The Wayback Machine - http://web.archive.org/web/20040930235106/http://www.livejournal.com:80/users/freehand/
Oliver Twisted's Journal [entries|friends|calendar]
Oliver Twisted

[ userinfo | livejournal userinfo ]
[ calendar | livejournal calendar ]

The Learning Curve: A Child's Fist, A Lotus Bud [13 Aug 2004|10:01pm]
Nico sat on the edge of the bed putting a gloss on her toenails, her cheek resting against one leg folded into her chest, her heel held in the hollow of her sex. She had painted them black. With a thin brush that she whetted between her lips she applied a dancing gold filigree to each nail. She obsessed over her tiny feet like some late dynasty Chinese emperor. She had tried binding them in her early youth with bamboo and hemp into the semblance of lotus buds. Nico told me once how she had read about the tenth century Chinese practice of foot binding when she was studying ballet. Between the ages of three and seven a girl's feet would be washed in hot water and massaged, then her toes were turned under and pressed against the bottom of her foot. Then a long, narrow silk cloth would be wound tightly around the foot from the toes to the ankle. Every day the binding would be pulled tighter and tighter, until - after two or three years the arches were broken and the foot was pulled straight with the leg, the toes bent double under the soul of the foot like a child's fist. Oftentimes young concubines disabled by the practice would spend the rest of their lives recumbent. At the age of fourteen she gave up the stage for sailing. "I liked the excitement, the loss of control," she said. She had surrendered her young dancers body to the sea and the wind.

A chinese diplomat once described the purported erotic effects of foot-binding; "The smaller the woman's foot, the more wondrous become the folds of the vagina. (There was the saying: the smaller the feet, the more intense the sex urge.) Therefore marriages in Ta-t'ung (where binding is most effective) often take place earlier than elsewhere. Women in other districts can produce these folds artificially, but the only way is by foot-binding, which concentrates development in this one place. There consequently develops layer after layer (of folds within the vagina); those who have personally experienced this (in sexual intercourse) feel a supernatural exaltation. So the system of foot-binding was not really oppressive."
2 comments|post comment

The Learning Curve [09 Aug 2004|08:15pm]
Nico rented an apartment that overlooked the bushy end of a park in Valencia . Walking through the cool corridors of the building she could hear people fighting, babies crying, and lousy TVs blaring out monotonous ads in cheerful spanish voices. In the evening she could smell a hundred different cuisines. An empty stomach is often accompanied by an overactive imagination, and in her mind she sampled from each plate: roasted red pepper salad with bacon dressing and pine nuts, grilled chicken breasts in spiced yogurt and strawberry-coconut cheesecake.....

Through the window the apartment was dominated by a sea-blue sofa, racks of cds, piles of clothing, shovelfuls of books, and lazily sprawling rugs, neatly arranged within little iron-trimmed window-frames. A balcony at one end provided an imperious view. Each afternoon Nico, her skin smeared with a film of baby oil, and sheltered by an emerald umbrella, sat on the terrace. She would read, listen to music and acquire a tan. As the balcony was'nt overlooked she would bask topless in a string bikini bottom, or sometimes in nothing but the sheer shiver of black Prada panties. Nico liked the erotic charge of nude sun-bathing, it excited her to think that perhaps somewhere an eye was concentrated on her curves, an eye sharpening itself on one of her violently pointed mammilla.
post comment

An Immodest Proposal or Cobalt Blue Hue [10 Mar 2004|11:45pm]
Two loud raps, like pipes being sweat-fitted and tested, that's what it takes to bring me out of the trance. At the dinner table we drift into the subject of war. I am generally never interested in politics, in feuds, in intrigues and rivalries, except when I am stuffing myself with food. It's all an absurd and horrendous nightmare. I stop listening eventually and your words dip into silence.

I remember the time when I was a teen and I was seduced by the girl in the black mini-skirt. She locked the door behind her and sat on the couch reading Paris Vogue. I stared dumbly at the black panties under her skirt. She sat there on my mother's floral couch pretending indifference as I automatically rubbed my denim covered crotch. Without saying a word she unzipped me, and took my cock in her hands, appraising it as though it were a sculpture, then she applied it to her lipsticked mouth. Her hand tickled my balls, her tongue draped my length across her frenum, detonating a sudden, draining, explosive orgasm. Easing my cock from her lips, she retreated, delighting in my confusion. Not unlike war-fare, I ruminated.

Death is as big and mysterious as ever. Fire, heat, light: all the elements of sacrifice. You have to bring something into the desert to sacrifice, and offer it to the desert as a victim. A lover. If something has to disappear, something matching the desert for beauty, why not a woman?
15 comments|post comment

Remember [20 Feb 2004|09:12pm]
I have always had bizarre sexual fantasies, ever since childhood, but somehow there has been a screen dividing my thoughts from experience. I walk through each day attempting to turn my thoughts into actions. And sometimes I walk out at night when it is raining, my collar turned up into my blond hair, my footsteps taking me to the library in a slow traffic of litter, dying dreams and huge coiling currents of snaking visions just beneath the surface. I am solitary and I can't get it right. I can free associate, but I can't get it to come out right on the page.

I imagine giving myself away.

I sit quietly and write these words. I take out my laptop, beaten up and letters worn with inclusions and omissions, so that the keys look like pages scrawled with ink drawing rather than writings. I like to scramble words together in a window, one thought crashing disconnectedly into the next , so that often there isn't time to link them, just wanting to get the whole lot of them down rather than isolate and select how one perception identifies with another. I am speedy and restless, and I hope writing will slow me down. I watch the snow fall. The glaucous sky receding into the horizon. A truck goes down the highway like a barge leaving a grooved furrow in its wake.

I imagine dropping a plop of spittle into the grooved furrow of your ass, smoothing the lower channel for the hip-slung longing of my cock. How my expansive member fits between your teeth, as you cat-lick me to excitement. You can pretend it is an animal sucking you off, as you feel my surreal tongue between your legs searching for your tail. I run my hands all over your leopard-skin body, shagging for that tail-piece at the joint between your crotch and your bottom. The thought excites me now. I resist coming, buried in your throat, for I know that a cat like you wants to be ridden long and hard. I want to enter you like a jungle cat, your prolonged purrs beneath my undulating body vocalizing your fulfillment. You may even bite me on the shoulder to express your felinity.

I'm tired of being straight-jacketed by convention and wanted to approach you directly. Your memory tortures me. I want to torture you. I want the thought of me to coil around your body like a serpent of fire, without burning you. I want to see you lost wandering in the murky haze of my desire. Always for the first time, guitars and all.
4 comments|post comment

The Dance Over Fire and Water [12 Jun 2003|02:23am]
The possibility exists for us to metamorphose our bodies into everything, animal, plant, life-less objects or in extreme cases thought and energy. To enlarge the idea of what is "human." Through dance the body can transform into anything....can become possessed by any spirit, haunted by the effort to become, in every detail, the object most desired. Typically dance consists of an attempt, structurally and physically, to overcome the influence of gravity. I am interested in the savage dance that desires to overthrow reason and order.

The way she moves herself through space is utterly different from daily walking. She doesn't walk....walking is an unpredictable movement with no orientation. She is in a state of "collapsing"....an endless inward movement. Her beauty is not a matter of how she stands, but rather an understanding of how desperate her body is to stand, the moment before collapse.

Movement is imagination. Your body can be controlled by your imagination. Verbal activity leads to image induction which in turn produces perception. As the dance becomes more detailed it becomes harder to relate to either the person or the process of dancing. Ultimately, desire is transcended and the body becomes a vacant container for the spirit of the dance, obediently accepting every new reality.

I dance on a pillar in the Mexican desert to elevate myself above earthly temptations and bring myself closer to God. She arrives to tempt my soul with lust, lapping tongues, burning bodies and a final airplane time-travel ride to the world capital of sin...New York...where she promises to dance the decadent, radioactive, flesh dance at the trendiest of New York discos!
18 comments|post comment

My Flying Island [05 Jun 2003|09:13pm]
Seagulls burst along the shore like an origami trail. I want to dance with you till the end of time, a cross between a Helmut Newton photograph and a Billie Holiday song, through apocalyptic libraries frescoed with sex rites and poetry....rose petals spread out as the world goes up in flames. We let everything go, mixing drug cocktails in coital sex chemistry. Our tango turns into harmonic, rhythmic fucking, mingling direct thrusts with exploratory medleys of minor ones set to the hardest jazz you can imagine. Our orgasms cook like lava, waiting for the big blow. Power and Speed course through our veins. I imagine stopping, bullet-time, and examining the arched lift of your buttocks while we're fucking.

I imagine us in a thousand years covered with heart-shaped ivy. Everything turns purple as I drive my cock deeper inside you....Babylon, Jesus, China, Shakespeare, NASA, everything evaporates when you cum. The chain of your orgasm repeats, into a second and third series, tales of your pleasure multiply, books are printed and enter second and third editions, spreading out to cover the world like a tree. A nuclear dynamic, Patti Smith's "Gloria", a Perez Prado mambo, a surgical attack on our sex organs, communicated with excruciating pleasure and precision. Your pleasure, a shadowy filibuster, pulling me toward its center like an imploding event field.
10 comments|post comment

The Rigors of Harmony [29 May 2003|10:35pm]
I have to convince myself that I am really here. I used to dream about desert islands, with white crescent beaches washed by turquoise lagoons. The one occupant of the beach a curvaceous Latin girl dressed in nothing but a black sequined thong, would get up from a scarlet towel and walk to meet me across the sand. She would know everything about me, and our kiss would be spontaneous, tasting of passion fruit, mango and vanilla. In my dream I picked her up and carried her laughing toward the red towel and made love to her under a blindingly blue sky.

Michael and I go to the beach to calm the fever of a summer day. I lie face down in the warm white sand. I watch Michael take off his swim trunks, automatically revealing a browning torso. My eyes attach themselves to the mars colored nipples of his uncomplicated chest. I catch a glimpse of his loose cock and the penumbra of hair, light brown and frizzled by the sun. That tuft of hair gives him a marvelous animal quality, dripping with the last drops of the sea. We remain in the sun quietly. Not a word is spoken and we listen to the sound of the surf and the distant sound of bass and drums. I admire the tan he has acquired, the shocking whiteness where his discarded clothes blocked out the sun, the smooth whiteness of his skin, whiter than the whiteness of white, the air coming and going by way of his mouth. His wraparound black sunglasses, perpendicular to the earth, pointed at me, up to no good, thickening in the hot sand where well-worn footprints disappear. The sun smashes down on us and his skin glows pale. Mid-day sprays the sea with gold and now sand and sea are striving to be flesh.
2 comments|post comment

To No One Listening [28 May 2003|02:05am]
Jeanne is my new sleeping partner. We stand and listen to the sun, it makes us feel less cold. She's brunette like my first six-string and offers me stars cut out of cardboard. She is an unfinished poem, a jazz riff remembered from a club somewhere in Berlin or Paris, a loosely-drawn map that invites exploration. I first saw her as a short skirted librarian with invitingly long legs that terminated in black pointed ankle-boots. Her eyes take shelter behind the frames of eye-glasses.

She walked up to me with her hips, massaging the carpet with her toes, and extended her hands between us.

“I can't stand it any longer...I ought to be . . . punished . . . for what I did.”

“Punished how?”

Jeanne spoke, barely above a whisper. “The way all bad girls are punished...” a depraved look in her dark-rimmed eyes.

The look I give her in return is trimmed and painted, gassed up and waiting outside her door with the engine revving..... She opens up a double heart in my wall-hung altar, her sex like two heavily lidded scallop shells. I have to live the rest of my life with the idea of that darkness between her thighs, that flower of evil. The rainstorm is more immediate however and the whiskey makes an eye out of my tongue. The words arrive in my head, mid-brain, like a fleet of rescue ships.
8 comments|post comment

Forward Toward My White Throat: After a Long Separation [27 May 2003|08:15am]
Quickly
Before my tongue drowns in a crevice
Take the road
Wind your way
From my head to my toes
I Straddle
The peevish mare of your backside
Spell out the name of your secret birth
All or nothing

Quickly
Under the tent of wasted waiting
Take hold of the stretchers where periodic bubbles
burst on the sly
Give rough answers with a blue stroke
Any word, a phrase
See, I'm disrobing
Comma by comma
period
2 comments|post comment

Hibernal Bed [19 Oct 2002|09:57pm]
I wish my hand was your hand
so that we could share each caress.

The flower gracefully opening between your thighs
Watched by the tree branch that never sleeps very soundly.

At midnight, between dreams of sad longing
Making love on that precious bed, IS poetry.

If you were a wild flower
I would plant you,
and love you every hour.
2 comments|post comment

A Porkpie hat for the Toreador or A Verse for Buster Keaton [10 Oct 2002|10:13pm]
I have the utmost respect for the dynamic energy of pictures. They have the power to lie and to tell the truth….and sometimes both together. Looking at photographs is almost as much of an art as taking a good one. You can tell a lot by what type of picture someone chooses to keep.. Is it color? Or black and white? How is it cropped? Are there a lot of extraneous details? How close is the person who took the picture? What has been left out? Is it taken in broad daylight? Or at night? Indoors or outdoors? Looking at pictures, photographs or paintings, is like being a detective of sorts. Sometimes it spoils the picture, sometimes it makes the image come alive in ways that are impossible to imagine.

I am particular about whom I share myself with. Who isn’t? I despair of ever finding the right mix of intelligence, charm, attractiveness, and, for want of a better word, lewdness. Trust is a feeling that takes time to acquire, and until one establishes confidence in "an other", one must proceed with cautious optimism (i.e. lust with self-control).

Intelligence, taste and discretion, I treasure these qualities in a person. I would be happy to find a woman imbued with all three, in abundance. Particularly taste….I would like to find someone who is particularly tasty….someone who cracks open my sexual imagination like a geode, exposing the delicate, exotic crystalline structures contained therein. I remember that first moment that I reached out to touch another person, the first time I felt a fleshy acquiescence beneath my fingertips. There WAS something unspoken between us, something animal, scent-oriented, from the very start. Even now my cock thickens and straightens thinking of how I used your body…..satisfying our shared desires. Sometimes those desires are as simple as a touch in a certain place at a certain time and at other times they are complex and Byzantine including humiliation, pain, and a certain ungodly aspect. I imagine drawing Japanese glyphs on the palm of my hand and imprinting the character onto your sweet ass with a good spanking. I can imagine a hundred other delicious diversions. I would happily describe each one to you.
3 comments|post comment

Gold Itself, Circulated Electronically [09 Oct 2002|06:55pm]
She is getting a tattoo on her back. She says it's the most incredible pain she's ever experienced. I climb up from her tail-bone and perch in the center of her back. I see a bulldog headed gargoyle with wings outstretched across her white shoulder blades. The inking is fantastic to watch. I'm taking pictures of every step of the process. The lines slowly filling in, shaded over time...over spine and skin...I want to do my own obscene tattoo on her bottom right cheek. I wonder how the finished design will look strategically placed just wide of a bra strap. She sits very straight when she poses for me, hardly moving at all. "Yoga classes," she says, by way of explanation.

The music wells up like a crowd of irate bees buzzing in an upturned pepper pot, spit out by a loaded microphone. I'd like to take her to Paris. She walks naked, prete a porter, wearing only a hooded cape, a dog collar and a leash. I whisper in her ear how small she is, how infinitely unimportant, but at the same time how exquisitely crafted and cherished....like a japanese netsuke. She's undergone an Alice in Wonderland type metamorphosis.

"Drink Me," the bottle said.

I calm her with my words. Take her pain away. Give her oxygen with each open-mouthed kiss. She feels like she's walking on another world, like she's in a Saint-Exupery illustration; the child standing all alone on the edge of the planet. I am smoking a cigarette, although I don't smoke. Her cape turns to a gauzy gold. The whole world....or maybe just my eyes....fill with gold, as if they are being lit by a strong sun. The streets turn to gold. The sky turns to gold. Her whole body becomes GOLD...liquid gold...scintillating, warm gold. She IS GOLD. It's like an orgasm. It's like the secret of life. I lose the sense of gravity in my legs. I am floating in space.
post comment

Maps and Legends [02 Oct 2002|06:34pm]
I have to work quickly!

It’s as if she asked me to hurry up making maps. And what if I did? What if someone needed to get from Tangier to Singapore? Isn’t it important that the space between be mapped accurately, with precision?

I feel the same way with my head between your legs, mapping the space from thigh to thigh, unhurried, with skill and attention to detail. It’s about reinventing the world so that others can understand it; Describing your cunt to a blind barber. It’s about star clusters expanding into redshift, light signals traveling away from the universe, and how the ordinary debris of everyday life is transformed into meaningful road maps.

The street corner curves suddenly into a town called Alice. A forested place waiting to be discovered, and on the outskirts there’s a crystal sea through which one views riotous fauna, exploding seed pods, that turn instantly into flowers. Words convey that transformation and maps lead the way.

Oh the wonder of making maps for makeshift worlds, leaping forward from a line and being taken where snowflakes are shaped like strawberries and fall red hot.
1 comment|post comment

The Firebird's Song [28 Sep 2002|09:07pm]
Who will save us now? I look through my list of friends like a thinning forest. Names hacked out with html. Where are you now my little ones?

All the pale girls, skirt-flicking sluts, you’d sleep with anyone and anything. Boredom has made you perverse. Your looking for kicks from pricks. You are foxes hunting strings of pearls. Your eyes lit up like a jeweler’s loupe or burning like a festivals fireworks.

I’m nothing but a sex-machine. Playing vampirical tricks with assorted pricks. My shamelessness leaves me insensible to how the mirror has framed me as a lecher. Even in my most private hours I shiver at what’s enacted on my bed.

The long consuming nights of sweating waves of flesh, hard muscles, excited mouths. Our noise like the murmuring dance of bees, constant sighing, moans, gruff grunts and gasps, choked cries. Drunk on the moisture from each others bodies. Drunkenness increases our angry lust; for pain, for pleasure, for release. We’re rolling and drinking and fucking in that slender hemisphere between life and death. Abandoning ourselves to the intensity of our inflamed transgress.
7 comments|post comment

My little heart...is fiercer than a nightlight [08 Aug 2002|10:19pm]
My Thoughts of You are like heat lighting. Do you ever enjoy such disturbances? They flash over like a wood fire, silently, clamping down upon my brain like a tiger’s jaws. I see you mouth floating in the air before me, a rosette of stars, of the highest magnitude.

Your teeth leaving footprints in my flesh. Your tongue a smooth confection of amber and glass melting the sacred host. Your sex a doll whose eyes close and open, each eyelash a calligraphic stroke, eyebrows at the edge of a swallow’s nest. Your eyes like two misted pains of glass. Your shoulders champagne. Your neck a fountain frozen. Ice and marble and Indian Rosewood beneath your arms. Your legs are fireworks on this midsummer night, moving in clockwork fashion. Your feet like two birds drinking from the same bath. Your throat a golden valley.

Your breasts are night beneath the sea. Crucibles of rubies, Dew-sparkled roses.

Your back is a bird’s vertical flight, quicksilver, the light of day.

Your hips like chandeliers and feathers, and the stems of your legs, white peacock feathers, swaying in an imperceptible breeze. Your ass like a swan’s back with amianthus.

Your sex is springtime, algae and sweetmeat, my mirror.

My words are dry, I need to moisten them up with a drink.....of your voice, a drink of water in prison. I may be condemned, but I am NOT dead yet.
5 comments|post comment

Two-Way Mirror [23 May 2002|09:37pm]
James smiled, he fixed his eyes on Nico. This look was the signal for her to begin. It penetrated behind her pupils, ran all over her body, thrust into her belly.

“I was visiting my uncle, you remember, the one who had a restored gothic mansion, on the edge of the town. I would sit in the massive marble bathtub on the upper floor for hours, arching my legs, pushing them up vertical, as though all the gods in heaven were appraising them. Then with my head supported on the rim, I’d kick them back over my shoulders. I liked to tickle myself in this position; my pussy dripping with scented bathwater.”

“I liked to imagine someone observing me through the mirror my uncle had ingeniously incorporated into the bathroom restoration opposite the tub. I loved the feeling of being watched when I walked through the stores and streets in town. I wanted news cameras watching me lather up my split fig, paparazzi jumping out of my clothes closet catching me with my little finger inserted in my behind. I particularly liked bathing at my uncles because I was convinced that he had installed a two-way mirror in the bathroom. I thought I could see a faint outline of his shape when I tickled myself in the hot bathwater.”

"I imagined my uncle cupping his balls with his left hand, and working on his cock with the right. He would modulate his virtuoso rhythm, anxious to restrain his orgasm until the exact moment that I cried out from my solitary pleasure. My red fingernails worked slowly, expertly, over my little trim, the jewel that I attended to with such extreme attention. I dipped my forefinger in and wriggled. If only a man would unzip and mount me without a word of introduction, or brandish a cane across my soft, nubile buttocks.

"I had just turned eighteen but looked considerably younger. I liked to put my hair in ribboned pig-tails, and wore a pleated mini-skirt which emphasized my long, curvy legs. My uncle called me a cock-teaser. I never objected to him following me up the staircase, staying back a number of stairs the better to see all the way up my disarmingly short skirt. I got moist from that little game. Several times, during my stay with him, I had opportunely walked out of the bedroom in a black bra and panties to find him stationed in the corridor, as though already anticipating my provocative streak to the bathroom.”

James tugged down Nico’s panties and plunged his face into the grove of her pubic hair. The sweet perfume of her cunt was so strong that it registered like a whip-mark on his senses. The smell was intoxicating. His mouth went unerringly to the very heart of Nico’s steaming pussy. Her legs drifted wider apart as she gripped James’ hair. Her knees began to shake as her lover gave her his mouth. Nico remembered the best pussy-licking she ever had and knew that this was better, that James was making love to her cunt with his tongue. Her legs and ass felt divine, raised high and spread open with naked heels raking at the ceiling. Her lascivious posture caused by the encouragement of James’ tongue.

A moan trickled from Nico’s throat, and she could not continue her story because all the moisture from her mouth was suddenly between her legs, she felt her cunt becoming wetter and wetter as her eyes grew drunk on the delicious scene. James’ hands wandered up to her jutting breasts and his two large palms squeezed her tits. Nico turned faint and bit her lower lip, drawing blood…....
3 comments|post comment

Like Kicking Dead Whales Down the Beach [24 Apr 2002|11:44pm]
That fucking ocean that separates us....it's so god-dammed big and empty, with only clouds for company. Everything is beneath the surface, you see?

Theres a whole world down there....mountain ranges and exotic gardens pitched in black splendor. Our dry science is inadequate to describe that liquid morphology. What good are a Maddonna's tears in a land that has banished gravity?

It's a long, long journey, across this great ocean. Let's slip away from the shore. Turn and watch the breakers recede from view. Why don't people live out here? It seems like a perfect place to build a secret life.

Just the two of us, the owl and the pussycat, in our beautiful pee-green boat....Rocking in Neptune's arms.....I have so many stories to tell you...so many ways that I want to touch you....Nessus and Dejanira dance across the big water.
post comment

Sea of Love [22 Apr 2002|07:03pm]
Fucking Hell, you give my brain a fever that burns all day long. There aren't enough words in the world to tell you how you make me feel. When I write, it is JUST LIKE FUCKING YOU. I want you to hold my stories between your legs and hump on them. I want to hear you speak each blasphemous word out loud while we fuck..

Dark words, appearing on your skin, like scalding cum plumes from the tip of my exploding brain/cock. I want to drown you....I want to fill up your ears and your mouth with my seed, to blind you and gag you . I wish I could write you bathtubs full of spunk for you to bathe in, lakes and rivers of cream that you can swim and laugh and play in; dive down to the bottom, your lungs are ready to explode. You open your mouth gasping for air, unable to hold your breath any longer and swallow cup-fulls of my jism. Suddenly you find that you no longer need air to survive, you can breath semen. You feel the slimy ropes of cum in your nose, slithering down your throat and filling your lungs. Your belly swells from eating to much of the sticky stuff.
post comment

Rubicund Palimpsest [22 Apr 2002|12:46pm]
The time had come for Nico and James to withdraw from the claw-footed tub. But they splashed with pleasure like two fiery animals at the climax, and a thick white substance, swirled its ropy strands in the water. James was the first out of the tub. He took a large towel and rubbed himself dry as Nico stepped from the bath dripping from head to foot, shivering, but refreshed from fucking. Playfully James lashed out with a flick of the towel. The sting caught Nico right between the buttocks. She howled and tried to dodge a second whack that slithered off her thighs.

Naked and helpless she ducked between the toilet and the wall for protection. James smiled cruelly, and aimed a wicked strike at the toilet tank. It snapped with an audible crack. Nico slunk from her hiding place and found herself cornered along the tiled walls. The towel, partially wet, hummed in the air and caught her across the breasts. She cried out, and raised her hands to blunt the force of further attacks. Several more blows landed on her abdomen, breasts and nipples.

James' cock grew large yet again, and it vibrated in the steamy, perfumed mist of the bathroom. The haze, combined with the heat, sweat and humidity were driving them both mad. Like a man possessed, James threw the towel aside, grabbed Nico's limp body and drew her to the shower. There, under the shower rain, he spread her ass and placed a bottle at the tender opening of her rosebud, with a squeeze he filled her bowels up with a creamy liquid. His upturned cock bore-down on her ass pinning her her against the wall. Taking hold off her shoulders he willfully stabbed through the ring of muscle surrounding her sphincter, displacing gobs of milky fluid with the thickness of his shaft. He filled her pouting mouth with the fingers of one hand and corkscrewed the tips of her wet nipples with the other.

The immense flood of ever-changing thrills swept through Nico's body and her heart beat like a trip hammer. It was strange how pain, a pain she never thought she could endure, turned into a magnificent treat whenever James' cock plunged deep within her.

He loved to piston in and out of her cunt, and now that her asshole was his, a new level of voluptuous pleasure possessed his being. Their movements were even more frenetic in the downpour of the water. Nico's ass moved rhythmically forward and back while James cupped her breasts and tickled her rigid nipples. Both of them, inflamed by the wonderful pressure and temperature of the water, performed like animals. Their moans and panting sounds were drowned out by the flooding shower, but when they finally climaxed an echo of ecstasy burst in the cell of the bathroom.

Spent, James leaned back against the cool tile of the wall with his swollen and painful cock still buried in Nico's ass. He took a moment to read the markings written on her skin. the pale pink pinch-marks where her underwear inscribed their elastic patterns, the tangled cipher of her pubic hair, and the halo of red symbols encircling her breasts told the story of their recent exertions like some form of erotic calligraphy. He read the impression of his teeth, the superimposition of a red right hand print. and everywhere the catalog of their lovemaking. Her nipples, pale umber coronets, grew ruddier and more swollen as the hot water struck them. She opened her mouth to speak and he motioned her to silence, letting the darkening aureoles of her breasts provide the final punctuation to the rubicund palimpsest.

His cock softened and Nico's sphincter muscles expelled his length. Her head lolled back against his shoulder, eyes closed, too heavy for the thin elegance of her neck, a peony blossom after a rainstorm. Nico didn't feel the first drops of pee as they trickled between her ass-cheeks and down her thighs, mingling as they did with the rivulets of hot water from the shower head. Soon James was pissing a river between her legs. She could feel the body-heated fluid splashing against the gaping rosebud of her asshole and dripping from the lips of her vagina. Nico's hand cupped her sex, and felt her own urine mingle with the water James' was making. It sprayed out between her fingers, over her thighs and plip-plopped onto the tiled floor at their feet. Her attention elsewhere, without a shadow of turning, Nico failed to notice the sparks flying upward and the words that James silently mouthed into her hair.
5 comments|post comment

Fluids in Motion [21 Apr 2002|02:05am]
"Come here, the bath is ready." James led naked Nico by the hand. They stepped into the over-sized bath at the same time. The water felt warm and it soothed Nico's tender skin. Little by little she slipped into the water as she watched James soap himself vigorously. Then James washed Nico like he was washing a puppy dog on all fours. When he was done, he stood up and pulled Nico up as well. He spread soap all over her fine body. She was soon covered with fragrant suds, particularly her fuzzy close-cropped bush. Nico thought about the number of times she had lathered herself, between the legs, and felt the brick of soap slip between her cunt-lips. How much nicer it is to have James performing this ablution. Facing each other, the sensation of smooth velvet slippery skin, belly and chests, pressed together, James' hands reaching behind her, spreading her in an effort to thoroughly soap her ass, belly and inner thighs. A delicate finger wiggled in her anus. Nico wriggled with satisfaction.

James leaned down and whispered from just behind Nico's ear, "Turn around, bend over and grab the edge of the tub," she complied with a sigh and he added, "you look so beautiful,... spread your legs."

Nico didn't need to be coaxed twice. She felt a small tidal wave in her cunt as James, his soapy cock in hand, aimed for her cunt. His penis slipped into her hungry orifice like an oiled fist into a waiting glove, burying itself to the hilt. Nico felt as though her cunt were being washed out by the warm soapy suds that welled into her with each thrust. She squirmed and cried with pleasure. James' cock had never felt so smooth to her, as though it were constructed from an impossibly smooth space-age silicon attached to some unholy fucking-machine. It went in and out with the relentless power of a piston. She crouched in the water and put her head down, Her heart thudded through her breast and her skin was scalding hot. Her flesh felt like fire. She rested her cheek against the cool porcelain side of the tub.

She could feel his muscular thighs, his flat belly, and pubic hair. His cock was huge, hard and she could almost smell what it would taste like in her mouth. She felt the brush of his balls against her lower lips. It was not enough. She felt the urge to open under him, to have him inside her. It made her moan. Nico lunged her hips up at him. James' cock throbbed like a great heart inside her. It healed all the bad things in the past, even as its great length and thickness brought delicious pains. When she turned her head, she saw the soap suds floating on the surface of the water, the turbulence of their two sexes in collision. She couldn't help gazing back at James' face, he looked like a monk in the throws of religious ecstasy, transfigured. His face taking on the aspects of a demon and an angel all at once.

"It's....it's....so good," she breathed, "magnificent."
5 comments|post comment

navigation
[ viewing | most recent entries ]
[ go | earlier ]