I Want to be Your Skivvy

Claire was her best friend. She shopped with Claire, drank cocktails, caught up over coffee, moaned about boyfriends. Claire was her only friend. And then she wasn’t. She knew this when Claire stopped answering her texts until the time she invited Claire to her birthday and read the reply

“Your birthday? Certainly not!”

She knew although Claire would not tell her. She knew that she had destroyed the only friendship she had.  She remembered Claire’s words. from a couple of years earlier.

“I am hard. I give few fucks for people who are disloyal”

She tried to hate Claire. Tried hard. But she could not. She loved Claire. She was doomed to adore her. She decided she would show Claire how much.  She would serve Claire. She would abase herself before her.

The idea came to her the day she passed a workwear shop in town. She saw the maid dress in the window, went in, took one off the hanger, stroked the cotton, thought of Claire.

“Can I help you Madam?”

“Er no it’s OK”

She left the shop in a hurry feeling herself going red as if everyone could read her thoughts.

The next day she went back and bought the dress.  She hung it on a hanger on the wardrobe door. She laid out her cleaning materials and rubber gloves on the dressing table. She lay on the bed and masturbated, not to Claire, but to the hours of chores, the washing up, the brushing of the toilet, the shoes to polish. She would work until she was exhausted, until her hands hurt, until her skin was calloused, until she collapsed into a heap at Claire’s feet, begging forgiveness, having shown that she cared, that she was truly sorry.

When she woke, it was light. She was still in bras and panties, still wearing her make up.  She couldn’t remember coming though she must have done, She had slept so soundly. She looked around, saw the dress, the enticing  pink marigolds, and remembered.  She stood up, took a glove, put it on, frigged herself, frigged herself hard, rubbing the palm of the glove, with its grip, hard, hard against her clit. She wanted it to hurt, she had to start today suffering. Today was to be her day. Of catharsis.

“I so want to hate you Claire,” she kept saying. “But I can’t. I am doomed to worship you even as you despise me.”

She dressed quickly in the maid dress, dabbed on a powder foundation, grabbed the cleaning tray and left.

Ten minutes later she was at Claire’s door.  The door opened. Before Claire could find words she had bowed her head and curtsied,

“Good morning Ma’am. I want to be your skivvy.”

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 sex, 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

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.




How I Became a Woman

As I lost consciousness I fell into dazzling whiteness at the bottom of which was a long shining corridor to a large oak door. I entered into a chamber where a magnificent woman sat on a throne, peacocks at either side.

“Come kneel  before the Goddess of Cunt and make your petition.”

“Gracious Goddess of Cunt, oh Queen of all Vulvas, I humbly request that I be made a woman.”

“Why do you request this?”

“It is what I have always wanted. I desire the beauty of the vulva, the ecstasy of the clit, a slick vagina inviting in a hard throbbing cock.”

“You desire to be fucked by a man?”

“Yes Goddess.”

“Stand up and walk over to the table.”

I walked over to a table where 6 clay vulvas were laid out.

“Choice is a privilege. I hardly need mention that it is not a privilege granted to those born female.”

“No Goddess.”

“Take a look. Feast on the beauty of each one. And make your choice.”

I looked up and down the row.   They all looked the same to me.

“Well I don’t really know…I….”

“Use your imagination girl. Imagine being the first man to have you. I am sure you can still manage the male gaze. You won’t just want to be fucked will you?”


“Of course you won’t. You want his face buried in your bush, tonguing the slit, fingering you. massaging your clit..”

“Well yes I suppose so.”

“You suppose so? You suppose so?.”

Her tone of mock surprise was accompanied by a contemptuous sneer.

“Yes I do Goddess.”

“So you need vulva number 2.  Those thicker outer labia  are just perfect for a man to get between his lips, to suck and enjoy. And you will enjoy.”

She waved her hand and the other 5 vulvas disappeared.

“You have a choice now. I can send you back to Earth and you can see what sex is really like for women. You can be fucked by a guy who stinks of beer, who is done in a few seconds, shoots his load, rolls over and falls asleep.”

“And do I get to come?”

“Of course you don’t! But do you think the average man cares?”

I said nothing.

“You can make out with the man who has picked you up in a bar. You insist he uses a condom because you are sensible like that. But he slips it off just before penetrating you, stealthing as they call it. And then you notice a sore. So it’s down to the STI Clinic for you. Or the clap clinic as they used to call it.”

“Men do that?”

“What won’t men do darling. You have so much to learn.”

“Or you meet Mr. Superstud via a dating app who talks such a good game but when you get to the bedroom, oh dear! He can’t get it up and he blames you. The thing is there are so  many women out there having shit sex. And, having looked at your file, I have to say that you have been responsible for some of it.”

I remained silent.

“I could call it karma. Couldn’t I? But you have another option ”

“What is that Goddess?”

“It is to serve the God of Cock.”

She clicked her fingers and clouds of dry ice filled the room. There was a flash of light, fiercely bright but damped by the mist so that I did not need to turn away. I saw a figure.  fly down from the vaulted ceiling and land. As the clouds cleared I saw a large bearded man, about six feet tall, with a huge cock protruding for his trousers.

“I am the God of Cock. Ever hard, ever needy, ever ready to fuck. Serve me and you serve me for ever. Your cunt will be mine and mine alone. You will always be ready, you will never say no. Think about this before you say yes. My offer is of eternal sexual servitude.”

I said nothing.

“Kneel before me and contemplate.”

I knelt before him, looked at the huge cock, at the prominent vein running down the back, looked at the tip, at the end straining to burst the bounds of the foreskin. I saw it throb. I saw the gleam of pre-come in the spotlight that the Goddess of Cunt was shining on it. This could be mine for ever. I only had to say the word and the God of Cock would make me his and fuck me, fuck me hard, for all eternity.

“Oh most magnificent God of Cock, I choose servitude, I offer you my cunt for all eternity, I crave to be your sexual plaything. Please make me yours.”

I leaned forward to kiss his sandalled feet. I cried.

They watched me for a few minutes, before the Goddess of Cunt said

“Come to me, you who are to be made woman,  lie on the couch.”

I lay down. She came over to me and with a sweep of the hand tore off my cock and balls. She held them up before me, smiling. I felt no pain, only relief, and no regret as she threw them onto the fire, which spat and crackled as the flames consumed them.

She took the clay vulva, licked it on the reverse and laid and gently over my crotch, carefully moving it into place. She placed a finger in her own cunt, took it out, held it up, It was wet. I could see that from the way it glinted in the light. She rubbed the finger over my vulva, saying

“Oh great Goddesses, may you, through the medium of my juices, bless this woman and her vulva, may she walk proud, may she never be ashamed of her sexuality.  May her cunt be considered beautiful. May she be fucked as she earnestly desires. Amen”

She stood over me in silent contemplation. She made a sign over my crotch with her hand, saying words that I could not make out. There was a moment of silence. I felt euphoria rising within me.

She took my left hand and guided it my crotch. I felt the roughness of pubic hair, I felt softness, I felt an opening. She gently pushed my finger in.

“Feel that. You have waited all your life for this. And now you have it. And this,” she guided my hand upwards, “is your clit. Touch it, feel it, love it, make it your best friend”.

“Thank you Goddess, thank you.”

Again I felt a tear running down my cheek.

“But there is a price. You have chosen eternal servitude to the God of Cock. Play with yourself while you wait for Him to make you His.”

I began to rub my clit, and the intensity of the sensations soon had me moaning, I saw the God of Cock  walk across to me.

“Keep playing with yourself. We will come together before I fuck you.”

And we did. I came just as The God of Cock ejaculated and filled a golden goblet with his come. He handed it to me saying

“Drink the drink of sexual servitude”.

I sat up and drank. It was like no come I had tasted before. It was very slightly fizzy, had the saltiness I expected, but an unmistakable aroma of elderflower.

“This is the nectar of the Gods of Sex.  It will dilate you and make you big to take me as now you must.”

He took the goblet from my hand. climbed on top of me, grabbed my wrists roughly and pushed me back onto the couch. He drive his cock into me and thrusted quickly and forcefully, oblivious to my discomfort and pain. It was hurting,  it was really hurting and I wanted it to stop. I called out but he ignored me. He was fucking me into submission, showing what servitude means. I felt his cock growing even bigger inside me, swelling as my cunt couldn’t. It was going to burst, I knew it, I……

“Please Oh God of Cock, please stop, please…”

He roared with contempt, his excitement at my predicament made him bigger still, ever bigger, ever…

Please! Please!”

I came round . I saw that I was back on the ward. The operation had been done. It hurt like fuck and I was aware of something hard in my new cunt.

“What is that?” I asked a nurse”

“It’s a perspex block we use to dilate the neo-vagina” she said. “The body thinks it is a wound, so it tries to close it up. You’ll need it for a while yet I am afraid.”

“Only thing I want inside is a cock” I replied. “The fat throbbing cock of a guy who is going to ram me sideways, thump me so hard that I bang against the headboard and beg for mercy”

“I beg your pardon?” .

“I am sorry. That was really inappropriate”

“It certainly was.”

” It is just that I have wanted to be fucked by a man all my life.”

“Well I suppose I can relate to that” she answered.

She walked away, then stopped and turned to me with a smile on her face.

“When it does happen, I just hope you are not too disappointed.”


A post for Wicked Wednesday. For more wickedness click here.

All the Sex We Never Had, All the Places We Never Went

Heraclitus wrote that you can never step into the same river twice. I have been thinking about this a lot recently while reading Olga Tokarczuk’s fragmentary travel novel Bieguni. The English translation is called Flights which is not a particularly accurate translation. There are an journeys in this book, journeys of different kinds, journeys by train, by boat, by plane, journeys in time.  Journeys of escape that are also personal journeys. Even tourists with their suitcases and wallets stuffed with privilege are often  escaping something. And in the middle of these journeys there are lengthy digressions on the preservation of human remains, beginning in 17th century Holland and carrying on to modern day plastination, the presentation of dead bodies as art. Art as the denial of the aesthetic of sex.

The living body changes, time is its solvent. The aesthetic of sex is an aesthetic of decay. Sex is the land of rivers that flow remorselessly on, taking our lovers with them as they head for the sea of death and oblivion. It is also the land of erotic adventures that never happened, of the times we failed to step into the river and knew immediately we never could again.


It is July 1985. Graham is on the overnight train from Innsbruck to Vienna. There is just one other person in the compartment.  She introduced herself as Estelle, from Bloemfontein. And, as white South Africans did, she assured Graham that she was  not a racists.

“Everywhere we go,” she said with a sigh, “no one likes us.”

“Are you surprised?” thought Graham but resisted the temptation to say this.

They talked, about travel mainly,  and Estelle accepted his offer of a beer and then another. She moved across to sit next to him. She pressed her knee lightly against his to test his reaction. He didn’t flinch. Encouraged, she placed his hand on his knee. They had another beer, and when he went out into the corridor for a cigarette she joined him.

“I am a social smoker” she said “but only a social smoker.”

She held her smile until he offered her a cigarette. When they had finished she leant into him for a kiss and he responded. Beer, cigarettes and a faint hint of sweat. Graham was getting hard but he pulled away. It was the thought of the unlocked compartment, the thought of well….Bloemfontein.  He had caught a glimpse of her surname in her passport. Van der Merwe. Afrikaner. They were the worst weren’t they? Racists with black servants. She probably had a maid who had to curtsy before her. But he knew this was all rationalisation. The truth was, she repelled him.

Graham woke up at 4 o’cock  tired and sweaty, metallic foulness in his mouth. He looked over to Estelle. She snored and tossed and turned. not waking up until the train rattled through Hutteldorf on the outskirts of Vienna. They parted without a word.

East Berlin 1981

I have a flag. The state flag of the German Democratic Republic. It is Saturday 2nd May. There are flags everywhere. You can buy them in Centrum Warenhaus on the Alexanderplatz. They have different sizes, and plastic sticks to put them on are extra. I buy a medium sized flag without a stick. I have lunch at the Zillestube, I have coffee and cake in the revolving cafe of the TV tower and return to the West with a pile of the classics of Marxism wrapped in coarse, grey paper. And the flag. I used it as a tablecloth until my landlady told me she wasn’t happy with it.


It was nearly 10 o’clock. Time for bed in the bustling youth hostel on the banks of the Rhine. Peter had been talking to Annette there on the wall as they drank Coke from bottles, for two hours. He was tired, his German was becoming ragged but…..Annette had forgotten about her friends in the school group she had come with. She took his hand and led him away to a spot behind the bushes. She pulled him close, kissed him. Peter responded, this was not the first time he had kissed but, at 17, the first time had felt raw passion from the other person. He squeezed Annette, enjoyed the softness of her body, pushing his tongue deep into her mouth. She pulled herself free, took off her T shirt, unhooked her bra and Peter saw for the first time breasts, large breasts hanging down, large aureoli and in the middle nipples that stood stiff and proud. She unbuckled her belt and began to slide down her jeans.

“Willst du mich ficken?”

He began to feel week at the knees as Annette’s jeans came down, her knickers and he saw, as if in a blur, her slit, her bush. She was aroused, she wanted it but he only felt fear. He mumbled something about an early start, a long walk the following day.

He lay in his bunk and masturbated to her.  He saw her at breakfast the following morning but she ignored him. He hadn’t seen her crying and would he have cared if he had?

Paris 1977

I never knew her name, I don’t think she even looked at me. She got on the Metro at Miromesnil with a friend and got off alone at Strasbourg St Denis. Our respective journeys through spacetime coincided for just 20 minutes but I was fascinated. I don’t think I had seen a woman like her before, in her 20s but with the lines from the corners of her mouth to the nose that come from speaking French. Her dress, the way she carried her bag, the way her hair was dishevelled but actually not, the way she spoke, yes, the way she spoke.  I listened closely to catch what words I could. Later I practised in front of the mirror. That night I lay in bed and thought about her. I did not fantasise. I did not masturbate. I just wanted to be her. I still do.


David met Susie when he was working  in Germany and, finding it hard to make friends,  they clung to each other to avoid  being stuck in their respective bedsits gazing at the wall. One rainy Saturday afternoon he had invited Susie round. He had bought a selection of cakes from the local bakery, he made filter coffee and his attic room suddenly had a homely smell it had never had before. As he only had one chair, they sat on the bed, leaning against the wall. They munched Pflaumenstreuselkuchen and crumbs fell onto the duvet but David didn’t mind. The small space brought them closer together. legs pressed against each other. Susie didn’t seem to mind this at all. David pressed a bit more. He had thought a lot about Susie, how she was nice but boring, not seeing the irony in how own lack of self awareness. And those big, heavy glasses she wore! Then again, the lips, Susie had full lips that he just wanted to kiss. He leaned across and gently took her glasses off.

“Why did you do that?”

“I want to see your face.  I think you’re very pretty.”

“Thank you.”

She smiled.

David pulled her towards him, paced his thin lips on her full lips, and pushed his tongue into her mouth as the lips parted. Susie responded and they rolled over. She put a hand on the back of his head and pressed to lock him in the kiss.  David felt he was getting hard, he slipped his hand inside Susie’s knickers and fumbled to find her slit. He pushed a finger in. She was wet.

He felt his cock getting hard, the bulge in his jeans called for release. With his free hand, he unbuttoned his jeans, started to wriggle out of them. Then Susie pushed him off.

“I can’t do this David. I really like you, I could even love you, I think, but I can’t.”

“What’s the problem?”

“It’s not you. It’s my faith. I promised God that I would remain a virgin till I marry. It’s not that I wouldn’t, you know … with you…because I know I would like to and it would be nice. If you were my husband. ”

“I am sorry Susie I had no idea. Are you not angry with me?”

“No I am not David. I think you are a really lovely guy. I do. But it wouldn’t be right. Not yet. ”

She gave him a hug.

When Susie had gone David pounded the wall with his fists.

“God, God, God! Why do you do this!” he shouted and saw, to his astonishment, that he was crying.

He met Susie fleetingly at Derby railway station several years later. She had her four young children with her, she looked tired. They spoke briefly.  Susie had devoted her life to her family, what little spare time she had to the church, and her husband, an elder of the church, had left her for another woman. They both felt regret but neither of them could say it. The unspoken mutual feelings weighed heavily on the conversation and it was a relief to them both when David realised he was on the wrong platform for the Nottingham  train and had to run off up the stairs. As his train pulled out he avoided looking out for her. This was not a second coming of the river. That much he knew.

Vienna 2003

There was a time before selfies. We were approached on the Karntner Strasse by a young woman holidaying on her own and asked to take a photograph of her in front of the Stefansdom. We obliged. Later we headed out to Gasometer to eat. I liked Gasometer because it is not coffee houses and kitsch. Not a slice of Sachertorte in sight. As we ate, my partner mentioned the woman again as if feeling sorry for her.

“Maybe we could have invited her to join us?”

I could only think that I admired her for just getting out there and having a holiday and not worrying because she hadn’t got anyone to go on holiday with.  It’s happened to me, it’s happened to many people. It is not a disease. I was just wishing her great sex. That happens on holiday too.

“I bet she’s somewhere having more fun that she would with us” I replied.


It had been a bit of a red letter day for Caroline. She has been to the hairdressers in the morning.

“There’s enough to style” said Laura. “I think you’ll like it.”

And she blowed and brushed and busied herself as Caroline sipped her tea.

“Have a look” said Laura with a smile. And Caroline looked in the mirror and liked what she saw. Her hair was still shortish, still grey but it had been shaped nicely and had the beginnings of a short bob.

“I like it.”

“You’re not putting that bloody wig back on are you? Are you Caroline?”

“No Miss” said Caroline and they both laughed.

As she left the salon Caroline did a jig of delight.

She was still on a high that evening when she met up with friends for a night in Birmingham’s Gay Village. Drinks and food at ‘spoons, pool and lager and karaoke at The Fox, a cigarette in the garden and she fell into conversation with Amy.

“You’re lovely” said Amy taking a second cigarette from Caroline. “Can I add you on Facebook?”

“Yeah, of course.”

They both took out their phones and conducted the modern friendship ritual.  Caroline was feeling a new confidence and wanted to chat some more but Amy stood up and said

“I’m off to The Village now, meeting a few friends.”

It was nearly five hours later that Caroline pushed her way through the crowds to find a space in the garden of the pub to sit down and light up. It was only after she at down that she realised that she was sitting next to Amy.

“Hello again” she said.

“Hi” said Caroline realising that the night’s drinking was taking its toll, the fizzy lager and the shots that her friends had been buying all evening. They were still going strong  and were doubtless looking to see it through to closing time at 8 am. Caroline was thinking of going home. She had had enough and was making a mental note to be careful in the future when it came to going out with 20 something lesbians. It had been fun though.

She felt her head being grabbed and turned round to look Amy in the face. Amy loved in and kissed her, forcing her tongue into Caroline’s mouth. Alcohol had removed her inhibitions and she responded. She ran her arm behind Amy pulled her closer, thrust her own tongue into Amy’s mouth. Her head began to swim, she was hard, she cold still manage an erection despite the hormones, she was glad she was wearing a loose fitting summer dress that hid the bulge, she wanted Amy, wanted her so much, wanted Amy to finger her, to……

Amy unbuttoned Caroline’s dress, reached inside and took a breast in her hand, kneaded it, moulded it in her lovely warm hand, before tweaking the nipple. Caroline yelped in surprise but found the pain quite pleasant.  Amy undid 2 more buttons, reached behind to unhook Caroline’s bra and, as it fell, moved her hand inside the flapping dress to suck at Caroline’s nipple, twisting it with her lips, flicking it with her tongue, making Caroline more and more aroused.

“Come on” said Amy “let’s go to the loo, I so fucking want to go down on you.”

She stood up, grabbed both of Caroline’s hands and pulled her to her feet. Caroline stood there, her left breast hanging out, hair dishevelled, frantic with desire for this woman, fuzzy headed with drink to the point that she was struggling to stay on her feet,  but clear headed enough to know she couldn’t go through with this.

“Sorry Amy I can’t. I so fucking want you but I just can’t!”

She ran, falling out of the door, her dress still open, her breast still hanging out.

A doorman grabbed her arm and steadied her.

“Are you OK love?”

Caroline nodded.

“Are you sure?”

She went to the corner of the street and rested against a wall. She buttoned up her dress and lit a cigarette. As she smoked she gathered her thoughts. It was now nearly four o’clock and the summer night was getting chilly. She hailed a taxi and jumped in.

The taxi drive off. Caroline didn’t look back at the throng outside the pub. She looked resolutely forward, at the dark shadow of the driver, the red numbers changing every few hundred yards on the meter.  She began to cry.

Boston, Massachusetts 2000 

In the year of The Big Dig there were people in Boston worried about the future of Little Italy in the city’s North End.  Tucked away on the far side of Interstate 93 on its rickety looking green viaduct, almost a town beside the city.  But when the road disappears into a tunnel, when Little Italy is opened up to the rest of Boston, the acid of property developers’ money will surely dissolve the area’s character. The works continue. The contractor’s boards are painted with the coats of arms of Italian cities. It seems like a defiant gesture. Our meal is too. We find a trattoria,  sit with plates of pasta, tomato salad, a bottle of red wine. We are enjoying slow food in the land of the Big Mac.

All That Is Solid Melts Into Air 

The last time I was in Berlin the Palast der Republik, the home of the puppet parliament of the German Democratic Republic, where I had once eaten lunch and bought a newspaper, was an ugly  twisted metal frame. It was an eyesore and its final removal, a week after I left, was a blessed release. Cities change. Cities evolve. It is as if the moment you leave you have never been there. One minute after your plane has taken off, the city has changed. I have Austrian friends who have a collectors’ approach to sightseeing. Been there. Seen that. Done that. “Abgehakt” as they say in German.  I don’t think they realise the futility of the freezing of motion as if the frozen moment is all that matters. They remind me of those sad men who keep a notebook of all the women they had had sex with. Or claim to have had sex with.

The sex we never had is no less real than the sex we had. Or rather, the sex we had is no more real. All the bodies I have loved have been dissolved by time, made anew or not, remade as ageing parodies of what they were. Mine too, and let’s face it, mine has changed more than most. Consider the vaginas I fingered, the clits I tongued, the glistening bellends I took greedily into my mouth. They are no more. Every single cell dead, replaced by new cells, regenerated but decaying, changing even as they appear to stay the same. But decay is inherent to the aesthetic of sex, it is the art of bodies in flux.

And Finally Plastination……

I write, not to freeze sex in a moment, but to hint, offer fleeting glimpses, and let you, my readers, engage with me as you wish. Because only the act of reading, being in the moment of that reading can make that sex real.

I once thought about being plastinated myself. Any part of me, or even all parts of me, just not my genitalia. Let all my partners come and enjoy my sinews, my muscles like taut wires, as lifeless as the steel cables of a suspension bridge. Let them enjoy me without the parts of me they most enjoyed, or were destined not to. That river has already flowed on to the sea.

A post for Wicked Wednesday. Click here for more wickedness




Every Cloud Has a Sexy Lining

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

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

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

“Feeling horny? Reply in cell AD347”

So I do.

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

“Hot for you. Cell AF988”

I click into the cell to watch her reply.

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

“A full hairy bush, Au naturel 🙂 AT765”

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

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

“What are you wearing? D2980”

“Pink knickers and a leather skirt. AA332”

“For WFH? CF453”

“For you. Z3217”

“Take them off. CA32178”

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

“Done SE453”

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

“How many fingers? EA3215”

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

“Same here. Got a wand? DE231”

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

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

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

“Come baby come”

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

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

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

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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.”


“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.


She allowed herself a smile.

“Is Prosecco essential?”

“Well I think so.”

“Shut up!”

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

“Sanitary products? Are you having your period?”

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

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

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

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

“You can’t do that!” I protested.

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

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

“Take your clothes off.”

I hesitated.

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

She walked round me, inspecting me.

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

“Yes Ma’am.”

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

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

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

I said nothing, desperate to be brought to orgasm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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An Evening at Barbarella’s

When I started Sixth Form I bought a denim skirt and a pair of shiny black knee boots.  Unlike at the boys’ school next door, we girls of King Edgar’s High were allowed to wear our own clothes. And like my friends I was going to make the most of the opportunity. I was going to be the next best thing to a 16 year old femme fatale. The plan was to hook myself a boyfriend, but it didn’t quite happen like that.

As the 62 bus pulled into Northfield, familiar faces got on.  One of them was the blonde lady in the brown leather coat who had often sat next to me on the down stairs back seat the previous year. I had admired her style, her blonde bob, her make up. I suppose I had a crush in her and she was often in my thoughts as I daydreamed my way through O Level revision. And now she looked at me, in my skirt and boots, no foundation (I didn’t need it) but mascara and eye shadow.  And, for the first time she noticed me. She smiled.

“Look at you! You were still a schoolgirl last time I saw you.”

“I still am really. But I start Sixth Form today and we are allowed to wear our own clothes at King Edgar’s High.”

“You look fabulous.” She lowered her voice, “You are a woman and don’t forget that.”

We sat side by side, not saying much, but it was as if not much needed to be said. I could feel her warmth and was enjoying the closeness. The bus rattled in along the Bristol Road. Soon it was her stop. She stood up and walked to the exit. She didn’t look back but flashed me a smile as she waited for the bus to move off before crossing the road to the tall building where I supposed she worked. As the bus rattled in towards the City Centre and, before that, school I felt a warm tingling.

It was the following Monday that she sat by me again. I moved a little closer to her, pushed my knee against her leg. She made no effort to move.

“Are you enjoying Sixth Form?” she asked softly.

“It’s good so far. Loving history, We are doing the Stuarts.”

“I don’t know much about that. I never got to go to college and I am sure you are a hell of a lot cleverer than me.”


“I got married at 19 and I have been regretting it ever since.”

“I don’t suppose I will. Get married at 19 I mean.”

She laughed.

“Eleven years……..so you can work out how old I am. ”

We journeyed on in silence.  She stood up to get off and took an envelope out of her bag and handed it to me.  She has got off the bus before I could react and was walking head down as the bus passed her, as if avoiding eye contact. I opened the envelope and took out a ticket to see The Only Ones at Barbarella’s, the club near Broad Street. that my lder brother went to sometimes. She has stapled a note to the ticket.

“You are coming to this. No arguments. Meet you in The Grapevine at 7.30.”

So I had a date with her. And I didn’t even know her name.

And I counted down the days, avoided her on the bus, went upstairs to sit with the smokers even as I was afraid that a magic spell might be broken and to avoid talking as I didn’t really have a lot to say and wanted to save what little I had for the day.

She arrived at The Grapevine at 7.30. I had been waiting outside since 7, not wanting to be late, not having the confidence to enter a pub on my own.  She wore jeans, boots and a black leather jacket. She had purple eyeshadow. I could not take my eyes off it. I had never seen purple eyeshadow so close up before.

We drank lager and black and sat not saying much.  I wanted so much to ask her why she wanted go out with me but the words failed me.  So I talked about school, just to keep on familiar territory. I told her about how the Headmistress had decided that some Sixth Form girls were taking liberties with their clothing and had specified a minimum length for skirts.

“You have to go into a squat and the hem of your skirt has to touch the floor. And if it doesn’t you are sent home to put something more decent on.”

“Oh God” she said, “The things some people come up with. Best not tell her you are out with a woman tonight!”

We both laughed.

“Come on” she said, making to stand up. “We have a gig to go to.”

Buzzing from the music, an unfamiliar hiss in my ear, I followed her out into the Birmingham night. I stood, a little uncertain. Should I follow her or not?

“Come with me. There’s something I need to do. Now”

And we hurried off in the darkness. She led me by the hand as we passed the canal boats moored at Gas Street Basin, under the Broad Street bridge into the derelict wilderness beyond. She pushed me back against a wall and picked at the buttons of my blouse as she moved in to kiss me. I froze, but then responded and pushed back against her as I forced my tongue into her mouth.

She pulled my blouse off and unhooked my bra. Now she was working my nipples with her tongue.

On her knees before me, she tugged down my jeans and began greedily tonguing my cunt

“I am going to give you the best orgasm you will ever have” she said. “If you thought you needed a boy, think again.”

And then I felt a jolt as she put a finger inside me and a thumb on my swollen clit and brought me quickly to orgasm. It was like being taken out of myself, lifted high above the drab November evening and set free to float free in waves and waves of colour. Then I landed, gasping for air, shivering. It had all been too much and I had needed it to stop but I knew I wanted more.

She saw my exposed and vulnerable state and stood up to hug me close.

“See I told you it would be lovely didn’t’ I?”

She dusted herself down and said

“We had better go home, hadn’t we? Best we don’t go together.  I’ll wait here and you just get the first 62 that comes.”

So I walked alone down to Navigation Street and got the bus home. I let myself into the house as quietly as I could and made my way upstairs, shutting the bedroom door softly behind me. My blouse was ripped but I could explain that away if I had to. I was shaking, still feeling the aftershocks of the orgasms she had sent pulsing through me.

I woke with a start.  I had slept through the alarm and my mother was knocking on my bedroom door.

“Eve. Get up. You will be late for school.”

I sat up in bed and remembered the note she had left me the night before. I took it out from under the pillow. This made it all real. I hadn’t dreamt it after all. I read.

“Thank you for a lovely night. you are amazing. Please don’t waste yourself on a man. He could never deserve you”

I kissed the paper tenderly and whispered

“I won’t, I promise I won’t.”


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Masturbation Monday

Foxy Foxy

There are nights at The Fox when there are not enough loos. Like the Fridays when there is a crowd in for karaoke and I seem to drink lager without restraint, knowing I have Saturday to sleep it off. But there are simply not enough loos. I decided against joining the queue in the ladies, hung about impatiently by the single cubicle in the gender neutral loo and…well I didn’t want to but needs must.

I stood at the urinal, hitched up my skirt, slid my panties to the side and took my cock in my hand. I looked around, wondering if anyone was watching, not that this should really have been a problem. I finished, shook the drops of the end of my member, and was about to tuck it away, out of sight, when I felt a hand grip my right shoulder firmly. I spun round, my cock still hanging out of my panties.

“Hello” she said and smiled a smile that I thought wasn’t without a hint of malice. She was just a little bit smaller than me notwithstanding that I was still standing on the step of the urinal. She was, I guessed, in her early twenties,  had short blonde hair, wore jeans and a white t shirt.

“Hello” I replied gormlessly, suddenly acutely aware that my cock was dangling in front of me and my skirt was still hitched up.

“I’m Roo” she said, “and I want to make out with you.”

“With me?” I looked down at my cock which was by now quite hard and rising to the horizontal.

“Yes you. “

She stepped forward and began to knead my breasts.  She whispered in my ear

“Is it OK if I call you a shemale I mean I know it’s not quite the… but it makes me horny, the whole idea. That’s why I want to make out with you. What’s your name?”

“Celine” I lied.  I was sure she didn’t believe me, but she said nothing.

At that moment the cubicle door finally opened, a couple hurried past, avoiding eye contact and Roo steered make into it. She locked the door and squeezed past me to the toilet. She closed the lid and sat down.

I took a step towards her. I was still rock hard and my bellend was glistening with precome.

I took my cock in my hand and asked,

“Do you want to blow me? I would enjoy that.”

“Not really darling, I’m a lesbian, remember? No, you’re going to pleasure me.”

She pulled her jeans down, moved her knickers to the side.

“Get on your knees and move in real close.”

Her lady garden was completely shaven except for 2 thin strips down each side of the labia.  I kissed it, I smelt it and, even before she told me what to do, I began to lick, moving upwards until I reach her clit, felt it stiff and engorged, and I licked and flicked my tongue at it, like a snake sniffing the air for her prey. I put a finger inside her, felt the wetness, the warmth, the dilation that was just inviting me to put more fingers in, then the hand which I clenched into a fist.

Excited by the wet, the smell that overwhelmed my senses, I worked my tongue harder and harder until I felt her stiffen, arch her back and come with a scream that she quickly stifled with her left hand.

“Shit” she said , and started to giggle. “we’ll have somebody in here!”

I sat back on my legs, panting. I was happy that I had made Roo come quickly but what about me?

“What about me?” I asked, more in hope than expectation.

“Now you are going to masturbate for me Celine. Stand against the wall so that I can get a good view.”

This bit was easy. I had been on the edge for so long that I craved the release. I tried to slow down, holding my orgasm back until Roo was ready to come with me. She sat astride the toilet bowl, a finger up her vagina, her thumb deftly working her clit. I watched intently, silently repeating words of adoration, thanks too to whichever deity of debauchery had sent her my way.

“Come if you want” she said. “I’m just about there.”

We came together, Roo with a load sigh, me with a groan of overdue relief. She pulled a clean pair of panties from her pocket and held it so that my come would go glug glugging over it.

“My mother keeps banging on about me doing it with a man. She probably thinks it’s a cure. So I am going to show her this as proof that I have, and tell her it was rubbish……with a man that is. With a lovely shemale it was amazing. Thank you.”

She kissed me gently on the lips and pulled up her jeans as I rearranged my skirt. She unlocked the door and pushed me out of the cubicle.

“Come on Celine, let’s go and join the karaoke. I know what I want to sing.”

“And what’s that?” I asked.

“I Want Your Sex.”

We both laughed.

A story for Masturbation Monday

Masturbation Monday


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The Hair Cut

A little story for Masturbation Monday

Heels, jeans and a tight fitting t shirt. I looked at myself in the mirror. I felt my hair , pulled it down, twisted it into plaits. Most of it would soon be gone.

I walked into the barbers and sat down, my heels having alerted everyone to the presence of a woman. The shop went silent. Everyone looked at me. I picked up a newspaper, The Sun if you really want to know. I peered out from behind the newspaper, feeling conspicuous and more than a little uncomfortable.

Two men paid and left, then a father hoisted a screaming toddler onto a little seat that rested on the arms of the barbers chair. I watched as a tattooed  bearded young man went to work. I returned to the sports pages of The Sun. My reading was interrupted by a woman’s voice,

“It’s you next isn’t it lovely?

My barber was a woman. She had a red bob and, like the men was dressed in black, t shirt, and leather trousers tucked into knee high boots.

I stood up and walked over to the chair, a little unsure what came next. I sat down in the chair and stuttered out

“A short back and sides?”

“Shall I leave a bit more on the top so that it lies, you know, rather than sticking up?”

“Oh that would be good.”

“Cut square at the back?”.

I nodded. Still, l I thought, it was good to have a woman to guide me, if necessary, through this strange new world I had stepped into.

“I’m Ali by the way” she said and began her work of cutting and shaving. I watched as the long brown hair dropped in folds over the cape and flopped onto landed onto the floor. I felt myself getting wet as I watched. Under cover of the cape I slipped a hand into my jeans and began to massage my clit.

It was warm in the shop, I was enjoying the music, the falling hair was making me wet and I liked Ali, She didn’t say much but that was maybe because I was drifting off into my own little genderqueer world.

Then she said

“Right all done”.

She showed me her handiwork in the mirror she held behind my head.

“How do you like it?”

I nodded approval. I was speechless with excitement.

She unclipped the cape and I quickly withdrew my hand from my jeans. I was wet and frustrated.

I paid and made to leave. As I turned and headed for the door Ali slipped me a note. Once I reached the bus stop I   the note out of my pocket and unfolded it. It said

“You are gorgeous”

A few weeks later I went back. I knew I needed to experience the again the masculine environment, with kits smell of aftershave and testosterone, its grubby newspapers, the packets of rubbers in a rack. Most of all I needed to see Ali.

This time I had a men’s polo shirt on, I had taped my breasts to make them even less prominent.

“I want a head shave.”

Ali stroked my heads as she worked and I felt my head against her breasts as my nipples hardened and chafed against the tape.

“There you go lovely” said Ali holding up the mirror. I looked at my shaven head, ran my hands over the stubble on my head. I was the last customer of the day. Ali has already locked the door.  I looked in the large mirror in front of  and saw Ali, her hand down her leather trousers.

She knew that I had seen her. She blushed but did not move her hand.

“You’re fuckng hot” she said as she massaged her clit with increasing vigour. “But I have never been with ..you know …I am not sure”

I got out of the chair and shook a few loose hairs from my head. I went up to her.

“I can show you a few things. But for now, let’s just enjoy each other this way.”

I knelt down before her in the sweep of what had been my hair, and which Ali would have to sweep up before she left. I motioned to her to kneel too. There, on our knees in the deserted shop, a double dildo length apart, we masturbated to each other.

“First steps” I said. “We don’t touch, we each pleasure ourselves just as we want to be pleasured by each other next time. We offer this as a gift to each other. We focus on each other, we come together.”

“And next time?” asked Ali.

“Who knows?” I answered. “Just enjoy this. This is the real deal too. Let it bring you joy.”

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