Sinful Sunday: Hand Job

This has been a properly lovely, lazy, Bank Holiday Sunday. Lie-in, hand job, brunch, TV, nap, hand job, run, pub… Pretty much perfect, as far as I’m concerned.

I wrote a few months ago about all the reasons why hand jobs are awesome, and nothing has happened since then to change my views – in fact they’ve been reinforced. Today was a reminder of that. A really, really good reminder…

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A Relationship (in 1000 words)

It’s 6am and sunlight is streaming in through the window that will soon be covered by curtains I’ll help to hang. My mouth is dry, my skull feels like it’s being prised open from the inside, and looking down at me with her fingers curled around my hard cock is the woman who’s spent the last three months finding creative ways to turn every working day into a living hell. The woman who holds not just my dick, but my future at this small management consultancy in her pale, freckled hands.

What do I do? What do you think I do? I pull her up till she’s straddling my face, and I start to lick…

Three hours later, I slink into the office in yesterday’s clothes and make a beeline for the kettle. In my head I’m already composing the email I’ll send Emma once my hangover has worn off and I’m capable of staring at the screen for long enough to type it.

“I’m sorry,” I’ll say. “That was a mistake. I’m so embarrassed. We should probably forget the whole thing.”

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There’s a mirror in her hallway, next to the front door.

I say hallway, but it’s more of a corridor, and when she kneels down in front of it to do her make-up I have to twist my body to squeeze past.

Not that I ever do.

If pushed, I think I’d blame it on her legs. In summer especially, she’s a ragamuffin – a glammed-up guttersnipe, with her wild, bouncing curls and stomach-flipping dresses – and her smooth calves are impossible to ignore as they stretch out from under her.

Or maybe it’s the concentration on her face. I’ve always loved that – the frowning focus of a woman wielding a mascara wand like it’s a paintbrush, each swipe across her eyes its own mini-masterpiece. Sometimes she catches me watching her from the bedroom doorway, and I grin and blush like a schoolboy, feet shuffling up against the lintel.

It’s sexy because there’s no artifice; it’s not a performance – or if it is, I never realise that I’m being played. She won’t mind me saying this, but I’m not sure I credit her with that level of subtle manipulation. What you see is what you get, in the best possible way.

Which might be why I can’t help getting it. Tonight was a perfect example. Her flat was sticky and warm, and our bags were packed, ready for the short hike up to North London. I’d been horny all day, but even with her fresh, summer scent on my skin I wanted to leave, my mind already racing ahead to everything we’d do once we got back to my place.

I guess there are just things that stop you in your tracks. Like a skipping record, they jar you out of whatever reverie has taken hold, and drag you back to a living, breathing, sweating, fucking reality. This time it was the dress that did it. Deep blue and wreathed in flowers, it combines (deceptive) simplicity with a clinging, sensual splendour. I allowed myself to look at it – at her, curled up in front of the mirror – for just a second too long, and when she glanced back at me, eyes shining in the glare of the overhead light, I knew we weren’t going to leave any time soon.

In the four or five seconds it took to cross the gap between us, I made a series of instinctive, broad-brush decisions. Blow job in the living room, perched on the arm of the sofa. Slow, deep fuck from behind, knickers pulled to one side, after I’ve flipped her round and bent her over it. Clothes strewn across the hallway floor, bed squeaking under us; fingers fanned out across her belly as she sits on my cock. Yeah, that’ll do it.

Not that it ever really works out that way. There’s always blurring – the running together of hands and mouths and eager, shuddering bodies – but that’s a good thing. Sex shouldn’t come with a Gantt chart; you don’t measure it out in iambic pentameter. Sex is free verse; loose, languid jazz.

It’s my fingers in her hair, digging up at the base of her scalp and pulling her towards me. It’s the nudge and bump of my cock at the back of her throat, and the soft exhale around the base as I reach down her dress to twist a nipple. It’s the squelch when she drives her cunt down onto me; the visceral force of her orgasms and the hunger in her kiss – in my kiss.

You can’t quantify those things – they’re either there or they’re not. Tonight it felt like I channeled something wild; something primal and urgent. I bruised her with my fingers and lips, and every swinging slap of my hand on her arse echoed through the empty flat. Her sweat dripped into my eyes, and mixed with mine whenever I curled an arm round her body to crush her against me.

Afterwards I rolled out of bed and wandered out into the hall, scooping shorts and boxers off the floor where they’d been discarded. She followed me out on Bambi legs, mascara smudged across her face and hair tumbling down around her shoulders – perfectly imperfect. I paused long enough to kiss her forehead as she slinked into the bathroom, to stand in front of another mirror – this time one I couldn’t see.

Probably just as well.

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On Circumcision

I remember very little about being circumcised. It happened just before my fifth birthday, so that will hardly come as a shock. Three fuzzy, freeze-frame images have survived the passage of time:

  • Asking to be sedated with gas, because the needle scared me
  • My dad going to a shop near the hospital and bringing me a toasted cheese sandwich, then sitting next to my bed as I ate it
  • Sitting at the foot of the stairs on my birthday, surrounded by other children and wearing one of my dad’s t-shirts because regular clothes still caused too much pain

I don’t think about that time very often, nor would I say it’s left any mental scars. Not on me, at least. I was a kid – kids bounce back quickly. My dad recalls it in much greater, more graphic detail, as he disclosed last weekend.

“I just felt so helpless. You were running round and round the downstairs of the house, as if you couldn’t bear to stay still. Every time the material touched it, you flinched.”

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Postcard from Palermo

Palermo in August is no place for a German Shepherd. That’s what I tell myself as I pass the poor, panting Alsatian in the driveway of my hotel, stretched out in a thin patch of midday shade. Truth is, it’s no place for a fair-haired, pale-skinned Englishman either – especially one who’s forgotten to pack a hat of any description – but there’s a certain masochistic joy to swatting aside common sense and heading off to explore my surroundings.

After all, I’m only here for 48 hours. Barely time to scratch the cultural surface of any city, let alone one that combines hard, brooding machismo with a cheery, almost slapstick chaos. As I wander the narrow streets and busy markets, I see the two butt up against each other – never more so than on the roads, where scooters zip through impossible gaps, cabbies hammer their horns, and middle-aged men shout across at each other in an elaborate, exaggerated drawl.

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I thought about it again yesterday afternoon – about fucking another woman while you watch. I don’t know what put it back in my head, but once it was there I couldn’t get it out. Even as the sweat-soaked shirt clung to my back, and my thighs squeezed with a weird mix of agitation and arousal, any sense of self-preservation resolutely refused to kick in.

Perhaps it’s the novelty. This is a new fantasy for me, after all. The MFF vault in my mental wank bank has always been pretty empty, and on the rare occasions I do think about sex with two women, they’re usually the ones in charge. They’re teasing and conspiratorial. Maybe even a little cruel. Not you though.

With you it would be different, in a way I find almost shockingly exciting. I want you to have zero control over what happens in front of you – this isn’t about fucking someone together (though trust me, we’ll get round to that…). I know that’s the way you want it too, but more to the point I trust you to tell me what you don’t want – the things that would spoil it for you, or turn cunt-clenching, stomach-churning lust into corrosive jealousy.

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Sinful Sunday: Afternoon Fuck

Warm outside.

Warmer inside.

And very sweaty by the end of it…

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Posted in Other photos, Sinful Sunday | 12 Comments