Swedish Nights

I knew I was in trouble as soon as she went down. I was going for the ball, I was sure I would get to it but at the last second Sara Martinsson turned with lithe grace, accelerated away and my outstretched foot caught her trailing leg. She went down and rolled over a couple of times, clutching her shin, just to make sure. The referee ran over waving the red card like a coast guard warning a passing ship to steer clear of the rocks.

No-one even looked at me as I passed our bench and made the lonely walk of shame to the dressing room. This was meant to be a highlight of my career, a Women’s Champions’ League Semi –Final First Leg away in Sweden, me marking Sara Martinsson the world’s best midfielder. She had been too good for me, fair enough, but she didn’t have to go down like that. I slammed the dressing room door behind me took off a boot and threw it against the wall. I sat down, pulled my shirt over my face and wept.

‘Fuck’ I shouted hoping I was loud enough to be heard outside. But that was a vain hope. Even a crowd of three thousand was making plenty of noise. Their team was 2-0 up, we were a player short and Sara Martinsson was pulling the strings in midfield. There must be more goals to come. There were still forty minutes to play.

My sobbing and self pity were interrupted by a knock on the door. I pulled the shirt back down over my midriff as it opened and Sara Martinsson stood before me,

‘They took me off, precautionary thing, I picked up a knock’ she said simply. ‘I’m sorry you got sent off I really am.’

I was about to day something when she said

‘Come to our dressing room. We can shower together There’s plenty of time ill the games’ over.’

She shut the door and walked off down the corridor. I sat nonplussed for a minute then thought sod it. I took off my other boot and padded down the corridor to the home dressing room in my socks.

I walked on and saw Sara. She had undressed already and lay on a bench, knees bent, legs slightly apart, pleasuring herself.

‘Have you been with a girl before?’ she asked.

I said nothing.

‘It doesn’t matter. Anyway take your kit off. We can’t have fun in our football gear can we?’

As I undressed she went to turn the showers on and adjust the temperature. I approached nervously. .

‘I haven’t got my stuff with me.’

‘You can use mine’ she said taking my hand and leading me gently into the shower. She came up behind me, pressed herself against me and began to nuzzle my hair.

She squeezed out some shower gel and started to rub it into my back in slow careful movements, starting from my neck and moving down my back to my buttocks which she caressed before rubbing gel into them. She knelt down and moved her fingers around my anus before moving between my legs to soap my cunt. As her fingers worked their way up to my clit I felt her tongue against my anus, licking round the edge,.

‘I like your arse. I like it a lot. Second leg next week. I’ll come prepared. I’ve got some fantastic toys. ’ She laughed and began to finger my clit. Hot water was streaming down from the shower heads and in the steam I could see nothing. That heightened the excitement as she began to play me like a fiddle. I had never been touched by a woman before. She massaged my clit with delicacy and expertise then stood up and came round in front of me. She took some more gel onto her hands and began to soap my tits. She washed off the foam and began to suck on the nipples, talking them between her lips which she pursed to squeeze them before turning her head to twist them. I let out a cry and she laughed. She gave them a playful bite and knelt before me to carry on applying the gel.  Soon I felt her tongue against my clit which hardened as she quickened the licks, stiffening her tongue to make a delightful abrasiveness.

We finished showering and Sara pulled a big fluffy towel binding us tightly together. We kissed. The smell of sweat, turf, and linament had quite gone. I abandoned myself to her as she gripped the back of my head and pushed her tongue deep inside my mouth.

‘One more thing’ said Sara. ‘Kneel,’

She slackened the towel and I dropped to my knees. I pressed my face to her shaven cunt, felt the roughness of the stubble against my cheek. Just above the stubble I saw a small tattoo of the Swedish flag. I kissed it lingeringly feeing a frisson of disloyalty. Then I moved down pushing out my tongue in search of her clit. I probed and licked and she placed a finger on the spot where her clit sat beneath its hood.

‘Lick me just there.’ said Sara.

I worked away pleasuring her trying to make my tongue stiff as she had done when licking me, worshipping her most precious part, her lovely Scandinavian clit. I licked in slow form strokes and she gasped, grabbed a hanger to support herself as the pleasure coursed through her. She cried out in Swedish. I didn’t understand but didn’t care.  It surely meant my tongue was doing its work.

She turned round and I started sniffing her anus. It smelt sweet and fresh, like a meadow of flowers. I flicked my tongue out and began to explore the opening. I worked round the edge, licking the opening with slow leisurely strokes. I loved her arse, loved the buttocks I began to kiss, loved the dragon tattoo on the small of her back. God, this woman had spent fifty minutes humiliating me on a football field and now, it was almost as if the match no longer mattered. I had completely forgotten the match, had not noticed the time.

‘Shit!’ I said.

‘We’ve still got ten minutes. I think we’ve scored again. But we’ve got time for a finger fucking.’

I lay on the treatment table legs apart. She climbed on top of me and after rubbing my clit pushed a finger into my soaking wet cunt.

‘You’re wet, your cunts is open like a big cave. I knew you were a slut as soon as I saw you. You’re not much good at football are you, but sex well…..I’ll bring my toys next week and make it up to you for not being in the Final.’

She laughed and stuck in a second longer, then a third.

‘I want four, give me four’ I gasped ‘and fuck me hard.’

She was soon moving in and out. Her hands were soft and delicate for a footballer her fingers long. She moved in and out rubbing the skin over the pubic bone as she did so, arousing me even more, making me wetter and wetter.

‘I’m all yours, all yours’ I moaned.

‘You can come to our hotel next week. Some of the other girls would like to give you a real fucking. You can be the whole team’s pet slut.’

She moved her fingers in and out again, more and more vigorously

‘Make me you slut, make me your slut’ I cried, ‘Fuck me fuck me fuck me’

I massaged my clit as she reached a crescendo and came with a loud cry. I had soaked the treatment table.

Sara took a cloth to clean up. As she wiped the table I dropped to my knees and kissed her feet, the golden feet that could caress a football like no other woman’s, the feet on which she moved with balletic grace around the pitch, the feet that had humiliated me, the feet I adored, the feet I loved. I kissed her frantically, desperately, clung to her ankles as she tried to move away.

‘Make me your slut’ I said, quietly this time. ‘Please.’

Then we heard a cheer and voices coming from the tunnel and the click clack of studs. It was time for me to be gone.

I walked back to our dressing room in a daze. I had Sara’s shirt and pressed it to my face breathing in deeply the smell of her, the smell I wanted to remember for ever. The door opened and my team mates came in.

‘Five fucking nil’ said one looking at me as if I was to blame. ‘Were you going to ask or don’t you care? I was so looking forward to going to Paris for the Final. Fuck! Fuck!’

She took a water bottle and hurled it against the wall. As it bounced off the floor she cried out in another howl of anguish.

‘Fuck!!!’

‘They took Sara Martinson off’ said somebody else. ‘They reckon she might be a doubt for the second leg.’

I froze. If she was injured she wouldn’t travel. I gripped the shirt tighter.

‘I know. She popped in to say sorry.’

‘And give you her shirt as well. You can wash it and frame it and it will make a nice souvenir of the day you lost us the Champions’ League.’

I ignored the barbed comment.

‘Wash it?’ I said. ‘I’ll never do that.’

Seven Months-a-Blogging

There will be about a month’s silence on this blog starting next Tuesday. I’ll be an infrequent visitor to Twitter and Facebook too. Don’t worry I’m not disappearing, just going to tour Poland and the Baltic countries for four weeks.  I’l be thinking of my lovely online friends (occasionally!) and will be back. When I come back I’ll have a post about a trafficking moral panic from a hundred years ago that I hope you will enjoy. I’m taking my laptop, a couple of books of erotica,some poetry and maybe something morally uplifting :-).

I thought this would be an opportunity to reflect on seven months of blogging. When I started I had little idea of what I was going to blog about except that I was going to post a few stories.  I have done that but I have also posted poems and even one recipe. To the people (I know there’s at least one) who have followed me for recipes I will be posting more – I love cooking so don’t go away! I have posted a lot of opinion and factual pieces, rather more than I expected, many of them on sex  work but by no means all.

I now have nearly fifty followers. The blog has had twice as many hits in seven months as my other non-sex blog has had in two years. I do not claim that this is the best sex blog, expect no prizes, but I have enjoyed writing the blog and know that enough people have enjoyed reading it to make the effort worthwhile.  Thank you for following me and see you all soon.

Strange Objects of Desire

A male friend one confided in me that he hates the summer. He loves the autumn, the misty chilly mornings, the falling leaves. I asked him why.

Simple’ he replied. ‘The ladies get their boots out and there is nothing, but nothing sexier than a woman in boots.’

He particularly enjoys his moments of silent adoration on the bus to work.

And it’s not only the men. I’m not a drama queen but I do occasionally tread the boards in amateur theatre. A year or two back one of my friends joined us and after rehearsing in her usual attire of jeans and sweatshirt (after a career as an air hostess she sacrificed glamour for the demands of raising three children)  changed into her costume ahead of the first dress rehearsal, a little black dress and red heeled boots. She walked confidently onto the stage to audible gasps from the women as well as the men. She was no longer a harassed wife and mother – she had become after a simple costume change a woman, a woman with unfathomable erotic depths. That was the thinking I am sure. It was certainly mine.

If the boot is a fetish object it makes the woman wearing boots into an object of desire but one who exercises power. She is strong. She is confident in her sexuality. She is attainable or is she? You suspect she may not be after all. At this point the second aspect kicks in; the stirrings of submissiveness that are latent in many men. Boots open doors you know. I found this out the first time I wore boots to a new job. There were a couple of men who suddenly wanted to carry files for me, make my tea, and, yes, open doors. They may have been kinky but I bet that, even if they didn’t see themselves in that way, they felt a frisson. On one occasion as I sat in a coffee shop with my partner a tall blonde woman walked in, dressed in trousers and over the knee beige boots. She was beautiful, her style was immaculate and I could not take my eyes off her, particularly the boots. My partner leaned over to me and whispered,

‘I can imagine myself kneeling before her and asking to worship those boots.’

Fetish lite then; after all not every man has the courage to come face to face with a real life thigh booted domina. In domination however is much truth about the human condition. The domina writes large what is latent in many women and confronts the men who serve her with truths about themselves that for other men remain veiled but guessed at. The boot is a partial lifting of the veil.

Yet in real life the booted woman is a paradox. She is the one men desire to conquer but fear they cannot. For the woman wearing boots the signal is similarly ambivalent. We are Amazons, we want to conquer, and yet , in our strength, we want to submit, to open ourselves to penetration.

The boot is strength, it is power – it demands submission but is itself a sign of submission. This is its fascination. The boot is not a ‘Fuck Me Shoe’ it is a ‘Fuck Me on my Terms Shoe’ We should want it no other way.

And here is a pair of totally awesome vintage boots. The thought of wearing these or, for the men, worshipping them, should send a tingle through anyone’s loins. It does mine.

retroboots

On Irish Independence

Well not quite. The Irish Independent newspaper carried an article yesterday about a campaign by a group called SPACE to have the Merseyside Model adopted in Ireland. You can read it here:

http://www.independent.ie/irish-news/sex-trade-violence-law-change-urged-29420788.html

You can also read two comments. These were not the only comments made. A number of people attempted to make comments pointing out the dishonesty and hypocrisy of the SPACE position but their comments were not posted by the moderator. Here, for what it’s worth, is mine.

“The chutzpah of these people never ceases to amaze me. The Merseyside Model works well in England precisely because sex work is not criminalised and sex workers feel that, on the whole, they can trust the police. This has been a successful initiative, one supported by active sex workers, and it should not be appropriated by a campaign in favour of the discredited Nordic model”

It seems too obvious to need mentioning that the Merseyside Model is fundamentally incompatible with criminalisation, whether of sex workers or clients. What is worse though is that these advocates of criminalisation talk about the Merseyside Model as if only they were concerned about sex workers’ safety. In fact sex workers’ rights advocates have been promoting the Merseyside Model as good practice for a number of years, not that you would know this from reading the Irish Independent. The appropriation of the Model by SPACE is cynical and mendacious. But, as a certain Josef Goebbels once perceptively observed, the bigger the lie the more likely it is to be believed.

An uncritical report is one thing, but censoring  opposing views is quite another. I am a freelance journalist and NUJ member so know a little about journalistic ethics, particularly the need to report objectively and not suppress inconvenient facts or opinions.  I do not consider that my comment breaches any of the guidelines and can see no valid reason for not publishing it.

So, Irish Independent, who are you independent of? Why are you opposed to independent thought and open debate? Or maybe you need to change your name?

A quick update: I posted my comment again this afternoon together with a barbed comment about censorship and it has now been posted (less the bit about censorship – maybe I shamed them into posting it). My general point remains valid though. I shouldn’t have had to submit the comment again.

RIP Petite Jasmine

Sweden’s stigmatisation of women who choose sex work and don’t want to exit or be ‘exited’ has now led to a death. I am posting this for the benefit of those readers who may not follow the various debates and campaigns on sex work and may not have heard about last week’s tragic events. I have nothing to  add to what has been written already but would ask you to read this:

http://sometimesitsjustacigar.wordpress.com/2013/07/12/justice-for-jasmine/

If this makes you angry, and it should, please try to make time to attend one of the protests planned for this Friday. Details here:

https://www.facebook.com/events/552582234799603/

 

 

The Longest Night

David sobbed as the searing pain of the hundredth stroke speared through his buttocks. He had never known pain like this. Mistress untied him and drew him to her. She hugged him and stroked his hair.

‘Brave boy. Mistress is proud of you.’

David continued to sob. As he felt Mistress’s breasts rise and fall, felt her warmth and soft skin he felt shame that he had let her down again. She stroked his hair again then clasped his chin forcing his head back so that he had to look her in the face.

‘Next time I will not be so gentle.  You are going to take your submission more seriously. When I say that you are in chastity I mean precisely that. You will go away and reflect on what has happened today. You will obey me. You will learn self control and if you have to do it the hard way so be it. You will phone me every morning and give me a full account of each night. You are dismissed.’

At bedtime that night David  knelt by the bed and asked his Mistress for the strength to get through the night unsoiled. He put on the silk nightdress she had given him, that made his cock just that bit less accessible and pulled on the plastic underpants he had been commanded to wear each night. Finally, as a final defence against temptation he pulled on a pair of pink rubber gloves. In these, at least, it would be difficult to wank. He sat up in bed for a moment, holding Mistress before him, before lying down and clicking off the bedside light.

He lay on his front at first, as an old book about the dangers of self abuse suggested,  but soon found himself rubbing his crotch against the sheet. He turned over onto his front and placed the gloved hands outside the duvet. He imagined Mistress looking at him thorough a spy hole. Sleep didn’t come and he realised that this would be a long night, a lonely battle against temptation.

As he lay there, tossing and turning, Mistress began to appear to him, first in a latex dress and stilettos, the ones he had worshipped recently, then in tight PVC trousers with red thigh boots that gleamed in the lights of the dungeon. He felt his hands reach to pull up the nightdress and he began to pump his cock with a gloved hand. As the precome dribbled out over the pink glove he stiffened in horror and pulled his hand away.

‘I just obey I must obey’ he repeated breathlessly.

He rolled over into his front and pushed his hands underneath the pillow. He slept fitfully for a while before Mistress came into his head again, this time in a red PVC dress and black boots. She bent over the arm of a chair and lifted the dress to reveal the new tattoo on her left buttock,. David saw himself creeping forward on his knees to kiss the tattoo slowly and lovingly.

He rolled over. He was hot and sweaty. He pulled off the rubber gloves and again reached for his big hard cock. Mistress was now standing over him, commanding him to come, pushing the sole of her boot into his face. He looked up.  She seemed even more magnificent from this perspective, pushing down harder commanding him to lick the soles, to wank his cock harder. He pumped, he kneaded the tip, he pulled the foreskin back and as he felt the ejaculation surging  up the shaft he remembered and took his hand away just in time.

He sat up in bed panting and switched the light on. He was hard, he was desperate to come, and yet………

‘I must obey, I must obey’

He was hot and uncomfortable in the plastic pants and pulled them off, looking at the precome that stained them. He felt shame. He looked at the clock on the bedside table. Four o’clock. It was starting to get light. He had two hours to endure. Mistress had told him that chastity would be hard but he had to do it, he wanted to do it for her. He must obey. He switched the light off, lay down and fell into a fitful sleep.

Mistress was soon back, peeling off. a shiny dress to reveal her breasts, a tattoo above the left one. She stood before him in boots and  nothing else. She turned round and flaunted the tattoo on her buttock, backing up to the bed for him to kiss it. Then she turned to face him and he saw her shaven cunt, saw her fingering her clit.

‘You’d love to but you never will.’ She laughed a long demonic laugh.

‘Look at it,you’ll never see another one, you’re in chastity, eternal chastity…’

She laughed again as she disappeared. The alarm rang. The sun was streaming  in  through the window. He reached for his cock, pumped and massaged and the thick creamy come was soon running down his leg. He turned over and rubbed his crotch hard against the sheet. It was wet, it was warm, the unmistakeable smell filled the room. There was a large damp patch on the nightdress..

He panted with relief, He had hardly slept. His head ached. Then came the dreaded realisation that he had failed, He had disobeyed. He had advanced no further in his submission.

He reached for his phone and dialled Mistress’ number.

‘Forgive me Mistress I have sinned’ he said as tears rolled down his cheek, tears of shame, of joy too. He would surely learn to love the cane.

Thank You Rhoda Grant

So Rhoda Grant’s  misbegotten Bill to criminalise the clients of sex workers has died the death it deserved. No more do we need to get angry about her consultation with its loaded questions or her wilful misrepresentation of the responses to that consultation. It’s all history. She failed as she deserved to.

With the benefit of hindsight we can see that her Bill was in trouble and that she knew it. What else would explain her sharing a debate platform with a frankly batty Evangelical Christian who apparently believes in curing gays, who thinks that consensual sexual activity should be criminalised just because he thinks it’s immoral.  She said she would share a platform with anyone but it smacked of desperation and probably alienated people whose support she needed. Her pronouncements since Friday reveal her to be a stubborn and charmless person. She has listened to no-one who did not agree with her to start with and learned nothing. If reality doesn’t accord with Rhoda’s views it is, of course, reality that is at fault.

Nonetheless it is a wonderful thing that the powerful arguments against the Bill have prevailed against the evidence free articles of faith of Rhoda and her supporters, that those who demonstrated rather than  simply asserting have won the argument. The battle now moves to Ireland, North and South.

It was a year ago that I stumbled across this issue. I read anything I could find on the debate, for and against. In doing so I came across a number of people, opponents of the Bill, who have been an inspiration and helped me to develop my own thinking not just on sex work but on the broader issues to which it is linked, issues of feminism and sexuality. Most of these people, but not all, are women. A number of them are sex workers, current or retired. All of them are clever, committed and unafraid to say what needed to be said, sometimes in the face of personal attacks.  .

I will not mention names here. I know that some of them will be reading this. You will know who I mean. I want to say thank you and that I look forward to reading your Tweets and blog posts in the future and to engaging with you. Most of all I want to thank Rhoda Grant. Without her Bill I would never have met you.