If I Ordered You to Fuck Me

If I ordered you to fuck me

would you? Would your tongue be

as eager to my clit as to my boot?

Would the fingers of a freshly tawsed

hand  mine the pleasures of my cunt?

 

You say that to fuck is to top , that you can’t,

but know that I will be on top, riding you,

my nails spurs on your nipples,  my eyes

mapping the landscape of your flesh,

surveying all my future pleasures.

 

If I ordered you to fuck me

would you? Would you?

 

Every Cloud Has a Sexy Lining

I don’t know how many of you are familiar with cloud computing solutions? They are pretty new to me but my employer has decided we are going to go on onto the cloud as we work from home during lockdown. The advantage, they said, is that more than one person can work on a sheet at anyone time. And when we are all working from home during lockdown that is a big advantage. Particularly as we have the accounting year end  and are all under pressure.

I pour myself a mug of filter coffee and settle down to work on the new  company Balance Sheet. I see that my assistant Steph is already working on the sheet, Steph who I really got to know on the last office night out, her first since joining our company. I fancy her but pulled back from making a pass, even after the best part of two bottles of Chardonnay. My nerve failed me.

I type in the formula that pulled through the Property Plant and Equipment figure only to see it disappear. I click back into the cell that looks blank. Instead I see that Steph has typed in white on the white background.

“Feeling horny? Reply in cell AD347”

So I do.

“Horny as fuck.” I hesitate. Can I go further with a work colleague? I hover the cursor over the cell and add

“Hot for you. Cell AF988”

I click into the cell to watch her reply.

“I’ve got a shaved fanny. How about you? BD2367”

“A full hairy bush, Au naturel 🙂 AT765”

“Just how I like another girl’s’ cunt 🙂 FN69”

“Getting moist for you. Needs a tonguing. Soon. CA21564”

“What are you wearing? D2980”

“Pink knickers and a leather skirt. AA332”

“For WFH? CF453”

“For you. Z3217”

“Take them off. CA32178”

So I did, Well it was an old denim skirt actually but still….

“Done SE453”

“I am naked. I am so fucking wet. FA2178”

“How many fingers? EA3215”

“Four with room for more. You?” GB456″

“Same here. Got a wand? DE231”

“Got it right here. Masturbating to you right now. TR3216”

I sit back in my chair, holding Steph before me. I turn the wand up high and bring  myself quickly to the edge.

“Edging myself. Ready to come when you are. PF4327”

“Come baby come”

And I do, twice as I fantasise about what we will do when this bloody lockdown finishes. I know they say play away from work but Steph is fucking hot and now that I know she is into girls…well……. and I don’t even care that she has overtyped the formula  that pulls Property, Plant and Equipment through onto the draft Balance Sheet, and that I will be working this evening to put it right. Well work is just another chance to fantasise about Steph isn’t it?

I pull my skirt back up. I am still breathing heavily  as the orgasm pulses through me. I need a cigarette and am about to pop outside when my work phone buzzes. It is a text from Steph.

“Same time tomorrow? Btw Skype meeting with Dave at 2. Best not look too happy!”

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Notes on Being a Slag

Debbie Archer was my first big crush. I was 11 and she was 14. I wasn’t her only admirer. There was something about her, poise. maturity, the impression (looking back nearly 50 years on) that when most of her contemporaries were still girls, she was well on the way to becoming a woman. And I didn’t just admire her from a distance. She played cello in the school orchestra and I played descant recorder which meant I sat directly behind her and we talked a lot, sometimes I got to sit next to her on the coach when we travelled to play concerts. I ran errands for her, passed on messages, was a sort of confidant. Even at the age of 11 I knew that she was using me but I didn’t care. Serving her was its own reward.

Then there were the boys in Debbie’s year. She used and manipulated them too.  Some of them didn’t like it. Debbie acquired a reputation. It was said, quietly at first, then louder and more openly, that she was a slag.  A section of the girls turned on her. It is said that  slut-shaming is a patriarchal device to control women. Yet women play their full part in policing and condemning other women. School was no different. Yet I remained loyal and took a fierce pride in my devotion to a girl who was despised by so many.

I think I last saw Debbie in 1974. I quickly forgot about her. As you get older memories come back for no apparent reason and it was a few months ago  that I took out my recorders for the first time in age and began to play them. And there she was before me, in her school blazer and green pleated skirt. And I began to reflect again on the ugliness of slut shaming.

I had actually been giving it a bit of thought. before then. After all as a woman who likes sex, and is always open to casual encounters, how could I not? I decided to claim the word slag as a badge of pride and had this tattoo done.

.IMG_0732

The tag is humorous and my lovely artist Kerry totally loved designing it and putting it on my skin bit it is also deadly serious.  I like sex, I like casual sex, I sleep around (if I get the chance lol) and I am proud to call myself a slag. And I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks. I don’t.

This tattoo is also about solidarity. Solidarity with women who are shamed and stigmatised, and worse, for liking sex, solidarity with women I have known. That includes you Debbie. When others turned on you I remained loyal.  This is for you.

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Three Books for Lockdown

I have been a little late to the party here. Really there are hundreds of books I could recommend bit I am going to list just three that have made a big impression on me, one fiction, one poetry and one non fiction.

My fiction choice is the short novella Under The Wheel by Hermann Hesse published in 1906. Set in Hesse’s native Swabia it is the story of a clever boy who, after passing the examinations to go to the local grammar school, looks forward to a summer of fishing, riding his bike,  of being a boy, doing the things that boys like doing.  His parents have other ideas and he is forced to spend a joyless summer rote learning to prepare for school. The relentless pressure eventually destroys him. The book was aimed at the grimly regimented education system of the Kaiser’s Germany but has contemporary resonance in a country where,  over the last 30 yeas of national curriculum and SATs, joy and spontaneity have been squeezed out of education with predictable consequences for the mental health of our young people.

My poetry choice is The Man with Night Sweats by Thom Gunn. Gunn (1929-2003) was a near contemporary of Ted Hughes at Cambridge and the two  were often lumped together (Faber actually published  a joint Selected Poems in the mid 60s) but their work was actually very different. Gunn was also gay and left Britain for San Francisco to be with his American boyfriend. Much of his work in the 70s and 80s was not well received by the critics and it became almost a cliche that he had lost his mojo, possibly permanently. Then , in 1993, he published The Man with Night Sweats, a memorial and tribute to all those, friends and lovers, he had lost in the AIDS pandemic of the 1980s. The book is not an easy read, but it is the work of one of our finest (and unfairly forgotten) poets, a combination of technical mastery and totally raw, authentic emotion.

And on to non-fiction. I am a history graduate and I have picked a history book, This is The Age of Empire 1875-1914 by Eric Hobsbawm published in 1987. It is the third and final  volume of his history of what he called The Long Nineteenth Century, the period from the start of the French Revolution in 1789 to the outbreak of the First World War. He took his time over these, the first volume The Age of Revolution having been published in 1962. Hobsbawm was born in 1917 and describes the world in which his parents grew up. But more than that his book has a global perspective and Hobsbawm’s personal story gives him a quite unique perspective. Brought up in a Jewish family in Vienna, orphaned at the age of 14, he went to live with an uncle in Berlin. After the Nazi takeover he left Germany for England (his father was English so he had family here). A man, therefore, whose own life was changed in profound ways by the rise of nationalism and anti-Semitism, which was already noticeable before 1914. Hobsbawm died in 2012, aged 95. I often think his views on events since then (and an awful lot has happened that hardly any of us could have predicted) would av been fascinating.

So there are my 3 recommendations. There are many more books I could recommend but those will keep you going for a bit won’t they?

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A Lockdown Visit

For three weeks I have been stuck at home on my own. This means no sex. Well OK there is solo sex but I really lost my mojo for that when lockdown was announced. My go to prison wife fantasy wasn’t working for me. All I could think of was the reality of prison life now, during the crisis, the way in which the virus is cutting a swathe through the helpless population trapped in our stinking overcrowded jails. Fantasies were everywhere crowded out by awful reality and my libido died.

Well I did for a couple of weeks then, our local police began a high profile enforcement of lockdown she began a regular patrol of my street. She was blonde, not pretty exactly with her aquiline nose and sharp chin that gave her a hard appearance although she did break into a smile when talking to the children playing in their front gardens. When she smiled she was almost beautiful.

That was enough for me. Too much beauty in a woman is a turn off. I began to fantasise about her, I moved my desk in the home office to be by the window so that I could watch her on patrol and frig myself as I did so. In my fantasy she leads me from the house in handcuffs, I am humiliated in front of the neighbours as she leads me to the car, roughly pushes my head down as I get in. At the police station I am processed, stripped of my possessions and locked in a stinking windowless cell where I wait for her. By the third time I was ready to take the fantasy further.

At about three o’clock on Good Friday as I sat at my kitchen table working on my blog, enjoying a cup pf tea and a Hot Cross Bun there was a knock on he door.

It was her. I started.

“Miss Eve Ray?”

I nodded.

“I need to come in and speak to you. There has been a report about you breaching lockdown regulations.”

“Who….”

“I can’t disclose that. But the matter is serious.”

I beckoned her in and showed her through to the kitchen. I glimpsed at her name badge. She was PC Deborah Morris.

“Look Deborah I am happy to answer any questions but there has surely been a misunderstanding.”

I felt her gloved hand slap my cheek.

“You will address me as Ma’am. Is that clear?”

I rubbed my cheek.

“Yes Ma’am” I said, more in shock than anything else. I looked at her. She continued,

“Reports are that you shopped at Tesco and at Boots this morning.”

“Yes but I am allowed out to buy essential items aren’t I?”

“I will decide what is essential. Show me  the receipts”

I rummaged for them in my handbag, handed them to her. She studied them carefully.

“Prosecco”

She allowed herself a smile.

“Is Prosecco essential?”

“Well I think so.”

“Shut up!”

I felt a stinging slap across the other cheek. She then studied the Boots receipt.

“Sanitary products? Are you having your period?”

“I don’t see why you need to know that.”

“If you’re not on Miss Ray” she said with ironic emphasis on my name “these purchases are considered non-essential in line with Section 4 Paragraph 3 of the Corona virus Regulations 2020. As such buying them today would constitute a criminal offence. So I am going to ask you again. Are you having your period.”

“That is my business not yours. I am not answering that question.”

“Very well. In that case I am empowered by the regulations to give you a gynaecological examination to find out.”

“You can’t do that!” I protested.

“I can do what I like Miss Ray. The Coronavirus Act 2020 allows me to do what ever is necessary to prevent, investigate, and punish beaches of the lockdown regulations. I do what I want. You do as you are told. Is that clear?” .

She took a packet of latex gloves out of one of her many pockets., opened it and and put the gloves on with a chilling smack of latex against her skin. I felt arousal.

“Take your clothes off.”

I hesitated.

“Strip.” she screamed. I complied, pulling off my  t shirt and leggings, my knickers, and leaving them in a heap at my feet.

She walked round me, inspecting me.

“Four tattoos! I wouldn’t have had you down as the kind of person who has tattoos. And that lower back tattoo. Slag. That’s what you are aren’t you? A fcking sag!”

“Yes Ma’am.”

I was very wet by now. I wanted this. I climbed onto the table and lay legs apart.

I felt her slide in a finger, two fingers, then the whole hand as my cunt dilated. She moved her hand in in and out, gently at first, then more firmly, placing her thumb in my clit as he did so. She was no novice at pleasuring women. Then, having brought me to the edge of orgasm, she kept me there.

“It’s not looking good for you is it Miss Ray? Is it? You cold go down for six months fr non essential purchases. Do you know that?”

I said nothing, desperate to be brought to orgasm.

“I am going to need to go in deeper” she said, unclipping the baton from her belt.

She fucked me with it, brutally, rhythmically. As she picked up the pace I arched mt back to give her the angle to push it in deeper. I came with a scream. She pulled the baton out.

“Look how wet that is you dirty slag. Lick it clean.”

She held it for me to lick my juices off it which  did greedily.

I got down from the table shaking. I needed aftercare. to be wrapped in a blanket and cuddled, just as my lovely dom does, but there would be no aftercare today. I collapsed at her feet, grabbing her uniform trousers, lowering my lips to kiss her boots. She held the baton threateningly.

“If I have to come here again, you are getting this up the arse.”

“Please Ma’am ” I said, struggling to articulate the words, “I have further offences to be taken into consideration. I would like to make a statement………. please.”

 

 

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Delphine’s Schooldays – Chapter One

ST. FAITH’S SCHOOL FOR GIRLS – JULY 1959

She walked into my study without bothering to knock, or rather swept in.  It was five years since I had seen her but there was no mistaking Delphine de Lotbiniere. She had blossomed into a woman of elegance and beauty as I always knew she would.  She radiated the confidence of a woman who thought the world should fall at her feet.  As it probably would. She had on a stylish wide brimmed hat and it was this that caught the eye.  Only on second glance did I notice the black slash neck top, the black and white circle skirt and the expensive looking leather pumps. The Lotbinieres had money, of course they did, old money too, and the fees at our school were not cheap but this….even before she spoke I thought “Dior”

“I am living in Paris” she began sitting down opposite me. “I am a model for the House of Dior and, let me tell you, it is very well paid. I travel a lot for fashion shows and things and my boyfriend is a racing driver. We have a very nice life together, oh and I forgot, I have a lovely flat in the Sixteenth Arondissement.  I am someone, even though I am still waiting to inherit Bourg La Chatte.”

“Well I am very pleased for you, it’s always nice to have of old girls of the school making their way in the world.”

Even as I said this, I was aware of how weak my voice was, of how the feelings of inadequacy she had always aroused, were coming back.

“And you, I see, are still what you always were, an embittered spinster, a nobody.”

She smiled. I looked at her, unable to reply.

Delphine took out a cigarette packet and lighter. Suddenly I found my headmistress’s assertive voice.

“I do not smoke and neither do I permit others to smoke in my study.”

“If I wish to smoke, I will smoke. I do not need your permission”

“No Delphine” I mumbled.

“Non, Mademoiselle de Lotbiniere.”

“Non, Mademoiselle”

She lit the cigarette, drew deeply on it and sat back languidly as she exhaled the fragrant smoke of her Gauloise. I began to fumble among the papers on my desk to find an ashtray.

“I won’t need an ashtray” she said flicking ash over the desk.

“Now, I think we have things to talk about, don’t we?”

“Do we?”

“All those horrible things you did to me when I was a pupil here.  Today, I think the tables are turned. Stand up and walk round here.”

I complied. I had to.

“Kneel and kiss my shoes”.

I moved in and planted a kiss on each leather pump in turn. I felt arousal, felt my clit swelling and rubbing against my rough cotton knickers.

I knelt up and looked at her. She smiled again, enjoying every second of my humiliation.

“Open your mouth.”

She leaned forward and after dribbling her spit onto my tongue, flicked ash over it.

“Swallow”

“Oui Mademoiselle de Lotbiniere”  and swallowed with excited distaste. I bowed my head and waited for thew next command.

“Ouvre ta bouche!”

The use of “tu” shook me to the core. It was a measure of the casual contempt with which Delphine felt able to treat me.  She finished the cigarette with a final sprinkling of ash in my mouth, and threw it onto the carpet, extinguishing it with one deft, elegant, sweep of her foot.

“Get your face down and lick that butt. And think of me as you do. You thought you had broken me. But nobody, nobody, ever gets the better of Delphine de Lotbiniere.”

She stood up and made for the door.

“You will remain kneeling. You will kiss the cigarette. Adieu Madame.”

She swept out just as she had swept in ten minutes earlier. I remained kneeling, my hair on the carpet, my lips worshipping the cigarette butt which was bright red with Delphine’s lipstick. I lifted up my dress and fumbled inside my huge knickers to find my clit. I began to masturbate to her. I was wet with wanting her or, rather, the exquisite humiliation that only Delphine could give.

I was about to come when there was a quick knock on the door and my secretary walked in.

“Oh I’m sorry Miss Ransom, is it not convenient?”

Note: This is the first part of a collaboration with Posy Churchgate. We will be writing alternate chapters and posting them on our blogs. I will link to Posy’s chapters here and all are going to be published as part of the Wicked Wednesday meme which can be visited by clicking here

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Skin Deep

Skin, I once read, is the heaviest organ in the human body. The thought disgusted me. I saw myself being peeled to the muscular redness of  the grotesque cadavers you see in medical schools, my skin an amorphous pale mass plopping onto silver scales, all two and a half kilos of the stuff that holds me together. It disgusted me. My skin disgusts me.  For my most of my life I have suffered from eczema. I hate my skin. My skin hates me back. It cracks and bleeds, lets infections in through the perfidious gaps it leaves.

There came the day when I lay in bed, ill, my skin blotched, red, and cracked, oozing blood. My hands were incapable of holding a pen. I lay helpless and repellent. I cried but there was no one to hear, no one to wipe away the tears, before they seeped through my cracks and raised my torment up a notch.

Then she came. I could not make out her face through my tears , just the whirl of clothes bring taken off before she pulled back the duvet and climbed into bed next to me. She leaned over me, tugging down my pyjama bottoms, pulling out my blotched, ugly cock. I felt it harden.

She said nothing, but took it in her mouth, closed her mouth round it. I felt the foreskin slide back and she began to work the exposed head with her tongue, a rhythm of flicks alternating with gentle sucking, increasing the tempo as I swelled in her mouth until I came with a shout and felt the urgent force of the flow into her mouth

Come was dripping from her chin as she set to work licking my torso, my neck, my face, her tongue pushing into the cracks, applying the balm.

“I’m not disgusted by your body, you know that don’t you?”

She flipped me over and I felt her tongue running down my spine, felt it gently explore my bum crack. I came again.

“Kneel up.”

I did and she slid underneath me to take my cock into her mouth again, suck up soem more come for my legs, my feet.

I don’t remember her finishing, I don’t remember her leaving. It was after ten o’clock when I woke up. I had slept for, I don’t know, maybe 10 hours?  My skin hurt, still bled, but by Monday I could see that it was starting to heal. The following Saturday I went swimming.

And that is the thing with eczema. It comes and goes without warning, without reason. One day my whole body is cracked and bleeding and I cry in despair. A few days later the eczema goes, but never completely. There is always a small rough spot just below my left thumb that never clears up. My eczema is always there, lurking, lying in wait for the times when my mystery lover stays away, when I have no one to bring me to sweet, creamy orgasms, when I am too down to wank. When I cannot be myself. .

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