Bog Standard


We came down the escalator and turned towards the exit from the shopping centre when he grabbed my arm and steered me towards the gender-neutral toilet with the baby changing facility. He pushed me inside and locked the door.

“We can’t” I protested, “not in here there are too many people about.”

But he was already fumbling with his belt, and, as he unzipped his flies, his rock hard cock burst through the opening, the end glistening with precome. I let my skirt drop to the floor, climbed on to the baby changer and he was quickly on top of me.

I arched my back to give him a better angle and he pushed hard into my still dry cunt. He winced too from the abrasion but was soon pumping furiously as I finally got wet

But it was as hard as fuck on the baby changer, each thrust hurt and I needed it to be over.  I fingered my clit vigorously and said,

“Come now. I will come with you.”

And we came together, trying so hard to suppress he sounds that might give us away. We dressed quickly and left the toilet quickly, hoping no one would see us. He looked down and exclaimed “Of fuck!”

I looked at him, looked at his trousers. There was a ten pence piece sized come stain 0n the crotch, all too visible against the light grey, I smiled How was he going to explain that to his wife?


After the third beer I knew I wanted her. But making out with women was a whole new territory for me. I just didn’t know how to approach this. Erotic tension was hanging in the air as I sat with Adrienne on a summer’s night in the garden of a lesbian bar but I was on new territory foe which  had no map.

“Come on” she said, “let’s go.”

I hung back as she headed for the outside toilet. Then she turned and said

“Are you coming Eve?”

She bundled me in and bolted the door. She pulled off her top ad stood bare breasted with her back to the door.

“Take me”

I moved in to kiss her n the mouth before kissing her breasts, sucking m her nipples, squeezing them between my lips as she gasped. Soon I was on my knees, pulling down her jeans and panties to eat greedily at her cunt.

There was a loud hammering at the door. And voices.

“I don’t know what thy are doing in there?

“Can’t you guess?  I don’t want to spoil their fun but I am fucking bursting.”

  1. He looked anxious as he knelt before me.

“Have you been following orders since I last saw you?”

“Yes Mistress”

“And your toilet, is that flushed and clean this time?”

“Yes Mistress”

”Prove it.”

“But how Mistress?”

“Lick it out.”

He took a while to absorb this order and when he did I saw fear in his eyes.

“But Mistress no…. I mean I.. .”

“If you want to serve me you do as you are told.”

“Yes Mistress”

Crushed, he went to the bathroom on his hands and knees, and, with weary resignation, lifted the lid and plunged his head into the gleaming white porcelain.

I laughed my most evil laugh.


The scene began to go wrong when, at the moment, I went to flush the toilet, someone grabbed a shampoo bottle and poured shampoo over my sub’s head. I had to stop the scene as he was clearly in difficulty, the flush having washed shampoo into his eyes. It was becoming clear that demonstrating bathroom humiliation for an audience was not a good idea. Neither of us could get in the headspace somebody had interfered with our scene. To cap it all,  someone then complained that it was gross and disgusting and they didn’t ever want to see it again. Well maybe but there is a thing we have on the scene called Your Kink Isn’t My Kink But Your Kink is OK.  There are many different kinks and we accept the kinks of others which may do nothing for us. We don’t judge.


Actually I generally like to be on my own in bathrooms, and am often to be found with a book, the radio, even a malt whisky. Me time, me space.   But I do occasionally have company. The 4 scenes are fictionalised accounts of things I have done.

Sex in toilets for me generally means public toilets.  Why would you bother at home? It is generally spontaneous rushed, with a fear of discovery to add a frisson, and frequently uncomfortable.   But sometimes you just have to don’t you? And it’s usually fun. Or maybe you just remember it as fun once the bruises and aches and pains have been forgotten!

BDSM in toilets is quite different. It needs planning and time, which means domestic or hotel bathrooms, and it is a niche kink. Degradation play is edge play and needs to be handled very carefully by the dominant. It is also incredibly intimate, and few things create bonds quite like having a submissive use his tongue to be your toilet paper! But, even in he context of a kinky private house party , it is not for an audience. That we learnt the hard way.

An Evening at Barbarella’s

When I started Sixth Form I bought a denim skirt and a pair of shiny black knee boots.  Unlike at the boys’ school next door, we girls of King Edgar’s High were allowed to wear our own clothes. And like my friends I was going to make the most of the opportunity. I was going to be the next best thing to a 16 year old femme fatale. The plan was to hook myself a boyfriend, but it didn’t quite happen like that.

As the 62 bus pulled into Northfield, familiar faces got on.  One of them was the blonde lady in the brown leather coat who had often sat next to me on the down stairs back seat the previous year. I had admired her style, her blonde bob, her make up. I suppose I had a crush in her and she was often in my thoughts as I daydreamed my way through O Level revision. And now she looked at me, in my skirt and boots, no foundation (I didn’t need it) but mascara and eye shadow.  And, for the first time she noticed me. She smiled.

“Look at you! You were still a schoolgirl last time I saw you.”

“I still am really. But I start Sixth Form today and we are allowed to wear our own clothes at King Edgar’s High.”

“You look fabulous.” She lowered her voice, “You are a woman and don’t forget that.”

We sat side by side, not saying much, but it was as if not much needed to be said. I could feel her warmth and was enjoying the closeness. The bus rattled in along the Bristol Road. Soon it was her stop. She stood up and walked to the exit. She didn’t look back but flashed me a smile as she waited for the bus to move off before crossing the road to the tall building where I supposed she worked. As the bus rattled in towards the City Centre and, before that, school I felt a warm tingling.

It was the following Monday that she sat by me again. I moved a little closer to her, pushed my knee against her leg. She made no effort to move.

“Are you enjoying Sixth Form?” she asked softly.

“It’s good so far. Loving history, We are doing the Stuarts.”

“I don’t know much about that. I never got to go to college and I am sure you are a hell of a lot cleverer than me.”


“I got married at 19 and I have been regretting it ever since.”

“I don’t suppose I will. Get married at 19 I mean.”

She laughed.

“Eleven years…… you can work out how old I am. ”

We journeyed on in silence.  She stood up to get off and took an envelope out of her bag and handed it to me.  She has got off the bus before I could react and was walking head down as the bus passed her, as if avoiding eye contact. I opened the envelope and took out a ticket to see The Only Ones at Barbarella’s, the club near Broad Street. that my lder brother went to sometimes. She has stapled a note to the ticket.

“You are coming to this. No arguments. Meet you in The Grapevine at 7.30.”

So I had a date with her. And I didn’t even know her name.

And I counted down the days, avoided her on the bus, went upstairs to sit with the smokers even as I was afraid that a magic spell might be broken and to avoid talking as I didn’t really have a lot to say and wanted to save what little I had for the day.

She arrived at The Grapevine at 7.30. I had been waiting outside since 7, not wanting to be late, not having the confidence to enter a pub on my own.  She wore jeans, boots and a black leather jacket. She had purple eyeshadow. I could not take my eyes off it. I had never seen purple eyeshadow so close up before.

We drank lager and black and sat not saying much.  I wanted so much to ask her why she wanted go out with me but the words failed me.  So I talked about school, just to keep on familiar territory. I told her about how the Headmistress had decided that some Sixth Form girls were taking liberties with their clothing and had specified a minimum length for skirts.

“You have to go into a squat and the hem of your skirt has to touch the floor. And if it doesn’t you are sent home to put something more decent on.”

“Oh God” she said, “The things some people come up with. Best not tell her you are out with a woman tonight!”

We both laughed.

“Come on” she said, making to stand up. “We have a gig to go to.”

Buzzing from the music, an unfamiliar hiss in my ear, I followed her out into the Birmingham night. I stood, a little uncertain. Should I follow her or not?

“Come with me. There’s something I need to do. Now”

And we hurried off in the darkness. She led me by the hand as we passed the canal boats moored at Gas Street Basin, under the Broad Street bridge into the derelict wilderness beyond. She pushed me back against a wall and picked at the buttons of my blouse as she moved in to kiss me. I froze, but then responded and pushed back against her as I forced my tongue into her mouth.

She pulled my blouse off and unhooked my bra. Now she was working my nipples with her tongue.

On her knees before me, she tugged down my jeans and began greedily tonguing my cunt

“I am going to give you the best orgasm you will ever have” she said. “If you thought you needed a boy, think again.”

And then I felt a jolt as she put a finger inside me and a thumb on my swollen clit and brought me quickly to orgasm. It was like being taken out of myself, lifted high above the drab November evening and set free to float free in waves and waves of colour. Then I landed, gasping for air, shivering. It had all been too much and I had needed it to stop but I knew I wanted more.

She saw my exposed and vulnerable state and stood up to hug me close.

“See I told you it would be lovely didn’t’ I?”

She dusted herself down and said

“We had better go home, hadn’t we? Best we don’t go together.  I’ll wait here and you just get the first 62 that comes.”

So I walked alone down to Navigation Street and got the bus home. I let myself into the house as quietly as I could and made my way upstairs, shutting the bedroom door softly behind me. My blouse was ripped but I could explain that away if I had to. I was shaking, still feeling the aftershocks of the orgasms she had sent pulsing through me.

I woke with a start.  I had slept through the alarm and my mother was knocking on my bedroom door.

“Eve. Get up. You will be late for school.”

I sat up in bed and remembered the note she had left me the night before. I took it out from under the pillow. This made it all real. I hadn’t dreamt it after all. I read.

“Thank you for a lovely night. you are amazing. Please don’t waste yourself on a man. He could never deserve you”

I kissed the paper tenderly and whispered

“I won’t, I promise I won’t.”


This is a story for. Check out the other fab posts here 

Masturbation Monday

SoSS – New Football Season Edition

There were so any great things on the net this week that it was hard to pick a small section to share with you. But here goes.

Many of the posts I liked were fun or hot or both. This was neither but a serious and thought provoking piece about the users and manipulators, the toxic sociopaths we all encounter, including rather too many in the scenes that we like to frequent. And as I read I couldn’t help thinking of our new Prime Minister.

Since I last posted for SoSS I have had a photoshoot with Exposing 40. I have blogged here but the day and how fabulous it was to spend time with someone I had only ever had brief conversations with before. It has also given me a better appreciation of her photography. And I loved this from her shoot with 19 Syllables, who I also had the pleasureof meeting at Erotion 2019

I will be posting abut toilets in the relatively near future. I have had BDSM scenes in toilets, I have had sex in toilets, most of it spontaneous, and yes, I also like my solitude, time to think, time to read, maybe even to write.  So I could relate to this.  

I have had some quite sexy conversations by text message over the years but never been the remote third party in a threesome.This post, by Exhibit A, did exactly what it said on the time. It was hot!

Gender fluidity is something I have a personal interest in and this, from Sinful Sunday,appealed to me.

I massively enjoyed this, also from Sinful Sunday and it had a certain resonance for me on Sunday.The previous night I had been at a humiliation themed play party where everyone was invited by one dominant lady to tweak the nipples of her sub who was also locked in chastity. I merely teased him, stroking his nipples, occasionally putting thumb and forefinger together to make him think I was going to give him a tweak. His response, which I am sure he had no control over, was to dribble through his gag. He was clearly finding the intense sensations quite unbearable. With this fresh in my mind, this image was really hot. I like it too because it is a capturing of motion in a staged photograph.  

And to finish up, as usual, some car porn. This one is actually linked to my photoshoot with Exposing 40. After finishing the pics we went for cocktails at a nearby pub, where we sat in the outdoor area with a view of the main road outside. To my amazement, a Mark One Mini Cooper S drew up at the traffic lights outside. I wasn’t quite quick enough to get a picture. But there are loads of clips of Coopers online. Here is one of them.


Sex Work and the not so Libertarians

Matt Ridley of The Times can generally be relied to write nonsense, which is maybe not surprising as his late father Nicholas Ridley never said much that wasn’t nonsense.  Ridley pere’s ideological loyalty to Margaret Thatcher did not save his political career as the gaffes mounted up and she decided he had to go. Father and son Ridley both considered themselves libertarians and in an overexcited piece last week Ridley fils was enthusing about the battle of ideas gripping the Conservative Party now that the new cabinet was full of libertarians of a Ridleyite bent. To be honest ideas are not the first thing that springs to mind when I think about the likes of Priti Patel and Gavin Williamson but I dare say the bar for qualifying as an intellectual has fallen somewhat in Brexit Britain, maybe not low enough for Andrea Leadsom to qualify but you get the pcture.

It is in the context of libertarianism and the Tory party that I want to talk about sex work. There is an arguable libertarian position on sex work, and I heard it put across cogently by an Institute of Economic Affairs representative in a TV debate on sex work a couple of years ago.  It goes like this. The agreement between a sex worker and their client to have sex with an agreed sum of money changing hands, is a private commercial transaction between two adults. It is no business of the state and the state should not seek to interfere in what is essentially a private matter, on the basis of moral judgements about what people choose to do with their own bodies. We might, therefore, expect a libertarian dominated Conservative party to support decriminalisation.

But scratch a right-wing libertarian and you often find an authoritarian not far below the service. The Conservative Human Rights Commisson published a report two weeks ago advocating the introduction of the so-called Nordic Model in the UK. It was as if all that has been said and argued over the last few years on the subject of sex work and the law had passed them by. They did not speak to academics who specialise in the field (maybe not too surprising when most Tory MPs these days seem to think they know better than experts). Nor did they trouble to seek the views of those who actually do know better then the academics, that is the sex workers themselves. I won’t go into the      report in detail you can read well informed refutations of the arguments here and here.

It wasn’t always this way in the Tory party. Some years ago, when Labour MEP Mary Honeyball was advocating for client criminalisation on the European stage, she was opposed by a group of British Conservative MEPs, one of whom followed me on Twitter for a while.  But I don’t need to remind you that the days of British Conservatives doing anything   constructive in Europe are gone, probably for ever.

Tory libertarianism is liberty for the rich. It means control for the rest of us, and for those at the bottom, as most sex workers are, engaging in survival sex work just to keep a roof over their heads,  it means being stigmatised and placed beyond the protection of the law. The fundamental question is not addressed. How are exiting sex workers to make a living?  The report mentions the alleged success of the zero tolerance approach of Ipswich as opposed to the managed tolerance zones of Leeds without mentioning the key reason for that success. which is that money has been made available to support sex workers who want to exit. I can’t see that this is likely to become a widespread strategy. Many sex workers would quit tomorrow if they could. I fear, however, that libertarian Brexit Britain is unlikely to give them the opportunity.

Foxy Foxy

There are nights at The Fox when there are not enough loos. Like the Fridays when there is a crowd in for karaoke and I seem to drink lager without restraint, knowing I have Saturday to sleep it off. But there are simply not enough loos. I decided against joining the queue in the ladies, hung about impatiently by the single cubicle in the gender neutral loo and…well I didn’t want to but needs must.

I stood at the urinal, hitched up my skirt, slid my panties to the side and took my cock in my hand. I looked around, wondering if anyone was watching, not that this should really have been a problem. I finished, shook the drops of the end of my member, and was about to tuck it away, out of sight, when I felt a hand grip my right shoulder firmly. I spun round, my cock still hanging out of my panties.

“Hello” she said and smiled a smile that I thought wasn’t without a hint of malice. She was just a little bit smaller than me notwithstanding that I was still standing on the step of the urinal. She was, I guessed, in her early twenties,  had short blonde hair, wore jeans and a white t shirt.

“Hello” I replied gormlessly, suddenly acutely aware that my cock was dangling in front of me and my skirt was still hitched up.

“I’m Roo” she said, “and I want to make out with you.”

“With me?” I looked down at my cock which was by now quite hard and rising to the horizontal.

“Yes you. “

She stepped forward and began to knead my breasts.  She whispered in my ear

“Is it OK if I call you a shemale I mean I know it’s not quite the… but it makes me horny, the whole idea. That’s why I want to make out with you. What’s your name?”

“Celine” I lied.  I was sure she didn’t believe me, but she said nothing.

At that moment the cubicle door finally opened, a couple hurried past, avoiding eye contact and Roo steered make into it. She locked the door and squeezed past me to the toilet. She closed the lid and sat down.

I took a step towards her. I was still rock hard and my bellend was glistening with precome.

I took my cock in my hand and asked,

“Do you want to blow me? I would enjoy that.”

“Not really darling, I’m a lesbian, remember? No, you’re going to pleasure me.”

She pulled her jeans down, moved her knickers to the side.

“Get on your knees and move in real close.”

Her lady garden was completely shaven except for 2 thin strips down each side of the labia.  I kissed it, I smelt it and, even before she told me what to do, I began to lick, moving upwards until I reach her clit, felt it stiff and engorged, and I licked and flicked my tongue at it, like a snake sniffing the air for her prey. I put a finger inside her, felt the wetness, the warmth, the dilation that was just inviting me to put more fingers in, then the hand which I clenched into a fist.

Excited by the wet, the smell that overwhelmed my senses, I worked my tongue harder and harder until I felt her stiffen, arch her back and come with a scream that she quickly stifled with her left hand.

“Shit” she said , and started to giggle. “we’ll have somebody in here!”

I sat back on my legs, panting. I was happy that I had made Roo come quickly but what about me?

“What about me?” I asked, more in hope than expectation.

“Now you are going to masturbate for me Celine. Stand against the wall so that I can get a good view.”

This bit was easy. I had been on the edge for so long that I craved the release. I tried to slow down, holding my orgasm back until Roo was ready to come with me. She sat astride the toilet bowl, a finger up her vagina, her thumb deftly working her clit. I watched intently, silently repeating words of adoration, thanks too to whichever deity of debauchery had sent her my way.

“Come if you want” she said. “I’m just about there.”

We came together, Roo with a load sigh, me with a groan of overdue relief. She pulled a clean pair of panties from her pocket and held it so that my come would go glug glugging over it.

“My mother keeps banging on about me doing it with a man. She probably thinks it’s a cure. So I am going to show her this as proof that I have, and tell her it was rubbish……with a man that is. With a lovely shemale it was amazing. Thank you.”

She kissed me gently on the lips and pulled up her jeans as I rearranged my skirt. She unlocked the door and pushed me out of the cubicle.

“Come on Celine, let’s go and join the karaoke. I know what I want to sing.”

“And what’s that?” I asked.

“I Want Your Sex.”

We both laughed.

A story for Masturbation Monday

Masturbation Monday


For more awesome stories and reflections click here