When Sunday morning baking is rudely interrupted…….
A post for Sinful Sunday. Check out the other posts here….
The mirror cracked. My partner pushed me roughly back onto the chest of drawers which partly collapsed under my weight. I slipped and fell, the large dressing mirror tumbled down behind me and fractured diagonally about two thirds of the way up. I knew that this was a one night stand I would remember.
This has started out as a social drink with a former work colleague. Wetherspoons curry (this was a Thursday night in Wolverhampton) might seem an inauspicious start to a evening of rough sex but the pub, with its sticky floor and uncleared tables became an oddly appropriate place to start the evening.. I don’t remember at what point the conversation turned to sex and we both realised we were horny, fancied each other and just wanted to fuck. We went out for a cigarette and my friend made the move. We kissed, she fumbled with my bra strap, pulling it dwon my arm, lifted my top and began to explore with her hand.
“Not here” I hissed.
“Let’s get a room” she said.
There were two hotels nearby. We went to the nearer one, but left when we were quoted ninety pounds for a double room including the breakfast neither of us would be around to eat. Round the corner, the other hotel oozed seediness. It seemed the sort of place that just might have rooms to let by the hour. A heavy fug of cannabis hung in the air. The man on reception grinned with a kind of “I know what you are here for look”
We took the room. It was dingy, grubby, the sheets were soiled, and we didn’t examine too closely the debris under the bed. But it was so appropriate for what we were here to do. I pulled off her clothes….. pushed her onto the damp bed with its sagging mattress. There I went down on her.
Just over half an hour later, flushed and sated, unwashed, (the shower looked rather uninviting) we walked out past the unshaven man who grinned again as we handed him the key. I felt his gaze follow us as we walked out. We shared a cigarette, and after a peck on the cheek, went our separate ways. .
I have only seen her once since, for lunch, this time without hot sex. But I am not disappointed about this. After that spur of the moment quickie, there would almost be nowhere to go in terms of friendship. But I have such found memories of that evening It is as if the seediness of our surroundings enhanced the experience. Discomfort and no distractions turned us in to focus on each other’s pleasure.
I arrived home smelling of sex. In my exhilaration I didn’t shower before bed. I wanted my bed to smell of her, even my warm cosy bed that she would never see.
And back in the room a cracked mirror swayed drunkenly from a collapsing chest of drawers, reflecting a bed, sheets wet with pussy juice and stained with the fat from the pork scratchings we had eaten off each other. It was that kind of night. .
I am sure I heard a compliment as I walked into the gym. You know, one of the kind that most women don’t enjoy.
I am sure I hear the words “fit bird” from one of the two builders as they see me go by and haul up their trousers to hide the cleavage.
I look round and glare. They make eye contact and smile defiantly.
“Wankers” I mutter underneath my breath and go in to begin my workout.
I love the feel of Lycra, love the look of my sculpted legs in pink legging the tightness around the crotch. I am aware of the looks I attract as I work out but I pretend not to notice. I always start on the exercise bike and, even at 6.30 in the morning, I am reading. I read obsessively and usually have four books on the go. One of these is always a book of filth.
I don’t mind reading openly in the gym, in fact, if they want to look at me, and admire, my legs , my bum, my tits beneath the loose fitting top, let them know what kind of woman I am. I read, I pedal my way into an easy rhythm, feel the Lycra hugging my skin. Exercise can be deeply sensual and I am feeling aroused even before I begin to read.
I read a page, dwelling on the words, the images, I put the book down, I feel again the Lycra on my skin, the tightness of the leggings around my crotch. A damp patch is forming, darkening the pink.
I pull Natalie to the ground, roughly pull down her blouse. I suck greedily at her nipples, pulling the breasts, squeezing hard with y lips and twisting so that she gasps with pain that is at the same time pleasure. I draw her head close pulling her hair as I do so. I want to hurt her, want her to feel pain, because this makes me horny. I kiss her, pushing my tongue into her mouth as roughly as I can. ,
“I am going to make you suffer for making me suffer when I read your book, in the gym, on the bus, in places where I ache for relief but can’t get any, because I spend so much time at the office when I should be working, locked in a cubicle in the ladies’, playing with myself.”
I kiss her again. She smells of cider, of the roll up cigarettes we have often shared outside conference venues, the hair is unwashed and unkempt but she smells of animal sexuality. She is so different to me, no make-up, there is a mysterious masculinity about her whereas I am all girl. I kiss her again and smudge my bright red lipstick over her cheek. This is a marker of my ownership.
“You’re a filthy slut and I am going to spank you hard.”
I drag her roughly over my knee and pull down her panties. I rubbed my hand over the blank white canvas of her buttocks and pinched until she cried out. I lay my left arm across the base of her spine and, cupping my hand loosely, took aim. The force of the first blow reverberated back through my hand. The second made my hand sting. She cried out as it landed and left a red hand print on her right buttock.
I continued, building up the tempo, feeling the warmth I generated. I felt arousal as I began to hit hard and rhythmically and she began to moan. After a while I stopped and caressed her glowing buttocks before digging my fingernails in to twist and scratch,
“Stop it you bitch!”
I dig in harder.
“Fucking bitch” she shouts as I drew blood.
“Your turn now” she says. She stands up, walks across the room and picks up a dildo and harness.
“I am going to take you up the bottom.”
I am soaking wet by now.
“I just want you inside me. Just do it.”
And she bends me over a chair, felt for me with two fingers, before pushing in inside slowly, with a cold slap of lube. She thrusts and I pedal. She is strong, she is forceful and I am aware of a shift in the power dynamic of this encounter. She is pushing harder than I have known before. I clench the muscles to tighter my passage against the invasion. But yield as I must. I cry out as if seeking rescue. Natalie’s buttocks sting and now she is turning the tables on me.
I lean forward and increase the speed of the exercise bike a notch. I feel a stabbing brain in my quads. I need more of this. And when Natalie has finished, she takes off the harness, throws it casually aside and returns to her writing.
I am wet. A patch of darker pink is spreading across my crotch like tea through a sugar lump. I raise myself slightly out of the saddle from which I am starting to slip to keep pedalling. I am nearly done, I have burned a bacon sandwich worth of calories but I will resist that temptation as I pass the café on my way home. I pedal hard, embrace the pain.
And even now that I am so nearly spent, Natalie isn’t finished with me. She looks up from her laptop and motions to me to lie down again and spread my legs. Once more she straps on the dildo and approaches. She is magnificent, six feet of Amazon in stockinged feet, a toned body. She takes my wrists and holds them tight, pushing them roughly to the sheet twisting the skin in her hands as he does, Chinese burn style, .
“Stop it” I say “You’re hurting me.”
Sarah says nothing, just slips a finger inside my c**t, holds it against my mouth.
“Taste” she orders quietly.
Then she takes a longer, fatter dildo, and goes down on me, pushes her way in and begins to pump forcefully. I arch my back to allow her to penetrate more deeply.
I look furtively around the gym, slip a finger inside my leggings and rub my clit as I pedal harder and faster to a climax.
I come with a scream and sink back onto the bed. The exercise bike bleeps to tell me my workout is finished. I take a sip of Lucozade, pick up my book and kiss it.
Natalie withdraws and slides the condom off the end of the dildo. She leans over me and kisses me gently on the forehead.
“You’re a fit bird you know that?”
I pack my things into my gym bag. The workmen are still in the gym reception area as I leave. I smile at them and they look away, avoiding eye contact.
I swing my bag over my shoulder for the walk home.
I can’t stop smiling.
I recently read a piece (I can’t remember where so can’t provide a reference) in which it was argued that the T in LGBT I was out of place since gender is a distinct phenomenon from sexual orientation. On one level this is true although we might point out that if a change of gender does not entail a change in sexual orientation this would mean that the act of transitioning the T actually entails the L or G since a straight man transitioning becomes a lesbian.
But there is a deeper problem with this way of thinking. It simply has an excessively narrow view both of gender and sexuality and ignores the ways in which they have been intertwined in gay and lesbian subcultures.
I began to think about this whilst at Tate Britain last week, visiting the exhibition Queer British Art 1861 to 1967, held to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the partial decriminalisation of male homosexuality in England and Wales.
For, from the Victorian era, experiments with gender fluidity were part of the artistic expression of gay and lesbian identity. Everywhere where there is androgyny and this was something that was clear to contemporary observers. Clothes, make up, hair, the use of beautiful young men as models for female figures from classical mythology, this even before we get onto pantomime dames and drag queens. In short, those who identified with alternative and stigmatised sexualities, sought to perform their sexuality in ways that also challenged gender stereotypes. Look, for example, at the photograph of Quentin Crisp in the exhibition or the iconic portrait of Radclyffe Hall.
And maybe the words gay and lesbian are out of place here too. At the start of the period represented by the exhibition medical science had still to invent and define hetero- and homosexuality as concepts. As categories they can be restricting too. Science seeks to define and classify. Art doesn’t. Art like this serves to undermine the neat order of science’s categories. It points the way to which allow us can live art through our sexuality and through our performance of gender. Queer art is saying that sexuality is elusive, a range of possibilities, a range of pleasures, and gender a stage for our self-representation. Seen through the prism of art, rigid definitions of gender are as constraining as heteronormative binary views of sexuality and, in a sense, underpin them.
There were parts of this exhibition I found deeply erotic. Some of the exhibition was wickedly funny. Take a look at the library book covers doctored by Joe Orton and Kenneth Halliwell, an act for which the state exacted vicious revenge with six month prison sentences. All of it was empowering, much of it beautiful. I left, thinking that sexuality and gender form a space where can express ourselves, a space where we can be free.
My interest in true crime dates from the time when, as a child, I listened to Edgar Lustgarten’s half hour programmes on Radio 4, when , in a rich, fruity voice he recounted famous murders of the past. So it was that I first heard about Armstrong the Hay poisoner, about the Brighton trunk murders of 1934, the Stratton brothers who, in 1905, became the first defendants convicted of murder on the basis of fingerprint evidence, and many other notorious cases.
Lustgarten seemed to revel in the often gory detail and he left no doubt that he considered the gallows a just destination for those who killed. He also believed that there had been few true miscarriages of justice and had a faith in the criminal justice system that few would have today. He even disputed the innocence of Timothy Evans.
There was really only one hanging that disturbed him and, when I first heard his account of the Ilford murder of 1922, I detected a tremor of emotion in his voice. For Lustgarten believed passionately in the innocence of Edith Thompson.
The facts of the case are well enough known. Thompson, who was 28 at the time of the killing, lived in Ilford with her slightly older husband Percy. Their life was one of middle class respectability and quiet prosperity. Edith was a career woman and had worked her way up to be head buyer for a firm of milliners. The marriage, however, was not happy and she embarked on an affair with a younger man called Freddy Bywaters. This proved her downfall. The jealous Bywaters, frustrated that Edith would not leave her husband, (something she could only do at huge personal cost) ran up behind the couple one evening as they walked home from the theatre and stabbed Percy Thompson to death.
There was no evidence that Edith knew that Bywaters had planned to do this, still less that she had incited him. Nonetheless she found herself on trial for murder. Bywaters had foolishly kept all her letters, in which she fantasised about killing or harming Percy, about putting ground glass in his dinner for example. These were pure fantasy but deadly in the hands of a prosecution seeking to plant a picture of Edith Thompson as an evil and manipulative woman. What was not fantasy was the fact that Edith had committed adultery and had had an illegal abortion. For the social conventions of the time this put her pretty much beyond the pale and led her to the gallows at Holloway.
The case inspired the novel A Pin To See The Peepshow by F. Tennyson Jesse that I have just finished reading. Her heroine is called Julia Starling, nee Almond, and the setting moved across London to Chiswick. Two thirds of the book is a portrait of London life from the period just before the First World War up to the early 1920s. Julia is a complex and contradictory character, attractive yet flawed. The narrative cleverly builds up the tension between the dreams fostered by her daily contact with the wealthy aristocratic women she mixes with at the shop where she works, women whose money allows them moral leeway, and the drab lower middle class existence she has to return to each evening. Like Edith Thompson, she embarks on a an affair with dire consequences.
The last third of the book is essentially a fictionalised retelling of the actual trial of Thompson and Bywaters. It is compelling but grim, the story of a woman caught up in the machinery of a system that she does not understand and which she is powerless to stop.
Jesse’s novel was also dramatised but a performing licence was refused by the Lord Chamberlain. It was, even by 1934, too sensitive a matter for the authorities. Eventually in 1973 it was serialised for television by Elaine Morgan, with Francesca Annis playing the lead role.
The case continues to fascinate, principally because of Edith Thompson. Everyone who studies the case finds her an attractive personality. She is in many ways strikingly modern, a career woman with a good salary and financial independence (something which was held against her), a woman who enjoyed sex, and gave eloquent expression in her writing to her erotic imagination. She was a woman trapped in her time and, importantly, her class. For, even in 1922, her life would have been different had she been born into the aristocracy and not the suburban lower middle class. She was a victim of class prejudice as well as misogyny. At the time commentators sneeringly described her as a kind of low rent Madame Bovary. Killing Edith Thompson was not enough it seems. Her reputation had to be trashed as well.
This all happened nearly a century ago but the case still has resonance. Women are still harshly treated by the criminal justice system, more likely to be imprisoned than mean for similar offences, this despite the fact that women are more likely to have childcare responsibilities. It is, at times, as if women defendants are judged not just for their crimes, but for falling short of some ill-defined ideal of what a woman should be.
We have, I suppose, moved on from the times when a 28 year old woman could be killed by the state for liking sex but not wanting to have a baby, but we haven’t moved far enough.
As the Brexit negotiations get underway, the rights of EU citizens living in the UK are beimg much discussed and the Government is, apparently, keen to give them the right to stay in the UK after Brexit,
Even before Brexit, however, there are some EU citizens who are apparently not welcome. This statement from Wiltshire police describes the arrest of three Romanian women who had been selling sex from a property in Swindon. They were arrested and now face deportation.
You.will note that there is no evidence of trafficking or coercion. The ladies were working through choice, and quite openly advertising their services through Adultwork. They were, according to the law, running a brothel which is a criminal offence. In this case running a brothel is simply women working together for their own safety like the Polish women in Bradford who were jailed in 2013..
If the women were not coerced what basis do the police have for saying this?
“This is a very positive outcome as the women are now safe and away from their clients and are no longer vulnerable to the risks of off street sex work.”
And what evidence is there to support this assertion?
“There are strong connections between the adult sex industry, human trafficking and modern slavery”
This is frequently said but major police inquiries like Operation Pentameter failed to find any significant evidence of trafficking into sex work although there have been several recent cases of trafficking into farmwork and construction.
Such police stings do nothing to promote the safety and well being of sex workers and surely run counter to the good practice set out in the Merseyside Model which is supposed to create the trust between sex workers and police that gives the sex workers the confidence to report indents of violence.
It is surely time to decriminalise sex work so that women can work together for their own safety and so that citizens of out (still) fellow EU states can work in the way they choose without fearing the knock on the door.
Unlike other participants I have been finishing a novella today rather writing directly for this blog but here is something inspired by a conversation earlier today. My first Smutathon 2017 post.
Not so many years ago Skoda cars were the butt of jokes like “Why do Skodas have heated rear windows?” Answer “To keep your hands warm when you’re pushing”
For Communist era Skodas were tinny affairs with noisy air cooled rear engines. They looked good…in comparison to Trabants and Moskviches but not in comparison to ,ost western cars. They were cheap and cheerful, well cheap anyway, a kind of 1980s version of the Proton. Then Communism collapsed, Skoda Auto was acquired by VW and the rest is history. Skoda now make good cars, in fact better in many case than those of the parent company which has moved to restrict production of the Octavia
But I digress. The reason I mention Skoda is that it is now public knowledge , thanks to a tweet by Coffee and Kink this afternoon, that I have had sex in three Skodas. All of these were nice modern Skodas, an old shape Fabia, a new shape Fabia and an Octavia.
But why, you may ask, would I want to have sex in a car? I mean I live on my own, have a spacious double bed (although the Octavia encounters took place at a time when I didn’t) and, if you are not so near home, I could always find a cheap hotel. Thew answer is that, apart from saving money, sex in cars is fun.
It gives a real thrill because, even in the most secluded locations there is the risk of being caught. Steamed up windows and rocking are a bit of a give away. If this car sex is part of an illicit affair there is the risk of leaving a used condom, a tissue paper reeking of come, or a stain on fabric upholstery that can’t be removed. There is the thrill of anticipation, the feeling of increasing horniness as you drive the dark lanes looking for a suitable spot. The times when, you start to undress, then duck down as you see the headlights of a passing car.
You don’t have time which makes the experience more intense. A minimum of foreplay and then penetration. And the cramped conditions make for an angle that allows deep penetration. Car sex is quick and intense. And fun!
Car sex has enabled me to have sex in dogging sites in the Black Country, in the car park of a medieval castle, down a lane in Oxfordshire under the embankment of the M40 (this leaving stains on the seat), and down a number of farm tracks around Warwickhire.
And most of this sex in three little Skodas.
As they say in Czech “Simply clever”
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