SoSS September

I normally like September, the autumn sunshine, apples and plums, game (I love roast pheasant) , the football season gaining momentum, which means Saturday afternoons at The Hawthorns, the favourite dresses I can take out of the wardrobe, wearing boots.  Particularly boots. In my boots I just feel good about myself, radiate the confidence of someone who knows she can take on the world and win. OK, maybe I can’t but feeling that you can never hurts.

Yet this year is different. The summer has passed and we had little from it. Nearly six months on from the start of lockdown our Government of charlatans is as clueless as ever. The no deal Brexit cliff edge looms ever larger. And whilst I was able to go to a fem dom event at last, my first for nearly a year, it was in line with the “new normal” meaning no play. And God how I am missing flogging backsides!  It may be well into 2021 before proper play in clubs can resume. And then there was Smutathon, enjoyable in its way but all done remotely. Hopefully we can go back to it original plan of a weekend in Scotland next year.

In these times, exploring my kink, my sexuality through writing and reading is more important than ever.  Here are some of the posts that I particularly enjoyed this month.

The blog of Ginger Wilde is new to me bit I will be back. As someone who is totally into vintage and burlesque I loved this. And I so agree. A girl can never be overdressed. Underoccasioned maybe. Overdressed never.

I love an autumn walk in the woods a sch as the next person and loved this atmospheric pic by Startled Jaffa.

Meanwhile my writing collaboration with Posy Churchgate continues and we are now up to Chapter Ten written by Posy as Delphine’s school adventures take another unexpected turn.

And it is a while since I featured anything by Francesca Demont. I have been in total awe of her since she posted a pic of herself rocking the latex when she was just two weeks post partum. And in this she looks equally amazing  

I have never made hay, while the sun shines or otherwise, but I think I need to add it to my bucket list after seeing this.  

At Smutathon I wrote a piece about my life and times in Ford Cortinas, with particular referece to my 1970 Mk 2 1600E EAB 521J. Read it here Now this car was first registered on 18th September 1970  which was the day Jimi Hendrix died. Which is a nice segue into this piece by Mrs K marking the anniversary. 

And talking of Smutathon I have’t read all the posts yet although I have heard one or two of them at the after party. But you can find them all here

For my food porn this month try this. I was sceptical about Nigella’s Chocolate and Guinness Cake when I first made it, the batter seemed far too liquid when I put the cake in the oven. But it works and the cake has a lovely springy texture. It looks great with the cream cheese frosting as the “head” but can I can just confess, I am old school in any things and my thing is traditional icing. The amount of icing sugar you have to beat into the cream cheese to get it to thicken properly is ridiculous. And sweet and sickly really isn’t my thing. Having said that, the cake is amazing so do try it. You can find the recipe here.

Delphine’s Schooldays – Chapter 11

The story continues. Read Chapter Ten by Posy Churchgate here

I have always thought of Belinda Coningsby-Firth as one of the slower witted girls at the school. She is pretty, that much I have to admit, and I doubt her lack of intelligence will be a barrier to contracting a good marriage. It may well turn out to be an advantage. Very few St. Faith’s girls amount to much academically and I have long felt that the role of the school is to equip them with a modicum of the social skills needed for their future roles as consorts to politicians and businessmen. If they are lucky that is. It is true that Delilah Carless won a place at St. Scholastica’s College, Oxford but that had more to do with Sir Reginald making a large donation to the college than to her academic ability. She struggled with the course and not even Sir Reginald’s money could save her from being sent down when she was caught for a second time with an overnight male visitor in her rooms. This was very embarrassing for Sir Reginald but, I rather think, a blessed relief for everyone else involved. Delilah now spends her time with an utterly ghastly young man who is, I am told, a racing driver, and keeps what I consider the most undesirable company.  That she was once Head Girl here only increases my disappointment.

I hope for rather better for Coningsby-Firth although she is at that age where one is unsure whether her crushes on other girls are the usual adolescent passionate friendships or signs of a longer-term Sapphic disposition. I have noticed her recent closeness to Lotbiniere. The French girls is, I suspect, just using her although one cannot exclude some perverse attraction on her part. She is French after all.

There is a knock at the door.

“Come in”.

Belinda Coningsby-Firth walked in, head bowed. I noticed she was shaking. She was afraid. Good.

“You asked to see me Miss Ranson.”

“I did. I need to talk to you about Lotbiniere. You have become close I believe?”

She blushed.

“You can tell me. Do you think I don’t know that girls of your age have special friendships?”

“Miss, we are friends, we like to do things together we..”

“Go on”

“She is so beautiful, she is everything I desire to be”

“In what way?”

“She has such confidence. I love to watch her ride. I always go to the tables and help her with the horse”

“Do you love her?”

Coningsby-Firth blushed again.

“Miss I adore her!”

She began to cry.

“My dear girl, these feelings are nothing to be ashamed of. I do sometimes think that these crushes are what enables a girl to cope with the rigours of school life. You all think no doubt, that I am a hard and unfeeling person but I care for every one of you. It is a privilege of my job to watch the girls grow into women as they progress through school. Next week I host the Old Faithians Annual Dinner and it is a joy to hear how girls I have taught have made their way in life and to think that I have a part, albeit small, in their development.”

I reached into my handbag, took out a clean handkerchief and gave it to her. As she wiped the tears from her eyes I continued

“Tell me one lovely thing Lotbiniere has done for you.”

“Miss, she lets me polish her riding boots.”

“And do you enjoy that?”

“I do. I spend hours on them when I should be doing my prep. I have to make them gleam.”

“Anything else?”

“She tried to kiss me last week.”

“Kiss you? How?”

“She grabbed me as we were walking back from the stables, she pulled me towards her, she tried to push her tongue into my mouth but I fought her off. It is disgusting isn’t it Miss? I mean two girls”

“Are you still friends?”

“We are Miss. I love her so and I want to do what she wants to do. I mean…”

“It’s not disgusting at all. It is called Sapphic Love”

I went to my bookshelf and took down a parallel text edition of the poems of Sappho.

“Read these and see for yourself how beautiful it can be.”

“Thank you Miss.”

I took a cane and sat down in the armchair.

“No need to be afraid girl. Come and stand in front of me.”

She stood before me and I could see fear in her eyes again.  This was a good thing.

“Take your skirt and knickers down.”

After a brief hesitation she complied.

“Lift up your blouse so thar I can get a good view.”

“What of Miss”

“The glories of your womanhood.”

I took the cane and with the end ran it up from the perineum, over the slit to rest on her clitoris. She winced and then relaxed. I mean it is not unpleasant for a girl to have her clitoris softly stroked is it?

“What is this?”

“I’m sorry I don’t know”

“It is the clitoris. And what purpose does it serve?”

She remained silent, went red again.

“It serves no purpose but to give you pleasure. It is one of the greatest pleasures of being a woman to have this beautiful, beautiful, bud. I want you to yield to Lotbiniere the next time she tries to kiss you, to put your hand down her knickers, to stroke her clit, softly, slowly, then more quickly, to make her scream with pleasure. That which we call orgasm.”

“Orgasm Miss?”

“I rather think you know what an orgasm is. I don’t believe that girls of your age haven’t discovered your clits and the delights it gives. Am I not right?”

She said nothing.

“Pull your skirt back up girl.”

I walked over to my desk and took a new exercise book out of the drawer.

“In this book you are to record everything you do with that French slut. You will report to me every Friday at 4 o’clock and bring the exercise book with you.”

She looked at me, bowed her head, and began to cry again.

“And if you don’t you will feel my cane. Is that clear?”

She nodded then turned and left without another word.

This had been a good day. Now that we were into the spring and the Easter holidays were approaching, the weather had improved and longer hours of daylight always improve the mood. After supper I sat in my lounge with a glass of gin. I switched on the wireless and turned the knob to find the Home Service for the news.

Society Madame Catherine Spencer-Harrington had been arrested at her Soho business premises and charged with brothel keeping and several counts of living off immoral evenings. I smiled. I imagined her humiliation at being led to a police car, the flash bulbs of the press corps highlighting tears and smudged makeup, before being locked in a cell, shaking and weeping. I put my hand down my knickers and found my clit. This was going to be a very good evening.

A post for Wicked Wednesday. Click here for more wickedness


Ghosts – Part Two

Part One of this story can be read here. Meanwhile, the summer of 1982 is drawing to a close.

We spent the summer together. The council found me a flat after my father threw me out, in a block a couple of miles from Dudley town centre. Carl helped me to furnish it and my new comrades from the Labour Party Young Socialists came to paint it, help lay room sized offcuts of carpet and, after working, we sat on beanbags, or on the floor, with takeaway curries and cans of fizzy Worthington E. When they had gone, Carl would stay, we would smoke spliffs and when our heads were a little scrambled, we would make love. As the relationship developed and as I gained experience at ex, I assumed the role of bottom. Not that I was submissive in the relationship although Carl was so much more experienced than me, in sex and in politics, and took the lead. I learned to relax as he fucked me, not fight, not clench my muscles, as his hard cock speared its way up my back passage. I masturbated him too, loved to drink his come. He, in turn, blew me and this was the sexual release I felt most comfortable with.

When I wasn’t discovering my sexuality, I was discovering socialism. I always had newspapers and pamphlets to read, there were the long discussions in The Shakespeare over pints of mild and bags of scratchings. Saturdays were spent in the High Street  selling papers, there were two, sometimes three meetings a week, either in the pub or followed by the pub.  Life was beer, sex and socialism and I loved it.  I had hardly noticed that I was being pulled away from old friends, from my family. Would I have cared if I had?

The summer of 1982 passed quickly.  The Falklands War had been won.  Thatcher was in her pomp, the SDP splitters were winning by-elections, but the line was that Labour would win the next election, there would be a general strike and the new government would nationalise  the top 300 monopolies and we would have socialism, not the bureaucratically deformed socialism of the Soviet Union but the real thing. I had just turned 18, I was pretty naive but even I could see that this was bullshit. I still talked to people outside the party who had different views, talked to the parents of school friends who had bought their council houses and were going to vote for Thatcher next time. As the bloke said,

“Why shouldn’t I be able to own my house? Just because I am a working man, does that mean I have to spend the rest of my life with the Council telling me what colour front door I can have? I am a free man now and, I tell you what, she’s getting my vote next time.”

And I had to admit he had a point. Truth was, I was conflicted. I believed in socialism, I still do but, four months in, I was fed up with selling Militant and arguing things I didn’t believe in. I only kept on doing it for Carl, for the sex we had on that grubby mattress on the floor of his flat.

On Bank Holiday Monday at the end of August, we bought half a dozen cans of beer at an off licence and rode down to Wren’s Nest on Gary’s MZ. I rode pillion, wrapped my arms round his leather clad torso and felt myself getting hard.

We left the bike at the end of the lane that led off Wren’s Hill Road, and walked up a hill topped with lime trees, with a view over the drab council estate. It was secluded here. I knelt before Carl feeling the leather trousers, rubbing mt face against the crotch, felt the cock swelling. eager to burst out to meet my greedy mouth. I had learnt, a little anyway. I looked up at Carl’s face. He had shut his eyes to focus on the pleasure I was aboit to give him. But I knew now to tease, to make him wait. I took the zip in my hand, pulled it down a little, then stopped. I stroked the bulge until his cock hardened and grew   some more. He started to moan. I carried on stroking.

“Oh just blow me Gary, just fucking blow me.”

I pulled the zip down a little further. Carl’s huge cock was now ready to burst through the slit in his boxer shorts. As it emerged the sensitive bell end caught on the zip and he moaned.

“Oh please Gary, just do it.”

I am sure there was a hint of anguish in his voice. I continued to rub found his balls, cradled them in my hands through the leather, Carl moaned some more.

When I pulled the zip down to the bottom the cock burst out, shiny and proud, dripping with precome. I took it into my mouth and he came immediately, came in torrents. I swallowed greedily. I stood up and kissed  him, transferring some of his come into hs mouth. I grabbed his head, pulled him close, locked him into the kiss until he broke free and took a step back, gasping.

“Oh fuck, that was good!”

We took a can of beer each and drank, not saying much bur enjoying the moment, two men with lovely cocks in the sunshine, fighting the onset of autumn with beer and sex.

“I’ve got something to tell you” said Carl, “but I will tell you later. Now I just want to take you”

I smiled and unzipped my jeans. I dropped them and turned round. I bent over. We knew each other well now and hardly needed to talk. I felt, once more, the cold slap of lube around my anus, his finger going in to loosen me. I relaxed, and felt a harsh thwack across my backside.  He hit me again. I looked round and saw Carl holding a branch he had snapped off a tree. He smiled.

“What do you want?”

“I want you inside me”

“Say – please sir I want to be buggered.”

“Please sir I want to be buggered.”

He moved in and was quickly sliding up my back passage. He seized my hair and pulled my head up. .

“You know why I am doing this?”


“No what?”

“No sir”

“Because I feel like it. Because I can.”

He laughed. I felt myself getting hard.

As he moved in and out his and felt my crotch and he could see it too.

“Wank and we’ll come together.”

I did as I was told and quickly came, my warm come dropping over the stony ground.

“I said we would come together. Look what you’ve done.”

“Sorry sir.”

I was.

Carl carried on, I felt his cock swell some more inside me and it became uncomfortable. I tensed my muscles, resisting him, he pushed again

“Stop sir please stop.”

It was all becoming too much, emotions were taking over. He thrust again and groaned as he came.  He withdrew. I felt his come dripping out of me. His come and mine. His and mine, mixed and shining in the late summer sun.

“You came without permission. ”

“No I..”

“You did. Tell me you’re sorry.”

“Sorry sir.”

“On your knees and kiss my arse.”

So I did and kissed him once on each cheek. Then I   kissed his anus, his lovely brown ring, I licked it, tasted it, flicked at it with my tongue. Then I stiffened my tongue, pushed it as far as I could, pushed my face against his bottom, felt the roughness of the hairs against my cheeks. He wasn’t completely clean, I tasted his shit, but I didn’t care, It was HIS shit. I stood up, took a swig of mouthwash, spat it out on the ground. We kissed again ad I was about to go down on Carl a second time when we heard a voice

“Fucking poofs, in public too. You can get off the Wrenner you bent fuckers. Get out.”

We heard footsteps rushing towards us,  picked up our clothes, and ran. leaving behind four cans of warm, fizzy beer. They were welcome to them, I thought.

They didn’t run after us and we were quickly back at the motorbike.

We stood in silence for a few moments then Carl said

“I’m leaving Militant. I’m leaving Dudley. Meeting after meeting. They burn you out. And besides, Dudley is a shit place to be gay. You’re going to find that out.”

“Where are you going?”

“London. I’ve got a place to say for while, at least until I sort myself out. Look Gary, I have a life to live. We only get one chance at this. I need to be me. Really me. I can do that in London.”

“Can I at least have your address?”

“Sorry Gary but I don’t think so. This is a new start for me. Just forget about me. You’l find somebody else. Here. Somewhere.”

“Only I was thinking we might go away together,,,,,,I am fed up with Militant too. ”

“I need to move on.”

He avoided eye contact and shuffled his feet.

He handed me a card with the name of a club in Wolverhampton.

“You can hang out there. There are some cute boys. You’re cute too. You will pull there. no problem.”

He planted a kiss on my lips and said

“Thanks for everything Gary but this is it”

He put his helmet on and lowered the visor.  He swung his leg over and kicked the MZ’s engine into life. He rode off, leaving a sweet cloud of two stroke exhaust hanging in the air.

Back in my flat I cried.  I put the record on, the Japan single I had bought back in April.  at the time I first met Carl.

“Just when I think I’m winning, when I’ve opened up the door, the ghosts of my life grow wilder than before.”

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

E Lust 134

Image courtesy of Violet Fawkes

Welcome to Elust 134-

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #135? Start with the rules, come back October 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

How I Became a Woman

Positivity is hard

A Day of Service

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Erotic Non-Fiction

Valkyrian Cuckolding Session

Erotic Fiction

Locked Box
Believe me…

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

8 Ways to Stay Positive & Date Intentionally
Sex 101: The Lube Guide

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

I want you to watch me
And now for something different
I Love Vanilla

Erotic Non-Fiction

You Know You Wouldn’t Want It Any Other Way

Elust 130


I am a nun. I am a woman. I feel. I bleed. Underneath my coarse brown habit I burn with passion for my eternal lover, Jesus Christ, the man for whom I chose the life of bare walls, a hard narrow bed, the five o’clock rising bell, the cold chapel where i spend hours on my knees in adoration until the pain becomes unbearable. Every day I receive Him in the Eucharist, the wafer, the wine that through the words of the priest become His Most Precious Body and Blood. His Body is mine, all mine, as assuredly as if we lay in bed, husband and wife, sated with sex, me playfully plucking his gorgeous beard, He putting an arm around me drawing me close, his hirsute warmth making me glow.

The priest is configured to Christ, that the Church teaches, he is another Christ as he presides at the Eucharistic banquet. As I kneel at the altar rail he comes with the pyx, raises a host before me.

“The Body of Christ” he declares.

“Amen” I assent to my Lord and the priest places the blessed Host on my tongue.

He then offers me the chalice with the Precious Blood. I drink a drop, hand back the chalice which he cleans with the purifier.

On the days when I am blessed he lifts his vestments, takes out his penis, hard and throbbing, and says

“The Cock of Christ”

I lean forward, open my mouth wide and take this most gorgeous length into my mouth, I lick and suck, soon feel him stiffen and arch his back slightly as he ejaculates his warm, salty come into mu mouth. He withdraws as I swallow and allows the rest of his ejaculation to drip into the chalice. He lifts it up and says

“The Come of Christ.”

“Amen” I respond eagerly.

He offers me the chalice. I reach into the heavy folds of my habit and take out a clear glass phial. I kiss it and hold it up.

“The Blood of Woman.”

I open it, pour my blood into the chalice, shake it gently to mix the three fluids, then drink it, saving a little to rub on the priests’s still hard cock. I take it into my mouth again. I hold it there, lubricate with my saliva, suck to tighten my flesh soft mouth around it. He gasps with pleasure. I draw back, them push slowly forward until I have the full length inside me. He gasps again, I feel his body tighten. He relaxes as I move out, stiffens again as I move back in, faster this time,  before repeating the movement. The third time he lets out a cry he can’t suppress, I know that this second orgasm is intense, really intense and he is struggling to ride the sensation.  He ejaculates again and I cannot take it all in my mouth, it dribbles down my chin, stains my habit, the habit of my eternal devotion stained with the Most Precious Come of My Lord.  I begin to cry.

In my cell. on the hard barrow bed, I want to relay the whole joyful scene, to masturbate as I do so. But I know must not, for masturbation is a mortal sin. I get into bed, turn out the light and lie on my front, clutching my rosary beads, reciting prayers as I grind against the rough monastic bedsheets. This too is a sin for which I will do penance, having abased myself in beautiful humiliation before Reverend Mother to make my confession. This, too. I offer up to my sweet Lord, this and everything.

As I drift away into sleep I can still taste the come, feel ot sticky on my chin, smell it. I say the Magnificat but am asleep as soon as I have said

“He has filled the hungry with good things.”

A post for Wicked Wednesday. Click here to see more wickedness.

Ghosts – Part One

It all began the day Gary realised he fancied David Sylvian. And began to wear make up. And realised he was proud of he was, or who he might be. He went to the newsagents, leafed through Woman and Woman’s Own to learn about cosmetics, foundations and blushers and mascaras. Lipsticks were easier. After all you often saw women putting on their lippy in public. It was the bits they did in private he had to learn about. He looked in Boots. Not furtively, not ostentatiously either, he just did. Then, one day in April, he took the bus to Dudley and went to Beatties.

It was that day, walking down the High Street that he met Carl. He was, Gary guessed, about 20, so three years older. Gary stopped, strangely drawn by the tall man with the stubble and the ripped jeans who spent his Saturdays selling papers in the town centre, Militant, Socialist Youth, and a selection of pamphlets on the evils of late monopoly capitalism that recommended the nationalisation of the top 350 monopolies by a Labour government backed by mass action of the working class. That, he had been taught, was Marxism. As Gary hovered uncertainly by the stall, Carl came over and pressed a paper into Gary’s hand. Gary looked at the title. It read

“Militant. The Marxist Paper for Labour and Youth”

“You need to read this” began Carl, “The only paper that tells the truth abut late monopoly capitalism and why Thatcher is waging class war. It’s the only paper that has a a Marxist analysis. ”

Gary hesitated.

“Take this. I’ll put the money in. I am here next week, in fact I am here every fucking week. Come back and we will talk some more. I am Carl by the way.”

As Gary made to walk away Carl ran after him and pressed a leaflet into his hand.

“We’ve got a meeting on Tuesday, the little side room at The Shakespeare, 7.30, and a really speaker. You really need to learn about socialism. See you there?”

Gary took the paper and the leaflet and headed for Beatties in search of makeup. He came out clutching a foundation, a mascara and three lipsticks. He had had himself made up at one of the beauty counters, pale blue eye shadow, a matt red lippy, nothing too obvious.

Lunch at home was a tense affair.

“I don’t ever want to see you in here looking like that” shouted Gary’s father. “Fucking poof that’s what you look like! I hate poofs, I hate those fucking shirtlifters I see up Wolverhampton, mincing around like Christ knows what. I have brought you up to be a proper man. And if you don’t want to be a man, you know where the door is.”

Gary carried on eating his beans on toast, although he had no appetite. He said nothing. When he had finished he stood up from the table, went to his room and  cried.

On Tuesday evening Gary was at the pub early. It was a bright, sunny day and the sun, now low in the sky was shining directly into the window of the small side room where the meeting was to  be held. Gary sat there on his own for some time, wondering whether to just get up and leave. Suddenly there was a commotion in the corridor and a number of men, it was all men at this meeting as it turned out, walked in clutching pints of mild and folders of paper and a pile of newspapers. Gary saw the word Militant.

One of them introduced himself as Derek. It turned out that Derek was the speaker, and after a brief introduction began to talk about the perpetual  crises of late capitalism, the need for a Marxist analysis, the need for …..

Gary was bored and much of this was over head. He found Derek a rather unattractive figure with his greasy 70s style hair, his black leather jacket that looked a bit like one of the fakes you could pick up at Dudley Market, the way he pumped his fist when he made his key points, and when he said “Marxist analysis” for what must have been the seventh time he got up and went to the serving hatch in the corridor.

“Lager and black please”  he said to the barman just as Carl walked in.

“I’m a bit late” he said “Couldn’t get away from work. Enjoying the meeting? Derek’s a great speaker isn’t he?”

“Yeah” said Gary unconvincingly, fishing in his pocket for a fifty pence piece to pay for his drink.

After the meeting, the talk and political debate being mercifully brief, Gary remained for a while with Carl. They drank some more, smoked cigarettes until the large ashtrays overflowed, munched pork scratchings and talked inconsequentially. Gary was aware of things he wanted to say but somehow he couldn’t find the words. He got up to go clutching a few leaflets and a newspaper which he intended to read on the bus home.

“It’s early yet” said Carl. “Do you want to come back to mine for a bit? We can get some cans and stuff. I’ve got some weed too.”

“Where do you live?”

“Eve Hill flats”

“You live there?” exclaimed Gary, a little horrified.

“It’s not so bad, when the lifts work”

“And they are not swimming in piss. I know people,who live there.”

“Come on” said Carl “let’s go” and they headed off up Wolverhampton Street.

The lifts at Millfield Court were working and, exceptionally, clean. They didn’t smell very fresh but still. Carl’s flat was a tip.

“Yeah I know” he said seeing Gary’s expression, “but I just don’t get time to do anything here. Politics takes up all my time.”

Carl pushed open a door.

“The bedroom.”

Gary went in, a little uncertainly. Carl followed him with the carrier bag full of beer cans.

There was no bed, just a mattress on he floor with a red duvet. No pillow either.

Carl pulled Gary closed and kissed him. To his surprise Gary responded, forcing his tongue deep into Carl’s mouth. He felt his jeans bulge.  The kiss was beer, sweat, cigarettes, a faint aroma of pickled onions. This was all new. What else could kisses taste of?

Carl pulled Gary’s jeans down and knelt before him. He pulled Gary’s swollen cock through the slit in his Y fronts kissed the tip. Cradling it in his left hand, he stroked it with his right.

“Never done this before have you?”

“No” said Gary quietly.

“Don’t tell anyone. You are only 17 so it’s illegal. It’s fucking stupid really, if I had a 17 year old girl it wouldn’t be a problem, but that’s the law. People still don’t think it’s OK to be gay.”

“My Dad says he will kick me out if he finds out I am a..”

“A what?”

“A shirtlifter he said”.

“Don’t listen to that shit. It’s fine to be gay. I’ll show you just how fine.

He continued to stroke my cock until it began to get hard. Then he took it in his mouth where it swelled into the warm, wet softness. Carl sucked and pulled, he whipped the now exposed bellend with his tongue. Gary felt it grow and harden, felt the sudden release as he came in Carl’s mouth. Carl swallowed and looked up at him, smiling. Gary noticed that he had come dribbling down his chin.

“Did you enjoy that?”

“I did.”

“It gets better. Get yourself hard again and i will show you what to do.”

Carl slipped a condom over Gary’s stiff, throbbing cock and knelt down on the mattress. Gary knelt behind him, and Carl took hold of him and guided it gently into his anus.

“All you do now is pump. In ad out.”

Gary pushed against the resistance until his cock was fully inside Carl. He pumped , moved in and out , in  and out,. It felt good. Carl’s anus was tight and comfortable. He continued until the ejaculation like charge surging through his penis. He came and withdrew. The condom shrivelled as he pulled it off, his cock was covered in warm sticky come that dripped onto the floor.

“Kneel down” said Carl and I will rim you”

“Rim?” asked Gary. “What’s that?”

“Kneel down and you will find out.”

Gary shuddered involuntarily as he felt something warm, firm and wet probing his slot, circling his anus, then entering a little way. It was not unpleasant and he loved the contrast of the smoothness of what he realised was Carl’s tongue and  the roughness of three stubble. He relaxed and shuddered again as the tip of Carl’s tongue proved is opening.

“That’s normal first time, we’ll do it again. It’s nice isn’t it? Maybe next time I’ll give you a fingering. That’s even nicer.”

“You don’t want to fuck me?”

“Oh not yet. I need to get you more relaxed. Tell you what, I will rim you again and you can wank and then, you can come over me.”

“Yeah I’d like that.”

Carl went to work and pushed in with his tongue just at the moment that Gary came. He spun round and pulled back his foreskin, pushing hard to send a jet of come over Carl’s chest. Carl smiled, took some on his forefinger and licked it.

“I so love the taste of you.”

That was the last thing Gary remembered. He must have been tired because the next thing he remembered was waking up as sunlight burst through the highly provisional curtains of the fourteenth floor bedroom. His head was on Carl’s chest, the hairs still smelling of his come.  He had no real idea what to do, or even what he would have to say to Carl. He dressed quickly and left the flat quietly. Carl was still fast asleep.

It was just after seven o’clock that Gary let himself into the house. His father heard him come in and came running down the stairs.

“Where the fuck have you been all night?”

Gary said nothing.

“You’ve been with a man haven’t you you disgusting little pervert.”

“No I.”

“What’s this then?”

He produced a crumpled piece of paper with the heading BIRMINGHAM GAY SWITCHBOARD

“I found this in your bedroom.  You’re a poof aren’t you, my son a fucking bent little……”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, he was crimson with rage. He made a move towards Gary, fists raised. Gary turned and ran.

To Be Continued.

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




Fiction Relay – Part Four

This is the fourth part of the Fiction Relay organised by May More.  If you haven’t already done so, you may want to read the first three instalments, links to which you can find here.

Ellie’s best friend Susie was murdered in 1995 when Susie was 12 and Ellie 11 years old. In 2006 Ellie find an undeveloped film from that fateful day and sees on one of the photographs her husband Steve. What was he doing there? Susie’s parents never came to terms with what had happened and their marriage foundered. In Part Three we meet the investigating detective Phil Walker, himself a troubled man who finds solace in drink after the failure of his own marriage. From the pathologist’s report he concludes that there were two attackers. The story continues.

Part Four      

Steve had taken the keys to the flat from the office the previous night so that he could drive straight to Belper this morning. The firm had a couple of flats in the new development in an old mill by the Derwent and if he was buying his preference would have been for Number 14,  with its high ceilings, spacious kitchen diner, its original features including riveted iron beams from the works. But the buyer, a Mr. Yarnold, had seemed insistent on viewing No. 6, which Steve thought, had been tucked into a corner of the building, almost as an afterthought.  Maybe money was the issue? And number 6 was the cheapest flat in the building, not that any of them was particularly cheap.

The drive to Belper gave him thinking time too. To think about his relationship with Ellie. He had thought for some time that she had issues of trust and had seen her on more than than one occasion checking his phone although he had never confronted her about it. In the last couple of days she had become withdrawn, and unwilling to engage with him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.


“I know there is I”

“Look, I am fine. OK?”

“Can we talk?”

“What about?”


“What do you want me to say? You are a good shag. OK. Is that what you want to hear?”

Ellie had taken a duvet out of the cupboard and gone to the spare room.  Steve lay alone in the double bed of the master bedroom, thinking, hearing Ellie snoring in the next room.  He masturbated, to Ellie, to Sam the escort he still saw occasionally, to……   but his heart wasn’t in it.  He wanted Ellie.

It was about two o’clock when he crept into the tiny box room where Ellie was sleeping on the narrow bed, naked, uncovered  as she had thrown the duvet off as she tossed and turned. She hadn’t drawn the curtains fully and a shaft of moonlight invitingly lit up her cunt. He stood there, hesitant at first, then went to lie next to her. She reached out in her sleep, put an arm round him.

“I thought you were never coming.”

He was hard. He slid a finger inside her and felt the slickness.  He rolled her over onto her back, moved on top and fucked he, quickly, purposefully but gently. She purred as he he thrust in and out. He soon came and withdrew. He was sure he saw a smile on her face.

“Fuck me again baby.”

So he did, a fell into a deep sleep, his legs intertwined with hers.

It was the bright autumn sunshine that had replaced the moonlight that woke him up. It was nearly quarter to eight, he had forgotten the alarm which had, no doubt, been ringing uselessly in the master bedroom. Ellie wasn’t there. She had got up and gone to work without a word to him.

He rushed to get ready, he cold not be late for the viewing in Belper at 9 and Belper was nearly 45 minutes away. As he struggled with his cufflinks at the kitchen table, a piece of toast dangling from his mouth, he saw a note she had left for him.

“Have gone to Carla’s for a couple of days. Need time to think. Back Friday evening. I will have eaten so don’t bother cooking for me. E.”

That was it. E. It could have been a note to anyone. Not even a perfunctory x

It was still chilly when he stepped outside. He climbed into the car, started the engine and sat, waiting for the windscreen to clear. He was shaking.

Steve drove into Belper and drew up outside the building. There was a man waiting outside. Before getting out of the car Steve took a moment to weigh him up. He looked maybe early to mid 30s, had a black coat on over a grey suit. His lace up shoes were polished to a shine.   That was a good sign. As an estate agent you looked for the small indications that a potential buyer could actually buy.  When you were selling the more upmarket properties dreamers and timewasters were always a problem.

Steve looked again. There was a new 5 series BMW  parked outside the building close to where the man stood. Steve smiled to himself. Thoughts of commission started running through his head. He got out of the car, straightened his suit and ran his fingers through his hair.

He walked up to the man.

“Mr. Yarnold?”

The man nodded. Steve offered his hand.

“Steve Marchant, Senior Negotiator, Foster and Maw. Pleased to meet you. It’s just this way”

Steve led him to the front door and typed in the entry code being careful to shield the keypad. The door swung pen and he stood aside for the buyer to go first up the stairs to the first floor. Where he unlocked the front door of Number 6.

He followed Mr. Yarnold into the flat. The front door led straight into the lounge.

“I think this is the smallest flat in the building but actually I think it is deceptively spacious, and it has huge potential. It’s not Derwentside but the views are interesting.”

As he took a step towards the window he heard footsteps behind him. He half turned, caught a glimpse of a heeled shoe, a red dress, before he collapsed into oblivion and saw them no more.

I passed the baton to Sassy C who continued the story here.

fiction mystery relay