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dream (Ver. 2)

You are restless again tonight, your eyes move rapidly behind closed lids and your breath becomes shallow.  A dash of light slipping through a gap in the blinds is animated by the wind whipped shadows of the tree outside our window. It defines your shape and form, and caresses your skin as you sleep. Deep red waves of hair scar your pillow.

The delicious curve of your breast and hip and thigh, highlighted in the otherwise dark room, tempt my twitching fingers. I watch as your thighs part, your lithe slim leg bent at the knee exposes you beneath the sheets; your hips rock slowly. I can’t tear my gaze from you, despite the stinging need for sleep. Once again, I try to burn the image of your beautiful shape on to the surface of  my fevered mind.

The taut velvet skin of your stomach, the spot where I love to kiss you most, appears to undulate slightly with your motion. I am, as ever, left breathless by you; captivated by the sight and hungered by your distance.

Where do you go? When the world fades out and you are alone with your conscience, do the daemons inside come out to play?   You guard them closely. Privately nurture them like sick children who must be kept away others; allowing me only the briefest of glimpses, the tiniest, cruelest  hint of their presence.

Your breath is ragged, and underscored with barely discernible sighs. The insistent staccato tap of rain from the window and roof tiles drowns the sound. I strain against the din, hoping to hear my name.

My over-active imagination writes a filthy script for the scenes playing behind those closed lids, inside your private, sleeping world. A pang of jealousy bites at my gut as I picture her, the lover who is with you now behind those deep green eyes. Does she love the taste of your cunt as much as I do?

With a slight arch of your back and a deep intake of breath your hand closes tightly, gripping fistfuls of linen.  The urge to touch you, reach for you, pull your soft, warm body close against mine and fuck away the hunger, is almost too much. But, to do so without prior invitation would be a desecration. Sacrilege. I stay my hand by force of will, though I ache to feel you.

With slow, quiet strokes I touch myself.

No sudden movements, no fucking noise! I caress, stroke, pinch and tease myself. Want streams into the darkest corners of the room, but cannot penetrate your world. I need to be there with you, over you, in you.

Fingers, slick with viscous juices, silently, intently draw my climax from me. Heat, radiates out  from my cunt to my every nerve as I  stroke my clit with insistent circling pressure. Every muscle taut, gripped and tense cannot contain the need.

The smallest flutter rapidly grows and the muscles inside me grasp at my fingers, pulling my fucking hand deeper. I watch you as you tremble and wriggle,  distantly reaching your own orgasm with your ethereal lover. Your  lips part a little, opening with a feint sigh of release.

I always love to watch you come, especially on the nights when I am free to touch you. I devour your body and mind, needful and intense in climax. I love the moments after when, slovenly and languorous we caress and stroke, kiss and soothe.

Peace slowly enfolds you. The stillness of the room returns and you drift back into the quiet.


This site has been neglected for many years now. I forgot to embalm it properly before I left and it has, quite frankly, started to decompose quite noticeably.

By way of apology, here is a picture of an angry kitten. angry kitten

I would love to say I will be tending to it more frequently from now on, but I’m not sure I will be able to honour that promise so, as usual,  you’ll get what you’re given.





Pressure marks bloom on

skin smeared with your indignation,

yet you demand more.


The Petit Mort of Cassie Onassis (Part 1).


Part 1. The Station.

Cassie exited the toilet cubicle, adjusted her clothes and tousled her rust red curls. She tugged her fingers through the mass, meeting resistance where the wind had swept and twisted it around itself.  Her face contorted with each tug, wincing as her fingers snagged in the strands. The tiny station toilets, which they laughably called ‘Restrooms’,  were freezing cold and smelled of piss and pine. Leaves, blown in through the door that didn’t close ,eddied around, skittering over the dried, dark, silty footprints on the red-tiled floor. The light in here didn’t work and everything was infused with the dull grey hue of winter.  Cassie couldn’t imagine a less restful place.

Her exhalations made delicate plumes of vapour in the cold air as she regarded herself in the full length mirror on the wall. She moved closer and studied her face through its grime spattered surface. Her fingers brushed lightly over her face, dusting away excess powder that concealed her true skin beneath. Her index finger traced delicately over a scar on her forehead whose origin was long forgotten, checking that it was adequately covered.

She rummaged through her tote bag to find her lipstick. He said that the ‘Claret’ was his favourite shade. He liked the colour on her and he liked it when it smeared over his shaft as he fucked her mouth. Her guts tightened at the memory of the last time when, completely lost in her reverie, she had opened her throat to him and tried to swallow him whole. Hungrily she drank his cum, and drained him until he had to forcibly remove himself from her face. Her punishment for being  such a greedy little cum whore had been ten strikes with a cane across her thighs.

She lifted the hem of her green velvet dress and, for the fourth time that day she studied the marks on her thighs, the pattern of stripes now faded from their original, glorious shade of apple red. Lifting the hem higher she studied her neatly trimmed triangle of  chestnut coloured hair. and the asymmetry of other marks and scars that surrounded it.  He didn’t particularly care for girls who shaved themselves bald. He would tolerate it, if this was their preference, but he said that it brought to mind the pre pubescent and, while this fantasy had its merits, he preferred a more natural look on a woman. The mature and self-assured were infinitely more attractive to him than any shy, pigeon-toed trainee. Breaking down the psychological and physical barriers of an experienced, battle hardened partner presented him with a far more exciting challenge.

Yes, she had plenty of scars. some were the result of incidents and accidents that occurred in the early, experimental days. Some were his work, others were not. These scars were never concealed with make up. These scars were her trophies – badges of honour and proof that she had undergone a rite of passage. So, why after all these years had she never been properly rewarded for her efforts? Why was she still struggling to achieve the one thing that she truly desired?

It seemed to come so easily to others. She had heard countless tales of the nirvana that she so fervently sought. Heard it from those less experienced and, to her mind, less deserving than her. She learned, to her amusement, that some actively avoided the experience out of fear and ignorance.  She suspected that, for her, years of chemically induced highs, which produced myriad, lovely psychoactive states had artificially increased her tolerance and her ability to reach the natural high that she needed. But promises had been made; hers was to never again seek relief from psychoactive drugs, his was to show her a better way.

 She had endured scene after scene, labouring as he so carefully tended to her. Burned, whipped, shackled, spanked, slapped, constricted, contorted, shocked, caned, cut, deprived of her senses and breath. The list went on and she had revelled in every magnificent moment of pain, filth, humiliation and depravity. Yet, she had always been starkly, rudely sensible to it all. Never had she felt more than the faintest hint of detachment from herself, or her lover, or her lust.

Subspace. That place of altered  ‘otherness’. It called to her as she slept or daydreamed; and she wanted to know it. perhaps this time he would take her there, as he had promised he would. Perhaps she would find herself separate and free, drifting outside herself as she witnessed the truth of their indecent partnership.

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