A long trip

I broke one of the chairs in my house.

Yes I know it's not the end of the world, what's just one chair you'd say?

It's not the breaking of the chair that is making me nervous and quake in my boots. No, it is the actual replacing of the chair that I fear most.

Because that means Ikea.

What is it about that place that inspires such hatred and panic in people?

Why is that place so damn boring?

It had even reached the point where whenever I see blue and yellow together I get a twitch in my eye.

I was determined this time to change the status quo though. No, not chance my opinion of the place, but get through it quicker.

Like pulling off a plaster.

Or shagging that girl you find at the end of the night because everyone else has gone home.

Even entering the main door feels like walking through the gates of hell, and no, I'm not being melodramatic.

Whilst rounding what seemed to be the thousandth corner I finally stumbled upon an area I will just refer to as the 'Chair Kingdom'.

Now I am not a perfectionist so the chair that closest resembles the broken one will do. None of the chairs match much anyway. Even so this could take a while.

The place is packed, as if everyone suddenly broke their chairs too in some defiant notion against formal dinner plans.

I tried to get in there quickly, find my chair and flee but I am stopped by an army of the confused. As I spied a chair close to my original a woman of alarming size sat upon it, her mass pointed away from myself. I'm pretty sure if you combined all of the women that I have sex with, the resulting mass would be close to this woman.

Now, I can't, or rather, won't care to describe how it looked when she sat down. All I will say is that if I bought that type of chair now and took it home...

All I'd see is her flowing over it for eternity.......


Read the rest of this story in:
'Sex Games' by Mouna Lott and T.H.Rusty
Out October 2011

Sunday.

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday.
What to do!
To many, it's a lazy day, a day to fulfil nothing and yet feel content. A meal is the height of planning, and often not you don't even cook it.
For me however a Sunday is a good day to enjoy a coffee, grab a seat and see what God (or Darwin) offers. You never know, something might just fall in to your lap.

Such is today, and such is the reason why I felt the need to share. What's life if you can not tell people about those highlights.
Sitting in one of my favourite haunts I sipped a good tasting, if lukewarm, coffee while a paper nestled under my elbows. The usual clients flit in and out of shop, this air of high energy clouding the fact no one had anywhere to go.
To my pleasant surprise I noticed this young little thing scurry in from outside, arms containing a library of books, no doubt a fresh student face in the area.
She perched herself a distance away, books strewn across the table. To me she didn't look like the type of person who would be seen with such a collection of literature. She seemed, to me anyway, to be more at home in front of a camera, or at least modelling some disaster of a students idea of fashion. But then again I have misread a persons character.
(Remind me to tell you all about my business lunch in Dubai some time)
I kept a cool eye on her, making it not too obvious I am not paying close attention to her legs. I didn't really read much of my paper to be fair, not that it was particularly interesting.
Her figure had my attention.
Slight, smooth, sultry, stunning. She was A+ if I was giving out grades.
While ordering my next latte I notice her gaze is locked to mine, then away before I can get a good look. The game is afoot I feel...
She then ups the game. Twisting her hips to the side as she straddles her seat, keeping her eyes firmly locked on her books, she motions her legs in my direction.
Parting them ever so slightly she teases me with something Sunday's are not renowned for. The faintest whisper of panties is thrust in my direction, startling white under her cream skirt.
I might be the only man in the world who prefers the cotton panties, lace just gives too much away. And she wasn't letting me see more, a teaser, a taste, a teetering tremble for my gaze.
Having a peek I get a slight lock of her eyes before her legs close and return to their original position, making me wonder what I did to deserve such a treat.
Time moves by and soon enough she is collecting her things to leave. Clutching them close to her chest (Ample if you much know) she rounds the corner of my table to leave.
Now, acting is essentially pretending what you are doing is 'real', so this would be classed as the worst acting I have ever seen.
She stumbles, tripping her own foot and falls directly on to my lap. Not a book is spilled but the result was perfect, my arms fly out to catch her and allow themselves a good feel as she is pulled in to me.
Getting right back up she throws me a stunning smirk before quickly adding,
'Oh I am sorry'.
The door is closed quickly behind her, a few murmured laughs from other patrons but it is soon forgotten.
In my hand however is a crumpled piece of paper, pushed in to my hand as she 'fell'.
In it is housed her number with the simple message,
'Later?'


Sometimes Sundays can surprise you.



- Always carry a pad.

Beginnings

Hello, bonjour, tag, hej, shalom, konnichi wa, kia ora, ciao.

I'm T H Rusty, writer, daydreamer, erotica purveyor. I've started this blog with my co-writer Mouna Lott so we can allow readers a taste of what it is like in our world.
How we come up with our stories, where they come from, what it takes to do what we do.
I'm from Newcastle, not exactly a place renowned for it's erotica, so it gives me this goldmine of material.
Today's blog is a simple hello, a starting off point so to speak.
The tastier ones will come in time.



- Always carry a pad.