“Dreaming, after all, is a form of planning.”

I have been reading a lot about how people have been having vivid, even disturbing, dreams during this period of lockdowns and restrictions. I have had my share too, most recently, finding myself in Australia with no money and a hotel bill to pay. I knew I had money in my savings account, lots of it, but I could only transfer this to my current account by actually going into the building society branch in England. And I had no money to go back to England to get the money I needed to eat and have a place to sleep in Australia. I was marooned. I woke up, sweating and shaking at 4 am. And not in Australia! And this is far from my weirdest dream.

None of these dreams, however, has been about sex or, for that matter, kink. I have, instead, daydreamed about these pretty much constantly. having taken a break from the kink sense for mental health reasons last winter, and my planned return having been unavoidably delayed, it is a year since I last played. Sex, too, has not been part of my bodily life for a while either. But kink and sex remain integral to my life. They have migrated into my head and I dream aboit them.

I have written a lot of stories both on this blog and elsewhere and these stories have drawn more directly on my own past than anything I have written before. They have been both therapy and catharsis. They have also served to draw a line under aspects of my past, a clearing of the decks for 2021.

And I am dreaming of the future now, of what I will do when fetish clubs open, when sexual partners emerge from the COVID darkness into the light of the new world I have dreamt for them. My dreaming has been a long course in self understanding, and most definitely a guide to action. Come 2021 I will be a better lover, a more attentive domme, (though possibly a mote sadistic one). But my dreams are only part of the plan. The rest we do together, and I look forward to being taken into the dreamworlds of subs, play partners, of lovers.

A post for Quote Quest. Click on the badge below to see the dreams of others.



Our eyes met across the hotel bar. I walked over to him.

“I am Danielle and mine’s a Prosecco.”

“Pleased to meet you Danielle.”

He smiled and motioned to the barman, at the same time inviting me to sit on the stool next to him. A flute of prosecco with a strawberry was place in front of me. He picked up his beer and we clinked glasses.

“I’m Stewart” he said. “Tell me are you…?”

“I’ll cut to the chase. Do you want to fuck me?”

He took a sip of his beer and asked

“How much?”

“I’m not an escort” I said, “It will cost you nothing but the drink you’ve just bought me/”

“I’m probably a bit young for you..”

“Fitter and harder, no? Age doesn’t mater to me. My last fuck was with an eighty year old. And he was good, Stewart, good. He has set a high bar. Are you up to the challenge?”

“You bet Danielle.” He leant over and planted a kiss on my lips. He held it here, and I felt his tongue trying to burrow into my mouth. I resisted.

“Save that for later.”

“OK. My room is on the second floor. Shall we go up?”

“It’s such a warm evening, and I bet you like fucking outdoors as much as I do. Besides it’s nearly dark so no one will see us.””

I pressed my thigh against his and stroked his hand. I watched his crotch for the bulge.I stroked his inner thigh and saw his erection pushing against his fly.

“Where are we going?”

He seemed genuinely intrigued.

“A place I know not far from here.”

I put my coat on and took his hand as he tried to gulp down his beer with the other.

“Come on, you don’t need any more beer.”

I led him out of the hotel and down a side street to a main road. We crossed and walked along the outer wall of the town cemetery.   Half way between lamp posts, in a pool of darkness where there was a kind of niche in the wall I pushed him back against it and kissed him. He responded, puling me close and driving his tongue deep into my mouth. He hadn’t shaved that day and I loved the feel of the stubble brushing against my face.

“God I want you!” he gasped, coming up for air and sweeping his hair from over his eyes.

“Where are we going? Are you parked near here?”

I gestured with my head.

“We are going here.”

“The cemetery? You can’t”

“Can’t what? I do what I like darling and don’t let anyone tell me otherwise, particularly men.”

He said nothing.

“Do you want to fuck me or not?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“Come with me then.”

I led him down a side street to where works were taking place and there was a gap n the wall and we could squeeze through, taking care not to stumble over the pile of rubble that had once been part of the wall.

He dusted down his suit as we stood in the blackness of cemetery. I took out my it my phone and turned on the light.  He had the uneasy look of a man who is realising that he has got into something deeper than he anticipated.

It wasn’t far to my husband’s grave, tucked away in  a side alley.

“This is my husband”

I pulled my knickers down and lifted my skirt. I lay on the grave, the gravel biting into my back, and spread my legs. .

“Just fuck me.”

“On your husband’s grave? This is fucking weird.I can’t.”

“just do it. Do it now!”

I had reached the submissive inside him and when he pulled his trousers down I could see that he was rock hard under the boxers. I arched my back as he came down. I was wet and he slid straight in and fucked me hard, working quickly as if conscious of the risk of exposure. He came quickly and, withdrawing, knelt up.

“Now wank and come over my tits.”

He was soon hard again and worked his shaft quickly.  He was still nervous about being caught it seemed. I lay back and he stood over me. I shut my eyes and felt the warm stream landing on me.

“You can go now” I sad.

“When will I see you again? Maybe we can do it in like a proper bed next tme?”

“I don’t want to see you again. I have had you and I will pick someone else up next time I need to be fucked”

“You have used me.”

He spat the words out as he pulled his trousers up and zipped his flies. He winced as he did so.

“But it’s not about you. It really isn’t”

I stood up and reached out to him. He brushed my hand away angrily.

“I don’t want a relationship. I had 22 years with a wonderful man and no one can ever replace him.”

“But why DO you fuck on his grave?”

“For him. He will always be with me, he looks out for me. I want him to know at I am OK, that I am desirable, just as he found me desirable.”

I don’t think he even heard the last words as he walked off, no doubt wondering how he would find his way out of the locked cemetery.

I knelt over my husband’s grave and frigged myself

“I am good darling. I am good. I am getting all the fucks I promised you I would.”

As I came I leant forward and kissed his name on the headstone His name which was my name. For ever. I can’t actually remember the last time we fucked. I guess that once we had the diagnosis we fucked as if every time would be the last, raw, intense sex until he was too weak. And now every time I have sex it is the last time with that man.

I kissed the headstone. I needed to get back. I had to pick a dress for tomorrow. Tomorrow at seven at the same place in the same bar.

A post for Wicked Wednesday. For more wickedness click here 

Wicked Wednesday

The Hangman’s Fracture

The hangman’s fracture is a break of the second vertebra of the spinal column. It is so called as the British method of hanging, the long drop, aimed to kill swiftly and painlessly by breaking the neck at the second vertebra. There are stories of the hangman Albert Pierrepoint feeling the necks of his victims after taking their bodies down to check that he had done his job properly. It was part of the justification of the whole system that death was both quick and painless. This may be a myth.  Analysis of the remains of some 34 hanged criminals showed that the hangman’s fracture was present in only a minority of cases. In some there was no cervical fracture at all which suggests that these victims may have died by strangulation (a risk if the drop is too short) and this would not have been either instantaneous or painless. Yet in every case a doctor had written out a death certificate stating that the cause of death was the hangman’s fracture. This, in turn, suggests that the medical profession was complicit in a rotten and inhumane system.

This digression does link to the theme – bear with me! I heard recently that an elderly kinkster I met once or twice at events in the West Midlands had died during lockdown. Derek (not his Fet name and probably not his real name either) was in his mid 80s and I believe his death was peaceful. And we all hope for that don’t we?  Not Derek actually. For he had a most unusual fetish. He wanted to die by judicial hanging. He was, of course, old enough to have been hanged but presumably had scruples about committing the kind of offences that might have earned him a death sentence. Unsurprisingly he was unable to find anyone to cater for this fetish, so hanging never became more than a fantasy.

I am sure, too, that Derek was not alone in his death fetish. I know of kinksters whose homes are shrines to death, with skulls, human and animal, adorning their rooms. And many of us kinksters are drawn to darkness. We like to inflict, or receive, pain and suffering. I sometimes think that a submissive moving from agony to ecstasy (it is said that a hanged person experiences orgasm as their last sensation) and into the sweet oblivion of subspace is experiencing a kind of surrogate death.  And the return to life has to be managed as carefully as a resurrection, one reason why aftercare is so important.

So it is not surprising that those of us who crave darkness seek out cemeteries. I love to walk in old, abandoned cemeteries, where the headstones have been washed blank by a century or more of weather, and lean drunkenly, the flatbed graves that are opening up, as if there residents might rise again, I long to take a willing submissive, strip him, flog him with nettles I have picked from an overgrown tomb, to make him lean against a stone, to take my whip on his back, my cane on his bottom, to suffer the extremes of pain, and the pleasure that flows from it, there in the last resting place of hundreds of human beings who learned his pain and pleasure resolve their tension in oblivion.

It is in cemeteries that I feel most alive, because I must, we all must, confront death in order to live. to love. It is mortality that gives our kinks sense. The fetish for death is a fetish for life.

Hanged criminals were not buried in cemeteries. They were interred in lime filled coffins in the prison yard, in unmarked graves that denied death as much as they denied life. Derek would never have wanted that, I am sure.

A post for Kink of the Week. Click on the lips to see what other writers have to say on the subject of cemeteries and graveyards

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


SoSS September

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Delphine’s Schooldays – Chapter 11

The story continues. Read Chapter Ten by Posy Churchgate here

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

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

There is a knock at the door.

“Come in”.

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

“You asked to see me Miss Ranson.”

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

She blushed.

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

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

“Go on”

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

“In what way?”

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

“Do you love her?”

Coningsby-Firth blushed again.

“Miss I adore her!”

She began to cry.

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

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

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

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

“And do you enjoy that?”

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

“Anything else?”

“She tried to kiss me last week.”

“Kiss you? How?”

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

“Are you still friends?”

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

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

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

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

“Thank you Miss.”

I took a cane and sat down in the armchair.

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

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

“Take your skirt and knickers down.”

After a brief hesitation she complied.

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

“What of Miss”

“The glories of your womanhood.”

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

“What is this?”

“I’m sorry I don’t know”

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

She remained silent, went red again.

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

“Orgasm Miss?”

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

She said nothing.

“Pull your skirt back up girl.”

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

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

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

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

She nodded then turned and left without another word.

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

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

A post for Wicked Wednesday. Click here for more wickedness


Ghosts – Part Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh please Gary, just do it.”

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

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

“Oh fuck, that was good!”

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

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

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

“What do you want?”

“I want you inside me”

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

“Please sir I want to be buggered.”

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

“You know why I am doing this?”


“No what?”

“No sir”

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

He laughed. I felt myself getting hard.

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

“Wank and we’ll come together.”

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

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

“Sorry sir.”

I was.

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

“Stop sir please stop.”

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

“You came without permission. ”

“No I..”

“You did. Tell me you’re sorry.”

“Sorry sir.”

“On your knees and kiss my arse.”

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

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

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

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

We stood in silence for a few moments then Carl said

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

“Where are you going?”

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

“Can I at least have your address?”

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

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

“I need to move on.”

He avoided eye contact and shuffled his feet.

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

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

He planted a kiss on my lips and said

“Thanks for everything Gary but this is it”

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

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

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

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

E Lust 134

Image courtesy of Violet Fawkes

Welcome to Elust 134-

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

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

How I Became a Woman

Positivity is hard

A Day of Service

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

Erotic Non-Fiction

Valkyrian Cuckolding Session

Erotic Fiction

Locked Box
Believe me…

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

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

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

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

Erotic Non-Fiction

You Know You Wouldn’t Want It Any Other Way

Elust 130


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

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

“The Body of Christ” he declares.

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

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

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

“The Cock of Christ”

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

“The Come of Christ.”

“Amen” I respond eagerly.

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

“The Blood of Woman.”

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

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

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

“He has filled the hungry with good things.”

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