Catullus was a short man with a trimmed beard. I remembered Miss Graves telling us how all Romans were short. He barely noticed me when he came in. His toga fell to the floor and I saw, for the first time, an erect penis. Catullus was gagging for it. He grabbed Lesbia, forced her onto the couch and forced his way in. With four long brutal thrusts he was finished; as he withdrew I saw semen spill out onto the couch.

‘And you puella pulchra’ he said, taking my chin between the thumb and index finger of his right hand. ‘You want to understand my poetry? You want to understand how I love Lesbia and hate her for going with girls and taunting me? You’ve been with her. Now you get fucked by me, virgin!’

He threw me onto the couch, and climbed on top of me, forcing my legs apart. I felt my pulse race at the idea of losing my virginity to a man who was a real animal. I looked at his penis, big and hard and throbbing, the foreskin right back, the exposed tip an angry mauve. I thought of an acorn, an acorn sat on top of a massive oak that was going right inside me.

Catullus pushed a finger inside me.

‘You’re wet already, you loose bitch.’

‘I’m a whore ‘ I gasped, ‘call me a whore.’

‘You’re a lesbian whore, playing with my girlfriend. I hate you as much as I hate her.

He pushed his way inside me and I let out a squeal of pain. But the pain soon died away as he began to thrust. Long and hard. I hooked my legs over his shoulders as someone had told me girls do to get a really deep penetration.

Catullus moved in and out half a dozen times, each time harder than the last and the last with brutality as I came and the ceiling shattered into fragments and I lay in the sun, pressing my eyes shut and kaleidoscopes of colour danced before me.

He withdrew and, ignoring me, got up and went to write in a scroll.

Lesbia came over to me and began to kiss and stroke me. I began to cry.

‘It’s supposed to be beautiful the first time!’ I sobbed and buried my face in her lovely breasts.

‘But it was lovely. It’s nice when he’s angry and is rough with me. There’s no man in Verona who can fuck like Catullus. And I should know!’

She smiled and looked in the direction of her lover who pretended not to notice.

I dried my eyes and began to dress. After a while Catullus turned round and handed me a scroll.

‘Go now’ he said. ‘I need to make love to Lesbia again.’

The slave girl was called and she showed me out into the hot late afternoon of Verona. I walked out of the house and skipped down the street. I said to myself ‘I am a woman I am a woman.’

People looked at me in puzzlement again. Three patrician women stood on a corner chatting. I approached them. They had to share my joy.

‘Ego femina sum’ I said and then shouted ‘EGO FEMINA SUM!’ and ran off down the street ducking in and out of the hawkers. I made my way to the Forum and sat in the sun trying to capture in my memory the events of the last six hours that had changed me from an uncertain schoolgirl into a woman. I took out the parchment that Catullus had given me and began to read.

‘Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.
nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.’’ 

Then I fell asleep.

When I woke up it had gone dark. I switched on the angle poise lamp on my desk and looked at the clock. It was half past nine. I panicked and began to write my essay. My mind was no longer blank. I had a head brimming with ideas.

A week later Miss Graves handed back the marked homework. My exercise book she kept back. At the end of the lesson she said

‘Catherine, could I have a word please?’

I approached uncertainly. Miss Graves smiled and handed me the book.

‘That was a brilliant essay. I’ve given it A++. It’s quite astonishing for a girl of your age to show such a mature understanding of the erotic tensions at the heart of Catullus’ poetry, almost as if you’d had a personal encounter with him. I know it’s none of my business but I’d love to know how you gained that understanding.’

‘I’d love to tell you Miss’ I answered ‘but you’d never believe me.’



Translation of the poem (Carmine 85 by Gaius Valerius Catullus c84BC – c54BC

‘I love and I hate. Why do I do this you perhaps ask.

I don’t know but I  feel it and am tormented.’


Translation by Eve Ray 2012

Odi Et Amo – Part One

After tea I sat at my desk and gloomily contemplated my Latin homework, an essay on the love poems of Catullus. Catullus from Verona, who wrote love poems to a girl called Lesbia and also to an unnamed man. He was bisexual, as we all knew even though we imagined Miss Graves our Latin Mistress would never use such a word. I sat with a blank page in front of me. I wrote the date in the margin wrote the title and underlined it and sat and waited. No inspiration came. Then I opened my book of Catullus’ verse and began to read again. And the words carried me off to ancient Verona.

The streets were narrow, it was noisy and dusty and the stench was dreadful. I must have looked a bit odd in my pleated skirt , blazer and straw boater. They say some men fantasise about schoolgirls in uniform but I can’t see it. At sixteen I just felt sexless in my uniform. And people going by in  togas were indeed staring at me.

I stopped someone.

‘Ubi est domus Catulli?’ I asked nervously hardly daring to hope that the man would understand.

He replied quickly and pointed. I carried on and came to a large villa with a wooden door on which I knocked. A beautiful young woman opened, beckoned me inside.

‘Ego Lesbia sum’ she said.

‘Catherine’ I said taking off my boater and looking around. Lesbia helped me off with my blazer showed me into a room off the courtyard where she invited me to recline on a couch. A slave girl came to wash my feet.

‘I’ve come to see Catullus. I need help with his poems.’

Lesbia smiled and said

‘He’ll be back in a couple of hours. Let’s have a glass of wine and talk. I think you’re very attractive.’

She called the slave girl who poured a thick sweet wine into bronze goblets. Lesbia motioned to me to recline on a couch and came over to join me.

‘You don’t need words to understand us’ she said ‘appreciate his poems. Just relax and enjoy me,  and then you can enjoy him. Perhaps he’ll write you a poem.’’

She slipped off her gown and stood before me naked, freshly bathed, freshly perfumed. She came to lie beside me unbuttoned my blouse and unhooked my bra. I felt a bit embarrassed as she began to kiss my breasts, suck the nipples which soon got hard. I was sixteen and a virgin and was suddenly in a strange and wonderful place. I desired this woman and when she slipped down the pleated skirt, nuzzled her face in my now luxuriant bush I did not resist. She took my finger and guiding my hand began to introduce me to the delights of my body.

‘This is your clit. This is the heaven you carry with you. You play with it, massage it gently as I work with my tongue lower down and quench my thirst on your juices.’

She licked and worked her tongue around my sex I played with my clit and could feel myself getting wet.

‘I love you Lesbia, I love you, I love you’  I shouted as I came and Lesbia grabbed my head roughly and forced me down over her pussy. She opened her legs, arched her back and I moved down to explore the beauty of a woman for the first time.

Her juices were sour to the taste at first but soon turned sweet as I got used to the rough stubble of her shaven pussy and to the juices that kept coming, like a well of desire that could never be exhausted. As I licked and worked my tongue up and down she began to moan and placed a finger inside her. She played with herself slowly at first but then faster, faster as she exhorted me to move in step with her with my tongue.

She came and pulled me onto her and we kissed. Even at sixteen I knew what to do and pushed my tongue in deep felt it intertwine wit hers, kept pushing, pushing, even as she gasped for air.

She pushed me away took a deep breath and said.

‘Now we’ve both come let’ just lie and feel each other, skin against skin. The love of woman and woman is the most beautiful thing there is.’

‘And Catullus?’ I asked.

‘Romans have no hang ups. Everyone I now is openly bisexual. He has men I have women and the most beautiful sex is with women.’

We reached for our goblets and drank.

‘You have tasted a woman. Catullus will teach you more than poetry when he comes but believe me you will never again be able to live without a woman.’

She climbed on top of me and began to kiss me slowly and deeply.  And I suddenly remembered what Miss Graves had said.

‘Girls, great literature is sensual, it is erotic, it will grip you and never let go. It will change your life.’

I felt myself go limp with submission as Lesbia began again to adore my breasts. I felt her soft fragrant skin against my clit, felt the juices of desire well up again. Miss Graves was surely right.


Eve on Christmas Eve

December 24th is traditionally the feat of Adam and Eve the original humans who were chased from the Garden of Eden after Eve ate the forbidden fruit and became aware of her body. It was at Christmas that Jesus Christ was born, the fruit of the womb of Mary. Christ came as the second Adam to save the world and he did so through the agency of Mary the second Eve. It sounds a lovely story and has a satisfying thread to it. For women there is a problem with it.

The problem is that it is Eve who gets the blame. It is the weakness and perfidy of a woman that cause the Fall and while it is through a woman that redemption came, there is a catch. She renounced her sexuality according to the Church’s official teaching and remained a virgin.

The message is clear: sexuality is a bad thing and women’s sexuality is a very bad thing indeed. This ancient theological narrative has been used to justify misogyny of the worst kind and until very recent times. The Magdalene laundries in Ireland, for example, didn’t finally close until 1996. Girls who asserted their sexuality and their right to sexual enjoyment were punished with a lifetime of forced labour.  In Britain, young women could once be sectioned for ‘promiscuity’.

This is not meant to be a rant. It is instead a celebration of the joy of being a woman. Christmas is about presents and in our vaginas, vulvas, and clits women have a most precious gift. Freud wrote about our penis envy. Presumably he didn’t know that the clit has twice as many nerve endings as the tip of the penis. It’s also the only organ in the human body that has no function other than to give us pleasure. And only girls have them 🙂 Simply the fanny is the most beautiful, wondrous thing on God’s earth, beautiful to behold, to touch, to smell, to lick, and to penetrate. Sorry Freud, you got it wrong. It is men who envy women and no accident that the so-called  “female circumcision” inflicted on thousands of unfortunate women in some parts of the world is basically the mutilation of the clit?

Girls don’t need gifts at Christmas as they were born with the most precious gift of all. And as gifts are made for sharing, share yours with your loved one tomorrow.  :

From an Eve to the Eve. I love you because you didn’t cause us to leave the Garden of Eden, despite what the Bible says. You took Paradise on Earth with you, carried between your legs.

A Soup for Christmas (and Other Occasions)

Food too is a temptation and good food a sensual delight that goes hand in hand with the pleasures of the flesh. Try this soup as a starter before the turkey.



Two carrots peeled and finely chopped

One leek finely chopped

400g chestnuts (preferably the ones you get vacuum packed) finely chopped

Icing sugar (sprinkling)

50 g butter

150 ml white wine

500 ml beef stock (or vegetable if you need to)

250ml single cream

One grated nutmeg

One teaspoon  cinnamon

Salt and pepper to taste


Melt the butter in a pan and add the chestnuts. Sprinkle with the icing sugar and cook until glazed.

Add the carrots and leek and fry until soft.

Add the nutmeg and cinnamon and pur in the wine.

Bring to the boil and add the stock.

Add the cream and simmer on a low heat for 20 minutes or until everything is nicely soft.

Blend in a liquidiser and serve immediately.

And as they say in the South Tyrol

Guten Appetit/Buon Appetito!!

For more culinary treats click on the link below.

Food Matters

The Joy of Chastity

Enforced sexual abstinence as a tool of control has a long history. Religious orders control their members and school them in obedience by enforcing control over their bodies. As a teenager I was deeply confused and once longed to be a nun.  Chastity and the life of an institution seemed a refuge from my sexuality. I still find the idea of being a nun deeply exciting. I became a catholic at the age of 17 and subjected myself regularly to the humiliating ordeal of the confessional. I did seemingly endless penance for having impure thoughts, for masturbating, for falling in love with the Head Girl. I repressed my sexuality in prayer, in devotional reading. I have not fully turned my back on religion. Catholicism is  a beautiful religion and receiving the Eucharist (Catholics believe that the wafer after consecration by the priest IS the Body and Blood of Christ) I still find a deeply erotic experience. And there is the problem. The more you deny your sexuality the more the power of the sexual impulse makes itself felt.

It is not only religion that imposes chastity. In many countries prisoners are denied sexual self-expression, even forced to sleep with their hands outside the blankets so that  guards can check they are not pleasuring themselves.

Enforced chastity has two main purposes. It is a method of self-denial in pursuit of a higher, spiritual goal. It is also a tool of humiliation reinforcing the institution’s control over the body that is represented by incarceration. What these have in common is chastity as a feature of life in a monosexual and usually closed institution. This is a difference from the chastity imposed by a Mistress on a sub. It is however a means of extending her control outside the session into the sub’s daily life. This kind of enforced chastity combines the two elements. It is a means of humiliating and emasculating the sub but through that a means by which he is freed to show his Mistress greater devotion. For many submissives this self abandonment, this laying down of the burdens of ego has an almost religious dimension. Their Mistress is in their heads, she is the super-ego that polices their thoughts and actions. Obedience is its own reward.

This is a paradox. It is through discipline and obedience that the sub becomes free, through denying his or her sexuality that he or she finds its richest expression.

It was through the rigours of Catholicism that I came to understand the role of sex in my life and it was through sex that I understood I cannot live without my faith. I cannot follow the teachings on morality any more they make no sense but the element of eroticism  the physicality, I still need and always will. This is the paradox at the heart of my being. I would have it no other way.

The Bonds of Submission



When I returned home from the funeral I sat and wept.  Just a month earlier I had knelt before Mistress Helga and worshipped. She was already gaunt and barely had the strength to wield the whip. Her cancer had returned and she knew her time was short. I had been to see her the day before she died, had held her hand, kissed it tenderly as I knelt at the bedside. I said quietly,

‘I worship and adore you Mistress.’

‘You need further discipline but that must wait for the next life’ .

She smiled weakly and squeezed my hand.

I left hurriedly fighting back the tears.

Then I heard the news I had been dreading.

Mistress Helga went out in style, a pagan funeral and woodland burial. Her coffin was shiny black and she was dressed for burial in leather with her favourite whip.  She was made up and her finger- and toenails were painted jet black by another devoted slave. We queued up to prostrate ourselves before the coffin and say our last humble farewells.

Mistress had given me a pair of her boots as a parting gift. I took them out of the cupboard, wiped them with a cloth to remove the specks of dust.  I had too a pair of her panties in blood red silk, unwashed since she had worn them. I undressed and rubbed them round my face before putting them on and feeling the soft silk against my clit.

I placed the boots in the middle of the floor and left the room. I knocked, walked in head bowed and curtseyed to the boots. I knelt and approached on my knees feeling the hard wood of the parquet floor dig in. This pain was my gift to her who could no longer inflict pain on me.

I began to kiss the boots, to lick the soles, taking the heels in my mouth, imaging sucking and enormous cock, imagining myself as the whore Mistress said I should be. I writhed on the floor and began to play with myself using the left hand as I held the boot in the right, sucking the heel, then licking my way up the shaft wetting the boots just as I was becoming wet. I pressed the stilettos heels into my breast until the pain was too much. I was now highly aroused, playing with myself more and more vigorously as I arched my back and parted my legs as if to be fucked by the spirit of Mistress Helga.

After I came I lay on the sofa and slept. I dreamt of my late Mistress, dreamt of the occasion when I  confessed to  picking up a stranger and being fucked in the lift of a car park, how she ordered me never to come without permission and how she took the cat and flayed me till I begged for mercy before…………………

I woke up in the small hours but didn’t really want to. The boots were on the floor, I still had the red panties on, they were soaking wet and my animal smells were mixed with hers for ever. As I sat up I felt a burning sensation and winced. In the mirror I saw the angry red lines on my bottom. I had been given a flogging. I was in agony. I saw too that the word SLUT had been written in lipstick across my forehead.

I knew I had to visit the wood. In her boots and panties the only things I had on underneath a grey trench coat I sat and talked to her, making my confession. It rained, the wind howled and branches cracked and fell from the trees. I stayed on through the storm. I had to. Her soul was inside me, I would always be hers. The bonds of submission were too strong to be broken, even  by death.

Sex Work is ……………..Work

For my first post I’m not going to repeat a spot of by now familiar arguments, just say that  I hope that most of you reading this have replied to the consultation on Scotland’s proposed criminalisation of the purchase of sex. This is a bad law, framed by people who have a narrow understanding of the sex industry and probably think it should only be done in the dark and with your pyjamas on. Everyone knows what’s good for sex workers even without asking them. There are battles still to be fought. Let’s prepare for them. Remember this is not just about so-called ‘prostitutes’ All loosely framed laws are subject to function creep and a whole lot of other consensual sexual activity will be caught in the net. The police were kicked out of our bedrooms a few decades ago. Let’s keep them out.