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”

“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

Anita

“Right on the edge of fear was where trust could grow”

Cherise Sinclair

When I was a boy I wanted to be an amoeba. I liked the idea of being a creature that didn’t have to bother with sex. I adored Debbie Harry,  I masturbated till I was sore, I took my mother’s magazines to bed, I picked a model from the fashion pages and made her my wife, my lover in my fantasies. I imagined the house we would live in, the dinner parties we would host (which were oddly similar to the ones my parents hosted  but they were the only templates of adulthood I had), the bedroom where we would make love. I wanked to her in quiet adoration but when the sticky ejaculation flowed out to matt my pubic hair and dampen my pyjamas I felt a desperate sadness. These were things that would never be more than fantasy for me. Women belonged on posters, in magazines. In real life they were to be feared. Feared because, some time, a woman might ask me for sex. I avoided girls at at school. I took up trainspotting. I don’t even like trains. I found my fellow trainspotters weird. Yeah I know, I’m weird too but compared to these guys? But it was a safe environment, a long long way from sex.

I was 37 and a virgin when I met Anita. She was a few years older than me, divorced with 2 grown up children. I guess she was lonely. She must have been. Why else would she have been interested in me? But we starting meeting up. Just a drink in the local pub, a country walk. I liked her. She had a ready laugh, she could talk about football, she began to look after me. On my birthday I took her for dinner. She bought me a present, shirts and I realised she might be looking for more than friendship. That evening she invited me back to her house for coffee.

Coffee. And it’s not always with granules is it? I made myself comfortable on the sofa. . She poured whiskies and sat next to me. We talked, she sat closer, pressing her knee against my leg, played with my hair.  When she sat on my lap and pressed her lips gently against mine I felt sick. I was alone with her in her house, the bedroom was directly above us, the bedroom, the bedroom. Shit! The bedroom! This is real. This is going to happen. I felt my head go light as she took my hand and led me upstairs.

I failed. I cried. I apologised to her, told her I felt a failure. She cradled my head against her chest. kissed me gently on the top of the head, assuring me it was fine, she wasn’t angry,  it would be better next time. I unburdened myself there and then and 20 years of pain flowed out onto the soft sheets, like waters from a broken dam. She hugged me close, reassured me.

Next time, she kissed me gently, moving her lips from my mouth, down my body to my cock,  she took my cock into her mouth and sucked and licked and flicked the end with her tongue until I was hard. I knew I could keep this erection.  I knew I could. I wanted this. My fear was gone as she lay back, took me in her had and guided me into her wet, warm cunt. It didn’t last long. I felt the foreskin rolling back, felt wonderful sensations I had never known before. I pushed in and out  as she told me what to do. I came, felt the pulse of the ejaculation, saw a brilliant array of lights and colours as I sank down onto  her and submitted to its force.

I was spent. I was high on the joy of the moment. Anita sad she hadn’t come but that she was happy for me. She would come next time. She had enjoyed it anyway and next time would be even better. I cried as I thanked her. I knew that she had dome something special for me, something loving. She had taken my fear and turned it into trust.  And as for amoebas well………imagine one splitting into two and the second  is so much better than the first. It wants to fuck. It needs to.

A post for Week 3 of Quote Quest. See what awesome content others have created in response to the quote by clicking on the badge.

QuoteQuest

 

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.

SoSS May

So onto May and we have remained in lockdown. I have become completely used to it. I have my routine, I have my runs, I have my weekly Zoom chat with the Proud Baggies (and doesn’t football seem so long ago now!) and I have almost stopped missing the pub. As for sex, well that means solo sex for the foreseeable future although having to take a break from the ongoing whirl of life had given me valuable time to pause, reflect, and mine my memories. And I have had some amazing fantasies, some of which have made their way into stories on this blog.

Then there are the blogs I read. Here are links to some posts that I have particularly enjoyed. Until a few weeks ago when I heard the words PPE I thought of the Politics, Philosophy and Economics degree course at Oxford (the Health Secretary is a PPE graduate curiously enough) but now I associate it with the battle against COVID-19 and the scandalous lack of it (it is not as if viral pandemics are something unexpected – we didn’t know exactly when they would happen but knew that they WOULD happen, and a pandemic of a new RNA virus was being predicted back in 2018, so we should have been better prepared). As many of you will know,  The Other Livvy is a doctor in her other life, working on the COVID frontline, and she posted this for the first Sinful Sunday of the month.

I am currently working on a boarding school story with Posy Churchgate who actually went to boarding school and is teaching me a load of things about school life that I cauld never have guessed at (despite avidly reading the Jennings books by Anthony Buckeridge oh so many years ago). Her boarding school years figure in this reflection on one of her favourite songs (one of mine too) and what it means to her,

I was in London at the tailend of that eerie weekend that would have been the Eroticon  weekend. I ate in restaurants, went to pubs, hugged people. I didn’t get the virus which, as we now know,  was rampaging through London at that time. Others were not so lucky as Blue Submission describes here. .

Victoria Blisse was moved to write this during the lockdown.

Lockdown led to the cancellation of planned fun and frolics with a new lover. We have been messaging each other with tantalising hints of what we might do to each other when we do finally meet up. This is one reason why I enjoyed this by Kristan X

PornHub has been at the centre of controversy about the origin of much of its uploaded content. Girl on the Net uses allegory to explain what the problems with free content sites are.

One of the best things on Sinful Sunday this month was this from Floss Does Life

And yet more poetry- this is a really clever image – haiku on haiku

May More reflects on service here

The thought of being impaled on a fucking machine in a vicarage had enormous appeal, theoretical appeal that is! I have always backed away when presented with the opportunity. But maybe this story from Blue Submission will make me more eager to try next time.

I suppose I was expecting something to cast a spell on me when I saw the title Hexennacht and this piece of supernatural erotica by Lascivious Lucy was a slow burner, But slow burners are often the most satisfying aren’t they?

Most of us bloggers have pseudonyms and, in may cases, alternative selves who enrich our lives. They are actually as real as our legal vanilla selves, and help us to understand and accept who we are.  This, by Alethea Hunt,  really spoke to me.

Objectification and dehumanisation are kinks that I have only begun to get into in the last year or so. ML Slave Puppet shows here the power that a simple hood can have.

And as lockdown drags on I think of those, like me, who are enduring a sexual drought. Exposing 40  is keeping herself busy with her camera to remind herself that she is a sexual person while Starcross writes here about how he and his partner are managing their enforced separation against the background of knowing that their time together is anyway short. I really hope they are able to be together properly again.

It has been a while since I did any outdoor BDSM play. I really have the urge after seeing this really hot image from Honey. I love how the dirt on her feet adds rawness and immediacy to the image and I can just feel the twigs digging into her knees.

I am a qualified accountant in my other life and, many years ago, had to study statistics as part of my qualification. It was interesting to see Statistics as the Wicked Wednesday prompt.  I particularly enjoyed this.

On the subject of outdoor play I enjoyed a birching, well reading about one anyway!

In another life I am a published poet. So I always enjoy a bit of poetry as here by Floss

Meanwhile the boarding school story I am writing in collaboration with Posy Churchgate continues. Post has written Chapter Four which you can read here.

This, another post by ML Slave Puppet discusses  how the S in BDSM doesn’t stand for sex.

And this month’s petrolhead porn is the German Grand Prix of 1938  won by the Englishman Richard Seaman. Seaman is pretty much forgotten these days but in the late 1930s he was the best British racing driver and a member of the Mercedes team. This meant living in Nazi Germany at a time of rising international tension. He was married to  the daughter of the founder of BMW and the couple lived in a villa on the shore of Lake Starnberg near Munich.  This was an idyllic but doomed life as Seaman surely knew. He kept his own counsel on the political questions of the day but faced difficult personal choices should war break out. As it turned out these were choices he never had to make as he was killed in the Belgian Grand Prix at Spa in 1939. He was just 26. There is a new biography of him which I shall be reading during lockdown. And time for reading is one of the few benefits of house arrest.

Lessons in Love

“That” said Fiona Howe, “is the most misogynistic thing I have heard in a long long time. Do you actually know how old I am?”

I shuffled my feet in embarrassment and struggled for an answer.

“Well I thought erm maybe…”

“I am 72. Is that a problem for you?”

“Well no”

“Or maybe it is. You were thinking about how much older I am than you and thought that I might possibly be under seventy and that if I was you might ask me for sex. Is that right?”

“Well yes.”

There was no point lying. She had seen through me. She always did. I took a sip of the milky tea she had made me.

“And seventy is a magic number that makes a woman unfuckable but doesn’t make a man too old for sex. Is that what you think? Is that what all men think.?”

“Well yeah I …”

“If a man of 72 has sex with a younger woman that is fine isn’t it?”

“But the other way round you have a problem with?”

“I’m sorry. It was such a stupid thing to day.”

“It was. Offensive and misogynistic.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry? Is that the best you can do? Sorry?”

I felt myself  going red with shame.   I shuffle my feet and looked at the floor.

“Look at me.”

I complied amazed at how quickly I had resumed the role of immature schoolboy in her presence.  She has the same wavy short hair as 46 years ago, now silver grey, the same snub nose, her face, older obviously, was barely lined. She was beautiful, as she always  had been.

“Would you like to fuck me?”

I nodded, feeling an utter fool.

“When was the last time I saw you?” Fiona asked.

“I think it would have been when I was 14, so 1974?”

“The year I left King Aethelraed’s High. The year I got married and what a disaster that was.”

She sighed.

“That final lesson you gave me 400 lines and the last time I saw you was we I came to the staffroom to hand them in.”

“So not a very happy memory of me then?”

“Well, actually, you set me lines quite regularly and I enjoyed them.”

“What did I make you write?”

“Discipline and obedience are the key to learning.”

“Well I always was inventive wasn’t ?” she laughed, “But you enjoyed writing them?That’s not really the idea. They were a punishment.”

“Yes I know but I liked being punished  by you.”

“Why?”

“Well, I suppose I worshipped you really. I was the only boy who did. The girls all loved you didn’t they? Always complimenting you on your hair, and your clothes. And those beige boots you had.  Every adolescent girl wants to wear boots doesn’t she , it’s like a sign that she is not a girl anymore. And I so wanted to compliment you too and openly adore you the way that girls did. But I was a boy. So I was naughty  so that you would punish me with lines and I sat and wrote and worshipped you, in that lovely tartan skirt you had, in those boots. I’m sorry, you must think I am weird.”

“Not at all.”

She touched me gently on the arm.

“You had a crush on me that’s all. These things are quite normal.”

She looked at me tenderly and I felt a tear running down my cheek.

Fiona changed tone and said briskly.

“I think I would like you to fuck me, it’s been a while. Only the once though. I am very happy on my own and I don’t want you to think there could ever be anything between us.”

I stood there silent, looking into my mug. I hadn’t come looking for a relationship, I hadn’t come well I don’t know. I had  found out that my class teacher from the Third Form had moved into a new house just a quarter of a mile way from where I lived and here I was, 60 and retired, turning a social call into a confession of a teenage crush, Fiona Howe could still make me feel hopelessly inadequate, hopelessly naive, just as she could have done 46 years ago.  At 72 she excited me more than she did then. But I lacked the courage to tell her.

“And if I still had the boots?”

“Well Miss…”

“I am Fiona, we are both adults aren’t we?”

“Fiona, could I see them?”

“You can take them away, get them reheeled, give them a good clean and bring them with you next time. If we are going to fuck I might as well wear them for you.”

I felt myself going bright red with embarrassment.

“I didn’t fantasise about you that way back then I mean….”

“It wouldn’t bother me if you did. I am sure you weren’t the only one. And isn’t that what what spotty faced hormonal boys do?”

I smiled.

“I suppose so.”

“I am going to back the boots in a bag, And there will be a envelope containing your task.”

“Task?”

“A task. Something I require you to do. The chance for you to show me how much you want me.”

I said nothing.

“Sit down and finish your tea. I will be back in a minute”

Arriving home I shut the front door behind me. I leaned back against the door, in the gloom of my hallway and breathed heavily. I unbuttoned my trousers and masturbated to her, coming quickly. Come spilled out over my hand and I rushed to the kitchen in a crouched gait to avoid getting stains over my trousers. I cleaned myself up with kitchen towel, thought again of the boots and masturbated again. I grabbed the bag, pulled out a boot and came over it before greedily licking it clean.

I took the other boot out of the bag. I put them on the table and looked at them closely.  They were scuffed, the leather was dry and beginning to crack in places. Were they the actual boots? Or was this part of her game? I didn’t really care and they certainly looked like the boots I remembered, they had, too, a patina of age. Most important of all, she had worn them.I kissed each one gently and placed them back on the table. I opened the envelope and unfolded the paper on which she had written,

“Before your next visit I require 400 lines. These must be in blue ink and must be in your BEST HANDWRITING. You will write ‘I am a misogynistic arsehole who must learn to respect women.'”

I laid paper and four blue pens out on the table in front of the boots, which I kept in my eyeline as I wrote.

“I am a misogynistic arsehole who must learn to respect women.”

400 lines. Only 400? I was a little disappointed. For Fiona Howe I could write for ever.

 

A story for Masturbation Monday. Click on the badge to see what other awesome naughtiness has  been posted.

Masturbation Monday

 

Delphine’s Schooldays – Chapter Three

The next instalment of my collaboration with Posy Churchgate.  The previous chapter is on Posy’s blog here 

St. Faith’s School  September 1952

I have never much liked the French. I have bitter memories of 1940 when their collapse left our country to fight on alone against Nazi Germany. I was a young House mistress at St. Faith’s in those days when we had to open our doors to evacuees from the East End of London and normal school was suspended.  A couple of years later we had to close altogether after the buildings and grounds were requisitioned by the War Office. We returned to reopen the school in 1946 and I wept when I saw the state the school had been left in. I am sure things would have been different had we had a reliable ally. Not that I was surprised. My late father was a career army officer and he had a similarly low opinion of our neighbours from across the Straits of Dover. They are flashy, arrogant and deeply contemptuous of the British, not showing a hint of gratitude that we have twice this century saved them from the German brutes.

The new girl in the Lower Sixth embodies all the things I despise. Delphine de Lotbiniere is the daughter of an aristocrat who I had the pleasure, if you can call it such, of meeting when he came to visit the school last spring. He was a man of undoubted style but rather condescending. Unfortunately the school is not thriving and the opportunity of some rather good publicity could not be missed.  So we now have his daughter in our care and she has not made a good start. She has a bad attitude and I intend to deal with this.

I had my first real encounter with her this afternoon. I teach games as I was quite a gifted sportswoman before the war. My favourite game is netball and under my regime at St.Faith’s we have the best school team in the county.  All girls have to play, even French ones.

The girls lined up silently in the cold school gymnasium. Each was dressed in a white Aertex shirt, a green pleated skirt, dreary grey socks and plimsolls. Prison uniform I thought to myself as I  walked up and down the line, saying nothing, feasting on their growing fear. I stopped in front of Lotbiniere and stood watching her intently for early a minute before saying

“We are playing netball this afternoon.”

“We don’t have this game in France” said Delphine with the kind of pout that makes me all the more determined to impose my will on a girl.

“I don’t suppose you do but we have it here and I am proud of the standard to which St. Faith’s girls play.  It is a most English game and the girls and young women of our great country play it with spirit and pluck.”

She looked blankly at me. Her English was still not that good.

I reached into the sack with the positional bibs and found a particularly grubby red one for Mademoiselle. I handed it to her.

“Put this on.”

Delphine pouted again and pulled the bib over her head with obvious distaste.

“GA. What is that Madame?”

“It means Goal Attack, your position on the court girl.”

“I don’t know” . She looked at me almost pleadingly.

“Just make sure you are trying Lotbiniere. I will be watching you closely.”

I called the other girls over to choose their bibs and I soon had two times lined up on the court, blue and red. I blew my whistle and the game started.

I was watching Lotbiniere closely,  how she wandered about the court lost, pout of position how she dropped the ball around the court lost, clearly not understanding the game. The second time she dropped a ball thrown to her by a team mate I blew the whistle and ordered the girls to line up.

“If there is one thing I cannot abide it is lack of effort. One of you has not been trying in this game.  Lotbiniere step forward.”

There was an anxious silence in the gym as the French girl came to me.

“What have you got to say for yourself?”

“But Madame I do not know this game in France we..”

“I don’t care. I expect you to learn. I expect effort. On the floor.”

She looked at me blankly.

“On the floor. Now!”

She complied. I noticed her eyes getting moist and this spurred me on.

“Twenty pressups. Now! Move!”

Her pressups were slow and awkward, she was clearly not used to doing them. After the tenth I paid my right foot on her back and pushed down to make them even harder. After the twentieth she collapsed panting on the floor.

“That is a very poor effort Lotbiniere.  You come here with your oh so French superiority and look at you. Remember that I am very inventive in my punishments and you will learn not to cross me. Norris, step forward!”

A freckled redhead stepped forward with a startled expression.

“Norris, I have had frequent occasion to punish you have I not?”

“Yes Miss”

“And you have learnt from those punishments have you not?”

“Yes Miss.”

“Then tell the Countess, or whoever she thinks she is, that it would be better for her to change her attitude.”

“Oh Bin, you really need to do what Miss Ransome says. She is very strict and I don’t want you to go through what I have had to.”

I smiled.

“OK girls. Back in your positions.”

I blew my whistle and the game restarted. Lotbiniere was making more effort, running more, even catching balls and shooting for goal. She has sporting talent, it is clear, but a  little beating and humiliation is clearly necessary to get her to use it.

Her first shot was a near miss. The second time, as she prepared to shoot, a defender pulled her ponytail. She dropped the ball and in a single movement, span round and slapped the girl across the face, before pushing her back until they were against the wall where Lotbiniere dug her nails into the other girl’s cheeks. The girl responded by pulling Lotbiere’s hair, some of which came off in her hands. I let them fight for a few moments,  before blowing the whistle and marching across. I slapped the other girl across the face.

“Go and get changed. You will report to my study at 9 o’clock sharp tomorrow morning.”

As she ran off in tears I ordered the remaining girls to line up. I took Lotbiniere by the ear, twisting the lobe in my fingers so that she grimaced with pain. I paraded her up ad down the line of frightened, intimidated girls. We stopped for a few seconds in front of Norris who was shaking like a jelly.

“The Countess is, it seems, slow to learn. But she will learn, even if her schooldays are interminable days of suffering and misery. Some of you know what this means and you may wish to tell your friend Bin, as you call her, when you are all back on the dorm. I am going to make an example of her and her sufferings will be very public. Pour encourager les autres as the French say.”

I flashed her a mocking smile. I was quite proud of myself for thinking up that one.

“Lotbinere. Climb the wall bars, and turn round with your hands on the top bar.”

As she did so I watched the other girls. all of whom knew what was coming next. Norris was clearly struggling to hold back the tears.

Lotbiniere turned round awkwardly and clung on to the bars, her feet struggling for purchase on a lower bar, her torso thrust out, her boobs wobbling beneath her top as she struggled to hold on.

I watched her for a long moment then ordered her

“Drop your feet. You are going to hang there until the end of the lesson. And maybe you will learn this time.”

I blew my whistle and the game continued. But it was now played in a subdued atmosphere with all the girls glancing  furtively across at the hanging, grimacing, crying Lotbinere.

After the game the girls filed out quietly back to the changing room. Lotbinere remained, hanging from the wall bars. Her arms were clearly hurting.

“Lotbiniere, you can come down now. Go and get changed. And I hope you have learnt your lesson.”

She flashed me a defiant look before running off to join the other girls in the changing room. The girl had spirit. There was no denying that. And that would make breaking her all the more satisfying.

(to be continued)

The next chapter will be posted on Posy Churchgate’s blog. I will link to it here when it is published.

This was also a post for Wicked Wednesday. Follow this link for more wickedness

 

Wicked Wednesday

 

A Lockdown Visit

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

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

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

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

It was her. I started.

“Miss Eve Ray?”

I nodded.

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

“Who….”

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

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

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

I felt her gloved hand slap my cheek.

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

I rubbed my cheek.

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

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

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

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

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

“Prosecco”

She allowed herself a smile.

“Is Prosecco essential?”

“Well I think so.”

“Shut up!”

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

“Sanitary products? Are you having your period?”

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

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

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

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

“You can’t do that!” I protested.

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

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

“Take your clothes off.”

I hesitated.

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

She walked round me, inspecting me.

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

“Yes Ma’am.”

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

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

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

I said nothing, desperate to be brought to orgasm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

To see more naughtiness for Masturbation Monday click on the image below.

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Delphine’s Schooldays – Chapter One

ST. FAITH’S SCHOOL FOR GIRLS – JULY 1959

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No Delphine” I mumbled.

“Non, Mademoiselle de Lotbiniere.”

“Non, Mademoiselle”

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

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

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

“Do we?”

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

I complied. I had to.

“Kneel and kiss my shoes”.

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

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

“Open your mouth.”

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

“Swallow”

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

“Ouvre ta bouche!”

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

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

She stood up and made for the door.

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

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

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

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

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

WickedWednesday

 

 

Skin Deep

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kneel up.”

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

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

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

This is a post for edition 292 of Masturbation Monday. Click the picture below to see what others have been getting up to.

Masturbation Monday