Identity

This post arises from the happy coincidence of two books I have been reading recently, books which, at first sight, don’t seem to have much in common. The first is Maya Angelou’s “See How The Caged Bird Sings.” We discussed it this morning at the monthly Birmingham Feminist Book Club. Part of a wide-ranging discussion revolved around literature as a means of self understanding, this arising from Angelou’s won discussion in her book of what reading the classics of English literature, and especially, Shakespeare, meant to her, and how she was able, by engaging with the texts, to make sense of her own experience.

This was a concept that was made real for me a couple of years ago when I was a volunteer buddy for a Community Interest Company that worked with adults experiencing mental health difficulties, in particular by encouraging them to read literature and sharing their experiences. To get a flavour of what they did I was invited to attend one of the meetings. We were reading Rose Tremain’s novel The Road Home. The group consisted of people of varying ages, many of whom lived in considerable isolation, an isolation made worse by anxiety and phobias. Some of them only left the house for the weekly meeting in a local library. Most of them had little experience of serious reading. From the discussion, however, it became clear that the book was opening doors for them and all of them were able to use the text to make sense of their own lives, at the same times bringing their won experiences to bear in interpreting the text. As they talked they gave me new insights into the book. This experience was both illuminating and humbling.

These experiences and thoughts are particularly relevant to the other book I have been reading. This is an anthology called Identity, whose contributors all attended the recent Eroticon conference. I have to declare an interest. I was one of the contributors. But that is now why I am writing about it. The content is pretty eclectic, some of it personal reminiscence, and painful reminiscence at that, some of it fantasy, some of it opinion, some of it seriously hot, you know, the stuff you read one handed.  And then there was Meg-John Barker’s piece on erotic fiction as means of self understanding which got me reflecting again on my own identity, or in this case my sexual identity and what it means to me. This short essay was in my head as I read the other pieces and enriched my reading experience.  This really is as a wonderful anthology and I can’t recommend it highly enough.

Erotic fiction has changed my life. I really don’t know why, one day in 2012, I felt the urge tio write a story about a carer in a elderly person’s home who has a relationship with a gay man whose carer he is. Other stories followed. I went online, I set up a Twitter account, I read voraciously, I discovered Eroticon and became part of a community. And a new Eve emerged, an Eve who is kinky, bisexual, who is proud to know sex workers she can call friends, an Eve committed to the freeest possible expression of human sexuality (subject to consent). In short an Eve I could not have imagined even existed only 6 years ago. It is through erotic literature that I have discovered what was previously latent, and been able to articulate it.

The main protagonist of my first story was Eric, an Oxford graduate who had been jailed for “gross indecency” in the dark days before 1967 and who experienced late sexual joy with a younger man. I killed him off at the end as the younger man had to move on and make his own way as a gay man in a different age, but acutely aware of the debt gay men, indeed all of us who are in some way not heteronormative, owe to those who suffered for daring to be different. I made sure, however, that Eric died happy, at peace with himself. I knew then that I owed him that. I know now that I owe him much more.

I’m Off to Eroticon 2017

There are just two weeks until the most awesome weekend of the year. Erotioon is the sex writer’s conference to end…….Ok cliche over. Here is my online Meet and Greet. Please check out the other awesome posts by following this link

NAME (and Twitter if you have one)

Eve Ray @EveRay1 although I attended last year under a different name. This is the name I always wanted to attend under and now I finally am. As such this is the closure of a significant chapter in my life. If you really want to know why I didn’t come as Eve before buy me a cocktail and I will tell you.

 What are you hoping to get out of Eroticon 2017?

Just as last year I just want to spend time with awesome people, a number of whom I can call friends. This is actually a precious opportunity to talk freely about aspects of my life I simply can’t tell many people about. Even on the local kink scene I don’t feel anything like the freedom I do at Eroticon.

I am also looking to learn and be inspired. I have not had anywhere as much time for writing as I would like but if I came away with my head full of ideas it will all have been worthwhile.

This years schedule at Eroticon is pretty full on but which 4 sessions do you already have marked down as ones you want to attend?

Myles Jackman is always worth listening to. I will go to Kate Lister’s Sunday session. Sex work is something that I once write about extensively and it remains a significant interest and campaigning focus for me. Sarah Bryn –Holiday’s session sounds interesting and I hope I have made the cut for DJ Fet’s rope class. I was totally awed by her scene with Lola Day at Eroticon 2015 and determined to learn even though it had never particularly been a kink of mine. I am a slow learner though!

Tell us one thing about yourself that not many people know?

I am a published poet under my real name.

If you made the papers, what would the headline be?

Revealed: Saucy secrets of the cocktail drinking pin-up girl (News of the World if still existed)

If you could have one skill for free (I.e. without practice/time/effort) what would it be?

I would love to be able to swim

Complete the sentence: I love it when…

Gentlemen stand up and offer me their seat. ……..I may be debauched, I may be a feminist but I’m an old-time gal at heart

 

 

Why I Write

I’m going to start with a piece of advice. Windmills of Your Mind is a haunting and beautiful song that lodged itself in my head nearly 40 years and, I am sure, will never leave. It is, however, a song that has rather more than its fair share of bad interpretations. The bad ones are all bad for the same reason; they are too slow, stretching the melancholy of the lyrics into sickly and maudlin sentimentalism. This is a song that needs to be suing at a tempo that reflects these lyrics. These are full of motion. They are also, as we see as the song develops, about the remorseless passage of time. Noel Harrison’s interpretation, whilst not perfect, captures this and its 2 minutes 18 seconds are just about right. My advice is, therefore, to stick to this version but of you want to look elsewhere avoid all those versions that stretch the song out to 3 minutes plus. In particular avoid Barbra Streisand’s version.

It is with this song that I want to start, One section, in particular, speaks tom me with increasing power as I grow older:

“Lovers walk along the shore

And leave their footprints in the sand.

Was the sound of distant drumming

Just the fingers of your hand?

Pictures in a hallway,

A fragment of a song,

Half remembered names and faces

But to whom do they belong?”

Consider the fragments of songs. My life, like that of everyone of my age has had its particular soundtrack and particular songs take me back to places and times, not all of them places I want to return to. The last part is the most striking of all. I am constantly reminded of the number of people I have known, family members, people at school, at university, at work, friends who have come into my life and, in many cases, drifted out of it again.  There are those I remember well, those who are simply “half-remembered names and faces.” Even the half remembering can be troublesome or maybe burdensome. Who were they fir me? How have they influenced my life? Where are they now? Do they remember me or even half remember me? At times it seems that these people, or maybe the years of life already lived that they represent, weigh heavily on my spirit. There are days when I will suddenly remember someone from the past and start to think about them.  Sometimes when I do this I feel that memories can be destructive of memory, the sheer number of them defying any attempt to order them and make them into the coherent whole that, for me, is memory.

This is really why I write, to make sense of tall and recreate my own past. When I write I may well be living in it but a creative and ordered sense of living in it, that, I find empowering, I am taking back control from an oppressive melancholy and to misquote another song “I free my mind, I free my soul.”

Writing fiction takes this a stage further and helps me to mould my lived experience into new realities. Like reading, like learning a new language it is a genuine broadening of experience, an enrichment of my life.

And those who are half remembered are in there somewhere. I may have given them a new name, a remembered face and placed them in sexual contexts they never dreamt of, (or maybe they did!). But they are there as one day, dear reader, you may too, when time has continued its remorseless progression and

“You are suddenly aware,

That the autumn leaves are turning

To the colour of her hair.”

.

Cutting the Sage Derby

This story arose from a challenge I took on last week to write a short story involving cheese.

CUTTING THE SAGE DERBY

I was about to order when a man’s voice interjected

“Excuse me, I was next.”

I looked around startled and the only words I could find were to apologise.

“I’m sorry I…”

“No worries” he said.

He brushed past me as he went up to the counter, a little too firmly, I thought, to be entirely unintended. I watched him order a wide selection of cheeses, there was Jarlsberg, Roquefort, Gruyere, the stinking Alsatian Munster, Reblochon, Shropshire Blue, Sage Derby. Observing him I decided that he was about 15 years younger than me, trim. Bearded and well….he obviously didn’t eat that much cheese. A connoisseur definitely. He picked up his jute shopping bag, now bulging with cheese, took his plastic bag of cheese and smiled as he made to walk past me.

“You know your cheeses don’t you?” I observed in a conciliatory tone.

He smiled.

“Well yes. Actually I’m having a few friends round for cheese and wine tomorrow evening. Would you like to come?”

The following evening I walked the short distance to his house, two bottles of Gewurztraminer clanking in a plastic bag as I went.

“I’ve got a confession to make” he said as we clinked glasses and looked at the cheese laid out on the table. “I said I was having a few friends round. In fact there’s only going to be us.”

“And your friends?”

“I kind of uninvited them.”

He smiled.

“And if I hadn’t come?”

“That was a risk it was well worth taking.”

He took the wine glass out of my hand and placed it on the table.

We kissed. I buried my face in his luxuriant facial hair, pushed back against him, forcing my tongue in deep. After a while he struggled free and said

“We really can’t let this cheese go to waste can we?”

On the table he had laid out the cheeses on wooden boards. He took a piece of Sage Derby and with the knife carved it into a green veined cock. I dropped my skirt and took up handfuls of the soft goats cheese and smothered my mound in it. He knelt before me, licking it off eagerly before tonguing my swollen clit. He moved down to nibble gently, teasingly at my labia before sliding the Sage Derby dildo into my rapidly dilating pussy. Slowly, cautiously at first, then gradually picking up

the tempo, he slid it in and out. He pulled it out, and offered it to me. I sucked, gently, felt the cheese soften in my mouth, gently tongue whipped the end, then bit off a chunk, swallowed it with my sour juices as I did so. .

I took a piece of Gruyere from the board, placed two fingers in the largest hole and rubbed gently to widen it. I slipped it over his cock and moved it backwards and forwards. As his prick hardened and swelled, the cheese broke and I caught the pieces in my hand, put them in my mouth, chewing slowly before dragging him forward and placing my mouth over his, passing the cheese from mouth to mouth. With a violence that caught me by surprise he pushed me back onto the table. I felt a Camembert squeezed under my back, its ripening softness gushing from the crust. Biscuits fragmented under my buttocks as he forced my legs apart and climbed on top to fuck me, slow and hard, slow and hard, then gathering in speed and intensity as he moved in and out until the orgasm ripped through me and I could see nothing but green veins of ecstasy pulsing through me, to every corner of my body like the sage spreading through a Derby cheese.

As he withdrew he sent come spilling onto a piece of Reblochon. I licked greedily and ate.

“I presume you’ve planned dessert?” I asked.

 

No Trumps at the Ace Cafe

This is a chapter from a novella I am working on. Claire, my heroine, is a young lady with a passion for vintage who sets out to find her perfect man and have loads of good sex as she does so……..

Claire was delighted at Dorothy’s news but it had the effect of increasing her own frustration. She redoubled her man hunt. Her encounters so far had been unsatisfying. So she placed an advert in the personals section of a classic car magazine.

‘Lovely fifties girl. Has Zodiac, will travel. Seeks mechanic with a piston for her cylinder.’

There were just two replies and only one of these seemed worth following up. She soon found herself driving down to London for a rendez-vous with a man called Paul at the Ace Cafe. It was the evening of the monthly Mark Two Consul/Zephyr/Zodiac meet. There would be loads of sexy cars and Claire  hoped too that Paul, with his Zephyr, would be the man of her dreams. She was day dreaming even before the day she had arranged to go down to London to meet Paul. She imagined the traditional semi they would live in with the period furniture, the box television set with the nine inch screen, the his and hers Zodiac and Zephyr parked on the drive.

 

She wore a skirt to drive down the M40 to London, cruising at a stately 55 mph, with her left hand

down her front playing with herself. It was going to be a long drive back if she didn’t score and, in

any event, she needed to be wet enough to do it quickly, round the back of the cafe or maybe on his backseat after dark. Either way, she was going to be gagging for it. She was going to be ready.

 

The Ace Cafe is a London motoring legend, located on the North Circular Road. Claire had long planned to go down, to one of the Owners’ Club meets. Claire enjoyed petrolhead talk. She knew her stuff. It’s just that she felt that a girl does need a little looking after and surely a man should be able to look after her car in exchange for his home-baked treats, the pleasure of having a woman as striking and as stylish as Claire on his arm, most of all for being able to have sex every day and three times most days. It was Claire’s first visit and when she pulled onto the forecourt and parked her Zodiac among a bevy of its brothers and sisters and Ford Consul cousins, there were hosts of admiring looks. And not just for the car. A crowd soon gathered round. One man stood away from the crowd looking a little unsure of himself. He waited until Claire withdrew a little way to light a cigarette and introduced himself.

 

‘Hi I’m Paul. You must be the girl in need of a piston.’

Claire smiled. ‘I certainly am. I hope it’s a big one and that it throbs and gets really really hard.’

‘Well’ laughed Paul nervously, ‘I’ve got loads of spares in my boot. Would you like to have a look?’

Claire was puzzled by this. Surely he didn’t mean piston literally? Sadly he did and opened the boot

of his Zephyr to reveal a mass of Ford spares chucked in any old how.

 

‘This here is a layshaft for a Consul gearbox’ he explained with a smile ‘and this is a Mark Three

Zephyr steering box and this, I got this at an autojumble…. how much were you looking to pay?’

‘Paul’ she said crossly. ‘I have come from the Black Country to see you and your car. The least you

can do is take me inside and buy me something to eat.’

 

Inside the Ace Cafe Claire ordered a burger and a banana milkshake. She was going to do things in proper fifties style. Paul seemed suddenly nervous as if Claire’s intentions were slowly dawning on him. As the drinks arrived and he could see whatever Claire wanted was to be put off for half an hour or so he relaxed. Although clearly shy he began to talk animatedly about his interest in cars. Claire tried to steer the conversation round to sex but he didn’t get the hint. Then Paul asked

 

‘Why does a girl like you drive a Zodiac?’

 

‘I love the Fifties’ she said, ‘the styles the fashions, the cars. And the Mark Two Zodiac is perfect for sex. Bench seats front and rear, a big throbbing six pot to get me in the mood. It turns heads. It’s not only men that can use big cars to pull you know.’

 

She looked at Paul who was clearly a little uncomfortable. Claire continued.

‘I will clean and wash and iron. I love being a girl and I will pamper my man. All I ask in return is that my man look after my car and looks after me, that he brings me flower, hugs me when am I sad and, most of all,’ she leaned forward again to continue in a whisper, ‘is always ready to fuck me. I need sex every day, lots of it, and if you don’t want it as much as I do then you’re not the man for me.’

Paul continued to look gormless. He shuffled nervously in his chair as Claire sucked intently on her straw and looked at him.

‘I’m sorry Claire I didn’t realise I…’

Claire ate a last mouthful of burger and said

‘I’ve driven down from Dudley to see you. I haven’t been fucked for four weeks. What are you going to do?’

‘Well I suppose, if you really wanted to…’

‘I do want to’ said Claire fixing him with a stare. ‘Do you want to?’

‘Yes’ said Paul quietly.

‘I’m going to pop to the loo. I’ll text you when the coast’s clear. If anyone sees you and asks what you’re doing, I’m stuck and you’re coming to help me. Alright?’

Paul was shaking as Claire strode off . Paul watched her go, listened to the heels clattering up the metal stairs like a ringing out of hos doom. It seemed like an age but was in fact only thirty seconds before his phone buzzed and shook on the formica topped table. He put it in his pocket and went off to his fate.

As he entered the ladies the door of the first cubicle opened and he was pulled inside. He heard the latch slide in behind him as Claire put her arms round him and pulled his face towards hers and slide her tongue into his mouth.

Paul was unused to sexually assertive woman, or at least to those who didn’t take money off you. As they kissed Claire let her skirt fall around her ankles and took Paul’s hand and guided it to her pussy. Pausing from kissing him she whispered

‘Put a finger inside and feel if I’m wet enough.’

Paul did as he was told. He said

‘You’re quite wet.’

‘I played with myself all the way down the M1 just to be ready. Before I set off I lay on the bonnet and felt the vibration of the engine against me. Six cylinders, six rock hard pistons going in and out. What does that remind you of?’

Paul said nothing.

‘It’s the sexiest car I’ve ever had. I’ve got Ford publicity brochures at home and thee are shots of women in fifties dresses and driving gloves and I bet you’ve seen them too, dreamed of fucking them, I bet you lie in bed with pictures of them and play with yourself. I’m like them, I’m your dream come true. Satisfy me now and you can have me in my Zodiac next time, and I’ll wank you with my leather driving gloves and you can come all over the seat, and I’ll lick it up and……feel me again’

Paul put a finger in.

‘How many fingers?’

Paul tried with two, then three, then four and Claire whispered

‘I’m going to lean over the loo and you can take me from behind. I’m so wet you’ll go straight in. I want it deep and slow’

Claire took a condom out of her handbag and handed it to him.

‘If you’re a good boy I’ll put it on with my tongue next time I see you.’

She let her panties fall on top of her skirt turned away from Paul; and bent over the toilet. She heard him fumble with the condom wrapper then heard him roll it on. So he had used one before. That was a relief. She felt his hands on her buttocks and the fumbling of his penis searching for the right opening.

With a touch of impatience she reached beneath her crotch seized the hardening member and guided into her.

‘In deep and work slowly’ she gasped and let out a sigh as Paul set to work.

‘I’m sorry I’ve slipped out.’

‘Then try again’ hissed Claire.

‘Think about your car, if that turns you on more than me, think about a piston moving in and out of the cylinder, think about McPherson struts, think about any fucking thing but shag me. Give it to me hard.’

As Paul fumbled again she felt tears of frustration running down her cheeks.

‘Please Paul. Please, just fuck me and when I’ve come you can go home. I just need you inside me. Please.’

He moved in again and entered Claire unaided and she gasped with pleasure as she felt at last the piston enter her cylinder and move in and out.

‘What’s the firing order in a Mark Two Zodiac?’ she asked him as he warmed to his task.

‘1 5 3 6 2 4’ Paul answered without thinking.

‘Good boy’ said Claire, ‘now give me the six strokes quick and hard. I want to feel you thump against my buttocks.’

Paul withdrew until his swelling penis was right at the edge of Claire’s labia then thrust back in hard/

‘One’ he shouted. Then he repeated the action, and Claire felt a surge of pleasure coursing through her as he said

‘Five’ and Claire was suddenly far away from the toilets of the Ace Cafe; she was suddenly on Beachy Head on a summer’s day as the wind blew across the grass and she lay, legs apart on the bonnet feeling the engine at her back as a man (Paul?) worked his way in and out, straining every last muscle for her pleasure. She closed her eyes and waited for the orgasm that was waiting to explode.

Then Paul slipped out.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Claire angrily.

‘I’m sorry, I’ve gone soft…………I ……….. I only ever do it with, you know and they have no expectations just as long as I pay and they make no demands, they are kind to me but you…you want it so much.’

He began to cry.

‘I’m sorry I can’t be a real man for you Claire.’

Claire pulled him close, placed his head against her little breasts, kissed him on the top of the head and said

‘It’s alright Paul. You’re a very nice man and I’m sure you’ll find someone just right for you.’

Paul freed himself from her embrace, hoisted up his trousers and left hurriedly, not wanting to see Claire again in this moment of humiliation. Claire waited till he had gone and shouted

‘FUCK’ as loudly as she could. She beat the wall with her fist. Then she looked at the floor.

‘He could have taken the condom with him’ she thought as she picked up the used rubber with distaste, wrapped it in a piece of toilet paper and flushed it down the toilet. She went outside. She needed a cigarette.

It was late when she arrived home. In the bedroom, with the big welcoming double bed that was not getting the use it needed, she took the laminated Ace Cafe menu card and wrote on it in marker pen.

‘PAUL = ZERO. I WANT TO CRY’

She inserted it into her Man Hunt exercise book which she threw angrily against the wall. She shouted again

‘FUCK’ and climbed into bed. She played with her clit and dreamed of sex on the bonnet at Beachy Head before going to sleep.

 

 

 

Eroticon 2014 – a fantasy

I was feeling the drop even before I boarded my train.  I watched the crowds thronging around Temple Meads station and reflected that I was no longer in the bubble of lovely sex-positive and open minded people where I had spent the last two days. Here were people who would not understand, not share my passions, my longings. I was sad even on this sunny spring afternoon.

On the Cross Country train I opened one of the books I had bought and began to read a hot BDSM novel. As the train pulled out and I became engrossed in the story I felt myself becoming wet. I fingered the wooden stick embossed with the logo of Renee Rose writer of erotic romances and realise that I had missed out on being spanked with it. I was new to kink but the conversations I had had at the conference, above all at the party, had made me yearn for more. At times it seemed that everyone there was kinky and this made me think. Is there anything truly erotic that doesn’t involve some kink, some drawing on the erotic treasure house of BDSM? I ran the wood through my fingers, and fell into a reverie of spanking…..

At this point I was aware of the woman sitting next to me. She was about my age, a short haired brunette with a pleasant friendly face. She smiled and engaged me in conversation.

“Where have you been this weekend?”

“At a writers’ conference” I proffered,  not sure how open I could be,

“With books like that?” she asked smiling again.

“Well yes” I said.

“And that?” She pointed to the wooden paddle.

“That’s from a well known writer of the genre. A little memento.”

“I’m Vicky” she said before lowering her voice and leaning over to whisper in my ear “I’m a domme”

“I’m Eve and well, I’m not sure what I am.”

“It’s not what you are…..it’s what you can be, what you want to be. Maybe you too want to be the Perfect Submissive.” She ran a finger over the cover of my book.

I felt myself blushing. It was true that I felt submissive urges. I thought of my first visit to a play party with my kinky partner, how I had been persuaded to mount the whipping bench and submit to a spanking by the house mistress Lady Blue. A hand spanking had warmed me up before I received the paddle, a couple of floggers and finally six strokes of the cane. I bit into the leather, writhing and moaned. It hurt, it stung but I was left wanting more as Lady Blue decided that this newbie had probably had enough and gently undid the straps and lifted me up. She held me close for a moment and I felt arousal at the closeness to this PVC clad and thigh booted woman.

“You’ve been very brave” she said and planted a tender kiss on my cheek. “I hope we can play again.”

That night I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the dominatrix, imperious in her domain , felt the residual tenderness of my buttocks. I had written stories about femdom about how ecstasy could be achieved through agony, about the pleasure of pain without ever being convinced about it. I held Lady Blue before me as I lay there, I thought of her face, pleasant if not especially pretty but her clothes, the gleaming black dress, the boots I had seem others kneel to kiss. I reached down and began to finger my clit before sliding down to feel the juices of arousal that were beginning to flow. Perhaps it was wrong to masturbate to a Mistress I thought but still……I could always confess next time…..

“I love that paddle” said Vicky, suddenly bringing me back to the balmy March Sunday evening on the train. “I enjoy hitting people, I love administering canings. I bet you would love a spanking. I see the sub in you Eve.”

I said nothing but was now very aroused. My buttocks were itching. I wanted the sting I wanted it more than anything. Not even a good fuck could satisfy me at this moment.

“You can read me like a book” I said “Is it that obvious?”

“Well, let’s just say, when you’re as experienced in domination as I am, you get to learn to read people.”

I fingered the paddle again. Suddenly she grabbed it from me.

“I’m going to the loo…come in a minute . If the coast’s clear knock twice and I’ll open up,’

I stood outside the door of the toilet and waited until another passenger had gone past. I knocked    twice and with a whirr the electric door slid open. Vicky pulled me on and after an interminable few seconds as the door whirred shut again and locked she said briskly.

“Eve take down your skirt and knickers down. “

I hesitated.

“I have ordered you to take your skirt down. I expect you to do it.”

“Yes Mistress” I said and complied.

I bent over and she said

“Kiss it”

The words “Renee Rose author of erotic romance” melted into a blur as she moved it to my mouth and I began to kiss longingly and lovingly.

Then she moved away and said.

“We have limited time so I will give you twelve strokes.”

I heard the swish through the air before it landed for the first time and sent waves of pain pulsing through me. I cried out and felt my body jolt. I breathed heavily before the second blow landed, this time on the right buttock.    I clenched my buttocks steeling myself for the next blow which didn’t come. I relaxed and felt a shock coursing through me like electric current as she tricked me and caught me off guard.

“Ha!” she laughed triumphantly, “you weren’t expecting that.”

And she carried on hitting me, alternating buttocks , striking hard and with remorseless accuracy.

“Twelve” she said and again held the paddle for me to kiss.

“Thank you Mistress” I said and began again to breathe heavily. I suddenly became aware of how much I had been sweating.

I felt Vicky come up close behind me and hold me. From her hand bag she pulled out a pair of latex gloves and slapped them on. She moved a finger underneath me, began to probe the opening of my anus.

“play with yourself” she said and I began to finger my clit as she probed my anus with her index finger. I gasped as I felt it move deeper in, relaxed my muscles and surrendered to the sweet violation.

“You’re not to come till I say.”

She continued her exploration and I began to massage my clit again. I was very wet, I was desperate for her, wanted to kiss her, kneel before her and worship her…but she remained behind me teasing me with the index finger of her left hand that was moving up my back passage. I gasped I moaned and said

“Please let me come, please”

“No” she said and then said briskly

“Put your clothes back on” I think there are people outside.”

She handed me a card with her number on it and left the toilet with instructions that I was not to follow her for two minutes.

When I got back to my seat there was no sign of her. I was feeling agonies of frustration even as the burning on my bottom began to subside. I picked up the book and carried on reading. Maybe the perfect submissive had to live with denial I thought as I engrossed myself in the tale of Jess.  Maybe I would ring Vicky…….

But I had no time to think further, The train was already speeding through the Birmingham suburbs. I would soon be home, soon lying in my bed where I would come. As I dragged my wheeled suitcase to the taxi rank at New Street station I knew that the last two days had changed my life. I had stories to write, spankings to enjoy…….

You Naughty Girl!

Gillian had been disappointed with her first clients since she had started work as a professional sub. The men who had claimed to be turned on by the idea of dominating women had turned out to be, well, useless, dominant neither in demeanour nor in behaviour. As for the CP, the cruel canings she enjoyed so much, well, it was best not to mention that. Really a sub shouldn’t have to tell her dom how to punish her should she?

When the man who identified himself only as the Headmaster called she felt that things might be different. He was well spoken, informed her that he was fed up with the decline in moral standards in society and particularly the breakdown in discipline in schools and that things had particularly gone downhill since the abolition of the cane. Cheeky sluts in particular needed putting in their place.

When he turned up he did not disappoint. He had an immaculate and expensive looking three piece suit, his shoes gleamed and creaked as he walked. Gillian had put on her tartan school pinafore dress, her tie was a giant knot that barely reached the second button, she had garish red lipstick on. Let’s see how he deals with sluts she thought.

‘You have been sent to me for sluttish behaviour’ he began holding her chin and moving his face in closely enough for her to smell his sweet breath. ‘Stand facing the wall and place your hands on your head.’

Gillian did as she was told.

‘Now put your right leg in the air.’

Gillian stood like that. The Headmaster said nothing but walked up and down, his shoes creaking as he did so.

‘Please Sir’ said Gillian after a few minutes as he felt her standing leg tiring and thought she might fall over, ‘please may I change my leg?’

‘No you may not.’

Gillian continued to stand on her left leg, feeling herself getting both wet with excitement and apprehensive. This quiet man made her nervous. For the first time in her professional career she felt that she was not in control.

After a while he said ‘You may put your leg down and stand on both feet.’

He came up close and said

‘You have been fucked by every boy in 4B haven’t you?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘And where was this, in the chip shop doorway? I bet they told you you couldn’t get pregnant if you did it standing up didn’t they?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘And you believed them didn’t you?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Why did you believe them?’

‘Don’t know sir.’

‘Because you are a stupid little slag.

‘Because I’m a stupid little slag Sir.’

‘Show me how you do it. Kiss the wall and grind your slutty little cunt against it.’

Gillian moved forward, spread her hands against the wall, pushed herself against it and began to grind, as she noticed that her kiss had left a red mark on the magnolia paint.

‘Now, slut, imagine a big fat cock coming out of the wall. Push against it, let it penetrate you.’

And Gillian moaned and pushed backwards and forwards against the wall faster and faster as the Dom send the cane whistling through the air. As she pushed back off the wall she felt the first sting on her buttocks.

‘Carry on grinding. Imagine that huge cock inside you, you dirty little slut.’

And she did and ground and realised that she was leaving a stain on the freshly painted wall.

‘You’ve marked the wall. Kneel down and lick it off.’

Gillian did. She licked her juices, savoured them, felt her clit harden and swell again as the cane crashed into her buttocks. She hadn’t been dominated like this for a long, long time.

‘Stand up and face me’ he ordered.

Gillian stood, her pinafore dress and panties arranged around her ankles. She was completely shaven and presumably even he could see that her proud clit, the ultimate symbol of her sluttiness.

He motioned her to the whipping bench and secured her, pulling the thick leather straps so tight that she winced as the edges dug into her skin.

‘As per school rules’ he began ‘you will receive six strokes for each offence. There are 18 boys in Form 4B and if you have been fucked by all of them as I am sure you have calculated yourself, you will receive 108 strokes.’

‘No sir’ said Gillian ‘104 surely sir. 18 x 6 is 104 isn’t it….’

She felt a sudden anxiety as he said nothing, made no movement, then she saw his face fold into a smile followed by mocking laughter.

‘If you’d spent more time in the maths class and less up the field or in the chip shop doorway on Saturday night you’d be able to do maths wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes sir sorry sir.’

‘You will write two hundred lines for next lesson. I must attend maths class and stop fucking around like a dirty slut.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘And you get an extra ten strokes for stupidity.’

‘Please sir may I have twenty more. I’m very naughty and deserve it.’

‘I’ll give you a round 150.’

He said nothing more. She felt his large hands began to squeeze her buttocks to knead the cheeks like dough before digging his nails in, rubbing gently then slapping each side twice. She still felt the thrill of anticipation as he heard the cane being raised and descending onto her buttocks with a fearful swish through the air.

‘One thank you sir’

‘Two thank you sir.’

He caned hard and accurately. He needed no tuition. The strokes were swift and brutal, each one building on the last, sting upon evil sting, until by eighty she had had enough. She wanted it to stop and by the time he finished she was in tears.

He laughed as he untied her and led her to the mirror to show the red lines, the blood. He laughed as the tears flowed, now tears of happiness. She would have paid money for a flogging that good.

Before he left, still without disclosing his name, he booked and paid for another session. As soon as the door closed behind the man Gillian carefully placed the envelope of cash in a drawer and went to her study. She took out a clean piece of paper and began to write. Her bottom was raw and painful, it hurt to move on the wooden chair at her desk but she had to do this now, precisely because it was so painful. She wrote

‘I must attend Maths and stop fucking around like a dirty slut.’

As the professional she was, she was taking this task very seriously. As she wrote she played with herself even though she had been forbidden to. She would confess this to the Headmaster next time he came and he would surely punish her. She needed a good hard caning, oh how she needed it!