Viewing the local antiquities

Friday pussy blogging 


Sorry to have gotten this up so late; at last I have a network connection. And it looks like Patty got started without me...

“You are mine. Every inch of your body is mine. Your soul and your mind belong to me”

Your voice seduces me. The nearness and power of you holds me. Would that what you say could be true. It is my will to make it so; my mind, my soul and my body, yours for always.

I stand before you aroused and willing, if only a little unsure. Where will you take me this time? Which part of my body will you possess and what means will you use to claim it?

I tremble as I stand there, my eyes closed against the thrill I feel as the silken tendrils of cool air curl around me telegraphing your possessive path. I feel the warmth of your hands caress me though they do not touch me. I feel the path your
eyes take across my flesh as goose flesh raises in their wake. Your aura surrounds me, enveloping mine, absorbing it as the power of your will absorbs me.

“Mine,” you whisper into the nape of my neck sending delicious shivers into the core of my being. “You are mine.”

Now you touch me; lightly at first, maddeningly so; first my shoulders, then my neck. Your palms and fingers wrap my throat wrapping the collar I wear. Your thumbs knead and stroke my gullet lifting my chin so I must look into your eyes where I see myself reflected back with a glow that warms me. I am yours. You make me whole, you make me better.

Your mouth takes mine, pressing my lips open; devouring them. Your tongue invades and lays claim to me. The depth and sweetness of your kiss lifts me to my toes. All that supports me is the gentle collar of your hands and the electric path of your corona through me directed by your kiss.

When you break that first deep kiss, your right hand moves, stroking downward, teasing my breast and the nubbin that has perked to attention, but you pass them by. Your target is lower. Today you will lay claim to my pussy. My lips part seemingly of their own volition as your fingers gently press and comb the curls above them.

“This is mine.”

Your whisper again sends a thrill of arousal through me on a ship of shivers and a wake of gooseflesh. Your fingers advance, first cupping the mons of soft tissue and then pressing and slipping deeper between the lips already dewy with anticipation of possession.

“Yes!” my gasp is barely audible. “Yours.”

Your fingers spread my lips, pressing my pussy open, collecting the slick lubricant made for them there. They use it to stroke, forward and back, around and around until I cannot help but purr for you and obediently move my hips with you. Your hands and your fingers are perfect. Every stroke exact, the pressure used exquisite. Yes, my pussy is yours; my whole being revels in your ownership of it.

“Love my pussy.”

I startle at first when you step back abruptly, lifting the hand that possessed me, nodding for me to kiss it, taste it, lave the slick wetness from it. I do so willingly and you join me, your tongue and lips merge with mine devouring the essence of the arousal we share. When nothing remains on your fingers but your breath and mine, you redirect your mouth and kiss me. Greedy lover that you are, your tongue seeks and finds the few lingering tendrils of my lubricant within my mouth. You claim them with my soul. Then you step away.

I feel briefly disoriented and my balance wavers, but your voice steadies me.

“Love my pussy slut, get up here on this chair and show me how you honor what is mine.”

You turn me and press me forward toward the chair in the corner. Your hands grip my buttocks and squeeze. There is warning in that squeeze because you feel and know I can’t help resist this. Your hands on my back are firm and you push me to climb up and kneel on the buttery leather surface.

“Spread wide … lean over … that’s the way …” you coach until I am exactly where you want me. “Love my pussy.” you say again. I feel more than hear that you have stepped away and I am alone. The corona of you, the power of your aura no longer holds me, all that remains is the electricity of your gaze and the physical memory of your touch.

“Spread yourself for me. Take your juices and stroke my pussy. Make it hot. Show me how you love what’s mine.”

I cringe. This kind of exposure of my base instincts challenges your ownership. I know you can be trusted, but can I? Remnants of ancient shame hold on to and inhibit my hand. But you own me. I must. The struggle against myself creates a flush that rushes through me. You see it and you help me.

“That’s the way. Show me how perfect you can love my pussy slut. Show me you are mine.”

Tentative at first, my hand presses between the outer lips of my pussy … your pussy … The throb put there by your touch renews and intensifies. My fingers spread the outer lips and slip between the slick hot strips of flesh that guard the most sensitive parts of me. The physical memory of your touch again renews. My whole being throbs and my breath is taken by a soft sigh.

“Good. That’s the way. Stroke yourself for me now. Slow. Show me how you love my pussy.”

In the blink of an eye your voice banishes every vestigial inhibition. My eyes close and then re-open, but I no longer see. My hand is your hand, my pussy is yours and I am making love to it, to me, to you, to us.


Time suspends, my fingers do what feels right, stroking between hot lips, using the slick juice made by my body for exactly that purpose, for lovingly fondling these most sensitive and responsive parts of me, these parts you claim and own. Soon urgency intrudes.

‘Please! May I come?”

“Hold it, longer, faster, wait until I tell you.”

I can’t! My mind agonizes over conflicting commands. My will and yours; both control the pace. Can my hand comply and my pussy obey? I try. I beg of my will, “yield!”

Faster and faster my hand and fingers stroke; an impossible tension builds within my me, within your pussy. I know you can feel it with me because you can hear my keening whine.

“Wait for me,” you warn. Briefly my hand slows. It has almost no choice. “Don’t slow down.”

I hiccup and comply. ‘Please, please, please, please, please, please, please …”

And finally you release me.

“Come for me!”

My explosive obedience is almost immediate. “Thank you!”

And then you take me, cleaving open and stroking my pussy with your cock, owning me, owning my pussy completely. You thrust into my being. Truly I am yours, and my pussy, our pussy will climax and spasm twice more, before finally milking your cock of her due.

[Copyright by Patty, A Creative Spanked Wife.]



LAST WEEK Monmouth.

The networking Gods 
have cursed my machines, all of them, and in consequence Patty's Friday Pussy blog may appear late Friday afternoon instead of early Friday morning. Sorry!


Welcome, cowboys, cowgirls, 
and "round-up" readers. Thanks for coming.

Viewing the local antiquities captures several years experience of whoring in Victoriaville, so get to know the city by using the index at right; "what's most important isn't always on top."


"Wonderful day!" 
she called it, the spring day we met in Victoria Square.

"Beautiful day," I corrected her, then "No. You're right."

The skin of her forearm was gold. My forearm, by contrast, was pink. We held hands while she programmed my new cell.

Monday she reciprocated my text.







Of course, after lunch, we'd gone to her brothel. "Angel has a little tail!" cried the mama-san; we'd held hands on the street within range of the monitors.


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Mixing memory and desire 


The sun goes down behind the mountain. The wind, rising, flicks the undersides of the just new leaves silver. Black earth, rotting snow: Manyvoiced snowmelt guttergleams downhill towards the city, where surly city workers in mechanic's indigo rode orange cranes to collect the Christmas lights from the trees and the lamp posts; where new banners flap for the year's first festival.

On the way up, a pay phone: I dig a pen from my pocket, dig out my wallet: select a scrap of paper. A quarter, the slot, the receiver: none quite cold: musical tones, the Allo? Fingers near stiff, I scribble the pen to life, put the door code down on my scrap.

Going up, I trudge through winter detritus: roadsalt, gravel, scrapings from the plows and the shovels. My shoelaces drag in the dust.

Who will open the door?

On the top of the mountain, the radio towers ladder their red lights up into the cloudcover.


Out from the flourescent flickering hallway into the soft night: Behind me, stacked yellow windows, newly pulled curtains in at least one.

The wind's cool at the back of my neck. Downhilling still winter's black water freshens the city.

Below me, the orange cagelighted pavilions of the farmer's market, now open again. Not just cellared root vegetables, but oranges, bananas, tiny new carrots, flowers even.

Down look the stars. They don't know they are fish, dogs, hunters, virgins. They don't know release when our earth tilts on its axis.


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THE FOUR SEASONS: Spring, summmer, fall, winter.

All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."
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