SoSS – St. Andrew’s Day Edition

November has had an awful lot to offer in the sex blogging world. Here are some things I particularly enjoyed.

Chastity and orgasm denial have always intrigued me, more through intellectual curiosity than actual experience. I can imagine how being denied orgasm can enhance submissive feelings and this by Purple’s Gem is a consideration of how this works. I particularly like that this is written from the perspective of a femsub . Most of my BDSM world revolves around female domination and it is always valuable to gain insights from other parts of he kinky universe.

This, from Jupiter Grant was massively hot. I loved the humour and some of the little details too. The ball scratching reminds reminds me of an extremely embarrassing incident at a corporate Christmas do may years ago when a colleague asked a partner’s wife f she would ask her husband not to scratch his balls in the office. Ans, as for eating chocolate biscuits in the kitchen well………

Sinful Sunday for 3rd November had a Halloween theme and there were 2 pics I found quite amazing.

Purple’s Gem again

And Sub Bee

As you can imagine, trans issues are never far from my thoughts so I found this interesting. I do disagree with Melody   on the issue of self certification of gender for reasons which I may go into in a future post.   Suffice it to say that the Republic of Ireland has had self-certification since 2015 and the sky hasn’t fallen in, and the rad fem We Need to Talk campaign has been shameless in its mendacity  and fear mongering. But, when public debate and discourse has been so utterly debased in so many other areas can we expect better?

A couple of years ago one of the broadsheets marked Eroticon with a feature for which the partners of some well known sex bloggers were interviewed.It is always interesting to hear what they have to say and I enjoyed this by the husband of May More.

For obvious reasons I enjoyed this about my day out in London  with Posy Churchgate.

Most of my erotica is set in contemporary locations and I haven’t done much in the way of historical or fantasy settings. I do, however, enjoy reading where there imagination takes other writers, such as Deviant Succubus in this tasty piece of vampire erotica.

And talking of exotic locations, how about St.Petersburg? Francesca Demont illustrates this with some seriously hot pictures too. Do have a look

I missed most of the discussions of cum tributes. I am aware that there are men (well one anyway :-)) who fantasise about me and this doesn’t particularly bother me. Objectification is a word that is too easily bandied about in certain circles and I don’t think it is inherently a bad thing in the context of sexual desire. This was a very thoughtful contribution to the discussion from Sweet Girl

Latex is big fetish of mine. And fetishes are not the same as kinks, a point much misunderstood in the wider world. This Girl talks rubber and its significance for her here.

As a vintage loving girl lingerie is a big thing for me and a visit to What Katie Did is a must whenever I am in London. Lingerie id For Everyone is a meme I need to get into in 2020. I really enjoyed this roundup of Week 45.

I enjoyed this debut on Sinful Sunday and I also found out that my sister in smut Posy Churchgate can do shorthand.  And this got me reminiscing about Reggie Perrin and Joan although I am sure Mr. Watson never fantasised about Posy that way, or maybe he did! You can appreciate Posy’s secretarial talents here. .

 

And so, as ever, to car porn.Today is St. Andrew’s day so something Scottish is appropriate. Scottish cars I hear you say? The Hillman Imp was built at Linwood near Glasgow (not entirely successfully) and was rallied (very successfully) by the inspirational Rosemary Smith who I had the pleasure of meeting at Race Retro this year. Here she is  talking about her career and driving an F1 car at the age of 79.

 

Equus

It is sometimes said that there is nothing sexier than a beautiful woman on horseback, all tight crisp, jodhpurs, gleaming boots and so on.  The reality of horse riding is a bit different. The ladies I know do not go for a hack in crisp white jodhpurs, their boots do not gleam, rather they are dull and flecked with mud. Neither are the horsewomen I know particularly beautiful.

Actually, I really only know two horsewomen. There is my wife, Mathilde. Then there is her mother Estelle. Estelle has been an equestrian all her life and still lives on the farm in Normandy where she grew up.   Mathilde too grew up here and learnt from her mother. It was to the farm that Mathilde brought me at the beginning of our relationship to meet her parents.

Unlike her daughter, I never found Estelle beautiful. Her features were rather angular, her nose aquiline, her hair, once Norman blonde, strawberry was starting to turn grey. At 53 she still had the figure, her active country lifestyle had kept her body taut and slim but there were days when I simply found her ugly. Maybe that was because I didn’t really like her.

Relations between us have been strained since we first met, on my first visit to the family farm five years earlier. I had found Estelle rather cold and aloof, haughty even, as if she didn’t think me good enough for her daughter. I wondered whether she had acquired some of the prejudices that French women allegedly have about Englishmen and their inadequacy as lovers. She had had a rich and varied love life, I knew that from Mathilde, and even though she has been single for a couple of years, I just know that she will hook up again. Estelle likes sex, she needs sex. And I have no doubt that she is an amazing lover.

Estelle fascinated me. I admired her equestrian skills, the way she controlled the chestnut stallion that had thrown Mathilde a couple of times. I can’t ride so I never rode out with her. Maybe if I had, things might have been different between us? Over time I became increasingly aware of her sexuality, the way in which it was revealed in a very gradual unveiling, something subtle, something almost evanescent, but something definitely there, something that once inside in your head would never leave. The fact that she wasn’t conventionally beautiful served to make her more alluring.

Estelle became an obsession. I masturbated to her after making love to her daughter, I found myself muttering her name as I went about my daily life, wondering how to go about suggesting to Mathilde that we go to visit her mother again. And each time, knowing that I would never have the courage to make a pass at her, I looked for other ways of being close top her.

So one bright, cold October Sunday morning I offered to help her muck out the stables. Estelle wore a jumper an olds pair of jeans tucked into rubber boots.   She had no makeup and her hair was pinned  up, but coming loose in strands that fell across her freckled face.  God, did I want her!

She handed me a shovel and a pair of rubber gloves told me brusquely what to do and we set to work, picking up droppings, shovelling wet straw. Estelle said nothing, cold and aloof as ever, but I watched in admiration her fluid, graceful movements. I was just warming to my task when she walked over to me, gently took the shovel from my hand and said,

“On your knees. You know you want to.”

And there I was, on my knees in the straw and the muck, licking at Estelle’s filthy rubber boots, the shoes, the shafts, and finally the soles as she pushed each boot in turn into my face.

When I had finished, she sat astride me, facing towards my bottom. I had no idea what she was going to do when she tugged at my jeans and forced them down to my knees. She then leaned forward, and I felt lube, cold, around my anus. I felt a finger go in, move briskly up and down my passage. Then she withdrew and the next sensation was that of cold metal. The shock of the cold made me clench my buttocks with a sharp intake of breath.

She slapped me hard on the right bum cheek. I started, then relaxed as the plug was inserted up to the flange. It sat there, tight, and when she rocked me from side to side I felt a swish of horsehair against my skin.

I had figured this must be a tail and when she strapped on the saddle whose straps were still warm from the ride Estelle had had on the grey mare, who was now back in her stall her head protruding over the gate as she observed with interest the scene unfolding.

She saddled me up, climbed astride me dug her spurs into my thighs until I yelled with pain.

“Straight ahead. Into the yard!”

“And Mathilde? What if she sees this?”.

“Mathilde already knows what I had planned for you. You haven’t really hidden your obsession with me have you? She showed me the notepad with my name written all over it and drawings of shiny boots. So want were we to do? I really don’t want a sexual relationship with my daughter’s partner.  But a slave I can always use.”

She slapped me on the thigh and I moved slowly forward through the stable door into the dirt yard. We did a round and she brought me to a halt by the back door of the house.

Estelle laughed.

“And I am going to write in your bottom.”

Estelle took a marker pen out of her bag and scribbled on my arse cheeks.  She took a photograph and showed me. I was astonished. She had even written it in Latin.

EQUUS SUM ESTELLAE SERVUSQUE

“Now go and show it to Mathilde.”

I walked into the room with my butt plug still in.

“Quis es” she asked, unsmiling.

“Equus sum Estellae servusque”

“You’re mine too. Now get on your knees.|”

I knelt and kissed her feet. I felt myself getting hard.  I needed her. We had fucked so often before but I was filled with the thought that in fucking Mathilde I was vicariously fucking Estelle. I was going to love my servitude.

 

 

Let’s Get Together The Two of Us over a Glass Of Champagne

sang Sailor in their 1976 hit.  I have never really liked the song but it has that annoying habit some songs do of burrowing their way into your brain and refusing to leave. Another thing is that drinking champagne is something I really only do with girlfriends and is not linked, for me at least, to romance and sex.

So it seemed right to arrange to meet Posy Churchgate for our latest smutty sister outing at the St. Pancras Champagne Bar, watching the trains and admiring the wonderful architecture as we drank and chatted and gave a silent thank you to the late Sir John Betjeman who played a key role in saving this magnificent station and hotel from being bulldozed by British Rail and replaced by a replica of Euston.

Suitably refreshed we set off for Camden Market and the brand new Vagina Museum where we joined the crowds in the small exhibition space to take a peek at the inaugural exhibition. The Museum’s mission is to educate and inform, and this to empower, particularly empower the half of the human race with vulvas in not feeling shame, in promoting their own sexual health, in their quest for better sex through knowing how their bodies work. Empowered too to resist attempts to persuade them that their vaginas are dirty or smelly and need to be cleaned with soaps and lotions and creams. They don’t and some of the products  displayed on a kind of Shelf of Shame were frankly stomach churning. The very existence of vaginal tightening creams give eloquent testimony to the misogyny of the main stream adult industry.

The museum is not just about this though and locates its mission in the wider context of  feminism, LGBTQ+ positivity and trans inclusivity. It will be holding events too, including a Shabat meal for queer Jewish women next Friday.  In fact I would love to have come down this coming weekend too, both for that and for the following night’s launch party.

I will visit again soon when it is a bit quieter and I can have some time for reflection in what it all means to me. I thought a lot about period sex and shared some of my thoughts with Posy. I will return to this in a post when i have thought some more.

We finished up with a few drinks in a nearby pub where we met up with a few Eroticon friends. Another fabulous day with the sex blogging family. And more interesting conversation with Posy. We got on to true crime and talked bout the tragic Edith Thompson  who I have written about here.

There are now less than four months until we meet again at Eroticon and I am sure we will have even more to talk about then! In the meantime I will raise a glass (of Cava actually) and drink to sisterhood. I hope you will join me.

 

 

Kosher Kink and Honey Cake

This is my final post from Smutathon 2019, a story set in Poland.

I live in a land of ghosts. I live in the nondescript town of D. in south western Poland that was once the German town of R. The area is actually scenic. Just twenty miles away, the Sudeten mountains rise up on the Czech border. There are historic towns and castles nearby.  There are palaces. Most of them crumbling ruins, witnesses to a German past most people would happily forget. That last part of that past is dark. The area was littered with forced labour camps, satellite camps of the larger camps whose names still bring a shudder. My town has a synagogue, boarded up and derelict since   it was trashed and defiled on Kristallnacht. There are no Jews in D.

Actually, there is one. I am that Jew. My name is Alicja Bromberger. I am not from here. I grew up in Warsaw. I came here to live among the ghosts.  I felt drawn to the darkness that hangs over the quiet countryside like a pall. I am single. I am often lonely, But I feel that this is my fate. How can I be happy in the face if what befell my people, my family? And don’t think it ended in 1945. I have an uncle and aunt in Israel, forced into emigration in 1968. I live among ghosts and tell no one here who I really am.

I have another secret I keep from my neighbours. In my professional life I am a dominatrix. I work as Mistress Alice, Queen of Kosher Kink. Have a look on those pro domme websites. You will find me easily. There are only a handful of pro dommes in Poland. In real life I am a bit out of the way in my Silesian hideaway, but I have my regular clients, some of them from Germany. I make enough to pay my bills.

I first met Marcin the day I came home from the sops to find graffiti on the wall of my house.

“Precz z Zydami!” ”Jews out!” it read.  There was a crude Star of David overlaid with a swastika sprayed on in strokes of sinister violence. I froze. I looked around, searched for my key in my handbag and disappeared quickly into the house. I shut the door behind me and burst into tears. Who had found about me? And how? And what else did they know? If they also knew that my second bedroom was a BDSM studio, and that I did this professionally, I would have to leave. And I needed the dark solitude of the town of D.

There was a knock on the door. I opened it to a Polish man of about 30 who had a bucket of soapy water in his hand and a sponge.

“I’m Marcin. I think it is really awful what they have done. I’ve come to wash it off”.

“Thank you” I mumbled, “that’s very kind. “

He went to work and when he had finished, I invited him in for a cup of tea.

I set down a tray of tea and little cakes and sat down, watching him closely as he stirred sugar into his tea,

“Please have some cake” I said and, after a moment’s hesitation he took one.

“Actually, I knew you were Jewish, myself, I kind of found out, and I know what you do.”

“How?”

“I look at sites. I found you on InternationalDommes.com I am single, I don’t have a girlfriend, I just think about this stuff. And I hate myself for it. And I hate this country. Look, my grandparents came here from central Poland after the war. Some of my family were involved in the pogrom at Kielce. The Poles have been as awful as the Nazis, some of the anyway, And my family too. Mistress Alice, will you punish me for wat they have done? Please! I have always fantasised about being on my ness before a Mistress, but if I could kneel before you as a Jewish mistress, please”

“I can’t promise. I need to think about it.”

“But I need this. I can’t cope with the shame. Please punish me. And our town, you know it was designated as a town for Jews after the war, before the Germans were resettled? The Germans had to wear a special badge, and had to bow whenever they met a Jew, and step off the pavement”

“I had read that” I said.

“That was so justified, But I think we should made to do that too. I crave humiliation at your hands.”

He broke down and wept and I agreed to see him, despite my doubts.

**************************

“Kiss the Star of David!” I ordered him after he entered my chamber and held out my pendant towards him.  When he had kissed it I pushed him to his knees and ordered him to lick my boots. He started nervously, I could see him trembling in fear and anticipation. I grabbed his hair and yanked his head upward so that his face was looking into mine.

“You confessed to being from a family of anti-Semites. You confessed to telling Jewish jokes. What  else have you got to confess?”

He looked blank.

“Nothing Mistress.”

“What about the graffiti on my door the other day, the graffiti you mysteriously turned up to wash off for me.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“I am not stupid Marcin.”

He bowed his head. I pulled it up again and spat in his face.

“You had better be sincere in your desire to submit to me.”

“I am.”

“Prove it.”

He resumed licking and I saw him go into a trancelike state as he finished the soles and worked his eager tongue up the shaft.

“How does that feel Marcin?”

“Mistress?”

“How does it feel to be on your knees, licking the boots of a dirty Jew?”

“MIstress,  I don’t care what people say abou Jews. I have read books I have…… “

He wept again. I knew that the catharsis he sought would not be easy to find.  I sent him on his way.

************************************************************************************************************

A month later he came back. Again he kissed the Star of David. Again he licked my boots. This time I judged him ready. I had done a lot of thinking. I strapped him to the bench. And showed him the canes I was going to hit him with.  I went into the emotional void that was the main feature f my life here in the town of D.  formerly R. No anger, no feeling, just a cold concentration on the task in hand, the placement, the technique.

One hundred and one strokes, and I made him count every one, each stroke a shedding of a burden, an act of contrition for things done long before he was born, that had trapped him in shame and guilt. He breathed in deeply ahead of each stroke, fought against the agony that radiated through his body. And then surrendered to it.

When I released him from the restraints, his buttocks were an angry red, bloody and marked with the tramlines that are the marks of my craft, of a caning delivered with accuracy, with utter ruthlessness, yet with profound care for the man who had trusted me enough to give himself to me in this way. I took hi into my arms to hug him, give him reassurance, aftercare, and love. Few of my sessions had been as emotionally charged as this one. He wept again, but I sensed that these were tears of release. I kissed him gently on the forehead. He wept uncontrollably

“Thank you, Mistress, thank you, Mistress.”

“And next time,” I said, “I am going to cut off your foreskin and then I will know that you have embraced the redemption you asked for.”

He slipped free of my grasp and prostrated himself on the floor before me. I raised a foot and pressed a stiletto heel into his burning, bloodied backside. He screamed. I laughed, as I hadn’t laughed in years. I was free too.

 

******************************************************************************

Marcin is devoted to me. He comes most days to cook and clean. He will be here tomorrow with honey cake he had baked for me. We will celebrate New Year together, eat sweet things and maybe I will give him a caning to finish up.

It is Rosh Hashanah and I wish you the very best dear reader. I had to get Eve to tell you my story because my English isn’t great but If my story has spoken to you, please consider a donation for abortion rights in the USA. And please, also think about the isolation of so many people like me in a country not so far from many of you. I don’t mean Jews, but as kinky people, LGBT people, anyone who is sexually alternative. This is not such a bad country in many ways. There are good, tolerant people here. But we need your love too, and the strength it gives us.

 

Home Alone with Svenja

I was in a hurry that evening, the 9th November 1989. I was probably the only Westerner fighting his way through the crowds by the Wall, waving away proffered bottles of beer as I headed for the border checkpoint.

“Where are you going?” I heard shouts. “The party is here.”

I kept my head down. I needed to be in East Berlin on this of all nights. I needed to see Svenja who I hadn’t seen for four months, turned back at the border each time. I figured I could get through unobserved, unchecked in the jubilant chaos.

And I was right. I pushed my way past crowds flocking the other way, past exhausted and bewildered border guards who had no will to check anything anymore.  I ran and soon found myself at the U Bahn station from where I could take a train to Svenja’s flat.

Fifteen minutes later I dashed up steps into a dimly lit and empty street. I was once again in East Berlin and I had the city to myself. I pushed open the wooden door of the decaying building where Svenja had her flat. I flicked the light on and ran up the stairs, still polished to a shine even as the plaster crumbled from the façade, needing to make the next landing before the light went out.

I flicked the next switch and has light for the final push to the second floor. I was now hard and cold feel precome leaking out and soaking my boxers. I needed Svenja, I needed Svenja the convinced Communist who would never, surely, leave for the West, Svenja who I worshipped in her blue Freie Deutsche Jugend shirt, Svenja who was probably informing on me to the Stasi, Svenja who could have anything she wanted from me.

Her front door opened. As I turned right into the landing she stood before me, dressed, as I had  hoped, in only her unbuttoned FDJ shirt, which both cloaked and emphasised her breasts.

“I knew you would come” she said simply.

There, in the doorway I knelt before her, kissed her feet, worked my way up her legs, and when I began to lick at her cunt my head was already enveloped by her shirt, the shirt that I had longed to have. I pressed my face into her pubic hair, tasted her juices, like a traveller tormented by thirst who had stumbled upon an oasis.

She grabbed my hair and began to pull me along the hallway to her bedroom. The door to the flat remained wide open. We didn’t care.

I kissed her breasts, kissed the badge on her shirt, took my swollen cock in my hand and moved into position to push into Svenja’s wet cunt.

Less than a mile away history was being made. But we didn’t care. We had each other, four months to make up for, and a city all to ourselves. I thrust hard and long and came with a loud cry.  Svenja didn’t come so I worked her clit with my tongue until she, too, climaxed. Then we sat in bed, drinking Bulgarian brandy and smoking f6 cigarettes. We said little. It was as if we didn’t need to. I wanted to fuck her again, this time more slowly but I was tired, it had been a long and exhausting day and I fell asleep in her arms.

She had to shake me to wake me the following morning. I knelt up on the bed, looked out of the window to where the TV tower was flashing its red light over the grey morning as if noting had happened.  Times were changing and there were things I needed to ask Svenja and which she could surely now answer. But, as so often, she was first to speak.

“Kneel up and say what I like you to say.”

“Es lebe die Deutsche Demokratische Republik!” I said, parodying the voice of the recently departed First Secretary Honecker and went down on her.

If one socialism was about to pass into history, I reflected, Svenja and I would build another. Fuck by fuck by fuck.