kelvin matchett
Bio
A humble carpenter from the provinces. Tapping keys like a white stick taps walls.
Stories (9/0)
"What Will You Do to Me?"
Sex for Peter had been both a participation sport and a performance art. A duet, a dance, and a doubles match. At times a chess game of probes, combinations, and position. A waltz, rumba, tango, or a punk pogo. Then a zen moment of pure unthinking action. Yet those were only the great experiences, and sadly not all of them were up there. For those less than inspiring moments, there was the secret well of fantasy, just as we all have. To be drawn upon when thirst required it. In there, anything was possible and permissible, so long as it stayed in there. A walled garden that only he had the key to, until now.
By kelvin matchett5 years ago in Filthy
The Beast
The beast. It was early in the 1970s and I was the geeky kid at school. You know the one that carried a briefcase instead of backpack. The occasional saving grace that kept me from complete social isolation was my brother. Six years my elder and a biker. He would, when the mood strike him, pick me up outside the gates of my all boys secondary school on his motorbike. This was not just any bike, this was "the beast." A full on cafe racer from the 1960s, these were the days before the Japanese had taken over. Before fiberglass fairings and disc brakes and engines the size and weight of a small house. A Triumph 110, the precursor to the Bonneville although any resemblance to the factory model had long since past. The 650cc engine had been fitted with 11-1 compression pistons that made kick starting it a risky art form. Twin carbs and a two into one swept up exhaust. Four leading shoe front brakes that left the front wheel spokes no longer that a large match stick. Twin leading shoe brakes on the back and an aluminum five gallon fuel tank. Clip-ons and rear sets forced the rider into a near prone position hunkered down with his chest embracing the tank. The whole sight was a vision of black and silver, aluminum and chrome with just one nut on the front wheel painted red as a highlight. Like I said, a classic 60s cafe racer. Dad said, "Son one say that bike will kill you." He could not have been more wrong.
By kelvin matchett5 years ago in Wheel
Lynette (Part Three)
"I wanna suck your cock and I want it clean!" Those words resounded in Davids imagination as he left the room. The moral ambiguity of the situation was not lost him: a girl more at home in his daughter's age group than his. Plus there was those frightened eyes. Something was going on that was forbidden to his inquiries. "Best sort some food out," he thought and took a pizza out of the freezer and switched the oven on, then pondered, "I did not come on to her. She came on to me. She asked to come here and I've not even touched her yet." He collected his robe and a clean towel from the bedroom and hit the shower.
By kelvin matchett6 years ago in Filthy
Lynette (Part Two)
"Take me home," she pleaded. "Where do you live?" "Not my home, yours." This was serious, not an idle fantasy. A young girl not much past his daughter's age, in need of what? Certainly, in need of something. The girl sensed his hesitation and said, "I just need a place to be right now. Just a place to be. You won't be sorry."
By kelvin matchett6 years ago in Filthy
Lynette
Comes in many forms... Summer city smells: diesel, carbon monoxide, fast food, a feint hint of sewage, vegetable stalls and then....and then.. a pub. Clothes sticking to your back from a very long long... long work. You look inside. Friendly shadows, men subdued, talking in murmurs and the smell... Oh! the smell.. Stale beer, fresh beer and all the glorious stages in between up to and including the last.
By kelvin matchett6 years ago in Filthy
The Dancer
Maria was a dancer, well that's what she called herself. Others may have used different titles like stripper or pole dancer but Maria preferred just "dancer." For four nights a week she would dance upon stage for gaze of men she despised. Men in suits who had more money than charm. Men who would for a few hours prefer to sit and stare at her writhing torso than spend time with their wives. What made it so ironic was she was extremely good at it. Yes she was great looking and yes she could move but it was more than that. Not just the "tits and ass" but the look! A smile, pout, glance, sometimes a sneer could capture a man's fantasy and send him reaching for his wallet in that vainglorious hope of something more but the most they ever got was a bold unabashed stare as they stuffed notes into her minuscule underwear. Then up and strutting across the stage, all eyes following her every move. Every touch she made upon her breasts, every toss of the head. Each and everyone of them wishing it was their hands caressing, their fingers running up and down her thighs, their tongue on her lips. Then she would glance in their direction and each and everyone of them thought that she danced just for them.
By kelvin matchett7 years ago in Filthy