Friday, August 28, 2009


He woke up next to her feet. Her small toes rested against his cheek. He could smell the alkaline dust on her ankles and the down-soft scent of his dried saliva. Instinctively, uncontrollably, his lips made their way to the smallest toe. About as big as a lima bean, it popped into his mouth. He suckled, his tongue swirling around it, dipping into the tender web of flesh between it and the next toe. Two toes entered his mouth, just as her body stirred. His hand moved along the inside of her leg, slowly. She moaned and spread her legs automatically, as if he had just touched some secret button to some secret chamber. His tongue ran along the bottoms of her toes. He took each one into his mouth, sucking each pad and joint into wet warmth. Her fingers explored the deep and puffy folds of her pussy as she lay there in the tent, listening to the sounds of the camp in its awakening. A cool current flowed through the opening of the tent and across her tingling nipples. Lazily, teasingly, she masturbated, watching his cock grow and twitch in the diffuse morning light. He continued his sucking and licking and slurping, sending electric jolts of pleasure deep into her gently thrusting crotch. The smell of fresh camp coffee and sizzling bacon wafted through the tent as she arched her back and came on her glistening fingers. He rose up on one elbow, took her hand and licked it clean. Smiling, he whispered, “Good morning.”

Wednesday, August 26, 2009


It doesn’t take much, sometimes. A breeze through the window flowing across his naked balls can set him off. It brings back the scene of his cum splashing across her eyelashes. The sound of a jingling dog collar out on the sidewalk will make him hard. It reminds him of the jingling of his own collar and the feel of that long, smooth, dildo pumping into him in front of her girlfriends. Sometimes, it will just be the scent of vanilla that causes his buttocks to flex, involuntarily. It recalls the sight of her pissing into the banana bread batter. The taste of onion salt makes him catch his breath. The sight of her rubbing his cock and balls with her medium rare steak, before devouring it, was almost too much. These momentary lapses keep happening, with increasing frequency. They threaten to become the central purpose of his entire existence; to relive each wad-blowing moment of his life with her. Sometimes, he thinks he must be going mad. Nothing can be so good. Just when he thinks he is back in control, she reappears, drenched in jism, quivering beneath him, bucking on top of him, swallowing him whole, clenching his squirting nuts, screaming, whipping her hair, pounding her fists, kicking her legs in all directions. Is this a curse, or a gift? Is she satan, or an angel? Is she going to kill him, or breathe life into him just to kill him again? His nostrils and his cock flare with animal lust with the sight or smell or sound of her. Her touch is almost too much, almost too incendiary, almost too painful. But, he needs her as he needs the air. This is his destiny; she is his destiny. He will close his eyes, hold out his hand and allow her to lead him where she will.

Saturday, August 22, 2009


We’ve been like this for hours. I can’t stand it. I can’t move. Neither can she. She’s suspended above me, like a sack of potatoes. Only her hole, only that entry into another universe, only that streaming pulsar of her body is touching me. It touches me in one place. I am strapped to the bed; hips, legs, feet, arms, chest, head utterly unable to flinch or twitch or thrust. The head of my aching cock rests just inside the clenching muscles of her pussy. She hangs there, above me, dripping. When I involuntarily squeeze the muscles deep within my loins, the head of my dick expands and rubs against the inner walls of her vagina. She squeezes back. That is our conversation. The cum boils up the length of my rod until it spills out and runs out of her. Her juice leaks, like a slow spring, around the head of my cock and runs into the pool that has gathered beneath my straining balls. We are suspended like this, unable to move our hips, unable to drive into each other. She just hangs there, breathing hard, her pussy grabbing at my helplessly rigid tool. I just lie there, each heartbeat a pulse that goes right to the head of my dick. We are cumming. We have been cumming for hours. It’s just this insanely maddening slow leak of juice. My cock aches. My stomach is worn. The cum seems to be pouring out of me, even though I know it’s not. We are having a glacial orgasm. It is one, long, huge, expanding, cosmic, exploding orgasm that will re-create the world in which we live. Suddenly, she hiccups, her stomach muscles contract, she bounces in her harness, my cock spews all of the life of the universe into her and it runs, in cascading rivulets, down the length of my vomiting rod. The muscles relax, I drop out of her and fall asleep.

Sunday, August 9, 2009

The Eroticism of Green

Vibrations shy of blueness
In the thirsty blankness
Of arid lifelessness
In leaves and grasses
It is this bed of wishes
In which we lie like dishes
Waiting for delicious
Luscious richness
Thrusting in mosses
The rushing freshness
Of our budding sighs

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

A Distinctive Woody Shrub

“Rosemary is a distinctive woody shrub, Rosmarinus officinalis, that grows in the dry Mediterranean scrublands, with leaves so narrow and tightly rolled that they look like pine needles. It has a strong, composite scent, made up of woody, pine, floral, eucalyptus, and clove notes. In southern France and Italy it traditionally flavors grilled meats, but it can also complement sweet dishes.”
--On Food and Cooking, The Science and Lore of The Kitchen, Harold McGee.

Eating the Piney Dew

Rosemary. Why did her parents give her that name? Rosmarinus, “dew of the sea.” Why am I eating her, now. The dangerous alleyways, the filthy brick walls where I buried my hand in her poured-on jeans and found her damp bud; I think of this when the greasy lamb passes my lips. I think of her wild black hair, framing her olive skin, ringlets across her rising breasts, pink blossoms beneath her feet. Fences, train cars, garbage bins, bridges, swings in the park, high rise windows -- our playground when we were in high school. But, her name and her flavor were of wilderness. Rosemary, my forest, my tree whore, my penetrating flower…why did she leave me?

Perhaps it was the idea of her that, in fact, drove me away from her. The scent of her drove me away, to search for the primal essence of her amongst the rocks and flowers so far from where we grew up. Pine, clear in the snows of mountains, rubbed between my fingers; clove, cinnamon, pressed into my orange-rind skin; eucalyptus, the oils swimming across my skin: the heady, delirious, intoxicating idea of her made me leave. I wanted her as I drove out of the city, and I knew I would find the totality of her and the depth of who she was in the gardens of my culinary travels.

And so, now, I am eating her again and again. Her strong scent, her tightly rolled form, her narrow body is fodder for my lips and salivating mouth. I am eating her name. I am eating Rose and I am eating Mary. I am eating both of them and all of her, a thin memory of drool running down my bare chest. I savor her bitter parts and her emerald whole, her bouquet of swirling smell and sharp strong bite. My hand reaches for her again and again, rubbing her, releasing her, releasing her pungent delicious odor. She has become me. In her leaving, in my banishment to the dark woods, I have found obsession and craving and unrelenting hunger.

Hungry? Cum into my Kitchen.

Bacon-Wrapped Shrimp
Adapted from Contessa (Naughty slut)

12 ounces of fresh, juicy, well-endowed, uncooked, shrimp (prawns)
Freshly ground black pepper, long in its hardened orbs
1 T. of fresh Rosemary (harvested naked at dawn, while the dew is glistening and licking the toes), chopped
Balsamic vinegar
10 strips of marbled bacon, cut in half-lengths, before erection
Bleu cheese, rich and acrid


Strip naked and preheat broiler
Put Michael Franks' "Barefoot on the Beach" on the sound system
Liberally apply virgin olive oil to skin
Pour a cool glass of rosemary/lime-infused Bombay gin

Place shrimp on baking sheet and sprinkle with black pepper, balsamic vinegar and rosemary
Wrap each shrimp, individually and lovingly, with half strip of bacon and secure with sprig of rosemary
Broil for about 3 minutes on each side, while dancing
Serve, with sprinkle of bleu cheese and a smile


Rosemary is a flowering shrub that has contributed its leaves and stems to many aphrodisiac recipes. Oil from its leaves and flowers have been added to love potions and perfumes. Bouquets of rosemary, “emblematical of manly virtues,” were once presented to bridegrooms on their wedding mornings, and bridal beds are still bedecked with the flowers, in some European countries, to ensure conjugal bliss. The herb has a very old reputation for improving memory and has been used as a symbol for remembrance. Shakespeare had Ophelia present a bunch to Hamlet, to remind him of their meeting on St. Valentine’s Day.

Rosemary has been used as a love charm, in Europe, since the Middle Ages. Newly wed couples would plant a branch on their wedding day. If the branch grew, it was a good omen for the union. Placing a sprig under the pillow, at night, will ward off witches and repel nightmares.

Which….brings us to our discussion topic: What foods do you fix for a lover as a special act of love?

Thanks, ladies and gents, for stopping by for another Sunday Spice adventure, organized by Donna George Storey and Marina St. Clare

Here's the rest of the lineup!

8/16 Emerald
—poppy seeds

8/23 P.S. Haven

8/30 A luxurious adieu!