Of Smutathon and Prosecco

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

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

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

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

Cheers guys and here’s to next time.

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

It’s Therapy But Is It Art?

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

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

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

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



Long Ago and Worlds Apart

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ogdens Nut Gone Flake

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

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

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

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

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

Of Hot Tubs and Body Love

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

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

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

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


Song of a Baker

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

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

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

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

Afterglow of Your Love

You have gone. While I was in that half world between sleep and consciousness you got up, put your clothes on and left the small hotel room, shutting the door softly behind you. I was aware of you leaving and sank back into sleep, reliving the night, reliving sex like I had never had sex before, sex with the first woman I have known who was assertive, told me what she wanted, showed me the buttons to press, the first woman to guide me as I took my first steps in exploring the female body.

Does that sound odd? I am 42 after all and 15 years married. I am a father……and yet for all these years sex was a thing I did out of duty. I never got up close with a vulva, a clit, never explored these lands with my tongue, and perceived that mysterious beauty. I fucked you too, hard and brutally the way you said you wanted me too. I remember how you put a little Chardonnay on my cock and took it into your mouth, making me hard as you worked me so delicately with your tongue. This was all new to me. I had never imagined how sex could be more than something that lasted five minutes, get hard, penetrate, ejaculate and then roll over and go to sleep. Sex as a mutual exploration of bodies, sex as a source of pleasure that went far beyond the orgasm, or even how the orgasmic sensation could be heightened by taking our time, building up slowly, these were new things to me. New and delightful. Maybe I will never have sex with her again but she has taught me so much.

I reach for my cock and masturbate as I fantasise about the sex I have just had. I come and roll over to grind against the sheet as I ejaculate. I rub and grind until my groin is completely wet with my come. And here was another discovery: that the best wanks ever come after sex. Yes, we will do this again. Because we must. I text you and go for a shower.

Happiness Stan

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

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

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

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

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

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

Playing Those Mind Games – A Post for Masturbation Monday

“Play with yourself for my entertainment” I commanded and sat back to watch the performance.

He had a gentle rhythmic masturbation style that was pleasing on the eye. I could see that his eyes were focussed on my stiletto heeled thigh boots, presumably to fuel his fantasies.  I rather liked the idea of a man masturbating to me in my presence. It had never happened to me before.

As he worked away I watched his cock bulge and stiffen. He was now close to coming. So I reminded that I make the rules of this particular game.


“Keep wanking but I forbid you to come.”


He stopped and looked at me.


“Did I say stop? Keep wanking but you are on no account to come.”


He resumed his task with obvious reluctance, his movements now slow and hesitant.


“Mistress I am about to come.”


“I forbid you to come.”


“Please Mistress!”


“Wank harder and do NOT come.”


He looked at me pleadingly and I could see fear in his eyes.  This spurred me on. I was inside his head and I was going to torment him. When I am in this headspace I am a merciless sadist and his evident weakening sharpened my appetite for the kill.


“Keep wanking “ I said firmly as he slowed again.


He resumed his task. Now on the edge, with the slightest touch likely to bring him to ejaculation, he was in a terrible predicament. He stiffened, he arched his back, spread his legs and writhed and contorted , desperately trying to avoid the forbidden orgasm, and the harsh punishment that he knew would follow any failure to comply with My orders.  I laughed. I felt arousal, not at the sight of his wanking but rather that at his desperation, the mental and physical agony  I was subjecting him to. I was a sadist in full flow and loving every minute.


And really my sadism doesn’t need to find an outlet in whippings, floggings or physical torture, much as I enjoy those things.  Mind games somehow take BDSM play onto a higher plane and the satisfaction of getting into a submissive’s head and messing with it is like no other. It is a challenge to me as a domme too, a test of my own creativity and empathy. If I had just half an hour left in my life for a play scene with a submissive man I would leave my toy bag at home. Forced masturbation and orgasm denial it would have to be. The world would come to an end in a loud bang with me enjoying the intoxicating beauty of domme space while my poor submissive would be denied his orgasm for eternity.


Actually I am not really that evil. At the end of the session I allowed him to masturbate to completion and come all over my boots before licking them clean. He looked up at me, his face covered in come. In his expression I saw humility, gratitude, but above all, deep, deep joy.


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