zaziel
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I'tr�m breit vula�oz�o ye spalla ei�tlin nel�ffnes pieqi aummit su berwegr'ra'ao.

The Mirror

Sunday, May 26, 2002 -
Ap�sl�min ida corbalanyrtne 'ls�o rohl'daathi�m v� nen�a iroyss�rd.

I've lost weight. I stepped on the scale this morning and the little red line was wavering between 171 and 172. Almost 14 pounds lost. A bit of a shock. Lately, I've been doing a lot of sweaty hard labor, but I didn't realize I had sweated away that much poundage. I've been doing a lot of heavy-duty gardening. Conan-the-Conqueror-type gardening. Slashing, razing, laying waste to the land. Mowing it down and picking it up and hauling it away. Swathes of stubble in my wake. A bit of bulldozing. I've been getting quite a few calls from people who have become terrified of the trees and brush besieging their property. I guess the whole Southland was watching the Orange County fire on the telly, a couple of weeks ago. Lots of people realized they haven't been keeping up with their legally-mandated brush management. And their eucalyptus trees are giving them nightmares.

But 14 pounds gone? How come I didn't notice it leaving? I don't jump on my scale every day, or even every week. In fact, I pretty much ignore the thing, except when I need to assess the damage from high-caloric events held during certain holidays, or Super Bowl Weekend. But shouldn't I have noticed that I had shed 7.5% of my body's mass?

The Fiend caught me studying the reflection of my body mass in the full length mirror in the bedroom wardrobe. My reflection was wearing socks and nothing but the socks, and (unsurprisingly) so was I. I was peering at a side-view of my body, running a hand over my butt, trying to see if the weight loss had changed the gradient of my ass, or any of my other slopes and angles.

"Worshipping at the shrine?" asked the Rarebit Fiend, laying his own hand on the altar.

"I lost 14 pounds," I said, looking at myself looking at the Fiend looking at my naked self in the mirror.

That old black magic has me in its spell
That old black magic that you weave so well
Icy fingers up and down my spine
The same old witchcraft when your eyes meet mine

"Really?" His (warm) fingers slid across my tummy as if seeking tactile confirmation. "Looks to me like you're gaining weight right now."

The same old tingle that I feel inside
When that elevator starts its ride....

Well, of course, my cock was filling out, becoming heavier and tighter and harder. (You know that old familiar feeling as your brain sinks down through your body and tries to pour itself into your dick?) The Fiend had eased his body close behind mine, snaking his arms around me. He turned me to face the mirror so we could watch him touch me. He tugged, and I leaned back, letting my head fall back a little, so that he could have access to my neck, shoulder and ear with his lips, tongue and teeth. I watched the mirror through half-closed eyes. The Fiend was dressed and had been on his way out, to do a little grocery shopping. As he began to play with me, he snuggled up tight to my backside, the stiff fly of his jeans rubbing between the cheeks of my ass, the hard buttons and crisp cotton of his shirt rubbing against my bare flesh. Skin-tingling reminders that made me feel doubly naked. And the view in the mirror of him pawing at my body gave me a delicious feeling of exposure, as if I was standing in front of a camera, or a window. He wouldn't let me touch him, so my hands hung at my sides, relaxed and unoccupied. Eventually my hands would knot into fists, and beat at the air, but I don't think the Fiend's intention was to get me off, at first. I wasn't expecting to get off. I was expecting him to fondle me for a few minutes, and I was hoping to do a few minutes of reciprocal groping.

The television was on, we were ignoring the pre-race natter before the Indianapolis 500. I was going to do paperwork on the bed while I watched the race, interspersed with chores like laundry and dog-brushing. I was sure the Moondoggie, possessed of all the hypernatural instincts of his wolf forbears, had sussed out my plan, because he had disappeared. I later found him in the backyard, lounging in a crater of freshly-dug earth, wearing a brown cowl of dirt, brown dirt socks, and an innocent (but dirty) smile. He tried to use his dubious standing as the Resident Gophercatcher for an excuse, but that cut no ice with me. He knows that I know that the feral cats who stalk our neighborhood are far more competent at gopher extermination than he is, or they would be if he didn't keep chasing them out of the yard.

I had forgotten that Jer was going grocery shopping with the Fiend. The Fiend had forgotten. There was a slow, lazy interval of stroking, smoothing, rubbing, squeezing, pinching, licking, nibbling, nuzzling, quivering, sighing, murmuring, and moaning, followed by a brief, energetic interval of shuddering, jerking, grinding, thrusting, panting, groaning, convulsing, and splattering, before we remembered Jer. The Fiend had his jeans shoved down to his knees, his shirt shoved above his nipples, and his cock shoved against my balls, before we remembered Jer. We were reminded of Jer's existence by the sound of clapping, after I finished splashing the mirror with my cum. Jer was standing in the bedroom doorway, rewarding our performance with his applause.

If I hadn't been so flushed, I would've had the good grace to blush.

<~>
Ap�sl�min ida corbalan� 'lse nesgla ugar�-cham sa cru ogrulho bat�oltha al�mv�sde.

last eleven:

Resurrection - Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Arts and Letters -
Friday, June 17, 2005
Domestic Obsessions -
Tuesday, April 5, 2005
The Kindness of Strangers -
Tuesday, April 5, 2005
Gone -
Saturday, April 2, 2005
Coming Back, Little By Little -
Saturday, April 2, 2005
Effing Around -
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Explicably Yours -
Wednesday, February 9, 2005
Things Too Innumerable To Mention -
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Mr. Armstrong -
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
The Pope in Our Kitchen -
Saturday, October 2, 2004



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Sa r'ji�o oss�vel meninonceiv �o poshik m�'�nch uscantebatahla o�r musiu o�r muiko.
Copyright � 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005 by gcs

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