Wednesday, October 31, 2007


The bright afternoon sun muted by the drapes, bathes the room in a cool glow. Clothed only in one of my shirts, the opening held together by one button, and cute pink and white panties, she's lying across my left arm, her body out stretched against my length. Left leg bent, one dainty foot placed perfectly between my legs, the bells around her ankle tinkle merrily with every movement. She has her face buried into my neck, hidden behind a tangled red web. Her soft whimpers blow warm puffs against my skin. I have been casually stroking her for a little while now, not unlike petting a sleeping pet, as I watch TV - grazing the back of my palm across her smooth belly, brushing my fingers along the edge of her panty to occasionally slip them just under the waistband. With my left hand, nestled between her arm and her warm body, I've been rolling a soft nipple between my thumb and forefinger, feeling the soft tissue stiffen and harden, in turn squeezing and kneading her soft ample breast. I love her breasts. So firm, yet supple, they mold like jelly under my hand, the nipple digging into the spongy flesh of my palm. I could play with them forever.

Her whimpers turn to sighs, evolving into to low moans. Her body responds under my hands, turning and wriggling like an eel. She grinds her hips, pressing herself into me. Her fingers turn to claws as they dig into my chest. With a sharp hiss her lips clamp onto my neck suckling urgently while I slowly slide my right hand down once more and over the silkiness of her panty. My middle finger slips into the crevice between her thighs, pushing the soaked fabric against her hot snatch. My finger slides along easily, lubricated by the strands of sticky wetness that has strained out from between the porous threads.
Her body goes rigid and then relaxes, reacting to my touch like a fine tuned piano wire. Pinching down on her erect nipple, I continue to rub between the ridges of her snatch through the soaked panty. Now as I slip a finger under the edge of the panty, making contact with the soft lips of her pussy, it brings another moan, a little louder this time. She is so soft, like butterscotch pudding, wet and slippery and gooey, and my finger slides into her with ease. Against my neck, her breathing has quickened. Ragged, quick short gasps, soft cat-like mewls blend with the sensation of her sharp teeth as they graze my skin. Every stroke, each pinch brings yet another jolt. Her fingers dig deeper into my chest. I am sure the welts will remain for awhile.

I sit up suddenly, and she yelps in surprise, shock registering across her face like paint from a brush. Her eyes scrunch tight as she cries out reaching for her breast as the blood rushes back into her assaulted nipple. I push her down away from me and lean across her, my hair falling across my face to tickle her breasts. Bent over her, I run my tongue down her belly, a wet trail following like a wake, glistening brightly along her flushed skin as I make my way towards her pussy. Once again her body stiffens in anticipation. Her hips move upwards to meet my tongue. She is whispering something but the words are unintelligible. A mantra of passion and urgency perhaps. I hear my name once, twice. Moving the edge of her saturated panty away from the edge of her groin, I lower my face, extend my tongue and lick across the drenched lips of her cunt.
It is a dizzying jumble of senses - the musky aroma of her cunt, the bitter-sweet nectar of her juices, the crinkled folds against my tongue. They all slam into my head in an orgiastic melee. A low growl escapes my lips building from deep within. It's an incredible rush, an eruption of flavour and fragrance, like falling head first into a hedonistic pit. I bury my tongue into her sticky folds, lapping urgently, flicking it along the sensitive hood of her clit, nipping along the edges of her labia, and I then slowly insert a finger into her dripping hole.

Beneath me her body erupts. Stiffening at first, then lurching violently against me. Her head snaps sideways, forced by the surge of her climax. Her passion runs freely now, trickling down her ass, drenching my tongue and lips, dribbling down my chin. The fine hairs of her bush tickle against my nose. I insert a second finger into her pussy. I can feel the soft spongy walls contract and spasm with every stroke and dance of my tongue. Suckling tightly on her clit, fully exposed and sensitive beyond imagination, I bare my lips and clamp my teeth into the soft flesh. She howls, a long low bestial sound as her orgasm rips across her in waves, body convulsing with every ripple. Holding on to her is almost impossible as she bucks beneath me, gushing into my mouth. Over and over again, she climaxes each wave following the other in a seemingly never ending pattern.
Finally, it's over and I slide my body up and across hers. She wraps her arms around my neck and I push my soaked fingers into her mouth. She laps at them urgently, running her tongue in between each digit, sucking and savouring her taste. I push my tongue into her mouth and drag it across her lips.

"Would you like some more?"

Saturday, October 27, 2007


The people upstairs are vacuuming. Ordinarily this would not be blog-worthy material. But it's 6 o' clock in the fucking morning. And they have been at it for the past 20 mins. As I lay here on my bed, plotting deadly revenge and the perfect murder, I also tried to figure out what would make someone do domestic chores at 5:30 on a Saturday morning.

Was it a case of insomnia? boredom? Perhaps he used the potted plant in the corner to fuck her, spilling wet soil all over the ground in the process.

"Now look what you've done. Who's going to clean up the mess?"
"Here honey, you missed a spot. Let me drag the coffee table half way across the floor. Then when you're done, I'll drag it back".
"That's alright, no one will hear us. They're probably all asleep anyway"

At first I thought about writing a note.
Then I contemplated throwing large rocks through their window. There, vacuum that you idiots!
As the sound of moving furniture and the whine of the vacuum continued, I considered knocking on their door and politely asking them why before I carved out their eyes with a butter knife.

But then hesitation crept in. One of them might have just offed the other. In a messy sort of way. Maybe she didn't give good head. Maybe there was milk with his coffee. Or she was simply tired of having his hard dick pressed against her. Every morning. There's only so much a person can take.

If I were to knock on the door he/she might not take it too kindly to being interrupted during this delicate clean up process. I could be a witness - god forbid! That would most certainly ruin my Saturday. I have much to do today. So I got out of bed, turned on the fan in the bathroom, made coffee and wrote a note. This note.

Friday, October 26, 2007

home - Chapter 3, Part III

The door closed behind him with a soft snick, severing the cold tendrils of the impending storm that had picked up in the last few minutes. He shook his head as a shudder went through him. Damn! it was cold outside. He was glad to be inside, sheltered from the fine rain that had begun to fall.

He took a moment to look around at the surroundings, hoping to find amongst the furniture and fixings, a glimpse of the dark hallways inside this woman's mind. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dark. This woman had intrigued him like no other before her. She played with his mind like a cat would toy with a fresh kill. He smirked to himself. His mind was made up. She was going to be his. She just didn't know it yet. First, he had to penetrate the wall of defense that stood like a fortress between him and his final coup. First, he had to gain her complete trust. Perhaps finally, after this accursed journey paved with the shells of a thousand desecrated souls, he had finally found the woman who could tame this accursed creature that shared his spirit. Was she the key that would unlock the hidden door - to stroke the knotted craggy scales, to soothe it's beating heart as it nuzzled roughly against her palm? Would she be worthy of forever being called His First? Suddenly tiredness fell like a cloak upon him as he stood inside this woman's home. Weighted down by the seeming pointlessness of it all, he had to sit down.

After she had turned and walked away, he had fallen in step next to her, trepidation like a shadow beside him. Would she cry out for help. That would be unfortunate. Or she could've turned to dismiss him. But she did neither and the two of them walked the rest of the way in a strangely amicable silence. Just like an old dog enjoying and evening walk with it's master. He snickered to himself as he pulled the lapels up above his ears.
Every now and then, his hand would brush against the long sleeve of her coat, making the fine hairs of his arm tingle. Her high heels clipped along the concrete pathway in measured steps, the sound ricocheting off the trees, the leaves already starting to glisten from the falling rain. They walked up the pathway of her house. It was an old small unassuming building which wasn't surprising at all. The garden was a riot of colour even in the gloom. Closer inspection had shown signs of it being well tended despite the initial sense of wildness. She must spend hours outside. It displayed a sense of nurturing on her part. There was neatness and order to each patch. And the scent of the flora released by the fine rain assaulted his senses as if an expensive vial of perfume had been uncapped. She had paused at the door, one hand on the lock, a slight smirk on her face as she turned to face him.

"You look like a wet puppy, how am I supposed to leave you outside?"
"I could curl up in front of your hearth m'lady", he beamed as sweetly back.
"Would you like some tea?", she inquired once inside.
"Yes please", he replied. Anything to linger near her presence.

Now as he stood inside her living room, gazing around at the austere yet richly elegant decor, he looked for somewhere to flop down. Interestingly, she never bid him to sit down, he mused. From the antique winged-back chair, to the ornate coffee table with beautifully carved feet, to the ancient brightly coloured Indian fresco hanging on one wall, each piece was carefully chosen for their beauty and value. There was silver candelabra, wine decanters, odd medieval knick-knacks and a simply stunning forged steel dirk, perhaps three hundred years old, on the mantle piece below which a fire crackled and snapped like a tethered creature. Tastefully decorated and harmoniously laid out, the effect was dramatic, yet comforting, like a welcome home hug from a loved one. There was wealth in this room, not only from the monetary value of these possessions but from the priceless heritage and stories each piece bore.

From the kitchen a kettle gurgled to a boil. The melodic tinkle of silver against porcelain, cupboards opening and closing as she prepared tea. Sinking down into the welcoming folds of a sofa, the heat from the fire warming his aching bones, he placed his feet upon a red ottoman. Patterned in an ancient intricate Middle-Eastern design, beautiful and ornate, he briefly wondered if his feet even belonged there before slumping backwards. Ah! those Ottomans. Almost a century of passing time had dimmed the memories of mingling among the Turks as rivers of blood ran along the parched ground and fires licked an azure sky. How the bitter caustic smell of burning flesh had clogged his nose. The screams of the innocent filled his ears once more as the twisted faces of the raped and the pillaged scrolled like an old scratched film across his eyes. The thunder of horses echoed inside his head as a log fell over in the fireplace showering sparks upwards as pretty as fluttering fireflies. The sound snapped him back into the room. The woman was still in the kitchen. The comforting aroma of fresh tea infused the air. He pushed the past into a small cranny in the back of his mind and took a deep ragged breath. Those days were gone forever. For now he was home.

©two bucks, inc.

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

walk a mile...

Today was a better day. Today both shoes matched. I didn't walk like I was listing to port. Today was a good day. Now if only my co-workers would stop making stupid jokes/comments about matching shoes. So damn immature if you ask me.

Sunday, October 21, 2007

salacious sunday

'Tis now the very witching time of night,
when churchyards yawn,
and hell itself breathes out
contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood,
And do such bitter business as the day
~William H Shakespeare (The Hamlet Soliloquies)

Saturday, October 20, 2007

first taste - Chapter 3, Part II

At first shocked into near paralysis by his actions, she drew a deep quivering breath holding it until she was thrust hard against the tree, the knotty bark digging into her spine. Somewhere deep within her, she knew, just like she knew from the moment he had stepped out of the murky darkness, that he would not hurt her. Too much
But as the rough bark prodded like knives into her flesh and his hand about her throat felt like collar fastened a little too tightly, a moment of doubt rose like a mist to cloud her thoughts. Her green eyes held steadfast to his contorted face which in the panic-laced moment seemed to deform and swirl into a dark demonic shadow. Time seemed to congeal, thick as molasses and it was as if she peering into the very depths of hell itself. It was a brief, sinister moment, a glimpse into another world, alien and malignant. Time shifted and the moment was gone. A glimmer of the soul to his true being perhaps. Her eyes narrowed as her windpipe constricted further. But, she would give him not a flicker of emotion or wavering of her composure. Her passive alabaster features bordered on serene as his hot breath rolled over her cold skin, almost in an enticing sort of way. Sensations laced with a touch of repulsiveness prickled down her spine-coldly caressing each knotted vertebrae pressed hard against the bark. The lack of oxygen made her head now spin taking her senses fleeting away with each completed spin; someone else or something else seemed to twist her thoughts and bend her will. She fought back against the tug, like a current, that tried to grip her mind.

Just as quick as the vice like constriction of his fingers gathered around her throat, he released her, again making her head swim and her vision dance. During this moment she could almost swear that change from Demonic to human was not a figment of her imagination. A low defensive growl dispassionate, tainted almost with a hate escaped her snarled lips as she quickly regained her stance. Pondering his query rolling it loosely around her head like a bubble gum. She ran her hand over her slender throat, which burned slightly seeking the indents of his fingerprints there, indeed it would leave a mark. Thus made her green eyes smoulder as her mood slipped to caustic almost dangerous.

And then she kissed him.
As impulsive as when she kissed Molly in third grade she leaned forward clamping her chilled lips onto this man's mouth, so full and delectable. She wished to taste them. To run her tongue across them. To push her tongue between them. To nip. Wetness made her thighs moist, the insides of her cunt contracting and twitching. He was taken aback, she could tell from his reaction. A low grunt of surprise muffled by her actions vibrating against her mouth. It seemed that he almost took a step back before melting into the kiss. The grunt turned into a low growl, bestial and untamed. Their tongues danced together. Their collective breath clashed between them. Her heartbeat raced to uncontrollable heights. She moaned. And just as suddenly she broke away. Pulling away from his hardness that had pressed against her with a harsh sound. Surprise hissed through his teeth, exasperation flickered in his eyes.

Wiping at the corner of her mouth, catching the trail of spittle that had dribbled there, she turned on her heels. And she did not look back thusly giving him her back and leaving it like that. At times things did not appear as though they first seemed, this was one of those times. She made her way back to the path she had been on, her boot heels sinking unceremoniously into the ground, thrice she stumbled almost completely to the ground. Her mind raced with rapid outcomes and scenarios of what had just transpired. His words, his voice blurred her thoughts. She thought she heard him following behind her though she would not give him the satisfaction of turning back and looking. Her muddied boots hit the gravel path noisily cutting through the still night. She compensated her stride to slow down her pace. He was almost beside her. Without turning her head she spoke out.

"Just because you follow me home, does not necessarily mean that I am going to keep you." A snickering grin danced unseen upon the red tainted lips of hers.

There was no response. Just the sound of his footsteps in time with hers. Keeping her head up, chin level with the ground, arrogant in nature she walked on with a slow purposeful stride along the path, the moon gone, the black clouds now ruling the sky. Then the first light droplets of rain began to fall like icy fingers against her cheeks. She swore silently to herself and kept walking.

©two bucks, inc.

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

fancy I

“Lick my neck, right there”. I point to a spot between my chin and collar bone.

She smiles pertly up at me from her place between my thighs, her head against one knee. Her cheek presses downwards, skin like chilled ice. Summer meets winter in one passing caress as she turns to place her lips on the inside of my thigh, dragging her tongue across my skin. Her eyes twinkle with a liquid green that sends a shiver up each knot of my spine, but she hasn't yet complied. Instead she bares her teeth from between her smile, her impertinence like a gauntlet thrown down, a reminder of unfinished business from earlier that day. I sink backwards against the soft leather, hands above my head and smirk down at her.

Although my flesh has started to prickle and I am struggling to control my breathing I refuse to let her know what consequences her actions have already had over me. She continues to gaze up at me with that beguiling look, expectation like a fable scribbled across her face. With a glint that crosses her eyes in a flash she rakes her nails down the wet trail left by her tongue. I drag in a long breath between clenched teeth and hold it. Blood has already started to flow downwards to tingle the tip of my cock which just mere inches from her face. It twitches involuntarily and she giggles softly. Who will break first? Will she obey? or will my stubborn resolve tumble first before this pose she offers to me?
Her dainty pink tongue flicks out again. I growl and reach out for her...

Sunday, October 14, 2007

salacious sunday

A chair is still a chair
Even though theres no-one sitting there
But a chair is not a house
And a house is not a home
When theres no-one there to hold you tight
And no-one there you can kiss goodnight
~Dione Warwick (A House is not a Home)

Friday, October 12, 2007

purple prose

"Here, wear mine", she says.

"Sure", I shrug. Why not. We're are standing in the parking lot at work. It has been raining, although the skies are clear now. We have to walk across a grassy median and I'm not wearing shoes-or socks.
Feeling adventurous and slightly trippy, I slip my feet into her rubber slippers. They're purple in colour, and there's a flowery pattern across the part that bridges the top of my feet.
"Cool!", I exclaim as we start to walk across the grass. Of course it's wet from the rain and soon my feet are soaked and they start make that squish, squish sound. Now the cold sets in as this small grassy median has turned into an endless field. We've been walking forever it seems.
I have to pee.......I have to pee.........I have to pee.......
"Oh fuck!". Groaning, I turn over and force myself awake.

It's just as well that I seldom remember my dreams.

Tuesday, October 9, 2007

do angels cry?

Jason Blake has Chronic Myelogenous Leukemia (CML) and it makes the evening news. He breaks down and cries during a news conference and we're all supposed to cry with him.

In North America, more than 20,000 people have CML and approximately 4,600 new cases are diagnosed each year.
Who sheds a tear for them?

Monday, October 8, 2007


(n) Intense or unbridled sexual desire, intense longing: craving; (v) to have an intense desire or need, crave

"But I say to you that whoever looks at a woman to lust for her has already committed adultery with her in his heart" (Matthew 5:28).

to taste
her lips
to probe
her mouth with my tongue

to feel
her nipples
slowly harden
between my teeth

to stroke
her back
her skin
cool and smooth under my palms

to watch
as welts
slowly surface
to stain her delicate flesh

to drink
from the essence
of her arousal
dripping between her thighs

to explore
with fingers
my tongue
deep inside her

to feel
her quiver
and shake
clamp down on my cock

to clutch
her hand
so warm
and secure

to breathe
in her scent
intoxicated, giddy
by desire
to hold
her close
to never let her go

Saturday, October 6, 2007

froth runneth over

My head has shrunk. I don’t think that my cap has somehow grown larger. That would be just silly. So it is that my head has grown smaller. This is not a bad thing. While some might take this as slightly alarming or cause a degree of consternation to others, I am actually quite excited by this turn of events. See I don’t really pay too much to my head. It just sorta, sits there on my shoulders. Two eyes that bookend my nose, which in turn peer down, at my mouth. Just like Gramps use to do when he was constipated. Yes, like most people I occasionally mock it while staring into a mirror-but it’s all in good clean fun isn't it? I do like my eyes, kinda trippy I was once told. My eyebrows can be trimmed I suppose-but then whose doesn't need to. My nose, hmm...well it's functional. How about my lips? Kissable apparently and erotic when slickened by her juices.

There are times that I don’t really miss my head at all. It’s always noisy inside, as if someone is constantly re-arranging the furniture. It's too cluttered if you ask me. There are too many pictures hanging on the wall. Events and memories are always floating around like ghosts, getting in each other's way. The last time I counted, there were close to 500 songs running amok, knocking over everything and making a general mess. And let’s not even think about the mountain of trivia that’s been accumulating over in the corner under the stairs!

Walking across the parking lot, heading for Shopper’s Drug Mart with shampoo on my mind (see how this all ties together?), a gust of wind almost blew my cap off. Clutching onto it, while at the same time trying to look cool (yes it can be done), it struck me:

'Hear my mummers beaver!'

What you ask?

That's what the email said. Don’t you just love spammers? The hardest part of blogging for me is coming up with a title. I like them to be short and succinct. Sure, anyone can come up with “Today as I Brushed my Teeth with my Vibrating Toothbrush, my Nipples Tingled Which Brought A Smile to my Face and Caused Toothpaste to Run Down my Cheek Which Reminded Me of the Time when…”, well you get the idea, but can you say that in 3 words or less AND retain your dignity? I didn't think so either.

But back to spammers….so sometimes I will sit for hours trying to come up with a catchy little title. I will have the blog all written up ready to go, but the title will elude me for days. And so it struck me, as I held on desperately to my bright yellow Cuba hat, that I need fret no more. Help is at hand. Literally. All I have to do is open up my Junk mail folder. It’s like a little slice of heaven. It’s like opening up your Christmas present and finding a remote-controlled vibrating egg. While you know it’s decadently sinful, it’s licentiously delightful in a recklessly wicked way.

(Just for the record, that Christmas, I asked Santa for a remote-controlled Monster Truck. Those fucking elves...!!)

So what does this have to do with my shrinking head? absolutely nothing. It was simply a punch-line, an intro, just to make you read all the way to.....................

And now that you have indulged me, thank you, I feel better now. There's one less thought crossing inside my head.

Wait, wait! don't go yet. I got it!! yes, yes.....this.............this has to be why my head is smaller.

OK I'm done, bye

Thursday, October 4, 2007

vixen - Chapter 3, Part I

Know me broken by my master
Teach thee on child of love hereafter

~Alice in Chains (Would)

As she turned on her heels to walk away, the beast sprang to life. Her words caustic and defiant, scythed through him like a blade and struck a nerve deep inside. No one dared speak to him this way. No mere mortal had ever summarily dismissed him like this and lived. He had reduced those frail pitiful creatures to quivering masses, devouring on their souls as they prayed to be released from the depths of their agony. He remembered well how they had submitted to his every whim, if only they were allowed the chance to die. For death was sweet relief from the torturous pain that shred their souls apart. And yet, as he launched himself towards her, there was something about her that gave him pause. A voice of reason that had never spoken before, whispered urgently into his ear. It took him by surprise, the shock causing him to almost stumble. Biting down on his tongue to repress the raging demon that was now fully awake and aroused, he struggled to wrench back control. In an instant he found himself walking beside her. Metallic taste filled his mouth, warm fluid flowed down his suddenly dry throat. Breathing deep to suppress the anger that filled his head and the carnal lust that groped at his loins, he forced his voice to remain steady.
(Grab her hair! Drag her back to the tree! Use your teeth! Put your hands to good use! Do it now!!)
"That's no way to treat a gentlemen My Lil Vixen".

She stopped to look him straight in the eye and that's when he acted. With snake-like speed his left hand was entwined in her hair, his right hand about her throat. With his face so close to her lips the flowery aroma of her lipstick assaulted his senses as if he had walked into a funeral parlour.

"In fact", he sneered, his breath rustling a few wisps of her red mane that strayed across her face, "I would dare to venture that your disposition is down right rude, don't you think?"

She dragged a deep breath between clenched teeth, which was the only sound she made. Every muscle, coiled tight to deal with any resistance that she might put up, screamed with tension . Her lack of resistance came as a surprise, caught him off-guard.
(Fight you bitch! claw at my wrists! bite my hand! kick and struggle! make this enjoyable!!)
She remained still, head crooked back at an angle, her body rigid and composed as she glared back at him with slanted eyes that smoldered with brazenness and open impudence. His head hurt with the roar of the beast inside. It had been denied and it was not happy. The rush of blood pounded his ears with a muffled din. A shadow crossed behind his dark eyes. His vision began to swim, knees almost buckled beneath him.
Screaming flesh ripping from the inside out, coagulated vessels exploding. Fibrous muscles split apart. A howling pain that wrenched from deep within the darkness. With agonizing slowness, as each jagged claw scrabbled for tenuous grip, step by torturous step, the malignant spirit broke free from it's malignant hollow.
In an instant, he had dragged her backwards to the tree where only a few moments ago he was enjoying a satisfactory piss, lounging apathetic in his boredom. And now he had a fistful of a long tangled red mane attached to which was a woman that he wanted more than anything else in this world.
He wanted to taste her. He wanted to feel her skin quiver and ripple under his palm. He wanted to hear her whimper, moan, sob. He wanted to fuck her as she whispered his name over and over again. He slammed her against the knotty bark of the tree. One hand against her throat, he pinned her hands above her head, jamming his knee viciously between her thighs using the weight of his body to hold her firm. Leaning in, he growled, extended his tongue and flicked it across her half open mouth. Her pulse raced like a trapped butterfly under his hand, tiny wings beating desperately for it's life. Her breath came in short gasps and her breasts heaved against his chest. And yet she did not make a sound. She did not scream nor even speak. Her eyes remained rock steady, locked with his, rebelliously wide and challenging.

With their lips so close that they almost touched, their breaths collided against each other twisting like wraiths before vaporizing into the chill night. Slowly he began to move his hips back and forth to grind his engorged cock against her crotch. His fingers began to stroke her neck, squeezing gently, thumb pressing down into the pulsating vein that carried her life blood.

(so easy)

He licked his lips, a smirk curling along the edges. He opened his mouth to speak, and she chose that moment to lean forward and clamp her lips against his. Her tongue flicked out and pushed between his lips, penetrating like a proboscis deep into his mouth.

©two bucks, inc.