Setting Sail

This is my entry for the 2018 Euphoff competition devoted to seriously bad erotic writing, run by the fabulous Other Livvy. This is the worst I could come up with. Check out the other entries here            

I have crested many a range, conquered veritable Himalayas of female voluptuousness, scaled the mountains of desire, reaching for bright galaxies of ecstasy even as I plunged into  the darkest depths. For it is the depth that I crave, not the heights. I still recall the first blissful night, when I sailed into the vast ocean of delight reached from the narrow bay between her thighs, its coastline thick with the gorse bushes of her pubic hair, warning me off, yet inviting me in.  And I grew hard, my manhood swollen with desire and the creamy pulsations rising up from my spheres of sexuality. And I saw that I was glistening, my bell end a bright purple bauble hanging from the stout tree of my gym formed frame. I rose up, a very Mars unhorsed, and came down brutally to plunge my sceptre of masculinity deep, deep into the erotic chasm she had willed open for me in her desire. I drove my manly member into those soft sensual feminine folds, fragrant with female juice, and gasped as the foreskin slipped back and my semi-moist treat stick lapped at the pools of pleasure she had prepared.  Our bodies moved in the synchrony of pure physical poetry, of a wonder beyond words.

She opened her beautiful mouth, its full lips rising and falling in hedonistic harmony as she moaned and gasped and said

“Oh Sixtus,  just fuck me. I want it hard”

And she rose up and bit my shoulder ran her ombre nails down my back.  And I knew the spell was broken by her cheap vulgarity I withdrew with more than a hunt of disgust.

“Sixtus, SIXTUS! Just give it to me now! I’m fucking gagging for it!”

“Oh Annunziata, how could you spoil such a special moment how…how can you deny the pulchritudinous poetry of the coupling, the sweet sonnet of sex, the hexameter of hedonism.”,

“For fuck’s sake Sixtus.  Are you going to ram me or not?”

I remained stunned.

“Because if not just take your things and get out. In this corner of Brexitland sex means sex. I didn’t bring you back here for pulchritudinous poetry. I brought you back here for a rough shag.”

Again I said nothing.

She slid down so that my erotic rod of state was by her mouth and took it inside that temple of her vulgarity. And I released my seed into her softness, not to give her pleasure but to cleanse her, before making her whole in an aesthetic of atonement, how I forgave her for spoiling the moment, yet, even as I sought to deny her I calmed the waves, the rushing torrents of sensation. Now I knew I was to be the poet, she the writing tablet, the recipient of my art, marked with my manliness, engraved with the erotic. And I put out to sea a second time, knowing I would never return home.

 

 

Getting The Block

I have had a lot of good sex recently. I have had sex with a cisgendered man, a cis woman, and a trans woman. I suppose I count as pansexual. I have been horny for much of the time and would have had more sex of time permitted. But stuff gets in the way, work, domestic matters, and writing. Writing? I haven’t written anything for a month and it seems almost as if  I need not ti be having much sex to be able to reflect on it and write. Some of this sex has been mind blowing, particularly when my friend Stephanie and I seized the moment in Birmingham’s main lesbian bar. Erotic tension had been hanging in the air as we talked and drank pints of Stella Artois.It was a relief when she took the initiative, pushing me into the outside loo and bolting the door behind us. I kissed her, buried my face in her breasts, then knelt on the cold floor to work her clit with my tongue before pushing my fingers into her cunt, which was wet and dilating rapidly. Four fingers went in and worked up and down, increasing the tempo until, she came with a moan which must have been heard by the several people trying the door.

Just like car sex this was exciting because we courted discovery and had little time. It left me the most amazing high but unable to write. I have had ideas for blog posts which I have discarded, others I have written but feel unable to publish  because  they are born of my darkest, most intimate fantasies.

And then came the call for the Eroticon anthology with the subtext “Truth”. I had a day off work and sat for three hours over my new exercise book. I write nothing. I fantasised, I masturbated, I came but no words were out down in the page.

But last week, with a little distance from this wonderful sex, I got some ideas down. I will get my mojo back. I am going to fuck myself creative. And I hope you like the result.

A Fit Bird

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!”

“You what?”

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 cunt, 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?”

She smiled.

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.

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

 

 

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!

Going for a Curry

Never let it be said that the BDSM scene is not tolerant and broad-minded. It attracts such interesting people.  Mistress Helga appreciated her life in a multi-cultural society and was pleased to have chambers on the edge of Manchester’s most famous Asian area. She was fascinated too by the variety of men, occasionally women, who came to serve her. She particularly enjoyed the transformation she effected, turning so many of them in 15 minutes from drab, stressed office workers to maids and sluts, or subs bound in leather and masked, not knowing where the next blow to their buttocks was coming from. She loved the shiny happy faces of those ensnared in her world with no hope of escape and, more importantly, no desire. To talk to them was an education. Helga’s university was the University of Life.

Today she was seeing a regular client, David. David was a well-spoken Cambridge graduate who had been seeing Helga for about a year. It was to be his seventh visit. He had been very nervous on his first visit but Helga had seen him grow in confidence over the course of subsequent visits. Of course a certain amount of confidence in a sub is no bad thing but all things have their limits. On David’s previous visit Helga felt him becoming cocky, indeed taking her for granted. If he had forgotten his place in the natural order of things it was time for him to be taught. She had devised a session of exquisite humiliation for him, one in line with the principles of diversity  and multi-culturalism she held so dear.

Shortly before two o’clock David rang the bell of the chambers as arranged and, as usual, the door opened as if by itself Mistress hiding behind it, not wanting the neighbours to see her black PVC dress, long gloves and cap, complemented by sparkling thigh boots. David entered expecting the usual peck on the check and a coffee and chat on the sofa before starting. He was shocked to hear Helga say firmly

“Kneel”

He knelt but looked about him bewildered.

“You are a worthless ordure and I’m going to punish you. You need taking down a peg or two and by God am I going to do it. Now crawl into the front room, take your clothes off, fold them into a neat pile and wait for me, on your knees with your head bowed. You are worthless and I am going to make you feel worthless. “

“Yes mistress”.

David was already rock hard but relief was still two hours away and conditional on good behaviour.

Helga adjourned to the kitchen for a cigarette and a cup of coffee and made David wait nearly ten minutes just to muddle his head a little more.  She walked silently to the front room before flinging the door open to find David, as ordered, on his knees, shaking.

“Look at me” she commanded. David looked up and she saw the fear in his eyes. Now she had him where she wanted him, confused and not knowing what to expect.

“I have a little treat for you today” she said. “I’m going to introduce you to Asian culture. You’re going to be my Bollywood tart. Wait there.”

Helga went to the dungeon and took down from the rail the outfit she had chosen for David, It was an authentic salwar kameez bought on the Wilmslow Road, in pink with shades of gold and blue. To set it off she chose a pair of shiny sandals.

“Stand up” ordered Helga and David, stark naked, stood up to await dressing.

“You’re going to wear this today, it’s a salwar kameez, it’s gorgeous and very feminine and you’re going to be my Indian slut. You’re going to go for a walk round the block with me.”

“Please mistress no…”

“Silence. The word “no” does not exist in this dungeon except for those wanting a punishment they will not enjoy. One hundred strokes should leave a few welts to explain to your wife”

“Please mistress, please” David was looking terrified.

Helga laughed. “Yes slave; you will please mistress won’t you?”

“Yes mistress”

Again incipient disobedience had been nipped in the bud. David was crushed, Helga knew he would go meekly to his fate. So he put on his lacy knickers and the pink salwar kameez . Again he felt an erection coming but Helga saw it straight away and one fierce lash brought his errant manhood to heel.

“You come when given permission. You know the punishment for ejaculators”

“Yes mistress”

David was ordered to stand still and Helga skilfully applied tint and make-up to give him a more coffee coloured hue with black eyelashes and a black flowing wig. Surely Aishwarya Rai herself never looked so ravishing. There was dark lipstick, lovely jet black mascara. Helga’s shopping trip to the Wilmslow Road had been well worth it.

“Look at yourself in the mirror” she commanded and David stood amazed before the full length mirror Helga kept in the hallway. He had long curly black locks, his lips were prominent in dark red and his eyes highlighted in black. He wore a pink salwar kameez, with shades of blue and gold detailing; the trousers were tight and fitted snugly round the ankles. On his feet was a pair of gold sandals.

“What do you look like?” asked Mistress.

“Like a Paki” David replied and almost before he had uttered the word Helga’s hand slapped his face with a force that momentarily stunned him.

“How dare you use such words about ladies of any race you worthless piece of filth. Every woman is superior to you, you lowlife, you reptile. You’re my little princess what are you?”

“Your Indian princess Mistress “

“No you’re not. You’re a worthless piece of filth” Helga slapped the other cheek.

“I am a worthless piece of filth”

“Exactly. Before your next appointment I require 200 lines from you. I am a worthless piece of filth and beg for punishment”

“Yes mistress.”

David was ordered into the dungeon and strapped to the whipping bench. The pink trousers were slid expertly down, followed by the lacy panties, to expose David’s pink buttocks.

“You are going to receive twenty strokes for your impertinence. After each stroke you will count then say ‘I worthless piece of filth thank you mistress’.”

And so the flogging began. David gasped with delight as the paddle hit its target.

“One.  I, worthless piece of filth thank you mistress.”

He was left waiting for the second stroke. And the third. Helga liked to vary the frequency of the strokes to confuse her slaves. There was a house rule that if a slave miscounted the flogging started again. One slave had miscounted at stroke 99 of a hundred stroke punishment for disobedience to orders. She recalled with satisfaction his tearful pleading to be excused. But he could not, surely, expect mercy.   Mercy there came none although she spared him having to count the second time round.

David was grimly determined to concentrate and the twentieth stroke was administered and counted without mishap. It hurt as he pulled the panties and pink trousers over his glowing back side.

It was now time for the main event. David knelt before Helga’s throne as ordered. Helga sat down, resplendent in PVC and gleaming thigh boots. She lit a cigarette and said, imperiously:

“You’re going to dance for my entertainment.”

“Yes mistress”

“Get up and stand in the corner facing the wall.”

David did as he was told. Helga flicked the switch of the CD player and the sounds of Bollywood music filled the room.

“Dance slave”

David turned round and tried his best to sway from side to side.

“Not like that you stupid twat!”

“Swing your hips, I want to see your fat gut shaking like a jelly. I want to see sweat pouring off you. And use your hands!”

Helga clapped her hands as a signal for the dancing to begin. She drew deeply on her cigarette.

David hesitated, unsure of himself.

“Dance again,” commanded Helga and do it properly!”

She turned up the volume a notch and David began to wobble his middle aged stomach and swing his hips as he made his way across the room . He dared not look at his Mistress. He wobbled back across the room. Helga grabbed him as he passed in front of her throne.

“Genuflect you worm!”

David did as he was told, and as he bowed his head Helga grabbed it and pulled him towards her.  She took one last drag on her cigarette and blew smoke into David’s face.

“Now go and dance and do it properly.”

Confused and humiliated, David struggled to his feet and had a third go at pleasing Mistress. He writhed and squirmed, attempted what he thought to be Indian hand movements. And at that moment of deepest shame he felt his penis harden and make the pink trousers bulge. Helga, of course, missed nothing.

“You pathetic piece of filth! Does that turn you on? Or are you having forbidden thoughts about your Mistress?”

“No mistress”

It was too late to give Mistress that assurance and David was forced to his knees , dragged forward until he felt Helga’s booted thigh trap his head in a dark  tunnel.

“You miserable piece of filth. Lick my boots.”

And David licked the wall of his sweet prison right up to the tops of her boots where he could feel the stockinged flesh that was forbidden to him.  To worship Mistress’s body was a privilege granted to few.

Then he was sent to dance again. For twenty minutes, driven by fear as much as the need to please a superior being, he swayed and sashayed and wobbled, not daring to stop and finished up with a vigorous ten minute pole dance. When Helga commanded him to stop he was red and sweaty with the effort, ready to drop.  He stood waiting for further humiliation and scorn.

Helga said,

“What time is your session booked to end?”

David answered “At four o’clock Mistress.”

“It’s five to four now” said Helga “Bit I’m not letting you go yet. I have something planned for later .”

But Mistress I have to do the shopping.”

“Shopping?” asked Helga scornfully. “Phone your pitiful vanilla wife and tell her to do the shopping. Tell her you’re working late.”

“Yes Mistress”

David made the telephone call as ordered and was led, still dressed in salwar kameez, to the cage.

“I have one more session. Slave Michael’s a bit of an exhibitionist so he won’t mind you watching. But you’ll be caged so you can’t escape.”

David went meekl y to his fate. The cage was small and uncomfortable and he had to watch as Slave Michael was given a merciless flogging for breaches  of chastity before being taken into another room from where his moans and screams  rent the air. David marvelled that the neighbours couldn’t hear.

It was nearly seven o’clock when Mistress Helga came to release him from the cage.  He was stiff from three hours of close confinement and desperately needed to stretch his legs.

“Well done slave, Mistress is pleased with you. And Mistress wishes to reward you for your faithful service.”

“How Mistress if I may ask?”

“You may ask. We’re going for a curry and I will pay. We leave in five minutes.”

“Thank you mistress. Please may I go and change?”

“No you may not. You’re going as you are.”

David’s face showed the horror that was gripping him.

“No Mistress please no.”

“The phrase I expect to hear is ‘yes Mistress’. You are not permitted use of the word no.”

“Sorry mistress”.

Several hours of relentless mockery and humiliation had broken David and he climbed meekly into her car for the short drive down the Wilmslow Road to Helga’s favourite restaurant. Walking down the street was bearable, just, it was by now dark, but the bright lights of the restaurant were coming ever nearer and offered no such safety. When they reached the door David knew there could be no escape. He felt a firm push in his back as he walked through the door.

He was sure that time had stopped, that the whole city had fallen silent to feast on his humiliation. Every smile was a grin, behind every hand was a snigger. With every effort he could muster to take the bass tones out of his voice he spoke. He suddenly felt confident. He loved his Mistress and pleasing her was the only thing that mattered.

“Table for two please.”

Meeting the Girl

My first ever client left, shutting the hotel bedroom door quietly behind him. I was now a whore, a proper whore! I held the sheaf of banknotes in my hand, smelt it, fanned myself with it, enjoying the soft breeze it made on a sultry summer evening. I wrote WHORE in lipstick on the dressing table mirror and took up position before it so that the word appeared to be on my forehead. I took a selfie with my phone. It had to be. It was. I WAS a whore.

I had never intended to have sex for money, it just sort of happened that way. I was a writer of smut who started blogging and was dragged into the various debates on sex workers’ rights. I started blogging on the issues and began to hear, not least from friends, the question:

‘What do you know about it?’

What did I know? Mainly what my online friends told me, that’s what. But, in reality, I knew nothing. I was accused of glamourising the exploitation of women, told I was on an ego trip at the expense of the vulnerable. Finally someone I had thought of as a friend fixed me with a look of almost hatred and hissed,

‘How would you like a stranger’s prick up you?’

Well, I had now had one and, if the Earth didn’t exactly move for me, it hadn’t been unpleasant either and I didn’t feel violated as apparently I should. More to the point I had £200 I could find a good use for.

My twitter friends had been generous with advice and help, particularly a woman called Delilah who was particularly prominent in defence of sex workers. I quickly set up an internet profile booked a hotel room and soon had three clients. The first had gone. The second was due in just over half an hour. I showered, redid my make-up and was ready when there was a knock on the door.

I opened it and was amazed to see a woman in a black coat and boots walk in. She let it drop to the floor and I beheld a stunning brunette of I guess 35 in a leopard print negligee.

‘I’m Delilah’ she said. ‘I’ve been dying to meet you. I thought you could maybe use a bit of mentoring.’ She smiled.

I stood there speechless. For six months I had chatted with Delilah every day, safe behind the cloak of anonymity. We had talked about sex until I positively salivated at the idea of sex with her even though I had never thought of myself as bi. She had given me advice about doing it for money, she had been my best friend even though we had never met and I had never imagined that we ever would. Now she stood in front of me. I stood speechless for a few moments then blurted out

‘But I was expecting Derek..’

‘My husband made the call. I wasn’t sure how you would react.’

She smiled again and said

‘You have to be prepared the initiative you know. Lots of clients are vert nerbou. Like me for example.’

She laughed a loud throaty laugh and waited as I continued to stand there looking gormless. Then I went up to her and grabbed her, pulling her close and pushing my tongue deep into her mouth. She made no attempt to resist as I gripped the back of her head and forced my tongue in deeper and deeper.

‘I’ve been in love with your mind for ages,’ I said, ‘Now let me love your body.’

She let the negligee float gently to the floor and stood there, and all I could see were the gleaming boots and the shaven cunt which I fell to my knees to smell and lick. She was clean, smelt of bath oils and lavender, but a powerful note of arousal was coming through, a wondrous meshing of aromas like that of the fine wines I treated myself to at Christmas. My Christmas had come early, a feast of sex with a woman I had never before met, but worshipped and adored.

We rolled onto the bed and I began to kiss her breast, taking the nipples between my lips to squeeze just as she began to moan. My hand moved quickly down to explore the cunt that was open wide enough for me to get three, then four, fingers in. She was wet, wetter than I had ever known a woman before, a fountain spilling arousal into a lake of desire.

I moved my four fingers in and out, slowly at first but then with increasing vigour, as she began to moan. I played with the other nipple, twisted it to hurt her, to give her the searing pain that magnifies the pleasure. I buried my face in the soft heaving mounds of delight. She was soft, pliant and beautiful. I wanted to say something silly and totally unsuitable but before I could I felt a finger home on in my clit. No fumbling, no inept searching, suddenly she was there and began to rub me, slowly, taking the pace out of the encounter, easing the frenzy.

‘Let’s take our time’ said Delilah. ‘I’m booked in, we’ve got all night.’

‘God I’ve wanted this so much. I’ve been sort of in love with you. It’s silly isn’t it?’

‘Why? What’s not to love about me?’

She smiled and increased the tempo of her rubbing.

As I began to moan she asked,

‘How was it the first time for money?’

‘So so. The man was quite pleasant, on the small side, uncircumcised, but well, it’s not the size of the wand is it? It was Ok. I didn’t come but that’s not the point is it?’

‘Client number two will make you come.’

She rolled over, rummaged in her bag and took out a harness and dildo.

‘Ever seen one of these?’

‘I’ve heard about them but..’

Delilah put the harness on and strapped on the long fat dildo.

‘And now you filthy little slut I’m going to give you the best fuck of your life.’

She came towards me, kneeled over me and looked suddenly serious.

‘You’re a dirty little slut, playing the whore. Who do you think you are?’

I froze. This wasn’t part of the scenario I had had in mind.

‘Answer me!’ she demanded and slapped me across the face.

‘I’m a whore, a filthy dirty whore’ I said slowly thinking that this was what she wanted to hear.

Then she spat in my face and as I tried to wipe it off she grabbed my wrists and held them down and came down on me, sliding the dildo in. She smiled,

‘I can dominate too, some of the men love that.’

I smiled back and she said

‘Open your mouth.’

As I held my mouth wide open I saw a thin string of spittle form in her lips which hung and stretched, finally broke and dropped into my mouth.

‘Swallow’ she ordered.

She began to pump, slowly at first. She made me hook my knees over her shoulders and I felt the dildo go entirely in, a deep deep penetration. She pumped faster and I began to work against her and she used her strength to subdue me and conquer me. I began to see bright colours exploding over her shoulder, the tattoo on her left shoulder fractured into kaleidoscopes of colour. She pumped and pumped. I came with a scream and she carried on, forcing me down, breaking me with her animal need to make me submit. Everything became a whirl of her wild long hair, her tattoos, the hot slightly stale breath, all of which expressed her animality. For all my silly talk this wasn’t love, this was lust, sex for the sake of sex and fuck the moralists and their beauty of sex. Sex isn’t beautiful this way, it’s raw and ugly, it smells, it hurts and I know now I can never get enough of it. She was thrusting away like someone demented, I pushed back against her, pushed back hard and my cunt was now so wide open and so wet that the dildo started to slide out. The sheet was soaked. She grabbed my wrists again with sudden violence and pushed me down with a look of a woman about to explode with hatred of me who was trying to deny her conquest. She wanted to hurt me even as I came and orgasms ripped through my body, orgasm after orgasm as she pumped and pumped, seemingly inexhaustible. I had had enough. I begged her to stop. I cried big tears. She slapped my face and said coldly,

‘Shut up whore. You’re only here to be fucked.’

I was at breaking point and Delilah must have sensed that because she withdrew and we lay together panting on the soaked bed.

‘I knew you were filthy as soon as we started tweeting. And you’ve not disappointed.’

She smiled and ran her fingers through my hair before reaching for her phone to tweet,

‘Tweetup in Birmingham with Elizabeth. She is nicer than even I imagined’

Delilah carefully removed the condom from the dildo and wiped it with a tissue. She leaned over came down and kissed me. I said nothing. I thought I was sexually experienced but this had blown me away. This, surely, was part of my whoring education. Learning from a Mistress of her craft.

‘There’s one thing you forgot to do’ she said. ‘Always take the money at the start and count it.’

‘Well ‘I said ‘that will be two hundred pounds.’

‘I haven’t actually got any money with me but I am booked into the hotel for tonight, Room 314.’

She flashed the key card at me.

‘I’ve got a couple of bottles of wine in, we’ve got all night. This was just a taster. An amuse-bouche as the French say. The banquet begins as soon as your last client leaves. This is a night you will never forget.’