SoSS June Roundup

So into June and lockdown drags on, well sort of drags on given that a lot of people are fed up and unable to see why they should listen to the Government any more. Sticking to the rules is, it seems, for little people.  And some people, like me, have become nicely cocooned in our safe little bubble, with our comforting routines, and are in no particularly hurry to leave, even without sex. I have even started wondering whether I need sex with other people at all. I have just got off on writing about it, on conjuring up fantasies merged with memories, in varying degrees, (and all my stories are fictional even where the scenes or the characters have a base in reality.

I start off on a bright Sunday morning (actually the last Sunday in May) looking ahead to a walk in the North Worcestershire countryside, finishing at the tranquil churchyard where Led Zeppelin drummer John Bonham is buried.  As I do most Sundays I check out Sinful Sunday before breakfast. I enjoyed this from Molly.   And this by Missy. Pegs are indeed a most delightful torment, well they are for me anyway but then I ma not usually the one inflicting them.

I am not into age play in my kink life but I do like edgy fantasies, and this by Isabelle Lauren was edgy, and hot!

Automatic reminds me of cars I hate driving and a song by The Pointer Sisters that is catchy to the pint of being annoying. As of this month I will associate it with this sexy little tale by FDotleoonara  who I have had some lovely chats with at Eroticons past but who I haven’t seem for far too long. maybe 2021?

I mentioned in a previous post that I enjoy poetry. So I have again chosen a poem for this roundup. This time from Life of a Kinky Wife.

Exhibit A always writes thought-provokingly and this on sexuality was interesting.

This Girl wrote about sadism on the Marquis de Sade’s 280th birthday.

Ice is a thing for me. I do use it to torment people in kink play ad love it i my gin and tonics. It has other uses and I loved this cheeky allusion by Exposing 40 to its use in mainstream porn flicks to make the nipples stand out.

The prompt for Wicked Wednesday 419, for which I chose the Top Three was  Feminism. My choices were this by Deviant Succubus, this look at female empowerment from a femsub in Life of a Kinky Wife and this unusual and intriguing look at the prompt from Rantings of a Nonsensical Mind (although this all makes perfect sense to me)

I have never seen shopping like this  before and I really hope Modesty Ablaze found a couple of good bottles to drink to this picture!

There a couple of new memes and one of these is OneRainbowApart started ny Mx Nillin. There have been some great posts and this by Formidable Femme was so thought provoking.

There has a lot been said about transphobia in the sex blogging community and I shall day no more about this except to observe that the nastiest transphobes are outside our community. Anyone who saw the screen grab of a quite disgusting Facebook exchange including Sarah Ditum, Caroline Criado Perez and others mocking Paris Lees will know where I am coming from on this. These people sadly seem to have the ear of the UK government at the moment so we have cause to be worried.  But it is great to know that so many of you have our backs. One awesome person on on or side is Victoria Blisse who wrote this. .

I have mentioned my struggles with rope bondage before but I do enjoy a lot of the Tie Me Up Tuesday post and this from Life of a Kinky Wife was fun to read.

As was this intriguing little story by May More.

Pain as Pleasure was hiding in the reeds in this intriguing picture

As I have posted recently I love floggers. So does Sub Bee and I love this picture. Aemelia Hawk, who is a regular at fetish fairs makes great floggers. She is also a flogging artist. If you get the chance to see her demonstrating  florentining  don’t miss it. I have always believed in kink as art and this definitely is art.

And I will finish with buffalo cheese – really. I read recently that buffalo mozarella is being produced in the UK, using milk from a herd  of buffalo on a farm in Hampshire. The farm is owned by Jody Scheckter, former F1 driver. Here he is winning the 1979 Italian GP at Monza. This is a kind of crossover as, from next month, I will be finishing up my roundup with a little food porn. F1 is back, albeit behind closed doors, so I can get my petrolhead fix in other ways!

The Joy of the Flogger

All but one of my play partners hate the cane. Most are not keen on paddles either. But all of them love floggers. Which is good because I do too. In fact my floggers are my favourite toys. I love the variety of floggers that are available, the different ways you can wield them, the sensations the bottom feels, from softness and sensuality to stinging agony, and all points in between. I love the way in which I can use these different effects to mess with my sub’s head. Kid them I am going to give them a hard stroke and give them a gentle one. From the yell of pain I know that their brain has made them feel the pain they had steeled themselves for but which I hadn’t inflicted. Or the times I play softly, sensually, and see them drifting into subspace but bring them brutally back with a fierce stroke that cuts into the skin.  In fact the opportunities for creative play for me as a domme are endless and the flogger gives scope that other hitting implements don’t.

I have four floggers, not counting the little one I made at the Kink Craft workshop at Eroticon a few years ago, and which I really only use for tormenting cocks. I have a suede flogger, a mixed rubber and suede one (my favourite which has a lovely feel in the hand and the perfect weight to do the work for me), a rubber one which is evil (the rubber tails are quite thick and sharp edged and really bite with a hard impact, and finally a knotted suede flogger which is a wonderful tool for inflicting torment on a sub whose backside is already well bruised.  Often I start with a gentle warm up with the suede flogger and move up the scale of evilness before moving back down. Sometimes not. Sometimes I just want to inflict pain and get my kicks from the moans, the pleading, helpless looks. And then there are the times I just feel deep love for the man who has given himself to me for my pleasure and amusement and I just want to give him his kinky reward.

It is nearly 2 o’clock on a Saturday morning. The light is dim in the dungeon. We are the only people still playing. In a few minutes the club will close and we will head out into the dark, cold street. But for now we are here in our safe space. In this moment we exist only for each other. We have been playing for nearly an hour. He has take some severe punishment but I have now eased off. I flog rhythmically, resisting the temptation to give him a hard stroke or two to bring him out of his subspace. I slow down, gradually, the strokes become more and more gentle. It is almost as if the flogging has no defined end.  Imagine the ethereal voices at the end of Holst’s Neptune.  That is spiritual. This is spiritual too. The strokes fade to nothing, the throw of the last one too weak for the tails even to reach his skin. I put the flogger down. I caress his sore back, his bruised buttocks.  I release him from the restraints. I hug him close. Alone in the dungeon we are two people in the moment, each in their respective high, bonded by the ineffable delight of the flogger.

A post for Kink of the Week. Click on the badge for other kinky thoughts on floggers

Lessons in Life

This is Part Two of a story which began with Lessons in Love which you can read here.

Some years ago I was in therapy and learned the principle of mindfulness. My next encounter with Fiona put me in mind of these. A week after my first visit I arrived at her house, carrying the 400 lines neatly folded and sealed in an A4 envelope with a card. I had been careful to count them before placing them in the envelope. I had, too, her beie boots, reheeled and freshly polished, in a tote bag.

“Hello again,” she said, inviting me in. “I was wondering whether you would come.I didn’t scare you off last time then?”

She smiled as she said this and I relaxed.

“I’ve been thinking of nothing else. I have been spending quite a lot of time writing lines for you haven’t I?”

She smiled again but this time I felt there was a hint of mischief. I began to get nervous again.

“I’d better have a look at the lines then hadn’t I?”

I handed her the envelope and she opened it, took out the sheets of A4 paper and the card. She looked at the card first.

“How sweet of you” she said, smiled again. She came up to me and kissed me on he cheek.

“I do hope you have done your lines properly. What do I do back in your schooldays?”

“If you weren’t satisfied you ripped that and made us do them again. Doubled.”

“And you wouldn’t want 800 lines would you? That would keep you busy for most f w weekend. Mind you, it would keep you out of the pub wouldn’t it?”

She looked pointedly at my beer belly and counted the number of lines on the first page. Thirty lines per page, thirteen pages and ten on the fourteenth page. The final line was a bit faint as my pen had started to run out. I actually hoped she would overlook this. I actually didn’t fancy doing 800 lines. I had plans for the weekend and imagined it meant I would have to wait another week to fuck her.  She counted quickly, she had after all taught Maths among other subjects.

She refolded the sheets and lay them on the table.

“What are you?”

“A misogynistic arsehole who must learn to respect women.”

“Quite. That is exactly what you are. Don’t think I wasn’t deeply hurt by your stupid comments last week. That sort of thing is not easily forgiven or forgotten. ”

“I am truly sorry.”

“I have no doubt. Men are ever so sorry  when they think there might be something in it for them.”

“Meaning?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

She fixed me with a steely gaze.

“And my boots?”

“Reheeled and polished as you requested.”

I took them out of the bag and held them up for her inspection. She took them off me, held them to the light, inspected the new heels and said,

“You’ve done a good job. I’m impressed.”

As she went to put them in the cupboard under the stairs where I  knew whe kept her shoes I began to feel uneasy.

“Bit I thought you were going to wear them for me?”

“Did I promise you anything?”

“No, but”

“But nothing. I don’t need you to tell me what to wear do I?”

“No” I answered quietly, feeling more than a little humiliated.

“Follow me” she said and opened the patio doors that led out into the garden.

“Actually I have a little job for you to do before we go upstairs. I have just had a pile of rocks delivered, I’m building a rockery and  need a strong man to put them in place. I was going to ask my neighbour but them I thought, as you are coming and as you like doing things for me you wouldn’t mind. You don’t mind do you?”

“Well no” I said, a little surprised by this turn of events. But then I began to think of it in as labour to ear a sweet reward. I looked at her, began to imagine her without  clothes, imagine my cock sliding into her cunt, imagine her sighing with pleasure as I ……

“So what I need you to do is this.”

She reached into her bag and took out a piece of paper which she unfolded.

“This is a drawing of the rockery as it is meant to be when it is finished. So I need you to take the stones from over there, the big one are at the bottom, and arrange them like this, around the pond. I think there should be 30 of them? And when you have finished we can and have some fun can’t we?”

She smiled and ran her hand over my arm.

“Shall I get you a cup of tea?”

“Yer……er please.”

I took the plan and studied it closely.  There was easily three hours work in this and it was starting to get hot. I knew that I was being used but I really couldn’t do anything about it. And Fiona Howe knew this.

I set to work. The task was complicated by having  to take the smaller rocks first and make a separate pile before I was able to get to the big ones that formed the base of the rockery. Even the smaller ones were heavy and I cut a finger on a jagged edge of the first.

“Oh fuck!” I shouted, sucking my bleeding finger.

“Is something wrong?” asked Fiona who had appeared at my side with a cup of tea.

“No, it’s fine” I lied. I was seething with resentment, angry with myself for my lack of assertiveness,  hot and sweaty as the sun rose in the sky. My arousal of earlier had completely gone. What if we went to her bed and I couldn’t well, couldn’t get it up? I could just drop all this and go. Was it worth all this humiliation just to get to stick my cock up the dry, shrivelled cunt of an old woman? Even as this thought came into my head I went red with shame. It was true. I was a misogynistic arsehole. She had seen this and was punishing me for it. And I had to embrace this punishment for her. Fiona Howe always could see through people, she was smart in a way I never could be, And that was what I adored her for.

Sot I continued with the task. Soon I had made a separate pile of the smaller rocks. I set to work carrying the heavy larger rocks to arrange them around the pond as instructed. After the first two I was exhausted and seething with resentment. Then I remembered my therapist and his words to me on mindfulness. Be in the moment, draw the positives from it, enjoy it for what it is. I was working for a woman I adored. So I dedicated the third stone to her. I imagined it as her breast, I stroked it tenderly, kissed it after checking she wasn’t watching though the patios door, picked it up with reverence, like a priest raising the chalice at consecration, carried it  across the garden in the way we carried Our Lady in the streets around the church on the Feast of the Assumption.

The next stone was Fiona’s other breast, the third had a path of rough on he surface and I pictured this as her cunt, set in a luxuriant garden of hair, like the stones I was setting among shrubs, Her cunt, the prize to which my life had been heading since I first set eyes on her at the age of eleven. I kissed, flicked it with my tongue, rested my face on it, smelling it, dry stone and spoil, which I wanted to commit to memory.

“Are you alright?”

Fiona had brought me another cup of tea.

“Yeah um, it’s what my therapist called mindfulness, it’s like ”

“Being in the moment, I know. I’ve had therapists tell me that.  Don’t you think it’s bullshit?”

Actually I didn’t.  It had really worked for me. It was working for me now. But I couldn’t disagree with her. Not in 1974. Not now.

“I guess you’re right.”

“It’s going a bit slowly with all your mindfulness isn’t it? Enjoying the journey is all very well but it is good to each the destination, particularly today’s destination.”

She licked her lips and smiled.

“I am going out at seven so I really you need to finish by four to give us time for your little after work treat.”

She smiled again and there was, I thought, a hint of mockery in her voice.

“What’s the time now?”

“It’s just gone three. And you have already been doing that for over an hour. I think you need to hurry up.”

“Yes Miss” I let slip and felt myself going bright red. Fiona smiled, said nothing and went back inside.

I picked the stone up and went back to work.

“Reverence and speed” I said “reverence and speed.”

I was sweating profusely. My arms ached. I remained mindful. I dedicated it all to her. By the time I finished I was rockhard. I slipped my hand down the front of my boxers and felt a dribble of precome merging from the bellend. I was hot and tired but I would be ready. I would not disappoint her.

I would like to say that Fiona was pleased with my work but she didn’t mention it. Instead she told me I was too sweaty and sent me to shower.

“Upstairs. On the lift”

In the bathroom I took my clothes off , leaving them in a pile by the door. I stepped into the shower and saw that she has one of those high tech showers with a control panel like a Boeing 747 cockpit. I stood bemused, shuddering as cold drops fell onto me from the shower head,

The door opened and Fiona walked in carrying a big fluffy towel.

“You’ll need this once you have worked out the shower. Just wait there and I will come and join you.”

The door opened again and Fiona walked in, wrapped in a towel,  a shower cap covering her hair. She took it off and I saw her body for the first time, still slim, the two small breasts still firm, every bit as enticing as I thought she would be. She joined me in the shower, pressed me against the cold tiles, pushed her tongue into my mouth.

She handed me a sponge.

“Wash me then get on your knees.”

I took the bottle of shower gel,  squeezed some onto the wet sponge and began to rub it gently over her body. I stopped at her breasts, to caress them as mindfully as I had the large stones in her garden, carried on down. By the time I reached her cunt I was kneeling, water was running down her body like streams down a mountainside after the rains. I dabbed cautiously at her pubic hair, like a surveyor mapping a new country. I felt her push my head lower and soon I was bent double washing her feet which I kissed before she grabbed my hair and pulled my head up.

“Now give my pussy some attention.”

I leaned in uncertainly and licked at the hairs, then pushed in with my tongue, ran it up and down the slit, buried my face in the wet hair as the warm water streamed down, shutting my eyes to keep out the soap. Then, guided by her hand I lifted my head and began to tongue her clit, lapping at it like a cat at milk before flicking it with swift rhythmic motions until until she came with a scream.

I knelt there as she turned the shower off, opened the door and stepped out onto the mat. She took her towel and threw me mine. I looked at her as she towelled herself down. I was struggling to get the words out.

“Are we going to …um …”

“Are we going to do what?”

“Well, sex, like you promised?”

“I didn’t promise you anything! What a thing to say! And besides what do you think we have just been doing?”

“I want to fuck you Fiona.”

“have you got condom?”

“Well no, I thought”

“You thought it wouldn’t;t be needed because I am so old and old bats like me don’t need to think about contraception, Is that t?”

“Well yes, kind of…”

“And you don’t think safe sex is an issue at all for me?

I said nothing. I shuffled my feet. I was too embarrassed even to look at her.

“And I bet you didn’t think about lube either?”

“Lube?” I asked gormlessly.

“Didn’t you know? Have you never been with a post-menopausal woman before?”

She fixed me with a look and a smile that told me she had already guessed the answer.

“I have never actually been with any…”

“I guessed. Are you really surprised with your attitude to women?”

I said nothing, picked up the dirty sweat stained clothes and began to dress.

“I think it is time for you to go. But thank you for your work on my rockery.”

Fiona closed her front door behind me. I didn’t look back as I walked down her path and turned into the road for the short walk home. I felt sick with shame and self disgust. Used and humiliated. Those words kept going round in my head.  Used and humiliated. Used and humiliated. As I repeated the words I felt myself getting hard.

I went to bed early that night. I was tired from the hard physical labour and from the emotional strain of the day. Fiona Howe had used me but I had showered with her, I had knelt before her, I had worshipped her cunt. Did I need anything more? I had the stuff of a million fantasies swirling round in my head.  She belonged to me in ways she could never know.

I turned out the light and masturbated to her, on my knees, my head buried in her bush, my lips pressed against hers. I came quickly, the creamy come wetting my pyjama bottoms. I rolled over, ground against the mattress and fell into deep, contented sleep.

This is a post for Wicked Wednesday. More wickedness can be found here.

 

 

 

 

 

A Load of Balls – The U -Turn on Gender Recognition

At the end of what has been a pretty traumatic week for transgender people came the news that most of us had been expecting but still hoping not to hear. This was the announcement that the Government will not be proceeding with plans to amend the Gender Recognition Act to permit self-declaration (as has been permitted in the Republic of Ireland since 2015) despite this having been the policy of previous Conservative administrations (it was originally put forward by the then Equalities Minister Maria Miller, and despite the results of a consultation being largely in favour. The Government has come up with the odd justification that the result was skewed by lots of pro trans gender groups submitting favourable responses. By the same logic one might argue that the result of the 2019 General Election was skewed by lots of people voting Conservative but logic and consistency is not something populists go in for.

For populist is what the Conservative Party now is. It wasn’t always this way. Just fifteen years ago David Cameron became party leader and set out to remodel the party as fiscally conservative and pro-business but socially liberal. The intake of Conservative MPs at the elections of 2005 and 2010 included a number of LGBT people who went on to hold ministerial office, such as Justine Greening, Margot James and Nick Boles. That was before Brexit swung the party in a populist direction and pragmatic, centrist Tories were purged.

With populism come culture wars. And this is what we now have. An internal Conservative Party paper leaked before the General Election suggested using attacks on trans rights as a means of gaining support with socially conservative working class voters, so no one should be surprised by what is happening now. There have been press reports about the Government legislating to protect single sex spaces and this raises the prospect of US style bathroom bans being brought in.  Some transwomen I know are desperately worried.

I just want to consider what a bathroom ban could mean in practice.  It has been suggested that it could apply to “male bodied” transwomen.  Female bodied transmen don’t get a look in, they have been airbrushed out yet again although their presence raises issues that neither the Government nor the noisy and unrepresentative trans-exclusionary radical feminists seem to have considered. But let us stay with transwomen for the moment. What does it actually mean for a transwoman to be male bodied? It can’t just be about surgery because a transwoman who has been taking hormones for an extended period will have a number of characteristics that males do not, notably breasts (plumbed in in exactly the same way as cis female breasts), but also softer skin and hair. After a while the male genitalia even cease to work in the way they used to. And at what point does a transwoman taking hormones cease to be male bodied? How big would her breasts have to be? What testosterone level would she need to be under? These are not debating points if legal definitions of male bodied are to be made.

In practice it is impossible to produce a coherent and consistent definition of male bodied in respect of transwomen. So the fall back will be, I am sure, genitalia, which is effectively saying that women are nothing more or less than vaginas on legs, (a slightly odd position for feminists to be taking). And how could such a ban be policed except by requiring all users of the ladies bathroom (the vast majority of whom of course are cisgendered women) to submit to intrusive questioning or worse. In the US states that have bathroom bans cisgendered woman have been among the victims, humiliated and thrown out for not looking “feminine” enough. The alleged protection of women becomes a means of policing their bodies. It usually does and it is, at first sight, astonishing that women who call them feminists can make common cause with religious conservatives and populist politicians, common cause with people who seek to attack women’s demands for bodily autonomy and reproductive rights. But then few things that radical feminists do surprise me anymore.

And what about the transmen happily using the Gents? Are they to be forced to use the ladies? They  will not be put in danger by this is the way that transwomen being forced to use the gents will, but  will women be necessarily happy to share a bathroom with someone with  male characteristics, a deep voice, possibly a beard, their body bulked up by years of taking testosterone?

However this policy shift is framed, it should be clear that trans rights are the thin end of the wedge. If existing gains for transpeople can be reversed so easily by populist governments, (and Hungary is the most egregious example, the stripping of trans rights the work of a man who also thinks that Hungarian women should be having more babies) , so can gains for women and gains for the rest of the LGBT+ community. I well remember Margaret Thatcher’s chilling speech to the Conservative Party conference in 1987 when she told delegates that there was “no inalienable right to be gay.” Section 28 became law the following year. If we don’t want to go back to those dark days we need to fight now, all of us together. Fight for your trans brothers and sisters, as they have fought for you.

Delphine’s Schooldays – Chapter Five

The continuation of the story of Delphine’s schooldays I am writing in collaboration with Posy Churchgate. Read Chapter Four here 

ST. FAITH’S SCHOOL – SEPTEMBER 1952

Lotbiniere was shaking as I slammed he door of my study. She was only half dressed, carrying her tarty shoes and bag. I walked up and down before saying anything, to heighten her anxiety. –

“Take those tarty shoes off and place them on the floor next to you.”

She complied, saying nothing.

“Put your hands on your head and stand on one leg.”

Again she complied without saying a word. For the best part of two minutes I watched her with a sneer of contempt, noting how she was having to correct her balance to avoid falling over, how she was finding standing on one leg increasingly uncomfortable.  I could have left her there all night.

“Moral standards have been in decline in this country for some time” I began. “I blame socialism. And foreign influence. At St. Faith’s we bring girls up in the proper English spirit of duty, of service, of commitment to wholesome family life. I am well aware that French women are brazen tarts, painted sluts who want nothing nothing than to open their legs for the nearest oily, Gauloise smoking Monsieur. Is that not so Lotbiniere?”

“No miss.”

“Do you think I have not been to France and seen for myself? Do you?”

She said nothing, trying hard not to cry. She placed her left foot on the floor to avoid falling over.

“I said stand on one leg!”

“But Miss I…”

“I don’t care. You do as you’re told in this school.”

Lotbiniere raised her left foot again.

“Did I say take your hands from you head? Did I?”

“No Miss.”

She sullenly replaced her hands on her head. I continued,

“Dior’s New Look that was all the rage back in ’47. What was that but a blatant attempt to turn well bred women into cheap sluts?  A more unEnglish mode of dress I cannot imagine.”

She flashed me a defiant look.

“Put those shoes on. And give me your bag.”

I took out the powder compact and dabbed powder on her face. I painted her lips roughly with her gaudy lipstick making sure I ran over the lip line to make it messy.

“Now Lotbiniere, parade up and down like the tart you evidently aspire to be.”

She walked up and down on the carpet with  hesitancy and evident distaste.

“Walk like a whore,” I ordered, “walk like you  want to attract business.”

So she sashayed across the room, swinging her hips, wiggling her pert bottom as he turned to walk towards me, miming the swinging of a handbag. She stood in front of me. smiled, said

“Bonjour cherie” and blew me a kiss.

“Madame, do you ever….. the other girls say that you don’t, you know, with men?”

She smiled again. I felt myself going red. How dare she? How dare she? I felt myself impotent with rage. In that moment I had the first intimation that, almost for the first time, I might be doing battle with an equal. It excited me.

“I am not a girl, Madame. I am a woman. And although the time for l’amour has still to come for me, I know it will come soon, I know that I will before long meet the man who will……the man.”

After repeating the word “man” she smiled again.  She was openly mocking me. Her fear had gone. But I had regained my composure and was ready to regain the upper hand. I began to shout and she looked at me startled.

“Putain. Whore. A common slut. That’s what you are. Isn’t it?”

“No Miss.”

I took my cane from its stand in the corner and moved towards her.

“Isn’t it?”

“Yes Miss.”

“You are a whore are you not?”

She bowed her head and her response was barely audible.

“Yes Miss.”

“We have already had one St. Faiths’ old girl end up in the oldest profession. And we really don’t want any more.”

My thoughts wandered back to Catherine Spencer-Harrington, the daughter of Sir Lionel Spencer-Harrington, of Dunwich Grange in Sussex, leader of the pro-appeasement lobby on the Conservative backbenches before the war, and a man I thoroughly despised. Catherine had left the school in 1938 after an academically undistinguished career and turned up in wartime London as a high class courtesan, with a manfriend, or pimp I should say, who had made a lot of money on the black market and was known as “King of the Spivs” . During the War, when the school was closed, I had a number of assignations with Catherine in a guesthouse in Pimlico, where I stayed whenever I was in town. I had charge of the school bank account and was used to taking a few guineas a month for my modest needs, the comfort of the pretty young woman who was once my pupil and a bottle of whisky. At the memory of her tongue on my cunt I began to be aroused.

I looked again at Lotbiniere, ridiculous in heels and bright red lipstick, and knew I had to put these thoughts out of my mind.

“We don’t want any more. Do we?”

“Do we?” I shouted.

Lotbinere started.

“No Madame”.

I threw the powder compact on the floor.

“Tread on it.”

“But Miss, it is monogrammed silver, it is a present from my father.”

“I don’t care. Destroy it. Now!”

She didn’t move.

“Very well Lotbinere, I will destroy it. And punish you for disobedience.”

With my plain army surplus shoes I stamped hard on the compact, the metal twisted and bent and the powder cake cracked and pieces spilled out onto the carpet.

“Pick it up and put it in the bin.”

This time she complied meekly. I saw a tear roll down her cheek.

“You are going to learn to be a proper lady and if that means I have to beat the sluttishness out of you. Now take your shoes and give them to me.”

She gave me the shoes.

“I hardly need tell you that these shoes are totally unsuitable for a respectable girl. I am confiscating them.”

“But Miss please.”

“Please miss nothing. You will also write 200 lines and place them in my pigeon hole  by 5.30 tomorrow afternoon. You will write ‘the British nation achieved greatness with pluck, fortitude and chaste modesty.’ Do you understand?”

“Yes Miss.”

“You are dismissed. Return straight to the dormitory. Do not make a sound.”

She shut the door behind her and I heard her footsteps going down the corridor. More satisfying still, I heard her sobbing.

I picked the shoes up and kissed them tenderly.  Later, in bed, I laid one shoe on the pillow and used the other to masturbate, To my horror I realised I was masturbating to Delphine, Delphine stepping out of the shadows on the Rue de Strasbourg to say

“Hello Madame, do you remember me? Can I can make you ‘appy tonight?”

I desperately began to think of Catherine, Catherine going down on me, Catherine looking up, blonde hair falling across her face, her knowing smile.

It was to Catherine that I came.  Catherine Spencer-Harrington, old girl of St. Faith’s, retired call girl, now Madame of a Soho brothel. I made a mental note to ring Catherine the following day. We had business to discuss. .

TO BE CONTINUED

A post for Wicked Wednesday. You can find more wickedness here.

WickedWednesday

 

 

Vile Bodies

No, not mine, and not necessarily yours. After three months without physical contact I have lost interest in other bodies. I used to love the feel of another’s skin, the stubble of a man brushing against my cheek as I kissed him, the smell of arousal, even the aroma of sweat as I made love on a muggy evening, the taste of a bell end glistening with pre-come as I took it into my mouth, the musk of a cunt, juicy with arousal, the joy of burying my face in lush pubic hair as I go down on her, the feel of her tongue against my finger as she licks her juice.

All these things I have enjoyed, and my body in turn has given pleasure to my lovers. And yet it all seems so long ago, no more real than  the smut I read, the stories I write. The stories. I have moved my sex life into my head, I write and write and write, not always for publication, but always to get off, to experience the orgasms that come from the mind, to make sense of all those bodies and the things I did with them, before everything is lost.

I am used to this now. The urge to write is irresistible, I fear the bodies, imperfect as mine is imperfect, sweaty as mine is sweaty, sagging as mine sags, that will come between me and my imagination. I think them vile, I push them away. But I cannot do this for ever.  My lover today sent me a picture of his cock, as yet untasted by me. But taste it I will, for I must. It took me decades to love my body, nearly as long to love the bodies of others. The language of these bodies is another language, once foreign, still not entirely familiar. I cannot afford to forget it.