Happiness Stan

Everyone knows Stan in our town. 30 odd years ago he played for our local football team. A real character who always had a pint in the bar before the game and still gave his all for 90 minutes on the pitch And then, after the game, well he was rarely home before midnight. When you look back you wonder what his wife made of it all, and, lovely man that he was, she let him in the end. What else was she to do?

But even as his personal life was falling apart he was a hero for us kids. I can remember well his little tricks, the dummies and shimmies, that goal at Brentford the one and only time we got to the FA Cup First Round. I am not exaggerating believe me, high ball into the box and there was Stan, took it on his right, back onto his left, a swivel and back into hs right and bang! A crisp volley into Brentford’s net to put us one up. Brentford’s defenders had been completely mesmerised by Stan’s genius. We lost 6-1 in the end but Stan’s status as a local hero was sealed. This had been the biggest day out in our club’s history and Stan’s goal had made it special.
And then he packed up playing, probably a year or two early because of the drink. Not knowing what to do with himself, he did the only other thing he knew. He drank.

He still does. Stan spends his days on a bench in a secluded corner of our local park drinking beer from cans. I never knew what he did for food so I used to take him a sandwich, a pork pie, sometimes a take away coffee. And I would sit and chat. His eyes always lit up at the mention of the Brentford game, some 40 years ago now but still the highlight of his life. And how many if us with our steady jobs and mortgages and so on, have ever, in one moment of inspiration, sent 4,000 of oir fellow human beings into rapture? Stan had and the knowledge of that clearly gave him the feeling that his life had been worth living.

One day as we chatted Stan said he had a favour to ask. It was years since he had had sex and well as he didn’t feel right approaching a woman and while he wasn’t gay would I mind? Well I would probably have done anything for Stan. He unzipped his flies and pulled out a still impressive cock. I dropped to my knees on the gravel path, took his cock in my hand, pulled back the foreskin and took him into my mouth. I had always thought of myself as a straight guy and this was a really new experience to me. But I found myself enjoying the sensation of a cock hardening and swelling in my mouth, enjoying the groans of pleasure that Stan was making. When he came into my mouth I knew what to do. I swallowed a bit , I had never known it was salty, and kept a bit in my mouth. I moved my mouth towards his. I kissed him and transferred the remaining come into his mouth.  He smiled.

I stood up, brushed the gravel from my knees, and walked off without giving Stan a second glance.

I never saw him again. Whether he had left our town for good, or whether something bad had happened I will probably never know. But when I think of the happiness he brought me or even the fleeting happiness I brought him he will forever be Happiness Stan.

Mad John

John, I guess, was somewhere on the Asperger’s/autism spectrum. The other girls at the parlour called him “Mad John” but I thought that was really unfair. I called him Balloon Man and in the short time I worked at the parlour, he became my favourite amongst my regular clients. Not that I realised this when I first met him. He had turned up at the parlour for a booking and his regular girl was unavailable so the manager offered me. I sashayed out of our smoking room in my cheap glittery stilettoes, walked up to him, gave him a peck on the cheek, saying
“Are you here for a nice time darling?”
He said nothing, didn’t even manage a smile and seemed uncomfortable in my presence. That made two of us. When I tried to take his hand to lead him to the room he yanked it free and put it in his pocket. He followed me head bowed.
I led him into the room and shut the door.
“It’s twenty for the room. Thirty for oral with, fifty for full service, and any extras I am prepared to do we negotiate. I don’t do oral without….”
John looked at me blankly and said simply
“Balloons. I’ve got my balloons.”
Suddenly there was a knock on the door and my friend Rosie motioned to me to pop out.
“I should have said. John is not like most of the punters. He is a bit like weird? You know? Basically what you do is burst the balloons he blows up and he gets off on that. He just wanks and comes and he’s well happy. But he is odd though. That’s why we call him Mad John.”
“And the rest?”
“There is no rest. He hates being touched. No contact with you at all. You just burst the balloons, three with your nails, three with your heels, but make it a bit of a show. He likes that. You got your money and don’t get a feeble little cock anywhere you. If you can handle the weirdness you won’t get a better gig in this job”
I went back in to the room. John had blown up six pink party balloons and laid them on the floor at the foot of the bed. He lay naked on the bed playing with himself. He was already hard. .
I picked up the first balloon and walk to stand over him.
“And if I burst this it will turn you on won’t it darling?”
He nodded and said
“Rub”
I rubbed the balloon over his chest, over his genitals, over the hand that was working his cock vigorously. Then I took in in my hands and pressed my long polished finger ails into the rubber, showing g it to him as I did so.
He let out a cry as I dug the nails in further and burst the balloon with a loud bang. He was on the edge but I could see that he was holding back, waiting to be able to come with the bursting of the sixth balloon.
The second balloon was to be burst with my heel. I placed it by the bed so that he could have a good view then walked slowly up and down in my heels, stroking my bottom, letting him see my perfectly perpendicular seams. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. His eyes were focussed not on me but on the balloon. I took a casual step forward, teased him that I was about to stamp on it and saw pre come glistening on his bell end. I feinted again and he groaned.
“Please don’t do that. Just burst them….please.”
“And why shouldn’t I?” I smiled as I teased him.
“Because I don’t like it.” He looked away and began to twitch. I could feel anger rising within him.
“I’m sorry”.
I burst the balloon quickly and he resumed his wank, slowly at first, to get hard again .
“It’s slippery now. Can I have a tissue please?”
He wiped his cock carefully, drying it to get a better purchase then began again slowly the quickening to a frantic motion as I punctured the next balloon with my nails.
“Four today, only four I am going to come. I can’t hold it any more.”
I placed the final balloon on the floor, walked to the window, pulled the net curtain back slightly to look out over the yard, to the back door where clients came in via a discreet public car park then quickly over to the balloon, two determined strides and a sharp stab with my heel.
He arched his back and let out a cry as he came, creamy dollops dropping onto the paper sheet. HE lay panting from the effort of his vigorous masturbation.
“I’ve come” he said slowly, avoiding eye contact. He then grinned to himself. He got up, dressed, and counted out fifty pounds which he left on the bedside cabinet. John left the room without a word.
I lay down on the sheet, feeling the cold, rapidly congealing come against my back. I was horny really horny. There were two balloons left over from the appointment. I rubbed them against my breasts, then against my clit and lay down again in John’s come. on the wet come. I moved my panties to the side and began to play with myself . I took off a shoe and burst the first balloon with the heel, then pleasured myself some more before bursting the last balloon with my finger nails.
“Wrong order I know, sorry John” I murmured as I held him before me, this strangest of clients who had done what no other client had yet managed to do. He had me horny. Totally fucking horny.

My next client had arrived but I was in no hurry. I needed to come. I lay back took a vibrator out of a drawer and wanked to John until I too came with a loud moan. Balloon man was a regular I had been told. I just needed to make him my regular.
Sex work wasn’t always enjoyable but every now and again, it had its compensations. , and they weren’t always to be found where you might expect.

A post for Masturbation Monday. Check out the other awesome posts by clicking here

 

 

Of Smutathon and Prosecco

I am now at home with prosecco and not feeling the drop. I had a fun weekend and if 12 hours writing seemed daunting I did get 8 posts written and my idea, to do a series of short stories each with the title of the Small Faces album Ogdens Nut Gone Flake turned out to be a source of inspiration. I still have seven to write but am brimming with ideas. And why not? This is an awesome album. And since you ask one of the stories will be in Unwinesque gobbledygook.

For these events are for me about much more than raising money although that is really important. In two years we have supported  the campaign against internet censorship and the demonisation of kink that goes with it, rape crisis and ow abortion rights. Remember that there are parts of the British Isles, such as Northern Ireland  and the Isle of Man where women do not have legal access to abortion without having to travel to  Great Britain. We have raised nearly 3,000 pounds in two Smutathons to day. And a thitd will happen next year.

Besides this Smutathon is about building friendships with fellow bloggers and having fun. We drank gin and prosecco, we luxuriated in the hot tub, we ate cake and pizza and croissants and strawberry shoelaces and a host of other gourmet delights. And I danced on the lawn on the rain in my nightie. And we had a host of weird, interestg and inforamtive conversations.

So I am now going to open the prosecco and raise my glass to you all, to Amy who organised it all, to the two Hannahs, to Jayne who flew over from Canada just to be with us, to Livvy, to Olly and Chris.

Cheers guys and here’s to next time.

And, dear reader, if you haven’t donated yet you can do so here 

It’s Therapy But Is It Art?

I have a friend who has recently started reading erotica. This began out of curiosity specifically that she wanted to read my published work, But she read the other stories in the books I lent her, enjoyed those and asked me to lend her some more books. I went for a coffee with her recently to talk about her experiences. Anna is in her early 30s, she identifies as straight and vanilla, and on her own admission had never thought much about her sexuality and the ways in which she lived it.  Bur she had fund much to enjoy in the erotica she had read. She had gained insights into her own life, and understanding of herself as a sexual being, even from stories about gay sex or even BDSM that were far removed from her own experience.

As the conversation continued Anna opened up more and confided that she had had some bad experiences sexually and that she had issues with low self esteem specifically related to sex. And reading smut had helped to come to terms with this, to see that really there is nothing wrong with her.  In short, reading smut had been therapeutic.

Some years ago I did some work with  a Community Interest Company that was commissioned bt local Mental Health trusts to run reading therapy sessions often with people who had had limited educational opportunities and presumably found   reading literary fiction daunting. But it was fascinating to sit in on a session and see how the act of reading helped the self esteem of these people and also served as a medium for self understanding as they brought their own life experiences to bear on the text, commenting with insight on the issues raised.

It is a commonplace that there is no right or wrong way to read a text, everyone brings something different to that text. This is true of literary fiction. It is also true of erotica. In fact I would go further and say that the distinction between literary fiction and niche fiction, be it erotica, crime fiction or whatever. Good writing can open doors, whatever the subject matter I am grateful to Anna for providing evidence of that.

 

 

Long Ago and Worlds Apart

I can’t speak the language here though I am only 50 miles from home.  50 miles but world away. 800 years from home. I walk a rutted track between stone walls   behind which the mountains rise. It is summer, the weather is kind this August of 1157 but the dusk is slowly closing in. I have no place to stay for the night. I speak no Welsh, I have little money. To the right, a little way up the slope I see a small cottage. There is no other building in sight so I decide this is my only hope of avoiding a night beneath the stars which in Wales even in August, could be very cold.

I knock on the door and a man with a beard, dressed in a coarse woollen tunic opens the door. I explain my plight in slow, deliberate English. I make a sleeping motion to the man. He nods says something in Welsh and beckons to me to come in.

It is dark inside the cottage. A single candle burns, there is a fire in the grate and a cooking pot dangling over it. I am invited to sit at a rough hewn table. A bowl of something that might be porridge is placed in front of me and a wooden cup of something foaming that smelled sweet. And was probably a kind of ale.

I was hungry and ate with relish. When I had finished a young woman entered. She had long red hair, and a woollen tunic dyed blue unlike the plain one of the man I assumed must be her husband even though he seemed to be a bit older than her. I had begun to wonder about the sleeping arrangements and had concluded t hat we would probably all be sleeping together. I was tired and hoping she had come to show me where I would be sleeping.

As I sat there she pulled the tunic over her head and threw it aside. She stood naked before me, and all I could focus on were here small tight breasts and her thick bush. She came up to me and looked in puzzlement at my modern clothing. From her gestures I understood that I was to undress. The bearded man watched, apparently unconcerned that his wife was naked in front of a stranger.

I took my trousers off and pulled down my boxers. She came up and masturbated me with a deft skill I had rarely known in the 22st century. Then she climbed onto the chair and knelt astride me before descending onto my stiff cock with its glistening bell end. I came at once, the dirty interior of the cottage splintering into a kaleidoscope of colour as the orgasm pulsed through me.

I sat back as she climbed off me. I could have stayed in 1157 for her but she was another man’s wife.  I knew I had to get back, wanted to get back but maybe not just yet?  There were surely adventures still to be had.

Note:  According to Giraldus Cambrensis , the hospitality extended to house guests in early mediaeval Wales often extended to sex with the hosts.

Ogdens Nut Gone Flake

I let him in through the back door and show him into the back room, the one with the nice furniture, the glass fronted cabinet and the musty smell from only being used once a year and being shut the rest if the time. My nan is in the front room watching Coronation Street, the sound turned up so loud that the walls shake.  My parents are away and have sent me here to look after her, or maybe be looked after? They don’t trust me and maybe they are right. I pour him a glass of lemonade and tell him to set in one of the armchairs. I go and check on my nan. The din is unbearable, Hilda Ogden is laying into her Stan, as my nan did once to Grandad. Now she is nearly deaf. She has fallen asleep.

I turned 16 yesterday. It is unbearably hot . It hasn’t rained for weeks.  Dad says that the government have appointed   a rain minister. He’s not voting Labour again, He thinks they should give that Tory woman a chance.  He will help Nan buy her council house.  But that’s adult stuff I don’t care about. I am still a virgin. That I do care about. And he is here to have me. He will be the first.

He reaches into his bag, takes out a flake. I wanted to try with this he says I’ve seen in a porn mag. And he makes me pull down my skirt and panties. I lie on the sofa, legs apart and draped over the arm. I am a bit nervous. He told me he was experienced but I think he was lying. He is face to face with my pussy and seems not to know where to start.

I only know bits from what older girls tell me at school. So I put a finger in to see if I am wet. I am bone dry. So I make him kiss me. This I can do.  I push my tongue in deep. He responds and soon we are wrestling awkwardly on the sofa. I love his smell, he has been shaving for a while now and I love the roughness of his stubble against my face. I push a finger in again in and feel that I am wet. He is hard. He is ready. He is scared. I see it in his face. He unwraps the flake, which has begun to melt in the July heat.  After fumbling awkwardly to find my slit, he pushes the flake in deep so that only the tip is visible, enough for him to grip with his teeth. And he does. The sensation is not unpleasant. He bites a bit off and pushes into my mouth. And eats the rest. Then he masturbates to get hard, rolls a condom on (where did he learn to do that?) and pushes into me.

And that was it. My first time at 16 years and a day. I don’t think I came and I didn’t fake, not that I knew how to. I lie there, sweaty, my buttocks caked in chocolate, a used condom limp between my legs. He asks me how it was so I say lovely (isn’t that what you are supposed to say?). I don’t get to ask when we can do it again. My nan has left the living room and I heading for the kitchen. I let him out through the French windows telling him to go round the corner on all fours so he can’t be seen.  It wasn’t too bad really.  I think I want him to fuck me again. First I have some cleaning g up to do.

Of Hot Tubs and Body Love

I guess we all suffer varying degrees of body shame. This is probably even more of a problem for trans people than for others. I mean we are all, according to a certain narrative, supposed to suffer from body dysmorphia and   believe that we are trapped I the wrong body. I have talked before about why this narrative is deeply problematic but whilst I can feel happy in my body as such there is still the matter of showing my body to people other than sexual partners. And this is all to do with having a body that in certain important respects doesn’t correspond to my identified gender.

Yet I am active in scenes like the fet scene, the swinging scene and also the very much interconnected sex blogging scene where being naked in front of people is actually no big deal. And  the swingers clubs I go to  have jacuzzis because, getting into a bath with a load of other people is part of what it’s about. So if I was not going to get my kit off at some point I was going to miss out.   Smutathon has brought this to a head because the plan was to rent a house for the weekend with an outdoor hot tub. This was the big attraction of the house and something I could not miss out on. Would I  be able to overcome my hesitation and enjoy this with the others?

Well the answer is yes. I broke the barrier last weekend at a fet event at a swingers club in the Midlands. I went along feeling tired and run down. It was a hot day too and really I felt I had no energy. The plan was to sit and chill with a few ice cold soft drinks. But I wasn’t on my own, I went with my submissive male partner and I had to take his needs into account. So we sat and chilled foe a bit before going upstairs for some very satisfying sex.  After the buffet was served we had a little CP play on the lawn where the spanking bench had been set up for us to take advantage of the sunshine. After that my partner wanted to go to the Jacuzzi as he usually does when we visit this club.  I had always resisted persuasion before but this time, well, it was a hot day and that Jacuzzi suddenly seemed rather enticing. So I threw away my inhibitions and went in. I loved it. I suppose I should have expected that no-one would give me a second glance. or that no one would engage with me any differently when they saw me with my clothes on again. No oe there really gave a damn what I looked like. So, I thought. Why should I?

And so to the Smutathon weekend. I had an hour in the outdoor hot tub last night under the stars. I also had half an hour this afternoon between blog posts. It was fun. I am so glad I took the plunge, , you know, not the one into warm bubbling water,

 

Song of a Baker

There’s wheat in the fields, slut, there’s water in the stream. We will go down thee and I will have you in all your filthy sluttery. You will kneel amidst the ripening crop and I, head high to the blades,  will take you from behind as you sink into the rich cloying earth.  Then I will lie on my back and I you can come down on me

Pat a cake pat a cake baker man bake me a cake as fast as you can and when you have finished hurry up to the flat and take me, fill me with moist springy cake, fill me till ready to burst with the work of your hands. And then, my little baker man, you will come down on me and eat me out, yes eat me out, fill your face with that sponge steeped in my juices. Kiss me and fill my mouth with chewed mushy cake. Spit the rest out over my boobs and lick it greedily off.  And them fuck me, fuck me hard

I will decorate you with dough, a little bun on each nipple,  a bite sized chunk on your clit and take a photograph. I will post it on that website we use where you are The Baker’s Wife The Greedy Bitch Who Wants to Have Her cake and Eat it. And the finished scones we will take to the club next week, and there you will lie on the table covered in scones and jam and cream and every single one must l be eaten off you. Then I will fuck you, fuck you right there on the crumbs and the jam and the cream. Our bodies will fuse in sweetness and you will taste salt. Then I will invite anyone who wants you to join the queue to fuck you, you who will be strapped down, legs apart. One after the other they will take you. Greedy girl. You will have your cake and eat it.

Oh baker man oh baker man who has made me a slut from a slave to cake, my baker man whose cock never fails to rise like the yeasty dough in your kitchen. Oh baker man I thank you for each cock you have allowed in my cunt, each cock I have had in my mouth and tasted and enjoyed as I enjoy your cakes. I thank you for the come I drink every day. Oh baker man, my baker man, I thank you most of all for the mornings when, sated with sex and refreshed by sleep, I come down for breakfast and gorge myself on the most sensual delight of all, your soft crusty bread, fresh from the oven.