The Latex Skirt

This is a kind of love poem I wrote to the lovely swishy floral latex skirt I bought last year at the Birmingham Bizarre Bazaar from the wonderful mega talented Rebecca of Yummy Gummy Latex to who it is dedicated.

You read me like a book.

A cliché, I know, but true.

Remember the time you whipped

A skirt off the rack, a new design,

Held it up before me, smiling,

Like teasing a puppy with a rubber bone

Or selecting the fly with which

You would reel me in?

There I stood,

Falling in love with the skirt,

Aching to please.

 

I put it on. The weighty swish

Swelled into waves of desire

For the beauty you had, I hoped,

Designed for me, to make me gorgeous.

I foraged greedily for my purse, like

Paying for the first date with my latex love.

You read me like a book.

I write you as a poem.

 

Sharing our Shit -Halloween Edition

There has been a lot to enjoy over the last few days. Here are a few of the things I particularly enjoyed.

I have written a story about period sex, its glorious, wonderful, messiness and the bonds it can create. This story was based on a real-life encounter, and it is an experience that, a dozen years on, I am deeply grateful for. So it is always interesting to hear the perspectives of others. Like this post from Molly on last week’s Sinful Sunday.

Slightly less elemental was this pic from Quinn Rhodes who was celebrating her 2 year blogversary, with a wittily arranged pic that gets to the heart of what sex blogging is about, and why it is not all about sex.

Also from Sinful Sunday I loved this pic by Little Switch Bitch, a kind of view behind the scenes.

Returning to Smutathon, Anne Stagg posted an intriguing story called When The Circus Came to Corwen. I always think it is brave to set erotic fiction in historical contexts but when you pull it off, as Anne does here, the results are so, so satisfying.

This blog as originally conceived,  was to write in defence of sex workers’ rights and anything else I fancied writing about. I am still passionate about this cause and value the corner of my Facebook where I connect with sex workers and activists from around the world. Anne Modus I have followed form the very beginning of this blog and this post about the Nordic Mode in Norway is well worth reading.

Masturbation Monday gave us this clever take on Bridget Jones

And as a domme who has done several consensual non consent schoolroom and prison scenes I very much enjoyed this account of a school scene

This Girl is doing an October Gas Mask Challenge from which I enjoyed this.

This post by May More was deeply thought provoking and got my thinking abut my won roads not taken.

Oh and I can’t forget car porn can I? I grew up not far from Longbridge so Austins were part of my life from a young age. I remember when there were still plenty of Austin A35s on the road In fact I remember having a lift to school in one. As the engines were very tuneable, sporty versions, such as this one modified by the Speedwell company, were prominent in saloon car racing.  Here is one in  action. This is sex on four wheels, believe me!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f5TYxHmcjBU

Please have a look, and support these fantastic blogs.

I am going away and taking a break from this blog. My net scheduled SoSS post will be on Saturday 16th November.

Ontario – Yours to Discover

This is another Canadian themed post I had intended to write for Smutathon but never quite got round to as fatigue took its toll. But I was determined to write t and here it is:

I never really wanted to go to Toronto. I didn’t, believe me. And I never thought I would end up staying.  I had been with Kat 2 years without ever getting to visit her home city. Then we broke up. It wasn’t easy.  She regarded my affair with a man as a double betrayal.  We parted and Kat returned to Toronto. I resigned myself to never seeing her again.

For over a year, I heard nothing from her. Then I got a text message.

“I need you back in my life. All is forgiven. Almost �”

“Are you coming back to London?” I texted back, with a mixture of apprehension and hope.

“No. You are coming to me. Check your e-mail. I have sent your tickets through.”

So I found myself on the Toronto waterfront  at 2 days’ notice, having phoned in sick at work, no hotel booked, just instruction to wait for a message.

It was late afternoon and the sun was already low in the sky, when the message came.

“Tranmere Drive, Mississauga. Take a cab.”

I stepped out of the taxi into a deserted street with industrial buildings. I felt anxious and vulnerable.   I held my phone in my hand, checking for messages, scrolling anxiously, feeling mounting panic.  Why had she made me come here? What was her game? No one knew I was here. Not work, not family, not my London friends. If I died alone here, who would ever know?

I heard footsteps behind me then felt a gloved hand over my mouth a knee in the back forcing me to the ground.  A hessian sack was pulled over my head. My hands were forced behind me and tied roughly with rope. I trembled.

Then I heard Kat’s voice.

“Just throw the fucking slag in the boot!”

They picked me up, overpowering me as I wriggled and kicked, I felt a strap going round my ankles. Soon I was in the boot of the car, trussed and helpless. The lid slammed shut and I was in darkness.

The car drove off. After a couple of bends the car seemed to be picking up speed and moving straight ahead. I guessed that we mist be on a main highway out of town.

I have no idea how long we had been driving for when I was shaken to the side again as the car veered suddenly off the straight road, braked sharply and began jolting down what was evidently a rough track.  After a short while the car turned sharp left again and came to a sudden halt.

The boot lid was opened and I was lifted out and set on my bound feet. The blindfold was taken off. It was already dark. I had no idea what time it was.  Kat came out and spat in my face.

“You like cock? You’re going to get cock baby!”

She pinched my cheeks and smirked.  One of her accomplices came up wit a license plate on a cord and handed it to her. She showed it to me. Underneath the word Ontario and the motto “Yours to Discover” were the words

“Yours to Fuck,”

She hung it round my neck and laughed again. I trembled with fear.

“Kat, what are you going to do to me?”

“Giving what you like best, honey. Which isn’t what I can give you. Is it?”

She turned me round and pushed me in the direction of the edge of the forest.

“Walk. This is Ontario. Yours to discover”

They all laughed.

I shuffled forward, ankles bound.  I fell over a couple of times, stumbling in the undergrowth. Each time I was pulled roughly to my feet, ordered to carry on. We soon reached a fallen tree where I was ordered to kneel in the wet grass.

I was tied to the tree, blindfolded, my ankles bound, my tights round my ankles. I was alone. At least I think I was. Kat and her friends had gone, I knew that but here it was, bound and helpless, in bra and panties, a quick to the side from having my cunt exposed to the world.

After a while, I heard voices in the clearing.

“Hey, look at this.”

I heard footsteps coming near. Three men were standing over me.

“Well she’s not my type, I guess but, hey, it’s a free fuck.”

“What’s your name?”

I screamed.

“Fuck off!” I yelled, hoping someone might hear. But my screams just seemed to echo in the emptiness. I let out a wail of despair.

“Well Miss Fuck Off we are real pleased to meet you. My friend is Kat’s brother and we have heard so much about you, about how you really like being fucked.”

“That’s right, we have been looking forward to it. And hey cos we’re good guys we have eve brought rubbers.”

Then I heard the third voice. I started. It was an English voice, one I thought I recognised. I was a little relieved that these weren’t random strangers.  If they knew Kat, and were here at Kat’s invitation, then Kat herself and her two accomplices could not be far away. I had not been abandoned. Instead I was being used and degraded in an elaborate game. And, maybe, Kay would have me back  once I had done this penance.

Except it wasn’t penance. As I thought about this |I felt myself getting wet, feel my swelling clit brush against my nylon panties. I was going to get a good hard fucking or three but what I needed more than anything at this moment, was a wank. And this, I would surely be denied.

“Can you untie a hand please?”

“And why would I do that honey? So you can play with yourself? My cock not    good enough for you?”

He climbed onto the log, knelt astride me and tugged down my bra and began sucking my nipples. He was rough, I felt a beard against my skin, felt his teeth.  He was doing this top hurt me.

“Stop it, you’re hurting me!”

“Oh really? Kat said you like it rough.”

He started kneading and slapping my breasts with his hands, again I cried out. He carried on then I felt a finger going into my cunt.

“You’re a dirty bitch. You are so fucking wet.”

“Just fuck me, Please!”

And then he was inside me. He pushed in to the full length of his large cock, grabbed me round d the head, pulling on my hair so that I winced with pain again, then with five brutal thrusts, he ejaculated, and cried out with pleasure as he came.

I hadn’t come, I generally don’t come unless I can massage my clit when I am being fucked. But that was the point wasn’t it?  This was to be sex with men for whom my needs counted for nothing, for whom I was an object with a wet, slippery hole. Kat was trying to teach me a lesson.  She has thought this out well up to a point. What she hadn’t taken into account was that I was enjoying the objectification, I was going to get a month’s worth of wank fantasies out this. Oh God, wank. I so needed to wank.  Oh please!

I pulled against the ropes that bound my wrists. But they were tight, really tight, and rubbed and chafed.  I began to sob with frustration.

The man got up, I could make out the sound of trousers being pulled up, the clink of a belt buckle.

“OK Gary. I’m done. The dirty slut’s all yours now.”

“Hi Gary” I said, attempting a weak smile. Could you just play with my clit a little bit? Please?”

“I really haven’t got time for foreplay and all that shit honey. Kat wants you fucked and fucked hard.”

And he did. Six thrusts, six thrusts of premeditated brutality. And he was out.

“We are using rubbers” said Gary, “that was like part of the deal with Kat, But I am just going to squeeze this baby out over your lovely litl;e tghigh.”

I heard him fumbling with the condom, removing it I guessed carefully so as not to spill anything, then I felt a vigorous rubbing of latex against my inner thighs, then the ooze of cold jizz. He worked his way up to the crotch, spreading his emission over both inner thighs up to the first sproutings of pubic hair.

“Be careful. I can get pregnant from this, you know.”

“And? I quite like the idea of a lesbian having my child. Yeah I love that idea. And he rubbed again and I felt the pubic hair matting as he worked his way up to the vaginal opening.

“yeah, that would be real good.”

He laughed and stood up.

“Mike, the little lady wants you to make her a baby”

They both laughed and I began to scream. I had to hand it to Kat. She had probably thought this one up too.  I felt miserable and helpless as Mike got on top of me and pushed his way in. I barely registered what her was doing to me. He grunted a lot, he was , I guessed, a bit more corpulent than the other two, his breath smelt of vinegar I tried turning my head away from him bit he grabbed it and turned it back. I shut my mouth as I felt him kiss me and try to force his tongue   between my lips.

He would not abandon the effort and I thrashed about, pulling against my restraints, retching at the vinegar breath that I could not escape. He held my head in a lock and I began to choke when I heard someone approach. Mike took his hands off my head and I felt him sit up, still astride me.

“Get off her and leave her alone. You have all had your fun. Now just get back in your car and go home.”

It was Kat, cool, authoritative and utterly dominant. The three men didn’t say a word and walked away. I heard a bang of car doors, an engine starting, and they were gone.

I was spent. She took the blindfold off and smiled.

“Had enough cock, haven’t you?”

I nodded. I felt sore and used, my inner thighs sticky with the come of the men who had had me as I lay there helpless.

“Yes, Kat.”

She stood over me and spat in my face.

“Betray me again and this is going to happen again. And again. And again. Until you learn your fucking lesson.”

“Yes Kat.”

“And what have you learnt?”

“That I will be faithful to you, I will sleep with no one but you, that I am a lesbian. I am yours. I love you Kat, I adore you, take me please take me..”

I burst into tears.

It was after dawn by the time we reached East York. We pulled into a diner where Kay handed me a denim boiler suit. And a pair if pumps.

“Put these on. They’re a bit like prison issue aren’t they but I quite like the idea of that. I mean, the dynamics of our relationship have changed haven’t they and we kinda need to reflect that in our clothes from time to time don’t we?”

I was tired. I was hungry. Cream cheese bagels and coffee were just what I needed.  Back in the warmth of the car I feel asleep but when we reached Kat’s house I was conscious of her lifting me out of the car and tenderly carrying me in to my new home.

After a bath I lay in the freshly made bed waiting for my love.  I played back the previous 24 hours in my head, how I had been degraded and used. My hand reached for my clit. I was horny as f**k. Waiting for her, waiting for her,

MEDITATION ON A PAIR OF FENDI THIGH BOOTS

As I couldn’t afford them

I cut them out of Vogue,

Put them in my handbag as a charm,

Mine to keep as long as

The paper bears my

Obsessive handling, on the tube,

In the morning coffee shop,

In the places where I take them out,

Weigh them in my hands like gems.

 

At night, as you lie beside me, sleeping,

I take out the birthday gift,

You will never buy, part my

Booted legs as if for you to fuck me,

Vibrate myself to Amazonian bliss.

SoSS – October

It is Saturday 19th October as I write. I am listening anxiously for news of the votes in Parliament on you know what. But there is good news, one part of which I will turn to later. For bow I ma very happy that we stuffed the Aussies in the rugby this morning.

Here are some things that I have enjoyed reading over the last couple of weeks. I was a late comer to anal sex and them mainly in a BDSM context.  I ave both given and received and there is nothing like it for making the recipient feel vulnerable. In the right headspace it can release powerful emotions. May More discussed anal here in the context of a post that looks into wider consent issues.

Sweet girl talks about the emotional aspects of anal here.

I enjoyed this story by Posy Churchgate.

Three weeks ago I was busy with Smutathon I have still not got round to reading more than a handful of the 49 posts. I will feature more  of them in a future post. This week I enjoyed this by The Other Livvy and this poem by Quinn Rhodes.

Photography is something I used to enjoy but these days rarely have time for. Some thirty years ago I bought a Minolta x300, my very first SLR camera, and for a few years I  took t wt me everywhere.   These days I tend to be on the opposite side of the camera. I found this by Exposing 40, she who exposed my 57 a few months ago.

And now the good news. This week the Government announced that age verification for accessing online porn was to be abandoned after being deferred several times. They had been told by those with expertise in the area that it would be unworkable. This is apart from issues of privacy, of the security of personal data, of the effect on niche and ethical porn,  (much of it produced by women.)

Read more here:

As ever I am finishing with car porn.As a vintage girl I own a 1958 Ford Prefect 100E, the perfect car for a summer’s day in a circle dress,  and here is the official launch film for the range from 1953,

 

Les Souliers Verts

I hadn’t been in Montreal long before I met Lynda in a bar. She was, I guessed a bit older than me, a brunette with shoulder length hair, a Quebecoise born and bed with a marked preference for speaking French, well what she called French at any rate. I had done French A Level back in England and thought I knew the language quite well but I really struggled to understand her. But I persisted, she switched to English from time to time, and after buying her a couple of beers I persuaded her to come to back to my flat.

We started kissing as soon as I had shut the door behind us, I quickly had her to off, and a soon as I had unhooked her bra I dropped to my knees, pulling her down just enough for me to suck at her nipples. I steered her towards the bedroom and let her make herself comfortable, while I popped to the bathroom.

When I entered the bedroom, she was lying naked on the bed, holding her hands two green stiletto shoes. I froze. She laughed.

“What are these?  Do you bring girls back who leave their shoes here?     Do you?”

He stopped laughing and got up off the bed. She pushed a stiletto heel into my left nipple and twisted until I winced in pain.

“Ces souliers verts, ils sont a qui?”

I didn’t answer,

“Ils sont les tiens?”

I nodded. I reasoned that admitting to crossdressing was likely to be the better option. She went to my wardrobe and took out a red shift dress that didn’t really go with the green shoes but which was easy to put on after three beers, and with nervous sweaty hands.

Then she said

“Dance”.

So I did, nervously, gingerly as I had never really worn the green stilettos to do anything more than pad about the flat.

“Faster” she said “faster.”

She laughed, and as I spun round trying not to fall over I saw her hand slip down to her cunt, saw her begin to massage the swelling bud of her clit. Then she said,

“Play with yourself as you dance.”

So I did, bouncing from side to side as I danced, watching her as she pleasured herself on the bed. I was near to coming and I sensed that she was too as she arched her back and pushed two fingers into her cunt.

“Viens. Baise-moi.”

I kicked off the stilettos and moved I in her. I was hard and precome was dribbling from my bellend. She was wet and ready. I pushed in and we both came immediately. I withdrew and rolled over panting. I had been nervous, this was my first fuck in Montreal, my first fuck I Canada and I knew it wouldn’t be my last. I knew too that my next fuck wouldn’t be with Lynda.

What I didn’t know was that she was a singer.  She never told me that. And it was a couple of years later that I found one of her albums in a red shop. I played it in the car on the way home and started with I heard a sing about les souliers verts. I felt myself getting hard as I listened.

I made a detour to call in at the bar where I had met her. I needed to pull. I needed to fuck, in souliers verts or not, as she wished.

Strap Lines

I was born in 1962. It was well into my lifetime when corporal punishment was abolished in UK schools and some of the things that happened, even as David Bowie was reinventing himself as Ziggy Stardust, now seem truly shocking. I remember coming home from school in tears after a headmaster had threatened to cane the whole year over something (admittedly something particularly unpleasant and upsetting which I won’t describe here), that someone in our year had done and for which the culprit had not been identified. I remember comforting a girl in my year after a caning administered by the male headmaster with nobody else present. Britain in the early 1970s could be a brutal place for children and issues like concern over wellbeing and safeguarding, were seemingly far from the thoughts of those in authority over us. To those of us who were there, the revelations of the sexual abuse of children in those distant times that have dominated headlines in recent years have been shocking but unsurprising.

By that time, corporal punishment (the birch) had been abolished in UK penal institutions. In Canada corporal punishment in prisons lingered on until 1972.  The implementation of choice there was a leather strap. In BDSM circles the strap is still referred to by many as the Canadian prison strap. It was a particularly vicious thing and differed from the straps I have used in kink play in having holes. These were to allow the strap to travel faster through the air resulting in a harder impact and more pain. They also bit into the flesh and pulled away bits of skin as the strap was lifted off the buttocks, causing particularly nasty wounds that took a long time to heal. This was a particularly cruel punishment and one that, as we know from the testimony of those unfortunate enough to receive it, left lasting mental scars.

Despite knowing about its dark history, the prison strap is one of the favourite items in my toy bag. I bought mine at a fetish fair in Birmingham five years ago, shortly after discovering my dom side.  I took it to a play party and used on a new play partner (who was to become a regular play partner). After a warmup I showed him my new strap. One stroke with this and he screamed with pain and cried “Red!”.

This remains the only time that a sub or bottom has safed out on me. This was partly due to inexperience on my part and to my not appreciating just what a strap can do. We talked the failed scene over and played again a couple of weeks later. This time I was a bit gentler, but he still cried “yellow” after three strokes and we moved on to other toys. This scene taught me something else. That is that the submissives’ fear of the strap is as powerful as the strap itself. I love the look of fear in their eyes, the pleading. I love messing with their heads too. I show them the strap, make them kiss it, then when I am behind them, put the strap down, pick up a nice suede flogger and hit them with that instead. Every time they scream as if they had had the strap, feeling the pain they had steeled themselves for, and not the actual pain.

In my experience it is only the strap that does this. I have a few nasty canes, and I don’t generally get people queuing up for 50 with the dragon. I have some quite fearsome paddles too. But only the strap arouses that raw, elemental fear.

I started this piece with a brief discussion of the sheer cruelty of the strap when used in an institutional context, because it helps to illustrate the emotional power of BDSM for its practitioners. It takes activities that are deeply unpleasant and recreates them as parody for the pleasure of participants. This enables BDSM to be both subversive and cathartic. I know a number of people on the scene who, through their play, are able to deal with their demons and emotional baggage. It is through kink that they can work things through in a safe and accepting environment.  Not everything can be dealt with through BDSM, of course, and there are those who just get pleasure from pain. I am one of them. In terms of dynamics I can never be other than a dominant but I do need to be beaten from time to time.  For feeling good, it can be even better than running!

When Bedford Went to Ottawa

This post was first published on Smutathon.com on 28th September 2019. Now reposted here

His Twitter followers come and go, at least the vast majority that you either don’t know in real life or interact with to any great extent online. I long ago stopped keeping track of who had followed me or unfollowed me, but it was nonetheless a very pleasant surprise, a few years ago, to see that I had been followed by Terri -Jean Bedford. I don’t see myself as particularly prominent among those campaigning for sex workers’ rights, so I felt honoured in a strange kind of way.

For at the time, in 2013, Bedford was something of a celebrity in the sex workers’ rights movement. She had worked for some years as a professional dominatrix in Ontario but had been prosecuted, with two other women, under Canada’s archaic anti-prostitution laws for keeping a bawdy house. As a result she went to war against these laws, and achieved a major victory when, in 2013, the Canadian Supreme Court, in a unanimous 9-0 judgement, struck down the laws.  The reason for the decision was that the laws endangered the safety of sex workers. To quote from the judgement,

“The prohibitions at issue do not merely impose conditions on how prostitutes operate. They go a critical step further, by imposing dangerous conditions on prostitution; they prevent people engaged in a risky – but legal – activity from taking steps to protect themselves from the risk.”

Specific reference was made to the prohibition on sex workers operating, for reasons of personal safety, from shared premises, and being forced to work on the streets. Laws against living off the proceeds of prostitution were also struck out. The court applied a test of proportionality. Does the harm that the law seeks to prevent outweigh the harm that the law itself may cause? The court found that it did not.  The dangers to which sex workers were exposed could not be justified by the social nuisance that the laws seek to prevent.

Nearer home, sex workers still have to operate in the shadow of laws whose effects are precisely those of the laws struck down in Canada. Only last year, two Polish women were jailed in Yorkshire for “running a brothel.”  In fact, they were working together from a flat for their safety. Our laws endanger sex workers. There are areas where unofficial toleration exists, but this can change quickly, for example when there is a change of police chief. Edinburgh had an enlightened policy towards the city’s saunas in the days of Lothian and Borders Police. All this changed after the creation of Police Scotland. There was a string of raids in the city, with sex workers’ money and mobile phones being confiscated and not returned. Where sex workers cannot trust the police, do not feel able to report incidents and know they will be taken seriously, they are in danger.

Which brings me to Ireland.  In recent years the buying of sex has been criminalised, both north and south of the border. This was sold to the public as an adoption of the Nordic Model, the criminalisation of clients to “End Demand”, combined with the decriminalisation of sex workers who would be given support to “exit”. I hardly need add that nobody asked the sex workers if they wanted to exit or not. It was taken as read that they were all coerced and in need of saving. In practice, however, the existing criminal sanctions were left in place and a number of women have been imprisoned in the Republic, with, in some cases, the courts ignoring the fact that they were mothers and sole carers for their children.

And what effect has this had? A recent study in Northern Ireland looked at the effect of client criminalisation there.  This was particularly interesting as, unlike other jurisdictions such as Sweden, Northern Ireland had good quality data on sex work from the period before the criminalisation of clients. The results are perhaps unsurprising. There has been no measurable decrease in the prevalence of sex work and some suggestions that it may even have increased. Either way, the laws are a triumph of ideology over evidence that endanger vulnerable women.

Out of Body Experiences

This piece was written for Smutathon 2019 on 28th September 2019 and originally posted on smutathon.com . Please visit the site if you haven’t already. There is a lot of fabulous content.

Many years ago, in a student bar, a friend asked a strange question
“Why do you have to transport your body when you want to go anywhere?”
We laughed. I mean, the answer is obvious isn’t it? And yet, the question has remained with me over the years. I imagine it has remained with my friend too. He moved to Seattle shorty after graduating and has had a successful career in Artificial Intelligence research. Simple, naïve questions sometimes turn out to be the most fruitful and I am sure Peter’s habit of coming up with these questions has inspired his research.

For me, as a writer, it has proved to be a fruitful question. It has helped me to think more deeply about my writing and how it has enabled me to travel to places and times I could not otherwise visit, to inhabit other, different bodies (something I touched on in my last post) and to think in different ways about my own body, my own materiality, and that particular bit of spacetime in which the material Eve finds herself.
I had actually planned to be in a different bit of spacetime today as I had originally planned to be at the main event in Montreal. Instead I sit at home in the rainy English Midlands with woe and honey cake, listening to The Cure as I write. Yet I am in Montreal with a bunch of people I love and admire. We may not be physically present to each other but wed are together, we are there for each other today. Some of my posts will be about Canada so I will be travelling and exploring without transporting my body. Just as well as it aces like anything today (I am in training for a half marathon).
How does this relate to sex? After all there is nothing more body centred than sex is there? Even solos sex needs a body. And yet we are able to interact sexually with people who are not physically present to us. There is phone sex, obviously, web camming and so on. There is also writing. I engage with my characters, and some of them are hot in ways that never made it on to the page. This does not mean I fantasise about them as I masturbate. For me, the act of thinking about them, just holding them before me can be sexually charged. I pour sexual energy into my writing. And also into my reading. There is an aspect to reading and writing erotica that I had never considered until I read Enjoy Sex by Meg John Barker and Justin Hancock a couple of years ago. This is that through reading and writing we interact sexually with our writers and readers. When I post a story, I am inviting you, dear reader, to enter my house of eroticism, maybe not the whole house, but a room or two, all with large windows and nice views. And If you like what you read, if it fuels your fantasies, then we have connected sexually. Not with our bodies, but with our minds. I may never know who you are, we may never be in the same bit of spacetime, but the connection is real. I value it. I hope you do too.
Today you have the opportunity to interact with a lot of clever, sexy people here at smutathon.com I hope you enjoy what you read and that you will feel able to make a donation to the cause of abortion rights in the United States that Smutathon2019 is supporting. And pause, too, to reflect on the potential richness of a naïve question.