#SoSS St. Silvester Edition

My last post for Share Our Shit Saturday was on a Scottish theme so it seems appropriate to start this one in the same place. The first Masturbation Monday had this story by Deviant Succubus set in a Scottish castle (and with a very striking picture too!). We plan to go to Scotland in September 2020 for Smutathon and if the weekend is as good as this well…….

For a football fan and football writer I haven’t really written much smut involving football, just one story set in the dressing room at a women’s’ international, which I can’t find but will post a link to when I do. May More has written this which I enjoyed (even though  it didn’t mention the Baggies) Oh and shag pile carpets! Very 70s really but actually much much nicer than parquet, well better for sex anyway.

Once upon a time a singer whose name we no longer mention has a hit called Rock and Roll Parts One and Two. I enjoyed rather more The Guest Parts One and Two. And I have always had a thing about the soaked panties of female overs so this was definitely something I could relate to!

Sweet Girl’s stories really fail to delight. I enjoyed this little tale from Masturbation Monday on 9th December. In fact I am picking a few things by Sweet Girl as she writes with real insight,  this consideration of why control in the context of a D/S relationship is an illusion.

This story by Tabitha Rayne is about something I have touched on in my own writing, that sometimes you just can’t beat a hard, brutal fuck.

And then Tabitha again. Her soft Scottish voice is something I could listen to ever. And when she is reading filth like thisI just…wow!

I find myself in total agreement with Molly here on what makes a good pay event….and a bad one. It is a couple of years since I went to Aftermath at the Birmingham Bizarre Bazaar (BBB) precisely because play is so difficult in its cramped, noisy environment. That and the lighting. Lighting needs, I think, to be a bit subdued but  not being able to see when you are packing your toys after play can lead to losing things. And I will say noting of the wannabe at a femdom event a couple of years ago who  borrowed a paddle without asking and left it looking like this.




To say that I was peeved is an understatement. In fact there are quite a few people on the kink scene who could usefully learn some manners.

The New Year is just hours way as I post this.  I am not actually a big fan of New Year’s resolutions and these so often fail even before the decorations come down. One way of keeping them is to share them with others who can provide a support network.  This  is why I love Violet Fawkes’ idea of Jumpstart January. I am up for this as I have enjoyed  a wonderful year and am feeling creative as never before.  I hope you will feel able to join us.

And finally a Christmas pic from The Other Livvy

And as for car porn. Some of you will have seen the recent film Le Mans ’66 (released as Ford v Ferrari in the US) in which the legendary Carroll Shelby is one of the characters. It was Shelby who came up with the idea of putting a 7 litre engine into an unremarkable British sports car called the AC Ace and produce an absolute brute of a car called the AC Cobra 427 (7 litres equating to 427 cubic inches) . Legend has it that it was the testing of a Cobra on the M1 near Luton one night in 1965, doing 180 mph (there was no speed limit on British motorways at the time) that led to the introduction of the 70 mph limit that we still have. Here it is.

2019 My Blogging Year

2019 has not been a good year for the country or for the wider world. It has been a year when I have wanted to stay close to my fellow spirits in the sex blogging family. It has been a year when I have learned to love my body, when I have found a sister, two actually, and when I have gained a clearer view of why I blog and what my writing means to me.

In March I attended Eroticon and had the conversations that led to me finding my sisters.   I have known Exposing 40 since our initial meeting in a Bristol restaurant in 2016 and have admired her work.  Yet we had never had more than very brief conversations. So it was with a little trepidation that I asked her whether he would do a photoshoot with me. A couple of months later we agreed a date and it was on Sunday 28th July that I knocked on the door of her South London flat. I had a leopard print dress packed, some fetishwear and a flogger, packed as an accoutrement rather than for play. E40 must have taken nearly 200 pictures, which, after editing and discarding, became 42 beautiful images.  I cried with happiness when I saw them.  For I had never really thought of my body as beautiful. And what I loved was the queerness of it all. It was wonderful that others thought so too.  I had the confidence to do a couple of genital shots, a bog stumbling block for me for obvious reasons, and E40 posted one of these on her blog. I was overwhelmed by the positive reaction and the comment that this was an “enticing symphony of queerness” will live with me for ever.  I think that, for me, genderqueer femme is a better fit for me than transgender woman, and that really all comes down to sex. To go down the surgical route seems to me to limit the wide range of sexual options I currently enjoy. I am a sexual person and anything that doesn’t work for sex can never work for me.  Actually, the very thought of being queer makes me incredibly horny and that can only be good for those who have sex with me.  So, E40, I will love you for ever for what you have done for me and I hope we can do this again in 2020. And I so loved the conversations we had in your flat, over cocktails in your local pub. I think of you as a sister and look forward to catching up in March.

It was also at Eroticon at I first had a longer conversation with Posy Churchgate. We had an instant connection and have cemented our bond of smutty sisterhood with two meetups in London where we have visited Sh! And the Vagina Museum. We have been to Cahoots and I have given Posy a glimpse of my vintage word. This means as much to me as the blogging world, not least because I enjoy the love and support of a lot of amazing women. And guess what? One or two of them are into BDSM so all my worlds intersect in one way or another.  I love Posy as a sister, a kindred spirit I can talk to about anything. And she has been very supportive of my writing. This is important as I am plagued by self-doubt and I need reassurance. Posy gives me that. As does May More, who I must also mention. Between them they promote my blog far more than I do. I do need to do more myself next year. But thank you so much, May, for including me in your Top Twenty Four.

My blog has been going since 2012. It was very busy in its first year, but the frequency of posting dropped off in 2014, mainly because I returned to full time work and I had a fallow few years until 2018. Over the last 18 months I have made a real effort to post more often, and to participate in the various memes and to engage more with other bloggers.

I have covered a lot of ground in my blog. In the first two years I wrote a lot about sex workers’ rights, (this was the time when Rhoda Grant was trying to introduce the Nordic Model in Scotland) and, through doing so got to engage online with activists around the word. I am still a little amazed that Carol Leigh thought that I was someone worth adding on Facebook. This is a cause I don’t really   write about much anymore as there are so many others better placed than me to say wat still needs to be said.   It remains, however, a cause to which I have a deep personal commitment, and no SWERF can be a friend of mine.

Over time the emphasis switched to smut, both stories and personal reflection. It was only in 2019 that I understood what my writing means to me. I am in a constant search for the experience of female sexuality. I can never have what I seek (which is another reason for being sceptical about gender reassignment surgery) so I look for it in my writing. Writing, as much as reading, is a means of self-understanding, is a broadening of experience. I am the women I write about. But I have their orgasms alone, at my keyboard, I have their sex in my head. But that too can be beautiful.  And I need it as much I need the actual lovers who get to share my bed. So, if you enjoy my blog you can be assured it will carry on.   I enjoy it too much to give it up.

And then there was Smutathon. My big regret is that I didn’t get to join the main event in Montreal but I had a productive day, home alone, and am looking forward to Smutathon 2020 which we provisionally plan to hold in Scotland.

And looking forward to 2020 the first big event in my diary is Eroticon when I will make my debit as a speaker. I am excited about this but also a bit nervous. Other than that, I am hoping to get to have longer chats with May More and with Nineteen Syllables. Oh, and Mia More if you are going to be there, I need to talk to you. I missed you in 2018 and am still angry with myself about it. For you were the catalyst of the changes in my life and I doubt that you have any idea.

Special Delivery

The card looked official. It said “A Message from Direct Mail Services. Your special delivery will arrive tomorrow at 12 noon. As this is an official court document it is a legal requirement that you be at home to receive the delivery.” The card has a very imposing looking stamp with a crown and the wording Her Majesty’s Courts and Tribunals Service. I held it in my hands for a few seconds, reflecting, Then I put it down.

I went to the kitchen, made a cup of tea and lit a cigarette. I was puzzled by this message but also a little worried. I mean, what did the courts want with me? I had no debts, I had never been in trouble with the police, and the more I reflected on it, the more worried I became.

The following day I woke early after a restless night and phoned the office to say I had a heavy cold and would not be in. And then the time dragged and dragged. I tried to do things, the washing up, read a book, anything but I just ended up smoking too many cigarettes and scrolling listlessly through my Facebook timeline.  The time dragged but, at the same time, moved remorselessly forward. Just as it must have done for condemned prisoners once upon a time I reflected.

I started when my phone burst into life with its jingly jangly alarm call melody.  It was noon. I was about to find out.

I looked through the front room window as the delivery man opened the gate and walked confidently up to the front door. His uniform was dark blue with yellow trim, not quite like the Direct Mail corporate uniform, and then he had his cap pulled down to obscure his face.  But the way he walked seemed familiar. I smiled to myself. I was feeing better already.  I went to the door but he didn’t knock.

“On your knees by the letter box” said a commanding masculine voice. I complied. The flap of the letter box opened and I was suddenly eyeball to eyeball with the fat purple bell end of a most magnificent cock. It was hard, ribbed with veins, the tip already glistening.

“You know what to do.”

This was as much a command as a statement. And I set greedily to work, long slow movements punctuated by whippings with the tongue, feeling it grow ever harder in my mouth as I quickened the tempo. I pressed face against the door to give him the space to face fuck me. He pushed hard as I sucked on his end and three hard choking thrusts later he came with a moan that someone surely must have heard in the street outside.

I gasped and coughed and the come dripped down my chin and onto my top. Then he knocked the door as I hoped he would, document or no document.  As I opened the door, he pushed his way in, bow with a stocking over his head.  I had never enjoyed his cock before but now that I could smell him I was sure I knew who he was. And he was welcome here, especially if I could enjoy his cock again.

He whipped out a pair of handcuffs and used them with a speed and dexterity that left me unable to resist. He attached me to the stair rail.

“You have been a naughty girl” he said. He took a paper handkerchief and wiped the come from around my mouth. Then he pulled down my skirt and panties, bent me over and fucked me from behind, fucked me hard, fucked me until I could take no more and I felt warm come flowing down my inner thigh.

He freed my hands and handed me a delivery note to sign. In my orgasmic daze

“Sign here please Madame to confirm the delivery was safely received.”

I handed it back. He tore off a copy for me and smiled.

“My number is on there if you have any problems with the delivery.”

“Thank you” I muttered.

“Well I am sure we will meet again. I am glad I could be of service.”

He turned and left without looking round.

I sat for a while, enjoying a cigarette (and cigarettes after sex are always the best ones aren’t they?).  picked up the phone and dialled the number on the delivery note. I was sure there was more to be delivered. And I wanted it before dinner.


This was a story for Wicked Wednesday. Click on the image below to see who else is being wicked this week.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked


Savage Beauty

I will write one day about a special crush I have. For now I will just say that it has released a wave of creativity and got my writing poetry again. Here is my latest offering.



For Rebecca – as always


It’s not that I envy you, I really don’t.

There was just that time I missed the

McQueen exhibition and you went, and

I watched, only half admiring, as you

Posted pictures of your inspirations.

I may even have muttered “bitch”.


There are times I need this, so please,

Flaunt the things you have that I can only

Dream of, oppress me with your beauty,

Cut into my pride as if slashing my dresses with knives.

Take me to the shores of hating you,

Then pull back.


Make me savage.

Make me beautiful.



Flying the Flag

I never really thought that at my age I would ever be a football mascot. Well, actually, I wasn’t really but I did get to hold the Proud Baggies’ flag as the players came out for West Bromwich Albion’s home game against Swansea City on Rainbow Laces Day.

Rainbow Laces Day is the day when football clubs and their supporters embrace diversity and promote the message that football is for everyone. Several of the players wore rainbow laces, there  were rainbow corner flags, there were clear messages for those who are not yet on board (and there are some) that the club stands fully behind its LGBT supporters.

This is not a football blog so I will say little about the actual game except to say that our team played the best football I have seen for several years and won 5-1. The weather gave us a lovely surprise with the rapid interplay of rain, hail and sunshine producing a lovely rainbow over the rather unpoetically named Smethwick End.

And so on to the Loft Lounge for drinks. And chat. And more drinks.  We are a diverse group and fully reflect the diverse nature of the LGBTQI community.  There are those who argue that the various parts of the community don’t necessarily belong together, and it has been suggested that the T doesn’t really belong. I have discussed this here and explained why I consider it to be wrong. This is not an issue in this particular queer football family. Our group includes straight allies, there is Carlos from Portugal who just loves hanging out with queer folk (and well who wouldn’t!). For we are multinational too. Our Austrian Proud Baggie Sophie couldn’t be with us on Sunday but was watching at home in Vienna.

In a world that is darkening with the rise of populism, nationalism, xenophobia, homophobia, transphobia and suspicion of the other, our rainbow is a light pointing the way towards a better world. And an illustration of the capacity of football to bring out the best in people.

If you want to know more about our group check out our website https://proudbaggies.com/


The Only Sex I Ever Wanted

I am one of the rare exceptions. I was a virgin when I got married. And I wasn’t in a hurry to have sex with a woman. I mean, I had always wondered what it must be like and I felt a bit of a freak because I had never penetrated a woman. I would sit on the bus to work, observe other men reading their newspapers, gazing out of the window or picking their noses thinking no one was watching.  And I would think, they have all had sex, they all know what is like to get hard, thrust their penis into the warm wet channel that was the biggest mystery of all to me, and I felt inferior, I felt a stranger in the world. And now I was going to get married, I was going to consummate the marriage (how massively important that sounded!), father children, be a real man who could look the nosepicker in the hi viz on the number 9 bus full in the face, man to man.

But I had my little secret. I had already discovered the only sex I ever really wanted. I was 16 when I cast off the particular shame of my Catholic altar boy background and massaging my bellend with my left thumb, ejaculated thick creamy come over my pubic hair, rolled over to grind against the bed sheet feeling the damp spread underneath my groin, breathing hard to capture the new smell that made my retch at first but which I quickly got used to. I rolled over again and enjoyed the way that the semen had matted my pubic hair. I kind of knew then, as I lay in bed, listening to John Peel that autumn evening in 1977 that this was really it. That my need for PiV sex was really just socially conditioned.  Which didn’t mean I could do without it.

12 years later, 19th August 1989 to be precise, Julie and I climbed into my rusty Ford Cortina which friends had thoughtfully decorated with tin cans tied to the rear bumper, waved goodbye to our wedding guests and set off to spend our first married night in an airport hotel.  And there we made love. It wasn’t at all bad. I got hard quickly, maintained my erection, Julie was wet and I managed it despite my nerves.  Julie didn’t come but reassured me that it will all get better. She had read it in a book.

She got out of bed and went to the bathroom. My left hand darted below the duvet and I masturbated to completion, finishing just as she came back into the bedroom.

“What are you doing?”

“Er nothing.”

She lifted up the duvet and saw the damp patch.

“You’ve been playing with yourself. Why? Why?”

I had no answer.

“You’re married now. That changes things. If you want sex you’ve got me. Or am I not good enough for you?”

Again I said nothing. Julie sat on the edge of the bed and began to cry.

“How do you think that makes me feel? How?”


“Humiliated. Humiliated David. This was supposed to be the biggest day of my life. And look how it’s ended up. I have a husband who prefers playing with himself and I daren’t think what you fantasise about while you’re doing it, why you prefer it to what you are supposed to do as a husband. I feel sick.”

There was a single bed in the room. She went over to it and lay down, her back to me.

I turned out the light and tried to sleep but couldn’t.  The silence was punctuated by Julie’s sobbing.  I rolled over in the damp stickiness and smelt my come. I was quickly on my feet, rushing to the toilet to be sick into the white porcelain.

Julie and I did get divorced but only after fifteen years by which we had 2 lovely teenage girl twins and a younger boy. Our life together wasn’t unhappy but never quite what either of us would have hoped for on that hot August day in 1989.

Julie did get used to my need to masturbate. She realised that it didn’t have to be a substitute for sex with her but was a kind of reward for me and one I looked forward to. After a few years I began to have problems with erectile dysfunction and it saved our marriage, for a few years at least. For I was able to use this reward as the incentive to get hard for her.  It took time and patience, not least on her part, but the thought that I could have a wank helped me get there. And if it didn’t I punished myself with self-imposed chastity until the next time. I tried Julie, I really did.

Nonetheless it was a relief when I moved out. On my first night on my own I took Sophie Dahl out of the drawer and masturbated to her, slowly and satisfyingly. I knew I would be single from now on. Because this was really the only sex I ever wanted.

A post for Masturbation Monday. See the other amazing posts by clicking on the image below.

Masturbation Monday