I have owned ten cars. My favourite 3 are the sporty ones. Firstly a Mark Two Ford Cortina 1600E which I bought in 1985. It was gold with a black interior, Rostyle wheels and a sporty steering wheel. It had good midrange acceleration, was fun to drive and it looked the part. I loved that car. The first day I had it I drove and drove. I was out in Shropshire burning up the A458 between Much Wenlock and Shrewsbury when She Sells Sanctuary by The Cult came on the radio. This remains a favourite driving song and takes me back to that day.
Sadly in 1987 the MoT man shook his head and said “Sorry love but……”. My beloved Cortina had a terminal case of tin worm. So I sold it to a local enthusiast for £100, was nice t the bank manager and took out a loan to buy an MG Metro Turbo. And the song for this car is Suffragette City by David Bowie. This was on a cassette tape (remember when cars had radio/cassette players?) and I first heard it in the car one rainy night as I was driving through the Black Country, eyeing up the turbo boost gauge, trying to get the hang of the turbo lag, that thing where you put your foot down and nothing seems to happen for several seconds and then you think you are going to take off. I cold never tire of driving to Suffragette City.
After years of driving boring cars I have a fun car again, a red Abarth 595. This is turbo charged too. In many ways it feels crude, and the ride is unbelievably harsh, but It is genuinely fast (especially in Sport mode) and just total fun. And that exhaust note……..and my song for this car is Drivers Seat by Sniff and The Tears. No idea why, it just is and it is a great driving song.
“Jenny was sweet She always smiled for the people she’d meet On trouble and strife She had another way of looking at life”
I sing, I floor the accelerator, release my inner hooligan and life is better. Maybe Jenny is my alter ego?
I didn’t have sex in any of these cars but my favourite heroine Claire (in my as yet unpublished novella) had plenty of sex in her Mark Two Ford Zodiac . Or even on the Zodiac. Here is an extract
“Claire pulled him close and kissed him. Then she made him bend over and spanked him hard with the grey leather driving gloves then held him over the vast bonnet of the Zodiac to let the vibrations of the engine make him harder still. She thrust her gloved hand underneath him and played with him until he starting uttering gasps of pleasure. Then she slipped off her coat to revel the stained and greasy polka dot dress in which she had first been fucked by him.
Martin nodded and smiled. Claire climbed onto the bonnet and laid herself on it, legs apart. She could feel the warmth and throb in her back. Now, she thought, for some warmth and throb up front. Martin was now sufficiently experienced to know what was required. He climbed on top of her and entered Claire. No foreplay was necessary, they were both gagging for it. Martin moved in and out with surprisingly delicacy and when he came, without waiting for Claire, she hid her annoyance and kissed him tenderly.
‘Thank you. That was nice.’
Martin was still learning. He would improve under her guidance. With her he would feel a warmth and a security he would never want to leave. All she asked was sex and plenty of it. In Martin she had a blank canvas to mould to her desires. “
And music for this? It would have to be Elvis wouldn’t it?
A post for Musically Ranting. Check ot the other posts here.
The story continues. Read the previous chapter by Posy Churchgate here
From the centre of the prison Sarah led me out through a barred door whose crash echoed through the prison as she slammed it shut behind us. A woman in a blue dress knelt and scrubbed the floor with a cloth, a large metal bucket beside her. She looked up as she saw us approach. I saw the face of a woman prematurely aged, probably ground down as much by her life before prison as by the rigours of Holloway.
“A prostitute” said Sarah “and a very regular visitor. She likes it here don’t you Mavis?”
“Yes Miss” said Mavis in a grating East End accent,
“Carry on. I have told you before, I want to see big circular motions. That floor has to gleam.”
Sarah kicked the bucket over and soapy water flowed over the floor that Mavis had just carefully brought to a shine.”
“You’re very clumsy Mavis. If that happens again you will be spending a week in solitary.”
“I’m very sorry Miss” mumbled Mavis, bowing her head. I saw a woman who had no more fight in her, who had been broken by prison. I could only hope that Spencer-Harrington would be humbled in the same way.
We walked on down the wing to another set of bars. As we passed through the door Sarah said
“This part is a bit quieter. There is only one prisoner in here, Catherine Spencer-Harrington.”
We carried on down the wing. Sarah went up to the final cell on the right, peered through the spyhole before unlocking the door and going in. I followed her.
Catherine Spencer-Harrington, in a blue prison dress, sat listlessly on the bed, gazing empty eyed at the green painted bricks of the opposite wall. She appeared not to notice us.
“On your feet!” shouted Sarah.
Spencer-Harrington stood up, slowly and reluctantly
“Name and number!”
“I am Miss Catherine Spencer-Harrington, daughter of..”
Sarah slapped her fiercely across the face with a gloved hand.
“You are 46895 Harrington you worthless….”
“Permission to correct you Ma’am, my name is Spencer-Harrington, my family has owned most of Sussex since..”
Another fierce blow landed on her cheek. She jolted back and rubbed the cheek.
“Only respectable people have double-barrelled names. You, Harrington, are a common prostitute, a danger to public morals. For all your airs and graces you are no better than Mavis Bristow who is in here again for soliciting on the streets of Bethnal Green and is currently on her knees cleaning the floor of D Wing. That’s where you belong, Harrington, on your knees doing menial, degrading tasks. Now tell me again your name.”
The two blows had done their work. Spencer-Harrington bowed her head and said quietly
“Prisoner 46895 Harrington Ma’am, serving two years for running a bawdy house, living off immoral earnings and conspiracy to corrupt public morals.”
I looked around at the dismal cell, its brick walls painted in sickly green, no furniture but an iron bedstead with a thin mattress and a moth eaten blanket. There was an enamel chamber pot on the floor and I noticed that she had already piddled in it. The place stank.
“You have a visitor Harrington. You know Miss Ranson I think?”
She nodded and I could see fear in her eyes. I was her Nemesis and I had returned for my revenge.
“Kneel before her.”
Spencer-Harrington approached and knelt before me. I thrust her head beneath my skirt and used my other hand to lower my knickers.
“Now” I said, “lick my cunt just like you used to do in the war.”
She began to lick, I felt her tongue push against the pubic bone, then felt it move up, felt its hard muscle pushing against the slit,felt juices flooding my cunt as the arousal grew within me. As I dilated, as if to receive the penis I never wanted to have, she pushed in like a snake, pushed backward and forward before moving on to take my labia between her lips and suck. I began to rub my clit. I came quickly.
Sarah pulled Harrington-Spencer out from under my skirt and dragged her over to the chamber pot.
“Thirsty work isn’t it Harrington? You need a drink!”
She pushed Harrington’s head down so that her face was no more than an inch from the smelly yellow fluid.
“Lap it up like a cat!”
Harrington-Spencer did not respond at first so Sarah pushed her face down into the piddle and she began to lap it up with flicks of her tongue. I watched with fascination. Her face was contorted with anger and hatred at this new humiliation.
“Meeow!” ordered Sarah.
Catherine lapped up some more piddle, lifted her head and said quietly
“Lap up some more!”
She lowered her face into the bowl again and lapped and lapped before Sarah pushed her face down into the piddle again, holding it down for twenty seconds. It bubbled and fizzed as she struggled for breath.
Sarah seized her hair and pulled her head up. She gasped for breath.
“I have had enough of your airs and graces, Harrington. You are going to learn to obey. If you don’t life is going to get even mote unpleasant for you. Do you understand?”
We left the cell and Sarah slammed the door. I thought I could hear Spencer-Harrington sobbing in the cell.
We made to walk back to the main wing but as we passed the next cell Sarah pushed me into it, and slammed the door behind her.
“And you Ranson are a filthy pervert. You should be in her too. One day you will be and when you are my prisoner the fact that we once had intimacy will count for nothing. I will make every day a misery. . Now take your clothes off”
I hesitated, unsure I had heard correctly.
“Strip Ranson! You’re in prison. You do as you are told!”
Shaken by the sharp tone, I complied. I laid my clothes on the bed and looked nervously at her. She puled on her leather gloves, stretched them tight over the knuckles and I saw in her eyes a glint of sadistic delight. I had seen how she broken the haughty Harrington-Spencer. I was afraid and began to quiver. She grabbed an ear lobe and pulled me towards her.
“On your arrival here you will be stripped and inspected. I will start with your ears.”
When she had looked inside my ears she prised my mouth open.
“Your teeth are even worse than they were the last time we were intimate. No wonder your breath smells. You disgust me Ranson. I could vomit at the very thought of you.”
I said nothing, bowed my head.
“Bend over and part your bum cheeks”
As I did this I knew what was coming. I felt a gloved finger sliding up my back passage.
“Need to make sure you’re not hiding contraband up her don’t I Ranson?”
She slid the finger backwards and forwards followed by a second and a third. I had stopped struggling. I needed this to be over quickly. I had no more energy to fight. Sarah Holliday was that terrible thing, a sadist who unerringly spots the weaknesses in her victims. She had broken stronger women than me. And I was broken. I was hers to abuse and violate at her will.
As I relaxed I felt her whole hand go in, ball into a fist. I was struggling to hold back a scream of pain. But it was soon over. She withdrew roughly and I collapsed sobbing onto the bed. Sarah laughed demoniacally and left, slamming the door behind her.
I was aloe in a cell in Holloway. Naked in the cold. I pulled the grubby blanket round me for warmth. I dozed off and lay on the bed for I don’t know how, long. I woke up to the bang of the door opening, Sarah walked in followed by Mavis Bristow carrying her bucket.
“She’s all yours Bristow.”
“Thank you Miss” said Mavis and curtsied.
“All high and mighty aren’t you?” she said to me in her vile Cockney accent. “But you ain’t nuffink in here darlin’.”
With that she emptied the bucket of water, dirty with the filth of the wing, over my head. She put the bucket over my head and hit it hard. The loud metallic clang reverberated through my head. They both laughed.
I came round in my room at the school. Mary Rushworth had grabbed my shoulder and was shaking me awake.
“You need to come quickly Miss Ranson. Coningsby-Firth and the French girl have run away!”
A post for Wicked Wednesday. Click here for more wickedness.
Michael Kors Original is my go to fragrance although there are others that I like and wear occasionally. But Michael Kors is special to me because it is the smell of sex, the aroma of forbidden sex. Nearly 20 years ago, long before I became Eve, long before I even thought I might one day transition, I began an affair with a married work colleague. I will call her Natasha. Michael Kors was her favourite and, for me, it will forever be the smell of her, of the sex we had in cheap and grubby hotel rooms, occasionally in nice hotel rooms, in cars, once, memorable in a train toilet as impatient fellow passengers banged on the door and her loud scream as she climaxed gave the game away.
The affair fizzled out as they often do. The thrill and intensity of taboo sex can’t last for ever, and maintaining a of facade of deception for other people becomes emotionally draining. But after it ended I always felt arousal when I passed a woman who was wearing it. So t was natural that when I began to change my gender role, I would wear it myself. I feel empowered, I feel sexy, I feel confident, confident enough to seduce a man, knowing that I had a window into his soul. It is still the scent of sex. It is part of the sexual person that I am, something that binds the different versions on me in a way that goes beyond gender.
And what of Natsha? She is now a platonic friend, my closest friend actually and our emotional bond is tighter than it ever was back in the days when we ripped each other’s clothes off in hotel rooms under the guise of “working late”. She has been totally supportive of me. And that time when we walked down Oxford Street in our favourite dresses, both wearing our favourite fragrance and she spontaneously took my hand and we walked hand in hand, not giving a toss what anyone thought, remains special. Natasha has done so much for me, she is aware of some of it but I think that she and her fragrance have actually done more for me than she will ever know.
A post for Quote Quest in conjunction with Kink of the Week. Click on the badges to read what others have to say about scents.
I had a new follower on Twitter last week. To decide whether this person was worth following back I had a quick look at their timeline and saw a series of tweets of dicks, of vulvas in pictures taken from so close up, you could literally count the hairs, graphic clips of penetrative sex, usually doggy style in the manner of particularly tedious cisheteronormative porn, and so on. Now I have no wish to see any of this stuff in my timeline so I blocked this particular person. I have blocked similar people before. In fact Twitter is awash with this sort of thing. I have no inherent objection to pornographic images as you might expect but I much prefer images that show some imagination, and, by hinting at things rather than showing everything, are actually erotic. And eroticism, for me, is not just about hinting at what the people depicted are about to do with their genitalia but also their inner states. As a BDSM practitioner I particularly enjoy images of kinky people and kinky interactions for this very reason.
In BDSM images what is not shown is often as important as what is shown. The best images are not graphic. Yet Twitter, for reasons, unexplained, considers BDSM images objectionable in a way that it does not consider the sort of coshet porn I mentioned above. Take, for example, Sardax . For those of you who don’t know, Sadax is a kink artist best known for his femdom pictures. In fact if you are a professional dominatrix and Sardax hasn’t drawn you, you are probably not in the top drawer of your profession. You can see some of his art on his website Sardax has recently had his Twitter account suspended for reasons unspecified beyond the bland “violating Twitter rules”
In terms of kink this is not a one off. One of the country’s best known pro dommes also had her account suspended recently, losing a decade’s worth of content and 50,000 followers. Her offence, apparently, was to replace a glove on mouth background pic, which she had been asked to remove, with a boot worship pic. So there you have it. Dick pics are fine, a man licking a lady’s boot is unacceptable.
The worry for all of us with an interest in BDSM is that Twitter had remained a space of relative freedom as prudery shut off Facebook and Instagram as spaces for expression of kinky thoughts and ideas. I don’t actually believe that cancel culture and denial of free speech are actually a thing. Except when it comes to kink, or alternative sexualities generally. And for all of you reading this, either because you follow me, or have an interest in my content, that should b a concern.
“In life there are two things which are dependable. The pleasures of the flesh and the pleasures of literature.” – Sei Shōnagon
2020 was a year of no kink and not much sex. Perhaps it would be better to say a year of not much sex with partners. For I had plenty of solo sex, more than I thought I would. And that solo pleasure fitted I nicely with the other solo pleasure to which I devoted much of my free time last year. Reading.
I have always been a voracious reader of fiction. I love being transported to other times, other places, using my mind to explore physicality, my physicality, my sexuality. This is true of all literature, not just genre fiction, although I love that too. And on the subject, my new reading is Venus in Furs, one of those books I always think I should have read but never quite got round to. It being a book club selection has given me the discipline (no pun intended!) to pick it up.
Words exist in the mind, they shape our thoughts even as we use them to express those thoughts. But words have physicality, we utter them, feel them in our mouths, we hear them, soft harsh, beautiful, ugly. They sit on the page, we can feel the paper, smell the ink. Book are sensual on more than one level. I do not have a Kindle. All my books are paper. This is a vital part of the experience of reading.
My favourite books of 2020 were these:
Quiet Flows The Don by Mikhail Sholokov – a story of war and revolution in Russia seen from the perspective of a Cossack village.
The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov – a surreal and sensual story of the Devil coming to Moscow.
Flights by Olga Tokarczuk – an exploration of the metaphysics of travel, conceptualising travel as movements in time as well as space, set against the background of an exploration of the frozen moment of plastination.
Blue Ticket by Sophie Mackintosh – the story of a woman in an unnamed authoritarian and dystopian society who wants to have a baby when the state has decreed that she may not. The book is a wider consideration of societal control of women’s bodies and the role of the medical profession in that control.
And, yes, writing too. It is said that reading literary fiction is a means of self understanding. So is writing and my reading and writing feed off each other. In 2020 in particular much of my fiction had a strongly autobiographical element as I processed a range of life experiences and made my peace with people, places, events, that had left raw edges exposed. Reading and writing as therapy too then.
Reading has been so important to me in 2020. It has kept me alive. It had affirmed me as a sexual person even as circumstances have denied me sex. In 2021 I will continue to read voraciously. But I long for the dungeon, the bedroom.
A post for Quote Quest. Click on the badge to read what others have to say about literature and sex.
It was after a session with Mistress Dometria, as we debriefed over a cup of coffee, that I told her how I saw my role.
“You’ll probably think I am a bit weird Mistress but I really believe that I was put on this earth to serve women. Not just, you know, in kink, or here, but, well, in all aspects of my life. “
“Not at all” she said. “The thought has occurred to me. There are so many wannabe submissives out there who want control, who don’t get it, others who I can see are holding something back but you I have always thought are totally genuine, totally comfortable in your submission. And tell me, what aboit sex?”
“Mistress, I don’t and I don’t want to. I feel that sexually penetrating a woman is a kind of topping and well……I couldn’t do that.”
“I have long wanted to own your cock and now I claim it as mine. Yu will but a chastity device and bring it with you next time. Is that clear?”
“Yes Mistress” I replied and felt deep happiness welling up inside me.
She clicked the cage shut and turned the key. My cock was now caged, for how long? Hopefully for ever. I was happy about this. Penetrating women just felt wrong, so at odds with the imperative to service that I felt. And so I remained in chastity, felt pain every morning as I woke and felt my cock pushing against the cage as it tried to become hard, and I texted Mistress to tell her of the pain I was suffering, as ordered so that she could enjoy my suffering.
“Meet my friend Joy”.
Joy stood up and walked across. I instinctively got up from my chair and knelt before her. She held out her hand.I took it and kissed it gently.
“Pleased to meet you Ma’am. How may I be of service?”
Before Joy could answer Mistress Dometria said
“Joy, or Miss Joy as you must call her has a very special request. It goes without saying that I expect you to comply. I hope you remember our conversation last time you were here?”
“Slave Nigel” said Joy softly, “I want you to sleep with me and give me a child.”
“No buts “ interjected Mistress. “You are doubtless about to say that you are in chastity aren’t you?”
“You will be released from chastity for as long as it takes.”
“Nigel, perhaps I should explain” said Joy. “I am 40 next year and have been single for five years now. I want a baby while I can still do this. And when Julie, sorry Dometria, said that she knew someone as devoted as you are to the service of women I thought I would ask. I appreciate that this is an unusual request but I really think this is the most beautiful service you can give a woman.”
“Thank you Miss Joy. I am honoured and privileged. “
I leant forward and kissed her shoes tenderly. I felt my cock swell and rise only to be crushed again by the cruel cage. I cried out in anguish.
“Come here slave” ordered Dometria.
I walked over to where she sat.
I did as I was ordered and placed my clothes in a neat pile on the free chair around the table. Mistress took a key out of a cupboard drawer and unlocked the chastity device. My cock was shrivelled and small, seemingly unable to adapt to its new freedom, like a newly released prisoner who waits beneath the high walls of the prison, unsure where to go.
“Show your cock to Miss Joy.”
I walked over to her and said
“I hope my cock will be to your satisfaction Miss Joy”
“I hope so too” she said with a smile. She took it in her left hand and stroked it gently. It hardened, gently at first, then swelled quickly as the blood coursed into it.
“So you should hope slave” said Dometria. “If Miss Joy is not completely satisfied you will be harshly punished.”
“Yes Mistress understood.”
“Now stand facing us and masturbate to completion”.
“It means until you come.”
I was sure I heard her mutter “idiot” under her breath.
And so I did. I was ordered to wank daily for the next fur days and then have days of chastity before the big day, a Saturday afternoon in a budget hotel in the town centre. I arrived at 3 o’clock as ordered. Dometria and Joy wee already there. I was a little startled to see my Mistress in jeans ad sweat shirt, but noticed a crop and a flogger on the table by the kettle. Even in this informal setting I had to expect discipline. Joy was already on the bed, naked, playing with herself.Her body was both tanned and toned. I knew she worked out regularly and it showed.
“Take your clothes off and stand at the foot of the bed!”
“Play with yourself and make yourself hard.”
I looked at Joy as I wanked, at her shaven cunt, at her fingering herself. It was as if she was putting on a performance for me. I soon felt precome dribbling out of my cock. It was time. I went down on her, sighed as I slid in to her wet cunt, groaned with pleasure as the foreskin slid back. Three thrusts and I came, I came twice actually, two ejaculation, one following the other and the second orgasm was overwhelming. I cried out with the intensity of the sensation, just wanting it to stop. I sank down on her but Dometria hauled me up. My work was done. I was not here to make love to Joy but to serve her.
“Bend over the chair!” ordered Dometria. I obeyed.
“So that you don’t start thinking you have any purpose other than to serve I am goinig to cane you. 25 strokes and no warm up”
“Yes Mistress” I said, stiffening my legs as I separated them to assume my position for the caning . I breathed in deeply and steeled myself for the caning. The strokes were hard and accurate but I could handle the pain. And being under Dometria’s control again was hot. As the cane landed I came again and ejaculated over the carpet,
“Lick it up” ordered Dometria. I did and thought I had never been so happy.
I was placed in chastity again and told to await further calls. They never came. Once had been enough and Joy was pregnant. So I served her in a different way. I did her shopping and cleaning and, as she grew too big to paint her toenails, I knelt before her and painted them, not always elegantly but, well I did the best I could.
I sometimes see Joy out with her new man and my son, now two, in a buggy. She looks happy. I never make eye contact. I bow my head respectfully and wait till she has passed. For that is my purpose in life, to serve with respect, to give selflessly to the women I am to serve. I expect nothing in return but the joy of service. I have been in chastity for two ears now and Dometria will decide if I am ever to orgasm again. For my cock is Hers. My soul too.
A post for Wicked Wednesday. Click here for more wickedness