Shorter fur


She’s cut her fur short, cut, not shaved. For she’s a clever gal: revealing her magical folds, but not denuding them, showing me, others?, the way, deep, parting the tender flesh, into her inner domain, where the Devil himself likes to dwelve.

But now here’s the dilemma: opening the gate, lips to lips, sucking her juices, pushing this tongue into the o-so-sweet cavern of her delights… Or…

Go down, lower, to the delicious little sphincter of her arse: this is the drama, not being able to be in both places at the same time…

Image: Jesus Llaria, via


Frau Schickl



She’s a tall, sculptural lady, with a lovely cool smile, sensuous eyes, and very beautiful legs. Se wears her blond mane short at the back – ha the supple nape! We first met when we signed the contract for my flat, not so long ago, and that was at her small and smart office near Bundesplatz. We then sat face to face, at a low table, on even lower chairs, observed each other for a while, moved cautiously to conclude the deal, taking our time, and this is how I learned to appreciate the elegant shape of her thighs, and that she likes to wear suspenders above her silk. She’s my landlady, of course, and we haven’t seen much of each other since then.

I was then a little surprised, this morning, to see her, trim and sexy, at my gym. I am regular as clockwork at the gym, three times a week. We smiled at each other and she greeted me with a friendly “Guten Morgen Honoré!” I did not remember being in first names terms, so I replied warmly, and prudently, “Guten Morgen Frau Schickl!” She smiled even more. I then busied myself on the leg press, that happened to be just behind the treadmill she was using: I could thus admire, again, the elegant neck, and the shapely profile of Frau Schickl’s buttocks, well wrapped in her white training pants. Separately, we sweated for another hour, and, as I was about to follow the stairs to the showers, she approached me, and said in a seductive low voice: “Such a shame the saunas are segregated, isn’t it?” A little surprised, I chose the long route: “Indeed, Frau Schickl, I may have a word to our host about that – by the way, would you care to come to my place for a cup of coffee later today?” Then, I thought, she had a choice, either to follow suite, or retreat, since I wasn’t sure how to read her sentence, as a determined invite, or just teasing. She smiled her gorgeous smile, her grey eyes drilling into mine, and replied: “Nothing would please me more, I’d love to see how you have arranged your place!” Which of course reminded me that she was the landlady, an aristocratic and wealthy married woman – I believe – all proper and distinguished… We went our separate ways. The shower was delicious, I had an irrepressible hard-on in the sauna. Fortunately (or not) I was alone…

I was back home, as usual, around eleven-thirty, ready for lunch and a bout of writing. The city was now lit with the pale sunshine of January. On the balcony the thermometer claimed a low minus six degrees.

At about four this afternoon, the light has gone golden, and Frau Schickl is at my door, all smiles and wearing an expensive looking dark green coat, high heeled boots and some French-scenting expensive perfume. I beg her in, help her out of her coat, and offer a comfortable seat facing the bay window and the approaching sunset. We chat for a while about the gym, saunas, and then I busy myself making coffee in the kitchen, leaving her to browse my jazz collection. To my delight, a few minutes later, I hear my guest fiddling with the jazz records, and soon Miles’ sax could be heard, floating around the apartment. As I bring coffee in the living room I find Frau Schickl divested of her shoes and undulating smoothly to the tune. I serve the coffee, and babble amiably about the weather.

She sips her coffee, as we sit once again facing each other, her in the deep armchair, me on the sofa. She crosses her fabulous long legs, I follow the lines, high, to the suspenders. “I have to say, Honoré, I have been a bit naughty, spying on you and ambushing you at the gym…” I smile broadly, offer more coffee. “I deserve some punishment, I am sure…” she continues. Spontaneously, I offer a visit of the premises, once again feigning slowness at appreciating the message. We leave our cups on the table and walk to the windows, then to the study room, through the double doors. “Of course,” she says cheerfully, “I remember now, you write don’t you?” I reply politely, writer in training, takes me a long time to do anything, a slow worker…. “I like slowness,” she says invitingly.

We are now in the bedroom. I draw the curtains. She admires the Chagall, pretends to talk art. We kiss, her tongue magical little snake, my hands take possession of the generous buttocks, squeeze, we kiss deeper. She wriggles, undoes the buckle of her skirt. She now stands in her panties and suspenders. We pause, me admiring the line of her full breast as I undo her corsage, start fondling the round globes which I free, and proceed to bite the nipples. She kneels, open my jeans. Soon she massages my balls between her lips, then start her magical work on the tip of my gland. But I have other intentions. “Wait a sec,” I say, “this treat comes later, first your punishment.”

I pull her to her feet, turn her round, and bend her over the bed, parting her legs.  For a little while I massage her naked breasts, then attack the suspenders, push her lower on the bed, ever so gently, and pull the silk down, panties and all. She is now stark naked, her knees a little apart, a little flushed, smiling, I think  fairly aroused already. O bliss, this is a sight for the gods, the small tuft of blond hair, mercifully not shaved, the delicate skin between the top of her thighs… I get her to kneel on the bed, her sumptuous butt just at the right height, undo my belt and drop the jeans and (wet) shorts. “Now, please be very still, here comes your punishment, my lady!”

She giggles, turns her head to take her turn to look at my very visible erection. I smack her gently at first, at short intervals, not using any force, she giggles more, I part her legs a little more, smack harder, run a finger between her buttocks, verifying her state of wetness. With pleasure I hear her measured breath and concentrate on my own relaxed state: I will show you!

I now smack hard, alternately with flat hand and the belt. She begins to moan, I smack harder still, leaving some red marks. The giggles have turned to a regular moaning, I now take her on my lap, as I sit on the bed. She hides against me, one leg apart, which gives me a delicious view of her well cisellled lips, and her mounting arousal. I feel her wetness against my skin. I hit with the palm, admiring the pale red colour. She moans more, asks for forgiveness, which I refuse, saying that such a naughty girl must be punished. I wait for a couple more smacks, then get her to lie down on her belly, legs apart. I take the time to admire, she moving her butt a little higher, inviting. I mount her and kiss her deep, slowly pushing into her: she shrieks as I push deeper, I squeeze her breasts and dive deep. I find her wide open, breathing deep, as I seize her legs and lift them up, moving still deeper. She talks nonsense, about my cock and how horrid I am to her, such a gentle woman, begs again for forgiveness, promising all sorts… I dig hard and fast and I sense she is closed to orgasm, accelerate the motion, hitting the top of her vagina: she shrieks as I feel her ejaculation. I ram her harder, giving her no respite, and she comes three or four times, trying to fight back: I don’t let her and keep moving, she comes again, as I sense her whole body now totally relaxed and her resistance gone. I savour this instant of domination, smack her thighs: “I forgive you” I say, as I turn her round and start massaging her little asshole, as she moans more. I explore her ass slowly with my index finger, she wriggling and starting baby talk. Now I enter her, full frontal, slowly, she’s panting, and I sense another mounting big orgasm. Her little asshole is a delight, as I guess this way may not be a habit for her. I lift her a little, move deeper, and keep moving as under me she starts crying and wetting herself. I seize her cunt with one hand and a breast with the other, squeeze hard, she shrieks, calls me names I don’t at first understand, she says she wants to be whipped, and comes again. I keep going for another ten minutes, then finally allow myself to come and fill her up neatly. She’s already asleep. I admire her body in repose: my new conquest, I cover her with the sheet.

I go and have a shower, make myself presentable, as a dominant male should be. She wakes up an hour later. I force her to the bathroom, have a shower, and tell her I’ll make dinner. I give her a bathrobe, get a nice white wine out of the fridge, we toast our new friendship. The shower has ruined her light make up, but we do not care. We laugh.

“You’re a devil!” she says, kissing me between two sips of her wine. I run a dominant finger on her lips, then between her legs, and now she has her way with me.

Why “ténèbreuse”?

I thought you might ask. Well, she has a name, another name; and that will remain between us two, for now. But I can tell you how I happen upon the object ténèbreuse. Just promise me not to report me to the thought police, OK?

It was a few days, maybe a fortnight, after the coffee invite. I took the initiative, and on a foggy Sunday evening, I invited her, by means of a little paper note slipped through her door, to a glass of wine. I tidied up my place, had a shower, made sure the white wine was suitably chilled, and the red at the right temperature. I committed myself to behave as a gentleman. I dressed appropriately.

At the suggested time the door bell rang. There she was, wearing a skirt – a skirt – and a red pullover, flat shoes, her hair in a bun. We sat on the sofa, I poured the wine, and chatted amiably. She asked about my life, said she observed me every morning – was it so? – as I went down the street to my gym. We joked. Then we talked about photography, and I made my pitch, saying how much I’d love to do some pics with her.

“Ha!” she then said, “I have shown you one side, maybe this is the time to show you the other…”

And she stands, turns round, and kneels on the sofa, her delicious bum in the air. Now wait, this was done quickly, and I had no time to adjust. She wore no panty, I was now standing behind her, admiring the perfect globes of her buttocks, and, o Lord, the perfect small black disk of her asshole: perfect is less than it was, a marvel, a small circle of total black, above the tuft of red hair and the delicious lips… The spectacle of this, the white thin thighs, the round bum, the small lips… I dropped the jeans, silently knelt forward and licked her – everywhere – then stood up, seized her hips and plunged: she moaned a little, and as I seized her, lifted her up, and dived further, she cried. She was perfect, tight, absorbing, in full control of her muscles, and, soon, mine. I was as good as I promised myself, and held out for a very long time, while she came, again, and again, then asked me to enter her, now from the front. I cleaned myself up, and went back to her, now free of her clothes, the perfect woman, white thighs above her head, wide open, facing me with her beautiful smile, her clever face, her red lips, the perfect cunt, the perfect fuck.

And the small circle of deep darkness.



Image:  Kees van Dongen, 1927 – via                           colin-vian                                          


A parcel, and reflections on red

I rarely meet my neighbours on the stairs. Perhaps our various activities are so asynchronous that the probability of seeing each other is low? They must be hardworking-get up early people. Who knows? After moving in, it was weeks before I saw sight of Ténèbreuse. In fact I met her then boyfriend first, a day when she/they were out and the courier left a small parcel for her at my place. I signed for it, and on cue, the boyfriend, a tall and robust-looking young man, came and picked it up. He thanked me tersely, but later on, as I was going downstairs to empty the kitchen refuse, I met Ténèbreuse, a small black-clad figure of a girl, red-haired and fast as quick-silver, rushing upstairs, and who thanked me with a radiant smile.

Her apartment is just above mine, I suspected her bedroom to be also above mine. Judging by the vibrations on the ceiling, transmitted through to one of my prize-winning chandeliers, I concluded that the boyfriend was put to good use. I am saying “was”, for after a couple of months, the vibrations stopped. It’s fair to say that I had for some time entertained some fantasies about my neighbour. But it was a few weeks before we met again.

One Saturday morning the door bell rang. I was just coming out of the shower in my regulation bath towel. “Hi!” she said with another glorious smile, “I just made coffee, maybe you want to pop upstairs?” Before I could think of an answer she was gone, right up the stairs, as I heard her door being pushed closed.

A few minutes later I stood in her kitchen. Her coffee was delicious, she, well, was stunning, wearing a dark blue peignoir that I did not have the time to appreciate earlier.

“Do you want to see it?” she asked abruptly. “I see you smile. Yes, Goliath is out, I don’t think he should come back any time soon. By the way, this is not an invite to… fuck me, yet.” I almost blushed. But then she lifted her peignoir. She wore only a pair of grey stockings underneath, up to the middle of her thighs. I admired the perfectly formed little mound and the crown of thin, red hair. “I am thinking of shaving,” she said, “What do you think?” I did not hesitate, and replied, as I tried to keep calm: “I would not, if I had anything to do with it…”

“My turn then.” And she expertly undid my jeans buttons. Her small hands stripped my shorts down, exploring with a resolution I found… engaging. “You are a good size, and I like those little balls of yours… Now, keep calm for now. I may want to find out out more in a while. Want another cup?” That is how we met, Ténèbreuse and I.


Image: Peter Emler, via                           danskprincip