The sound of one hand wanking

'I hungrily ogled the brazen bollocks bouncing on the edge of the black leather sofa.'

The above quote displays many elements that I love to bring to a story and is possibly the perfect example of my style - if I do indeed have a style...

First of all, it's in first person. Who wants to hear about 'he' and 'she', they and them, when you can hear about me!

Then there's a sensuous adverb. I do lots of things hungrily, from ogling to listening - especially cool jazz - and from reading to fucking. Yes, fucking. I fuck hungrily, like I'm starving, like I haven't had it for weeks. Which I haven't. Which is probably why I have written the following story quickly, demoniacally, with a real, visceral hunger.

An interesting, somewhat archaic verb for an everyday act follows; ogle is half of goggle, and thus - in my constantly Scrabbling brain - implies an incredulous wide-eyed-ness that is somewhat emphasised by the initial 'o'. And it is worth 5 points, I believe.

Brazen: Unrestrained by a sense of shame; rudely bold. What a wonderful adjective! A perfect word to describe anything overtly sexual, and one that, in this instance, adds great weight to its accompanying noun...

Bollocks is a wonderful word. In the UK, a bullock - not the same word, yet surely one with similar etymology - is any castrated male bovine; in the US, it means one that is uncastrated. Either way, bollock is an animalistic word, brash and blunt, with rounded syllables and plosive consonants to wrap your lips and tongue around. The word itself has a roundedness, a dangling solidity, that perfectly describes the external male gonads.

'...on the edge' is an expression with a multiplex of connotations, sexual and otherwise, though all with an explicit tension.

'Black leather' speaks for itself. It squeaks and squeals. It is cold and hot. Soft and supple. It also speaks of death and rebirth.

And 'sofa'? Well, who hasn't had sex on a sofa, either after a meal or before a fire, semi-clad or buck-naked, both in an empty house and with your parents in the next room? I, for one, have done all those things, though not recently, unfortunately. Oh, happy days!

Add to that a smattering of alliteration, a sprinkling of assonance, plus an almost musical flow, a lilting cadence reminiscent of the rising and falling of two intertwined copulating bodies, and you may have a sense of what I try to achieve when I write. Or maybe not. I try though. I try really hard. Please read on and let me know what you think.

Love, as always,

Alexandra xxx

The sound of one hand wanking.

'I want you to fuck my shaved cunt till it bleeds.'

The words had flowed like poetry in my head, but in Comic Sans-Serif they appeared dangerously unstable. Thankfully, he didn't seem to mind, which made me wonder if he were using a different font.

'First, I'm going to eat you out then fuck your throat so deep you'll gag.'

'I'll swallow it all then bite the base of your shaft till you squeal.'

'Fuck, I love that. Yeah, bite the fucker.'

'I hope a finger in your arse doesn't have you shooting. I have plans for that big boy!'

'You are a dirty fucking bitch.'

'But, I'm not.'

'Yes, you fucking are.'

I hungrily ogled the bollocks bouncing on the edge of the black leather sofa. 

'No. Well, not usually, anyway. Anything but. I'm just a woman. A daughter. A wife. A mother. A teacher, for fuck's sake. It's you. You are making me say these things.'

'So you're married?'

The dearth of men who go there left me considering what particular fetish this was leading to.

'Yes. Plus all the above. Why would I lie? Are you?'

The pause was indicative of a subsequent untruth, so his candidness caught me unawares.

'Yes. She's a teacher too.'

Dripping, tripping fingers threw me headlong.

'Have you thought that I could be your wife?'

The free-standing cock oscillated in accordance with his obvious mirth.

'No. Definitely not. She doesn't talk dirty like you.'

'Maybe not to you, no...'

'Listen, that shaved pussy is a dead giveaway. She wouldn't do that.'

'Sure? When did you last look?'

His cock wilted till it seemed to be resting against the black frame of my iPad.

'Can we just get back to wanking? This isn't... helping, yer know?'

I eased a finger inside then slowly withdrew, stretching a thick string of mucus to breaking point and then beyond. A blurry fist telegraphed intense approval.

'Does she get as wet as this for you?'

He took so long to answer, I thought he was ignoring me, but I didn't mind: his faraway fumblings were doing amazing things to my insides.

'Fuck, no. I have to go down on her for ages just so I can get it in. I can barely be bothered these days, to be honest. She used to be...'

The sentence dried up. In the silence, he thoughtfully stroked himself. I broke the drought with a gushing truth.

'You have the most beautiful cock I have ever seen. Not that I've seen that many.'

Despite the qualifying clause, his penis was all ears, grew even firmer, while the eye became a mouth became an eye became a mouth, and all were continually smiling.

'Really?'

'Really. It's so wonderfully proportioned, so thick and long, so shapely. Those veins! And the head, so rounded, so blunt, so... dangerous. I bet that fucker gives pleasure and pain in barely equal measure.'

Typing fucker made my head spin. As though moisture were a rare resource, my mouth gave up all of its wetness to the thirsty gash between my thighs. The left hand tickling the tip of his dick signalled it was his turn to tap.

'I have to be careful with it, yeah. It can hurt.'

'I want it to hurt me.'

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus - extremely generously, I feel - nine further stories in 'Measuring up', my latest collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.