, a stranger in their territory,  were suspicious so conversation would be stilted, along the lines of:

“Where you from then?”


“Oh! It’s hot there innit? Do you have a pet kangaroo? Is it like Neighbours?”

My answers sated their curiosity and the questioning, together with what conversation there was, died.

The boys were different. I was shy, I suppose – well shyer than I am now, anyway, for this was long before I found the need for both the security of a partner as well as the excitement of a lover. Back then I had a boyfriend of sorts in Australia. I could conjure him up whenever I wanted security for myself, or to deter an advance, blame a failed date or opt out of a night’s clubbing. Anyway, these boys were occasionally over cocky and pleased with themselves, their chat, their appalling aftershaves and their spots or were, mostly, shy, too. Unable to generate any sort of talk on their own (and, I suspect, without the self-generating machismo of a gang of mates and a few pints) they had no clue how to address a girl. But through all the mumbled, shifty-eyed ‘Hellos’ and grunts there was one young man who was different, who came in on a steamy-windowed afternoon of murk and mindlessness.

I looked up from my book – probably The Thornbirds –  when the door, forced open by a  large red suitcase under a large black umbrella allowed the damp chill blast of the afternoon to buffet into the launderette.  A head of black, tousled hair and a pair of laughing green eyes emerged from under the umbrella. A clatter and batter of folded, flapping umbrella and those amused eyes scanned the room for an empty machine. He saw me.

“Good weather for ducks!” He grinned

“And penguins…” I replied

A frown at my accent. “Where you from?”

“Australia. Perth.”

“The wild Western third, eh? A sandgroper…”

There was something so refreshing about meeting someone who knew a bit about my home.

“Yeah –   A lot of sand and sharks and I’m not even talking about the oceans!”

He was the only one I went out with on a date in England. We laughed our way through my wash and then his, he chuckling at my Australian sayings – and, yes, I did bung it on a bit to keep his interest, as I suspect he hammed up his delightful, English self-deprecation to keep mine. So we ended up at a pub, all brass and pewter, dominoes and darts, a day or so later and I hadn’t mentioned my sort of boyfriend nor he a girlfriend and we both knew what was going on when he asked to see me home.

“No.” I said. “You can’t come to my place. It’s too small and… just no.”

“Will you see me home, then?” He asked. “It’s an iffy neighbourhood and I could do with an Australian to fend off the baddies…”

“Mmm. Come to Australia,” I quoted from God knows where. “Where men are men and so are the women, eh?”

He laughed at that. “I just thought you’d carry a knife like Crocodile Dundee!” He looked me up and down, puzzled.

“What?” I asked.

“Where would you hide it?”

“Oh I don’t need a knife!” I chuckled, then quoted lyrics from an Australian song popular at the time: “I come from the land down under where women glow and men plunder!”

“Uh-oh! Had I better run, had I better take cover?”

“Am I making you nervous?”

“Are you going to take me in and give me breakfast?”

And I never did mention my sort of boyfriend, not as we hurried through the drizzle, not as we rode in the lift up and up to his small apartment high in a tower block in a neighbouring suburb, not as we looked out over the lights of London from the small balcony, chugging some warm English beer, watching Madonna on MTV, because MTV was so cool and new back then.

And I liked this fella. I liked his cheekiness, the way he didn’t take himself too seriously. He was upbeat, cheery, always seeing the positive, interested in me, in my home. And he didn’t mention Neighbours, kangaroos or sharks once. He did, however, mention the ‘F’ word

“Sorry about the beer. If I’d known you were coming back here I would have brought in Fosters.”

I never, ever see Fosters at home. No one drinks it. Ever.

“Ah. Fosters. Tastes like shit but the English drink it…” I quoted, sort of, from Crocodile Dundee. “Like this beer, really…”

I was only mildly adventurous back then – I am much more so these days, I suppose. Back then it was a big deal to step out of my comfort zone to try the unknown; these days I have more confidence in my self and my choices. When my current lover suggested tying me to the bed and applying various textures to my naked body to see if I could guess what he was caressing me with, I readily agreed, happy to try a new experience. Back then, if my sort of boyfriend had suggested anything like that I would have run a mile, thinking he was kinky and a pervert.

Up in that London apartment that night, though, I was feeling comfortable – not necessarily up for sex, but not ruling out some nookie, either – just interested to see where our ‘association’ would lead.

In his tiny kitchen was a washing machine.

“What’s this doing here?” I blurted out.

“Oh, it’s just been installed today.” He said. “The old one broke, that’s why I was at the launderette.”

He came up behind me, circled an arm around my waist. I found myself leaning back into him.

“And if I hadn’t been to the launderette…” a kiss on my neck. “…well, I wouldn’t have bumped into you…”

“I know – what a location, so romantic” I bunged on a sarcastic, bored voice, joking.

“O I don’t know – we’ve already seen each others smalls, so I guess we’ve shared one intimate experience…”

“…and now you’re suggesting we share another, are you?” I feigned a schoolmistress’s raised eyebrow: I wasn’t going to give in to him that easily. I think I wanted to see how far he would go, if I could outwit this quick wit, make him work hard for me. I don’t know. I guess I was just going with the flow…

“Not at all!” His face registered shock. His eyes twinkled cheekiness. “I was actually going to show you my lovely new machine and its settings…”

“Oh, really?” I laughed. “Well, I’d love to see your lovely, new machine – and its settings!”

“Well – as you see, it’s a front loader – so much easier than a top loader, don’t you think?” He played it beautifully: just enough melodrama so I knew not to take him seriously, just enough seriousness so as not to be a fool. He didn’t wait for an answer. His mouth approached my neck. I tilted my head to let him kiss the skin below my ear. “But just look at all these settings: Easy Care, Baby Care, Skin Care, Delicate, Quick 30, Intense 60, Rinse and Spin, Drip Dry….”

“Very nice!” I joined in the play acting. “What more could a man need? You truly have everything…”

“Shall we try it?”

“YOU can try it,” I laughed. “I’ll watch with interest..”



“Aw.. there’s no fun in that…” HIs hands caressed my waist and hips, his mouth grazed my neck, my jaw line, my cheek. A kiss on the corner of my mouth. “I thought we should try the Easy Care setting…” A kiss, light,  on my lips. I felt mine part in response, felt a small shiver and twinge in my stomach. “Or the Delicate…”

The next kiss was firm on my lips, persuasive and soft, pressuring for a response which I readily gave, feeling my lips soften to his, parting at the first, slight hint of insistence from his tongue.

The twinge in my stomach spread as I turned to him to bring his mouth to mine. I felt a small rash of prickly skin diffuse from hip to waist to the side of my chest under the touch of his hands, my nipples hardening in anticipation.

My hands glided over his chest, unpicked his shirt, found his skin, the taut texture of youth and masculinity, the sinew and muscle. HIs hands paused at the base of my breasts, thumbs poised to skim over my bra.

“Bugger Delicate!” he muttered, his lips millimetres from mine. “Let’s try Intensive 60…”

“Sounds like the perfect setting.” I whispered back.

I thought we would move to his bedroom at that point, but he resumed kissing me, hands, freeing my bra, returning to my breasts to cup them, to comfort my nipples under his thumbs and then to raise my T-shirt over my head. I plucked at his shirt buttons, his waist band, wormed a hand in to feel his weight, the sturdiness burgeoning in the cotton. It was all a bit crazy, really. As happens when you get over excited, when passions and arousal take over and inhibitions are chucked away with the clothing.  Our kisses grew fiercer, our caresses firmer. His mouth found my breasts, his tongue wrapped around my nipples and fingers loosened  and lowered my skirt before sliding under the elastic and exploring the skin of my buttocks and hips. Mine worked his jeans down, stretched the elastic of his pants – a pair of tight whities, as it happens – over the straining tumescence of his erection and cupped his sack, delighting in the rapid wrinkle and shrink as the pair of weighty balls were hauled up into firing position.

There was the inevitable fidget and fumble as he drew my panties down for me to remove and then we were crushed together again, his length hot against my stomach, his chest pumping against my nipples. His lips tugged at the skin of my neck, on my ear, at my throat, before returning as if for nourishment to my mouth. A hand slid down my stomach, shuddering me as it crested my mound, his fingers brushing my lips. I felt my stance shift to let his hand in to ease an ache which had pooled deliciously between my thighs. I sighed and shivered as he ran a finger firmly, gently to split my softness and trail through to the heat and slick waiting for him.

I pulled his face to me, thrust my hips to him, hauled him to me with one hand at the small of his back, raised myself on my toes in an attempt to take him in. But he had other ideas, effortlessly hoisted me onto the washing machine, positioned himself between my legs and eased in.

I love the smooth drive of first entry. When the sheer, blunt inflexibility of engorged veins and muscle peel me apart, relentless in the inexorable slide to fill me like a hand in a glove, but smoother, simpler, more satisfying. I fell against him, my legs around his waist, crossed at his back, pulling him into me, pushing my clit against him when he was at his deepest, gyrating a slow grind. A stabbing thrill convulsed through me. He pulled my head back by my hair, bent to kiss me, my throat, my breast, my nipples as he started a long, deep roll of his hips and buttocks.

I had never been taken like that before. My sort of boyfriend and I had fumbled and explored on beds but had allowed ourselves to be influenced by the inhibitions of inexperience, doing what we knew was ok, was safe, agreeable.  This time, though, the sheer lustful determination of my lover to conjoin with me, to fill me was an arousal in itself. To feel the raw, instinctual buck and thrust of his body flexing, powerful, as he drove into me, withdrew and drove in deeper was heady, invigorating and electrifying. I do not recall any subtlety of sensation, just the whole, the whole carnal, lascivious animal nature of our lovemaking. That’s what made me come. That’s what made him come as I clung to him, trembling and quaking, fulfilled by the bulk of him as he thrust and jerked in my arms, exquisite pulses quenching me deep inside.

“That was more like a Quick 30 !” I whispered.


“You haven’t factored in the Rinse and Spin….come on!”

In the shower he washed me. Delicious silky strokes of warm, soapy water guided over my breasts and hips, between my legs. I, too washed him, loving the anticipation building as I soaped his chest and stomach, slowly easing down to the root of his pendulous cock and sagging balls. I washed off the slick of our combined essences until I felt him stir and stiffen in my hand. I indulged myself in charming the slow lengthening with light strokes of my hand which I curled around his length, a thumb occasionally, thoughtfully, glancing his twitching head as I marvelled at the swell and saturation which stretched his skin tight and smooth.

“Well… looks like the Rinse cycle is complete, now for the Spin.”

He turned me to the glass shower door, pulled my buttocks toward him. I felt the easy fit of my buttocks to his thighs, my lips full and quivering at the probe of his hardness, the nudge and thrust as he found me and pressed in.  One hand clasped a breast, thumb and forefinger rolling a nipple hard between them, the other at my neck, held me to the glass. I shuffled backwards to allow him in deeper, bending as his forcefulness guided my head lower, even as my hands braced myself against the glass.

He took longer to come this time. He thrust hard and fast in me, our skins slapping together as he plunged in, his grip almost painful on my neck. For me, it was not sensual. It was almost brutal although strangely pleasurable being able to push back against his thrusts, to feel his frenzy mounting as I writhed and wriggled my ass to his thrusts. He slapped my buttock. Hard. And again. Both. I cried out at the pain as much as from the indignity but found the heavenly spread and diffusion of the sharp, tangy sting soon mellow into an intense warmth which enthralled me, captivating me in a bizarre contrast of sensations: the brutal and mellow, the hard and soft and – yes, the pain and the pleasure. So when he unceremoniously grabbed both my breasts, pulled me hard against his furious ramming, bent over my back and yelled as he came, it was actually exquisite, magnificent even.

Later, naked in bed, I snuggled against him. I reached for him, idly playing with his petulant length, dragging a finger deep between his legs, tracing the dividing line over the loose sag of his balls.


“Skin Care.”

“What?” I asked.

“Skin Care. That’s the next setting…”

What followed was one of the most sensual of all my experiences. He gently rolled me on to my front, picked his way from my neck to my buttocks. Every. Square. Millimetre. He grasped vertebrae hard between his lips, tugging and twisting the skin. Each one. A nip on my buttocks  intensified the glow blossoming across my body. Down the back of my legs – a giggle as he found that spot behind my knee –  and a stream of succulence over my calves, heels and ankles. He turned my foot to take each toe in this mouth, his tongue enclosing each as if sampling a delicacy. All the time his hands had smoothed and caressed my skin close to his mouth, thumbs sometimes digging in firmly around joints or into muscles. Now he pulled each toe lightly as if extending each joint to the point of separation.

“Roll over.” he commanded softly.

I suppose I expected him to work up my legs to my pussy. It was, in fact,  exhilarating that he did not.  I knew he would get there in the end but in the meantime the anticipation lingered in me, mingling and percolating through me with the blush and flush of his attentions.

He came up to me, kissed my forehead, my nose, lips, chin; small pecks which lightly pulled at my skin leaving small glowing spots wherever he went. He pulled my arms, kissing shoulder, elbow, wrist, taking fingers into his mouth to suck them hard, pulling, as he had done with my toes. The result was my arms feeling light, as if they flowed rather than moved. My fingers felt dexterous and agile, yet languid. It was a beautiful sensation.  His hands continued to stretch my arms, wrist and fingers long after his mouth had left for my breasts and nipples, only leaving their perfected work once he reached my hips and waist.

I felt his breath, his cheek brush my pussy. I felt a delicate kiss on the lips I had exposed so gleefully with a shift of my thighs. I felt his hands slide under my buttocks to raise me to him, but his kisses moved on, plucking at the skin on my thighs at the very edge of my eager lips. Hands glossed over my thighs, calves and ankles, his mouth not far behind. By now my whole body was radiant, glimmering, I was sure, from the invigorating kisses on my skin.

I felt him move, a smooth adjustment as he began his work up my other leg, raising it to elicit a shivering sigh from me as he kissed behind my knee. This time, as he plucked his way up my thigh, I felt a change in his progress. Whereas his kisses and nibbles had been indolent before, now they were purposeful, firm, deliberate. His mouth advanced up my thigh, his hands pushing my knees apart as he demanded more of my skin. When he could go no further he paused, hovering over my pussy, his mouth grazing the light down hair I kept trim there. He breathed a velvet, feathery waft of hot air on my lips. I felt my breath catch – a thrill of anticipation – and then the most delicate touch of his tongue tip, the lightest, almost imperceptible inquiry on my pussy lips divide. I sobbed. Seriously! It wasn’t a groan or moan. It was something more anguished, sharper, pleading.



His tongue, pliable in its probing, touched me again, moving thinly between my lips,  pressuring here, sliding there as if looking for a weakness in my defences. I felt myself peel open, my lips puffing and swelling to welcome him in to explore me, greeting the chill of his fleshy tip as it flicked up toward my clit. He circled it, withdrew and recommenced his long succulent quest again, from the lowest point, lips tugging at mine, at the smooth slick folds, luxuriating, as was I, in what he found. I felt the long deep probe into me, the circling motion as he savoured me. I felt his lips expand to cover me, to seal in the hot breath he exhaled. I felt the drag of his tongue tip as he relished the short, luscious journey back to my clit, circling it, flicking it and, finally, seizing it between his lips and tugging it tenderly away before releasing it.

I was writhing gently to his touch by now. My hips rose and fell on the bed in time to his movements. My hands, still light as gossamer after his massage, rippled down to his head to hold him there.

“Don’t stop!” I murmured. “Don’t stop…”

It was delectable. The rasp and jab, the tickle and flicker, the long, slow sweeps and deep, delving dives, the roll and fold of his tongue. There was no hurry; just a complete absorption, an adoration and desire by him to please me, to pleasure me to the exclusion of all else. He felt me shake and tremble, slowed down his movements, making them more sensual, less sexual and so, although delaying my orgasm, he intensified it when it did come. And he engineered that, too: responding to intensity in my movements, he intensified his by tugging more passionately on my clit, stroking more sultry. His tongue worked its wanton ways, sealed in by his mouth enveloping my mons. And he held me there as he felt my build-up, my crescendo and crash, refusing to break the seal, to cease his tongue’s efforts as I thrashed and bucked below him.

“Drip Dry. It’s time for Drip Dry” I wish I had thought of saying it then!

I awoke first. A dull dawn glowered through the curtains. He was asleep, but I never sleep well in a strange bed. There were times when I would have left after a one night stand. You know: we had fun, we fucked. Goodbye.

I thought about it that morning, too. And I don’t know why I didn’t get up and go. I was tired in a satisfied, fulfilled way, but to have left would have been, I don’t know…incomplete. Part of me thought about my sort of boyfriend but, strangely, I did not feel guilty. The opposite, in fact. I felt invigorated in my self justification: it was fun, it felt right and I did not regret it.

One. Little. Bit.

And if I left, I thought, this silly English boy might think I did regret it, that I didn’t care.



He stirred, rolled onto his back. I slid a hand under the covers, over his thigh and found him, flaccid and useless in my hands. I wriggled under the covers myself brought my mouth to him, subsumed him, sucked gently, conflating my cheeks to feel his length in my mouth. I cupped his balls, massaging them gently in my hand as I slid my lips up and down his length.

A spark. A twitch. A groan. The first signs of awakening, the kindling. A hand resting on my head, stroking. I felt again the swollen fattening and expansion, the steady elevation from repose to intensity, the  appearance of the veins running in gleaming glory up to the soft-hard purpling head.

“Morning!” I purred – well, I like to think I did! “I don’t know what setting this is, but I think you should try a top loader…”

And I moved over him, sat astride him and took him into me once more, moving my clit against his pubic bone as I relished his filling me again.

“Top loaders  have a central shaft which rotates …” I twisted on him from side to side “…make a lot of noise with all the sloshing…” I slid up and down him, clenched him, heard  another moan … “see what I mean about the noise? But I like the results: I always feel top loading does a better job.”

I could feel him start to buck underneath me so clenched him in time to his thrusts.

“There are not so many fancy settings…” I gasped “…only full load and half load…” I was rocking on him now, forward and back, forward and back “…and an Off button; I don’t think we’ll use that, will we?”  He shook his head, let out a strangled wail.

“…and it makes a terrible racket when emptying…”

©DeviantWriters 2018


Appreciation (or Walking the Dog)


A few times in my life it has happened.  That little bolt out of the blue, the little thrill when I’ve recognised that someone else has seen in me what I have seen in them: The Possibility. Nothing more than that. But it’s enough, isn’t it?

It’s enough to force that instant decision – do I run with this, or do I kill it? – to control, or not, those involuntary signals, those silly gestures which indicate interest, availability. (My give-away weakness has always been the hair push: when I  tidy my hair away behind an ear.) I know it but I just can’t help it: an attractive man, someone who has stirred my interest – is maybe flirting with me nicely – however hard I try not too show too much interest, I push that hair back and I just know it has signalled my attraction. I cannot explain why. Am I sending a demure, coy, little-girl-lost vibe? I really don’t know. But it just seems to spur a man on.

And so I’m walking the dog under a glowering mackerel sky, flat, black underbellies of clouds threatening to break the humidity with a monsoonal downpour. The light meringue of the clouds’ upper surfaces reflect a pinkish tinge of the sinking sun. And I am too busy looking up to notice that my dog, Daisy, has spotted a small ball-fetching terrier way across the playing fields and has set off at a gentle lope, belly low to the ground in a bid to remain undetected before her intended ambush. She fails, of course.

And there am I, all track pants and sloppy t-shirt, hair straggled up in a hastily placed comb, no make-up on my face but grotty boots on my feet, huffing and puffing my way over to intercept Daisy in case her target happens to be aggressive.

He isn’t. And neither is his owner. In fact Daisy, who is usually scared of birds, kids, bikes, cars, leaves, dogs and balls, trots straight over to him and sits right next to him, leaning in to him for all the world as if she is his. He is crouching down, scratching her behind the ears, using a ball thrower to scratch her butt, just above the tail. She is very happy.

His dog is sniffing her cautiously: first at the nose, then the tummy, and then of course at the butt. Daisy stays firmly rooted on her butt.

“Wise dog…” he chuckles. “She knows how to avoid being importuned!”

I laugh. We watch the dogs. His is determined to get a sniff of Daisy’s butt, forcing Daisy to pirouette several times. His dog, Max, keeps thrusting his butt in her face.

“God I’m glad humans don’t have to indulge in butt sniffing to get to know each other!” He says.

“Imagine having a stranger’s butt shoved in your face as an invitation to a play date!”

And before I can stop myself: “Oh I don’t know – I’ve had that happen to me….”

I haven’t of course – well not by a stranger, nor as an invitation to a play date. It just seemed like a funny thing to say. He thought so, evidently, for he laughed a warm , genuine chuckle which lit his blue eyes.

“And how was that play date?” he laughed.

“O we won’t go there, definitely won’t go there!” And that hand pushes that fucking hair, which isn’t even there because I slopped it into the comb at the back of my head, behind my ear and I feel myself flush and I realise I like this man although I don’t even know him.

The dogs chased each other around the playing field, never far from us, occasionally tearing in between us, threatening to cannon into one or other of us. And we just laughed. Laughed at the dogs’ antics, at the banter which, although the usual adult stuff about kids, ages, trials and tribulations, he managed to make amusing.

And he seemed interested in me, where I was from, why I was here at the other side of the world from my home in Wisconsin. I found myself opening up to him about my life – why not?

“I have four children,” I tell him.

“You’re a brave girl,” – ‘Girl:’ I liked that – he smiled. “Or foolish!”

“Oh it took me a while to figure out what caused them!” That hair push again, goddam it.

“Red wine and chocolates, of course!” he laughed. “Bet you found once you laid of those, the babies stopped coming!”

And we’re still talking in the dark, the dogs still racing around. Our kids, their ages, which are at home, which have left. My late husband, raising four children while working

“You had four under four? And were working?” he confirms. “That would have been a challenge.”

And I like that understatement. I like that he doesn’t pour effusive sympathy on me for my situation of nearly two decades ago. I like him. I like that he is well dressed – from an office, I suppose judging by the dark pants and pastel shirt. The shirt is open at the collar and I can see a light froth of pale hair brimming by the buttons. I also like the way he smiles and keeps looking at my lips as I speak.

Max tries to roger Daisy:

“Well he has had his pockets picked…” he smiles.

Daisy lays on her back, legs in air while Max stands near by:

“Daisy!” he exclaims. “That’s a very unlady-like pose!”

It’s all light fun. I like it – it’s what I need right now at the end of the day, at the end of the week.

“I guess we need to split up these two,” I say, indicating the dogs now rolling on each other. Daisy gets her legs under Max and flips him into the air. He lands on his feet and bounds in for more.

I don’t really want to go.

“I’m here at this time most Fridays from 6.00 or so…” Does he want to see me again despite my scruffiness, or perhaps because of it? “My daughter trains over there…” a gesture toward floodlights at the far end of the fields where a crowd of kids are running helter-skelter on some courts.

“I’ll be here then.” I hear myself say.

“That’ll be good. I’ll look forward to that.” Genuine, matter of fact. He IS looking forward to seeing me again. I can’t see him in the dark, but I know he’s looking at me.

That bloody hair push again. “Me too.” I say before I can stop myself. Because I am looking forward to seeing him again.



It’s so silly, isn’t it? I go to work, cook for the boys, walk Daisy just as I have done for years. Yet I’m buoyed in my chores by the prospect of seeing him next Friday. I’m wanting to hear more about him, see if he really is interested in me and, if he is, how he will go about pursuing me – seducing me, maybe.

All those silly teenage dilemmas now pester me throughout my days: should I show him I’m keen? No, no, no: what if he isn’t interested at all?

Should I  play hard to get?  Well that might put him off…

What should I wear? Too scruffy and he’ll think I don’t care, too smart and he’ll think I’m coming on too strong.

Should I make sure he’s there before I come on to the fields? Yes – it wouldn’t do to have him think I’ve been waiting for him, that I’m THAT keen.

I have to hit the right balance, leave lee-way to manoeuvre to coax his interest – or to back away.

Is he thinking of me – I think he probably is. What does he expect of me, of whatever form our relationship takes – assuming, that is, that there is any sort of relationship.

And it’s a Friday evening of long shadows, weak sunlight and wavering expectations and he’s there, Max racing across the fields after the ball he has let loose from the ball thrower. He sees me as soon as I step out from the trees. Turns toward me, his pace now deliberate where it was just vague. I can sense his smile in his walk, in the hand raised in greeting.

And I’m smiling too although I’m forcing control of my pace so as not to seem too keen.

It’s jeans and t-shirt for me today. Nice fitting, clean jeans which, I fancy, show off my legs and bottom well: I think I’ve aged quite well, all things considered. My hair, thoroughly brushed, is in a purposeful ponytail pulled back – but not too tight – into a clip. I applied subtle makeup just, you know, to smooth out, as they say in the ads ‘the perception of wrinkles’ and to make my eyes slightly bigger, sexier maybe. My lipstick, too has been sparingly applied.

I see he has also made an effort to impress: drainpipe jeans, smart clean boots, an open-necked, pastel-mauve shirt. Smart but perfectly suited for a casual walk in the park where you might – or might not – meet a girl you fancy.

“Well hello!” He’s beaming. He is so glad I did actually come along this evening. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again all week: I want to hear the next instalment -“How an American Girl ended up…. in this place.” He gestures wide at the empty playing fields, the cluster of houses hunkered down behind the drab colour bond fencing, the ratty trees dotted along the edges, the courts at the far end.

He turns back to me, takes both my hands, leans in to kiss me right on the corner of my lips, first one side, then the other. Nothing rushed, nothing shy. It’s just what he did. And it was lovely. The natural, welcoming confidence, the pleasure at seeing me, the contentment at showing me just that.

“You look lovely.”

“You’re not looking too bad yourself,” I murmur. That hair push again and I see he has noted it, is smiling directly into my eyes.

“Let’s walk.”

It’s warm, slight humidity dispelled by a light breeze bringing with it a hint of salt and seaweed from the ocean. The dogs caper around taking it in turns to chase each other in wide, gleeful circles, rolling each other. And we meander around the fields telling of lives and loves long past, of hopes for the future.

“Do you want to love again?” he asks at some point.

“I don’t know. Yes, maybe, with the right man. I don’t know… it’s been so long…”

“So long since what?” It’s asked gently but we know, I know, the answer could open or close all our opportunities.

“Since my husband died. Since I had time to think of love as a feature in my life.” A pause. “Since I had a lover.”

“Do you miss that?”

“ A lover? Yes, I think so. I like having a man around, but I like my own space, too. It’s companionship I miss, I suppose. Someone to share things with, make plans with. But then sometimes it’s nice to just to go to bed with someone you like, share the time, the moment. Celebrate it, even, but leave it there when it should be left, not force a continuation beyond that moment. Just to have someone to appreciate it.”

“To appreciate you.”  It’s  a statement, not a question.

“Yes.” I murmur. “ And to show his appreciation. Of me.”

We walked on in silence for a moment or two. Each, I am sure, conscious of our proximity to each other, the near brush of hands, of bodies, as we walked, of the seed of our conversation now falling slowly through the air, waiting for one of us to catch it, nurture, help it grow.  It crossed my mind that I had said too much, been too open about my thoughts, my mindset. Why had I done that? Why? But I knew why: because it seemed right, natural, to speak to a confidante, someone I felt I could trust.

It was not then that I knew he would become my lover. It wasn’t even when he took my hand,  turned me to him and kissed me lightly on the lips. Nor was it when I found my hands placed on his waist, my hips leaning in to him.

“You must need to go pick up your daughter.” Why, o why did I say that? It wasn’t meant as a test, certainly not a rejection. Maybe I was just trying to buy time, get my thoughts together about what, if anything I wanted from him, although I think I already knew.

“She’s not training tonight.”

“Oh…then why are you here?” As if I don’t know.

“Last week… I had to see you again. I felt, I don’t know, we both felt something – and here we are. I can’t ignore those feelings and live to regret what not knowing what could have been.”

“Following instincts, eh?”

I sensed the smile in the gloom. “A bit like those dogs… but much nicer!”

“Are you putting your butt in my face, sir?”

“In a metaphorical way, yes ma’am. Are you going to sit firmly on your butt in case you’re importuned?”

I laughed at that. “And what do your ‘instincts’ tell you right now, sir?”

He looked away from me for a second before turning to look at the dogs who were back rolling on the ground, each nuzzling the other’s neck. He looked back at me. All cheeky smile and raised eyebrow.

“Why ma’am. I’d like to show you my appreciation of you…”

Maybe it was then that I decided, or maybe I never did decide. Maybe I just went with the flow, followed my instincts and lived in the moment. For it felt exactly right that we should turn and walk hand in hand back across the playing-fields, talking about God knows what, because I cannot remember now.

It felt completely as it should be when we walked together up to my door and he paused while I fumble-found the keys, unlocked the door and let him in.

We laughed as we sorted out the dogs, making comments about how they should do as we say and not as we were about to do – then left the two of them in the kitchen while we went upstairs.


There was no fumbling, awkward moment while each waited for the other to take the lead. He was there, unhurried, natural, hot breathy kisses on my neck, hands caressing my stomach, pulling me to him, his body pressing firm behind me. He slowly turned me to kiss me full on the mouth, a delicious kiss of meaning and purpose, a kiss which spoke of passion and emotion, of need and desire, of hunger. And I responded, pulling him to me, gulping in his kisses using my tongue to detect the texture of his, of his mouth, his lips.

I loved that he took charge – not in a dominating, commanding way, but in a manner that spoke of confidence and surety, of mindfulness and care. For his movements and strokes were devoted to me, a flow of gentle firmness clearly designed to thrill me and awake my senses. The deep, luscious kisses, the pluck of skin and caress of kisses on my neck and throat, the slow, sure stroke of his hands on my hips, sides and waist.

He knew exactly when to ease my t-shirt over my head, when to leave me to unbutton his shirt, to loosen his belt, unfasten his pants. He clutched me to him with one arm, trailing glazing kisses from my throat to my breasts while his other hand freed my bra.

On the bed he lay to one side, placing his lips lightly to my eyes, nose, mouth, ears while his fingers scored innervating pathways along my sides, tracing ribs, dwelling long enough in my belly button to send shivers through me, which he felt, laughed at – and then repeated.

I remember wondering why he hesitated to smooth my breasts, for his fingers would glance to the base, his hands extended as if to cup and cosset them only to retreat steadily to my waist, where a finger would leisurely trail under my jeans, lightly tickling the down of my pubic hair. It was intensely erotic and sensual – the slow, steady, innervations of my skin, my body and my mind.

With just the mere suggestion of attention to my intimate, sensitive areas, he raised my anticipation: I felt my back arch to present my aching breasts to him, with their hard, tingling nipples yearning for a touch of thumb or tongue. I felt my hips rise in silent communication to remove my jeans and move his hand to the pool of heat and moistness between my thighs.

And he knew it. For as I moved to his touches, so his kisses and caresses grew firmer, more intense, his tongue more tactile in its pressures and probings. He drew the blade of his tongue slowly over the rash of goosebumps which had sprung up on my sides, working at them as if spreading them across my front to my breasts inch by inch. He spread them across to  thrill between my hips, one hand brushing the side of a breast the other deftly popping the button on my jeans.

He paused then to ease the garment  down my legs and away, turning back to me with a look of both adoration and hunger in his eyes. He leant over me.

“Your beautiful.” He murmured. “Quite beautiful.”

I pulled him to me, rippling against his body, savouring the texture of muscle and sinew, his heat.

“So you do appreciate me?” I murmured back.

“I’ve only just started to show my appreciation, ma’am!” He whispered in my ear, before tugging at my earlobe.

“I can barely wait for you to show me…”

That is when he slid a hand under me, raised my chest and enveloped my breast with his mouth, a rush of air and smooth silken warmth, the rasp of his tongue on my agonised nipple. He moved to the other with the same urgency, forcing from me a gasp and shudder. After the initial surprise and forcefulness of his attentiveness to my breasts, he eased the pace, drawing trails with his tongue from base to nipple, sampling the compact crinkles between soft lips and rolling tongue.

He would return to my mouth as if to reassure me of his adoration – his appreciation, even! – before working back down to my breasts. I didn’t even notice the hand he slid under my bottom, the one with which he raised my buttocks off the bed to pull my panties down and away.

I did notice the delicious, fluid skate of his hand up my inner calves to my thigh, the way he eased my legs to part as he skimmed my skin, wafting upward, upward toward the ache I yearned to be soothed. And all the time he kissed my breasts, my mouth and neck, the hand at my back now pulling gently on my hair to arch my neck, exposing it more to the nips and nibbles of his lips.

Once more I could feel my body move, a rippling, writhing desire for more, more what? Attention, pleasure, titillation? All? His hand skirted my pussy, a skirr of something solid brushing against soft hair, a light scratch of nail by buttock crease, the hint of a finger trailing between eager lips.

I raised my hips to push the throbbing into his hand, for him to ease the blaze, a pathetic whimper escaping from me as he gently cupped me and eased me down, holding me there. A second or two while he let me absorb the sensation of his hand, firm over my mons, a finger lazing against my lips. A second or two in which anguish and anticipation combined and rose inside me so that when he crashed his mouth to mine and trailed his finger between my lips, peeling them apart to slide between slick folds, dipping in deep, deep while his thumb circled, found and grazed my clit, I came.

A great rolling shudder, a heaving tension and shattering release of pent up energy and emotion, longed-for passion swept through me, my cry muffled and swallowed and lost in his mouth as he clamped to me as if feeling my pain and ecstasy, as if helping me express it through each shiver which wracked me.

I reached for him then, my hand snaking over the hairs on his chest, over the plain of his stomach, squirrelling into his waistband to clasp the mass of taut veins and muscles which strained there. I heard his murmured groan, felt him shift to allow me  to easier  hold him, to slip and trip along his length, to adore the texture of  vessels engorged, to feel the pulse of the latent energy distended and tautened for its purpose. I felt the tight, crinkled cluster at the base and the smooth tip, drawing my finger over the small slit which would release so much for us. 

I felt him tense and withdraw from me, which only made me determined to luxuriate in my new found control. Sliding my hand’s firm grasp up and down, up and down, I heard the staggered gasp just before he took my hand from him, placing it firmly on the bed by my ear.

Wordlessly, he slid down, positioning himself as I let me legs fall apart to receive him. I was ready for him, to take his length and muscle. He, I knew, was ready for me. But he dipped his head to breathe on my pussy, extending his tongue gently to part my lips before cupping my mons in his hungry, hot mouth. He held me there while his tongue swirled and grazed in me, rousing in me  fabulous trembling as he searched and found my clit once more, circled it, flickered it and then drew the flat of his tongue from the lowest extreme of my pussy  back up to that exquisite spot.

Like before, as he detected my heightened thrill he adjusted the pressure and pace until I could only buck and twist in my effort to take in more of him, his pressure and pleasure. I ground my pussy to his mouth, my hands pulling his head to me as his mouth, lips and tongue worked in a frenzy. His own hands clasped my waist to pull me to him, circled beneath me to raise me to his mouth until he broke me, broke me by holding me firmly in his crushing mouth while his tongue stabbed and jabbed  at my clit.

Then he came to me, eased his way up my trembling body, scooped his hands under my back to raise my breasts to his lips, arched my neck with a gentle pull on my hair then sought my mouth with his as I felt his hips settle between my thighs, the rigidity of him resting, as if poised on the cushion of my lips.

It took the just the slightest movement by myself – a roll of the hips a fluid disintegration of whatever control I had left – to have him fall into me and begin a deep, slow, driving penetration into my depths. As he eased in, his sigh, verging on a groan, mingled with my shuddering gasp and I reach for him, my legs crossing his back, arms his shoulders, as I drew him in to me to hold him and all he had to give to me.

Everything in his slow, luscious movement inside me signified a passion. The ripple of his skin, the crush of his chest on my breasts, the sumptuous roll of his hips and the tautening and relaxation of his buttocks as he withdrew then returned to steep his length in me once more, the strain and heavy hardness of him coming to a halt against my clit, yet pushing for more of me, of my depth.

My hands skimmed over the sweat and bulk of his back, revelling in the evidence of his exertion, to satisfy me. I loved the way his stomach and chest,  greased by the perspiration of his effort, slid frictionless over mine, a heavenly sensuous slide and slither of our bodies annulling any sense that we could be two separate entities engaged in the one activity. Oh no. We really were as one in movement and breath, in the entwining of our tongues, the mingling of our breath and the mixing of the fluids which I could feel trickle divinely from me with each of his withdrawals.

We didn’t cum together, possibly because I had already cum twice. And I’m glad. Because I was not lost in my own ecstasy but was fully aware of the catch in his breath, the new tension which seeped into his movements, the urgency quickly applied to his slow plunges, which now morphed into heavy, throbbing thrusts. I was able to feel the final buckle, as he pushed in one last time, crashing against my clit and holding there as he gasped and moaned, bucked, convulsed. I swear I could feel the globular pulse of his cumming, sense – almost hear – the wash of him inside me, its warmth spreading and seeking its seedbed. As he withdrew to cum again, I urged him in, urged him to spill all he could into me, give me all he had to give.

His palpitations weakened and died as he continued to move inside me. Although the edge and desperation of his earlier impulsion had vanished,  he still pushed hard, writhing against my clit until I came in a single, mellow shudder holding him to me in a sort of gratitude for everything: his effort, my pleasure, his selfless giving of himself to me, for me.

We lay together for a while, heaving breath slowly subsiding. I felt him wilt inside, pulled him to me  to keep him in place, but the combination of weight and exhaustion defeated us and he raised up and slid out, a  bizarrely gratifying cascade of juices flowing out of me as he left me.

“Is that how you go around appreciating someone?” I asked. I stroked his cheek, smiling cheekily at him.

He laughed quietly. “Aren’t you glad we lived for the moment? Discovered what we may so easily have missed? ”

“Yes. I would have hated to have missed that.”

“it would have tortured me forever to wonder what it would have been like with you.”

“Really? But you hardly know me…”

“And that’s the point. If you wait too long to fulfil certain conditions, you may well miss what you want. Sometimes you have to take the chance, go with flow, follow your gut… or miss out on some of the most beautiful things life has to offer.”

“Like me?”

“Like you. And making love to you. Yes.”

“You’re quite the philosopher, aren’t you, sir?”

“I’m glad you appreciate that, ma’am….and on the subject of appreciation…” he chuckled mischievously, kissing me on the lips and reaching for me again.





O you come to me with sleek, taut skin

Flexing muscle and sinew as you move in.

The glistening sweat, the confirmation

Of selfless attention and dedication


To disseminate to me the lust and desire

Driving your sole purpose as my man, my sire.

Diffuse we merge, both fluid yet bound:

Density, intensity, emotions profound.


But now cast adrift, naked, alone

My mind tortured by raw passion shown,

Agonised now thinking of you with her

How you cannot reconstruct the way we were.


How you cannot transmit in your soft, firm kiss

The passion and adoration, the creation of bliss.

How the gloss of your stroke, the sensuous leisure

Cannot be cloned to give her the pleasure


With which you adorn me, searching lips and fingers –

My breasts and thighs, your mouth which lingers –

To infuse me, defuse me, with your body’s crush

Suffusing my skin to glow and flush.



Do you cover her with crash and paw?

Pursuing selfish fulfilment, brash climax, I’m sure

As you gloss breasts and lips with kisses token

And total lack of passions unspoken;


Functional act to meet her body’s needs

There to prepare her to receive your seeds

An animal act of procreation

Devoid of our shared passions and unbound elations.


Or with her, do you, as with me taste her nipples

Let your hand part her thighs til her body ripples

Under the light touch on her pussy lips

Guiding her buttocks to raise her hips?


Do you make her cum, too, with light touches on clit?

Or do you finger her roughly til you’ve greased her slit –

Then mount her and thrust til in her you pour

Then, withered, withdraw now you’ve completed your chore?


Or do you, like with me, take your time to delight

By caressing my lips and my clit just right

While massaging my breast and nipple with thumb

Imparting passion with kisses until I cum?


Then taking your mouth to tantalise

The throb of my heat with nips on my thighs

Before enrapturing my all with long strokes of tongue’s blade

No resistance, just persistence and my climactic cascade.


Then the glide and the slide, body rises to cover

My rapture and weakness as I clasp my lover

And flow apart to greet you, receive you, subsume

Your sinews, your muscles, your pulse to consume.


To feel your weight on my breasts, your force ‘gainst my thighs

The smooth drive in, your shuddering sighs

And the flex and the tension as you thrust with your all

Pressure on clit with plunge after withdrawal.


Feeling buttocks soften then crease with passion of lunge

My hips rising and falling in time to your plunge

Legs rising and wrapping, arms binding embrace

Languorous pulsation now gaining in pace


Til the roll of the ocean yields to ripple of tide

And the pulse of its break as it crashes inside

And I sense the throb of your burst and spill

Unfettered release which wracks us ‘til


Drenched, exhausted, motions slow then still

Lethargy creeps to steal the thrill

Which shattered and wrecked us, spent and burned

Bed wrecked and soaking – we’re unconcerned




But I want to know, when you’ve shot your load

Do you get up and leave her to ‘hit the road?’

Or do you rest your head on her breast, a hand caressing her side

While you murmur, as you do to me, and little things confide?


I love the hazy hands which track and trace

And our fingers which meet and interlace

I love the wilted withdrawal, the dribble and mush

And your sagging balls and their weighty brush.


For then you’ve given me all, no more to dispense

And I hold you tight, and we both sense

That there’s more to our lovemaking than physical action

That we’ve consummated passionate attraction.


When you’re with her I cannot bear to think

That with passion into her you sink

Or with anything more affectionate than animal grunt

You pour your semen into her gawping cunt


Or that anything – anything – could compare

With the ecstasy and desire which we share

Or for her more than me you could possibly care

Or tell me what we have is just an affair.

©Deviant Writers 2018



As he stoops to kiss,
Will you feel the bliss
Of my lips against your lips?
Will my name
Start the flame
Which gently moves your hips?

Will you miss the slide
Of my hand’s guide,
The stirring of your skin?
Will his kisses stir you,
Blur you, spur you,
Melt you from within?

Will you compare
Brush of hair
Satin on your breast
Or the thrill
Which I instil,
Lust and passion expressed

Does he have my art,
At the start,
With tongue which dives and dips?
Or do I excel
In weaving a spell
With fingers, hands and lips?

And is he tender –
Do you surrender? –
As thighs are soothed and stroked?
Or do I eclipse
His use of lips
To make your pussy soaked.

20150624_223741000_iOSWith little haste
I love to trace
Your textures, soft and lush,
To hold you firm,
As you squirm,
Mouth on clit to crush.

But does he smash,
Frantic, brash
To guzzle, suck and lick
Or take his time
With strokes sublime
To stroke and probe and flick?

Do you succumb –
Do you cum -?
Is it me you think is there
As you bend and thrash,
Before you crash
Your fingers in my hair.

Does he take you rough,
All grunt and gruff?
No preamble, furious, fast
Or do you yearn,
For my cool, slow burn
Sensuous in contrast.

IMG_7127Do you like the plunge, 
The muscular lunge
The shake and quake and quiver
The lust and greed,
Delirious need
Urgency to deliver.

Do you feel you must
Rise and thrust,
Hips writhe and fall, gyrating
Both entwined,
Raw, brash grind
Bestial, wanton mating.

Or in the throes,
Do your eyes close
And you wish for something slow?
Erotic pleasure
Delivered at leisure
A lush and sensual glow.

Long slow glide
As I slide inside
‘Tween luscious lips now peeled
Each held tight
In rich delight
Wrapped and wracked and sealed.

Are you thrilled – 20160326_233659000_ios
Do you feel fulfilled? –
As we surge and then subside
Ebb and flow,
Sumptuous, slow
Awash on a rising tide.




And do you divine
The telltale sign,
Shudder, anticipation?
Cemented, tormented,
Senses augmented
Waves of palpitation.

We meld and merge,
Pulsing surge
Where hard and soft unite
To fuse and pool,
Sexual fuel
Inflaming our delight

We feel it creep,
Trickle and seep
Muscles tense and ache
A stealthy wave,
What we crave
The storm about to break

The anguished plight
Of our delight
Concentrates then crashing
Gasping, convulsing,
Pouring, pulsing
Pumping, flooding, splashing

20150428_215201000_ios-copyThere’s no pretence,
The collapse intense
Both shattered, battered, shaken
‘Til thrusts are weak,
The gush but a leak
Urgency foresaken

So do I give you cause
To take a pause
With passion red and raw,
To reflect and ponder,
Let your mind wander
How I make your senses soar

Or do you have a need
To receive the seed
In styles to suit your mood:
Daring, caring,
Selfless, sharing
Or crass and brash and lewd

I like the mild
To froth to wild
Your senses to kindle and flare,
To be the sire
Of your desire
Lush seed bed to prepare.

When he stoops to kiss
And you feel the bliss
Rising, escalating
Is it me you crave,
The rolling wave
Of deliverance and liberation?


©DeviantWriters 2018



By Now, Bye Now

It’s ‘That Time’ – when we would have had, by now, some bubbles and nibbles … kissed… your face upturned to mine, lips parted, eyes closed…

We might have loosened some clothing, my pants, your bra. You would have felt my weightiness through my pants, guessed the colour of my jocks. If I was already firm, you might have looked up at me cheekily, quizzically, lowered my pants to release that eager inflexibility. You could have taken me in your mouth – that exquisite slithering suction, your tongue tracing my turgidity, flicking in quick strokes my length and head.

I would have been caressing your full breasts, adoring the curve and firmness, rolling your restive nipples between my fingers.

Soon we would have been in bed, crushing kisses, tongues deep, eager in the warmth and moist penetration, the precursor of the immersion to come.

I would have kissed your neck, by now, loving the way you yielded your skin to my lips with a tilt of your head, grinning as I tugged at a lobe or teased and tickled with a tongue flick into your ear.

I would have thrilled to your touch, the distracted abstract of your hand gliding over my neck, back and buttocks, the distinct scrape of a hard nipple in my chest hair as I moved across your breasts, all part of my attempt to thrill you – that’s why my foot caressed your leg, stroking your calves and feet – I wanted your body, your skin, tingled and stirred, nerves and chemicals running through you to create the delicious unstoppable desire to pool below your waist in throbs and shivers.

I like to think I can tell. Tell by the pressure of my hand parting your thighs. Tell by the soft surrender, the willing shift of your hip that you want me there soothing, at first, with palm-cupped pressure and then tracing and easing the soft lips apart.

I would have allowed my finger to trail, detecting the seep and slick which welcomes my intrusion. I would have guided and painted this gorgeous grease along the skin and membrane, slowly coating you, a long slow preparation for the long slow penetration which will come, will come in time.

But not yet.

Not yet.

Because there is more to be enjoyed by us both before that irreversible charge to climax. More anticipation to be packed and stored , prepared for the final burst and gush.

So I would have taken my time, delighting in the expanse of slick now finger-smeared over your lips, gloating – yes, gloating – as I feel you move, hear you sigh to the touch of my finger on your clit. Gloating because I knew it was I causing this involuntary reaction to the pleasure of gentle rub, soft roll on this beautiful, erotic part of your body.

I would have reacted to your moves and groans, the rise of your hips in that rolling, fluid move which suggests you hunger for more than the small attention of a wandering finger, that you crave a fulfilment which only thick, peeling penetration can give you.

But not yet.

Not yet.

Although I would have been ready, although my straining length, my tight coiled, full balls would have willingly submerge in you to thrust and pump and pour into you, I would have wanted you to have more than that. When I do finally burst in agonised bliss, in my barrage of ever-decreasing gush, I want you to be sated, too. To feel complete. To feel fulfilled.

That’s why.

I would have cupped and pressed against your heat, finger tip firm to clit, the rub and roll, the stroke and pressure, my hand firm against the rise and fall – as if my hand were there to calm the rise and rush of desperate orgasm, but I know – o, I know – what I’m doing: I’m enjoying my control, drinking in the effect of pushing against you, savouring the groans, thrilling to the panicked writhe and rise and fall of your hips.

It would not have felt as if I had made you come – rather I let you come, there holding you as you pass into wracking, thrilling orgasm. With you, accompanying you on this small transition to euphoria.

I would have, by now, taken advantage of your subsequent indolence, that moment of tingling relaxation. I would have kissed you on the lips, softly, reassuring you that I’m here, that I am not abandoning you, your body yet. That there is more to come, more pleasures to be sought and sampled, extracted, enjoyed.

I would have left your mouth, moved down your weakened body to reinvigorate your skin on neck and breast, waist and hip. I know now how you like the tingle of touch of beard on your thigh so I would have run my cheek along the silky white skin. Back and forth, back and forth. Perhaps I might have kissed and tingled the length of your leg, sampling toes, caressing calf heel, ankle and arch. We would have both known where I was going wouldn’t we?

I would have felt a need to rekindle the anticipation which crashed with climax. A need to reinvigorate the nerves, stir the chemicals, gently coax the thrust and drive out from temporary inertia.

I would have circled your pussy with my tongue, tugged at smooth skin, knowing my cheek is brushing your lips, hinting at my proximity, promising attention.


Maybe I would have, by now, allowed my lazy lips to tug at a lip, suggesting, suggestive, of imminent access.

I might have breathed on you, close and hot, to alert you of fast-approaching intimacy.

And I would have known that that small flick of my tongue to hint at the parting of your lips would cause your legs to part in anticipation, your hips to rise in slow impatience and perhaps, your hands to reach for my head to guide me in.

And I would have flicked and jabbed, flicked and jabbed, marvelling at the slow peel to reveal the exquisite softness and welcome glisten, the tantalising folds, the depths. I would have resisted, for now, the impulse, to take as much of you in my mouth as I could, to slurp and suck and bore my tongue into you. I would have traced my way the full length of your moistness to your clit, returned and repeated, returned and repeated, perhaps probing gently, tantalisingly into your depths.

Once more, a twitch of your hips would have been enough for me to know you needed more. Tongue rasping on your clit, swirling it round, playing, promising to encircle it but letting it go, teasing until I seize it between my lips, rapid dart and stroke of tongue.

You would have gasped – my signal to raise the stakes. Between my lips your clit pulled, softly sucked and released. My lips returning to nuzzle and seize, my tongue trails and dips deep, pushes hard against sinew and membrane, against you.

I would have felt the intensity of your thighs’ grip on my shoulders, the tension, the flow from you as now I moved with you, tongue never leaving its task, relishing the challenge, the taste, the texture.

It could have been as if you were trying to shake me off. Bucking and writhing to rid yourself of my tongue.

But you’re not.

You’re in ecstasy, a delectation which my tongue could not provide alone. We would have needed both of us to maximise the glee. We needed the movement of both tongue and you, the slick crush of both, the desparation.

And I would have loved it when you came. I would have clamped my mouth on you, tongue crushing your clit, lips working to seal us together, jaws quivering to shiver your lips. I might have brought a finger up to plunge into you, deep at the point of orgasm. I think you like that. This time I would have known I helped cause your cumming. I love that.

And then it would have been time for me to bring myself to you, to feel my chest scrape over your mound. To feel you spread and widen to let me through, to let me in. I would have paused at your breasts, my belly resting on your mound as I marvelled at your breasts once more, tugged your nipples then rose to crash on your lips again, tongues thrusting deep.

You would have felt me rest my length on you briefly, before allowing the gentle fall to your lips. Your hands on my hips pulling, guiding. The feel of the plush, the exquisite softness of your lips on my probing head. The heat from you, the gloss and sheen already there for me.

I would have felt the delirium as I ease in, the rapture of the parting of your easy grip, the warm sleeve into which I enter. I would have let you relax into me, me into you, the rise and fold of your legs around my waist, arms on my back.

And we would have rocked slowly at first, floating in euphoric rapture at the rhythm of my slow passage to your depths and long, slow withdrawal to your entrance, the pause as I wait for the inevitable push from you, urging me back in.

I might have risen up from you on stiffened forearms, the better to plunge deeper, to push against you, rub your clit even as I throb inside you.

And of course the tempo would have risen, muscles weakening as my body concentrated all its energies on delivering to you, into you as deep as possible the splash and spurt of what I’ve stored for you.

We would both feel it in each other: the rise and elation, the desparation. I would have collapsed on you, mouth seeking yours but drifting to your neck to draw in the oxygen needed to fuel this imminent expulsion of energy.

You too, head back, mouth open, would have been moving against me. Twisting, turning, rising, falling, holding me deep, ready for that moment when, swept by a tide of convulsion which grips me, seizes me, holds me deep in you, I erupt in anguished sighs of surge and spate , disgorging my offering into you in deep, thrusting ejaculations.

By now we would be stroking each other’s skin absent-mindedly, secure and sweet in sweat and surplus.

By now

Bye now

© DeviantWriters 2018

Happy New Year

Ushering the New Year in

With touch of lips grazing skin.

Mouths meet, tongues explore

Hands caress, wanting more.

Underneath the mistletoe

The warming thrill, chilling glow

As passions rise with kisses fed

We move slowly to the bed

There we move, under the fan,

Together, as one, woman and man.

Revel in taste and touch and smell

The ripple and roll, the pucker and swell.

Satisfying each other’s need

No inhibitions, without heed

Except to bring the other pleasure

Intimate in sensual leisure.

The tongue the trails up heaving breast Tastes the nipple at the crest

Takes it gently tween hungry lips

As hand caresses waist and hips.

The hand that strokes a rippling back

A finger along a spine does track

The breath, the mumble, the moaning sighs

The breasts which thrust, the hips which rise.

Enveloping lips so delicious

Sealed on shaft, tongue judicious

In its flittering travel, its teasing flick

The cocoon of mouth, the movement slick

And now you roll, arms stretched high

Expose to me your silken thigh,

Kisses on alabaster skin

Tongue teases round before flitting in.

Slowly, slowly tongue does start

To peel those welcoming lips apart

To reveal the heat, the slick, the taste-

Rapturous progress with no haste

Along the line of parted lips

Into the furnace my tongue dips

Probing, swirling, drilling deep

Towards your clit, an inexorable creep

Until tongue tip is circling nub

And with flat of tongue I start to rub

The little spot which brings such delight

With gentle moves and touches light

Then tween my lips your clit is plucked

Tongue-tickled, tugged, gently sucked

Then released back to where it was taken

Innervated, thrilled, trembling, shaken

And I heard the gasp, felt the rise

Of hips lifting high to maximise

The thrill of crush of clit against lips

All other senses now eclipsed

And now the urgency and need

For consummation in frantic greed

As hands in hair pull and guide

My mouth to yours as lips collide

I feel your pussy hairs trail down my chest

Across stomach – and I come to rest

Hips poised tween thighs, I hesitate,

Savouring before I penetrate

Then just like tongue moments before

I am pushing at your yielding door

Resist the urge to plunge in deep

Into heat and grip I start to creep

In then out I softly ease

Revelling in the erotic tease

Legs rise and wrap, hands like comb

Easing me, teasing me, guiding me home

So into your depths I luxuriantly sink

Our bodies start to move in sync

Your rise to my fall

Ensuring that you take it all

Smooth and rippling, yet knotted tight

We move as one as we each incite

The other to a heady state

Of passionate need to satiate

And to bring to climax this frenzied phase

To sink together in glowing malaise

So as we feel the rising tide

We crush together and deep inside

Swell burgeons and billows with no remorse

Blood, hormones and semen through vessels course

Until in wracked contortion, the flare and spurt

Renders each of us inert

As pulsing waves come crashing through

And I empty into you

You hold me tight as you take it all

Back arched in your enthral

Until I’m emptied, have no more to yield

Shrinking now what once was steeled

And in delicious juice and slick and sweat

We lie sublime and glowing, our needs both met

The Next Step

Would a gentle touch
Be too much? 
An ask a step too far?
Or a soft kiss
Upon your lips-
Would that seem bizarre?
Or would it start
A beating heart, 
The stirrings of desire
If it tastes sweet
When our lips meet-
The kindling of a fire?
With stretch and sighs,
Would you close your eyes
While my lips brush your soft skin?
Or with languid charm,
Would you wrap an arm
Around me, pull me in?
And if my hand
Were then to land
And start to stroke your knee
Would you pull away
To my dismay
Or roll close up to me?
Would you resist –
Or perhaps assist –
My quest to reach your breast?
To loosen your shirt,
Then your skirt
Leave me to do the rest?
Would it be intense,
Would you like the sense
Of your breast by my hand caressed?
Would your body ripple,
When I touch your nipple
My lips to yours hard pressed.
If my lips leave
And begin to weave
Lush trails across your skin,
Would you be thrilled
By passion instilled
Or consider it a sin?
Nipple ‘tween lips,
Sucks and sips,
Hands gently stroke your sides.
Rhythmic sighs
With the fall and rise
Of hips and a hand that guides.
Would you complain
If I moved again,
Traced my tongue down to your waist
Then tickle and tease,
Gently ease
Your clothes away, displaced.
Would you beg,
If I caressed your leg,
It’s contours from thigh to toe,
Softly paced
On veins so laced,
Delicious pace so slow.
And if I rise
Between your thighs
To trace the source of heat
Would you open and spread
Upon the bed
Or on my back rest your feet?
As I probe and lick
And taste and flick
Part soft lips with a swirl
Would I feel the brush,
Then languid crush
In my hair of your fingers’ curl?
Would my adoration
And agitation 
Of your pussy and your clit
Amuse, confuse,
Bemuse, diffuse
Passions as you submit?
Would you writhe
Your body lithe,
Push pussy to my lips?
Hips rise and heave
To achieve
Sensual eclipse.
Would a rising tide
Make you guide
My body over yours
Lips to lips
And hips to hips
Sweat bursting from our pores.
Perhaps you might
Clutch me tight
And roll me on my back –
A change of role,
you’re in control
It’s time for some payback.
Would I feel a draught
Upon my shaft
As your mouth envelopes tight
And the fickle trickle
Of your tongues tickle
It’s touch both hard and light.
Then it’s time,
Moment sublime
Understanding yet unspoken
Your legs spread wide
And in I slide
In motion quite unbroken.
Could I prove
As I move
Intensity of urge? 
Total immersion,
Deep submersion
Withdrawal and then the surge.
Would you cry out loud
As you shroud
My body with each limb
So I feel
Hand and heel
The clutch, caress and skim.
And would our motion
Be the potion
To cause my gush and spill
To spurt and drench,
While you clench
And I empty as you fill?
Would a gentle touch
Be too much
Something to be debated?
Or shall we go
With the flow, 
Realise the anticipated.
©DeviantWriters 2017