Daniel My Sister


The story below is included as part of an LGBT blog hop organised by Scorching Book Reviews. Hope you enjoy it as well as the other posts. Click here to find them. There’s a prize draw as well – just click the link at the bottom of the page.

I have been dabbling in erotica for a while but only succeeded in getting something published last year, a story in the Xcite Books gay anthology Boys in Bed. I would describe myself as a bi-curious heterosexual  but write about all kinds of sex. In fact a significant proportion of the stories I am working on involve either lesbian or D/S relationships. I just find the idea of women making love to women incredibly beautiful. And the thought of a woman submitting to another woman I find unbelievably erotic. This is why I write about sex, it is a way of exploring things I might never get to do myself, a way too of understanding myself and my sexuality. If anything I write helps even one reader to have a better understanding of his or hers then it’s been worthwhile. Even better if it makes you reach for your clit or your cock……:-)


Agata gasped as Daniel took off his shirt and she was that he had proper breasts, female breasts, just like hers but bound with tape and flattened. Then he slid off his trousers and boxers and she saw a cunt, just like hers only shaven and with a stud in the clit. She struggled to get out her words,

‘But you’re not a man!’

‘I’m all man’ said Daniel ‘and all woman too, at least for the time being. Forget about what you were told in Poland and forget about all the nonsense your priests drummed into you. If you want to be a whore you’ve got a lot to learn and I’m going to teach you. I’m going to fuck you as a man and then I’m going to have you as a girl.

Agata froze, then, remembering that she was being paid for this, she removed her panties and lay on the bed, thinking that she had got rather more than she had bargained for.

Agata had been in England just two months after leaving her village in Poland to come to England in search of work. She had moved in with her best friend Justyna and found a job packing airline meals, nothing exciting and the money was never enough. It was Justyna who had suggested they sell sex and so they placed an advertisement in the local newspaper

‘Gorgeous Polish girls your dream come true.’

They quickly had custom and the hostility of established girls in the area as they undercut the local rated, £50 for half an hour £80 for an hour although most punters wanted to be in  and out of the shabby flat quickly. Agata was a pretty girl, she had lovely breasts that just asked to be caressed and kissed and sucked and she, known as Jasmine, attracted most of the business.

And now, in her second week as a sex worker she was confronted with Dan. Dan was right, she was naive. In the village in Eastern Poland there were no gays, no cross dressers, no ambiguity and no-one enjoying sex, no-one who had thought about it the way Dan had. Her initial response was to feel repelled but now, she was fascinated. She remembered the priest at home warning her about the moral danger but now she didn’t care. There was a sexual world to explore and she wanted to explore it.

‘Half an hour that’s fifty pounds isn’t it?’ asked Dan.

Agata, thinking quickly said ‘more for special requests, it’s like doing it with a couple after all.’

‘Let’s say sixty then.’

Agata was feeling distinctly uneasy and conceded the point. He counted out the notes and handed them to her.

Dan lay on the bed beside her. He came over took her in his arms and began to rub his body against hers. If he looked and dressed as a man he had the smooth and lissom body of a woman and when he reached for her cunt with his fingers she resisted the temptation to shout out ‘No that’s not allowed.’ Because she wanted to know, she had to know what it was like to be touched by someone as intimate as she was herself with female genitalia. Dan placed his finger very gently on her clit and began to massage it with finesse and delicacy. Agata felt herself becoming hard and Dan began to rub more vigorously. As Agata grew wetter, Dan took the fingers of his left hand and pushed four of them into her rapidly dilating and, by now, very wet vagina. He began to move in and out, slowly at first then picking up speed, did it more and mote vigorously.

He took his finger off her clit and said,

‘Go on you do it yourself’ and Agata massaged her clit vigorously as Dan put a further finger inside and they both picked up the pace until he finished her off and she came with a scream.

‘See how nice it is?’

Dan smiled and kissed her gently on the top of the head.

‘And now I want you to fuck me but not with your fingers.’

He stood up and made his way across the room and took a dildo out of his bag.   Agata gasped.

‘Don’t worry’ said Dan, ‘This is my prick well one of several actually I keep in a draw. It won’t hurt believe me.’

He strapped it on, rolled a condom onto the end and applied a little lubricant. He dropped onto the mattress and began to finger Agata again. She found this very pleasant. No one had ever touched her like that before. It seemed instinctive on Dan’s part.

‘I fuck you as a man but I touch you as a woman.’

Dan continued to massage Agata’s clit with an expertise she was unused to and suddenly she felt her juices rising. Dan stuck a finger inside her, then another, then another,

‘Three fingers’ he said. ‘You’re soaking wet. And ripe for a good fucking.’

‘Bend over the chair.’

Agata did as she was told. She was a little disconcerted by this, it was different from anything she had experienced before. She sensed Dan coming up behind her, let out an involuntary gasp as the felt the cold dildo touch her. Dan felt for the pening and slid in.

‘I’m all in’ he announced. ‘Is it nice?’

‘Yes’ she said struggling for words.

Dan began to move in and out, slowly and deliberately at first then, gradually picking up the pace. Soon he was working away quickly and thighs were slapping against her bottom as he moved in. Agata shut her eyes. She thought of home, the time she lost her virginity, the ordeal in the confessional the following week. She thought about the men who came to her for a cheap fuck, a massage, covered oral that she was still learning to do, realising that she had never really experienced sex like this before. She used to joke about transsexuals but now she was giving herself to a beautiful man who was still a woman. Dan knew what he wanted, he was skilled and experienced, he was……..

He let the pace slacken.

‘Keep going’ she said and Dan grabbed her roughly and pushed in hard and deep. Soon he was thumping away harder than ever. Agata began to play with her clit.

‘Harder harder I want to come!’

He came in again two mote thumps and she came.

Dan withdrew. She turned round, looked at him, looked at the big strap-on, looked at the smile on his face.

‘I’ve never paid for it before’ he said. ‘I just had to try.’

He took a step towards her, pulled her head towards him to kiss her. She resisted.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t do kissing.’

‘You’ll kiss me though, feel me, feel my soft skin, I will kiss you like you’ve never been kissed before.’

He grabbed her head pulled her towards him. Agata closed her eyes and opened her mouth. His tongue slid into her mouth just as smoothly as the dildo had entered her cunt. She let herself go limp. He put a finger inside her, wet it with her juices, and put it in her mouth.

‘That’s the taste of you.’

There was a knock on the door. Justyna called

‘Time’s up.’

‘Still busy’ called Agata. She did not want this to end.

Dan pulled away, took off the strap-on and said to Agata

‘Kneel before me and lick my cunt. I want to feel your tongue on my clit.’

She knelt before him, felt the hard cold floor digging into her knees. She looked at Dan’s shaven pussy. She had never been this close to someone else’s cunt before. Dan held the labia apart with his fingers and she began to lick at the opening, felt the sour juices……..she was confused, giving cunnilingus to the man who had just given her the best fucking of her life.

She took hold of Dan’s buttocks, pulled him a little closer towards her and worked his cunt with her tongue, worked her way to his clit, worked it until she heard him come.

‘Thank you’ he said almost matter of factly.

He pulled his trousers back on, took a twenty pound note out of the pocket and handed it to Agata..

‘It’s not so much.’ she protested.

‘But I’ve gone over time and you have been so good.’ He smiled and put on his shirt and jacket. After he had put his shoes on he gave her a peck on the cheek and made for the door.

‘I’ll show you out,’ said Agata almost as an afterthought.

When she returned to the room thoughts were racing through her head. Nothing seemed real any more, she was almost floating in an alternative reality where nothing was quite what it seemed. Then she noticed that Dan had left his strap-on.

Justyna came in.

‘That was a long time nearly an hour I hope you took extra money from him.’

‘I did’ replied Agata ‘but I didn’t want to,’

She smiled.

‘I’ve learned so much. Let me tell you what I have learned.’

She walked across to Justyna and gently pulled down her skirt. Her friend was ready for work, had no underwear and she knelt before her and began to worship her friend’s cunt. She would be good at this she knew. She enjoyed the stubble rubbing against her face, she loved the smell, She could feel Justyna becoming aroused. She stood up, with Justyna’s juices on her tongue and slid it into her friend’s mouth.

‘I’ve learned that nothing is as beautiful as a woman’s body, that nothing is as lovely as a cunt.  I’ll sleep with men for money, but for me I have to sleep with girls.’

‘Lean over the chair and I’ll take you.’

Justyna made as if to protest.

‘He left this. I don’t think it was an accident. We have to try this.’

Agata had little idea of how to use the strap-on but she was determined to try. She put it on, walked up to Justyna, slapped her bottom before feeling for her rapidly dampening cunt.

‘I’ve never fucked a girl before.’

And they both laughed.


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The Reality of Struggle

The idea for this post came, not for the first time, from a conversation on Twitter. I want to develop what I said then. The question was asked .’what if giving women the vote, allowing them to study at university, allowing them access to the professions etc is simply a tool of the patriarchy, effectively making affordable concessions to bind women deeper into their oppression?’ This was not a rhetorical question. The poster was genuinely anguished by the thought.

To begin my answer I am going to go back thirty years to student days when I discovered the work of the late Edward (E.P) Thompson. Thompson was a historian and books like the Making of the English Working Class have become classics. In his book The Poverty of Theory he took issue with the structuralist reading of Marxism of Louis Althusser who was hugely influential in left wing academic circles back in the 1970s. Althusser’s vision of society was that of a closed system in which changes in one part would generate a change somewhere else to maintain the stability of the system. There was no way out and no way to envisage anything different unless  of course, you were a Marxist theoretician at the Ecole Normale Superieure in which case you had access to knowledge denied to mere mortals trapped in false consciousness. Any gains made by working people were simply a way of making the system more stable and, therefore, of locking people more tightly into their oppression. The parallels with some types of feminist analysis should now be clear.

Thompson was much decried for his attack on the guru, usually in the pages of New Left Review, probably because he didn’t establish his intellectual credentials  by using enough meaningless buzz words but the point he made is this: functionalist Marxism denies the reality of struggle. denies the experiences of working people. It also relies on a view of society that is too neat, has no jagged edges. The system we have may be capitalist but there are bits and pieces of feudalism floating around, there are also established practices that would fit into a socialist society of the future. The Althusserians always had a problem with England, a country that seemed to move from feudalism to capitalism without the basic courtesy of having a bourgeois revolution..

How does this relate to feminism? What the functionalists say could be siad about any radical change, any revolution  Plus ca change plus ‘est la meme chose so to speak. I want to follow Thompson by suggesting that women’s struggle is real. The vote was not just given to us. It was won by brave women. Holloway Prison a hundred years ago was not a nice place. Force feeding was a horror that I don’t like to think about. Emily Davison laid down her life so that woman might have the vote. In this centenary year of her death all woman, indeed all who hope for a more just society should honour her memory.

The Suffragettes are sometimes decried these days as upper middle class ladies of leisure and snobs. This is unfair  They were products of their times, just as we are.  It is, of course, not only women from the middle classes who fought. Remember, too, the women of Dagenham, commemorated in film, or the  women at Grunwick.

Women have come a long way in 100 years in having the vote, access to higher education, reproductive rights, the right not be raped by our husbands, equal pay, equal rights at work and so on. None of these things were conceded by the ruling class, or the patriarchy as gifts to keep us quiet and keep us in subjection. . They were won through struggle. The struggle has been real. It has been painful. We have a duty to carry it on.

Faith in our Bodies

I will begin with an anecdote. A male friend of mine once visited a massage parlour. During the post-coital chat the girl told him about her strict Catholic upbringing. One day her devout aunt in County Clare found out what she did for a living and, to her niece’s astonishment, took it in her stride.

“You’ll go straight to Heaven” she said. “It’s a lovely thing to do. When I think of all the poor lonely men you provide a little comfort to, I know the Lord will surely reward you,”

I mention this little episode as it shows that not all those of deep religious faith are posturing moralisers and not all hostile to sex workers. It also shows the gap, frequently a chasm, between the official teaching of the Catholic Church and the practical common sense of ordinary believers.

Officially sex is only licit if it is between couples with a canonically valid marriage and then only if the act is open to the transmission of life. The list of prohibitions resulting from this view is very long and includes

Oral sex

Anal sex

Masturbation – male definitely (it spills seed) and probably female although I can find no definitive pronouncement on this.


Extra- or pre- marital sex

Sexual acts between people of the same gender

BDSM is a grey area on which moral theologians express divergent views but a majority reject it.

It’s probably not much of an exaggeration to say that it’s OK in your pyjamas and with the lights out but otherwise it’s probably a mortal sin.  There is no sense of sex as an expression of love for your partner, sex as enjoyment, sex as an act of self-expression. Ideally there would be no sex. I once heard a priest talk approvingly of a married couple who had decided to live together as brother and sister with separate bedrooms and, of course, no sex. This does not sit well with any theology of marriage known to me but shows how the fear of sex can tip over into doctrinal unorthodoxy.

In practice most Catholics ignore the teachings. I have no idea how many of the diminishing numbers of those who go to confession at all ever confess to taking the pill or using condoms but I suspect not many. If, then, the official teachings are ignored why worry about them?  The reason is, in my view, that the fear of sex is at the root of misogyny within the Church.  I have discussed Eve in a previous post so will say nothing further here except to point out the contrast between Eve, who had sex, and lost humanity its place in the garden of Eden and Mary, the new Eve, who was a Virgin.  A woman playing a key role in salvation history must necessarily be a sexless one.

For nearly a thousand years the priesthood has been celibate. Compulsory celibacy has proved either unworkable in practice (in many parts of Europe it was entirely normal until recent times for the village priest to have a concubine) or harmful as priests were forced to live out a celibacy that were not called to with consequences such as rape, sexual assault, gay mafias in seminaries and so on. It also contributed to the priesthood becoming a caste, men apart who protected their own interests at the expense of the ordinary faithful. The consequences of this have become all too clear in recent years.

Women found themselves, still find themselves, shut out, second class believers. Only men can be priests. I once heard a Bishop say that priests enjoyed the ‘special friendship’ of Christ. This is a theologically dubious proposition and dismissive of both lay men and women. It is however particularly dismissive of women. None of us, it seems, can be a ‘special friend’ of Christ. Another dangerous proposition is the one that priests on ordination are somehow ‘configured to Christ’ as if all believers are not called to be configured to Christ or as if Christ’s defining characteristic was his genitalia.

A look at scripture gives a different view. We can read how Christ’s most intimate circle included several women, read St. Paul’s letters to the Corinthians, the Christian community at Corinth whose leader was Chloe, a woman.  Today it is women who make up the bulk of Catholic congregations, it is women who remain faithful to Christ as men fall away or betray their vocations.

What of women religious? I know a number of nuns who live celibate lives to which they are called and they are an inspiration. A number of them are feminists. Sadly even women who don’t have sex cannot be trusted and under both Benedict and John Paul II there were Inquisition style investigations into female religious orders. The message is clear. Women who think for themselves are not welcome here.

Yet women have so much to contribute to making the Church a better place. Yes, we need women priests, but that is not the answer in itself. The role of lay people must be transformed, lay women and also lay men. Most of all, the Church needs a healthy attitude to sex. It needs to teach that sex is good, a gift from God and part of His plan. The only bad sex is that based on coercion or deceit.

What are the doctrinal implications? If we are to have a Church that welcomes women, celebrates sex, do we need to believe in the perpetual virginity of Mary? Where does the doctrine of original sin fit? Original sin is, in effect, transmitted by the sexual act. Some theologians have already begun to question the basis for this doctrine. A fresh understanding of sin and sinfulness is long overdue.

Women’s bodies are the work of God. When we make love we are not temptresses luring men to perdition but beautiful human beings doing the work of the Lord. And when we go to Heaven, let’s look out for a sex worker from Birmingham leading the way.



International Women’s Day

I will be writing a longer post about how women’s fight for equality intersects with other social struggles and my thoughts on the concept of patriarchy but on International Women’s Day I want simply to remember the woman whose idea it was, the German Communist Clara Zetkin (1857-1933).

Here she is on an East German postage stamp and also with her comrade Rosa Luxemburg.

220px-Zetkin_luxemburg1910 Zetkin


These clever, brave and inspirational women believed firmly that the struggle for women’s rights could not be separated from the wider struggle of the working class, the fight, in other words, for socialism. I will look at this in my post but that’s for another day. We can have arguments, we can disagree about how we fight for our rights but today should be a day of sisterhood, of unity: a day when we say loud and clear that we are proud to be women, a day when we honour the memory of those who went before us in the struggle. .

The Well of Loneliness

Before you read this post have a look at this which I found powerful and moving.


It is not my intention to discuss the post here but use it as a starting point for some reflections on loneliness. It was loneliness that led the author into the abusive relationship she describes and loneliness that led her to stay in it. This sparked a discussion on Twitter of the nature of loneliness and I want to share my story.  .

First of all loneliness is not the same thing as being alone. Being able to spend time alone is necessary for mental well being and essential for creativity. I enjoy my own company but do so knowing that I have a loving partner and a circle of friends and that when I am alone it is through choice. Loneliness is not having the choice. Loneliness can strike anyone. You can be clever, attractive  witty, whatever, it makes no difference. It happened to Cat. It happened to me.

After university most of my friends moved to London. I started work in a small town in the Midlands. For a few months weekends involved either having university friends to stay or going to visit them. I hardly noticed how they were building new lives, lives that did not include me. In the Midlands I had little opportunity to make new friends and after a year or so as university friendships that I had thought were for life began to wither, I found myself on my own.  . .

It is a horrible thing when you dread Fridays and look forward to Mondays simply because you will have someone to talk to. I began to think I was strange. I felt unclean and took to washing obsessively. Then I met Jill. Jill too was new in town, and without friends. It seemed natural that we should get together. For the first time in ages I went out on a Friday evening. We went to the pub, drank. smoked. laughed and afterwards got a take away curry and took it back to my flat. I found her funny and sharp as a tack. Our Friday girls night out became a regular thing. Then things changed and I saw a darker side to Jill. She insisted on meeting up more often, phoned me nearly every day for long chats that swallowed up my evenings, on occasion turned up announced at my flat. I found this emotionally draining, as if she was colonising my life. So I told her gently, I thought, that I needed a break from her. She stormed out of my flat in tears and as it turned out, I never saw her again. I felt relief. I had by now met a man. My new boyfriend had a wide circle of friends we socialised with and I was lifted out of my personal well of loneliness. Jill evidently was plunged deeper into hers.

The next thing I heard of her was six months later in the newspapers. She had apparently developed an obsession with police women and taken to following them around on the beat. She had been arrested a couple of times and warned but eventually came before the court again and was sent to prison. This is a shocking example of the harshness with which society treats those who struggle to cope. Jill had mental health issues. She needed help. What she got was a prison cell.

I still wonder what I could have done. Giving her the constant reassurance she craved was, though, a burden I was simply unable to bear. I needed space, time away from her. I sometimes think that I could have ended up like her had I not been given a way our of my loneliness. I too could have devreloped a deep seated sense of worthlessness and ended up clinging to people and driving them away.

Society is still uncomfortable with people who are on their own and this must reinforce their lack of self worth. These days I often work away from home and three or four times a week eat in restaurants on my own. It is not unusual to be seated in an obscure  corner or even offered a table in the back room as if I had a disease. A middle aged woman out on her own? Clearly a social misfit or maybe worse, a raddled and desperate call girl in search of business. That seems to be the thought.

If you are reading this and are lonely please remember that many others were once in your position and whilst I have no magic remedy please believe me when I say that it will end. There is someone out there who will love you and cherish you. For now you can start by loving yourself. Eat well, dress well, go to the gym. Treat yourself regularly. Start on Friday evening. Another night in on your own? Look forward to it, cook yourself a favourite dish, buy a bottle of wine (drink the rest on Saturday if you don’t want to get trashed!) dress up, light a candle. You are worth it. You are lovely. Love yourself and sooner rather than later you will meet someone to join you in that love.

A Tale of John and Linda

A lot has been written about transsexuals and whether they are welcome in feminist circles, whether they are ‘proper’ women and so on. I don’t know any stats but have a probably superficial impression that  that most transgender people are biological males wanting to live as women. We seem to hear little about biological women who identify as male.

I met Linda some years ago through a shared interest in poetry and we became friends. We lost touch for a few years before re-establishing contact via social media. Linda is no longer Linda. Linda is now John. John is a stylish man in his early thirties, still at the start of the long and difficult process  that will end in gender reassignment surgery. He jokes that he already has a prick, several in fact and keeps them in a draw.  He is now, just as he was years ago, sensitive and intelligent with a love for poetry. We have the same things in common as we did when we first became friends. That a girl friend has become a platonic male friend has really changed nothing in our friendship. And I will support John in his journey. The essential worth of a human being is surely something that transcends gender

Hello Dolly or Life on Mars?

Someone suggested to me recently that people who blog and tweet ion sex related matters have one track minds. Not so, I retorted, you’ll find that they are rounded people with a range of interests. As if to prove my point I had a conversation on Twitter last weekend with Heather of the London Fetish Fair (@heatherydoune if you want to follow her,) about our mutual passion for classic cars. This inspired me to write a short reflection about 1973.

You may remember the BBC’s time travelling police drama Life on Mars in which a detective in early 21st Century Manchester is hit by a speeding car and wakes up in 1973, Life on Mars playing on the 8 track cartridge player of his P6 Rover as it had been playing on the radio of his car at the moment of the accident. He finds 1973 to be a strange and alien place in many ways, confirming the truth of LP Hartley’s observation that ‘the past is a foreign country, they do things differently there,’  This series didn’t impress everyone I know but it made an impression on me because of the year. I was eleven years old and becoming aware of the world around me.

Looking back it wasn’t all bad compared to 2013. Britain, after twenty five years of the the post war boom, was a fairer more equal society than it is today, the utilities were publicly owned and not run to pour money into the pockets of shareholders at the expense of the poor; strong trade unions with mass membership protected the interests of their members whose living standards were rising. The banks were tightly regulated. Most people had permanent full time jobs, many of them with good company pensions  and for those unlucky enough to find themselves out of work benefits were rather more generous than they are today. Unemployment benefit even had an earnings related element.

Not that those things concerned me a great deal. I was more interested in music and cars. Some of the songs I first heard in 1973 remain favourites – Life on Mars? obviously, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, God Gave Rock and Roll To You. I listen to them now and am taken back to 1973, to taking a transistor radio to school to hear the new Top 30 introduced by Johnny Walker on Tuesday lunchtimes, taping the complete rundown on Sunday evenings, to buying Slade and T Rex singles from Woolies with my pocket money. Then there are the cars .

1973 began badly when my father bought a new car and traded in his Ford Cortina 1600E of 1969 vintage, a car I loved and still love. It broke my heart to see it on the dealer forecourt with a price displayed in the windscreen and I never got to love the Mk 3 Cortina that replaced it. Later that year I fell in love again, this time with the car that is still the object of my dreams. At about the same time that British Leyland brought out the awful Austin Allegro they gave the world one of the finest ever sports saloons: the Triumph Dolomite Sprint. Powered by a 2 litre 16 valve single camshaft engine it could get to 60 mph from a standing start in 8.5 seconds and reach 115 mph. That’s good by 2013 standards – in 1973 it was a sensation. The cars look fab as well, still do, and I want to have one. I will have to wait as there are only about 400 cars left of 23,000 built. A few months ago as I left the gym and, as I do, pulled out my cigarette packet to light up, I stopped in my tracks. There before me was a Sprint, an L reg, one of the very first. I scribbled a note and put it under the windscreen wipers to give the owner my mobile number in case he should ever wish to sell.    .   .

When I do get my Sprint I will love it and take care of it because, as Heather rightly pointed out, we do not own classics but hold them in trust for future generations. I will not have sex on the back seat, I will use the performance but sparingly I will not be a girl racer. I will drive like a woman, meaning better than a man. And if you don’t believe that women are better drivers than men, ask an insurer.  .