Below are the 14 most recent journal entries recorded in Pheremoan's LiveJournal:

Monday, October 6th, 2003
8:49 pm	Under pressure You know those cyberpunk robotic fantasy girls? The ones by Hajime Sorayama: What would it be like to be one of them? To have a second skin of chrome, molded to fit perfectly, to compress and to lift and to hold every part in place. Would it be cold, or would it warm to your skin? Would it bend and twist comfortably, or would it offer resistance? I can feel it when I shut my eyes. Firm pressure, bending like spring-steel, enforcing an upright posture. Frictionless, but fitting so closely that there is no possibility of removing it. From time to time a shimmer on the surface as it softens like quicksilver to allow movement... but only specific movement, only the movement which is programmed into it. Absence of free will, subjugated to the computer. My shoulders are pulled back, breasts jut forwards, my head turns to face the camera. I am a plaything, a gynoid, a fembot, an expensive toy for the discerning futuristic consumer. I crouch at the edge of the pool, hands on the ladder's railings. My breasts and buttocks are exposed to view. A moment later, the telltale quicksilver shimmer and I am moving, slipping sleekly into the water, so gracefully that hardly a drop of water is splashed. I swim like a dolphin, smooth economical movements that my body would never know on its own. The water trails over my breasts and abdomen and buttocks, but where the metal is I feel nothing but the usual faint pressure. I swim laps, turn somersaults, perform gymnastic tricks for an appreciative audience arrayed by the pool's edge. Eventually I step out of the pool at the shallow end, moving like a model on a catwalk. The poolside loungers' eyes follow me as my skin walks me to my docking station: an upright transparent tube, no larger than a coffin, located in a small alcove by the wall. I step inside, and the door revolves to seal me in place. I lean against the rear wall. The recharging unit sends out its tendrils near my ears and under each arm and between my legs, feeling at first like a trickle of water then spreading veins and rivulets across my face and my breasts and around my vulva. The rivulets flow together to form a solid surface, then trickle inside to fill every orifice. When I am filled from all directions, the pulsing, tingling sensation of the recharging begins. I am held immobile, completely unable to escape or utter a sound, but I don't mind a bit. There are advantages to being a fembot. (9 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, October 2nd, 2003
4:34 pm	Flirting I don't see you as soon as I walk into the place, but I know you're there. I take my time, nonchalantly cruising past the front counter, glancing casually at the shelves along each wall. There's no rush, I know I'll find you eventually. You're down the back, with your friends. All lined up against the back wall like nervous teenagers at a school social. At first I flick my gaze towards you and then away, beginning the eternal dance. Even when I'm not looking, I can feel you there, as if you're staring a hole in the back of my neck. I circle closer as if by some random brownian motion, and yet we both know that there is intent here, that I knew what I wanted before I even crossed the threshold. Eventually I saunter over, casting an experienced eye over each of you sitting there. Fair-skinned, black, or in your case a deep, dark red marbled like a liquid garnet. You're not as slim as some, but you're taller than most. Sinuously curved, with bits going in and out in just the right places. I know you and I would fit together like the pieces of a jigsaw. I reach out a hand and touch you, feeling your cool smoothness. You feel firm yet not hard under the pressure of my fingertips. My hand encircles you and lifts you from the shelf, feels your weight and heft, strokes you gently. I take you to the counter, where you are wrapped and placed in a plain plastic bag. I feel a flutter of excitement in my belly as we leave together. Tonight, you will be mine. (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, September 15th, 2003
3:37 am	knives and blindfolds Shall I tell you what I like to do with knives? How about blindfolds? How about knives *and* blindfolds? Darkness. Faint pressure on eyelids. A firm knot behind the head. Perhaps a tiny chink of light seeping in, perhaps not. Lying, hands tied out of the way. Or perhaps kneeling. Yes, kneeling. No physical restraint, just the hardness under spread knees, hands kept behind the head by willpower alone. Waiting. Faint movements at the edge of hearing. Cold touch on the throat. Chin held motionless, breath shallow. A sharp point tracing out veins, raising goosebumps. Pressure on smooth round breasts, indenting but not breaking skin. Circling. Flicking at a nipple, quick like an electric shock. Grazing aureoles, scratching cleavage, raising thin red lines interwoven like knotwork. Inside of the arms. Ticklish. Don't move! Down the side of the chest, scratching a little harder, rib by rib by rib. Will it cut? Will the first sensation be the breaking of skin, or the trickle of blood cooling in the air? Knifepoint disappears. Mouth full of fingers. Nuzzle. Suck greedily. Whimper. Freeze. Fuck. Fuck no. Cold, ice-cold. And sharp. Fuck. And. And. Knife. Fuck. Not moving. A single point. Resting. Fuck. Against the clitoris. Faint pressure. Slight movement. Slow, so slow. Flicking at the hood. Too scared to breathe, too scared to cum. Slow traces down one lip, back up the other. Circling. Circling inward. Opening the lips with the tip of the blade, touching the wetness with ice-cold steel. Something plunges deep inside. NO! Not the blade. No. The handle. It was the handle. Relax. Breathe. Slow strokes. Hips move to meet each one. Slick wet strokes, cold hard handle. Almost. Almost. Increase the pace. Nearly... The handle withdraws. Hips buck against nothing. A steadying hand reaches out, calming, centreing. Deep shuddering breath. Cold, ice cold. Faint pressure. A single point. Resting against the clitoris. Slight movement. Slow, so slow. Flicking at the hood. Slow traces down one lip, back up the other. Again at the hood, lifting it back. Point of steel on the nub within. Pressure. FUCK. OH FUCK. YES. Scent of juices, touch of metal on lower lip. Tongue reaches out, tastes steel and sex. Lick it clean... but carefully. (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, September 10th, 2003
10:47 pm	Second watch (For A.) I could take you by the hand and drag you to the bathrooms, and nobody would ever realise why. Hundreds of people, all having their own fun, concentrating on their own business and their own pleasure, gossiping, politicking, admiring each other or snarking behind each others' backs, and probably none of them would ever understand what I was up to. Probably. Perhaps one or two would turn and raise a wondering eyebrow as I pushed you into a stall. Most would just figure it was a girl thing, an opportunity to adjust our attire. Perhaps there'd be people changing by the mirrors, or stopping to be social on their way in and out... the bathrooms at these events are never entirely empty. But how many of those people would put two and two together? How many would look at me - modest, prudish even, in my long skirts and unrevealing tops, with my hair tucked neatly back in a librarian-style knot - and make the connection? How much could we get away with, if we were quiet? I could choose an end stall, with at least one solid wall, furthest from the entrance. I could bend you over the toilet, your hands against the back wall and legs spread to either side of the bowl. I could raise your skirt to your waist, hold it with one controlling hand on the small of your back, and with the other run cruel fingernails over your buttocks and down the insides of your thighs. I wonder whether you'd make any noise? I wonder if you would whimper when I traced my fingertips closer to your cunt, moan when I opened your slick-wet lips, cry out when I plunged my fingers into you, shudder when you came? I wonder if anyone would hear us, or whether those who had been there when we arrived would still be there when we emerged with you arranging your skirt and a flush upon your cheeks. I wonder. (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, September 8th, 2003
12:57 pm	First watch I had my nipples pierced when I was nineteen. It was early spring, and the weather was cold enough that I would have been showing "high beams" even if it weren't for the rings. With the new metal, it was like someone had put icecubes down my shirt. My partner at the time was well aware of this, and liked to take advantage. One day we were standing waiting for a train. It was a small station, not very busy, but certainly not deserted. Your basic Victorian era red brick public facility, with wrought iron and brickwork details. A few people sat on benches nearby. My boyfriend leaned against an iron railing and I stood facing him with my feet between his and thighs touching. He chatted idly about the train timetables or something, and nonchalantly brushed his fingertips across my breasts. The way we stood and the lapels of my jacket made it discreet enough, but the effect of him touching my nipples was more challenging to hide. I stood breathing shallowly, with my eyes half closed, while he brought me to orgasm with the lightest touch. When the train pulled in, he offered me his arm to assist me in boarding the train. I don't *think* the damp spot in the crotch of my jeans would have been visible to any of the other passengers. (Comment on this)
10:23 am	Watch me There used to be a Guinness ad where a guy stared at a pint of Guinness with the bubbles rising for 28 seconds, then said "I like to watch", followed by the Guinness logo. He had a distinctive way of saying it, tinged with a little bit of creepiness or something, and that voice saying that phrase is sticking in my head right now. Though for me, it's not so much "I like to watch" as "I like to show". And as I check my friends list I see that a few new people have joined, and that makes me happy, because it means there's someone watching. Ever since it was an option for me, I've been interested in the idea of public play and public sex. (Before it was an option, I was a teenager having sex in parks and similar places because I didn't have anywhere private to go.) I love playparties. I love bathhouses (though it's frustrating that the gay men have so many and everyone else has so few). I love being sexual in supermarkets, on trains, in restaurants. I love knowing that people are watching, or could be watching, and I love to walk the line between caution and danger. Just enough exposure to raise the pulse and make your head spin, not enough to get arrested. So this is my new theme. Stand by for more. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Friday, September 5th, 2003
11:18 am	Fisting funnies Some fisting stories are hotter than others. Their names were Mistress Victoria and Master Vladimir. No relation to each other. I guess that professional dominants use scrabble rules to find their working names, and try to go for names full of letters that you'd really want to put on a triple word score. Perhaps they should have been Vyqtorya and Vlxdzmqr (pronounced "Luxury-Yacht"). Anyway, Vlad was a friend of mine who dommed part time on the side, and Victoria was a gorgeous woman who looked like the girl next door, and probably was. She'd just left her day job to turn to the dark side and become a pro dom. We were at a leather pride party, and she was telling me about her new work. "I'm learning all kinds of new stuff," she said, "Though... I would like to learn how to do fistings." I knew where she'd got the idea from. One of our other friends in the business specialised in fisting her male clients. "I'm sure you won't have much trouble finding people to learn on," I told her. "Oh, not at all. In fact, your roomie has already volunteered." I almost snorted my drink through my nose. He was such a little slut. She hesitated. "I'm pretty nervous about it though." "Well," I mused aloud, "you probably don't want to start out fisting guys. Anuses are much tighter than vaginas, and easier to hurt. And you have to clean them out first, and it's all just a big drama. You should definitely start out on girls." "But where would I find someone... oh!" I had pointed at myself. Her nerves tripled then. I think perhaps the whole idea had gone from "nice to think about" to "probably going to happen" much faster than she had expected. She started protesting and carrying on. "I don't know how... I wouldn't... I couldn't..." "Vlad!" I called out as I saw him nearby. "Get over here." (Some of you, dear readers, may be shocked at my lack of respect for his profession and his dominant role. In which case, you have never met the guy, and obviously never met me either.) "Mistress Victoria here wants to learn how to fist, and I've offered myself as a beginners demo model, but I think she'll need someone to hold her other hand and tell her what to do." Vlad grinned and rubbed his hands together. "Excellent! How's Tuesday for you?" So on Tuesday they showed up at my place. Less leather and latex, more jeans and tshirts, but still the same pervs. Victoria was still nervous, and Vlad was as usual in good humor and jollying her along. We went to my room and I stripped down. I had towels, gloves and lube all handy. "Manicure check!" I announced, and examined her fingernails. She'd trimmed them close and filed them. Not perfect, but pretty close, and this isn't the 70s with the no-glove crisco handballings, so tiny flaws would be masked by the latex of the gloves. I plumped myself down onto the futon on top of a folded towel while she gloved up, and the action commenced. She was tentative. I don't think she'd ever even had sex with a woman before. She started by running her fingertip down my labia, and then inserted one finger. "Is that OK?" she asked. "Uh, it's a good start," I replied. She started to move her finger in and out. "Can I add another?" "Sweetie, this is FISTING! I've done this before. You have small hands. Go right ahead." Vlad chuckled. He was standing at the foot of the bed, just off to one side, with his arms folded over his chest. He waited and watched while she fucked me with two fingers, and I just lay there waiting for more. Eventually he said, "Add another finger." Victoria looked up at him and he nodded encouragement. "You want to take it real slow with someone's ass," he told her, "but this is Pheremoan's cunt. Cunts are stretchy, and hers is stretchier than most. Just think about the size of a cock, or about your favourite vibrator. They don't hurt you any, and three of your tiny fingers won't hurt her at all. In fact, add another one now." And so it went until her hand was inside me to the wrist. Victoria would hesitate, Vlad would encourage her and make smart-ass comments, and I would laugh. And then she'd squeal "Don't laugh!" because she could feel it through my cunt as my abdominal muscles tensed. I don't remember whether or not I came from her fist-fucking, but I remember I laughed harder than I had during any other sexual experience. It was probably the glove-puppet jokes. This story doesn't really have an ending. Our session wrapped up when my other roomie came home and popped her head round the door to see what was up. She leaned on the doorframe and introduced herself to my friends, while I tried to mop up the lube mess and find some pants. And so I will just leave you with a quote by comedian Margaret Cho: "I like being fisted. It makes me feel like a muppet." Animal, I hope. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, September 4th, 2003
9:33 pm	More fistings I like this topic. I'm going to stick with it for a bit. I should be sleeping but instead I was lying in bed thinking about this one time... I was at a transition point in my life. I'd just left the job I'd been buried under for two years, and I was about to leave the city. I was starting to pack my apartment into boxes and give away my old futon when I got the email asking whether I'd like to give a fisting demonstration and class for a local BDSM group. I don't think I've ever turned down an offer of a cunt to put my hand in, and I love teaching, so of course I accepted. My demo model for the night was a big brunette, someone I didn't actually know very well except as a screen name. I won't describe her in detail because I don't remember her. The reason I don't remember her is because when I showed up at the house where the class was to be run, I found out she had a nasty cold. She was still there, and still willing to go ahead with it, but we decided I should look for another volunteer if I could find one. There was a little girl standing nearby. When I say little girl, I mean that she was petite, and her thing was to act all innocent and much younger than her age - which wasn't very old to start with. When I mentioned looking for volunteers, I could see her ears prick up... even though I wasn't looking in her direction at the time. It was like a beacon telepathically broadcasting her interest. Of course she wouldn't fess up at first. She claimed shyness, and inexperience, and that she didn't want to disappoint me. Her top, standing beside her, just smiled and said "You'll be just fine. You know you will." He patted her on the butt and handed her over to me. We talked a bit, and I promised to go slow. I told her I'd need to take my time anyway, to make sure everyone could see what I was doing and learn from it. And I told her that I'd never met a vagina that didn't open to me, no matter how inexperienced. I stroked her hair and told her I was sure she'd be a good girl and do us all proud. She smiled, and I could see the tension release from her shoulders. The living room had one of those 80's-style modular sofas, all covered in brown velveteen. We pulled together a couple of the sections to make somewhere for her to lie, and covered it with towels in the appropriate places. Our hostess introduced us to the other attendees, and it was showtime. I pulled on my glove with a snap - what's the point if you're not going to snap it like a customs officer? - and started lecturing on the importance of safer sex and how to choose the right kind of lube. My little girl lay back on the sofa, a friend holding her hand, while I talked and idly stroked her pussy. The first two fingers were no surprise to her, of course, but I could see she was enjoying it. Her friend whispered to her, and she closed her eyes. The third finger is always the one where it suddenly hits home - she's going to put her whole hand in me! I don't know why it is. It's not as if three of my fingers are any bigger than a decent sized cock. I guess it's just that three fingers is when you start to feel a little bit of stretch, the first foreshadowings of the sensation to come. The students were craning to watch. There were about twenty of them, male and female, mixed orientations. I could tell the men in particular were salivating a bit, but they were well behaved and paid courteous attention while I demonstrated how flattening my hand so the three fingers were in a straight line and twisting through ninety degrees could start to stretch her to accept more. My pinkie joined its sisters next, along with another good dollop of lube. Four fingers lets you insert up to the web between the thumb and forefinger, and lets you curl up your hand in a come-hither gesture. I did this, pressing against the inner walls of her vagina, getting her used to the sensation of lateral pressure. A cock or a dildo only pounds in and out, but a fist can push in *every* direction. With my thumb still outside, I could tease her clit too, making her arch slightly and push her cunt towards me. The audience shifted in their seats as I demonstrated. The trick with the thumb and the widest point of the hand is to make her want it. Don't push, but just be there waiting when she is ready to swallow you. The pressure at the entrance, the feel of your fingers moving inside her, perhaps your other hand or your tongue at her clit, or your mouth nibbling at the sensitive parts of her upper thighs... before long she'll want to be fucked, and she'll have forgotten that what's there to fuck her is the hand she feared so recently. She'll push her cunt at you, opening up greedily, and suck you in. My girl did exactly that, with only the merest pressure from me. "I'm in," I announced for the benefit of the class, though I'm sure they could see it for themselves. My little girl gasped, suddenly realising through her cloud of endorphins that the full, heavy feeling in her cunt was an entire hand. She reached down tentatively and ran her fingertips around my wrist to prove it to herself. But it wasn't over yet. I showed the class - or rather I told them, unless they had x-ray vision - how I could pulse my hand inside her, squeezing my fist tight then relaxing it with a steady rhythm. I moved my fingers gently, watching her squirm. And finally, with infinitesimal movements, I started to draw my entire hand backwards and forwards. At first just a millimetre or two, just enough for her to feel the movement inside. Then, gradually, far enough that the heel of my thumb started to catch against the round muscle at the entrance to her cunt. Slowly but surely, I started to fuck her. It can't have looked like much from the outside, perhaps an inch of movement. Some girls, if they're slicked up enough and not too overloaded with sensation, will let you slide your whole hand in and out. This girl, I think, was overloaded. A minute or two of fucking, a touch on her clit, and she came hard, pushing me right out. I heard at least one moan slip from an audience member's lips. I pulled the glove off quickly, wiped my other hand on the towel, and put my arms around her. "Good girl..." I whispered to her, "You did beautifully. Good girl, good girl..." We got her cleaned up and back into her clothes, and she spent the rest of the night wandering round with a goofy smile on her face. I spent the rest of the night dealing with a steady procession of compliments and propositions. I would have liked to accept more of the propositions than I did, but my time in that city was limited. It's times like these that I wish I had written a book or something, instead of teaching a class to twenty pervs from an Internet mailing list. If I were a celebrity pervert, I could move just about anywhere and still have them lining up to ride my fist. If only... (Comment on this)
8:36 pm	Inspire me I'm happy to accept requests for what to write about. Just post a comment. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, September 3rd, 2003
11:00 pm	When the north wind blows... I met J at a "Reclaim the Night" march. I went for the most cynical of reasons. Two of the most cynical of reasons, actually. First, I figured that showing up in full leathers and a badge that said "what part of the word YES don't you understand?" would shake them up a bit; and second, I figured the place would be full of dykes and I was pretty likely to pick up. Especially dressed like that. There were a bunch of us, as it turned out. I'd asked a couple of friends to come along in leathers, and then we found out we hadn't been the only ones. In the end there were six or eight of us, all in shiny black and spiky steel and big stomping boots. I was wearing tight chaps over worn blue jeans, polished boots, and my black leather jacket with the spikes and chains. My hair was buzzcut back then, too. I wore my keys and red handkerchief on the left that night - they're not fixed there, but it suited my mood on that particular occasion. J was petite, with spiked blonde hair. She was wearing black leather pants and a black bra top under her leather jacket. I'll admit I thought she was cute, but she didn't really do it for me at first sight. If I recall correctly, I had my heart set on a butch bottom at the time, and she was just a touch too femme and a touch too dominant. So we marched around, handing out pro-kink manifestos and generally cruising. Then after the march J and I and another friend or two ended up at a bar. I forget the exact course of events - this was about seven years ago now - but by the early hours of the morning we'd had a few drinks and J and I were talking. "I basically consider myself dominant," she told me. "I mean, I've never really bottomed to anyone before." At this point she probably gave me a sidelong glance, but I tend to be oblivious to non-verbal cues so I'm just guessing here. "I guess I like the control. I'd never have the courage to submit. But..." (and here's where I finally figured out what she was getting at) "I've always wished someone would flip me." I think my jaw probably dropped on the floor and I went "Buh... buh... buh" for a bit. Anyway, skip forward a bit, because my social ineptitude isn't the hottest thing to read about. Turned out she wanted my fist, and I was only too happy to oblige. We ended up at my place. In my room, she stripped down to her black thong and turned to me. I grabbed the her head and mashed a kiss onto her face, then pushed her onto the bed. The thong came off, and I grabbed a glove and the lube bottle. No need for foreplay; the whole evening had been buildup for her, and I knew what she wanted. Her cunt took my hand like an impolite diner slurping up spaghetti. You hear people make all kinds of glove analogies in these situations, but I don't think she fit like a glove at all; gloves don't invite you in in the same luscious way. I started to move my fist inside her, contracting and expanding it and turning it slightly at the wrist. The thing about fist fucking is it's not really about fucking. At least not usually. It's not the in-out ramming that *I* call fucking, anyway. It's about fullness, and about expanding the cunt and stretching its walls til every nerve hums and the endorphins start looping through your bloodstream like a rollercoaster. When J came, every one of her muscles contracted. She arched her back, and tensed her thighs, and her cunt closed around my hand like a vice. It was without a doubt the strongest orgasm it has ever been my privelege to cause. And there's not really more to say about it, except that the next day it hurt to type. A friend who was studying for a degree in some area that required her to know anatomy took a look at it a week or so later. "I think you've got one of the little bones out of place. How did you do that?" This is the bit where I'm meant to say that my old fisting injury plays up whenever it's going to storm. But I won't, because it's not true. My hand's as good as it ever was. But sometimes when I get a bit of RSI from typing or masturbating too much, it reminds me of her. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
1:32 pm	Plausible deniability Just pondering anonymity. I'm not a shy person, and I don't hide my sexual interests. So why did I set up this journal? I think it's just a matter of compartmentalisation. I don't mind people reading this stuff and knowing that it's me. But I also don't want my professional reputation inexorably linked with it. Not so much because I care about my own privacy, as because my employers/employees/clients/whatever have a right to avoid this stuff if they want to. If they want to read it, they'll have to come looking for it on purpose, rather than hitting it by accident when they're looking for my resume. The people in these stories also have a right not to have their identities plastered around the Internet. If I used my real name I'd have to edit the stories to the point of unrecognisability to protect their privacy, or I'd have to fill them with caveats and explanations to protect their delicate sensibilities and reputations. At least this way there is a sense of plausible deniability, and I can write more or less unhindered. So if you're reading this and you know who I am in real life: "Hi!" You've either put two and two together, or else I (or someone else) led you here. I'm not going to swear you to secrecy, because that would be sure to backfire. But I will suggest that if you help me maintain this compartmentalisation, this plausible deniability, then I'm free to keep writing without the inhibitions and self-censorship that would otherwise be necessary. (Comment on this)
12:30 am	Can't sleep, clown will eat me I'm feeling kinda wired and I can't sleep. What shall I talk about? Shall I tell you about my first fisting, her slick hand buried in me in her dormroom, and the rush of endorphins that felt like love? Shall I tell you what I like to do with knives? How about blindfolds? How about knives *and* blindfolds? I could tell you about the leatherdyke top who begged me to flip her, and who broke a small bone in my hand when she came. I won't tell you about the thunderstorm seduction, it'd give too much away. Nobody else ever gets seduced that way, and this journal's about anonymity. I have a lot of stories. Some of them are history, some are imagination. Some are both. The trick is to get them to flow. No point forcing it. I want the words to gush out onto the screen, not to have to laboriously place each one after the other. I think too much about what I write the rest of the time. Here, I want to take off the gag. (Comment on this)
Tuesday, September 2nd, 2003
10:08 pm	Nostalgia This town's too small for the kind of dyke bar I want. Too small and too clean. And the dykes... well, let's just call them lesbians instead. To be a dyke you have to have a certain quotient of leather, army boots, buzzcut hair, and attitude. The ones at this bar did. Not all of them, but a good number. I'd gone there to get laid and I had little doubt that I'd succeed. I'd even made a bet with a co-worker, which enabled me to be rather smug on Monday morning. But anyway, this bar. In an ill-lit back street, and you could hear the voices and the clack of balls on the pool table and smell the smoke and beer as you approached. The toilets there had the filthiest grafitti I've ever seen... that was one place I really *wouldn't* want my name scrawled on the wall. So that night I had a couple of ciders, and scanned the crowd. The one that I liked the look of was about my height, perhaps a little shorter, small and compact and wearing khaki army pants and a scuffed up motorcycle jacket. She had a baseball cap on backwards, and a dark complexion, and the wicked yet straightforward glint in her eye that spells trouble. She came up to me where I was standing near the band. I don't remember what we said, but it was probably something to the tune of "your place or mine". In the end it was neither; it was in the alleyway just round the corner. She threw me up against a chainlink fence and fucked me through the rip in the crotch of my jeans. She had short fingernails; I remember thinking that she knew what she was planning that night. A couple of fags from the nearby gay club walked by and laughed but we ignored them. It didn't last of course. You know the joke about dykes and second dates? No? What does a dyke bring on her second date? A U-Haul. This one was kind of like that. So I wriggled away. Saw her a few years later, on a train one morning. She was doing well... moved in with another dyke and they'd got a cat. But I still get all nostalgic whenever I hear the rattle of a chainlink fence. (Comment on this)
9:51 pm	Am I frustrated or not? He hasn't been interested for the last few weeks. Major attack of life distracting him, and I can understand that. I don't *like* it, but I can understand it. But he managed to find some time to come round tonight, "for a glass of wine after dinner". We sat on the sofa and talked, and he stroked my foot. Then he stroked my breast. The bastard. First he tells me he's not into sex right now, then he goes touching me like that when I *told* him that I'd had a nipply day with the aircon so cold at the office. But he must have changed his mind, because then he lifted my tank top and started to stroke my bare skin. And then his hand pulled my hair away from my neck and started to bite. And when I moaned he pulled my hair hard to tilt my head back and expose my neck, while his other hand went down my pants. Next thing you know I'm moaning and then I've made a big mess, soaked all into my trackpants but luckily not too much on the sofa. My thigh is grinding against his crotch and he knows what I want. He unzips and stands in front of me, then with his hand entwined in my hair he pushes my face onto his cock. That's unusual for us... usually we are in agreement that it's not our favourite thing, in part because the amount of metal in the head of his penis could cause dental damange. But this time, it seemed like the right thing to do. I suck and nuzzle for a while, then switch to using my hand, at which I'm more adept anyway. Within minutes he's come all over my chest. I don't know how long it's been for him, but the mess all down my front suggests that he hasn't been taking care of himself as often as he usually does. He grabs the nearest cloth and wipes us both off. Then he announces "hometime!" and leaves. He has to get an early night. My cunt is still hungry. (Comment on this)