Lessons in Love

“That” said Fiona Howe, “is the most misogynistic thing I have heard in a long long time. Do you actually know how old I am?”

I shuffled my feet in embarrassment and struggled for an answer.

“Well I thought erm maybe…”

“I am 72. Is that a problem for you?”

“Well no”

“Or maybe it is. You were thinking about how much older I am than you and thought that I might possibly be under seventy and that if I was you might ask me for sex. Is that right?”

“Well yes.”

There was no point lying. She had seen through me. She always did. I took a sip of the milky tea she had made me.

“And seventy is a magic number that makes a woman unfuckable but doesn’t make a man too old for sex. Is that what you think? Is that what all men think.?”

“Well yeah I …”

“If a man of 72 has sex with a younger woman that is fine isn’t it?”

“But the other way round you have a problem with?”

“I’m sorry. It was such a stupid thing to day.”

“It was. Offensive and misogynistic.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry? Is that the best you can do? Sorry?”

I felt myself  going red with shame.   I shuffle my feet and looked at the floor.

“Look at me.”

I complied amazed at how quickly I had resumed the role of immature schoolboy in her presence.  She has the same wavy short hair as 46 years ago, now silver grey, the same snub nose, her face, older obviously, was barely lined. She was beautiful, as she always  had been.

“Would you like to fuck me?”

I nodded, feeling an utter fool.

“When was the last time I saw you?” Fiona asked.

“I think it would have been when I was 14, so 1974?”

“The year I left King Aethelraed’s High. The year I got married and what a disaster that was.”

She sighed.

“That final lesson you gave me 400 lines and the last time I saw you was we I came to the staffroom to hand them in.”

“So not a very happy memory of me then?”

“Well, actually, you set me lines quite regularly and I enjoyed them.”

“What did I make you write?”

“Discipline and obedience are the key to learning.”

“Well I always was inventive wasn’t ?” she laughed, “But you enjoyed writing them?That’s not really the idea. They were a punishment.”

“Yes I know but I liked being punished  by you.”

“Why?”

“Well, I suppose I worshipped you really. I was the only boy who did. The girls all loved you didn’t they? Always complimenting you on your hair, and your clothes. And those beige boots you had.  Every adolescent girl wants to wear boots doesn’t she , it’s like a sign that she is not a girl anymore. And I so wanted to compliment you too and openly adore you the way that girls did. But I was a boy. So I was naughty  so that you would punish me with lines and I sat and wrote and worshipped you, in that lovely tartan skirt you had, in those boots. I’m sorry, you must think I am weird.”

“Not at all.”

She touched me gently on the arm.

“You had a crush on me that’s all. These things are quite normal.”

She looked at me tenderly and I felt a tear running down my cheek.

Fiona changed tone and said briskly.

“I think I would like you to fuck me, it’s been a while. Only the once though. I am very happy on my own and I don’t want you to think there could ever be anything between us.”

I stood there silent, looking into my mug. I hadn’t come looking for a relationship, I hadn’t come well I don’t know. I had  found out that my class teacher from the Third Form had moved into a new house just a quarter of a mile way from where I lived and here I was, 60 and retired, turning a social call into a confession of a teenage crush, Fiona Howe could still make me feel hopelessly inadequate, hopelessly naive, just as she could have done 46 years ago.  At 72 she excited me more than she did then. But I lacked the courage to tell her.

“And if I still had the boots?”

“Well Miss…”

“I am Fiona, we are both adults aren’t we?”

“Fiona, could I see them?”

“You can take them away, get them reheeled, give them a good clean and bring them with you next time. If we are going to fuck I might as well wear them for you.”

I felt myself going bright red with embarrassment.

“I didn’t fantasise about you that way back then I mean….”

“It wouldn’t bother me if you did. I am sure you weren’t the only one. And isn’t that what what spotty faced hormonal boys do?”

I smiled.

“I suppose so.”

“I am going to back the boots in a bag, And there will be a envelope containing your task.”

“Task?”

“A task. Something I require you to do. The chance for you to show me how much you want me.”

I said nothing.

“Sit down and finish your tea. I will be back in a minute”

Arriving home I shut the front door behind me. I leaned back against the door, in the gloom of my hallway and breathed heavily. I unbuttoned my trousers and masturbated to her, coming quickly. Come spilled out over my hand and I rushed to the kitchen in a crouched gait to avoid getting stains over my trousers. I cleaned myself up with kitchen towel, thought again of the boots and masturbated again. I grabbed the bag, pulled out a boot and came over it before greedily licking it clean.

I took the other boot out of the bag. I put them on the table and looked at them closely.  They were scuffed, the leather was dry and beginning to crack in places. Were they the actual boots? Or was this part of her game? I didn’t really care and they certainly looked like the boots I remembered, they had, too, a patina of age. Most important of all, she had worn them.I kissed each one gently and placed them back on the table. I opened the envelope and unfolded the paper on which she had written,

“Before your next visit I require 400 lines. These must be in blue ink and must be in your BEST HANDWRITING. You will write ‘I am a misogynistic arsehole who must learn to respect women.'”

I laid paper and four blue pens out on the table in front of the boots, which I kept in my eyeline as I wrote.

“I am a misogynistic arsehole who must learn to respect women.”

400 lines. Only 400? I was a little disappointed. For Fiona Howe I could write for ever.

 

A story for Masturbation Monday. Click on the badge to see what other awesome naughtiness has  been posted.

 

Letter from a Transplainer

I have never met a trans activist. I have met many trans people some of whom I count among my friends but encounters with trans activists continue to elude me.  I am beginning to wonder whether they actually exist, other than as straw men/women to be knocked down by those radical feminists who have an issue with trans people.

I am going to tell you about two trans people I regard as friends.  Allow me to introduce Helen  and Jake (not their real names)

Helen is in her early 50s and has been living as a woman for 3 years. She is not really political, although she was politicised enough by her experiences to attend her first Pride in London in 2019.  Her main interests are music and vintage fashion. It is through the vintage scene that I know Helen. She is very active on the scene and has a number of close female friends. She is socially well networked, something she could not be without. Her network consists mainly of cisgendered women.

Jake is in  his late 30s. I have known him for nearly 15 years, in other words since before he began his transition. Our shared passion is poetry and it is through poetry that we originally met and became friends. Jake is deeply interested in gender politics and I will always be grateful to him  for persuading me that the impenetrable prose of Judith Butler was worth persevering with. Jake is essentially a loner who doesn’t belong to any scenes. He moved to his current job after staring his transition and his new colleagues do not know that he is transgender. He has a deep voice, a beard and is starting to go thin on top. Once they start taking hormones it is much easier for trans men to pass than it is for women.

Helen and Jake live their lives quietly, keeping their heads below the parapet as far as they can. Nonetheless Jake is angry at the way that people like him have been airbrushed out of the debate on gender issues and their rights threatened by the radical feminist obsession with trans women. What their lives show, above all, is that trans people are not a race apart, they are fully integrated members of society, they are brothers, sisters, friends, and work colleagues. Many of them do not identify themselves predominantly in terms of their transness. The only difference between them and cisgendered people is that a vociferous minority hates them solely for who they are.

Which brings us back to the trans activists. They are part of a radical feminist typology of trans people (more specifically trans women as they mainly appear not to recognize the existence of trans men and non binary people.) This is not a trivial debating point. I am informed by a doctor at the London Gender Identity Clinic that F to M transitions now account for over half of new referrals to the GICs nationwide. And yet the rad fems have been able to get the debate framed solely in terms of alleged threats to the rights of women.

According to them trans women are, to put it crudely, blokes in frocks trying to invade women’s spaces (with a suggestion that they do this to sexually assault women), telling women what to do, bullying lesbians into having sex with them, erasing women’s identity as women, demanding rights that adversely affect women, and much much more.

The rad fems have shown themselves to be organised, articulate and very effective campaigners. One of the most pernicious aspects of their activity is that they have been able to persuade many politicians that they speak for women, all women.

They do not. As Helen’s example shows, lots of women do not have an issue with trans women. Quite the opposite, they have trans friends or rather they don’t. For Helen’s female friends, she is not a trans woman. She is a woman.

The issue of transgender is not, of course, the only area where radical feminists are far away from where most women are. The list of things that many women do, and freely choose to do, and which rad fems disapprove of is quite long. So long, in fact,  that you might think they don’t like women very much.  These include

Being friends with trans women

Engaging in sex work in any form.

Engaging in BDSM. It should be noted that women dominating submissive men is as frowned upon as women submitting to  dominant men. .

Using make up

Wearing heels

Liking fashion

Going to the salon for waxing.

Enjoying or producing porn.

Just a few examples taken from radfem social media. On the fringes it gets loopier still.

I was recently told about an academic at a Midlands university  who is trying to have the student Burlesque Society banned as “burlesque objectifies women for the male gaze.” I can only think that she has never actually been to a burlesque performance and studied the gender composition of the audience

And on the far shores it gets even mote bizarre. So I have heard a rad fem argue that freely available contraception and abortion are bad as they give men “a free pass to penetrate women.” Another has criticised lesbians who enjoy strap on play as this replicates “patriarchal phallocentric sexual practices.”

And then there was the radfem who gave advice to lesbians who suspect that a new partner might be a post-op trans woman. There are, she suggested, ways you can tell from a close inspection of the genitalia, including the angle of the slit to the vertical (different in a surgically created neo-vagina apparently) and the distance from the navel to the clit. This conjures up images of radfem lesbians keeping a tape measure on the bedside table just in case. I am not making this up, believe me.

I think you all get the picture. And I haven’t even mentioned Cathy Brennan. Look her up if you’re interested. I really haven’t got the stomach for saying anything about her anti-trans crusade.

It is hard to avoid concluding that telling women what to do is more important than actually starting where women are and starting the fight for equality from there. The other aspect to this is that their obsession with trans people eclipses the actual struggles of real women, struggles incidentally in which many trans people have been allies.

So it is that they make common cause with both religious fundamentalists and the far right, neither of who have been conspicuous supporters of women’s’ rights. Take, for example, Posie Parker whose concern for women has led her to the US to address meetings sponsored by the anti-abortion Heritage Foundation and who has had the support of Stephen Yaxley-Lennon, the far right demagogue better known to his intellectually challenged supporters as  “Tommy Robinson.”  She has also called for trans men to be forcibly sterilised. Parker, like others, spew their hatred and when called out on it, protest that they are only exercising freedom of speech.  A bit like Yaxley-Lennon himself. This is a point I will return to.

Trans Exclusionary Radical Feminism is a cult. It is not radical. Neither is it feminist. It has, however, made the whole issue of transgender rights so toxic that I wonder why people who don’t need to, (some of us have no choice of course), venture into it. Some  cisgendered men do take the plunge. One of the most notorious is Graham Linehan, the creator of Father Ted, who has embarked on a side hustle as trans baiter, seeming oblivious to the fact that his home country has for 5 years had gender self certification without the sky falling in, or indeed without Irish women being erased by the befrocked tranny hordes of rad fem mythology.

Then there was the gay man Jonathan Best who wrote a piece that reads more and more like the founding document of the transphobic LGB Alliance and which I discussed here.

One commonality of their expressed views on transgender is the way in which they have uncritically accepted the most pernicious of all the radical feminist sleights of hand. This is the idea that the trans people they bully are in fact the real bullies.

I am not going to say much about Inigo More’s post, (and I still cannot begin to understand why he felt the need to write it), except that it displays evidence of the same thinking, that there are trans people policing language, denying freedom of speech, ready to cry “transphobe” at anyone using the wrong pronouns. I believe this was an attempt at satire. It fell flat and the themes underlying it are so wearily familiar to anyone who follows the sterile gender debates that it was inevitable that people would react as they have. And he really can’t complain.

I am prepared to entertain the thought that Inigo is not a transphobe and that it was not his intention to mock trans people. That, however, is the effect. Context is everything. I have set out the context in the first few paragraphs of this post. And it is deafness to this context and to the lived experience of transgender people that is the real problem here. And reading pieces like this from people on the fringe of the sex blogging community hurts. It really bloody hurts. .

Saying this is not seeking to play the victim, Neither is it demanding special treatment.   Trans people just want to be addressed by the names they have chosen to use and be addressed by the gender pronouns that are appropriate to their identity. This is not a lot to ask. It is, after all, what everyone else expects.

That said, I was deeply uncomfortable with the naming and shaming that went on social media the other week, the calling out of certain people as transphobes. I cannot pass judgement on all of the people named as I don’t know them but there are three people named who I do know. I have spoken to them in the weeks since the controversy erupted.  In fact they all contacted me to check that I was OK. (I was).  I do not regard them as transphobic. I will continue to regard them as friends and I will continue to work with them. I will not be boycotting memes or shunning people. It is surely better to engage with people and talk to them rather than shout.  This is what I have done and  will continue to do.

And what about the wider sex blogging community? My personal experience is wholly positive. I first attended Eroticon as Eve in 2015 and the experience was emotionally overwhelming, not the acceptance (which I had expected) but the positivity, even love, towards me. And I continue to feel that love. In saying this I do not seek to deny the experience of others.  In the same way I have had no negative experiences on the fet scene but am well aware that transphobia, (and misogyny and homophobia) are issues there.

Transphobia has no place in the sex blogging community. It is the responsibility of all of us to make it a a safe space for all of us, regardless of how we identify. All the bars in Birmingham’s Gay Village display posters that say “No TERFS on Our Turf.” Let’s make that our motto too.

Many or most bloggers are members of sexual minorities or subcultures of various kinds, some are members of several. Trans people accept your kink, your queerness, your polyamory or whatever. Accept us in return. We are not strangers. We are family.

 

 

 

 

Delphine’s Schooldays – Chapter Three

The next instalment of my collaboration with Posy Churchgate.  The previous chapter is on Posy’s blog here 

St. Faith’s School  September 1952

I have never much liked the French. I have bitter memories of 1940 when their collapse left our country to fight on alone against Nazi Germany. I was a young House mistress at St. Faith’s in those days when we had to open our doors to evacuees from the East End of London and normal school was suspended.  A couple of years later we had to close altogether after the buildings and grounds were requisitioned by the War Office. We returned to reopen the school in 1946 and I wept when I saw the state the school had been left in. I am sure things would have been different had we had a reliable ally. Not that I was surprised. My late father was a career army officer and he had a similarly low opinion of our neighbours from across the Straits of Dover. They are flashy, arrogant and deeply contemptuous of the British, not showing a hint of gratitude that we have twice this century saved them from the German brutes.

The new girl in the Lower Sixth embodies all the things I despise. Delphine de Lotbiniere is the daughter of an aristocrat who I had the pleasure, if you can call it such, of meeting when he came to visit the school last spring. He was a man of undoubted style but rather condescending. Unfortunately the school is not thriving and the opportunity of some rather good publicity could not be missed.  So we now have his daughter in our care and she has not made a good start. She has a bad attitude and I intend to deal with this.

I had my first real encounter with her this afternoon. I teach games as I was quite a gifted sportswoman before the war. My favourite game is netball and under my regime at St.Faith’s we have the best school team in the county.  All girls have to play, even French ones.

The girls lined up silently in the cold school gymnasium. Each was dressed in a white Aertex shirt, a green pleated skirt, dreary grey socks and plimsolls. Prison uniform I thought to myself as I  walked up and down the line, saying nothing, feasting on their growing fear. I stopped in front of Lotbiniere and stood watching her intently for early a minute before saying

“We are playing netball this afternoon.”

“We don’t have this game in France” said Delphine with the kind of pout that makes me all the more determined to impose my will on a girl.

“I don’t suppose you do but we have it here and I am proud of the standard to which St. Faith’s girls play.  It is a most English game and the girls and young women of our great country play it with spirit and pluck.”

She looked blankly at me. Her English was still not that good.

I reached into the sack with the positional bibs and found a particularly grubby red one for Mademoiselle. I handed it to her.

“Put this on.”

Delphine pouted again and pulled the bib over her head with obvious distaste.

“GA. What is that Madame?”

“It means Goal Attack, your position on the court girl.”

“I don’t know” . She looked at me almost pleadingly.

“Just make sure you are trying Lotbiniere. I will be watching you closely.”

I called the other girls over to choose their bibs and I soon had two times lined up on the court, blue and red. I blew my whistle and the game started.

I was watching Lotbiniere closely,  how she wandered about the court lost, pout of position how she dropped the ball around the court lost, clearly not understanding the game. The second time she dropped a ball thrown to her by a team mate I blew the whistle and ordered the girls to line up.

“If there is one thing I cannot abide it is lack of effort. One of you has not been trying in this game.  Lotbiniere step forward.”

There was an anxious silence in the gym as the French girl came to me.

“What have you got to say for yourself?”

“But Madame I do not know this game in France we..”

“I don’t care. I expect you to learn. I expect effort. On the floor.”

She looked at me blankly.

“On the floor. Now!”

She complied. I noticed her eyes getting moist and this spurred me on.

“Twenty pressups. Now! Move!”

Her pressups were slow and awkward, she was clearly not used to doing them. After the tenth I paid my right foot on her back and pushed down to make them even harder. After the twentieth she collapsed panting on the floor.

“That is a very poor effort Lotbiniere.  You come here with your oh so French superiority and look at you. Remember that I am very inventive in my punishments and you will learn not to cross me. Norris, step forward!”

A freckled redhead stepped forward with a startled expression.

“Norris, I have had frequent occasion to punish you have I not?”

“Yes Miss”

“And you have learnt from those punishments have you not?”

“Yes Miss.”

“Then tell the Countess, or whoever she thinks she is, that it would be better for her to change her attitude.”

“Oh Bin, you really need to do what Miss Ransome says. She is very strict and I don’t want you to go through what I have had to.”

I smiled.

“OK girls. Back in your positions.”

I blew my whistle and the game restarted. Lotbiniere was making more effort, running more, even catching balls and shooting for goal. She has sporting talent, it is clear, but a  little beating and humiliation is clearly necessary to get her to use it.

Her first shot was a near miss. The second time, as she prepared to shoot, a defender pulled her ponytail. She dropped the ball and in a single movement, span round and slapped the girl across the face, before pushing her back until they were against the wall where Lotbiniere dug her nails into the other girl’s cheeks. The girl responded by pulling Lotbiere’s hair, some of which came off in her hands. I let them fight for a few moments,  before blowing the whistle and marching across. I slapped the other girl across the face.

“Go and get changed. You will report to my study at 9 o’clock sharp tomorrow morning.”

As she ran off in tears I ordered the remaining girls to line up. I took Lotbiniere by the ear, twisting the lobe in my fingers so that she grimaced with pain. I paraded her up ad down the line of frightened, intimidated girls. We stopped for a few seconds in front of Norris who was shaking like a jelly.

“The Countess is, it seems, slow to learn. But she will learn, even if her schooldays are interminable days of suffering and misery. Some of you know what this means and you may wish to tell your friend Bin, as you call her, when you are all back on the dorm. I am going to make an example of her and her sufferings will be very public. Pour encourager les autres as the French say.”

I flashed her a mocking smile. I was quite proud of myself for thinking up that one.

“Lotbinere. Climb the wall bars, and turn round with your hands on the top bar.”

As she did so I watched the other girls. all of whom knew what was coming next. Norris was clearly struggling to hold back the tears.

Lotbiniere turned round awkwardly and clung on to the bars, her feet struggling for purchase on a lower bar, her torso thrust out, her boobs wobbling beneath her top as she struggled to hold on.

I watched her for a long moment then ordered her

“Drop your feet. You are going to hang there until the end of the lesson. And maybe you will learn this time.”

I blew my whistle and the game continued. But it was now played in a subdued atmosphere with all the girls glancing  furtively across at the hanging, grimacing, crying Lotbinere.

After the game the girls filed out quietly back to the changing room. Lotbinere remained, hanging from the wall bars. Her arms were clearly hurting.

“Lotbiniere, you can come down now. Go and get changed. And I hope you have learnt your lesson.”

She flashed me a defiant look before running off to join the other girls in the changing room. The girl had spirit. There was no denying that. And that would make breaking her all the more satisfying.

(to be continued)

The next chapter will be posted on Posy Churchgate’s blog. I will link to it here when it is published.

This was also a post for Wicked Wednesday. Follow this link for more wickedness

 

 

SoSS April – The Lockdown Edition

April has been the month of lockdown. I have managed to do a lot of writing, and also a lot of reading. There can be no writing without reading and am sure that reading so many excellent posts has spurred my creativity. It appears that lockdown has spurred the creativity of many other bloggers too. In saying that I am very much aware that are many fine writers for whom lockdown has had the opposite effect. If you are one of them, know that I am thinking of you. We all have periods of block and I do not take my current creativity for granted. I see it as a gift, unsightly, maybe undeserved, but a gift.  And if you are experiencing block , or lack of inspiration, I want to share it with you. There has been a lot to like this month so please bear with me. This is a longer roundup than  normal.

There are plenty of female dominants on the kink scene and quite a few femsubs.  But I don’t come very often come across submissive women who submit to dominant women. And this is something that has fascinated me ever since the time when people watching at the BBB, as you do, I watched a young D/S couple, observed their dynamic, their intuitive understanding of each other. For the first time I realised that the submission of wmen to woman is a thing of beauty. This is why I am an avid reader of the blog of ML Slave Puppet. This post was not directly about being a femsub but a really useful review of LGBTQI literature and  how it helps self understanding.

Deviant Succubus is always worth reading. And I love this about how a pansexual woman doesn’t identify as LGBTQ. I could say more about labels and how they constrict as well as liberate but that is one for anther day after I have dome some more thinking on the subject.

This by a Mental Switch (a new name to me) was an interesting take on masturbating for the entertainment of a dominant.  This is a blog I will certainly be revisiting.

One meme I have yet to contribute to but really need to get around to is Lingerie for Everyone, all the more so as I have a collection of nice repro vintage lingerie, in the context of which I can thoroughly recommend What Katie Did. You even get a cup of tea and a biscuit when you visit the shop. I loved this from Violet Love although I found it painful to look at (not because of the pegged labia but because it reminded me of the many things that locked down Eve can’t enjoy).

Smutathon 2020 is provisionally scheduled for Scotland in September but, at the time of writing, there really is no way of knowing if it will be able to go ahead. The Smutathon regulars are getting together virtually to write for two hours on Wednesday evenings and this is helping a number of us to get our mojos back in these difficult times. It has certainly worked for Exhibit A who wrote this on the first Wednesday of the month.

Which leads me on to The Other Livvy who has been writing some interesting and thought provoking posts on how her sexual self has been affected by pregnancy, childbirth and motherhood. This for me is her best post yet on the subject.

And motherhood is a nice segue on to Francesca Demont , a new mother locked down in New York which, frankly, must be scary. But she is making the best of it as this post shows.

One of the big disappointments of March was not being able to meet up with Jayne Renault. As she says she has been quiet on the writing scene for a few months but thispost about writers’ block and self care, and just pampering and loving yourself, was incredibly rich. There is so  much here that I will need to read it again a couple of  times.

I could relate to these reflections on mental health and sleep and interiority by May More. I am actually sleeping much better during the lockdown but this may be because working from home enables me to keep hours that are more in synch with my internal  clock. But like May I have, and need, worlds of my own to escape to.

And staying with May, she wrote this fab story about the sexy challenges of having  your  partner working from home all day when normally they aren’t.

I will be discussing rope in a future post and have really enjoyed the wonderful artistic ties that some bloggers have managed to do on themselves, such as this harness by Molly.

What to do when you’rs tick at home on your own? Well you can follow the example of Pain as Pleasure and Dig for Victory.

Easter Sunday was an odd day wasn’t it? But some bloggers managed to keep a bit of the seasonal spirit. I rather liked Exposing 40’s Easter bunny.

This, by MxNillin was just well……..fucking hot!

And following on from a post by MxNillin I have to mention the issue that has been causing some friction within the sex blogging community. It was on Tuesday 14th April that I was made aware of a post from the 29th February and which had passed me by. This post by Inigo More has sparked a heated debate and a lot of acrimony. It has raised the issue of transphobia. I am going to link to two posts which give contrasting points of view.  Here is Kayla Lords    and here is an equally forthright piece from Melody Insights.  A number of people have messaged me privately to ask what I think and I have had a couple of lengthy conversations with people in which I have set out my perspective and explained why I think some people have reacted in the way they did. I will be blogging abut this but my mental health isn’t great at the moment and I want to wait until passions have cooled.

I was reminded by a tweet by a London based pro domme I chat to online about Club Pedestal which I went o a couple of years ago and quite enjoyed even if it is more of  a show off your shiny latex event than a proper lay event. So, with pedestals in mind, this post from Love is a Fetish kind of leapt off the screen at me.

ML Slave Puppet continues to write thought provoking things on kink. This, about shame and its dual aspect, shame at being kinky, and shame as a form pf play within kink, with the twist (which I hadn’t really thought about before) of arousal through humiliation play being itself a source of humiliation, is one of her best posts yet. If you are into BDSM, or just curious, this is a must read blog.

Sinful Sunday continues to be a source of sauciness (sorry) and a much needed morale boost. I enjoyed this by Exposing 40

Wicked Wednesday 412 was about Lockdown. Whilst there is no need to write to the theme (and my post that week didn’t), most bloggers did. I have chosen this post by Old Mike to feature in this roundup as it is by a sex worker client who writes about the awful predicament that sex workers currently find themselves in, To be clear, sex worker led groups, such as SWARM who are mentioned here, are organisations to help.  The self-appointed saviours, whose hearts bleed for “prostituted women” are doing nothing. Nada. Rien. Fuck all. Fuck them!

The final Sinful Sunday of April again had some interesting, well fun actually, images, such as this from Pain as Pleasure.

I have lined to a couple of rope posts earlier and have a blog post abut rope pending but I totally loved this from Sub Bee.

My collaboration with Posy Churchgate on the 1950s schooldays of Delphine continues. Here is Posy’s latest chapter which sets the bar high for my next chapter, which I will be posting next week.

This month’s petrolhead porn can only be Sir Stirling Moss who died on Easter Sunday. Here he is winning the 1958 Argentine Grand Prix. RIP Sir Stirling

And I will also be reading your blog posts, your smut and posting my roundup at the end of May. Until then stay safe. Above all, be kind to each other and treat each other with respect. 

If I Ordered You to Fuck Me

If I ordered you to fuck me

would you? Would your tongue be

as eager to my clit as to my boot?

Would the fingers of a freshly tawsed

hand  mine the pleasures of my cunt?

 

You say that to fuck is to top , that you can’t,

but know that I will be on top, riding you,

my nails spurs on your nipples,  my eyes

mapping the landscape of your flesh,

surveying all my future pleasures.

 

If I ordered you to fuck me

would you? Would you?

 

Every Cloud Has a Sexy Lining

I don’t know how many of you are familiar with cloud computing solutions? They are pretty new to me but my employer has decided we are going to go on onto the cloud as we work from home during lockdown. The advantage, they said, is that more than one person can work on a sheet at anyone time. And when we are all working from home during lockdown that is a big advantage. Particularly as we have the accounting year end  and are all under pressure.

I pour myself a mug of filter coffee and settle down to work on the new  company Balance Sheet. I see that my assistant Steph is already working on the sheet, Steph who I really got to know on the last office night out, her first since joining our company. I fancy her but pulled back from making a pass, even after the best part of two bottles of Chardonnay. My nerve failed me.

I type in the formula that pulled through the Property Plant and Equipment figure only to see it disappear. I click back into the cell that looks blank. Instead I see that Steph has typed in white on the white background.

“Feeling horny? Reply in cell AD347”

So I do.

“Horny as fuck.” I hesitate. Can I go further with a work colleague? I hover the cursor over the cell and add

“Hot for you. Cell AF988”

I click into the cell to watch her reply.

“I’ve got a shaved fanny. How about you? BD2367”

“A full hairy bush, Au naturel 🙂 AT765”

“Just how I like another girl’s’ cunt 🙂 FN69”

“Getting moist for you. Needs a tonguing. Soon. CA21564”

“What are you wearing? D2980”

“Pink knickers and a leather skirt. AA332”

“For WFH? CF453”

“For you. Z3217”

“Take them off. CA32178”

So I did, Well it was an old denim skirt actually but still….

“Done SE453”

“I am naked. I am so fucking wet. FA2178”

“How many fingers? EA3215”

“Four with room for more. You?” GB456″

“Same here. Got a wand? DE231”

“Got it right here. Masturbating to you right now. TR3216”

I sit back in my chair, holding Steph before me. I turn the wand up high and bring  myself quickly to the edge.

“Edging myself. Ready to come when you are. PF4327”

“Come baby come”

And I do, twice as I fantasise about what we will do when this bloody lockdown finishes. I know they say play away from work but Steph is fucking hot and now that I know she is into girls…well……. and I don’t even care that she has overtyped the formula  that pulls Property, Plant and Equipment through onto the draft Balance Sheet, and that I will be working this evening to put it right. Well work is just another chance to fantasise about Steph isn’t it?

I pull my skirt back up. I am still breathing heavily  as the orgasm pulses through me. I need a cigarette and am about to pop outside when my work phone buzzes. It is a text from Steph.

“Same time tomorrow? Btw Skype meeting with Dave at 2. Best not look too happy!”

A story for Masturbation Monday. For more solo fun (and not only) click the badge below.

 

Notes on Being a Slag

Debbie Archer was my first big crush. I was 11 and she was 14. I wasn’t her only admirer. There was something about her, poise. maturity, the impression (looking back nearly 50 years on) that when most of her contemporaries were still girls, she was well on the way to becoming a woman. And I didn’t just admire her from a distance. She played cello in the school orchestra and I played descant recorder which meant I sat directly behind her and we talked a lot, sometimes I got to sit next to her on the coach when we travelled to play concerts. I ran errands for her, passed on messages, was a sort of confidant. Even at the age of 11 I knew that she was using me but I didn’t care. Serving her was its own reward.

Then there were the boys in Debbie’s year. She used and manipulated them too.  Some of them didn’t like it. Debbie acquired a reputation. It was said, quietly at first, then louder and more openly, that she was a slag.  A section of the girls turned on her. It is said that  slut-shaming is a patriarchal device to control women. Yet women play their full part in policing and condemning other women. School was no different. Yet I remained loyal and took a fierce pride in my devotion to a girl who was despised by so many.

I think I last saw Debbie in 1974. I quickly forgot about her. As you get older memories come back for no apparent reason and it was a few months ago  that I took out my recorders for the first time in age and began to play them. And there she was before me, in her school blazer and green pleated skirt. And I began to reflect again on the ugliness of slut shaming.

I had actually been giving it a bit of thought. before then. After all as a woman who likes sex, and is always open to casual encounters, how could I not? I decided to claim the word slag as a badge of pride and had this tattoo done.

.

The tag is humorous and my lovely artist Kerry totally loved designing it and putting it on my skin bit it is also deadly serious.  I like sex, I like casual sex, I sleep around (if I get the chance lol) and I am proud to call myself a slag. And I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks. I don’t.

This tattoo is also about solidarity. Solidarity with women who are shamed and stigmatised, and worse, for liking sex, solidarity with women I have known. That includes you Debbie. When others turned on you I remained loyal.  This is for you.

A post for Wicked Wednesday. Follow this linkfor more wickedness