Michael Kors Original is my go to fragrance although there are others that I like and wear occasionally. But Michael Kors is special to me because it is the smell of sex, the aroma of forbidden sex. Nearly 20 years ago, long before I became Eve, long before I even thought I might one day transition, I began an affair with a married work colleague. I will call her Natasha. Michael Kors was her favourite and, for me, it will forever be the smell of her, of the sex we had in cheap and grubby hotel rooms, occasionally in nice hotel rooms, in cars, once, memorable in a train toilet as impatient fellow passengers banged on the door and her loud scream as she climaxed gave the game away.
The affair fizzled out as they often do. The thrill and intensity of taboo sex can’t last for ever, and maintaining a of facade of deception for other people becomes emotionally draining. But after it ended I always felt arousal when I passed a woman who was wearing it. So t was natural that when I began to change my gender role, I would wear it myself. I feel empowered, I feel sexy, I feel confident, confident enough to seduce a man, knowing that I had a window into his soul. It is still the scent of sex. It is part of the sexual person that I am, something that binds the different versions on me in a way that goes beyond gender.
And what of Natsha? She is now a platonic friend, my closest friend actually and our emotional bond is tighter than it ever was back in the days when we ripped each other’s clothes off in hotel rooms under the guise of “working late”. She has been totally supportive of me. And that time when we walked down Oxford Street in our favourite dresses, both wearing our favourite fragrance and she spontaneously took my hand and we walked hand in hand, not giving a toss what anyone thought, remains special. Natasha has done so much for me, she is aware of some of it but I think that she and her fragrance have actually done more for me than she will ever know.
A post for Quote Quest in conjunction with Kink of the Week. Click on the badges to read what others have to say about scents.
I had a new follower on Twitter last week. To decide whether this person was worth following back I had a quick look at their timeline and saw a series of tweets of dicks, of vulvas in pictures taken from so close up, you could literally count the hairs, graphic clips of penetrative sex, usually doggy style in the manner of particularly tedious cisheteronormative porn, and so on. Now I have no wish to see any of this stuff in my timeline so I blocked this particular person. I have blocked similar people before. In fact Twitter is awash with this sort of thing. I have no inherent objection to pornographic images as you might expect but I much prefer images that show some imagination, and, by hinting at things rather than showing everything, are actually erotic. And eroticism, for me, is not just about hinting at what the people depicted are about to do with their genitalia but also their inner states. As a BDSM practitioner I particularly enjoy images of kinky people and kinky interactions for this very reason.
In BDSM images what is not shown is often as important as what is shown. The best images are not graphic. Yet Twitter, for reasons, unexplained, considers BDSM images objectionable in a way that it does not consider the sort of coshet porn I mentioned above. Take, for example, Sardax . For those of you who don’t know, Sadax is a kink artist best known for his femdom pictures. In fact if you are a professional dominatrix and Sardax hasn’t drawn you, you are probably not in the top drawer of your profession. You can see some of his art on his website Sardax has recently had his Twitter account suspended for reasons unspecified beyond the bland “violating Twitter rules”
In terms of kink this is not a one off. One of the country’s best known pro dommes also had her account suspended recently, losing a decade’s worth of content and 50,000 followers. Her offence, apparently, was to replace a glove on mouth background pic, which she had been asked to remove, with a boot worship pic. So there you have it. Dick pics are fine, a man licking a lady’s boot is unacceptable.
The worry for all of us with an interest in BDSM is that Twitter had remained a space of relative freedom as prudery shut off Facebook and Instagram as spaces for expression of kinky thoughts and ideas. I don’t actually believe that cancel culture and denial of free speech are actually a thing. Except when it comes to kink, or alternative sexualities generally. And for all of you reading this, either because you follow me, or have an interest in my content, that should b a concern.
“In life there are two things which are dependable. The pleasures of the flesh and the pleasures of literature.” – Sei Shōnagon
2020 was a year of no kink and not much sex. Perhaps it would be better to say a year of not much sex with partners. For I had plenty of solo sex, more than I thought I would. And that solo pleasure fitted I nicely with the other solo pleasure to which I devoted much of my free time last year. Reading.
I have always been a voracious reader of fiction. I love being transported to other times, other places, using my mind to explore physicality, my physicality, my sexuality. This is true of all literature, not just genre fiction, although I love that too. And on the subject, my new reading is Venus in Furs, one of those books I always think I should have read but never quite got round to. It being a book club selection has given me the discipline (no pun intended!) to pick it up.
Words exist in the mind, they shape our thoughts even as we use them to express those thoughts. But words have physicality, we utter them, feel them in our mouths, we hear them, soft harsh, beautiful, ugly. They sit on the page, we can feel the paper, smell the ink. Book are sensual on more than one level. I do not have a Kindle. All my books are paper. This is a vital part of the experience of reading.
My favourite books of 2020 were these:
Quiet Flows The Don by Mikhail Sholokov – a story of war and revolution in Russia seen from the perspective of a Cossack village.
The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov – a surreal and sensual story of the Devil coming to Moscow.
Flights by Olga Tokarczuk – an exploration of the metaphysics of travel, conceptualising travel as movements in time as well as space, set against the background of an exploration of the frozen moment of plastination.
Blue Ticket by Sophie Mackintosh – the story of a woman in an unnamed authoritarian and dystopian society who wants to have a baby when the state has decreed that she may not. The book is a wider consideration of societal control of women’s bodies and the role of the medical profession in that control.
And, yes, writing too. It is said that reading literary fiction is a means of self understanding. So is writing and my reading and writing feed off each other. In 2020 in particular much of my fiction had a strongly autobiographical element as I processed a range of life experiences and made my peace with people, places, events, that had left raw edges exposed. Reading and writing as therapy too then.
Reading has been so important to me in 2020. It has kept me alive. It had affirmed me as a sexual person even as circumstances have denied me sex. In 2021 I will continue to read voraciously. But I long for the dungeon, the bedroom.
A post for Quote Quest. Click on the badge to read what others have to say about literature and sex.
It was after a session with Mistress Dometria, as we debriefed over a cup of coffee, that I told her how I saw my role.
“You’ll probably think I am a bit weird Mistress but I really believe that I was put on this earth to serve women. Not just, you know, in kink, or here, but, well, in all aspects of my life. “
“Not at all” she said. “The thought has occurred to me. There are so many wannabe submissives out there who want control, who don’t get it, others who I can see are holding something back but you I have always thought are totally genuine, totally comfortable in your submission. And tell me, what aboit sex?”
“Mistress, I don’t and I don’t want to. I feel that sexually penetrating a woman is a kind of topping and well……I couldn’t do that.”
“I have long wanted to own your cock and now I claim it as mine. Yu will but a chastity device and bring it with you next time. Is that clear?”
“Yes Mistress” I replied and felt deep happiness welling up inside me.
She clicked the cage shut and turned the key. My cock was now caged, for how long? Hopefully for ever. I was happy about this. Penetrating women just felt wrong, so at odds with the imperative to service that I felt. And so I remained in chastity, felt pain every morning as I woke and felt my cock pushing against the cage as it tried to become hard, and I texted Mistress to tell her of the pain I was suffering, as ordered so that she could enjoy my suffering.
“Meet my friend Joy”.
Joy stood up and walked across. I instinctively got up from my chair and knelt before her. She held out her hand.I took it and kissed it gently.
“Pleased to meet you Ma’am. How may I be of service?”
Before Joy could answer Mistress Dometria said
“Joy, or Miss Joy as you must call her has a very special request. It goes without saying that I expect you to comply. I hope you remember our conversation last time you were here?”
“Slave Nigel” said Joy softly, “I want you to sleep with me and give me a child.”
“No buts “ interjected Mistress. “You are doubtless about to say that you are in chastity aren’t you?”
“You will be released from chastity for as long as it takes.”
“Nigel, perhaps I should explain” said Joy. “I am 40 next year and have been single for five years now. I want a baby while I can still do this. And when Julie, sorry Dometria, said that she knew someone as devoted as you are to the service of women I thought I would ask. I appreciate that this is an unusual request but I really think this is the most beautiful service you can give a woman.”
“Thank you Miss Joy. I am honoured and privileged. “
I leant forward and kissed her shoes tenderly. I felt my cock swell and rise only to be crushed again by the cruel cage. I cried out in anguish.
“Come here slave” ordered Dometria.
I walked over to where she sat.
I did as I was ordered and placed my clothes in a neat pile on the free chair around the table. Mistress took a key out of a cupboard drawer and unlocked the chastity device. My cock was shrivelled and small, seemingly unable to adapt to its new freedom, like a newly released prisoner who waits beneath the high walls of the prison, unsure where to go.
“Show your cock to Miss Joy.”
I walked over to her and said
“I hope my cock will be to your satisfaction Miss Joy”
“I hope so too” she said with a smile. She took it in her left hand and stroked it gently. It hardened, gently at first, then swelled quickly as the blood coursed into it.
“So you should hope slave” said Dometria. “If Miss Joy is not completely satisfied you will be harshly punished.”
“Yes Mistress understood.”
“Now stand facing us and masturbate to completion”.
“It means until you come.”
I was sure I heard her mutter “idiot” under her breath.
And so I did. I was ordered to wank daily for the next fur days and then have days of chastity before the big day, a Saturday afternoon in a budget hotel in the town centre. I arrived at 3 o’clock as ordered. Dometria and Joy wee already there. I was a little startled to see my Mistress in jeans ad sweat shirt, but noticed a crop and a flogger on the table by the kettle. Even in this informal setting I had to expect discipline. Joy was already on the bed, naked, playing with herself.Her body was both tanned and toned. I knew she worked out regularly and it showed.
“Take your clothes off and stand at the foot of the bed!”
“Play with yourself and make yourself hard.”
I looked at Joy as I wanked, at her shaven cunt, at her fingering herself. It was as if she was putting on a performance for me. I soon felt precome dribbling out of my cock. It was time. I went down on her, sighed as I slid in to her wet cunt, groaned with pleasure as the foreskin slid back. Three thrusts and I came, I came twice actually, two ejaculation, one following the other and the second orgasm was overwhelming. I cried out with the intensity of the sensation, just wanting it to stop. I sank down on her but Dometria hauled me up. My work was done. I was not here to make love to Joy but to serve her.
“Bend over the chair!” ordered Dometria. I obeyed.
“So that you don’t start thinking you have any purpose other than to serve I am goinig to cane you. 25 strokes and no warm up”
“Yes Mistress” I said, stiffening my legs as I separated them to assume my position for the caning . I breathed in deeply and steeled myself for the caning. The strokes were hard and accurate but I could handle the pain. And being under Dometria’s control again was hot. As the cane landed I came again and ejaculated over the carpet,
“Lick it up” ordered Dometria. I did and thought I had never been so happy.
I was placed in chastity again and told to await further calls. They never came. Once had been enough and Joy was pregnant. So I served her in a different way. I did her shopping and cleaning and, as she grew too big to paint her toenails, I knelt before her and painted them, not always elegantly but, well I did the best I could.
I sometimes see Joy out with her new man and my son, now two, in a buggy. She looks happy. I never make eye contact. I bow my head respectfully and wait till she has passed. For that is my purpose in life, to serve with respect, to give selflessly to the women I am to serve. I expect nothing in return but the joy of service. I have been in chastity for two ears now and Dometria will decide if I am ever to orgasm again. For my cock is Hers. My soul too.
A post for Wicked Wednesday. Click here for more wickedness
On Monday 16th March 2020 I went, as I usually do before caching a train home from London to the Great Nepalese on Eversholt Street for a curry, As usual I was first in when the restaurant opened. As usual I ordered a large glass of Malbec and then my favourite vegetable jheera. And there usual ended. It was after seven o’clock before anyone else came in. This restaurant is popular with commuters and usually very busy early evening. I would have been reflecting, as I had done exactly a year earlier, on a successful and enjoyable Eroticon (indeed I was scheduled to make my speaking debut at this one) but it had been cancelled as alarming news of a nee respiratory virus swept the country. London, to which I had travelled the day before for a work event on the Monday and also to see if any blogging friends were still about in Camden on the Sunday, had been eerily quiet. National lockdown was still a week away but it was already clear that our lives were about to change in a big way.
What I had would never have imagined was that they would still be mired in the pandemic nearly a year later. But here we are. We now have vaccines approved, and sufficient doses ordered for the whole population but the logistical challenge is huge and it will surely be many months into 2021 before life even begins to get back to normal.
2020 is a year I will be glad to see the back of and yet it had upsides. I have been working from home for nearly 10 months now and cannot imagine going back to the 2 hour daily commute. I can see what retirement will look like. I have slept better with a daily routine better suited to my body clock, I have eaten well, I have done plenty of running, plenty of walking and am fitter than ever. On the other hand there has been little sex and no kink.
There has, however, been plenty of writing, much of it with strong autobiographical elements, which has massively helped me to understand who I am. In addition, I have had a hugely enjoyable collaboration with Posy Churchgate, I have taken part in May More’s Fiction Relay and had my first story published by Frolic Me. This has been my best year for views and visits since 2013 when I was very active on my blog, and doubled my 2019 figure. Apart from the Delphine’s Schooldays posts, my most read post was this which was a very personal post.
Apart from blogging I had a couple of wonderful video chats with Eye whose calm intelligence and sense of proportion helped me to navigate the sometimes choppy seas of my year. She is my longest standing Eroticon friend and, although we very rarely meet face to face, it is a joy to have her in my life. Another highlight was finally meeting the wonderful Anna Sansom, if only, for now, via Zoom. But afternoon tea in a vintage frock will definitely happen in 2021.
And then there was Smutathon which, obviously, took place remotely this year. Maybe we will get to Scotland in 2021? Again, my writing for this was was quite autobiographical.
So, all in all, 2020 was a rubbish year that could have been a lot worse. My writing kept me sane, quite literally. I hope 2021 will also bring inspiration but I hope more that it will bring real life meetings with some lovely people I have really missed. You know who you are.
A post for Wicked Wednesday. Click here to see more reviews of the year.
I haven’t done a roundup for a couple of months as I have been away, been in quarantine (which gives you plenty of time to do things but sucks out the energy you need to do them) and have had other writing projects.But here are a few of the things I enjoyed this month.
There was something seasonal to enjoy in the month’s first Sinful Sunday, from Focussed and Filthy There was something seasonal to enjoy in the month’s first Sinful Sunday, from Focussed and Filthy and this from Exposing 40 really made me laugh.
BDSM can be an enjoyable activity in its own right. It can also spice up sex. Either way, it is essential that bth dom and sub are attentive to the needs of their partner. May More writes here about a scene that went wrong and what she and her partner learnt from it.
Foreplay…..well yes…..I think this is a problematic concept. It reeks of cisheternormativity but is a pervasive idea in a world that seems to think that PiV is the only proper sex. Missy gives her take here
And taking of seasonal pics from Sinful Sunday for the Third Sunday In Advent, known as Gaudete Sunday, I enjoyed this from Molly and this from Jer Bear
There is, of course, more to sex than PiV but, as Girl on the Net once said to me after I read a PiV (well actually failed PiV story) at Eroticon some years ago, “there are times when you need just need a good fucking”. This, by Floss, gives her take on fucking as a kink.
I guess there are those who think that those of is who blog about sex are immune to loss of libido and feelings of inadequacy but I think we have all been affected at one time or another. I thought this post by The Other Livvy was brilliant. It should inspire all those having struggles of their own.
I wrote about Christmas for the Quote Quest meme here. I enjoyed reading the thoughts of Coffee and KInk on lockdown Christmas here
And talking of Christmas I love a good festive story. Like this by Posy Churchgate with a sequel by Nero Black
The immediate post festive Sinful Sunday had more fun pics of which I particularly liked this by Focussed and Filthy and this by Modesty Ablaze.
As regards memes, some have come and gone this year and certain people are boycotting certain memes. My favourite new meme is Little Switch Bitch’s Quote Quest and this post lists all those who have contributed this year. This is a great initiative but numbers of posters have been quite low in some weeks so please think about supporting this in 2021.
And what have you done? Well, not much actually. 2020 has been a write off in so many respects. No kink and not much sex either which may be a good thing because I have been a very well behaved girl for Santa.Instead I have written a lot and I am sure that on the 25th I will be writing again because writing has replaced life. Which has not been entirely a bad thing. It has enabled me to spend more time reflecting on who I am, how I came to be this person, and make peace with most of my past. I am in many ways a happier person than I was a year ago. Above all, I have a much clearer idea of who my true friends are. There are a couple of people who were on the periphery of my life who I know will become close friends when we can actually see each other in real life more often. This is actually nothing to do with sex and one of the frustrations (no pun intended)of 2020 has been the online conversations that may, in a pre-Covid age, have led to the bedroom, but which have fizzled out because there was no prospect of actually meeting up beyond the Zoom screen. But, with new profiles on sites, and a better marketing strategy, I know that 2021 brings a measure of promise. I know my sexual self so much better now, and have the confidence to seek out what I want, and to say no to what I don’t.
So, this Christmas, I am in a better place than many people so I guess we are really not all in it together. I will be spending it mostly on my own but that is not a problem. I have a rich inner life and I have friends I will reconnect with in 2021 as soon as we are allowed out to play again. But I will think of those who are unable to be with friends and family when they want to be, the LGBT people forced into the miserable straitjacket of hiding their true selves from their families,and all those screaming to get out after the turkey stuffed house arrest as Uncle Derek starts to bang on about what a good thing Brexit is and how he has nothing against black people but…… I guess quite a few of us have relatives like that and biting your tongue all day can be a strain. And if you get the question
“This blog of yours what’s it all about?”
Well let’s not go there, at least not before the fourth glass of port. So actually, a solo Christmas can be the least bad option. I will do some traditional things, I will have a bird (a guinea fowl actually) and a pudding, I will have wine, and, yes, I will have port. You know, I am actually quite looking forward to it.
To all of you reading this, I wish you as happy a Christmas as you can have and a 2021 filled with all the consensual sex and kink you want. And if that is none, that is cool too. Above all, let’s be kind to each other.
A post for Quote Quest . Click on the badge below for other thoughts on Christmas
They call it hubris and it is always followed by a fall. Catherine Spencer-Harrington, in her insufferable arrogance, assumed that she was untouchable. She was, after all, the wealthy and privileged elder daughter of a Conservative MP and landowner. What she failed to consider was the thing that compromised that privilege. That she is a woman and that, when the reputation of powerful men is at stake, women are expendable.
The last time that she was seen in public was when she was driven away from the Old Bailey in a back Wolseley, wedged between two stern, unsmiling prison officers. Earlier she had collapsed in the dock as the sentence of two years’ hard labour was passed. By the time she left the court building she had regained her composure and looked angry and defiant. I had no doubt that the regime of Her Majesty’s Prison Holloway would knock the defiance out of her. For a woman who was accustomed to wearing the haute couture dresses of Norman Hartnell and Christan Dior, it could only be traumatic to put on the prison garb of huge grey knickers, a rough, grubby, ill fitting bra, and a shapeless blue dress. And a few days on her knees polishing floors should serve to cure her haughtiness. I have to say the thought of it rather excited me and I felt myself getting wet as I sat at my desk thinking about it.
I had, too, school business that was occasioning arousal. As instructed, Belinda Coningsby-Firth had left her notebook in my pigeon hole and I had lain in bed reading about her erotic exploits in the bathroom with the French girl. This morning they were both instructed to come to study at four o’clock dressed in their PT kit of aertex blouse, green, pleated skirt, grey socks and plimsolls. They, too, were to be humiliated, particularly Lotbinere. It is only right that the arrogant are brought low. “He hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts” as we pray in chapel every Sunday. It was a pity that a number of past and present girls had been insufficiently attentive at Evensong.
They stood before me, heads bowed, as I read aloud from the book of shame.
“Did you enjoy being touched Lotbiniere?”
“No Mademoiselle” she said quietly, a slight tremor in her voice,
“And you, Coningsby-Firth? Why did you think these were appropriate things to do?”
“Please Miss Ranson, I love Bin with all my heart. I told you and you said..”
“And what did I say?”
“You said, Miss, that the love of a girl for a girl is beautiful, that I should not be ashamed of it and that….”
“I sad no such thing.”
“Miss, you touched my little bud and you told me”
“That is an outrageous lie Coningsby-Firth! I said no such things. If you repeat them you will back here for a mouth soaping. And you know that is one of the cruellest punishments in the school don’t you?”
She shuddered, no doubt at the memory of her classmate Lucinda Forbes-Lester who had been made to eat a bar of Wright’s Coal Tar soap every evening for a week after being overheard referring to me as a lesbian bitch. I understand the sounds she made in the bathroom where she spent most of the night had the salutary effect on the other girls that I desired. Forbes-Lester herself is now a most obedient girl, always eager to carry my bags and perform errands. Fear truly is the best teacher.
“So what did I say?” I asked.
Coningsby-Firth said nothing, went even redder and was clearly struggling to hold back tears.
“I said that God made man and woman for the purposes of procreation and that any unclean behaviour between those of the same sex is an unnatural perversion and quite contrary to His will, did I not Coningsby-Firth?”
“And you, Lotbiniere, you are from a country where such depravity is seen as entirely natural, even praiseworthy, are you not?”
“Mademoiselle, I am from a country that sees the beauty of humanity in all its forms and prize the aesthetic in the erotic expression of our humanity.”
“And who taught you those ridiculous words?”
“My father Mademoiselle. He is a man of the world.”
“He is a man of filth and depravity, an adulterer and philanderer whose infamy reaches even to these shores.”
“Mademoiselle, he says that English women are cold and frigid and that I should never sleep with an Englishman.”
“Did he? He obviously prefers that you wallow in the cesspit of filth and depravity that is the sex life of the French? One hesitates to say marital as the French evidently do not see being married to someone as a necessary precondition of indulging in carnal passions of the most repellent kind. Do they Lotbiniere? “
“No Mademoiselle, in our country we..”
“Shut up girl! I have had quite enough of your insolence. Both of you, take your knickers off and leave them on the desk.”
They both looked shocked and did not react.
“Just do it and when you have, you will run five laps of the playing field.”
“Miss we..” began Coningsby-Firth
“You will do as you are told. Any further questioning of my authority and you will both have a week’s mouth soaping!”
“Sorry Miss “ they both mumbled, took their knickers off and left to run round the field.
I went through to my sitting room and stood at the window to watch. I had my binoculars and watched them closely. I placed Coningsby-Firth’s knickers over my head with the crotch over my nose to take in the smell of her juicy cunt. Lotbiniere’s knickers I put down my front and rubbed my clit with them, thinking of how I would order her to wash me, sponge my back, run her hands over my breasts, soap in hand, use the loofah to make me come. I watched them closely. I could see the expressions on their faces, exchanges of words, no doubt of the kind that would earn them a mouth soaping. As they rounded the lacrosse pitch for the third time, now visibly tiring, a gust of wind lifted their skirts and their cunts and bottoms were exposed to the school, for I knew that many of the girls would be looking up from the tedium of their prep to take in the spectacle, fascinated and afraid. At the sight of this I rubbed myself harder with Lotbiniere’s knickers and came. I sank onto my sofa as the orgasm exploded through me, and , to my horror, heard myself shouting
“Lotbiniere, Lotbiniere I am yours . I am yours! Use me you French slut! Use me!”
I started in horror. I rearranged my clothing and went back to the study. No one had heard.
I laid the two pairs of knickers on the desk and heard a knock at the door.
The two girls entered, red faced, panting and sweaty,
“Mens sana in corpore sano” I said. “Hard physical exercise is the guarantee of moral cleanliness, is it not?”
They said nothing, still clearly trying to recover their breath.
“Is it not?” I shouted.
“Both of you get on the floor and give me twenty press-ups. “
Lotbiniere flashed me an angry look and pouted as she sank to the hard, polished wood of the floor for her latest humiliation. When they had finished I sent them away and returned to thoughts of Catherine Spencer-Harrington. I wrote a short letter and put it in an envelope on which I wrote the address
Miss Sarah Holliday,
Her Majesty’s Prison,
I sealed the envelope with a mixture of satisfaction and anticipation. I was feeling aroused and needed to go to my room. I looked for a postage stamp in my top drawer and realised to my horror that the papers I had been so careful to have recovered from Spencer- Harrington’s office had gone. I had to find the culprit quickly. I ordered an immediate search of the dormitories.
Posy will continue the story soon.
A post for Wicked Wednesday. For more wickedness click here,
I have been reading a lot about how people have been having vivid, even disturbing, dreams during this period of lockdowns and restrictions. I have had my share too, most recently, finding myself in Australia with no money and a hotel bill to pay. I knew I had money in my savings account, lots of it, but I could only transfer this to my current account by actually going into the building society branch in England. And I had no money to go back to England to get the money I needed to eat and have a place to sleep in Australia. I was marooned. I woke up, sweating and shaking at 4 am. And not in Australia! And this is far from my weirdest dream.
None of these dreams, however, has been about sex or, for that matter, kink. I have, instead, daydreamed about these pretty much constantly. having taken a break from the kink sense for mental health reasons last winter, and my planned return having been unavoidably delayed, it is a year since I last played. Sex, too, has not been part of my bodily life for a while either. But kink and sex remain integral to my life. They have migrated into my head and I dream aboit them.
I have written a lot of stories both on this blog and elsewhere and these stories have drawn more directly on my own past than anything I have written before. They have been both therapy and catharsis. They have also served to draw a line under aspects of my past, a clearing of the decks for 2021.
And I am dreaming of the future now, of what I will do when fetish clubs open, when sexual partners emerge from the COVID darkness into the light of the new world I have dreamt for them. My dreaming has been a long course in self understanding, and most definitely a guide to action. Come 2021 I will be a better lover, a more attentive domme, (though possibly a mote sadistic one). But my dreams are only part of the plan. The rest we do together, and I look forward to being taken into the dreamworlds of subs, play partners, of lovers.
A post for Quote Quest. Click on the badge below to see the dreams of others.
Our eyes met across the hotel bar. I walked over to him.
“I am Danielle and mine’s a Prosecco.”
“Pleased to meet you Danielle.”
He smiled and motioned to the barman, at the same time inviting me to sit on the stool next to him. A flute of prosecco with a strawberry was place in front of me. He picked up his beer and we clinked glasses.
“I’m Stewart” he said. “Tell me are you…?”
“I’ll cut to the chase. Do you want to fuck me?”
He took a sip of his beer and asked
“I’m not an escort” I said, “It will cost you nothing but the drink you’ve just bought me/”
“I’m probably a bit young for you..”
“Fitter and harder, no? Age doesn’t mater to me. My last fuck was with an eighty year old. And he was good, Stewart, good. He has set a high bar. Are you up to the challenge?”
“You bet Danielle.” He leant over and planted a kiss on my lips. He held it here, and I felt his tongue trying to burrow into my mouth. I resisted.
“Save that for later.”
“OK. My room is on the second floor. Shall we go up?”
“It’s such a warm evening, and I bet you like fucking outdoors as much as I do. Besides it’s nearly dark so no one will see us.””
I pressed my thigh against his and stroked his hand. I watched his crotch for the bulge.I stroked his inner thigh and saw his erection pushing against his fly.
“Where are we going?”
He seemed genuinely intrigued.
“A place I know not far from here.”
I put my coat on and took his hand as he tried to gulp down his beer with the other.
“Come on, you don’t need any more beer.”
I led him out of the hotel and down a side street to a main road. We crossed and walked along the outer wall of the town cemetery. Half way between lamp posts, in a pool of darkness where there was a kind of niche in the wall I pushed him back against it and kissed him. He responded, puling me close and driving his tongue deep into my mouth. He hadn’t shaved that day and I loved the feel of the stubble brushing against my face.
“God I want you!” he gasped, coming up for air and sweeping his hair from over his eyes.
“Where are we going? Are you parked near here?”
I gestured with my head.
“We are going here.”
“The cemetery? You can’t”
“Can’t what? I do what I like darling and don’t let anyone tell me otherwise, particularly men.”
He said nothing.
“Do you want to fuck me or not?”
“Yes, of course I do.”
“Come with me then.”
I led him down a side street to where works were taking place and there was a gap n the wall and we could squeeze through, taking care not to stumble over the pile of rubble that had once been part of the wall.
He dusted down his suit as we stood in the blackness of cemetery. I took out my it my phone and turned on the light. He had the uneasy look of a man who is realising that he has got into something deeper than he anticipated.
It wasn’t far to my husband’s grave, tucked away in a side alley.
“This is my husband”
I pulled my knickers down and lifted my skirt. I lay on the grave, the gravel biting into my back, and spread my legs. .
“Just fuck me.”
“On your husband’s grave? This is fucking weird.I can’t.”
“just do it. Do it now!”
I had reached the submissive inside him and when he pulled his trousers down I could see that he was rock hard under the boxers. I arched my back as he came down. I was wet and he slid straight in and fucked me hard, working quickly as if conscious of the risk of exposure. He came quickly and, withdrawing, knelt up.
“Now wank and come over my tits.”
He was soon hard again and worked his shaft quickly. He was still nervous about being caught it seemed. I lay back and he stood over me. I shut my eyes and felt the warm stream landing on me.
“You can go now” I sad.
“When will I see you again? Maybe we can do it in like a proper bed next tme?”
“I don’t want to see you again. I have had you and I will pick someone else up next time I need to be fucked”
“You have used me.”
He spat the words out as he pulled his trousers up and zipped his flies. He winced as he did so.
“But it’s not about you. It really isn’t”
I stood up and reached out to him. He brushed my hand away angrily.
“I don’t want a relationship. I had 22 years with a wonderful man and no one can ever replace him.”
“But why DO you fuck on his grave?”
“For him. He will always be with me, he looks out for me. I want him to know at I am OK, that I am desirable, just as he found me desirable.”
I don’t think he even heard the last words as he walked off, no doubt wondering how he would find his way out of the locked cemetery.
I knelt over my husband’s grave and frigged myself
“I am good darling. I am good. I am getting all the fucks I promised you I would.”
As I came I leant forward and kissed his name on the headstone His name which was my name. For ever. I can’t actually remember the last time we fucked. I guess that once we had the diagnosis we fucked as if every time would be the last, raw, intense sex until he was too weak. And now every time I have sex it is the last time with that man.
I kissed the headstone. I needed to get back. I had to pick a dress for tomorrow. Tomorrow at seven at the same place in the same bar.
A post for Wicked Wednesday. For more wickedness click here